Chapter 20 "Darkness"

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Since this wasn't a horror movie, it didn't occur to anyone to divide into groups, scattering around the rooms. They all gathered in one room, not too big, not too small. Apparently, in the past, it had been something like a smoking room, a place where serious matters were decided in confidence or blissful relaxation. The study was upholstered in leather wallpaper that looked like a fine embossed suede - a repeating print with plant motifs. But now there was little of the suede, and the bare wood was streaking through the huge gaps with grayish-brown slats. The same fate befell the chairs, which looked like animal skeletons with scraps of hide on the base ribs. But there was carpet, which, though compacted to felt, provided reliable protection against the dampness that rose from the flooded cellar. The doors on either side of the hall were securely locked, and the broad window still had three-part shutters.

Usually, the tarred ones tried to arrange their lodgings in such a way that there were at least two directions for escape. This time, Santelli betrayed the tried-and-true tradition, reasoning that the lost adventurers were hardly any sillier. They must have taken every precaution, but it didn't help. So they barricaded behind bars and decided they would have two men on duty at a time, with the sentries on duty at different ends of the room. No one would get a good night's sleep or rest, but they would have a better chance of not missing the night's attack. And if you have to walk back in the morning, you'll have to live to see that morning. For a time, Santelli had seriously considered the idea of keeping the team awake until dawn, reveling in invigorating elixirs. But after long hesitation, he gave up the idea. The crossing was too tiring. The brigade could hold out through the night, but it would be too exhausted on the way back. We had to strike a balance, choosing between the risks.

The first guard fell to Shena and Zilber, as he had lost a lot of blood and therefore was prone to weakness. The most dangerous, the one before dawn, Santelli left to himself and the silent Einar. The rest went to Helena and Kai. It was decided not to wake Biso so that he would get more or less rest and be on guard on the way back.

Checking that the company was assembled and no one had been replaced, the foreman closed the shutters and threw on a latch - more of a decoration than a real lock, but enough to deter, if only for a few moments, whoever dared to break in through the window. While the foreman covered the cracks with a curtain, Biso pinned a moon crystal to the wall candelabra, and a steady bluish light illuminated the room. Kai had a few camp candles ready. In case the crystal wasn't enough until morning, which was not uncommon. The crystal was already old.

The first thing Lena did was to check the condition of the "Vietnamese footlocker." There was nothing wrong with it - despite a couple of episodes of bathing, not a drop of water had seeped inside. Bottles were intact, and tools were in place. Taking advantage of the moment, Lena checked Zilber's leg one more time, applied a new bandage with a plantain leaf, and treated a second round of tick bites. Everyone took it for granted, without any particular approval. The healer was doing the job for which she had been hired.

She was going to keep watch originally. She stood like a real sentry and set the ahlspise so that when she dozed off and lowered her head, her chin was sure to bump against the point. Looking at this, Elena could hardly keep from smiling. The girl was reminded of her childhood stories about the "stubborn girl." One day the two-year-old Lena said, "I'm not going to shleep anymore." It was said and done, and the girl sat down in full readiness to avoid sleep at any cost. And to be sure, she took a child's pyramid of rings on a rod and put it in front of her so that, if anything, she could fall right on the toy and, accordingly, wake up. It ended predictably with a slap, and Shena was now an amusing reminder of it.

Silber didn't bother to insure himself; he just sat down on the ancient skeleton of a chair that looked like both a couch and a chaise lounge, checked the bowstring, and laid out three poison arrows under his arm. Took a small brush out of his bag and began brushing his sideburns. Three strokes on one side, three on the other, and on and on, with the monotony of a metronome. It seemed as if he could do it without interruption until dawn.

Unfastening the straps of the ponjaga, Lena removed two blankets from the frame and rolled them out - one down, the other to cover herself. Despite the rug and the tightly closed shutters, it was chilly. Behind the walls of the house, someone was squawking, powerful, and trumpeting like the very first night Lena had been in the Wastelands. After a little suffering, the healer "re-bedded," that is, rolled up the bottom blanket as a roll under her head and lay down directly on the rug.

