Guarded (5 page)

“I don’t mind. How much?”

“Oh, let’s say twenty fals a night. And you can take all your meals here.”

They both knew that was an exorbitant price. Volos had paid half that at the inns along the way. But he was playing the servant of a wealthy man. And in truth, King Tafari had given him money— enough that Volos could have fled and lived a comfortable life for many months— which was a mark of trust that had made him proud. “All right, twenty. With clean bedding to sleep on and ale with my meals.”

The innkeeper grinned. “Done. My name’s Mato, by the way. Yours?”

“Volos.”

“Welcome to Chorna, Volos.”

****

Mato was right— dust lay thickly in the house and cobwebs festooned the ceilings and furniture. But Mato lent Volos a broom and some rags, and Volos was able to get an upstairs room tolerably clean. After years spent sleeping on the ground or worse, he wasn’t particular. At least the room had a large bed with a decent mattress, and Mato gave him the promised clean bedding, which smelled of lavender. The window looked out on the square, allowing Volos to keep a furtive eye on the villagers’ comings and goings. He hoped to spy the Juganin going about whatever errands they might have.

But tonight he was exhausted and worried. And strangely uneasy, because Mato had been friendly to him. Had even flirted a little. With the exception of his own father, Volos was used to thinking of Kozari as hostile and foreign. They were the enemy— the people who’d tried to kill him. The people he’d killed. They weren’t ordinary folk with unruly hair, who told jokes and worked hard serving mediocre food and drink.

Before he readied himself for sleep, Volos practiced his daily strength and agility exercises and then ended with a meticulous sharpening of his sword and knife.

****

Chapter Four

Mato’s breakfast wasn’t much more impressive than his dinners, but again the tastes were familiar on Volos’s tongue. And Mato himself smiled and joked, setting his hand familiarly on Volos’s shoulder when he passed by.

Rain was spitting down from a leaden sky, making Volos grateful for his hooded cloak as he investigated the village. He found nothing remarkable. Villagers going about their daily errands or stopping to chat with each other under the overhangs of doorways. Merchants looking slightly gloomy under canopies in the square. Sleepy cats staring at him from windowsills. Volos wanted to grab every person he passed, shake them violently, and demand they take him to Prince Berhanu. He wanted to summon an army and command them to search every room in every house. He wanted to stand in the center of the square and scream Berhanu’s name.

He did none of those things.

Instead he wandered restlessly, first through the village and then down muddy roads into the countryside. He found nothing more interesting than a few curious cows. He had lunch at the inn— at least the bread was fresh and good— before setting out again. But by the time night fell, he felt no closer to Berhanu than he had in the castle.

It was a very slow night at the inn, and an older woman who looked very much like Mato attended most of the customers, leaving Mato free to sit opposite Volos. “You look discouraged, friend. Have you decided already that Chorno won’t suit your employer?”

“I don’t know,” Volos sighed. He was beginning to hate lying to a man who’d been nothing but pleasant to him.

“If he does move here, will you come with him?”

“I… I suppose.”

“Nothing much to guard anyone from around here. Were you always a bodyguard?”

“For a long time.”

Mato had brought over a little dish of walnuts. He cracked one with his fist, dug out the meat, and ate it. He dropped the shattered shell onto the floor. “Were you a soldier first?”

“Yes,” said Volos.

“I thought so.” Mato looked thoughtful. “My father was a soldier. He died. So did my older brother.”

“I’m sorry.” Volos
was
sorry, although as far as he knew, he could have been the one who’d killed Mato’s family.

“I was only a boy. I hardly remember them. I wonder, though. If they’d survived, would they have been able to come back to boring old Chorna and back to their boring old lives? Some of the other men and women in the village were soldiers too, and most of them… well, I think the war changed them.” He blinked and gave an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…”

“I don’t mind. You’re right. War changes everyone.” It was the first time Volos had ever had this sort of discussion with anyone, and he was surprised to find himself soothed rather than discomfited.

