Chapter 21. The Chopped Coin (Patreon)

Chapter 21. The Chopped Coin

* * *

Lena did not remember the way back. It was somewhere in the back of her mind, merged into an endless series of steps, falls, knee-deep falls into hidden "holes" among the wet grass. If there is a hell in the other world, the medic thought, it looks like this. The real torture is when you torture yourself.

Sweat mixed with mud, crushed frog roe, and other swamp impurities covered her entire body with a slippery film that would not wash off. Clothes were soaked to the last thread and hung on the body like a shell, which does not protect from anything and is designed only to burden every movement. The smell of urea has permeated everything around them, and it seems that the world is stinking all by itself now, from here to eternity. Her legs don't hurt anymore. They've turned into heavy stakes that feel nothing. Every step she has to control with her eyes. But she still walks.

The only evidence that the process was somehow underway were the milestones marking the way back. However, it was not easy for them either.

Santelli trusted few people, especially when he bought loyalty with threats or money. He didn't trust the swamp dwellers, either, even though the "fed" community lived mainly by providing respite, lodging, and supplies for the brigades. While still in the Gate, planning his return from his cursed home, Santelli had wondered what if the swamp dwellers decided to deceive him.

He had never had any complaints before, but there was a first time for everything. The brigades passing through this community were missing a little more often than they should. Santelli did not know the word "statistics," but he felt the essence of science very well.

The brigadier consulted with Biso and Aynar, who, because of his former profession, was regularly confronted with attempts to cheat a performer out of his wages and concluded that it was unlikely that they would try to stab them in their sleep or poison them. It would be easier to drown the brigade on the way back and take Profit - it was whispered about the swamp dwellers that they knew how to make the mire share what had fallen into it. The conscience is almost clear, and one can honestly answer that one has not touched anyone. And what's the easiest way to ruin people in the swamps? To move the milestones. They say we don't know anything. The travelers lost their way and drowned. So sad...

That's why the signal branches, which the brigade used to mark the way, were special this time. Biso, as usual, marked each one with a hidden magical sign to indicate that it had been moved, but he marked it faintly so that even the worst village sorcerer could fake it. And in addition to the first set, he and Einar made a second set of inconspicuous pegs, which turned out to be more cunning and inconspicuous.

On the way to the house, Zilber placed the "official" milestones, while Einar secretly placed the secret ones. When they returned, the trackers checked these "twos". Everything was in order - not far from the usual stick was also a secret one. Until about a quarter of the way to the edge of the mire. Here the milestones split, with the obvious ones going one way and the hidden ones going the other.

"Assholes," Einar said with expression, though without much anger, after a brief meeting with Biso. "Lousy, scruffy, emaciated assholes."

"Tried to cheat after all..." Santelli had to catch his breath before he could answer. His arm ached terribly, and since it could not be unloaded on the way, the foreman began to fear that a splint and compresses would not be the end of the matter.

"That's right," the shield-bearer grinned. - That's what I say, damn bastards. Well, let's move on."

You walk... and walk again. Your mind is no longer sufficient for even very brief thoughts. There is only the back of the one ahead of you, and the twitching of the rope indicates that someone is trailing behind. There is nothing else in the world. Only swamps, mud, stench, and a hellish pain in the lower back, behind the spine. So Lena missed the moment when it stopped squelching and splashing under her feet and began to sludge. A little while later, the shoes stepped on almost solid ground, and the grass no longer seemed like sandpaper stripped to ribbons. It was only at the last rest the girl realized there were even more or less normal trees and tall shrubs around and that there was smoke in the distance.

"Shall we kill them all?" suggested Einar without much enthusiasm, looking gloomily at the sword, which was already covered in the first streaks of rust, promising its owner long worries of cleaning and oiling.

"They haven't given us a night's lodging yet," the foreman said. "Later. Maybe."

"Life is unfair shit," Zilber summarized.

