"Why are we dragging ourselves along on these demonic horses instead of happily sailing on a large ship, enjoying the waves, the wind, and the sun's rays? Why should I have to beat my ass on a hard saddle like a simple guard? You're used to it, you probably have asses of steel, you're lowborn, and I—a man of royal blood—should suffer, torment, and curse the day I was born? My poor mother, if only you knew how your son, a prince of the blood, suffers next to these cruel-hearted boors! Why are you still silent? Silent, and silent! Uuuuu... your face is made of granite... you can't even swear properly, you're a stone idol!"
"Commander, can I speak with you for a moment?" Harald and Amela were smiling, but when Ned rode up, Amela, without changing her expression, said almost silently, just under her breath:
"We're being followed. Someone's been following us, and for a long time."
"I know," Ned smiled, glancing at the prince as if they were discussing not potential troubles, but this whiner who had gotten on everyone's nerves with his lamentations all day. "They're leading us all the way from the city. Two of them."
"How do you know?" Amela raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips at her cousin's mocking look. "Yeah, yeah, I know, he's the one, the one, the one! And if we noticed the pursuit, he definitely noticed!"
"Well, something like that," Ned smiled, reaching out to remove a spiderweb from the tip of the girl's slightly upturned nose. It had flown in from somewhere in the forest and landed right on her nose. Amela felt embarrassed, as if he hadn't removed the spiderweb but had publicly embraced her and kissed her full red lips.
"That's what love does to people. I probably look like the same idiot when it comes to my wife, my beloved, my sleeping Queen Sanda.
"Otherwise, you don't look it! Of course you do. Like a complete idiot. Love is an illusory thing and very detrimental to the cause. Although... what do we mean by this very love? Sometimes it's a love of power, of money, and then everything is fine. And women—they're nice, sometimes funny, sometimes irritating, but always troublesome and unreasonable. Alas, without them, too... "
"So what are we going to do?" Harald asked impatiently. "Catch?"
"I have some suspicions. Don't do anything. We'll be camping soon, and then we'll see who's following us."
"Are you being coy, Commander?" the guy smiled. "You know who this is, right?"
— I can guess. But I'm not sure. So be careful. And I went to listen to the whining.
"Ohhhh... I don't envy him," Amela said, genuinely feeling sorry for him. "He got so fed up with his whining in an hour that I ran away! And you've been with him all day! I could have killed the bastard!"
"Come on... the guy really isn't used to traveling, it's hard for him, he hasn't been paying enough attention to physical exercise. Why are you putting so much pressure on him?"
"Where are we going to spend the night?" Amela interrupted. "I hope it's not in the forest?"
"Bukah, why are you interrupting the commander?" Harald protested. "Ned, hit her! If you don't hit her, I'll hit her myself! I told you—there's no point in taking her along! She's an undisciplined, ill-mannered seventeen-year-old insect! Give her free rein, and she'll sit on your neck!"
"On yours, or what?" Amela said dismissively, nipping her horse with her heels and riding forward about five paces, glancing warily at Harald's powerful arms. "I don't even need your unwashed neck! Hey, hey!" The horse jerked forward, followed by the replacement horse with the saddlebags.
Soon Amela caught up with the rest of her companions and immediately started a conversation with them.
Arnot and Itrok stared at her, and the girl melted like snow on the mountain peaks under the gaze of men. Even Gerlath, a seasoned mage, cast a somewhat appraising glance at Amela, and Ned would have bet that if it weren't for the girl's formidable reputation, and even more so, that of her grandfather, the former Great Atrok, now the king and queen's bodyguard and a seasoned demonologist, she wouldn't have escaped the white mage's advances.
Ned sighed—there was still a long, long way to go… and if he could avoid it, he would never go anywhere. Especially not to the Ards.
Who are the Ardians? Seafarers, and... bandits. And his, Ned's, tribe.
Yes, Ned is a purebred Ard—at least, that's what those who found him on the seashore, some eighteen years ago, claimed. A child, a foundling, lying in a small wooden cradle next to a dead woman.
Who was she, this woman? His mother? A wet nurse? Just some random woman? No one knows. And he doesn't know. And it seems he will never know. Seventeen years of his life were difficult – hard labor, bullying from fellow villagers and his adoptive "father" – and not the slightest ray of light in his life.
