Of Blood and Steel

by Seymour Zeynalli

  Balak entered the tavern and it was packed. The noise level was intense as people jeered, cheered and argued. The whole place smelled of stale ale and fermented eggs.

  Balak asked around about the Kardavs.

  “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” one man said. He twizzled his curly white beard. “Giorgi left town, but his old lady died a few years back. The girl left, I think.”

  “Left? Tell me where she went,” Balak demanded. But the man did not answer.

  “Will you give me the answer? Or do I have to beat it out of you?” Balak threatened the man.

  The next minute, the old man’s head hit the table and let out ferocious snores.

  Balak was ready to storm out of the establishment when the voice behind him said, “If you are looking for anything in this town you better talk to Russo.”

  Balak turned around and saw a short old man who didn’t fit with the rest of the crowd.

  “And where do I find Russo?”

  The man pointed Balak down the street towards the city’s bath house.

  Balak left the tavern and again passed through the dark streets of the town. As he got closer to the bath house, he saw some women outside, all with long, straight hair: brunettes, blondes, raven-haired women and even redheads.

  “I’m looking for Mari Kardav. Do you know of her?” he asked a group of them.

  “For a few silver coins, I can be your Mari, daddy,” the tallest woman replied. The other two laughed along but Balak pushed through them and headed inside. He was met with hot air hitting his face.

  Some drunken men who looked like knights were sipping ale, mead, and cider and were calling over women.

  “Show us your duckies!” they yelled and after they’d all had a feel of exposed breasts, they flicked a silver coin and moved onto the next girl.

  Balak pushed away the women that approach him, refusing to touch their breasts or kiss them. One woman tried to touch him, but Balak grabbed her hand and exclaimed, “No.”

  The insulted woman started to shout at him in Liverian.

  This drew more attention to Balak and men started to whisper about him in Liverian and, as he passed them, shouting what must have been insults.

  They roared with laughter that filled the establishment.

  “What did he say?” Balak asked some of the women, but they just mimicked the sounds of sheep and goats, which confused Balak even more.

  “Can I help you with anything?” a voice said.

  “I don’t speak Liverian. What do they say?”

  “It’s probably best to ignore those people and just talk to me. What brings you here?” the hostess asked.

  “I am looking for Russo. I’ve been sent here.”

  “That is the person in charge here. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Then you are going to wait like everyone else.”

  The hostess linked arms with Balak and walked him to the bar.

  Balak waited and sipped the ale. Each time he finished his cup, the barmaid refilled it and held out her hand for coin. After three cups, Balak refused, but the barmaid refilled it and held out her hand. He paid her but this time, he left the cup full so she was unable to refill it.

  After a while, the hostess returned and gestured for Balak to follow her to Russo.

  The door opened and a silhouette of a towering and fit person appeared in the corner of the room.

  “Hello? I am looking for Russo. The women told me . . .”

  “Get inside and lock the door behind you,” said the voice. Balak reached for the door when the voice continued, “And leave your axe outside. You are scaring the visitors.”

  Balak hesitated but did as requested. He handed over his axe to one of the women and watched her leave. He had very little time to find Mari and was willing to take the risk.

  “I thought this was a bath house?”

  “It is on paper. Now tell me, what brings you here?”

  “I mean no harm. I did exactly as you asked me. I would appreciate if you revealed yourself.”

  A woman left the shadows and sat on the throne-like-chair opposite Balak.

  “I would like to speak to Russo. Is he here?”

  “Then speak.”

  “You are Russo,” deduced Balak

  “Expected someone else?”

  “The name sounded . . . male.”

  “So, you came all the way here to discuss my name?”

  “No. I am looking for Mari Kardav.”

  “Mari . . . Hmmm . . . the name does sound familiar.”

  “So, you don’t know where she is?”

  “I might, I might not.”

  “Would you be able to help me find her?”

  “I will do no such thing.”

  “If it’s coin you want, then I can give you a silver coin for your troubles. What do you say?”

  “Sweetie, you can give me all the coins in Tartaurus and I wouldn’t even break a sweat to bring you Mari. Especially not after that stunt you pulled at the tavern.”

  “So, word got around.”

  “The old rumour mill keeps spinning, Balak.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I didn’t. I heard stories and you fit the description. You don’t often come around a man of your stature. I am curious, why would the Terror of Tartaurus show up at my doors?”

  “I already told you. I am looking for Mari.”

  “Then who is the girl with you?”

  “That’s not for you to know.”

  “Aggressive. Interesting. No worries, your secret is safe with me.”

  “Does this mean you will help me?”

  “You won’t find help here. Not from me at least.”

  “I will be at the bar waiting, if you change your mind.”

  “Don’t bother, you’re not drinking here. You’re scaring away my customers. If you wish to stay, you can do so outside.”

  Balak waited most of the day for Russo to help him, but nothing. He watched men and women coming in and out of the place as the day turned into night but he never saw Russo leave the tavern.

