Dark Wolves

by J A Deriu

  Amblard was still. He seemed to have an ability to be motionless for as long as he desired, with his eyes fixed on the one spot. Gaspar would speak for him. “Amblard does not say much. He spent his boyhood as a lone goatherd.” But if something interested him, like the cat, he would provide a few words. He seemed to prefer the company of animals, always rubbing the chin and belly of the Templars’ skinny dog.

  For their plans, they did not say much, other than they were going to New Kons and preferred to get there with as little attention as possible. Jack thought their plan was ambitious. New Kons, as far as he knew, was on the other side of the continent. A massive city, home of the Ottoman governor and capital of the American Atlantic provinces. It was obvious from the way they looked at each other and the few words exchanged that they had clear plans, and these plans had to do with their dislike for the empire. In regard to his problem – being Joy – they talked freely.

  Gaspar stood. He looked as though he was confident the danger had passed. “Let’s continue with our journey, my fellow merchants,” he said, “and apprentice.” He flourished a smile at Jack. The story of the Templars was that they were merchants from the wilderness looking to replenish their stocks in the marketplaces of the empire. Jack considered it not as believable as his when he had traveled alone. Nonetheless, there were four of them.

  They moved out of the ditch. Jack had not seen the patrol that they were hiding from. Gaspar, who had been walking ahead, had come out of the fog and signaled for them to hide, which they had efficiently done with no noise. They had remained silent until Gaspar had passed the canteen and asked his question.

  From the time they had found themselves in the Ottoman province, the weather had turned bad. There was no crossing or border to indicate when they had crossed. Jack only became aware when Gaspar announced, without concern, “The American wilderness is behind. We are now walking the roads of the Ottomans.” This was confirmed soon afterward. When they passed a tavern and a blacksmith, both showed on their signs writing that he did not understand. The road was peaceful, as if the invasion had not happened. He saw his first four-wheeled motor vehicle and spent moments gaping at it and wondering how it worked with its four wheels turning together.

  The Templars would talk after they ate dinner and before their last prayers. “Why did they come?” Jack asked. “The invaders?”

  “Economic,” Odo answered, cleaning a bowl. “All wars are economic.”

  “They were looking for something,” Gaspar said.

  “No one knows for sure. The Ottomans have always invaded, haven’t they?” Hoston offered.

  “And Joy? Why did they take her?” Jack persisted.

  “Ah, that is not a good thing to think about, young man.” Hoston grimaced as if he had tasted something foul.

  Jack looked at Gaspar, who was reaching his arm to stroke the cat under the neck. He saw Jack and shook his head. “Tell me, Jack, about this girl.”

  “Her name is Joy. I met her in the borough. She pushed me into a cellar. It hurt, but she wasn’t sure who I was. She is likely only fourteen or fifteen. I don’t know. It is hard to tell a girl’s age.”

  “The color of her hair?”

  “Like straw. She had freckles. We were going toward the setting sun to where it would be safe from the invaders. We made many days.”

  Gaspar stopped scratching the cat and considered. “Your girlfriend is taken to join a harem or the slave market.”

  “She is only fifteen. And she is not my girlfriend.”

  “There is no age limit.”

  “Do not worry,” Odo said. “We will find her. There are obvious places they would be taking her.”

  “You’re lucky they didn’t get you,” Hoston added. “You’re too old for a Janissary, which would have meant the slave market for you.”

  “Janissaries are prohibited from the wilderness, so a slave market it would have been,” Odo confirmed.

  After prayer and dinner, when enough wood for the night had been placed on the fire, Gaspar would assume the role of teacher. The five of them would bunch up so that they were touching knees in an arc around the fire. The heat gave a homely feel, and the smell of Odo’s cooking lingered. Gaspar would start a topic casually. “Did you know the city we passed was once a great Christian city?” He looked at Jack when he asked the question. Jack assumed it was rhetorical, as his questions always were.

