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| wIn which we finally get to kill someone!!: Monday, November 21, 2005 | |
Chapter 7 It was a heavy breeze that sent one of the buckets rattling across the stony bank and into the river and woke him from his slumber. He sat up with an outcry, scaring away the wild goat that had once more returned, this time to taste his hair. Madrul chased the bucket where it bobbed downstream. Fortunately the current was not strong, and he caught it before the river wound away into the woods. He checked on the cloth spread over the hot rock--it was no longer soaked, but still damp, especially in the center. That wind continued to buffet him and then he recognized it. Madrul glanced up and his ears caught the distant sound of the dragon’s wingbeats. He grinned to see Drademar approaching the cave and then worriedly wondered if the dragon had seen him sprawled asleep on the ground, like a lazy oaf. He put on the damp toga and tied the belt around his waist, then sat down and put on his sandals, his sore hands, swollen a bit from the wash, having slight difficulties with the ties. Then he folded the all but dry tunic into a pouch around the completely dry soap and scrubbing coral and tucked that into his belt. He bent over the river and filled the two buckets, then gave a glance around the bathing site to see if he had forgotten anything. He could see nothing, so he turned and headed back towards the mountain. His sandals left faintly wet footprints in the dust as he began his trek up the path, but they soon faded away as the dust absorbed all of the shoes’ moisture. The back of his toga, however, felt abnormally heavy with dampness, and seemed to weigh him down more than the buckets did. He plodded on, determined and trying not to kick up a lot of dust. xxxxxx Nevaya got to his feet and stretched, his arms rising above his head in a long, luxurious movement as a yawn engulfed his face. “You do not know what you are getting yourself into,” he said. He was addressing the group of young men who had surrounded him on the outskirts of the great city Drexacha. Here the cobblestone streets had given way to sodden muddy roads strewn occasionally with nothing, nothing at allxx. The tightly packed merchant houses and guilds had given way to smaller, disheveled shops and family homes, where small children peered from the dirty front porches where they played and tried to catch the eyes of passersby. Some blocks down Wronsteit had finished haggling over the sale of a llama, because the author couldn’t think of anything else to put into the story here for him to be haggling overxx. The young man who had knocked Nevaya over without warning was a tall, strong fellow with the blond hair characteristic of a true northern mainlander, though his eyes betrayed some sort of alteration in the race of his blood line, for they verged on green instead of the typical blue. He wore a long toga in dirty beige and a half-ripped red tunic that was a little too tight across his broad chest. He smirked, and took a step forward, pointing to the front of Nevaya's toga. “You got a little mud on you, there.” Nevaya regarded him coldly, standing aggressively forward on the balls of his feet. His hand was at his hip, and he could feel the smoothness of the sheath through his toga. “You going to do something about it, boy?” The other laughed again. “Or maybe it isn’t mud, maybe you scared yourself shitless facing me down, eh?” The other boys laughed and Nevaya’s eyes went flat, but he did not draw his sword. Despite the many fights he got himself into, he knew that Wronsteit would not approve of him drawing his sword in a trivial situation such as this. He knew somehow without knowing why or how he knew that Wronsteit had finished his haggling, or would finish very soon. “Shitless like your father is shitless,” said the boy viciously, letting the insult sound loudly. The young man stopped laughing and snarled, low in his throat, “What did you say about my honor?” Nevaya could see Wronsteit approaching now--he had concluded his transaction for the llama and he came leading the two horses they had ridden from the port city. “I do not have time to waste on your petty idiocy,” Nevaya said, “But I said that your father is as shitless and as shitfaced as you are.” With an enraged cry the other youth charged him, a fist swinging, and Nevaya grinned in the tiny fraction of a second before he reacted. He ducked under the incoming blow and dodged the second subsidiary blow as he threw himself at the approaching man. He struck with his balled up fist tight in his other hand, with his elbow, and when he struck he hit the other youth’s stomach, hard. The boy went sprawling backwards slightly, stumbling as he went, and collided with two of his fellows, who gasped and yelled and charged Nevaya all at once. But he sprang lightly through their midst, dodging blows and turning strikes against others, until he danced free of the medley, almost tripping in his excitement. He had not escaped entirely