Dragahn did not say much after they passed into the more rural countryside, so Jasper pulled out his pipe and enjoyed a bowl of tobacco. As he understood it, their first destination, the town of Stamboliyski, was a good day’s ride from the river.
Dragahn had explained earlier he preferred to ride six hours first thing, break, and then push for another four hours. That would make their scheduled stop an hour or so after noon. It was with some anticipation that Jasper watched the sun, gauging when it would be lunchtime.
As the hour approached, they entered a roadside village. Dark stone cottages with small gardens lined both sides of the road. They passed a weathered wooden sign welcoming travelers.
Suddenly two men ran out in front of the caravan pushing a wheelbarrow filled with burning straw. They stopped in the middle of the road, threw their arms up in the air, and shouted at the horses.
Thick black smoke blanketed the street, filling everyone’s nostrils and stinging their eyes. The two Percherons in front of Jasper reared and screamed, threatening to overturn the chuck wagon.
Gripping the seat tightly, Jasper whipped his head around and watched two more men run out behind Yosif and Pyotr’s wagon, also pushing a flaming wheelbarrow. Smoke quickly obscured the road behind. Jasper looked left and right, hoping someone would see and send help. None came.
Dragahn stood in the seat to get more leverage and yelled while cracking the air with his whip, making the horses run through the thick curtain of smoke. Wrapping his leg around one of the seat supports, Jasper grabbed Dragahn’s belt to steady him.
Several men with bows, using the houses for partial cover, started shooting.
Daniil went down first with a shot to the chest, followed by Bogdan’s horse. Bogdan collapsed with his horse, his cry echoing off the walls of the cottages.
Viktor pulled out his short bow, stood up in his stirrups, and shot the closest bandit in the shoulder as he galloped past. “Sons of bitches shot Daniil!” he yelled.
“Keep moving!” Dragahn ordered. “Protect the wagons!”
From both sides of the street, more bandits stepped out and aimed their bows at the chief. Calming his mind, Jasper concentrated and whispered a quick word. One by one, the arrows streaking toward Dragahn snapped and fell short of their mark, striking some unseen barrier.
Through sheer force of will, Dragahn managed to aim his galloping horses at a group of archers. The wagon careened wildly as he cracked the whip repeatedly, gaining speed. At first, the men raised their bows but then dove aside when they realized the wagon wasn’t stopping.
Once out of the smoke, Dragahn sat down and threw a quick glance back. Behind him, Sachin and Pyotr’s teams followed, led mostly by herd mentality. Viktor and Branimir raced along in their wake, with tendrils of smoke trailing after them, as if the dark cloud was unwilling to give them up so easily. Wild parting shots followed them out of the smoke. Most landed harmlessly in the dirt, but a few lodged themselves in the side of Pyotr’s wagon.
* * *
Well over the stiffness from his night in jail, Xandor rode casually, enjoying his time away from the city. Xerxes, his horse, was a strongly-built, glossy black Andalusian that stood approximately fifteen hands. He was a compact, elegant horse with a long, thick mane and tail. His eyes shone with intelligence, and it unnerved the dwarf how the two could communicate without words. Then again, Chert was suspicious of any animal taller than he, which explained why Xandor rode while Chert jogged along beside him.
They were intentionally setting a slow, easy pace, not wanting to catch up to the caravan. Maybe it was the slow pace that lulled them into a sense of peacefulness. In any case, when Xerxes perked his ears, Xandor straightened in his saddle.
“What is it?” the dwarf asked.
“Don’t know, but that looks like trouble up ahead. Let’s investigate.”
With that, Xandor reached down and hauled the dwarf up behind him. Chert barely got a grip on Xandor’s leather jerkin before Xerxes leapt forward into a full gallop, pounding down the road toward the smoky village.
* * *
Tears streaking his sooty face, Bogdan watched his fellow horsemen disappear into the veil of smoke, the thunder from their hooves still ringing in his ears. He looked around and spotted where Daniil had fallen. With some digging and scraping, he crawled out from under his horse and over to Daniil to see if he was alive.