  Hoston commented while scratching dirt from his hands. “That city was barely a village. You could sing a tune when you entered, and by the time you reached the chorus, the city would be behind.”

  “It is true. That is the state of it now, but it wasn’t always like that.” He kept his twinkling eyes on Jack. “It was once a place with Christian churches for each denomination with more than you could count. It sat happily outside the empire for years and thrived. It had steam-powered plants, smelters, lumberyards, every industry you could think, all under a Christian God. Then an operation came from the governor for no reason that he cared to articulate. But why did he need to, when all knew it was for the wealth? The only way the empire survives is to steal the wealth of others. It was only a temporary operation to weed out rebels, but then the forts were built, and the Ottoman garrisons never left. The city shrunk as everything of value was sucked away.” He let his last words linger. The only noises were the crackling fire, the snoring of the dog, and Odo chewing on bread.

  “Is this what will happen to tall timbers? Will there be Ottoman forts? If they say they are looking for rebels.”

  Gaspar considered for a long time and moved his eyes from Jack to the fire. “There is unspeakable evil in this world. We must not let it win.”

  They walked in a line, with Gaspar far in front, along a muddy path, the ground squelching under their steps. Odo was last, with his pots dancing from his pack. They passed the ordered land of farms. The clouds above looked as if they had been torn apart with ragged, darkened edges that heralded the threat of rain. The path dug through a mound and spilled onto a road. A lonely tavern stood at a crossroads. They bunched as Gaspar had stopped to observe. It was made from thick logs and looked badly weathered, except for the flag of the empire, which was fresh and hung from a rigidly straight flagpole.

  “How I’d love to eat at a table with a warm chimney fire next to me,” Hoston said.

  “It’s close to the middle of the day,” Gaspar added.

  “If you can stomach the swill they would serve in such a place.” Odo moaned.

  “What are our chances?” Gaspar pondered.

  Hoston looked to either side and then along the road. “I don’t think there would be Ottomans, and even if there were, why would they bother us? We are four merchants and their apprentice.” He straightened his shoulders and moved confidently down the path. Gaspar shrugged and followed.

  They pushed open the thick doors and entered. Odo lifted his nose to sniff what was cooking. Hoston smiled when he saw the large hearth in the center of the room and the merrily burning wood. Gaspar led them to a table in the corner. The dog looked at another dog that was chewing on a bone in front of the fire. Amblard tugged it away. There were few others inside. A farmer warming his hands at the fire and an old man holding a pipe and squinting his eyes to watch them. Gaspar felt his cap toward the old man, and they settled at the table. Their packs clanked to the ground.

  “I’d say a dog would be welcome, but a cat?” Odo slid along the bench. To answer, the cat jumped from the pack to the table. Amblard took it in his dirty hands and lowered it to his lap.

  “Let’s not let the tavernkeeper see then,” Amblard said.

  A shabby-looking, short man, almost a dwarf, studied them before he stepped toward them. Jack was sitting between Gaspar and Odo with Amblard and Hoston on the other side of the table. “What is the cook serving, my friend?” Gaspar happily asked.

  “All payment for those fro
m the hinterland must be paid up front,” the man answered in a tired way.

  “Fair enough.” Hoston smiled. “I wouldn’t trust this lot either.”

  Gaspar reached inside his vest. “What is the cost, my friend? We desire a hearty meal and something to wash it down.”

  “Will it be ale?”

  Hoston looked at Gaspar. “Why not? It has been a long walk.”

  Gaspar considered. “What type do you have?”

  “The type made from green apples.”

  Gaspar shrugged. “Then that type for us. And the meal?”

  “Payment can only be made in the coin of the sultan. Must have his face on it.”

  “Is there any other type of money?” Gaspar suggested and weighed in his hand the money bag he had pulled from inside his vest. “Do you prefer lira or silver kurus?”

  Gaspar spilled the coins onto the table. “Kurus, of course,” the man responded, wiping his hands down his dirty apron and greedily looking at the coins. “I don’t trust the new metal. There is turnip soup and lamb chops.”