They reached the village of the swampers after dark. The brigade was not welcome. They were not expecting the "tarry ones" to show up. This was evident in everything, from the slanted glances to the missing horse Number Four. So Santelli did not delay and immediately took the boar by the fangs.

"You have upset me," he jabbed his finger at the chief's chest, no longer trying to sound polite. The skinny brigadier seemed puny in comparison with the big-bellied leader of the swamp community, but the shove shook the chief visibly.

"And what?" He asked, agonizing over what to do now. This finally convinced Santelli that the community had not been on the path of robbery long ago. They hadn't had any misfires yet, so they hadn't developed a pattern of what to do in such cases.

"Eat. Lots of it. Drink. Plenty, too. Water and beer, light," Santelli began, curling his fingers in front of the big guy's nose to be sure. "Boiling water and clean clothes. As much as our healer says. And for washing, of course. Beds and blankets. In the warmth. And to wash all our clothes."

The Brigadier didn't even have to look at the chief's face to read his thoughts. Give everything now and at night...

"And at night, we'll sleep soundly and peacefully," Santelli grinned. The Brigadier's face was already unsympathetic, and now, in the mud and dried slime, framed by a slick beard, it looked like the frozen mask of a devil. "And maybe I won't say anything at the Gate."

The chieftain's face twisted with undisguised anger that turned into a sly grin. You'll have to come to your Gate first...

"Because you're the fool, and I'm the smart one," the foreman smirked, not attempting to hide his contemptuous arrogance. "And Routier and his gang are coming here tomorrow. I've paid them handsomely to make sure if I'm not here, they'll build a pyramid on us, not of stones, but of your heads."

The brigadier waited a moment, giving his interlocutor a chance to comprehend what he had heard, and added with calculated rigor:

"All heads."

"You don't have so much money," the bog man tried to be imposing and stern but snapped out of it and finish in falsetto.

"And I paid to Draoidheach," the foreman grinned insolently.

This was where the Chief was really hurt. He looked into the brigadier's eyes, which seemed blacker than night, and felt the streams of sweat trickling under his woolen shirt. Santelli was not intimidating. He was not pressured. He was just informing. And who on the Wastelands was called Draoidheach, "The Plague," everyone knew. He was a man who never acted in vain but who took money and scrupulously fulfilled his orders under any circumstances.

Any order.

"And bring back the horse, for you've been in a hurry to take it up," Santelli grinned even wider. "And don't forget to feed it and gather oats for the road."

He bit his lip, panted, rolled his eyes, and tried to find a way to retreat with at least a semblance of dignity. Santelli didn't press him further, reasoning that it was unnecessary. The village was finished anyway. Because reputation is as strong as steel and as fragile as the first ice flake in the fall. Mention the rearranged milestones at the Gate, and the only one who will come here from then on is "Meat" Ian. In other circumstances, Santelli might have kept quiet and punished the marauding bogmen in other ways, but Brigadier had no patience for such cunning in business, and after talking to the Duke, he had no intention of returning to the marshes.

"It'll be all right," said the fat man, waving his hand in surrender. "We'll just put in the pots for the water...."

Elena threw off her load, no longer caring about the "Vietnamese footlocker", and knelt down, with difficulty overcoming the desire to get on all fours, relieving her lower back. Now the medicine woman knew the true happiness, the ultimate cosmic happiness. It did not consist of washing, changing clothes, eating, and sleeping after an incredibly exhausting journey. It was in the knowledge that it was all here, at arm's length. And would now be, one might say, drinking the full cup. The anticipation can be much more exciting than the process itself.

And then there was a hot-water wash and new clothes, not to her height, darned and rough, but clean. And a thorough examination of the injury. The Hypnotist's tentacle had left a wide bruise covering her lower back with a dark gray stain, but that seemed to be the end of it.

And sleep again, this time without visions or other horrors.

