Dmitry Khristosenko - keep the line. Dmitry Christenko Blood of the Dragon

Dmitry Christenko

Dragon's blood. Hold the line

* * *

Go your own way.
He's alone, and there's no way around him.
Don't even know why
And you don't know where
You are walking…
Go your own way.
You won't be able to get it all back
And you don’t know yet
What's at the end of the dead end
You will find…
You will find…

Epidemic

The Turonian soldiers initially drove the captured Farosians after the knightly cavalry, but then the cavalry rushed further along the road, and they turned towards the city walls. There were already guards at the gate wearing the margrave's colors.

“They’re fast,” one of the prisoners whistled.

- Nothing surprising. The city didn’t resist,” another responded.

- Do you think so?

“You can’t see it,” said another one angrily. - There are no signs of an assault. And the Turonians would not have managed it in such a short time. I suppose the guards immediately threw down their weapons and ran into the corners like rats. And there the gates are wide open and the keys to the city with a bow.

- Maybe they took him by surprise?

In response - a contemptuous snort.

Outside the gates the prisoners were separated. All surviving metropolitan nobles were taken somewhere in the central part of the city, and all the rest were escorted to prison. The new head of the Turonian prison was not happy about the addition of his wards.

- And where should I take them? – he grumpily asked the head of the convoy. – I don’t have any free cameras.

It was not surprising that the prison was overcrowded. There were those dissatisfied with the new government, and, of course, they were not treated on ceremony. And the underworld came under a raid - they had no hired informants among the Turonians who replaced the local city guards.

– Scatter several people on camera. If they make room, they’ll fit in,” suggested the convoy commander.

– My local bandits are through the roof. They will arrange a massacre for me and yours.

- What do we care? They'll kill each other - that's where they'll go.

- It is truth too.

The head of the prison checked the submitted lists and ordered the prisoners to be distributed among the cells. When the prisoners were driven past the Turonian commanders, one of the Farosians said that they could use the help of a doctor, but this remark was arrogantly ignored.

The irritated guards, already looking forward to a well-deserved rest, quickly pushed the prisoners into their cells. By chance, Gorik Abo ended up in the same group with Graul and two inseparable neighbor-friends - Kartag and Split. With them were an unfamiliar mercenary and a couple of Amel militiamen.

The cell was overcrowded, and the old-timers stared at the new arrivals with looks that were far from friendly. One militiaman tried to sit down on the corner of the nearest bunk, but a kick in the back pushed him to the floor. Hitting his tailbone, he screamed loudly. The prison inmates burst into mocking laughter. The second Amelian decided to help the fallen man get up, but a shaggy man, naked to the waist, jumped off the bunk towards him, loudly knocking on the floor with his wooden shoes. He tutted through his teeth at the uninvited assistant, causing him to jump back in fear behind the backs of the Nugars, scratched his chest overgrown with thick hair, caught a louse and crushed it with his nails. He chuckled and looked the newcomers up and down. Not impressed. Pale, haggard faces from fatigue, dirty, torn clothes, bare feet. Maybe he didn’t see the newly arrived warriors, or maybe the class affiliation of the guests only aggravated the situation. Still, soldiers and criminals mutually dislike each other. Often the first ones have to participate in raids on the second ones.

Carelessly kicking aside the militiaman sitting on the floor, he waddled towards the Pharosian fighters standing at the entrance.

“Well, they stood up like step-brothers,” he extended his hand and patted Split familiarly on the cheek.

Hissing like a cat that has been splashed with water, the Nugar grabbed the proffered arm and twisted it so that the old-timer fell to his knees, howling in pain. The punishment of one of them was not to the liking of the inhabitants of the prison. Immediately, six or seven people rose from their seats with the intention of teaching the daring newcomers a lesson.