Until Ned found a golden helmet, which turned out to be an amulet of immense power, which transferred into it a demon of the highest circle, possessing the imprint of the soul of Yuragor - the greatest of the Great Atroks of this world, the head of the Northern Ispas of the Shirduan sect, demonologists, fighters, and... hired killers worshiping the goddess Death.
Now he possessed the memory and skills of Yuragor—a cruel, unprincipled, intelligent man, one of the best fighters of his time. Ned had absorbed his soul, his knowledge in the struggle for his body. And now he was within Ned. Like the demon—either dormant or simply quiet in the depths of his brain.
Ned has no magical abilities, and he can't summon demons like all demonologists—in an attempt to cast a high-level spell, Ned "burned out" his magical abilities. But he's working hard to restore them, because it turns out it's possible. It's not working so well yet, but the important thing is that he no longer feels sick when he tries to cast any magical spell.
And he knows hundreds and hundreds of them... the memory of Yuragor, the memory of the great demonologist... and a disgusting man, a murderer, almost a maniac.
The detachment, according to the official version, is going to establish contacts with the Ards - led by Prince Zamara as ambassador, and Ned and his fighters as a security detachment.
Ned is the squad leader, Gerlat is the squad healer-mage, and the rest are Arnot, his old friend, a corporal in the Marine Corps.
Itrok, a young sixteen-year-old lad, is our archer. A fearless, intelligent orphan who joined the Corps during the Zamar-Isfirian War.
Harald is a nobleman of the Shorokan family, a duelist, and an atroc, raised along with Amela and Isador by the former Great Atroc Imar, their grandfather. He suppressed their magical abilities all this time, not wanting anyone to know that his grandchildren wielded the forbidden magic of demonologists. Gradually, the boys' magical powers are returning, but... for now, they're weak. They don't go beyond a curse that causes diarrhea. Alas. Full-fledged demonologists would be very useful on this trip...
But what Imar didn't skimp on was his knowledge of how to effectively and quickly kill any person. Or five people. Or ten. Or... as hard as he could!
So this trio was very, very dangerous for the enemy, if there was one.
Amela, despite her apparent fragility, was an excellent martial artist and could easily kill a trained adult warrior even with her bare hands.
Harald seemed awkward, with his height, as tall as Ned's, and his broad shoulders (Ned was thinner and older, but in terms of strength they were about equal), he was fast as a cat and dangerous as a forest kuar.
Isador, or Isa in the worldly realm, was little different from his sister or brother—slighter in bone than Harald, weaker in the shoulders, but his reaction speed and skill would have been the envy of the country's finest fighters. No wonder—years and years of brutal training, as well as the special potions the boys took at their grandfather's insistence, had taken their toll.
Gerlat... a white mage, a healer capable of healing almost any wound with magic and special potions. An expert in healing, and... in seducing women.
After his family—his wife and children, a son and daughter—disappeared at sea, he turned to anything and everything—wine, women. He didn't sober up for several years. Until the pain subsided a little, and life returned to normal.
He had nothing to lose in this country, so why not see the world?
Besides, Ned suspected that deep down in the wizard's soul there was a worm: "What if I find traces of the missing family?"
Of course, this was naive—there are many ways to disappear into the green depths of the sea, and almost never to find a trace. Water keeps no traces…
So their squad was small, strange, and... cheerful.
Prince! What a pain in the ass! What a fly in the wine glass! What a…
So, as soon as the travelers left the city, he started complaining. About everything—about the scoundrels who kidnapped him and dethroned him, about the weather (the sun is scorching!), about the horse (it stinks, it farts—eww!), about the troop (they don't look at him with enough respect!), about… about anything that caught his attention.
As calm as Ned was, he still wanted to smack him over the head from time to time. And he was a smart guy, this prince, brave, sometimes insanely brave – that was a fact!
Educated - writes a treatise on the history of magic.
So what? Nothing. Brave, educated, intelligent... as it turned out—a guy so boring he was nauseating. Ned even thought he should have found out from Senerad what kind of sleeping pill he'd given that bastard to keep him sleeping for days on end. Load him up on a horse, and let him ride along like a remarkably silent sack of manure!
Alas, these are just dreams. It is impossible. Absolutely impossible.
The travelers posed as a squad of guards escorting the son of some important nobleman, who was heading off to inspect his northern holdings. And this son, this important scion, was a terrible piece of shit! An arrogant idiot!
And Ned can't shake the feeling that the bastard understands everything perfectly well, and is amusing himself in this way. Like, you kept me in the basement for over a day so I could pee in my sleep—now I'll drink your blood too! And he drinks, the bastard. And he glances at Ned slyly, sideways—get it, don't you?
