by Vitaly Zykov
Yarik heard behind him an irritated hiss and Darg ran past him like an attacking predator. The blade of his sword was glowing with deathly light in anticipation of fresh blood. Judging by a savage grin that Yarik saw with corner of his eye, Darg wanted blood too…
As always, the fight by the leader of nomads was like a dance, swift as a stroke of brush of ace calligrapher. A whirlwind of steel simply swept the first pair of backstreet robbers off their feet. Two bodies collapsed on the stone road, and Darg did not mind attacking from behind: street fight is not a one-to-one duel, street fight is always dirty, if you do not kill the enemy, they will kill you.
The others did not managed to realize what had happened, or at least to turn to the sound, their bodies only began to move, when Darg struck again. A soft jump, a blurred movement of his left unarmed hand, and the next bandit fell silently on the road. His body had not reached the ground, when the sword struck from bottom to top and slashed the skull of the fourth bandit. Another turn back, and the ravenous blade cut the throat of the next robber.
All the fighters froze for a moment. The sailors who had already said goodbye to their lives, but wanted to sell them as expensive as it was possible, were standing now bewildered, with their eyes wide open. The only surviving robber was standing on his trembling legs, his open mouth was trying to mumble something to Darg. The eyes of the ragamuffin filled with fear followed from Darg, who with a nasty grin made a wavy motion with his sword sending a spout of bloody spray at the enemy, to Yarik. The slave ran up to the place of the battle and now was rummaging the bodies. Yarik felt quite unconfident in a melee, as he had no weapon and skills of fighting. Of course he could fight, but he was glad if there was an opportunity to avoid fighting, especially when his master did not require help. It would be silly to constantly rely solely on luck. He could meet a man with a reaction better than his own… Moreover, he had already met such a man a year ago!
Suddenly, one of the rescued sailors – particularly high and massive – waved his hefty dagger which looked like a child's toy in his hand, and the seventh body fell on the pavement.
– You should never leave alive enemy behind – the bullyboy drawled apologetically.
Darg shrugged, as if saying, I just helped and now you can do whatever you want. Nomad's hand sent the sword into the sheath with one habitual movement, and he turned to the slave. Darg's eyebrows shot up questioningly.
– Nothing valuable! A dozen of copper coins and these pieces of iron. – Yarik indifferently kicked one of the knives. – They don't even cost half of the iron they are made from.
Darg nodded and turned toward the tavern, intending to continue his way. He did not expect gratitude from the rescued sailors and regarded the encounter philosophically, just as a common life phenomenon.
– Wait, friend! – One of the survivors, that was shorter, called Yarik's master. It was clear that alcohol fogged his brain and piled terrible obstacles on the way of words of which he was building the sentences, but the sailor tried. – Although Wolt and I drank excessively, we have honor. Your help to us is priceless. We owe you now.
The bullyboy, who turned to be Wolt, nodded in confirmation of his friend's words and banged his fist on his palm. Yarik came up to his master and stopped. The nomad looked attentively at the speaking man and froze, pondering some thought.
– My friend, call me Guzak. I'm mate on «The Evil Snail». – With these words Guzak held out his hand for a handshake. Darg hesitated for a second, but repeated the gesture, squeezing the seaman's hand firmly.
Yarik had seen such a friendly gesture the first time in this world, and he understood the reason of confusion of his master.
– Darg. – The nomad's tone was quite dry. Darg did not like people who fogged their mind by drinking. – Forget your thanks, that did cost nothing to me. That scum, they were miserable fighters.
– Miserable, you say? – Guzak laughed. The silent bully echoed his friend. – But they would have coped with us. Well, I don't like t' be in debt! What can I do for you t' fulfill the debt of honor?!
– A ship, I need a ship to Grold. – Darg decided not to walk round and about. – Can you help to find it? I'll pay all expenses…
– Wait. – Guzak raised his hand calling to attention, but staggered drunkenly. – Oh, demons of Abyss!! My thoughts are confusing. Listen! Come tomorrow morning t' the third berth, and we'll discuss all details. Now, as you can see, I'm not in a proper state…
Darg nodded and pursed his lips in disgust.
– Don't forget: the third berth, «The Evil Snail», ask for Guzak or Wolt. Don't forget!!! – Then the sailor turned around an invisible axis, like a badly overloaded ship and with a strong roll to the starboard, moved toward the port.
After a couple of steps, he stumbled on a completely level ground and hung on Wolt's shoulder. The couple formed some sort of catamaran and went on their way. After some time a song sounded out of the darkness – apparently Guzak considered it boring to walk in silence. For some time his hoarse voice was pouring into surrounding gloom a love story of a sea demon and a sailor's wife. But at the place where the normal words were replaced with scabrous ones, the sailor broke off and entirely discordant sounds rolled down the street…
– Drunks! – Darg said, as if spat the word, and entered the tavern.
Yarik stricken with wealth of the speech came after…
CHAPTER 32
A group of ten riders drove to a quiet and peaceful frontier post on the north border of East Cayen, the one that was closest to New Givart, where the Old trade route lay. This pretty ordinary event agitated the guards – nomads of Plaguelands on their combat tirrs appeared here not too often, especially in such number. These warriors of the heath were extremely generous – for a trifling service the post foreman got a half-farlong.
