The Shadowy Path - 25. Chapter 25

Franz

The anger inside Franz boiled over again when he returned downstairs and saw the girl picking up dishes from the tables. But he sought the real target of his annoyance, the man with the moustache.

Upstairs at the inn, Franz had been trying to sort out his tangled thoughts for perhaps half an hour. He had come to no clear conclusion. It was a shame to be deceived, but at the same time the recent experience with the girl had been the most enjoyable of his life so far.

It was late in the evening and the crowd in the Pale Wanderer had grown considerably. Most of the guests had turned their eyes to the back of the hall. There, sitting on a high stool, was the moustached man Franz had been looking for, preparing to play the flute. Franz grunted to himself. It would attract unnecessary attention to yell at him with the whole inn watching.

There was no empty table to be found. The only free seats were at a table where a scruffy-looking old man was staring forlornly at his beer. It would be all right to sit with a drunken, sulking loner. Franz was in no mood to chat with any cheerful company. So he sank into a chair, crossed his arms over his chest, looked up at the ceiling of the inn and imagined he was somewhere else.

After a while, Franz began to calm down. The raucous chatter that had been going on in the hall had died down, drowned out by the lilt of the flute. It seemed that even the noisiest drunkard in the hall had calmed down to listen to the music.

Even Franz, though still upset with the man, could not help but feel enchanted. The notes of the flute rippled as sweetly as the girl's lips on his cheek a moment ago. The soft, low notes tickled his spine and made his neck tingle. It was as if the moustached man had just played for Franz, to wash away the resentment with his music.

Franz lifted his gaze from the table to the musician. Of course, the man happened to be looking at him at the same time. His eyes laughed, and suddenly a realisation echoed in Franz's head: Troubadour Kharl! The man is Troubadour Kharl!

At some point, the playing stopped and the man left the stage to wet his whistle in the bar. Franz shook his head. What had that been all about? The music had been too beautiful for a shabby hostelry like the Pale Wanderer. And finally, where had that crazy idea come from in Franz's head? There was no Troubadour Kharl. There was only the story created by Josel's father and its hero who plays the recorder. But the moustached man certainly resembled him.

"He played well. Always plays," said a hoarse, drunken voice near Franz.

Only now did Franz take a closer look at the man sitting at the same table. He was bearded and dishevelled. His potato-shaped nose was red and, judging by the protruding lump, once broken. The hair was tangled like a bird's nest. The clothes were made of coarse woolen cloth, full of holes and patches. Franz also noticed the pungent stench coming from the man.

A foul-smelling drunkard, he considered, and did not bother to reply. When the man started to pick his nose, with hairs gushing out of his nostrils, Franz looked away in disgust.

The audience, momentarily sensitised by the music, began talking again and emptying their glasses. Franz's tablemate had also emptied his tankard, and the waiter boy ran to fetch it. Luckily not the waitress, thought Franz, still a little sour.

"Pints, for both of us," the drunkard muttered as he slipped a dirty note into the boy's hand.

"I didn't ask for anything," Franz protested, but the waiter was already on his way to deliver the order.

"Shut up," the unkempt old man sizzled. "You're in the mood for a beer and you don't have any money, do you?"

Franz shrugged his shoulders, he really had nothing better to do than get drunk. Besides, all great adventurers had a taste for spirits, even Troubadour Kharl from Josel's father's books. Whether the moustached man unknowingly or deliberately, resembled the character in the book, Franz could not say.

After the beer mugs arrived, it started happening again on the stage. The moustached man - or Kharl, as Franz decided to call him from now on - was preparing to perform once more. This time without an instrument.

Kharl cleared his throat and said in a loud voice that he was going to brighten up the audience he loved so much with a few little songs. This was followed by cheers and the clinking of mugs.

"He sings well, too," remarked the untidy drinker.

Franz nodded slightly; he had no desire to make the old man's acquaintance.

