Chapter 22. "A Moment of Happiness" (Patreon)

Chapter 22. "A Moment of Happiness"

* * *

Matrice recalculated the day's income and was generally pleased. Without Hel, things were not going as smoothly as they could, but not bad, not bad. The apothecary caught herself that she missed having an assistant. Of course, in public, Matrice grilled the redhead and criticized her for her ineptitude, but that was the fate of the apprentice - everyone did not give a damn about them. Traditions that had been hallowed for centuries. You can't just take them and overstep them. The girl was lucky to be here in the Wastelands, where everything was simple. In the Kingdoms, the life of an apprentice is much harder and stretches on in complete hopelessness for years, sometimes a lifetime.

The apothecary made a note on the wax tablet and twirled the stylus thoughtfully, adding up the numbers in her mind. It turned out to be a bad week, with minimal profit. It was tolerable, though. It was always like that in the spring. She worried about the huge cash gap formed because of the adventure with the house, the painting, and the Duke. However, this concern was a routine one, and here the apothecary did everything that depended on her. It remained only to wait for the outcome. That is the pigeon mail from Malersyde.

There was a knock on the door of the Apothecary, softly, one might say delicately.

"It's closed!" The apothecary shouted, looking at the murky silhouettes outside the narrow window.

"Would you be so kind as to open up? We won't be long," echoed a melodious female voice muffled by the door.

"Yeah, sure," Matrice grumbled, considering whether to call for Saphir. Or could she just ring the enchanted bell, and the guards would be here in a minute?

The late visit made the apothecary think she was neglecting her security, relying too much on her reputation. She should get a bodyguard again, or better yet, two to watch her back all day long.....

As Matrice pondered, the dark figures outside merged into a wide dark blur as if they were bowing their heads in conversation. And then the apothecary heard a lock jingling in the silence. The one that was locked from the inside with a three-bearded key. The apothecary froze, listening and not believing her ears, but the door was already opening, letting in three figures in dark cloaks up to their heels.

"Don't," the shortest intruder swung one hand, and the bell the apothecary had grabbed went numb. With his other hand, the intruder pulled back the hood, and the scream froze in Matrice's throat, a strangled wheeze. Unlike the dead bell, it wasn't the result of witchcraft, just the apothecary seeing the face of a guest.

One of the intruders closed the door behind him and turned the key, locking it again. The other looked at the shelves of herbs and pots. The woman stepped closer so that now only a shallow plank counter separated her and Matrice. The apothecary could not take her eyes off her guest's face and felt her legs rapidly losing strength, trying to break and drop her mistress. Long ago, in her past life, Matrice had heard of such people, and now the legends from her childhood stirred, paralyzing her will and filling her soul with fear.

"There's no need to be afraid," the woman smiled. The smile was soft, quite friendly, and Matrice took a step back involuntarily, feeling an icy sweat chill her skin.

"Don't run and call for help either," the guest recommended softly. The bell that had fallen out of Matrice's hand clattered to the floor.

"What do you need..." for a second or so, the apothecary was proud of herself, of the way she controlled her voice even in such circumstances. But only for a second.

"The truth. Just the truth, nothing more. I'm looking for a girl, a young redhead."

It seemed that there was nowhere to be frightened further, but Matrice realized, in fact - there was. And she bitterly regretted that she hadn't gotten rid of Hel in any of the many ways.

"She showed up in the area about a year ago," the interrogator tilted her head sideways, looking at the apothecary like a bird, slightly askew, with lively curiosity. "She was probably looked for, but not found. And yet she's here somewhere."

"I ..." Matrice realized that her tongue didn't move, paralyzed with terror. It was stuck between her teeth like a half-chewed piece of cooked meat.

"You don't know her, never met her or even heard of her," nodded the guest understandingly, with a kind of perverse approval on her narrow, very pretty face, saying, I respect the fantasy, well thought out. "We'll skip that and get right to the point."

She took two small steps and, with a light, graceful movement, adjusted the hood over her shoulders so it lay in symmetrical folds.

"Where is she?" The guest asked quietly, and Matrice answered.

