by Tracy Falbe
“No,” Altea said because she wanted to stand on her own two feet. “These men hunt you, but you have a reputation for being impossible to find. It’s best you live up to it.”
“If you’re sure you can face this,” Thal said.
“Sarputeen will keep me safe,” she said.
“I’m not sure what he’ll do,” Thal confessed.
“You were eager enough to rip them to shreds only moments ago,” Altea said.
“Father was right to restrain me. Perhaps not all of them deserve death. Some monks are just men, making what life they can in this world, but the one whose scent I recognized. He was in Prague…” In his eyes, a cold twinkle like moonlight through an icicle told of the absence of mercy.
“Then he rushes toward my judgment,” Altea said, and Thal realized that her spirit did not need his constant support.
“And I’ll go judge this Duke,” he said.
They kissed gently and had faith that they would be reunited soon.
Thal took scant supplies before departing. At the castle gate, Sarputeen reminded him again not to assault the approaching group because he knew that his son would be tempted. Thal said that he would return within days. With Pistol at his heels, he went down the lane and past the village. A chill wind shook the pine boughs when he left the road and disappeared into the trees.
Chapter 3. The Doorstep of the Sorcerer
Mileko stopped his horse on the empty road. A break in the clouds cast watery golden light upon the hill ahead, where an Ottoman flag flapped from a timber fort. The dingy fabric indicated that this spot was not much of a priority for Turkish pride. This route through the Aggtelek Karst into the Highlands was not a likely one for militaries or merchants to take. They followed the routes connecting the fine cities, and this remote track held little promise of glory or fortune. Yet, the empire watched its frontier even in this lonely spot.
The handful of soldiers here likely thought most about when their break in duty would come. Then, they could go south to the Danube Valley and Buda, where the Turkish governor ruled in the palace of displaced Christian kings.
Mileko cared little for the machinations of opposing empires. Such concerns were incidental to the priorities of his master, Sarputeen, who had tasked him with spying upon Tekax. Mileko figured that this road led to that sorcerer’s lair in the Hungarian Highlands.
An officer emerged from the watch post and shaded his eyes against the setting sun. Mileko started forward again. He knew the tongue of the Ottoman soldiers, and he knew their ways, but the prospect of their company summoned unpleasant memories. The janniseries had once meant to mold him into one of their own until he had escaped them.
Instead of being afraid, he told himself that these men had pasts similar to his own. He pitied them their empty existence as imperial killers and trained his thoughts on learning from them what he could.
As he advanced on the tiny fort, three more men appeared. One rose over the stockade with a musket. The other two joined the first outside. They bore yatagan swords and guns as well. Their tall headdresses confirmed them as janisseries even though their beards were starting to grow in around their mustaches. Mileko imagined their remote and tedious location accounted for their unshaven appearance.
He approached confidently and expected that his demeanor would intrigue more than it threatened.
“Who are you?” demanded the officer.
Calmly, Mileko dismounted. His fine black horse with a white blaze shook its head eagerly, hoping to be stabled and get some hay.
“Mileko,” he said simply, but the way he said the single world relaxed the men. He watched the tension ease from their shoulders a little. He knew how to style his voice to set strangers at ease.
“I’m a traveler,” he added. “A magician by trade.”
Excitement lit one soldier’s eyes. The prospect of entertainment on a chilly fall night turned his thoughts friendly.
But his superior continued to scrutinize the intruder. He swaggered closer. Mud caked his boots. There was no one here to impress with polishing.
Squinting at Mileko, he said, “You’re some Magyar bandit.”
Reproachfully, Mileko frowned. “You can see I’m no bandit,” he scolded and spread his arms. His black cloak flapped open to reveal good clothing, including a vest of many pockets. A belt with little pouches also held two sheaths for daggers. Black leather bound the handles of the dark blades, forged in some secret fire. Gaps in the leather bindings exposed the shadowy tang of the knives.
“Would you like to see some tricks?” he said. Without waiting for an answer, he drew his daggers. His movements were as fast as swallows swooping across a meadow.
Before the watchmen could react to a possible attack, the daggers disappeared from Mileko’s hands.
“Oh!” one of the men cried, a little delighted.
The officer demanded, “Where did you put them?”
Mileko’s thin lips smiled.
“Let me see?” he murmured and reached down to his boots and brought them out again.
“Not bad,” the officer grumbled. “What else can you do?”
“The day grows late. May I stay the night here?” Mileko asked.
The men clearly wanted any distraction, but the officer maintained a semblance of suspicion. “Where are you bound? You come from Christian lands. You could be a spy.”
“I return home to Eger to see my mother, if she still lives,” Mileko said.
“Eger? Why go this way? Why not through Buda?” the janissary pressed.
“This way is more direct albeit hilly,” Mileko said.
“Where are you coming from?” the officer asked.
“I’ve been some time in Zilina, performing my trade,” Mileko said.
“You best entertain me tonight,” the officer said.
“I shall,” Mileko said and fought the urge to smile again.
He was invited inside their little fortification. Two light canon were positioned on each side of the gate. Heavy boards covered the ports where the guns could be rolled forward to blast at the road. Mileko settled his horse in for the evening among the other horses at the stable.
