His own horse was loaded down with bits of kit that had proven useful on raids in the past and beside his sword he had a rare and coveted scoped rifle slung across the back of his saddle. Unlike Melschoi the pair did not appear nervous and instead made their way directly towards him, chatting and obviously straining to appear casual. At twenty five meters they stopped and stared at Melschoi and the pregnant pause between them seemed to stretch to the distant horizon. The man on Melschois left tensed and tried to raise a hand, in response Melschoi drew and fired, shooting the man in the chest twice before his revolver locked up. Cursing he kicked his horse into motion and skillfully drew his sabre while directing his horse with his legs.
The other man shouted and urged his steed towards Melschoi producing a sabre. Rocketing towards each other the two closed the distance in an instant. At the final meter Melschoi threw his revolver and struck the stranger in the face, there was a loud pop and the man yelped in surprise and confusion. Seizing upon the momentary drop of his opponents guard, Melschoi swung his sabre and split his adversary’s collarbone, bright oxygenated blood leapt out of the gash onto his face. They whirled past each other and the stranger was visibly disoriented and losing blood. Melschoi spurred his horse back towards the sagging foe and swung again, curving his sabre over the feeble attempt at defense and sliced the strangers throat. The man rode forward several paces and toppled from his mount.
Melschoi rode over and watched him die, mouthing prayers to the Gospodar so that the dying man knew that someone was praying for him. Once he was sure his foe was dead, Melschoi round up the two men’s horses and rummaged through their personal effects. It was possible that they had been waiting to greet him in the traditional manner like the Zaproth Yugovs were wont to do, they were far from home but perhaps stories had traveled regarding the fortune that could be made on the edge of the high desert. Looking through the men’s possessions he concluded they were likely just inept stalkers. He glanced over to their corpses and said, “Fuck you.”
After several hours of additional travel he made camp and tied his three horses to a skeletal tree. There was no moon and before he slept, Melschoi spread hot ashes in a circle around the horses, it would ward off the wandering spirits that were said to drift among the peaks. He awoke before dawn, his fire had long died and the ashes around the horses were gone. Shaking himself awake, he was enough of a veteran stalker to know that he shouldn’t try to find them or linger too long. Aware that he was awake, the specters would be watching him. As long as he didn’t unknowingly speak to one, they would leave him alone.
Quickly he broke camp and mounted his horse, he rode purposefully into the hills, picking his way along an ancient route that seemed as old as the mountain itself. As he ascended into the mountains and the route became more circuitous Melschoi became uneasy, unlike the steppe below there would be little warning as to the presence of others. In a time honored ritual, he loosened his sabre and patted his revolver-it wasn't the most reliable but it gave him a serious advantage over most of the hunters he encountered this far from Utop and the Zotkir wastes.
He raised his eyes to the sun, shivering in the cold that grew in relation to the ascent of the fiery orb. With shaking fingers, Melschoi raised his canteen and tried to gulp some water between chattering teeth, he had traveled this path before and knew that the cold would pass soon. There was a distant hum in the air and the croak of frogs, the dry mountains did not betray any presence of water and it was known that there was no spring until the oasis of Mikad. He shook his head and the frogs changed pitch, shifting to birds, then buzzing bees, and finally the squeal of pigs. Softly so as to avoid accidentally addressing a specter he whispered, “Not real ...not real” over and over to himself.
After several moments, the sound stopped and silence returned to the ancient crags. Melschoi rode on and stopped several times to water and feed the horses and himself. Several hours later he came to point on the trail that he knew was the final location to camp before the “Farm”. He climbed into a small hollow and tied the horses to a bush. He slipped his rifle from the saddle and took up a position atop a bolder that was set against the slope. He spread his blanket across the warm stone surface and one of the dead travelers blankets over his top, effectively concealing himself to any but the most observant. He sighed and resolved to sleep for several hours, trusting that the horses tied seventy meters below him would alert him to any unwelcome guests.
