Part III. "Two Halves of One Coin," Chapter 17. "Stones in the Steppe" (Patreon)

Part III. "Two Halves of One Coin," Chapter 17. "Stones in the Steppe"

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Traditionally, the brigade spent the last night before the camping trip in a separate barn, with all its equipment, next to the cart and horse. So that no one would get drunk, break a leg, or cut himself to death in the final hours. The stable barn, of course, belonged to Matrice. Horse Number Four was almost indistinguishable from Number Three; the cart was new, better, and lighter than the one Elena remembered.

For the first time in the past year, the girl saw the entire Santeli crew assembled. A new team because the maimed Codure, according to stories, quickly drank himself to death and froze to death in the first winter month. And Vial died a little later, defending the cart alongside Kai from "greedy" marauders. The brigade replaced its losses with two new men. Their names were Silber and Einar, free mercenaries, not routiers. Elena had heard of them but had not yet seen them in person. Now she had.

Zilber was not too tall, fat, and carefully groomed with neat red sideburns. His weapons were a short sword, like a Roman gladius, and a bow. Zilber shot peculiarly with a full-length sawn reed pipe with a noose. The noose was hooked on the fingers of the pulling hand, and the arrow was inserted into the reed chute and launched like a crossbow bolt on a stock with a guide groove. Such a method required more time to "reload", but it was believed that marksmanship improved markedly. In addition, it was possible to use arrows known to be shorter and correspondingly lighter than usual, sending them to a greater range.

Einar was a typical infantryman with a sword like Zilber's and a large round shield. He was tall, stout, heavy-featured, had a wicked stare, and shaved his hair and beard to the bristles of a pig. His right eye was perpetually squinted, while the other was wide open and never seemed to blink.

The two mercenaries looked nothing alike, but at the same time, they seemed almost like twins. Their gazes (equally wary), stingy movements (as if they were saving every calorie), characteristic swearing, and other little things that seem unnoticeable separately but together draw a comprehensive image. Zilber and Einar clearly read "deserter" on their foreheads, and Lena immediately dubbed them inaudibly but briefly, "brother-soldiers."

At bedtime, Shena showed her companion how to carry the "ponjaga." What could be easier - throwing a wooden frame with ropes on her shoulders? As it turned out, there were a few tricks. The main one was that despite its resemblance to a backpacker's frame, the "ponjaga" was carried differently. Two strong loops were attached to the belt behind the back, and the ends of the lashing frame, which protruded downwards, were hooked there. In this way, the weight of the whole structure was transferred to the belt and legs, while the straps merely held the burden. They could be put on in the usual way, could be thrown on one side like a one-belt backpack, or even do without straps at all, fixing the frame with a pole on the shoulder.

All in all, it was an amazing thing.

She didn't sleep well. She couldn't sleep at all, to be exact. The jitters pounded like a fever, a shiver going somewhere in the middle of her stomach and spreading through her body in waves, carrying waves of unhealthy heat. So much so that Lena was even frightened if she was sick. That would be very, very bad. On the other hand, such a possibility would have freed her from the hike...

The "Loser's Dilemma," as her father once called it. A loser goes to an exam for which he is unprepared, under a great deal of stress. Pulling a question means getting a failing grade. Avoiding the exam on some pretext is also bad, but for a while, the underachiever will experience a delightful relief from the fact that the danger has moved into the future.

Lena wrapped herself in a wool blanket and couldn't get warm. She was almost sinking into a drowsy slumber... But like a swimmer with an excessive supply of air, she could not cross the invisible line beyond which normal sleep begins.

And then she felt really warm for some reason, like in a warm bath, when there was no hurry, no danger ahead... and everything would be okay... ...and everything is going to be fine...

Shena carefully readjusted her blanket, which she used to cover Hel, who was in agony. The spearwoman couldn't sleep either, but Shena always had a bad night's sleep the night before she went out. It was normal and safe. The first day would wear her out properly, the first night of hike would be fine, and then everything would roll along on its own as usual.

