Alexey Pehov - Chasers of the Wind

“It’s too hot.” He frowned. “With your permission, I’ll snoop around a bit. I might find something interesting.”

I shook my head doubtfully. “You’ll get caught.”

“Not likely. I just need a few minutes. I’ll catch up.”

“Leave him. We have our own concerns,” said Layen, and then she warned Harold, “Mind you, we won’t search or wait for you.”

He nodded and walked away from us. I followed him with my gaze and sighed. “We shouldn’t have let him go.”

“He might hinder us. Let him go.”

I frowned uncertainly. If he stumbled upon someone, it would definitely hinder us. But I didn’t argue. The next two rooms were empty, but there were three men in the parlor. One was standing idly by the door, and two were sitting by the fire at a small table laden with fruit. They were playing dice.

The lad at the door caught sight of me, opened his mouth in shock, and instantly got his throat slit. This guaranteed that he wouldn’t cry out and raise the alarm. Blood flowed in all directions from the ghastly wound in his neck that I’d made with the edge of my arrow. The guard fell to his knees and was dead a second later, laid out on the carpet that had muffled the fall of his heavy body. Layen’s crossbow snapped harshly and the man sitting with his back to us fell face-first into a bowl of Morassian grapes. For some reason, his companion threw his dice at us and then grabbed a short sword lying on the table. He jumped up—and died from a second arrow.

A few seconds and three corpses. None of the guards had a chance to make a sound. After seven years of retirement, we hadn’t lost our skills and we still worked seamlessly and quickly. Layen reloaded her crossbow and nodded toward the double doors made of oak with bronze handles, which led into Joch’s bedroom. Through the slits in her mask, her eyes shone with a hostile blue light.

I nodded in reply, took a new arrow from my quiver, rested it against the bowstring, and went to stand opposite the entrance. Layen walked over a corpse, trying not to step in the blood soaking into the carpet, and headed toward the bedroom. She took hold of the door handle and pushed the door open gently; then she gracefully slipped to the side, leaving the path free for me. After a moment I was in the room, which was fairly well lit with burning candles.

Joch was on an enormous bed with bloodred curtains and white sheets, too occupied by a red-haired girl to realize right away what was happening. The wench saw us first and squeaked in fear, shying away from us to the far corner of the bed, drawing a blanket up to her chin. Joch Threefingers, a tall, broad, middle-aged man with a handsome, refined face, a neat beard, and the yellow skin of a native of Urs, cursed filthily and then, catching sight of us, froze.

The masks didn’t fool him. He knew who had come to him and why. For several long seconds we looked at each other. Joch smiled crookedly with paled lips, sat down on the bed, and looked at me defiantly. He had decided to take revenge on me for severing two of his fingers; he took a risk, set his life against ours, and lost. I had nothing to say to him. No pompous, malevolent, or triumphant words. There was no need for it. He was a smart fellow and he read the verdict in my eyes.

I shot, hitting him in the heart. The arrow passed through his chest, and fine drops of blood fell onto the sheets and pillows. Threefingers fell onto his right side and died a moment later. The girl sniveled submissively.

“Don’t even think of screaming,” Layen told her sternly.

The girl squeezed her eyes tightly shut and whined softly, “Please don’t kill me. For Melot’s sake! I haven’t even seen your faces! I’d never recognize you. Please! Please! Have mercy on me!”

Layen went over to her and lightly struck her on the neck with the side of her palm. That was quite enough to make the red-haired girl lose consciousness for a long time and so we didn’t have to fear that she’d raise the entire house against us. I checked Joch’s body just in case. Convinced that he was really dead, I indicted to my sun that we should leave. We had nothing more to do here.

We found Harold in the parlor. The thief was leaning against the doorjamb, looking at the corpses lying in their own blood with gloomy interest.

“Not very clean work. It’ll never come out of the carpet. And you could easily get three hundred sorens for that one.”

“Enough yakking,” I said. “We can talk when we’re out of here.”

“As you wish. I just made a circuit of several of the deceased master’s rooms, may he rest in peace, so I can live without the carpet.”

We quickly made our way to the stairs and began to descend, but on the second floor luck turned her back on us. A door opened and two men ran right at us. The first, with a sword, was one of Joch’s thugs. The second looked very similar to Ga-Nor—a redheaded northerner.

Harold spun to the side and under the protection of our backs. Layen drove a bolt into the belly of the Son of the Snow Leopard, rightly considering him the more dangerous of the two. Despite the wound, he drew his sword, roared so loudly the ceiling rattled, and threw himself at us. Harold helped by shooting two bolts one after the other from behind our backs. Both men were on the floor, but they’d done their job, alerting the entire house.

With soft catlike steps another two redheads stepped out of their doors. A third northerner was coming up the stairs from the first floor.

Terrific!

The thief obviously didn’t plan on waiting for further developments and he took to his heels, choosing a somewhat unconventional path of retreat. Tossing the discharged crossbow, he dashed over to a window and leaped through it, and together with a hail of wooden framing and fragments of glass, fell somewhere outside. Given the fact that the second floor was fairly high up from the ground, Harold’s act could only be considered suicide. But he left this world beautifully, there’s no doubt about it. Even our opponents froze, completely stunned, for a moment.

I took advantage of that pause and shot down the one who was coming from below. One of the remaining warriors rushed at me with a roar. I raised my utak. Fortunately for me, the redhead slipped in the blood of his fallen comrade and fell to his knees, letting his guard down. My strike was glancing and not very strong, and the northerner, even though he was wounded, almost chopped off my legs with his sword. I had to dodge it and finish him off with a second blow.

When I was done with my opponent, I turned to Layen, but she was coping without my help. The redhead thought that a woman posed no threat to him. He grabbed her and lifted her up into the air.

Bad idea.

The dagger hidden in Layen’s left sleeve slipped into her hand, and she jammed her weapon right under her opponent’s chin. Then she pulled down sharply, ripping open his neck.

Somewhere on the floor above us alarmed cries rang out. Once we made it to the room on the ground floor, I threw a hefty little end table at the window. The glass burst with a resounding crash, and, slipping over the fragments underfoot, we leaped out.

The thief was not there. To be honest, I was expecting to see his body smashed to pieces, but all that remained on the ground was the twisted frame and broken glass. Our companion who’d fled in such a timely manner was a surprisingly resilient man.

We rushed through the flowerbeds, ruthlessly trampling the unfortunate tiger lilies and Groganian roses. The house was waking up more with each passing second, lights were flashing in the windows of the upper floors—people were running with torches up there. For now they thought that the assassins were in the house, but they’d soon start scouring the grounds.