Chapter 28 "In the dark"
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Elena expected that now some adventures would start - secret break-ins, hidden murders, and all that sort of thing... However, nothing of the sort happened. The conspirators proceeded unhindered to the underground prison and got inside through one of the old castle turrets, which now served as an outhouse for dragging out qualified criminals and dead people. The door was unlocked, not a soul was inside, and even the gatekeeper was absent. Apparently, it had all been arranged in advance. On any other day, the intruders were sure to encounter at least one patrol of night guards, but the mess that had begun had at least here played in favor of the secret plan. Apparently, all the guards were holed up at home that night, not wanting to get into trouble with the crowd.
The bells were still ringing, and they were still ringing aimlessly and at random. In the distance, the echoes seemed to indicate that crowds were gathering and they were already smashing things. Ranjan said a few words about the great street, the Island Tower, and the Palace, but Helena partly didn't hear and partly didn't understand.
"Hel," Brether's broad palm rested on her shoulder.
"What?" the woman jumped up.
"It's your turn."
"So quiet..." Elena whispered instead of answering, looking around.
In fact, the silence here was quite tentative. Someone was shouting in the distance, his voice piercing the thick walls. The criminals were shouting at each other from their cells, calling on God and devils for protection. Chains rattled, metal clanked, and, in general, life was boiling.
Elena meant something else. The usual working noise of a functioning prison was gone. The jailers and guards had disappeared, and the roll call was not heard. No one yelled in a voice at the interrogation with the iron. Gone was the familiar background noise of a well-oiled machine, replaced by chaos, rumbling, and angry.
"Lead the way," Ranjan half asked, half ordered, handing the healer an old scrap of parchment.
And once again, everything went like greased slips for launching ready-made ships. So much so that Elena shrank inwardly, waiting for the inevitable and harsh payback for the freebies. The team descended level by level, encountering fewer and fewer signs of former luxury. The masters had never been here in the best of times, even when it had stood proudly above the ground.
By torchlight, the armed group walked past abandoned rooms and halls that had once been warehouses or dungeons for VIPs. Once, because now everything was abandoned, scattered, covered with a layer of dust that had settled to a felt-like layer of dust. Only in some places were unclear footprints, as if a large sack had been dragged, leaving wide furrows. The tracks seemed relatively fresh, which was odd but not important.
"Here," Elena said, pointing to an opening with a door that blended in color with the yellow-gray stone, successfully camouflaged in the realm of desolation. "It should be here."
"Let's break it," Brether ordered after a moment's thought, and several men with axes approached the old door, riddled with woodworm and time.
"Everything is so good that it's alarming," Cadfal said dryly, and Helena shuddered, so much so that the redeemer's thought coincided with her own.
Ranjan did not dignify anyone with an answer. The wood crackled under the blows. Here, the group split up. Almost all of the mercenaries, about a dozen in number, remained in place, waiting and guarding. They were to be the main strike force if they had to fight their way back. Cadfal, after a few words with his colleague, also stayed behind without request or comment. Ranjan took three men with him, Grimal, and then looked questioningly at Elena or rather at her shoulder load.
"May need medicinal help," he said, dark eyes glittering anxiously. The Brether seemed otherwise calm and collected.
Elena nodded and joined the smaller group. Rapist, inseparable from the spear, stood beside them. Ranjan looked at the doorway, beyond which began the stone steps of a steep spiral staircase.
"More torches!"
Elena noticed a couple of perplexed glances thrown by the hired men toward Grimal's belt, where an inactive magic lamp was hanging in a protective sphere of copper bars. However, no one asked questions aloud - the commander didn't think it was necessary to use magic light, so it was necessary.
"Let's go down," Ranjan ordered and was the first to step onto the steps. There was a cool dampness and something else like wet dog hair at the bottom of the stairs.
