Гарри Тертлдав - The First Heroes

Kreuha nodded with stiff dignity; just then two more men and a woman dressed alike in the blue clothes came up. They had a horse with them, and tossed the corpse onto its back with brisk efficiency.

"I have gold," he pointed out. "Cannot gold be bartered here?"

Eric Iraiinisson nodded. "While it lasts," he said.

Kreuha saw eyes upon him. This tavern was full of men who looked a little less alien than the smooth folk of the upper town; there he'd noticed stares and smiles at his dress and manner. Here there was a dense fog of sweat and woodsmoke from the hearth, and plain rushes on packed dirt below, and plain stools and benches. He had feasted well on beef roasted with some spice that bit the tongue, and beer that was good though strange. Now a man had offered to pay for his drink; he knew of coined money, but such was rare and precious in his tribe still, not something to be casually thrown about on an evening's bowsing. Still, the amber drink was whiskey, something that only the High Reghix had tasted at home . . .

"I will drink, if you will drink with me again afterward," he said. "Drink from my bounty. I have gold!" Remember that whiskey is more potent than beer, he reminded himself. Still, it couldn't be much stronger than ice-mead, and his belly was full of bread and meat to sop it up.

"Arktorax thanks you," the man said, then grinned at him and tossed off the small shot-glass, breathed out satisfaction, then followed it with a long swallow of beer. Kreuha imitated the stylish snap of the wrist, throwing the amber liquid at the back of his throat.

"Ail" he wheezed a moment later, when he'd stopped coughing. "What do you make this out of, dragon's blood?" "Barley," Arktorax laughed; he fit his name of Lord Bear, being bear-tall and thick. "It's made from barley. But if it's too strong for you—" Kreuha's fist thumped the table. "By He of the Long Spear, nothing's too strong for a Keruthinii of the Wolf clan! I've drunk the vats dry and danced all night, at our festivals." He soothed his throat with a long draught of the beer. It made a pleasant coolness after the fire of the whiskey, but the flame had turned to a comfortable warmth by now. "That's the problem with being a Keruthinii," he went on, signaling to the wench who served the tables. "You're so tough and hardy you can't get drunk." His new friend laughed long and loud. "Are you boasting, or complaining?" he said, and tossed off his glass in turn.

Kreuha missed the considering look in his eye, and the glance he exchanged with the impassive figure behind the plank bar. Instead he laughed himself, until the tears ran from his eyes. The next whiskey went down far more smoothly than the first, and tasted good: there was a peaty, sweetish flavor to it he hadn't noticed the first time. That called for another beer, and when it came he stood, swaying a little.

"Drinks for all!" he said. A roar of approval went up, bringing a flush of happiness to his cheeks. Everlasting fame was the warrior's reward. "Let no man say Blood Wolf son of Horse Master son of Stone Fist is a niggard with sword-won gold!"

"Sword-won?" Arktorax said. "Aye!" Kreuha shouted. "Gold won by winning a sword!" He was also accounted something of a poet, at home. "Listen and I will tell you of how I won it, bare-handed against a wizard blade—"

He was half-chanting it by the time he was finished, and men crowded around to slap him on the back and shout their admiration. A fine lot, a fine lot, he thought a trifle blurrily. His boon companion looked a little wary when he mentioned the black warrior-woman, but not everyone could be as stout in the face of the unknown as Blood Wolf. "—and so I came here, that men might know of my deeds," he said.

"So you're the one who killed Frank Athadaursson with one blow of his foot!" a woman said admiringly. "You must be a real man, beard or no . . ."

Hours later he lay with his head on his hands in the quiet of the near-deserted tavern, giggling occasionally. His stomach threatened to rebel, but even that thought was funny. . . . His eyes crossed as he watched his own reflection in the glass before him. It was that that saved him, an image of an arm raised behind him.

Reflex pushed him to one side, falling to the rushes of the floor as the small leather sack of lead shot cracked down on the beer-stained wood of the table rather than the back of his head. He lay gaping as the barkeeper turned and raised the cosh again, then lashed out with one foot. By purest luck that plowed into the fat man's groin, and he doubled over in uncontrollable response. Kreuha scrabbled away on his backside, as the woman and his friend Arktorax—the man he'd thought was his friend—came at him with ropes and a canvas hood.

His back hit the rough brickwork of the wall, and he scrabbled upright, lashing out left and right with his fists. Another man's fist thudded into the tough muscle of his belly, and he felt the night's drinking and the long-ago meal leave in a rush of sour bile. That saved him; Arktorax stepped back with an exclamation of disgust, and Kreuha turned and turned again along the wall, as if he were rolling down a slope. His hand found the latch and he fell forward with a splash into a muddy street under a thin cold rain that shook him back to the edge of consciousness. He rose, plastered with a thin layer of earth and horsedung churned to gray slime, and turned to meet the rush from the tavern, trying to scream out the war-howl of his clan.

Where is my axe? he thought. Where—

Shadowy figures rushed at him. He lashed out with a fist, head-butted an opponent who tried to grapple with him, then screamed with shocked pain at what that did to his drink-fuddled head. Blows landed on him in turn, many, more than he could begin to count and from all directions. He went down again, and feet slammed into body and head—feet encased in hard leather boots. Instinctively he curled himself into a ball and covered his head with his arms.

Blackness, shot through with the sound of a whistle.

Kreutha came back to consciousness slowly. He recognized the symptoms—splitting headache, nausea, blurred vision—of a bad hangover combined with being thumped on the head. The place where he woke was utterly unfamiliar; there were strange shouts, metallic clangs, stenches. And bright light, light that hurt like spears in his eyes. Despite that he opened them—and saw a cage of iron bars not far away, with men inside gripping the metal with their hands. He bolted straight upright, letting the blanket fall away—

"Easy friend, easy!" said a voice in his own language.

Blood Wolf looked around, blinking and squinting and holding up a hand against the light of the bright mirror-backed coal-oil lamps. The voice came from Eric Iraiinisson, still dressed all in blue, jacket and trousers. A hand rested on his revolver, and Kreutha forced himself to wariness. Then he noticed that he was outside the cage, unbound, and that a corridor led to a door that swung open and closed as folk passed by. A woman dressed in blue like the man sat behind a table, writing on many papers before her; even then Kreutha shuddered a little at the casual display of magic. The Alban traders he'd met had carried revolvers, some of them . . . but the knowledge of writing on paper had proved to be a weapon nearly as strong and far harder to understand. He'd heard that the priests of the wizard-folk would teach it to those who took the water-oath to their God. It might almost be worth it.

"You're safe here," the man in blue said. In English, he continued: "I'm chief policeman of the dockside station . . . in your language . . . hard to say. I guard the peace in this area. I found you in the street."

I am safe, Blood Wolf thought; and with that the nausea came back, redoubled. It showed on his face.

"The bucket, use the bucket!"