Chapter 23 "Always yours"

* * *

Lena wrapped herself more tightly in the hide of something bear-like. It was given to the travelers, one for every two people. The precaution had been wise. As the sun set, the woolen shirts and blankets did not save them. The captain said the ship had entered the cold current specifically to kill woodworm mollusks that might have somehow penetrated the cracks in the copper plating but had not yet burrowed deeper. So they'll have to be patient for a couple of days, just a precaution.

It looked more like a two-masted drakkar than anything else, but Elena called it a galleon because of its complicated sail system. There wasn't even a lower deck as such, just a hold for goods and supplies and the captain's cabin. All the crew and passengers, about forty people at the moment, were accommodated in the open air.

It didn't fit with the stories about developed shipbuilding and the centuries-long history of mainland trade. But after thinking about it, Lena concluded that everything was natural. The continent was one. There were no extensive overseas possessions - so there were no transcontinental routes, for which it would be necessary to build a real sailing fleet, as in her world. Ships sailed either along the coast or not too far from it, so there was no reason to complicate the design.

Interesting ... because the Ecumene, strictly speaking, is not the world as a whole, but only a continent. Are there other continents?

The cold was compounded by the dampness. Lena and Shena could not even huddle together for warmth. The routiers huddled around a hearth in the shape of a large bowl under a grate and on a brick base. Such a hearth could be used for heating, cooking, but its main purpose was to light and signal by throwing combustible mixtures into the fire, giving a column of fire of different colors. There were two hearth lights - fore and aft.

Lena pulled her fur tighter, replaying the conversation with Kai over and over in her mind. And at the same time, noting the word "scrolling" itself already seemed a little alien to her, inappropriate. Tape scrolling is from the world of technology, tapes, and numbers. Here it is simply "remembering," recalling..... That's what it means to get used to and adapt, you don't realize it, but you adjust to the new life step by step.

Kai didn't say another word to her, only glanced at her silently as Lena jumped into the boat after Shena. It wasn't a good look, both sad and disgusted. It was as if the swordsman had cut the girl out of his life, and closed the notebook with a short history of their communication. Lena avoided meeting eyes with the knight, feeling awkward, although there was no reason for awkwardness. But still... it didn't feel right. Elena gritted her teeth and forbade herself to think about it. For now, anyway.

"I don't want to go back," she said quietly into her pelt as if drawing a line under her heavy musings. "I want to live in the city. In a big city, where it's warm, and there are lots of people."

"And rightly so," Shena said, snuggling closer to Lena so not a single particle of warmth was wasted. "This life isn't yours."

It was getting weird and curious. Kai had said almost exactly the same thing, suggesting to stay. But what if, uh.

"How about we don't go back?" suggested Lena quietly, frightened by her radicalism. She didn't even utter it but rather moved her lips as if everything could be blamed on the wind afterward. It was he who tore the quiet, inappropriate words from her lips.

"Maybe," said the spearwoman. "But we have to think it over carefully."

"Really?" The healer couldn't believe it.

"True," Shena replied sleepily. It looked like fatigue and sleep had taken its toll on her after all. "We'll talk tomorrow."

The excitement came over Lena like a wave in a storm, but it left just as quickly, taking the rest of her strength. She closed her eyes and drifted into slumber. She saw mountains, a plain bordered by low hills that looked like grave mounds. The day was bright, rainless but overcast, moderately warm with a slight chill. It was a good time to fight. The heat and the sun would not wear down the soldiers, and the wounded would be a little better.

The battle is coming.

* * *

This vision, too, was crisp and clear, without any effects of darkened consciousness. Lena was startled by a new psycho-attack, but no one was breaking into her mind, drowning her in the streams of other people's heartache. Just visions, an image that unfolded in several directions at once. And Lena understood what was happening, even though she had never seen a real battle in her life.

The battle was coming, and the columns came out of the camps in a thoroughfare, snaking like hordes of ants on the trails. The opponents had little cavalry, so it was mainly infantry that had to fight. Not militias, not vigilantes, and not "spears," but real infantry, organized, able to fight in formation, companies, regiments, and battles.

Here come the lance men though it is more correct to call them pikemen. They mix with the halberdiers. Halberdiers with someone else ... The division is conventional - long shafts are crowned with a variety of tops, but all are equally terrible in their purpose. All of them very shortly will begin to kill and maim. There are peaks, which until then are pointing to the sky, and everything else.

