* * *

“For great events and people invariably abound in witnesses. All of them, undoubtedly, had premonitions, expectations, and knowledge of the past and future, and experienced mystical insights. All of them immediately and unreservedly felt the importance of the historical moment and the greatness of the participants, which they did not fail to report verbosely and eloquently orally and in writing, especially in petitions for rewards and inherited privileges. There was no shortage of those who carried the sword for Ranjan the Guardian, fed arrows to Gamilla cyn Ferna, sharpened the blade of the Devil's Hel, and suggested particularly good rhymes to me. It's funny, considering that Plague entrusted his sword only to his faithful servant, the Gravedigger of Knights and the Mistress of Arrows did not allow anyone to even touch their murderous accessories, and I'll keep silent about myself, so as not to turn this letter into a pathetic tale about the envy of ill-wishers, which made me quite tired and poisoned my life.

In fact, for what it is all about... Many people have left memoirs about Her, and those chronicles do not shine with variety. The authors, with very few exceptions, repeat about the deadly shadow that stood behind Her left shoulder, about amazing signs, about how at first sight they felt the great purpose of Hel.

I can responsibly write that these, God forbid, “witnesses” are ungodly liars. She was completely... ordinary. So much so that it's odd, given the events that followed. A young woman, somewhat taller and stronger than usual, but within reason. She kept a reserved, at times timid demeanor. She was beyond the control of sorcery, astrological science, and even simple fortune-telling. Her gaze did not burn with otherworldly coldness, and her speeches were neither deep nor significant, Hel seemed to measure every phrase, every act on invisible scales, avoiding rashness. In general, neither word nor deed She did not differ from, say, a knight's daughter, who in the absence of a son received education as heiress and defender of the family name. Except that... With long communication began to seem: Hel was a little out of this world, like a figure cut out of paper that lies on top of the engraving - part of the composition, but not the drawing. It was as if this woman were looking at all of us through an invisible glass, refracting light in a strange and unfathomable way. It was as if Hel knew something we had long forgotten or perhaps had not yet recognized. And this indeed seemed ominous, but, I repeat, this side of her nature was revealed only to the closest companions.

However, it is fair to say that I might have missed some aspects, for our first meeting took place under peculiar circumstances”

Gaval Sentrai-Poton-Batleau.

“Third letter to my son, about the first meeting and the consequences of excessive gambling”

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It was cold and harsh. Although autumn was getting ready to show its bastard snout, winter, which had already come into strong force, was already ruling on the pass. Winter colded and powdered the black earth and gray stone with snow, and rumbled between the rocks with a penetrating wind, which, like a vampire, imperceptibly sucked the warmth through cloaks and woolen jackets. Here, amid the mountains, the sky seemed surprisingly clear, surprisingly transparent, and the stars shone like diamond dust - you would not find such things in the valleys and even more so in the cities. But the impression was spoiled by the red color that flooded the celestial hemisphere. In the sunlight, the glow of the ominous comet was almost imperceptible, but when the moon rose, its silvery light seemed to intensify the bloody colors.

"Like a city on fire,” Cadfal thought aloud and shivered, then added. "And a big one at that."

Elena looked at the huge peaks that seemed so close. Her vision was deceived by the clear air, lack of landmarks, and perspective. The southern end of the mountain massif that rose in the center of the Ecumene began almost immediately with giants akin to Elbrus. Without an intermediate link in the form of hills and other terrain of moderate height.

Ranjan adjusted the collar of his cloak and the thick scarf beneath it and lifted his head, his eyes fixed on the road through the pass. In Elena's opinion, it was time to set up camp and organize an overnight stay, for there was half a watch before dark, it was a couple of hours, just enough time to set up camp and stock up on fuel. The mountains had become very dangerous in recent months, there were rumors of all sorts of undead that crawled out of the bottomless holes under the purple rays of the sun of the dead. Then again, there was always the risk of running into the locals, who had gone mad without bread on their Pillars.

"We'll go on,” the Brether decided and moved the belt that crossed his broad chest at an angle. "Over there, the rocky ridge will keep out the wind."

"Yes, it's a good place,” agreed Rapist, who had been silent all day. "I'll go and have a look."