That's when Kharl started the song. It was called 'Wild Flowers', a lively tune about a girl, a boy and summer flowers, familiar to everyone in Paidos. The man's melodious, musical voice was a perfect match for the upbeat, pitch-changing song. Unwillingly, Franz found himself humming along.

"As twilight whispers, the curly-haired lad on a steed rides free.
Before him looms a meadow's embrace, where linden trees veil a flower field.
Yet he doesn't ride to pick flowers, not to pick flowers, not at all.
He has a girl in his heart, the maid of beauty, bright as rays.

She picks wild flowers, wild flowers, wild flowers.
Why pick flowers when the boy wants a kiss?
Just wild flowers, just wild flowers, just wild flowers.

The maiden plucks the blooms, the knight appears in sight.
A tousled lad, with curls that dance, he's bound to get his girl, just wait and see.
She tucks her gown with such grace, oh my groom, you're so brave!
No more she'll gather petals fair, when he rides forth on his horse.

She picks wild flowers, wild flowers, wild flowers.
Why pick flowers when the boy wants a kiss?
Just wild flowers, just wild flowers, just wild flowers."

Kharl had not yet finished his performance when a racket came from the foyer of the inn. It caused the guests to turn their heads towards the noise. Franz peered over his shoulder too and saw a group of shadow sentries in their grey and black uniforms striding into the hall.

Blood rushed to the beating heart in his chest. Franz pressed himself against his chair, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible. If the shadow sentries picked him out of the crowd, it would all be over. The adventure would perish before it had even begun and Franz's young life would come to an ugly end.

One of the gunmen remained standing in front of the door, seemingly relaxed, while the other five marched over to the bar to talk to the waitress. Out of the corner of his eye, Franz saw a couple of the shadow sentries let their eyes wander around the crowd. Horrified, he ducked his head even more.

"She picks wild flowers, wild flowers, wild flowers.
Why pick flowers when the boy wants a kiss?
Just wild flowers, just wild flowers, just wild flowers."

At that moment, Kharl let the last words of Wild Flowers escape his lips and the hall erupted in applause. It was not particularly raucous, though, probably because of the presence of the shadow sentries. However, the uproar drew the attention of the shadow sentries from the audience to the performer, and Franz was able to take a deep breath for a moment.

The waitress cleared a seat for the shadow sentries at the table next to the bar counter. They sat down, except for the man standing at the door. Franz knew he could not slip out of the hall without passing the man. The only alternative was to remain still, hoping that the shadow sentries would leave before the hall began to empty.

What would great heroes do in such a situation? Marl Gaidok would surely have rushed headlong into battle against the shadow sentries, slashing them to pieces with his sword. Unfortunately, Franz lacked the strength and skill of brave Marl, he did not have even half of it. He cursed silently and took a strengthening sip of ale.

Meanwhile, Kharl had already started a new song. Franz was unfamiliar with the melody, but the message of the song sent shivers down his spine. It was about a boy running away from some evil villains. In the chorus, the singer urged the boy to be as quiet as a mouse.

"That's daft. Shadow dogs can figure it out," the drunkard snarled, and suddenly he did not sound drunk anymore.

"Figure out what?" Franz stammered, feeling the stale stench of man's breath in his nostrils.

"You, of course."

"What do you think you know, old man?" Franz hissed, trying to sound fearless.

"Shut up and drink!" the man ordered, and Franz saw one of the shadow sentries walking around, watching the crowd.

"Hold the mug to your lips and look at the table," the old man whispered very quietly.

Franz obeyed. Whoever the old drunkard was, he had clearly been acting more intoxicated than he really was and somehow knew that Franz was running from the Shadow Cross. If the old man had guessed from Franz's startled gestures alone, he was far more cunning than he appeared.

* * *

Nothing happened for a while. Kharl started a song, then another. People left and a few more came in. The door was still guarded by one of the shadow sentries while the others were sipping drinks at their tables. But Franz's worry had not gone away. He could not think of a way to escape. The only option was to rely on Kharl's wit, but so far the moustached man had done nothing but continue his performance. Besides, Franz knew that they would both be in danger if Kharl sat down at his table after he had finished singing. The shadow sentries might well come to talk to the musician and his companion.

