Son of Cayn Read online

  Lucky shrugged and said, “Sure, but you’re not going to get points for following directions.”

  The line of men at the gate moved slowly. It was late afternoon before the last of them finally made it inside the compound and to the door of the small office.

  Everyone in the courtyard turned and watched as a charcoal-skinned giant, who stood more than seven feet tall, stepped up to the open office door. He wore a plain leather mask partially concealed behind long, heavily-oiled black locks. Before entering, he reached around and cinched one of the large straps around his waist. It supported a massive, double-headed battle-axe with curved blades similar to a labrys. The long steel haft, wrapped in worn strips of brown leather, hung down almost to the ground.

  * * *

  The door shut behind the masked man with an ominous click. A single candle lit the room, feeding the shadows more than giving off light. Behind an ornately-carved mahogany desk sat a small, pale man with a boyish face and short, brown hair. His dark eyes studied the large man intently. The giant stepped forward.

  “What’s your name?” the slight man asked in a soft voice.

  “Grendel,” the giant growled.

  “Time to get out of town?”

  Grendel shrugged.

  “Take off your mask and tunic.”

  Grendel hesitated but did as told, revealing a heavily-muscled torso of flat, grayish-black.

  The small man stood and walked around his desk, saying, “My name is Sachin. It will be my decision to hire you or not. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Grendel replied, his eyes following the path of the small man.

  “I’m looking for someone to be my bodyguard. The teamsters get half a silver lev for every mile they travel; I’m willing to pay twice that. But understand, you would work for me—not Dragahn. Agreed?”

  Grendel nodded.

  Sachin walked behind Grendel and came around the other side. “I have some experience with mixed breeds like you. It’s been a while, and not all those experiences have been good.” He studied Grendel like a piece of meat, taking note of every feature, every scar, and noticed how his eyes shined with a glint of purple in the low light.

  “Your eyes are an odd color for a half-orc. I have never seen their like before.” Sachin pursed his lips in thought and said, “I would guess your father was an orcné ... maybe something more, but your mother was definitely human. You have her eyes. Interesting. Tell me, half-orc, do you see the world through your father’s eyes or your mother’s?”

  Grendel tensed at the casual mention of his mother without answering. Not knowing how.

  “Kneel,” Sachin commanded.

  Again, Grendel hesitated but complied.

  Sachin stepped in front of Grendel and stared intently at his face. It was heavy browed, with thick features that were bestial in appearance. Below his eyes was a broad, flat nose that had been broken in his youth and never set, giving him an asymmetrical appearance. A set of ape-like canines protruded up past his lower lip. “You have the markings of both eotenas and orcnéas,” Sachin said quietly to himself, taking a step back but continuing his observations.

  “You know more about me than I do,” Grendel commented.

  “Like I said, I have some experience with mixed breeds. Based upon your height and obvious strength, I would say you have some eoten blood in you. Makes for a nasty combination, doesn’t it? Have you ever feasted on human flesh?”

  “No,” Grendel rumbled.

  “Ever wanted to?”

  “No,” Grendel replied, a little less confident this time.

  A slight smile escaped Sachin as he stepped back. “You are obviously not afraid of fighting; some of your scars are deep. You’ve been tended by a skilled healer, and you’ve never tasted human flesh. What kind of half-orc are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hwæt syndon gé?” Sachin asked.

  Grendel looked at him, not comprehending.

  “You are not from any of the local tribes. Where are you from? And don’t lie to me.”

  Grendel didn’t say anything. He simply stared at the carvings on the desk.

  “Tell me,” Sachin urged.

  “I am from J’Bel.”

  “Is that a family name or the name of your tribe?”

  “I have no tribe; no family,” Grendel said with finality. He stood—one way or the other the interview was over.

  “Well, son of Cayn, can you handle yourself in a fight?”

  * * *

  Outside, all the workers and stable hands had stopped what they were doing and formed a ring around five armed men who stood in the center of the courtyard. They were just starting to lay wagers when Sachin escorted Grendel out of the office. Jasper, Lucky, and Dragahn stood back from the crowd, watching from a distance.

