by Sam Barone
His words silenced them momentarily. Esk kar looked around the table and saw doubt in their eyes, mixed with confusion at the boldness of a man they’d thought of only as a common soldier. He went on before they could say anything.
“Whatever you choose, the people are waiting to hear your words. I told them you would speak to them today. So you’ll have to decide now. If you tell them the nobles are not going to resist, many will begin to leave. Once gone, they won’t come back. And so you’ll all have to leave, taking what you can carry, crossing the river, and hoping to avoid the barbarians.”
“You had no right to speak to the people,” Noble Rebba said, speaking for the first time. “Only the Families can speak for Orak.” Noble Decca nodded in agreement.
“The villagers know the barbarians are coming,” Esk kar answered, keeping temper and voice under control. “They know Ariamus took men and horses as well as all he could carry before he fled. They know that I’m meeting with you now. If you don’t say something today, many more will go, including myself and the rest of the soldiers. No one will stay here guarding your wealth until it’s too late to escape. So Orak will fall in a few weeks, months before the barbarians arrive. When you leave here, I think you’ll find that many things have changed.”
He looked at Nicar for a moment. “As I said, if you don’t want me to defend the village, say so, and I’ll be gone. I don’t need to risk my life defending Orak.”
“Nothing can stop the barbarians, Esk kar,” answered Nestor, the oldest member of the Families. Nestor had lived in and around Orak even longer than Nicar. Nestor resided in one of the large farms that ringed the village. “You should know that, more than any of us.”
“Noble Nestor, I believe they can be stopped, and that I know how to stop them. As I discussed with Nicar, it can be done. But it’s only possible if we start now, and only if everyone puts their hearts and backs into it.
The villagers must believe Orak can resist, or they’ll leave.”
“We don’t need the villagers,” Drigo answered easily. “We rule here, and we decide what is to become of Orak.”
“You may rule here, but the people of the village give you power,”
Esk kar countered. “Without the craftsman, the baker, the winemaker, the tavern keeper, even the farmers in the fields, what will you do? Make your own bread, plant crops yourself, rule over your own family?”
“There are other villages,” Drigo said, sure of himself, still speaking down to Esk kar.
“Yes, and they have their own rulers,” Esk kar said, recalling Trella’s words. “You’d have to buy your way into them. Perhaps you would not find yourself a noble in your new village.”
“We can start our own village,” said Drigo the Younger, ignoring the admonishment to keep silent. “We don’t need the villagers here for that.”
Esk kar laughed. “Yes, ruler of a dung heap of fifty or a hundred people. Here is the river, fertile soil, trade with the other villages, hundreds of tradesmen, and crafts of many kinds. Where else can you find all that?”
“Keep silent, my son,” the elder Drigo said, glancing at his heir. “But my son’s words have truth in them. We can return here after the barbarians have gone.”
“True, you can start over again,” Esk kar replied, mentally thanking Trella for her foresight. So far they had said nothing she hadn’t anticipated.
“Of course, the barbarians will return again in another five or ten years.
Or perhaps other strangers may come, and maybe they will be interested in being rulers of a new Orak.” Esk kar looked at Nicar and saw him leaning back in his chair, at ease, clearly enjoying the debate as he gauged the faces of the other leaders.
“But I don’t want to waste your time, Nobles,” Esk kar went on. “And I don’t think it is my place to explain to you the value of a village the size of Orak.” He stumbled a little with the words, trying to get the sense that Trella had voiced. But they didn’t seem to notice his lapse.
“Perhaps we should ask Esk kar to tell us how he plans to stop the barbarians,” Nicar said quietly. He waited a moment, but no one spoke.
“Please sit, Esk kar. Would you care for some wine?”
Esk kar sat down, mindful of the sword at his waist that no one seemed to have noticed. “Water, Noble Nicar. My slave will fetch it.” He nodded to Trella. She went to the water jug standing on a side table and filled a cup, then placed it in front of him.
