The girl looked at Egert with bleak disgust completely lacking in malice, as one might look at vermin. There was no hatred in her, but it seemed as though she might vomit at any moment.
Egert did not remember the route he took as he walked—or did he run?—away, his eyes downcast so that he might never again see or meet or remember such a gaze.
The next day, he was sitting in the Faithful Shield, gloomy, despondent, and full of malice. Karver was hovering next to him, happily chatting away about boars and women: the seasonal boar fights were not far off. Would his father enter Handsome, Butcher, or the young Battle? Incidentally, the lovely Dilia, wife of the captain, had asked about Egert, and it would be quite dangerous to neglect her; she would get her revenge. And why on earth should Egert, who was the center of attention in the city this week, spoil the bright days of such a remarkable life with despondency?
Egert instinctively noticed a certain pleasant agitation in the voice of his friend. It seemed that in the depths of his soul, Karver rejoiced in the knowledge that, although he was victorious in the field of battle, Egert had come in second in the field of love and was therefore equal to other mortals. It is possible that, in judging him this way, Egert wrongly accused Karver in his mind, but that was neither here nor there: the chatter of his friend wearied Egert. With the nail of his index finger, he carved out a furrow in the blackened tabletop. Yes, he agreed with everything Karver had to say, but for Heaven’s sake, let him shut up for a minute and give his lieutenant the opportunity to finish his mug in peace!
Just then the door opened, thrusting a waft of cool air and a ray of light into the stuffy tavern. The newcomer stood on the threshold and, after looking around to be sure he had the right place, he entered.
Egert recognized him. He was that strange gray-haired man who had been staying at the Noble Sword for the last ten days. Walking past the guards, he pulled out the chair at a vacant table nearby and heavily lowered himself into the seat.
Not knowing exactly why, Egert watched him out of the corner of his eye in the feeble light of the crowded tavern. It was the first time he managed to get a close look at the stranger’s face.
The age of the grizzled boarder was impossible to determine: he could have been anywhere from forty to ninety years old. Two deep, vertical lines intersected his cheeks and lost themselves in the corners of his chapped lips. His long, thin, yellow nose flared continually, as if it were about to fly away. His eyes, clear and set far apart, seemed completely unconcerned with the world around him. Examining him, Egert saw his large, leathery eyelids, devoid of eyelashes, twitch slightly.
The innkeeper brought the stranger a mug of wine and was about to move off when the stranger unexpectedly stopped him.
“Just a minute, dearest. Don’t you see, I’ve no one to drink with. I understand that you are busy, but all I require is a little company. I want to drink to the glorious guards, the destroyers of the defenseless.”
The innkeeper flinched: he understood quite well to whom this toast was directed. Muttering apologies under his breath, the kindly soul scuttled off, and just in time, for Egert too had heard the words that were meant for him.
Unhurriedly placing his mug back on the table, he looked the stranger right in the eyes. As before, they were calm, even indifferent, as though someone else entirely had spoken that disastrous toast.
“And just whom are you drinking to, my dear sir? Whom do you name so?”
“You,” the stranger said, undaunted. “I name you, Egert Soll. You are right to go pale.”
“Pale?” Egert stood up. He was in his cups, but far from drunk. “What the—” The words strained through his teeth. “I am afraid that someone may come tomorrow wishing to call me the destroyer of feeble old men.”
The stranger’s face changed oddly. Egert suddenly understood that he was smiling.
“A man chooses who he will be, what his reputation will be. Why don’t you slaughter, let’s say, women with that sword of yours? Or ten-year-old children? It’s possible they might have more success against you than your last victim did.”
Egert was rendered speechless; at a loss, he turned toward Karver. But Karver, who was usually so sharp of tongue, was now, for some reason, wrapped in silence. The customers of the tavern, the innkeeper, who had retreated to the kitchen doorway, and a small, snot-nosed scullion were all keeping their heads down as if they sensed that something extraordinary was about to happen.
“What do you want from me?” Egert forced out, looking into those large, limpid eyes with hatred. “Why are you trying to provoke me into drawing my sword?”
As before, the stranger stretched his long, dry mouth into a smile. His eyes remained cold. “I also have a sword. But I thought you preferred those who don’t carry weapons, eh, Soll?”
With great difficulty, Egert forced himself to unclench his fingers, which were fastened to the hilt of his sword.
“Do you like easy victims?” The stranger asked soulfully. “Victims who exude terror? That sweet feeling of power, eh, Soll?”
“He’s a madman,” Karver said quietly, as if confused. “Egert, let’s go, yeah?”
Egert drew a deep breath. The stranger’s words affected him deeply, painfully, and far more strongly than he liked. “It is your good fortune,” he uttered with difficulty, “that you could be my grandfather. And I don’t fight with old men, is that clear?”
“It’s clear.” The stranger again raised his mug, and turning to Egert, to Karver, and to all those who were listening to their conversation with bated breath, he declared, “I drink to Lieutenant Soll, the embodiment of cowardice, hiding behind a mask of valor.”
However, he did not manage to drink his toast, because Egert’s sword, flying out of its scabbard, knocked the mug out of his hand. The silver cup bounced along the stone floor and then stopped in a dark red pool of spilled wine.
“Splendid.” The stranger contentedly wiped his wet fingers on his napkin, and his enormous nostrils swelled. “Do you have enough courage to take the next step?”
Egert lowered his sword; its tip rasped along the stones, drawing a curvy line at the feet of the stranger.
“Good.” The grizzled boarder of the Noble Sword was satisfied, although his gaze, as before, remained entirely indifferent. “Only, I will not fight in a tavern. Name the place and time.”
“By the bridge beyond the city gates,” Egert forced himself to squeeze the words out. “Tomorrow at dawn.”
The stranger took out his purse, extracted a coin from it, and laid it on the table next to the wine-stained napkin. He nodded to the innkeeper and started for the door; Egert just had time to throw words at his back, “Who will be your seconds?”
The boarder of the Noble Sword stopped in the doorway. Over his shoulder he said, “I have no need of seconds. Bring someone for yourself.”
Lowering his head under the lintel, the stranger left. The heavy door swung shut.
A good half of all the duels in Kavarren took place by the bridge beyond the city gates. The choice warranted itself: walking only a few steps from the road, duelists found themselves in an unpopulated place, concealed from the road by a wall of old spruces; furthermore, in the early morning dueling hour, the road and bridge were still so deserted that they seemed long since abandoned.
The combatants got to the bridge at almost the same time. Egert arrived a bit in advance of the grizzled stranger, and he stared into the dark water while he waited.