Joseph Lewis - Wren the Fox Witch

Tycho pulled a chair forward and said to the girl in Rus, “Please, sit down. No one is going to harm you. We just have a few questions for your friend.”

The girl blinked and sank warily into the chair. “Thank you.”

That accent. She’s not from Rus.

Tycho let his eyes linger on her ears a moment longer before returning to the man. “What did the Damascena, Nadira, what did she say to you?”

Omar rolled his tongue around his mouth for a moment. “She asked me to help her with a small personal problem. A medical problem.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Of a sort. I specialize in very rare cases.” He nodded at the girl in the chair.

Tycho nodded. “I see. What’s wrong with the Damascena? Is she sick? Is she dying?”

Omar laughed. “No, quite the opposite, my little friend. The lady suffers from an overabundance of life, much like myself, as a matter of fact.”

An overabundance of life?

Tycho froze. His mind flew back several months to the arrival of the two strangers from Rus, the barbarian Koschei and his damned mother, Yaga. The ugly northerners had entered the Chamber of Petitions dressed in furs and rags, the man covered in patchwork armor and curved daggers from all over Asia, and the woman covered in bones and feathers. Prince Vlad had boasted of the two so-called immortals from Rus, and Tycho had not been impressed. And then they both slit their throats and fell dead on the floor, and then, only moments later, both had staggered back to their feet, wiped the blood away, and pledged their service to the defense of Constantia.

An overabundance of life?

Tycho blinked. “Sir, how old are you?”

Omar stopped smiling. “Older than I look.”

“Do you know a man from Rus called Koschei the Deathless?”

It was Omar’s turn to freeze with a queer look in his eye. “You know Koschei?”

Prince Vlad leapt to his feet. “Do you know Koschei?”

Omar nodded and said softly, “I do. Better than he knows himself.”

Tycho exchanged glances with the others. “I believe this is no longer an interrogation of a military nature. Mr. Bakhoum, was it? Please have a seat. Let’s all have a seat for a moment.”

Everyone sat down around the end of the council table, except the Vlachian soldiers who retreated toward the door. Tycho placed himself between Lady Nerissa and Omar, and he was about to speak when he saw the Aegyptian take the Rus girl’s hand in his and whisper in her ear. The girl seemed to relax a bit more.

“All right.” Tycho folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Mister Bakhoum, for the record, are you now in the service of Emperor Darius in any capacity?”

“No.”

“Do you intend to give aid to the troops in Stamballa?”

“I intend nothing except to return to my home in Alexandria. But, truth be told, if someone did ask for my help, I might feel inclined to help them. I’m a scholar, not some sort of monster who snatches innocent girls, ties them up, and throws them into dank dungeons without just cause.”

Tycho ignored the barb. “Mister Bakhoum, are you immortal?”

Omar hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

“Is this girl here also immortal?”

“Wren? No.”

“Is the Damascena also immortal?”

Omar tilted his head to one side. “I think you know the answer to that.”

“Please answer the question.”

“Yes.” Omar sighed. “Yes, she is.”

Tycho leaned back.

Damn.

Of course Tycho had suspected as much ever since that day Koschei first arrived and proved that immortals really did exist. The Damascena had fought in too many battles, with too many confirmed injuries to be believed, and yet she always appeared on the battlefield the next day, just as strong and devastating as the day before. So after he saw Koschei die and rise again, Tycho had wondered if the Damascena might have the same gift. But now, actually hearing that it was true struck him cold.

Prince Vlad groaned. “So Radu has his own immortal warrior, and he has our immortal warrior. Damn him! It’s just like him. He never was any good at sharing.”

“Radu?” Omar asked.

“The prince’s brother, Radu, converted to the Mazdan Temple and is now in command of the Eranian forces in Stamballa,” Tycho explained.

“So this Radu has Nadira, and you had Koschei,” Omar said. “But now Radu has Koschei as well?”

“Captured, two months ago,” Vlad said. “They swarmed him with gunfire. Numidian rifles. Sharpshooters. It took a hundred shots to his chest to bring him to his knees and a hundred more to drop him dead.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Omar said, rolling his eyes. “It only took one shot. I know how it works, there’s no need for your propaganda here.”

Vlad glared in silence.

“Are you also a warrior, sir?” Lady Nerissa asked. “You had a seireiken when you were captured. We know of these terrifying swords. If you have one, you too must be a great warrior.” She stood up, her face pale and stern. “Sir, I ask you, on behalf of my people and my city, to use whatever power you have to help us end this war and save my people. I will grant you any reward you ask if you will do us this service.”

Tycho winced.

Don’t ask that yet, it’s still far too early. This is why they shouldn’t be here. They don’t know the routine. They’re giving him leverage.

Tycho held up a hand and drew Omar’s attention. “If I may. Let’s just step back from that question for a moment. Mister Bakhoum, do you have any knowledge of Koschei’s whereabouts?”

Omar focused on the dwarf. “You’re not interested in the big picture, are you?”

“Actually, I am,” Tycho said. “Koschei?”

“No.”

“And the Damascena?”

“ Nadira. And no.”

Tycho rifled through his papers. “It says here that the captain of your ship, a Mister Ortiz, confirmed that you boarded in Varna, bound for Alexandria by way of several other ports. And none of our contacts inside Stamballa have ever reported seeing a man fitting your description in the company of Prince Radu. Therefore, I’m inclined to believe that you are what you claim to be. A traveler with no part in this war.”

Omar snorted. “Well, thank you very much, my little friend.”

“On the other hand, the fact that you claim to be immortal and that you carry a seireiken gives us two very serious reasons for concern,” Tycho said. “I’ve been to Alexandria. I am familiar with the men who carry these swords. The Sons of Osiris. Are you one of them?”

“Off and on. They have certain valuable resources, and they don’t ask questions, as long as I help them with the occasional project.”

“Such as?”

Omar sighed. “I’m sorry, but this is getting to be a bit tiresome, friend. I’m not going to tell you my life story. It’s far less interesting than you might think, and hardly any of your business.”

“The safety of Constantia is my business, Mister Bakhoum,” Tycho said. “I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“Constantia has stood here for fifteen hundred years,” Omar said. “It has survived countless wars and sieges, famines and plagues, and more earthquakes than I care to remember. It doesn’t need you to save it.”

“Be that as it may-”

A fist pounded on the door and everyone turned to look just as a man on the other side called out, “Major Xenakis! Major! I saw them! I saw them at Saray!”

Saray!

Tycho moved his shaking hands to his lap and looked at the pale Italian. Salvator nodded. Tycho stood up. “Would you all excuse me for a moment, please?” And he walked calmly to the door.

On the other side he found a young Vlachian archer, his face flecked with soot and blood, gasping for breath. “Major, I saw them. Hundreds of them. We fought them, but there were just too many. We couldn’t stop them. We lost half our men in the first few minutes, and most of the others broke ranks and ran into the wilderness. And now they’re coming toward the city. They’re coming here.”