"I get it, you bastard, I get it!" Ned thinks, looking at the grinning face of the royal offspring. "Be thankful I didn't tell the boys you were deliberately making fun of me, and I forbade them to touch you. They wouldn't beat you, but they would definitely do something nasty."
Amela is a master of mischief. She's the Great Atroc of the Brotherhood of Mischief-Makers! Inexhaustible in her inventions and pranks.
And it should be noted – unpunished. With her dexterity, it seems only I can get to her, and even then, only if she gives in. She'll give in – because she's head over heels in love with me...
It's a sad story, yes. I'm in love with my wife, I'm not going to cheat on her, but... I'm not made of iron either, and sometimes only Sanda appears in my dreams.
Ugh! And what thoughts are creeping into my head, may the gods protect me from temptations! Or is it you, gods, who are sending this temptation, in the form of a skinny little lightning bolt with a snub nose? Then, dear gods, it's simply shameless of you to subject me to such a test and a girl to such disappointment. I am faithful to my wife, like a river faithfully flowing into the sea. And it won't be any other way.
Spend the night... spend the night... We'll spend the night! In ten li there'll be an inn, as far as I remember – it's shown on the map. That's where we'll spend the night.
Why didn't we go by ship? Everyone was expecting us to. I'm sure the Shatriya, or even the Shirduan Atrocs, were already waiting for us at the port. So what? We've done the job, eliminated the competitor, the Southern Ispas is now safe, but the Great Atroc, hers, might be. What if I decide she's lived long enough? That she's had enough of her wickedness and dirty dealings, killing people? After all, someday my magic will return, which means I'll be her equal, and most likely, stronger. Why would she do that? She barely got rid of one enemy, and now a new one is on the way! And there's a reason—the contract for my assassination hasn't been cancelled. The money has been received, the agreement has been reached, which means Ned the Black must die.
"Why are you still so silent?" the prince's voice was almost plaintive. Despite his outward swagger and even impudence, inside him dwelt a boy who never ventured more than two blocks from home. He felt scared and uneasy. Especially in the company of people who openly disliked him.
"I'm not silent. I want to talk to you... while no one is around."
"Are you going to tell me how to live? Tell me that, despite my royal birth, I'm still a stupid boy and shouldn't behave like that?"
"Hmm... sometimes you can be very insightful. But why doesn't your insight help you see the obvious and do what's right?"
"An interesting question," Bordonar grinned cheerfully. "Perhaps this is my revenge on you? Why did you do this to me? Why are you treating me like a stupid doll? Did anyone ask what I really want? No! You captured me, locked me in a basement, and now I'm going to a place from which I might never return, on a deadly journey, and for what? To find an antidote and awaken the sleeping maiden who has villainously occupied my throne! A throne that is rightfully mine, and which, perhaps, I could have used in a much better way than you! And now – give me your lectures on how I should behave with kidnappers, blah-blah-blah and all that. Begin, I'm listening!"
Ned is silent. That's what they call murder. Imagine him—a scoundrel, a brute. Worse than Yuragor. But who is he? Yuragor is indeed. And the words come to his mind: "Fuck you! I'll do what I want! And if you yelp, I'll smash your head in!" But Ned is not Yuragor. He is Ned. And Ned, a foundling who was a slave until he was seventeen, would never say such a thing. Or would he? Ugh! Completely confused.
Keep quiet? He won't leave me alone... and he'll be right. They need to explain, after all... they still have a long way to go, across the sea, side by side, overcoming difficulties and dangers—how can we count on each other if we don't trust each other?
"Commander, the boys say the hotel's in ten minutes! Should we spend the night there?" Harald's voice breaks into his thoughts, but Ned looks at him coldly, expectantly, and he steps aside, saying:
— Okay, okay, I get it! I won't interfere! And don't glare at me like that!