To make matters worse, Franz's fears that the shadow sentries were indeed after him were soon proved to be true. A waitress was collecting empty glasses from a neighbouring table and whispered in Franz's ear as she passed: "They're looking for you."

Franz shivered, but managed to whisper back: "Can you help?" Although she knew the shadow sentries were looking for Franz, she had not blown his cover. She could help, she had to!

"I can't," she said, shaking her head apologetically and hurrying past the table. Then the old drunkard suddenly grabbed her arm with his gnarled hand.

"Now you listen, hussy," the old man grumbled, waving two large banknotes in his hand.

When the girl's eyes went from him to the notes, the look of disgust on her face was complemented by something like greed.

That was enough. The old man scrambled out of his chair and pushed the girl towards the back wall of the hall. As he went, he shot a piercing glance at Franz, who was glued to his seat, waiting uncertainly to see what would happen.

The scene between the old drunk and the waitress had caused a few heads to turn, but then Kharl turned the chorus louder than necessary, and the attention of the people shifted back to the singer. Franz observed that the shadow sentries were still in place.

The old man returned to the table quite soon. The banknotes had disappeared from his hand. Back in his pocket? Wasn't the company of a smelly old man good enough for the girl, Franz wondered.

He got the answer immediately. The old man spoke in a low voice: "The whore took the money, but I didn't get laid. But she's helping us."

"Us?" Why on earth would a stranger involve himself in Franz's problems?

"That's right, whelp!" the man barked. "Be quiet, but follow when I give the signal." He rubbed his bumpy nose, turning his head to get a better look at Kharl.

The show went on, but Kharl was nearing the end of his last song. The chorus praised the victorious Imperial Army. There were both enthusiastic cheers and jeers for the emperor from the intoxicated audience.

Publicly insulting the emperor was, of course, strictly forbidden by law. Nevertheless, the inn was located at the shadow walker's support area, and the governor had fallen in Paidos, so no one cared.

The song ended and Kharl was greeted with loud applause. Someone even threw a handful of coins towards the stage as Kharl bowed to his audience. To Franz's surprise, the old drunk pulled a shiny pocket watch out of the folds of his rags and used it to keep time.

"That lousy stable lad should be done with our horses by now," he muttered so quietly that only Franz could hear.

"Horses?"

"Are you retarded when you don't understand anything!" the old man snapped, but continued more calmly: "We're leaving. The girl has brought your equipment from upstairs to the stables."

A wonderful bubbling excitement filled Franz's chest. Good or bad, either way something was going to happen!

"Follow me when I give the signal. And when I tell you to run, you whelp, you run!" the old man added, still growling.

When the signal came, Franz rose from the table, his back bent and his face turned away from the shadow sentries. He started to walk after the old man, towards the foyer. Folding the flute back onto his back, Kharl walked along the bar in the same direction. The girl, on the other hand, was leaning against the shadow sentries' table, seemingly negotiating something with a flirtatious gesture. Franz noticed all this before shifting his gaze to the doorway and the shadow sentry watching it.

The middle-aged man was big, tall and scruffy. Not exactly mean looking, but undeniably powerful, probably dangerous too. The heavy baton he held in one hand added to the impression. Franz knew he would have no chance in a duel. The old drunkard would hardly make a good fighter, either.

With his head down again, Franz approached the door. His neck tingled and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Some of the men were leaving the hall, but they were not stopped by the doorkeeper. Perhaps there was hope. Franz sent a mental plea to the ancient gods he did not believe in and prepared to encounter the shadow sentry.

They had just reached the doorway when something unexpected happened: the old drunk tripped. The old man slumped on the floor, looking as if he was completely intoxicated. The shadow sentry grunted a harsh curse and turned his attention to the stumbling drunk in front of him. Franz knew his moment had come and decided to slip past the shadow sentry towards the exit.

