* * *
Sachin and Grendel came to a stop before a tall, three-story apartment building that soared like the prow of a ship that had run aground upon a weathered, single-story stone kruchma with a red tile roof.
A double-sided wooden plaque hanging from the eave by the door read Valevataya Mehana and bore a rough, carved image of a tankard. Xandor hid himself in a deep shadow by pressing up against the wall of one of the buildings across the street and waited.
The small man descended a shallow set of steps and made to open the door, but something stayed his hand. He scanned the nearby buildings where Xandor stood. Confident he could not be seen, the ranger remained perfectly still. Finally, the small man spoke to his bodyguard and pointed to the steps. Grendel shook his head and said something in a low growl. After a few heated words, Sachin must have won the argument because the half-orc remained outside while Sachin disappeared inside the tavern.
After waiting several heartbeats, the ranger pulled up the hood of his cloak and crossed the street, stopping beside Grendel.
“Evening.”
Grendel arched his eyebrows at Xandor’s sudden presence and quelled the urge to throttle him. Instead, he replied in a deceptively calm voice, “Evening.”
“You just supposed to wait here?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t seem like the smartest move he could make in this part of town. I’d better go inside and see what he’s up to.”
“Let me know if you need help.”
“Thanks.”
Xandor walked down several flagstone steps and stopped at a stout oaken door banded with blackened metal. He paused long enough to adjust the hood of his cloak and take a deep breath before shoving aside the heavy barrier. Inside, Xandor found himself in a heavily shadowed, four-foot square entry. Beyond lay a dimly lit, cramped main room filled with noise. The smell of sweat, wood smoke, and alcohol assailed him. At his feet, a thick layer of dirt and straw covered the floor, and, above him, smoke-stained timbers ran the length of the grimy ceiling. The walls were unpainted gray stone covered with small spots of white efflorescence.
Xandor scanned the room and instantly felt trapped—there were no windows and the only other exit was a swinging door behind the bar at the right-hand side of the tavern. A small pass-through opening beside the door gave a limited view of the kitchen.
The few tables and benches scattered about the room were full, but there was still plenty of room for the patrons to mill about and circle the roaring fire pit. They carried their mugs as they swapped stories and unwound after a day of hard labor.
Xandor took in all this within a matter of seconds and steeled himself to push through the crowd. No one paid him any attention other than to shift aside enough to let him pass as he wound his way to the bar, but Xandor still felt exposed. Squeezing into the narrow space between two couples, he gave the bar top a quick double slap to attract the attention of the attractive blonde who stood drying freshly-washed mugs, an assortment of casks and kegs with Glagolitic symbols at her back. On the wall in front of Xandor, a variety of odd-shaped bottles stood like dark gypsies along a narrow shelf at the base of a large mirror covering the unpainted stone. Every few minutes, the tapster glanced back at the mirror to keep an eye on the crowd while she poured drinks.
As she walked past, Xandor ordered ale while scanning the crowd in the mirror. His quarry was easy to spot—Sachin stood before the knight and his pale companion. The patrons gave them as wide a berth as they could, amounting to just a few feet, but it was enough for Xandor to also see the two Northmen seated on a bench, their backs to the wall. From Sachin’s body language, it was obvious an extremely unhappy superior was dressing down the knight. Interesting.
Both the knight and his companion—Xandor could see now he was not an albino, nor was he entirely human—listened to Sachin while the two Northmen appeared to sleep. The ranger noted the knight’s matted hair and tired eyes were underscored by dark smudges and gave a half-satisfied grunt. Serves you right, you pompous prick.
A shapely bosom, enclosed in cream-colored cotton and a leather vest, blocked the view. A mug of ale thudded on the counter and the bartender said, “That’s five copper leva.”
Xandor produced a silver lev from a pouch on his belt and pushed it across the bar toward her. Without taking his finger from the coin, he looked into her chocolate-colored eyes and asked, “What do you know about those people over there?” He gave a small tilt of his head to the left and saw the woman’s dark eyes dart across the crowd and back.