Well, the tunnel did exist, and there was nothing of interest in it. According to Elena's calculations, the old passage went far below the river, but there was almost no water here. There was enough condensation, yes, but no puddles, as if the stone slabs on the floor had absorbed the excess moisture. Everything was built without too much ornamentation but well-built. Stonework underfoot, red-orange bricks on the walls, and vaulted ceiling. Straight as an arrow, a path to somewhere far away without gradients and drops. The farther the company went, the more they encountered the whitish mold that hung in tattered tapestries on the walls, carpeted underfoot.
It is interesting how long it's been since a living person has set foot here, Elena thought, trying to keep up. Her legs and steps were long, but fatigue was taking its toll, and Ranjan was being driven forward as if by demons, whipped by invisible whips. What was the tunnel used for, she wondered? It was wide enough for a cart to pass through, but if it was used for cargo, there should be an elevator at the end, not a ladder. So it wasn't built for supplies....
The good torches burned brightly, casting smoky shadows on the old brick. There must have been some old air ducts because every now and then, there was the muffled ringing of bells from the surface. Given the atmosphere, it was very creepy and gothic, like listening to a funeral in a crypt.
"So..." Ranjan said gloomily, stopping and picking up the torch.
It looked as if a crew of crazy masons had decided to make a branch, a lateral branch from the main tunnel, so they had broken through the wall, excavated the ground, and abandoned it in the middle of their work. The mold was especially abundant here, a whitish film with veins of yellow enveloped the neck, going further into the darkness like a white funnel.
Ranjan lowered his torch, peering, but nothing was happening in the side tunnel. Grimal silently kicked at a stiff lump that, on closer inspection, turned out to be the head of a hammer. The weapon had been lying there for a long time. The wood decayed and the good steel almost succumbed to rust. It was comforting on the one hand - people had made the hole in the wall after all. On the other hand, it was disturbing - someone had thrown away expensive metal at the cost of several weeks of labor of a good worker.
"Further," Ranjan ordered, apparently deciding that if there had once been danger here, it had now died of old age and starvation or left the gloomy dungeon.
Downstairs, her sense of time was failing. It seemed to Elena that the journey had taken hours, but it ended abruptly at a new door. Now, without stairs. The single-leaf door seemed just as old as the previous one, but Ranjan tapped softly on the rusty frame with his knuckles. His signal was expected, and the door opened almost without a creak - someone had worked out the hinges and lubricated them well. Elena sighed, feeling her whole body tremble. Something was definitely going to happen now... Her imagination, spurred on by the tonic, was drawing amazing pictures, from taking out the Imperial treasury to saving the Emperor himself! He's young and probably good-looking... In any case, something significant and amazing will happen because the operation planned by Ranjan costs a lot of money, from hiring warriors and bribing prisoners to the old map, which was probably not for free!
Behind the old boards was a small corridor with a steep staircase leading upward. It looked like some kind of blind cellar, probably for wine or oil, judging from the remains of decayed barrels that looked like jumbo boats broken by the surf. It was dry, and the dust had gathered in the corners in shaggy shaggy clumps, a finger's worth of dust on the stone floor.
They were already waiting. Judging by the dusty footprints and the badly burned torches, they'd been waiting a long time. Elena sighed disappointedly, trying to make it sound unnoticeable. No gold, no Emperor. Just a woman, an old man, and some girl in a man's dress. The sight of the woman was breathtaking. Elena didn't see Bonoms that often and never Primators at all - the highest aristocracy dwelt in another universe. But one look was enough to know that, yes, this noblewoman was the kind of person the world turned for. She was neither dressed nor decorated, all modest and restrained, like a poor widow - a simple black dress with white ruffles and a pair of thin gold rings. She was not particularly beautiful, and her brown hair was tucked under a cap. But there was something in the posture and gaze of the nameless noblewoman, a quintessence of power and authority that made even Flessa seem like a bourgeois who had picked up some scrappy manners. Her gaze was uncomfortable, and her dark eyes held such a concentration of confidence in their right to command that you wanted to remember what you owed this woman, what, God forbid, you had done wrong, and how to serve her best.
