The road to the city turned out to be longer than they expected and than the map showed. Anastas was on guard, occasionally casting lingering glances at Thomas. At first, he subconsciously glanced at him to check if he was alright, but later he couldn't say exactly why — he looked at him because he wanted to.
There was also this strange feeling of someone's presence that had been following him recently. He felt as if someone was watching him, but heard nothing suspicious.
Perhaps Anastas would have been more vigilant if all his thoughts weren't occupied. After the incident by the river, he began to look at Thomas differently. Fragments of the situation and how his heart had reacted to it constantly spun in his head. Could Thomas be Athit? Could it be that this time the sensations would be different, and would there be any at all?
Thomas, on the other hand, rode relaxed, humming something under his breath. And only now did Anastas notice that the cloak was a bit too large for him and occasionally slipped off his shoulder, revealing a slender, fair neck that stubbornly refused to hide from the sun. The man suddenly caught himself staring more intently than he should have. He turned away sharply, frowning.
Pull yourself together.
Before, Thomas was to him just... a friend. More accurately, he is still just a childhood friend to him now. For several years now, he had simply been around, and he had grown used to it.
But now this "just," to Anastas's horror, was beginning to crack.
The view that appeared before them snapped him out of his stream of thoughts. A dense and dark forest spread out across their path.
Thomas stopped, looking ahead with genuine interest.
"Beautiful," he said quietly, as if afraid to disturb the atmosphere. "Gloomy. But beautiful."
But Anastas was not interested in the forest; he was looking at Thomas — at how the sunbeams breaking through the foliage fell on his face and how a thrill mixed with caution was born in his eyes.
The thought that Thomas might turn out to be Athit was so unwelcome that he squeezed his fingers to the point of pain. For some reason, a part of him wanted to fiercely deny this possibility, but another part, contrary to everything, wanted it just as much.
"Stay close to me," he said seriously, again feeling someone's gaze.
Thomas looked at him.
"Worried?"
"Assessing the risks," Anastas cut him off, looking around, his gaze trying to catch onto anything suspicious, but again, there was nothing.
Thomas smiled at the shown care. And that smile made it worse.
The road through the forest turned out to be a mistake. Perhaps the map had lied, because soon a thick fog descended that would not dissipate, making it difficult to navigate and survey the area. They had been riding for the third hour, and the tension kept growing.
"I don't like this place," Thomas whispered, wrapping himself in his cloak. "It's somehow too quiet here."
Anastas remained silent, but his hand did not let go of the sword's hilt. Suddenly, his horse reared up, neighing in fright.
"Easy," he said, trying to hold the reins and stroking the horse's neck in an attempt to calm it.
Suddenly, a whistle rang out. A bolas flew out from the left and wrapped around the legs of Thomas's horse, bringing it down on its side. He reacted immediately and, not allowing the horse to pin him down, rolled over his shoulder and jumped to his feet with his blade already drawn.
"Back!" Anastas jumped from the saddle, landing nearby, having drawn his sword.
About a dozen figures emerged from the fog. They were dressed in gray rags that blended with the forest, and their faces were hidden by masks. In their hands, they held axes, boat hooks, and sawn-off shotguns.
Bandits.
"Closer." Anastas pulled Thomas toward himself; they stood back to back.
"Stay behind me." He softly touched his friend's wrist.
The first of the attackers lunged with an axe. Anastas parried the blow, let the enemy pass, and pierced his shoulder. But before he could pull out his blade, two others attacked from the sides.
Thomas did not stand aside either; he made a sharp lunge, slashed the attacker on the wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon, and immediately added a punch to the jaw.
The forest filled with the sound of battle and the clash of steel. Anastas was faster, more experienced, and deadlier than most of them. His body guided itself, parrying blows and dodging. The combat skills of a former conqueror king and military commander still made themselves known.
Thomas fought off a pressing brute with a boat hook. His opponent all this time had been Anastas, so he was good in combat.
Anastas turned around looking for Thomas, and that second cost him dearly. One of the attackers caught the moment and struck him under the knees with a shaft, making him fall. In that same second, a sharp pain burned his left shoulder — a knife went deep, cutting through his jacket. Blood immediately gushed from the wound.
Anastas growled, rolled over, knocking the opponent off his feet; about a third of the bandits remained. They closed in a circle around him.
The man was on his knees, breathing heavily, gripping his bloodied sword. Blood was soaking his sleeve. Three against him alone, and wounded at that.
The leader of the gang — a huge man with gold teeth — stepped forward, toying with a heavy shillelagh.
"You're quick," he wheezed. "It's almost a pity to kill you."
