Chapter 12

Day Five – Midnight

The ruins of St. Heinmuth have been left empty. Not yet have the residents of Westwatch realized that their wish has come true and the curse has been lifted. Deep at night, watched through the city’s smog, Bear and the Moon Twins stood witness. The old temple has become uninhabited again.

Not much had changed in the lecture room. Broken benches and garbage were still abundant, along with an empty cask with nothing to drink in and a fireplace without warmth. Planks leaned onto a wall, the figure of a watchman drawn on it with charcoal. Notches and dents all over it and a single, broken crossbow bolt sticking out of the caricature’s eye. A good omen.

All armor was moved out the cellar and the hatch stood wide open. Blunt and rusted weapons stayed behind, relics to the men that once occupied these halls. A prominent dustmark was left behind by the chest, along with empty barrels and crates for the rats to dwell on.

Everything had been removed from the sacristy but a few straws. The only evidence that Zaber had been here. Not that there was much in it before.

The top of the Sun Tower, the belfry that once adorned the sundial, had been Torm’s domicile. A space just for him and his books, of which many had to be abandoned. Only those he held dearest were allowed to come with them, as well as his most practical clothing. It was the first time something had been his own and no one else’s. The first home he knew that felt right. And he had left a mark in the decrepit wall, reading ‘Remember Torhelm, son of Dornhal and Rohanna Gudena.’

The barbarians have left the Star Temple and were on their way to break peace with the city of Teblen, capital to the March of Tunow-Aine. A place they called home, even for those that had no choice in it.

Bundles with personal armor and weapons, something to drink and a small meal for the night were carried by each. The brunt of their belongings had been brought outside the city and were guarded by Zaber’s and Asher’s lifelong friends, Breg and Buron. They awaited them outside the city, to the north, in a grove between the hamlets of Hoam and Waelan.

Seven men and one woman were penned together in a carriage. Berné and Èneci steered it, cloaked and hunched to stay unrecognizable. They spoke an occasional word in their native tongue. An accent that was close to the Upper Albinian spoken in Teblen. The border region had last changed hands around a hundred years ago. When half of the Tunow part of the march was lost. The two Galázian’s jobs were to bring them to the scouted houses in Old Teblen, on the street towards the Town Hall. It was a juddery journey over a cobbled path that came to a sudden halt. The five foreigners, slaves, and three freemen looked at one another. Asher and Zaber waited for three knocks from above.

They sought eye contact, after which the two veterans left the carriage. Asher was wearing a brand new, indigo arming doublet with maille woven into the armpits and Zaber his thick old gambeson. Bulky and long, unlike his usual attire.

“Good work, we’ll see us in the morrow,” said Asher to his goons and Zaber nodded them thankyou. The sly veteran pulled out his long, sturdy dagger in the style of the local guildsmen. When Zaber walked away north, with his stiletto in hand, Asher did the same to the south.

A wonderfully half-timbered house was the greasy and unkempt veteran’s target. A stone foundation with a patrician’s family crest engraved above the door, with the year of its construction depicted right beneath. Houses in Old Teblen were less opulent than in St. Leodor, but carried a certain dignity. The dignity of old blood and even older coin. Zaber pulled up the padded collar of his gambeson and pressed his free hand on a small spying window within the entrance. A hard double knock followed.

An impatient, even harder, double knock followed after some time. Sleepy wheezes and damp footsteps came closer after a few long breaths of waiting. A muffled voice asked; “Who’s there?” The answer he got was but another single knock. Old Teblen was a safe quarter, filled with hired muscle and patrols. And so, the door opened.

A scrawny old man in a white nightgown and a sleeping cap stood in front of Zaber. Though, not for long. “Wh–” was all the man could get out before his candle fell to the ground. The hand raised to block the peeping window pressed onto the house’s owner’s mouth and Zaber pushed the cold steel into his soft belly. With stumbling steps, the old man tried to retreat and escape the grip on his face. To no success, as Zaber was quicker. This was not his first bout and unlearning murder was terribly tough. Both went down together, the man stumbling and Zaber following him as if he was glued to him. Muffled noises and some ‘thuds’ were heard, but not for long. With blood coloring the gown red, resistance faded. There was no need to silence the patrician anymore while quiet gurgles escaped him. Zaber placed the tip of his stiletto – made to penetrate armor – onto his victim’s forehead… The patrician’s eyes widened and stayed that way.