Horse number four was crunching the hay as if it felt it would be a good idea to eat its fill. It would not see any more food until its return. Unless the march drags on and the animal has to be fed with pasture, which is a last resort. In the field, sometimes it's better to lose a fighter (not the most useful one, of course) than a horse. No draught animal, it means the cart stands. And if it managed to be loaded with some Profit...

A single candle burned in a stone chalice by the gate, which was covered with a broad plank. In the dim light, the red-haired healer's face seemed very smooth and rejuvenated. Hel was not old as it was, but now she looked like a girl a couple of years away from marriage. She sighed softly, and once again rolled in her mind, like a pebble in a river stream, the long-standing riddle of who Hel was...

Now, as the only one awake in the barn, alone with herself, Shena confessed that... No, that would have been too drastic, too bold, and direct. She only thought that perhaps, had things turned out differently, Hel might have appealed to her as a sympathetic person in her own way, not the worst person in the world. Sometimes surprisingly cold-blooded harshness, like the removal of a rotten leg. And sometimes striking with a strange, incongruous naivety. Not stupidity, not disconnected from life, but just - naivety. As if Hel had come to Wasteland from some other place much kinder and brighter. From a palace, a combat tower, or at least a well-to-do family, where the family was lucky to have a loving father and the children did not encounter everyday cruelty when they were just learning to walk.

These thoughts made Shena bitter and painful. Because her thoughts awakened memories, and her memory stabbed her with sharp knives, despite the years that had passed. The mercenary looked at the medicine woman with unconcealed anger. Now as the embodiment of all that was hateful to Shena.

The filthy aristocrat...

She wanted to rip the blankets off Hel, both hers and her own, and then chase the redheaded beast around the wagon, stabbing her with the dagger to keep her spirits up. Just like that, to let the anger find its way out before it scorched her soul completely.

The damned noble. One like her, surely one like the others. Otherwise, how would she know what "pàtrean" is...

Hel moved in her sleep. A reddish lock of hair fell to her cheek and covered her nose. In the dim light, her hair seemed as dark as copper blackened by time. She grunted absently, wrinkling her nose and twitching her nose. Shena turned away. She closed her eyes as if she could hide from the black memories.

They got up after dark. Without much of a signal, somehow, one by one, everyone got up and got ready. The first day was very important. They had to use every minute of daylight time to get as far away from the town as possible. This was good for the campaign, and it took the brigade out of the range of the stupid "greeders" who robbed everyone on the approaches to the Gate until they lay down under the swords of the "tar" or routiers, hired by the best men of the city.

Lena, once more, for the last time, stacked the travel bag herself the right way. That is, she first inserted the rolled-up felt mat into the tube, then tamped down the blanket. On top of it, spare clothes, socks, a sleeping cap, and all the other small things except those that fit into the belt pouches and the flip-bag. She covered the top with a wooden bowl and laced it up. Sheena looked critically at the result and pursed her lips but found the result conditionally acceptable.

Maitre Charley came in. The brether looked as if the devils of all the Wastelands had been riding him since sundown. The brether's bloodshot eyes stared out at the world with a look of grave anger, revealing his master's powerful narcotic hangover. But Charley was awake, and his hands were not trembling, which led Lena to assume he'd taken advantage of her gift. Without further ado, the Brether struck a bargain with the brigadier. Einar and Zilber squinted at the brether but refrained from outward expressions of displeasure. The swordsman put his hand to the hilt of his sword but pretended not to notice the slanting glances. Charley hesitated for a moment and slid his saber behind his back, the clave on his left side to his right and the dagger on the other hand to his left. As if he was preparing to flail at the lancers or simply didn't want the scabbard to pound at his feet on the long journey.

Taking advantage of the moment, Santelli once again briefly stipulated the terms of the venture. Because, unlike normal trips, this one was planned in a special way and paid for in a specific way.