  After taking his axe, Sachin motioned for Grendel to step inside the circle.

  “Gentlemen, this is the final part of the interview,” Sachin announced, addressing the crowd. “This is simply a test of skill and fitness—not a fight to the death. Each of you must face the others without weapons, dressed as you are. The last man standing will be chosen for the job. If you wish to remove yourself from the competition, now is your chance.”

  One of the teamsters entered the ring to collect the weapons. The men in the circle had time to size each other up, calculating odds, but when the masked half-orc stepped into their midst, they instinctively huddled together. As the teamster passed, one warrior threw up his hands and said, “I’m outta here. You can have it.”

  After the first candidate left, three more followed. Everyone wondered if anyone had the courage to fight the giant until two grizzled-looking veterans stepped forward. One wore a brown and green leather tunic riveted with steel studs and heavy leather breeches. The other wore a hodgepodge of ornate bronze plate armor, steel chain, and black leather, and on his head, he wore an open-faced steel helmet. Covering his hands were a pair of black leather gloves with small bronze plates sewn onto the backs and around the knuckles.

  Both men kept their eyes fixed on Grendel.

  Sachin gave a quick nod, and the two veterans spread out, trying to flank the large half-orc. Grendel stood his ground in the middle of the circle, reading his opponents. They were both experienced fighters, but they hadn’t fought together before. While their numbers gave them a slight advantage, they probably would not work well as a team. At least, that was what Grendel hoped.

  Yelling, the one in brown and green leather rushed forward but found the giant waiting for him. The warrior feinted to the left, dodging under Grendel’s swing. He drifted forward and to the right, striking Grendel with a flurry of small rabbit punches to the body.

  Grendel surged like an onrushing wave, and the warrior leapt back in a vain attempt to get outside the half-orc’s reach. Lashing out with a kick, Grendel caught his opponent a glancing blow to the hip. It was just a touch, but the force behind it was enough to send him spinning.

  With Grendel distracted, the one in bronze armor attacked from behind and landed a heavy punch to the kidney. Grendel bellowed as he swung around, catching the man with the back of his hand, causing the helmet to ring like a bell. The man stumbled, dazed.

  Grendel advanced on the man in bronze armor.

  With a mighty leap, the man in studded leather pushed hard against Grendel’s back, shoving him forward. Using the other’s momentum, the warrior in bronze plowed a swift punch into the giant’s forehead. Reinforced by the bronze-plates of his gauntlet, it snapped the half-orc’s head backward with a loud, meaty thud and sliced through the thin mask.

  Grendel saw stars. He lurched to one side and brought up his forearms to shield his face from his attackers.

  Using the giant’s body to hide his actions from the crowd, the man in studded leather grabbed Grendel with one hand and pulled a small dirk with the other.

  Grendel felt more than saw it. He jerked, deftly catching the leather clad warrior with his elbow. Blood spattere
d the crowd as the man flew back and landed in the dirt. The knife skittered across the yard with a metallic scrape. Rough hands hauled the injured man out of the ring, leaving the remaining two combatants alone with one another.

  Grendel quickly rounded on the man in bronze plate. They circled each other, watching. Waiting.

  The man held his ground, which impressed the hell out of the crowd: he was at least a head shorter than the half-orc. More money exchanged hands as shouts of “kill the half-orc!” came from the back.

  Moving forward with his arms loose at his sides, Grendel slowly closed the gap between him and his opponent. The warrior, taking advantage of the opening, let out a shout and launched a right cross at Grendel’s head.

  With a sudden burst of speed, Grendel flowed with the punch and spun sideways, bringing up both his hands as if to block. With a quick flick of the wrist, Grendel’s massive right hand caught his opponent’s forearm and circled it around, turning the palm so that it faced up. Opening his left hand, he cupped the warrior’s fist and wrist and trapped it.

