The two walked through the main doors of the vaulted church and stopped. Lit by massive candle-lit chandeliers of black iron, the wide aisle in front of them separated two columns of dark, wooden pews and led to a raised altar surrounded by brightly-colored frescoes that carried onto the ceiling. Set in the corner, an ornate pulpit, trimmed in silver and gold, seemed to tower over the rows of seating.
Along either side, more frescoes adorned the plaster walls, each depicting Christ telling a parable. Between each scene, a stained glass window glowed brightly in the sunlight.
Grendel sat in the back and watched Jasper move from fresco to fresco like a kid in a candy store.
“He’s a strange one, isn’t he?”
Grendel nearly jumped out of the pew. Sachin sat next to him, holding two small plates of food. “I forget just how evil men can be.”
“Not evil, just unaccustomed to things that are different,” the half-orc replied.
“Grendel, make no mistake, they are evil. If you had been by yourself, you and I both know there would have been a fight. Those soldiers would not have let you leave here alive.”
Taking his time to think and absorb Sachin’s words, Grendel watched Jasper cross in front of the altar and examine the frescoes on the other side.
Finally, he replied, “That may be true. But if my time is up, then there is nothing you or I can do about it.”
* * *
A young acolyte entered the church. He dipped his fingers into a small bowl of holy water and made the sign of the cross before entering the nave. He walked up to the altar and knelt down, bowing his head in a short prayer. Whispering amen, the young acolyte stood and, noticing Jasper’s intent study of the murals, said, “Sir, you might be interested in this.”
Jasper turned and saw the young man pointing to a circular-shaped stained glass window with a saw-toothed edge overlooking the north transept. The glass was a deep mauve and represented a meditation wheel. In the center was a translucent crystal flower in the shape of the dog rose.
“We just installed this a month ago.”
“It’s very beautiful; where did it come from?” Jasper asked, his voice hushed with awe.
“It’s from the old monastery near Chernigov, along the White River.”
“Did they get tired of it?”
The acolyte laughed. “No, the orcs took over that area when they took the city. A noble Rhodinan family recently donated this one to us. I don’t recall their name, but they rescued several pieces of art from that old monastery. This one had so much smoke damage it had to be sent to Pazard’zhik to be restored.”
“Did they have to cut the wall in order for the window to fit?”
“Yes. And the commandant was not happy about it. He does not like change.”
“I can imagine. Thank you for sharing this with me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Leaving to finish his chores, the acolyte disappeared into one of the back rooms. Jasper stared up at the meditation wheel a while longer, marveling at its beauty.
* * *
“The wagons will be ready in about five minutes. Wrap up any sightseeing you want to do,” Dragahn announced as he entered the sanctuary.
Jasper walked to the door and found Lucky waiting him. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?” Jasper asked.
“Stand up for Grendel like that. He’s just a half-orc.”
Jasper looked Lucky directly in the eyes and said, “A man is defined by more than the money he makes or the women he sleeps with. There will be times when you will be tested—when your integrity will be tested—and that’s when you will discover what type of man you really are.”
Lucky looked down at his feet.
“Grendel is one of us, and he deserves to be treated that way. Even if he looks different. I would have done the same if it had been you or the chief.” Jasper relaxed and smiled as he ruffled the young man’s hair. “Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to prove your mettle.”
* * * * *
Grendel (October 16)
The northern road out of Veliko Tarnovo had climbed up into the mountains all throughout the previous day, and by late afternoon, the teamsters found a secluded dale that shielded them from the biting wind.
When the teamsters awoke the following morning, their breath was a vaporous cloud. Though not cold enough for frost, everyone knew it wouldn’t be long before the first snow fell, and the mountain passes would close. The upper rim of the sun peeked over the trees just as they re-hitched the horses and resumed their journey.
Mist fell and the layer of dust on the road was replaced with a thin film of red mud. As the day progressed, the clouds broke but refused to go away. They clung to the horizon, biding their time.
Jasper lost sight of the second escarpment and the frothy waters of the Yantra River that ran along the base. Tall mountain firs lined the road, their thick roots spread out like tentacles.
“Can I have a try?” Jasper asked.
“Sure,” Dragahn replied, handing him the reins.
Fortunately, the Percherons were capable of leading themselves, so all Jasper really had to do was sit and hold on.
“I’ve been doing some thinking about that ambush,” Jasper said after a while.
“Oh yeah?”
“They weren’t trying to stop the wagons.”
“Looked like it to me.”
“Maybe, but don’t you think getting past the wheelbarrow was a little too easy?”
“Easy? Could you have done it?”
“No,” Jasper admitted. Sneaking a quick glance at the caravan chief, he asked, “Did you notice? Those archers were aiming at you.”
Dragahn took back the reins, not answering.
* * *
By nightfall, the clouds had regrouped, blocking out the moonlight. Xandor lay motionless at the base of a small stand of pines, a burbling mountain brook separating him from the teamsters’ camp. His perch afforded a good view of the men as they unhitched the horses and pitched their tents.
