Chapter 9
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The newfound companions frightened me. Of course, I made a great effort to conceal this sad fact, but in my heart, I was torn between two extremes. On the one hand, it was nice to feel... protected. Following in the rearguard of the “Little Funny Army” I was not afraid of oncoming thieves, I was sure that I would not be robbed or stripped naked by the next profit-seekers, taking advantage of the fact that the Law remained somewhere far away. At a time when life was becoming easier and cheaper than the lightest, most worthless coin, this was worth a lot, so I was willing to tolerate a lot of things, including ridicule. Give credit to my companions, generally harmless, though often quite vicious. Still, the Funny Army frightened me and sometimes gave me outright terror, bordering on the desire to run as far away as possible, without a backward glance.
So ironic... Could I have guessed then that my personal body count would end up longer than that of all those who had gathered that fall in the little group of homeless wanderers? But I will not go ahead, for every story has its time and turn.
I distinctly remember the day, or rather night, and the hour when I first experienced that feeling of panic and fear of my comrades-in-arms. And at the same time, I realized that the act of killing is a diabolical and always unequal bargain. A ruthless bargain, according to which, when you take a weapon and take someone's life, you pay for it with your soul
Gaval Sentry-Poton-Batleau.
"The Twelfth Letter to My Son, About Cruelty and Murder"
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The town emerged from the twilight like a phantom. There was no real (and ill-gotten) wealth that was the source of the nightly festivities and revelry, so the townspeople went to bed early, with the sunset, saving candles and lamp oil. No one met Brether or tried to stop him. Some kind of life was only in the town square, torches burning there and movement in the shadows. Ranjan jumped off his horse and slung the reins over the nearest fence. If the Brether survived, the cattle wouldn't last long, and if not, it wouldn't matter who was tied where. The resin cuirass was almost unrestrictive and fit comfortably, and now all that remained was to ensure its durability matched the armor master's praise. Of course, he would not want to test it on himself. Ranjan had intended to give the armor to Hel, but it didn't work out.
He walked down the dark street toward the light, rotating his fists as he went warming his ligaments. Too bad there wasn't time to prepare, to warm up his muscles and tendons. God forbid that the leader of the Imperial Watch should decide to break off at once, in the dead of night, in order to transport the precious booty to a more suitable place without delay. It would be hard to catch up on a packhorse. And they may have, and most likely do have, orders not to deliver the precious prize. Winter is harsh, and children are weak, especially those from noble families. He drank cold water, ate stale bread, and died of inability to digest the coarse food of the common people.
Ranjan walked treading softly and quickly, thinking how soon he would be recognized without his long hair and in the purple half-darkness. Brether made no plans, knowing from personal and extensive experience that things would go wrong, so he had to rely on improvisation.
And luck. Or rather, God's favor.
Brether had never been a fanatic of the faith, and frankly, he did not share the belief that the Father of Swords watched over everyone who stepped onto the thorny path of the Grande Arts. Ranjan knew, of course, that Pantocrator knew everything and everyone, but the Brether had seen too much to believe in the power of prayers and supplications to the Almighty. Now, however, walking towards the imminent battle, he prayed. To himself, sparingly, choosing non-canonical, simple words.
God help him. Save him. Let me keep him safe. He's just a child I must save. We don't need an imperial inheritance or kingdoms. Just let him live!
He was not expected. The seven men near the stables surrounded Artigo, who seemed very small against the armed warriors. The young emperor said something quickly, waving his hands like a commoner's boy, and the sentries listened. Apparently, Artigo had succeeded in capturing their attention. This was bad. Ranjan held out a faint hope that he might be able to convince the warriors that the boy had lost his mind. No, it wouldn't work, so the fight was imminent.