He quickened his step, overtook the column of six men with three horses, and lurched forward. Elena thought again that the redeemer's form was not the same as his content. Rapist looked like a typical Japanese grandpa who had given his life and health to his favorite company, an old man ready to crumble from his own decrepitude at any moment. But the funny grandfather was indefatigable and enduring, like a terminator. When Elena felt that she was ready to collapse from fatigue, Rapist was walking briskly in small, but frequent steps, holding the usual spear on his shoulder. It was the habit of many years of traveling on foot that did him in.

Cadfal was second to his companion in endurance, but not by much. The cold also seemed to have no power over the Redeemers, and they often hung leather shoes around their necks to preserve them and walked in something like slippers woven of bald and straw. Such shoes did not last more than a day, but they could always be bought very cheaply from any peasant or, at worst, made by oneself. Elena tried once to walk in such clogs and failed; she needed a special “gentle” step, otherwise, the straw slippers would fall apart in an hour's walk or even faster.

There was little snow on the pass. It was blown away by a wicked wind so there was no need to push through the drifts. Elena looked at the horse carrying Artigo. The animal seemed more alert and cheerful than the rider. The boy had either dozed off in the saddle or had completely withdrawn into himself. This state of mind was becoming more and more frequent, and it bothered the adults, but, there were no teachers among them. And there was plenty to do besides education, to be honest.

"He's coming back,” Cadfal commented, looking at the figure of Rapist walking in the opposite direction. Ranjan silently adjusted the belt that held the scabbard behind his back. The long hilt of the tournament sword pointed askew into the purple sky above his left ear.

"He must have found something,” Grimal thought aloud, not moving away from the horses with the load.

"It doesn't seem dangerous,” Cadfal said, but he swung his club as if to stretch his joints just in case.

Rapist was in no hurry at all, gliding over the dry, crumbly snow with smooth steps. Elena, who also carried a short sword behind her back, glanced at Ranjan, unbuckled the brass buckle of her belt, removed the scabbard, and checked the blade as it came out. The cold steel was tight, she had to make a few vigorous movements, like a cyclist with a pump. Artigo didn't lift his head, pecking his thoroughbred nose in time with the horse's stride.

"There's a fool over there,” said Rapist, waving his hand as the small group moved. "He's freezing. The woman with him is not much smarter, if any."

"Are they not dangerous?" Ranjan inquired suspiciously.

"I don't think so,” Rapist shrugged his skinny shoulders. "Stupid, but harmless. I think."

Elena had learned to read the Brether's impenetrable face more or less over the past weeks. Obviously, at that moment Ranjan was besieged by unpleasant thoughts of ambushes, insidious setups, and other road hazards. Rapist apparently realized the same thing as Elena, so he added:

"There's no place to set up an ambush."

Ranjan glanced to the right. There was not exactly a chasm, but a slope so steep, that only a ninja or a highlander could hang on. He looked to the left, where the slope was a little more gentle, but still sloping, overgrown with gnarled trees, which were greedily digging their roots into the soil, which was slightly inferior in hardness to the stone. He glanced ahead and stepped resolutely forward. Elena followed him, neither concealing her sword nor her determination to use it. On a sparsely traveled road, showing a willingness to fight back was more useful than appearing to be a benevolent traveler. It was safer.

A little higher up, the road, or rather a wide path - barely enough for two horses - made a turn and formed a sort of platform, partially sheltered from the wind by a rocky ledge. Judging by the traces of old campfires and the trees cut down around it, the travelers had long appreciated the convenience of the bend, sleeping here regularly.

"A fool indeed,” Cadfal reported rather loudly, looking at the pair stomping around one of the black spots as if the long-ago-cooled coals could warm them.

Elena raised her eyebrows in silence, even Artigo came out of his catatonia, staring blankly at the oncoming travelers. One of them was a man, completely naked except for a filthy rag that symbolically covered his loins and equally symbolic leather boots. Symbolic, because there were no more rips and holes in the shoes than leather. Elena wrinkled her nose, imagining what the “fool's” feet had become without socks, and shirts in boots freezing cold. The “fool” was, as might be expected of a man in his condition, blue, miserable, shivering, and his toes no longer unbent, curled up like a bird's feet.