He blinked awake and immediately tensed, it was too dark to be morning and the blankets around him were ice cold. The horses below him were sleeping and he slowly scanned from his three to his nine hunting for targets. After several seconds he saw what had awoken him, a mouse that was an inch beyond his blankets. There were no animals in the high mountains, that was widely known. He reached out and touched the small beast, immediately he knew that it was a real mouse and he softly pet it for several minutes. The mountains were deadly and the small presence was comforting in a way that Melschoi did not anticipate. He pet the mouse and settled back into sleep, only after producing a crumb of bread from his pocket which he laid on the stone before him.
This time it was the heat that woke him, the sun had barely crested the horizon but it was already unbearable. He cast off the top blanket and rose to set about breaking camp. Unexpectedly the mouse scurried up his leg and into his pocket, seemingly having decided that there was safety in numbers. Melschoi laughed softly and reached in to rub the mouse gently with his forefinger and thumb. He went about the rest of his morning rituals with a smile and resumed his journey.
The bodies started before he could see the combine. Bleached bones, fresh kills, bloated corpses, there were all manner of failed stalkers as far as the eye could see. The path abruptly crested the mountains and at the very edge of the vast high desert was a pristine combine, mired in sand. Immediately Melschoi kicked the horses into a full run, racing down the path as the rough cough of an ancient diesel engine sounded. The mechanical roar of the engine was joined by the whistle of the combine's spinning arms. The strangers ponies were slower than his horse and after only several minutes he knew that they would get him killed.
His own gear he had left on his mount but the loot from the dead travelers were still on their horses, while not exceedingly valuable, their tools could be traded at Mikad. Quickly calculating the comparative value, he cut one of the horses loose and continued. The horse slowed and a moment later screamed as the combine tore it to pieces. Melschoi didn’t look back, he knew that to do so would be his doom. The whir resumed but more distant, the farmer had been paid. Finally he passed a small stone sign post that in the distant mists of antiquity may have been a highway marker. He turned and saw, small, rusted, and nearly completely buried, the combine some eight hundred meters distant. He said a prayer for the horse and continued.
The high desert was truly featureless, shifting sands often obscured the path and it took a seasoned stalker to avoid potentially fatal deviation. Melschoi wore several compasses and at night took readings from the stars, and there was still no guarantee that he was heading in the right direction. As he rode he softly pet his small companion, and finally decided on naming him Melor, the Ruz equivalent to his name. On the fifth day of travel Mikad rose out of the sands. It was a small fortress that contained a self-sufficient village within its ancient walls. Its occupants were Ruzi but relatively friendly to stalkers and for the first time in months Melschoi could enjoy a shower and bed. He traded the remaining pony and tools for supplies and some ammunition for his revolver and resolved to rest for at least a week.
When he finally resumed his journey he decided to head west, towards the construction site. Its naked concrete beams and rebar emerged from the haze of the midday sun just as Melschoi feared that he had strayed past it. What they had been building all of those centuries ago remained a mystery but this construction site remained impervious to the passage of time and the annual spring storms. He hobbled the horses, laid out sufficient fodder and poured some water into a drum. Melschoi had raided the site several times before and he quickly retraced his steps past the periphery areas and the piles of bleached bones that were once his fellow stalkers.
The construction site was huge, and as far as he knew no one had ever reached the center. There were only several dangerous areas and Melschoi knew where most of them usually were. He carefully picked his way through the partially constructed buildings, slinking around ancient construction equipment and skirting any open areas. He was likely alone as Mikad had not seen another stalker for at least several months, but there were rumors that Ruz remnants occasionally visited the construction site.
He slowly slipped his eyes over the side of a generator and scanned for targets. There were no birds so he couldn’t use them to gauge if anyone had recently been moving about. Slowly he moved to slide around his cover when at the last possible instant he saw a silhouette flash across an open area deeper in the ruins. Immediately he threw himself flat and produced his revolver. Usually he left his rifle on his horse but this was one of the few times that he cursed his desire to move quickly as opposed to cautiously. There were rarely Ruzi remnants but the chance that someone was sighting down the barrel of a Kalash or RPK while he had only a neglected revolver with which to return fire made him nauseous.
