Petrov sat against a log, whittling on a stick of Maricanian cedar. The shavings fell on his legs, which he would brush into the smoldering fire every other minute or so. Flanking the fire were Leo and Fyodor, who had fallen asleep much earlier due to the extent of their new journey.
Only the night before, after his confrontation with Nicolai, did Petrov reflect on his foolhardy quest in earnest. Sure, he had mentioned the journey back to Chenia to Nicolai, which had been the cause of their argument. He even spoke of his plans to Leo and Fyodor before that, both of whom had nodded in passive agreement. But not until Nicolai stood in his way, declaring not that he should not go but that he could not go, did Petrov make preparations to leave.
Soon after Petrov left Nicolai in the tavern, he went back home. With each step toward his flat, Petrov's drunkenness lessoned and his clarity improved. Along with his resolve. Memories of his Uncle Tobin, of the sacrifices he had made to send them to Maricania, flooded back to him. By the time he reached his apartment and saw Leo and Fyodor, he was determined to leave at once.
Leo and Fyodor, who bore in mind not only Petrov's wishes but also Nicolai's, listened patiently as he explained his intentions. Petrov, still slightly intoxicated, remained honest.
"We need to leave. I know Nicolai doesn't want us to, saying that we shouldn't go, either out of concern for our welfare or due to his own fear. It doesn't matter his motives. He’s wrong to ask me – or any of us – to stay. He's wrong. Do you hear me? He's wrong."
Petrov paused. He tried to read his two friends. Leo, although taller and wider in stature than any of them, nonetheless remained the less decisive member of the group. He always deferred his opinion and allowed others to talk before he did, often agreeing with the last person who spoke. His aversion to confrontation ended once arguments became physical, however, which is why Petrov hoped to keep the discussion civil.
"Nicolai's caution has always served us well," Fyodor chimed.
Petrov closed his eyes. Damn, he cursed to himself. Damn it to Hell and back. He just had to say something, didn't he?
Petrov turned all his attention to Fyodor. The academic. The scholar. It wasn't so much that he was any smarter than the rest of them. While he outshined Leo in conversation, and the rest of them in regards to reciting dates and the specifics of key events, the fact remained that his way of thinking was in no way above that of anyone else. Yet that did not matter. Once Fyodor came to a conclusion, he stuck with it. No matter what. Petrov could recall dozens of instances in which Fyodor had gone on complaining for days afterwards if anybody dared make a key group decision that went against his wishes.
So there Petrov stood, silent, waiting for Fyodor to finish his piece.
"He has always looked out for us. Time and again, his wit and demeanor have served to save us quite a bit of hardship and grief. His methods may not be your methods. But they work. Nicolai has always kept his head down and stayed away from trouble in difficult times since we've arrived in Knight's Harbor. Now you want us to leave and go to Hell on Earth?"
"I know what I'm asking for is much for . . ."
"Much? Try impossible. Or impractical."
"Yes, I know, but . . ."
"Just think about what your Uncle Tobin would say."
"He can't speak! He's nearly dead!"
Fyodor and Leo recoiled. Within an instant, Petrov's mellow and intoxicated exterior gave way to a sober disposition, one that reflected a clear and steadfast resolve.
"I thought you would be with me on this. Now I see I am wrong. If you want to stay, that is fine. If you want to listen to Nicolai, then so be it. I won't waste my time arguing. Your minds are your own. But as for me, I can't stand by while my kin suffer. If my Uncle Tobin is able, I will bring him to safety."
"And if he is not?" Fyodor asked.
"Then under the cover of night, I will bury him. I will make certain he is given a soldier's burial, much as he deserves."
Petrov stared at his friends. They stood frozen in their lack of resolve, both unsure of what to say and how to act. Petrov, unable or unwilling to read their next move, walked back to his bed. He knelt down before his bed frame and pulled out a worn trunk, wide but short, where he kept the few belongings he had gathered in Knight's Harbor. As he opened the trunk and began to pack, a gentle tap on his shoulder drew his attention. He turned to find Leo standing behind him.
"I will go."
Petrov nodded. He looked back to Fyodor, who remained on the other side of the room.