"What do you want to hear, boy?" Ned speaks with difficulty, the words like stones falling from his parched throat. He takes out a flag made from a dried gourd and covered with cloth, swallows, letting drops fall from his mouth and trickle down his jacket, and continues:
"What do you want to hear? That I'm sorry we treated you like this? Sorry. Very sorry. But if I had it all to do over again, I'd do the same. You're truly behaving very badly. Imagine sailing across the sea with these people, to those who were Zamar's original enemies—thousands of years ago. And it doesn't matter that I'm an Ard myself—to them, I'm an outcast, a man without a clan, without a tribe. An insignificant creature. Even you are practically nothing to them—everyone who isn't an Ard is prey. All that can stop them are those stupid Zamar documents and the fear that if they kill us, the Marine Corps will come after them and trample their islands, kill their wives and children—which is what was once done. But they won't come. And the gods forbid they find out about it. And this is the mess we're getting ourselves into, and you behave like this?" We can behave like this, and even should – in public. When we're seen. But when we're alone, and you continue to play the role of an arrogant idiot – that's very bad. There's a certain camaraderie, a brotherhood. Comrades help each other out in trouble, help each other, shield each other from danger. If they hate you, if they even think for a second about whether they should help you – that's the second they'll kill you. Do you understand that? Even just to survive – you have to befriend these people. Be sincere – they'll recognize a lie immediately and it will be even worse. I can't cover you every second. We are your shield, your armor, and they are the plates in that armor. And if the plate doesn't protect you in time, you will die.
"But then your cause will be ruined too?" the prince grinned wryly and brushed a cobweb from his hair.
— What makes you think so? It would be difficult, that's true. And even then, it's unlikely. I'll think of something like that without you. For example, I'll buy some goods, buy a ship, board it, and sail to the Ards to establish trade routes. I'm an Ard, so they'll talk to me, even though I'm an outcast. I'm not the first, and I won't be the last. And you won't care anymore. And anyway, we're arguing about nothing, do you realize that? You're not stupid, you should understand.
"I understand… I understand everything," the prince smiled sadly. "If you only knew the melancholy that grips me sometimes! It's such that I don't want to live! It's such that I'm ready… I don't know what I'm ready to do, just to end this melancholy! Get drunk, fight, jump off a cliff into the sea! You're all together, and I… I'm alone! Always alone! Now a girl has appeared who has fallen in love with me. I thought I had fallen in love. And so what? How did it end? What can I expect from you? You need me now, but what about tomorrow? Tomorrow you'll decide it's time to get rid of me. And what can I do against you? Hit you over the head with an inkwell? Poke you in the eye with a pen? You can't imagine what it's like—when nothing depends on you, when you're a splinter carried by a stormy stream and can only watch helplessly as the shores, salvation, life fly past! So what if I fulfill your conditions, and then what? I'll still be a danger to you and your wife." I'm a pebble in your boot, a thorn in your ass! Pull me out and live in peace. Why should I help you? Who are you to me anyway? Better kill me now and fight your way to the Ards, as you know, just like you just described! It's illogical to drag yourself across a third of the continent with me, don't you think?
"But the guy's telling the truth. Cutting off his head is easier for him, and for you. What the hell do we need him for?"
- Shut up. I'm not you.
"And that's why you do stupid things? He's holding us back, and he might even betray us. Isn't it logical to destroy something that could be dangerous?"
— You think it's logical. But I think it's brutal. Inhuman.
- And you will endanger everyone else because of this hysterical idiot?
- Shut up!
"I'll shut up… but will that change anything?"
Ned suppressed the "Yuragor voice" within himself, took a deep breath, clearing the blood rushing to his head, and decided he really should be more relaxed about talking to his other self. If "he" was inside him, then there must be a reason for it. "He" often gives good advice; you just have to properly separate his thoughts from Ned's. And if "he" suggests cutting off someone's head, that's probably the best solution, and a simple one, but there's definitely another, more complex one, one that doesn't require cutting off that head.
Yuragor follows the path of least resistance, making the most effective decisions. But often these decisions run counter to morality and Ned's sense of the world. It's difficult to explain, but it can be done.
For example, the easiest way to get a diamond necklace is to walk into a jewelry store, cut off the owner's head, and leave. Ned, however, takes a different approach—he finds a way to get the money to buy the necklace. Or find the treasure it's hidden in. Something like that.
"Well, there you go again," the prince said sadly, raising his head and squinting at the blue sky. "I've been going on and on... and you're just silent, that's all. You don't even have anything to talk about. Or are you simply incomprehensible? I'm talking about morality, about subtle emotions, and you want a fight, blood, and death? You're all the same, soldiers. Whether you're simple soldiers or demonologists..."
"You're a stupid boy. And you're only alive because I wanted you to. Don't wince, don't. Yes, the most effective thing would be to chop off your head and then take matters into my own hands. But I can't do that. Although I should..."