And there were swordsmen and archers, or rather starters. They would go ahead, and start a fight, trying to disperse their "colleagues" from the opposite side, and then break up the enemy formation to restrain maneuvers. Here, too, a variety of people have gathered. Some bare-assed beggars don't even have a jacket, only an axe and a shield on a rope. And there are serious men in three-quarter armor armed with two-handed sabers or poleaxes. There are not many archers, not many archers either, mostly crossbowmen, even knights-shooters from the south, and the latter are unusually numerous.

The military mechanism is turning its gears, the opposing armies are well organized, and everyone knows in advance where his place is determined. The columns are unfolding, thickening at the same time. Lena knows that on the one hand, the regiments are called "battalions" and on the other "tercias", although they are organized in roughly the same way, in the same likeness - squares, and rectangles, bristling with pikes.

There are five battalions, although usually there are three. But this time is special. The armies are enormous. Not since the days of the Old Empire have so many soldiers been gathered on one field. There are a lot of soldiers. They can't be lined up in three huge regiments without losing control. So five. Battalions move traditionally, in "oblique" order, so that the rightmost advanced forward and accordingly will strike first, the rest go from right to left at an angle, each next slightly farther than the previous, insuring against a flank attack. Tertia is built by a broken line. They are also five, one per battle. One-on-one, soldier on soldier, regiment on the regiment. Today everyone will see his enemy and look him straight in the face.

The green grass, not high, just filling with spring freshness, is withering, trampled by heavy boots. And now the banners are unfurled. Not the squadron banners - those have long since fluttered in the faint wind - but the standards of the parties.

The Batalias are marched under a banner featuring a stylized red moon on a white background. And the red color is not just paint. It is generously mixed with the blood of fellow fallen heroes collected after each battle to renew the pattern to lead the living through new battles to new victories. The second is black, with white symbols. They are known to Elena but are completely incomprehensible. No Kingdom has ever raised such a flag. The symbols are arranged in a triangle. At the top is the sign "an lagha", meaning "law". At the bottom, at the corners, are the signs of the plow and sword. The standard seems tattered, sewn on a live thread. And at the same time, it does not cause pity and disdain as an ordinary badly made thing. On the contrary, in this form, the banner awakens hatred in opponents, the desire to destroy it at any cost. Why is it so important?

The battle had already begun. The advance parties were clashing, hovering in front of the main force like gnats over water on a hot day. The infantry squares are coming at each other, the stomping of countless feet merging into a rumbling roar as if an ocean wave were crashing in. And the infantry pressure itself is like a tsunami wave preparing to storm the shore. The drums beat, strengthening the spirit and setting the rhythm of the march. Barbarian trumpets howl under the banner of the moon and battle flutes call out from the black standard.

The pikes are lowered - before they were carried on their shoulders because of their heaviness. Now infantry rectangles no longer look like a revived forest. The first crisis of the battle had come to the convergence of the pikemen.

It is very hard to step into a forest of spears, behind which halberds are already raised to strike. Your place in the ranks is fixed, you feel the shoulders of your comrades on either side, and they will cover you. But that means you have nowhere to go. You're marching step by step right into the pikes. You can't retreat - a coward would be killed by those behind you to take a gap in the ranks. Only forward, hoping for armor, dexterity in handling weapons, but most of all - luck. Because when there are three or even four or five spears per soldier in a line, only Pantocrator can save you. Or magic, if you know how to make or from whom to buy the right amulet, an enchanted shirt, or a small spirit protector hidden in an artifact from the Wastelands.

As a rule, one of the sides cannot withstand the fierce terror and loses the will to win even before the fight. The remnants of courage are enough only for the first clash, after which they begin to flee. This is how most battles involving the Red Moon end. And it happens - and often - that regiments flee without waiting for a pike strike. But not this time. The tercias will not retreat, and everyone realizes it. The armies that meet on a cloudy morning are like duelists in God's judgment. One may die. Both may die. And one thing that will never happen is that two will leave the battlefield alive.

It will not be a battle. It will be a bloody massacre that will be the stuff of dark legends for those who survive it.

Crossbows were already reaping the harvest from both sides, but they could not stop the convergence. Keeping order, the regiments advanced to the roar of martial music and the shouts of their commanders. Step by step, the lats of the front ranks glistened like snake scales, holding death at the tips of their pikes, in the axes of their halberds.

