Chapter 10

Day Three – Afternoon

The great gothic cathedral of St. Leodor towered over its namesake quarter from afar. It was the biggest and second oldest temple in Teblen and the white belfry with the sundials on it was nigh impossible to miss. Named after an ancestor to Margrave Greodor of unknown accomplishments. The city had two main roads going in and out; the King’s Road and the Margrave’s Road. Zaber chose the former to make his way to Asher. It was the northern one and the worn out veteran had picked it over his usual habit of walking through Sonora’s Market. He hated to attract eyes, but if he had to, it might well be that of pompous patricians, irked by a disheveled figure passing their shops and stands. Unfortunately, the circumstances had been different and all attention had needed to be avoided. So he walked north through Kreitz and entered St. Leodor.

Half the guild’s kontors were located here. The big Guild Hall, though, stood right next to the Town Hall in the quarter of Old Teblen, the heart of the city. St. Leodor was built by the guilds as well, to please their overlords and solidify their sainthood. Before the Gryphen had unified Albion under their banner 416 years ago.

Commonfolk dreamed of being employed here, far away from the burden of physical labor. The high men and women here wore fine garments and their wrists and necks and fingers were hung with precious metal and gems. Zaber felt watched by them. Judged. But in truth, only those who got paid to keep an eye on the likes of him were paying any attention. For every guard, there were two members of the Sellsword Guild under hire. Nothing but the best for these fine citizens.

The tall houses here were made from cutstone and many had colorful plaster and artistic stucco on them. Most depicted the Constellations, Father Sun, his Moon Daughters or Noble Saints. Muck and filth could not be found in these streets and neither were Yesilians. If a guildsman owned one, they worked behind closed doors or at Sonora’s Market.

Enduring the presence of all this opulence, pomp, hoit and toit, was tiring. Zaber was tensed up, even more so than usual. For the first time in four years, something real was on the line and the greasy and unkempt man hated it. Not being in control, and even worse so; being at fault for it. For four years, he only stumbled into other folk’s problems. Cleaned them up, or aggravated them, or whatever Zaber felt like doing. What his heart would tell him to do… or when to give in to the voice. But now Sagir was suffering for it. Ceyhan’s brother. His friend. Someone who could very well be here, because of Zaber.

The veteran felt liberated when he finally reached Asher’s place. He turned into a placid alley under a well-crafted stone archway, away from the eyes and mumbles, away from the armed men and dark corners. The passage led into a courtyard where a young apple tree sprang through the pavement. It was still considering when the right moment to blossom was, after this long and cold winter. A sheltered well was shared by three residents, each with their own stairway leading to separate doors. Zaber knocked three times… and a fourth time after waiting for a breath. A sign Asher insisted on.

Silence, followed by another attempt. But louder.

More silence.

Zaber held his hand up for a third attempt, but resisted the urge. Either Asher had heard him or wasn’t there, nothing he could do about. At least he was concealed from the public in this backyard. Asher assured that he and his two neighbors had a discrete agreement to keep out of each other’s business. So Zaber sat down and leaned back on the highest step, sideways against the railing. He folded his arms in front of his torso and closed his eyes. For just a moment. Get some rest while he can. In peace… The night had been short, even shorter than normal. His hands laid down, close to his belt and steel.

The days had become warmer and Zaber heard some sparrows close-by. The season was perfect to leave Teblen behind and begin anew. All four of them reunited, like before, living in the wilds. Together with Torm, and a common goal…

One could never know how long a nap like that would be. But whenever there was an irritating sound, a voice from the streets, or something resembling steps, Zaber’s eyelids jumped up. One of Asher’s neighbors, a woman with flaming red hair, left her home. She wore pantaloons and a doublet and had a knuckle-guarded, single-edged blade. Zaber had never spoken to her, but had heard her speak in an eastern mountain accent. She wasn’t from the heartlands of Albion, unified through a common tongue. They nodded at each other and went on to mind themselves.

