Greywolf

  "Bukhara smells of brick dust."

  Porthos, one of the merchants belonging to the caravan, looked at Greywolf in surprise. "You can actually smell the dust from across the river?"

  The caravan was made up of mostly pack mules tended by men in dusty robes, with rag-tag guards either walking or riding Daemo mounts that lived off small amounts of blood and nothing else. The trip was over and they were settling up with the caravan master over wages. The late afternoon sun cast its shadows among a village sized collection of buildings, clustered around the stone bridge leading into the city, all of the structures made of new red bricks. A Etruscan style building close the caravan master’s office had a long counter with holes close together along its length, each one holding a ceramic pot filled with spicy stews made from the flesh of Zor-ox or sheep, mixed with leeks, onions, and other vegetables, the aroma competing with those from the stalls along the road selling sticks of grilled meat and rock-melon chunks, or the spice sellers hawking open bags of cumin, turmeric, and much, much more.

  A guard tower beside the river, made of new red brick paid for by the village, had barbarian mercenaries keeping careful watch over the people congregating around the merchants or traveling the road leading to the great stone bridge that spanned the river from the village to the city gates.

  Across the river, the red brick walls of Bukhara were slowly crumbling away. "Every city pretty much smells the same,” Greywolf said with a shrug, “depending on whether or not they believe in sewers. But I can almost taste brick on the back of my tongue, it's so bad." He pointed at the city’s crumbling guard towers, their soldiers leaning against the sides as if dozing. "Aren't they worried about being attacked?"

  Porthos, lean as a desert hawk in his dusty red robes, chuckled. "The Crimson Horde has already claimed all the lands east of the river that Bukhara used to hold, and has raided for many leagues in either direction. Bukhara could have called upon the Sasnayam Empire for aid, but decided it was more prudent to forge a treaty with the barbarians instead, trading with the Crimson Horde for the items they need. The barbarians agreed, and now their main camp is only a few leagues away. No one else would dare draw steel against Bukhara."

  "Because the Crimson Horde will attack anyone who enters their lands." He nodded, and Greywolf said, "It's like making peace with the Direwolf outside your door… but what happens if the Direwolf decides to attack anyway?"

  "A situation I hope Bukhara never has to face," Porthos replied. He gave Greywolf a sidelong look. "I have greatly enjoyed speaking with you on this trip, yet now that it has ended, I wish to ask you about a matter I hesitated to speak of before." Greywolf made an inviting motion with his hand, and Porthos said, "In appearance you seem human, with a bit of a wolfish cast certain females seem to find appealing."

  Oh shite. "Porthos, I swear to you I was respectful to your daughter. Asena would've thrashed me otherwise."

  "I know you were, and Star-blossom did too, or else she would not have flirted with you as shamelessly as she did. I also knew you had slaked your lust upon the slender Daemo merchant who rode with us until Khor."

  Greywolf’s face screwed up as he winced. "I thought we'd been discreet."

  Porthos smiled. "You were, and no word will pass my lips to Asena's ears. But females like to gossip and Daemo are the worst. Yet not Asena. I will admit she tells a rare tale when she's in the mood, and no one fights so ferociously as her."

  "You're wondering how I managed to look the way I do, when my mother's a seven foot tall cross between a Direwolf and a short giant."

  "I did not mean to be harsh."

  Greywolf couldn’t help but grin. "You're not, because that's exactly the way Asena describes herself on a good day. Most of my outside came from my Shadow-walker father, Ghostdog, but most of my inside came from her... as far as I know, that is." All at once his eyes widened. "Porthos, you'll keep the whole Shadow-walker business secret, won't you? Most people think my silvery-grey hair comes from my being a Celt and nothing else."

  Porthos grasped his shoulder for a moment before letting go. "No word shall pass my lips, I promise. You and Asena both saved my life." Greywolf inclined his head as Porthos smiled. "By the way, did anyone mention that Bukhara has begun its yearly Harvest festival? High Priest Muzen brought the Brittani servant priestesses with him from Tesiphon, and the tax official claimed the priest sacrificed one of them instead of the dozen or so daughters normally put under the knife."

  Greywolf raised his eyebrows. "I wondered why all the merchants of Bukhara brought their daughters along on this trip."

  "Can you blame us? Anyway, between relief over their children being spared and the effects of the blood corn, the official told me the festival is turning into the randiest celebration Bukhara's had in living memory." Porthos gives me a wink. "That should be music to your ears."

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  "If I can get Asena to let me off the leash for a while." Greywolf turned towards the wooden pens where the drivers were unloading the mules before turning them loose to be fed and watered. Asena towered over the caravan master, Salazar, a bald headed fat man with a long beard, the two of them waving their arms as they argued. "I wish she wouldn't fight over money every single time we settle up with a caravan."

  Porthos stroked his own black beard as a sly smile stole over his face. "I believe I have a way to please both Asena and Salazar at the same time. Come with me."

  Hopes rising, Greywolf walked with the lean merchant as Salazar's voice rose above the braying of mules and men alike. "Asena, we agreed on one piece of silver per bandit killed by you or your son."