* * *

The house stood like a forgotten sentry, still on duty, waiting for a shift that would never come. Like centuries before, it looked out at the swamp through the blind window cavities, a shard of the old world. The sun passed across the yellowish sky in a dim circle, like a senile eye clouded with disease. The moon rose, almost invisible in the stifling fumes. Blueish lights glided across the dark marsh, and the animals, both large and small, which had been cheered up by the coming of night, swarmed about. Some were hunting, and some were defending their prey from the stronger. Under the dense carpet of vegetation splashed noisily, giving away its secret life, which continued in the depths beyond the eye and mind.

The house slumbered uneasily, occasionally responding with the creak of a board or the rustle of fallen plaster to the bustle of the swamp. But the studio was very quiet - the glass pyramid muffled all noise. Here everything remained as usual, unchanged. Only the easel was empty, and the magic mirror was lying on the floor as a handful of trash - Kai had approached the matter responsibly. He had not only split the mirror cloth but had broken the wooden base, bent and flattened all the metal parts. The swordsman's heart was breaking - as a "tarred" with experience, he realized that with his own hands, he was destroying a unique thing of unthinkable price. But, understanding the importance of secrecy, he did his best to make sure that no restorer or warlock would ever be able to restore the destroyed artifact.

Kai would have been all the more surprised to see the shards of mirror crumbled to diamond dust glow from within. Faintly, barely, as if catching the reflected light of the moon, which was barely visible in the murky air of the night marshes. The flicker pulsed, gaining strength, and now the glow could be seen without straining the eyes. A little more, and the pyramid was already glowing ghostly blue from within. Only the blue of that blue made the swamp creatures - both natural and mystical - run in all directions instead of rushing to the house, hungry for life. Finally, when the flicker became incredibly bright, seemingly able to melt even the glasses of combat goggles, the pyramid shone with a deep, rich inner light, like a faceted tourmaline, and went out.

Broken glass crunched underfoot. Two broad-shouldered figures, clad head to toe in thick cloaks with hoods pulled low, moved and stepped uncertainly as if checking to make sure they had everything in place. The third man, smaller and narrower in the shoulders, moved more briskly, more easily. It was as if transgression for him was ... ordinary. Habitual. Though such a thing was considered impossible - the secret of soul-safe travel through space had been lost along with the rest of the wonders of the Old Empire.

While the mighty attendants were trying to curb their nausea and assess the damage from the displacement, the third person managed to walk around the studio and back to the transition point. He sat down lightly on his knee and turned the mirror's debris with his thin gloved hand. One piece of the frame particularly interested the observer.

Without paying attention to his companions, the person turned the wood with both hands and did something. A vague, mysterious action that did not manifest itself in any way but echoed heavily in the world. The glazing of the studio rattled, the metal rattled, and the easel shook, so the structure almost fell over. One of the big men staggered back and grabbed his face. A thin trickle of blood dripped from his nose. The other silently covered his eye with his hand, where small blood vessels were bursting.

In response to the action, features, and lines, short and curved, emerged from the depths of the wooden fragment. Obedient to the unintelligible whisper, they seemed to float to the surface, forming a distinctive pattern. Fingerprints, as if illuminated by ultraviolet light. The spot where Lena had touched the magic mirror until she was stopped by Biso's shout.

"There you are," the sorcerer remarked softly, but with a strange, inappropriate mirth - and it was definitely a sorcerer. His voice was soft, velvety. "Finally."

"We won't be able to track her here," muttered one of the attendants in a low bass, wiping his nose with a handkerchief. "Very strong presence of the otherworldly around here."

"At least we know she was here," the wizard's face was hidden beneath the hood, but a satisfied voice suggested - the man was genuinely, quite smiling. "And quite recently."

"But how can we find her?" asked the other. "If we can't follow the trail?"

"As always," the wizard was still smiling. "We will look for those who know more than us and ask them, one by one. First, we'll move along the edge of the floodplains. Then we'll move on to the local towns."