A kettle steamed on a tripod over a fire in the yard, but the pleasing aroma from the stew had to wait while the men completed their evening prayers. Mileko stood aside. He had no desire to join anyone in any type of religious practice.
They ate around a table in a small common room. Only the officer had a private room. Supplies and horse tack lined the walls, and old straw littered the dirt floor.
Once the simple meal was done, Mileko prepared to perform. He took off his cloak and rolled up his sleeves, which impressed his audience.
Taking out his daggers, he flourished them and then held one above the other. He envisioned his bodily energy flowing into the lodestone blades. Through his ability to glimpse the mysteries of unseen powers, he enhanced the magnetism within his daggers. When he felt their opposite forces pushing on his hands, he carefully found the point of equilibrium and released the top dagger. While adjusting the position of his bottom dagger, he kept the upper dagger suspended in air.
The watchmen gasped. Wide-eyed, they leaned closer and gaped at the floating wonder. Although the lamplight was dim, they could not perceive any string attached to the hand of their strange visitor.
Mileko told one man to pass his hand through the empty areas above and below the floating dagger.
When he did it, everyone exclaimed with wonderment. Mileko snatched back his dagger and sheathed both blades. As his hands were at his belt, he deftly removed a short length of string and grabbed a pinch of fine powder with his other hand while waving the string.
He held out the string and invited the men to inspect it. As they leaned in, he flicked the powder toward the officer. The man rubbed his nose as if lightly irritated.
With a flourish of the string, Mileko made a loop around his hand and asked the officer to cut the string. The janissary produced a small
knife and made the cut where Mileko indicated.
After showing off the cut, Mileko unlooped the string that showed no sign of being severed. His audience was mildly impressed, but they had seen the trick before.
Next, Mileko whipped out a silk handkerchief. He fluttered it across the men’s faces, so they could see that it contained nothing. Again he dusted the officer with his special concoction.
After more flapping of the fabric that emphasized his bare wrists, Mileko tossed up the cloth and a sparrow fluttered out. It banged into the ceiling, flew along a beam, and then flapped around the room until Mileko opened the door, so it could blunder into the twilight. He watched the disoriented bird disappear over the stockade. Catching the little thing had been a distinct challenge, and he hoped that it would recover from being jammed in his chest pocket for half a day.
He pulled shut the door and regarded the four men. They obviously awaited another trick, but he was done with this part of his game.
He returned to a chair at the table and gently said to the officer, “Should not your men be on watch?”
The officer thumped a fist on the table, and the dirty spoons rattled. “Off to your duty!” he barked with extra authority.
His sudden severity startled the three underlings, but, because Mileko seemed done with his performance, they retreated outside to man the walls. Mileko presumed to toss his feet up on the table. The brows of the officer drew together as offense built inside him, but Mileko waved his hand and said, “You don’t mind if I put my feet up.”
The anger drained from the man’s face.
Mileko took out his daggers and started the floating trick again. The shaky top blade fascinated the officer.
“Does this road lead to the castle of Tekax?” Mileko asked very casually.
The officer’s glassy gaze cracked. Disturbed by the subject, he looked away.
“You recognize that name,” Mileko said.
“They say when the Emperor dreams of victory, Tekax makes it come true,” the man said.
“And he is here in the Highlands?” Mileko pressed.
Slowly the man nodded. “He has a castle on this road. Few travel it. We watch but have little to see.”
“You must have seen a servant of Tekax, a warrior called Janfelter,” Mileko said.
“Janfelter…” the officer said thoughtfully.
“You’ve seen him,” Mileko prompted.
“He came this way in summer,” the man answered.
Mileko reversed his daggers and made the other one hover. The quivering blade dazzled his interviewee again, and Mileko considered his next question. He had expected that Janfelter would have taken this direct route into the highlands from Zilina.
Mileko had searched for Janfelter before departing the Zilina area. He had retraced the route he had traveled with Thal, looking for the place where the werewolf had confronted the fext. But the precise area where the fext had fallen had proven difficult to spot. The leaves were off the trees, altering the landscape somewhat, and rain had erased most signs of the great battle where Thal had struggled against the unholy servant of Tekax.
Mileko had succeeded in finding the place where he had killed the werewolf Rotfeng. At least he had rid the world of that wicked cur.
The disappearance of the fext worried him. Perhaps Janfelter had continued to Buda instead of entering the highlands immediately, but after the thrashing Thal had given him, Mileko suspected that the man, if he could still be called a man, would seek out his master. He had lost all his gear and would need to start over.
Unable to find a trace of the missing assassin, Mileko was tempted to consider that he had actually died. Then the memory of watching the man resurrect after a gunshot to the chest swept aside that silly hope. Mileko would have to go on, believing that the perilous one still lurked the land.
“You should take your rest,” Mileko suggested.
The officer yawned and departed to his little room. Mileko chose to bed down in the stable with his horse. Before dawn, he slipped out of the fort.