"At least leave Nicolai a note," he said. "You may not want to stay to say good-bye, but he deserves at least a brief explanation."
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Petrov looked into the fire, watching the fluttering wood shavings combust into tiny sparkles. The fire crackled with each little newborn flame. Petrov's eyelids grew heavy as the grip on his whittling knife lessened. With the fire serenading him, he drifted off to sleep.
A sudden crack, too loud to be from the fire, startled Petrov. He gripped his knife and swung his arm up but the time for effective reaction had passed. A foot came down on his arm with crushing pressure so as to force him to release his knife. A figure loomed over him as it gripped the lapel of his shirt. Petrov, still groggy, blinked repeatedly, trying to focus his sight and senses.
The figure, rather than attack Petrov, simply shook him.
"Petrov," it said. "Petrov!"
Petrov's vision remained cloudy. He turned to the fire, now a mass of hot coals, which continued to glow. Beside it, Fyodor and Leo had stirred awake. They sat up on their elbows, their own eyes and ears coming to realize the presence of their shadowy guest. As Petrov's vision focused, he turned his attention back to the figure shaking him. The outline of the figure – and the voice emanating from it – became clear and recognizable.
"Nicolai!"
Nicolai lifted his foot from Petrov's arm. Petrov hurried to his feet to embrace his friend. Fyodor and Leo joined them. Nicolai, still bitter from their abandonment of them, simply stood there, waiting for their excitement to cease.
"How did you . . ."
Petrov's cheek burned red with a hard slap. Nicolai, in succession, smacked all three of them across the face. They recoiled, their hands lifted defensively, not sure what to expect next.
"You idiots," Nicolai yelled. "You deserve worse."
"Nicolai," Petrov started. "Please, listen."
"You leave me with no clue of where you are. No word."
"We're sorry," Leo stepped in, "honestly, we are."
"We couldn't tell you," Fyodor added. "You would have never agreed to let us go."
"You'd work yourself into a frenzy with worry. It was best that we left you behind."
"Best. I was nearly killed by some Czarian. And Boris believed you disappeared, that I had something to do with it, before I reasoned with him. All because you left in haste."
"Wait, what Czarian?" Petrov asked.
"Some man broke into the flat hours ago. I subdued him. Then I called for Boris. We tried to get answers from him but he killed himself with a quill before we could get answers."
The three of them stood silent as Nicolai finished his piece. They stared at each other, unsure how to digest the news of an attack where they had slept only the night before.
"Was he . . . a Czarian Guard?" Fyodor asked
"Perhaps. We couldn't tell for certain. There's more."
"Wait," Leo interrupted.
Nicolai, Fyodor and Petrov turned to Leo, who stepped away from the group. He cocked his head toward the forest that surrounded them, and the darkness beyond, listening for what the other three had failed to hear.
A moment passed that seemed like an hour. Leo, always the least likely of the four of them to speak his mind, possessed acute hearing. His ears could hear far and wide: far in that he could pick up minute sounds from a long distance, from a mile or so away in some cases, and wide in that he could determine where a sound had come from, picking out of an array of other noises.
Such an acute sense had served them well. It was Leo who could hear the heavy, steel-toed boots of the Shavice on the cobblestone streets of Knight's Harbor far before any of them could see them. And Leo could tell who was ascending the stairs past – or to – their flat, whether it be Mrs. Fletching, one of their neighbors or a stranger. Indeed, in such moments, silence on Leo's part served him well so long as he had not taken to drink. To his credit, their day of traveling had left Leo tired yet sober.
As Leo continued to strain his neck, his three friends stood by, waiting for his conclusive details. Leo tilted his head a little more. Then his eyes widened as he snapped his head to look back upon the group.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"What?! What did you hear?" Nicolai asked.
"I was exhausted, we had been traveling all day, I thought they were just other travelers."
"There are others?" Fyodor asked.
Petrov turned to Nicolai. He grabbed him by his shirt.
"You idiot! You were followed. You led them here!"
"No," Leo interjected. "They were already here."
Nicolai brushed off Petrov's hand. He stepped up to Leo.
"How many? How far are they?" he asked.
"I'm sorry," was Leo's only reply.79Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9f2ELvxDmA
