Guarded (4 page)

****

Chapter Three

Although it had been some time since Volos had traveled far from the castle and he’d very rarely had the benefit of a carriage, he didn’t enjoy the trip to the border. The road was rutted, and the carriage progressed with jerky rattles. His fellow passengers— two women, a man, and a young child— filled the small space with the reek of their perfumes and stared at him distrustfully the entire way. But the worst part was the slow speed of the journey. Yes, they were going faster than if Volos had been walking, and with fewer stops to rest. But it wasn’t fast enough. He wished he were a horseman, riding a steed at full gallop the whole way. No, he wished he could
fly
.

But all he could do was sit, jolting from side to side, trying to distract himself from thoughts of death.

They spent the night at an inn near a busy crossroads. The food was bad and overpriced, but at least his pallet on the floor was no more uncomfortable than his usual cot, and the shared sleeping quarters had a familiar feel. The innkeeper’s daughter flirted with him, as did a handsome middle-aged man who was journeying in the opposite direction. But Volos turned them both down and slept with nothing at his side but his pack and sword.

Shortly after dawn, the travelers ate a breakfast of sausages and bread and then set out again on the road. Volos hadn’t managed to wash more than his face and hands, and he felt grimy. His unfamiliar civilian clothes chafed. And the toddler was fussy all day, alternately whining and crying or throwing her food on the floor.

During the war, Volos and his fellow soldiers had complained about marching endless miles. His feet had always been sore and blistered, his mouth always tasted of dust. But his current journey was far worse— both the company and the agony of waiting. Besides, he hated having to sit for so long. His ass hurt and his legs were cramped.

A low range of mountains marked the border between Wedeyta and Kozar. As the evening fell, the setting sun turned the ridge dark and forbidding. The last time Volos crossed those mountains, he’d been going the other way. His body and mind had been battered, and his soul had felt more sullied than the dirt beneath his boots. But he was alive, and so were the men and women he’d rescued from the Kozari prison, and he’d counted that as a victory. He’d also sworn never to return, but it seemed he was bound to violate that oath.

The carriage clattered to a stop well after nightfall. Bright lanterns glared in front of another inn, this one much smaller. Even with the war long over, few people crossed the border. But three other travelers were spending the night there: two women who looked to be in their thirties and constantly touched each other, and an older man with a completely bald head. They were all Kozari. They sat at a table together over dinner while Volos sat alone, but even with his attention focused on his meal, he could feel their scrutiny. He had to make an effort not to twitch with discomfort. He hadn’t spent time with any Kozari since the war— and the time he’d spent during the war had not been pleasant.

He was grateful to discover that he had a private room for the night. It was tiny— just large enough for a lumpy bed and small washstand— but that was fine. Someone had filled the washbasin and left a towel, so after he undressed, he gave himself a quick wash. He doused the lantern, lay down, and pulled up the covers, but he couldn’t fall asleep. Perhaps he was kept awake by the absence of seventy-nine other sleeping companions, or by anxiety about what was to come. In either case, he squirmed unhappily for a long time.

Finally, he sighed with resignation and began to stroke his cock. It didn’t remain soft for long under his steady hand. He thought of Adiso— of his fine skin and firm little ass, of the lean planes of his hips and the dark, sensitive nubbins of his nipples. He thought of the scent of olive oil and frankincense, and of tight heat drawing him in. But even as Volos’s wrist sped its motions, his thoughts strayed to a larger body, rippling with muscle. Straight hair, dark as a raven’s wing, long enough to cover a broad neck. And a wide mouth that turned easily into a grin. Except that grin was never for Volos.

Volos came with a strangled sob.

****

Volos hadn’t said a word to his new companions over breakfast or as they climbed into the rickety carriage that would take them over the mountains. He’d squashed himself as small as possible into the corner, uncomfortable already with the way the springs poked through the seat’s ancient padding. He stared out the window while the others stared at him. After several miles, the red-haired woman could apparently contain her curiosity no longer.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

Volos startled slightly when he realized she was addressing him but then gave a small shrug. “I’ve lived many places,” he answered in Kozari. It was the first time in years he’d spoken the language out loud, but the words felt comfortable and familiar to his tongue.

