The Nameless Slave 2

by Vitaly Zykov

  – A master! A two-hand master!!! – A cry swept through the hall.

  For a second everything was still. This picture imprinted in Yarik's memory: Darg, standing on the table and armed with two swords, with terrible grin on his face, faces of his tribespeople and enemies, who at that moment looked like hunters who had tossed a fox hole with smoky torches, but unexpectedly a furious bear got out from there. He memorized a trickle of saliva that flew from the corner of Parsan's mouth, who had laughed a second before, the gloomy faces of the bodyguards, wild rage of the dwarf and panic fear of Teorn, pressed to a wall… and here everything started to move again.

  Darg deftly hooked a deep dish with hot porridge which stood nearby with his foot, and with a precise kick threw it into the face of the nearest soldier. The latter yelped from the unexpected pain when his face skin felt the fat which was still very hot. And Darg rushed to Parsan. Swords flashed and… the ringing reported that they met an adequate rebuff. The bodyguards did not fail. Their short curved swords dexterously rejected killing trajectory of Darg's blow and saved their owner's life. Two bodyguards picked up Parsan under his armpits and dragged him to an unnoticeable door in the far corner of the hall, but four other men attacked the young leader. Swords rang out. The invited soldiers were not idle either. A few short, almost imperceptible skirmishes, and only Darg and Teorn remained on foot. But nobody touched Teorn – with clenched fists, he tensely watched the fight between Darg and the Steward's bodyguards.

  Mechanically noting all that, Yarik stopped his passive surveillance and entered the fight. The soldiers who ran to help bodyguards from his side were met by a robust bench. Yarik surprised even himself when he deftly pulled out a heavy bench from under dead bodies and with one strong throw tossed it under the feet of the running soldiers. Another jerk, and one more bench flew towards the opposite part of the table. The roar of falling benches and human bodies, damnations in different languages added colors to the overall picture of the battle. A new red flash of danger, and Yarik without thinking, simply understanding that it was necessary, threw a plate, the first one that was under his hand, somewhere over the table… A short clatter, and Yaroslav understood that something crashed into his plate, something dart and killing. The young slave looked round and saw the raging dwarf at the head of the table. That was he who threw a throwing knife into Darg's back. The look of his small eyes, poured with blood and violent rage promised nothing good to Yarik in the future… Or perhaps right now… Yaroslav did not wait for continuation and rushed to help his master.

  Darg showed miracles of the skill. His swords wrote intricate figures in the air, each of them beat off, turned away the others' blows and threatened with inevitable death to any, who made a slightest mistake. But the bodyguards kept fighting. Graduates of fencing schools passed unimaginably difficult and dangerous examinations and completed courses of special mutations under the influence of garlun. But they never met people like Darg. His highest, thorough mastery in fencing completed with a remarkable talent, turned a simple skill of murder into an Art.

  The bodyguards were still safe only because of their habit to work in a group, such tactics forced Darg to fight against a united eight-handed monster whose every blow was coordinated and necessary, instead of the battle with four different opponents. If he had some time, Darg could cope, but there was no time… Even such a master as Darg, could not fight with all soldiers of damned Steward at the same time.

  He turned into a killing-machine, similar to terrible golems of Nold about which some gloomy legends were spreading over the whole Toarn, but it was insufficient. The bodyguards stood tight, marhuz damn them. It even surprised Darg why the other soldiers had not attack him yet. However, the roar of something heavy falling, and human cries gave some answer to this question. But there was yet one more strange thing: he had felt a terrible, inevitable danger somewhere from his back, the danger to which he had no time to react. And suddenly it was as if cut off. Bang! And the danger disappeared just like a candle blew out in the water… Darg with satisfaction thought that he had made a right decision about the collar of the slave. There was not even a thought that someone else (Teorn for example) could help him.