It was unlikely that the figure had seen him but either way staying still was a good way to get himself killed. After a second of collecting his thoughts he jumped up and sprinted deeper into the site, crossing an open area and sliding into relative safety behind a pallet of cinder blocks. Suddenly the thought of Melors safety flashed into his mind, he had probably squished his small comrade when he dove to the ground and in a panic he reached into his pocket. Reassuringly, his tiny friend was alive and rubbed himself against Melschois fingers. He snapped his focus back to the present and resumed the hunt for the unknown figure, sneaking through the construction site in pursuit of a half glimpsed silhouette.
They played cat and mouse for several days, always just beyond engagement range. After the first day Melschoi had gotten the sensation that he was being followed and had laid low long enough to confirm that the figure was not only real but had somehow circled around him. They had nearly crossed paths on the third day, Melschoi had pursued him into a small car park and was close enough to hear the scrape of his target's boots on the pavement before losing him amidst the vehicles. It was difficult to work out his prey’s purpose; they danced around the usual raid locations, past stores of ancient and fabulous tools and beyond the rare trucks and other vehicles that daring stalkers tried to drive out of the high desert.
It took until the fifth day when Melschoi realized that they were likely very near the center. He no longer knew the dangerous areas and several times had narrowly avoided crossing into deadly traps. Melor kept him alive, Melschoi had realized that if he was headed into a trap his small friend would bite his finger tips or scratch at him through his trousers. Using Melor as a guide he had thus far avoided a messy death, though there was no way to outfox his human shadow. With water running low, it was imperative that he kill the stranger and return to his horse who likely needed to be rewatered and fed.
He walked straight until Melor bit his fingers, altering him to the approximate location of a trap. Melschoi then worked out the approximate dimensions and prepared an ambush by taking cover so that the only path around the trap was between his ambush site and the trap itself. He hunkered down, drew his revolver and sabre, and waited. Hours passed and just before dusk he could faintly hear the soft tread of a desperate man. He waited and saw his target slip from cover to cover, exactly along the anticipated route. At the closest point Melschoi rose and fire all six barrels of precious ammunition into the center of the unfortunate stalker. Instead of dropping dead or crying out, the figure seemed to grow, turn and reply with a burst of automatic gunfire. Melschoi narrowly dodged being killed by dropping and rolling, desperately trying to think of a way to disengage.
Ruzi remnants were notoriously professional and possessed technology far beyond that possessed by the Yugovs. Melschoi sprinted into the ruins, bursts of gunfire chased him, where before he had fancied himself the hunter, he was now very much the prey. Maddeningly his pursuer was casually jogging around the dangerous areas and traps, while Melschoi was forced to take it by memory and ignore Melor. As the gloom deepened Melschoi was cognizant of the fact that the hunter likely had some kind of night vision since he could still hear the now heavy tromp of combat boots. Cursing he knew that his only chance was to hide and take his foe with his sabre.
He prayed and cursed in equal measure, backing into a column and holding his sabre in a ready position. The staccato of his heart came to dominate his senses as the hunter slowed to a trot and then measured walk through the area of the site where Melschoi hid. For an instant Melschoi closed his eyes and muttered, “Gospodar give me strength.” The hunter stood on the far side of the column and Melschoi whirled around the opposite side, slashing with his sabre. He felt it bite deeply into his enemy’s shooting arm and he easily dodged the reflexive bash that the Ruz offered.
Dancing away, Melschoi steadied himself and raced in to swipe at the Ruz again, ducking beneath a lazy butt stroke only to have the wind knocked out of him by the enemy’s knee. Without missing a beat the Ruz brought his elbow down onto Melschoi’s back and pistoned him to the ground. He felt a tooth scrape the back of his throat and he croaked, “Fuck” as the Ruz preceded to kick and stomp him. Twisting to protect his vitals and when possible his genitals, Melschoi managed to grab hold of his boot-dagger and in the motion of the draw cut upwards blindly. The Ruz was knocked back and in that instant Melschoi scrambled away, spitting up blood and swallowing teeth. He frantically crawled, regained his feet and sprinted into cover.
