by Bruce Blake
A watchman’s eyes followed them as they rode past the guard house at the market entrance. If he noticed the bulkiness of their clothes or wondered at the shield lashed to Khirro’s saddle, he didn’t stop them. The lanes ahead, clogged by merchants and shoppers, were too narrow for horses so they guided their steeds to a nearby tree to picket them. A boy of no more than eight summers sat nearby, idly tossing pebbles at a stump. Elyea knelt before him, said something Khirro didn’t hear, then took a copper from the pouch Athryn had given her. The boy nodded excitedly and took the coin, a broad smile on his tanned face.
“The horses will be safe,” Elyea said as she returned. They took their packs from the horses and strode into the churning throng of market-goers.
Color and sound nearly overwhelmed Khirro as they waded into the marketplace, easily three times the size of Inehsul’s, which had been much bigger than the one in his own town. Khirro stared in awe at tents of green, purple or blue, some striped with white, all crowded so closely they left only enough room between for a line of customers to file past. The people bustling amongst them jostled for the best pick of produce or examined a merchant’s offerings. Each time Khirro moved, someone else bumped against the sword hidden beneath his cloak or his leather chest piece. Every person seemed a threat to their journey and he found himself wishing they’d taken Athryn’s advice.
“One thing I don’t understand,” Ghaul said, his words diverting Khirro’s attention from the worries brought by the spectacle around him. “Why does Athryn have so much concern for this midget? Would the world be a worse place if there were one fewer?”
“Would it be worse for one fewer smart mouthed fighting man?”
“You know what I mean.”
Elyea shook her head, sighed. “Maes is Athryn’s twin brother.”
“Twin?”
“Yes. Maes is the older of the two, but only by a few moments.”
“If this Athryn is so good and compassionate, why does he make his brother injure himself for the sake of a little trickery?”
Khirro interrupted their conversation to have Elyea pay for a package of salt pork. She took a coin from the pouch, then returned to speaking with Ghaul as Khirro stored the purchase in his pack.
“There is much I don’t know about these two,” she said. “But I don’t believe Athryn makes Maes do anything.”
“There’s much you don’t know, and yet you trust them,” Ghaul scoffed.
Elyea stopped, the tide of people flowing past as she turned to Ghaul, her face grave. “I trust them with my life. I’d be dead if not for them.”
“Hmph. If you trust them such, I guess we have no choice. But I’ll keep my eyes on them nonetheless. A magician is never to be trusted.”
“We should get potatoes and corn,” Khirro said changing the subject. “It’s their season, the flavor will be excellent.”
Fruits and vegetables lay displayed on stand after stand, some varieties even Khirro hadn’t seen before. As they wandered the stalls, Khirro explained to Elyea how different vegetables were planted and harvested, what time of year was best for which ones, and how to tell where melons were grown by the tint of their rind. His concern dissipated, eased by these familiar things and by Elyea’s appreciation of his knowledge.
Ghaul vetoed most of his selections because there would be edible vegetation in the forest, therefore no reason to waste space in their packs. Khirro deferred to his experience and they spent Athryn’s coin on dried meats, hard cheese, dark bread, and a quiver of arrows. When the money was spent and their packs full, they made their way back to the horses. Khirro pondered their journey as they walked. He’d never been this far south and knew little of Vendaria. He’d met merchants from the country, and knew they spoke their own language, but beyond that, all was a mystery. One couldn’t tell a Vendarian from an Erechanian except for their language and accent when speaking the common tongue-much like it was impossible to tell a Kanosee from either of them.
They reached the horses and found the lad still pitching stones at the stump. He jumped up when he saw them and gestured excitedly toward their horses and gear, showing them how well he’d done the job. Elyea took the last copper from Athryn’s pouch and flipped it to him. The boy caught it and ran off without a word of thanks, disappearing into the market to spend his new found wealth. Elyea laughed, delighted by the boy’s enthusiasm as they removed their packs and secured them to their steeds.