They converged almost simultaneously along the entire front, and a fusion of terrifying sounds rose to the sky. The clang of metal, the crunch of breaking wood, but above all and most terrible of all, the inhuman howl of the dying and wounded. The first ranks lay under the mutual blows of the wall of spades. And almost immediately, a clang joined the cacophony, as if hundreds, thousands of blades, axes, and halberds were striking metal. The armored infantry clashed in merciless hand-to-hand combat, chest-to-chest.

* * *

It was truly frightening, so much so that Lena snapped out of the dream like a cork out of water, gasping for air. In her ears, she could still hear the horrible, freezing moans of so many people who had been killed or badly maimed in a few moments. But still, that was just another vision. And Lena knew for certain that these were not events of the past. The dream showed her the future, or rather a fragment of the whole, a link torn out of a long chain of events. And the vision was also imbued with a sense of the incredible enormity of the events. Tens of thousands of warriors on each side, and this when a few hundred-foot soldiers are already considered a mighty force, capable of storming cities... Not individual cities or routiers, not even Bonom families and alliances - entire nations had to squeeze every possible opportunity to raise and arm such armies.

Who will meet on the unknown field? Whose fates will be decided by an unprecedented battle? And what are the banners who will fight under them? With the moon being more or less clear, it is a long-standing symbol of mercenary infantry from the Mountain Confederation, not without reason. Their battle cry is "Where the Moon is, there are Mountains!". But the black and white banner... She'll have to ask around carefully.

The Drakkar creaked and seemed about to fall apart. But that seemed to be the normal state of a wooden sailing ship, a complex structure of thousands of planks assembled on a skeleton of spars and stringers.

It was rough. Not too rough, but just on the edge between "noticeably" and "a little scared." Lena was pleased to discover that she was not seasick, but a few of the routiers and Biso were less fortunate - they were already throwing the remains of their dinner overboard.

Shena was falling asleep behind her, her cheek pressed against Lena's shoulder, so she was afraid to move to disturb her friend's sleep. The air was filled with moisture - not enough to rain or gather into a veil of fog, but it gathered in beads of tiny droplets on every surface, soaking into the fabric, serving as a conduit for the cold. Lena thought she should take some cloth or a scarf to wrap around her waist.

The sentries kept vigil, and that was comforting. Fuel had been thrown into the signal plates, and now long tongues of white flame burst from the grids. However, the light literally faded into the surrounding darkness, illuminated it with glossy highlights, and dissolved without a trace. It was as if the Drakkar were floating in a tunnel or a cave.

The captain strode grimly to the bowsprit, occasionally shouting to the helmsman across the ship. At his command, the lights on both masts were lit, this time magical, wind-driven lights. Their light couldn't get very far, either.

Fire... And the cave... Something connected with the dungeon, a vague memory stirred in Lena's subconscious, but it couldn't get out. It remained an aching splinter - it was necessary to pull it out, but it couldn't be caught.

Shana shuddered, not waking up, wrapped her arm around her friend, and squeezed her tightly. Probably a bad dream. Lena pulled the fur higher, covering them both, thinking that women must be like vagrants who had to sleep outdoors.

It rained. Very lightly, more like a mist too heavy to hang leaning on the air. The signal powder was tossed into the hearths, coloring the fire red. A few small drops on the planchette, right in front of Lena's nose, gathered into one, reflecting a purple flicker like the purest ruby. And in Lena's mind, it was as if a spring had snapped from its stopper, spinning rapidly with a chain of memories and associations.

... They fought in the dungeon, dark and damp. Amidst the drops of water that fell from the high stone vault - impossible to see even in the light. Not men and monsters, but men with men, desperately, so fighting in the last hour, when there is nowhere to run, and the only thing left is to kill or be killed ...

Not in a dungeon. Not in a cave. On deck, in the darkness, lit by red lights, in the rain.

And in the semi-darkness surrounding the ship, straight ahead and to the right of the eagle's head that replaced the bowsprit, there was an inky-dark silhouette. It was rapidly approaching, and it was not the helmsman's mistake. The oncoming vessel was approaching, driven by an insistent, stubborn will. No... not approaching.

The enemy was about to ram the Drakkar.

Several screams merged into one united cry, full of fear and warning. Immediately afterward, the black ship slammed into the Copper Flagship. The impact was on the starboard side, in the Drakkar's cheekbone, and the crunch of the broken plating spread over the churning sea, just like the sound of spikes breaking from Lena's vision. The girl was slammed against the bulwark. Her lower backstabbed with a pain that made Lena blind and deaf. And from the enemy's side, which was higher than the "flagship" at least half a man's height, the boarding hooks were already flying.