After a moment the Ruz lumbered past him and stopped a dozen paces from Melschoi’s concealment. He had lost his dagger in his desperate flight and knew that if the Ruz saw him, he was dead. His heart pounded in his ears but instead of turning the Ruz fell to his knees and slowly slumped over. Terror turned to elation as the Ruz frantically tried to tear a pouch on his uniform open to grab hold of a tourniquet. Melschoi grabbed hold of a fist sized rock and feebly limped over to the Ruz from behind. With the last of his strength Melschoi tore off the man’s full face-helm and struck him again and again with the rock. While the Ruz was surely stronger than Melschoi, he resisted less and less as the combination of blood loss, shock, and concussing head blows took their toll.
Finally the Ruz offered no further resistance and Meschoi collapsed with exhaustion and from his own injuries.
*
Melschoi had dragged himself back to the horses. Every breath was agonizing and he was pretty sure he had a little more play in his right shoulder, obviously he was concussed and several of his teeth had been knocked out, but compared to the Ruz commando he was doing pretty well. He bound his wounds as best as he could and led the remaining horse from the unfortunate stranger into the construction site a day later to get his trophy. The equipment on the Ruz was worth as much or more than any artifact he could find at the construction site and Melschoi eagerly stripped the man and sorted through his gear.
He worked the action on his new Kalash, it was a 5.45 variant with a folding stock and sleek composite furniture. He had five magazines and about 300 rounds of ammunition. The red dot sight had been irreparably broken in the scuffle so he tossed it to the side of the loot pile and was content with the knowledge that he had a functioning assault rifle. Melschoi admired the gorka suit of the Ruz and lamented that he had cut both the right sleeve and trouser leg. While it was still ostensibly functional, the only worthwhile element of the exterior wear of the Ruz was likely now his shelter half/poncho. Melschoi slipped it over his head and adjusted it to conform with his existing kit. To his delight the Ruz also had a sidearm and it appeared expertly cared for.
The commando had been loaded for bear and there was no obvious indication as to why he was alone in the construction site. Melschoi dug through the dead man’s effects and sorted the equipment into useful items he would keep and rare commodities he would sell. Finally he stumbled upon a shock resistant smartphone. Frustratingly it was locked and after several minutes of confused tapping he realized it was tied to the commando’s fingerprints. Chuckling and then wincing with pain, Melschoi produced his dagger and cut off the man's right index finger after it unlocked the phone. He slipped another finger into his pocket and Melor greedily went to work.
Melschoi scrolled through the phone and flipped past several messages and memos in the unintelligible tongue of the Ruzi remnants. His eyes widened as he opened an image-message and his heart began to race. He magnified the image and saw that it was a map with detailed notes as to how to cross the exclusion zone surrounding Utop. No Yugov had ever found his way through the zone and the few stories that came out of Utop suggested that the first one to do so would either be rich or very dead. It was a near mythical city that sages said was the final enclave of the ancient civilization that had destroyed itself in nuclear fire. Technology, artifacts, useful trade goods, all were said to be in abundance in Utop but only the Ruzi remnants knew the way through the exclusion zone.
Melschoi quickly produced a pen and paper and copied the map as methodically as he could, the rest of the man’s gear was almost forgotten in his haste. If he truly had a map through the exclusion zone it was priceless knowledge. After several hours he had copied the detailed map but as an insurance policy left a few areas intentionally vague and committed those details to memory. Without him any expedition would get far enough into the zone that they would die but not far enough that they could luck their way through.
He carefully folded the map into his breast pocket and gathered his spoils. Melschoi agonizingly made his way back to his horse and by dawn was riding back to Mikad. The journey out of the mountains was always faster than the journey into the desolate crags. It was said that the Gospodar only tested those that rode towards his home and ignored those that fled. There was still the risk of spectors but Melschoi made good time by riding through the night. It was risky but he took the annual highway, though he still took care to conceal his campsite at night.
