image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/burnt_region.png]

CHAPTER 2. I WISH I HAD A GUN

Chargas step lightly on their soft, padded paws. Dry autumn leaves may rustle under their feet, their claws may click once in a while on a stony road, but when they walk on grass you can not hear them at all because your human hearing is not sharp enough for something so subtle.

Two charga riders followed a well-trodden trade road up to the crossroads where they turned north. The narrow path they chose was a remnant of the gold rush times. Back then, when thousands of people travelled that way, their heavy boots had worn the ground down to the rock. Like an old scar, the forgotten, overgrown path was still visible through the young green undergrowth. It didn’t snake around the hills and trees, it boldly went straight through every obstacle in its way, be it a meadow or a forest. Close to the obscure border of the Burnt Region the path emerged from under the grassy carpet of weeds and flowers and headed up, turning into a wide two-track road littered with innumerable shell cases that still glinted in the dust. Gold rush times were rough times…

“What’s in the Burnt Region now?” Kangassk asked Vlada. “Is it abandoned, since no one seems to go there any more?”

“Don’t get your hopes high.” Vlada shook her head. “Yes, it’s mostly a wasteland now, but people still live there.”

“I wouldn’t,” Kan said with a lot of confidence.

Sasler was cleaning his rifle, carefully wiping every little lens in a clever device attached to its barrel. The very device that made him the most feared man in the Burnt Region: a scope.

Finally, satisfied with his work, he replaced the lid of the black case protecting the delicate lenses. When fully assembled, the scope resembled a bulging, unblinking insect eye.

As usual, before setting off for the hunt Sasler peeked into his house and waved goodbye to his wife and little son. This simple ritual was extremely important to him, for many reasons.

In the dense pine woods these hills were covered with the sunlight reached the ground in patches. Sasler avoided stepping on them, he preferred to stay in shadows where he felt more comfortable.

The weather was fine, not a single cloud in the sky. Sasler chose a comfy spot at the edge of the cliff in the shade between two blackberry bushes. He could see the whole meadow from there. All he needed now was to wait for some hungry animal to show up.

His bulge-eyed rifle lay next to him, its “eye” covered with cloth. Comfortably sprawled on the grass, Sasler waited for his prey. In such beautiful weather he could see further than usual, as far as the old road.

The old road… someone was there, heading into the heart of the Burnt Region…

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/charga.png]

“The old road goes up into the mountains,” Vlada explained. “People used to wash gold there, in the icy-cold springs, and build houses around them. Most little villages are abandoned now, but some people have stayed. I doubt they would like to see us, though. That’s why we’d better make a little detour through the forest.”

Kangassk sighed pensively and scratched his charga behind the ear. The mighty beast answered the stroke with a loud purr.

Sasler didn’t care about the old road, but he did care about his forest. Those two had just left the road and entered his territory! He grabbed his rifle, ripped the cloth off the scope, and took a closer look at the intruders.

He was glad he hadn't rushed to pull the trigger. The strangers looked very much like old Crogan's bandits, kevlar cloaks and all. It took him a whole minute to realize they weren't a part of the gang.

These two carried no guns with them, just three swords and a short bow. Plus, their chargas were heavily laden, obviously for travelling purposes.

Fools. Two young fools either seeking adventures or trying to make a shortcut through the Burnt Region despite all the warnings they no doubt got. Or, maybe, they are not fools at all, but in fact, someone much worse than Crogan’s thugs are…

Sasler tarried, balancing in indecision. The riders, two tiny black specks on the yellowish-green grassy carpet of the valley, were slowly moving in his direction. He couldn’t just kill them, not while them being innocent young fools was still a possibility. He needed more info. Having noted where they had entered the forest Sasler left the cliff. He decided to follow and watch those two, closely.

Sasler’s family was used to him being absent from home for days when he hunted, so he was in no hurry. He kept his distance, he stayed in shadows, he observed his targets from the higher ground.

From time to time he removed the cloth from the scope and took a closer look at the strangers. The scope’s high-power lens, a technological marvel no less wonderful than magic, allowed him to see their faces if he wanted and learn what they talked about. During the decades of hunting Crogan’s thugs, Sasler became quite good at lip-reading. This alone made him a threat to be feared enough to stay away from his forest. He was a local dark legend, an evil spirit reading people’s minds, striking from nowhere, unseen, unreachable, too precise to be human. Unknown to the outer world, the lonely hunter with a scope on his rifle kept Crogan's gang away from the south road and the towns it led to.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/sniper_gun.png]

Sasler’s family knew his secret, but nobody else did. Crogan, who was way too religious for a bandit, saw the “ghost shooter” as a punishment from gods, always wondering what would they punish him for. Didn’t he pray often enough? Weren’t his sacrifices generous?

