With a drug-laden detachment, she observed the figures were not really ghosts; they were men. Tattooed whorls covered the skin on their bare chests, necks, and arms—tattoos that slid across their torsos, making it difficult for Lena to focus on them. She struggled against the lethargy, but with the struggle came the realization the drugs were too entrenched in her system.
One of the men pulled Lena roughly out of bed and threw her over his shoulder. He carried her outside, dumped her in the back of a wagon, and covered her with a rough canvas.
The horse-drawn wagon slowly exited the estate through the service entrance. It moved down the hill, but instead of going to the Majna I Vira, which was closed for the evening, the two men steered it toward a street that paralleled the escarpment for several blocks. They approached one of the buildings built along the top. A sign hung from the front porch ceiling read Traveler’s Inn.
Mladen jumped down from the wagon and knocked loudly. A lamp by the door lit his pale skin and bushy red hair. The tattoo swirls along his arms and neck had stopped moving, and a leather tunic hid his chest.
“Who is it?” a voice asked from the other side of the door.
“Marko sent me. We’re ready,” Mladen said in a thick accent.
He heard scrambling as the lock was pulled back, and the door opened to reveal a scrawny man wearing a dirty apron. The man looked up and down the street to see if anyone else was around. With a motion, he said hurriedly, “Come inside.”
At the edge of the porch light, Ognian, a mirror of the first man, jumped down and pulled back the canvas. Emptying the wagon, the two Northmen carried Lena inside. The proprietor guided them through the main hall into the kitchen and opened what at first appeared to be a small closet.
“We use this shaft to get rid of trash ... among other things. It goes all the way to Lower Pazard’zhik; at this time of night, there shouldn’t be anyone at the bottom.”
“There better not be,” Mladen said.
“There won’t,” the proprietor assured them as he moved a chair over and climbed up to move a ceiling board. He reached inside and pulled out a sizable coil of rope, letting the end drop to the floor. With the rope held tightly in his left hand, the man reached back through the opening, slid a bolt aside, and slowly let the rope play back up into the hole to lower the dumbwaiter into view.
“Once you get to the bottom, ring the bell and I’ll pull it back up.”
The compartment was large enough for a single person to enter if they weren’t claustrophobic. Mladen climbed into the cab and arranged himself as comfortably as possible. The proprietor looked at the other Northman and said, “We do this and my debt is clear. Right?”
Nodding briefly, Ognian watched the man in the apron lower the dumbwaiter, feeding the rope out slowly hand over hand, controlling the descent of the cab down the escarpment. It took about fifteen minutes but eventually, the rope went slack.
A few moments went by before they heard the tiny bell and the proprietor hauled the empty cab back up. As soon as it was ready, Ognian shoved Lena into the cab, and it went down again. Again, the tiny bell rang.
Before Ognian entered the waiting cab, he handed the proprietor a small bag of gold leva. The man eyed the bag greedily and immediately took one of the coins out. He rubbed it between his fingers then bit it. Grunting with satisfaction, he dropped it back in the bag. “What’s this for?” he asked.
“Your silence.”
* * *
At the bottom, the two Northmen found themselves standing in one of a series of interconnected buildings amidst piles of trash. The rats had all hidden, but they could still be heard skittering and scratching amongst the refuse.
“Everything taken care of?” Mladen asked.
Ognian nodded. “Bit a coin right in front of me. Probably got both hands in it now. He’ll be dead before sunrise.”
They collected Lena and carried her to the door. After making sure the streets were clear, Ognian went around the side of the building and found the stable where the trashman’s mule and wagon were kept. He drove it around front and whispered at the front door, “You ready?”
The door opened, and Mladen stepped out.
After loading the back of the wagon and covering Lena’s body with a greasy tarp, the two Northmen wound their way through the streets of Lower Pazard’zhik to Dragahn’s warehouse. They drove around back of the perimeter wall and pulled up alongside, allowing Ognian easy access to the top.
Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a few pieces of meat and threw them over the wall. The three hounds immediately raced out of the shadows to investigate. They swallowed the chunks whole and then snuffled around, hoping to find more. It took a couple of minutes before the poison took effect, but when it did, the dogs fell over without a sound.
Ognian jumped over the wall while Mladen drove the wagon around to the compound gate. Crossing the courtyard, he quickly found the latch and swung the gate open just wide enough for the wagon to enter.
* * *
A light flared outside the main hall, and a man holding a lantern stood by the door. “Who’s there?” he yelled.
The warehouse courtyard was dark and silent, so the man took a step away from the doorway, the light held high. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until he heard the mule stomp the ground, and he spotted the wagon behind it. At the edge of the light, the body of one of the dogs lay as if asleep.
A person stepped over the body. His torso was covered with tattoos that seemed to shift and swirl with the shadows. There was a glint of steel, and a knife flew through the air, striking the man at the door in the throat. His lantern broke when he fell, oil and blood mixing on the dusty ground.
Ognian approached quietly and retrieved his weapon and the broken lantern. Going inside, the Northman searched the hall and found two other men sleeping in their bunks. He slit their throats where they lay and dragged their bodies into the courtyard.