  Balak paced up and down outside. He looked around and found a back door, down a dark narrow alley. When he checked the door, he found it locked. As he turned to head back to his dwellings, he heard screaming from the other end of the alley.

  He turned and saw a man forcing himself on a young lady.

  “I just want a kiss, Maska,” the man croaked.

  Balak could hear the sound of him tearing her dress as Balak rounded the corner. The man thrust himself against her and she sobbed.

  “Leave her,” Balak threatened, pulling the man from the girl.

  “What’s it to you? Or do wish to taste my rod too?” asked the man, picking up his dagger.

  “Leave the poor thing alone,” Balak insisted.

  “Why don’t you wait in your corner, bum-licker?” the man slurred, lunging at Balak. With one short punch, Balak knocked him to the floor.

  The girl looked at Balak, obviously scared, and began speaking rapidly in Liverian. She extended her arms, offering him coins.

  “I don’t need anything from you,” Balak tried to explain

  The girl cried as she took off back up the alley, trying to cover herself with her torn rags.

  Arda was practising with her spear when Balak arrived.

  “Where have you been?” she asked him. She wiped her arm over her forehead. She was extremely agitated, and her cheeks were pink and warm.

  “Out.” His facial expression was frozen. He didn’t react to her inquisition in his usual way.

  “I know that. I want to know where you go that is so important that you leave us alone?”

  “Calm down. You were safe.”

  “Are we leaving today?”

  “We paid for a week,” he yawned.

  “And then?”

  “Keep your voice down. We have a long journey ahead. You are exhausted. This seems like a safe pla
ce.”

  “It was made longer by us coming here. South. Out of our way. What are we really doing here?”

  “Resting.”

  “I know you are lying to me, Balak. You have been talking to the locals, visiting houses. You are searching for something or someone.”

  “And how do you know all that?”

  “I followed you.”

  “Why do I find that hard to believe?” Balak questioned Arda. “I think I would have noticed you,” he continued.

  “Then either you are getting too old to notice or I am getting better at staying hidden.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Balak returned to the tavern before it opened. He saw Russo leave the brothel, possibly for the very first time since he spoke to her. She made eye contact with him and headed in his direction. She sat next to him on a rock and started, “My girls and I are very grateful for what you did last night.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He paused. “Does this mean I can sit inside?”

  Russo laughed. “Not with that gnarly thing,” she said, pointing at his axe.

  Russo stood up and started walking away. She stopped, turned around to Balak and asked, “Are you coming?”

  “I am not in the mood to walk.”

  “You don’t wish to accompany a beautiful lady on her walk?”

  Balak groaned, rose up to his feet, and rushed to catch up with Russo.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere in particular. Can’t we just enjoy the weather? Does walking always mean we are heading towards something?”

  “Or trying to distance ourselves from something.”

  “Are you trying to be a contrarian or is this really how you always talk?”

  Balak was silent.

  “Don’t worry, you don’t have to answer that question. Is Mari the only thing keeping you here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I get that you wouldn’t be staying with us for long then. Shame, you’re starting to grow on me. You are not the man I imagined.” Russo stopped next to an old house in a place Balak didn’t even know existed.

  “I’ll leave you here. I’ve done my part.” She turned around to face Balak and fixed his cape before heading off. Balak took a deep breath and headed to the door; it opened before his hand touched the wood.

  “Are you Balak? Russo said you would be coming,” a young woman asked. “I was told you have important information of my family.”

  Balak was pleased to find another person who he could understand without a translator. The girl looked thin, pale, and weak. Balak felt sorry for her.

  “I do,” Balak answered. “I knew your father.”

  “You did?”

  “I’m sorry to say, he was recently murdered,” Balak said.

  “Murdered?” she gasped, falling on her chair. “By the Maker . . . oh no,” she continued. Her face turned paler, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Giorgi was my friend. At times, he was my only fried. You meant the world to him, and I promised to find you and give you his message.”

  “But there is one thing I don’t quite understand . . .”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Who is Giorgi?”

  “Giorgi . . . your father. Are you not Mari?

  “Yes, Mari Kardav, the daughter of Nestor Kardav. Weren’t you looking for me?”

  Balak slapped his own head, pushed his fingers over it, and got up to leave.

  “Wait. What about my father?” she asked.

  Balak left without saying another word.

  * * *

  “I’m ready to leave.” Balak announced upon his return to the farm.

  “Good. I was thinking we should go to the market and stock up before we leave,” Arda said to Balak.

  Balak accompanied her but was lost in his own thoughts. Even quieter than usual. His look was sad and solemn, and his face appeared gaunt. Arda had noticed how little he was sleeping.

  Arda stocked up on supplies. She bought some fresh cloth, a square of fur, and threads. She looked for food that she could carry, like dried rice and beans. She also bought some spices, two small tomatoes, and garlic.