Old Crogan had killed a lot of people during his lifetime, loved a good torture too. If you had asked him whether he remembered a boy he had tortured to death for pure fun in his youth he’d just say, “Which one?” for there were many. Sasler did remember, though. The boy was his firstborn son…

“No, these two are neither Crogan’s thugs nor some other threat,” concluded Sasler by the end of the day.

The strangers, a girl and a boy, had young, honest faces. They smiled and laughed often, making jokes and sharing stories as they walked. Sasler himself couldn’t help an occasional chuckle while lip-reading their conversations.

“Adventurers,” he thought, “Young and stupid, brave and defenceless… The boy looks a bit like my late son. He must be about the same age… Sure, I’ll let them pass through my lands, but what then? What will happen when they enter Crogan’s territory?” Sasler squinted. He didn’t like the choice he faced. His family, wife and little son waiting for him at home, were on his mind, they always were, but now his late boy was too.

“No! No, damn it!” he whispered angrily waving the dark thoughts away. “I’ll look after the kids. I’ll keep them safe if I can.”

The evening came, gentle and breezy, so unlike the harsh desert nights Kangassk knew. It was time to camp, to everyone’s joy, chargas included. The beasts got tired too. Once freed from their burden they got themselves busy stripping the young trees from bark which was obviously a treat for them. Chargas are omnivorous, so they could go hunting if they wanted. These two weren’t in the mood for the hunt, though.

Vlada sent Kangassk to gather brushwood. By the time he had returned she had built a proper fire pit, with a little cauldron hanging on a hook above the neat ring of stones. The cauldron was filled with water, bits of salted meat and dried bread - the simplest wayfarer food. All that was missing was fire.

“Isn’t it dangerous to build a fire here?” asked Kangassk who felt uneasy in the forest. “What if somebody finds us?”

“I think it’s quite safe,” Vlada assured him. “As far as I know, the local bandits avoid this forest. They believe it to be haunted or something…”

“Oh, wonderful!” Kangassk gulped. “Then I’d better build the fire right away. At least I’ll feel safer.”

He didn’t even look at the tinderbox. Most likely he didn’t even know what a tinderbox was. Why would a Kuldagan dweller even need such a thing to make a fire? They have dragonlighters for that.

Kan promptly fished the dragonlighter out of his pocket. The pocket dragon was squeaking, clawing at his jacket, and trying to squirm out of his grasp. The little thing had just eaten all the tasty crumbles Kan poured into the pocket, so it was too full and sleepy to work, no wonder it was fighting back.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/dragon.png]

“See, this is a lighter,” said Kangassk, showing the dragon to Vlada. “Just squeeze it in your hand and - whoosh! - you have fire.”

Then he did squeeze the little dragon in his hand and moved its snout above the brushwood. The branches were a bit damp, so it took them some time to catch fire.

“See!” said Kan, clearly proud of himself. “Lighters are cool! We…”

There came a thin farting sound… Kan stopped dead mid-sentence, swore, and opened his hand. There was a grey foul-smelling spot on his palm.

“You little shit!” he roared.

Vlada had several minutes of good laugh as she watched Kangassk chase the rebellious dragon in the tall grass. The nimble little creature apparently had a lot of fun as well. After its owner had tired himself out and dropped the chase it quietly returned to its nest in the jacket.

It took way longer for Vlada to calm down. She burst out laughing every time she looked at Kangassk.

“He either has a rear valve defect like half of the lighters have or maybe he’s just an uppish beast…” Kan tried to explain, so hilariously embarrassed it only made Vlada’s fits of laughter worse.

Sasler didn’t quite understand what had just happened down there but seeing the kids laugh he couldn’t help but smile himself. He wished he could warn them somehow.

The young adventurers went to sleep without leaving a lookout. They trusted their chargas to keep them safe. The beasts had keen hearing and could see in the dark as well as cats do. On top of all that they were huge, sharp-toothed, long-clawed, and insanely fast. The kids carelessly used them as fluffy pillows at the moment, but if Sasler had attempted to approach the camp the beasts would be at his throat in no time. Approaching the kids in the daytime was a no go as well. This way he’d have to deal with the nervous young archer as well as chargas.