The strokes of St. Leodor told Zaber exactly how long he had been waiting, even with the moments he had fallen asleep. A full candle before Asher walked through the archway with his two goons in tow, Berné and Èneci. The former was as dense as he was big, in a way you wouldn’t mess with. Bald on top and hairy down the neck, wrapped in simple tunics and shoes. The latter wasn’t much less dense, but skinny and bony in a concerning way. Not like a starving man, but someone who had a benevolent pharmacist. He wore very colorful clothes and both of them were unarmed.

“You two wait here,” said Asher when his eyes met those of Zaber. “Or better, take the day off. Hadorn can wait.”

Zaber stood up and rubbed his eyes and nose. Upping his pace, Asher fiddled out a heavy key from his sleeve and his old friend waited for him to unlock the door.

“You need to talk?” Asher made sure that his employees were gone before saying anything.

“We need to talk,” said Zaber and pushed the door open after the ‘clack’.

They stepped inside the spacious house the greasy and unkempt man had visited many times before. For drinking and briefings on whatever Asher was scheming and requesting help for. The small foyer had well crafted furniture, with an open space at the center. If needed, it could be moved quickly as an additional barricade for the door. The windows had plenty curtains and were already barred, with a sense for art. A rack and cabinet to place one’s belongings in stood next to the door, but neither Asher nor Zaber used it. The sky had still been gray and rain had a long time to come. Damp natural light made the tin lamps at the walls unneeded.

“This is only the second time you’ve come to me and not the other way around. What’s this about?” Asher removed his thin leather gloves, finger by finger. He unbuckled his sword and dagger, but kept them in hand. “Anything I can get you?”

“Yes,” said Zaber and stretched his arms, taking a more relaxed stance. “I got visitors yesterday. Twice.” His voice darkened.

The smooth veteran stroked his goatee and looked at the injury on Zaber’s forehead. He knew his friend for fourteen years. They had lived together, laughed together, fought together. Side by side, in formation, as well as on marauds behind enemy lines. Asher knew Zaber in and out, he believed. “Spit it out, who are we going to murder? Morells?”

The duo walked through one of two doors, next to a staircase, into the next room. A cozy one with leather armchairs, and a small table right in front of a fireplace. The room was filled to the brim with weapons, hung at the wall for display and on cupboards. An armor stand with polished tin, well maintained, completed the room. Zaber hadn’t answered yet. Instead, he inspected the steel. Looking at his muddied reflection in the chestplate.

“The boy I pay should have filled my cellar. Can I bring you something?” Asher laid a hand on Zaber’s shoulder, inviting. “Anything?” His brows went up.

“No,” said Zaber promptly. “’aight, maybe…” He scratched the scar along his jaw and looked away from the armor. “What’s the strongest shit you’ve got?”

Asher smirked. “I’ve got something better than strong,” he said. “I’ve got something good. Sit down, it won’t take too long.”

As his slick friend left the room, the worn-out veteran did not move at all. His eyes got lost in an armet helmet. None of the armament here was of their time back under Airich. All of it was of high quality, but had the distinct note of the locals. Somewhat of a mix between the Upper Albinian style and Western Galázian, with the river and lake being a natural border between the two kingdoms. Yet, everything here was ready.

It didn’t take too long before Asher was back and found his friend still standing. “I said: Sit. Your arse. Down,” repeated the man with the slicked back hair. The beret and the slim, clean doublet he wore were of the same red as the bottle of wine he had brought. Asher pulled off the headpiece and opened the top lacings to free up his chest. As Zaber shook his head and sat down, his old comrade in arms poured the wine into two rummers. As the room was filled with the scent of hospitality, Asher looked at his disheveled guest. “What are you waiting for?”

Zaber smelled the liquid before drinking. It was no different from any other wine he had tried. “First–” he said and looked at Asher sitting at the other side of the table. “First, these damned knights of the Margrave show up, two, pestering me and the boy.” The glass was already half-empty after another tasting. “Fucked me up with their damned magic.” He pointed at the laceration on his forehead, which was all clotted up. He sounded cheated, not defeated.

“What?” Asher asked in disbelief and put down his rummer, equally half-empty. Neither of them spent any time on fancy slurps or swivels. No matter how much Asher tried, he couldn’t fool his friend, though.

“Ranted about showing me my place,” said Zaber with a disgruntled face. “Remember when the Baronet visited for the same kinda horseshit?” He didn’t even wait for a reply. “Like that, but more stupid and entitled.”