Mladen had the warehouse door open and the wagon with Lena inside. He filled the bed with straw and soaked it with lamp oil.
Together, the two Northmen dragged the other bodies inside the warehouse and placed them near the wagon. Closing the door, they stood outside and waited, listening.
* * *
Inside the warehouse, Lena tried to see where she was, but her mind must have been playing tricks on her; maybe it was the drugs. She kept having visions of tattooed men standing over her, silent and staring. If she could have screamed, she would have, but it was all she could do just to gasp one more breath.
The interior of the warehouse suddenly lit up with an orange glow, and Lena realized where she was. She tried desperately to move her head to see what caused the light. The crackling sound of fire reached her ears first, followed quickly by the smell of smoke.
Fire climbed up into the roof, and she watched it blacken the heavy timbers. It did not take long for the flames to spread across the floor and reach the wagon, where it found the oil-soaked straw.
Blood pounding in her temples, Lena struggled harder, and her mind began to clear. She felt movement in her toes and fingers, but she also felt the heat. Gasping for air, her lungs filled with smoke and scorched air. She convulsed with a coughing fit.
The wagon quickly caught fire, and Lena felt the lick of the flames against her bare skin. The drug-induced grip on her lungs released, and she screamed.
* * * * *
The Church of Tsarevets (October 14)
As promised, Dragahn was up early, banging on doors in the corridor. “Get your laĭna and meet me at the kruchma.”
Food was on the table by the time Viktor entered the tavern with two young men in tow, who he introduced as Andrei and Teodor. “Chief, we need more horsemen after what happened yesterday and these men come highly recommended by the stablemaster,” Viktor said. “They also come with their own horses.”
Dragahn sipped his coffee and stared up at the pair. They were in their early twenties and looked like they would follow orders.
He turned back to Viktor and gave him an approving nod. Viktor grinned, slapped the men on their backs, and led them to an empty seat.
The caravan chief watched as people started to push away their plates. Once they all looked like they had finished their meals, he stood and tapped his spoon against the side of his tin coffee cup. “I want everyone’s attention.”
They all stopped what they were doing and looked at Dragahn.
“We lost two good men yesterday,” he said as he looked around at the group. “I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure if I could have done something different, if I could have seen it coming.”
He paused to reflect a moment and said, “Word reached me late last night that the men who attacked us were run off, and their leader was captured by the Kral’s men. I don’t know if Daniil or Bogdan made it. I want everyone here to know this trip is voluntary. We’re only one day out of Pazard’zhik. From here, the danger only increases. If anyone wants to turn back, now’s your chance.”
Dragahn looked around. Viktor stood up and said, “Chief, I’m in this ‘til the end.” One by one, each man stood, nodding his affirmation. Sachin and Grendel were the last to stand. When they did, Viktor added, “Just make sure we get paid.”
After everyone sat back down, Dragahn continued, “If all goes well in Tsarevets, we’ll arrive in Veliko Tarnovo tonight. Then we’ll have three nights on the road.” He looked over at Jasper. “I’m sure our cook will have something special prepared.”
Jasper smiled mysteriously and said, “Nothing too special. Just a little of this and a little of that.”
“We almost had to sell tickets for your last nothing too special,” Lucky laughed. Everyone nodded, remembering how they almost had to bar the gates to keep people from coming in off the street.
“Well, if everyone’s ready.”
* * *
The landscape was dark as they passed the last building of Stamboliyski. The sun had not yet risen, but the sky to the east was beautifully lit with golden pastel colors. Dragahn gave the signal to speed up, and the Percherons responded instantly, eager for the run.
Viktor stayed close to the front, ever watchful for another ambush. He rode with one hand on the reins and the other on his short bow.
They traveled over rolling terrain flanked by picturesque, snow-capped mountains. The sun rose higher and higher, revealing small villages and towns that dotted the landscape. Bright shades of blue replaced the pastel colors of the morning as the day warmed, and the sun shone down through a cloudless sky. Herds of animals dotted the fields bordering the road. Some darted away at the sound of the cantering horses, but most simply looked up from their grazing and watched them.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the two massive towers of Tsarevets appeared in the distance, marking the edge of the second escarpment.
At first, they appeared as dark smudges on the horizon that contrasted starkly with the bright blue sky, but as the team approached, they quickly came into focus. Above each tower, the flag of Trakya fluttered in the wind—a rampant golden lion on a bright red field.
The road wound through the rocky terrain and over a wooden drawbridge that spanned a dry moat. Flanking each side of the bridge stood two squat corner turrets that hosted evenly-spaced arrow slits. At the top, large siege weapons were visible through embrasures. Men with harsh faces stared down at them, making it perfectly clear what would happen if something went wrong.
Not intimidated by the massive fortress, Jasper practically bounced with excitement. He had heard the Church of Tsarevets boasted vividly-painted frescoes. He nudged the caravan chief as they waited for the heavy portcullis to rise and mentioned the church for the third time. Dragahn gave him a tight-lipped smile but otherwise seemed preoccupied. As Jasper tried to catch a glimpse of the church, a wiry man dressed in the official robes of the Gatekeeper stepped out of a doorway hidden beside the gate. Behind him came a procession of armored guards.