“Are you Kozari? I can’t place your accent.”

“My family is Kozari,” he replied half-truthfully. “But it’s been a long time since I was there.”
Since the war,
he didn’t add.
Since your Juganin tried to steal my humanity
.

“And why are you returning?”

He’d forgotten this about his father’s people— they were very direct in their dealings. Rude, according to Wedey customs, but his father had claimed there were benefits to plain speaking. You knew what people were thinking. It was much easier to exchange information.

“Family business,” said Volos. Again, a not-quite lie. He never said the business involved
his
family.

“Maybe you’re coming to find a Kozari wife,” said the other woman, who was curvy and dark. She leaned against the redhead so completely as to be almost in her lap. “The Wedey women are very beautiful, but they’re strange. Close-mouthed. And they have terrible fashion sense.” She smoothed a hand over her brightly patterned tunic.

Volos was making an effort to be polite. “I’m not looking for a wife.”

The redhead cocked her head at him. “A husband, then? We used to be short on young men due to the war, but not so much anymore. Besides, I suppose Wedeyta had the same problem.”

He did not want to talk about the war. “I’m coming to search for some lost property. And maybe to see some old acquaintances.”

For the first time, the man chimed in. “You should consider staying. The prospects in Kozar are better and the cost of living is lower. What do you do for a living?”

Protect my people from Kozari.
No, probably not the right answer. Would his fellow passengers be so friendly if they knew his bag hid a sword? Volos attempted a smile and thought quickly of a profession that sounded boring yet plausible for a man built like him. “I work in a quarry. I began as a laborer but now I supervise others.”

“We have quarries in Kozar. We produce some of the best marble in the world.”

“Maybe I’ll take a look.” And then inspiration struck. “Hey. Since it’s been so long since I visited, maybe you folks could recommend some sites to see. What should I see?”

As he’d hoped, that turned the conversation away from him. The others were eager to tell him about stunning scenery, educational historic sites, and all the best places to eat and shop. He pretended to listen eagerly, as if he really were a tourist, but he was relieved when the swaying carriage made the redhead ill and everyone else sleepy, and the conversation faded away. Volos leaned his head against the carriage wall and watched as they ascended the mountain.

****

Kozar’s weather was wetter than Wedeyta’s, the fields still green even in late autumn. But the winters were harsher. Volos remembered marching down snow-dusted roads, watching his breath form dragon plumes in the morning air. And shivering, naked in a cell, body curled into a fetal ball, wishing the cold would at least dull some of the pain. Sometimes even in the sweltering height of summer, he’d wake up from dreams where he was still in that cell, and he would step outside into the searing morning sun just to remind himself where he was.

Now, though, as he walked over rolling emerald-colored hills under an ash-gray sky, he was only a little chilly. He’d been traveling in Kozar for three days— more jostling carriages full of curious locals— but he wasn’t yet used to this place. He was constantly unsettled. The soft consonants and liquid vowels reminded him of family and childhood, but the landscape brought memories of blood and fear.

Shortly after his arrival, he’d bought local attire: loose red trousers that cinched at the waist with a black fabric belt, a billowy white shirt with brightly embroidered animal motifs, a thick black cloak with embroidery along the edges. He’d felt ridiculous when he’d first put on his new outfit, although he had faint recollections of his parents dressing him in something similar when he was very young. Back then, he’d been proud of the thread-work dragons and phoenixes that danced across his shirt— so much more interesting than his friends’ plain, dun-colored tunics.

No public carriages served the little village where the queen claimed Berhanu was being held, so Volos had spent the past day on foot, his sword still tucked into his bag. Aside from the slowness of his journey, he didn’t especially mind. He didn’t have to converse with anyone; the inhabitants of a few tiny hamlets and several little wooden farmhouses only stared curiously at him as he walked by. He wondered if these Kozari thought he was one of them. If they noticed the very slight hitch in his gait, did they guess it was a remnant of the war? And if so, did they assume he’d received the injury from a Wedey weapon rather than a Kozari one?