“Moseph, honey?” A cramped female voice rang down, still sleepy. “Who was that?”

Zaber unmounted the dead body and stepped out of the puddle of blood in which he had been kneeling. He moved backwards and stepped on the fallen candle to quench it. He put the door ajar, and waved outside. The curtains were closed, and no screams or bumps was heard by his companions. Zaber hunched down and lurked on, moving upwards, without tension in his movement or posture.

Seeing their sign, the rest of the warband moved out of the carriage. Torm carried his mentor’s load in addition to his own, while Kovada and Seyfe went ahead. The other three Yesilians moved to Asher’s side, who had worked equally clean and quick. Bolts snapped back into locks and both doors were closed. The apprentice saw the candle on the ground as dim moonlight illuminated the room. The wet spots on the ground… Torm swallowed when he saw the body. If it weren’t for Seyfe, reminding him what folk they were dealing with, he might have vomited. But the greetings for her old master changed his mind, as she kicked him in the groin and spat in his face.

“Where’s the hag?” she spoke in an unmistakable accent and looked up the stairs of the great living room.

“Up,” said Zaber and set foot on the stairs again. As he walked down, he wiped the red off his weapon. “Get it out of you. Quick. Don’t overdo it, I want you down fast.”

Torm’s eyes were fixated on Zaber’s stiletto before it was sheathed away. He had seen his mentor do things before. Real fights, sucker punches and the spars with him, Breg or Asher. But the nonchalance shown on this very day was... maybe it was the first time he saw him for real.

The woman among them clenched her fists and dashed upstairs. Soon, groans and enraged pants became the background noise to their stay. All behind closed doors.

With his first step into the patrician’s home, Kovada looked around, not minding the corpse. A big table, soft chairs and a fireplace with no embers. The days had become warm enough, but the foggy sky and lack of stars meant they needed light. The big and hairy man moved his strong belly over and sat down in the most comfortable seat in the room. Truly made for the patriarch of this houshold, Kovada felt the velvet under his fingers.

“Enjoying yourself?” Zaber knelt on the floor, leaving behind bloody stains. He sorted through the bundle of his armor, occasionally looking up at Kovada on his throne. “Glad you’re relaxed. This ain’t your first bout either, I suppose.” He placed different parts of his armor next to another chair. Neat and in the right order.

The boy found ease in imitating his mentor, going through the gear he was given. Over and over his gaze slipped to the side, seeking reassurance in what Zaber did. “Are we donning it right away?” He fiddled around the fringes of the worn-out, short-sleeved gambeson that Zaber usually wore.

“Later,” said Zaber and weighed the parts. He had not worn any metal in over three years. “You gotta help me with that in the morrow.”

“Like a squire?” Torm wanted to burst in glee, but restrained himself to a coy smile. “Like–”

“I swear–” Zaber interrupted the boy, but halted. A long sigh and a look at Kovada followed. It was damned impossible to get a read on the bear with the strong presence. “You know what?” The mentor looked at his apprentice. “Yes, like a squire.”

“For sure?” The boy squealed.

Zaber shook his head. “Go wild. But no touching yourself.”

A couple of bumps heralded Seyfe’s return. She had been given a long, lightly padded jack with eroded colors and pantaloons that would have gotten her in much trouble on any other day. But they were necessary, wide and flexible enough for what laid ahead of her. Seyfe got herself a pair of boots and a broad belt in which a sturdy Albinian Seax waited for action. She ran her bloodied fingertips through the turquoise veil that hid away her hair as she stepped down the stairway. With a swift grab, she ripped it from her head and freed her long black hair, which fell wild onto her shoulders and back. A twist and fold later and the headscarf became a roped bandana to tame her mane back in order. The scar along her hairline became visible for a brief moment and the tip of it still peeked out.

“By Lawiyāṯān,” said Seyfe and spat on her former master’s face for a second time. “I wish their cursed children would still live here.” The more she spoke, the heavier her accent got, until she started to mumble curses in her native tongue. To Kovada’s amusement.