The polar nudist was accompanied by a woman, no less colorful in her own way. She wore much more clothes and, in fact, she was well equipped for the weather, though without frills. Elena would have given the woman about twenty years of age, hardly more, but her eyes were much older, very attentive, hard, and as suspicious as Ranjan's. Her face was rather pretty, but her lower jaw seemed a little wide. Most notable was a tattoo done in pale blue ink. It depicted an intricate pattern that began at her right temple and took up part of her forehead, covered her lower eyelid, and went down her cheek and jaw to her neck. Elena, who had more or less picked up some criminal wisdom in Milvess, noticed at once that the quality of the tattoo was at least two levels above a typical painting. Here a real master with real ink had had a hand in it, and such work was not cheap.

In her hands the tattooed woman held a thing quite suitable for the city, rather even for the estate of a noble landowner, but completely out of place in the wild places where wolves are not to be found solely because the classical hounds died out centuries ago. It was a small bullet crossbow with a screw tension. The crossbow of very high quality, one could say exquisite work, lay in the owner's hands confidently, with a seeming carelessness characteristic of a professional. It looked like a toy, but Elena knew that a lead bullet at close range could bruise or break a rib even through clothing, and if it hit her forehead, it could kill her.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

For some time the two groups of different sizes stared at each other in silence and hostility. The nudist was clearly freezing. He froze in a ridiculous pose, clasping his hands on his chest in an attempt to keep warm. The tips of his nose, ears, and other protruding parts of his body were already turning white. The crossbowwoman was sullenly assessing which of the newcomers seemed more dangerous.

"Dumbass,” Cadfal said loudly and without anger, realizing his unique talent for defusing any tension with a few unexpected phrases. "Who does that? You should put your hands to your balls, where the most gut heat is concentrated, and it cools down later than anything else. And fingers should be heated and protected to the last."

The naked man looked wildly at the redeemer, tapped his teeth, and suddenly followed the wise advice. Ranjan glanced silently at the others, then up at the sky, where the huge pre-sunset moon reflected the bloody light of the comet as if painted in red watercolor. The wind had died down, only occasionally blowing against their faces, nibbling at them with a chill.

"Halt,” the brether finally commanded and then added tiredly. "Give this outcast a blanket."

The crossbow woman stared into the ruthier's face and after a long pause, she lowered her weapon unsteadily, as if by force.

"Good evening,” she said in a slightly husky, low voice.

"Yeah,” Cadfal said. "Good day to you, too."

"I have a crow,” the tattooed Amazon said suddenly. "Shot it this morning,” she said, moving her shoulder to reveal a leather-strapped travel bag, skinny and unburdened. "Cold, but not yet icy."

"Crow, that's good!" Cadfal rejoiced and slapped the bag that hung on the rope that replaced the redeemer's belt. "And we have flour and salt. We'll boil a bird with sourdough and go to sleep quite well-fed."

The crossbowman stood in a tense pose of readiness for a few more moments, then exhaled and discharged her weapon, carefully lowering the leather bowstring. Elena slid the blade into its scabbard, realizing there would be no bloodshed today.

It was not the first and, alas, most likely not the last night in the open air, which fell to the share of a small detachment, so everyone already knew what to do and who should do it. They prepared for the camp quickly and thoroughly. Elena was busy with the child, Grimal was saddling and unloading the horses, muttering that they had enough food left for a couple of days. In the meantime, he unwrapped and threw the largest and warmest blanket to the cold sufferer. The redeemers laid down their weapons, drew axes from their saddlebags, and set out to get fuel for the night. Ranjan climbed a rocky ledge, looking around and wondering how to go on. His beard and mustache were beginning to be overtaken by a thick stubble, and his razor set had been exchanged for a bag of flour in the last village they encountered, so he looked like a wandering homeless man rather than a Mephistophelean character.

The trees rattled under the pressure of the iron. Artigo looked at Elena in silence, and the woman regretted once again - probably for the thousandth time - that she had no idea how to deal with children. Although common sense suggested that traditional pedagogy would have failed here - the nobility's offspring were not like the ordinary ones, and the son of the highest aristocracy seemed like an alien from another planet.

"Where did you come from, you miserable creature?" Cadfal inquired casually. "Are you a devil-worshipper? I hear they freeze themselves to death, preparing for the hells, where it's cold."

"Gaval byr-byr-byr,” the nudist said suddenly and almost audibly, swallowing his last name. He warmed up a little, stopped gnashing his teeth like a wind-up lizard, and looked at the company with a mixture of hope and apprehension in his eyes. "Minstrel and storyteller. At your service-m-m-m... Br-r-r-r."