After several weeks he had mostly healed and was close enough to Ger that he relaxed considerably and allowed himself a large fire in the evening. Travelers often sat with him, exchanging news and gossip for the warmth of his fire. It was considered taboo to kill in a place of rest and as long as he was cautious during the day Melschoi was confident that the majority of people this close to civilization would honor the customs. To be safe he kept his kalash handy and his sword across his lap but in general he was as friendly as a successful stalker usually was.
*
Melschoi rode uneasily through the shifting landscape. He was a child of the steppe lands that the Yugovi called home and despite occasional forays into the high desert or the fearsome crags of the Vostroth Mountains he was a creature of that environment. The Zotkir wastes were different, dominated by rules that were far removed from the customs and sensibilities of the steppe. This made him uneasy and he rode with his kalash across his lap.
There were many paths through the wastes, most of which lead to death. There were tribal settlements all across the wastes but the Yugovi here had developed differently than their organized cousins and outsiders were seldom welcome. Unlike the nomadic Yugovi, these tribesmen preferred to construct fortified outposts amid the devastation, building walls and towers until their small oases were nearly impregnable. Conflicts between the tribes culminated in sieges where force of arms was secondary to size of stores. Starvation as opposed to the sabre or rifle won the day for the Zotkir Yugovi.
His horse was uneasy and Melor rustled in his pocket, occasionally scurrying up to his shoulder to gaze upon the wider world. Melschoi had learned long ago that beasts were often more attentive than men and the unease of his companions only heightened his anxiety. Thick forest surrounded the lonely two track path, the trees were twisted and ancient, no doubt some of them had seen the apocalyptic events that defined Yugovia. Occasionally there was a crumbling pile of masonry that surely had once been a building but was now little more than broken ruins. These posts were the most dangerous as they provided shelter enough for hunters to lie in wait in order to prey upon travelers and other passers by.
At every breeze Melschoi stopped, the rush of the wind and the associated sounds of the wood provided opportunities for predators, both animal and man, to move undetected. He waited until silence descended again before urging his horse forward. The plod of the hooves was the only sound his straining senses could detect and he continued for many hours through the somber forest without seeing another traveler. Again the landscape began to shift and the gnarled trees gradually gave way to scrub that abruptly terminated in clearings. Cattails began to become prevalent in small clumps that slowly grew to be entire fields of wetland. The incessant chatter of a vibrant marsh replaced the relative silence of the forest. Melschoi’s sportsman’s ear could hear the distant feeding call of ducks and the honk of geese. Fish worked their way through the brown waters and all manner of frogs jumped from the path into ponds or streams as the horse plodded along the winding route.
Reeds pushed in on the path and at most there was approximately five meters of visibility. Melschoi rode forward for a time but his uneasy and the increasing vigilance of Melor prompted him to dismount and lead the horse on foot. He stalked along the path with his Kalash leveled, slung from his shoulder with his other hand pulling his horse by the reins. They traveled for several additional hours in this manner and Melschoi fought the tendency to relax as the sun climbed down from its apex. Soft afternoon rays and a day of traveling without incident threatened to lull him into a sense of security.
The sun continued to decline and the shadows lengthened. Night was fast approaching and Melschoi knew that he was not in a place where it would be advisable to make camp. The marsh at night is loud and the landscape was not conducive to defense. He had come too far into the marshes to retreat to the forest and there was no telling how far he had yet to travel though Ger was likely another few days before him.
As if in answer to his thoughts, Melschoi spied a plume of smoke rising from the marshes ahead. He approached as close as he dared and hobbled his horse. Opting for discretion he stowed his kalash in his saddlebag and took hold of his sabre and revolver-the more common armaments would hopefully arouse less suspicion. He donned a dust stained deel to conceal his load bearing equipment and stalkers outfit. To most he would appear a simple traveler, suspicious in that he was traveling alone but otherwise unremarkable. His one concession to comfort was to place Melor upon his shoulder and after a moment the small mouse had found an inconspicuous perch in the folds of his belt.