“Keep that anger up,” said Zaber and stepped in front of the fireplace. “Let’s get you briefed. Torm, clear the table.” He picked up a piece of charcoal and pointed at the furniture. The folk living here seemed to have the widespread habit of setting up their breakfast table on the eve before. Butter knives, wooden boards and cups and bowls were all waiting for something lavish. Something the riff-raff could only dream about.

“Hanifa told me you’re chief now.” The former bandit pushed a clay pitcher off the table and shattered it. “How we gonna murder more beyazı?”

“Damned, girl,” said Torm with a cheeky smirk and concerned eyes. “Do we have to chain you up for the night?” He emptied a vase with rare flowers over the face of the dead patrician, hoping it would wash away some of the blood and smell.

The room fell silent and Kovada stared at the boy as intense as ever. Seyfe moved right in front of him, flexing her jaw muscles. “Touch me and I’ll cut you in places that haven’t grown yet.” There was a full head and decade between them, but that wouldn’t stop her.

“Tone it down.” Zaber walked next to them, joining in on the stares. “He didn’t mean to. He only talked to the timid and shallow,” he said and swatted against Torm’s chest, reining him back in. “You’re too much for him. You can mutilate him after our victory… if he keeps up the dumbarsery.” With the last part, he looked at the boy scolding and placed the charcoal on top of the white tablecloth.

The former mercenary drew a rough sketch of the streets and crossings. He added the houses from memory and what was deemed important to the plan. The details weren’t important, except for what laid around them. Five paths converged ahead and Zaber marked the squares representing the houses they took. Asher’s group was in a smaller house. The inhabitant was a grizzled old man who owned a few shops at Sonora’s Market.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

image [https://i.ibb.co/FhtnBY2/Teblen-Ambush-rough.png]

“We’re here and Asher there,” said Zaber and pointed at the houses. “He’s giving the same speech right now.” He drew more squares and four thick lines in front of it. The transport and horses. “That’s our target. Party starts when it hits that spot, roughly. Yarış has a bow, so he can let loose more often than Torm. We come out at once, he shoots the nags. Even one dead will make a roadblock.” Zaber sounded cold and calculating. He looked at Seyfe and Torm and waited for any kind of confirmation that they understood, be it a nod or grunt or whatever. The drawing continued; two small shields at the flanks of the transport. “Asher and I will go for these. You, Seyfe, and Kovada will back me up. Torm, you will shoot this guy here,” said Zaber and drew another shield on top of the transport. “When the doors open, you and Yarış go first. Shoot once, step aside – make room for me. Next, Kovada and Seyfe will throw one Javelin each.”

Kovada still sat in the comfortable chair, but leaned to the side to listen and look. Where the woman was focused like a taut bowstring and Torm nervously fiddling with the nagel of his blade, the stout warrior was unflappable. He only rolled up his sleeves. The robes he wore were tied up to the knees. His legs and ankles were wrapped with cloth, and he did not wear his usual tabard, to assure Kovada’s mobility. The colorful turban around a cap, though, was still the same.

“The fella on top will have a crossbow too. You have to keep him occupied. Annoy the fuck out of him; frequency over accuracy.” The charcoal trickled all over the guard’s mark because Zaber kept tapping. “If you can kill him – great. But keeping him from killing us is more important. Never let him aim or reload,” said Zaber and wrote an A and a Z in front of their houses, next to the guards flanking the transport. “We lead the armored vanguard. Nazik and Van with Asher, you two with me.” An arrow pointing at the targets got drawn, indicating their movements. “I’ll dispatch these. I expect halberds, maille and kettle. Maybe less. Fella on top might be more tinned. I fell them, you two ice them. Got it?” He looked at Kovada. “Couldn’t get you any fitting armor, big boy,” said Zaber, but Kovada only gave it a fleeting shrug. “Still, I need you at the forward position. Because of this arsehole here.” The greasy and unkempt veteran pointed at the front of the transport and drew another shield, colored black. “There gotta be a man-at-arms with the coachman. Something two-handed, maybe a sword, maybe a polearm. Enclosed helmet, clad like me or Asher. Keep an eye on him for me, as I mow down the fodder. I’ll deal with him as soon as I can, or Asher if that’s the flank tincan goes for.”