Brether made a quick calculation of the odds in his mind as he walked. Seven fighters, that's a lot, even though one seemed to be a woman. Not good. All the enemies are on foot, the horses are in the stables, that's neither bad nor good. A rider is not easy to fight, but a horse is vulnerable if you don't aim to save a valuable animal. The warriors are armored and armed. Apparently, they have not had time to undress before dinner. Or perhaps they really intended to travel at night, “by lanternlight”. That's too bad. Perhaps the most unpleasant situation for a Brether is to fight against a more or less well-organized group, equipped in military style. If they were ordinary urban assassins, Ranjan would have gone into battle without fear, but as it was, there was a good chance that he would be buried. At least they weren't wearing helmets. A few servants were looking out of the stables. Yes, they were going to hit the road after all.
Brether grinned wryly and withdrew his scabbard as he walked. The sword echoed with its familiar weight as if to encourage him. Yes, Pantocrator had a peculiar sense of humor: if the boy had delayed a little longer, he would have missed the imperial bailiffs. And someone might have survived.
Artigo was the first to notice him and predictably shrieked. Ranjan smiled bitterly, feeling like a needle stabbed into his heart. Silently he quickened his steps, drawing his sword, the long blade rustling faintly as it left the wooden scabbard covered in patent leather.
"It's him! It's him! He's got me!" shouted Artigo, grabbing a woman by the leg, a stern aunt with a scar on her face and wearing good chainmail. "Don't give me away! I want to go home, I want to go to the palace!!! Don't let them take me, take me back! Take me back!"
Son, what are you doing…
Ranjan tossed the scabbard aside and gripped the hilt with both hands. He often started a fight by throwing the scabbard at someone's face, it was a nice distraction, but he decided not to risk it now. There are too many enemies with too good iron on them. The sword must not lose a moment. Brether didn't hope that the enemies would get confused. That would be too good and it really didn't happen that way. The Imperial Watch commander gave a few short orders as the swordsman crossed the small square. From the looks of it, the company was really good, and militant, and everyone understood each other halfheartedly. God would not give an easy victory.
In the semi-darkness Ranjan's anatomical cuirass was almost invisible under his clothes, but Brether hoped that the armor would not have to prove its quality. No one tried to negotiate or at least exchange a few phrases with the sudden guest, it was clear to each of the opposing sides that talking was useless and someone was about to die. One man was going to get the boy back at any cost, the others had already realized that they had gold and inherited nobility in their hands, maybe even with the prefix “ausf”. A comfortable life for generations to come.
Ranjan took a quick step, almost a run, and changed direction as if intending to attack from the flank. The opponents lined up coherently in battle order. Two of the largest in front, holding heavy “toothy” cleavers, designed to tear the quilts, and with luck, even the chain mail. The three in the second line are lightly armed but with shields. Farther back, a woman plus the last member of the team, seemingly the most harmless, apparently a real scribe. And, of course, Artigo.
No one was fooled by Brether's maneuvers. No one broke formation. Ranjan hadn't really counted on it, but it would be nice to scatter the enemy and kill them one by one. Well, there was no harm in dreaming! Brether gritted his teeth and launched a frontal attack, trying not to think about how slim the chances of breaking through the armed and ready-to-fight-back six were.
At this point, he was lucky. The right thing for a patrol to do would have been to immediately take up the defense, forcing a lone attacker to attack in an extremely disadvantageous situation. The commander, judging by their actions, had ordered it, but the first rank suddenly decided to stand out. Apparently, this pair was lower in status and position than the others, so the men wanted to kill a dangerous villain single-handedly in order to make it look like a great feat and the basis for a special award. They stepped forward and to the sides simultaneously, taking the enemy in their pincers, preparing to strike coherently, one on the right and one on the left. Such an attack would have killed an ordinary soldier, or even a brether, on the spot.
But Ranjan was not ordinary.
With a zigzag movement, literally hopping on one leg from side to side, the Brether confused his opponents, breaking their attack pattern. One hesitated, choosing the right moment to strike, while the other decided to strike downwards. The commander fiercely barked the order to return, his voice filled with rage, but for a few moments, the first ranks became a barrier to his colleagues. The Brether took advantage of those seconds.