Volos reached his destination just before sunset. A single sign announced the name of the place: Chorna. The painted lettering was tiny and faded, as if the inhabitants assumed that nobody would care about the name of their town. It certainly didn’t seem a place that attracted many visitors. There was a single market square with worn cobbles and a fountain near the middle, and a few streets lined with slumping brick-and-timber buildings. As far as Volos could tell, there was only one tavern, apparently nameless. He went inside.

It wasn’t crowded. Perhaps fifteen men and women sat at the tables, drinking ale and eating plates of food. The ceiling was low, the air was close and smoky, and the room smelled strongly of drink and charred meat. Everyone watched while Volos chose an empty table near the door.

“Do you want dinner or just a tankard?” asked a tall young man with a green apron tied around his waist. His blond hair stuck straight up in tufts and his blue eyes were set at a slightly oblique angle. He was smiling.

“Both.”

“Are you sure? The food’s not that good.”

“I’m hungry. Do I have any alternatives?”

“Nope,” the man replied cheerfully. “But I thought I’d warn you. Are you from Felekna?”

Volos wasn’t particularly adept at Kozari geography, but he knew Felekna was the capital. It had been Berhanu’s destination. “No.”

“Oh. But you must be from a city, right? You look like you belong in a big city.”

“I’m from the south,” Volos said truthfully. “But I’ve lived in cities.”

The innkeeper’s grin increased. “I knew it. Then you’ll really be disappointed with our food, I’m afraid. It’s not fancy.”

“At this point, I’d eat a raw dragon,” said Volos. “I’m starved.”

“Well, hunger does make an excellent spice. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Volos waited impatiently, trying to sneak looks at the other patrons. It was killing him to know that Berhanu was probably somewhere close by, probably in wretched condition, while Volos sat comfortably waiting to be fed. But it was impossible to know where, exactly, Berhanu was; the queen’s information had not been specific. Volos was going to have to be patient until he found out.

Most of the other people in the room had returned to their meals and conversations, but a few still stared at him quite frankly. None of them looked like Juganin— but then, maybe Juganin looked perfectly ordinary when they were out of uniform, enjoying a pint or two instead of torturing prisoners. Maybe Juganin even had homes and spouses and children, and maybe they had friends and hobbies too.

The innkeeper was back with a large tankard and an overflowing plate, which he set in front of Volos. But he didn’t seem inclined to leave. He watched as Volos picked up a fork, stabbed a chunk of meat, and took a bite. The meat was tough. But the spices… he didn’t know what they were called, but he recognized the flavor at once. His father had used them in his cooking.

“You’re not dying,” the innkeeper observed. “Or puking.”

“It’s not nearly as terrible as you led me to believe.”

The man beamed. “Good. I guess low expectations are the key to customer satisfaction. Is there anything else I can get you?” He waggled his eyebrows slightly, perhaps gently suggesting that he wasn’t talking about food or drink.

Volos ignored the innuendo. “Do you have rooms to let?”

“You mean you intend to stay in Chorna?”

“For a little while, yes.”

“Why in the third hell would you want to do that?”

Volos had been concocting this tale for days. He hoped it was convincing. “My employer wants to move somewhere quiet. He thought Chorna might do, so he sent me to scout things out.” He made a face intended to convey his belief in his employer’s eccentricity.

“Well, if he wants lots of nothing, this is the place to find it.”

“Good.”

“Is this your regular duty— searching for places in the middle of nowhere?”

“I’m his bodyguard.”

That earned him an impressed look and, he hoped, added to his credibility. He
looked
like a bodyguard and could even speak intelligently about the needs of the job, if pressed to do so. He shoveled more food into his mouth while the innkeeper rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“We don’t have rooms,” the man said after a moment. “We don’t get much tourist trade here. But my family owns a building on the opposite side of the square. The one with the red door? My grandparents lived there, but they’re dead now and the house is empty. You can stay there if you don’t mind some dust and spider webs.”