head of the guild snapped his fingers casually and one of his bandits immediately placed the Horse of Shadows on the table.
I’ve always said that the Doralissians are rather strange creatures. Only they could have called something that looks like the phallus of some ancient pagan god the Horse of Shadows. If that’s a Horse, then I’m the emperor of the Lakeside Empire.
“Hey, Gozmo!” Markun shouted across the entire room. “Where’s this buyer of . . .”
Unfortunately, he never finished what he wanted to say. Several things happened at once.
Bleating repulsively with that remarkable skill that they have, Doralissians started running in through both of the doors. I could see that their leader was my old acquaintance Glok. The goat-men were in a really foul mood and looked as if they intended to make serious use of the clubs, hand axes, and grappling irons that they were clutching. There were only a couple of dozen men in the place, but about fifty goats came piling in. The inn was immediately crowded and the atmosphere was explosive.
This time the Doralissians almost managed to surprise me. Ten of the goats had been bright enough to bring crossbows, but they were still too stupid to make use of their advantage. They should have fired first and then got involved in the fighting. But as the goats always do, they got everything backward. The ones without crossbows went charging forward stupidly, leaving their archer brothers behind them. And the ones with crossbows turned out not to be blessed with the gift of patience either: They decided that the sooner they fired, the better.
So they fired. Of ten bolts, three hit the wall, six hit the backs of the charging goat-men, and only one—clearly by complete accident—pierced the shoulder of one of Markun’s men.
The Doralissians just don’t know how to play their trump cards. Having killed six of their own kind, the goats stopped in amazement, wondering how they had managed to hit their brothers-in-arms. Markun’s lads, who hadn’t been expecting to find themselves in the middle of a goat farm, jumped up from the tables—knocking over their chairs—and grabbed hold of their weapons. They had more than enough time while the Doralissians were dithering like genuine . . . er . . . Doralissians.
At the very beginning of the scuffle, Gozmo dived down under his counter. To be quite honest, I wasn’t at all concerned about his health. I would have bet my own liver that the innkeeper had some kind of hatch hidden under a beer barrel down there and in a couple of minutes he would be far away.
“The Horse! Our Horse!” Glok started yelling when he spotted the Stone standing all alone on a table.
“Thieves!” the Doralissians suddenly started bleating, waking from their stupor.
And then the fun really began!
Howls, yelling, a genuine ruckus with weapons clashing. Dead and wounded, blood flowing everywhere. The goat-men were really wound up and intent on annihilating the new owners of their precious relic. They lacked the brains to realize that they might get killed themselves.
The bandits fought back desperately against their advancing enemies, swinging swords, knives, and stools, but the sides were still unevenly matched, and the ranks of the guild were thinned significantly. As, indeed, were those of the Doralissians.
Markun was squealing something in a cowardly voice from behind the backs of his cutthroats, while they howled and swore, trying to keep the furious avengers away. Paleface was spinning like a top, with the knife in his good hand flashing to and fro, and there were already five goat-men lying around him as dead as could be. But the men were doomed. In a couple of minutes they would be overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers.
One of the Doralissians managed to reach the Horse. With a jubilant bleat, he tossed his ax aside and lifted the sacred relic high above his head, like some triumphant knight who has been awarded the cup at a tournament. One of Markun’s lads immediately took his chance and used his knife, grabbing the Horse out of the dying goat’s hands.
And at that moment new actors appeared on the stage.
Vukhdjaaz came leaping out of the wall, frightening the besieged men to death, but the goats didn’t realize what was happening, or they simply didn’t care who they battered with their clubs—those creatures had absolutely no instinct of self-preservation.
“Vukhdjaaz is clever,” the demon announced to everyone there, and ripped off Markun’s head with a single blow of his hand—through some