  At this moment something rushed behind him. A strange half-bent figure in a deftly jump appeared behind one of the bodyguards, almost sprawled on his back and one hand clasped his throat… then came a hoarse and gurgling sound, and at once, while nobody came round, this figure grabbed the victim by his belt and with a powerful push directed him into the next bodyguard… The invincible machine of death broke. Darg's swords writing deadly trajectories changed their direction and drew bloody lines on the bodies (now just bodies!) of the guards. The four soldiers were dead.

  Darg glanced at his helper with triumph and saw the slave throwing something red aside. His fingers were in blood, his eyes were mad – Darg thought for a moment that the slave would lick his fingers… But Yarik only bent quickly to the lying bodies, vigorously wiped his hand and at once cut off a purse from the belt of a dead enemy with a picked-up dagger… The thump of the door slammed after Parsan announced that the main enemy had escaped.

  – Aaaaarrrrkhkh! – Darg roared in a powerless rage. – I'll kill!!

  The sweet veil of invincible rage covered his mind like a haze…

  Yarik who had just killed a man had no feelings about it. His mind already put on the mask of his second animal «I», reviving skills of life in the Forest. He cut off the purse, felling in his guts that in the future money would be necessary for survival. He noticed an appraisingly-respectful glance of the master. Yarik had never imagined before such a high skill in use of these, madly beautiful narrow strips of steel. For him they were mere burden. Against a skilled soldier, Yarik would not even for a couple of seconds remain on foot with a sword. His tactics were sudden attacks, like a predator's attack. The thump of a closed door and the mad roar of Darg forced him to remember that there was a battle around. The soldiers detained by his cunning throws were already a couple of steps away. They moved much more slowly than Yarik or his master, but there was a lot of them, only damned Jurga knows how many soldiers were there. And new and new ones hurried in through the opened entrance. Many of them had bows… Yarik understood very clearly that now they would kill him…

  Master Darg was working with his swords nearby with some khaking sounds. He was like a butcher: soaked in blood from head to feet, only his swords were shining with steel gloss like killing fangs. Darg rushed from side to side, trying to reach, to catch, to hook his enemies. Each wave of his sword put one of them out of action. Yarik armed with a dagger covered the flank behind his master's back. He seldom struck blows, but high speed of his movements expiated his awkwardness in technique of using the unfamiliar weapon… Already three enemies forgetting about him had received wounds. But after all his muscles were getting tired, making way to death. It was only one good thing that arrows were not flying at them yet…

  At this moment Darg's back disappeared, and Yarik without reflecting made a huge jump up. Long ago in the Forest the same jumps saved his life. So it was at this time… A sharp energy impulse into the muscles which already were felt like stone from fatigue, and the ceiling beams were already at arm's length. To grab them now. What's this getting in my way? Away!.. At this point Yarik watched the purse thrown aside with melancholy. However, he did not throw away the dagger. Below, Darg was on his feet again. It appeared that soldiers unexpectedly parted giving space for archers, and he could only sprawl on the floor. Sense of danger forced Yarik to leave his thoughts and throw his body on the next beam. A well-timed decision! Three arrows thrust deeply into the wooden plank where he was just a second ago – some of the archers had fired at Yarik. The ringing below showed that other arrows that were darted at Darg, were reflected by his swords. And a red flash of danger again! Apparently, some of the archers decided to finish him. Damn them!! Yarik sharply rejected his body back and with acceleration, threw himself forward, releasing a beam shelte
ring him. A few arrows whistled and only by miracle none of them touched his body. But Yarik already smashed into one of the archers who were standing at the entrance, stuck the dagger into another one and spending no time to extract the dagger from the body, brushed with his left hand at the eyes of the third archer. His right hand struck into the throat of the fourth, then squeezed and turned – a crunch sound was the answer. The others already groped handles of the swords on their belts. It would be too hot here soon. At this moment something large and excited rushed into the group of soldiers, scattering them to right and left. Darg used the moments of confusion that Yarik had given to him and appeared near the door. A new fight boiled. Blood splashes, shouts and groans of wounded men this is the music of fighting. Only death of enemies can interrupt its chords sounding like thunder…

