Authors: Sam Barone
Esk kar calmly drew his sword, but kept the tip pointing toward the ground as he crossed the five paces that separated him from Naxos. The man’s eyes stared up at the roof, looking at the three men aiming arrows at his chest. He didn’t even react when Esk kar raised the blade and held it against his stomach. Instead, Naxos looked down at the sword as if he’d never seen such a weapon before.
“All of you men,” Esk kar called out, “don’t move. Throw down your weapons. Anyone who draws a sword dies here in the dirt.” Nothing happened. The guards seemed rooted to the ground. Most of them still stared at the archers above them.
“Now!” Esk kar barked the command savagely. His voice broke the spell, and in a moment the dull sound of weapons striking the dirt was heard.
Esk kar looked into Naxos’s eyes and saw fear replace the shock of seeing the line of bowmen. Esk kar gave him no more time, either to speak or to act, thrusting the sword deep into the man’s belly. A grunt of pain and astonishment escaped from Naxos’s lips even as he tried to grasp the blade that pierced him. Viciously, Esk kar turned the blade, wrenching another groan from Naxos’s open mouth, then jerked it from his body.
Blood spurted everywhere, escaping through the man’s hands as he tried to cover the fatal wound, sagging to his knees as his legs gave way, then falling hard on his back, one leg under him, the other twitching in the dust. Naxos tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. Even before he died, Esk kar’s men had moved, closing to within striking distance of the guards.
Stooping down, Esk kar wiped his sword on the dying man’s tunic, ignoring his death sounds and twitches. Esk kar even changed hands and cleaned his right hand and arm, both spattered with the blood gushing from the man’s stomach. None of Naxos’s men moved or said a word.
Esk kar returned his blade to its scabbard. Turning his back on the cowed guards, Esk kar faced the frightened villagers who’d hung back behind him, hoping to see some excitement. They, too, stood rooted in place and stunned into silence.
“I do not like to be called a barbarian,” Esk kar said, his voice carrying down the lane. “Nor do my men like to hear their commander so addressed.”
He turned to Gatus. “Gather their weapons and keep them quiet.”
Trella had stopped a few paces behind Gatus and his men. Esk kar called her name, and she followed him as he pushed past the still - shocked bodyguards. They walked through the open gate and entered the spacious garden that separated Nicar’s house from the street.
The door stood slightly ajar and unattended, and they entered without knocking. Once inside, Esk kar realized that no one was aware of what had happened in the lane outside. The house servants, busy waiting on Nicar’s guests, had no time for events in the always noisy lane.
Trella held his arm for a moment, took a scrap of cloth from her pocket, moistened it in her mouth, and wiped a drop of blood from his cheek and another from his arm. She examined him carefully for any other blood traces. Her face looked pale and her hands shook a little, but her eyes showed no panic. He guessed she had never seen men die like that.
“Killing people is never pretty,” he kept his words low, so only she could hear. “If I hadn’t killed him, he’d have challenged my authority every day.” He touched her arm for a moment. “Can you still face what may come inside?”
She nodded.
They turned at the sound of footsteps to find Creta coming toward them.
“Good day, Esk kar,” she glanced at Trella, then stared more closely, noting her new dress. “Come this way, they’re waiting for you. You’re already late.”
“Good day, Creta,” Esk kar answered, nodding his head. “We’ll follow you.”
Creta stopped abruptly, and Esk kar spoke before she could protest.
“Nicar said I should use Trella to assist me, and I need her with me.” He kept his voice firm and hard.
Without a word, Creta turned and led them to the same room where he’d dined with Nicar. She knocked once, then opened the door. Esk kar and Trella moved past her, and she shut the door behind them.
Today the room looked different, set up for business rather than dinner. Gone were the soft chairs and cushions used for dining. Another table had been brought from somewhere and joined to the one Nicar and Esk kar had eaten from last evening, forming a large expanse of wood that nearly filled the room. The scent of wine hung in the air, noticeable even over the thick spray of jasmine in the far corner of the room, set there to mask the odors of so many men in such a confined space.