As a rule, with few exceptions, the Profit was not divided at once, in kind, but was handed over to resellers in Gates or other towns, of which (settlements) there were five. And the proceeds were divided into shares, which were distributed in an agreed order - two each to the foreman, alchemist, and healer, plus personal bonuses for various complications. The "tarred man" could take something of the loot, but only what he needed for work or health reasons, and with the approval of all his colleagues. For example, most of Biso's equipment was obtained in this way, as cave trophies. And Shena took her alhspice from the corpse of an undead.

This time Santelli resorted to a different, rarer rule. In fact, he did not assemble a brigade but hired each fighter individually and only for one campaign. The brigade members had no claim to Profit, but the brigadier was obliged to pay a generous reward upon their return, regardless of the outcome of the campaign. And the money was reserved in advance and deposited with Matrice as a trusted intermediary. So in the wooden box, sealed with sealing wax, rang the money due to Elena, earned in advance. That was, of course, if the girl returned and the brigade did not consider the hired healer to have flagrantly neglected her duties.

Such a statute was usually in force if the brigade went to work on commission, in search of something specific and with above-average danger. The brigadier also had the right not to disclose the purpose of the campaign until the very end, but the pay then also had to be very high to entice the mercenaries with an "offer in the bag." Santelli exercised this right, and Elena was promised (deposited with her) three golden coins, money she had not yet seen here, the monthly salary of a sergeant in armor.

Santelli ended with an honest suggestion for those who hesitated to think again and refuse before they went out the gate. And if anyone comes out, then don't shake and work until they win. The suggestion was accompanied by an eloquent glance in Elena's direction. The girl clenched her teeth and remained silent. In turn, she glanced at Shena and thought she looked almost the same now - slim, trim, wearing normal human shoes instead of rattling wooden hooves and pants with a demonstrative codpiece. Lena quickly pulled her hat, which looked like a pirate's triangle with the brim tied at the top over her head. There was no telling who might turn up on the way out of town, so there was no point in showing off her red hair.

It was as if Santeli was waiting for something, and Lena did not understand what until the sleepy apprentice brought, from the bakery, a basket of freshly baked pies and gingerbread, not simple, but "travel". Such pies were made not so much for the culinary variety as for food preservation. Usually with two fillings (usual vegetable on one side and sweet on the other), with plenty of fat in the dough, they could be kept for several days, with the special skill of baker up to a week. The main thing is to wrap them in a cloth and not to leave them in the sun. Gingerbreads, in general, did not spoil for a month or more due to the abundance of honey in the dough and glaze, which closed all the pores in the crust, sealing the contents tightly and not allowing moisture to evaporate.

"Now it was time to go."

They did not eat breakfast as a group. By tradition, on the first day, everyone stocked themselves with provisions to their liking and chewed on the go. The cauldron allowance did not begin until the evening of the first day. Lena had forgotten all about it and hadn't even stocked up on breadcrumbs, but decided it was no problem. She would somehow make it through the day without food. Dinner would taste better.

"So..." Santeli looked around at his small but quite militant and cheerful troops. He held up a finger and said softly. "Pantocrator is with us. Let's go."

Both deserters responded in sync with upturned palms and outstretched fingers, only two instead of one. Zilber gave a "victoria," Einar a classic punk "goat". Lena had seen this before - they did the same thing at the mention of Ishtan and Erdeg. Santelli, however, paid no attention to this, so religious tolerance prevailed.

When they opened the gate, the predawn damp chill immediately bit her hands and face, trying to get under her hoodie and warm shirt. Lena shivered. Horse Number Four galloped along with the leisurely precision of a metronome. A black shadow flashed to the side and purred briefly. Mr. Cat came up to Lena and looked at her very seriously from below with yellow glowing eyes.

"I have to go," the girl said quietly. "I'll be back."

"Maaaa..." The meowr answered, and Lena shuddered. It sounded so un-cat-like. It was as if a child had stretched out on a single note.