The end of the sentence was again blurred by a bout of violent shivering. Cadfal grunted and went into the semi-darkness for more twigs. The rapist had brought a whole tree, uprooted either by the wind or by the fallen earth from the slope. It was a long way to go for fuel, so the harvesting process was slow. Ranjan had seen enough, jumped down gently, and busied himself with Artigo and the fire. The Brether never took off his sword. Elena, taking advantage of the switch, joined the redeemers. A little later, the crossbowwoman also took care of the timber, so the work went on quickly, the redeemers chopped, the women hauled. The sun had gone down, but the red moon and the glow of the bloody sky gave good illumination so they could not get lost or break their legs, though it was eerie to wander in the purple-red half-darkness.

"I don't understand,” said Rapist, dropping his axe and wiping the sweat from his wrinkled forehead. "How is it that they haven't cut it all down? It's cold, the wood grows slow and shallow. And the people are wandering."

"This is where the traders usually go,” the crossbowwoman said suddenly. "They count the distances so they don't spend the night here. It's not a good place. They say sometimes the storm gets so bad that men and oxen are blown into the abyss. And if it is impossible to pass the mountain pass in a day, they take a stock of burning stone to burn fire till morning like in a forge."

"Not a good place?" Cadfal clarified. "Eating someone, I suppose?"

The woman shrugged in silence and the conversation stopped. Everyone wanted to warm up quickly by the good fire, so they did not waste time on further discussions. The rather thin and crooked trunks did not make a good trough, but warmth until morning and the opportunity to cook something hot for the travelers were assured.

While the skinny crow was plucked and cooked (Elena noted that the bird had been killed by a single hit to the head), the restless Cadfal entertained everyone with a story about how in his region crows were salted, served in taverns, and generally kept alive for a long time by biting the artery. In the end, the phlegmatic and silent Grimal couldn't stand it any longer, with difficulty suppressing a gagging urge and categorically demanding the storyteller to shut up.

"Fuck you,” said the redeemer good-naturedly. "Throw me the salts, please."

Rapist silently handed over a clay pot with salt, and dinner was ready. The broth of the bird was not very rich, the broth was empty and was only symbolically enough to eat. But it was possible to save the rest of the provisions for another evening.

Far away in the distance, some vocalized creatures of unknown origin were howling in a wistful chorus. The icy wind - the constant companion of mountain roads - as if having mercy on the travelers, suddenly subsided, reduced to a tolerable draught. It was good, even very good, Elena seriously supposed that one or two more such overnight stays in the open air and someone would catch inflammation of something pulmonary. And there was simply nothing to treat pneumonia or bronchitis. To make matters worse, Elena felt mild, yet barely noticeable attacks of tugging pain in her lower abdomen, a sure harbinger of periods.

Artigo silently munched the liquid and empty soup with a silver spoon. For the first few days of his forced journey, the young Gotdua had defiantly turned his nose up at the food of normal people. Ranjan was nervous about it, but Elena, appealing to her experience as a medical doctor, categorically stated that a) a few days of fasting would not harm the child; b) no man had ever starved himself to death in front of a bowl of food. And so it was. On the third day, the boy chewed barley bread, on the fourth day he ate a couple of spoonfuls of millet porridge, and then he ate equally with everyone else, albeit with the look of a counterfeiter who was presented with a cup of molten lead.

The horses snorted quietly, munching a ration of straw with a sprinkling of rye flour. It was wasteful feeding, but the travelers had little oats, and without horses, the road in poorly inhabited areas could easily be fatal.

"Who are you?" Ranjan asked coldly and succinctly when the first hunger had been satisfied. "From where?"

"I'm Gaval byr-byr-byr,” the ennobled nudist repeated. Now Elena suspected he was deliberately pronouncing his surname as unintelligible as possible. "I wander. I sing. I tell edifying and highly moral stories with morals and instructive admonitions."

Now that the sufferer had warmed up and lost the blue-white color of frozen chicken, he appeared quite young and quite handsome. Seventeen or eighteen years old, very much like the actor - Elena had forgotten his name - who had played Ichthyander in a Soviet movie. His facial features seemed asymmetrical, but just enough to attract attention but not repel it. Her eyes glittered like gems in the firelight, and her gaze seemed surprisingly open, on the verge of gullibility. In her previous life, Elena would have called him a “Bishōnen,” but now she noted that women must like a guy madly regardless of age. Girls - by virtue of objective beauty, mature - by his seeming fragility, the charm of rapidly passing youth.

