Zmiy.
Sergei the Cossack traversed tracts of scorched earth with no particular direction, adorned in black attire that made him look like a charred corpse risen from the dead. The sun radiated in the east, white as hot steel. A cloud moved lethargically in a stream of air, shrouding the sun’s brilliance for a short moment. In that moment, Sergei looked to the heavens, fearing for his life.
Fool you are, Sergei thought inwardly, bringing the brim of his hat back down across his brow. The people of Sintra moved in herds as they departed from the protection of the Palace, following the direction of various criers and officials. Sergei pinched his jacket collar across his mouth as the crowd kicked up clouds of dirt and ash in its wake. Despair physically bent these people, and for some it brought them to their knees, cursing God and the heavens above. Others gathered in the skeletal remains of their homes, hopeless and sobbing.
“Mister Romanenko!” A small, bony man called, gesturing at Sergei from the depths of the crowd. “Mister Romanenko!”
The man approached Sergei. “Andy,” Sergei said, recalling his name from a previous engagement, a hint of relief in his words at the sight of a familiar face. “How did you find me?” Sergei’s Portugese was coated with a thick eastern accent.
“Sintra is a small town, Mister Romanenko,” Andy said.
Now even smaller, Sergei thought.
“The captain wishes to have a word with you,” the small man continued.
“Julio lives?” Sergei asked.
Andy nodded. “Please, come with me.”
Andy led Sergei from the center of Sintra to the outskirts, where Captain Julio Barros had set up a small camp. Four tall tents surrounded a dead and smoking campfire. Julio emerged from one of the tents, hair matted and greasy, vomit stains coating his leather jerkin. Signs of drunkenness were immediately apparent in the captain as he struggled to journey the ten feet between himself and Sergei.
“The captain’s ship was destroyed during last night’s attack,” Andy said as Julio continued his approach. “He is taking it rather hard.”
Once close enough, Julio grabbed Sergei by the shoulders, stared into his eyes. “The beast robbed me, Sergei,” Julio said, a warm alcohol scent wafting from his mouth and into Sergei’s face. “I have nothing.”
Sergei swept Julio’s hands from his shoulders. “Why are you camped out here?”
Julio ignored the question, spun around and began stumbling back toward the camp. The ship captain promptly fell to his knees and clambered into one of the tents in search of alcohol.
“Where is my money, captain?” Sergei called after Julio, a seed of anger buried in his gut. “I invested in your ship and crew, which is no longer,” Sergei gestured toward the empty camp. “I expect my money to be returned in full.”
Andy answered in place of the captain, meekly: “I regret to inform you that the captain thought best to stow your investment aboard the ship, now lost to the beast’s flames.”
Sergei took a deep, measured breath. “What of the money I loaned him last night? For hiring the crew?”
“Ah, fuck the crew!” Julio answered this time, from inside the tent. He emerged with an unlit cigar dangling from his lips, a bottle of booze held between loose fingers. “I only called you here to tell you the voyage was off.”
“You spent my money on alcohol, didn’t you, captain?” There was venom in Sergei’s voice. Andy noted it, took a step back.
Julio approached Sergei again, came within an inch of him. “And whores,” Julio said between swigs, gifted the astounding bravery of the common drunkard. “Fucked one just for you.”
Sergei launched a fist into Julio’s gut and was almost immediately rewarded by a hot stream of vomit as the captain bent forward, collapsing against his arm in a splash of curdled milk and alcohol. The Cossack reeled in disgust, watched as Julio’s knees gave out and he fell to the ground, a groaning mess. Sergei stomped the man’s face with heeled boot, breaking his nose and splitting his lips open. Blood and vomit pooled in his mouth. Sergei nudged the captain onto his back with his foot. Andy was frozen with horror, mouth agape. Sergei wiped the vomit from his jacket sleeve and departed without another word.
Sergei saw no purpose in returning to the inn that had been his temporary home in Sintra. In all likelihood, his belongings were lost to the flames, much like the greater part of the town. Instead, Sergei wandered the town aimlessly, trying to assess his situation. As he neared the town square, a crier’s voice rose to address the commoners: “Your Count begs your attention, for the sake of Portugal. Be you young or old, male or female, the Count, with the authority of the papacy and Lisbon behind him, urge that you meet in the palace courtyard for the opportunity of a lifetime and a chance to travel around the world. All who decide to undergo the task are promised a handsome reward, should you be chosen to do so!”
“No word on the attack, only a business offer?” Sergei asked of the crier.
The crier hesitated at Sergei’s unfamiliar accent. “Please, direct yourself to the Palace grounds and all will be addressed,” said the crier, who promptly turned from Sergei and repeated the Count’s message.
Sergei did as he was told, annoyed at the lack of information, but anxious at the thought of being chosen for the quest.
Luck shines on you this day, Sergei thought, as he made a brisk pace through a city street littered with debris.
Sergei was among the first to enter the Palace courtyard, where two men were present to address the crowd. He pressed his way to the front, measuring the two with narrowed eyes. Sergei noted the presence of a scimitar, wondered if its owner was any good with it.