by S. Nileson
Yet Khatar was certain that there was dishonor in Chordus’ last few acts as the Peacekeeper Commander, and that his death at the hands of Manevra was earned. Whatever respect he had for the man whom he did not know was all gone; and Manevra considered even more dishonorable to Khatar. If ever the opportunity arose, Khatar would hold Manevra responsible for her betrayal and act out the only judgment Varangian Guards knew for such behavior, execution.
When he reached the guardhouse, a structure in which Gallecians and Peacekeepers alike used as a center to manage their troops, he entered with questions already fully formed in his mind, questions he asked many times before on such assignments.
“Guardsman!” he said after opening the door and startling the men within, “I seek to know the whereabouts of a man with an inked face.”
Seven men were in the room, one sitting on a desk, its wooden chair tucked beneath it and ignored entirely, with his feet hanging, and another six completed a half-circle with him at its center. Three of the guards were Gallecians with their shiny armor and tabard, including the man on the desk who Khatar had identified as their captain, and the others wore the black leather Peacekeeper outfits and gear. They all stared at the intruder with shocked expressions often showing on the faces of men interrupted during a private discussion.
“And who might you be?” asked the captain, still sitting with both hands firmly rooted on the wooden table beneath him.
Khatar hummed, his jaws clenching at the disrespect received from the captain and his muscles tensed at the insult of talking to a man not outranking him yet acting as if he did.
As Khatar was about to retort one of the Peacekeepers interrupted and said, “He’s a Varangian Guard, one of Starkad’s men, and I don’t suggest you speak unless spoken to.”
The captain ignored the comment, and the Peacekeepers’ growing anxiety, and said, “So, will you answer my questions or show yourself outside?” The other two Gallecians dropped their sword arms on their blades at their captain’s comment.
Khatar’s eyes grew narrow and his breath heavy. He slowly approached the captain, making no effort to hide his intent and lowered his head as he changed his posture to one ready for attack, or defense should it be necessary. When the two Gallecians moved to place themselves between him and the captain, he swiftly shoved one with his shoulder, sending him flying across the room, and with his own head struck the other’s forehead, stopping him from drawing his weapon by placing his hand on the sheathed blade. The captain drew his blade and stood as any inexperienced warrior would with a drawn blade, having it held at waist height and pointing towards his foe. Using the dagger sheathed into his bronze wristband, Khatar struck at the captain’s blade so hard that he sent it flying away, bouncing on the wall and falling on the stone floor with a metallic echo. He violently grabbed the captain’s neck and lifted him a full two inches from the floor.
“I despise Gallecians,” Khatar said, “in all forms but one.” He kept his words vague to the strangers but meaningful to any Kolian that would have heard them. “Tell me, Gallecian, have you seen a man with an inked face?”
Feeling the warm breath of Khatar bearing the stink of a traveling man, the Gallecian tried to speak through the suffocating grasp of the Varangian. Khatar lowered the man, sensing his compliance, and raised his blade to his throat, drawing a faint line of blood where it touched the skin. “I’ll speak.” Khatar lowered the blade.
The Gallecian captain then raised an open palm slowly, gesturing his fallen men regaining their composure to hold back, and said with a quivering voice, “The man you seek goes by the name of Archer. I’ve seen him at Stonerift some weeks ago while we were searching the ruins. He made way to the forest and slew seven of my men.”
Khatar lowered his blade and sheathed it back into his bronze bracer, shooting threatening glances across the room to the two Gallecian guards. “Where is he now?”
“We don’t know. We have been told he went deep into Parthan territory, possibly even reached the city itself.”
“Was he alone?”
The captain’s sweating grew profuse and his voice trembled even stronger than before as he spoke the words which he knew could condemn him to a fate worse than death. It mattered not whether he was surrounded by two full contingents of Gallecians, and the bulk of the remaining Peacekeeper Core who had not deserted after the death of Chordus. He knew well that the Varangian could exact terrible vengeance before he was killed or incapacitated. “He traveled with two merchants.” Silently he prayed for the Varangian’s questions to end.
