Inching over the edge overlooking the street below, he huddled down to obscure his form, and waited. A couple minutes later, he watched the squad run past him, oblivious to his presence above. Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the stars, and allowed himself to breathe.
What is going on? Why would General Blowhard want me this bad?
The answers simply would not come, regardless of how many times he turned the questions over in his head. It was true that Krin was notorious in the city for his pranks, but he had never seriously violated any laws. So why was he being hunted down like a felonious street thug? Nothing seemed to make sense. He needed to find the answers. Soon. Fortunately, he knew exactly where to get them.
***
Krin padded cautiously along the cobblestone, making sure to stay out of the light cast by the street lanterns. When he was close to his destination, he found a secluded building, and pressed his back against its wall. Feeling safe enshrouded in the shadows, he peeked around the corner to see a soldier accosting Janus, the town’s blacksmith and father of Krin’s best friend, Justin. It was a safe bet the discussion was about him, and knowing Janus, he was singing like a bird. Not that it would matter much. Justin’s father knew very little about Krin’s life—except for the malicious fiction whispered about him over the years by a few busybody shopkeepers. Still, he had to get to Justin, and he would have to do it without alerting Janus or the soldier while he was at it.
The soldier finished interrogating Janus, then turned toward Krin’s hiding spot. Krin slink back into the shadows, holding his breath. He willed his heart beat to slow, so he could hear more than just the roar of blood in his ears. After a few seconds, he stole another glance. The soldier strode across the street. The staccato of his determined foot falls matched Krin’s own heartbeat. He was instantly relieved when the soldier moved on to the tanner’s shop.
Wow. They are determined! Don’t even care that it’s the middle of the night. Definitely more serious than I first thought.
With the soldier’s back turned, Krin darted into the alley behind the blacksmith’s shop, and grabbed hold of a metal drain pipe that snaked up to the roof. Hand over hand, Krin scrambled up toward his best friend’s window he had snuck through so many times over the years.
“Justin, you in here?”
Huh. Justin usually burned the midnight oil. Despite his blackouts, and loss of time, Krin figured it had only been a couple of hours since sundown.
“Justin?” Krin’s voice cracked; anxious for his friend. The stress of the evening was beginning to weigh down on him.
“You can’t be here right now.” The voice was strained. Reedy. Not the usual pomp and bravado Justin usually produced. “Father would kill me if he knew you were here.”
“I need your help.” The words seemed to tumble uncontrollably from Krin’s mouth. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s going on. Nicholas has been arrested, and now they’re after me too.”
“I know. I heard. From the gossip going on downstairs, all the merchants around town have been talking about it since this afternoon.”
“What’s going on then?” Cringing at the sudden volume of his own voice, he continued in a hiss. “Come on! You’ve got to tell me what you know.”
The silence hung numbly in the air. After a long moment, a labored sigh came from somewhere in the shadows. Justin lit a small oil lamp. A small but inviting light danced across the wall of the small bed chamber as the flame flickered to life.
Krin froze the moment he saw his friend’s face. One eye, swollen shut, nestled in an angry sea of black and blue flesh. A large gash ran across his swollen lower lip. His right arm hung limp in a cloth sling.
“What happened?” Krin asked, though he already knew the answer. A sliver of fury raced down his spine as he took in all his friend's injuries.
Lowering his good eye, Justin nodded toward the window, and confirmed Krin’s suspicions. “The soldiers came just before dinner.” His words were muffled. His swollen lips making it difficult to speak. “They wanted to know where you were. They thought I would know.”
“I’m so sorry, Justin. I had no idea.”
His friend shrugged his good shoulder, and cast a weak smile. “No big deal.” Justin tried to swallow, and winced from the effort. “I’ll get over it. You? I’m not so sure. General Alexandrius really means business this time.”
“But why? What did I do? And why did they arrest Nicholas?”
“No one knows for sure. They say the Emperor himself gave the order.”
