Three days later Iskald was slowly making his way through a noisy, rowdy crowd of Suraths on the narrow streets of Arkeen, the Kingdom’s Estate Capital. The ever-present merchant and traders urged him to buy their items and commodities and Iskald had to chase them away with angry shouts from the top of his horse. The merchants cursed him in return in a variety of different tongues, but he paid no heed to them and continued to press forward through the crowd.

He spotted people of different trades working right out on the streets: the famed Surathian sweat-soaked blacksmiths beating out blades, pottery-makers presenting their work to the crowds, barbers cutting men’s hair and shaving their beards, and more. All this was being done amidst tremendous noise, characteristic of all Southern cities and Kingdoms.

What a remarkable contrast these people presented against the Northerners among whom Iskald grew up, and even against the stern and solemn Nekryans who lived to the North of Surath. The young man was only in the city for half of day and he already had enough of the racket, of all the bickering, all the shouting, arguing over prices and such, he now only wished to find a quiet place to sit and to rest before moving on.

Finally, after turning into one of the smaller side streets, Iskald spotted a small tavern. He stopped his horse, dismounted, and tied the animal to one of the empty stakes driven into the ground just outside the door.

Having made sure that there was enough water in the long trough, Iskald pulled up his belt, weighed down by the heavy sword, and walked into the cool tavern with a sigh of relief. He was not yet used to the tremendous heat waves that so often visited the Southern kingdoms. Even compared to Nekrya, where winter never came, Surath was an extremely hot country.

It was no wonder that most of the Suraths were of darker complexion and hardly anyone in the Kingdom had fair hair. They wore little clothing because of the heat; only the women wrapped themselves in cloth, the men usually only wore sashes around their waists, to which they all attached swords, daggers, and various other deadly weapons.

The Kingdom of Surath was a dangerous place to live in and its inhabitants were often forced to protect themselves. Just as often, however, the weapons were not used only for protection, but for just the opposite instead. The Suraths were a dangerous folk and Iskald was forced to quickly learn to watch his back at all times, every step of the way, having noticed early on the menacing stares thrown his way by the grim, dark men.

They could easily tell by his appearance that he was a stranger and a Northerner as well. Though it happened thousands of years ago, in a nearly mythical era, as far back as some time towards the end of the First Age of the Lords, still no one in Surath had forgotten about the waves after waves of Northern barbarians flooding their country and ravaging it for centuries in the Dark Years of the Second Age.

Wherever Iskald appeared, all eyes were glued to him and the menacing stares spoke volumes of what lurked in the hearts of this dangerous breed.

Everyone quieted down when the young man entered the tavern, but Iskald paid no heed. He walked steadily over to the bartender amidst the stern silence, rather pleased by it actually, having just experienced the noise and clatter of the outside, and placed a gold coin before him.

Without saying a word, the bartender pushed a clay cup towards him and pointed at the barrels of wine fixed to the opposite wall of the tavern. Iskald took the cup and made his way through the silent crowd once again, still without paying any attention to them, poured some wine and then sat by an empty table in the corner of the room.

Sipping the cool drink, he leaned his back against the wall and put his boots up on the table. To people who knew nothing of who he was and what he had done for a living, it might have appeared that he had actually gone to sleep. But his eyes, hidden under long dark lashes, were full of life and vigor, and they kept a close and keen watch over everyone in the room.

His right hand rested on his waist and despite appearing sluggish, lazy and tired, Iskald could just as quickly jump to his feet with the sword in his hand, ready to defend himself. He was alert, as a trained soldier should always be, and nothing escaped his watchful eyes and ears.

The tavern slowly filled with voices again, quiet and hushed at first, but since the stranger appeared to pay no attention to what went on about him, the patrons soon ceased to show any interest in him as well. After making a couple of rousing comments in Azmattic, so that the stranger would surely hear and understand them, but having seen no effect and no movement on his part, they soon turned back to their tables and back to their conversations.

Only then, noting that he was no longer the object of interest, Iskald gradually eased and was finally able to enjoy his wine. Slowly drinking the crimson brew that spread pleasantly through his body, the young soldier studied the faces of the people occupying the small pub. They were all Suraths, all dark and grim, all longhaired and slim, in appearance very much like the Tha-kians and perhaps even related to them by blood.