Melschoi steeled himself and emerged from the cattails. The village before him was clustered beyond a small berm and wooden palisade. As soon as he broke cover there were shouts and Melschoi was cognizant of several black-powder rifles and a dozen notched bows being trained on him by sentries. He held up his hands and approached, shouting greetings in a traditional manner. Yugovi had given in to myriad customs and cults in their process of settlement but the most traditional phrases and gestures remained nearly universal. After several rounds of terse questioning Melschoi was granted entry to the village and he guided a pair of guards to his horse in order to receive permission to bring it within the boundaries of the hamlet.
The village was poor, that much was apparent from the relatively primitive construction of the buildings. All of the structures were wattle and daub save one concrete block house that served as the village motte. Following his nose, Melschoi located the lone inn and after some haggling paid several pieces of mixed foreign currency to have his horse and belongings tended to by the children of the tavern owner. He slung his kalash but kept the stock folded to allow it to hang down his side, in addition he peeled off his deel to reveal the saggy traditional trousers and thin-quilted jacket that was considered the normal uniform of stalkers and other adventurers.
He made sure to hang his coin-purse against his skin and entered the tavern, momentarily blinded by the gloom. After his eyes adjusted he saw that the small single room establishment was lit by a strongly smelling peat stove. There were several other patrons, all locals, and Melschoi made his way to a small table. He was served a clear liquor that smelled strongly and was potent enough to peel paint. He traded several additional pieces of foreign currency and with the bottle, a sausage, a hunk of bread, and a small glass, he retreated to a corner.
Melschoi listened to the conversation of the locals as he ate, and aside from the regular complaints of Prols, he ascertained that the local Nar was pressing the productive classes harder than usual. Feudal excesses were common and in his travels Melschoi had surely witnessed tyranny a plenty. He had also seen his share of peasant revolts and as long as the revolutionaries did not disturb the wider Khanate, they occasionally survived. Among the tribesmen the Nar was the highest authority and his deposition and the introduction of a free commune of peasants was not unheard of, though they seldom survived long before the wilds or a nearby feudal magnate reimposed the harsh order of Yugovian reality.
*
Melschoi blinked away sleep and slid into his clothes. Practiced hands slipped through his pockets, verifying that all of the items he went to sleep possessing were still present. He performed the same practice on his rucksack and webbing, taking care to softly work the action of his kalash so as to not wake any fellow tenants in the next room. Satisfied that he was still in possession of his equipment and loot, he passed from the small inn into the stable, guiding his horses that remained adequately laden with the spoils of his journey into the lightening world.
The swamp had given way to straggling woods which had transitioned to the endless grass sea of central Yugovia. The steppe extended from the southern wood and the edge of the Zotkir Wastes to the distant mountainous crags of the coastal region. Villages like the one Melschoi had slept in dotted the landscape, growing up around immobile structures such as the inn which drew stalkers and other travelers. Aside from these oceans of permanence which clung to life only through regularly resupply and in the atomic winter, protective shielding, the Yugovi dwelt in yurts that moved with the fair winds and their grazing herds. Wattle and daub cottages flanked the mud street leading away from the inn to the north, beyond the confines of the village the path became a mere suggestion and it took Melschoi several minutes of contemplation to estimate where the nomadic capital of Ger would be at this time of year.
He set off into the steppe, stroking Melor who climbed out of his pocket and raced up and down the horse nibbling at loose threads and bits of straw that clung to the raggedy mane of the stout horse. Overhead the sun wheeled and time passed effortlessly as the wild winds off of the distant mountains brought echoes of battles unknown and sagas long lost. Melschoi hummed or sang softly as they rode, thanking and entertaining the spirits of the men whose graves they undoubtedly rode over. There were legends that spoke of vast catastrophes or endless battles that had raged when the Ruzi were still the dominant people in Yugovia and it had been known to the world as Ab-Ruzi; there were likely bones everywhere.