  Asena's voice was a wolf's growl matching her wild, part human face. "Greywolf and I saved your caravan twice without the need to fight. Or did you think those four-armed raiders were truly frightened of your sell-swords?"

  "I grant you that, and shall make sacrifices in your honor to the gods. However, as per our agreement..."

  Greywolf sighed. No wonder the merchants all call him Old Iron Arse. Asena glanced at the two walking towards them, the stink of mule almost overpowering the dust… Wait, that's odd. Asena noticed as Greywolf stopped and sniffed the air, catching an elusive scent, and as Porthos halted just ahead of him and looked back, Asena growled, "What is it?"

  "Wind out of the Shadowlands," Greywolf pointed off to the right at a group of hills covered in scrub, perhaps a league away. "Somewhere in that direction's a place where the walls between the worlds are thin."

  "The ruins of an ancient temple stands there," Porthos replied. "Legend says that if you touch the dead grey tree standing in the center of the temple, you turn into a ghost."

  "Actually, you get pulled into the Shadowlands without any way of returning, unless a Shadow-walker finds you and brings you back. Otherwise, if you stand near the tree, which is actually tendrils of the Grey clumped together, you look like a ghost to anyone in the real world."

  Salazar shuddered. "And to think I was tempted to do just that when I was a boy." He blew out his breath. "Anyway, as I was saying—”

  "If I might interrupt," Porthos said, interrupting, "I have a solution to this question of payment. Close to the main gate is an inn catering to mercenaries and foreigners, 'The Dancing Direwolf', the owner of which owes me a debt he will never be able to repay. I was going to have the temple priests officially forgive it, as a way of showing my piety to Bukhara, but the owner does not know that. He sincerely believes I am going to hire someone to take it out of his hide. Asena, what if I tell him to let you stay in the inn and drink for free, until you leave or you reach the amount he owes me?"

  "In exchange for accepting the meager pay Salazar offers?" Porthos nodded, and Asena asked, "Will he balk when he sees me?"

  "He will foul his breeches first. Besides, I am the only one with casks of wine from the Empire of the East, which most foreigners prefer over our sweeter ones. Nor does he realize what a capacity for wine you have. You will be able to drink your fill, and after you leave, I will bring in the priests to announce to the city my pious nature, which Parnax the innkeeper took advantage of." He smiled. "In Bukhara, reputation is everything."

  "Plus this innkeeper will look like a fool if he protests." Asena laughed, baring her jagged fangs. "Porthos, you're the best scoundrel I've known in years. I accept."

  Asena extended the black clawed fingers of her right hand towards his, her leathery finger pads touching his softer ones for a moment. Then they touched heart, lips, and forehead, sealing the agreement. Salazar's face sagged a moment in relief before his stoic mask returned. "Porthos, I will arrange transport of your casks if you will take Asena and her son in hand to get them settled."

  "Of course." Asena took the leather bag of coins Salazar offered her, pouring them out on her palm and counting them before returning the silver to the pouch and securing it to a hiding place underneath her battered armor. Then she and Greywolf both grabbed their packs, their scabbarded swords attached and peace bound with leather cords so they couldn't be easily drawn, and fell in with Porthos. Leaving the caravan behind, they stepped onto the main street, paved with flat stones, leading to the white stone bridge over the river. As they passed by shops made of new brick, Porthos said, "Asena, you mentioned earlier this morning your need to hunt down trolls or other creatures with a good deal of mana in their hearts. There is a mercenary named Karl, a recruiter of other mercenaries for the Crimson Horde, who frequents the Dancing Direwolf. He may know where such creatures can be found."

  As they began crossing the bridge, Asena frowned. "Bukhara tolerates members of the Crimson Horde to enter?"

  "That was part of last year's peace agreement. We get to trade with them and they with us."

  "That also means you're letting spies into the city."

  "And spies into the encampment of the Great Khan." Porthos smiled. "Which also means counter-spies, and two-faced Janus spies, and spies who never realize they are spies, and—”

  "Aren't there any merchants who are just merchants?"

  "In Bukhara? Such a person would be suspected by everyone and driven bankrupt in a month. Spying for and against Bukhara is part of my family's tradition, dating back to Patriarch..."

  Greywolf yawned and began to lag behind them, losing the thread of their conversation as he looked down at the swift flowing river beyond the waist high wall of stone. People hurried past Asena, giving her fearful looks, but she ignored them as she continued talking to Porthos. A dark haired girl in traveling robes gave Greywolf a frank appraisal before noticing Asena and hurrying past. She reminds me of that young widow staying at the last caravan post we'd stopped at, who'd flirted with me as Asena drank. She asked me to escort her to her room before inviting me inside. He smiled at the memory of skin the light brown color of freshly baked bread, and just as warm and soft as she'd slowly bared one shoulder…

  "Greywolf," Asena yelled. He blinked, the image dissolving... Shite! Porthos and Asena had already reached the main gate, its large wooden doors banded with black iron, and soldiers wearing brass armor were standing in a semicircle around her.

  Their iron tipped spears were leveled at her gut.