The gods that day spared Sayah’s life, the Gallecian captain raised from humble beginnings. This short encounter left a brand on his soul that never faded away until his dying day. Ever since, Sayah no longer spoke to anyone with disrespect, even to those who served him, no matter how idiotic they were, and in time he grew to be a man of honor and a supporter of justice. When he died, many years later, people remembered him fondly and with not a single bad word spoken against him; a fate Khatar would never get the chance to be proud of. He became a Gallecian in a form traditional Kolians would not despise.
2
Khatar, the lone Varangian sent to track and capture a man threatening the Emperor’s life, arrived at a sight much like that of a Kolian assault. Yet he knew that no hostile Kolian army had set foot in these lands since the Second Civil War of Man.
Pillaged, plundered and burnt, Stonerift was left a shadow of its former self. “The blunder of war had finally caught up with the Warless Town,” Khatar said to himself, tasting the ashen air as he spoke. It was a dreadful sight all too familiar with the Kolian. Even with Servak’s peace, there were occasional raids between the nomads of the Eastern Desert, the folk who had never accepted the Demigod Emperor’s forgiving ways. These small raids often left a trail of burnt tents and rotting corpse in their wake, but none were of a scale as large as that of Stonerift’s.
The scent of decay and burnt wood filled Khatar’s lungs and the ugliness of the black scorched land amidst the beautiful green Kolians cherished sickened him. Yet none but Khatar, or his closest kin, could ever notice how the Varangian felt, for his dark face bore no trace of emotion and his posture remained that of a battle-hardened warrior. Only his eyes wandered curiously to spot any suspicious sign that could lead him to the next destination and closer to Archer.
A tree at the center had its wood darkened by smoke and most of its smaller branches burnt off. Rotting corpses hung from its sturdier branches, on rugged ropes hastily made, and a swarm of flies buzzed endlessly around their feast of dead flesh. The strong smell did not phase the Kolian, but it was certainly noted by him. “This is no act of war, it’s an act of provocation,” Khatar said to himself. Hearing his own words made him think clear.
Who would most benefit from this attack? The question floated in Khatar’s mind and the answer, no matter how creatively he thought, always was Malus and his Sky Wing allies. A war between Kol and Partha would serve no one else, neither Prince Iolcus of Partha, nor Warchief Starkad of Kol. And if properly provoked, it would be impossible for either of the leaders not to take action without risking an even graver war in which they were stripped from power and possibly even life. Both leaders knew that Fate often dictated their actions, no matter how they thought of them, and both had a profound respect for one another, which many interpreted as friendship. “How long can you prevent a war?” Khatar whispered. Suddenly the importance of his task was made painfully clear. The fate of Nosgard rested in Khatar’s ability to find this Archer swiftly, before the Four Kingdoms were drowned in the terrible seas of war. Stonerift had nothing else to offer. “To Salvation,” Khatar said to himself, heading north and leaving the dreadful tree behind.
3
When the Parthans were freed by the Demigod Emperor Servak after the Second Civil War of Man, they built a town beyond the wall. It was given the name Salvation, after the symbol it represented to its first settlers. But unlike Stonerift, it was a town
that embraced war and the military life. It was a town where mercenaries went for work and merchants went to hire such men, men who were not allowed into the ranks of the Parthan military for their inability to adhere to the strict Parthan martial rule. They were Parthans, nonetheless, and generations of struggle made them strong. The purple still in their hearts.
A town with many mercenaries and warriors of caliber, Salvation had no need for walls. Never in its short life had it been threatened by raiders or bandits, not any that were not guests, at least. And Khatar, as a Kolian and all too familiar with battle, understood how Salvation would be like, and how he could dig his way through its tunnels of hidden whispers. If Archer made it past Salvation, or crossed paths with any of its current guests, it would be easy knowledge to acquire.