“Oy,” a voice boomed behind them. “I know you, wench.”
Startled, Khirro spun around. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Ghaul’s hand go to the hilt of his sword.
A man built like a barrel approached them on thick legs protruding from his massive body. Khirro found it hard to believe the border guard found a hauberk large enough to fit the man, yet he wore their colors. Elyea glanced at Ghaul and Khirro then back at the man, his mane of black hair and dense beard all but obscuring his features.
“I don’t think you do, good soldier.”
“Yeah, I does.” The man snorted and spat on the ground in front of Elyea; she took a step back. The odor of stale beer wafted from him. “You’re the whore from Inehsul.”
“You’re mistaken. Move along.” Ghaul stepped between them, but the man pushed him aside as though only a child.
“We have unfinished business, we does.” He grabbed Elyea’s arm. “I passed out before we was done, but you took your payment from me while I slept.”
He yanked her arm, dragging her toward the guard house. Elyea dug her heels into the ground, shaking her head and protesting, but the mountainous man ignored her. Khirro took a step after them then stopped, not sure what he could do.
“No,” Elyea protested trying to free her arm. The man pulled her along, her feet digging furrows in the ground.
“You need to be taught a lesson, whore. You can’t treat a man that way. You can’t-”
He stopped, body stiffening. Elyea pulled away as his grip slackened, the crowd pushing by as he swayed on his legs. The big man looked down; Khirro followed his gaze to the hilt of Ghaul’s dagger protruding from his side. The soldier slumped as Ghaul wrenched the blade free, catching him about the waist and guiding him to where the horses were tethered. A woman looked at them questioningly as she passed.
“My friend had too much drink, I’m afraid,” Ghaul explained with a smile.
The woman gave him a scornful look-barely after noon and this man was too inebriated to stand on his own. She continued on her way without noticing the bloody blade in Ghaul’s hand.
“What did you-?” Khirro began.
“Help me, he’s heavy.”
Reluctantly, Khirro grabbed the man’s arm and directed him to a spot under the chestnut tree by the horses. Blood bubbled at his lips as he moaned, his head sagged forward.
“On the horses, quick,” Elyea urged loosing the reins.
Khirro watched the man’s life drain out onto the ground, mesmerized and appalled he was watching yet another man die.
How did this happen?
One moment they were purchasing supplies, the next a man’s life was ending.
“Now, Khirro,” Ghaul commanded. “Calmly. Don’t attract attention.”
His trance broken, Khirro slipped a foot into a stirrup and glanced again at the bulky soldier with the thick black beard, his eyes now closed. If not for the dark patch spreading on the ground beside him, the man may have fallen asleep under a tree on a hot summer day.
Death can look so peaceful.
Khirro pulled himself into the saddle.
They guided their steeds back toward the market gate at a forced pace, faster than they’d entered but not reckless enough to garner attention. Khirro felt eyes following as they departed, accusing them. He shifted in the saddle, looked over his shoulder at people as they passed and wondered if they knew what happened. Ghaul rode ahead, the bloody knife hidden beneath his cloak. As they rode through the gate, Ghaul nodded to the guard, and then they were in the less c
rowded street beyond.
“Stay calm.” Elyea pulled her mount even with Khirro’s. “Go right at the next lane and we’ll be out of sight.”
He nodded and prompted his steed on. With a few yards left between them and the corner, a woman’s scream made Khirro twist in the saddle, straining to see. A guard rushed from the guardhouse, pushing through the crowd toward a woman standing by the dead man. She lifted her head and pointed toward them. Other soldiers broke from the crowd and ran to their horses.
“Go!”
Ghaul’s horse sprang forward as he dug his heels into its sides. Elyea followed, her mount kicking up a veil of dust from the parched ground. Khirro had time to see several soldiers urge their horses down the street before his own mount surged forward. People dove out of their way as they thundered along the boulevard and around the corner onto the narrower lane. He kept his eyes on Elyea ahead, not knowing where they’d go, how they’d escape.