“Constantine?” Krin’s head swirled with thoughts. Granted, Nicholas had always been one to speak his mind. Never opposed to letting the Romans know what he thought of them when they acted unjustly, nor had he ever backed down from a righteous fight.
“But Emperor Constantine always had such immense respect for Nicholas. Even hand-picked him to take part in the Arian ordeal. Why would he want Nicholas arrested now?
“Like I said, no one knows. You know how rumors are; don’t even know if it’s true.” Justin winced as he adjusted the sling over his shoulder. “Whenever anyone asks to see the orders...well…let’s just say that no one’s asking anymore.”
Krin’s wrestled with waves of confusion threatening to overwhelm him. Constantine had issued a religious tolerance act a couple of years before Krin had even been born. Christianity was now an officially recognized religion of the Roman Empire. So this couldn’t have anything to do with Nicholas’ faith, could it?
Realizing he would get none of his answers here, he abruptly changed topics. “Justin, I hate…I hate to ask you this after all you’ve been through tonight, but I need your help.”
His friend eyed him cautiously; uncertainty stretching across his battered, and bruised features. Krin knew he was asking a great deal; if the Romans discovered that Justin had helped him—especially after they had made it very clear he was to report the moment he discovered Krin's whereabouts—they wouldn’t let him off so easily as the first time.
Yet, Krin knew that he wouldn’t be able to obey Nicholas' request without help from his friend. He had been tasked with getting back into his own house unseen to retrieve Nicholas’s parcel; and Justin was the only person he could trust enough to help him. Although the thought of putting his friend at even greater risk, sat very poorly with him; he could think of no alternative.
After a minute of careful reflection, Justin nodded; the old twinkle in his good eye evident once again.
“Sure. What do you need me to do?”
THREE
From the shadows of a nearby olive grove, across the main road from Nicholas’s estate, Krin watched anxiously. He recognized Soladontus, the stalwart soldier tasked with guarding the back courtyard, as he paced dutifully back and forth. The gate to the six-foot tall stone fence was standing wide open, making it relatively easy to gain a clear view of the rear portion of the estate even from across the road.
Soladontus, or as Krin called him, Sol, was not a Roman. He wasn’t even from an important region of the Empire. But he fancied himself a great Roman warrior, and aspired to greatness one day. Krin had watched him countless times, strutting militantly through the streets; crisp, clean uniform flashing in the sunlight. All his pomp, and delusions of grandeur had made him an easy target for some of Krin’s more merciless practical jokes…which naturally, clashed with the soldier’s spit-and-shine demeanor.
Soladontus had never been gracious toward him to begin with. But Krin knew he had probably given the arrogant little soldier umpteen more reasons to not like him. One too many fire ants had been carefully placed in the poor man’s boots; one too many water bladders had dropped on his head; he had receive one too many demerits because of something Krin had done to him. Nope, not a chance for amiability to develop between them.
Unfortunately, Sol was about to find himself once more in hot water, for the simple twist of fate that he had been assigned to guard the rear of Nicholas' house. Nearly pitying the sol
dier for his many past abuses, Krin wished there was some other way to get into his home.
Breathing deeply, Krin mentally replayed the plan one more time, assuring himself of his intimate knowledge of the estate. He had grown up there. Played with the insects and earthworms hiding from the sun beneath rocks and fallen tree branches in the small garden in the rear courtyard. He had been reprimanded on more than one occasion for climbing into the marble fountain to the east of the gate in hopes of catching the imaginary fish that swam within. He had often hopped from one foot stone to the next in the warm mornings of spring, winding his way around the fountain, the garden, and the outdoor altar, all while pretending that if he fell, he would plummet into the raging flow of lava on either side. No, he knew the layout of the property better than anyone, and knew that once the plan was set into motion, he would have no problem getting to the back of the house. What happened after that, however, was another matter.
A quick reconnaissance of the estate had revealed that Sol was not alone. Another guard was stationed at the front door, though already much too inebriated to be of much consequence. But it was the noise from within the house that concerned him most. From the sound of it, the lower level of the three story abode was teaming with Roman soldiers, just waiting for his return.
