Of Blood and Steel

by Seymour Zeynalli

  — CHAPTER SEVEN —

  Tales and Truths

  The town was surrounded by a large wooden fence, with a watchtower. The gates were closed, so Balak and Arda knocked on the door.

  “It’s different than what I remember.”

  They walk through the streets and passed a blacksmith, who was working on a sword. Balak watched him heat up the metal, hammer its shining surface, and dip it into a barrel of water. The Blacksmith caught his eye.

  “Which way is the Tavern?” Balak asked.

  “Which one?” The Blacksmith answered.

  “Any of them.” Balak signaled his arm towards Arda.

  “Sure, at the end of this street, make right. You will see the Tavern on the left, Golden Arms.”

  Balak gave the man a nod and they continued through the streets, until they found the Tavern. Outside the tavern were dozens of horses waiting for their masters inside. Arming squires stood neatly in a row by them, moving their arms in circular movements as they cleaned their master’s armor and plates.

  One particular horse stood out amongst the rest.

  “Have you seen a horse like that before?” Arda asked.

  Balak turned his head to look. “Not like this one.”

  It was brown in color, like a regular horse, but it was taller, had two humps on its back and its eyes were vibrant and blue.

  “Its eyes look almost human,” Arda whispered.

  “You have a wild imagination,” Balak scoffed.

  They saw an old man sitting in front of the entrance. His eyes were covered by a ragged cloth, and he was holding a small cup begging for money as he counted wooden beads around the string. He rattled a few coins that lay in his cup as he heard the two walk by.

  Before entering, Balak turned to Arda and advised, “Remember to keep a low profile and don’t let them provoke you.”

  The tavern was boiling with life. Soldiers bragged of their glory in a recent battle. A handful of Parthian soldiers stood in the corner, stripped of their armor.

  “Why have they kept those soldiers? Do they intend to torture them?” Arda whispered to Balak.

  “For ransom. There must be some kind of reward for their life.”

  Word masters looked for the approval of a small crowd as they exchanged insults in the far corner of the bar, battling with lyrics to the beat of the drum. A few high-ranking soldiers were keeping quietly to themselves. They were drinking tea and obviously were not in the mood to celebrate.

  At the center of the hall sat a young man with highly decorated armour. Presumably he was the one who led them to battle. He sat quietly and enjoyed the atmosphere and a constant flow of toasts in his name. People referred to him as Andranik.

  Arda screwed up her face in disgust at the drunk and smelly men.

  “We’re looking for a hot meal and a place to stay the night,” Arda said.

  The lady looked at Balak, then looked at Arda.

  “You will need to pay half in advance, and we only have one room available.”

  “That’s fine,” Arda replied.

  Balak pulled out his coin purse and handed over some silver pieces.

  “We’ll pay in full. I trust that will cover two jugs of ale, two meals, and the room?”

  The lady’s eyes widened. “What would you like, sir?”

  “Qutabs and make it quick,” he told her.

  “Make yourself comfortable over there, in the corner, by the window. Your qutabs will be brought over soon,” she told him. She then turned to Arda. “Follow me.”

  Arda followed behind the bar, and through a doorway into a room. There was an open fire, and a kettle had just started to boil.

  “There’s enough water there to clean up.”

  “Thank you,” Arda said.

  The lady let her be. Arda took the basket from her back and unstrapped the child. She poured the water into the wash bowl, but before washing, she pulled out some of the goat’s milk, and filled the child’s cup. She placed it in the water to warm up.

  She changed the child, pulling spotless clothes from her bag. Once the milk was warm, she washed the child down before washing and changing herself.

  The lady returned and Arda thanked her. She also took the child’s blanket and handed Arda another.

  “You can use this one, while yours dries,” the lady said. “Your food is waiting with your . . .”

  “Grandfather . . .” Arda replied.

  Arda grabbed her things and hurried through to Balak. She gave the child its milk, and placed her in her basket, which she then tucked under the table. She slid her along the floor into the corner, so that she was not in plain sight.