"Gamilla cyn Ferna,” the crossbowwoman said curtly.

Oh, a noble lady, Elena thought. She might not be lying, given the quality of the painting. On the other hand, she'd never heard of noblemen, no matter how thinly-born, painting themselves, even if it was expensive. Ranjan looked thoughtfully at the tattoo, at the crossbow, at the tattoo again, and said with sudden respect:

"My respects, mistress of arrows."

The woman nodded with an expression of sorrow or irritation on her face. Then, obviously, through sheer force, she said:

"Alas, no mistress anymore...."

Elena looked at her companions, realizing she was missing something quite obvious to everyone else, but remained silent, deciding she would find out later.

"Robbed?" Cadfal asked ironically, looking at Ichthyander. "Or did you gamble?"

He sniffed, pulled his hand out from under the blanket, and rubbed the tip of his frostbitten nose.

"He gambled,” Gamilla said annoyingly in his place. "Completely."

"It's foolish to sit to a game on the road,” the redeemer grinned, wiping his club with a woolen cloth as if it needed cleaning. "The surest way to go around the world without pants. And you, my dear, who are you to him, may I ask?"

“Mistress of Arrows” measured Cadfal with a grim and long look, but answered nonetheless:

"I'm a security guard. On contract."

"It doesn't look like it,” the square redeemer grinned. "If we hadn't gotten there, your wards could have been baiting crows. They like cold meat. Tap, tap. Beak, beak."

The narrator of edifying and moral stories muttered something from the depths of the blanket, seeming to agree with the very low assessment of the guard's professional qualities. After that, the crossbow woman couldn't stand it and vigorously, angrily blurted out:

"I'm paid for protection. I'm protecting. If the employer's dumb as a log, and gambles away his money, that's his business. I don't get paid to bring a fool to his senses."

Elena noted that the woman spoke like an educated person, with good diction and unmistakably constructing long phrases. The prefix “cyn” seemed to be well deserved.

Now all the men looked at Gaval as if he were an idiot. Gaval was silent, but the female guard was seriously annoyed.

“He'll be lucky,” she blurted out. “I've said three times, drop it, go away, but no! First the bag, then the horse, then the clothes. And the lyre last.”

"But it's the Galleys,” Gaval squeaked. "It's not a simple Dice, you can't cheat! There's no sleight of hand, only strength of mind....."

Gamilla spat in a manly way, trying to avoid the fire, and remained silent, but her gruff face expressed everything she thought about her employer's mental abilities.

"Why didn't you leave him?" Rapist was practically interested. "It's easier to go broke than to make money with a guy like that."

"I got paid for protection. A week in advance. I'm protecting,” Gamilla cut him off flatly. "As long as the employer is alive."

"I see. Where were you stripped and undressed?" Ranjan asked. "I wouldn't want to meet such... masters of the game."

"They're far ahead,” the tattooed Mistress of Arrows curled her pale lips. "They'd go even faster with an extra horse. We couldn't catch them, even if we wanted to."

Elena noted it gracefully, as if carelessly inserting we, but remained silent. In a difficult journey people usually get together, and why not, if the “mistress” would continue to be so clever in shooting crows for soup? And on the plain, the paths would naturally separate.

There was silence, interrupted by the crackling of burning branches, the rustle of the wind, and a distant howl. There was a lot of resin in the mountain flora, so the wood burned hot and long. Rapist took a small cauldron and went to fetch some clean snow to heat more water. Elena tried to remember a scientific explanation for why you can't quench your thirst with snow, but nothing came to mind. You can't, that's all. The yellow glow and dancing shadows colored Ranjan's grim face like a two-colored mask. On nights the brether usually stood on the first, longest guard. Artigo, as usual, crawled silently under Elena's blanket, warmed himself, and sniffled.

The cold air of the highlands unpleasantly dried her nasopharynx. Elena thought everyone here needed a bath or at least a wipe, washing at good laundresses, at the worst frying clothes and equipment, or they could even get lice. So, listening to the distant howling of unidentifiable creatures, feeling an empty stomach and shots of tugging pain in her stomach, she fell asleep.

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