Guarded (6 page)

The Juganin did not awaken early. There were no signs of life around the house until midmorning, when men began straggling forth to use the outhouse and to wash themselves at the pump. They moved slowly, probably still groggy from the night’s drinking. None of them so much as glanced in Volos’s direction, but he gripped his sword so tightly that his hand cramped.

He’d seen seven men the night before, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more. Some of them might have been absent from the torture and rape session. So now he watched carefully, taking note of each one’s features, trying to get an accurate count. He also assessed their weaponry. Each had one of the thin, slightly curved swords beloved of the Juganin, and Volos knew each man was well versed in the use of his blade. Volos used a straighter, heavier sword, one that would soon tire a soldier unless he was very strong. But Volos
was
strong, and his weapon had the advantage of a longer reach. If Volos wielded it well, a Juganin opponent would be dead before the curved blade struck Volos.

But that was the rub— an opponent, singular. He was badly outnumbered here, and even the best warrior held little chance against seven or more.

Eight, actually. He watched all day and concluded there were eight. And when the sky darkened again, he was no closer to rescuing the prince.

Well into night, Volos crept out of his hiding place. He stretched his muscles carefully and took a few handfuls of water from the pump, which leaked. Feeling as if he might be sick, he peeked into the cellar window.

Of course the Juganin were drinking again. They’d have little to entertain them here except ale and their prisoner. Oh gods, their prisoner. Berhanu’s upper body was tied to the table, this time face-up. His arms were stretched cruelly— even from afar, Volos could see the strained muscles and tendons. The front of his torso was as badly injured as his back. Maybe worse. Nothing was left of his left nipple but a blood-crusted wound. His legs were trussed in a complicated manner, spread, and held high by ropes attached to the ceiling beams. One of the Juganin was fucking him so hard that the entire table shook. But the worst part was Berhanu’s bruised face, because although his eyes were open, he stared expressionlessly upward. If it weren’t for the hitching of the prince’s chest, Volos would have thought he was dead.

Volos could break into the house and slaughter the men in the cellar. But he’d never kill all of them before they stopped him. And two of the men were missing, no doubt elsewhere in the house.

Gods, I know I don’t deserve your grace. But please, I beg you. Show me how I can save him.

The gods didn’t answer his silent prayer. But just when he’d decided he’d rush into the cellar, suicidal as that attack would be, his gaze was caught by the pile of empty bottles that littered one corner of the room. Perhaps it was divine inspiration. In any case, he formulated a plan.

He took off running for the village before the voice in his head could convince him how stupid the plan was.

****

“You look as though you earned your dinner tonight. I hadn’t realized exploring a village was such strenuous work.”

Mato sat opposite Volos in the inn, watching him devour a huge plate of food. The door to the inn had been closed when Volos arrived, breathless, but after a few heavy knocks Mato had opened it for him and hadn’t complained about stoking the fire and heating some food.

“I wasn’t exploring,” Volos said with his mouth full. He took a generous swig of water and let out a deep breath. “I lied to you. I’m not here on behalf of an eccentric employer.”

Mato raised an eyebrow but didn’t look angry. In fact, his eyes sparkled with excitement. “Why are you here then, my friend?”

Gods, if Mato couldn’t be trusted, all was lost. And he was a Kozari, dammit. During the war, the Wedey soldiers said Kozari were lower than snakes— spiteful, malicious, demonic. And although Volos had known better— his father was a good man— he’d believed what he heard. Yet Mato… had been
nice
.

Volos gave him a long look. “Are there other strangers staying in Chorna now, Mato?”

“Not
in
Chorna. Nearby, I think. They come into the village now and then.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you one of them?”

“No. Gods, no. Do you know who they are?”

Mato shook his head. “No. But they’re nothing good, I think. There are rumors. Some think they’re spies, although I can’t imagine what they’d be spying on. Some think they’ve plans to seize property from the villagers. Do
you
know who they are?”

Volos nodded slowly. “Juganin.”

Mato’s lips pressed together into a hard white line and he stared fiercely for a moment at the wall. “Why are they here?” he finally asked.