The apothecary spoke very quickly and a great deal, trying not to lose track of even the smallest fact. She extracted such details from her memory that, in other circumstances, she would have been surprised at the reliability of her memory. And she shared her memories generously, holding nothing back. The guest nodded measuredly, and Matrice did not doubt that the woman remembered every word she heard.

"Is that all?" The guest clarified when the flow of the apothecary's eloquence finally dried up like a dried-up spring.

"Yes," Matrice exhaled.

"Interesting," the cloaked woman said. "So they won't come back here?"

"No," Matrice shook her head fast and quick to be sure. She was unbearably ashamed of her uncontrollable fear. But there was nothing she could do about it.

"Interesting," the woman repeated. "Wait."

The last seemed to be addressed to the companions, but Matrice took it personally. Waiting in wistful hope for the best was the only thing left to her.

From where the guest got a small mat, rolled up in a tight roll, Matrice did not understand. It seemed to be from under her cloak, but it could have come out of thin air. She spread it out on the cleanly swept floor and knelt as if she were preparing to pray. She could not be seen behind the high counter, only rustling and a quiet voice. It was as if the guest was talking to herself. Or to someone invisible. Matrice heard only a few times repeated "Yes". And in the voice, she could hear the undisguised surprise.

The guest rose from behind the counter as if an evil spirit had crawled out of a well.

"Thank you," she thanked as if nothing had happened. "'I mean, our conversation will remain a secret, won't it?"

"Of course," Matrice's teeth chattered as the apothecary couldn't believe her luck.

"Good luck," it sounded like a subtle sneer on the woman with the mat's lips, but Matrice overcame the urge to fall to her knees and thank her fervently for her mercy.

The woman stopped at the threshold and snapped her fingers in a half-turn. The silver coin made a perfect parabola, hitting the gourd cup where the apothecary had poured the change.

"For your troubles," the guest giggled.

The trio went back into the night, and Matrice stood behind the wooden counter for a long time, unable to stop her trembling hands and, at the same time, to believe that she had parted the otherworldly horror so successfully.

* * *

And over there is the Sword of God. It's also known as The Traveler's Friend. The point points South, and the hilt points North.

From Elena's point of view, the seven stars resembled a sword in the same way that the "ladle" she knew from her previous universe resembled a bear. But, after all, it was human nature to fantasize and dream... A thought struck her - if she'd been practicing some kind of orienteering and studying a map of the starry sky, she could be looking for familiar constellations right now.

Usually, the moon obscured the dim light of the stars, absorbing it with an even bluish-blue background. But this night, the clouds were scattered, and the heavenly fireflies glimmered unusually brightly, so the moon, on the contrary, created a contrast. As some English aristocrat said - there is nothing that seems blacker than the right dark blue color. Or something like that... However, she didn't want to think about mundane things. Lena felt good here and now. A warm blanket warmed her back. Her legs rested, freed from their wrappings, and rubbed with triclinic juice. She rested her head on the legs of the sitting Shena and inhaled the smell of the steppe, mixed with the pungent but pleasant aroma of dried hogweed, which everyone rubbed on her today as a hygienic procedure.

"And here are the Messenger and the Prophet, two constellations that are always together. They say that astrologers read the future of the newlyweds from them...."

Shena's voice trembled, and Lena hurriedly distracted her with a question:

"Who are they? I've heard of them, but not much."

"It's a good thing we're not in the Kingdoms," Shena smiled. "There, for a question like that..."

She did not continue and, after a little thought, explained, seeming to be quoting some text from memory:

"God rarely intervenes in human life. Pantocrator gave them reason and let them out into the world as a father of mature children. And a good parent does not wear out his descendants with excessive care. However, sometimes, in the years when people feel very bad, He sends a Messenger and a Prophet into the world."

"Two at once?" Lena twisted her head slightly, looking at Shena.

"Yes," the green-eyed woman furrowed her brow, remembering. "A Messenger is the embodied breath of God, a part of His essence. And the Prophet is an ordinary man but with many virtues. The Messenger does His will and performs miracles, and the Prophet protects the miracle worker and interprets predictions for people."