  The lady at the bar offered Arda a glass of wine, and she accepted. She sipped it.

  Gray smoke started to bellow from the fire, and an old man with a scraggy beard limped over and started to throw on some wood. The plumes of smoke rose soaring and formed downy clouds. He poked at the wood with a long stick, pushing it further into the orange flames. The fire cracked and spat before it settled down. The smoke faded.

  The lady from the bar approached with their order. Balak rolled one Qutab without looking and took a big bite before spitting it all out.

  “What’s wrong?” the lady asked.

  “Sumac. I don’t like sumac on qutabs,” replied Balak.

  “Didn’t take you for a picky eater.”

  “I am not being picky.”

  “Fine, I will get rid of the sumac for you then.”

  They sat quietly and chowed down on their food. A bard entered the bar and recited a rhyme he had written about the battle to the soldiers.

  “The battlefield and its steel are stained with red,

  Victorious, Amida, celebrate its bloodshed.

  For the Darklands, this round is their victory,

  They battled with honor; many soldiers are dead.”

  Balak paid no mind to the bard, but watched a dark-skinned man in the corner, taking on challengers in an arm wrestle, drinking and enticing soldiers with his stories.

  He defeated soldier after soldier, growing cockier with each win. The soldiers grew more frustrated and their frustration led to more drinking. With every swig, they became rowdier. More soldiers lined up to challenge the man and in turn, each were defeated. One of the solders stood on his chair and thundered, “Gentlemen! May I have your attention, please?” The room went silent and he continued, “Let me raise this glass in honour of our leader, Andranik, who led us to a glorious victory over those Parthian scums!” Almost every soldier in the tavern begin to cheer and laugh.

  A few older and higher-ranking soldiers kept to themselves until one of them had enough and stood up and protested, “Hollow victory if you ask me.” The tavern went quiet before some man begin to boo. “Another victory like that and Amida will have nobody to defend it. The whole Kingdom will be left in ruins.”

  The room went silent; the man had more to say, “Before the battle, we had twenty thousand men under the sun. I stood there, side by side with you, friends, fighting six thousand Parthians. Today, I see two thousand unlucky bastards getting drunk and celebrating their victory and fallen brothers.”

  The people went dead silent, realising their losses and looking at the man with decorated armour, Andranik. One of the soldiers approached the man who was giving the speech, “Calm down, brother. You’ve said too much.” But the man ignored his warning and his fury increased.

  “Fuck you, Adranik! You might have won the battle, but you cost us the war!”

  Three more soldiers stood and grabbed the man. He was still rambling, but they shouted louder than he.

  “Can’t handle his liquor,” they laughed as they swiftly removed him from the bar.

  The soldiers continued the celebration but Andranik left shortly after, with a look of unease. Balak and Arda stayed quiet in the corner. Although they did not wish to be in the midst of trouble, they were grateful that the conflict had kept the attention away from them.

  The s
oldiers continued to take part in the drinking challenge while other men across the room began snorting pixie dust. This caused their eyes to widen and gave them a sudden rush of energy.

  A towering Amida soldier with a long beard noticed Balak in the corner. He whispered to his fellow comrades and four of them headed over to their table.

  “I think a man of your size would be able to win this man in an arm wrestle, what do you say?”

  “Not interested.” Balak growled, taking a swig of ale.

  “We can have our coin returned, and we’ll buy you a drink. Come on,” he said.

  “Not interested.”

  The man’s attention then switched to Arda. “Is this your wife? She looks young enough to be your daughter.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” another soldier slurred. He grabbed Arda’s arm. “Maybe you should come with us. This man is too old for ya. Don’t you want to get some real cock.” He yanked Arda up and Balak jumped to his feet.

  He was larger than the soldiers had first anticipated, so they stepped back, all except the soldier that restrained Arda.

  The child began to cry.

  “A child too . . .” another soldier commented. He stepped forward, bowing his head to look under the table.