  A wild, primitive and such familiar roar thundered over the city. A heavy wave of an explosion struck into the windows. Many who were in the hall fell on the floor… And everything froze. Steward's soldiers stopped, Darg lost rhythm and even Yarik felt as if something broke inside. The young slave's eye stopped at the Adam's apple of a soldier before him, going up-down convulsively. And deep down in the eyes of all, absolutely all people there, expanded a feeling which made them similar like brothers. The all-consuming horror mixed with hopelessness was this feeling. Lips of many men were whispering only one word. It sounded in different languages, but the meaning was the same: kurrazes! Dragons! The word that cooled hearts of the bravest. Dragons: the word which could be considered the synonym of «death».

  CHAPTER 23

  An emissary of the king Ferdinand stood on the central square of Polot and bent his lips in irritation. He, Avras Chismar, the personal envoy of the king of Tlantos in lands of Steward possessing even more power than an ambassador, had to stand in the crowd among raging plebs. Well, however, not only plebs. This fact Avras fairly noted when he saw the first merchant of neighboring Gurr, venerable Nassir Havas near himself. The latter screwed his face in annoyance and stroked a purse on his belt (this crowd was paradise for cutpurses). And representatives of the local nobility stood a little aside.

  «A son of a carrion devourer! This damned Parsan should allocate a special place under tribunes for nobility! But no! He is so higher by origin then everybody else, that there is no difference for him whether you a nobleman or a peasant with dung-stained hands… A vile bastard! – Avras tried to suppress irritation, but it did not work very well. – And moreover, this order. Well, who could be able to pass through Zaarr'h'dorr? And if they could, how would they get into slavery? What kind of idiots they should be to do that?!»

  It was easy to understand Avras's indignation: he had been wandering around this forgotten by all gods continent for a year and could not return without data about the object. The tunnel of dwarves was under control and no singles passed there. So, there remained nomads' caravans, though it was only possible to get in such a caravan as a slave. Just so Avras had to visit these damned fairs. He swore in a low voice.

  At this moment the assembly of an auction stage on the square and a shelter for slaves was over. Nomads fussed and shouted at each other. Avras gritted his teeth: he hated nomads and all inhabitants of Sarduor. This feeling united him with many other residents of civilized countries.

  The only thing that relieved his expectation, was understanding of the importance of this mission. According to the reports of his people, Nold intelligence service activity intensified, followed by Zelod and Gartash. It was obvious, that something serious had begun.

  Here for example in this crowd Avras saw one person. This man stood in the first row near the wall of the house of local guards chief. Dressed in dandyish expensive camisole and soft trousers, everything from wildly expensive web silk, he glanced around with a bold smile, continually touching the hilt on his belt. And exactly the hilt did not fit his whole image. A frayed hilt, designed not for beauty, but for convenient lying in palm. Though, you never know what scrappers wander upon roads of the world. But nevertheless, this man did not resemble an ordinary buyer. Too attentively was he looking for someone in the crowd of slaves. As if peering into their auras. So he did exactly the same as Avras himself. Or was he a colleague honoring the nice city of Polot with his presence? From which country then? Nold, Zelod or Gartash? On the outside, he looked like a man, so nonhuman states might be excluded. Though with their money it was possible to employ any sellsword.

  Avras shivered under his shapeless garment. By ill luck, he had left all his guards in the embassy. And he did not realize the opponent's strengths… An unpleasant business, but not worse than in the past.

  At this moment the Tlantos's emissary felt someone's look. Avras carefully turned his head and met eyes with the dandy. The latter absolutely serenely glanced at him and turned away.

  Avras suppressed his irritation. Well, after all, it's silly to be angry with a person dressed differently. But Avras could do nothing: he did not like dandies, anyway! And this dislike mixed with his suspicions…

  «I reckon, it's necessary to murder him!» – Avras thought in spirit of highway robbers, and it seemed to become quieter in his heart.

  He sighed shortly, and his thoughts returned to the situation on the square.