Though none of them appeared to be professional soldiers, they were all nevertheless an intimidating bunch, all armed and looking as if they would not hesitate before using their weapons. Quick to temper and quick to reach for their blades, they were people amongst whom one had to be careful.

Two more men entered the tavern soon after Iskald settled down and having obtained cups from the bartender, they sat by a table close to the one occupied by the Northerner.

As soon as they entered they caught Iskald’s eye because as opposed to the other men they were without a doubt soldiers by trade. The two newcomers were both Suraths, both middle-aged and dark, both armed with double-edged swords and small hand-axes hanging by their belts, and both concealing their slim but muscular bodies with full-length ring armor. Polished steel helmets protected their heads and long, dark hair tied in neat ponytails escaped from beneath their headdress and fell down their backs almost all the way to their waists.

By the way in which other men in the pub eagerly made room for them and by the way they quieted down as the newcomers walked by, Iskald easily deduced that the two soldiers were both feared and respected and what was more, they were probably well known in this area.

The two Suraths sipped the wine and struck a conversation that the young Northerner could not help but overhearing. At first he listened without much curiosity, just studying the men with his keen, ice-cold eyes; soon however, what they talked about stirred his interest.

“I don’t like it,” one of them said. He appeared to be a bit older than his companion, with a face that was worn down with age, the Southern winds, and the scorching sun. “I’m not sure anymore if this is such a good idea.”

Unlike other people in the pub, the two soldiers spoke Azmattic, a clear sign of having traveled much around the world, of having participated in different campaigns and wars, perhaps even serving in a foreign army.

“What’s the matter?” the other soldier smirked. “You yellow?”

The older man scowled and his nostrils flared.

“You know damn well, just as well as I do, that the whole thing is risky at best, not to mention being banned from just about every city in the goddamned world! Don’t talk to me about gettin’ yellow, ’cause if you were in my shoes you’d be asking questions just the same!”

The other man simply shrugged and sipped his wine.

“I don’t like it, that’s all,” the older soldier continued, having calmed down a bit. “If someone reports it, we’ll be whipped, beaten, and chased out of Arkeen with the hounds on our heels.”

“Don’t worry about it. Things like these don’t go down without us having to bribe a few people. No one will bother us tonight, trust me on that. In fact, you might actually see some of your friends from the squad in the crowd!”

The older Surath shrugged his shoulders now.

“I don’t like it just the same,” he repeated. “I think I’ll pass tonight.”

“You can’t!” the second soldier raised his voice. A few of the people sitting around them stirred and looked, but turned back to their tables just as quickly after meeting the stern eyes of the two soldiers.

“You can’t!” the younger Surath lowered his voice a bit. “Everything’s set: you’re fighting Liath tonight, the word is out and a lot of people are dishing out large coin to see that happen! You can’t just walk away!”

“How’s that?” the first soldier scoffed and blinked hard. “You’re going to stop me? You might need to polish your skills before reaching for that sword.”

They stared hard at each other for a moment.

“I made up my mind yesterday when I saw him gutting that dumb kid from Argaron and then sawing off his ears to wear for a necklace! I ain’t gonna fight him!”

“Of course that kid had no chance against Liath!” the younger man laughed. “But you, you’re Grizzwal the Killer, you’re the real deal! That’s what people are paying to see tonight. Imagine all the gold you’ll have when you win! You’re going to live like a king for the next ten years!”

“And if I lose?”

“You’re talking about losing? That’s not the Grizzwal I know.”

“Maybe I got older and a bit wiser as well since the last time we met.”

“You’re Grizzwal, damn it, and you can’t change that! Liath was still walking on all fours when you were leading campaigns into Nekrya and Burrodha, he’s got nothing on you, you own him!”

“Is that what you told that kid he ripped to pieces yesterday?” the old man scoffed. “I don’t need the damn gold that much!”

Having said that, Grizzwal rose, finished his wine with one big gulp, crushed the cup in his hand, and threw it down to the floor. He was about to leave, but then he changed his mind. Leaning over the table he said quietly, but loud enough for all to hear:

“And if I ever see you again and you call me yellow, I’ll tear your damned head off, you remember that, you slithering little snake!”