With a swift step, his feet barely off the trampled earth, Ranjan drew close to his left opponent and brought his cleaver to bear on the base of his blade. The steel rattled, scattering a wreath of sparks, and Ranjan, crouching like a spring to soften his defenses, straightened like a snake in a dash, throwing the enemy's cleaver away, and kicking his opponent in the groin. The soldier backed away, bending down, and was struck on the top of the head with the tip of his tournament sword. It was not fatal, but the soldier was out of the fight for a minute or two falling to his knees with a white twisted face. A long sword certainly isn't that heavy, but it's not light either, especially guided by strong hands. Even with a helmet on brains shake, and even more so without one. There was a killing blow needed here, and Brether made it, but it was faint, and Ranjan suddenly attacked the second fighter.
It was a tricky one. It would hardly work against a fellow professional but the swordsman had expected that a professional mercenary, accustomed to riding combat, was not well versed in the science of freeing himself from grabs. And so it came to pass. Brether entered the “circle of death”, almost close to the enemy, tied the enemy's blade with his own, taking it aside. With his left hand, he intercepted the cleaver and palms of the enemy behind a short garde, twisted, completely opening the enemy. In general, the technique was similar to the one that the swordsman used to disarm the traitor in the dungeons of Milvess, only instead of levering his blade this time he used his bare hand. Instead of stabbing his opponent in the eye with his blade Ranjan swiftly struck his opponent in the teeth with the headband of his tournament sword. He stepped back and struck again with the very end of the faceted blade, aiming at his neck. It hit.
The case started, against expectations, well. There were already five enemies. If you don't count the scribe, there were four. The one hit in the head fell to his knees, swaying, disoriented, ruffling his blood-soaked hair with trembling fingers. The man wounded in the neck snorted and howled, trying to clamp the artery, but to no avail. His own heart betrayed him, pushing another portion of red liquid between his weakening fingers with each beat so the guard had only minutes to live. Luck! But Brether realized that his luck lasted only until the first mistake, the first missed blow. And even if four or five men could make a great number of such blows, at least one of them would find its target.
The trio of the second line attacked nicely, in contrast to their predecessors, to whom the guards paid no attention. Victory first, then everything else. The woman stayed with Artigo. A loud screech rang in the semi-darkness, some latecomers to the town had seen the slaughter and reacted accordingly. The drinking house, where it seemed someone was still there, rumbled, and lights began to flicker on in the small windows of the surrounding houses, awake owners pulling coals from the hearths to light a candle or a grease-soaked leather cord. Pigs, common and sentinel, grunted, but the fighting men paid no attention to this, rattling their iron to death. Everything that did not concern the battle was now over the moon.
The trio was advancing, wanting to envelop the Brether in a semicircle and finish him off with simultaneous blows from different sides while Ranjan tried to outmaneuver them by breaking through the formation or bypassing them. None of them were successful, but the swordsman had to retreat, threatening the trio with quick lunges. Sweat was already pouring down their faces in angry grimaces, and the leather and links of their armor creaked. Ranjan did not allow himself to be surrounded, but it was not easy. He was still strong enough to breathe, but the Brether could feel that his sword was getting heavier, and the breathlessness was about to touch his chest with suffocating fingers.
Ranjan could easily take out any of the three one-on-one, two would have to be fought, but with a more or less predictable outcome, but all at once, it was already dangerous. And the shields were very much in the way. Ranjan missed the swing of the axe after all. The well-sharpened blade tore through his left sleeve and cut through muscle. It was a light wound. The kind of wound that wouldn't even need stitching and would heal itself, albeit with an ugly scar, but the swordsman was out of rhythm. The leader, sensing the weakening of the enemy, rushed into the attack, like a knight of honor against a line of spades, without looking back. He swung his one-handed sword and shield with surprising dexterity, much better than a regular sergeant, apparently having taken fencing lessons. And he played a combination not at all soldierly, not every duelist would dare to play such a feint. He knocked Ranjan's sword to the side and downward with a “mill wheel” technique, hit his right arm with the edge of his shield, preventing him from raising his sword in a block, and stabbed him in the head, swinging almost from his ear.