  “Do you really want to do this? You think you can take out a Tavern full of armed soldiers? Do you really think you will get your wife, your child and yourself out of this place in one piece?” the soldier growled.

  He slapped Balak on the back of his neck several times, a sign of disrespect, as he expressed his dominance.

  Balak scowled. He stared into the soldier’s eyes and said “Maybe not a full tavern. But I only need two swings for the four of you.”

  Balak was playing out murdering these four men quickly and rushing out the door, when the dark-skinned man interrupted their standoff.

  “Care for a friendly competition?” he asked.

  The crowd had descended across the bar to watch the arm wrestle, Arda scooped up the child in the basket and grabbed her things before the two soldiers pushed her to the back of the tavern.

  Balak waited at the table until the dark-skinned man sat down before him.

  “I’m Ziya,” he told him.

  “Balak . . . now can we get on with it?”

  Balak’s hand dwarfed Ziya’s, but Ziya did not appear afraid. He was still glowing with confidence.

  “Watch me finish my drink as I take on this old man,” stated Ziya to entertain the crowd.

  The men joined their hands and began. Balak used his bare hand and pushed against Ziya’s gloved hand. He pushed with all his might against Ziya’s strength. Ziya’s arm started to relent.

  “By the Maker, this is one putting on a fight,” Ziya stated with a chuckle. But he still put his drink aside to concentrate on the fight.

  The crowd roared. Ziya got a surge of strength and pushed against Balak’s large hand. Balak’s arm started to move backwards and Ziya looked like he would win, but then Balak growled and again put himself in a winning position. A few minutes passed and the crowd of soldiers were loud and thrilled, as they shouted for Balak to win.

  After a while, the men grew restless as the arms of both men pushed back and forth. With one last thrust, Ziya was ready to force Balak’s arm to hit the table when he noticed a tall Amida soldier reaching out for his dagger. Balak saw Ziya losing his concentration and slammed Ziya’s hand on the other side, almost breaking the table.

  Balak stood victorious.

  Then Ziya yelled, “Your new champion everyone. Hey bartender, make sure those men are well fed and watered. Drinks are on me.”

  The crowd was ecstatic. Arda released herself from the clutches of soldiers and approached Balak and asked, “How did you manage that?

  “I didn’t,” replied Balak, gazing at Ziya as he worked the crowd. “He let me win.”

  “But . . . why would he do that?” Arda whispered.

  “I don’t know, but I think we should head to our room. These men have been through battle and while they are here, this is not a safe place for a child.”

  Arda nodded. She was still clutching the child, tightly. While the soldiers were distracted by the free ale, Balak and Arda nodded to the bar lady, and slipped up some steep wooden stairs to their room.

  A large bed dominated their small room. By the window, was a chair and Balak headed straight over to look out of the window. Soldiers stumbled out in the street. Some threw punches or drew their swords at one another. One man fell to the ground with the weight of his longsword.

  Balak pulled the cloth over the window.

  “You take the bed,” he told Arda as he unbuckled his belt.

  Arda laid the child and her satchel on the bed. She slipped off her shoes and slid them underneath, but she didn’t say a word.

  Balak sat in the chair, peering through a gap in the cloth that covered the window.

  Arda climbed into bed with the child beside her. She was sleeping soundly, so Arda grabbed at the candle and blew gently. They were left in darkness.

  * * *

  It was barely morning when Balak woke Arda.

  “We should get ready to leave,” he said, shaking her gently.

  Arda packed up her things and changed the infant. She fed her the milk while Balak paced back and forth. She tied the child to herself inside her cloak as she had previously, and they headed downstairs.

  “Thank you,” Arda said to the lady, who was working again in the bar.

  Standing outside the tavern, they once again saw Ziya petting his strange horse.

  Arda approached the man.

  “I believe we owe you our thanks for last night.”