Mr. Cat, meanwhile, jumped easily onto the fencepost that enclosed Matrice's barn, and there curled into a tight ball of short, needle-like hair. The oval pupils followed the small caravan closely. Like two candles lit in the night for lost travelers. The cat sat there until the carriage melted into the night, watching the travelers with unblinking eyes. As if he knew something unknown and inaccessible to people. Maybe it was so. It was not for nothing that meowr were considered sorcerous beasts...

It was dark. One might even say completely dark. The wind from the eastern mountains had brought in clouds, and the huge moon hid behind a heavy, impenetrable canopy. Biso had pulled his hat down and lit a magic lamp so that the brigade stomped onward in a dead bluish light. This was the first time Lena had seen a "moon crystal" in action, and now she understood why the "tarred" people often preferred the usual torches and lamps to them. The crystal gave a lot of light. There was no dispute. But that light was... uncomfortable. Like in old computer games like Half-Life, where they couldn't yet reliably simulate a beam of light, so textures lit up as if by themselves. The light was just unpleasant, it scratched your eyes, but most importantly, it hid the details, hid them in the shadows. Such lighting was good for peace, and it would do for travel, but it could be dangerous in battle.

Lena repeated the alchemist's gesture, pulled her hat tighter, and wondered if she could unbutton the brim, pulling it down like an earflap to protect her from the cold wind. She wanted to jump, to run, maybe even fly. A feeling of unusual lightness and leaping took hold of the healer. It was the effect of the pants and boots. They made Lena feel like an athlete who had been training with weights for a long time and now, finally, got rid of them. It occurred to her that for the sake of that lightness, it was definitely worth the risk. And so be it.

The caravan left the Gate to the northwest, following a wide arc around one of the small lakes that stretched in a chain almost all the way to the ocean.

It was very quiet. It was unbelievably quiet as if the roadside grass caught in its net and muffled all outside sounds. The road ended soon enough, and the horse lurched briskly across the steppe with the horseshoes that had been thoroughly tested the day before. The wheels creaked slightly, from time to time breaking with the crunch dried up over the winter feather grass. Biso, with his magical lantern, sat on the fender, exercising his right of passage - only he and the severely wounded (if any) could ride in the cart. Everyone else walked on their own, protecting the horse from unnecessary strain. Santelli stepped forward, Kai at the back of the march with his blade on his shoulder, and everyone else scattered to the sides of the cart in an uneven, sparse ellipse.

The wind was picking up. According to Lena's inner feeling, the "last quarter of the moon", that is, the hour before dawn, had already come, but the darkness was in no hurry to give way. She still wanted to run and jump, but the girl carefully adapted to the rhythm of her companions, who walked with seeming unhurriedness but without stops and delays.

For a few minutes, the wind turned into a light hurricane, which blew debris into my face, so I had to cover myself with a high collar and sleeves. Even the horse became restless, and the alchemist covered its face with a special mask. Santelli cursed briefly and angrily, thinking that here it was, fatal bad luck. Looks like the brigade was caught in unexpected and unseasonable rain. Which meant the speed of movement would fall by half, maybe more.

But then the wind dropped just as abruptly as it had risen. The moon did peek out from behind the scattered clouds. Biso extinguished the flashlight to conserve the charge. Elena opened her mouth and forgot to close it, stunned by the view.

It was beautiful. But no... "beautiful" is an unfortunate word. "Extraordinary" would probably be the right word. Or even "magical." Because it is physically impossible to see such a landscape on Earth.

The wasteland remained wasteland, that is, dreary steppe, which stretched as far as the eye could reach and even farther. The Gate remained behind the brigade, a lake spread out on the right, and the distant mountains that bordered the plain rose on the left. Everything was usual. But as her father, a long-time amateur photographer, used to say, The main thing is the light! A huge moon, hovering above the horizon line, strictly at the height of its diameter, flooded the plain with a cold blue light, similar to the glow of a magic crystal, but stronger by a million times. The moonlight seemed the complete, utter antithesis of the sunlight as if the cold had taken on an image of its own. It was as if the air had turned to pure ice, illuminating itself. There were no other colors in the universe around us except blue, broken down into countless shades, from near-white to pitch-black.

