The wooden door creaked open, and Michail stepped into the Squeaking Boar tavern. Dim candles flickered like dying flames, struggling to illuminate the room with any semblance of light. Thick plumes of pipe smoke curled through the dim candlelight like grasping fingers, weaving its way through the murmurs of hushed conversations. The bitter tang of cheap ale saturated the air, mingling with the stench of unwashed bodies and mildew. The patrons seemed to be an eclectic assortment of misfits – cutthroats, thieves, and vagabonds, all gathered under one roof in this vile den.
Michail's eyes scanned the room. He had come here seeking answers, and he would not leave until he found them behind closed mouths and suspicious glances.
“Oi!” he called out, trying to imitate the speech of common people to win their trust. “I'm looking for information about my uncle's death. Who here can help me?”
The response was a cacophony of silence, punctuated only by the occasional snicker or dismissive shrug. Michail felt his frustration mounting. These people knew something – he could see it in their guarded expressions and furtive whispers. But no one was willing to break the unspoken code that governed this place. No one dared to betray their fellow patrons by speaking the truth.
He decided to try a different approach. If anyone had the answers he sought, it would be the tavern keeper. He had certainly been here the night when Uncle Jeremy had been killed. Michail pushed his way through the crowd, the scent of unwashed bodies and stale ale growing stronger with each step. The tavern keeper, a man with a scruffy beard and a permanent scowl etched into his weathered face, stood behind the bar, polishing a dirty mug with a rag that looked as if it had seen better days.
“What do you want?” the tavern keeper grumbled.
“I'm looking for information,” Michail replied, keeping his tone low and cautious. “About my uncle's death. He was killed here, in this very tavern.”
The tavern keeper's eyes darted around the room, assessing the patrons who were now watching them through narrowed eyes.
“Can’t tell you anything,” he murmured evasively. “Accidents happen. People get drunk, let off steam, and get themselves killed. I don’t remember every poor bastard who...”
“We are not talking about some poor bastard,” Michail interrupted. “We are talking about Sir Jeremy Anroth – the head of the family that practically owns this town. You do remember him perfectly well, don’t you?”
A swollen drunkard who had been hanging down at the bar beside Michail, decided to chime in with his opinion. “You nobles are all the same!” he slurred. “You think you can walk in here and demand answers like we owe you something. Well, guess what? We don't owe you a damn thing!”
“Yeah!” Michail heard a hoarse voice behind him. As he turned around, he met an intensive gaze of a bald man, whose bleak face was unnecessarily close to his own. “Your kind doesn't belong here,” the man growled. “Go back to your fancy castle and leave us be.”
“Fancy castle?” Michail scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “You have no idea what I've been through.”
“Ha!” a woman’s voice jeered. “Did your servant leave a spot on your fancy boot?”
“Or did you find a whisker on your fancy face?” another voice accompanied.
“Did your boyfriend refuse to lick your fancy balls?” the drunkard beside him mocked.
Michail tried to keep calm. “Look,” he said, “I just need some information, that's all.”
“Information, eh?” the bald man laughed, his foul breath washing over Michail. “Only information you'll get from me is where to shove that fancy sword of yours.”
The surrounding rabble erupted in laughter and slammed their fists on the tables. The atmosphere in the tavern had turned more tense, thick with menace and unease. Michail's hand drifted toward his weapon, but he stopped himself. Starting a brawl wouldn't get him anywhere. Instead, he backed off and plunged into another room, accompanied with loud derisions and shouts of vulgarity. He was relieved that no one was willing to follow him.
The other room of the tavern was, if possible, even more ominous than the previous one. A thick, palpable tension lingered in the air. Instead of moving around, the patrons were sitting at their tables. The silence hung heavy – only some low murmuring could be heard here and there. Apart from few suspicious looks, no one seemed to pay attention to Michail, which was just what he wanted at the moment. He would have time to consider his next move.