"How many were there?" Lena was truly gripped by the story. "Are they men?"

"Not necessarily," Shena smiled a little patronizingly but kindly. Like a mother telling her child something important. "Nothing is known about the first two pairs, only that they existed. The third destroyed the community of necromancers and blood sorcerers. The fourth founded the Old Empire, and that power united the entire known world under its rule. The Fifth Envoys exterminated the Mage-Emperor, who wanted to subjugate Time itself. There was a terrible battle. The capital was moved to another place, and the grass still does not grow on the cursed ruins ... And since that time, wizards can't see the future. Only to read it in horoscopes and fortune-telling."

Lena closed her eyes, trying to imagine the magical carnage of bygone days. I wonder what it was like...? A nuclear apocalypse with magical fire? Or all sorts of spells, like in the rule books for "roleplaying"? Here comes another thing she knows next to nothing about - what the real magic here looks like that survived the disaster, albeit in a very weak form.

Lena felt like a person who had spent almost a year in a lethargic sleep dumbed down, and lost interest in life. But now she shook off her stupor, squared her shoulders, and looked around her with a clear eye. How much there was still to learn...

"God brought the Sixth Messenger and the Prophet into the world when disaster swept across the Ecumene," Shena continued. "Magic was almost dead, and with it, people were dying, sick with terrible new diseases, and starving."

Shena's voice became sterner, colder. If she had been quoting some sacred text before, now it was as if she were recalling a scary fairy tale or a fairground performance with two voices and rag dolls.

"They gifted the sick and hungry with new knowledge, teaching life without magic. How to send messages with the birds, how to rotate the fields, letting the earth rest beneath the grasses to reap good harvests later. They also revealed to everyone that cleanliness pleases the Paraclete, so those who neglect washing and breed lice - get sick and die more often."

It was as if some kind of trigger had clicked in Lena's head. Pigeon mail, washing, crop rotation. And if "grasses" then rather not even simple three-fields, but the next stage of development. In other words, communication, hygiene, and food. That which binds society together. Nourishes it and keeps it safe from epidemics. Divine messengers are most likely a legend, but the tails reflect the primary problems that had to be solved by the builders of the new, "post-magical" world, destroyed by epidemics and famine.

"And it was also said that the last Prophet and Messenger were husband and wife and had children, so their descendants still live among us."

Lena raised an eyebrow, and Shena's finger came down softly on her lips, calling for silence.

"But don't ever tell anyone about this," the spearwoman urged sternly. "It is considered a terrible heresy."

The question "why" was on her tongue, but Lena held it back. It was already clear. Enough to remember why the Vatican was so rigidly opposed to .... God, what was the name of the author who had written a bestseller about an American professor and the children from the relationship (or even marriage?) of Jesus with Magdalene? No, she completely forgot.

"I won't," Elena promised quietly, and Shena's fingers slid down her cheek, touching the very tips of her nails.

One of Ranyan's mercenaries, the one who had helped Lena off her horse a few days ago, was singing by the fire. His voice was young and beautiful, a natural purity of talent that unfortunately lacked schooling. The young man did not have a song but rather a recitative, which is not sung but recited to the lute with a very sparse selection of notes. And still, it was beautiful and expressive.

Said the Wild, “I will crush this Clancy, so fearless and insolent;
For him will I loose my fury, and blind and buffet and beat;
Pile up my snows to stay him; then when his strength is spent,
Leap on him from my ambush and crush him under my feet.

Him will I ring with my silence, compass him with my cold;
Closer and closer clutch him unto mine icy breast;
Buffet him with my blizzards, deep in my snows enfold,
Claiming his life as my tribute, giving my wolves the rest.” [1]

"It's a beautiful song but sad," Shena whispered. Elena found the palm of her hand and squeezed it tighter as if trying to share some of the warmth of her soul. Shena's thin but strong, weapon-callused fingers squeezed in response. It was amazing how much softness there could be in these hands that had taken more than one life.