Squeaky like ungreased gate, the voice of the first rider wrapped in a burnoose, forced the guard to wince, but when the meaning of the question reached his mind, and his eyes caught the glint of gold, he responded very willing. Did he see the two travelers: a nomad and a slave, did he? How long ago did they pass here? The guard could answer the questions amply, due to having seen these people earlier in this morning. The riders were incredibly excited as they heard the answer and whipping their animals they rushed toward New Givart. The worldly-wise guards foreman, of course, had an idea, why ten warriors could be looking for those two people, but he decided to keep his opinions to himself. They did not threat him or his compatriots, and that was enough…
The nomads stretched in a single file rushed quickly towards the city. Old Bosk was heading the chase. The new leader had even no need to insist, Bosk himself longed to deal with the bold young upstart. The only thing that upset Bosk, was the significant backlog from the fugitives. Destruction of Polot and death of almost all noble warriors sowed a considerable confusion among the nomads, and then was a slaughter among power challengers. Or rather, Teorn cut out all those who had at least slightest right for it. The young leader remembered about Darg only when he felt confident enough in his new role.
Bosk, who was accustomed to moving only in a carriage, felt terribly in saddle. All these marches, a stubborn beast and the feeling of lost time did not make his character kinder. The most part of the way the old shaman was engaged in dreaming up proper tortures for this cursed Darg. How much better it would have been, if the bastard had died in Polot! But no! The shamanism had shown that this inhabitant of Abyss was not only alive, but even got that offshoot of Zaarr'h'dorr with him! Why had he obeyed Darg's order and gave him full power over this worm? Why?!! But the chase was nearing its end now, a little bit, and the head of the fifth son of Sohog should take its place in a road bag. The shaman had the whole night ahead and a great artifact designed exactly for such occasions.
Risking to fall out of his saddle, old Bosk put his hand in his bosom, and stroked gently the throbbing skull of a rock rat.
For the first time in his life Yarik was in a place, th
at could be described with the word «den». At first sight it was relatively decent: not too dirty floor, more or less clean tables, an extensive menu and efficient maids, but the local atmosphere… As they say, vice print was in the air. In the center of the hall sat a large company of revelers, filling the hall with their yelling and toasts for the captain, from the dark far corner came the sweet aroma of garlun, one of the visitors was groping under a short skirt of a maid with his hand…
Nevertheless Yarik noticed some fenced parlors near the wall, where occasionally come in and out well-dressed people, some of them wearing naval uniform. This place could be classified as a certain combination of a tavern, of a brothel, and of a room for negotiation. Darg came here just for the negotiations.
While the slave was standing near the counter curiously looking around, Darg whispered quietly about something with a spear-skinny man standing behind the counter. After some time a handful of coins moved from Darg to his interlocutor and the bartender pointed at one of the booths and said something. The nomad nodded and followed silently in that direction.
Yarik who came into the booth after his master was literally stunned with silence. A couple of comfortable sofas, a round table, and smooth light flowing from above surprised Yarik pleasantly. The locked door separated this cozy room from the common hall. The young slave listened to his feelings and felt a faint scent of magic filling the room like a weightless mist. That could explain the silence which reigned here.
– Sit in the corner – Darg pointed at a stool near the entrance. – We will wait here for a long time – no single captain is going to Grold, the main caravans have passed already. We need to wait for singles. The host's assistant will send free captains to us immediately.
There was a knock on the door. Yarik jumped on his feet and after Darg's permission, opened the door.
– Does master wish to dine? – A maid came into the booth and asked politely.
While his master was listing his order, Yarik was sitting with closed eyes. A terrible anguish suddenly fell upon him. What is he doing here? Will ever be the time when he can do what is necessary to him personally? He did not know the answer to these questions. The first time since their escape the last days were calm, and the kord had time to think quietly about his life. In these moments, deep despair simply overwhelmed him, causing flashes of anger at himself and his destiny. The destiny of a slave definitely was not what he had dreamed of!
Darg's voice sounded as if confirming his thoughts:
– How dare you sit with such a sad face in a public place?! I won't let you to shame me!
What exactly was meant by «shame» Yarik did not even understand, but a master knows better then a slave – he has a whip, and a right to apply it, so Yarik put on an expression of willingness to fulfill any order on his face, and tried to shake off the cobweb of the dismal thoughts. It turned out not very good, but his master seemed to be satisfied.
Their dinner passed quietly. Thoughtful Darg was tearing a baked leg of an unknown beast with his teeth, while his slave was eating porridge flavored with meat broth. Judging by plentiful, albeit too simple supper, Darg decided to reduce their potential expenses. Then captains began to come in…
These night talks with captains turned out to be extremely tedious and empty. Every new captain lazily sipped Darg's wine, nodded thoughtfully, and then either bid incredible price, or refused, shaking his head. Gradually Yarik began to understand the essence of the problem.