As Michail delved deeper into the murky bowels of the room, he spotted a familiar figure slumped over a table in the far corner. Despite the man's disheveled appearance, Michail recognized him immediately – it was Amir, Lady Belinda's younger brother and the leader of the Anroths’ militia.
Amir had been reduced to a pitiful heap, his unkempt hair hanging in greasy tendrils around his face, which was unshaven and streaked with tears. His muscular frame seemed to have shrunk in on itself, as if the weight of his sorrows threatened to crush him. In front of him sat a large mug, half-filled with some dark, potent concoction, and several empty carafes lay strewn across the table like fallen soldiers.
“Amir,” Michail called out softly, approaching the desolate figure. “What are you doing here?”
“Ah, Michail, my old friend,” Amir slurred, looking up with bloodshot eyes. “Come to gloat, have you? To revel in my misery?”
“Of course not,” Michail replied gently, taking a seat opposite Amir. “I'm here to find the truth about Jeremy’s murder.”
“Truth?” Amir snorted bitterly. “What care have I for truth? I believed in truth once, when I loved Amelie with all my heart. But now I know better. The truth is a cruel, twisted thing, ready to betray you at every turn.”
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“Amir,” Michail pressed, “what happened between you and Amelie?”
“I'll tell you what happened – she betrayed me!” Amir barked, a manic gleam in his eyes. “I gave her everything, and she threw it all away for a roll in the hay with some lowly stable boy!”
“How do you know it?” Michail asked, confused. He found it hard to believe that Amelie would do such thing. He had met Amir and Amelie together only few times at the parties held in the Anroth manor, but that was enough for him to see that they were deeply in love with each other. Michail had also got an impression of Amelie’s character as serious and committed instead of wanton or faithless.
“Seems like everyone else knew it before me,” Amir answered, bitterness in his voice. “The villagers as well as my men have been gossiping about it for weeks, making me their laughingstock.”
“Since when have you believed the gossips of the peasantry?” Michail asked.
“Believed?” Amir echoed hollowly. “What does belief matter when you've lost everything? When your heart lies shattered at your feet like so many broken dreams?” He took another gulp from his mug and burped.
“Amir,” Michail said softly, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder, “you mustn't let these false rumors consume you. You're worth more than that.”
“But what if they're true?” Amir whispered, his voice cracking with anguish. “What if the woman I loved has been unfaithful to me all this time?”
“Then you must find the strength to move on,” Michail replied, deciding it was time to change the subject. “But first, I need your help. Together, we can uncover the truth behind Jeremy’s death and put an end to this torment once and for all.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be much of help,” Amir said absently. “I don’t know any more than you do, even though I was here when it happened.”
“You were here?” Michail’s eyes widened.
“Sure I was. We came here to celebrate our successful hit against the Black Rogues, and Jeremy wanted to join us. You know how it is: before long, we were as wasted as anyone here. At some point we noticed Jeremy lying against the table, dagger in his back.”
“Are you saying,” Michail gasped, completely horrified, “that you – the famous Anroth militia and their leader – shared the table with Jeremy and let him get murdered right beside you?”
“Please Michail, safe me from your accusations,” Amir snarled. “Don’t you think I already got my fair share from my sister? She won’t even speak to me. And now, Amelie...” He burst into tears.
“Here we go again,” Michail thought. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a man at the next table smirking with disdain. The man, his face pockmarked and twisted with cruelty, leaned in towards Amir and Michail.
“Ah, so this is the mighty Amir, crying like a girl,” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “The fool who believed that Lady Amelie would ever be faithful to a brute like him.”
Michail felt a surge of anger course through him, but he quickly suppressed it, focusing on keeping Amir calm. He could see the hurt in Amir's eyes, as well as in the way his hands tightened around his mug.
“Keep your thoughts to yourself,” Michail warned the man, his tone icy.
“Or what, pretty boy?” the man retorted, making a crude gesture with his fingers. “You're just as much a fool as your friend here. Your beloved Amelie's been spreading her legs for half the stable boys in town.”