Jasper stood over a large pot suspended over the campfire, stirring something inside and occasionally adding brownish-orange powder. Each time he did, he dipped a spoon into the concoction and sipped from it. Phrases like “Whew,” “Damn, that’s hot,” or “I’m waiting for the spoon to melt,” drifted across the night air. The last phrase was said out loud when one of the new horsemen approached the cook and asked when supper would be ready. Occasionally, the wind shifted just right, and Xandor smelled the chili cooking. He frowned, hoping his stomach wouldn’t give him away.
When supper was ready, the men formed a line with bowls in hand. Jasper and the teenager helped serve each member, and then they took what was left. It must have been a four-alarm recipe because Xandor noticed several of the men wiping their foreheads and rubbing their noses. The ranger grinned and mentally shook his head. He had tasted some of Jasper’s chili before, and he knew just how spicy the mage liked it.
After supper, conversations turned to non-work-related subjects. Everyone seemed to enjoy the time away from the city; even the chief had settled in by the campfire to relax. Jasper picked up a pot with the dishes stacked inside and carried them to the stream.
He was scrubbing out the last one when something fell into the stream. Looking around, he didn’t see anyone and resumed his washing. This time, the pebble fell a little closer. Jasper froze and muttered a few words. He scanned the woods and nearly fell on his bottom when he saw Xandor not five feet away. The cook quickly recovered and continued washing the pot.
The look on Jasper’s face was priceless. Xandor savored the moment even though he knew that payback would be hell.
The ranger slithered closer and whispered, “How are you holding up?”
“Good, but busy,” Jasper whispered back.
“I’ve brought some news I picked up at Tsarevets. The warehouse burned down the night after we left Pazard’zhik. There are no suspects, but Marcus believes
it was arson. Probably the same guy I saw outside the advocate’s office.”
“Any bodies?”
“Yeah, three. They were burnt beyond recognition, but the priests were able to divine Lena Khristova was one of them.”
“Sounds like someone’s cleaning up.”
“Yeah, I think so, too. Have you had a chance to check out the crates?”
“No, not yet. I’m still biding my time.”
“I think you’re enjoying being the cook too much.”
“What? Me? No.”
“Don’t forget we have a mission.”
“I won’t,” Jasper replied as Xandor retreated into the night.
* * *
Lucky crunched through the leaves with every step. “Jasper, Pyotr’s got his cards out. You feel up to a game?”
Jasper turned with his pot in hand and said, “Last time we played, I think he cheated.”
“He didn’t cheat; you were just lousy.”
* * *
Half in the firelight and half masked by the darkness, Grendel watched Jasper join the evening’s entertainment. His mind turned to Tsarevets, but he could only recall what Sachin had said. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs.
As if summoned by Grendel’s thoughts, Sachin walked up beside the bodyguard. “Son of Cayn, what are you doing here?” he asked quietly.
Grendel did not respond immediately, and Sachin waited silently, giving him some time.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you don’t belong here. You saw what those soldiers thought of you. They treat you as an enemy here. If you lived amongst the tribes, I have no doubt you would be their chief—their king.”
“I am here because you asked for a bodyguard.”
“I don’t believe that for a second, orcné. You’re running from something.” After a pause, Sachin continued, “And you’re hiding.”
Grendel started and turned to face the small man.
Although Sachin’s tone was gentle, his words dug into the bodyguard. “You wear that mask, thinking no one will know what you are. How’s that worked out for you?”
Grendel continued to stare, but his posture was tense.
“I told you when we first met I had some experience with your kind. I know more about you and your lineage than you do.”
Grendel frowned behind his leather mask. “I am what I am, nothing more.”
“That’s not true. You are more than you pretend, and you are holding yourself back.”
Grendel looked toward the campfire; when he looked back, Sachin was gone.
* * *
Just after midnight, Grendel heard the tent flap open behind him. He felt a sense of relief, mixed with some anxiety, when he turned to see Sachin behind him, this time holding two tin cups filled with what smelled like steaming hot coffee. Sachin held out the larger of the two, motioning for Grendel to take it. Accepting the cup, Grendel stared down into the dark mixture.
“It’s just coffee,” Sachin said, taking a quick sip.
Grendel took a tentative drink. The brew was bitter at first but had a surprisingly fiery aftertaste that warmed his stomach.
The two drank in silence and stared at the crackling flames in the distance. Grendel drained his cup and felt his muscles relax. The knot of tension in his gut, one he hadn’t even been aware of, melted away, leaving a warm feeling inside. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head. He tried to focus on who it was, but everything was blurry.
A voice whispered into his ear, “Tell me about your mother.”
Grendel’s vision cleared, the impairment gone as quickly as it came. He looked around in alarm. The campsite was no longer around him. The smell of unwashed bodies replaced the fresh mountain air and with it came cries of despair.
He knew exactly where he was.
