Chapter 6. "And they moved on..."

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In Lena's mind, dashing men in dangerous lands were supposed to gallop on brisk horses, flashing their weapons. But the locals had only one horse, though well-groomed in appearance. It was not much chased and was not allowed to chew grass from under its hooves. The horse was given fodder from a sack. She thinks oats. The wagon was filled with crudely chipped crates and wicker baskets, bundles of torches, and some other tackle, on top of which was placed a carelessly thrown roach, on which in turn lay a wounded man with a broken leg. The wagon was ruled by a fat man in a hat, who looked like a local sorcerer. Or rather, he sat with an important look on the fetlock, for the horse mostly followed the leader. Everyone else stomped on foot and seemed to expect the same from Lena as a matter of course. It was hard to walk, her legs ached and her calves felt like wood, but the girl did not complain, reasoning that for now it was walking, and then we would see.

As she did so, she glanced surreptitiously at her traveling companions, and they looked at her quite openly, talking softly in their avian language. Except for the brunette with the awl on her pole, the glances were rather curious. With a slight hint of suspicion, but more out of habit than a concrete complaint. But the dark-haired warrior was squinting just as angrily, and each time Lena got a chill. In the woman's gaze she could clearly read that if it were up to her will, the sharpened awl would have gone to work long ago.

The sun was climbing up in the sky. The fellow travelers smelled tangible, as they should smell of people who hadn't washed or removed their clothes, or even their armor, in at least three or four days. The leather of the armor the warrior woman was wearing creaked. Every once in a while, there was a soft clang of metal. The ghoul, mouth half-open, still had his sword, resting it on his shoulder, pointing up and supporting it by the hilt. The blade clattered softly against his chainmail, and the sound was as unpleasant to the ear as the sound of a needle against the glass. Up close, the fighter seemed even scarier but no longer weak-minded. His gaze was not blank but rather unfocused. He's looking at everything around him at once like a wide-angle lens.

Suddenly the ghoul with the sword turned to Lena. The girl did not understand a word he said again and shook her head with a resigned expression. But she noted this time the words sounded a little different, with an elongated "r" and softened vowels. It seemed to be a different dialect or even a language but from the same group. And it seems the warrior couldn't breathe through his nose, which explains his perpetually open mouth. The swordsman shook his head with a rather sympathetic look and made two more attempts. Each time the phrase sounded short and similar to the previous ones, but the pronunciation and structure of the words changed. Convinced of the utter futility of his efforts, the ghoul shrugged and seemed to forget about his companion.

Lena continued to evaluate her "colleagues".

Fact she was caught up in some medieval age, and not earthly, Elena decided to consider it axiomatic. That is, for the time being, it did not require proof. But for a medieval, as she imagined the era to be, the occasional companions still looked both too poor and too well-groomed. They were poorly equipped and armed; only one had a sword, and the others were armed with spears, daggers, and axes. Another pair of short axes, in addition to the axe at the bearded man's belt, the girl noticed in the cart. It must be said, however, that the gear and clothing looked like things that had been meticulously cared for, and where there were rags (there were many), everything bore the marks of careful, though crude, mending. And no lice, as far as Elena could tell.

The whole gang was wearing short, low-heeled boots of the same pattern and seemingly without any division between left and right. The pants were almost the usual style, only looser, with no pockets, tucked into the shoes. In general, nothing resembled the culottes or huge trousers that Lena remembered from books. But the pants had codpieces, which looked like panties that had been pulled right over the pants. Everyone had codpieces, even the woman with the spear. It was probably not only a utilitarian article of clothing but also a sign of belonging to something, a symbol of a certain status.

No one offered food or drink, and Lena decided she had to ask somehow, but when she had already turned to the ghoul, something changed. The bearded leader got worried and moved quickly forward, keeping his hand on the axe at his belt. He bent down and smoothed the grass with his hand, got up, and zigzagged forward like an angry cat in the morning. There was a tangible whiff of suspicion and unease in the gang.