It didn't take Santeli long to realize the depth of the catastrophe. In fact, he didn't need any time at all. He realized it all at once. The pirate ship had somehow unknowingly found them in the boundless darkness. The "ghost" was at least one and a half times bigger than the "flagship" and was probably full of fighters. It was useless to jump overboard, even if you could swim - far from the shore the cold water would inevitably kill the swimmer. It followed that the crew would repel the attack or die. Taking into account the inequality of forces - surely they would die unless they asked for mercy at once, then maybe there were still chances...

With an unintelligible snarl, Santeli rushed toward his enemies, who were already leaping off the enemy's side, screaming, weapons clanging. Less than a minute after the ships collided, several dozen men were furiously killing each other on the deck, wet with waves, rain, and blood.

Charley glimpsed from the brigadier's side. The brether was in his element - a swift massacre in cramped and semi-darkness, without rules or order. The swordsman left his hammer in its sheath and gripped his saber with both hands, the right at the hilt and the left almost at the headband, to increase the leverage and control of the blade. He was willingly engaged, at least by the first few enemies - the Brether had no shield or armor, so he seemed easy prey. But the saber covered the swordsman with a silvery web, weaving an impenetrable cocoon of defense, opening outward with swift attacks. The first enemy Charley cut down at once, immediately cut the legs of the second, and jumped over the pirate howling with horror and pain, who, falling down, tried to clamp the severed artery. Blood was gushing like a pump. It was dangerous to leave a still-alive enemy behind him, but Charley, with his experience, knew perfectly well if the "merchants" did not manage to disrupt the first rush of the attack, they would be swept away. Charley chopped, moving along the side, step by step, like an infernal mower.

And then Brether saw an equal opponent.

The pirates had tried to use incendiary grenades made of resin with alchemical additives. It burned badly. The damp wood repelling the flames. But it did burn.

Distracted by the flash, the foreman almost missed the blow and saved himself only by ducking. But the jerk sent a sharp jolt of pain through his left arm, which hadn't bothered him since the swamp house. Santelli flinched, hissing through his teeth, and lost his rhythm. The enemy was advancing, swinging a two-handed axe, the thick furred hide he wore instead of armor making the enemy look like a rabid hedgehog. The brigadier could not escape the steel crescent and took the blow on his axe. He managed to defend himself but did not stay on his feet.

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Santelli fell to his knees, feeling his weapon shake in his hand, hearing the fading clang of metal. The pirate, swift as a demon, immediately struck again. The pirate, swift as a demon, immediately struck again. He did not have enough distance, just a couple of fingers, to break the skull of the tarred man. The point only severed part of his ear. Howling like a berserker, the pirate raised the axe above his head again, preparing to drive the Brigadier into the deck with a vertical strike.

Santelli had seen death face to face many times, but never so clearly, so plainly. The Brigadier had no time to dodge or defend himself. The axe was already falling, and his right hand refused to rise to meet it in a final attempt to close with the axe. The only thought left was the distinct realization of how foolish and careless he, Brigadier Santelli, had been. In the last moments of his life, "tarred" realized to whom he owed his imminent death.

To stop the fall of the two-handed axe was beyond human strength, but Kai managed. The whirlwind of the fight brought the knight to the brigadier, and realizing that he had no time to cut down the pirate, Kai threw his sword arm forward, taking the crescent moon that had fallen on the blade. Sparks erupted, glinting in the brightest wisps as if in a forge when a hammer is brought down on red-hot iron. Crumbs of metal flew from the axe and sword like stinging wasps. Kai took a step back, trying to hold the sword in his stiffened hands.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime parry. And Santelli, around whom the last sparks had not yet died out, rushed forward and upward, stretching his legs like a grasshopper. Unable to chop with his axe, the brigadier pounced on the pirate and burrowed his face into the stiff wet fur, which stuck together with sharp needles, just like a real hedgehog. The Brigadier chewed the fur like a real fighting boar, trained to bite like a dog, growling and thrashing his head to his enemy's neck. He yelled and tried to strike the brigadier with his axe to push him away, but Santelli paid no attention to the blows and the blood running down his head.

He reached the beating vein and sank his teeth in, feeling the warm liquid flood his mouth. The pirate's screams turned to a choking howl. Kai stood almost on top of him, driving the pirates away with wide swings, while Santeдli gnawed at his opponent. When the Brigadier broke away from the dying man and raised his head, snarling like a wild beast, dropping foam and drops of blood from his lips, he staggered back. So horrible was the sight of the Brigadier. Santelli found the axe and grasped it firmly with both hands, feeling the pain and weakness in his fingers go away, burned out by the frenzy. He stood up, and he and Kai stepped forward, side by side.