In the windlessness, the lake calmed down. It was smooth and mirrored, reflecting the moon's double with perfect accuracy but smoothing out the shades a little so that she wanted to come up to the water and scoop a piece of this magical moon.

It was... majestic.

Yes, that's the right definition, the girl thought. A majestic picture of an alien world that cannot be painted and cannot be photographed. One can only see for a few moments until the coming dawn adds a tiny fraction of pale pink to the color palette, blurring the cold perfection with a warm note.

Lena sighed, overwhelmed by the inhuman beauty of what she saw. And the realization that she was so far from home came over her again...

And they moved on.

Nothing happened on the road that needs to be mentioned separately. It was a successful trek by a good brigade that had meticulously assembled on the road. Biso traveled in a cart, weaving a rope of grass fibers, coarse but strong. Because you can never have too much rope, and a penny saved is a penny earned.

The overnight stay was uneventful, but by the next morning, Einar had powerful diarrhea that would not let up for the rest of the day. Helena feared the deserter had been poisoned, but there were no other symptoms. The healer quickly diluted the necessary mixture with hot water. In addition, she gave the patient a chewable root, which has a strong fortifying effect. She also advised him to drink more to replenish the loss of fluid.

Santelli scowled and advised him to go on without his pants, without wasting time taking them off and putting them back on, which was a frustratingly regular procedure. Lena remembered that the first conquistadors in South America had done the same thing. They, suffering in their bellies from an unaccustomed diet, went to battle in nothing but their armor over their undershirts. And supported the brigadier. Einar seemed offended, but he listened, sparing the brigade the choice of stopping the horse time after time or letting his companion fall dangerously behind.

Twice the squad tried to sneak up on the taguars, hoping they would catch the careless one. The first predator got away on his own, disappearing into the grass. The second was frightened away by Zilber's arrow.

They spent the night, as before, without incident. The moon was especially bright, so the alchemist laid the magic crystal under its light until morning, infusing the magic crystal with the energy of the "sun of the dead". Santelli, nervous and angry, calmed down a little, but only a little. He had been waiting for trouble, biting his beard furiously and keeping his hand on his axe. He even slept in his leather armor.

Toward the middle of the second day, the brigade happily avoided very big trouble. They noticed the small black dots circling over the grass like black wasps. Kai recognized the Plain Hornets with his keen eyesight from afar, and the brigade took a solid detour. They spoke in whispers, trying to walk smoothly without sudden movements. The detour cost the company several hours of lost time, but no one would say it was a waste.

After the brigade returned to the former route, Charley asked Lena softly what it all meant. The girl just as softly explained.

The Plains Hornets, aka Wasps of the Wastelands, were one of the most nightmarish creations of the magical transmutation of the animal kingdom. Such a creature could reach the length of an index finger or more. Unlike the Gray Shadows, for example, hornets were not generally aggressive or even predatory (they were, however, happy to eat carrion). The problem was that they lived in colonies in underground nests that were almost invisible from the outside. If you were careless or inattentive when getting too close to a nest, the overgrown wasps would attack you without warning, with the whole nest. A horse was killed by a dozen stings, while a human would suffice for five or even less.

It was also an unfortunate idea to kill a lone hornet, even if accidental. In this case, all the hornet colonies, often within a dozen or so walks, would attack indiscriminately anything that moved across the steppe. The locals thought it was a witch's call; Lena believed it was all about pheromones. Anyway, the only escape was to scatter dried hogweed around and stand motionless until sunset, praying to Pantocrator until the hornets returned to the colony for the night.

Some "tarred men" extracted the winged nastiness with various magical tricks, and this commodity was extremely valuable. The venom of black wasps was stored for a long time, and jewelers readily bought it for engraving on metal. But despite all the tricks, the trade was so dangerous that at most twenty people in all the Wastelands were engaged in it.

