The Wandering God

45 Engraved In One's Heart And Carved On One's Bones 2/2

A cough brought his eyes down. The wrinkled barmaid stood there, so much shorter than him she barely came up to his belt.

"A friend a' yours is in the courtyard," the woman said. "Asked if I could get you."

Zakhar frowned. Friend? He grabbed his jacket and tried to put it on, arm missing the sleeve twice before it slid home. The other arm was even harder.

He didn't have any friends. Unless...

He swayed, then jerked out the door, stumbling past the old woman and down the hall.

It couldn't be...

The narrow staircase almost ended him. The steps rose up to meet his feet too quickly or sank away from them like waves on a treacherous sea. Zakhar stumbled down them, saved from falling headfirst only by his large hands braced against the wall.

The bar downstairs was empty of patrons, and the fire had burned low, suggesting it was later than Zakhar had realized.

How did she find me? Zakhar fought between excitement at seeing Ao again and terror at the thought of having to confront her.

How can I convince her to leave? She is not safe with me. I need to trick her into-

Zakhar shuddered to a stop in the doorway to the courtyard, vision whirling after his quick movement.

A tall figure stood there. Too tall to be Ao. Zakhar recognized him as one of the men who had been watching him from the corner of the tavern the day before. One of the men who had stared at his tattoos.

The man had a sharp look to him, with eyes that shone like flint.

"You're not my friend," Zakhar said, disgruntled.

"No," the man said reasonably. "But we could be friends. Do you think you could help me?"

Zakhar swayed one step, then another, catching a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. "How-"

Suddenly a weight hit him between the shoulder blades, driving him toward the ground. Zakhar stumbled under it, recognizing it as a knee. He reached back to pull off whoever had just landed on his back—

—and fell forward as the snare he had not noticed coiled around his feet.

Zakhar hit the stones of the courtyard, hard. Near all the breath was forced from his body, with the impact, and the rest of it followed as the knee drove him down.

Before he could recover from his shock, bonds looped around his wrists, tying them securely behind his back.

"You see, the Green Throne just issued a bounty for the Black Lord's men. 50 gold for a hand, and 100 gold if we take you alive," the flint-eyed man said, crouching in Zakhar's eye line.

Zakhar tried to still his circling vision. Wait 50 gold for a head or a hand, that meant-

The flint-eyed man laughed as a rough cloth gag was forced into Zakhar's mouth. "Yep, you guessed it. You're worth as much to us dead as alive." He gestured to his men. "Get him up!"

The two other men Zakhar had seen the day before heaved Zakhar to his unsteady feet. One, a small man with a long moustache, led Dunya from the stables. The other, a big man near the size of Zakhar with the look of the northern tribes, heaved Zakhar across the saddle.

"Here are his things," the old barmaid said from the door. She handed over Zakhar's saddle bag and half-drunk bottle of liquor. "Are you sure he's dangerous? He seemed like such a nice young man."