The fat "Gandalf" on the cart stood at the edge of the cart and gave a quick chant, after which the group immediately bristled with iron on all sides. The fat man in the hat and mantle dived into the cart and took out of his chest a round bottle with a thick cork filled with either wax or greasy resin. It was the same bottle that he had not let Elena open earlier. Inside was a strange yellow-green substance that looked like a viscous liquid and a thick mist at the same time.

Now Lena noticed that something had changed in the world around her. Not for the better. For a few moments, she didn't understand what had happened. The sun was still shining dimly, a few sadly waving clouds appeared in the sky, and the plain hadn't changed either... Though, no, now that the gang was visibly nervous, and Elena's senses were heightened, spurred on by thirst and hunger, the girl finally noticed something quite strange. Beyond all the local "strangeness".

It was rather difficult to describe due to the absence of any analogs from the usual life. The grass and the sparse fallen leaves are blown by the wind from distant trees seemed ordinary at first glance. At a second glance, too. But if you looked at them at a certain angle to the sun and squinted, it seemed that the ghost of winter had peeked into the world. The earth and grass played with a subtle silvery glow. It was as if two photographs had been photoshopped together, one showing the usual summer landscape and the other leaving only the effect of the frost sparkling in the sun. Therefore, the mind simply crossed out the already subtle image, refusing to believe in the frost in the middle, if not of summer, at least in the early warm autumn.

And it seemed to Lena that she had seen something like that a long time ago. But at that time, this very "something" seemed very harmless, one might say, childish. And now...

One look at the gang was enough to realize that there was no sign of childishness here. The serious, very imposing, and dangerous-looking men were clearly afraid. Not fidgetily, but, you could say, busily, in full readiness to fight to the death. But they were afraid.

The horse got nervous, too. It probably wasn't a good turn, but the girl didn't know what else to call the animal's reaction. The animal snorted, moved its ears restlessly, and stepped over its feet several times as if it couldn't wait to get as far away from here as possible. The sorcerer, not letting go of the ball of green slop, muttered a short gibberish and made a strange gesture with his free hand as if crossing the animal between the ears. The horse calmed down a little.

The bearded man, whose name, as far as the girl understood, was "Sateli," or something similar, returned to the cart. He put his hand into his waist bag and pulled out a small metal plate, judging by the dull luster, copper or brass. A hole was drilled into the round plate, and the ringleader stared into it, surveying his surroundings while keeping his other hand on the axe. There was complete silence, only the ubiquitous breeze rustling the grass.

And it seemed to rustle peculiarly, louder than it should...

"Damhain-allaidh!" threw "Sateli" into the void, short and angry.

Whatever these words meant, they didn't put the gang in a good mood. On the contrary, it added to the enthusiasm. Everyone seemed to move at once, to start acting, seemingly in disarray, but actually according to the same plan. It was as if all this was not new to them.

The girl, with her angry face, gripped the horse firmly under the bridles (or rather, the straps that came from the intricate harness on the muzzle, which Lena thought was what they called "bridles"). She pulled to the side, pulling steeply to the side. Ghoul sucked in the air loudly, gripping his sword with both hands. Each of the gang either helped turn the cart around or pushed it, or showed their readiness to defend themselves.

The bearded man caught Elena's perplexed and worried look, hummed, and handed her the plate, pointing his finger in the direction she should have been looking. In general, judging by the changed face of the man with pigtails and an axe, the gang had avoided very big trouble. The bearded man's hard, rugged face was clearly relieved, and he didn't even try to hide it.

It turned out that the plate acted as a simple optical device. I think they're called "diopters," or maybe not. The image in the hole wasn't getting any closer, but it was getting a little clearer, and that was probably useful on a plain like this. But the girl still didn't understand what had happened. Where the bearded man had pointed, she could see only two stones, short, about the waist height of a man. Only these were not as wide and flat as many of the others in the area but as if they were growing out of the ground, long and rather narrow. There was a third, a little further away, about the size of a resting horse.

But something scared the local killers...

Lena blinked, and then everything shifted. Like pictures of black and white illusions, where you can see a vase or two symmetrical faces, depending on the point of perception.