Her stomach belatedly reminded her of itself with an unpleasant sucking sensation, as if it had turned into one big octopus suction cup. During the day, Lena hadn't eaten a crumb because of the ubiquitous smell of urea, and it seemed that if even a piece of food got into her stomach, it would immediately come out, along with all her insides. Now was the time to pay for the squeamishness. She could have snacked on a piece of jerky or pemmican, hoping that the protective essence didn't soak through them like it did her clothes. But fatigue came over her like a pillow, soft and unbearable at the same time.

Tomorrow, thought Lena. It's all tomorrow...

Sleep didn't creep up. It came, wrapping a thick blanket around her with an insistent softness. Surrendering to this alien was easy and very pleasant, feeling the relaxation of the day's exhausted muscles and the closing of her eyes. Einar hissed in his sleep, someone's weapon rattled, and Zilber's brush rustled in a measured and quiet way. The акщпы outside the window fell silent. The house was silent. Not even the crackled wood creaked.

Lena fell asleep.

Or not...

In her previous nightmares, she'd seen images, but she couldn't fully comprehend them, as if she were looking through a keyhole at a picture of someone else's life. Now it was the opposite. It was as if Lena were suspended in darkness without end and edge, devoid of body and will - a blob of pure consciousness. And all around her, outside and inside her mind, images unfolded. Sparse, fragmentary, like a television screen with a disrupted setting, where the film breaks into separate frames, further distorted by ripples, and the sound hoarsely blaring from the speakers. Only once in a while, following the mysterious fluctuations of the airwaves, the image and the sound are put together into a wispy scene, very short, ready to drown again in the interference.

I'm a bad mage...

Worthless...

Useless...

The stranger's sadness had the color of the crusty leaves and the smell of straw, which was laid on the bare floor of the houses. The scent of freshness, sun, and earth was still tangible but already interrupted by mustiness, manure, old boot leather, and dust. The grief, stale and familiar, is like a non-threatening but non-healing ulcer.

I'm only capable of tricks...

Petty tricks...

Not even a real mage... A mere "alchemist" a pathetic artisan...

And I'm not destined to go any higher...

Magic is a gift I am deprived of...

Damn, this life... Cursed be the Creator who was so cruel...

He let me drink from the cup, but only one sip... And left me to thirst in front of a spring I can never reach...

Alchemist Trickster...

It was... uncomfortable. Lena did not feel any discomfort, but somewhere in the back of her mind, there was a growing awareness that this was NOT her vision. The images unfolding before her inner eyes were meant for someone else.

Mom, what are you doing?! Don't hurt him!

New images, new colors. If the previous ones had been gray and dreary, now there was rage all around Lena. Anger that time had concealed with a solid shield from the rest of the world but which had not been quenched.

Faggot? No, this is a mistake!

Son, it's not your fault. He crept into our house as a silent snake to poison your soul, but now you are free. The viper will be exterminated.

Leave him alone. It's a mistake! He's not guilty. He's just a teacher!

Hang him! No, first cut off the criminal, filthy members of his body! Burn it before his own eyes! Cut off the flesh from the bones. No one shall be allowed to confuse young minds, for it was said after the Tribulation, the seed of man shall not be wasted, for the earth has become scarce and is inhabited by women who are deprived of their husbands.

Leave him alone, leave him alone... It's not fair. It's not right... We only read old books of poetry... Mother, you're the one who wanted me to study science and art.

Get out of our house, you vile brat. The filth has yet to take root in you. You pity the renegade. Release the boars on him!

I hate you. I curse you. I renounce you.

The rage was burning, and she wanted to turn away, to cover her eyes with the palm of her hand, but ...

Someone, or rather something, enveloped the world in a disembodied net, pulling someone else's memories, twisting them into a heavy vortex that drove someone else's mind further and further into darkness. Into oblivion. And, by some miracle, Lena found herself on the periphery, at the very edge of the vortex, where the wave was already moving but not yet strong enough to take her with it.

And an understanding began to come to her...

The new image had the color of gold and steel.

Death. Murder. Many deaths and many murders. The cold, judicious cruelty of a master of his craft. Blood, paid for in coins, turned into silver and gold as if transmuted in the crucible of a skilled alchemist.

Gambling. Victory. Years of fighting. And finally, fatigue. Severe, excruciating fatigue, when victory for a long time brings no joy, and the gold seems unclean, covered with indelible stains of blood.