From somewhere in the darkness, Charleigh echoed, much quieter. Brether had abstained from the amber elixir all the way and seemed to be suffering from drug withdrawal. This was plunging the maître d' into an abyss of depression. The swordsman wandered away from the fires, beyond the edge of the light, and read a poem aloud softly:

No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,
Let's choose executors and talk of wills:
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings; [2]

Kai cursed softly as he repaired a torn seam in his jacket and pricked himself with a faceted leather needle. Zilber did not brush his cherished sideburns this time but juggled small stones. At the mere sight of it, Lena's right hand ached - at her friend's categorical demand, she was now practicing throwing stones from a sling. The weapon was simple, cost nothing, and in skillful hands, could seriously upset the enemy. It was only a matter of time before she got the hang of it and made it skillful.

Elena sighed. The song and verse had put her in a melancholy, lyrical mood. She didn't want to sleep, though she didn't doubt that if she closed her eyes, she'd be asleep in a matter of minutes. She wanted to look at Shena. Elena looked at her, still from the bottom up, taking advantage of the fact that Einar had thrown some shale chips into the fire, and the fire was burning.

The dim light made Shenna's face look like a photograph that had been painstakingly redrawn by a Renaissance master, adding warm and darker colors. The Valkyrie looked down at Lena. Her head tilted slightly to the side, her hair sticking out like a bird's feathers. Her grandfather had once said that all people had the same iris size, and a deviation of just a millimeter gave the illusion of huge "anime" eyes. Shena's eyes seemed like a bottomless ocean, where the darkness of the pupil merged with the iris of the color of a sea wave under the bright sun. A sparkling emerald ... though no, emerald is too cold, too piercing. Right now, she was looking with a gaze the color of warm chrysolite. Dark streaks ran beneath her lower eyelids as fatigue took its toll. Her features seemed smoothed in the dim light, lost their usual sharpness.

Shena blinked, her mouth curved, and her cheekbones sharpened beneath the smooth skin, her soft features taking on a slightly exaggerated sharpness in an instant. The woman with eyes the color of warm chrysolite moved her thin eyebrows and smiled at the same time, a little guiltily. It was as if she wanted to ask something and couldn't make up her mind. Lena silently watched her friend's expression change and couldn't believe it was just the movement of facial muscles under the skin. No, in fact, the invisible hands of a genius sculptor were sculpting the fleeting perfection. The medic wanted to multiply the sensation; it seemed to her that vision was not enough. Lena raised her hands, touched Shena's face with her fingers, slid them over her cheeks, and smoothed the corners of her lips, trying to remove the creases, to banish even a shadow of sadness from Valkyrie's face.

"Who are you?" Shena asked quietly.

"I am Hel," Lena said. The girl felt strange as if in those moments she was part of the universe, and everything around her - the Wasteland, the Ecumene, everything, including the constellations - centered around her. And she was indeed Hel, not a willy-nilly guest, but the flesh of the flesh of everything.

"It's not a name. It's a nickname....."

"You can call me whatever you want," Lena whispered.

"Then ... Then I will call you Teine. In my dialect, it means Fire-haired. It's not spoken in many places."

"Teina..." Lena tasted the word on her tongue and liked it. "Let it be Teina."

Shena smiled, leaning a little lower. The shadow of brooding returned to her forehead like a dusty cobweb. Lena frowned.

"Where are you from?" Valkyrie asked.

Lena was silent, unable to answer or avoid answering or even to look away from the yellowish-green eyes. And she also realized at such moments, the soul was naked and defenseless, so it was impossible to lie. Lies are like poison, penetrating the heart and poisoning trust forever. It would turn into ice the warmth exchanged between people, who were close and united in a big and indifferent world.

"My home is far away from here. Too far away."

"Were you happy there?"

An unexpected question, so unexpected ... so simple. and yet so difficult at the same time. How to answer it? And what is happiness?

"No."

Lena had packed her whole life into one word.

The pain and anger that destroyed the bond with a mother who traded the brightest, purest feeling in the world - a child's love for the mother - for the approval of friends and acquaintances.

