The city of Baal turned out to be exactly as one's imagination painted it upon hearing the words "northern stronghold": austere, stony, and devoid of frills. There was none of the light, airy architecture the southern poleis were famous for in Hans's stories. Baal was built not for living, but for surviving.
Izayoi walked beside Roderick down the main street, hands clasped behind his head. His gaze lazily slid over the signs.
Despite its status as a frontline zone, life here hadn't frozen. On the contrary, it bustled, but it was a specific kind of bustle. Along the paved street stretched rows of shops: weapon smithies, armor repair workshops, alchemist shops displaying bundles of dried herbs and cloudy vials in their windows. Passersby—mostly men with weather-beaten faces and women in practical wool clothing—moved purposefully. No one loitered. Even the children playing by the fountain were kicking an old training dummy instead of a ball.
"Peaceful place you got here," Izayoi remarked, dodging a cart loaded with kegs. "For a spot two steps away from the demon kitchen, people look surprisingly relaxed."
"It's an illusion of calm," Roderick answered, nodding to a passing patrol. "Humans get used to anything. Even to death breathing down their necks. The main thing is for the walls to be high."
Izayoi looked up at the sky.
Above the city, barely noticeably distorting the light of the setting sun, hung a translucent veil. A magical barrier. A huge dome covering the fortress and part of the gorge.
"Dense structure," Izayoi analyzed to himself, maintaining his bored expression. "Looks like a multi-layered weave. One layer filters air, the second dampens kinetics, the third is probably an alarm system. This thing is what lets them sleep soundly, not the thickness of the walls. If this 'bubble' bursts, the city turns into a mass grave within an hour."
He didn't admire the complexity of the magic. To him, it was just an engineering given, like a roof over his head. Useful, but fragile.
"We're here," Roderick's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
They stopped in front of a squat two-story building. A sign depicting a cracked shield and a beer mug creaked in the wind. From inside came the hum of voices and the appetizing smell of roasted meat.
"'The Broken Shield,'" Roderick read (though Izayoi saw only a set of squiggles). "Best kitchen in the city. And, more importantly, they don't ask unnecessary questions here."
Inside, the tavern turned out to be spacious and noisy. Low ceilings, soot-covered beams, heavy oak tables scarred by knives. The crowd was motley: mercenaries celebrating a successful raid, city guards off duty, and sullen merchants discussing grain prices.
The appearance of the Hero of the South caused a brief pause. Several people half-rose, someone whispered to a neighbor, pointing a finger. But Roderick walked through the hall as if he were invisible and chose a table in the corner, away from curious eyes.
A buxom barmaid immediately bustled over to them.
"Master Roderick!" she beamed. "Haven't seen you in a while. The usual?"
"The usual, Martha. And for my guest too. The best meat you have. And ale. Lots of ale. The strongest."
"Coming right up!"
When they were left alone, Izayoi stretched his legs under the table with pleasure. After days of walking on roots, the opportunity to sit on a normal chair seemed like a luxury.
"So," Roderick began when the first mugs, topped with thick foam, were brought to them. "Let's speak frankly, Izayoi."
"I'm all ears," Izayoi took a sip. The ale was bitter, dark, and dense. Not bad.
"Taul," Roderick looked at him over his mug. There was no hostility in his gaze, only the keen interest of a professional. "I know what happened there. I saw... the consequences in a different version. But you changed the outcome. How did you end up there?"
Izayoi shrugged, breaking off a piece of bread.
"Chance. I'm a traveler. Was walking through the forest, got lost," he spoke lightly, mixing truth and lies in perfect proportion. "Saw smoke. Heard screams. You know, I'm a simple guy. If I see someone getting beaten, I intervene first, then ask who's right."
"Noble," Roderick nodded. "But Hans mentioned demons. Not lesser imps, but an aristocrat's retinue. Ordinary steel doesn't touch them. Magic affects them poorly. And you..." he glanced at Izayoi's hands resting on the table. "You, by all appearances, weren't even hurt."