Krin’s musings were shattered by the howl that came from the street off to his right. He turned to see Justin shambling toward the soldier as fast as his battered body would carry him; his good arm waving madly in the air. Clearly irritated, Sol drew his sword from its scabbard, and stepped toward the crazed young man.
“Stop right there,” Sol shouted with his customary no-nonsense voice. Although Krin thought he could detect the slightest hint of a quiver in the command; a testament to the soldier’s false bravado when faced with an unknown danger.
Breathing heavily, Justin stopped short, just an arm's length from the tip of the outstretched sword. His eyes were wonderfully wide with affected panic.
Oh, nicely done. Krin was impressed with his friend’s performance. Justin, my friend, you should seriously give thought to joining the next band of traveling thespians that come through Myra. It is without a doubt your calling.
“Come quick!” Justin finally yelped. “It’s Krin! He’s gone mad!”
The soldier looked around tentatively, uncertain what he should do. Krin knew that Sol would be in a quandary over this. With the demerits he had accumulated over the years, his position within the Legion was tenuous at best. If he left his post, and something unforeseen occurred—say, the sudden burglary of the home he was guarding by the fugitive he had been assigned to apprehend, for instance—he would surely face execution. Yet, the thought of bringing the prize to Alexandrius would be too tempting to resist. He could finally become the hero he always believed himself to be.
The man’s bird-like chest puffed out like an over-inflated air bladder about to burst. “Where is he?” Soladontus asked imperiously; his ambitious mind was already imagining the glorious accolades of his peers.
Krin’s smile widened, then suddenly withered when he remembered the consequences the man would ultimately face for their deception. Though no love was lost between he and Sol, he lacked any desire to see the man punished so severely because of his actions. He knew that Nicholas would certainly disapprove of the plan, but he was locked away in a urine-soaked prison cell, and Krin was running for his freedom, if not his very life. He didn't have the luxury of second thoughts.
Shoving his doubt aside, he turned once more to the activity in the courtyard. Still feigning breathlessness, Justin turned, and began running back toward town, waving for Sol to follow. “Come with me!”
Sol gave one final look around, then glanced quickly to the roof; appearing satisfied that no one was about to see his desertion, he dashed after the blacksmith’s son to glory.
***
After several minutes of complete stillness, the only sound Krin heard was an inquisitive hoot of a barred owl from the nearby orchard. He popped his head out from behind the large stump concealing him, and glanced around. Seeing no one else, he felt confident the coast was clear. .
Now, with Sol gone, the only other guard outside, was in drunken stupor at his post at the front entrance, Krin could make his move.
He sprang from his hiding spot, and dashed through the gate. Closing it behind him as an afterthought, should Sol return too soon, he turned, and moved into the courtyard of his sandstone home. Ducking behind the fountain directly east of the gate, Krin cast furtive glances around the courtyard; once more taking in his surroundings. There was no margin for error in matters of life and death. Krin knew that being stealthy and steady would keep him from the general’s dungeons.
Everything was perfectly silent. Only a gentle breeze sweeping in from the west could be heard as it brushed against the thick blanket of ivy crawling up the back of the house in a quiet rustle. Krin quietly chastised Nicholas for always bolting the backdoor of the old homestead from the inside to discourage burglars. This excursion would certain have been easier if he had, just once, forgotten to lock it. But there was nothing he could do, but proceed with the plan. He would need to make his way to the side of the house, slip through the kitchen window, and make his way up to the second floor where Nicholas’s study was kept.
He readied himself to move, but found his legs unwilling to cooperate. Although everything appeared as it should, Krin still felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right. There was something he had missed during his earlier reconnaissance, he was sure of it. But if so, what?