Those were not stones. Two men, seemingly in heavy, angular armor, were either kneeling or sitting. The outlines of their bodies were barely visible beneath the dense robes, which looked like many folded light curtains one thread thick. And the rock, which looked like a horse, was a horse. Only not a resting one, but a dead one. With the diopter, you could see the bones yellowing through the dried flesh.

Something moved next to the dead animal, either behind it or on it... Or in the corpse... It was as if someone had waved the dried branches.

Lena dropped the diopter, stepped back, and literally jumped away, but managed to stifle the cry of unthinking, blind terror bursting from her throat. Just in time. She could tell by the icy stare "Satelie" gave her and by the hand that jerked the axe halfway out from under his belt that the bandleader would kill on sight if only she could keep the voice down. Not wasting a second trying to calm her down.

As the girl searched the grass for the fallen plate with trembling fingers, all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in her head.

Not winter hoarfrost, but a spider's web. A huge field, covered with a spider's web, barely or barely marked at the edges and thickening as it approached the center. Two dead men, braided in an eerie web, surely long dead. And a dead horse, with something lurking in it, with long thin legs like dried twigs. It was alive, waiting, ready to attack.

Lena dropped the diopter twice more before she finally picked it up and handed it to the commander. The chief looked at the girl with disapproval. But at the same time - a strange thing - her reaction seemed to calm him. With what? Why? From these thoughts, her head, already overloaded with events, ached for good.

One way or another, the encounter with the spider terror was behind us. Nothing bad happened anymore. The cart circled a very wide arc around the danger zone and returned to its original path. The gang calmed down perceptibly. Ghoul put his sword back on his shoulder and handed the girl a glass flask with a wooden cork. Just when Lena was about to ask for it herself, by gesture or whatever. Inside turned out to be pale pink wine, very weak. Or water diluted with wine. Either way, it was drinkable.

"Gandalf" threw her a rusk from the cart, which Lena miraculously caught. The rusk was of an angular shape as if it had been pierced around the edges with a chisel, and its appearance alone recalled the definition from an old book - "triple hardening". But to a girl who hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours, had been on her feet for hours, and had lost some blood, it seemed like a gourmet meal.

"Give her some lard, you greedy fatty," Kai remarked.

"Lard costs money," muttered Bizo, not intending to untie the bundle of honey and lard before the evening halted. "You've got to harness that mare. She's stomping along like she ain't tired."

The swordsman grimaced; he could see that the redheaded "guest" was exhausted and could hardly move her legs. And she was gnawing on a triple hardened rusk from the Old Ambar with such a crunch as if a cementavr had crawled out of its lair to sharpen its fangs on old bones. But Kai remained silent, as did everyone else. The incident was not an easy one; it required careful thought.

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After her encounter with the Gray Shadow - fortunately a successful one - it was finally clear that the redhead was an ordinary person, albeit a strange one, not of this world. Everyone is afraid of the Greys, even the hunters who catch the nightmarish creatures and sell them to the weaving manufactories. It pays only gold for spider silk, so the risk is worth the sacrifice. But it was not for nothing that the corralmen nicknamed the Shadows "quarters." A quarter of a good squad of thirty or forty fighters that is how many hunters you usually have to bury after a successful hunt (when there is someone to bury). Sometimes more, sometimes less. But on average, one out of every four. Math is a great thing. Kai did not doubt that Santelli had memorized all the landmarks of the Shadow's lair, and when he returned, he would sell them for good money. So they each get a few more coins...

The swordsman jerked his head, realizing that his thoughts were pulling him somewhere far away and out of place. Now, what was on his mind... Oh, yeah. Everyone's afraid of Shadows, but the redhead had an unconcealed horror about her. You can't play that, and there's no reason to. And for anyone who's wandered the wastelands, Shadows are scary but understandable and generally familiar. More than that, not too dangerous, to be sure. That is, she is not a witch.

Then who was it? Kai thought again, glancing at the girl who called herself Hel. A strange, strange maiden with a creepy nickname, the body of a grown woman who never went hungry, and the face of a frightened child, waiting for morning to come and the buka to hide back in the closet. The swordsman realized he was experiencing some confusion. He could usually tell unmistakably what trade any traveler he met was engaged in. The look, the hands, and the build all read like an open book to someone who knew letters and words. And all of Kai's life experiences told him that before him was a woman fighter ... who had never picked up a sword in her life. How is that possible...?

