2010 Wyoming Writers Contest Winner - NOVEL SEGMENT

Fortune's Favored Son (Excerpt from The Gate To Paradise)

by Constance Brewer

He would be finished before he knew it, his commander assured Nikolai. A quick and easy trip to the port city of Drall would be a much needed break from patrolling the border of their beleaguered kingdom. Ignoring the insult of using a cavalry officer as messenger, Captain Nikolai Samarin delivered the magically-sealed dispatch to his urban counterpart and set out to find a meal that wasn't composed of travel weary dried meat.

He ate an early dinner consisting of fish and more fish before he set out to purchase items for his troops back at garrison. The port bustled with life, a shock after the isolation of chasing shadow mercenaries through the mountains. An armory window display caught Nikolai's eye and he paused. Two finely crafted daggers rested on a piece of soft leather, surrounded by gleaming pike tips and spirit knives. Nikolai felt a tug of desire that had nothing to do with his mission, and everything to do with love.

A short while later he emerged from the shop with the pair of daggers belted around his waist. The stylized silver hounds adorning the hilts amused him. Nikolai politely accepted the shopkeeper's word that the dogs on the blades were in fact woodswolves, although he knew differently. The design didn't deter from the functionality. Even to Nikolai's unpracticed touch the blades felt perfect. Oksana was going to love them.

Oksana of the deft hands and deadly eye. A woman who could more than hold her own in battle. The gods had not shirked when gifting her with fighting ability. Nikolai felt a whisper of guilt at their affair, although, if he had to choose, he much preferred her armed and guarding his back than in his bed. He glanced at the rest of the shops along the waterfront before he entered an alley, wrinkling his nose at the smell, intending to cut across the city to the main market square, thoughts still caught up with Oksana.

Inattention was almost his undoing. A scrape of boots across paving stones caused Nikolai to spin, sword drawn, before conscious thought took over. It was a good thing. The attacker skittered away, bellowing with pain at the superficial slice inflicted by the sudden blade. 

Five more men crowded the lower end of the passage, each with sword in hand and malice on their scruffy-looking faces. Nikolai stepped to the side, back against the rough hewn wall of a building. Three additional men entered the far end of the alley and waited. Odds were good they weren't here to welcome Nikolai to the big city.

Element of surprise gone, the men spread to encircle the wary soldier. Nikolai let his mind race though the possibilities and chose the most irrational. He charged.

The thugs might have been hired for dirty work but when faced with a battle-hardened cavalry captain swinging a lethal sword, they faltered. Nikolai took advantage of their hesitation, managed to knock one down and wound another before a shout from the top of the alley caused the remaining ruffians to take up the fight with renewed vigor. The paving stones grew slick with spattered blood, trampled garbage and smeared horse manure, churning up a nauseating smell that mingled with the fetid sweat of desperation.

Nikolai whirled, struck, parried and feinted, attempting to keep everyone in sight until he figured a way out of his predicament. A thrust left him overextended, he jumped back, slipped, caught himself, and felt the wind of a frantic blade pass his ear. If any Urskan gods are around, now would be a good time to lend a hand . . . .  

No lighting flashed, and his enemies didn't suddenly keel over so Nikolai figured he was on his own this time. He had only his gods-blessed fighting ability against eight or more attackers. Nikolai plowed forward, smashed the hand gripping the sword into the eye socket of one heavyset man, shifted his weight, and swept the blade upward in a backhand arc into the press of assailants. It sliced one from breastbone to neck. Blood pulsed; the man spun away, howling and gripping his throat. Again the mob hesitated. Nikolai used the pause to shove half a broken barrel towards the group and rethink his predicament.

The upper end of the alley still held only three men. Maybe he could fight his way clear. Nikolai  ignored the nagging voice in his ear that informed him he was an idiot for thinking three would be easier than five, in fact, since they held back and waited, they looked more competent than the disorderly mob before him. Not to mention a damn sight cleaner. Nikolai kicked a foul-smelling thug in the stomach with a booted foot. The man reeled back into a companion, and added vomit to the filthy ground. Nikolai followed up with a fist to the jaw of a painfully skinny assailant that stopped the man in his tracks. In the momentary lull he bolted up the alley towards the remaining three men. Audacity worked once, maybe it would work again.

Two of the men let throwing knives fly. Nikolai dodged one by twisting his upper body from its path. The movement cost him. The other knife sliced through his cloak and tabard, cut the edge of his leather cuirass and sank into the flesh above his right hip. The sharp pain caused Nikolai to stumble, off balance; he crashed into the wall of a building, bounced off and spun, still gripping his sword.

The final knife should have caught him square in the back. Nikolai, obeying instinct, let the momentum of his spin carry him to the ground where he sprawled ignominiously in the muck. The knife passed over his head and buried itself in one of the original attackers. The man screamed and staggered, clutched at the knife and cursed the others in heavily accented Trade.

Nikolai rolled and scrambled for leverage on the slick stones, C'mon, gods! Give me a break here, planted his hand in horse manure, When was the last time I really asked for help?, and pushed himself to one knee. I thought I was a Favored Son? The remaining men rushed forward. A desperate lunge brought Nikolai to his feet as they closed. One thug managed to slash his shoulder as Nikolai, off balance, thrust his sword into the guts of another.

The dying man's fall wrenched the blade from Nikolai's grasp. His hands flashed to his belt and yanked out the gift daggers. He figured Oksana would rather have them blooded than not at all. He treated the daggers as short swords and wielded them with grim enthusiasm. A spray of warm red spattered Nikolai's already grimy tabard as a detached part of his mind noted the daggers were sharp enough to separate an ear from its owner before the victim noticed it was missing. The unlucky attacker blinked, screamed, and clasped a hand to the side of his head, weapon clattering to ground.