Standing at the side of a dirty bed, a young Grendel looked down at the broken form of his mother. Crying out in horror, he dropped to his knees and pulled her to him. She was barely alive. Deep scratches rent her Nubian skin, and her legs and arms lay bent at funny angles, the joints dislocated. He stared into her almond-shaped eyes, trying to ignore the bruises.
The light was dim, but there was enough for him to see them sparkle when she recognized him. She smiled up at him and raised one hand to touch his cheek.
Something warm and sticky seeped through her ragged clothing where he held her. He didn’t know what to do. Tears streamed down his face as he felt her last breath escape her bloodied lips. He crushed her to him unable to let go.
“Boy, get away from her!” a deep voice yelled from behind him, jerking him out of his sadness.
Laying his dead mother on the bed, Grendel shook with grief as he turned to face his father. He looked into the cold eyes of the murderous creature and a burning spire of rage coursed through him. With a roar, he charged.
His father deftly stepped sideways and, just as Grendel passed through the doorway, the seasoned fighter slammed the barred door of the cell into his son’s face. It struck with enough force to break his nose and throw him back onto his mother’s bed.
Laughter echoed in the hallway, and Grendel followed the noise to a large man with a bull-head, standing beside his father. It was Novius, son of Ovius his owner. “Son of Grendel, save your energy for the arena,” he said, still laughing. “You will get your chance soon enough.”
* * *
Again, Grendel’s vision blurred and subsequently cleared. He found himself standing next to Sachin. Everything was as it had been; he even held the empty cup in his hand.
“Are you alright?” Sachin whispered.
Grendel did not know what to say. The memory had been so vivid, so real. He could still feel his mother’s blood on his hands.
He rounded on Sachin and growled, “What was in that coffee?”
“Nothing,” Sachin said. “Just some plain black coffee I picked up in Pazard’zhik and a little whiskey.”
Grendel snatched Sachin’s cup out of his hand and sniffed it.
“I promise, there was nothing else in it,” Sachin said. “Orcné, what is troubling you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Grendel remained silent for a moment and then handed the cup back to Sachin. “Five years after my mother died, Ovius, my master, allowed me to face my father in the arena. My master made me wear this leather mask; by the time my father figured it out it was me, it was too late.”
“When it was over, I took off my mask and held up my sword, still wet with his blood. I placed my foot on his chest and looked down into his dying eyes so there would be no mistaking who had defeated him.”
“I still remember the silence after my father fell. The people at the arena all began to chant Grendel—they are the ones who gave me my father’s name. Even though I took it, I vowed to never be like him.”
“What was your name before Grendel?”
“My mother called me Vanin. She never told me its meaning but said it was from the language of the elves.” Looking into the distance, Grendel said, “Right after the fight, my master smuggled me out of the city and gave me my freedom. I’ve been running ever since.”
Sachin stood quietly for a moment, seeming to reflect on Grendel’s words. He walked around to face his bodyguard. “Ovius was a minotaur, wasn’t he?”
Grendel nodded and answered, “Yes and no. My mother told me the J’Belans had once been human. They were part of a Korellan outpost established in a land far away from the shores of their southern continent; it grew into its own country and became J’Bel. During the Great War, J’Bel broke a pact they had made with the Dark One, and he cursed them. Now, every male J’Belan goes through the transformation when he comes of age. I have seen some of them while they go through the bull-rite, even fought a few like Novius. It takes several months, and it is a very painful process.”
“Why did Ovius give you a mask?” Sachin asked.
“He didn’t want my father to know it was me,” Grendel replied.
&n
bsp; “Are you sure it was just your father he didn’t want to know?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, don’t you think it odd Ovius set you free? Why would he do that? Surely, your absence would have been noticed.”
Grendel stood motionless, staring down at the small man who struggled with something he wanted to say. Sachin whispered, “Did it ever occur to you he had a reason he didn’t want you to stay?”
“What reason?”
“Your mother’s death.”
“My father raped and murdered my mother,” Grendel said a little too quickly.
“Did you see it happen?”
“No,” Grendel replied, his eyes wide in shock. “I found her afterwards.”
“Then how do you know? Look, if Ovius wanted you and your father out of the way, letting two of his more popular gladiators fight and then releasing the winner . . .” Sachin left the thought unfinished.
“Why?”
“Well, if Novius, his son, was the one who attacked your mother, what would have happened if you had found out? Or your father?”
Grendel backed away from the light of the campfire. His eyes shone eerily as he struggled with his emotions.
“Did your mother belong to Ovius?”
Grendel answered, “Yes, she told me her people had been captured—the plunder from one of his many raids.”
“And Ovius gave her to your father as a prize?”
“I guess; she never said.”
Sachin remained quiet to let Grendel take some time with his thoughts. When the bodyguard reemerged from the shadow, he had taken off his mask. He held it crumpled in his fist. “I do not know what to do,” he said quietly. “I kept this mask to honor the man who released me . . .”
Sachin stepped forward. “Orcné, you have been hiding behind that mask far too long.”
Son of Cayn Page 8