“The knight with the ugly albino?”
“Yeah, that’s them.”
She gave a shrug. “Not much. They aren’t local and haven’t been here before tonight. They came in a couple hours ago while things were slow. That small man talking to the knight came in just before you did—but you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Xandor nodded.
“I don’t want any trouble, you hear? You and your money can leave now if you’re thinking of starting anything. I don’t mind calling for the militsiya.”
He pulled out his identification and handed it to her wordlessly. She scanned the paper before huffing in exasperation. “Great,” she said, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “You are the militsiya.”
The ranger smiled in response and said, “I’ll do what I can to prevent any unpleasantness or, failing that, take it outside.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that. We have enough fights in here as it is. Once one person throws a punch, everyone wants to play.”
Before he could respond, the young woman moved away to another customer, taking the silver coin with her. He had to give her credit—he hadn’t realized he’d taken his finger from it.
Gaze returning to the mirror, he wished he could read lips. The bar seemed to be more crowded than when he first came in, and conversations were increasing in volume. A couple of harried young women moved through the crowd, carrying drinks and meals to customers. In the back corner, a minstrel tuned a lute and placed a small bowl on a stand nearby. Once the singing began, it would be impossible to hear anything.
* * *
Scowling at the young knight and his bodyguard, Sachin exclaimed, “Of all the idiotic stunts! Have you lost all your senses?” The little man’s gaze shifted to the pale warrior. “And you! A seasoned warrior? How could you let him make such a stupid mistake?”
Kourash glared through narrowed eyes in return, but his hand did not move toward the huge sword propped against the wall at his side.
Marko heaved a sigh and ran one hand through his tangled hair. “I told you. We ran into a patrol and had to fight our way out.”
“You weren’t even supposed to be on this side of the Stena,” Sachin said heatedly.
Marko stared at the little man, barely controlling his temper, and said, “There was no other choice.”
“There’s always another choice,” Sachin stated simply. “Your little escapade into Trakya almost ruined everything.”
“Maybe, but getting arrested would certainly have ruined everything,” Marko seethed.
“Just be glad you’re here. Have you heard from Gregori?”
Marko nodded. “He sends word everything is progressing well in Pazard’zhik, and he is ready to start the next phase of the plan.”
“And Chernigov? Have you heard from them?”
“No, not yet.”
“I told you, little brother, they are not dependable,” Sachin said smugly.
“Damn it,” Marko said, his fist clenching. “We need them.”
“No, we don’t,” Sachin said. “Bregu Kraagor can’t be controlled.”
“I can control him.”
Sachin stared at him and said, “I doubt that. That’s why I have a contingency plan already worked out.”
“Whatever.”
Kourash lunged to his feet. Sachin took an involuntary step back as the Seldaehne towered over him, but the creature’s attention was else
where. Marko rose, scanning the crowd.
“The man-dwarf is here,” Kourash growled.
“Damn it! How is that possible?” Marko asked as he nudged the two Northmen awake.
“What’s this?” Sachin demanded.
“Your caravan is being followed by a man who smells of dwarf,” Kourash answered. His tone brooked no argument.
* * *
At the bar, Xandor watched the tension build between the knight and Sachin. When the knight’s strange companion suddenly stood and began scanning the room, the ranger realized he was on the verge of being caught.
Sachin pushed toward the door, Marko close behind. The Northmen made to follow their employer, but he signaled for them to follow Kourash.
Xandor hunched over his ale and tried to keep his face in shadow while still watching the white giant. Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was chance, but Xandor broke the first rule of surveillance—he made eye contact with his quarry.
There was no hope of remaining anonymous now. The Northmen dropped their cloaks at a gesture from a bone-white hand. The two moved in opposite directions through the crowd to flank Xandor while the white warrior headed straight for him, the crowd parting like water. Xandor’s options were quickly disappearing. Remembering his earlier promise to the bartender, he leapt onto the bar and rolled into the narrow space behind it.