Ranjan took advantage of the commander twisting his shield and sword around to open up hard, leaving his body unprotected. His hands released the long blade from its connection to the shield, and the steel strip struck his opponent's chest, but weakly, too weakly. The chainmail hidden beneath the gambeson not even clanking in response. Brether was forced to retreat again, bells rattling in his skull, sticky blood pouring from his right eye, and weakness spreading through his left arm like poison. And the enemy pressed on, gaining confidence. Ranjan estimated that he had five or six steps back, then he would be pinned to the wall, and then, accordingly, he would die.
It's funny... to go through so many fights, to defeat the strongest, to earn the self-explanatory nickname “Plague” - and all this to be slaughtered by a common mercenary in the godforsaken wilderness, and then buried in some pit, well, if not just thrown into a ditch. An ugly and ignominious end. The wicked Draftsman would have a couple of maxims about it and of course a remark about the harsh Art, which always takes what is due.
But behind the backs of his enemies, Brether saw the boy, frozen, clinging to the guard. He did not realize that he had come to his death and that he had led the only protector in the whole world to death. The child would not see the dawn in any case, no matter what the watch's orders were, they would kill Artigo now, and they would not risk it. In case some other saviors showed up.
A swing, another swing. One of the “toothy” finally went into the next world, the other tried to get up from his knees but fell time after time. The opponents still fought in silence, only heavy breathing came out of their throats, steel rang, and goatskin soles clattered on the hard ground. Time was now the faithful handmaiden of the sentries, every moment, every drop of blood lost, every step taken, was turned against the Brether. Shield plus sword, shield plus broad saber, shield plus axe. And four steps to the wall, no, it was already three. It was impossible to break the well-coordinated formation of the opponents. The shields and the group working together gave too great an advantage.
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Two steps.
And Ranjan realized it was time to take his chances, relying on luck. The sword in his hands drew a devious curve, the brether won a step by swinging forward, and then Ranjan attacked the saber-wielding soldier who had taken center stage. The soldier was good and fast, but spread his saber and shield too wide, acting them not coherently, but one at a time - strike-defense - in an easily guessed rhythm. The point of the tournament sword found a gap and jabbed under his arm, between the shoulder pad and the brigandine. At the same instant, the Brether received a powerful blow to his side from the left and behind. The axe easily shredded the leather jacket and split the resin armor, hitting the lower rib or under it.
Ranjan felt as if he'd been stabbed in the kidney with an armor-piercing dagger of last hope, the force of the blow nearly dropping the swordsman to his knees, cold sweat beading all over his body in a split second, as if his skin were a sponge. Only years of experience and a duty stronger than death kept the Brether on his feet. He turned his body and took the sword of the enemy leader on his chest. His ribs crackled, but the flash of new pain was lost amid the liquid fire that flooded his kidney area. The resin cuirass received a second breach, but held the blade, missing it by no more than two or three fingers.
Growling with pain and hatred, but not losing his saving composure, Brether swung a swinging blow at the face of the man still twitching his axe, trying to pull out the weapon stuck in the tar. He struck with the flat of the blade with no desire to hurt, only to stun, to take him out of the game for a few moments, or, God forbid, the blade would get stuck. While the axe-bearer was trying to keep his balance, waving his freed weapon around, Brether struck the wounded saber-bearer, again with the flat and again in the head! Then the tournament sword fell on the ringleader, this one successfully covered by his shield. And again in the same rhythm, in the same order. Each attack at breakneck speed forced his opponents to defend, to lose momentum, to retreat at least a quarter of a step. Ranjan was not trying to kill, only to force his opponents to open a semicircle, lose coherence, let them smell their own blood, and let fear seep into their minds.