Ned sighed and glanced back at the giggling boys behind us – they were riding along carefree, as if on a stroll, but he saw that despite their apparent carelessness, the soldiers were on guard and carefully examining the forest on either side of the road.
"Well done. It's Grandfather's school. The old atroc knows his stuff."
Arnot and Itrok rode ahead, also looking around carefully; between them, the heavyset Gerlat swayed in the saddle, drinking something suspicious from a flask.
"We need to warn him that there's no alcohol on the hike. When we stop for the night, drink up. And for now, no wine. Actually—maybe it's just me? But his eyes are really shining and his face is flushed. He can drink a lot, and you'd never know how much he's had. A mug, maybe a whole jug. Or two."
The prince started to say something, but Ned was no longer listening. He sniffed the air—thought he smelled smoke. He tugged on the reins, and the horse obediently stopped, taking a couple of steps. He raised his hand, and everyone fell silent, while Harald and Amela rode closer.
"What, Commander?" Harald's hand was already on the hilt of a massive sword, one that could easily cut a man in full battle dress in half. They knew how to make things a thousand years ago. That's how old this sword was, passed down through the Shorokan family.
"Smoke," Ned said briefly, looking at the horizon and seeing and showing the guy a thin black stream rising above the forest where they were supposed to arrive in a couple of hours, or even earlier.
"Bonfires? Loggers?" Harald suggested incredulously.
"No. The smoke is black. A burning forest doesn't produce black smoke, only blue. We ride carefully, keep an eye on our surroundings. Tie the packhorses to Bordonar's horse and Gerlat's. Your hands must be free. Arnot... he also takes a horse and rides next to the prince. Itrok too. Isa is with them."
"What, do you think someone attacked the inn?" the prince asked excitedly. His eyes glittered, and he turned pink—apparently in anticipation of adventure. "Boy!"
"Hmm... and who am I? He's practically my age... Sometimes it seems to me that I've lived a long, very long life and am as ancient as this mountain, overgrown with cedars... Perhaps Yuragor's memory makes itself felt this way.
The detachment quickly reformed, and ten minutes later the small caravan was distributed as follows: Ned in front, followed by Harald and Amela, followed by Isa and the prince, and bringing up the rear were Gerlat, Arnot, and Itrok.
Everything was ready - Ned had a very bad feeling that they would have to spend the night in the forest instead of stretching out normally on clean sheets.
The saddlebags held money, a large sum—for the journey, for the purchase of a ship, or for its charter—so they couldn't afford to lose it. Without it, they couldn't sail overseas.
They rode for an hour in silence, broken only by the clatter of horses on the well-trodden road, unusually deserted for this time of year and time of day. Apparently, this was due to the fact that merchants were still wary of entering the city due to the remaining bandits in the depths of the forests, who had broken away from the troops marching to the aid of the rebellious Girsos of Amun, who had nearly ascended to the throne of Zamara.
If it weren't for the mages Ned had to "persuade" by cutting off a couple of heads, the outcome of the civil war might have been unpredictable. As it was, the palace sank underground, and with it, Amunsky, with his far-reaching plans. And also, the Great Atrok of the newly formed assassin society—Jordar, Amunsky's assistant.
The road sloped slightly downhill toward the river, cutting through the mountain range, as if someone enormous had taken a kitchen knife and sliced through the densely forested hills and mountains. From here, cliffs were visible, looming over the riverbed, threatening to turn the clear, turbulent stream into a large lake—temporarily, until the water found its way again and rushed toward the sea.
Now the smell of smoke was clearly noticeable, and also, from afar, screams, noise, and knocking could be heard, as if someone was hitting the wall of the fortress with a huge battering ram.
Ned stopped, and the entire squad followed him. The situation was clear, and extremely unpleasant – now they had to pass a crowd of marauders, and how many of them were there was unknown.
And also - you need to spend the night somewhere!
Ned had absolutely no desire to play the hero. Either way, if he lost, the scoundrels would be hacked to pieces, and word would spread that some squad had crushed the marauders. It might reach the ears of Great Atroc, and she, not being a fool, would connect the dots with the existing information, and... expect trouble! Traveling stealthily would be impossible.
"Into the forest!" Ned said sternly, watching the black plume of smoke stretching seaward. "Stop and wait. Isa, Gerlath, Itrok, and Arnot. And Bordonar, of course—stay here. Harald and Amela follow me."
"I'm with you...!" the prince tried to protest, but Arnot silently took his horse by the reins and led him into the forest. Bordonar immediately fell silent and gloomily ruffled his feathers, like a bird in a tree in the pouring rain.