You're embarrassing me! And now everyone's gonna say what kind of mom this girl has!

Disappointment, like rust chewed away, dissolved the relationship with her father.

The memory of an old doctor who alone truly loved a little girl. As best he could, he tried to soften the iron pressure of a mother unable to hear and understand anyone but herself. And then he died, leaving Lena alone.

One word. Three letters, in both native and local languages.

Not.

"You've been banished?"

"I..." Lena hesitated, choosing her words. "I... I was stolen from my home. Taken very far away."

"But you can come back."

"I can't. It's impossible."

First, she said it. And only then did she realize, feel the essence of what had been said. What she had realized long ago, what she had locked away in the farthest corner of her mind. An understanding that was horrifying in its finality and finality.

Her eyes burned, and Lena felt tears welling up. But she mumbled anyway, making a point, acknowledging the inevitable:

"I'll never be able to come back."

She clamped her eyes shut, feeling her lips trembling treacherously and sobs coming up.

"It doesn't happen that way," Shena's voice came close, and her breath ruffled Lena's eyelashes. "We'll find your home. And you'll go back there. You will."

"Really?" It's a stupid question, but it came out on its own.

"Of course."

There can't be so much warmth in a human voice. A person who has suffered so much pain and suffering cannot be so kind. But, as it turns out, he can.

"You'll come home, I promise," Shena said and touched Lena's lips with a kiss as light, elusive as the flight of a dragonfly on a sunny day.

"Teina..."

Who mouthed it, Lena didn't understand. Maybe Shena repeated it, or maybe she exhaled the short word herself, tasting the new name, mixing it with the slightly bitter taste of the lips of a woman with eyes the color of yellow-green chrysolite. Shena's fingers burrowed into Lena-Teina's dark red hair, tousling the strands so that the curls flowed like tongues of dark flame. A flame that does not burn. A tenderness that heals the worst wounds in the soul.

And Elena felt that ...

It's impossible. It just can't be. In a strange and cruel world that had tried to kill her more than once and had almost gotten her the other day. With an unsightly past, an uncertain present, and a murky, dangerous future. Surrounded by - well, let's call things by their proper names - murders, bandits, looters.

And yet she was happy. Absolutely, completely, utterly happy.

* * *

By the evening of the tenth day, after the night in the cursed house, the party had reached the coast. The presence of the sea had been felt since the night before, in the cool wind that came at times from the north and even in the air itself, which had acquired an almost imperceptible aroma of salt, of freshness. Of the ocean.

The team was ready and armed, but here, everything developed slowly, without any special adventures. Around noon, the wanderers saw the most real mirage, that is, a phantom, similar to those that appear in the desert due to atmospheric effects. Only this one showed not distant lands but the past. It was as if a giant movie screen had been turned up high in the sky, and a series of silent images were projected onto it. Lena didn't understand much - the pictures showed some city from a bird's-eye view, and the architecture seemed vaguely familiar, but that was probably because it fit into a conventional "medieval" pattern. The only thing that could be said was the city seemed huge.

"They say this is the capital of the Empire," Kai reported softly. The knight approached from behind like a shadow, silently. He was dressed and equipped almost as he had been the first time Elena had seen him, with the distinctive chainmail pelerine and single-bladed blade on his shoulder. He had a prettier face, perhaps because he was breathing humanly through his nose.

"That's how it was before everything happened."

"It's beautiful," the girl said. "Very nice."

"Yes," the knight nodded. "They say the City was twice the size of what it is today. But they say all sorts of things."

"That's true."

"Are you sailing with them?" The swordsman asked, apparently deciding that the preamble was enough.

"Yes, how could it be otherwise?" Elena was a little surprised.

"I wouldn't recommend it," Kai said bluntly. Quietly, just for her ears, but, at the same time, with a distinct pressure.

"Why?" Lena automatically switched to the same conspiratorial tone, and she immediately remembered the look in Kai's eyes when Matrice and the Brigadier had given her a tough amputation exam. It was as if the knight had rejoiced at her seeming failure then and conversely had been distinctly unhappy with her success. What could it mean...?

