The Scar
Acknowledgments
We are grateful to all who contributed to our book publication in the United States.
Special thanks to Robert Gottlieb, chairman of Trident Media Group in New York. He discovered us in the midst of an unlimited pool of Russian literature.
Special thanks to Elinor Huntington for her great translation and to Patrick LoBrutto for his smart editing and belief in our book success.
Sincere compliments to Zamir Gotta, Trident Media Group associate, who has been and still is the advocate for this project.
—Marina and Sergey Dyachenko
Contents
PROLOGUE
Where did he come from and where is he going? He wanders the world like the constellations wander the sky. He roams along the dust-laden roads and only his shadow dares to follow in his footsteps.
It is said that he possesses great powers, but they are not of this world.
Even the mages avoid him, for he is not subject to them. Whoever stands in his way, either through the whim of fate or through his own folly, curses the day of that encounter.
His intentions are unknown. The roads serve him like dogs.
The mountain heights and the pebbles of the far sea; the hills, ravines, and fields; the forests and foothills; the plains and shores; the lanes and highways: all hide his secrets.
It is said that he will roam and wander eternally. Take care not to meet him, either in a crowded fair or in a hermit’s den—for he is everywhere.
And if one day you should hear the footsteps of the Wanderer at your door …
PART ONE
Egert
1
The walls of the crowded tavern were shaken from the boom of drunken voices. After solemn mutual toasts, after good-natured but pointed jests, after cheerful scuffles, it was now time to dance on the table. They were dancing with a pair of maidservants who, although as sober as their work required, were flushed and giddy from the glitter of epaulets; from all the gleaming buttons, scabbards, and ribbons; from the passionate glances directed at them; and from their efforts to please the gentlemen of the guards. Glasses and jugs tumbled to the floor. Silver forks twisted into fanciful arabesques, crushed by nimble heels. The maidservants’ full skirts fanned through the air like decks of cards in the hands of a gambler, and their happy squeals rang in the ears of the onlookers. The landlady of the tavern, a wise, gaunt old woman who only occasionally stuck her nose out from her refuge in the kitchen, knew that there was nothing to worry about: the guards were rich and generous, and the damages would be recouped with interest, and more important, the popularity of the establishment would increase a thousandfold after this evening.
After dancing, the revelers calmed down, the din of voices quieted just a bit, and the maidservants, panting and adjusting their clothing, refilled the jugs that had escaped being smashed and brought new glasses from the kitchen. Now, having returned to their senses, both girls bashfully lowered their eyelashes, ashamed at how freely they had behaved. At the same time, an ardent, chimerical hope for something vague, something entirely unfeasible smoldered within the soul of each girl, and whenever a dusty boot brushed against one of their tiny feet as if by accident, that hope flared up and imbued their youthful faces and tender necks with color.
The girls were named Ita and Feta, so it was only natural that the befuddled carousers kept confusing their names; moreover, many of the guards could no longer manage their tongues and thus were scarcely able to compliment the girls further. The impassioned glances were fading, and together with them the girlish hopes for something unrealizable were slowly diminishing, when a heavy battle dagger suddenly slammed into the doorjamb right above Ita’s head.
The room became quiet immediately, so quiet that the landlady stuck her inflamed purple nose out of her kitchen. The revelers looked around in mute amazement, as if they expected to see the menacing Spirit Lash on the smoke-fouled ceiling. Bewildered, at first Ita just opened her mouth, but then, finally realizing what had happened, she dropped an empty jug on the floor.
In the tense silence, a heavy chair scraped back from one of the tables. Trampling the fragments of the broken jug under his boots, a man unhurriedly approached the girl. The knife sheath on his belt was empty, but soon the sinister weapon was extracted from the doorjamb and slid back into its place. The man took a piece of gold from a fat purse.
“Take it, girl. Would you like to earn more?”
The tavern exploded with shouts and laughter. The gentlemen guards—those who were still in any condition to move—joyfully clapped one another on the shoulders and backs, rejoicing at the bold and fortunate amusement thought up by their comrade.
“That’s Egert! Bravo, Egert! A daring brute, upon my word! Well, do it again!”
The owner of the dagger smiled. When he smiled, a dimple appeared on his right cheek near the corner of his mouth.
Ita helplessly clenched her fists, unable to take her eyes off that dimple. “But, Lord Egert, you can’t just … Lord Egert!”
“What, are you afraid?” Egert, a lieutenant of the regiment, asked smoothly, and Ita broke out in a sweat before the gaze of his clear gray blue eyes.
“But!”
“Stand with your back to the door.”
“But, Master Egert, you’ve all been drinking so heavily!”
“What! Don’t you trust me?”
Ita’s feathery eyelashes fluttered repeatedly. The spectators crawled onto the tables in order to see better: even the truly drunk ones sobered up for the sake of such a spectacle. The landlady, more than a bit agitated now, stood frozen in the kitchen doorway with a mop held motionless at her side.
Egert turned to the guards. “Knives! Daggers! Whatever you have!”
Within a minute, he was bristling like a porcupine.