The tension in the tavern escalated, the murmurs of patrons dying down as they sensed the brewing storm. As Amir stood abruptly, knocking over the empty carafes, Michail knew there would be no peaceful resolution. His heart raced, a familiar dread settling into his stomach.
“Say one more word about Amelie, and I'll rip your filthy tongue from your mouth,” Amir growled, his entire body trembling with rage.
“Amir, please,” Michail urged, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. “This isn't worth it.”
“You hear that, everyone?” the man shouted, standing up and addressing the room. “The great Amir can't handle the truth about his precious little whore!”
Amir let out an inarticulate yell and launched himself at the man, fists swinging. In an instant, the tavern erupted into chaos. Men shouted and chairs crashed as a full-on brawl broke out.
Michail stood uncertainly, one hand resting on his sword hilt. As two men ganged up on Amir, pummeling him mercilessly, Michail knew he had to act, even though Magister Cornelius had urged him to avoid violence and to always search for a peaceful solution. With a sigh, he drew his sword and rushed to Amir's defense.
“Enough!” Michail shouted, putting himself between Amir and his attackers. “Walk away now and no more blood needs to be shed.”
The men laughed. “Out of the way, boy,” one growled. “This doesn't concern you.”
One of them threw a wild punch. Michail dodged it neatly and smacked the man's jaw with the pommel of his sword. The man howled in pain and stumbled back.
“I don't want to hurt you!” Michail shouted over the din. “Walk away now!”
His pleas went unheeded. A bottle shattered against the side of his head, leaving his ears ringing. He stumbled, momentarily disoriented. Through blurred vision he saw one of the men draw a dagger from his belt.
Michail barely got his sword up in time to deflect the downwards stab. The force of the blow numbed his arm. He kicked out desperately, driving his boot into the man's knee. With a crunch of bone, the man collapsed.
“Amir, watch out!” Michail cried, shoving his friend aside just as a burly man swung a heavy fist in their direction. The force of the blow sent a nearby stool crashing into the wall, splintering it into jagged fragments.
“Thanks, Michail,” Amir wheezed, wiping blood from his split lip. “I owe you one.”
Michail didn't have time to respond before another attacker lunged at them, his eyes wild and teeth bared like a feral beast. With a desperate heave of his sword, Michail slashed him against a wooden pillar, the impact sending vibrations through his own arm. He winced but forced himself to focus on the next assailant bearing down on them.
“Come on, then!” Amir taunted, his sorrow momentarily forgotten in the heat of battle. “Let's see if you can do better than your friend here!”
For every attacker they managed to fend off, two more seemed to take their place. Michail started to realize that they were outnumbered. The dream-like haze of violence and rage only served to heighten the sense of danger. “Amir, we need to get out of here!” he shouted.
“Right behind you!” Amir replied, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.
They tried to fight their way towards the door, fueled by desperation and the knowledge that they could not afford to fail.
“Let's see how brave you are without your friend!” another assailant taunted, wrenching Amir from Michail's side and dragging him across the room. Panic surged through Michail's veins, the thought of losing his ally a gnawing dread that drove him to fight harder.
“Get your hands off him!” Michail screamed and raised his sword, getting ready to cleave through the throng of brawlers that had formed between him and Amir.
It was in this moment of distraction that Michail suddenly felt a gloved hand grip his shoulder, yanking him backward into a dark corner of the tavern. Before he could react, a weird-smelling rag was pressed against his nose and mouth, the pungent odor seeping into his lungs and clouding his thoughts.
“Wh-what are you—” he choked out, struggling to pry the hand from his face. But his limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as though bound by invisible chains. His vision swam, the tavern's raucous noise fading into a distant, muffled hum.
As Michail succumbed to unconsciousness, an unsettling thought wormed its way into his mind. Amidst the carnage that surrounded him, there was something deliberate about this act – something intimate and sinister that left him shivering, even as the world slipped away.
“Shh,” the unseen assailant whispered into Michail's ear. “Sleep now.”
And with those words, darkness claimed him.