Melschoi saw no other riders throughout the day, it was late in the season to travel from the southern mountains and only the most daring or experienced stalkers could be found exploring their desolate slopes. The distant Zotkir wastes were more common though there were whispers from Turi merchants that the Ruzi Enclaves were stirring in ways that they hadn’t for at least half a century. Ger would be near the coast now, and so Melschoi traveled to the northeast riding for days and stopping only to rest the horses and grab a few fitful hours of sleep. Banditry was one of the ancient and respectable ways that the nomadic Yugovi earned a living and it took an exceedingly brave or foolish man to sleep peacefully on the central steppe.
As he neared Ger, small bands of stragglers that formed the suburb communities of the capital began to become common. Yurts were arranged in orderly squares, ringed with razor wire or other makeshift barricades which separated extended family groups and deterred theft. Weary sentries watched him and small children often trailed behind. Strangers were rarely seen alone in the clan neighborhoods which comprised the bulk of the city.
The Yugovi were a tribal people and each extended family group had marriage and other links with surrounding family groups which gradually formed the neighborhoods of the nomadic capital. Each tribe had a sigil-standard as well as a wider collective perimeter that was nominally policed by elements of each component clan. In reality it was often the largest and wealthiest clan that provided protection in exchange for a proportion of the revenues derived from the seasonal sale of the surplus livestock. Each tribe was granted an equal share of the steppe for fifty Yugovi atni tuqtawsiz yuriyu or the equivalent of how far a horse could run without stopping. This ended up being roughly 700 kilometers surrounding the official confines of the city which were determined by the Khan at a ceremony that occured each time the city stopped.
The clan neighborhoods were orderly but as he neared the official limits of the city the tidy yurts or honeycomb wattle and daub houses gave way to a chaotic forest of multi storey wooden buildings. Clotheslines and electrical wires ran at random from structure to structure and a maze of antennas filled the expansive sky. Here the families were smaller and the presence of solitary strangers was not as strange as in the clan neighborhoods. Melschoi drew his deel closed and balanced his Kalash upon his hip as he rode, while violence was de facto taboo within Ger, many travelers went missing in the close neighborhoods. Perhaps it was his arms or the steely visage of a veteran stalker but in any case Melschoi passed through without incident and arrived at the main gate to Ger.
A palisade was constructed as the outer ring of defense which surrounded an inner fortification of concrete sectional walls. Sentries strode along the palisade and machine gun nests and snipers dotted the concrete walls. Several batteries of Air Defense Artillery were scattered between the two with more in the vicinity of the airstrip and the Khan palace, overhead one of the very few fighter jets of the Khans host roared and banked, scanning the skies for daemons or foreigners. Commercial travel was available for those that could afford it and occasionally a colossal passenger jet landed and disgorged travelers who were primarily Turi or other merchant peoples. Melschoi rode through the chaos in the unending stream of traffic into the city which was nearly entirely composed of mules, horses, camels, and other animals. To gain entrance he had to donate a litre of fermented yaks milk to the guards but it was a small price to pay with the equipment and artefacts taken from the Ruz and the southern desert.
Immediately inside the entrance gate the city was orderly, composed of prefabricated concrete buildings that were assembled each time the city stopped. Streets of similar sectional concrete had been laid in a simple grid and at every intersection the uniformed men of the Khan’s Host surveyed the crowd. The royal market was nearby and it was Melschoi’s destination. It was loosely regulated and all manner of goods could be bought or sold. It was also a magnet for foreigners and the knowledge gleaned from the Ruz as to the secret route to Utop would surely be valuable to someone there.
