The small stone cottage crouched against the damp ground, an indelible fixture of the harsh land it occupied. A single chimney protruded from the roof, and from its mouth thin streams of smoke issued steadily. Other than a stack of split wood against the wall, it was the only indicator of habitation visible.
Matvey Balashov dismounted his horse and beckoned for the Guard to follow suit.
“Is this the place?” asked one of the men. “A peasant would scorn this dwelling.”
Balashov surveyed the dismal scene.
“Yes. As described”, he responded tersely.
The party surrounded the face of the building. Balashov took a last glance about before hammering on the aged door.
“Open up!” he called.
There was no response.
“This is the Palace Guard! Open the door!”
Before he could shout again, the door suddenly swung in and he found himself staring at the barrel of a primed numoshka.
Balashov’s attention danced from the pneumatic pistol to the one wielding it as a single question echoed past the threshold.
“Why now?”