He could have succeeded, but the shadow sentry turned his head and snarled: "Wait a minute!"

That was it, Franz thought, feeling paralyzed in his place. But the man's large hand did not catch him. The shadow sentry let out a shrill howl, unexpected for such a large man, and suddenly collapsed to the floor. The man flopped on his side, his hands clawing at his kneecaps. Franz saw that the man's fingers were covered in blood.

"To the stables!" the drunkard commanded, scrambling up from the floor with a knife in his hand. The shadow sentries at the table shoved aside the tavern girl who had been entertaining them and were about to charge the door.

Franz forced his legs to move, dashing across the foyer to the front door. The evening was dark, but he remembered the route to the stables. From the inn behind him came a shout, a thud and then a shot. But Franz did not look back, he ran as fast as he could.

The lantern-lit courtyard was deserted. Probably the old drunkard had paid the stableman to stay out of sight. Without hesitation Franz pulled the handle and the door opened with a squeak.

The smell of dung and hay wafted into Franz's nose as he peered into the dark stable and stepped inside. A horse whinnied somewhere nearby. "Sowthistle!" he called hesitantly, but the mare did not answer. Either she did not recognise her own name, or she simply did not care to answer. Franz did not know much about the habits of horses.

He pushed the door further open to let the light from the lantern into the stable. In the nearest stall stood a large dark horse, certainly not Sowthistle. Franz went on, hoping for the best. There could not be much time left. Had it been foolish to come to the stables after all? The Shadow Cross would soon be here to smash his face in.

At the same moment, Franz heard footsteps behind him and someone yelling in a voice as rough as a grater: "You miserable wretch! Get out of the stable, we're in a hurry!"

The ragged figure of the old drunkard stood in the stable yard. Somehow he had managed to find his way out of the inn.

"Horses..." Franz began.

"Have you no brains? The horses are already saddled outside!"

Cursing his own stupidity, Franz followed the man to the back of the stables. There they met Sowthistle, Kharl's Gingerbread stallion, and a sorry-looking nag that must have been the old man's horse.

Franz was not very familiar with horses, but the shaggy, scrawny animal looked anything but rideable. As freaky as its owner, he thought.

"Get on the horse!" the old man insisted.

"What about... him?" Franz asked, pointing to Kharl's masterless stallion.

"Unlike you, he can take care of himself," the drunkard snapped, and like Franz, climbed into the saddle.

Franz patted Sowthistle encouragingly, hoping they would leave soon. There was still some noise coming from the direction of the inn. The shadow sentries had certainly not given up.

Smacking his lips, the man lured his horse in motion. With one hand on the reins, he led Kharl's stallion, which followed without jibbing. Franz gritted his teeth on Sowthistle's back. Why couldn't they just let the horses run and get away? Was the old man a complete fool, or was he drunk as a skunk?

Still, Franz did not dare to take his horse and gallop away. The old man had saved him at the inn, so perhaps it was wise to trust him once more. Even if it might cost his own life.

Franz felt like screaming out loud when he realised that the drunkard was leading them straight back to the Pale Wanderer. "Not that way!" he whispered hoarsely into the darkness.

The old man turned in his saddle, but made no reply. It was too dark for Franz to see his face. Most probably he was angry.

There was no choice but to follow. Fortunately, the old man did not lead them straight into the death trap at the inn's front door, but turned around the back of the house in the dark. Franz could make out a couple of dim human figures at the front door, but it was hard to tell if they could hear the horses clattering past.

Franz did not understand the old drunkard's gamble. Were the shadow sentries really all dead, since the man was in no hurry to escape? But the people here were loyal to the Shadow Cross, Kharl had told Franz. That meant they were in danger, regardless of the fate of the shadow sentries. This was sheer madness!

The old man stopped his horse behind the Pale Wanderer. The night hid them in its gloomy cloak, but Franz still did not feel safe. Even if there were no people around, someone might come to check the backyard at any moment and they would be in deep trouble.