The man rose, shook his hands off the dust, and patted his gloves. And ordered:

"But first, collect all the shards, don't miss a single one. Amateurs broke a valuable piece, but in such artifacts, the part always keeps the memory of the whole. And now I'm about to find out who they had their last conversation with...

* * *

"You late," Santelli stated as Ranyan jumped down from his horse.

Morning came, and with it came the promised rooters. A little later than expected, but ahead of the deadline. The Brigadier grinned, seeing that Matrice was meticulously following the agreement and the jointly calculated timetable.

"That's for your companion," Ranyan shrugged. "When she told me the place, we rode off."

Ranjan looked at the face of the swamp man. There was some relief on the local chief's face, though. It appeared the brigadier was not bluffing, and surrendering to a real threat was less insulting than being frightened by empty words.

"I see the pyramid is being postponed?" Ranyan said, glancing at the brigade.

Behind Routiere's back, nearly a dozen of his men were stretching their legs, checking their horses, and generally looking at the swampers unkindly, weapons clinking.

"All alive," Santelli admitted. "Now we'll have some breakfast from the generosity of the locals, and then we'll go. Have you got the horses?"

"Two," Ranyan nodded. "The cart will be able to roll without any delay at all.

"When we're done, I'll say it's a pleasure doing business with you," Santelli promised.

Routier glanced at his bowed hand, which was suspended on a bandage of handkerchiefs, but said nothing. How the brigade worked was none of his business. Routier's concern was to fulfill the agreement and escort them to the specified place.

When she heard the familiar voice, Lena at first hid under the blanket. Like business cards on a wheel, the possibilities of hiding somewhere swirled in her head. Then the invisible wheel slowed, then stopped altogether. The girl listened to herself and realized - not without surprise - that ... she felt nothing at all. Nothing at all - no fear, not even apprehension. Ranyan didn't frighten her at all because compared to the horrors of the swamps, and even more so to the hypnotist, he seemed quite peaceful, almost plush. In her mind, Lena knew there was something to be afraid of. But that understanding did not affect her feelings. No trembling in her hands, no panic. Nothing at all.

The feeling of freedom from fear was interesting. Unusual. And pleasant, to say the least. If only my back hurt less. Lena stretched and rummaged around for clothes. A hat first and foremost, to hide the conspicuous hair. Peace of mind was good, but it made sense to take precautions.

The assembled team of brigade and mercenaries left the swamps, heading strictly west, and kept in the same direction for a while. Until the familiar grayish-yellowish plain with sparse trees, gentle hills, and stone teeth stretched around them. Far behind them, a thin, barely discernible column of smoke rose like a tiny comma on the border of sky and steppe.

When Santelli saw the smoke, he made a puzzled face. Kai said aloud that the swampmen had a guilty conscience. Einar muttered that they must have grabbed their belongings and gone straight away, and burned their houses. And they were right to do so, for tricks with milestones don't go without consequence. Ranyan shrugged, not concerned with these mundane concerns.

After traveling west for about another hour or so and checking several times with mounted sentries to make sure there was no tracking, the two ringleaders turned north toward the ocean.

The convoy, consisting of nearly twenty men, was moving briskly. That is, without a burst or afterburner, but very smoothly, without delay. The cavalry was scattered around the neighborhood in an irregular ellipse, like boats around a barge. The brigade was still on foot, but now, thanks to the replacement horses the mercenaries had brought, they could afford to ride in carts, giving their legs a rest.

Runyan and Charley pretended they did not know each other and were seeing each other for the first time. The Brethers were uncomfortable in each other's company, so they moved randomly but always ended up at opposite ends of the formation.