Ned mentally gave up—he'd deal with the prince's delicate mental makeup later, but now was no time. Bordonar had to learn to follow orders without fail.
Ned spurred his horse, then suddenly stopped and turned back, riding up to Isa.
The boy looked at him seriously, and at the commander's sign, leaned closer, offering his ear:
"Leave the horse and look around. Those two... see who they are, and if possible, tie them up. Just don't kill them, okay? Don't kill them under any circumstances."
"I see," the guy nodded, grinning, and asked slyly, "So, they're acquaintances after all? What should we expect from them?"
"They won't attack. However, anything can be expected from them," Ned added mysteriously, grinning as well. A second later, dropping his mirth, he galloped toward the waiting Amela and Harald.
Waiting for the commander to pass them, Harald and his cousin followed him, urging their horses into a quick trot. A minute later, they had disappeared around the bend in the road that led down to the inn half a li away.
Bordonar turned to Isa and, burning with curiosity, asked:
— What did he tell you? What did you talk about, smile about?
"We're going to catch some hares now," the boy grinned. "You stay here, and I'll go away now—likely to relieve myself... Don't worry, we're in no danger. Ned would have told you if there was anything dangerous."
"I'm not worried," the prince frowned, "I just wanted to know."
"You'll find out. Wait here. Guys, I'm going to go now," he shouted louder, giggling to himself, "I'm going to relieve myself!"
"Tell me more about what the need is," the irritated prince grumbled.
"Do I really need to?" Isa feigned surprise, and suddenly cried out, "I'm going to relieve myself!"
"Damn you both," Gerlat said angrily, "and you first and foremost, Isa! Why are you screaming like that? I'm choking! Prince, why are you making this little brat scream like that?"
"I'm forcing you?" Bordonar was genuinely surprised. "I'm forcing you?! Then the hell with you both! Scream like idiots all over the forest! I'm going to sleep right now! There's no point in screaming!"
Bordonar dismounted, dropping the reins haphazardly, lay down under a cedar tree, and pointedly closed his eyes. Gerlat sighed heavily, screwed on the flask, and muttered under his breath:
"Well, that's a good idea. I'll take a quick rest too. I'm feeling a bit seasick on this horse..."
"You should drink less wine!" the prince said vindictively, opening one eye. "I'm watching you! You're already on your third flask! Where do you fit all that stuff?!"
"Should I tell you where?" the mage chuckled. "First, the life-giving blood of the earth enters the oral cavity... there, my tongue determines whether this liquid is worthy of being swallowed by my esophagus. Then..."
Isa slipped quietly behind a tree, vanishing as if he'd never been there. The chatterboxes didn't even notice, and only Itrok grinned as he watched the boy disappear into the bushes, as if he'd been hauled there by a long rope.
The young Atrok glided between the trees, skirting bushes, weaving through deadfalls so that not a twig crunched under his soft boots. He made a wide arc, heading back toward the detachment's origin, and within ten minutes he was two hundred paces from the caravan's camp, near the edge of the forest. There he dropped to the grass and began to crawl, very quietly, toward where he thought he heard a soft human voice.
After about five minutes he came so close that he began to make out the words:
— It's all your fault! I should have approached them a long time ago! I'm already tired of trudging along on foot!
"I'm tired too! So what? Show up early, they'll send you back! You wanted to travel, see the world, didn't you? What the hell are you making faces at now? As soon as the difficulties started, the whining started!"
"I don't even want to talk to you! You're the stupidest of us! I've taken all your wits, and all you're left with is crumbs! So stop being clever—sit down and eat!"
- You bastard! So, am I a fool?! I'll...
"You're both idiots," Isa stood right in front of the guys and patted the sling with throwing knives, "just try to move, I don't care that you're magicians - you'll quickly get a knife in your ass!"
"What are we fools for?" Magar sneered contemptuously. "You're a fool yourself! We're mages, and you..."
"He's a mage too. And if you were smarter, you'd have noticed it the first time," Igar chuckled. "See, that proves I'm smarter!"
"You?! You bastard! You scum!" The dark-robed man lunged at his twin and began to strangle him. He fought back, panting and kicking, groaning and cursing.
Isa came closer, put his hands on his hips and spat, saying contemptuously:
- If you don't stop right now, I'll beat you both so hard that… ow!