"Why are we here?" Franz asked impatiently.

"We are waiting," the old man said, his eyes measuring the wall of the inn.

Now Franz was sure that the old man had indeed downed a bottle of spirits somewhere in between. What else could they expect here? Certain death at best! Although Franz hated waiting more than anything else, and the tension of the situation made it twice as unbearable, he forced himself to control himself once more. Where would he go alone? Ride back to Paidos or what? Surely not. For that reason, and that reason alone, he was putting his life in the hands of a stranger.

Nothing happened at first. It was just a murky night, three horses and an old man staring stubbornly at a featureless wall of a house.

Shortly, Franz pricked up his ears. A rustle! It came from inside the inn, from upstairs. Franz fixed his gaze on the two windows upstairs. Both were equally dark. At the same time, there was a scream and a thud that stopped the scream.

It was very quiet for a while. Then the window above them banged open and a single foot emerged from the opening. The foot was followed by another, and soon Franz could see a figure above him. Even without daylight, it was easy to recognise him from his goofy cap as Troubadour Kharl.

"Yoo-hoo!" Kharl shouted and jumped down from the window without warning. Like an acrobat, he leapt to his feet without hurting himself - even though he had jumped with a flute case in one hand and a rapier in the other.

Franz shook his head in amazement as Kharl bowed to them like a circus performer who had finished his act.

"What an idiot," the old man snorted.

It just made Kharl smile. "The problem was solved according to all the rules of the art. I led the last two shadow sentries up behind me and finished them off. So the way is clearer than your head, my friend," Kharl told the old man, laughing gleefully at his own joke.

"Let's see how you are after I've twisted your legs into a knot," the old man said in his gruff voice.

Kharl was amused by the threat, and the old drunk let out a sort of throat-clearing cough - whether it was laughter, Franz was not sure.

"Always good to see you, old chum," Kharl said cheerfully as he sprang nimbly into the saddle of his stallion.

"The pleasure is not mine. At my age, I'm not in the mood for brawls like I used to."

"Don't pout, my friend! Think of your future adventures with me - and with Franz-boy," he said enthusiastically from his horse.

"I have not promised to take part in anything, and the whelp is of no use at all."

"Oh you are wrong, he will be of great use. Don't pay any attention to this sourpuss, Franz fellow. We'll make a great trio, worthy of many songs," Kharl said, painting the air with his flute case in a grandiloquent gesture.

The drunkard was hardly convinced by Kharl's words as he steered the conversation back to the shadow sentries. "You killed those shadow dogs up there, didn't you?"

"I didn't think of that. They are unconscious now. Why kill them when you can knock them out just as well?"

"I knew it!" bellowed the old man. "Now we've got the whole Shadow Cross after us. Damn, what laziness and lack of intelligence!"

"A man of honour does not kill in vain!"

"Honourable men die before dishonourable ones," the old man grumbled, and Franz found himself agreeing with him. If there was a choice between the two, Kharl was definitely the crazier one.

"I, for one, am very much alive," Kharl asserted emphatically.

The old man groaned fretfully. "Not for long, if we don't get moving."

Those were the words Franz had been waiting for. He wanted to get as far away from anything remotely connected with the Shadow Cross as quickly as possible.

"All right, all right. Lead the way," Kharl said.

"Follow me then, the whelp after me," the old man ordered, urging his nag forward.

Franz stamped his stirrups and Sowthistle darted after the old man's horse. Not a single person came to stop or even showed themselves as they sped through the village at night in a northeasterly direction.

At a bend in the road, Franz turned once more to look at the Pale Wanderer Inn, the place where he had lost his virginity. Or rather, the inn was nothing more than a small glint of light, but there it was anyway. And so was the tavern girl, whose name Franz had not had time to ask.

What adventurer could remember the names of all his women, he thought, and found himself smiling after a long time. Even though the road was dark, it was leading them somewhere. Franz did not know where, but 'that something' smelled of adventure.

* * *