On the fourth series of blows, when his lungs were already burning with fire and fatigue hung on his arms like shackles, Ranjan broke his rhythm and, marking a false blow to the axe-wielding fighter's head, quickly crouched down, and then in a clear, practiced downward motion from top to bottom, chopped his foot full length between the bones, from base to toe. A simple, unsophisticated blow, designed for an unarmored or ordinary foot soldier in three-quarter armor. The sentinel had no sabatons or even heavy cavalry boots, and the blade went through the thick leather of his shoe like a shawl of fine linen. The soldier shrieked, staggered, dropped the axe, and the weapon hung on the leather loop at his wrist.
Nineteen people... Vincent killed nineteen people in one night, and I can't handle six.
Bitterness and a false sense of insolvency as a fighter kept Brether on his feet, but Ranjan could feel the warm blood soaking the clothes beneath his cuirass. His lower back was no longer hot, but instead, a cold numbness spread up and down his body, turning his muscles into a limp jelly. His gut told him that the swordsman had maybe a minute more, maybe even less. Then the blood loss and pain would take its toll, and the first wounded man was still up, staggering, about to join the fray. Ranjan jabbed his sword into the saber-wielder's face, forcing him to retreat, and gained enough space to drive the commander away again.
An anonymous citizen came out into the street, shrieking, seeing the scene of the massacre, the shriek surprisingly harmonious with the scream of the one who had been stabbed in the leg. Pigs squealed all over the town. Someone for some reason, started ringing the bell at the big well, where water was taken for horses and extinguishing fires. Shutters clanged alarmingly. The townspeople were mostly in a hurry not to go out into the street but rather to barricade themselves.
Two blows on the commander, a sharp turn to the wounded saber bearer, a stab in the head, near the ear, where the neck begins. The enemy was already struggling to stay on his feet, tried to shield himself with his shield, crouching, and did not keep his balance, the crouch turned into a fall. The soldier flopped awkwardly as if sitting on the heel of his right foot in a flamboyant bow. From this position, he was unable to get up quickly or reach the brether, and the swordsman finally focused on the enemy superior, sidestepping him from the side of the shield.
Now all four of them were stretched out in an irregular line: the axe-wielding fighter, who bounced awkwardly on his healthy leg; the concussed saber-wielder; the commander; and finally the brether. Scarlet stains covered his clothes and armor generously, and in the light of the comet and the lone lantern, the blood seemed black as tar. The Brether's cuirass crunched glassily with every movement, apparently because the breaches had caused cracks to scatter across the plates, and the armor now held only on a cloth base. As the armor master who had sold the armor had honestly warned, it could take a good beating but if it was broken, the hole could not be fixed. It's no big deal, the main thing is that it should last till the end of the battle. The item has already paid its price with more than enough.
The commander closed well. The Brether pierced his defenses twice, but the blade only knocked the brass ringing out of his armor. On the third, Brether's sword struck his shoulderplate and broke with a clear crystal clink. The swordsman was left with a fragment no more than an elbow long.
Ranjan howled in frustration and the feeling that Pantocrator was lavishing him with a generous hand of bad luck for his sins, alternating successes with unbelievable failures. Swords of such quality do not break just like that, or rather, almost never break, they are made to pierce a knight's armor, and the chance of losing the weapon so ridiculously and accidentally is negligible. Yet it happened. But a good warrior differs from a bad one in that he fights until the last moment and the outcome is certain - victory or death. And Ranjan was a very good fighter.