Mystery.

"The redheaded bitch," Shena said quietly, as if under her own nose, but everyone could hear her words in the thick afternoon air.

Soon they stopped for a halt. The sorcerer walked around the camp in a wide circle and was clearly doing something magical, breaking twigs and scratching marks directly on the ground with a bone knife. No brushwood was gathered, though it was possible to cut down a few nearby trees. They used what looked like yellowish laminated charcoal mixed with mica as fuel. Probably some kind of flammable shale; a whole basket of it was found in the cart, under the sacks.

Soon the smoke was up, and a pot of water was boiling on the fire. The cauldron was ceramic, with lugs inside, so it was suspended from an ordinary string without fear it would burn out. The sorcerer generously poured some herbs into the cauldron.

Not knowing where to put herself, Lena sat down by the cartwheel. She desperately wanted to bathe. A nice warm shower, or better yet, a bubble bath. Lots of foam! Lying in hot water for an hour, listening to Candy Dulfer's saxophone. And on top of that, some Clapton...

In the meantime, the wounded man, who had fallen into oblivion after the morning disinfection session, was dragged out of the cart and had not come out of it to this moment. Without mending, they changed his wet pants. The manners of the gang seemed to be simple.

The locals' outerwear was as "European" as it could be in a place where they probably didn't even know such a word. But the underwear (or should she say "underpants" or pants...?) was more like Japanese fundoshi underwear. Lena had seen them a long time ago in Kurosawa's Seven Samurai. A long strip of fabric that was tied in a clever way, reminiscent of a cross between a loincloth and a g-string. Lena automatically imagined what such "panties" must look like on a strict dark-haired girl, whose name was "Sheena" (fractioning the second vowel in the stretch), with her quite modern, if slightly uneven, short hairstyle "garçon". It came out funny. However, in the direction of the angry brunette, Lena tried not to even look at unnecessary times. She seemed too angry and unfriendly.

The swelling was visibly gone, and the wound also looked relatively well. At least there was no sign of infection. The sorcerer, who was examining the patient, seemed moderately pleased on the one hand and puzzled on the other. It was as if the dying man had drunk the poison, but instead of dying, he had been miraculously healed. Lena must have looked no less puzzled. In the morning, she had not looked particularly closely at the body of the wounded man. She had enough other worries. Now she saw more and in a calmer atmosphere. Well, the girl could have sworn that a little above the poor man's knee was a familiar scar of a distinctive shape. A smallpox graft, only not in an oval "patch," but longer, like a scar from a cut.

The wounded lad, meanwhile, had regained consciousness and even said something in a weak voice. They gave him a drink, put a piece of food in his mouth that looked like an oily shiny pita with meat streaks, and then "Gandalf" took a flat bowl, put it on the poor man's chest, and poured some water into it. Lena waited for some kind of magical manipulation, but the fat magician just stared at the surface of the water, wrinkling and curling his lips.

When Lena realized what he was doing, she was not even surprised. This world had already presented enough amazing experiences. The girl sighed and began to act much more confidently.

"What does it mean?" Santelli asked.

"Uh..." Bizo didn't know what to say, trying to comprehend what had happened.

Santelli didn't ask for a second time; he only frowned so eloquently that the alchemist flinched.

"You try it," said Bizo, and, taking the foreman's hand, guided his fingers to the neck of the unconscious Codure again. Now it was a good, healthy fainting spell, far from the unconsciousness of a dying man, but that was not the case...

When Santelli realized, he didn't even swear, just took a deep breath of air soaked with the scent of boiled herbs.

"That's it," exclaimed Bizo. "It's that simple..."