His hand still hovering over Daniil’s mouth and nose, Bogdan cried out when a sharp pain lanced through his leg. He peered through the smoke and saw a man dressed in chain armor holding a longbow—this time the shaft was aimed straight at his heart.
“Hey!” someone shouted and both men looked around. Smoke swirled, but nothing was there.
The bandit dropped his longbow and drew his longsword. He waved the point around trying to clear the smoke. In the distance, the staccato pounding of horse hooves diminished, leaving an eerie silence interrupted by the occasional crackle of flames.
* * *
“Antonoff, hurry up!” one of the bandits yelled. Antonoff turned, the longsword still in his hand. Footsteps scraped eerily on the road as the bandits moved out of the alleyways. A gentle breeze blew down the street, and the thick smoke took on odd shapes.
The smoke cleared a little more, and Antonoff squinted at Xandor, who stood in the middle of the street with both his longswords drawn.
“This is none of your business, stranger,” Antonoff said to Xandor. The bandit’s eyes flicked to one of his men behind Xandor. Responding to the look, the bandit raised his bow and aimed it at the ranger’s back.
With a blur of motion, Chert drew his hammer and hurled it. The hammer struck the archer in the forehead with a loud, meaty thud. It rebounded and flew back to Chert’s waiting hand before the bandit hit the ground.
Antonoff leapt at Xandor, making an overhead sword slash as he charged. It was a strong attack but poorly executed.
Recognizing a thug instead of a professional, Xandor met the oncoming attack high and swept it outside with his left-hand sword. Panic crept into the bandit’s eyes as Xandor stepped in close and pulped his nose and cracked his teeth with a hard right elbow strike. To finish him off, Xandor smashed the pommel of his blade down on the bandit’s forearm, breaking bones and disarming him.
Antonoff staggered back, and Xandor kicked his feet out from under him. The bandit fell heavily, screaming when he tried to break his fall with a shattered wrist.
Blood streamed from Antonoff’s nose and mouth as he stared at the ranger in shock, but before the bandit could recover his wits, Xandor placed the tip of his sword against his neck.
“Call them off,” Xandor hissed. “Now.”
“No need, Xandor,” Chert replied. “They’re all running away. Doubt they would hear you.”
Voices filled the street as the doors to the cottages opened. Men and women streamed out, wanting to lend a helping hand or curious to see what had happened. Xandor nodded toward Chert and inclined his head toward Antonoff.
“Who’s in charge here? Why didn’t you stop this?” Xandor asked, his eyes searching amongst the crowd. They all cowed back. All except for one man, who stood staring down his nose at Xandor and had the look of someone who perpetually smelled something foul.
“Who, sir, are you?” the man asked.
Xandor sheathed his weapons and handed him his identification. The man paled and quickly handed back the paper as if it might bite. Behind him, “one of the Kral’s rangers” was repeated a number of times.
The man visibly shook as he looked around at the dead bodies. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
Xandor grabbed the man by the collar with both hands and asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m the village proprietor.”
* * *
The thunder of the Percherons’ four-beat gait cut through the peaceful countryside. Dragahn held the reins loosely, letting the draft horses have their way. When they tried to veer off the road, he would gentl
y nudge them back on course, but otherwise, he was content to let them run. Viktor and Branimir galloped alongside the wagon teams and helped steer when nudging didn’t work.
Once the village was far behind them, Dragahn’s gentle nudging turned into a tug-of-war as he hauled back on the reins, urging the Percherons to a walk so they could cool down. The horses sweated profusely, and the chief noticed bloody patches in their fur where the harnesses had rubbed raw spots. When Dragahn felt the Percherons had relaxed enough after their panic, he called a halt.
As soon as the wagons stopped, Viktor looked back down the road to see if anyone followed. Beyond the tree line, they could still see a faint trace of smoke.
“Dammit to hell!” Viktor yelled as he took his sword and hacked the nearest tree to splinters. Dragahn caught up with him and ushered him out of earshot.