There was indeed a hitch in his murderously precise movements, but it was almost imperceptible, at least his opponents were unable to take advantage of it. Brether stepped toward the saber-wielder, who was still trying to awkwardly stand up, and swung his sword at the base of his neck, half a finger above the brigandine, taking advantage of the fact that the sentinel was not wearing a gorget. The sword stuck, but the brether wasted no time in trying to pull the splinter out. The next step back Ranjan found himself face to face with the wielder of the axe. This time the Brether stabbed his opponent in the eye with his spread fingers and pushed him in the chest with both hands, toppling him onto his back like a drunkard who had drunk cheap wine. The chopped foot made it impossible for the man to get up on his own.
The commander was steady on his feet, but his shield arm hung limp, the shard of his sword stuck in the metal of his shoulder plate. The sentinel gritted his teeth and turned to the Brether's left side, ready to take the blows on his immobilized arm - better to lose a limb, even if it was at the shoulder than his life. The commander stood beside his dying colleague to prevent the mad swordsman from hell from picking up the fallen saber.
Ranjan bowed his head, glaring bull-like at his opponent, catching his breath. The traitorous weakness was already in his shoulder girdle, his mouth was acidic, and nausea was at the back of his throat. The red moon seemed obscured by a cloud, but Brether knew from experience it was the blood loss that was making his eyes dark. The broken cuirass was pressing on his chest like an instrument of torture that flattens its victim with a wooden plank with weights.
One could have suggested that they disperse, moreover, now the sentries might have agreed. But Ranjan was afraid that even the shortest phrase would betray his sad state of mind. No, the opponents had to be killed or put to flight, there was no third. Brether pulled a dagger from his boot and cast a leering glance at the quartet near the stables. The scribe and the woman didn't seem to be going into battle - thank God! Artigo shouted and cried, and the stunned big man picked up his cleaver, but he was either hesitant or overcome by a bout of nausea. Behind him snorting blood from his broken nose, the “axe” wailed, fiddled, and creaked with iron. Brether turned sideways, so that he could see all the participants in the ferocious fight, and attacked the commander.
He was expecting something traditional, “swordsmanship” and could have expected success. But the Brether didn't feint or weave a clever web of lunges, instead Ranjan threw a dagger at his opponent's head. The man deflected the iron with his sword losing a moment, and the Brether was already lunging at the leader's feet like a fairground wrestler. The commander was good, very good, he managed to strike downward with the hilt of his sword, but with a weak swing, and he did not hit the head. Feeling a new flare of pain under his shoulder blade, Ranjan caught his opponent's front leg and threw him to the ground with a powerful jerk that knocked the air out of his lungs with a shrill sob. The Brether crawled away on all fours and picked up his saber, arming himself again. But the commander did not get up, apparently, he had hit his head too hard.
Ranjan stood up, leaning on the enemy's blade as if it were a stick, no longer caring about the sharpening. Roughly, dirty, he finished off the two wounded men, giving them credit in his mind at least. No one asked for mercy, and everyone fought to the end. In the cold air hung the heavy odor of spilled blood, underfoot there was a crunching sound as the ground had not yet frozen to mud. The pigs continued to squeal. Artigo sobbed hysterically, clutching at the guard's leg, and the scribe ran down the street toward the far gate, not even trying to get his horse out of the stable.
The big man remained between Ranjan, Artigo, and the guard. He staggered, bloodshot eyes bulging, stooping like an oceanic, multi-legged beast called a crab. It seems that Ranjan's kick had not been in vain. But the soldier was stubborn and still dangerous. Ranjan lost another half a minute or so, confusing his opponent with a web of false swings and jabs, hiding one real one among them. It's no good trying to fend off a heavy blade when you're dizzy and your opponent is faster and more lightly armed. Ranjan poked the soldier in the groin, between his breastplate and his dapper codpiece, which was trimmed at the edge of the flap with copper nails. He waited until the big man fell to his knees a second time and finished him off with a blow from top to bottom of the neck, like an executioner. The saber was mediocrely sharpened, so the blade fractured the cervical vertebrae rather than chopped them.