"Will it stay between us?" Kai asked.

"Yes, of course..." Lena choked.

You're not from our world," Kai said bluntly; he spoke with a kind of unconcealed sadness in his voice, the nature of which Lena didn't understand. But she listened attentively. "And you don't need to become part of it."

"Part of your world?" The girl didn't understand.

"Yes. We live in death and war. It's not your life, it's not your destiny. I knew it right away. Matrice was bad for you, but with her, you're alive and protected."

Kai was silent for a moment as if giving his companion a chance to reflect on what she had heard.

"Right now, you can still say no."

"But ... a coin? And we're on a quest. It's not over yet."

"You can still do it," Kai repeated with pressure. "It's on the edge of the rules, but it's acceptable. And I've got your back. We'll go back together. You'll be under Matrice but with a lot more respect. You'll be under Matrice but with more respect. In time, we'll get your books on medicine, and you'll be the first real medic in the Gate. However."

The swordsman looked at the brigadier. Santelli had gone to the front, to the head of the squad, and was discussing something with Ranyan. Judging by the characteristic gestures with rubbing fingers, it was about money. Judging from the peaceful nature of the conversation, the contracting parties had no claims against each other.

"However, once you step on that ship, there is no turning back. You'll enter my world completely. And it kills those who aren't ready to live in it. You're not ready. Think."

Kai stepped aside like a ship coming out of an order with a look of indifference and boredom, as if there had been no conversation, just two people walking side by side for a while. The celestial phantom disappeared without a trace as it had appeared. And then the travelers finally came to the bay.

In the first moments, it seemed to Lena the harbor spread out in front of the group was made of pure gold. Even the sun turned into a bar of purest gold. Then the deception of vision dissipated, and it became clear that it was just another play of light. Clouds, driven by the coastal wind, gathered in a "hoop," perfectly empty inside. And through this natural window, the sun threw its unusually bright rays, which seemed especially bright in contrast to the gray clouds. They painted everything in golden color, reflected from the sea surface so that even the waves glistened like the scales of a dragon curled up in a huge bowl of the bay. The illusion lasted for a few minutes until the wind drove the clouds into a gusty flock and covered the sun's disk. It was now apparent that the ship had arrived and was waiting for passengers.

The group, meanwhile, moved down the cobblestone road toward the harbor.

There had once been a real town here, spread out on either side of the wide road. Farther away and to the left, on a hill near the shore, was a fortress. Not much remains of the town, an earthquake (maybe more than one) literally wiped out most of the buildings. Judging by what hadn't turned to earth and piles of stones, there had once been many dozens of two- and three-story stone houses and wide streets diverging from the main road like ribs from a spine. The fortress was luckier. The squat towers, connected by walls and steep passages into a single complex, have survived, only partially crumbled like sand.

Everyone involuntarily gathered closer to the cart. The dead city, which looked like a dried-up mummy, was very uncomfortable. It was very quiet, with only the horses' hooves clattering on the stone of the road and the sound of the waves in the background. It was as if millions of drums were beating without sleep or rest, merging the individual beats into a mighty murmur.

People had been here, and often. There were traces of relatively fresh campfires, the usual cenotaphs, and a few abandoned skeletons, partially scavenged by scavengers. Most likely, the living were also somewhere nearby. Usually, at least two crews worked in the coastal caves at the same time. But they were, for obvious reasons, well camouflaged and were in no hurry to reveal themselves. It was for the best, as long as they didn't get in the way.

The ship spotted the travelers, and a large rowing boat slid into the water. Another boat followed it a little later. The ship anchored far from the shore, apparently fearing the tides. Lena had heard that harbors had to be made special, stepped harbors because of them, and the local one must have been properly equipped. But the captain, apparently, did not consider it necessary to risk relying on ancient, ruined by time constructions. A reasonable approach.

Santelli and the routiers had decided in advance who would accompany the brigade. Kai turned to go to Ranyan, but Santelli stopped him.

"If you want, come with us," the foreman suggested softly.