Then he turned and walked away without giving his companion as much as another glance. The remaining soldier jumped to his feet and searched blindly for the sword hanging by his belt. Iskald could see he was fuming and for a moment he thought the man would run after Grizzwal and try to stop him from leaving. He did not, however, and instead he only watched the aging soldier make his way through the crowd and out the door of the tavern

“What’re y’all looking at?!” he then shouted at the people around him. “Get back to your chatter, damn it!”

The Surath sat back down, still fuming, and sipped his wine. He was obviously trying to calm down, but it took him quite a while to regain composure.

All this time, Iskald did not move at all, and only kept a close eye on him, studying him closely. Finally, when he thought the man had calmed down enough to be able to talk without reaching for his blade first, the young Northerner slowly rose from his chair, casually strolled up to the table where the Surath was drinking his wine, and unceremoniously sat in the chair previously occupied by Grizzwal. The Surathian soldier looked up from his cup and glanced at the young stranger with irritation.

“Who asked you to sit?” he barked angrily, eyeing Iskald from head to toe.

“I’m not used to asking permission,” Iskald remained indifferent to the unwelcoming and angry stare he was greeted with. “I need to talk to you.”

“Talk to someone else!”

“I heard what you and your friend spoke about,” Iskald continued, disregarding that last comment. As he spoke, he looked past the Surathian soldier and fixed his icy stare on a random point somewhere on the back wall of the tavern.

“Been eavesdropping? I should gut you for that alone, stranger!” the man hissed quietly, squinting his eyes; his hand dropped down to his waist.

“You’re talking loud enough for everybody to hear.” Iskald shrugged his shoulders with seeming indifference but watched the man carefully out of the corner of his eye. One wrong move on his part and Iskald was ready to pull his blade out and cut the man in two, soldier or not.

“So what’d you hear?”

“I heard enough to know that you have a bit of a problem on your hands.”

“How’s that?”

“You have a fight set for tonight and one of your men just pulled out.”

The Surathian soldier bit his lip down.

“You’re going to have a lot of pissed-off people to deal with if you can’t deliver what you promised, ain’t that right?” Iskald continued, leaning back in his chair. He bared his teeth in a sarcastic grin and added, “And I hear that the people around these parts are quick to their swords, so you best watch your back when you break the bad news to them.”

“What’s it to you, stranger?”

“I could help you out.”

“Meaning what?”

“If I told you I’d be willing to fight your man tonight, what would you say?”

“What’s your price?”

“Half the bets.”

“You’re dreaming.” The Surath laughed out loud.

“What’s the problem?” Iskald grinned. “Afraid your friend might lose?”

“He’s not my friend.” The soldier frowned. “This is a legit fight, I’m not setting anybody up. I ain’t no hustler!”

“Right.” Iskald scratched his head. “Whatever you say, it’s none of my business who you stick with, anyway. I’m offering you a business proposition, take it or leave it.”

The man took some time to study Iskald’s face. “Can I trust you?” he asked after some time.

“Can I trust you?” Iskald asked in return.

“Why do you want to do this?”

“I have nothing better to do in Arkeen,” the young Northerner smirked. “Besides, I could use some coin and I do remember you promising Grizzwal a fortune for the fight tonight. So what’s it gonna be?”

“Half the bets, you say?”

“You have a crowd coming in, right? It doesn’t matter who wins or loses, you’ll get rich anyway. I don’t know what kind of a deal you have going with Liath, but for my part, yeah, I want half of all the winnings.”

“If you win,” the man added with a sly grin.

“Don’t worry about me. If I lose, it’s your gain.”

“Can you hold your own?”

“You want to step outside and see for yourself?”

The Surathian soldier laughed. “I like you, stranger. What the hell, you got yourself a deal!”

The men shook their hands over the table.

“What do they call you?”

“I’m Iskald.”

“They call me Pablo. And if you stick around these parts, you’ll get to know this name quite well! Let’s get some more wine! The fight’s not till midnight, so we’re not in any rush just yet.”

“Everything’s set?”

“My partner’s taking care of everything right now, so all I have to do is show up and run the show. This is gonna be good: Iskald versus Liath! Forget that pussy Grizzwal, this is what people are paying to see tonight!”

Proceed to part 4...

Copyright © 2008 by Slawomir Rapala