At the very southern edge of the town The Coin Hole tavern stood. It was a large wooden structure build from the pine trees populating the nearby forests. The smell of Parthan squalor, a distinct smell Kolians coined, and that of uncleaned stables and of blood from slaughtered cattle welcomed the Varangian to the tavern. But there was also a distinct hint of a sweater smell, that of the pine honey mead spilled in the streets of Salvation by the many drunk wanderers about.
When Khatar walked into the tavern there was a large crowd of patrons. In the corner there were two men arguing about the fees of a job long finished, one a merchant and the other a leader of a small mercenary band with some of its members observing the brief exchange from a table by the far end of the inn. Another table had two men competing in a contest of strength, each trying to best the other in arm wrestling, a group of spectators cheering whoever they placed a bet on.
Some tables had men quietly quenching their thirst with the infamous Parthan pine honey mead and others had noisy patrons talking loudly over one another. The Coin Hole was a place for many types of visitor, of which most were there for work of a rough kind.
After his brief scan, Khatar walked towards the bar, finding a spot wide enough for his comfort in which he had no need to brush against the shoulders of any of the other customers, and gestured to an old woman with greying hair, a heavy Parthan accent and an even heavier frame. “We serve only Parthan mead here, Varangian,” she said.
At the utterance of the word the bar went silent, with all eyes falling on Khatar, even those engaged in earnest discussion and contest. But Khatar was not disturbed and nodded at the old woman, a gesture which sent the bar back to its natural state.
A woman approached Khatar and stood beside him, shoulder intentionally brushing him just above the elbow. He was a tall man, even by Kolian standards. “Last time I saw a Kolian here he was kicked out for ordering Kolian quench.” She took a sip of her own mead.
“I see more than a few of us here.” He sent a few glances across the tavern towards some bearing Kolian features and outfits.
The old woman served Khatar two large mugs, slamming them hastily on the wooden bar and spilling a sizable portion of it on Khatar’s arm resting on the bar. “That will be one silver.”
“I asked for only one,” Khatar said, ignoring the spill.
“First drink is on me, Varangian. I’m just making sure there’s a second.” She offered him no smile or hint of a joke and extended her arm, resting it on the wet wood and waiting patiently until Khatar paid her.
“Expensive, isn’t it?” the woman next to him said. She produced a blade and showed it to Khatar, “The name’s Kari.”
Khatar saw her name etched artistically on her steel dagger, with the hilt being decorated with a pattern of golden spirals dancing around the black steel. “You should not draw a blade near a Varangian in such way.”
She smiled, showing a set of teeth too white for a mercenary. Undoubtedly, Khatar thought, she had them whitened using some sort of remedy foreign to him. “Well, Varangian, you seem like the kind of person that came here looking for a tracker.”
“I am a tracker,” Khatar replied, looking at his ale and drinking without even glancing at Kari. When his mug was empty he banged it on the table and pushed it away, taking the other full one in hand and pulling it closer.
“But are you a tracker familiar with these lands?” She smiled and took a sip of her mead, leaning on the counter and resting both elbows on it, face turned away from the bar and towards the noisy patrons throwing occasional looks at Khatar. “I’ll tell you what,” Kari said, “I’ll join you for a few days and if you still find that I’m of no value to you then we part ways and exchange no coin.”
“These men in the corner,” Khatar said, noticing how often Kari glanced at two men throughout their conversation, “who are they?”
“None of note.” She looked at Khatar, gauging his reaction and judged that her response did not fool the veteran. “Well, that’s not entirely true. They are falsely convinced that I owe them a sizable debt.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Perhaps not so falsely convinced.”
“And you seek to have me protect you from them by masquerading as my guide through these lands.”
“I seek a mutual agreement in which we both benefit. You get your scout and I get my insurance. Again, if things don’t work out in a few days we’ll just part ways.”