"What about...?" Kai stopped short, but it was clear what he meant. The knight was surprised, very surprised.

"The old prick was right," the foreman chuckled. "You're not much of a hostage. But a good sword is a good thing to have on the way. And ..."

Santelli breathed in the cool, fresh air and looked out at the harbor. The boats were already halfway out, with only rowers, no warriors. That was good. The sun was setting, painting the sea and sky pink, so the waves seemed frozen, completely opaque, like plum ice. And the sky was burning with ruby fire, which was already blurred and drenched in gray by the rolling moon.

"You saved my life. I saved yours. And you were my first fighter, my very first. So. Let's go... brother."

Kai's face trembled, and the knight swallowed hard. He held out his hand to the Brigadier with the words:

"Father won't hurt you."

* * *

"That's it," Ranyan said. "We'll spend the night here, then move back tomorrow morning."

"Good work," remarked one of the routiers. "I wish always like this."

The mercenaries, having received no special orders, began to disperse for the evening. As it usually happens in a good team, each of them somehow found by himself a necessary, useful thing to do. The conversation of several people mixed into a single stream, where scraps of words and phrases collided and cut each other off.

"Sàmhchair!!!" Ranyan shouted, his hands dropping to the hilt of his weapon. You don't speak of the simple and the safe in that voice.

Routier raised his hand, and repeated:

"Silence."

And froze, covering his eyes, moving his head as if catching the dead echo of the words with his ears. The mercenary tried to realize what he had just heard ... some word ... or a few words that reason did not understand, but something deeper and wiser than reason understood and struck an invisible bell.

Something's wrong. He's missing something.

"You!" Ranyan turned to the youngest routier, who had been on the team for less than a month. "Say that again!"

"Wh-what?" The young fighter's voice trembled, and who wouldn't at a moment like this?

"Say what you just said again," the commander said impatiently. "Word for word. It's important."

The young man exhaled, a little relieved, but the expression of relief on his face immediately gave way to hurried concentration.

"I ... this ..." he mumbled.

"Remember," Ranyan was losing patience.

"I said that their healer... she's kind of pretty, but she's weird. When I took the reins from her, she took a bad jump."

"And then?" Ranyan's voice became quiet very quiet, as if the mercenary was waiting and, at the same time, afraid to hear the continuation.

"She cursed..."

"How did she curse?" The commander growled. It was frightening to look at him, especially knowing that Ranyan was considered a model of calculated coolness in the Wastelands. The young fighter dreaded to think what could have knocked the routier so off balance.

"Not our way," the young man said quietly, grabbing his hands around his waist to stop their trembling. And finished hastily. "Well, I mean, it is clear that she swears, but I have never heard such an expression before. I'm from a merchant family. We speak all the languages. It must be something clergy or a thief's language."

Ranyan turned toward the bay with such speed that it was as if he had flowed inside his skin. One glance at the small dot the ship had become. One into the sky. Another around. And all of that, in an instant, translated into an exhaustive realization - no, the ship was unstoppable, and there was no more signaling about to be noticed on board.

Ranyan didn't realize at first why the routiers had been jerked to the sides all at once. Then he realized that in his confusion, he'd drawn both knives and raised them as if preparing to slaughter someone immediately. A low growl rumbled from the mercenary leader's chest, threatening to turn into a fierce howl, like a beast that had lost its prey.

Redhead...I've never heard that dialect before.....

With an inhuman effort, Ranyan suppressed the outburst. When he looked at the pack, the commander's face was as still as a death mask. Only the dark eyes blazed with devilish fire.

"You, you, you ..." Ranyan's dark-gloved finger took out about two-thirds of the group. "You're going back on foot, following our tracks. The rest of you come with me and take the loose horses as mounts. We should be at the Gate by tomorrow night."

"We'll rice them," one of the future companions didn't object but rather pointed out the obvious to the commander. "No one can help them...."

"By tomorrow night," Ranyan repeated. "Even if I have to race you as well."

* * *

[1] In fact, Robert Service, "Clancy of the Mounted Policeman."

[2] In fact, William Shakespeare's "Richard II"