He didn't have time to finish. The one strangling him let go of his brother's neck and grabbed Isa's legs, throwing him onto his back, while the "strangled" man threw himself on top of him, muttering:
"Who's going to beat who? You idiot! They won't even give you a proper meal, they're just trying to get to you! I'll punch you in the face right now, so you don't attack defenseless mages!"
They didn't manage to punch Isa in the face - he dodged with a clever move, threw the dark Magar into the bushes, and kicked Igar, which sent him flying into a tree, receiving a nice black eye, so their clever operation to neutralize the atroc failed.
"Hmm…" Isa drawled, feeling his aching cheek, which had come into contact with the hard cedar root. "You are such bastards!"
"And you? Aren't you a bastard? What were you threatening? You know perfectly well you're not going to cut us down—just wanted to show off?" Igar answered reasonably, touching his swollen eye. "Let's go to camp, what now? Let the guy treat me! What a bastard you are, huh?! You ruined such a beauty! How will girls love me now with a face like that!"
"What girls?" Isa asked, dumbfounded, looking around.
— Beautiful! Look at that girl you have running around with, she went with Ned! I'd give anything in the world just to…
"Do you want another one in the eye? The other one? For show?" Isa promised grimly. "If I catch you bothering my sister... my cousin, I'll rip your head off! Okay, enough chatter! Get up and go! By the way, who's the guy who's going to treat you?" he asked, looking at the twins with interest. They were as alike as two peas in a pod, and only upon closer inspection could one notice the difference—the dark one was a little rougher, his features harder. Or is that just his expression? Harder, more serious...
"Such an uncle!" Magar muttered sarcastically. "Gerlat, of course! Our uncle!"
"Hmm... how complicated it all is," Isa sighed, thought for a second, and then waved his hand. "Let Ned sort it out. He knows better what kind of fruit you are. He sent me to catch you. He says you're acquaintances."
"I told you, Ned would notice us right away!" Igar sighed. "And you—I'm the best! I can move through the woods like a beast!"
— And I can! And Ned is Ned. What's wrong? If it weren't for him, these people would never have noticed us. But he senses it somehow. Let's go, we're ready.
The twins shook off cedar needles, grass, and bits of earth, and trudged ahead of Isa, as if under escort. They tried to protest the Atrok's behavior, but he silently shook his fist at them, and the rebellion was nipped in the bud. The twins always sensed when to rebel and when to keep quiet and lie low, like pond fish.
***
The smoke hit his nostrils, tickling them, and Ned wanted to sneeze. The horse he rode smelled of sweat, its trimmed mane fluttering in the wind as it fanned the ravenous fire licking the large building next to the inn—presumably a stable or a hayloft.
Most likely, there was also a warehouse there, as the plumes of black smoke billowing from the windows suggested a supply of oil for the lamps. Inns always use a lot of oil on lighting—guests arrive day and night, so the inn doors are never locked tight. Except in cases like this, of course.
And the incident was really bad.
About twenty men, dressed in various outfits and laden with weapons, had gathered around the closed doors of the tavern. Another dozen were trying to climb up the awning to the upper floor, but the people locked inside the tavern were actively fighting back, and several bodies—five or six—were lying around the building. Two more lay near the burning barn, seemingly uncared for. Like the bodies of two young men, workers or grooms by their appearance—they were huddled near the barn, holding pitchforks. It seemed they were trying to protect the master's property. Their bodies were badly mutilated, as if even after death the killers hadn't abandoned the dead but continued hacking them to pieces like maniacs.
"Fools! You should have given up your master's goods and hidden in the bushes! Who needs them, you idiots! Now they're lying around!"
"They died with honor. This word is, of course, unfamiliar to you."
"Fool! For Shirduan, honor isn't everything; victory is! Remember that forever! Their job was to hide in the bushes, memorize the number of attackers, memorize who did what, and report it to the authorities! Not just charge at a gang of soldiers with pitchforks! Idiots…"
The horsemen stopped about fifty meters from the tavern and stood frozen, like equestrian statues, watching the scene unfold. The attackers were so absorbed in their task that they didn't notice the approaching riders, but continued cheerfully, whooping, to pound the tavern door with a log.
Luckily for the besieged, the door was sturdy, made of solid old oak, and successfully resisted the blows, although it was beginning to give way in places. It appeared to have been barricaded from the inside, and it was also bound with steel strips along the edges. Apparently, this was not the first time the innkeeper had had to withstand a siege by superior enemy forces, and he had prepared well. But even fortresses can fall, so what can we say about a tavern?