unscathed, as his shoulder throbbed from a deflected blow that had not quite gone far enough, but he had done well enough for himself. The boys disassembled from their mixture and those who had been struck stumbled to their feet--except for the first youth, who was currently spitting up blood and gasping for breath. They lined up in front of Nevaya, with him in the middle of the street. “Nevaya,” said Wronsteit, simply. Nevaya gave a glance behind him, saw that his master was waiting, and then turned back to the little crowd with a wicked smile and dropped his upraised fists. He took a light, bounding step or two backwards, and they made no move to follow him. When he was a safe enough distance away, he glanced again at Wronsteit, who had turned his back on the ordeal and was adjusting the bridle of his horse. There came the sound of a grunt and then the schplucky patter of feet on the muddy street--Nevaya turned. The youth who had first attacked him had a small knife in hand and was running--not at Nevaya, but at Wronsteit. “Master!” he cried, and then without thinking, without even knowing how he acted, he threw himself at the approaching boy. They collided, and Nevaya knocked him off course--both went sliding through the dirt along the street for a short ways. The boy pushed himself to his feet quickly but Nevaya was already standing, his sword drawn from his sheath and at the ready. He was breathing hard and now covered in mud, but he did not care. An all consuming rage had filled him--the breath whistled in his throat and the muscles of his forearms were clenched so tightly that the veins stood out along them. “You dare...” he hissed. The youth seemed momentarily taken aback by the vehemence of Nevaya’s response. Then he smirked again. “No wonder the shitless whelp won’t stand up for himself. You little slave. You’re worth nothing--the price that a boy can be bought here on the streets is pennies.” Nevaya was shaking with rage by now, when he felt Wronsteit’s familiar and heavy hand fall onto his shoulder. The man pressed down heavily, the action so familiar that it reached down into the depths of his enraged soul and soothed him, like dark and profound velvet that covered and carried him. He drew a long, ragged breath, and then another one. “Enough,” said Wronsteit quietly to him. “No,” growled Nevaya violently. “I will not stand an insult to you.” “Enough,” said Wronsteit louder, and when Nevaya still did not lower his blade he took hold of the boy’s clamped fists and wrenched the short sword from his grasp fiercely; Nevaya was hanging on so tightly that he had to knock the boy down before he could get the blade free, the action leaving the boy gasping on the ground. The other youth laughed. “Hey, lord,” he called. “I’ll buy your slave from you. Pay you triple his worth. Whatever you ask for, lord!” He spread his hands and he laughed again. “I have the money you want. He’s more trouble to you, lord, than he is worth it. Doesn’t even obey you.” He twisted his lips in a smirk as he twisted the words with his mouth. Wronsteit, still holding Nevaya’s blade in one hand, strode deliberately across the distance between the two boys, leaving Nevaya trembling with anger, upset, in his wake. He stopped in front of the youth and stared down at him for a long time. Though Wronsteit was considerably taller, the youth might have been his equal in muscle. He looked the youth over, once, and then twice. “Well?” said the youth, smiling insolently. “What say you?” Wronsteit focused with hard, boring cold blue eyes on the youth’s tinted green ones. “The price of an apprentice,” he stated clearly and loudly, “Is worth your life, five hundred times over.” The youth blanched, suddenly, his eyes wide. In a split second, Wronsteit lifted a hand, his cold eyes never leaving the young man’s face, and before the young man even noticed and began to defend himself, he whipped his fist so hard into the youth’s face that he was flung bodily across the street, where he crashed into the front porch of a nearby tavern. Wronsteit did not waste another moment of time staring after the direction he had sent the youth flying, where the other boys were gathering around their friend and trying not to look in his direction. He turned and walked back to Nevaya--the boy looked up at him uncomprehending from the dirt. For a moment he stood and stared down at the boy, his blue eyes unblinking as they collided with the stony grey. Then he reached down and dragged Nevaya bodily to his feet by the dint of merely grabbing his shoulder and hauling upwards. The boy stood uncomprehending and unmoving for a moment, until Wronsteit offered him the hilt of his sword. Carefully, he reached out and took the blade, automatically lifting it into a guarding position, but his eyes remained on Wronsteit. Wronsteit watched him for a moment longer and then the eyes turned away, and he walked past the boy, whose gaze dropped to his blade. Briefly the hand dropped onto his shoulder again, heavy and comforting. “You do not ever need to draw