“Afternoon, Officer Kostadin,” Dragahn called out as he and Viktor dismounted.
“What’s your destination, and what are you carrying?” the customs officer demanded.
Pulling out his itinerary and manifest, Dragahn handed them to the officer. The officious man stared at the sheets and took his time reading, checking each page for the proper seals. After he finished, he said, “Bring them inside.”
When the last of the teamsters cleared the entrance, the portcullis dropped behind them and clanged ominously into the flagstone pavement. Dragahn stopped the Percherons, and everyone dismounted and congregated near the chuck wagon. As Grendel joined them, armored guards followed his path with their crossbows.
The custom’s officer approached Dragahn, followed by a dozen young men dressed in leathers, carrying small crowbars and sporting tool belts. He made a few gestures, and the men split into three groups, one for each wagon.
“I want all these crates open!” he yelled.
Once he was certain his men were making progress, he turned to the caravan chief and said, “I want to see all your papers. Now.”
Dragahn signaled his team, and they fell in line, their papers in hand.
After the customs officer finished checking their papers, he recited loudly for all to hear, “You are allowed to select one representative to remain behind, observe, and confirm we do not damage your cargo. When we are done, I will send someone for you. It will take us a while to go through the rest of your wagons. We will feed and water your horses. You and your men may visit the Church and the public house located in the inner courtyard while you wait.”
He paused to let his words sink in. “You are not allowed to leave Tsarevets while we perform our inspection. You are not allowed access to your wagons during this time. If you try, my men have orders to kill you. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Dragahn replied. “Pyotr, you stay here and keep an eye on things.” Then he pointed to the dour-faced horse doctor and said loudly, “Sir, this man is my representative.”
The officer nodded and walked back to the wagons with Pyotr trailing behind him.
As they passed him, Sachin tossed Pyotr the doeskin pouch of nails and ordered, “Make sure those crates are sealed tight when they are done.”
Motioning for his men to huddle up, Dragahn said quietly, “Let’s get through this without any trouble.”
Jasper looked around and asked, “Is this a slow day for them?”
Dragahn replied, “No, happens every time. Officer Kostadin takes his job very seriously. Last time, we were third in line, and it took us all day to get through.”
“Why don’t you go around?”
“Can’t. It’s the only way down the second escarpment.”
* * *
Nestled against the keep wall was a large wooden building that served as a makeshift cafeteria and public house. The team walked inside and stopped, letting their eyes adjust to the dimness. The proprietor, a white-haired man with skin like cracked leather, stood behind the counter, wiping a few tin cups.
Military regalia covered the walls, representing different campaigns in which the owner had been involved. Off-duty soldiers filled most of the seats. Dragahn led his team across the room to a pair of empty tables. Conversations stopped mid-sentence as patrons turned to follow the masked half-orc’s progress. More than a few hands crept toward weapons.
“Hey!” The owner’s gruff shout drew all eyes to him. “We don’t serve their kind here.”
Grendel’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the crowd. Everyone was staring at him. He was used to the stares, but this time, their scrutiny angered him. He took up a defensive posture in front of his charge and waited.
Dragahn turned to Sachin, who simply turned to Grendel and said, “Go outside.”
Grendel glared at Sachin but then relented with a slight nod.
Everyone watched as he stalked out the door. Some of the soldiers slid back their chairs as they rose to follow him.
Jasper, who had just taken his seat, st
ood back up and announced, “I’ll have my lunch with Grendel.”
All eyes turned back toward the team, appraising them.
Dragahn, surprised at this sudden outburst from his cook, grabbed Jasper by the arm as he passed and asked, “Are you sure you want to go out there? These soldiers have spent the bulk of their careers protecting our borders from all kinds of enemies, including khumanoidi like Grendel.”
Looking out at the half-orc, the chief continued apologetically, “No offense to the big man, but I understand why they don’t welcome him.”
Jasper looked at Dragahn and then at each of the team members. “Grendel is one of us, not some bloodthirsty invader. If he can’t eat here, then neither will I. Besides, I don’t want those soldiers who just left to start a fight.”
The cook turned his back on the patrons and walked out to join the bodyguard.
Lucky and Viktor looked around; the soldiers resumed their meals, but their conversations turned to comments about the half-orc and others like him. Several patrons continued to cast suspicious glares in the team’s direction. The two men shared a look, each wanting to follow in Jasper’s wake but neither wanting to make the first move.
Dragahn motioned them to sit and whispered, “We’ll bring them something to eat after we are done.”
* * *
Jasper hurried across the flagstone courtyard and made to move past the soldiers from the public house. “Hey! You keep a leash on that kopele khumanoid,” one said.
“Yes, sir,” Jasper said, giving the soldier who spoke a quick nod. He caught up to Grendel who stood in front of the Church of Tsarevets with his head bowed. Behind him, the shadow of the wheel-cross fell across the soldiers as they left the yard.
Son of Cayn Page 7