Brether gripped the weapon tighter, and rolled his shoulders, trying to break the shackles of weakness. The blood that had soaked his jacket had already begun to cool, drawing additional heat and strength. Ranjan strode forward, intent on finishing the job. Brether had nothing against the girl's flight, but she had decided to fight in the manner of her valiant comrades. As the Brether strode toward her on woozy, wobbly legs, the woman literally ripped the boy from her, pushed him behind her, and crouched, holding with both hands a cleaver almost as long and large as the Brether's trophy saber. Ranjan thought belatedly that he should have brought a shield or a second sword along with the saber, and then he would have had a better chance. Now, soberly assessing his condition, he gave himself three chances out of five, maybe even. If the damned aunt had weapons on the level of her comrades-in-arms.
"Go away, I'm not after you,” Ranjan grumbled, each word forced through his throat with effort, scratching and grating. Brether could barely feel his legs anymore and knew that when the fire of battle died down in his blood, he would likely have to scream in pain. If he stayed alive, of course.
"Go away,” Ranjan repeated. His greatest fear was that the woman would try to close with the boy, but the sentinel was either confused and didn't think about it, or she had a strong notion of honor, which was rare among mercenaries, even if they were in the sovereign's service. Or maybe she was frantically hoping to be rewarded for a live one.
"Get out of here,” Brether almost begged, feeling as if he were about to fall. Weakness spilled down his left leg like the urine of an incontinent old man, inexorable and unstoppable so that no amount of willpower could help. Against this background, the wound in his chest felt like a slight abrasion, though it was clearly something a good surgeon would have stitched up. His left arm was ineffective because of the axe cut.
The woman stepped forward with her bloodless lips clenched stubbornly, her cleaver held firmly, properly, her elbow at her side, so as to be less tired. Her left arm stretched forward and slightly to the side, intending to take the blows on the gauntlet. It was strange that, clearly being brave, she had held back from fighting before. Either she was following orders or she didn't want to share the glory and rewards with her colleagues. On the other hand, motives are not important, the important thing is that she didn't interfere.
Ranjan had to stand up straight, distributing his weight equally on both legs. The Brether revised the odds, giving her three successes out of five instead of the previous two.
They exchanged a couple of tentative blows, and the sentinel grew bolder, realizing that the fearsome swordsman was no longer so fearsome and barely on his feet. The woman attacked with quick steps and bounced, not even trying to hit particularly hard, just exhausting the Brether even more. The blades clashed with a tinny clang, and Ranjan noted distantly that the woman's cleaver was too heavy for full fencing, a pure weapon of war for a direct strike without frills, so the swing was slow and the defense weak. But that was enough for Brether for now.
The moment the sentinel, daring to sidestep him, forcing him to wiggle his woozy legs, the bowstring of pig entrails clicked loudly, and a ball of lead flew from the darkness into the woman's head. She lost her balance, swung her cleaver at random, and Ranjan, with the practiced precision of a spring-loaded automaton, slashed her leg just above the knee and, on the rise of the blade, caught the wrist of her armed hand with the point of the blade, tearing the leather glove on the inside of her wrist.
The woman took a step backward, looking around in shock, a trickle of dark blood snaking down her face. Then the sentinel ran, awkwardly, staggering and limping. Artigo screamed again, desperately reaching out his arms to follow her. Ranjan let out a long, long exhale and leaned on his saber, now with both hands. He grinned crookedly, thinking he was alive again.
Again...
A horse rode past, ridden by Hel with Hel's ineptitude. Cadfal followed, holding his executioner's club on his shoulder. Gamilla emerged from the darkness, cocking the ballester. The mechanism allows her to do so on the move. Behind the crossbowman's back, some other shadows flickered, apparently other companions. They seemed determined to finish what Ranjan had failed to do, that is, to break the watch and bring back the young fugitive. In a neighboring street a woman's cry of “Ai-yi-yi-yi-yi! Killed, all killed, completely killed, honest people, good people, what is this doing?!!!”
