The late afternoon sun was an open wound on the horizon, bleeding shades of orange and purple over the treetops, while the horse carrying Alistair and Lucius trotted heavily along the dirt road. Alistair's head throbbed to the rhythm of the hooves, a persistent drum reminding him every second of the price of playing with gunpowder and soldiers.
– What actually happened in that tower, lad? – Alistair asked, his voice rasping as if he'd swallowed sand. – I remember the flash, the world tilting... and then the void.
– You had the vacant stare of a cow looking at a palace, Alistair – the boy replied, with a bluntness permitted only by youth or terror. – You went down like a felled oak. It was Marcus who hoisted you up and lugged you like a sack of potatoes through the kitchen tunnels while the stone and smoke tried to bury us all.
Lucius detailed the desperate escape, the earthen walls groaning above their heads and the hot breath of the enemy just paces away. To ensure the pursuit ended there, in the bowels of the fortress, Hector had used his last resort: a barrel of black powder, left at the mouth of the tunnel as a parting promise. The blast, according to Lucius, had sealed the path with the weight of a mountain, turning the tunnel into a rocky tomb and ensuring the group could reach the safety of a tavern forgotten by men and gods alike.
When the first lights of Boschetto emerged through the night mist, the village looked like little more than a cluster of thatched roofs and bad company. Under a sky turning a deep, funereal blue, they came across a figure that would have made a bard weep – either with laughter or pity.
A man was leaning against the stone wall of a dodgy-looking tavern, his head slumped on his chest and his legs sprawled in the mud. He was snoring with such violence that the very stones of the structure seemed to vibrate in unison with his chest. It was a guttural, rhythmic, deafening sound that echoed through the silence of the village.
Alistair halted the horse and observed the creature, one eyebrow rising in an arc of pure disdain.
– By all the plains of the Underworld! – Alistair muttered, brushing the travel dust from his doublet. – Look at this, Lucius. If the royal army had heard this racket back in Verdejante, they'd never have needed bombards to bring our walls down; they could've just strapped this man to a catapult and let him have a nap against the ramparts.
Lucius approached with the hesitation of one who doesn't want to wake a wounded bear. He lightly touched the man's shoulder, whispering soft words that the night wind swept away. The result was merely a new snore, deeper and more cavernous than the last.
Alistair let out an impatient sigh, feeling the mud of Boschetto seep into the cracks of his boots. Without further warning, he delivered a well-aimed kick to the soles of the man's boots. The impact made the stranger bolt upright, arms flailing and curses sputtering, his eyes red and bleary from drink, searching for an enemy he couldn't focus on.
– Who... who's the brave cock-sucker who dares interrupt my rest? – the man roared, his voice sounding like the groan of a rusted iron gate.
– I'm looking for Silvio Cardo – Alistair said, crossing his arms and keeping his hand discreetly on the hilt of his sword. – I was told I'd find him in Boschetto, though they didn't mention this was a village made of shite and by shite.
The stranger let out a belch that reeked of sour wine and wiped the spit from his chin with a trembling hand.
– Cardo? You're looking at him, mercenary. And if you've come to collect debts, my surname is the only thing of value I've got left, and I won't give it to you even if you carve out my guts.
Alistair opened his mouth for a sarcasm-laden retort, but Lucius stepped forward, placing himself between the two. The boy knew that if Alistair kept talking, there was a chance the conversation would end in blood or more mud.
– Hector Duvall sent us – Lucius said, his voice clear and firm under the twilight sky. – The Brigade has fallen, but the dog still lives and wants to gather the pack, Master Cardo, and he says your place is by his side.
At the mention of Hector's name, Silvio let out a bitter laugh that ended in a coughing fit.
– Hector? That son of a goat and the shite it drops? – Silvio spat to the side in a gesture of old contempt. – He always had a knack for attracting disaster like honey and shite attract flies.
The fallen noble tried to stand, supporting himself against the wall with filthy nails. He looked at the horizon, where the darkness was devouring what remained of the light.