  Continuing with a rolling, twisting motion, Grendel locked his opponent’s wrist and pushed the man’s fingers down toward his own forearm. Steadily increasing the pressure, the bones in the man’s arm jammed, forcing him to the ground.

  When Grendel finished, the man was on his knees, pain contorting his features.

  “Do you yield?” Grendel growled, still holding the arm.

  The warrior slumped and nodded.

  Silence reigned. Everyone was stunned at how quickly Grendel took down the last warrior and the gracefulness of the motions he used to do it. Some clapped while others groaned, but from everywhere came the sound of money changing hands.

  “Someone find Pyotr!” a voice shouted.

  Sachin, holding the large axe, walked forward out of the crowd and stared at Grendel, an odd look on his face. “You bleed red, orcné, not black.”

  Grendel, who didn’t even know he was bleeding, raised his hand to his forehead. His fingers came back wet.

  Returning the axe, Sachin said, “See to that cut. You got the job.”

  A haggard man carrying a satchel rushed out of the stables. “Give me room!” he yelled as he shoved people aside.

  Everyone stepped back as Pyotr grabbed the man in studded leather by the head with both hands. The man was awake but still groggy. Bloody drool trailed down one side of his slack chin. Pyotr inspected the mouth; teeth were missing. Using his thumbs, he expertly set the jawbone back into place. Next, he took bandages from his satchel and wrapped them around the man’s head.

  “Does anybody know this man?” he asked loudly.

  “I do,” one of the warriors who had opted out of the fight replied.

  “Get him out of here,” he said, dismissing them.

  Finding the half-orc, Pyotr gestured toward the gash over Grendel’s eye and said, “Let me take a look at that.”

  “Are you a doctor?” Grendel asked thickly, his eyes shining in the evening light.

  “No. Now, shut up while I look at you.”

  Lucky, who had just walked up with Jasper, started laughing. “He’s our animal doctor. I wouldn’t trust him with serious injuries, like if you lost your arm or something, but he’s good in a pinch.”

  Pyotr looked sternly at Lucky but didn’t say anything. Grendel took off his mask and knelt so the doctor could minister to his cut. “This will need stitches to stop the bleeding . . . or I can cauterize it. Lucky, go get me some water.”

  Lucky thought a moment and then disappeared back into the main hall.

  “What can I do?” Jasper asked.

  “When Lucky gets back, you two hold him down. I need him to keep still.”

  Jasper looked incredulously at the doctor and then at Grendel, but before he could respond, Lucky showed up, carrying a bucket. In his hand, he also carried several semi-clean rags, which he gave to Pyotr. The doctor pulled a glass vial of clear liquid out of his satchel. He fished out a long needle and threaded it with some stiff horsehair. He placed them both into the vial, closed it, and shook it, making sure the hair was thoroughly saturated.

  “What’s your name, half-orc?” he asked, using a water-soaked rag to clean the wound.

  “Grendel.”

  “Mine’s Pyotr. I don’t know how much this is going to hurt. If you were one of us, I would recommend some of the chief’s hooch.” Lucky handed Pyotr a metal flask.

  “Where did you get this?” Pyotr asked. "If the chief knew you had this, he’d have you flayed.” He turned to Grendel, offering the flask. “Do you want this?”

  “No.”

  “Fine, then I’ll have some.” With that, he opened it and took a quick swig.

  “You two,” Pyotr said, pointing to Jasper and Lucky, “hold him down.” The two exchanged nervous looks as they gingerly gripped Grendel’s arms. “No, not like that … Tight! Hold him tight.”

  Pyotr took the needle and thread out of the vial. He started just beyond the wound and shoved the needle through the dark skin to the other side, pulled it as tightly as possible, tied the knot, and cut the thread. Pyotr repeated this six times, and through it all, Grendel never flinched.

  Next, the doctor took the half-orc’s plain, leather mask. Still damp with blood, it felt like cowhide but could have been bull. The leather was soft and well worn, making it easy to repair.