Ranjan seemed to recognize Lena as the girl at the bakery, but he was more interested in her current condition and her ability to walk. By midday, her legs had become stiff, and her back ached with renewed vigor. The brigadier wanted to put her in the cart with Biso as a regular passenger, but Ranyan did something unexpected and put her on his horse. He went on his own with obvious pleasure, squinting in the sun with the look of Mr. Cat, who had eaten a lot of steamed pork. It seems the mercenary saw the trek as an opportunity to relax a little from the city and current worries. He did not forget to be careful, though.

Lena was on a horse for the first time in her life, and it was ... interesting. The well-trained animal adjusted itself to the general movement, so there was no need to control it. The smell of the animal was noticeable but not unpleasant. More like unusual. A slightly sour odor of a living creature, something herbal, and some leather, probably from the harness. It was comfortable to sit and interesting to look at the world from a height of almost three meters. Her back was a little sore from the horse's footsteps but not more than in the cart. After all, they were off-road, though it was smooth.

Even before evening came, Lena had practiced medicine twice. One of the routiers remembered that he had a splinter that hadn't been pulled out and that it looked like it was going to the abscess. The other had caught the same disease that Einar had a few days earlier. Lena had given him a fixing infusion and had removed the splinter by opening and treating the abscess. Ranнan hadn't followed the procedure, but Lena had only used a knife anyway so as not to show off the specific equipment in front of the routiers. And "dead water" as an antiseptic had been in common use on the Wastelands for six months.

Everything seemed to be going fine. But Shena was avoiding Elena, just like the Brethers were avoiding each other - avoiding even a glance at each other. And it was incomprehensible. But on the other hand - on the contrary, it was very natural, considering what secrets Lena had joined. And closer to the evening, the girl decided to ask how in the Big World everything is arranged with the relationship of the sexes. For the sake of it, she got off the horse, saying it was necessary to know the honor and stretch her legs. A not-too-successful jump from the horse gave her a new attack of pain in her back, so Lena couldn't help but whisper a curse, earning a disapproving look from the routier who took the reins. But otherwise, the battered back behaved tolerably well, so the girl carefully got close to Charley, who seemed to be the most suitable interlocutor. Besides, being near the maître d', there was no need to think about Ranyan's too-close proximity.

The attempt to get Brether to talk once again demonstrated the thesis that a new business should be started with a precise plan. Lena's complicated and confusing approaches to her personal problems were not understood by Charley, who decided that ...

As it turned out, the maître d' had sharp eyes. He watched carefully and noticed many things. Charley did not miss the strange connection between the lance maiden and the healer, but he interpreted it in his own way. And, not being privy to their true nature, he interpreted it in his own way. As the usual attraction of people who liked each other with the prospect of sharing a blanket.

So, in response, he shrugged it off, smiling into his mustache and giving a brief lecture on the gender issue of the Big World. The lecture turned out to be quite simple. Since once the Ecumene was a single cultural and legal "space" and the Cataclysm hit everyone equally, the general rules and norms of behavior had no fundamental differences, with rare exceptions. Monogamous relations between a man and a woman were considered normal. The relations of two women could cause slanted glances, but mainly in rural areas. For the cities, it was quite normal. Under certain conditions, females could even marry, although this was rarely practiced.

Such broad boundaries of what was acceptable were a legacy of the Cataclysm when there were no men physically left in many families. States and the Church had to make a simple choice - soften the norms or accept the disappearance of most aristocratic families. And then, as the new order took root, the highborn came to appreciate another aspect of this forced "yuri" - for obvious reasons, such unions and liaisons had no children. And since marital fidelity among the high aristocracy was never considered a virtue, the "lady with a lady" option was ideal. The wife could go to all sorts of mischief, but the honor of her husband did not suffer damage, and most importantly - there were no painful (and bloody) problems with children of dubious paternity.

But with "close male friendship," everything was very strict and unambiguous. With the number of men decreasing tenfold or more, those who remained were seen primarily as producers. The Church of the Pantocrator even went to an unthinkably radical step. A Great Assembly of Hierarchs, held amid the chaos and disintegration of the entire society, left in force the rule that a man of God could not inherit or leave an inheritance in any form. However, it decisively abolished celibacy by mandating that clerics must marry, including remarriage (after widowhood). For "let not the seed of a man be wasted, for the earth has become scarce, and is inhabited by women without husbands."