"They were overconfident," Izayoi smirked, recalling the surprised faces of the horned ones. "Talked too much about their greatness and watched their distance too little. I just exploited their mistakes. Hit first. Hit hard."
"Is that so? And how hard?" Roderick asked softly.
"Hard enough for them to cease to exist."
At that moment, Martha brought a huge platter with roasted pork knuckle and a mountain of stewed cabbage. The conversation paused. Izayoi, whose metabolism demanded an abyss of calories, attacked the food with the enthusiasm of a hungry wolf.
Roderick ate more slowly, watching. And pouring.
"To our meeting," the Hero said, raising his mug.
"To the meeting," Izayoi supported.
They drank. Roderick immediately gestured for a refill.
The Hero of the South's plan was simple and old as the world. A drunk man's tongue loosens faster than a sober man's under torture. He wanted to understand the nature of this guy's power. Where is he from? Who taught him? What are his limits? Alcohol was supposed to wash away the barriers of caution.
An hour passed.
The table was cluttered with empty mugs. Izayoi had already finished off the knuckle and was now lazily gnawing on a salty cracker.
"...And then," recounted Roderick, whose voice had become noticeably louder and less distinct, "I tell him: 'That's not a dragon, that's just a very large lizard with indigestion!'."
The Hero of the South swayed, trying to reach for his mug, but missed by a couple of centimeters. His face was flushed, his eyes slightly unfocused. The legendary warrior, whose resilience was the stuff of legends, was "floating." The local ale, known for its knockout strength, was doing its job.
Opposite him sat Izayoi.
Absolutely sober.
Not a hint of intoxication. His speech was clear, his movements precise. He looked at his tipsy companion with a slight, knowing half-smile.
His body processed toxins faster than Roderick could order new rounds. For Izayoi, this "strongest ale" was no more dangerous than lemonade.
"You..." Roderick hiccuped and squinted, trying to focus his gaze on the youth. "Are you even... human? Why aren't you... falling over? I see it... you drank just as much... as I did..."
"I have a good metabolism, Roderick," Izayoi smirked, twirling yet another full mug in his fingers. "And it seems your cunning plan to recruit via intoxication just failed."
Roderick leaned back in his chair and laughed. The laughter turned into a cough.
"Failed... Yes..." he waved his hand. "You're right. But now... I don't care anymore."
He struggled to stand up, leaning on the table. His legs wouldn't hold him.
"That's it. I fold. You won... this battle."
The Hero of the South, swaying, threw a heavy purse of gold onto the table.
"Martha!" he barked. "Rooms! Two! The best ones!"
... The second-floor corridor was dark and smelled of lavender. Roderick, muttering something about "endless roads" and "blind spots," disappeared behind the first door, nearly taking out the doorframe with his shoulder.
Izayoi, twirling the key on his finger, opened the adjacent room.
It wasn't a royal suite, but after a week in the forest, it seemed like paradise. A clean wooden floor, a window with tight shutters, a washbasin with a pitcher of water. And a bed. A real bed with a mattress stuffed not with spruce branches, but with straw and, perhaps, wool.
Izayoi bolted the door.
He walked to the window and cracked the shutters open. Nighttime Baal was asleep. Lights in the houses were out, only the torches of patrols on the walls chased away the darkness. The barrier over the city shimmered like the aurora borealis.
"Good day," he whispered. "And the food was passable."
He kicked off his boots into the corner and, without undressing, collapsed onto the bed. His body instantly relaxed. The softness of the mattress accepted him. Thoughts of demons, heroes, and everything else dissolved into the viscous, sweet darkness of sleep.
He didn't have nightmares. He didn't dream of anything at all.
The awakening was abrupt and unpleasant.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The sound of blows on the door burst into his consciousness, tearing him from deep sleep. This was not the polite knock of a maid. It was a demanding, aggressive pounding that made the hinges rattle.
Izayoi opened one eye. The room was bright—the sun was already high.
"Open up!" a rough male voice behind the door boded nothing good. "In the name of the Count and the Military Command! Open the door immediately!"