Another pirate lofted a glass grenade over his head, its yellow light flaring. Einar tried to make his way toward the enemy and failed, bogged down in the melee. At his feet sat the concussed Zilber, covering his wounded head with bloody fingers. A broken bow, made of two halves tied together by a bowstring, rolled under the feet of those fighting to the death.

Biso pulled the lever, and a crossbow arrow pierced through the grenade thrower, sending a dark red splattering from his back. The pirate dropped the vessel, and the glass shattered on the deck at his feet, releasing alchemical fire. The reaction had not had time to take full effect. So instead of exploding, the fire flickered to all sides in a white corona. Einar managed to cover himself and his partner, glad he hadn't followed the Wastelands' fashion for light small shields and left the military one behind. Flames engulfed the waxed leather and partially burned through the wooden base, scorching the rivets. Einar straightened up, looking like an epic hero from the legends, his hair smoking, his helmet still on, his shield burning, dropping drops of liquid fire.

The mercenary stepped toward the nearest pirate, stunned at the turn of events, and with a sharp blow of his shield he threw him to the side, knocking out several teeth and burning his beard. While he was clutching at his face, trying to extinguish the flaming braids, Einar swung his sword, deflecting the spear, and struck his shield a second time, striking the pirate as hard as he could, throwing him overboard. The wave touched the ships bound by the boarding hooks, so the pirate, instead of running into the side of his ship, fell through the opening. The hulls swayed again on the wave, came together, and the shriek from between them was cut off at once. Einar dropped his shield, his sleeve blackened, and clasped his sword in both hands.

Zilber was already rolling on the deck boards, clashing with another pirate. They were poking at each other with knives, but the swing was not enough, and the blades were stuck in the skin of the armor, making only shallow cuts. Both of them were bleeding and cursing in the same language - fellow countrymen from the south had found each other.

Lena got on all fours, twisting her head around. Strangely enough, the first thing she sensed was the smell. The heavy, glandular odor of a slaughterhouse - freshly spilled blood, torn viscera, fear, and death. Then came the pain - her back was torn as if by steel claws. The plank had hit the same spot where the Hypnotist's tentacle had struck. Elena got to her feet and leaned against the board, gulping air through her parched mouth.

The rumble of ferocious carnage hit her ears. And then Lena saw a woman pacing the wooden deck, stained red. And red fire blazed in the eyes that stared fixedly at the girl from the foreign world.

"God..." Lena exhaled, not knowing what god she was invoking. But she knew that now was the time for supernatural intervention.

The woman was tall, only slightly shorter than Elena herself. Her cloak was draped over her shoulders, like something out of a vampire movie. Dark hair fell to her shoulders, held back by a strange comb in the shape of interlocked skeleton fingers. Fire from signal fires, lamps, and fires played brightly on the large eyes, where pale purple whites turned to a cardinal-colored iris devoid of pupils. In a thin glove, a long sword shuddered like a steel sting. An excellent one-handed weapon with a poplar leaf-shaped side cup. The blade was cut almost full length with three through lobes.

"At last," the cloaked Amazon smiled kindly, very peacefully. Lena heard every word as if the red-eyed woman were whispering directly into her ear.

"They're stealing our goods!" Zilber, who had stabbed his opponent, shouted wildly and now saw a separate squad of pirates, who had not been involved in the battle, dragging a chest from the hold.

Biso swung wide and tossed the flask of green mist at the feet of the enemy leader, or the one who looked most like a leader, and set the crossbow against the deck to draw by hand. The flask shattered with a deceptively quiet clinking sound, yellowish droplets splashing out and immediately beginning to evaporate. The ringleader howled as coils of pus-green smoke coiled around him, dissolving armor, clothing, and flesh like syrupy water. The incorporeal tentacles caught two more of the men dragging the chest. The third dodged and threw a Djerida, hitting the alchemist in the stomach. The distance was too short, and the spear pierced the leather vest. Biso never had time to pull the string and fell, screaming, crouching, clutching the wide wound with his hands. Kai cut down the spear-thrower with a swinging blow under his right arm, so the blade went through to the middle of his chest, cutting open the leather shell and ribs.