“Wine for me, slave,” sneered Drigo the Younger, sliding his cup hard across the table toward Trella. She caught it deftly before it could fall over the edge.
She looked at Esk kar, her face expressionless, and he nodded. “Wine for Master Drigo,” Esk kar repeated, even as he decided he would kill the young fool for the insult. Some hint of his thoughts must have crept into his voice, because all eyes turned toward him, including those of the elder Drigo, as if they sensed something beneath his words.
“No, no more wine for my son,” Drigo said, his tone somewhat more cautious. “We’re finished here. The rest of you can waste your time talking about stopping the barbarians, but in the end, you’ll all be leaving the village.” He stood up, his son joining him. “I have more important things to attend to.”
Esk kar smiled tolerantly at Drigo’s son, even as he saw the dagger under the young man’s tunic when he stood.
No one else left their seats. Father and son started for the door, but the youngest couldn’t resist the urge to speak one more time. He stopped a few steps from Esk kar. “And barbarian, you’d better watch your tongue, or you’ll find it gone from your head.”
Trella’s musical laugh surprised everyone, including Esk kar, and stopped all talk. Everyone’s eyes turned toward her. All except Esk kar, who kept his eyes on young Drigo’s hands.
“My apologies, Nobles, my tongue betrayed me,” Trella said contritely, but the laughter remained in her voice and her eyes.
“What’s so funny, slave?” A crease appeared in the elder Drigo’s brow, as if he’d missed something important.
“Nothing, Noble Drigo,” she answered humbly enough, “except that the last man to call my master a barbarian is dead.”
“We care not if he slits some pig farmer’s throat,” spoke young Drigo, his temper matching the flush rising on his face.
The girl’s laugh had pushed the boy past his senses. Young Drigo wasn’t used to being laughed at in public, and by a slave at that.
“No, young Master Drigo, it was not some peasant,” Trella responded, her voice steady and with just the tiniest hint of insolence needed to further fan the flame of anger. “It was Naxos, and one of his men, who lie dead in the street outside.” The smile stayed on her face as she looked at the boy.
Every eye turned to Esk kar, who picked at a fingernail, still keeping an eye on young Drigo. The youth’s hand moved toward his tunic, inches from the dagger.
“Is this true?” Nicar asked, unable to keep the indignation and anger out of his voice.
“Yes, it’s true,” Esk kar replied, leaning against the table with his left arm as he turned sideways on the stool to face Nicar. “Drigo’s man tried to keep me from your house. Naxos also said my slave wasn’t permitted to enter. He called me a barbarian, then he and another tried to attack me.”
Not quite true, but close enough. Esk kar waited a moment before he went on, shifting his body even further so that his sword was pinned against the table as he turned to face the elder Drigo, his right side now turned toward the younger man.
“But don’t worry, Noble Drigo. I spared the rest of your guards. You’ll find them outside, and they’ll be much more polite to my men in the future.” From his new position, Esk kar glanced back at Drigo the Younger, saw his face had flushed an even deeper red, and smiled at him, the way a man smiles at a small child.
With a cry of rage, the youth snatched the dagger from his tunic and lunged toward Esk kar, certain he could strike before Esk kar could stand or free his sword. But instead
of trying to rise up and meet the thrust, Esk kar shifted more of his weight to the heavy table and lashed out with his leg. His sandal caught the boy squarely in the chest, the knife point stopping inches from Esk kar’s body before the kick sent the boy reeling back into the wall, staggering him for a moment, but long enough, as Esk kar sprang from the stool, the sword flashing from its scabbard and crossing over his body before thrusting home in the boy’s throat.
Esk kar’s move had been so quick, so unexpected, that the rulers of Orak sat rooted in their chairs, stunned by the death blow, the usual reaction of men who gave orders, not sword strokes.
Only Drigo the Elder found his voice. “No, stop!” he screamed, too late, as he watched his son take the death cut. He threw himself at Esk kar.
