placed it in front of him.
“Wine for me, slave,” sneered Drigo the Younger, sliding his cup hard across the table toward Trella. She caught it deftly before it could fall over the edge.
She looked at Esk kar, her face expressionless, and he nodded. “Wine for Master Drigo,” Esk kar repeated, even as he decided he would kill the young fool for the insult. Some hint of his thoughts must have crept into his voice, because all eyes turned toward him, including those of the elder Drigo, as if they sensed something beneath his words.
“No, no more wine for my son,” Drigo said, his tone somewhat more cautious. “We’re finished here. The rest of you can waste your time talking about stopping the barbarians, but in the end, you’ll all be leaving the village.” He stood up, his son joining him. “I have more important things to attend to.”
Esk kar smiled tolerantly at Drigo’s son, even as he saw the dagger under the young man’s tunic when he stood.
No one else left their seats. Father and son started for the door, but the youngest couldn’t resist the urge to speak one more time. He stopped a few steps from Esk kar. “And barbarian, you’d better watch your tongue, or you’ll find it gone from your head.”
Trella’s musical laugh surprised everyone, including Esk kar, and stopped all talk. Everyone’s eyes turned toward her. All except Esk kar, who kept his eyes on young Drigo’s hands.
“My apologies, Nobles, my tongue betrayed me,” Trella said contritely, but the laughter remained in her voice and her eyes.
“What’s so funny, slave?” A crease appeared in the elder Drigo’s brow, as if he’d missed something important.
“Nothing, Noble Drigo,” she answered humbly enough, “except that the last man to call my master a barbarian is dead.”
“We care not if he slits some pig farmer’s throat,” spoke young Drigo, his temper matching the flush rising on his face.
The girl’s laugh had pushed the boy past his senses. Young Drigo wasn’t used to being laughed at in public, and by a slave at that.
“No, young Master Drigo, it was not some peasant,” Trella responded, her voice steady and with just the tiniest hint of insolence needed to further fan the flame of anger. “It was Naxos, and one of his men, who lie dead in the street outside.” The smile stayed on her face as she looked at the boy.
Every eye turned to Esk kar, who picked at a fingernail, still keeping an eye on young Drigo. The youth’s hand moved toward his tunic, inches from the dagger.
“Is this true?” Nicar asked, unable to keep the indignation and anger out of his voice.
“Yes, it’s true,” Esk kar replied, leaning against the table with his left arm as he turned sideways on the stool to face Nicar. “Drigo’s man tried to keep me from your house. Naxos also said my slave wasn’t permitted to enter. He called me a barbarian, then he and another tried to attack me.”
Not quite true, but close enough. Esk kar waited a moment before he went on, shifting his body even further so that his sword was pinned against the table as he turned to face the elder Drigo, his right side now turned toward the younger man.
“But don’t worry, Noble Drigo. I spared the rest of your guards. You’ll find them outside, and they’ll be much more polite to my men in the future.” From his new position, Esk kar glanced back at Drigo the Younger, saw his face had flushed an even deeper red, and smiled at him, the way a man smiles at a small child.
With a cry of rage, the youth snatched the dagger from his tunic and lunged toward Esk kar, certain he could strike before Esk kar could stand or free his sword. But instead of trying to rise up and meet the thrust, Esk kar shifted more of his weight to the heavy table and lashed out with his leg. His sandal caught the boy squarely in the chest, the knife point stopping inches from Esk kar’s body before the kick sent the boy reeling back into the wall, staggering him for a moment, but long enough, as Esk kar sprang from the stool, the sword flashing from its scabbard and crossing over his body before thrusting home in the boy’s throat.
Esk kar’s move had been so quick, so unexpected, that the rulers of Orak sat rooted in their chairs, stunned by the death blow, the usual reaction of men who gave orders, not sword strokes.
Only Drigo the Elder found his voice. “No, stop!” he screamed, too late, as he watched his son take the death cut. He threw himself at Esk kar.
He had no weapon, and a stiff arm in the chest would have sent him staggering back. But not today, Esk kar thought, as he twisted his body to meet the man’s rush, stepped back and extended his sword arm, letting Drigo run himself against the blade, his weight and momentum carrying him forward until the hilt nearly touched his chest. His right hand twitched in front of Esk kar’s face, and Drigo’s eyes widened with amazement for a moment before they turned up in their sockets. Death had taken him even before his son, who gurgled and twitched for a few more moments before the loss of blood killed him.
Everyone was on their feet, but nobody said anything. They stood there, in shock, eyes wide as they watched the Drigos die. Esk kar tried to jerk his sword free as the father’s body slumped to the floor, but the flesh had closed tight around the blade. Esk kar had to put his foot on the body and pull hard.
Still no one said anything. Blood continued to ooze from the two bodies. Esk kar handed the sword to Trella. “Take this and clean it.”
Stooping, he recovered the dagger the foolish boy had dropped and sat back down at the table, dropping the knife in his lap. Esk kar picked up his water cup and drained it, though much of its contents had spilled when he pushed against the table. “I think you should all sit down,” he said, his voice calm. “We still have many things to discuss.”
He noticed a sharp knocking on the door that grew louder. “See to the door, Trella, then find Gatus.”
The door opened before Trella reached it, and Creta stood in the doorway, two of Nicar’s guards behind her. She started to speak, then glanced in horror at the bloody scene at her feet, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. The guards behind her looked as frightened as their mistress.
“Noble Nicar,” Esk kar began, “perhaps you should tell your men that there’s no danger.”
To Esk kar’s relief, Nicar quickly recovered.
“Yes, of course. Creta! Wine for everyone. And have slaves remove these bodies immediately.” He looked at the crowd of servants gathering in the antechamber and raised his voice so all could hear him. “An unfortunate incident has occurred. Drigo and his son tried to kill Eskkar, the new captain of the guard,” he paused, “and were themselves slain.”
For the next ten minutes, chaos ensued as frightened servants dragged the bodies out, wiped the floor clean, and straightened the furniture. Trella returned with Gatus in tow. She handed Esk kar his sword, wiped clean of blood, resting her hand on his arm for the briefest of moments. The still — nervous nobles gulped their wine, even as more was poured, before a still — trembling Creta closed the chamber door.
During this time, Esk kar studied the men around the table. The Five Families-no, now it was the Four Families-had been given a fright, and were no doubt all thinking it could have been any of them. They needed to be reassured, and quickly.
“Noble leaders,” Esk kar began humbly, “I offer sorrow for what happened here. But I didn’t provoke anyone, not outside in the street nor here in this room.”
Mostly true, he thought, but he’d certainly been prepared to kill anyone who tried to stop him. Looking around the table, he saw his words sinking in. Now these men would start thinking again, trying to discover what in Orak’s power structure had changed and who would benefi t. Eskkar took another breath.
“But Noble Drigo wasn’t interested in defending Orak, only in taking control. He planned to seize your village and your property.”
Watching them, he decided that Trella had been right. Better to pour a bucket of oil than a cupful. “You’re Orak’s leaders. My men and I will stay and fight to defend the village, if you wish it.”
He looked at each man in turn. “Nicar said that he wants to fight. I told him Orak could be defended and that I would lead the battle, if the Families agreed to my conditions. Now it’s time to decide. We hold this place to the death, or we all move on. Which do you choose?”