Charley attacked openly, however, without bothering with introductions. Three blows merged into one with such speed the fighters exchanged lunges, and the swordsman distantly noticed that the woman's hand was as hard as wood, almost not "moving away" in parrying, though the Brether's blade was noticeably heavier. Maître stepped to the side, coming in from the right to perform his crowning trick - two more chopping blows, a swing for the third, and a sudden transfer of the blade with a jab under the arm flat so the blade would not get stuck between the ribs. The red-eyed woman suddenly broke the distance and waved her hand.

For the first moment, Charley didn't understand what was going on. His body, trained by years of training, reacted for him. Brether first intercepted with his left palm a tiny object he had no time to dodge and then realized that he had been shot with a ballestrin, a tiny crossbow hidden in the sleeve. His hand was numb as if it had been burned in coals and frozen in a devilish glacier at the same time. Brether staggered, struggling to fend off the Amazon's fleeting lunge. If she had wanted to kill the Maître, it would have been no problem, but the red-eyed woman stepped forward, no longer paying as much attention to Brether as he did to the second pirate with a shattered thigh. The poison was working fast, and there was no escape.

Her graceful boots tread the bloody puddles with the grace of a dancer. Only the sword in her hand testified that it was not a lady of the world who had stepped onto the deck of the flagship but a professional fighter.

"It's time to go, Spark," the woman said softly, with a good-natured grin. "I hope they give you back to me alive afterward."

"No..." Elena exhaled, feeling the ice of inexpressible, unspeakable horror spreading through her body, paralyzing her, depriving her of strength. When she met her eyes with the beautiful Amazon, she realized that she was looking into the eyes of a completely, utterly insane creature.

"Fuck you," Shena said, stepping between Elena and the mad witch. Her leather jacket was splattered with someone else's blood, her hair slicked back like a kite's feathers, but the blade in her hands was solid. The ahlspis had broken in someone's belly, covered by a good brigantine.

"I don't think so," the witch grinned even more broadly, straightening to her full height with her right foot back, raising her blade high, like a matador, so that the point pointed downward at Shena. The Valkyrie, on the other hand, crouched down, gripping the hilt of the rat's cleaver tighter.

Swords clashed in a grave ringing, as if the souls of the dead were calling to those who were still alive.

His strength drained away like water from a cracked pot. Sharley couldn't feel the fingers on his left hand, and black veins spread from the tiny wound in his palm, indicating the spread of the poison. Ballestrin was likely magical, with an enchanted spring instead of an arc. And he, a brether, had fallen so haplessly for a simple trick. But how quick the opponent had been...

His knees felt as if they were drawn to the deck by ropes. His body begged to sink, to rest, just a little, just a little, but the veil was clouding his mind. Charley realized that half a minute more and the poison would rise above the wrist, so nothing could save him. Brether drew more air into his chest and placed his hand on the planking. He tried it on, drawing his weapon.

Chopping with one hand, losing strength, and at an awkward angle, Charley was afraid he couldn't do it. But it worked. The Maître dropped his saber, which clattered against the deck, but he was still on his feet and fell to his knee. The stump was pouring blood on the planks, and the Maître grabbed one end of the cord in the loops under his left elbow with his right hand, clenched the other with his teeth, and tightened it, cutting off the bleeding.

The cleaver and sword rang without pause, beating out a hard terrifying rhythm. Shena knew perfectly well she had no chance in a "proper" fight. The opponent's class was too high. She had only one chance - to crush her opponent with a frenzied attack, not allowing her to realize the advantage in technique. And Shena gave every last drop, like a berserker who has no future because he lives not even the fight but its current moments.

The Valkyrie's onslaught seemed hurricane-like. She worked her cleaver like a thresher. The sword in her red-eyed hand barely had time to put blocks in place. The steel rattled as in a great forge, where a dozen hammers beat out a song of metal on the blanks. And yet she did. Shena chopped without frills. It seemed from three sides at once - right, left, top. But a long strip of openwork metal invariably met the cleaver, intercepting the attacks. The fiery reflections on the steel seemed to have a life of their own, dancing around the blades as red demons that were always thirsty for blood.

A blow, another blow, a parry. There was no time for feelings. Lena just stared at those fighting for her life. Shena's last swing should have knocked the sword out of her opponent's hand. A normal fighter would have. But it seemed the red-eyed woman's wrist was made of iron and her tendons of steel threads. Instead of twisting out of her fingers, the carved sword arced very fast, too fast for a normal fighter, and returned to its original position. The witch crouched down, pulling back her left arm for balance, and threw her right arm forward sharply, weaponized - all very quickly, in a single, cohesive motion. Shena stayed on her feet and lunged back, cutting the witch's glove and sleeve to the elbow.