A woman who happens to be near, her warmth, her care. First, bought with money, forced, impregnated with dread and fear of upsetting the owner. Then - unfolding with affection, like mountain flowers whose petals can be seen only in the brief moments when the moon and the sun meet equilibrium in the sky. He is the sun, straight, confident, stern. She is the moon.

Peace. Serenity.

You can't buy love with money. But you can grow it together, patiently, day by day.

Happiness. Short-lived... Destroyed. Shattered by another's evil will.

The hands are old, too old... They no longer had the old strength, the quickness that for years had brought victory after victory. There's only experience left. And an all-consuming hatred that is doubly bitter because the owner of the hands knows he has received nothing beyond what he has so generously given away left and right in exchange for gold coins.

Only the experience remained. The experience of a fighter. It will serve. It will help when there is nothing else left. It was time to remove the saber from the wall, lift the blade from its gilded hooks, and feel the familiar heaviness in his hands.

He has not lived well. He'll probably die badly. But tonight, after sundown, he will take to the streets with weapons in my hands, just like in the old days, and legends will be made of this night.

The vortex swirled like a monstrous whirlpool from an Edgar Allan Poe story. Like a mystical sieve, it went through someone else's life, squeamishly discarding the light, the warmth. And pulled out all the blackest, hardest, all that the memory kept. Pulling, weaving into threads, connecting the threads in a network that entangled consciousness. Further, deeper...

With painful acuity, Lena realized that these were not random visions, not nightmares. This was an attack. An invisible force was attacking the entire brigade, plunging the fighters, one by one, into the darkness of repeated memories. Pulling them into a spiral that held their minds firmly in the cage they'd created.

Simultaneously with the realization, a new cascade of other people's ghosts came over Elena.

Church. Celebration. Most likely a wedding. Serene happiness reigns here. People whose lives are not long and filled with hard work, more than anyone else are able to enjoy every moment of true happiness and serenity. And the storm is getting closer... It is still invisible, but it already looms over the feast. The storm is close...

It's already here.

The wedding is ruined, destroyed, like an exquisite flower trampled in passing by a horse's hoof. Like a toy broken by a capricious child.

The bridegroom is strong, very strong, but strength will not help against the skill of skilled assassins. The armorer will not become a master and set up his workshop. His armor will not become famous around the world, and the secret of armor cementation will be discovered by another man much later. The smith is killed with a single blow of the spear, but the body continues to be mocked, belatedly expelling the fear that gripped black hearts for a moment when the groom cracked the skull of the first man who raised his hand against his woman.

The bride was more lucky... Or less.

Let it be known to you, gentlemen, that a woman can satisfy a man's needs in many ways. And though it may seem today that we have experienced them all, let me dissuade you.

Just keep her quiet, will you? Just break that animal's leg. I assure you, it will become very docile at once.

Please, please, Lord Shotan. I believe that this flawed creature of the Creator, who looks like a human but is steeped in the savagery of the backwoods province, may yet amuse us.

Hand me my special knife. Friends, I invite you to appreciate the ancient art of pàtrean, i.e. carving on tanned leather. Unfortunately, my skills are not great yet, and the material leaves much to be desired, but I am sure you will be lenient with my imperfections! Here we go.

Absorbed by the flood of memories, Lena missed the moment when she dangerously approached the stream and was spotted. The alien, extraneous attention focused on her like a spotlight of black light. There was no spark of reason in it but rather a reflex action, like a spider reacting to the fluttering of a signal thread. But there was a vicious sense of purpose.

The girl was overcome by a fit of nausea. Dark tentacles sprouted in every corner of her memory, painstakingly sifting through pictures of the past, selecting the blackest, most shameful events. Her parents' first offense. The first lie. The first injustice. The first intimacy...

And then another curl of darkness touched something hidden, like a seed from a long-eaten apple, forgotten in the farthest corner of the table but ready to sprout with careful care. This tiny bit of Lena's soul stubbornly defied pressure and escaped the sinister embrace. The stranger focused on it and pulled its tentacles into a tourniquet, literally tearing the unyielding shred of memory.

The girl was writhing with her whole being, helpless, feeling that she was being destroyed from within, burned as if by acid, trying to break the foundation, the core that held her mind together.

Finally, the "seed" succumbed, and then the unbelievable happened.