That night Sasler went to sleep with a heavy heart.

Riding a charga is like riding a wind. Kan read about the nomads who lived on the edge of the civilized parts of Omnis and rode the tall beasts with cloven feet. The nomads’ legs bent in as a result of so much harsh riding, their backs suffered as well. No charga rider ever faced such problems. Chargas run as lightly as they walk.

The day went well. Nobody bothered the travellers, the ancient woods didn’t slow chargas much. Kangassk, a desert dweller to the bone as he was, finally put up with the forest. It didn’t seem so “haunted” in the bright sunlight, after all. Also, Vlada’s unruffled composure reassured him every time his fears tried to return.

Twice they stopped to rest and eat during the day, on the third stop they made a camp. Kan volunteered to make a fire again. This time the pocket dragon did his job without accidents. Soon, the tired company was chilling out after a long day, waiting for the soup to boil in the cauldron. Vlada’s charga was busy grooming her spotted coat, very cat-like. Kan’s charga curled up by the fire. As for the tired people, they watched the sun slowly sink beyond the forest, each filling the silence with their own thoughts.

After the simple, but filling supper Kangassk fished a book out of his backpack and leaned against his charga’s furry side to read.

“I see you with this book every time we camp,” said Vlada cheerfully, “What is it about?”

“This is the Encyclopedia of No Man’s Land,” he replied with a hint of pride in his voice and demonstrated the dusty cover to Vlada. The title was barely visible there.

Vlada nodded respectfully. Kangassk couldn’t help wondering whether the young warrior could read at all, but dropped the thought quickly for he had no desire to make a fool of himself by underestimating her again.

Suddenly inspired, Kan decided to go not for a summary, but a real paragraph instead. He started reading, his confidence fading with every page. After having read five of them he had to admit he had gravely overestimated himself. The text looked as alien to him as if it had been written in a foreign language.

“Why would someone write like that?” He spat out a curse. “You must really hate your students to torture them so.”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

With a deep sigh, Kangassk gave up. He turned over a few pages and found the summary translating the muddy paragraph into a proper human speech.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/campfire.png]

“...It took the worldholders thousands of years to refine the magical system of Omnis. The problem with stabilizing the magic field emerged right after the creation of Hora Tenebris, the central generator of magic in the young world. Many living creatures are capable of stabilizing magic on their own, but humankind does not possess that ability. Since unstable magic was impossible to control, humans needed an artificial stabilizing system.

The prototype stabilizing system consisting of dozens of small stabilizers equally distributed across the continent turned out to be ineffective and dangerous. The catastrophe that followed its test is described on page 568 of “The Sources of Magic”, vol. 21).

The next system was based on two high-capacity stabilizers: ember Hora Solaris and moonstone Hora Lunaris. Each of them had an effective radius half of that of Hora Tenebris. They were placed on the opposite sides of the continent to equalize each other and provide a stable magic field for humankind to use.

The area where their zones of influence intersect and cancel each other is known as No Man’s Land, an anomalous, unstable magic region.”

“Listen, Vlada!” Kangassk remembered all of a sudden. “I wanted to ask… Well, I heard a lot of scary stories about the Burnt Region back in Aren-castell. Do you know what happened there for real after the gold rush?”

“It’s a long story, Kan,” said Vlada in a saddened voice, scratching her purring charga’s chin.

“Just tell it to me in a nutshell. Pretty please?” Kan pleaded, with the cutest smile he could manage.

“Okay. In a nutshell,” Vlada gave in, “This region fell into complete anarchy during the gold rush. Lots of people from South and North flocked there. Little villages sprang up along the banks of the mountain rivers. People washed gold, traded gold, fought over gold. Add the region’s unique properties, those considering gunpowder, to the mix to get the idea what local wars looked like. You’ve seen the shell cases on the old road… In the end, half of the region turned into a burned wasteland. That was when it had gotten the name.”

“What was its name before?” Kan got curious.

“Green Hills Region”.

“Okay. Sorry for interrupting you. What happened next?”

“One of the gangs took over the region in the end. A man from Kuldagan, Crogan, was the leader. I have no idea which city he came from, but it sure wasn’t your Aren-castell. His thugs destroyed whatever future the region had. People prefer not to enter it any more. That means no trade. Everyone who could leave has left this place. Now the Burnt Region is just Crogan’s base where he returns after raiding the neighbouring regions.”

“What’s that guy like?”