Dipping into his bag, Pyotr examined each of the horses and applied a topical ointment when he came across a sore or other abrasion. Then he checked the men.
Lucky and Branimir each had water barrels, and they were letting the horses slake their thirst. Sachin walked around each of the wagons, checking for damage and making sure everything was still tied down. Grendel walked step for step behind him.
As soon as the horses were settled, everyone set about repairing the wagons—or, at least, cobbling them together until they could reach the next town.
While everyone worked, Jasper prepared lunch. When it was ready, he offered plates to those who were hungry. It was a somber crowd who sat around and stared at their plate of food.
Nobody said anything when Dragahn and Viktor returned. Both lost in thought, they declined their meals, and it soon became obvious lunch was over before it began.
Dragahn looked around at his team and said, “Let’s go. We have a job to do.”
* * * * *
Stamboliyski (October 13)
Dusk had arrived by the time Dragahn and his team arrived in Stamboliyski. Behind them, the rim of the sun peeked above the western mountains, turning their snowy caps blood red.
People on boardwalks, flanking the road, stopped and stared as the Percherons trudged with their heads down, gawking at the arrow shafts still lodged in the wagon sides.
The teamsters passed gambrel-roofed shops that lined both sides of the road, most specializing in semiprecious minerals of varying quality and finish. Split geodes and large crystals of calcite, quartz, and citrine decorated their windows.
Up ahead, Dragahn spied their destination—a small warehouse nestled behind a two-story hostel and stables. He led the Percherons through a narrow alleyway that opened into a large flagstone courtyard. With an audible sigh, he stopped his wagon and waited until the others pulled up alongside.
Viktor and Branimir dismounted and greeted the superintendent, who stood waiting outside the warehouse. Meanwhile, Dragahn handed his reins to Jasper. He climbed down and headed inside the hostel to claim their rooms.
Standing beside his wagon, Pyotr stretched his aching muscles. “I’m getting too old for this laĭna. Lucky, make yourself useful and go help the stable hands. I want these teams fed, rubbed down, and into their stalls before nightfall.”
Lucky laughed as he hopped lightly to the ground. “You sound like my grandmother! Maybe you should go in and warm your old bones by the fire.” The youth easily dodged a halfhearted kick and dashed away to the stables.
* * *
Grendel left Sachin with the wagon. Looking around, he tried to get a good look at what passed for the hostel’s security. Logistically, he could see a number of problems—too many windows, too many exits, a single-story porch, and no obvious security force on the grounds. He shook his head, trying to figure out how he could protect his charge.
Finding Viktor, Grendel asked, “Does that happen often?”
Viktor looked up at the giant, a tired look on his face. “Does what happen often?”
“That ambush.”
“No.”
“What about when we get beyond the Stena?”
A haunted look crept into Viktor’s face, quickly replaced by a harsh glare. “Don’t worry about that. Worry about your job.”
“That is why I am asking.”
Viktor relaxed and said, “Sorry. If you’re that worried, ask Sachin. He’s the one who knows the most about where we are going.”
* * *
Lucky reappeared with several teens. They set about unhitching the Percherons and getting them into the stables for a wash. Once the horses were out of the way, the teens pushed the wagons into the warehouse. By the time everything was stowed, the sun had fallen well behind the mountains and most of the shops had closed.
“Everything’s set. Here are your keys,” Dragahn said as he passed them around. “The inn was overbooked, so I let them convince me to take only four rooms, but we all get a free meal at the restorant across the street.”
Smiles erupted from both Lucky and Branimir at the mention of a free meal.
“Wake up is at five, so don’t get carried away,” Dragahn said to the two men.
* * *
Standing at the door to the local krŭchma, noise and smells washed over the teamsters. The place was hopping with business, and they had to wait until the barmaid found two tables they could push together. She motioned to Dragahn, letting him know their table was ready.
When Grendel stepped inside, everyone in the tavern stopped talking and stared at the masked giant. His footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors and chairs scraped as he walked past.