Santelli always woke up at once, like a wolf on guard, ready to bite his teeth at any moment, a valuable skill for someone who wants to survive in the Wastelands. But now he was bursting hard from the depths of the nightmare. The brigadier felt like a newborn baby leaving its mother's womb through pain and suffocation. He was rushing toward the light, only instead of light there was sound. Like a lighthouse with a bell, warning sailors in the fog when the brightest fire becomes powerless.

Finally, the foreman awoke.

Someone screamed fearfully as if he had an endless supply of air in his lungs. Santelli jerked from the chair in which he had fallen asleep, sitting up, and stumbled, falling to his knees. His legs were shaking, refusing to serve. For the first moment, Santeli thought he was still awake. Everything around him was floating, tinged with a gray haze. Then the foreman realized three things at once.

First, Hel is screaming. She seems to be in some kind of trance. She is not even screaming but howling like a wounded animal in such a way that the rest of the windows in the house are about to burst.

Second, there is nothing wrong with his eyes. And the space was filled with a multitude of gray-black threads no thicker than, or maybe even smaller than, a woman's finest hair. They passed through each other, wriggling, creating a single rippling mass. And they reached out to people, hovering greedily over the faces of those asleep, gathering into hideous worm-like strands.

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Third, all the threads came from the ceiling, which changed color, becoming black, darker than the most impenetrable darkness in the dungeons.

Hel finally exhaled as far as she could go, twitching like a hysterical woman with a long sob. At the same time, the blackness on the ceiling rippled like a living thing, swelled into a huge drop, and hung there, absorbing the threads. A moment and the room was clear. A second later, the droplet fell to the floor, pancaked to the man's knee, and rose as a column. Everything happened very quickly, as if liquid or molten metal were poured into an invisible mold. The jelly-like lump rocked forward, dropped to all fours, sprouted tufts of spiny fur from within, threw out several pairs of limbs, and a pair of battle tentacles snaked out over its humpbacked scruff.

In front of Santelli was the most horrible creature the foreman had ever met.

It is usually written about such creatures that "once upon a time it was human." However... No, there was hardly anything human about the creature, more like a poor attempt to mold something anthropomorphic from malleable clay. And, like the parable of the Pig and the Three Blind mountaineers, it was guided only by sketchy descriptions.

The torso was as if sewn together from two separate ones, placed one on top of the other. The head, or rather the domed outgrowth at the front of the torso, ended in an almost round mouth, more like a toothy tube. The entire right side of its face was covered in small, dull teeth, and instead of eyes, two holes covered in a thin, tightly-woven cloak gaped blindly at its surroundings. The creature seemed to rely more on hearing. The lower torso rested on two pairs of powerful legs, each breaking at three joints, which made the legs seem larger than they really were. Two more human-like arms protruded from the shoulders of the upper torso but with lemur-like toes equipped with plate-like suction cups. Considering that there were no feet on the "legs," only broad monkey-like hands with a varying number of fingers on each, it was safe to assume that the creature could not run well but was able to move on any vertical surface.

The legs looked very strong, and under the whitish skin with the sparse tufts of prickly fur, the muscles, wrapped in large blue veins, rolled over and over. But the monster's main weapon was definitely the two tentacle-like appendages, like segmented whips. Each ended in a crystalline tip, very much like a typical "rose" from a broken bottle.

A moment of general confusion lingered. Objectively, it took three or four seconds, hardly more. But the pause seemed to take forever. The "tarred ones" were dumbfounded. They were preparing to withstand a siege and assault by any enemy from outside, and the enemy was suddenly in their midst. Besides, their minds were still fogged by the remnants of the alien's haze. The monster, on the other hand... The creature moved back toward the window in tiny steps, tentacles vibrating menacingly like a rattlesnake. The demon's posture seemed utterly inhuman, but there was a touch of uncertainty in its strides. The creature had no shortage of killing implements and weighed a couple of "dry barrels," that is, two tons plus. But it was not accustomed to this kind of hunting, and open combat was undesirable.

Hel stopped convulsing, a muscle spasm that jerked her like a puppet, literally lifting her off the carpet. The healer looked around with a completely demented look as if she had just traveled to hell and back.