If Nikolai was going to die, the war gods would have no cause to question his last actions. He laughed aloud, a laugh of maniac desperation, and saw fear color the face of the man before him. Apparently gods-induced battle lust wasn't something the thugs had run into before either. Nikolai let the emotion take over; in quick order he sliced and stabbed his way clear of the group, and turned as an echoing voice spoke quite clearly in his right ear. Behind you.

The three from the top of the alley were on him. They attacked in a silent rush, which alerted Nikolai to the fact that these men knew their business. Spaced wide enough to make things difficult, the mismatched trio gripped swords in one hand and clubs in the other.

Nikolai was barely able to lift his fatigued arms and fight off the first blow while gasping frantically to fill his overworked lungs. Without a sword to keep the assailants at a distance, things were going to get ugly, fast. Gods help me . . . .  Ignoring the burn in his chest, Nikolai slashed and kicked with every bit of his waning energy. Throwing a dagger might cut the odds, but it would leave him almost weaponless. A two handed slash ripped open the fur-trimmed tunic of one man. The daggers caught in the tangled fleece long enough for a club to smash a glancing blow off Nikolai's right shoulder. Force of will kept his hand clutched around the dagger as waves of pain radiated from the spot. He twisted out from under a sword strike, and slipped on the mess underfoot. Off-balance, he winced in anticipation. This was it, then.  

A streak flashed by Nikolai's head and buried itself in the face of the stocky man in the middle, who screamed, dropped his weapons and clawed at his face before toppling to the ground. Nikolai used the momentary confusion to recover, leap forward and bury his left dagger in the heart of the nearest thug, driving it down through the space where the man's neck met his shoulder in a well-practiced move that pierced the heart. He slipped the dagger free, ignored the rush of warm blood over his hand, sidestepped the death throes. Nikolai sensed movement behind him, whirled. The attacker with the fur-tipped tunic raised a curved sword high, poised to cleave Nikolai in two. The triumph on the scarred face changed to surprise as two arrows suddenly protruded from his chest. He toppled sideways, clawing at the wounds.

The remaining attacker fled up the alley and disappeared. The heavy sound of a weight landing on paving stones sent Nikolai into a crouch, dagger balanced to throw. An austere man with closed trimmed beard, desert clothing, and piercing gaze stood at the base of the alley where he'd dropped from the crossbeam of a street front building.

"Do not sully your blade on me, soldier. I am on your side." The foreigner regarded Nikolai with wry amusement, took a careful look around before he lowered the recurve bow. He moved to the dead men and pulled arrows from their bodies until he recovered them all. He paused at his last target, the man with fur lined clothing. "This one is still lives."

Nikolai leapt forward, daggers ready, and prodded the man with a toe. "Why did you attack me?" Great swaths of the thug's lifeblood stained the alley with each passing heartbeat. "Who sent you?"

A snarl twisted the scarred face, even as the man choked on the blood gurgling in his throat.

"Who sent you?" Nikolai asked again, fists clenched around the daggers so tight he felt the wolves imprint his palms.

"No use. He is Sekersai. He won't talk. Ever." The bearded man kicked the sword from the man's hand. "Maybe you could torture it out of him, although I doubt it. His time on this plane runs short."

"I cannot torture a wounded man."

"They were ready to do worse to you for a few coins."

Nikolai heaved a sigh of frustration, sheathed the daggers, and glanced around the alley. He spotted his sword, pulled it free of the dead man, examined the edge. Thankfully, blessed blades were hard to damage. He wiped the worst of the blood off on the tunic of a dead man and slid the sword into its scabbard. A wave of exhaustion almost drove him to his knees. He fought the fatigue, ignored the pained twinges of his wounds, straightened. "It would not be honorable."

The man regarded him a long moment, nodded. "I agree. Torture is not admirable, but . . . death can be merciful." He pulled a knife and inserted it with an upward thrust into the heart of the dying man. After cleaning the blade he put the reclaimed arrows in a small quiver, unstrung his bow, wrapped both in a length of sailor's canvas. "I better leave. Port guards will appear soon. They dislike foreigners as it is."

"The guard should have heard the fight and come by now." Nikolai glanced toward the distant end of the alley. City noise was faint beneath the call of gulls and normal seaport sounds. "The guard patrols this area frequently." He examined his cut arm, winced, and looked at the other man. "Or should."

"Except when they are told to go elsewhere. Those who can afford to hire Tragers would think nothing of buying off the guard."

"Or those who assign the guard." Nikolai shook his head. He was a fool. His quest to bring attention to border problems was having repercussions. He'd been warned, and chose to plow ahead. Arrogance had its own peculiar rewards. Nikolai fingered the cut on his hip. It oozed blood as did the slices on his shoulder and upper arms. His cuirass appeared worse for wear but serviceable.  A gleam caught his eye. A few feet away lay the curious knife that sliced his hip. It was shaped like a four-pointed star, each arm sharpened on both sides.

 Nikolai picked it up. He'd seen a knife like that before, on the border. In the hands of enemy mercenaries worse than Tragers. Weariness hammered him in the gut. All his work for nothing.

The tall man stepped forward. "May I?" He took the blade, walked around to the bodies, examined each closely before he spat and cursed in a foreign tongue. The star knife was tucked into a side pouch on his belt. "I must return to my ship, and sail for home. Tend your wounds, Captain, and watch your back. You have powerful enemies."

"Who are you? Why did you help me?"

"Because you also have powerful friends. The enemy of my enemy is my ally.Remember that. If the time comes in your mission when you need to sail the dark seas, send for Jelal. I will return to help you fight this enemy." A fleeting smile touched the man's lips, vanished. "Leave the city, Fortunate Son. Figure out how to vanquish these Sekersai invaders, because it's too late to stop them at the border. They're already here."