After pondering what he heard, the brether remarked that, indeed, the wonders of this land are far more miraculous than all the tales are told about it beyond the mountains, in the Kingdoms. Elena agreed.

The journey continued.

As she progressed, Lena noticed something strange. The Wasteland outside the settled areas was deserted and desolate, with only the occasional remnants of houses and stone buildings that had been decaying in their course for centuries. But here and there - not to say often, but not completely rare - there were stone pyramids. Built without any plan or standard, some were barely waist-high, and others were symbolic, literally made of the first dozen stones that came along. Lena asked Shena what they meant. The spearwoman was silent for a long time, so much so that Lena had given up waiting for an answer. Finally, however, she frowned:

"Cenotaphs."

"What?"

"Commemorative graves without bodies," Shena said even more glumly. "When there's nothing to burn or bury. Or the "tar man" didn't have time to get out and got changed. In memory of him, the comrades lay down stones."

"So..." Lena stumbled, imagining how many people had come here, to these desolate lands, in the past centuries, in search of a better life. And how many had perished in obscurity, leaving no memory behind. Only handfuls of stones in the gray steppe under the dim sun and the dead moon...

"Yes," said Shena, and in her voice was... fear not fear, but obvious bitterness. "Each cenotaph is a person who came here and stayed here forever...'"

The tone of the lance-woman completely discouraged Lena from asking any more questions, especially since there was no reason to ask anymore.

By the evening of the third day, the surrounding landscape began to change, becoming perceptibly "swampy." More grass, more greenery of an unpleasant dirty green-brown color. Puddles appeared, seemingly perennial, judging by the vegetation around them. Occasionally wet earth smacked beneath.

Toward sunset, when they were supposed to stop and set up camp, Santelli continued to drive the team forward. Until a column of smoke blackened in the last rays of the sun. A clear sign of life in the form of a hearth.

"Here we are," said the foreman. "Consider it a quarter of the job done."

Five houses nestled on the edge of the small forest that bordered the southern edge of the swamp. They were called "cradles," typical of the area, and were the easiest to build, even simpler than a frame house. A wooden frame, the future door, was dug into the ground, then poles or simply peeled trunks were placed around the circumference, joining at one point on top where gaps were left intentionally. A sort of tepee was made only of wood. At the bottom, the structure was surrounded by stones and earth. The cracks were damped with clay mixed with dung and chopped wood. It remained to hang the door on belt loops and make an open hearth with an iron tripod and chain for a cauldron in the center of the tent.

The house was weak, but it was quick to build, undemanding in terms of materials, and moderately warm. A more complex version was built on a frame made of vertical poles and horizontally stacked planks. Usually, people did not live in such huts - there was too much useless interior space - but they used them as a kind of common clubhouse.

The settlement where Santeli led the brigade consisted of a dozen common "cradles" and one large one, where in the warmer months, the whole clan gathered to take care of household chores.

At Elena's glance, the family numbered twenty or so people of all different ages. Without exception, they all obeyed the patriarch.

Santelli and Swampy were clearly acquainted; they managed with a minimum of words. The children quickly put the horse and cart under the shed, which acted as a half-open stable. Without orders, they began to clean and feed the horse, filling it up with fodder and dragging water from the barrel that had warmed up during the day.

The brigade was assigned two places on the outskirts closest to the swamp. A fire was already blazing in the stone-lined hearths, and it seemed that Santelli and his companions had been expected here. Lena noticed that the swamp folk used peat, or something similar, instead of the ubiquitous oil shale. Well, yes, it makes sense... She wonder what the natives lived from. There wasn't enough tackle for leech fishing. It was too wet for farming. Taking her hiking bag into the cabin, Lena decided that the swamp people most likely worked as a transit station for the "tar people," and that's how they lived.

The healer also noted the abundance of swastikas. They seemed to have been burned and scratched on any flat surface. The swastikas were regular, that is, sunny, with rounded rays. Sometimes eight-pointed, with ends of different lengths. The girl did not notice anything like that in the Gate. It must have been some kind of local cult, maybe even pagan.