“You’re drunk, Egert,” Dron, another lieutenant, let the words drop as if by accident.
A swarthy young man peeled himself from the crowd of guards. “Really? He hasn’t drunk all that much. Why, it’d barely wet a bedbug’s knees, the amount he’s drunk! How can he be drunk?”
Egert burst out laughing. “True! Feta, wine!”
Feta obeyed: not immediately, but slowly and mechanically, and simply because she would not dare to disobey the request of a customer.
“But, but,” stammered Ita, watching as a gurgling waterfall of wine tumbled down Egert’s throat.
“Not a word,” he spat, wiping his lips. “Stand back, everyone.”
“Oh, he is drunk!” The shout came from among the gathering of spectators. “He’s going to kill the girl, the idiot!”
A small brawl ensued, but it was soon quieted. Apparently, the heckler had been dealt with.
“I’ll give you a coin for each throw,” explained a teetering Egert to Ita. “One coin per shot. Stay where you are!”
The girl, who had been slowly trying to withdraw from the oak door, fearfully staggered back to her previous position.
“One, two…” Egert took the first throwing knife that came to hand from the mass of weapons. “No, this is so boring. Karver!”
The swarthy youth appeared next to him as if he had been awaiting this summons.
“Candles. Put candles in her hands and one on her head.”
“No!” Ita burst into tears. For a moment, the silence was broken only by her distressed sobs.
“How about this?” An extraordinary thought, it seemed, had dawned on Egert. “For each throw, I’ll give you a kiss.”
Ita slowly raised her tearstained eyes, but the few seconds of procrastination were enough.
“Let me!” Feta pushed her friend out of the way, stood in front of the door, and took the lit candles from the hands of Karver, who was snickering.
The blades clipped the quivering flames ten times, they entered the wood directly over the girl’s head another two times, and they passed within a fingerbreadth of her temple yet three more times. Lieutenant Egert Soll kissed the lowly maidservant Feta a total of fifteen times.
Everyone considered it well played except for Ita. She fled to the kitchen to sob. Feta’s eyes were lowered, and the skillful hands of the lieutenant rested on her waist. The landlady looked on sorrowfully, yet with understanding. It soon became obvious that Feta was feverish and swooning from passion. Somewhat uneasy, Lord Soll decided to take her to her room; he was not gone for very long, but once he returned, he encountered the rapturous, somewhat envious looks of his comrades.
The night was already well past its peak when the company finally quit the welcoming establishment. Lieutenant Dron spoke to Egert’s swaying back. “All the mothers in the district scare their daughters with stories of Lieutenant Soll. You truly are a rascal.”
Someone chuckled.
“That merchant Vapa, you know, that rich man who bought the empty house on the embankment? Well, he just brought in a young wife from the provinces, and guess what: He’s already been informed by the local gossips that he should fear neither pestilence nor ruin, but a young guard by the name of Soll.”
Everyone laughed except for Karver. He frowned at the mention of the merchant’s wife, gritted his teeth, and said, “That’s what I thought. Someone let it slip in all innocence, and now the merchant doesn’t sleep a wink. He guards her.” He crossly tossed his head. Obviously, the merchant’s wife had long occupied his thoughts, but her jealous husband had managed to disoblige him by his very existence.
Wobbling, Egert stopped, and the blissful vacancy of drunkenness on his face gradually gave way to interest. “Are you lying?”
“If I were lying?” reluctantly responded Karver. The conversation seemed oppressive to him.
The whole company gradually sobered up enough to consider the situation; someone chuckled at the thought of intrigue.
Egert drew his sword from its sheath, his renowned sword of ancient design, and holding its narrow edge close to his face, he solemnly pronounced, “I vow that the merchant shall not protect himself, not from pestilence, not from ruin, and definitely not from—”
His last words were drowned out by an outburst of laughter. Karver’s face darkened, and he hunched his head down into his shoulders.
* * *
The glorious city of Kavarren was as ancient as it was militaristic. In no other city did there live, side by side, so many renowned descendants of venerable houses; in no other city did there grow such an assortment of family trees. Nowhere else were valor and military skill so highly valued: the only thing Kavarren valued as highly as prowess with a blade and bravery in battle was skill in breeding and training boars, whose fights were the primary entertainment in the city.
Any House in Kavarren could, if necessary, withstand the onslaught of hundreds of troops. The walls of every manor were surpassingly strong and thick, the unassailable, narrow windows cut in these walls loomed darkly, and a multitude of steel spikes protruded here and there on both gates and doors. An entire arsenal, consisting of myriad types of weapons, was carefully deposited in the vault of each house, and above each roof a banner, adorned with fringe, waved proudly. On the exterior side of the gates, each house boasted a coat of arms, one sight of which might put an entire army to flight from fear of the numerous claws and teeth, the fiery eyes and the ferociously grinning jaws therein. The city was surrounded by a fortress wall, and the gates were protected by such forbidding engravings that even Khars, Protector of Warriors, would either lose his head or flee for his life should he choose to attack Kavarren.