  Just as they were finishing, Dragahn walked over and said, “Grendel, if you are able, go see Sachin. He’s waiting for you in his office.” Grendel got up, put his mask back on, and walked off. When he was gone, Dragahn said to Jasper, “We will be using the next few days to do our final preparations. I won’t need you tomorrow, but it would be good for you to meet the men.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Cook that brisket I asked you to,” Dragahn said with a smile.

  * * * * *

  Encounters (October 11)

  The long shadow of Upper Pazard’zhik had just covered Lower Pazard’zhik when Jasper stopped at a nearby kruchma. Historic tapestries depicting different scenes of both daily life and glorious battles covered the brick walls. Like most kruchmi, the menu was extensive, providing choices for all tastes and fancies, from the simplest of stews to exotic chicken hearts with blue saffron. A duo in the corner played soft music. Throughout the tavern, the low ceiling was hung with varicolored sheets of sailcloth, pinned at the corners so when the door opened, the ceiling rippled and billowed. He found a place at the bar and ordered a small meal and a drink.

  Jasper had just started chewing when he heard, “Hey!” behind him. He turned and saw Lucky approaching through the crowd.

  “Have a seat,” Jasper said after swallowing. “You want me to order you something?”

  “No, can’t stay long ... running errands,” he answered.

  “For Dragahn?”

  “No, Sachin ... gives me the creeps ... from Upper Pazard’zhik,” Lucky said quietly, looking around to see who might be near. He continued in a rush, “I’m glad I found you. Chief told me to tell everyone that we’re leaving day after tomorrow ... Got our permits, need to get everything ready for the haul ... wants you to come in early tomorrow morning to load the chuck wagon ... Figures since you have to cook it, you can stock it.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Patting the new cook on the back, Lucky said, “Dovizhdane,” and disappeared outside.

  Jasper quickly finished his meal, guzzled his drink, and laid some coins on the bar. He walked down the street, away from Dragahn’s compound. The business traffic from earlier was gone, replaced by small groups of men who went from one noisy kruchma to another.

  He pulled his cloak tighter to ward off the evening chill. A mist was falling. One that caused the candles set in the windows of the open businesses to appear more like blotches of light.

  A voice spoke from a nearby shadow. “How did it go? I heard about the fight.” The words, though quiet, were distinct and held the odd lilt inherent with the langu
age of the elves.

  Jasper paused, ostensibly to fill and light his pipe, and replied in elven, “You know, it’s kind of spooky when you do that.” Then he said, “It went fine. We’re leaving day after tomorrow.”

  “We’ll be ready. You have a room in the inn across the way. Meet you in the morning.” Jasper didn’t say anything. He just walked to the inn across the street, surreptitiously dropping a small scrap of paper behind him.

  * * * * *

  Xandor and Chert (October 12)

  A distant clock bell echoed across the sleeping city of Lower Pazard’zhik. Two men wearing long, seal-gray cloaks, their hoods pulled up, walked down the street toward Dragahn’s compound. The first was a lean man who walked with a purposeful stride that could quickly eat up the miles. Peeking above his shoulders were the well-used, leather-bound hilts of two swords strapped across his back. The other was a stocky dwarf who almost came up to the man’s elbow. His thick, reddish-brown beard and mustache hid most of his face. Wild, bushy eyebrows stuck out in all directions and competed with his bulbous nose for prominence. A silver hammer dangled from a belt loop at his side.

  The mist was gone, but the slow-moving clouds obscured any light from the moon. Wrapped in his dark cloak, the taller man stopped in an alley across from the compound, letting the dwarf continue down the street alone.

  Completely immersed in shadow, the man stood silently, getting a feel for the airflows and watching for the occasional passerby.

  Picking his moment, he walked across the street. It was a casual walk until he reached the wall behind the warehouse, where he leapt and grabbed the top, hoping there wouldn’t be any broken glass or other nasty surprises. Heaving a mental sigh of relief when his fingers curled over smooth stone, he pulled himself up and perched briefly at the top. He listened to the rhythms of the night to determine if anyone had observed him.