His Ottoman host had not lied about the road being little traveled. Weeds overgrew the winding track through the Karst. The wind picked up and delivered a sleety misery upon Mileko. He spotted a rocky overhang and cave where he could shelter. His horse browsed frosted grass beneath the cliff while Mileko managed a fire. The tinder he kept warm and dry in a pocket next to his body served him well.
Mercifully, the weather cleared the next morning, and he continued into a valley. He spotted smoke rising from campfires within the trees along a stream. Suspecting that bandits or nomads camped there, Mileko quickened his pace.
Gradually, the creeping sensation of being followed diminished. He wondered if his stalkers had shied away because they thought that he was some agent of Tekax.
For the rest of the day, he saw no one else until the wooded hills gave way to Gyongyos. Beyond the village spread an open plateau. In the distance, he could discern a tower on a hill.
The locals eyed him warily. They pegged him easily as an outsider, but his fine gear and good horse spoke of a man of military talents.
A group of hardscrabble youths, however, proved unintimidated by him. As he tied his horse to a post outside a tavern, the half dozen boys assailed him. They reached out, begging for alms. When one presumed to reach inside his cloak, Mileko slapped him away hard.
The boy fell back, and Mileko put up his fists to warn the others.
“Do not ask charity of me while trying to steal,” Mileko scolded.
“The Turks took all we had!” wailed one boy, and Mileko did not doubt it, but he lacked the power to fix the woes of the world and did not much concern himself with them either.
An ostler came forth from the stable behind the tavern. He menaced the beggars with his pitchfork. “Begone Magyar brats!” he hollered. “You’ve been warned not to trouble our guests.”
The boys helped up their fallen comrade and drifted back into the street. They shot bitter looks toward their intended victim and the ostler.
“My apologies for them,” the ostler offered and retracted his pitchfork.
“I imagine desperation makes them so unwholesome,” Mileko remarked.
“These hills are overrun with Magyars now that the Turks got all the good bits of the kingdom. They have their hot baths in Buda, and we have bandits in the Highlands,” the ostler said, shaking his head.
A copper coin popped up between Mileko’s fingers. “Groom my horse and have him saddled again by the time I’m done eating,” he said.
“Very good, Sir.”
Mileko entered the tavern and ordered food. When the tavern keeper served him, he asked if the tower to the east belonged to Tekax. The tavern keeper seemed unsurprised that the mysterious stranger had asked about that destination. He replied that Lord Tekax had assumed control of the tower that had previously stood empty. Relieved that Mileko asked no more questions, he retreated to the table where his cronies clustered.
After eating, Mileko left the town. The sun was going down, but he judged it best to reach the lair of the sorcerer after dark.
Even in the night, the castle was impossible to miss. It dominated the highest hill, and its blocky ramparts blacked out a thick portion of the starry sky. From the road, Mileko saw a single bright window high on the tower. He wondered if his master’s enemy plotted some dark deed by lamplight this very night.
Quietly, he entered the village beneath the elderly fortress. A gust swept leaves out of his path. The street was empty, and no music or chatter issued from anywhere. Doors were barred and windows shuttered. A dog finally started barking from within a barn as he moved slowly across the village.
Mileko noted no signs that any soldiers were garrisoned here. Beyond the village, he snooped closer to the castle. He observed the walls as he rode up the winding path. Wind moaned over the ramparts, and he expected an outcry from a sentry. Boulders lined the path, crowding him on both sides. They had been moved into their position
s so long ago that they were deeply settled into the ground as if they had always been there.
The path terminated at a deep ravine. On the other side of the gap, a closed drawbridge sealed the castle entrance.
After scanning the dark walls, he left the doorstep of the sorcerer and hunkered down in the countryside to wait out the night.
He slept until a frosty dawn gave him light to see by. A quick appraisal of the landscape affirmed that he had selected a good hiding place. Halfway around the hill from the village, he was out of sight of the local folk but could still see the hilltop fortress.
The daylight revealed no clever opportunity for gaining entrance to the tower. He hiked around all sides of the castle, but he could only approach the sheer walls in a few places. He knew that he might scale them, but then what?
Could he expect to avoid detection? Normally, he possessed great confidence in his talent for slipping in and out of places, but this was no normal place. This sorcerer might have ways to know what happened near and far. It was a risky gamble to think that Tekax would miss the intrusion of his rival’s spy.
And Mileko was not wont to gamble. He relied on skill and discipline. Impulsive, bold actions irked his sensibilities. Such rash deeds were the habit of his master’s son.
Mileko scowled at the lofty heights of the tower. He suspected that Thal would holler at the front gate for admittance. Uncomfortably, Mileko contemplated that Sarputeen intended to attack this place. He had declared Tekax’s attempt to murder Thal an act of war and meant to retaliate. Sarputeen now relied on Mileko to gather intelligence with which to plot an attack.
Subtlety was the art of the spy, and such was the talent of Mileko. Knowing patience to be a good provider, he continued to observe from hiding. He secured his horse among some shrubs where it could browse while he stole off alone into the landscape.
He found a vantage point closer to the village where he could watch the inbound road and the path up to the castle. A few carts were moving on the quiet road this morning, and Mileko saw villagers going about their chores.