Khatar hummed in contemplation. He thought about how delicate his mission was and how his true intentions, delivering whatever information he found to Starkad first, could remain even better hidden if Malus’ mission was leaked to others. He also knew well that it was no secret that Malus was looking for Archer and that many have been given the task. In some towns even a public bounty of one hundred Oboi was declared as a reward to anyone who brought Archer to the Emperor. When his thoughts cleared and his plan for Kari set, Khatar said, “Bring me news of a man with a tattooed face by dawn and you can join me on my pursuit for a three days. Then I decide, if you’re worth any coin.”
Smiling, Kari nodded and went off, heading towards the exit and brushing by her creditors’ shoulders, passing between the two. Until the moment she left the tavern they kept staring at her, Kari staring back. When she was gone they exchanged a few words and approached Khatar.
One of the two men leaned in and said, “She is not to be trusted. Make sure to keep your coin close to you and hidden.”
The other leaned at Khatar’s other side and said, “And if you want her dead for any reason and wish not to stain your hands just let us know. We’ll make her disappear and free of charge.”
“Aye,” the first man said. “Slitting that scoundrel’s throat will bring us more reward than any coin purse.”
Khatar took a sip from his second mug, still leaning on the bar and sitting on the tall wooden stool barely carrying his massive weight, and said, “For three days she is not to be touched. If she comes back here afterwards then know that she is no longer in the Warchief’s employ and you are free to do as you wish.”
Grinning in disappointment, the men left, leaving the tavern and going their own way.
4
Khatar asked around in the tavern for Archer with little success. Whenever he would describe Archer as a man with an inked face the others would name half a dozen of their acquaintances, of which none, Khatar later came to find out, had a completely covered face. It was a common thing amongst Estgardians and Orkstadians to have their faces covered in their tribe’s or clan’s markings depending on the social status they had achieved, but in the Four Kingdoms it was a rare thing. Unfortunately for Khatar the men at Salvation were well traveled and their work sent them all around Nosgard, those of them noteworthy at least.
When night fell and it was time for Kari to reveal her make, Khatar waited patiently at the tavern. He had decided on a specific amount of time in which he would wait, and produced a small hourglass he carried in his shirt, placing it near him on the bar, his sight never wandering off the sliding grains.
After the hourglass’ sand was reset he flipped it over and ordered a drink of mead from the same old woman who had served him earlier. When Kari arrived the hourglass’ top was al
l but empty, the last few grains of its sand making their way through the narrow glass.
“Varangian,” she said, entering with no regard for secrecy and speaking freely until she reached the bar and leaned over it the way she usually did, with her back to the old woman and her face towards the door. “Your man came here a few dawns back with a frail hooded woman.”
Khatar dropped his mug mid-drink and acknowledged Kari by looking at her, facing the woman with eyes she had never seen before, almost an impressed look on his face. “How did you come by such knowledge?”
Kari smiled and said, “You’d be surprised how far a favor can go amongst us mercenaries. This town is my home and none of its folk know it better than I do.”
“How did you come by such knowledge?” Khatar’s interest was unwavering, and his wonderment hungering. How could Kari, a mercenary with no allegiance and motivated solely by coin, succeed when he, a Varangian with impossible loyalty to his Warchief and dedication to a cause, failed?
“My friend, you are a Varangian. Your folk are not exactly liked in these parts of Nosgard. You could have asked for a lifetime and not get the answers you sought, even if you asked the right people.”
Khatar looked around and noticed how intently he was being observed, even if the others didn’t stare and only send occasional glances towards him. At first when he arrived he had noticed the patrons glancing at him and dismissed its significance as a natural attitude taken towards strangers, or towards one another, but them he noticed the behavior continue in spite of his extended presence. He was not liked and he knew it. The faster he would conclude his business in Salvation the safer it would be, for both himself and the mercenaries there.
“I asked the guards,” Kari finally succumbed to Khatar’s insistence. “They spotted two hooded travelers come from the eastern road and leave towards the western road leading to Partha. One of them remained silent and avoided contact. None of the guards got a good view of him, but I’m willing to bet that he’s your man.”