“He’s a bloodthirsty monster if you ask me.”

Crogan had had hiccups for the whole day as if someone, according to a popular superstition, was thinking of him and not in a good way. His old wounds started aching, too, which made his mood even worse.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/p1_crogan.png]

The leader of the dark horde poured himself a goblet of wine and sprawled on the sofa by the fireplace. His pet hyena, a gentle puppy to her dear owner but a vile, snappish creature to everyone else, rested her shaggy head on his feet. Crogan always had a soft spot for hyenas, preferring them to dogs. Once in a while, he let his pets tear some unfortunate prisoner apart to keep them happy. He was a kind master.

Crogan’s stone house looked quite cosy, at least until his guests learned that there was a torture chamber in the basement. Judging by all the hunting trophies and furs in the rooms you could think it belonged to an old hunter. A very religious old hunter, you might add after noticing the exquisite porcelain statuettes of the Three in the red corner. No servant was allowed to touch them. Crogan himself dusted the statues every day, before the prayer. He prayed quite often and with passion. It helped him to feel better about himself and always made his conscience, whatever left of it, shut up if it tried something.

“My lord!” someone shouted behind the door. “Your son has arrived!”

“Send him in,” ordered Crogan and took another sip from the goblet.

Young Crogan, named after his glorious father, was just twelve years old but looked like a proper thug already. His father thought the lad had a great future. He didn’t tell his son this, of course. Presumptuous kids are too much trouble.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/three.png]

“Well, well, son,” the crime lord smacked his lips, “I’ve got some news about your new adventures today. Would you kindly remind me what I told you to do?”

“You wanted me to collect the tax from Goldygate,” mumbled young Crogan.

“Yeees. And you did what?”

“Dad, I…”

“Shut up!” old Crogan roared. “The Three will punish you! Do you know how they punish those who disobey their parents?”

“But I…” the son tried to defend himself again.

“They will throw you into a fire pit,” he smashed his fist on the armrest, “The hottest fire pit, high in a…”

That was the moment when Crogan’s pet hyena heard a familiar word which made her jump with joy, eyes burning with hunger, teeth snapping. She thought it was that time again! Time to tear somebody apart! Fun time!

“Dad…” Young Crogan turned marble-white. “Dad, please, no hyenas…”

The crime lord stopped dead mid sermon. It took him a whole minute to realize what had just happened. All this time his son was staring at him with wide eyes, absolutely terrified, while his hyena was dancing about, yelping, snapping, waiting anxiously for the command to kill.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/hyena1.png]

“You little fool!” Old Crogan roared again, this time with laughter soon followed by his son’s relieved sniggering. “Okay, you’ve learned your lesson,” said old Crogan, almost good-naturedly now, “What was that you wanted to tell me?”

“Well, about why I led the guys into the forest…” Young Crogan scratched his head thoughtfully. “I saw two strangers on the old road. Some brown man and his chick. No guns. We wanted to take them to you, but they went into the Haunted Woods before we could catch them. I can try catching them again once they’ve re-entered our territory.”

“Do this. I want those two alive and unmaimed, understood?” Crogan was grim and serious again. “I’d love to hear some news from our guests and possibly a tale about how they passed through the Haunted Woods unharmed. Go!” He paused. “No, wait! I’m coming with you. I don’t want you to screw up again.”

Old Crogan gave his orders at once. Soon, the party of twenty riders gathered in his yard. There were no chargas at his base for they didn’t get along with his favourite hyenas, so Crogan’s thugs rode taranders instead: huge, hulky beasts, horned and cloven-footed. Taranders didn’t care about the hyenas yelping and snapping before them, at all.

The weather was properly murky and foggy that morning, perfect for the manhunt. The fog filled all the lowlands like spilled milk. You could hide an army in that fog if you wanted. Old Crogan led the hunting team. He rode a white tarander harnessed in gold and silver as a glorious leader should. It’s been a long time since he went for a manhunt himself, so he felt great, the ache in his old wounds all forgotten. Once in a while, he threw a glance at his son, noticing how well the lad rode, how tall he became, how clever and shrewd his eyes were. Rebellious though he was, the young Crogan was a good son, worthy of his sire. Too bad he was so afraid of hyenas, but it couldn’t be helped: a rabid hyena tried to eat him when he was a toddler, that had apparently scarred him for life. Of course, Crogan gutted that hyena himself so all his other pets would see what awaited them if they tried to hurt his heir, but the fear remained, deep buried in the lad’s heart. Back in the house, when Crogan chastised his son for disobedience it was not the promise of burning in the hellish fire pit that made the young Crogan turn pale, it was the hyena. His father could only hope his boy would outgrow that fear one day.

