The atmosphere in the Verdejante tavern was so heavy that the smoke from the hearths seemed to refuse to rise, hovering over the tables like a grey omen. Roderick's veterans drank and celebrated, but their hands never strayed too far from their daggers.
Alistair, whose stomach claimed its emptiness with the same insistence his throat begged for wine, raised his empty glass as the innkeeper passed by.
– Another round, my good lady – he requested, with the elegance of an exiled prince despite his tunic stained with mud and sweat. – A glass of your finest well-vintage, if you please. Harvested this morning, preferably, with that earthy bouquet that only your underground waters possess. It is a rare vintage for a... refined palate.
The woman shot him a look of pure scorn and slammed a mug of murky water onto the table before walking away. Alistair sighed and looked at the liquid as if searching for answers at the bottom of a swamp.
Nearby, Marcus leaned slightly towards Roderick. His movement was fluid, almost imperceptible amidst the tavern's bustle.
– Two men at the back, by the oak beam – Marcus whispered, his voice so low it barely competed with the crackle of the fire. – They're trying to cover themselves with their cloaks, but their sleeves rode up when one reached for the dice. I saw the marks, captain: the bone and the steel.
Roderick did not turn. His face remained a mask of carved stone.
– We aren't going to the rooms – Roderick ordered, his fingers drumming a martial rhythm upon the table. – If we separate, we die one by one on top of the mattress. We sleep right here, in the common room, backs against the wall. Set up watches.
The leader looked at the group, his eyes stopping on Alistair, who was trying to hide a yawn with a gulp of water.
– You – Roderick said, pointing a calloused finger. – Alistair. You take the last watch. The black hours, before dawn.
Alistair felt a shiver that didn't come from the cold water. The last watch was the worst of all: when sleep becomes a heavy drug, when the candlelight dies, and when shadows seem to gain a will of their own.
– Ah, the watch of poets and the damned – Alistair remarked, though his smile didn't reach his eyes. – I'm flattered by the trust, captain. If anything emerges from the shadows, I assure you my scream of panic will be the most melodious you've ever heard.
Roderick merely closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, leaving Alistair with the prospect of a solitary vigil in a nest of vipers.
The wolf hour had arrived, that suspended moment when the night is coldest and sleep becomes a seductive enemy. Alistair, his eyelids heavy as lead plates, kept his eyes fixed on the dying embers of the hearth, until a movement by the counter jolted his instincts.
One of the men with the mark – the one with the coldest gaze and longest fingers – approached the innkeeper. No words were spoken, only a roll of parchment passed from one hand to the other with the speed of a dagger thrust. The look they exchanged was dry, devoid of emotion – the professional recognition of two men serving the same dark master.
Alistair felt a prickle at the back of his neck.
When the man retreated into the shadows of the yard, Alistair moved. He abandoned the safety of the common room, sliding away with the agility of a rat that knows the corners of the larder. Outside, the night air lashed his face. Leaning against the rotting timber wall, he heard the man's voice merging with the wind.
– The messenger leaves at dawn for the place crossed by stones to the north – the man hissed to a figure waiting by the stables. – At the pass to the mines. The rest of us stay here, watching. If the mercenaries make a false move, we cut their reins.
Alistair leaned in to hear better, but his peasant's foot, unaccustomed to the subtleties of espionage, betrayed him. The snap of a dry twig echoed in the early morning silence like a crossbow shot.
The two men turned instantly, hands flying to the weapons beneath their cloaks. Alistair didn't hesitate. He let out a vague, clumsy laugh, let his shoulders slump, and began to sway, his eyes half-closed in a faked alcoholic trance.
– The room... where's the bloody room? – he babbled, tripping over his own feet. – Or is it the gate? Maybe the sty... pigs are more polite than merchants. I'm as confused as a theologian on a lucky day... and twice as thirsty...
The men relaxed slightly, though the disgust on their faces was visible even under the pale moonlight.
– Get out of here, you drunken worm – one of them spat, shoving Alistair with such force it sent him to his knees on the cold earth. – If you cross us again, it won't be the way to your room you'll be looking for, but the way to the Underworld.
They strode away. Alistair waited until the sound of their boots vanished before standing up, wiping the dirt from his trousers with trembling hands. He returned to the tavern and woke Roderick with a firm touch on the shoulder.
The leader listened to the account in silence, his jaw set.
– The place crossed by stones to the north, at the pass to the mines – Roderick repeated, his voice grave and pensive. – That isn't our way back to Bjorn's tavern. It's a dangerous detour. – He looked at Alistair, and for the first time, there wasn't just scepticism in his eyes, but genuine unease. – If the messenger is going there, that's where the true secret of this cargo is hidden. But to follow that trail is to invite death to dinner.
Dawn broke frigid, a line of pale ash that could barely tear through the fog clinging to the streets of Verdejante. The group of mercenaries moved with the silent haste of those fleeing a sentence, but when they reached the fork in the road, Roderick did not turn west. He pulled the reins and pointed to the trail leading up towards the northern highlands.
– We aren't going back the usual way – Roderick announced, his voice low and hard as a millstone. – We're going to follow that messenger's trail. I want to know the value of an ambush so well organised. If there's a price on our heads, I want to know who's paying it.
Alistair adjusted the cracked shield on his arm, feeling his padded vest still damp.
– Splendid! – he commented, with a dry smile that couldn't hide his exhaustion. – From mere hauliers to elite spies. My resume is going to be impressive. If we survive, my next biography will be a hit in the taverns... or at least serve to light the fire.
They followed the trail north, staying always in the shadow of the treetops and the rocky outcrops that rose from the earth like a giant's teeth. The landscape became increasingly austere; green gave way to the grey of granite and the brown of dead heather.