“It’s… it’s a long story. I’m not at liberty to tell it all. But they’re holding—” His voice broke. He swallowed and tried again. “They’re holding a prisoner. They’re hurting him. Eventually— maybe soon— they’ll kill him.”

“And you’re here to free him?”

“Yes.”

“By yourself?”

Volos sighed. “Yes.”

“Is he your lover?”

Volos laughed bitterly. “No. He despises me.”

“Then why risk your life for him?”

A simple question with complicated answers. Volos settled for one of them. “It’s my duty,” he said quietly.

Mato might have been a young man, an innkeeper in a gods-forsaken village, but he was no fool. His gaze felt sharp enough to strip away all of Volos’s secrets. But he nodded slightly. “Some of the villagers used to be soldiers. I suppose they still remember how to handle a weapon. I’ll gather them and—”

“No.” Despite the grim circumstances, Volos smiled at Mato’s generosity. “It’s a delicate situation. It’s… if things aren’t handled well, there could be another war. I have to do this alone. But… maybe you could help.”

“How?”

“Do the Juganin buy their ale from you?”

“There’s nowhere else in Chorna to buy it.”

Thank the gods.
“And will they buy more soon, do you think?”

Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Mato seemed to calculate. “Yes. In fact, if they keep to their usual schedule, they’ll come in tomorrow or the next day.”

Although the battle was far from over, Volos felt a trickle of relief. “Good. You mentioned yesterday that your mother is good with herbs. Do you think you could slip something into their ale? Something they wouldn’t notice?”

“Poison?”

Volos had considered that idea and rejected it. Many poisons left telltale signs on their victims— vomit, skin discoloration, swelling. If anyone investigated, it was important that Mato’s role not be apparent. And other poisons took far too long to work, or were unpredictable in their effects. “I was thinking more of something to slow them down and make them… woozy. Something that they might mistake as simply being the effects of strong ale.”

“So you could kill them all yourself.”

“Yes.”

After another long pause, Mato stood. “Wait here,” he said and then disappeared behind a door at the back of the room. As far as Volos knew, Mato could be summoning the villagers to seize him. He could be sending someone to warn the Juganin. But Volos waited.

When Mato reappeared, perhaps fifteen minutes later, he was grinning widely. “Mother says yes,” he announced.

“And you— you and your mother— are willing to do this?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Mato ran his fingers through his clumps of hair. “We don’t get much excitement here. We don’t get
any
excitement, actually. And we certainly don’t get handsome, mysterious heroes. Maybe you’re a story I can tell my grandchildren someday.”

Volos snorted, then drank the last of his water. He pushed his chair back with a noisy scrape and stood. Gods, he was so tired. He felt
old
. “I’m going to try to sleep while I can.”

“Sounds wise.” Mato walked him to the door but stopped him at the threshold with a hand on a shoulder. “Who are you really, Volos?”

“Just what I told you. I was once a soldier. Now… now I’m a guard.” He gave Mato a tired smile and exited into the night.

****

He did not sleep well. He tried, and the bed was certainly more comfortable than the outbuilding had been, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Berhanu. Suffering. Dying. Gods, what if the Juganin had grown tired of their games and were murdering him this very moment? Even when Volos did manage to slumber, he was plagued by nightmares of cold cells, cramped cupboards, ropes and chains and whips and blades.

When he awoke in the morning and went downstairs, he discovered a basket just inside the front door. It contained bread still warm from the oven, a pot of berry jam, several cold sausages, a boiled egg, and a glass jar of milk. Volos took his breakfast upstairs and watched out the window while he ate.

Nothing interesting happened all morning. Villagers passed by, dogs barked, a bit of rain fell for a while. A small girl slipped on the cobblestones and fell, and her father soothed her crying with a funny little song Volos remembered from his childhood. At lunchtime, Mato crossed the street with another basket. He glanced at the shuttered upstairs window and gave a small smile but didn’t otherwise acknowledge Volos. He left the food just inside the door.

Late in the afternoon, when Volos had grown nearly mad with impatience and felt as if the floorboards would soon give way beneath his restless pacing, three of the Juganin appeared. One of them pushed a small handcart. Volos watched with narrowed eyes, his hand on his sword, as they entered the inn. They came back out onto the street a few minutes later and loaded armfuls of bottles into the cart. With the glass clanking and wheels rattling, they went back the way they’d come.