  «But where they all? Why Parsan led them inside the palace? He had never done that before, but now…» – These thoughts were interrupted by a string of events rushing forward in gallop.

  The shooters with crossbows and bows on the roofs as if strained, then an explosion, of obviously magic origin, thundered on the square. Two vehicles were broken off in pieces, exactly the ones standing in the single suitable way where the other vehicles of nomads could withdraw.

  At once all people began to cry. The crowd swayed. There was heard thrum of crossbow bowstrings from the shooters on the roofs. And nomads pierced with deadly quarrels started to fall down on the ground. Avras rushed aside from the crowd. Away, away, before this amorphous human mass did not shake off catalepsy, did not jerk back, pushing and trampling down all the fallen people, striving only one thing – to save their lives. Avras survived only because of good luck he had been close to the edge. A few fast blows with elbows, a roll forward, and he was already at the bottom of a stone ladder near the square. Now he was only to wait.

  At this moment the crowd rushed back as if by signal. Children shouted and women squealed. The slaughter continued on the square. Death overtook nomads from all directions. Bodies fell on the stone pavement, spraying it with scarlet blood. A few moments, and it was through with nomads. Only slaves and five ordinary soldiers nailed to the boards of vehicles with arrows were alive. And, now they were scattering curses. «It's strange why the slaves don't die. Or their owners are still alive? Or… – Struck up by a sudden guess, Avras even shuddered. – Or these wounded, but not killed nomads were appointed as owners for the auction? But from where…».

  He did not finish the thought, as shouts of pain sounded in the crowd of slaves. Avras by the nature of his service, happened to visit the cellars of White pyramid of Talak and saw a lot there. He needed to apply methods of forced interrogation, but had not happen to hear such shouts before. Some slaves died. Those whose owners had been killed in the reception hall. By shadows flashing in the hall windows it was possible to fathom, that something was not going very smooth there. But there was no time to stay in one place for too long, lest the shooters did not decide to fire a couple arrows in Avras. Like a worm coiling on stones, he crept behind the corner. And there, sheltering in balcony shadows, he jumped on his feet and with short dashes directed towards the embassy which was located a few quarters from the square. But he had not even run a hundred yards, when he met the dandy from before, basically, face to face. Avras stopped for a moment. What to do? But his right hand already drew lines of a runic spell, and his mind filled it with Force. A beam generated by forbidden necromancy struck into the right hand of the dandy, raised in an attacking gesture, and it was instantly mangled by terrible metamorphose
s. A moment later the hand looked like a snag of tree which died a century ago. All the right hand of Avras's enemy became like a mummy's hand. He pressed the injured limb to his breast and quietly howled from pain. But Avras already directed the vital sap extracted from the enemy to the creation of a new spell, to build the carcass of the spell, to saturate it with the taken Force and to smash the whole structure in pieces with one powerful blow. Here the dandy's breast simply blew up from within. As if instead of live heart there was an unstable magic crystal. The already dead man stood a moment, looking with non-trusting eyes then slowly fell back.

  Necromancy, dolls and needles that is past century. Here the vital force provided necessary communication with the victim's heart, it was necessary only to create a vessel and to destroy it… This was approximately how Avras thought, running up to the dead body.

  «Did he try to make something, after all? Probably something like an Elrond's arrow? – Thoughts of the magician were calm while he rapidly rummaged around pockets and examined decorations of the enemy. – But this time I appeared quicker!.. Shit! A dragon rider!»

  Avras said the last words when his hand exposed a small disk with a prominent image of a dragon. The burning flesh hissed.

  «Ancients damn you!!!» – The magician swore and whispered words of a spell, running his left hand over the place where the medallion burnt him.

  Finally grayish-white aura covered the medallion, and it became possible to engage in the treatment of the burnt hand. But no! He had no time. It was necessary to run. Very soon it would become hot here, very hot!

  …Yarik was pulled out from catalepsy by Darg's shouts:

  – Down!!! Faster! Kurrazes!