Charley fell asleep sitting up, his naked saber on his lap and his hammer along his thigh, just under his left palm. Brether was the quickest to wake up. The honed skills of a fighter who had cheated death for thirty-odd years. His consciousness had not yet grasped the full extent of the misfortune that had befallen him, but his hands were already on their weapons. Shena, however, was the first to attack. Her movements were swift, the ahlspis aiming precisely at the bald side, at the base of the foreleg where the joint opened. But the creature was faster; it spun in place, comically covering its blind muzzle with an upper pair of limbs with thin lemur-like fingers, and swung its whip. The first blow knocked the spear out of Shena's hands. The creature straightened on its mighty paws, swinging a second tentacle over itself, drawing a figure-eight like an executioner demonstrating his mastery of the whip.

There are moments when one does not think but simply does. There are times when, on the contrary, one thinks a lot, but one still does something that goes completely against the cries of the mind as well as the instinct for self-preservation. As the tentacle, rattling with its dense horny pads, unfolded over the demon's back, Lena was clearly aware that Shena was about to die. The living whips wielded tremendous power, the tips seemed as strong as iron, and the lancewoman was too close to her foe. And besides, the woman had removed her jacket, reinforced with ringed inserts and leather plates boiled in hot wax.

There was nothing that could be done here. Pantocrator had measured the end of life for the lancer. Lena saw the blue glow of the moon crystal in Shena's dilated pupils. She saw in the depths of her green eyes despair, understanding. Almost humility.

And Lena did. Because it was impossible not to.

A moment before the attack, the redhead lunged at Shena, collapsing with her whole body, turning in the direction of her movement, covering herself. The tentacle, instead of penetrating Shena's unprotected abdomen, struck Lena in the lower back. The force of the blow was such that both women were thrown against the wall. Elena froze in unconsciousness, settling on the Valkyrie trying to get out from under her like a dead man.

Elena was saved by Charley. While Shena attacked head-on, the brether slid along the wall, coming at the enemy from the side with a saber in one hand and hammer in the other. And attacked at the moment the tentacle's swing was turning into a strike. The saber flashed in a broad but swift swing, smeared in motion with a silvery streak. A swift lunge hit the joint, so the demon recoiled, thwarting its attack. The whip, instead of breaking Lena's spine with its edge, whipped flat, rather than pushing very hard, knocking her back. And Charley continued to pounce, threatening with his saber.

There was no special speed in the brether's attack, nor did he show the wonders of feints with deceptive movements. It was just ... Charley seemed to anticipate his opponent's movements and each time did exactly what was necessary at the right moment, with the inhuman precision of a fighting machine. The second lunge struck the same joint, widening the wound, then immediately the swordsman seemed to spread over the floor, almost fell to his knees, letting the tentacle slip over his head, and the saber was already rising ahead of the whip by literally a tenth of a heartbeat. The blade was sharpened on the back of a palm and a half, and the demon slammed the whip right into the exposed faux-blade with a jerk. The piece of the tentacle had not yet fallen to the carpet, and Charley stepped forward as he continued, stretching even harder, using the last drops of inertia to reinforce the swing of the hammer.

This strike was considered "treacherous," much like the crossbows of the Southern Knights. Everyone censures and hates them, but everyone knows and tries to use them to the best of their ability. A peck from top to bottom, straight down the foot, so the point goes through, even if the foot is in a steel sabaton boot. The beast had no sabatons, and its hide, hard as it was, was no armor. The Brether's hammer nailed the front right "leg" to the floor, passing over the carpet and planks.

That was the end of Charley's luck and advantage. The brether "fell" in his attack, hitting the hammer instead of defense, and the remaining lash whipped him on the head. But moments before, Santelli had set up his shield, covering the Maitre, as Einar had covered him the day before. The sharp end struck with such force that the boards crunched and crumbled into splinters. Santelli was unsteady on his feet, dropped to his knees, and wielded his axe blindly, knowing that his shield was broken and his arm was badly sprained at all joints, if not broken. The demon lunged, freeing his leg from its trap, its hand torn in half and black sludge spewing profusely.

The fight - rapid, jerky, deadly - occurred in silence. Only the blows echoed beneath the high, faded-painted ceiling, the feet of their adversaries stomped on the soft carpet, and their heavy breathing rumbled from their throats. The creature neither growled nor hissed but emanated a viscous, irregularly clicking noise from its round mouth like a cricket gasping for air in a demon's womb.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Zilber fired his arrows with such speed that the clicks of the bowstring merged into one long sound with three peaks. They were shallow, but there was a hiss of yellowish smoke as they burrowed in between the sparse tufts of wool. Biso had done a good job of concocting a good poison.