your blade to protect me, Nevaya,” he said clearly. “I was not protecting you, Master,” said the boy. Wronsteit lifted an eyebrow. “What were you doing then?” The boy stuck out his jaw a bit stubbornly. “Defending you, Master.” Briefly, as if for only a second, a smile flickered across the stern man’s face, disappearing a moment later. Then he was gone, and Nevaya turned and followed him to where the horses had remained. He adjusted the bridle of the almost too large beast upon which he rode before climbing up into the saddle. They rode on throughout the rest of the day, down into the city. It had begun to snow again--winter always laid claim to the North early on in the year, and Nevaya tucked his toga a little closer around him. The flakes were bitterly cold on his barely covered legs, and his breath made a light fog around him. He concentrated on the neck of the horse beneath him, or, for occasional variety, at the back of Wronsteit’s deep blue robe where it met his blond hair and the two colors, honey and azure, mingled with the white crystals of the snowflakes. When they had arrived at the inn in the inner city, traversing the mazelike streets successfully and without further interruption, the innkeeper came out to meet them. He bowed deeply to Wronsteit, who ignored the gesture as Nevaya struggled down from his horse and a servant boy came to take the reins. “Is there anything I can get for you, Master Wronsteit?” the still bowing innkeeper queried. “We will need hot water for a bath.” “I will have a tub sent up to your room immediately, of course, sir.” The innkeeper ducked his head. When he bowed he seemed to bob up and down like a little ancient ship traveling on the waves of air that surrounded him filtered with snowflakes. “And anything else, my lord?” “Two tubs. And don’t call me that.” “Sir?” The innkeeper ceased his bowing and looked up in amazement. “Two tubs, one for myself, and one for my apprentice.” Nevaya, who was shaking the now dried mud and dirt out of his toga as best he could, was suddenly glad for the cold weather for it hid the flush of his cheeks at the comment in the crispness of the air. That was the second time today that Wronsteit had not only called him apprentice, but announced it to others, and loudly. “Of course, sir,” said the innkeeper. “And I’m not your lord.” Wronsteit glanced back at Nevaya, who had gathered their bags and stood shivering slightly under the floating sky. “You have everything?” “I do, Master,” said Nevaya clearly. Wronsteit turned back to the bobbing innkeeper and grunted slightly, and the man ducked and wobbled and led them into the inn. Inside it was warm with the strength of a powerful fire roaring in the commons room, and Nevaya felt his teeth cease their slight chattering as he began to thaw out. The innkeeper swept them up to their room--a large, partitioned chamber with two beds and decorated wall coverings, similar to the one they had stayed at the past several times they had came to this inn, each time with a sword from a different island. The innkeeper saw them in and bobbed away, calling for workers to arrange for the baths. Nevaya lowered the pile of bags and satchels into a safe place on the floor and sorted them--his one small bag and his bed roll went into one corner, and Wronsteit’s various satchels as well as the carefully concealed sword went on the floor next to the larger bed. Then he folded himself down onto the floor and opened up the bags that contained their supplies. Wronsteit sat down on the bed and undid his shoes. Without looking up at him, Nevaya said, “We will need supplies, no doubt. It is not too late for me to go today.” “It will be dark shortly. The snow makes it look lighter out.” “Ah,” said Nevaya. “Then I shall go early tomorrow, if you want me to.” “We have business to attend to tomorrow.” Nevaya looked up quickly, startled. “Master Wronsteit?” The man leaned back against the wall and was silent for a long moment. Before he could answer and before Nevaya could ask him again, there came a knock on the door. Nevaya got to his feet and went over to the door. Wronsteit sat up quickly, and a frown flickered across his face. The boy was puzzled briefly and turned his senses to the door and what was on the other side. He listened to the sounds in the hallway--the scuffling of many heavy feet and one muted whisper. “Who is there?” he called. A serving girl’s voice answered, firm and unwavering, but perhaps a tone or two higher pitched than it should be. “Your baths, sir.” Wronsteit’s hand was on his shoulder; the tall man had a finger against his own lips. Nevaya nodded, and felt rather than heard Wronsteit draw his sword, the slow gently grating feeling of the blade leaving the sheath. The boy unlocked the door and opened it wide quickly. A man thrust himself into the room, a small knife in hand--for a moment Nevaya stared him down as he approached, his eyes the cold, unfathomable and profound gaze of a hired killer. But almost before he had entered there was a flash that was blue and orange