Mato crushed another nut, but this time he handed the meat to Volos before cracking one for himself. “Do you want to be a bodyguard, Volos? I mean, if you could capture a wizard and make him do your will, what life would you have him give you?”

Volos had thought about this before, but briefly, furtively, as if even hoping were forbidden. “I’d like to put down my sword. I’d like someone who loves me. A family. I’d like a home.”

“But not here in Chorna, I’m betting.”

“No. I’m sorry. Not here.”

“I understand.” Mato gave him a sweet, wistful smile. Standing, he pushed the bowl of nuts across the table. “I’ve dishes to do. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Volos. The war’s a long time past. You deserve your peace.”

If Volos failed on his mission, he and Berhanu would die. War would likely break out. And young Mato would be called away from his cozy inn in his sleepy little town to become a soldier.

****

A storm blustered overnight, making the shutters rattle. Volos huddled in a warm bed, wondering if Berhanu was dry. Assuming he still lived, that was. When Volos had been a prisoner, he’d had mixed feelings about the rain, which leaked in through the patchy ceiling high above him. On the one hand, it soaked the stone floor and made him colder than ever. But on the other, it was fresher than anything the Juganin gave him to drink. It also washed the filth from his body— the blood, dirt, and come— and sluiced the piss and shit away from his cell.

Tonight he slept fitfully, awakened often by the moan of the wind.

When he awoke and saw the rain still pelting the cobblestones, he decided to delay his search. He had nowhere fresh to examine anyway. He hurried across the square for breakfast, then back to his upstairs room, where he paced back and forth on the creaking floorboards.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and he was contemplating going out again when he heard voices below. There was nothing unusual about that— all the villagers passed through the square many times each day. But there was something different about these voices, something louder and more swaggering than the villagers’ quiet conversations. Volos crossed the room and lifted a shutter slat so he could see out.

Three figures were crossing the square. He could not see their faces from above, and they all wore dark cloaks with hoods. As far as he could tell, they were not in uniform, but they all moved with the confident grace of seasoned soldiers, stepping almost in unison. They carried large baskets filled with what appeared to be vegetables and meats.

Pulling on his cloak as he went, Volos hurried down the stairs. He didn’t have time to strap on his sword, but then perhaps this was not yet the time for an open display of weapons. He rushed out the door and into the square, where the three men were nowhere to be seen. But he knew what direction they’d been going, and he thought they couldn’t be far ahead.

He almost lost them at one of the few cross streets, but Chorna was a quiet town, and their loud voices echoed against the buildings. Following their sound, Volos turned to the right and spied them far ahead where the village petered out into countryside. He trailed them, pressing up near the houses and hoping they didn’t bother to look behind themselves. But when he ran out of houses and all that remained were sodden fields beside the road, he had to stop. He’d be far too obvious following them outside the village.

The remainder of the day crept by. Volos made an effort to be cordial to Mato, but didn’t succeed very well. “I’m sorry,” he said when Mato frowned at him worriedly. “I’m not feeling well today. The rain.”

Mato nodded. “I can make you some tea, if you like. It soothes my mother when her bones ache. My mother’s not quite a witch, but she’s good with herbs.”

“Thank you.”

The tea tasted like honey and sunshine— and exactly like the brew his father gave him when he was a child and had bruised himself roughhousing with his friends. Volos managed to smile his gratitude to Mato before returning to his room and waiting for nightfall.

The rain stopped completely by the time it was fully dark. Volos strapped his knife under his shirt and his sword around his hips. He tightened his boots. If he’d been the sort to pray, he would have, but he’d forsaken the gods long ago as he cowered in a cupboard. He tied his cloak and stepped down the stairs and into the night.

He’d gone this way during his earlier explorations, so he knew there were few houses beyond the edge of the village. The first one he came to was quite close, and light spilled out from between the cracks in the shutters. Somewhere behind the low building, chickens clucked sleepily. Feeling like a thief, Volos crept into the front yard. He was thankful that the mud muted his footsteps. He peeked inside and saw a family sitting around a large table. A young woman sang a tune that sounded familiar, while an old man knitted and an old woman sat and smiled. Two young children ran around, half-dressed and laughing, while their father chased them in circles and pretended to be a bear.

