Chapter 8 Valir #3
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 he had 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 did not 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.
For a moment, there was silence, only broken by the sound of the poker hitting the ground and Kraghtol’s heavy breathing.
The fight had not taken more than a few moments, and only now that his mind was catching up, he realized that Valir had called out for help the instant Kraghtol had tackled him down.
Help arrived in the form of some servants and an armed guardsman two minutes later, but that would have been far too late if Kraghtol had not intervened.
The pain in his shoulder, chest and head occupied most of his attention now, and he only registered the servant with a bowl of hot water when they tried to clean his wounds. Suddenly, shame kicked in, unbidden and irrational, and he took the wet cloth from the servant, continuing on his own.
Only when the two unconscious attackers had been hauled away, and Valir had ordered the remaining servants to secure the mansion and leave them alone, did the noble relax a tiny bit.
“That was rather close. I do have to commend your quick reaction.”
While the choice of words was just what Kraghtol was used to from him — avoiding the words ‘thank you’ like they were poisonous — the entire rest of the noble told a whole different story.
He was even paler than usual and needed to clutch the back of a chair to keep himself from shaking, his knuckles white.
His eyes were glued to Kraghtol for some reason, and his voice was shaky.
“Who was that?”
Kraghtol’s voice sounded strange to him, and he cleared his throat, while Valir shook his head.
“I don’t know. Well, I don’t know exactly. Kidnapers, probably. I don’t think whatever was on the dagger was lethal, but more of a sleeping or stunning poison. At least the one I tested it on was still breathing.”
“But what did they want from you?!”
Valir shrugged.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Not from me, anyway. I guess whoever they were working for wanted to pressure my father into some political action. Or simply tried to extort money from him. I very much doubt it’s anything personal, but I’ll leave that to the officials to find out.”
The matter-of-fact way he explained left Kraghtol puzzled.
“Have they tried anything like that before?”
“Twice,” Valir nodded, “when I was younger. But I always had a bodyguard with me then. I see now that it had been foolish to believe this house was safe.”
He sighed in exhaustion at the latter fact before he continued.
“But I think you have some explaining to do yourself.”
“Me? Why? Because I fought them off for you?!”
Kraghtol’s voice was rising in disbelief.
“No. That much is clear. What puzzles me is what happened to you during the fight.”
An uneasy feeling rose within Kraghtol, and suddenly, he felt extremely self-conscious.
“See for yourself.”
Valir opened one drawer of the desk and handed him an expensive-looking hand-mirror.
His face was still dirty with his own blood, as he had failed to wipe it all away by himself.
But that was not what the noble was referring to.
He looked different, in a familiar way. His jaw had gotten more pronounced again, and his nose was broader.
And it wasn’t just his face. Looking down, he realized he had gotten taller, and the bulging muscles of his torso stretched his now high-riding shirt.
On the right side, it had ripped entirely, giving sight to strong biceps with more than just a light green tint.
Focusing on his face again, he parted his lips, and sure enough, they were already there, mocking him.
Small tusks, barely hidden by his lips, and about half as long as he knew them to be.
He looked as if he was stuck halfway between his human self and his normal appearance.
His mind was already trying to come up with a believable lie, how he could possibly explain the changes to the other man, but he was just tired, and in pain, and nothing he could come up with sounded even remotely convincing in his head.
“It’s an alchemical potion,” he admitted quietly. “Helping me to blend in, transforming me into a human. And it’s wearing off.”
There was a moment of coldfire silence between the two. Valir’s face was like a brick wall, not giving anything away.
“I see. So, you’re not human then?”
“Not entirely, no. I’m a half-orc. Part human, part… orc. But I’m not a savage or an enemy, if you think that.”
Given how he looked right now, Kraghtol wasn’t even convinced of that himself.
“I see. So, that’s who you really are — green skin, I suppose, a monster to most eyes. And you took a potion to turn you into one of us, just any ordinary human, because that’s better than standing out like this.”
Valir was not looking directly at Kraghtol. Instead, he seemed to focus on something many kilometers behind him.
“Did it work?”
That was not the question Kraghtol had expected. But then again, he really didn’t know what to expect. The whole situation was surreal. Of all the people he had expected to confide in, Valir was near the bottom of the list.
“Well, yes. Until now. But now the potion is failing, and I don’t know how to get more. I guess having to fight these attackers brought back my Orcish traits quicker.”
‘And that probably saved both our asses,’ he added silently.
Valir was still deep in thought.
“Is Krasen your real name?”
Kraghtol sighed. No reason to keep up that part of the lie now, right?
“No. My real name is Kraghtol Wulfspar. And I’m not from Caemdir, but from Mistpine. Happy?”
Valir didn’t look particularly happy.
“I’m Valir el Greylune. Son of Duke Selanthor el Greylune. Third in line of succession to become duke myself. People all over Wardenreach recognize my family crest. I’ve never been anyone else but that.”
Kraghtol wasn’t quite sure where he was going with that, so he just nodded slowly. The pain in his shoulder was still throbbing, and it was getting hard to think.
“In a way, we’re not so different. Only you had the brief opportunity to escape being yourself.”
“I don’t… understand. Why would you want to be someone else? I mean, you’re insanely rich and …”
Valir laughed dryly.
“Yes, but no one has ever asked me if that’s who I wanted to be. In the bathhouse, you told me that being an alchemist was your dream. Was that a lie, too?”
Kraghtol shook his head so violently the aching intensified.
“No! That was the truth. Pretty much everything I told you there was, including my father being a healer!”
“See, and that’s why I envy you. Like I told you at the solstice celebration.”
So, he did remember what he had said!
“I still don’t understand.”
Valir sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Nobody asked me if I wanted to be an alchemist. But it’s a prestigious position for a third-born.
Graduate from the school with the highest honors, if needed supported by a generous donation, and then buy yourself into a high rank within the guild.
It’s what people expect of me. It’s what my father expects of me.
And I’m Valir el Greylune, son of Duke Selanthor el Greylune.
Of course, I’m doing what is expected of me. ”
Slowly, it dawned on Kraghtol.
“But you don’t really want to.”
The noble just nodded.
“What do you want, then?”
Now, he looked Kraghtol right in the eye, and the thin smile was one of true amusement.
“It’s too silly. And I fear I might have said too much already. We’ll leave it at that.”
Before Kraghtol could answer, Valir stood up, straightened his back and turned to the half-orc, facing away from his father’s portrait, whose eyes pierced into the back of Valir’s head.
“Let’s make an agreement, Kraghtol. I won’t tell anyone your secret if you don’t tell mine. Agreed? See it as a thank you for helping me out today.”
So, he did know how to combine those particular two words in succession.
Kraghtol took the outstretched hand that was offered to him, now somewhat smaller than his own, and shook it.
“Agreed. But please don’t call me Kraghtol. It’s Kragh.”
He paused, letting his gaze wander over the damaged furniture in the room.
“About that loan contract…”
Valir followed his eyes and again produced the thinnest of smiles.
“Yes, seeing as my first draft now has ink all over it — and had the wrong name in it, anyway — I will have to redo that another time. But not today. I will tell you if that happens. For now, I am tired and will withdraw to my rooms if you have no more business to discuss.”
Only when Kraghtol was on his way back to the Crafters Quarter, clad in a cloak the noble had lent him, did he notice Valir had used the word ‘if’ — not ‘when’.