in the flickering torch light that entered from the hall, the flash of Wronsteit’s sword cutting diagonally so fast it was as if it only cut air. But then the man’s motion was checked and then, only then, did the blood seem to seep from his wound. He gave a low groan and fell and then the another man pushed past him. Again, Nevaya stared him down for an instant even as this man, equipped with a short sword, turned towards the right where Wronsteit was barely visible. Again, there was the flash of light, brilliant and fierce, and the man half parried but Wronsteit’s sword slipped around him and swung back in its second arc. As it descended on the man’s unprotected neck and as he fumbled and failed to defend himself, the third and the fourth man entered simultaneously. Nevaya drew his short sword quickly, but Wronsteit had time after the back blow to spin. He blocked the strike of the one man and knocked him aside, turning with the movement to smoothly slaughter the other man. Before he could turn back to the one, however, the fifth man attacked. The remaining man who had made it into the room, though slightly wounded, was still alive, and he turned to Wronsteit with his blade raised. Nevaya did not doubt his master’s abilities but given the opportunity he did not hesitate--his blade flickered even as Wronsteit’s sword thrust itself into the final man’s chest so fiercely that its tip showed through on the other side. Nevaya’s blade bit deeply into the wounded man’s back and the man gasped and stumbled a little, lowering his blade. Wronsteit turned away from the final man and raised his blade but Nevaya was already moving--he whipped his sword out of the man’s back and slashed it into his neck. The man gurgled only briefly and sank to the floor to join the others in the twitching pile of blood and bodies. Nevaya lowered his blade and lifted his eyes to meet Wronsteit’s gaze boldly, but in the middle of the gesture there came a scrabbling sound from the hallway and his eyes were jerked away. The serving girl had been flung against the back wall of the hallway at the attack and had sank to the floor, crying, during the slaughter; now she had stumbled to her feet and was running down the hallway. Wronsteit turned but again Nevaya had already begun to move. He leapt over the bodies, dodged the bucket of steaming water and was off after her. He caught her before she had reached the stairs at the far end and she gave a sob as he seized her by the arm and checked her flight. “Please!” she gasped. “Please don’t kill me!” The thought of her senseless request made him angry. “Be quiet,” he said sharply and began to drag her back towards their room. Wronsteit stood in the doorway. His sword was still drawn, as Nevaya realized his own was, and the red blood was seeping down the blade to drip one brilliant drop at a time down to the floor. The girl struggled against Nevaya at the sight of him, her breath quickening in fear, but the boy had a good grip on her and succeeded in dragging her back and holding her there before the doorway and the tubs of hot water. Wronsteit lifted his blade slowly, the edge shining crimson in the torchlight, and pointed the tip at the girl’s neck. She stiffened and ceased struggling in Nevaya’s grasp, though he did not let her go. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Please... please don’t kill me,” she begged. Wronsteit’s eyes remained cold and flat and blue. “Who sent you?” “No one sent me, sir, except for the innkeeper, sir. I was on my way up, those men, they were supposed to bring the hot water.” Nevaya spoke then. “Did those men work for the inn?” “They... I thought they did sir, though today is the first day I saw them, sir. I-I...I needed help bringing up the tubs, sir, and they said, they said they were newly hired help, though the innkeeper hadn’t mentioned hiring anyone, sir.” “And you just decided to help them?” Wronsteit’s tone was low. “N-n-no, sir! They, they... once we got up here with the water, sir, then the one of them, he had, he had a sword, sir, and he said that--that...that he’d cut me, sir, he had the blade at my throat.” She swallowed against her tears. “He said if my voice wavered even just the littlest bit when I called to you that he’d kill me, sir.” “What is going on here?” demanded a voice. Wronsteit’s eyes slid to the left, past the girl’s face. The bobbing innkeeper stood at the top of the stairs, shocked out of his humility. “What--what--“ He caught sight of the blood that ran into the hallway and turned first white, and then red. “Your men,” said Wronsteit bluntly. He lowered the blade from where it pressed against the girl’s throat and gestured into the room where the bodies had been piled. The serving girl relaxed very little in Nevaya’s grip. The innkeeper turned white again and stumbled over to the bodies. “My... my men?” he gasped, and then he bent down, and turned over one half severed neck with trembling hands. “But... I have never seen these men in my life!”
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