But if it were going to attack, wouldn’t it have done so already?
It ventured closer still, fur coat leaving smoky trails, and then sniffed at Niko’s knee, its red eyes watching his.
Niko willed his heart to slow.
This creature, it wasn’t here to hurt him.
Satisfied Niko wasn’t a threat, the beast lowered itself to its belly beside Niko’s leg and planted its massive head between its front paws. Then, this thing made of smoke and shadow huffed something that sounded remarkably like a sigh.
The creature’s heavy breaths slowed. By Etara, was it… sleeping?
Niko released his stalled breath.
The beast opened its eyes, fixing Niko beneath its penetrative stare again, and perhaps it was Niko’s own imagination or wishful thinking, or maybe he was exhausted from traveling, but he was sure recognition sparked in those eyes. Then its eyes closed again and the beast dozed.
Niko glanced at Adamo. The horse drank from the creek, alert ears flicking, but he appeared content enough to let the beast be. That seemed like good advice. Niko rested his head back against the tree and waited for dawn.
Bright morning sunlight chased away the shadows and his company.
The next time Niko stopped to rest, he looked for the beast’s eyes in the dark, but no beast arrived. It was another six days before he spotted fresh carriage tracks in the mud and another night before he caught sight of a distant flickering light. A campfire. Yasir had been right, firelight was visible for miles, and Niko had found his target.
After leaving Adamo loosely tied to a tree stump, Niko crept closer to the camp and crouched behind a boulder. Firelight illuminated at least eight figures seated around the camp. The same shifting light danced along the glossy black paint of a large carriage. No windows. The black-and-gold flame insignia marked its barred doors. The mark had never looked more insidious.
Yazdans.
Vasili was inside that carriage.
Acidic anger burned his tongue and blurred his vision. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes closed. He needed to think clearly for this. Charging in, swinging a sword, would get him cut down in seconds. Outnumbered, he had to go about this differently. What would Vasili do? Poison them all, probably. Cut their throats as they slept. But Niko wasn’t Vasili.
They’d have to sleep. They’d leave one or two men on watch. That would be the time to get a closer look at the carriage.
Niko settled in to watch them. The chill crept up on him as their fire burned lower. One by one, each of the men took to their bedrolls. Two guards stayed awake, sitting together outside the reach of the firelight, to keep their night vision. The carriage horses had been tied to one side to rest and feed. They dosed. The camp settled until just the guards’ soft murmurings interrupted the quiet. They weren’t looking at the carriage.
Niko rose from his crouch and crept around the outside of the camp until the carriage was between him and the guards. Soft earth muffled the sound of his approach. The carriage was bigger than he’d realized, more stagecoach than wagon. He quietly tried the handle, felt it click, and carefully swung open the door. The darkness hit him first, then the bitter scent of spilled blood. Grey smudges blurred and combined, slowly forming a recognizable shape.
Niko’s breath caught.
Vasili. Bare-chested. On his back. Arms spread and tied to either carriage side with long lengths of rope, a bloody rag rammed between his bruised lips. He didn’t look like Vasili. A part of Niko’s mind tried to tell him this prisoner wasn’t him. He couldn’t be Niko’s Vasili because this man was too broken, too bloody and bruised, and Vasili was always so strong and perfect. But then, as his eyes further adjusted to the dark, fresh, uniform cuts on Vasili’s forearms caught his eye. Blood. The sheets he lay on were dark with it. Dried rivulets ran down Vasili’s arms and chest, as dark as the veins it had spilled from.
Niko’s mind ticked. Emotionless ice quenched his scorching rage.
He’d kill them all for this.
He reached for the ropes tying Vasili’s left wrist. The frayed hemp rope had torn into his skin. Vasili had fought. At first.
Niko dug thick fingers into the knots, but blood had glued them rigid. He freed his sword and slammed it down on the taut rope. Vasili’s arm fell limp, his body limp too. Fresh blood dripped from his fingers.
Niko brought his sword up to slice through the