“Fella was a huge coward, wasn’t he?” Asher opened up more of his doublet and immaculately rolled up his sleeves. “Why were they fighting you? Shouldn’t they’ve shit their breeches too?”

The worn-out veteran straightened up; the soft backrest wasted on his posture. Zaber tensed up again, rubbing his hands over one scar and scratching his jaw afterward. “Torm and I had no damned idea what was going on. Hadn’t contact with fancy verses since Airich died.” Zaber’s eyes were losing themselves in the unlit fireplace. “That captain really wanted to go at it. Said he heard rumors… Watch probably briefed him.”

“Slow down,” said Asher and leaned back, holding onto his rummer. He thought visibly hard. “Aren’t you off-limits for the Watch? Do we have to lay low?” A scar along his whole elbow was revealed, as well as an arrow wound right beneath his neck.

“The fuck I know.” Zaber clenched his fist, angry about himself and the lack of answers. “Came out of nowhere, we thought. But we ain’t right; they’re provoking us.” He searched for calm at the bottom of the wine glass and refilled it.

“You. They are not after me or Torm,” said Asher, calming down. “This has to be about you and Airich.”

“Got another visit.” Zaber took off his arming cap as well and pulled open the high collar of his gambeson. The wine was working. “Yesilians next, Hanifa.” He looked at his friend and saw the word ‘who’ written all over his face. “You know, Ceyhan’s girl.”

Asher’s face and voice also darkened. “What happened to Sagir?” Ever since they left the regiment, Asher had not heard his oldest friend be this concerned. He had feared the day that Airich would catch up to them, whatever this was really about.

“I messed up,” squeezed Zaber out. Grinding his teeth and coming close to breaking the glass in his palm. He punched the cushy leather. “Torm and I handled the guards after you left. Broke one of them skulls with Dalke’s broom.”

“How…” Asher was in cold shock. No grimace, no exaggerated impression, only doubt. “How–” He couldn’t go on.

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“Didn’t notice… just left.”

“By every Star, how could that happen? Did the shitbrat–”

“No, I messed up,” repeated Zaber. “Damned if I know why. Didn’t sleep much that day.” He rubbed his eyes and nose once more. “Haven’t slept much in days… It’s like Brenz is holding me at the neck. And I can’t stand their horseshit anymore.”

Asher’s hands rubbed the leather of the armrests before drinking directly from the bottle. “So, Sagir’s dead,” he said and went on. Ignoring his still filled glass. “What do you need from me? Are we taking revenge, or do I have to find out who to take revenge on first?”

“He’s alive,” murmured Zaber, lost in thought. His voice rose up again after he shook his head. “He’ll be brought to court in three days. Margrave gotta fulfill the quota for the arcanium mines. It’s a death batch.”

The smooth veteran put the bottle back on the table and stared at his friend. His face became grimmer as he recognized the Zaber he knew. “Don’t tell me–”

“I will fix this.” Zaber stood up, fists clenched, tall and imposing. “Sagir is our friend. Ceyhan was our friend. Torm is getting a message to Breg and Buron as we speak.” His gaze was fixated on Asher, the same way he looked at those he was about to punch. Not at his friend, but deep inside of him. “Let’s do this… like we used to.”

A long moment went by and their expressions didn’t change. Asher fell silent again, musing, and Zaber reveled in his friend’s calm. Unlike the olden days, the slick one had been taking the initiative ever since they’ve left soldiering behind. It had been frustrating, but Asher could count on any of his friends when needed. Ever since Airich’s death, his friend had focused on nothing but the boy. For Asher, seeing the life return to Zaber filled him with joy. Gone shall be the days of reaction. The way Zaber had battered himself through the underworld of Westwatch were all set up by Asher. To let his mate’s primitive but strong urges do his thing. A life honed for violence… The two slowly formed a smile.

“The moment I met you, I knew you would be my end,” said Asher. “I owe you my life, and I am aware that I can’t stop you from saving another friend.” He nodded and stood up, grabbing Zaber’s hand.