Threading his way through the crowd, Melschoi scanned the merchant stalls for a trader he recognized. Every language in the region could be heard as he passed from one end of the market to the other. Ruz, Turi, Yugov, common, and the dozen languages of nearby foreign lands mixed and mingled to create a cacophony. As he passed he spied a particular Merchant, an older yet beautiful Tur woman whose aged face was wide and cheerful. Sparkling emerald eyes surveyed Melschoi and with a ring ornamented hand she beckoned. He approached and placed his hand on his heart and offered the traditional Turi greeting of, “Peace and prosperity”. She returned the greeting and Melschoi sat himself on the cushions arrayed before the small stall on a rich Turi rug. Among the Turi it was considered bad luck to make a deal while standing and so business was conducted from the ground.
The merchant sat herself across from Melschoi and gestured to offer him tea or a hookah of indeterminate age. He gladly took the hookah and exhaled a small stream of aromatic smoke before saying, “A welcome diversion, thank you Madina.” She smiled and sipped a small glass of tea before responding, “You no longer have credit with me my dear but I see you are laden with the spoils of what surely was an arduous journey.” This overly formal comment suggested that negotiations had commenced and he immediately replied, “25% of final sales, I have information too, I can’t say out loud.” He scrawled a hasty note recounting his journey and the nature of the information he possessed and passed it to Madina who surveyed it silently.
Her eyebrows rose as she neared the end and fully understood the information that Melschoi in theory had committed to memory. Merchants in Ab-Yugovia often invested in teams of stalkers to explore distant places and secure artifacts to be sold either domestically at the Royal Bazaar or abroad through the Turi enclaves on the coast. Utop due to it being inaccessible and half myth would be considered the motherload and even the unlikely story that Melschoi offered justified the immediate financing of an expedition. She lowered the note and said in accented Yugov, “I actually have a foreign contact that would be appro-” Melschoi interrupted with, “You arrange whatever you have to, I am going to be staying at the Ermine on your account.” She nodded and continued, “Of course, I’ll contact you when everything is ready, I’ll make sure to sell everything you’ve brought me and will convey word to the Ermine that you are to be paid from my coffers.”
Madina rose and whispered several words in her harsh native language to a slave who silently withdrew, no doubt to convey Melschoi’s arrangement to the owners of the Ermine. A young teenager took her place, his muscles and scars were at odds with his apparent station and it was more likely that this was Madina’s son. The young man bowed at the waist respectfully as Melschoi departed and already he was seated to do business with the next client while Madina went about preparing to make arrangements.
The Ermine was one of the finer inns in Ger, known for its cleanliness and safety. A wooden dining room and bar were complemented by a dozen private yurts and two communal tents. Melschoi entered and spied a mixed and no doubt lively crowd at the bar. He spoke briefly with the innkeeper, the attractive daughter of the owner, who demonstrated in short order that a childhood of dealing with drunken travelers and wandering salesmen had gifted her with a sharp wit. Melschoi was shown to the smallest of the private yurts but it was still luxurious in comparison with his usual accommodations. It was sweetened by a complimentary bottle of cool kvass, and Melschoi sipped it leisurely as hit struck a match and lit a foul smelling cigar.
Between puffs of acrid smoke he reviewed his equipment now that he had sold the possessions of the dead Ruz and the other odds and ends he had picked up during his journey. He methodically cleaned his Kalash, the semi-automatic sidearm of the Ruz, his ancient revolver, and oiled and sharpened his dagger and sabre. Aside from his quilted jacket, trousers, and deel he had the poncho-shelter half of the Ruz which he wore as a loose cape. The Ruz boots were good, modern and more comfortable than his old ones though he kept those stowed on his horse in the stable as insurance. There was no fate worse than walking barefoot over rough terrain while on an expedition and bad memories ensured that he would try to avoid that.
As the sun began to sink in the western sky Melschoi repacked his gear and savored the last few mouthfuls of the kvass. Melor was safely nestled into the pillow on the bed. Melschoi knew though he couldn’t explain how that the small creature would keep an eye on his equipment. He stretched and took care to hide his most valuable pieces before leaving to explore the bar with a revolver in his belt and his dagger on his hip. Madina would surely send for him once preparations were complete and in the meantime it was perfectly respectable to take advantage of his paid accommodations.