"Give me your hand,” Pantin said imperiously, holding out his own. Ranjan ashamed of his weakness accepted the help leaning heavily on his former mentor and counting the damage. A split forehead, a cut hand, a stab wound in the chest - it was nothing to worry about, requiring only a needle and thread and fortified wine to burn off the poison that iron and steel exude. A chopped lumbar wound, on the other hand, could easily cripple a Brether. At least a cripple. Every Brether knew that it was possible to survive even if the liver was severed, it would take a miracle, but it happened. But if the axe really hit or at least knocked out a kidney, it was bad, really bad. One could only hope that the cuirass was strong, Hel is a really good healer, and Patin's self-restraint in magic only applies to killing other people. A little healing magic would be very welcome right now.
“That didn't turn out well,” Ranjan exhaled. He felt even more disgusted. What had happened to his former dexterity of body and speech? In the past, beautiful words had come out of his mouth, crowned fights with dignity, been repeated by many mouths, and gone to the people. But now Ranjan felt nothing but pain, fatigue, and disappointment - in everything. He looked at the boy, curled up on the ground by the stable. Artigo was howling like a wounded animal, on one note, covering his head with his hands. It seemed the child had wet himself.
“Stupid,” said the brether. “So stupid…”
It seemed to him that his body suddenly became very light, just like a feather. Breter flew up above the ground with the power of his mind, not realizing that he was actually falling backward. Muffled, distant voices sounded.
Put it down
This is Pantin. But who are they putting? And where?
We need more fire
And this is Hel. Her voice is unmistakable, a little low for a woman, but without the masculine notes. Very memorable because it lacks any accent, pleasant, at times it seems that when the medicine woman speaks, she sings without stanzas or rhymes. But why is Hel here, since she was riding a horse? Or was that not her...
Cut the belts
Oh, no shit! Without that plate, he would've been chopped up to my abdomen from the inside out.
Good armor, not steel, of course, but excellent for secret wear. Too bad it can't be repaired.
It hurts. Now it really hurt. Ranjan would have cried if he could have, but he could no longer feel his body, and it was as if tendons had been cut in all his parts.
The bleeding won't stop. I'll try to make a tight bandage.
Someone is bleeding... Who?
Shut this bastard up!
They were talking about my son, Ranjan realized. He wanted to say that they were bastards themselves, that it wasn't the kid's fault, and that he would kill them all if they didn't stop insulting him, but he didn't, falling into a final and blessed faint.
The Brether's last thought was a surprisingly sensible and clear one: that, if he looked at it dispassionately, the fight was worthy of a real, good legend about one man slaying many. Not as loud, of course, as the Moon Reaper's revenge on the dastardly Bonom, but worthy enough. But he who was called Plague would not be proud of that fight and would refrain from telling about it.
Then there was only darkness and peace.
"God be merciful,” Gaval whispered, looking around frantically. "God... What are we going to do now?"
He looked at Gamilla like a starving man looking at a millet cake. Desperately hopeful and understanding at the same time. The paid bodyguarding time was over, and the minstrel had no more coin. So the crossbowwoman owed him nothing more.
"What to do,” repeated Gaval, who had already seen in his mind's eye a wheel for breaking joints, a boiling cauldron, hooks for hanging by the ribs, a pole with nails, and other tools of the executioner's trade. The minstrel did not remember exactly what the punishment was for those accomplices against the imperial authority but was rightly of the opinion that the noose was not the answer.
Gamilla exhaled, watching the steam dissipate in the cold air, and shook her head, trying not to look in the direction of the elderly spearman who was nonchalantly wiping blood from his weapon with a scrap of someone else's cloak. She said nothing in response.
"We must run,” summed up the Highlander, limping with a crutch stick. On his weathered, nasal face he could clearly read the realization that Maryadek was not just a poacher, but a participant in a crime against the Empire. And judges were unlikely to scrutinize the nuances to determine the exact degree of guilt and complicity.
* * *