  Soon they were eating. The bread was hard. Jack had to tug at it viciously with his teeth to tear a piece to chew. Odo suspiciously studied the food. He lifted the spoon level to his eyes and tilted it so that the thick soup splashed back into his plate. The others ate without patience. The dog was given a bone with only morsels of meat stuck to it, which didn’t bother it, as it chewed at the bone like a banquet. The cat was still on Amblard’s lap. He was feeding it from his hand, one bite for himself and one for the cat.

  The Templars talked to each other in a hushed way about the territory they had made and what they had to go, and the provisions they would need, and where they would get them from. When there was a lull, Jack asked a question. “New Kons, it is a long way. Why would you want to go there?”

  “We are merchants. The markets of New Kons have the finest of merchandise from all round the globe,” Gaspar explained to him. “And these treasures can be paid for on consignment. What proper merchant would not travel to these markets?”

  Jack looked at him blankly. “But you are not merchants.”

  “Shush,” Gaspar urgently said while dropping his head and looking across the room.

  “There is no one that can hear,” Odo said.

  Jack smiled. “I know you are not merchants. Do you forget?”

  Hoston thrust his chin up and exercised his nostrils. “I can smell the lamb. It will not be long before it is in front of us.” He grinned and turned toward Gaspar. “Talk to the boy as if he was one of us, Gas.”

  “Ha! All right. That can be done.” He put his spoon down and turned toward Jack, his face grimly serious. “We venture into the lands of the empire as its enemy.”

  Jack looked at the others. They had all stopped eating and wore the same face. “There are only four of you, and the empire, it is … well, it is …”

  “Huge. I know. It is a beast,” Gaspar answered, folding out his arms for emphasis. “We are on a mission, a very special mission. One that will shake the foundation of the empire. Any more than that, I will not say, as much as for your well being as for any other reason.”

  Jack was silent for a few moments. The Templars returned to finishing their soup, conscious to have their plates cleaned for the lamb. “Why New Kons? Why are you going to New Kons?”

  “New Kons – what do you know of it, boy?”

  “It is a city, a big city. Capital of the Ottoman Americas.”

  “All of the provinces,” Odo added, “across the continents from the cold north to the distant south.”

  “It was known as New York once,” Gaspar said. “Did you know that?”

  “No, never.”

  “It is true. I am the only one here to have been to it,” he continued. “A gargantuan city full of millions of people, yes, millions. It is not the largest city. The city the New Europeans call the Metropolis is larger, much larger. Its real name is not the Metropolis, but that is what it is called. I have seen it too. But it is New York, or New Kons, that interests us now.”

  “The young man asked why,” Odo said.

  “It is simply the head of the beast.” He lowered his head closer to the table, and Jack instinctively followed. “Everything that is an instrument of the Ottomans’ control of these lands is headquartered there, on the island.”

  Gaspar must have read Jack’s face, that he was confused, because he lowered his voice yet more but spoke clearly. “There is something very wrong in this world.” He finished as though Jack should have now understood.

  “Does it look like the pictures?” Odo broke the silence. Hoston and Amblard continued with their eating. “New Kons, that is.” The cook’s face the most serious he had seen it.

  “It does and it doesn’t,” Gaspar answered. “The pictures can show how tall the buildings are, and how many of them there are competing to see who can reach the highest. And how crowded it is with the roads full of every type of transport you can imagine, but mostly full of people competing for every scrap of space. But what the pictures can’t convey is the stench and the stifling feel of the place. The way you feel uncomfortable, the need to check behind yourself, search for dangers, grip your money pouch, but at the same time keep your hands free to be ready to shove away the beggars that will accost you on every step.”

  “The city is too big, by the sounds of what you say.” Odo grunted and looked at his empty bowl.

  “And here is the lamb,” Hoston advised, looking at the door to the kitchen, which was being held open by the tavernkeeper. Inside on a wooden table, the food could be seen. The smell of it reached Jack before he could see more through the hazy room. Hoston smiled.