The old man was much less colorful. He was more or less familiar to Eelena as a hereditary servant who had grown up in the House and had lost his identity since childhood or rather had not acquired it, having dissolved into selfless service to the masters.
A girl. No, not a girl! A gust of wind coming in through the abandoned tunnel made the wax torch flame twitch, illuminating the face better. A boy with thin features and shoulder-length black hair, almost a child but not quite a teenager. In some ways, he resembled the young Christian Bale in "Mio, My Mio," only more frightened, clearly unaware of what was happening. The boy seemed sleepy and was dressed like a man who had been hastily packed for a long journey, guided not by practical experience but by a rather abstract idea of it. Judging by the expression on his face, the frightened look in his eyes, and the turning of his body, the child's greatest desire was to cling to his mother - the family resemblance was evident even in the unfaithful light of the torch - to grasp her skirt more tightly. But the little nobleman stoically overcame his unworthy desires. It looked pathetic and very touching.
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"You're late," the woman said with icy reproach. She spoke like a foreigner who knew the universal language of the Ecumene but didn't even try to hide her accent. She spoke like Flessa but with an even more pronounced "otherness."
"Yes," Ranjan agreed, looking at the child. "There were reasons."
Strangely enough, the answer seemed to satisfy the Primatess completely. If the man said there were matters, then they really were and really got in the way. Now he was here, and it was time to move on. The woman's cold gaze slid over Brether's companions like a searchlight, all noting, expressing nothing, back to Ranjan. The Primatess hesitated, then nudged the boy lightly toward the brether. The child stumbled, glanced quickly, and with panicked hope at his mother and servant.
"Go, son of mine," the woman said, and something trembled in Elena's heart. "It is time to go."
No man would have understood, would have sensed the note of despair and fear hidden in the indifferent voice. But Elena heard and understood. The Primatess was deathly afraid - not for herself, for her child! She feared and hoped only for Brether. Fear and hope beat with the flames of the fire behind the iron armor of endurance. They were the only things the stranger lived by now. The child silently grabbed her hand and squeezed it so tightly that it seemed the bones were about to break with a distinct crunch.
"Follow me, young lord," the Brether said hoarsely as if he had taken in the drama of the moment. "We must hurry."
The child was silent, not letting go of his mother's hand. The noblewoman's face trembled, a little blurred like a wax mask under a candle. The sound of the bells of Milvess seemed to be ringing through the stone, barely perceptible, fading to the edge of audibility.
Strangely enough, the situation was saved by Rapist. He shifted his spear to his left hand and made a deft bow.
"Come with us, Lord," said the old sinner, surprisingly peaceful and confident. "Your mother will go the other way. It is safer."
"Yes," the Primatess said hurriedly. "We'll meet later!"
Elena wanted to shake her head, so unsophisticated did the deception seem. But it worked. The child looked around once more, looking for support and agreement in his mother's eyes, and apparently, he found it, for he released her hand and took an uncertain step somewhere between Ranjan and Rapist.
"Ah, pardon me, where are my manners? Buazo cyn Touye, at your service," Rapist introduced himself socially. "I would be honored to escort you, young master."
"Go," Ranjan commanded. "I'll follow you. We'll discuss with Lady her escape route."
Rapist and the three fighters surrounded the boy and led him toward the tunnel slowly so as not to frighten the child further. Elena hesitated a moment and saw the noblewoman hand Ranjan an angular purse filled with more than just coins. Apparently, the noblewoman had put together all the valuables she could find. As if only now noticing the rings, the woman hurriedly pulled them off, holding them out to the Brether. Grimal tactfully turned away, but Elena did not, reasoning that the presentation was part of the price of her help.
The aristocrat and the Brether exchanged a few phrases quickly and like people who had known each other for a long, long time. Elena could have sworn that they were connected by something long ago, something very strong.... but not love. Or maybe it was, but the feelings had burned out long ago. It seemed as if some important thing had passed her consciousness, something quite obvious, simple..... ready to explain everything.
No, the thought refused to catch. Her subconscious does not want to share its secrets. Well, there would be time to think about it.