He swung for a blow that was supposed to shatter his skull, but he underestimated the agility of the former commander. Anastas dodged the blow.
The leader didn't have time to recover and raise his weapon for a new strike before a vibrating sound cut through the air.
The weapon in his hand... broke in half. The man stared blankly at the short stump in his hand.
"What the hell?"
A male figure jumped down from a tree branch. The landing was as soft and smooth as a cat's.
It was a young man. He looked about Anastas's age. He was dressed in a fitted black leather cloak with a high collar that made him more mysterious, hiding part of his face. His hair was dark and fell over his eyes. He straightened up, lazily brushing a leaf off his shoulder.
"Twelve against two?" he said. His voice was deep and velvety, with a slight accent. "How unfair and cowardly," he added theatrically.
"You?!" the leader roared. "Kill him!"
The bandits rushed at the stranger. He slipped under a raised axe, spun around, and his silver crescent blades flashed like lightning. The bandit collapsed, clutching his slashed leg tendons. The stranger moved with extraordinary speed and agility, dodging a millimeter before a strike, as if laughing in their faces.
Anastas recognized his fighting style. He had seen it in those distant lands from his memories.
But how?
A couple of minutes later, it was all over.
With a deft movement, the stranger sheathed his blades at his belt, hidden under his cloak. Then he approached their leader, leaned in menacingly, and they conversed about something, after which the bandit pulled a small box from inside his clothes and, handing it over, received a hard blow to the temple and passed out.
The "savior" headed their way. First of all, he looked at Thomas, deliberately taking his time, looked him up and down, lingering on his face, and... winked.
Anastas stood, still holding his sword, blood dripping from his fingers, but he paid no attention to it; his gaze was fixed on the stranger.
"A deep wound," he noted calmly, approaching Anastas. "Most likely, the artery isn't severed, but you're losing a fair amount of blood. Anyone else would be passed out by now." He smiled, and his smile was charming. And he definitely knew it.
"I am not anyone else," Anastas cut him off. "Who are you?"
"Eist," the man smiled with the corner of his mouth, and there was something predatory in that smile, despite its apparent friendliness. "At your service. Or not at your service, depending on how we agree."
Anastas did not return his smile.
"And you fight well," he narrowed his eyes. "For an ordinary aristocrat."
How did he know who we are?
Thomas immediately jumped up to him, offering his shoulder.
"Anastas! You're wounded."
"I'm fine," the man answered softly, continuing to stand straight. "Don't fuss, Tom. Everything is fine, really."
He looked at Eist, who was watching the scene with curiosity, his arms crossed over his chest.
"You didn't interfere just for nothing. What do you want?"
Eist laughed.
"I like that you get straight to the point. These bastards stole something from me; I had to drag myself along their trail and catch the right moment."
"So it was you following us?"
"You're observant," he smiled broadly. "I could use traveling companions to London. And you..." he nodded at Anastas's wound, "...need someone to stitch the wound and lead you out of the forest."
Anastas narrowed his eyes.
"How much do you want?" he asked directly, understanding that people like Eist didn't act for a "thank you."
"Money? Keep your coins."
"Then what do you want?"
"Just interesting company," he shrugged. "And you two, I see, are interesting people." He squinted in satisfaction.
Anastas looked at him questioningly.
"You don't move like an Englishman," he answered. "That's an Eastern fighting technique. Where do you know it from?"
Anastas's heart skipped a beat.
"I learned from books," he lied habitually.
Eist laughed. The laugh was sincere, despite the sly suspicion a second ago.
"From books? Of course. And I learned to fly by reading poems about birds."
He leaned closer, and his face became serious.
"But you do have secrets."
Anastas tensed, ready to defend himself, but Eist pulled back.
"Don't worry. I love secrets. We're a good match. So, do we have a deal?" The man held out his hand.
All this time, Thomas had been watching them, shifting his gaze from one to the other. But he fully trusted his friend, so he would accept any of his decisions regarding the new acquaintance.
Anastas hesitated for a second. Then he shifted the sword to his left, numb hand—a sharp pain pierced his shoulder, but he didn't even blink—and extended his right to Eist.
They sealed the words with a firm handshake.
"Deal. I am Anastas."
"I know," Eist nodded. "I heard your friend call out. Let's go. Get your horses, mine is nearby. I'll patch you up."
Anastas straightened up, overcoming a wave of dizziness.
"Go ahead," he threw out. "We won't fall behind."
He took a step, then another. Every heartbeat echoed with a pulsation in his shoulder, but he walked evenly, keeping his back straight, as befits a king and an aristocrat, even if he was wearing ordinary clothes.