"Come here, asshole, I'm going to cut you clean through," Einar exhaled, stepping up to the demon's right, and those were the first words since the fight began. Behind his brother soldiers back, Kai was already raising his sword, choosing his moment. The infantryman and the knight stood at once, a shield-bearer and a swordsman as if they'd been fighting in the battles all their lives.

Shena finally climbed out from under Hel's unmoving face and lifted the ahlspis from the mat. Charley intercepted the saber with both hands and pushed the creature to his left, side by side with the brigadier, whose left arm with the broken shield hung as a whip, but his right, with the axe, remained steadfast.

Step by step the monster retreated toward the window, squeaking and grinding louder and louder. The stump of one tentacle hung like a piece of octopus well chopped before it was cooked. The other swung menacingly over its hunched back, but the creature was clearly saving it, afraid of losing it as well as the first. The tarred ones sensing their enemy's uncertainty with the instincts of seasoned killers, stepped in, overcoming their fear. Charley marked a lunge from one side, immediately moved his blade to the other, and spun in an intricate network of feints, diverting the demon's attention. Shena jabbed her ahlspis right into the worm-like snout. The membranes of its eyes vibrated, its mouth twisted outward like a toothy gut.

Einar swung his sword, taking the initiative that had been passed around. He retaliated with a tentacle blow, but it was a tentative one, so the edge only split the waxed skin of his shield and scraped against the umbon. Instinct told the demon that if he turned to face any opponent, he would be struck from the opposite side. And the weak mind was not enough to invent some cunning combination or to go for a breakthrough without looking back. So the monster tried to threaten all at once and backed away once he was in the ring.

Charley clipped another support paw, and Einar stepped to the side in a move he'd practiced over the years without lowering his shield. In proper combat, formation upon formation is the way one lets out of the second line of combatants. Kai advanced from behind the shield-bearers shoulder with seeming slowness, thrusting his heavy single-bladed sword over his head. The knight struck only once. His movement lacked the grace and speed of Charley, and the sword came down not with the serpentine ease of a Brether's saber but with the weighty power of a sledgehammer. It was not the blow of a street fighter who needed to find a breach in his opponent's defenses but of a knight who breaks through solid armor in a frontal skirmish. And Kai hit the target.

The demon's hide was sturdy, but it was nowhere near the armor of armor. Kai's sword went through the monster's body like a razor through the thinnest handkerchief, killing the creature on the spot. The crudely molded torso settled, legs folded at the joints, its jaws extended even further, like a short trunk. The eye membranes fluttered for the last time, the squeak was choked with a uterine gurgle, and the air burst from its lungs, or whatever was replacing them in the depths of the hulking torso.

"Son of a..." Santelli wiped the sweat from his forehead without letting go of the axe. He paused and grimaced as the sharp movement pierced his stretched left arm from hand to shoulder.

Kai pulled his sword out of the fall with an effort. Holding the black-soaked blade out of the way, he glanced at the blade to see if it was dented.

Biso, pour acid on the dead thing so it doesn't rise," the foreman sighed wearily, choosing what to do - to continue holding the axe just in case or to let go to remove the broken shield with his healthy hand.

The alchemist looked at the dead carcass with skepticism, guessing that not even his whole trunk would be enough, but he did not argue with the foreman. And Santelie looked at Shena with a mean, very mean look, then turned to Zilber.

Lena came to her senses with a sharp pain in her buttock as if a gadfly had stung her. She twitched in horror, realizing that the fight was probably lost and that the creature from the nightmare was launching a sting into her. She shuffled to her feet, trying to roll over.

"It's all right. She feels the dagger. She's twitching her legs. The spine is intact," someone said from above. "If there's no blood in the urine, she is lucky."

Almost immediately the sound of a good slap and a fallen body reached the girl's ears.

"You overslept, san yobbo!" growled the brigadier's voice.

Lena managed to roll over on her side. Her waist was aching and spasming in the center of her stomach, her waist belt was cast from lead, and her legs felt nauseatingly weak. But the corset seemed to have saved her from the worst of it. She felt sick to her stomach. Her stomach juices rose from her empty stomach to her throat.