"Hurry," the noblewoman said a little louder than usual. Her hand, in a simple glove without lace or embroidery, rested on the broad palm of a Brether in a thick combat glove.
Ranjan covered her hand with his, leaned in slightly, and replied something. Apparently, that "something" was the end of the conversation. The noblewoman stared at the man for a couple of moments with an unblinking gaze. A mask of alienated indifference on her face but a fierce flame of hope in her eyes. Then, as if on cue, the brether and the woman turned their backs to each other in silence and stepped in different directions. The servant, who had remained silent throughout the conversation, gave the lady his hand in a hurriedly obsequious manner. But no... not a hand. He seemed to be holding out to her a small silver-wired bottle, the kind of bottle used to hold precious perfume. The spreading odor confirmed the hunch. The smell of hot wax was joined by a subtle yet tart, heavy scent, like burnt chips of aromatic wood.
Elena shrugged her shoulders. It's not a good time to perfume. However, everyone has their own habits. The healer adjusted her "Vietnamese footlocker" and followed Ranjan. Brether did not turn around to cast a farewell glance at the mysterious aristocrat. Grimal closed the procession. The heavy door closed behind them, leaving them alone in the long old tunnel, the deadbolt clanking muffled on the other side.
The way back seemed much longer, but it stopped abruptly, just beyond the hole in the wall, when something thundered ahead. Ranjan handed the torch to Grimal, freeing his hands, and two of the three mercenaries drew their blades. It was not a ghoul hungry for human flesh, but Brother Cadfal stepped into the light. He was breathing heavily, like a man who had been forced to do hard, difficult work, and then immediately, without respite, he ran without equalizing his breathing. The redeemer's left ear was cut, and a good bruise was forming under his eye. The club in Cadfal's hands was black with freshly spilled blood. It looked like whoever had done his brother a little bodily harm had paid in multiples.
"Such an assholes," the redeemer said, almost angrily, addressing the hired men. "Or are you not in on it?"
In the next instant, everyone moved as if on cue. The mercenaries looked at each other as if they were a single creature with three heads, and Elena backed away from the wall, feeling the heavy chest pressed against her back. Rapist stepped closer to her, holding his spear at the ready. Grimal drew his left hand back and away with the torch, covering the child. The movement stopped just as it began, that is, for all at once. There was a pause of a couple of moments, which, however, stretched as if it had been a century. Elena was just thinking that she probably hadn't realized something important when it started.
One of the mercenaries lunged toward Ranjan, drawing his sword with the swiftness of a fighter skilled in dozens of fights, but the Brether was even faster. He stepped toward the assassin and threw his left palm forward, countering the enemy's blade as it tore from its sheath. A blow to the hilt's headband prevented the sword from being pulled from its sheath, and with his right hand, Ranjan was already drawing a dagger with a blade that was not long, but very broad. A single heartbeat and a terrible downward thrust drove the dagger through the crosshairs just above the chainmail hidden beneath his jacket, throwing the hapless assassin to the damp stone of the floor. Grimal immediately held out a tournament sword to the lord.
The second traitor mercenary swung sparingly and not wide, sliding forward with a proper stride. The third moved like a shadow behind his companion's left shoulder, preparing to support the attack. They paid no attention to Cadfal, leaving him behind, and the redeemer, for his part, was in no hurry to interfere in the duel. Nor did Rapist, who lowered his spear to shield Elena from the fight as if he had drawn a steel line that was not to be crossed.
Ranjan intercepted his blade in the half-sword position with his left hand, taking it like a club by the two ends. He leaned back a little and took the enemy's blow in the middle of his sword crosswise. A loud ringing sound went under the vaults of the tunnel, and Brether, continuing his movement and without changing his grip, sharply jerked his right hand with the clamped hilt. He made a powerful circular movement from the inside to the outside, literally sweeping the other man's blade sideways. The mercenary was fully exposed, with his sword drawn far to the left side, and Brether took a short step and struck the "tournament sword" from top to bottom, like a spear, between the neck and shoulder.