"Surrender! We'll take the money, the food, and leave! You'll live! We won't touch you or your men!" a tall man in a leather jacket, visible from beneath a sleeveless chainmail shirt with steel plates sewn onto it, shouted in a hoarse, broken voice. Then he looked around, apparently feeling eyes on him, and for a second he couldn't believe his eyes—two young men calmly observing what was happening, and a young woman glaring at the bandits with an angry, hostile expression.
A sweet girl, I must say. Just his type. The former corporal loved skinny, nimble ones—they're good in bed, hot girls! Especially if you give them a good beating with the whip... so they don't twitch and do as they're told.
"Hey, boys, we have guests!" the corporal smiled happily, hoping the uninvited visitors wouldn't gallop off on their horses—which, by the way, were pretty decent, good horses. They'll come in handy.
"Hey, you! Come join us! We're having fun!" the leader offered cordially, winking at his "fellow craftsmen" and quietly commanding:
"Get the boys. Don't touch the girl! If they gallop, hit the horses. I'll go first with the girl. Then do whatever you want."
"Yeah... I'll do it after you!" grumbled one of the guys, a shaggy-haired redneck with a missing tooth in the front of his upper jaw. "You mess me up, and here you go! A piece of meat!"
"What's wrong?" the corporal bared his teeth. "If you don't want it, you won't get it! Hey, boys, don't let Surida near the girl, so he doesn't open his mouth next time!"
"Oh, come on... what are you saying?" the guy babbled. "I was just saying that! Look, they're not running away! They're tying up the horses. Hey, Commander, I have a bad feeling about this..."
"Go to hell with your premonition! Don't let him near the girl!" the corporal croaked, and went to meet the "guests," taking a dozen men with him. The rest stopped pounding on the door, put the log aside, and sat down, full of anticipation—it's interesting when someone gets killed. It's nerve-wracking, invigorating—after all, it's not you who's being killed!
"Hello," the corporal grinned, and his companions casually raised their loaded army crossbows, pointing them at Ned and Harald. "Well, time to die? And you, girl, are in for a fun time…"
He didn't have time to finish. Amelia's throwing knife smashed his larynx, revealing the gleaming, sharp tip of it from the dirty back of his neck. Crossbow strings clanged, but the bolts were deflected by the lightning-fast movements of the blades.
And the massacre began.
The robbers did not have time to respond - they were so slow, so banal in their attempts to defend themselves from death, embodied in three young creatures of the human race, that the beating resembled a mower cutting down juicy grass, saturated with morning dew, from a meadow in one movement.
Three seconds later, it was all over. Ten men, along with their leader, lay on the ground trampled by hundreds of feet and hooves, arching in futile, convulsive attempts to hold on to the life slipping from their bodies. Their eyes dimmed, their breathing caught, and perhaps in that moment they realized what it must have been like for those they were taking. Or perhaps they didn't—they simply crapped their pants in their final, mortal seconds. This was most likely because the stench was so terrible.
The last of the slain bandits hadn't even hit the ground yet when the trio charged at the stunned, frozen people, as if numb with a spell. Only when death was already near did they begin to scream and shriek—some tried to reach the three murderers with their swords and spears, some fell to their knees, begging for mercy, and some ran, out of their minds with fear. It's one thing to slaughter peasants and innkeepers, and quite another to come face to face with those for whom killing you is like squashing a bug on the path. Click! And he's gone.
No one survived. The last one, running at a gallop and nearly escaping by diving into the river, was caught by Amelia, who slammed a throwing knife under his left shoulder blade with the same calm with which she had thrown it at the ordinary target on which Harald had painted a portrait of his annoying neighbor, for which he had been scolded by his grandfather.
The sharp blade cut through the heart and the fleeing man seemed to stumble, falling and sliding along the river bank for about a meter until he hung on a cliff, dropping thick drops of red, iron-smelling liquid into the crystal-clear water.
Amela calmly pulled the blade from the body, wiped it on the dead man's clothes and went to her own people, thoughtfully tucking the knife into her sling.
She once wondered what would happen after her first enemy died. They say people fainted when they saw their handiwork, the corpse of the man they'd killed. Why, then, does she feel nothing but satisfaction from a job well done?
Having come to no conclusion, she decided to ask Ned. Maybe he, with his ancient memory, could explain why she didn't burst into tears after killing more than a dozen people. Maybe she was crazy? The thought irritated her, and Amela snorted like a cat—what wouldn't she think of!