He had no weapon, and a stiff arm in the chest would have sent him staggering back. But not today, Esk kar thought, as he twisted his body to meet the man’s rush, stepped back and extended his sword arm, letting Drigo run himself against the blade, his weight and momentum carrying him forward until the hilt nearly touched his chest. His right hand twitched in front of Esk kar’s face, and Drigo’s eyes widened with amazement for a moment before they turned up in their sockets. Death had taken him even before his son, who gurgled and twitched for a few more moments before the loss of blood killed him.
Everyone was on their feet, but nobody said anything. They stood there, in shock, eyes wide as they watched the Drigos die. Esk kar tried to jerk his sword free as the father’s body slumped to the floor, but the flesh had closed tight around the blade. Esk kar had to put his foot on the body and pull hard.
Still no one said anything. Blood continued to ooze from the two bodies. Esk kar handed the sword to Trella. “Take this and clean it.”
Stooping, he recovered the dagger the foolish boy had dropped and sat back down at the table, dropping the knife in his lap. Esk kar picked up his water cup and drained it, though much of its contents had spilled when he pushed against the table. “I think you should all sit down,” he said, his voice calm. “We still have many things to discuss.”
He noticed a sharp knocking on the door that grew louder. “See to the door, Trella, then find Gatus.”
The door opened before Trella reached it, and Creta stood in the doorway, two of Nicar’s guards behind her. She started to speak, then glanced in horror at the bloody scene at her feet, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. The guards behind her looked as frightened as their mistress.
“Noble Nicar,” Esk kar began, “perhaps you should tell your men that there’s no danger.”
To Esk kar’s relief, Nicar quickly recovered.
“Yes, of course. Creta! Wine for everyone. And have slaves remove these bodies immediately.” He looked at the crowd of servants gathering in the antechamber and raised his voice so all could hear him. “An unfortunate incident has occurred. Drigo and his son tried to kill Eskkar, the new captain of the guard,” he paused, “and were themselves slain.”
For the next ten minutes, chaos ensued as frightened servants dragged the bodies out, wiped the floor clean, and straightened the furniture. Trella returned with Gatus in tow. She handed Esk kar his sword, wiped clean of blood, resting her hand on his arm for the briefest of moments. The still — nervous nobles gulped their wine, even as more was poured, before a still — trembling Creta closed the chamber door.
During this time, Esk kar studied the men around the table. The Five Families-no, now it was the Four Families-had been given a fright, and were no doubt all thinking it could have been any of them. They needed to be reassured, and quickly.
“Noble leaders,” Esk kar began humbly, “I offer sorrow for what happened here. But I didn’t provoke anyone, not outside in the street nor here in this room.”
Mostly true, he thought, but he’d certainly been prepared to kill anyone who tried to stop him. Looking around the table, he saw his words sinking in. Now these men would start thinking again, trying to discover what in Orak’s power structure had changed and who would benefi t. Eskkar took another breath.
“But Noble Drigo wasn’t interested in defending Orak, only in taking control. He planned to seize your village and your property.”
Watching them, he decided that Trella had been right. Better to pour a bucket of oil than a cupful. “You’re Orak’s leaders. My men and I will stay and fight to defend the village, if you wish it.”
He looked at each man in turn. “Nicar said that he wants to fight. I told him Orak could be defended and that I would lead the battle, if the Families agreed to my conditions. Now it’s time to decide. We hold this place to the death, or we all move on. Which do you choose?”
6
For the next two hours the nobles argued, as much among themselves as with Esk kar. Nicar sent out for more wine, and voices rose as Esk kar explained what happened outside, and what Drigo and his men had planned for Orak. Finally satisfied with Drigo’s demise, the talk shifted back to the wall and the coming invasion. Esk kar explained his plans again and again, repeating how the barbarians could be beaten from behind a wall. The tide turned when Rebba posed a key question.
“Suppose, Esk kar, the wall cannot be built high and strong enough in the time we have. After all, it can take months to build even a house. What then?”