Darg wanted to get into a strictly defined place on Grold – the largest mainland of Toarn, namely into the Jugha. Jugha was a rich country living by trade, and that opened tremendous opportunities for the fugitives not only in terms of rehabilitation, but also proceeding their way. The only problem was to get there. Large convoys organized by commercial companies ran periodically between New Givart and ports of Jugha, but the last caravan left a week ago, and now they had to wait two weeks for the next one. Captains of individual ships did not want to risk to go to Jugha alone or offered a circuitous way, the cost of which exceeded all conceivable limits.
The reason for captains' fears was pirates. The sinister Snake archipelago – the shelter of black pirates stretched across Pacific Ocean between Sarduor and Grold. The most convenient seaway lay past the Tail of Snake – the second largest island of the archipelago. So you could feel relatively safe only as a part of a large caravan.
In response to Darg's exasperated exclamation what to do in case he is in a hurry, the last captain advised either to use the bubble ferry or to stop hurrying. However later, after a pause, the sailor recommended to look for skippers, whose life entered a series of misfortunes. He even was so polite that said two names – Lukang Blue Bubble and Mad Vesemir. The kord watched this dialog carefully and saw Darg's pupils dilated slightly, it was obvious that these names did not inspire optimism in his master. The captain nodded politely then left the room and even did not bother to close the door. The others did not allowed themselves such excesses!
Yarik who held yawn only by Herculean efforts, reluctantly stood up and walked to the door… and blood hit in his head like a sledgehammer, buzzing in his ears, and somewhere on the edge of his consciousness sounded the alarm: «Danger! Danger!» He felt something like that only in the Forest, and his old reflexes worked perfectly: Yarik instantly looked around the half-empty hall and without stopping even for a second, stepped back into the room. The door slammed treacherously loud!
Darg stopped pondering and abruptly raised his head. His eyes promised nothing good for the kord, but the master immediately changed expression of extreme irritation to cautious attention.
– What? – He asked as if he already knew the answer, but did not want to hear it.
– Bosk! – Yarik breathed the word like a curse. The understanding came to him a moment later – old Bosk really came into the hall, and he had some people with him.
– How many warriors? – Darg highlighted the most important question at once. His lips twitched slightly. – Or is he alone?
– At least three – Yarik shrugged, feeling hot breath of defeat on his back. – Shit!
Darg slipped past him to the door and began to open it slowly. The slave sprawled near the wall, praying to all gods, that the old shaman should not pay attention to their room and should forget the door that closed with a slam. After all, you never know why a door could slam…
– I see four and the shaman – Darg whispered quietly. – It seems, they are not looking in our direction… Ouch! Servants of Cali!
This exclamation that could not be heard from two steps away, struck at Yarik's stretched nerves like a knife of an executioner. He felt frozen inside with searing shiver running over his skin.
– What? – Yarik asked, with the lips having gone unruly at once.
– He has a skull of a rock rat. This is a searching amulet. – Darg straightened up and looked into the slave's eyes.
Yarik saw fatigue, numbness, anger and determination in his master's eyes, and Darg nodded as if answering a question. Yarik stepped to the table, snatched a bottle and started to flex his wrist, trying to grab the bottle comfortably.
– Do not forget the bag! – Darg was breathing deeply, he already managed to grab his sword and dagger. – Come on!
The world around changed into a row of some blurry pictures. The door swung opened and crashed into the wall. The plaster splashed. Darg made a sudden long tumble forward and already jumping from the floor, stabbed somebody with the dagger. Judging by the metal rasp and flashed sparks, his attack was not successful. Yarik slipped behind his master like an inaudible shadow. His feet stepped over the floor improbably gently, his hand was holding the bottle at the ready.
Darg was on his feet already and fighting with two nomads. The two others were running around the table, going to attack from behind. A couple of steppe warriors slid from the innkeeper counter like predators, snatching their swords from their sheaths. The first surprise! The innkeeper counter was not visibl
e from the door slot! The shaman began to howl behind the fighting men. Yarik did not understand why the shaman was doing that? Certainly, there were such warriors that even Darg could not cope with them!
One of the nomads decided to save time and rushed across the table. As if expecting that moment, Yarik slid forward and hit at the warrior's head at full tilt. The latter had felt, maybe, saw something from the corner of his eye a moment before the blow and began to turn with the sword raised to strike. The blow of the bottle stunned him for a moment and he lost his rhythm of fighting… Without thinking Yarik poked jagged glass bottle into the face of the steppe warrior, simultaneously dodging the sword blow. Blood splattered, but the nomad was still lucky – Yarik had not hurt his eye. However, one enemy dropped out of the fight: a dark stream of blood was gushing from a deep wound on his forehead, pouring over his eyes.
Some interior feeling forced Yarik to fall on his back. Something snapped and the pain from falling dispersed through his body. No matter! It was more important that a seemingly inevitable sword strike had whizzed past – the one from the warrior who had run round the table. Without wasting time on regret of failure this warrior whooped and tried to chop the slave lying on the floor. Saving his life, Yarik rolled over to the table and disappeared under its massive top. He leapt on all fours there and jumped to the opposite side, but then immediately drew back: some object fell before his face with a wet thud. Yarik frantically looked in front of him and a nasty lump rose in his throat. There was a severed hand before his eyes!