It suggested that, among other things, Lena hadn't seen anything on the Wastelands that could be considered religious symbolism. Not that the girl was in a hurry to look behind everyone's collar, but still... All sorts of amulets, talismans, cleverly chopped-up coins, whatever, but she hadn't seen anything uniform and iconic. She wonders what that has to do with it.

The moon had already rolled over the horizon, mingling its light with the fading sun. It was nothing like the dead, solemn contrast of the first morning. Everything seemed very soft, subdued, and watercolor.

The swampsmen offered no food, but they shared water. They generally tried to communicate as little as possible with the outsiders, immediately lowering their eyes and walking away at the attempt to speak. When the sun flashed a scarlet edge and went out, the children walked along the invisible perimeter of the settlement, lighting stone bowls. In them smoldered some unusual herb, the kind Lena had never seen before. It looked like mint but with a tangible hint of senna. It wasn't unpleasant, but she didn't want to breathe it. Lena thought it must be how they protect themselves from some marsh guests. Biso's stingy muttering confirmed the hunch - the swampsmen were warding off some "jellies," whom they were definitely afraid of. Perhaps the brigade should have been afraid too, but Santelli was calm, and so was the alchemist, so the girl decided she shouldn't be nervous at all.

No one stayed up late. They went to bed early, and no sentries were posted, which surprised Lena again. One must assume that the swampsmen were tried and trusted partners. In the well-heated room, it was surprisingly cozy. The peat burned dimly but with good heat, and its smell interrupted the unpleasant aroma of the guardian grasses. Smoke was drawn into the holes at the top of the cauldron. Putting on a thin sleep cap, Lena suddenly realized she wasn't plagued by nightmares in the Wastelands. She hadn't dreamt in the past few days, or the dreams had been firmly forgotten. On the one hand, it was good. On the other hand...

The girl was literally racking her brain trying to figure out what the vision with the cave and the swords meant. All the other dreams could be written off as the work of the subconscious, perceiving the magical background of the wasteland. But that ... The subconscious could only work with the images it already had. And Lena was pretty sure she had never seen a sword like that. So she had seen the future? Or the past? A warning? But of what?

Lena covered herself tightly with the blanket. She looked at the scarlet sparks dancing over the fire in the rising warm air.

The past is gone. And the future has not come. There is no point in agonizing over mysteries that cannot yet be solved. Maybe their time will come, maybe not.

She has to go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a difficult day. Tough and really dangerous.

Santelli stood by the stables for a while, watching the tall jugs with rope braids, the result of Bizo and Matrice's distilling experiments, being unloaded. None of them leaked, which was good to see. In the morning, the men would be glad when it was time to smear themselves with the contents... especially the squeamish and slightly pampered Hel.

Finally, he talked to the father of the family about "eternal lamps."

It was understandable, and yet amusing in its own way, that the inhabitants of the open Wastes were technically closer to Profit, but they preferred to buy it from the "townsfolk." The best of all was magical lamps, similar to moonlight crystals but with a different working principle. The crystal had to be soldered with moonlight, which the glass then gave off. The lamp could shine for several generations without any tricks. The only thing to do was to hold it no closer than an outstretched arm. Otherwise, the body would develop non-healing sores, and the eyes would become cloudy with cataracts.

The settlement had no lamp - it was taken during the division of property by his eldest son, who had left the clan with his family to set up his own settlement. He had the right, and he took it at the expense of all other valuables. Now the patriarch intended to buy a new one. Santelli promised, and the chiefs haggled a little, more as a wake-up call.

Left alone, the foreman sat for a while on a stump that had been dug in instead of a stool. The swamps reeked of dampness and the smell of wet frogs. He didn't want to sleep because he was scared. Santelli grunted, got up, and wandered to his place, wondering if half a flask of fortified wine would soothe him enough to fall asleep.

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[1] "Korean way" of archery, google "Tong-Ah," and an artistic depiction can be seen in the movie War of the Arrows (2011).