Valir nodded with a thin smile.
“Yes, it was.”
“…and you really helped me out of a very serious situation I was in…”
“Yes, I did.”
It was hard to unclench his teeth enough to end the sentence.
“…so, thank you again. I am in your debt.”
The last part was not just a formality, but a matter of fact. Even without interest, paying back one hundred gold coins might be a feat of a lifetime. Or more, if he were to follow in the footsteps of his foster father.
“Indeed, you are. I have to admit, it speaks of your character that you came here tonight. Others would probably have tried to escape their responsibility. Not you, though. You’re anhonestone, aren’t you, Krasen?”
Kraghtol suppressed the impulse to laugh out loud. Honest? If Valir knew… On the outside, he nodded.
“Good. Then let’s discuss the terms of the loan.”
“It’s… not a servitude contract, right?” Kraghtol asked, blurting out the question he had been fearing the whole day. He distinctly remembered the conversation with the sweeping servant on his first day in school, and he didn’t want to end up an indentured servant, especially not for Valir.
The noble sized him up with an unreadable face. “Do you want it to be one?” He paused for a few heartbeats before shaking his head. “But no. You couldn’t continue your studies. It’s a loan, just like you asked for.”
Absentmindedly, he waved to a servant and ordered a light wine for the both of them. With a bow, the servant vanished, and Valir wandered over to a desk of impressive size. Kraghtol followed.
“As I said before, I intend for the repayments to start after your graduation. There is no sense in trying to get back my money earlier, and I tire even thinking about the numerous times I would have to listen to your excuses and pleads for extensions. Now, if we suppose you will take six years to complete your education…”
The noble went on while moving his quill over the paper in front of him with a barely audible scratching sound. Kraghtol tried hard to focus on the words, since he knew it was extremely important. These terms would literally affect his life for years to come, but he just couldn’t get his stubborn mind to listen. Everything else around him seemed more interesting. The flickering light of the candle on the desk. The scratching sound of the quill. Even the way his own tongue touched the roof of his mouth. It was dry.
How long had it been now since Valir had sent the servant away? Readily, his memory supplied him with the layout of the corridors hehad been led through. They were on the first floor. Wine was stored in cellars, so the servant would have to traverse two flights of stairs without spilling.
“… and of course, we have to consider the cost of living…”
Was this the first time Valir did this? His words sounded professional, almost rehearsed, but his tone of voice didn’t follow through. Kraghtol could be mistaken, but the silky voice sounded almost shaky, as if his business partner was insecure. Stars above, he scolded himself, focus on the words, not the voice!
“… and then, we can make adjustments if we need to…”
There were three sources of light in the room: the candle on the desk, the glimmering coals in the fireplace and an ornate metal oil lantern, probably of Dwarven origin, so each of them cast three shadows of differing strength. One, two, three, one, two, —
Lunging forward was not a conscious decision but pure instinct. He collided with the noble, sending the quill flying and toppling the inkwell, before tackling him to the ground. And not a moment too soon. A slender blade, dripping with an oily liquid, cut through the air where moments before the noble’s back had been.
Kraghtol spun around to face their attacker, only to realize they were not alone. Two lean figures clad in black clothes with masks covering their faces were in the room with them, the second one right where Kraghtol had been standing a moment ago. Both were armed, one with the poisoned dagger, and one with a mace that would have been more than capable of breaking Kraghtol’s neck if he had stayed where he was.
His mind cleared, and his muscles tensed. Without standing up fully, he launched himself face first towards the dagger-wielder and slammed them against the brick fireplace. Anticipating it more than actually seeing it, he dodged the heavy mace swing from behind and almost fell over the cast-iron fireplace utensils arranged neatly next to it.
While the first attacker was still dizzy, he took their right arm and yanked it back brutally, which produced a high-pitched scream of pain and sent the poisoned dagger flying through the room. Good.
He had to duck under the next swing of the mace and found himself losing ground quickly. Behind him, the heat of the coals almost singed him, and in front of him, the mace-wielding attacker got ready for his next attack. Trusting his instincts, he kicked aside the ornamental grill separating the coals from the rest of the room, and shoved a good handful of the red-hot pieces towards his adversary, ignoring the burning pain on his hands. The ash and sparks momentarily blinded the masked assailant, and while he was distracted, Kraghtol dove for the poker to his feet.
Closing his fist around the stable cast iron shaft, he jumped up again, only to collide with the equally sturdy coal shovel the first attacker had picked up. Luckily, having to resort to their left hand, the hit had been weak and uncoordinated, but he could still feel the warm trickle of blood running down his forehead.
He barely parried another hit with the shovel using his own improvised weapon and noticed from the corner of his eye that the second attacker was slowly recovering. He was clearly outnumbered, and the assailants were probably battle-trained. His burning Orcish blood didnot care one bit. Screaming incoherently at the top of his lungs, he launched a flurry of powerful swings with the poker at his victim, not caring that he was overexerting himself. His opponent went on the defensive, dodging and parrying when necessary, and waited for Kraghtol to get exhausted. Kraghtol’s frustration grew and, finally, when his opponent was focused entirely on the poker, he used his strong left fist to smash their head against the brickwork, sending them down for good.
Kraghtol’s satisfaction was short-lived, however, as the second attacker had used the opening to deliver a crushing blow against his shoulder. A sharp pain made him howl out, and his arm went slack immediately. He spun around on the spot and tried his best to defend himself using his right arm only. The red-hot pain made him dizzy, and his muscles protested, but he kept fighting. It was not like he had much of a choice; a sufficiently well-placed mace-hit to the skull or neck could very well kill him. And he had no doubts this skilled fighter would take any opportunity to do so if given the chance.
He deflected or dodged blow after blow, but couldn’t find any openings for himself to strike back, until his breath became ragged and the world was tinted red from the blood dripping into his eyes.
Suddenly, the attacker made an unexpected move, feigning to strike to the right, only to change directions mid-swing, aiming for his unprotected side. The mace connected with his chest, but with far less force than he had anticipated, and the assailant made a half-surprised, half-pained noise before collapsing on the spot. It took Kraghtol a moment to realize why: Valir had picked up the poisoned dagger,crawled over and pushed the blade into the unprotected back of the knee of the masked person.
