Ch 2: Belkrosh, Vircanian

The morning had begun clear and cold. The rising sun cast a faint rosy hue across the morning sky, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. Inside the royal palace of The Sigmund Empire, some places were brilliantly decorated.

"So the crown princess gave birth to her first child last night. Is it a prince or princess? When is the public announcement?"

Somewhere in the great stone maze of Krist, the Empire's capital. Lord Belkrosh got this news from the spy he planted inside the royal palace.

"Forgive me, milord. But I don't know. The people of the royal family are keeping this news of the birth of the new heir a secret.", the spy replied, apprehensively. This lord Belkrosh who is sitting in front of him, looking very friendly, in fact, is nothing like that. He always makes him break out in a cold sweat whenever he's in front of him.

"Is that so?" asked lord Belkrosh as he took a sip of the crisp and fresh, fruity taste of wine that filled his mouth and brought a smile to his lips.

"Well done. You just do your job and contact me only when you have this kind of important information. Your position is very sensitive and if anyone finds out that you are a spy then your end will not be a good one, more so if it's the Sternenritter. So be careful." Lord Belkrosh not only praised the spy for his efforts but also warned him not to be careless.

"Yes, milord." the spy bowed his head, feeling relieved, and left the place quietly. Lord Belkrosh watched the spy retreat thoughtfully.

There were times—not many, but a few—when he was overwhelmed with self-pity that he was a noble now. As he filled his wine cup once more from a mug on the twisted wooden table beside him, it struck him that this might be one of them. But then he thought again how it is better to be a nouveau riche than not having money to buy himself a full meal at all.

He settled back in his place on the bench enjoying the morning fresh air and finished drinking. He always likes to drink when he is sorting out information in his head. This has become a habit of his, good or bad he doesn't know nor does he care.

"Pydon's Wheel of War is quite rare, and yours is the only complete copy I've ever seen. How envious!" A bald man with a friendly and understanding complexion approached and told Lord Belkrosh, his eyes pointing to Belkrosh's favorite book that lay by his side on the bench.

"Nothing can be hidden from you, dear old friend."

The Wicked Worm Inn

The innkeeper raised his head above a barrel of pickled cucumbers and measured the man with his scrutinizing gaze. The outsider, still in his coat, stood stiffly in front of the counter, motionless and silent.

'What will it be?'

The innkeeper immediately noted that the outsider had a head full of grey hair that wasn't old but his hair was almost entirely white and crimson-colored mutant eyes which seem to like staring at others in a grouchy manner.

'Ale, good ones' said the stranger. His voice was unpleasant, maybe it was because of his accent.

A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall, his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of steel plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.

As he took off his coat those around him noticed that he carried a sword - not something unusual in itself, nearly every man around here carried a weapon - but very few carried a sword strapped to his back as if it were a bow or a quiver.

The stranger did not settle down with the few other guests at the table. He remained standing at the counter, piercing the innkeeper with his gaze. He drank from the tankard the innkeeper handed over to him.

'I'm looking for a room for the night.'

'There's none,' grunted the innkeeper, denying the man in a beat, looking at the guest's boots, soggy and filthy.

'I would rather stay here.' the stranger obviously knows that the innkeeper is lying to him. He wants to stay here for the night because it's convenient for him, and he doesn't want to go through the ordeal of finding another place, that's why he keeps insisting.

'There is none. Just finish your ale and go' The innkeeper finally recognized the stranger's accent. He was Vircanian.

'I'll pay.' The outsider spoke quietly, knowing that he may end up in trouble. Although he's not afraid to get into trouble because of his strength and skill, he generally likes to avoid them, yet trouble always comes knocking on his door.

A pockmarked beanpole of a man who, from the moment the Vircanian had entered had not taken his dreary eyes from him, got up and approached the counter. Two of his companions rose behind him, no more than two paces away.

'There's no room to be had, you Vircanian vagabond,' rasped the pockmarked man, standing right next to the outsider. 'We don't need people like you in here. This is a decent town!'

The Vircanian took his tankard and moved away. He glanced at the innkeeper, who avoided his eyes. It did not even occur to him to defend the Vircanian. After all, who liked Vircanian?

'All Vircanian are thieves,' the pock-marked man went on, his breath smelling of beer, garlic, and anger. 'Do you hear me, you bastard?'

'He can't hear you. His ears are full of shit, ain't that right?' said one of the men with him, and the second man cackled.

'Pay and leave!' yelled the dreary-eyed man.

Only now did the Vircanian look at him.

I'll finish my beer.'

'We'll give you a hand,' the pockmarked man hissed. He knocked the tankard from the stranger's hand and simultaneously grabbing him by the shoulder, dug his fingers into the leather strap which ran diagonally across the Vircanian's chest. One of the men behind him raised a fist to strike. The Vircanian curled up on the spot, throwing the pockmarked man off balance. The sword hissed in its sheath and glistened briefly in the dim light.

The place seethed. There was a scream, and one of the few remaining customers tumbled towards the exit. A chair fell with a crash and earthenware pounded hollowly against the floor. The innkeeper, his lips trembling, looked at the horribly slashed face of the dreary-eyed man, who, clinging with his fingers to the edge of the counter, was slowly sinking from sight. The other two were lying on the floor, one motionless, the other writhing and convulsing in a dark, spreading puddle. A woman's hysterical scream vibrated in the air, piercing the ears as the innkeeper shuddered, caught his breath, and vomited.

The Vircanian retreated towards the wall, tense and alert. He held the sword in both hands, sweeping the blade through the air. No one moved. Terror, like cold mud, was clear on their faces, paralyzing limbs and blocking throats.

Three guards rushed into the tavern with thuds and clangs. They must have been close by. They had bludgeons wound with leather straps at the ready, but at the sight of the corpses, drew their swords. The Vircanian pressed his back against the wall and, with his left hand, pulled a dagger from his boot.

'Throw that down!' one of the guards yelled with a trembling voice. 'Throw that down, you thug! You're coming with us!'

The second guard kicked aside the table between himself and the Vircanian. He charged forward bravely to subdue the Vircanian. Seeing the guards coming at him, the Vircanian also got into a fighting posture. But before they could duke it out with each other, someone got there with haste.

'Stop now at this instant' screamed a middle-aged man with ginger, short hair hanging over a fine, wild face. Smart gray eyes, set well within their sockets. Dark stubble alluringly compliments his nose and leaves an intriguing memory of his reckless luck.