“’aight.” Zaber leaned into it and pulled him into a hug. “First, I need a map,” he said. “Torm found out that Sagir is at Central, not Westwatch. They got their pants filled up at me breaking in and ripping them apart. Central will be last, exact time unknown, but they start scooping jails after dawn. I expect this to take about three candles…”

Asher walked over to one of the cabinets and opened a drawer. Their locks and handles were heavy with handcrafted patterns. “So, ambush it is?” He asked and pulled out a map and unrolled it, with Zaber moving next to his friend. “On the old streets to Town Hall?”

Teblen Region Map [https://i.ibb.co/Cnfmdcm/Teblen-Region-cleanup-Kopie-2.png]

Zaber moved his finger to said location and nodded. “Far enough away to avoid quick reinforcements; close enough to minimize patrols.”

“Standard procedure, nothing fancy needed for a bunch of guards who never had a real fight,” said Asher snidely. “Are you sure Breg and Buron will join? Entering the city for a fella they’ve never met? You, me, the shitbrat and them will cut through an escort like nothing. But without the two, I don’t see it.”

“They’ll help me, just like you,” said Zaber, and took the map. He laid out the paper and used the rummers to hinder it from curling up. And took another sip. “If they don’t wanna spend the night here, I ain’t forcing them. I met with a sort of council. Five Yesilians will be at our side, all of fighting background. Two fully trained Yaya, a merc’ like us and a highwaywoman.” He stopped and pondered over the next words. “And… some sort of royal guard.” The greasy and unkempt man wasn’t sure what Kovada was, but he had a guess. Something that would help him later. Make sure to have a backup plan for the backup plan. “You will head the right flank; I will take the left. We’re the only men-at-arms; each of us gets two light spearmen to clean up and look after us. Torm gets my light crossbow; a seasoned Yesilian needs a bow from you. I expect the escort to have a crossbowman on top of the cage; we need to pressure–”

“Hoh, slow down again, general.” Asher interrupted his friend by putting his hand on the map. “First, this one is outdated. I have an up-to-date one in my study, upstairs. Second, how do you expect us to rescue a slave with a bunch of other slaves roped along?” The pair looked right at each other. Some of the amazement about Zaber getting his groove back had faded. “We can hide Sagir, but six blackheads total? We can’t retreat like that.”

“That’s the best part. We ain’t retreating,” said Zaber, smirking with uncanny familiarity at Asher. “We occupy two houses in the street, opposite to each other. You’ll scout them, something quiet to not cause a ruckus. Yesilians can help you with that, some work there.” He waited to get confirmation that his friend followed.

“I’m listening, go on.”

“You’ll use your Galázian contacts, and we’ll make it to the other side of the border. Slip through the sewers, half-way through the city. Breg and Buron will await us outside, as reinforcements.” Zaber pointed at possible gutters to use as entrances to the sewage system of Teblen and where to get out. “They will send their forces to the bridges or drainage into the river. But we will come out of your smuggling pipe to the north. Have baldy and the bear ready the horses and boats. To leave Albion all together.”

Asher’s eyes have widened, again, with every word said. He stood there in silence, reminiscing over the plan. It just sounded too good. Too solid. Too insane. The slick veteran hated how much he liked the insanity his friend was speaking.

“All right. What then? Live in Elandis or another city? Torm speaks a bit of the western tongue, and I even less,” he said. “Hello, we and our six slaves would love to live in your kingdom. By the way, we used to kill folks like you when we served under Airich, who defeated your old crown prince and disgraced him.” Asher’s voice was amused, mocking the western Galázian dialect. He gesticulated wildly and flamboyantly. “Airich’s name will be worthless over there. You will get yourself killed in no time or have to find real employ. Finding someone who values your particular brand of bummery. All the Yesilians will get sold again and Breg and Buron will have to retreat even deeper into–”

“No! No, you ain’t getting it,” interrupted Zaber, grabbing Asher’s shoulder. “We ain’t staying. We’ll march south to the Irisian Sea, charter a ship and sail east…”

“Are you–” Asher saw the spark in Zaber’s eyes and tried to make sense of it.

“We’ll bring them home.”

“And then? What?” The smooth veteran grabbed Zaber by the head and shook him. “Every answer you give only makes me question you further. Cut to the point, Zaber!” Asher sounded annoyed, overwhelmed, and excited. He hated and loved it. “They’ll enslave us, as we do with them. You know that, we’ve been there.”