The young woman working there opened her mouth to protest, but Xandor shouted, “Is there a back way out of here?”
“The kitchen, but—”
Xandor did not hear the rest of her reply. He darted into the kitchen, dodging the cook and several of his helpers. Bombarded by thick smells of grease and cabbage, he spotted another door and ran for it. Angry shouts from the cook were cut off mid-word as one of the Northmen burst into the room with his cutlasses drawn.
Beyond the second door, Xandor found himself in a narrow stairwell leading up into the apartment building. High windows let in a minimum of moonlight and fresh air. There was barely enough light for Xandor to discern the few doors leading out. He took a chance and ran up the stairs two at a time to put as much distance as he could between himself and his pursuers.
* * *
Outside, Grendel waited for Sachin, pondering the wisdom of burning his mask. With the half-orc standing outside, very few people dared approach his side of the street. He cursed his father’s features; because of them, humans jumped to conclusions. And—more often than not—the wrong conclusions.
The tavern door burst open.
Practically quivering with rage, Sachin stalked out, followed by the knight. Grendel moved to intercept the young man, but Sachin stopped him. When the warrior reached the top of the steps, he said something to Sachin Grendel did not catch, and the small man whirled, mid-stride, a torrent of words pouring forth. The bodyguard watched the two, his hand near his axe should things turn ugly, and wondered if Xandor was on the other side of the door, listening.
* * *
Sachin’s eyes blazed. The caravan being followed was an obvious sign the Kral suspected something. This news made it imperative he get the caravan beyond the Stena and into the wilderness.
Confident in his bodyguard and hirelings’ abilities to take care of one nosey man, Marko was much more relaxed about the matter, which only served to infuriate Sachin further.
“What in the name of Sutekh have you been doing these past three days? Why didn’t you dispose of this threat before now—or did you think it wasn’t important?” Sachin demanded through clenched teeth.
“This is only the second time we’ve come across him,” Marko replied nonchalantly. “There was no reason to suspect him before tonight.”
“How many times must I tell you?! We can’t afford to be stopped!”
“If I had killed him earlier, you would have screamed about us leaving a trail of bodies. It doesn’t matter. My men will take care of him.”
“You must leave this town!” Sachin handed Marko what appeared to be a small translucent black pearl. “Take your men and we’ll meet like we discussed earlier.”
“You have no authority over me. You’re out of favor—remember?”
Sachin stepped forward and leaned toward Marko’s face. “I am still eldest. You will not fail me again, brother,” he hissed, “or I swear to Sutekh I will gut you myself.”
“Worry about your own guts,” Marko said coldly as he stomped off.
* * *
Grendel stood at Sachin’s shoulder. He could not understand what they were arguing about. Although some of the words sounded similar to the Trakyan he was still learning, their accents and the speed with which they spoke added levels of difficulty.
Sachin stared after Marko, his eyes burning with hatred. Mumbling under his breath, the small man walked up the steps. Worried about Xandor, Grendel glanced toward the bar then back at his employer. Grendel dared not linger. He would have to trust the ranger to take care of himself tonight, especially since staying out of trouble seemed nigh unto impossible for Xandor.
* * *
On the next landing, Xandor grabbed the nearest door handle and pulled, relieved when he found it unlocked. Without entering, he slammed the door and silently crept up the stairs, praying his ruse would buy him some time to find his way down to the street.
He was barely halfway to the next door when the two Northmen entered the stairwell. Xandor froze in place, trusting his cloak to keep him concealed in the deep shadow along the wall. He was rewarded when the two split up to enter the two lower doors. Gliding carefully to the top, Xandor tried the final door; this one was locked. He pulled his small graphite rod from his pouch and slid it inside the lock as gently as he could. The lock clicked, and the ranger slipped into the dark room beyond.