He started at the sound of leaves rustling behind him, and a wave of goosebumps erupted down his arms. Though he wasn’t sure how, he could feel the watchful gaze of someone’s eyes upon his back. Someone was skulking in the shadows from behind, inching ever closer up to Krin’s paralyzed form. He dared not even breathe as he waited for the inevitable.
Footsteps scuffled across the pebbles of the road on the other side of the gate, followed by a low, throaty grunt, and the gentle thud on the lawn as if someone had just climbed over the stone fence. Krin’s sharp eyes scanned the darkness—his heart pounding against his chest like a herd of wild horses—but nothing was out of place. Only his ears picked up the telltale signs of the impending ambush.
Out from the corner of his eye, Krin caught a blurred figure streaking toward him from the direction of the house. Startled, he spun around just in time to see a tall soldier with a short sword in hand, barreling toward him like an armored juggernaut.
“Die, Elfson!” the Roman said with a deep baritone voice. At nearly six and a half feet tall and built of tightly wound muscle, he was monstrous—a behemoth of righteous fury with wild eyes fixed solely on his prey. Krin.
How did I miss him?
It wasn’t the passed-out guard from the front of the house. This soldier was too tall—too fit. Too full of rage. This particular soldier was someone new. But he couldn’t think about that now.
Before he could process anything else, the soldier was on him. His sword swung through air, swishing past Krin’s head by only hair’s width.
“Hey! Watch it!” Krin shouted, rolling out of the way, and coming to his feet with an otherworldly grace. “Your general’s not going to be very happy if you kill his prize!”
The Roman refused to heed his Krin’s words. Instead, his mouth curled into a savage scowl, frothing with rage.
“Seriously,” Krin said, backing slowly away from the hulking figure. “You’re taking this way too seriously.”
Where was this guy hiding? Krin just couldn’t let the question go.
Then he remembered Sol, before pursuing Justin, had looked up toward the roof. Krin had thought he had simply been taking one last look for any intruders. But now…
Krin peered past the soldier’s shoulders at the house beyond, and spotted the perch on the thatched roof. Of course! The guard had set up a post on top of the house for a better view of the estate. He had been hidden by Nicholas’s flue vent, and wa
s able to watch Krin's every move, even when he snuck into the courtyard. He just had waited patiently, and when the time was right; climb down and strike.
The soldier roared at his miss and swept his blade up in a desperate attempt to eviscerate Krin from the groin up.
“Sweet Mother of Augustin!” Krin shouted as he leapt back from the swing. “You want me dead!”
Growling in reply, the soldier lunged forward, attempting to grab the youth. His hand wrapped around Krin’s sleeve, and latched on with. Krin spun away, leaving a portion of his sleeve between the guard’s fingers. Not a second too soon, he swung open the gate, and was running toward the protection of the orchard.
***
Krin raced across the road, making his way into the ancient grove opposite Nicholas’s estate. Frantic, angry footsteps followed. The berserk guard, only a few paces behind, grunted as he slipped on the pebbled roadway, brought himself to his feet, and continued the pursuit.
The tumble, however, gave Krin a slight edge. He slipped through the first row of trees, and wove his way around them in an attempt to break his pursuer’s line of sight.
But his efforts were wasted. The soldier had recovered too quickly, and was already only paces behind. He could hear the footfalls closing in, pushing him forward regardless of thick vegetation that lashed at his face and neck as he ran.
Suddenly, a loud crack resonated behind him. Krin stopped dead in his tracks, and turned to see the soldier crashing to the ground like a stone. And from the looks of it, he wasn’t going to ever be getting up again. The guard hadn’t tripped. He had been struck. A strange little man was now standing over the soldier’s lifeless body. The guard’s head looked as if it were a gourd crushed by the wheels of the Emperor's chariot.
Although the soldier had obviously intended a similar fate for Krin, an odd mixture of nausea and inexplicable regret washed over him. Stunned, his eyes drifted up from the growing pool of blood seeping into the crushed rock to the short, stocky man gripping the thin end of an oak walking staff, the other end, stained with his victim’s blood.
The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur Page 3