The warriors separated. The witch threw her sword in her left hand, put her right hand behind her back, and retreated another step. Shena staggered, dropped the cleaver, and settled into Elena's arms. Her body seemed very heavy. Lena put her arm around her friend's shoulders and saw the alabaster pallor flooding Shena's face. The woman was still breathing, but a surgically precise blow to the abdomen had severed the aorta below the fork of the renal arteries. There wasn't a drop of blood on the outside, but every contraction of her heart killed the wounded woman.

"No," Lena whispered, seeing her eyes darken the color of warm chrysolite. Realizing there was nothing more that could be done. Not wanting to let that thought enter her mind - it's over. Shena is dying.

"No..."

"All...ways..." the green-eyed woman whispered, trying to raise her hand to protect the redhead or to touch her cheek one last time. But the hand fell powerlessly.

"Teine..."

Shena's gaze paused, frozen. Her pupils dilated as if taking in the world around her. A single tear froze in the corner of her eye, mingling with the raindrops. It was over. Lena realized she was clutching a dead body in her arms.

"So much trouble from you," the witch said through gritted teeth, twirling her blade. She was no longer smiling. She was no longer smiling, her cheerfulness slipping away like a soggy mask, her beautiful face burning with the lust for murder. "Well, the head will do..."

He attacked from the side without warning, swinging his hammer. Brether knew he would not live to see the morning, and he intended to die handsomely, properly, taking his enemy with him. Or to reach him one last time, at least to scratch him.

"No," Lena repeated for the third time.

The realization tore through the barrier of consciousness. It broke through like a tsunami through a weak dam. Shena is dead. Dead, protecting her until her last breath. This wasn't supposed to happen. The dream promised something different..... The vision lied, turned reality inside out.

This can't be happening. Shena can't die.

Can't.

Shouldn't.

She must live.

Lena closed her eyes, unable to look at Shena's white, motionless face. Unable to scream or even think. Only one thought remained in her mind, consuming everything else, burning and consuming like a wall of fire.

Charley, a one-armed man who had lost a lot of blood, still got the witch with his famous blow. Another person couldn't believe how fast a claw could be with the right skill. It didn't do as well as he would have liked; the hammer didn't smash the temple but slid across the skull, tearing off a shred of skin. But true perfection is unattainable, and given the circumstances, the Maître was right to be proud of himself. The only thing left to do now was to go into silent defense, for Charley had no strength left to attack again. And to hold on for a few more moments out of sheer stubbornness because a true master always fights to his last breath.

Sharley did not see, nor did the witch, as the redhead, who seemed to have fallen completely out of reality, suddenly raised her head. Her face was as pale and still as the dead girl's, but there was an unnatural yellowish fire in her eyes, just like a meowr's. And it was no reflection of the fires that burned on the deck. The next second, Shena's body was scattered in Lena's arms, melted into a cloud of sparks that went out one by one, like stars in the predawn sky, under the merciless onslaught of the sun. A shattered coin on a chain clattered to the deck.

The battle was drawing to a close, and the pirates were winning it. Hardly, with huge losses, but step by step, they were winning, pushing the defenders. Shouts of rage and pain were heard over the clutched ships, and commands were heard, but suddenly... If an outside observer had been there, he would have noticed the background of the battle had changed. A new note had clearly emerged. It grew stronger and stronger, crowding out everything else. Until a single, unified cry of horror rose over the ships.

Charley was not afraid of any living opponent. He had seen them all in his not-short life. Here, however ... The Maître drew back to the side, fighting fear and nausea, holding the hammer more because of his cramped fingers than because he could swing it. A dead man walked past, dragging a long loop of guts behind him. Another one followed him. Throughout the "flagship," those who were laid on the red planks by the steel rising, regardless of whether they were pirates or merchants. Twitchily, like marionettes controlled by an inept puppeteer, but with a silent, otherworldly tenacity. And all were walking toward the bow of the ship. The wounds stopped bleeding, and dozens of empty eyes with stopped pupils looked in one direction. At one single person. It was as if an invisible gate was spinning, winding a couple of dozen threads at once, pulling up the dead, forcing them to step over the wooden legs, one step at a time.

The witch realized everything first, very quickly, one could say immediately. She cut off the first wrist that reached for her face, and with a quick kick, she threw the body away, which crawled back with the eerie, unthinking determination of a reptile or an insect.

"Sorcery!!!" Einar shouted at the top of his voice. "Unholy sorcery!!!"