Zaber stepped away and looked at the steel on the walls. He smiled, content with himself. “We’ll figure it out. There is no difference from deep marauding. We’ve been through worse.”

“It is,” said Asher. “We had an army to back us. A lot more manpower. A place to return to.” He rubbed his eyes at the nose and ran his hand through his hair, ruining the slick style. At the end, Asher sighed. “All right, three days is plenty time. We’ll discuss the details after I’ve spoken to my contacts.”

“I’ll also need arcanium.” Zaber turned around and looked dead serious again. “Any color will do.”

“You are fucking with me, are you?” Asher clenched a fist and raised it. He stepped in front of his friend and knocked him on the chest. Not to hurt, but thrill had overtaken him. “Is this the day?”

The answer was silence: long-lasting, awkward, and, at some point, painful. Asher grabbed the bottle of wine and poured it directly into his throat. He fell down into the armchair, the leather creaking under his fingernails. Another chug. He pointed the bottle at Zaber.

“I ain’t helping you if you don’t come clean,” he said. “If there is any magic trick you can pull to make this work, this is the time to tell your best friend about it.”

Zaber tensed up and fell into an even deeper silence. With a swift motion, the wine changed hands and the greasy and unkempt man emptied it. He touched the cold steel of a walled blade. “I’ve got nothing.” A liberating exhale followed. “All those eyes the officers gave me, all the mistrust… for nothing. Only got worse when Airich began to wither away.” Zaber scratched the scar along his jaw and put the bottle next to the exhibited weapons. The scar had been through a lot that day, and if it wasn’t hidden under stubble… He turned around. A bashful smile, something Asher hadn’t seen in over a decade. “Something stood in the old man’s will, but I be damned, I’ve never even seen the thing.”

After four years of playing along with the charade, all he could muster for his friend was a face filled with honesty. Never had Zaber told anybody the truth, not the boy, nor his brothers in arms. Plausible deniability for when he eventually had to face the consequences. It was the one insurance the former soldier had, reinforced by which of Airich’s belongings he actually possessed. But this was the limit. There was no keeping it to himself any longer.

“You are like him, really,” said Asher, bursting into laughter. The wine had gotten the better of both of them because it wasn’t just good; it had also been strong. “You got all this coin and his damned sword, just to tell me that it wasn’t from his starforsaken will?”

“Fuck you.” Zaber’s face darkened when he was compared to Airich. “I only took what belonged to me. He hated his damned brother and nephews. No-good wimps, not a hard day in their life. Not an ember of fight in them–” He repeated Airich’s own words, well-known to Asher. All of them knew what he thought about the doves. Zaber’s teeth ground so hard against each other that he might broke one. “I took what he owed me. For eighteen years of–” Filled with anger, he walked over to the other armchair and fell into it. Punching the sides as he hit the seat.

“No, fuck him,” said Asher before Zaber could go on. “You also took his horse and you were damned right.” He smiled and picked up the rummer, still half-filled.

“Man, I loved that horse,” nodded Zaber towards himself and began to relax. He forced a smile back at Asher. “Can you get me Arcanium or not?”

“What for, if you can’t use it? What does it even do, strengthen it or contain a spell?”

“Both. Spells are engraved; can’t be changed,” explained Zaber, grabbing his glass with both hands and looking into the remnants. “I picked up some of it, just by being with him. He didn’t care to hide anything, though never taught me. But–” He straightened his posture and looked straight at Asher, determined. “I think I can do it. Never tried, but it all came back to me with that damned captain. I remember the one in the sword and one more. And if I fail, it will still give us an element of surprise.”

“As far as I know, everyone is convinced you do. Not just that, but that you also know the ones Airich composed.” Asher’s words began to slur a bit. “It will scare the codpieces off those bastards. So…” He raised his rummer across the table. “To that old son of a noble whore. He got you four fat years.”

“May he watch us from the Kraken, as we make fools of his hated peers.” Zaber chinked glasses with his friend. “Prost!”

“Prost!” Asher smiled.

“To the Dragon!” they spoke in unison.