“That’s where Crogan’s thugs mark the edge of the Haunted Woods,” Vlada was explaining the thin white dotted line on the map. “They’re afraid of these hills, so they don’t go there. Today we’re leaving the safe territory, Kan.”

“This is bad, right?” He sighed.

“We’ll be fine,” Vlada smiled, ruffling his hair gently. “We’ve already passed most of the Burnt Region through the safe land. Now we just have to cross the river and be off. There’s a bridge, but it is guarded, so we won’t go there. We will ford the river in its widest place where it is shallow.”

Kangassk couldn’t bring himself to read after they made their last camp on the safe land. He lay in the grass and watched the sky go dark. Lots of thoughts buzzed in his head: about Aren-castell, so distant now it could have been a dream, about the journey he got himself into, and about the purpose of everything. He envied Vlada. The girl had a clear goal ahead of her. He didn’t. He just tagged along, trying to be helpful. Not that she needed his help much...

The morning was foggy and damp. The travellers’ clothes and chargas’ fur were wet with morning dew. The beasts didn’t like being wet at all. They stopped now and again to shake the silver droplets off. Their riders didn’t have that luxury.

It was hard to tell in the fog whether they had already crossed the thin border between the Haunted Woods and old Crogan’s territory. Kangassk just assumed they were no longer safe, so he kept his bow ready. Fog made him feel uneasy, especially after the stories about sylphs, the fog dwellers, Vlada told him yesterday. They were nasty critters, those sylphs! Kan would rather meet bandits again. At least bandits were human and he knew how to deal with them.

Sasler left the hills he had been watching the strangers from. Up there he could move at a walking pace and still see them from the top thanks to the scope. Now, after they had turned to the river, away from the hills, he had to follow them closely, so he needed a ride.

A wild charga answered his call. The beast had been very fond of the old hunter since the day he saved her from the snare. Back then old Crogan’s thugs were still bold enough to enter Sasler’s territory from time to time and even put their snares there. Sasler hated snares with passion. He never used them himself. He also never hunted the hunters, other predators, that is. He rescued the little charga that day and nursed her back to health. Since then, whenever he needed a ride, she had been willing to help.

Holding onto the thick fur of the unharnessed beast Sasler rode down the hill, right into the milky fog. He very well understood how hard it would be to find the kids there and keep up with them, yet he had to try.

Old Crogan planned the ambush very carefully to provide the best possible example for his heir.

The river, Fervida, was fast yet shallow there, on the wide rocky bed, barely knee-deep. The strangers took their boots off before fording the river. They shivered as they entered the icy cold water leading their chargas behind. The poor beasts hated every step of the way by the looks of them.

Here they went, all four, two people and two animals, right into the trap. Crogan waited until they had reached the middle of the river before passing the signalling horn to his son. Blowing it proved to be hard for the young lungs, but the lad did his best. He managed to produce a weak, but distinguishable sound. The team, following the order, let the hyenas loose.

The fastest of the hyenas died first, it got an arrow between the eyes. Kan was quick. The second-best runner got an arrow to the side and yelped, spinning in circles and biting at the arrow shaft in a desperate attempt to get rid of it. Kan had drawn the third arrow, ready to bring another snappy monster down, but lowered his bow as he saw the bandits emerging from the fog at both sides of the river. Every single one of them had a gun.

The trap had closed. Here they stood in the middle of the river, with hyenas raging on both shores, anxiously awaiting a command to tear them apart, and the silent bandits standing behind the beasts, guns ready. The chargas hissed, baring their teeth, bristling their fur. Kangassk, not knowing what else to do, tried to shield Vlada with his body.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/hyena2.png]

“Drop your weapons!” somebody cried to them from the western shore. The voice was young, impudent, and boyish.

“Do as he says, Kan,” said Vlada in a chilly tone.

They threw their swords, bow, and arrows into the river. The swords sank to the bottom, but the bow and arrows were carried away by the bubbling water.

Thanks to his wild friend’s acute sense of smell, Sasler had finally found the kids after a couple of hours. He climbed a lofty rock to rise above the fog a bit and took a closer look at them through the scope. That was when he had realized he came too late.

Two black figures stood barefooted in the middle of the river, their hands in the air, their weapons at their feet. Crogan’s thugs watched them from the both sides of Fervida.