Santelli immediately backed up and howled along with Kai:

"Necromancers! Fight them. Pantocrator is with us! God curses the wicked!"

Red-Eyed bounced back, buying a few moments, taking a quick glance to assess the disposition. The witch was separated from Elena by a few meters, and no less than five dead men advancing with open arms. She could make a run for the target on the side. If her boot didn't slip on the wet plank at the edge of the abyss, but there Charley was already grinning angrily. From the mast, Kai was rushing, scattering the pirates and the indifferent dead like a boar in battle harness and iron muzzle. It was as if the battle had gotten a second wind, and now the defenders were on the offensive.

At the beginning of the fight, the red-eyed woman's face was cheerful, like a sadist anticipating the most elaborate tortures. Then it was angry. Now it was truly ghastly, also because of the bruise left by Brether's hammer. Fury, anger, madness - all mixed, turning the witch's face into a demonic countenance. Charley crouched, preparing for the red-eyed woman to break through, to die, taking the devil's spawn with her. But the one didn't take the fight.

The witch threw a sword at Lena, which the Brether deflect. A long strip of steel flew overboard, and Charley finally dropped his hammer and began to fall, losing the last of his strength. But the risen had almost surrounded the red-eyed woman, cutting off all her escape routes. The witch once more looked around the ship with a mad gaze, her red-purple eyes blazing like slits drilled straight into hell. Then she plucked a bone-shaped comb from her hair with both hands and snapped it over her head. A wave of blue flame, mute and cold, slid down the witch's body from top to bottom, hit the deck, and opened up into a bottomless well. The body in the black cloak fell through the blue window, and a moment later, the passage closed and vanished without a trace.

The dead men shuddered, all at once, like a single organism divided into many members bound by a single will. And then the empty, sightless eyes turned the other way.

"Cut the ropes, drop the hooks!" shouted the captain of the pirate ship so even the flagship could hear. The risens were already shuffling toward the pirate ship. Death and cold were drawing heat from the dead joints, thickening the blood, slowing their movements, but rigor mortis was far from complete, and the dead, indifferent to pain and wounds, rushed to a new victim. The risens ignored the command of the "flagship" as if it did not exist. They were attracted only by the pirates. And ahead of the striding dead flowed a sheer terror, as if the accursed times of the necromancers had returned.

Axes clattered, cutting the ropes. The pirates of the assault team cried out in desperation, realizing that those who did not return in time would be left alone with the furious "merchants". The fight itself spontaneously stopped. Some could no longer continue. Others fled in a hurry to return, running into the dead, trying to escape the cold embrace.

"Damn..." Santelli said, bending, resting his palm on his own knee for lack of better support.

The brigadier saw the pirates had managed to drag the chest back to their ship, which meant the painting was lost. For a moment, the Brigadier hesitated, fighting the urge to rush to wrest it away. But common sense prevailed. The flame of battle rage was cooling in the Brigadier's blood. Biso walked past, deader than dead, and the Brigadier realized that was enough for today.

The ships disengaged. The natural force of the waves pulled the hulls apart but too slowly. The rebels clambered onto the enemy deck with the determination of ants, ignoring the axes and maces that crushed their skulls, the blades that severed fingers that clung to the side like iron hooks. Some of the dead men snapped, falling between the boards into the black water. Some had managed to get across and, from the sounds of it, were making a mess of the pirate ship.

Santelli sank to the ground, the axe jammed into the deck, catching the point in a gap between the boards.

"It's all lost," the foreman whispered.

The rain came down in the same drizzle. Not enough to wash away the blood or put out the fire, but it kept the fire from engulfing the deck. The pirate was getting farther away, and there were wild cries. It was unlikely the dead men who had crossed would be able to kill them all, but the danger was definitely over on this side.

Santelli wiped his face or rather smeared dirt on it. The pirate's axe caught the brigadier's cheek, severed his braid, and sliced his ear so that the lower part of it hung from a thin flap of skin near the lobe. Blood soaked the shirt and covered the leather breastplate with indelible streaks. The beard hung in brown icicles.

"Bandage me up or something," Charley wheezed from the deck, losing consciousness.

Kai went from board to board and finished off the surviving pirates, methodically, viciously stabbing them through with his sword. Santelli grasped the dangling piece of the ear with his free hand, yanked and tore it off, hissing in pain and anger. Threw the bloody piece of flesh overboard. A new red trickle ran down his beard.

"Everything is lost," Santelli repeated, staring into the darkness with a blank stare.

* * *