A patient's breathing was always checked in two ways. One for big people and expensive doctors - with a polished silver plate or a mirror. Well, the latter, of course, was for the nobles and merchants and not even the middle class. The mirror is expensive, even if the size of a palm. The second is simpler, with a bowl of water on the chest.[1] It showed the heartbeat. The method is reliable, tested, and proven by many generations. And if there is no water nearby, it means that the sick man is unlucky. Now a thin vein was beating under the foreman's fingers, twitching in a clear, very familiar rhythm.

"And you were right," Bizo admitted very quietly. "She'll do us good. We'll sell it, just not on the human market.

"To the Apothecary," the foreman said even more quietly, with a slight smile, pretending that he had intended to do so all along. "We'll give it up for a percentage to Mama," winked Santelli, and the alchemist blurted out an understanding smile. From the looks on the other companions' faces, they understood the idea, too.

Santelli smiled again, this time to himself. It's always a good idea for a boss to pretend that everything profitable was meant to be that way from the beginning.

The attitude toward the girl had changed perceptibly. She didn't become a friend in the slightest, the wariness remained, but the harshness of the attitude had diminished. Now the bandits regarded Lena as someone who had come to the wrong company. He was not welcome, but there was nothing to kick him out for yet. The pulse measurement seemed to have finally convinced the non-believers of the companion's usefulness. She was given more wine, a crumpled tin cup of herbal infusion, and that strange pita bread, which was not bread at all. Rather, it was a kind of pemmican made of dried meat, fat, and crystallized honey. It tasted like lard soaked in sunflower oil, but it was surprisingly filling.

They dined in silence with only the crunching of the hardened breadcrumbs with which they munched the pemmican. Now Lena could examine her companions more calmly and carefully. No one stripped or removed their armor. Weapons were kept close at hand at all times, even the seemingly harmless, well-fed mage carried a thin, sharp dagger like an ice pick in the folds of his cloak.

The ghoul, who was addressed as "Kai," liked Lena more and more by the minute. Well,... It was probably more accurate to say that the warrior seemed less repulsive. The girl was convinced she had been very wrong about her first assessment. The swordsman's gaze was intelligent and very attentive, without the slightest malice. The face was not so much unpleasant as it was very "sharp," with a distinct bone under the skin. And yes, it seems he really couldn't breathe through his nose, hence the constantly ajar mouth. She cannot help but be reminded of Kristen Stewart and the joke of one of Lena's acquaintances, who, at the release of each new film of the actress, sneeringly asked if the lady had mastered the subtle and complex art of closing her mouth.

Lena smiled at her thoughts, and Kai smiled, too, apparently taking her emotions personally. He smiled very stingily, not with his lips, but rather with the corners of his eyes, with a faint movement of his facial muscles. It looked ... manly. However, the moment of good mood was replaced by sadness. Lena remembered that she was actually infinitely away from home, films with Stewart, friends, and even just a warm shower. And away from her parents... Besides, the girl caught the unpleasant, ominous stare of the short-haired brunette again. The dark-haired Sheena had placed her short, nasty-looking spear under her right arm and was occasionally running her fingers over the dark notched shaft. As if she was just waiting for a chance to drive the point into the belly of an unwelcome guest.

In the light of the receding sun, the warrior's pupils glowed emerald with a subtle yellowish cast, like a true panther's. She had beautiful eyes and a striking appearance; if the woman were on the streets of a modern city, she would attract the attention of men and women alike. Even her haircut, made obviously by her own hands and without any mirror, looked like the intentional carelessness of the master. In front of Lena's inner eye again imagined Sheena with her hair artistically disheveled and in a thong band. Elena caught herself wondering how such an unusual lady was among the apparent gang. And, judging by the attitude of the others, she was, how should I put it... "one of her own," so to speak.

The sun touched the horizon and got a murky red color. The fire was trampled, and the rest of the mug's drink was poured over the embers. Helena was surprised at first, then thought that it made sense in its way. Apparently, the gang didn't want to give themselves away with light in the darkness of night. Though what darkness is there... The moon was already crawling out to replace the departing sun, just as huge as the last time but with a much bigger blue.

"If anyone has anything to say to me, now is the time."

Santelli finished his last bite and wiped his greasy fingers with a bundle of grass. Bizo shook his head in a sign that he certainly had nothing to say. The alchemist whispered, wiggled his fingers, and the barred symbols gleamed with a brief, dim glow. Now no one would pass them in secret until the first light of the sun.