It was then that Marcus raised his hand. In the middle of the path lay a slumped figure. As they approached, they saw the messenger. His body was twisted at an unnatural angle at the foot of a rocky ledge, his eyes fixed on a sky they could no longer see. It looked like an accidental fall, a misstep in the dim light of dawn. His leather pouch was still there, untouched by vultures or thieves.
But it wasn't the pouch that caught Alistair's eye. Something shimmered, partially buried in the black earth, near the dead man's cold hand. He leaned down and retrieved the object: a single wax seal, heavy and intact, displaying with sinister clarity the mark of the human bone crossed with the sword. Roderick took the seal and examined it under the pale light.
– This isn't for common letters, nor for love missives – the leader murmured, his jaw set tight. – It's a seal of authority, made to lock heavy crates or official documents of great importance. We're following something much bigger than a merchant's gold.
Further ahead, where the trail opened into a crossroads marked by three standing stone pillars – ancient monuments to gods long forgotten – Roderick ordered everyone to lie low in the scrub.
Down below, the activity was feverish. Several men, wearing overcoats of a dull, worn red, were unloading a wagon covered with heavy tarpaulins. There were no wheat sacks here, nor ordinary barrels of olive oil. What they were taking from the wagon were small barrels, reinforced with iron rings and marked with the symbol of an unknown forge. Each one was sealed with black wax, thick and shiny like clotted blood.
– Iron barrels and black wax – Alistair hissed, his sarcasm vanishing completely. – I don't reckon they're bringing wine for the winter festival, captain.
Roderick didn't look away.
– That's black powder or something worse – he replied. – And those men in red… they aren't mere brigands. That's the colour of a noble house's guard.
– Aha! – whispered Alistair, his eyes fixed on the brutal efficiency of the men in red below. – The game reveals its ugliest face. It wasn't about what we were carrying, Marcus; we were just the smoke screen, the 'random' and noisy attack to distract curious eyes while the real contraband moved through this forgotten trail. We're the puppets dancing while the masters trade the gold.
In the midst of this exchange, fate decided to show its perverse sense of humour. One of the guard dogs – a beast of bristling fur and powerful jaws – raised its snout, sniffing the air. Its yellow eyes locked onto the crest of the ridge, and a guttural snarl turned into a furious bark that echoed through the valley like a trumpet blast.
– Curse it! – hissed Roderick.
Down below, the reaction was instantaneous and devoid of any civil hesitation. The men didn't shout confused orders; they moved with an icy, military precision, forming a circular defensive line around the barrels, shields raised and steel glinting under the grey light.
– Retreat! – Roderick ordered, realising that the enemy's numbers and discipline would turn them into carrion in minutes. – To the rocks! Now!
The pursuit was a chaos of ragged breaths and boots slipping on the heather. Arrows hissed over Alistair's head as he ran, as if the gods of the Underworld were at his heels. Thanks to the labyrinth of stones and the thickness of the forest, they finally managed to lose their pursuers, hiding in a deep ravine where the sound of their own pulse was the only noise.
Alistair slumped against a rock wall, trying to catch his breath while clutching his sword, still stuck in its scabbard.
– So… what do we do now? – he asked, wiping sweat and mud from his brow. – Do we knock on the door of the Overlord of Verdejante and report that there's an organised smuggling scheme with a pretty symbol and men who know how to march? 'My Lord, we saw some interesting barrels and your merchant has dodgy tattoos.' Sounds like a solid plan, doesn't it?
Roderick looked at him, and his expression was of a grim pragmatism that would make a hangman shiver.
– Without proof, Alistair, we only have a tavern tale – the leader replied, shaking his head. – If we open our mouths, they'll deny everything before we finish the sentence, and the following night, we'd be found dead in some ditch, tongues cut out to ensure we tell no more fairy tales.
Alistair held the wax seal between two fingers, twirling it with a curiosity that bordered on recklessness.
– We have this – he began, his voice a whisper that the mountain wind tried to steal. – And we know they prefer the northern trail and that god-forsaken crossing of stones, but more importantly… – he made a dramatic pause, glancing at the tense faces of his companions – …they think we know much more than we actually do, and in the game of power, my friends, that makes us either a valuable nuisance or a priority target. Personally, I suggest we go with the option that involves the fewest possible arrows buried in our lungs.
Roderick, whose face seemed carved from the same granite as the mountains, made his decision. There was no glory in those words, only the coldness of one who knows that survival is a victory in itself.
– We return to Ponteverde – the leader decreed. – But we don't set foot in Bjorn's tavern. If they come looking for us, that's where the steel will find us first. We disperse and there will be no talking and no knowing looks. In three days, at nightfall, we meet at the old burnt mill, south of the river. Until then, be nothing but shadows.
The group left Verdejante under a charcoal-coloured twilight. The return journey was made through hunters' shortcuts and goat paths, avoiding the main road where death might be waiting in a red overcoat.
When the distant lights of Ponteverde finally appeared, the group didn't hesitate. As soon as they crossed the village limits, they separated without a goodbye, melting into the darkness like smoke in the fog.
Alistair was left alone on a muddy corner. He felt the weight of the wax seal in his pocket, contrasting with the insulting lightness of the few copper and silver coins he had left. In the distance, he saw the orange glow of Bjorn's tavern – the place where he had spent much of his time and which he considered home.
– Well, Alistair – he muttered to the shadows, a bitter smile forming on his lips. – A week ago, your biggest worry in life was the fact that you smelled of pig from morning till night. Now you've a conspiracy at your heels and marked men who likely want your tongue on a plate. This is progress, I suppose… at least the smell has improved a bit.
He cast one last look at the tavern, clutched his padded vest to his chest, and turned his back on the familiar comfort. Decided not to sleep anywhere where his face was known, he dived into a narrow alley and vanished into the guts of Ponteverde.