  Ziya politely bowed before Arda, before gently pressing his lips on her soft hand saying, “You don’t owe me anything, my lady. My name is Ziya and I’m honoured to meet you.”

  “I am Arda and this is Balak. Pleasure to meet you, Ziya”

  “The pleasure is all mine.”

  Arda then looked at Ziya’s horse.

  “Is this your horse?”

  “Oh, you mean her? It is not a horse. It’s a camel. But don’t call her that; she doesn’t like to be called it, right, darling?” He petted the camel as it exclaimed a strange sound in agreement.

  “Her name is Kamala,” he added.

  Arda smiled and her eyes scanned over the dusty ground.

  As Ziya untied his camel from the pool, he threw a silver coin in the wooden bucket that was by the man with a cloth tied around his eyes. The man nodded towards Ziya as he heard the coin hit the bottom of the bucket.

  “You paid a blind man to watch over her?” Arda asked in surprise.

  “Hm? Oh, that guy? He ain’t blind. How did you think he drew that sign?”

  They both laughed.

  Balak approached, “Arda, we need to go,” he grunted. Arda ignored him and continued talking. “Where do you come from, Ziya?” she asked.

  “I come far from the south, past the Samartan Desert.”

  “But there is nothing beyond the desert.”

  “That’s what many people from this land say, but you would be wrong. Beyond the desert is a land the size of Tartaurus, maybe larger. With people just like you and me. And where I come from, we call it Netheria.”

  “Amazing. Balak, have you ever been to Netheria?”

  “No,” Balak replied begrudgingly. He started to walk and both Arda and Ziya followed.

  “Maybe you should. Some sun would be good for you. I have seen corpses look more alive than you,” Ziya suggested.

  Arda burst into laughter. Balak glared at her.

  “Sorry,” Arda apologized

  “Where are you heading?” Balak asked abruptly.

  “West,” Ziya answered.

  “Us too. We should travel together, it’s safer,” Arda said.

  Balak’s mouth twisted and his eyes widened. He headed in front, leading the way while Arda continued to chatter to Ziya.

  He kept listening to them, and Ziya kept
telling the girl all about his adventures, shape shifters, and places outside of time. Arda listened intently, and occasionally, Balak would hear her giggle at Ziya’s jokes.

  Balak kept leading them through the forest until it started getting dark.

  “We should camp down for the night,” he told them as he came to a stop.

  “Here in the open?” Arda questioned.

  “There is nowhere else. We will have to keep a lookout.”

  Ziya tied his camel to a tree, while Balak checked the ground for tracks. The mud was disturbed and damp, with the tracks of a small animal and horse hooves from the previous day.

  “Ziya can get the firewood,” Balak croaked.

  “Of course.” Ziya bowed his head and disappeared into the trees.

  Arda had unstrapped the child and lay her in her basket.

  “I would stay cautious of him,” Balak told her.

  “Ziya? He doesn’t strike me as a threat.”

  “I mean it, Arda,” he warned.

  Arda scowled at him.

  “What food do we have?” he asked.

  “I have bread, cheese and berries.”

  Balak nodded.

  Ziya dropped a pile of wood in between Arda and Balak. Balak set to work on the fire.

  “We will need the fire tonight,” he said.

  Ziya and Arda sat close together and continued to get to know each other. Balak scanned the area and began boiling some nettles in some water.

  “This will warm us up,” he pointed out as he poured it into his flask and took a drink. “Not as good as ale,” he told them as he offered them a drink.

  He offered the remainder of the bubbling water to warm the child’s milk. Arda took the water from him and continued to talk to Ziya. An easterly wind blew through her tangled hair, and Balak could smell the floral smell of soap as well as damp dirt and moss. He sat on the tree stump by Ziya’s camel and sipped his hot drink. He could feel the warm liquid slip down his throat and its sweetened taste quenched his thirst.

  “So, are you two related?” Balak heard Ziya ask.

  “He’s my grandfather,” Arda answered.

  Balak screwed up his face and threw her another look as she turned in his direction.