Ten men sat around the table: the leaders of the Five Families, each accompanied by an eldest son or a trusted advisor. Nicar sat at the head of the table, with Nobles Rebba and Decca to his right. The two cousins owned several shops and many of the boats that plied the river. Drigo and Nestor took the other side. Nestor owned most of the large farms surrounding the village.
One empty stool at the foot of the table remained and Esk kar crossed to it, and bowed low to the assembly. His doubts had vanished. The killings in the lane committed him fully, and he could not turn aside. He had to leave this room as captain of the guard. Otherwise he’d be lucky to get out of Orak with his skin intact. Drigo would certainly put a price on his head for killing Naxos. Esk kar realized he had one, although temporary, advantage—no one in the room knew what had happened outside, that their guards had been disarmed and now sat in the dirt under the soldiers’
control.
“Noble Nicar, I come at your request.” He looked at the other men, and noted the brief look of surprise on Drigo’s face. “Greetings to you all.”
Trella had stressed that he be polite at all times and keep his temper in check, no matter what provocation or disagreement might arise.
“Your slave does not belong here,” Drigo said, though the meeting was supposedly under Nicar’s control. “This is the meeting of the Five Families, and we follow our customs. Women and slaves are not permitted.”
Drigo had recovered quickly from his surprise. Strange, Esk kar thought, yesterday he would have been in awe of the noble’s authority. Now he was merely an obstacle to be overcome.
“Nobles, I’m a simple soldier. I have no training or memory to speak with you. My slave is here to remember what we discuss, so that I don’t forget anything of importance.”
“My father told you to send the slave away.” These words came from Drigo the Younger. A few years ago, as a young bully, he had terrorized the weaker children with his fists. Now he’d reached manhood and considered himself a leader of men. Taller and broader than his father, he had nineteen seasons. Three men who had offended him died mysteriously, murdered in the night. At least two others had died by young Drigo’s own hand.
His words brought stern glances from the other leaders, and Esk kar guessed only the elders could speak freely.
“She stays with me,” Esk kar answered firmly. “Or I can go if you wish.”
The first test of wills, even as Trella had foretold. One of the leaders looked to Drigo, the other two glanced at Nicar. Esk kar stood there at ease, his hands relaxed at his sides. Trella remained two paces behind him, eyes down.
“And where would you go, Esk kar,” countered Drigo, ignoring his son’s comments. “Back to the barbarians from whence you came? Perhaps we should send you to them.”
“Today the wind blows in many directions, Noble Drigo,” Esk kar answered. “But I thought the Families wished to defend Orak. If that’s not true, merely say so, and I’ll leave you to your business. Fighting men can always find work in these troubled times.”
“You’re an impudent dog,” snarled Drigo the Younger. “I’ve a mind to have you thrown out into the street.”
This time the reaction came from Nicar. “Drigo, your son speaks out of turn. If he cannot restrain his tongue, perhaps it would be best if he left the room.” Nicar glanced around the table, and the others nodded their agreement.
“My son will keep silent,” Drigo responded, “but I will not. We don’t need this ‘soldier.’ We cannot resist the barbarians in any case.”
Several members of the Families began speaking, but Esk kar’s voice sounded clearly over theirs. “Nobles, if you don’t wish to fight, then your village will be destroyed. The barbarians will tear your houses down to the ground and burn everything they don’t toss into the river. Or you can resist them, drive them off, and save your village. The choice is yours, and you must make it today.”
His words silenced them momentarily. Esk kar looked around the table and saw doubt in their eyes, mixed with confusion at the boldness of a man they’d thought of only as a common soldier. He went on before they could say anything.
“Whatever you choose, the people are waiting to hear your words. I told them you would speak to them today. So you’ll have to decide now. If you tell them the nobles are not going to resist, many will begin to leave. Once gone, they won’t come back. And so you’ll all have to leave, taking what you can carry, crossing the river, and hoping to avoid the barbarians.”
“You had no right to speak to the people,” Noble Rebba said, speaking for the first time. “Only the Families can speak for Orak.” Noble Decca nodded in agreement.