  “It smells burned,” Odo said with a mischievous grin.

  “Ha! Of course.” Hoston elbowed him. “No one could cook them like you – raw, as though the animal was still strolling the paddock.”

  The tavernkeeper and what looked like his son brought the plates to the table. Jack eagerly watched the plates. He felt the anticipation in his stomach. At the moment the plates were placed at the center of the table, the door to the tavern swung open. A cold wind rushed inside. The group diverted their hungry eyes to the doorway. The light from outside was blocked by the thick figures that moved inside.

  “Ghouls,” Hoston stated.

  They had spoken of Ghouls. They were Ottoman Empire militia made up of locals used to patrol the borderlands. The others, except Gaspar, turned away their heads to study the lamb chops. Gaspar kept an eye pointed at the door.

  There were five of them. They had all moved indoors quickly and shoved the door closed. They wore coats made of fur and had thick beards. The leader moved to the center of the room and pulled off his fur cap, which had covered his head and ears. He slowly turned his head and surveyed the room. They were armed as well as any soldier. Long-barrel rifles were strapped to their backs, with daggers and pistols at their belts. The leader had a saber hanging down to his boots. His eyes stopped, unsurprisingly, at the group. There was only the old man and his pipe other than them to look at. The farmer had left.

  Hoston bit into a lamb chop. Jack reached for one, but he hesitated as he watched the captain of the Ghouls move toward their table. He was shaped like a bear. His coat was decorated with the symbols of the empire. He stopped within spitting distance, took a long breath, and crossed his arms. He studied them hard, his thick eyebrows bunched like a living creature. He had leather straps across his front, making an X and holding his gut together. There were bullets strapped to the leather. He made eye contact with Gaspar, who nodded to him. The big captain moved closer. “You are English speakers,” he said in a loud voice used to speaking another language.

  “We are humble merchants, Captain,” Gaspar replied, “and the food here is good.”

  “Hmm.” The captain considered further. His men had moved to be at his f
lanks. The captain angled himself so that he could see the Templars’ faces. “There is an operation from the governor. It has been this way for months.”

  “I know, my friend,” Gasper replied. “We have seen. Trading continues, and we are merchants.”

  There was a long pause. The tavernkeeper was feeding logs onto the fire but stopped. Even the old man took his pipe out of his mouth. All of the Templars had stopped eating. “Your signed papers, then.”

  “Signed papers are for the governor and his men.”

  “That is us.”

  Gaspar showed a dramatic, confused frown on his face. “I had the thought you were a borderland militia. I certainly do not see the uniform of the governor’s soldiers.”

  “What does it matter? We are all in service for the governor to protect the sultan’s borders. Now, hand over your papers.”

  Gaspar remained still with his arms rested on the table. Jack could hear Odo swallowing and Hoston breathing, but nothing from Amblard. The Ghoul captain turned to his men, who stiffened, and then back to Gaspar. “I have requested your traveling papers. You have come from the wilderness, so you must have them.”

  “We have them,” Gaspar confidently replied, “and they are for the governor and when we meet his forces.”

  “I heard you say that before, and do you mean to insult me? What do you think we are?”

  Gaspar slowly lifted a hand. “Oh, sir, no insult is intended. It is nothing, only that papers are for those wearing the trident badge of the governor. It is respect for the governor, the representative of the sultan, and nothing less.”

  The captain turned to the four at his flanks and said something very quickly in the language of the Ottomans. He then turned back to Gaspar. “You intend to play a game, then?”

  Jack tensed as he watched Gaspar. He flicked his head to the Ghouls. They were all big men, the captain the oldest. The others looked like aloof, well-fed older boys. Their hands fidgeted near the weapons at their belts. Gaspar slowly stood, keeping his hands open at his sides. “You must know that these lands are full of those claiming to be who they are not, and we are wary.”