Here Lena shuddered, remembering something from the nightmare induced by the Hypnotist. Some things began to become clearer...

Thus, a man who, albeit metaphorically, abandoned his direct duty of procreation was considered a heretic and a dangerous enemy of society. And although the law did not formally provide for special punishment for sodomy, the traditions that had developed after the Cataclysm remained ruthless.

Charley told all this with serene calmness, not even realizing the embarrassment he had caused his companion. He was surprised at Lena's ignorance of such simple things, but he put it down to the apothecary's "provincialism. At last, Charley smoothed his mustache and, in a conspiratorial whisper, recommended not to be timid. At this point, Lena's face not only burned with heat, but even the tips of her ears glowed, so it was possible to light candles on them. She walked away in deep thought and complicated thoughts.

A day went by like that. Then one more and one more. The bruise on her back shrank, pale. Shena was still avoiding Elena. The landscape remained the same, but there were more frequent sightings of dilapidated buildings and sections of the once-paved road, which, like a snake, was now hidden underground, then out. The pack was entering territories that had once been densely populated because of their proximity to the sea. The company avoided houses, scattered towers, and small castles and always tried to camp as far away from any structures as possible. The party routinely frightened away small creatures, watched for hornets, and tried not to stray into the hunting fields of the Shadows. On the way, Santelli spotted a few curious "entrances," that is, places where it was possible to descend into potentially lucrative dungeons. The company was in a hurry, however, and the Brigadier postponed the exploration. Shena still shunned the redheaded medic. Charley watched the whole thing with a restrained and generally good-natured amusement.

Sometimes there were "colleagues" - other brigades who were returning from the field or, on the contrary, seeking to do the same. They parted peacefully because Santelli was not looking for a fight, and the convoy of two dozen fighters, in turn, was too tough for anyone to handle.

A thunderstorm passed very close by toward the end of the sixth day. An unpleasant, "dry" one. At the first reflections on the horizon, the company immediately stopped, "tarred" and routiers quickly prepared for a natural disaster, strengthened light camping tents, and trenched them with grooves in case of a flood. However, the disaster passed very close to them, not hitting them, though it rumbled so loudly that Lena immediately remembered the cinematic cannon fire in Dolby Stereo. Thin branches of lightning struck almost vertically, occasionally intertwining and forming a network of ghostly fire. It was majestic and terrifying.

As heaven's wrath drifted farther out toward the ocean, it was as if Santelli had made up his mind about something. Or, rather, summed up his thoughts. And the brigade gathered in a circle around the fire. The Routiers and the "tar men" slept separately, keeping a certain corporate barrier.

Lena was surprised, even a little frightened. The faces of the companions were stern and too stern. Everyone was looking at her and Charley. Santelli slowly prepared and laid out before him a flat stone, a chisel, an axe, a punch like a nail with a wide cap, two coins, and chains with small links.

Lena shuddered. She felt that something was about to happen. Charley, on the other hand, seemed calm, though he had to brace himself too.

Santelli glanced silently at Biso, and the alchemist nodded. The Brigadier shifted his gaze to Kai, and the same was repeated. So Santeli took a silent survey and received unanimous agreement in the form of nods or half-closed eyes.

Santelli looked sternly at the Brether and the Healer. He took a chisel and an axe and, in the same silence as before, cut the two coins in half on the stone. He made a hole in them with the chisel and, having selected two halves, strung them on chains so the cut coins looked like soldier's badges.

"Is there anyone against?" the brigadier asked softly, raising the first chain token and pointing to Charley. "Let the one who has something to say, say so."

"He is new among us but has shown himself a good comrade," Biso said as if reciting the words of some ritual.