The third mercenary didn't flinch and tried to reach Ranjan, but he didn't have enough space to maneuver around his wounded colleague. Brether stepped further to the left, covering himself with the body of the traitor still on his feet. With a single tug, he freed the blade stuck in the flesh. The second mercenary was still alive because - this wisdom of Draftsman Elena remembered well - people die at once only in theater and legends. The wounded man clutched the wound with his glove and even tried to reach for the Brether, but slowly and weakly. Ranjan didn't let him finish the reception and, with a blow from the chest forward, drove the crosshairs of his sword into his opponent's eye.
The second dead man had already fallen to the stone floor. Behind Grimal's back, a child cried out. The servant did not attempt to interfere, holding the torch like a statistical illuminator. Cadfal watched the fight, eyebrows raised, with the look of a sophisticated connoisseur. Elena opened her mouth, feeling not fear but rather ecstatic delight, almost awe, mixed with envy. The place and time were, to put it bluntly, inappropriate, but the woman found herself enamored with the Brether. She had heard many amazing rumors about Plague's skill, but this was the first time she had seen the legendary swordsman fight for real. Charleigh-Vensan moved not so fast in battle but sparingly, always flawless and correct, embodying the Draftsman's ideal of "timeliness over speed." And Ranjan was fast, devilishly fast, like a black tiger. It was only thanks to her year of apprenticeship with Figueredo that Elena had any idea what was going on.
It smelled of freshly spilled blood, sharp and strong. The walls, which had known only dampness and musty air, seemed to savor the scent of recent death, eager to drink it in. The third and last mercenary froze like a snake before it struck, the slightly curved blade of a long saber trembling slightly in his hands. Ranjan intercepted the sword in the traditional manner, but in a mirror image of a left-handed man, breaking his opponent's usual pattern of moves. The steel points feinted, drawing complex curves in the semi-darkness, probing the defenses. Both opponents intended to play classically, according to the principle of "parry - counterattack," and now, tried to cause the opponent to make a reckless strike to force him to open up and make a mistake.
"My God," Elena whispered, realizing she was seeing the real Àrd-Ealain, the Grande Art of Death.
Suddenly, Ranjan clucked his tongue. As if obeying a prearranged signal, Grimal swung his torch, causing the shadows to flicker into shreds of frightened darkness. The sword in the mercenary's hands trembled, and Ranjan took advantage of the second confusion to attack... No, he merely signaled the attack, provoking it. The traitor, in a hurry, struck sideways, parallel to the ground. Ranjan set his sword in a hard thrust and, actually trapping his opponent's steel in the corner between the blade and the hilt of his "tournament sword," without unhooking the blades, responded with a jab to the face. Metal slid across metal with a screech, sending sparks that quickly went out. The mercenary jerked back, trying to avoid the point, stumbled over the corpse, and lost his pace and rhythm. Ranjan didn't give him a second chance and came at him, holding his sword very high, hilt level with his face.
The blow from top to bottom, almost without swinging, due to the leverage of the long handle, hit the forehead. The wound was not fatal or even dangerous, but it was shocking and flooded his eyes with blood. In the same smooth and inevitably fast rhythm, the swordsman raised the sword even higher, parallel to the ground, like a helicopter propeller, and struck from the side, still with the same lever, using his left hand under the guard as the axis of a sword turning. The blade shattered his opponent's ear, added blood, and likely a concussion as well. At any rate, the mercenary swung the blade haphazardly and without aim, chopping blindly. The third and final blow the Brether struck with a good swing, from top to bottom, crouching on springy legs to add power to the blow. He chopped the skull to the teeth, along with the thick felt hat. Elena even remembered what the punch was called-"a proper bow to Death."
No one had uttered a sound during the brief fight, the two fighters breathing, fighting, and dying in silence as if they dared not sully the beauty of the duel with words. The third assassin fell to the ground, joining his two partners, whose bodies were already cooling.
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