“Noble Rebba, that’s the most important question, and the one I can’t answer. We must meet with the builders and masons and learn whether a wall can be built. If it cannot, then we’re all free to stay or go.”
Rebba wasn’t finished yet. “Suppose they say it can be done and we start work, but the barbarians come before the wall is finished. We’d be trapped here, defenseless.”
Esk kar and Trella had spoken of that possibility. “We can only try, Rebba. But the first moment we learn we can’t finish in time, then we can leave. I don’t want to fight them in the open.”
Esk kar recalled more of Trella’s thoughts. “But if we run now, we abandon everything you’ve built here, and Orak will never be so great again. The trade up and down the river will dry up. Remember, too, we face danger in leaving a place and starting over. Every man becomes a looter, and every clan becomes a robber tribe. But if we drive them away, we break the old cycle of death and destruction. Orak will become the greatest village in the world. And you will own it.”
Rebba stared down at his wine cup. Esk kar wondered if all of them had drunk too much to think clearly. He’d wanted some wine himself, but one look at Trella standing behind him and he’d stayed with water. Now Rebba shifted his gaze toward Nicar and nodded.
“Esk kar,” began Nicar, “leave us for a moment. We need to discuss some things privately.”
“I understand.” He stood up, and it felt good to stretch his legs. “Come, Trella, we’ll wait in the garden. Take this,” he said, handing her Drigo’s blade. Small and well made, it would be a fitting gift. She might need it in the coming days.
When Esk kar opened the door, he found Creta there, and this time he knew she overheard every word. Her attitude had changed, and she bowed nervously toward him, this time with genuine respect. At the front entrance a manservant, his mouth agape, rushed to open the door for them.
Esk kar found Gatus and his men bunched inside the front garden.
They’d moved the nobles’ bodyguards into the courtyard. They sat weaponless on the ground, their backs to the wall that hid Nicar’s sanctuary from the street. Through the open gate, Esk kar saw villagers filling the lane, jammed together as tightly as possible in the narrow confines. Soldiers using spears kept them away from the entrance.
A shout went up from the crowd when they saw Esk kar emerge. The rising clamor was a mixture of people cheering and calling his name. Gatus strode over, a broad smile on his face.
“Greetings, Captain,” he said formally, bowing properly so that everyone could see Esk kar’s authority. “When they brought out Drigo’s body, word spread like a steppes fire. We had to bring the guards inside. It’s a good thing Drigo and his whelp were so unp
opular.”
He moved closer so that only Esk kar could hear him. “I sent for the rest of the men when I saw the crowd growing. Maybe you should say something to them.”
Esk kar could barely hear him over the noise from the street. At least five hundred people packed the lane, more villagers than he’d ever seen gathered together before. He turned to Trella. “What shall I say?” Just as he’d gotten accustomed to speaking freely with the Families, he now had to speak to a rabble and had no idea what to tell them.
She pulled his arm down so she could speak in his ear. “It doesn’t matter. You’re a hero to them now. Tell them that all will be well, that Nicar and the others will speak to them soon.”
“But the nobles haven’t finished talking yet. Suppose they decide to run?”
“Never! They decided to stay and fi ght an hour ago. They just needed to talk themselves into it.”
He forced a smile to his face and strode toward the gate. Propping his foot on the gate’s crossbar, he pulled himself up so he rose above the throng and held up his hand for silence. It took time for the noise to cease, helped along by stern words from the soldiers in front, which gave him time to think.
“People of Orak,” he began, raising his voice. “The Four Families will speak to you soon. You’ll hear from them what we plan to do.”
An angry roar answered him, some people shouting that the Families would run, others that he must save them, some merely crying his name over and over. They began to press against his men. Soon they’d push their way into the garden.
“Silence,” he roared in his battle voice, loud enough to be heard the length of the street. “Silence, or I’ll leave you to the barbarians!” That stopped both the noise and the push of the crowd toward the house. He took another deep breath. “Go to the marketplace and await Nicar and the other Families. Go now!”