"He fought for us without a call or order," Kai blurted out.

"He hasn't pocketed a fraction of the Profit," Einar remarked.

Santelli extended his hand further so now the Maître could take the coin. And the Brether took it carefully, slipped it around his neck, and lowered the medallion into the slit of his shirt.

With the same silent solemnity, the brigadier took the second token, pointed to Elena, and repeated:

"Is there anyone against it? Let the one who has something to say, say so."

"She helped me when I was sick," Zilber said quietly.

"She helped me, too," Einar repeated after him.

"Her footlocker is good," Biso put it diplomatically.

"She saved me," Shena murmured very quietly, and those were the first words Lena had heard from her since the swamps.

Santelli waited and, hearing no denial, held out the locket to Elena.

The coin felt very hot - probably from the foreman's hand - and heavy. A vein in Lena's fist throbbed, so the medallion felt as if it were pounding in her hand from the inside.

"You are not part of the brigade," Santelli spoke in a measured, solemn voice. "But you can be now. From now on, when we go on a new campaign, I will ask you if you will agree to share the journey and Profit with us. You are entitled to a full share according to our customs and rules. If you die on the journey or in battle, the brigade will burn your body and scatter the ashes so that the body will not be defiled. If possible, the brigade will properly bury your bodies with a priest and prayer. Half of the coin will stay with you, and now you can say you are my men and call on me for help. Half of the coin will remain with me, and I will remember who will answer my call when there is a need for me. Mar sin, tha`e!"

"So be it," the brigade repeated in one voice.

"There's still time to refuse," Biso suggested softly, seeing the medic's uncertainty.

Lena weighed the locket in the palm of her hand. She'd had jewelry in that former life, real jewelry - gold, silver, even a ring with a real emerald, her late grandmother's inheritance. But this ... the thing in her hand had a different weight. It was a symbol. A gateway to a new future. And Elena clearly understood that by accepting the brigadier's chopped full-grown, uncut coin, she would get a lot, but the payment would be appropriate. Every word, every action of Hel from now on will gain a completely different weight, and she will be evaluated differently.

There's no way back.

"I accept and thank you," the girl said what seemed most true and appropriate for the moment. Judging by the reaction of the others, if she hadn't followed the ritual exactly, at least she hadn't messed it up.

"Welcome, ginger mare," Einar smirked and faltered under Kai's wicked gaze.

Elena was about to put the chain on, and then Shena stopped her.

"Wait..."

The horde, which had been stirring, froze again with interest and some bewilderment. Whatever the swordswoman had in mind, the ritual did not provide for it. And Shena, with a look of dashing and a little crazy, as if she did not expect such a thing from herself, pulled her own token that hung on a lanyard, not a chain. And handed it to Lena with the words:

"I owe you my life. Until I repay it, I entrust it to you, and in return, I take yours to protect as my own."

It sounded muddled, and it sounded like Shena was jumbling her words with excitement. Her palm trembled, and the fire glinted on the metal half-circle, polished by contact with her body. Somehow Lena thought that this coin must be very warm, almost hot.

Shena looked at Hel. A sepulchral silence enveloped the entire company, only the crackling fire in the fire, splitting the slate tiles into orange-red embers. In the glow of that fire, Lena saw Shena's green eyes fill with despair. The spearwoman extended her hand almost pleadingly, not so much holding out the coin as extending her trembling fingers toward Hel.

"I'll cut the one who says anything dirty," the Maître promised quietly but clearly. Kai put his hand on the hilt of his sword as if to join Сharley's words.

And Lena stretched out her hand in response. Her fingertips touched, electrocuted, so the heat pierced her hands, spreading fire along the nerve endings, liquid gold flowing to her heart, burning without burning.

"I give you my life," Lena's lips moved on their own, repeating the formula. "And I take yours."

The red-haired girl put on the lanyard, feeling the warm coin slip onto her chest.

* * *