“Follow me,” she cried over her shoulder, the beating hooves all but drowning her out.
People cowered against the rough walls of buildings as they raced past. Khirro choked the reins, each powerful stride shifting him in his seat. Elyea slowed rounding another corner and Khirro glanced back. Their pursuers were past the first corner, closing ground.
The deserted street they veered on to was narrower than the last. Hoof beats clattered on the cobble stones, echoed from the close walls, multiplying their trio into a platoon on the run.
A figure appeared in the lane ahead.
Khirro stretched, nearly sacrificing his seat to see past Elyea and Ghaul. Maes stood in the middle of the avenue, signaling them into an alley. They reined in their horses and followed his direction, crowding into the tight space where Athryn waited.
“Stop. Be silent.”
The magician looked to Maes as he entered behind them; the little man nodded, drew his dirk, then pulled up the leg of his breeches and pressed the blade against the flesh of his calf. Athryn began a whispered chant as Maes cut his leg. Khirro cringed at the sight of fresh blood.
A sere breath of wind coughed down the alley, standing the hairs at the back of Khirro’s neck on end. The air grew hazy, like distant heat shimmering on a sweltering day. The opacity swirled about them, concentrating at the mouth of the alley, first solidifying, then changing color to match the walls around it. Athryn’s incantation continued, the only sound other than the panting of the horses.
Hoof beats broke the calm. Khirro held his breath and stroked his horse’s mane to calm him as the sound grew louder. A rider passed, oblivious to them hidden behind the illusory wall. Another went by, then another. A cloud of dust wafted into the alley. Finally, two more riders galloped past and the sounds receded. Athryn chanted until the noise of pursuit disappeared, then his whispers ceased and the conjured barrier disappeared. The magician rushed to his brother’s side, pulled a bandage from the pouch on his belt.
“They will soon realize they have been deceived,” he said as he wound gauze around Maes’ leg. “We must make for the forest to the south. Stay close to me and we should be safe.”
He boosted Maes into the saddle and swung himself up. Khirro’s heart raced, keeping time with the pounding hooves as they spurred their horses down the street in the direction their pursuers had gone. No one spoke as they rode from the alley, soon turning toward the southern town limits and the forest. Beyond lay the Vendarian border with its line of guard towers. After that, a potentially hostile country, and then the cursed land.
As he bounced along in the saddle trying to keep from falling, Khirro wondered if he’d ever feel safe again.
Chapter Seventeen
Colorful dresses and frilled undergarments hung limply from the line strung between two trees with no wind to make them flutter. Suath watched, his patience honed through years spent lying in wait for the enemy. In this case, the variety of clothing on the line told him the enemy was three women. Gathering information from one person could be difficult but, with more than one, the job should be easy.
One of them would tell him what he wanted to know.
A young blonde emerged from the waddle and daub cottage to check the laundry, her hair pinned up in a tussled nest at the back of her head. The mercenary didn’t move. He needed to know where they all were, choose the right time before showing himself, otherwise it could be dangerous and messy. He hadn’t survived this long by making things dangerous and messy. He watched as she ran her hand down the fronts of the dresses; finding them still damp, she left them hanging and returned to the hut’s shaded interior.
Suath shifted slightly, keeping himself alert. Eager to pick up the trail before it grew cold, he’d ridden two days without stopping except to feed and water his horse. He didn’t dare drift off now. There would be time to nap once he returned to the saddle.
Another hour passed before an older woman waddled out the door, a wooden bucket swinging in her grip. On her way to the well, she passed a few feet from the bush hiding Suath. The mercenary didn’t so much as flinch. The woman-perhaps the young one’s grandmother-fished water from the well, then struggled back to the cottage, slopping water over the lip of the pail to be quickly absorbed by the parched ground. Suath could have easily reached out and taken her. He didn’t.
Two accounted for, one to go.
He put thoughts of his quarry’s increasing lead from his mind, breathing quietly through his nose. He could make up the time spent waiting, but it would be more difficult if he had to fight his way out of town because of impatience.