“Let me take him,” spoke Seyfe up and patted her torso, to highlight the paddings. “You got me this Ḥammām and vambraces, no need to endanger noble Kovada.” Her voice rose and she knocked the hard boiled leather at her arms and shins together. The woman’s hair had become sweaty, now that it was out in the open. She pulled on the collar to not die from overheating.

The broad Yesilian man on his throne couldn’t look less concerned. After smiling at Seyfe, Kovada leaned forward at the small bundle he had brought together with a spear and javelin. He held up a thick pair of hide gloves and two oversized vambraces. It had been hard to find anything in his size. There was not enough time to take his measurements and have it custom made for the tree trunks that were his arms and legs. And that wouldn’t even had tackled the issue that was Kovada’s strong core. He waved the gloves up and down. A calming motion.

“Hanifa told me you were a crook, not a soldier,” said Zaber and nodded curtly at Kovada, who showed no sympathy back. Even less after the following choice of words. “I trust you to know your way around a spear. But I trust this hulking beast more.” A discontent grunt followed from Seyfe. There was no denying that Kovada was the right man for the task.

Torm hadn’t commented on the plan at all. He just nodded along and echoed it word by word in his mind. The plan had been told to him countless times over the last three days. There had been nothing but drill, discipline and getting rid of their belongings. Whenever Torm could, he sorted and unpacked more of his gear for the next day. To keep himself busy and not look at the corpse in the room, or think about the corpse upstairs.

“’aight.” Zaber snapped back at the table and knocked on it twice to get everyone’s attention back on track. “First, I open the door. Boy lets loose one shot; steps aside,” he repeated and pointed at every step drawn by charcoal. “I charge out, beat those nobodies down. You come out, throw the javelins; switch to spear. I fell them, you kill them.” The charcoal rested on top of the man-at-arms, next to the coachman. “If the rich kid jumps us, Kovada fends him off until I tag in. Don’t worry too much, good gear doesn’t make a good tussle. Guard duty is ransom for low guildfolk, they can’t fight shit.” The mentor held out his hand at Torm and flicked his fingers. A bolt cutter, heavy and forged in black iron, was handed over by the apprentice. “Asher has one too. If the tinned fella goes for Asher, I will reach for Sagir. We hand him the tool and continue to fight.”

Everyone in the room felt the confidence radiating from Zaber, who seemed truly in his element. The woman had not known him at all until today, but heard conflicting stories. He didn’t matter to her masters and their trade of salts. But Seyfe had heard of Ceyhan and the brothel and how the other beyazı spoke about Zaber. She also felt how Kovada viewed the man and his opinion was most valued among their community.

For Torm it was quite the opposite. Seeing his mentor act and talk like this was exciting and exhausting at the same time. The boy was allowed to move at his own pace during Zaber’s tutelage, even though failure was pointed out harshly. Over were these days, and for the first time real pressure was put onto him. To get it right, a matter of life and death. This was, without a doubt, the Zaber he had met five years ago, for better and for worse.

“We let the prisoners run wild to cause a distraction; they ain’t our problem. But we gotta scram when Sagir is out and able to move,” said Zaber and drew big squares with an X that blocked the streets around them. “Central is close, courthouse and town hall have their own sellswords around. Reinforcements will come as soon as word reaches them. From here…” He pointed at the blocks, “… or here. Or both.” Teblen was a big city, with over eighty thousand inside its walls. It was cramped and the district of Old Teblen was filled with old riches and nobility. Someone would run and snitch, for sure. “This gotta be over in a jiffy or we have to deal with backup.”

Seyfe’s eyes twitched around the sketches, deep in thought. Her fingers ran over the blocks of reinforcements and the shields of the guard. She used them to clean her hands of blood. “How many?”

“Up to a banner.” Zaber smirked at the blood on the tablecloth, carefully watched by Torm. “Or… bolk is what your kind calls it.”

“Bölük,” corrected Seyfe and her eyes narrowed. “What do we do if that happens?”

“We die,” said Zaber, unfazed. “We’re dead.”