In the deadening light of the blue crystal, the girl saw Shena, who was also trying to get to her feet. The Valkyrie's chin was scratched, as she must have been knocked unconscious by the demon's spell. The mercenary's face was red across the left side as if she'd been struck with an open hand to avoid breaking her jaw to the point of extreme pain. Santelli shook his right hand with his left against his body.

"Sentries," hissed the foreman with deadly seriousness.

Lena froze. Sleeping on the watch was considered one of the worst offenses of a "tar man," more terrible than trying to hide the Profit. Because it was hard to die from theft, but if a sentry dozed off and missed the danger, on the contrary, it was easy. As a rule, they were killed for that. The least a sentry could get away with now was a brutal beating. Which was what the foreman seemed intent on doing, with the tacit approval of the other companions. Sheena finally managed to rise and waited silently, her head guiltily lowered. Santelli swung again to the accompaniment of the hissing from the dead demon. Biso had just watered the dead thing from the vial. It reeked in a way that made the familiar smell of urea seem like exquisite perfume.

"No," said the healer. "Don't touch..."

It was very hard to talk. Not only had she been hit in the back, but her chest had been bruised, if not cracked, and all of her ribs were bruised. Still, Lena was able to speak articulately enough:

"Don't touch... her... It's not her fault..."

"What?" Santelli turned to her with a look of universal bewilderment on his wickedly ugly face. So did everyone else. Even the lancer, ready to accept severe punishment for a certain misstep that had nearly cost the life of the whole brigade.

"It wasn't he fault..." Her chest hurt terribly, and every word came out with difficulty, but Lena didn't give up. "The monster... had charmed everyone. It made them sleepy."

Santelli shrugged, apparently thinking the sick woman had also hit her head, so it wasn't much of an issue. He raised his fist again.

Elena realized with clear clarity what was going to happen next. She would not allow the green-eyed woman to be beaten, not for anything in the world. And she would say... Or rather repeat the words from the vision.

// Mom, you wanted me to study the arts and sciences

Because there's no other way to stop the foreman now. There's no way to prove that she's telling the truth. And the foreman will stop. Maybe he'll believe it, but that's for later. But right now, he will probably kill the healer on the spot. Because there is only one thing scarier and worse than a secret that is securely buried in a distant corner of memory. It is the realization that what is hidden has become manifest, known to anyone else.

Lena squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth...

"She's right," Biso said, emptying the vial. In the haze that rose from the acid-eating carcass, he did look like an alchemist before the retort.

"What?" asked not the foreman, against expectations, but Kai, who had finished wiping his sword with a scrap of curtain.

"The redhead's right," Biso repeated. "It's a Hypnotic. I heard about them a long time ago."

The fist froze, ready to drop at any moment, but the foreman waited for an explanation.

"An evil spirit hidden in the moonlight," the sorcerer explained. "From the very old days, before the Empire. Powerless during the day, it only takes on flesh at night. They were sometimes caught by very powerful mages..."

Probably only Lena noticed how the alchemist's voice rattled subtly at the last words. Biso, however, managed to pull himself together at once.

"... and bound to a certain place."

"So that's..." Santelli shuddered in disgust. "A watchman?"

"Well... like that. The Hypnotist is strong but cowardly. But still deadly - puts you into an irresistible sleep, then kills those who are asleep."

"He must have been enchanted to guard the house a long time ago," Kai interjected. "He sat there for centuries, attacking everyone inside at night."

"It kills sleepers," Santelli muttered, clenching and unclenching his fist. He shouted, giving vent to his anger. "Clear away the mess. Let's get out of here! Before we choke to death..."

The stench was indeed growing. It seems the alchemist's acid was very strong.

Santelli turned to Shena, silent for a few seconds, and then muffled:

"I won't apologize for that. Sleep is a sleep."

Shena nodded, acknowledging the brigadier's merciless justice. She gently touched the red spot and winced in pain.

"When we get back, I'll pay you back," he said through gritted teeth. He turned to Lena, who was finally in a more or less upright position, clinging to a half-assed chair. Every time she moved her legs, it felt like an awl was jammed into her lower back. Her kidneys also ached, seeming leaden. But on the whole, the medicine woman felt easy to get over. Especially looking at the foreman's shield, which had fallen into complete disrepair and seemed to have come from a single blow.