– Tell your pack-master that the Cardo blood still flows, but it doesn't flow for free – he hissed, his eyes suddenly sharpened by fury through the fog of drunkenness. – I have conditions. First, I'm too pissed to tell a friend from a spit, and this cheap wine is claiming its toll; I need a bed that isn't made of stone and mud. Second, and most importantly... the gods have forgotten this land. Bandits took my brother. They made off with him into the scrub like wolves with a lamb.
Silvio Cardo straightened up, the pride of a near-dead lineage glinting for an instant beneath the filth.
– I won't take a single step toward Hector Duvall while my blood is in the hands of scum. Rescue my brother, or go back to your captain and tell him the last of the Cardos would rather die lying in this mud than serve a man who can't protect his own.
Alistair let out a sigh that seemed to carry the entire weight of Verdejante's walls. The mercenary ran a hand over his face, feeling a crust of dried sweat, and looked at the sky, where stars were beginning to appear like pins of ice on a velvet shroud.
– Damn the poets – he growled, his voice heavy with bilious bitterness. – They sing about the glory of rebellion and the fire of liberty, but they forget to mention the bloody logistics. A traitor's life takes much more work than the songs make out. No one mentions that to save a kingdom, you first have to lug drunks through the mud and hunt bandits in thickets that smell of wolf piss.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself be swept away by a stabbing longing for the days when his biggest worry was an open window to escape a betrayed husband or a debt collector with little patience. Back then, the world was small, manageable, and didn't involve the fate of crowns or the rescue of noblemen who stank of vinegar. Now, the royal army of Aureliana was on his heels, and his only hope lay in a man who could barely stay upright.
With a gesture that reeked of physical agony, Alistair reached for the leather pouch hidden beneath his doublet. His face contorted as his fingers found the cold, smooth surface of one of his precious six silver coins. To a man like Alistair, metal had a soul; each coin was a shield against hunger, a promise of a night of luxury, or the bribe needed to keep his head on his shoulders.
He pulled the coin out, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Under the flickering light of the tavern lantern, the silver gleamed with a silent malice. Alistair looked at it with the tragic tenderness of a father saying goodbye to a son sent to war.
– Go in peace, my little one – he whispered, his voice thick. – May the innkeeper treat you better than luck has treated me.
The payment secured them a room on the upper floor, a cubicle where the ceiling was low enough that Marcus had to walk doubled over and the walls had cracks that let in the biting night wind. No sooner had they entered than Silvio collapsed onto the straw mattress with the grace of a slaughtered ox. Before Lucius could even pull the noble's filthy boots off, the concert began.
It wasn't just snoring; it was a phenomenon of nature. The sound emerging from Silvio's throat was a cross between the groan of a wine press and the roar of a dragon with bones stuck in its gullet. The wooden floor vibrated, and dust fell from the ceiling beams with every cavernous exhalation.
Alistair and Lucius sat on the floor, leaning against the opposite wall, wrapped in their thin cloaks. Sleep was an impossibility in the face of such a sonic storm.
– Sounds like a pack of dogs fighting over a carcass inside an iron barrel – Lucius murmured, eyes wide with astonishment.
Alistair let out a short, dry laugh, feeling the absurdity of the situation erode his irritation.
– You're being generous, lad. To me, that sounds more like an orc trying to play the bagpipes using nothing but its stomach.
– Or maybe – Lucius countered, trying to stifle a laugh with his sleeve –, it's the sound of all the Cardo lies trying to get out of his mouth at once, but getting snagged on his teeth.
– No – Alistair corrected, looking at Silvio's silhouette in the gloom. – It's the sound of a bombard that's decided that instead of spitting stones, it would rather recite Solterran poems while choking on mud. It's a rare talent. If the bandits don't kill him, his own chest will eventually implode from the bloody effort.
And there, in the midst of penury, surrounded by the smell of mould and the uncertainty of tomorrow, the mercenary and the boy continued to compete over who could find the most credible story for the cacophony before them, their low voices and stifled laughter serving as the only shield against the darkness surrounding them.