“Hrmph,” the foreign woman’s face distorted and she ripped a bloody hole into the tablecloth. “My sister insisted I help you, and Hanifa told me to trust you. I am prepared to join the Prophet among the Stars.”

“I promised her I fix this. I ain’t going back on promises.” The veteran looked at his ward. “Ain’t I, boy?”

The boy shook his head back into reality. His previously concerned look had turned to defeat when he realized the question. Torm looked at Seyfe and said, “In the worst way possible,” followed by a chuckle. He didn’t know if he chuckled at himself, at her, or at Zaber. But it felt right.

“Don’t worry about fighting the escorts,” said Zaber and drew one final circle onto the map. Behind an alley close to the house they resided in, hidden away from the transport. “The fun part starts after. Old Teblen has the most developed sewage of all quarters. This entrance here,” he placed his thumb on it and twisted it like a screw. “This is where we win. Sagir, you, all of us. Just follow me, Asher will take the rear guard, so nobody falls behind. Straight north, beneath the graveyard; outside the walls.”

The charcoal rested on the makeshift map and a thoughtful silence filled the room. Kovada pulled out a small strip of cured beef from his cloth belt, and chewed on it. When he sank deeper into his armchair, Seyfe’s mind drowned in anticipation. Whatever happened in the morrow, she would be free again. Her hands let go of the tablecloth and clung to the blade at her hip.

Torm was fighting his own heartbeat and the queasy feeling in his guts. Ever since they entered the room, he tried to figure out what it was that made him so uneasy. Sure, the dead body played its part, but… this is what he wanted. Living the life, fighting the fight. Being treated as an equal and being involved in what his mentor used to do. But seeing Zaber this way was more than Torm could stomach. That smirk before made him realize what it was, why seeing Zaber so much like himself made the boy nervous. Zaber had always been vigilant, tense, and painfully alert, constantly, like an oil lamp that was about to combust. Seeing him so filled with purpose, he was reminded of what Beotold said about them. When he excluded Torm. The young man was filled with fear, not only for his own life, but…

“We got about six candles to burn,” said Zaber and knelt next to his loadout. He pulled out six sticks of wax and notched six times across their length. “Big boy and I will take the first and second. You two go up and rest.”

“If we take the next two, that leaves two more,” said Torm and packed what he needed upstairs. Seyfe had already shrugged it off and went ahead.

“Go,” ordered Zaber.

Gloomy, Torm did as he was told. There was no time to read, nor to think. He had to rest as much as possible, to be at full strength tomorrow. To prove himself. When he caught up with Seyfe on their way up, he uttered a soft, “Sorry”.

“Remember what I said about touching,” uttered Seyfe. “Bedsheets are in the cupboard next to the door. I’ll clean up.”

The greasy and unkempt veteran had set up everything quickly. A candle stood right above the fireplace, and the fancy decorations of the room were used to dim its light. The curtains were closed and all windows barred and bolted. Zaber had placed all armor in order for quick donning. He took seat in another armchair, moved right next to Kovada. A large, two-handed, single-edged and slightly bent weapon was placed on his lap. A nagel stood out at the crossguard – a Kriegsmesser. Another two handed sword in an ornamented scabbard leaned right next to him. It wore the coat of arms of Airich of Belge, the imperial crest and the slaying of a dragon right between those.

For a long time, no words were spoken between the two warriors. Both looking at the flame of the candle.

…

“So,” said Zaber quietly. This part of the plan had not been shared, as of yet. Not even with Torm or Asher. “They cut your tongue out?”

Kovada did not answer. He looked so content with himself, it was unsettling. No grunts, no moans, and no sighs as an answer. Ceaselessly chewing on cured beef.

“You familiar with Agha Mur ad-Din?” Zaber watched Kovada. “I might have a–”

The hairy man, built like a barrel, lifted his hand to sooth his watchpartner. He looked ever so cordial and for the first time, he smiled at Zaber. But no smile of sympathy. A wordless movement of his lips… he understood.

“’aight,” replied Zaber and leaned back, relaxed. “Just be better to your subjects…” He ran his hand over the flat of his blade and looked over to the door. “when I bring y’all home.”

The slave called Kovada let out a guttural grumble and nodded, still smiling.