Sasler’s heart began to race as he zoomed in to examine the bandits’ faces: both Crogans, father and son, had been there! The boy looked so much like his sire there could be no mistake.

“My revenge will be terrible, Crogan,” he thought, aiming at the little bandit’s leg…

Young Crogan uttered a shrill scream and fell to the ground, clutching at his leg. All the thuggish insolence he had been so proud of washed away in an instant, he cried like a child he was. His pants were soaked with blood and the stain was growing wider and wider.

“The ghost shooter! The Wood Ghost is here!” the bandits around him shouted, their fear quickly turning into panic. A moment later they broke the formation and started shooting in all directions in a desperate attempt to reach the unseen hunter in the fog.

The second bullet bit the young Crogan in the palm, adding to his agony. Then it was the thugs’ turn. The ones who had carelessly removed their kevlar cowls in the heat got shot in their heads and died instantly. The others weren’t so lucky and shared the young Crogan’s fate: the Ghost shot them in the legs.

Vlada and Kan froze where they stood, with their hands still up. Both were afraid to move at first but soon realized the ghost shooter was after the bandits, not them. They, on the other hand, had a new problem to deal with: the hyenas. The beasts, maddened by their masters’ panic, decided to go for the kill and charged.

“Kan, pick up your sword!” Vlada came to her senses first, just in time for the spotted monsters were already advancing from both sides.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/hyenabattle.png]

The chargas took the first two hyenas and were busy ripping them apart, rolling and splashing in the reddened water. The rest of the pack targeted Vlada and Kan. Whoever that “ghost shooter” was, his attention had obviously been somewhere else at the moment, so they were on their own.

The outer world where people shouted and died, where two strangers fought back to back against the hyenas in the middle of the river, where everything that could go wrong did go wrong, no longer existed for old Crogan. There was only him and his dying son. The boy no longer cried. He curled up in the grass, gasping for air, his face as white as chalk. There was nothing the mighty gang leader could do, nothing.

When Vlada and Kan had finally crossed the river - Kan walking with a limp because one of the hyenas had bit him - they saw not the famous leader of the dark horde, but a broken old man devastated by his grief. Crogan wept, wept inconsolably, helpless and defeated for the first time in his life. His son was dying in his arms, nothing else mattered. Crogan's gun lay beside him in the grass, thrown away and forgotten. He took off his kevlar cloak, his only protection against the ghost shooter's bullets, and covered the boy with it so the Ghost would not torture him any more. One of the hyenas that survived the fight by running away in time snapped at the young Crogan's arm. Old Crogan broke its neck with his bare hands, his strength magnified tenfold by the grief.

"Please…" the boy whispered, "No hyenas, dad… I'm afraid." He went silent.

That was the moment when old Crogan went mad. He cried, tearing his hair out one moment, praying the next, he cursed, he begged his son to wake up… Then the world went dark for him, literally, for Crogan went blind.

Kangassk caught a glimpse of a dark figure walking through the fog. Soon, a stranger emerged from beyond the misty veil. He wore no kevlar, just a green woollen cloak over his worn leather clothing. The gun he carried had a black, bulging “eye” on its barrel. Uncovered, the “eye” blinked with every step. Kan couldn’t stop looking at it.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/sasler.png]

“This is your punishment, Crogan,” said the stranger, “Do you remember how you tortured my son to death? He was about the same age as yours. Does it seem fun to you now?”

The old man didn’t answer. He kept raving - praying, cursing, begging… but suddenly there was a glimpse of consciousness, so brief yet so bright.

“Kill! Kill me as well!” demanded Crogan.

“No,” the ghost shooter shook his head. His voice was icy cold, merciless. “I want you to live. And suffer, like I did.”

That said, he stepped over the dead boy’s body and approached Vlada and Kangassk.

“I’m Sasler,” he introduced himself. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you left the old road, wanted to keep you safe. Little did I know where you would lead me, kids. But I’m grateful. I dreamed of revenge for years. It feels good to be free again… Now, take the guns from the dead and be on your way. No one will hurt you any more.”

He didn’t wait for the answer, he just turned around and walked away. Soon, he was no more than a dark silhouette in the fog. The “eye” on his rifle kept glimmering through the white veil long after he had disappeared altogether.

Vlada and Kan left the deadly place with a heavy heart. All the way to the border of the region they kept hearing the old man’s cry.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/RoyalRoad.jpg]