Dim light filtered through gauzy curtains, and Xandor could see the apartment’s furnishings definitely had a woman’s touch, and there was a pleasant hint of perfume. Entering the bedroom that overlooked the street, he crept to the edge of the large window. Below, Marko stood watching the buildings.
With a sudden crash and splintering of wood, the apartment door slammed open and sagged as the hinges cracked. Kourash walked cautiously into the living room, the point of a large two-handed sword poised in front of him. Behind him came one of the Northmen.
Xandor drew his two long blades and looked around. Cramped as it was, the bedroom would not give him much room to maneuver, but it also would not give his opponent space to swing that big blade of his. However, the Northman with his shorter blades would have no difficulty at all.
Kourash charged into the bedroom and thrust violently with his two-handed sword. Between the Seldaehne’s long arms and the fifty-five-inch blade, Xandor was hard pressed in the tight space. He held his blades crossed in an X to deflect each thrust.
The bedroom furniture took the brunt of the Seldaehne’s fury as each sword stroke tore through fabric and wood alike. It was all Xandor could do to keep from being pinned and still use Kourash’s large frame to block the Northman. He worked his way toward the window. A thrust by the giant crashed through the glass, shattering the pane.
With a snarl, Kourash shifted his attack. Xandor braced himself for the powerful blow, anticipating the worst, but the swing proved to be a feint that opened the ranger’s flank. Xandor realized his error too late as the giant lunged and struck a hard blow with his fist.
The ranger’s head snapped back and slammed against the window frame. Pain instantly blossomed across Xandor’s right temple and cheekbone. His vision blurred, and he fought to remain conscious.
Kourash grabbed a fistful of the ranger’s shirt and shoved him out the window. It was a three-story fall to the unyielding surface of the stone-flagged road. The Seldaehne stared out the window with an evil grin, but his grin turned to a frown when the ranger did not fall as expected—he simply floated down, his cloak billowing around him.
The knight watched, unimpressed. The man obviously had a magic trinket of some sort. It might save him from the fall but was of
no consequence to what waited for him. No longer concerned with maintaining his anonymity, Marko pulled the leather cover from his shield and dropped it. Shield held high and his hand-and-a-half sword at the ready, Marko launched himself at the ranger the moment before Xandor’s feet touched the ground.
Cold air helped clear the fog from Xandor’s head, even if it did nothing for the ringing in his ears. Twisting like a cat to keep the knight in view, the ranger saw the “sleeve sinister gules on a field ermine,” the heraldic crest of the Madasgorski family, the ruling dynasty of Zhitomir. As the significance of the red sleeve reaching out from the bearer’s left, or sinister, side over the black and white field, he had to admit it seemed fitting—sinister indeed. He had a fleeting moment to wonder what interest he had in this caravan before Marko leapt to the attack.
The ranger spun to his left to avoid the knight’s initial shield rush and thrust, allowing him a shot at the knight’s flank. Marko reversed his thrust into a swiping cut, making Xandor parry rather than attack.
That first strike was all the ranger needed to realize he was facing a master swordsman, making him thankful for the room to maneuver this time.
Circling, the two shifted and feinted as they looked for an opening in their opponent’s defenses. An eternity seemed to pass in the few moments it took the two fighters to feel out one another’s styles, strengths, and weaknesses.
A crowd of people from the tavern, drawn like scavengers to blood, began to form around the combatants. Talk increased as citizens laid wagers on the outcome. The two seemed evenly matched as stroke after stroke was dodged, blocked, or parried, but the odds were on the knight due to his armor.
“You’ve been trained by the Iron Tower, but you are no knight.”
Xandor was surprised the knight could identify his training. True, the Tower taught a rather distinctive blend of Val Maran Duo Acciaio elegance and Lundellan Två Värja economic brutality, but few swordsmen had the ambidexterity required to master the style with dual long blades. Even fewer warriors learned to identify such esoteric styles.
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