Mato brought more food soon afterward, but Volos couldn’t eat it. His stomach was clenched as tight as a fist. Instead, he sharpened his blades— which didn’t actually need it— and tightened and retightened the scabbard around his hips. He’d never felt this keyed up before battles, not even when he’d been certain he wouldn’t survive. The sun took a thousand years to set that night.

A few villagers still passed through the streets when Volos went outside, so he walked instead of ran and hoped they didn’t notice the sword beneath his cloak. As soon as he passed the edge of town, he quickened his pace to a lope. The muddy road sucked at his boots, slowing him down.

When he arrived at the farmhouse, he snuck around the back. The hour was still quite early, and he wasn’t sure Mato’s ale had been able to do its job yet. He waited near one of the outbuildings and was thankful for his caution when a man appeared around the corner of the house. He held a candle, which lighted his way but didn’t illuminate Volos’s hiding spot. Volos waited for the man to enter the outhouse, then crept closer. He was waiting, knife in hand, when the man emerged.

Juganin were good fighters. Very good, most of them. But this one was taken completely by surprise when Volos grabbed him from behind, muffling his mouth with one hand. Volos dragged the man backward against his own body and slit his throat. The candle tumbled to the mud and guttered out. A moment later, the Jugan fell. He landed facedown and didn’t move.

Volos felt nothing over the man’s death aside from slight relief that the odds had now shifted a bit more in his favor.

The remaining Juganin were gathered in the cellar, but tonight they were considerably more subdued. Some of them sat on the floor, cradling bottles in their hands, while the others slumped against the walls. None of them were fucking Berhanu, who was again bound facedown on the table, but fresh blood glistened on his back and ass and trickled down his sides. He wasn’t dead, though. Thank the gods, he still wasn’t dead.

The house’s side door stood ajar. When Volos went inside, he found himself in a kitchen lit only by a bit of moonlight that fell through the windows. He wished for once that he was a smaller man because the floorboards creaked under his weight as he walked. But the Juganin downstairs were talking; he hoped they wouldn’t notice his footsteps.

He opened two doors, but one led to another room and the other revealed a stairway rising to the second floor. The third door, however, rewarded him with the stairs to the cellar. Volos considered waiting a while. But he wasn’t sure how strong the drugged ale was or whether the Juganin would notice their missing comrade. Besides, he couldn’t abide the thought of Berhanu tied to that damned table for another minute. So he descended.

From a tactical standpoint, his best place to make a stand would have been a few steps up from the bottom. In addition to the advantage of height, he’d be able to attack any Juganin who tried to escape the cellar, and the tight quarters meant they wouldn’t fall on him all at once. But if he fought there, Berhanu would be undefended. The Juganin weren’t stupid. While Volos stuck to the stairway, a few of them would kill the prince.

Volos paused on the bottom stair. From this angle, he saw Berhanu’s battered face. And Berhanu saw him, because his dazed eyes cleared and widened. He didn’t move or make a sound, however. Volos shrugged off his cloak, drew his sword, and with a roar that seemed to shake the rafters, he threw himself into the cellar, rushing to Berhanu’s side.

The Juganin were slow to react. In fact, the nearest one was dead already, his head nearly hacked off his shoulders, before the others seemed to realize Volos was not an apparition. Shouting with alarm, they scrambled for their weapons.

Two of them closed in on Volos at once, but he was ready. He was in that strange state that used to settle on him during battles, when time seemed elastic and space seemed to bend. He stopped thinking and let his body do what it did best, what he had spent nearly his entire life training to do. He fought.

Nearly effortlessly, he lopped off the sword arm of one man, then slashed the other deeply in the belly. He was dimly aware that one of their blades had pierced his skin, but he didn’t yet feel pain and, since he was still moving, the wound didn’t matter.

Four
, said a dry voice deep in his brain. The emotionless little accountant who kept track of lives instead of coins— lives taken, lives yet to take.
Four more remain.