Kai shrugged. He even seemed to like the witch who wasn't a witch.

Viall thought about it, shook his head, and pulled the cap he'd never taken off, even in his sleep.

That left Shena, and she behaved exactly as the foreman had expected. That is, she snorted and made a disgruntled grimace, but kept silent. She did not risk going against the whole brigade. Especially since the redheaded witch's undeniable usefulness was now obvious and undeniable.

Santelli sighed and rubbed his palms together, thinking that it would be sooner if they reached the Gate. There would be a bath. A real bathhouse, clean clothes, not roasted on a fire, but washed by hard-working laundresses. And a certain glorious institution where he would be welcomed... At this point, he forbade himself to dream. First, he must get to the Gate. The rest, including the pleasures, must come later.

"That's fine," summed up the foreman. "Shifts as usual. If all goes well, we'll be home tomorrow."

The word "home" sounded dry and unsympathetic. Like just another place, along with many others.

"Wait!" this time, Shena couldn't stand it.

Santelli raised an eyebrow and tucked his pigtails behind his ears with a slight movement.

"I understand everything," the lancer glanced furtively at the redhead, who seemed to be falling asleep sitting upright.

"And?" the foreman prompted her to continue with seeming gentleness.

"I won't spend the night with her," Shena said with stubborn and defiant determination, running her palm through her hair as if she were combing it back. It was a longstanding habit of the lancers, a sign of her willingness to stand her ground to the end and to fight if necessary.

"I don't believe her," finished Shena grimly. "Let her sleep behind the circle!"

Santelli thought that if he was attracted to women, perhaps he would even take the fierce warrior as his wife. A bad spouse in the Kingdoms, an excellent companion here, where the line between life and death is measured by the width of a blade's edge. Yes, it's a pity...

Shena's words were met with understanding if not agreement. Even Kai seemed to have discovered a touch of courtly chivalry. Everyone remembered that the redhead wasn't a witch and knew a lot of useful things, but the other oddities were still there.

"Fair enough," Santeli waited for the right moment when Shena's anger peaked and was ready to break out in a small riot. The brigadier's calm, judicious voice thwarted her impulse and made it dissolve in vain.

"Fair enough," repeated the chief. "But we won't let her out of the circle; if someone drags her there, that's lost money. We'll do it another way..."

When the ringleader took out a thin but strong rope and gestured that he intended to tie Lena to the cart for the night, the girl nearly escaped into the approaching semi-darkness, generously diluted by the moonlight. That was the last thing she expected, and the last thing she wanted, was to find herself in chains in the middle of a camp of some murky and ominous types.

But the gang definitely intended to insist. She didn't want to spend a second night "outdoors". More importantly...

For the first few minutes, the redhead seemed ready to run away right now without a backward glance. And in some ways, Santelli understood her. As a man with a good imagination, he could well imagine himself as a maiden (though not a very young one, judging by her uniform) in the middle of a brigade that was not accustomed to chivalrous courtesies. Except, of course, for Kai. But the crew's wish was indeed a fair one, and the redhead should have chosen what she feared more - an overnight stay outside the circle or the possible intrigues of her companions. For himself, Santelli had resolved that no one would lay a finger on his companion until her price at the Apothecary was settled. But it was impossible to explain it to the speechless girl.

The difficulty was resolved as quickly as it had begun; the redhead suddenly agreed to everything and even put up her own hands. She smiled enigmatically and placidly as if she expected at least a silk handkerchief as a present.

Perhaps the proximity of strangers seemed more appealing and safe than the night terrors after all.

At first, she was frightened. She was very frightened when the familiar feeling of unreality of what was happening came over her. But after a moment, she felt a rush of hot joy. It was coming back! The same lingering feeling of the incompleteness of the world around her, of its partial disembodiment, which was about to be shattered by the shards of non-existence.

Let them bind her in triple seas, let them practice shibari on her! It doesn't matter.

She's coming home. Home!

To hell with damn Kansas!!!

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