As soon as everyone was seated, the team ordered a round of drinks and food. The other patrons slowly resumed their conversations and went back to their meals. Dragahn and Pyotr sat next to one another and discussed many things but kept coming back to Tsarevets. It seemed the place held some bad memories.
Jasper took out his pipe, lit it, and nodded discretely toward one of the younger, more attractive serving girls. “Yosif, here she comes.”
The one he pointed out came flitting out of the kitchen, balancing multiple platters on one arm. She practically danced her way across the room as she evaded men and dodged furniture. The girl set the platters down in front of each of the waiting teamsters.
“Did you see that? She managed our whole order from memory!”
“It wasn’t her memory I was admiring, Jasper,” the teen replied with a large smile.
Jasper laughed, “Yeah, I kinda figured.”
Their ongoing commentary was infectious, and before long, Viktor and Branimir joined the discussion. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Everyone, that is, except Sachin, who seemed genuinely uncomfortable with something, either the crowd or the conversation. It was hard to tell.
* * *
When everyone had left but Pyotr and Jasper, the horse doctor began to fidget as if he was wrestling with himself. Making a decision, he took a few more swallows of his drink and slurred, “I saw what you did for Dragahn.”
Jasper stared intently at the horse doctor and puffed his pipe. The smoke obscured his face.
“You saved his life,” Pyotr continued.
“I grabbed his belt. It was the only thing I could think of,” Jasper replied.
“No, I mean that other thing you did. Deflecting those arrows.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a wizard, aren’t you?” Pyotr asked nervously, not wanting anyone else to overhear.
Jasper visibly relaxed and gave him a friendly smile. “I’m a cook.”
“Whatever. I know what I saw.”
“I was there too, Pyotr. Arrows were flying, smoke was everywhere, and the horses were about to flip our wagon. If anything, it was Dragahn who pulled the proverbial rabbit out of his hat. We were dead if he hadn’t gotten those horses moving in the right direction.”
“You’re right,” Pyotr said, his words coming out slurred. “It’s just that I could’ve sworn I saw...”
Jasper interrupted his thought by raising his cup.
“Let’s drink to tomorrow being a much better day, shall we?”
With a nod, Pyotr raised his cup, tipped it slightly, and downed his drink. Pushing his chair back, he stood up and swayed precariously on his feet. Jasper tipped the barmaid generously and helped the doctor back across the street. On the way out, he saw Xandor and Chert walking toward the tavern. They both nodded, and a sigh of relief escaped Jasper as he continued to the inn.
* * *
Advocate Lena Khristova lay in bed with her husband, Petreski. Except for the news the caravan had left the city, the day had been horrible. Her scrivener had died—been poisoned—and the militsiya had commandeered her office. On top of it all, her two sons, Bruno and Erich, had not returned home yet, but that was not completely unexpected, considering they had just received nice bonuses. They would probably be out all night. The revenue and profit stream from selling and distributing soap had exceeded her expectations, especially after Sachin had opened up the trade route to Mitchurinsk.
Her husband thought going beyond the Stena and selling soap east of the White River was crazy, but Sachin had convinced her to try it. They had ended up selling the soap at three times its normal price, which more than paid for Dragahn’s team. Of course, she had not fully disclosed their total profit and had adjusted some of the numbers in their accounting ledger to help with taxes. The Kral would never suspect.
Now Sachin was gone, and they could lay low for the winter. She had moved their money around into some of her other ventures, so all she had to do now was to wait for the mud season to pass and the trade routes to reopen. With that thought, she snuggled next to her husband and fell asleep.
Sometime during the night, a rank, unpleasant odor woke her. Looking around through sleep-filled eyes, Lena saw two ghostly shapes near her bed. She wanted to scream, but a strange lethargy overtook her as the dark forms floated toward her. In the back of her mind, she recognized the fragrance in the air: hemlock and opium. Her husband was next to her, still asleep. She tried to reach for him, but her limbs wouldn’t respond. The forms stood next to the bed, and her eyes drifted from one to the other.
Son of Cayn Page 6