"With you, too," the foreman laconically promised Lena. "For shouting."

Now the other "tarred" people looked at each other understandingly and shook their heads approvingly. Even Charley, who, though he was not privy to all the subtleties of local business etiquette, grasped the essence on the fly.

The brigadier was indeed in his right and, moreover, acted quite rightly in hitting Shena and intending to beat her and Zilber. The punishment was undeserved, but no one knew that at the time, including the sentry. So the foreman stopped the execution and owed nothing more. But Santelli did acknowledge a certain impropriety in what had happened - too hasty a punishment without a trial - and promised to compensate reasonably for that impropriety. And to reward the person who had saved the whole crew by her shouting, and not even by standing on patrol, was a holy thing.

Hard expediency mixed in the right proportion with demonstrative fairness and seasoned with a beautiful gesture that understanding people would appreciate. These were the little bricks that made up the reputation of the brigadiers in the Wastelands.

After a fight with the monstrous creature, the usual swamp terrors seemed somewhat frivolous, and being in the same room with a decaying Hypnotik was unbearable. So the brigade dismantled their barricade and moved amicably into the library. It became obvious, until morning it was unlikely anyone would sleep, except Lena. So the healer gave everyone an invigorating elixir, and she sipped a tincture of the Duke's rod, assuaging the pain in her kidneys. For lack of modern medicine with ultrasound and X-rays, she could only hope that the blow of the cursed tentacle had not caused permanent damage.

The girl lay down again, feeling chills and fever spiking, and this time, without further ado, several other people's blankets were laid out for her. There was something very personal, very..., in that simple, uncomplicated gesture of gratitude from her traveling companions. But for some reason, tears came to her eyes. It was as if she was silently, without any ceremony, welcomed into the community as an equal.

The blue crystal had depleted the supply of moonlight, so the candles were lit instead. Biso began to check the books, cursing mercilessly - the covers seemed flawless, but everything inside - the pages and the spines - was crumbling to dust at the slightest shake. The "soldier brothers," with the dexterity of experienced marauders, picked up shards of mirrors and twisted up anything they could carry in their travel bags and sell - candlesticks, small fittings, bronze locks, and pawls. Kai put a splint on the brigadier's injured arm - fortunately, it was indeed without a fracture. Then the knight and the brether moved farther away to a clearer spot and engaged in a practice duel, exchanging swordsmanship tricks. This was the first time Kai had seen such a technique of fighting with a hammer as a left-handed weapon.

Lena felt sleepy. Again. The trauma, the fatigue, and the effects of the wand tincture were taking their toll. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, Shena came up and sat down next to her. Her cheek was swollen and cushiony, the wound on her chin still oozing blood. The lancer's face looked gray and tired in the light of the usual live fire. Lena thought she should get up and work as a medic again, and she fumbled under the covers, gathering her will into a fist, but Shena put her hand on her shoulder and held her down, not letting her get up.

The girls looked at each other in silence. One crouched under the wool blanket, the other squatted beside her.

"I saw you... there," Shena said very softly, almost whispering, just to Lena's ears. "I felt it. I don't know how that's possible. Maybe you're a witch... or a sorceress. Now you know."

"I remember," Lena said just as quietly. "You'd kill me if I told anyone."

Sheena gazed intently into the red-haired witch's dark eyes, into the eyes of the man to whom she owed her life today... and found no fear in them. Not a bit. Hel had promised to keep the secret, not out of fear for her life, but because - just because it was necessary. The right thing to do. Fair.

"Thank you," the Valkyrie whispered, leaning even lower. She didn't say another word, but Lena knew she wasn't being thanked for her promise of silence.

"You're welcome," she replied mechanically, as a well-mannered and cultured person.

The green eyes flashed with bewilderment, then surprise. Shena looked at Hel with a look of utter confusion. Lena responded with an equally puzzled look and then closed her eyes, deciding that that was enough mystery for tonight. It was to be hoped that the limit of adventure had been reached for the night and that everyone would live to see morning.

Already falling asleep to the sound of Kai's and Maitre's blades, Lena realized that she had translated the word "you're welcome" directly, having failed to find a suitable analogy in the Aboriginal language. And literally, it sounded like "always yours."

Then she fell asleep.

* * *