The sun had reached its zenith when the third woman appeared. By then, the blonde had retrieved the laundry and the old one had hung a fresh batch. Both of them were in the house when the last resident walked out of the woods, a man in tow. They crossed the yard, giggling. The woman’s disheveled hair fell across her pudgy face still caked with day-old make-up. The man caught her by the arm, spun her toward him, and drew her in for a kiss, but she pushed him away, admonishing him with the shake of her finger.
“You got your money’s worth already,” she said playfully.
The man dipped his fingers into a pocket and pulled out a copper. The woman smiled and kissed him, took the copper and tucked it into her bodice.
Whores. No wonder the town’s women gave them up so easily-he didn’t have to spend a penny to get the information he needed to find them. Normally, when a one-eyed man in well-used armor asks questions, it takes money or threats to get an answer. The threats Suath didn’t mind handing out, but he didn’t like parting with his coin.
The man watched the dark-haired harlot disappear into the shack, waved good-bye as she entered. He stared at the closed door for a moment before spinning on his heel and striding toward the bush hiding Suath. The mercenary pounced, dagger opening the man’s throat before surprise registered. Blood spurted from the wound, thirstily absorbed by the dry dirt the same way the water had been.
Messy.
Suath chastised himself as he concealed the man’s corpse in the bush where he’d hidden. The door of the hut opened and the mercenary squatted by his victim. The dark-haired one came out and walked past, oblivious to the mercenary and her dead lover concealed in the brush, unaware of the bloody dirt sticking to the sole of her foot. She went to the well and retrieved some water then drew a cloth from her bodice and dipped it into the pail. She hiked up her dress and removed her undergarment. Suath stared at the patch of black hair between her legs, quelling the stirring he felt as she bathed her woman parts. No time for lust, this was the time to make his move.
The mercenary emerged silently, the dagger in his hand still dripping blood. She didn’t notice him until he was too near for her to react. The cloth dropped from her hand, her mouth opened.
“No sound.” He flashed the bloody blade before her eyes. “Or you’ll get what your boyfriend got.”
Tears came quickly to the woman’s eyes, the corners of her mouth pulled taut, but she did as he said and kept her tongue still. Suath pr
essed his blade against her throat, the keen edge drawing blood to trickle down her alabaster skin and blossom into a rose as it soaked into her lace bodice. The mercenary pushed her toward the door; she went without resistance.
“Open it,” he whispered. She did and they stepped into the dim interior. “Call your friends.”
He tightened his grip on her arm and felt her flinch. Tears ran down her pretty face and he fought the urge to lean close, lick them from her cheek. Nothing tasted so sweet as tears shed in fear. She opened her mouth, throat working against the knife held there, but no sound emerged. He squeezed again and she whimpered.
“Despina,” she called, voice cracking. “Aryann.”
No one answered.
“Again,” Suath growled. Her hair smelled of sweat and honeysuckle. He wanted to bury his nose in it.
“Despina. Aryann,” she called again, voice steadier but high and tight. “Can you please come here?”
The old one came first, wiping her hands on an apron strung about her waist.
“Leigha? Are you all right? You sound as though…”
Her words and steps halted as she saw the knife at the dark-haired one’s throat. The young blonde came after her, but the old one put out her arm, keeping her behind her.
“What’s happening?” the blonde asked.
“Don’t speak,” Suath commanded, his voice calm and even. No point inciting them, they would be panicking soon enough.
“What have you done, Leigha?” The old one remained composed in spite of the scene before her.
Not the first time she’s been threatened with a blade.
Grown men had pissed their pants at the sight of him, yet she kept calm. The old whore showed more balls than most. The pudgy one shook her head in answer to the question sending a fresh trickle of blood down her neck.
“What do you want?”
“The vial.”
The pretty one peered out from behind her grandmother’s broad back. “What does he mean?” she squeaked, tears flowing.