With a pang in his heart, Volos moved on.

The next house was dark and quiet, and in the one after that, two old women rocked by candlelight, chatting too quietly for him to hear. The house after that was nearly the last one before the forest began. It was two stories tall and might once have been a fairly grand place, although it looked decrepit even in the dark. Several half-tumbled outbuildings were arrayed at the back. When Volos had passed this way the previous day, he’d thought the farm abandoned. There were several such places surrounding Chorna. Now, though, faint light shone from some of the windows and he heard voices. And laughter— loud, mocking crows that made the hair on his neck stand up.

With his boots squelching in the mud and his heart hammering in his chest, Volos moved closer to the house.

If the Juganin were staying here, it was quite possible they’d posted guards. If so, they would raise the alarm and he would be unable to kill them all singlehandedly. But his situation was never going to get better than it was now, and their patience at keeping Berhanu alive might end anytime. He could not force himself to walk away, knowing Berhanu was almost within reach. Instead he had to hope that the Juganin were as cocksure and overconfident as they had been during the war. They’d been so certain then of their superiority over battered, unarmed prisoners that their defenses had been inadequate. With persistence and desperation, Volos and a few others had managed to overcome their captors at last.

Nobody raised the alarm as Volos reached the house. He hugged the ancient walls, moving to the side, where the noises seemed to be coming from. This house had a cellar with a few small windows set low to the ground, shining with flickering candlelight. Volos had to crouch to look inside. What he saw very nearly made him cry out.

A naked man was tied facedown to a table. His legs were spread, the ankles and knees bound tightly to sturdy wooden legs. His arms, stretched over his head, were attached to the other two table legs. He was thin and dirty, and his pale skin was marred with mottled bruises, bloody lash marks, and oozing burns. His face was turned away from the window, allowing Volos to see only his matted long hair.

Seven men slouched against the cellar’s stone walls. Several of them clutched bottles of ale. Two of them had their belts unfastened, their trousers pushed low on their hips; they were fondling their cocks. All of the men had swords either around their waists or near at hand.

As Volos watched in horror, one of the men set his bottle on the floor, unbuckled his sword and set it aside, and prowled to the table. When he got there, he slapped the naked man’s ass several times, the crack of flesh on flesh very loud. When that brought little response from the captive, the man laughed. He pushed his trousers down, revealing his hard dick. As his companions shouted obscene encouragements, he shoved three of his fingers roughly into the bound man’s ass.

“Gods, no,” cried the naked man in a voice raspy from either shouting or disuse. He said it in Wedey.

Unable to bear watching the Juganin raping Prince Berhanu, Volos shoved his fist in his mouth to muffle his own screams. He spun around so his back was against the house, and as his knees gave out, he slowly sank down until he was kneeling in the mud. For an immeasurably long moment, his head was nothing but a raging maelstrom, and he saw only red. He even tasted blood, but that was probably from biting his hand. Not since he had been a young man intent on wreaking vengeance had he so ached to kill.

He had to walk away from the house when the screaming began.

He didn’t go far— only to an outbuilding with a mostly intact roof and a scattering of ancient hay on the hard-packed floor. He could crouch far back in the mouse-scented darkness and keep an eye on the house, yet run little risk of being seen. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

****

Chapter Five

By dawn, Volos was cramped and hungry. He should have brought some food and a waterskin, although he wasn’t certain he’d be able to keep anything down. He’d witnessed an endless parade of horrors during the war. He’d seen friends die terrible, shrieking deaths. And he’d been subjected to worse than what the Juganin had done to Berhanu the previous night. But now he kept envisioning the prince, pale and battered, spread out like a feast before ravening dogs. Volos’s skin felt clammy and too tight, and his palms had been bloodied by the press of fingernails in his clenched fists.