  “I take it that you did not dos what you wanted to do,” Arda inquired.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I can see it was important to you.”

  They walked in silence for some time before Arda said another word.

  “Come with me,” she ordered Balak.

  Arda pulled up her hood and set off along the road. Balak followed. She made a sharp turn along a thin walkway between buildings and arrived at a tavern. From his searches, Balak recognised this area of town; he must have passed it a dozen times.

  “The person you are looking for lives behind that door,” she told him.

  “But how . . . how do you know?”

  “You were looking in the right places but asking the wrong questions. Now go . . . talk to her.”

  Arda stayed behind as Balak walked up to the house. There were some flowers in a pot by the window. The windows were clean, but open, and he could hear a woman’s voice from inside.

  Balak knocked at the door, and silence fell inside the house. Cautiously, a girl opened the door.

  “Greetings,” Balak said.

  “Hello,” replied the woman.

  Balak stared at the woman. Her facial features reminded him of Giorgi.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I am looking for a woman by the name of Mari.”

  “I am Mari and who might you be?”

  “My name is Balak, and I have something important to tell you. May we speak inside?”

  “I am sorry. My husband doesn’t like strangers in the house while he is away.”

  “I understand. But I come on behalf of Giorgi . . . Giorgi Kardav.”

  “My father?”

  Mari swung open the door and Balak entered the house. He bent his back so as not to hit his head at the door. Mari’s hair was neat, braided back out of her face and he could see her narrowed eyes glaring at him. Balak sat at the dining table and looked around the house.

  “Would you like some tea? Maybe something to eat?”

  “No. I am not hungry,” said Balak.

  “I didn’t know my father had friends. How long have you known him?”

  “We were close. He kept me company for many years. He was a kind man. He talked at length about you.”

  “Then you must have known him a lot better than I ever did. He left us when I was just a kid.”

  “I am aware of that. That is all he could ever talk about.”

  “Did my father ever tell you why he left us?”

  “Yes. He left to protect you.”

  “Protect?” Mari chuckled with laughter escaping her mouth. “That is not the word I would use to describe it. He ran away to save his own skin. I don’t know what kind of lies my father fed you, but he is not the man you knew. He was a drunk. And when he wasn’t drinking, he used to spend his time gambling and squandering what little he could earn. And that’s when he was sober. Growing up, I watched him beat my mother. The only time my father stopped gambling was when he had nothing left to lose. Naively, he thought the bounty hunters would chase him. Him leaving was the best thing that ever happened to us. That is, until they started harassing a single mother and her daughter. My mother worked herself into an early grave, repaying debts that never seemed to reduce. When she died, they said it was up to me to pay. My mother wanted me to escape and leave, when she was still around. She knew they wouldn’t go after me, but I was afraid what she’d do if she didn’t have me. So, I stayed. They offered me a way out. I married the son of the man Giorgi owed the most money. Not out of love, but because I had to if I wanted to wipe the debt clean. He isn’t a kind man, but I’ve learned to love him over time. My life hasn’t gone in the direction I had hoped.”

  “I’m sorry for your hardships and I’m not good at things like this. I know it might not mean much, bu
t your father . . . he thought about you every day. At times, the thought of you was the only thing standing between him and a rope around his neck. He kept hidden the letters that he wrote to you daily. I think he wanted you to have this.” Balak put the amulet on the table and turned to leave. Mari stood with her arms crossed, facing Balak. He closed the door behind him. He thought he heard Mari begin to sob, but he could have easily confused it with the wind or the drops of rain on the roof. Balak walked over to Arda, who was waiting for him outside. Arda was looking over her shoulder into the distance as if looking for someone.

  “Are we being followed?”

  “What? No, I thought I saw someone familiar. How did it go?” she asked.

  “Could’ve been worse, I suppose,” he replied, coldly.

  — CHAPTER ELEVEN —

  Nightmares and Daydreams

  Arda and Balak headed north of Kalak towards a lush, dark-green forest that bordered Elania. This would lead them on to Amida. They travelled over the grasslands for several miles. The yellow and greens sparkled in the sunlight. Their crisp, woody freshness was complimented by the fragrance from red and purple wildflowers, picked up by a wisp of wind. Arda picked some of the wildflowers and put them in her satchel.

  They spent the first hour of their journey soaking up the views. It was a nice day, not too hot, nor too cold.

  “Do you have a family, Balak?” Arda broke the silence.

  “I am afraid not.”

  “No kids?”

  “None.”

  “But . . . you must have been in love at some point.”

  Balak paused.

  “Once. When I was a young man, I did love a girl. She had hair blacker than darkness and a heart full of passion. I met her when I was injured in battle. When I was on the mend, I helped her family by fixing things and doing chores. It didn’t work out for us.”

  “What happened?” Arda asked, curiously.

  “I had some unfinished business to tend to. By the time I returned, years later, she was carrying someone else’s child.”