“The villagers know the barbarians are coming,” Esk kar answered, keeping temper and voice under control. “They know Ariamus took men and horses as well as all he could carry before he fled. They know that I’m meeting with you now. If you don’t say something today, many more will go, including myself and the rest of the soldiers. No one will stay here guarding your wealth until it’s too late to escape. So Orak will fall in a few weeks, months before the barbarians arrive. When you leave here, I think you’ll find that many things have changed.”
He looked at Nicar for a moment. “As I said, if you don’t want me to defend the village, say so, and I’ll be gone. I don’t need to risk my life defending Orak.”
“Nothing can stop the barbarians, Esk kar,” answered Nestor, the oldest member of the Families. Nestor had lived in and around Orak even longer than Nicar. Nestor resided in one of the large farms that ringed the village. “You should know that, more than any of us.”
“Noble Nestor, I believe they can be stopped, and that I know how to stop them. As I discussed with Nicar, it can be done. But it’s only possible if we start now, and only if everyone puts their hearts and backs into it.
The villagers must believe Orak can resist, or they’ll leave.”
“We don’t need the villagers,” Drigo answered easily. “We rule here, and we decide what is to become of Orak.”
“You may rule here, but the people of the village give you power,”
Esk kar countered. “Without the craftsman, the baker, the winemaker, the tavern keeper, even the farmers in the fields, what will you do? Make your own bread, plant crops yourself, rule over your own family?”
“There are other villages,” Drigo said, sure of himself, still speaking down to Esk kar.
“Yes, and they have their own rulers,” Esk kar said, recalling Trella’s words. “You’d have to buy your way into them. Perhaps you would not find yourself a noble in your new village.”
“We can start our own village,” said Drigo the Younger, ignoring the admonishment to keep silent. “We don’t need the villagers here for that.”
Esk kar laughed. “Yes, ruler of a dung heap of fifty or a hundred people. Here is the river, fertile soil, trade with the other villages, hundreds of tradesmen, and crafts of many kinds. Where else can you find all that?”
“Keep silent, my son,” the elder Drigo said, glancing at his heir. “But my son’s words have truth in them. We can return here after the barbarians have gone.”
“True, you can start over again,” Esk kar replied, mentally thanking Trella for her foresight. So far they had said nothing she hadn’t anticipated.
“Of course, the barbarians will return again in another five or ten years.
Or perhaps other strangers may come, and maybe they will be interested in being rulers of a new Orak.” Esk kar looked at Nicar and saw him leaning back in his chair, at ease, clearly enjoying the debate as he gauged the faces of the other leaders.
“But I don’t want to waste your time, Nobles,” Esk kar went on. “And I don’t think it is my place to explain to you the value of a village the size of Orak.” He stumbled a little with the words, trying to get the sense that Trella had voiced. But they didn’t seem to notice his lapse.
“Perhaps we should ask Esk kar to tell us how he plans to stop the barbarians,” Nicar said quietly. He waited a moment, but no one spoke.
“Please sit, Esk kar. Would you care for some wine?”
Esk kar sat down, mindful of the sword at his waist that no one seemed to have noticed. “Water, Noble Nicar. My slave will fetch it.” He nodded to Trella. She went to the water jug standing on a side table and filled a cup, then placed it in front of him.
“Wine for me, slave,” sneered Drigo the Younger, sliding his cup hard across the table toward Trella. She caught it deftly before it could fall over the edge.
She looked at Esk kar, her face expressionless, and he nodded. “Wine for Master Drigo,” Esk kar repeated, even as he decided he would kill the young fool for the insult. Some hint of his thoughts must have crept into his voice, because all eyes turned toward him, including those of the elder Drigo, as if they sensed something beneath his words.
“No, no more wine for my son,” Drigo said, his tone somewhat more cautious. “We’re finished here. The rest of you can waste your time talking about stopping the barbarians, but in the end, you’ll all be leaving the village.” He stood up, his son joining him. “I have more important things to attend to.”
Esk kar smiled tolerantly at Drigo’s son, even as he saw the dagger under the young man’s tunic when he stood.
No one else left their seats. Father and son started for the door, but the youngest couldn’t resist the urge to speak one more time. He stopped a few steps from Esk kar. “And barbarian, you’d better watch your tongue, or you’ll find it gone from your head.”
Trella’s musical laugh surprised everyone, including Esk