Graul roared joyfully and rushed towards them, jumping over the militiaman who was hastily crawling to the side. Cursing, Gorik Abo hurried after his fellow countryman. An unfamiliar mercenary was running nearby. Behind him, Split was slapping the floor with his bare feet. Even weakened by his wounds and exhausted from a long run, Kartag peeled away from the wall and rushed after his comrades. And Graul has already clashed with his opponents. He knocked the first one down with a punch to the temple, ducked under the blow of the second and flew into the open arms of the third. The powerful man immediately grabbed the Nugar with his thick hands, intending to crush him, but the veteran was not taken aback, hitting his opponent’s face with his forehead. There was a crunch. Blood sprayed from the big man's nose. Second strike. Third. The man roared. Graul methodically pounded his forehead, turning his enemy’s face into a bloody mess. The hands clasped on the back of the Nugars loosened, and now the Farossian himself, with the growl of a wild beast, grabbed onto his opponent, continuing to strike. He put all his accumulated anger and hatred into each blow - for the defeat, for the dead comrades, for the terrible death of Alvin Lear, for the captivity, for the beatings of the guards, for the aching scar on his side. The victim’s accomplices tried to drag the enraged Nugaran away, but then his comrades arrived and trampled their opponents to the floor.

“That’s enough, Graul,” said Gorik, and he obeyed. As soon as he unclenched his hands, the big man, who had lost his support, sank limply to the floor of the cell. Dissatisfied glances were directed at the greyhound newcomers from all sides, but no one came forward with any complaints. Here everyone stayed in separate groups, and no one cared about other people's squabbles.

“Let’s go find a place,” Split suggested.

Graul immediately walked forward, stopping at the bunk near the barred window.

– What to look for, this is the best option.

“Busy,” one muttered lazily, and his friends supported him with exclamations of agreement. “The fact that you got rid of these losers does not give you the right to give orders.” So get lost. “The speaker casually waved his hand, as if he was driving away an annoying insect. If he was impressed by the newcomers' quick reprisal against one of the rival gangs, he didn't show it.

- Busy, you say? – Graul asked again and, enraged, threw him off the bunk. - It's already free.

* * *

Go your own way.
He's alone, and there's no way around him.
Don't even know why
And you don't know where
You are walking…
Go your own way.
You won't be able to get it all back
And you don’t know yet
What's at the end of the dead end
You will find…
You will find…

Prologue

“They’re fast,” one of the prisoners whistled.

- Nothing surprising. The city didn’t resist,” another responded.

- Do you think so?

- Maybe they took him by surprise?

In response - a contemptuous snort.

- And where should I take them? – he grumpily asked the head of the convoy. – I don’t have any free cameras.

– Scatter several people on camera. If they make room, they’ll fit in,” suggested the convoy commander.

– My local bandits are through the roof. They will arrange a massacre for me and yours.

- What do we care? They'll kill each other - that's where they'll go.

- It is truth too.

Carelessly kicking aside the militiaman sitting on the floor, he waddled towards the Pharosian fighters standing at the entrance.

“Well, they stood up like step-brothers,” he extended his hand and patted Split familiarly on the cheek.

“Let’s go find a place,” Split suggested.

Graul immediately walked forward, stopping at the bunk near the barred window.

– What to look for, this is the best option.

- Busy, you say? – Graul asked again and, enraged, threw him off the bunk. - It's already free.

The warrior grabbed his opponent rising from the floor by the hair and slammed his head against the bunk. From behind, on the other side of the aisle, one of the victim’s friends jumped on him and grabbed him by the neck. Graul jerked him over himself and hit the fallen man on the head with his heel. To the others who jerked in his direction he said threateningly:

- Disappeared from my eyes. I'll cripple you.

“He can,” confirmed Gorik, who was nearby.

Graul nodded. The mercenary muttered something affirmative.

The camera went silent in interest. Everyone wanted to know whether the recognized leaders would give in or resist the arrogant claims.

They gave in.

The one who remained in charge looked at the two unconscious accomplices, glanced furtively at the swaggering but already resigned to defeat comrades, noticed the looks of the inhabitants of the cell anticipating entertainment, the calm confidence of the opponents, ready to go to the end, contributed, and he did not aggravate the situation. Get off the bunks. Not too hastily, so as not to lose any remaining dignity. The rest followed his example. Having picked up their unconscious comrades, they went home. It’s okay, the guys are strong, they’ll find another place. If they don’t find it, why should the Pharos fighters care about their problems?

The camera, already tuned to the spectacle, hummed in disappointment.

Ignoring the rising roar, Gorik Abo jumped onto the bunk, relaxed and closed his eyes. His companions were also accommodated. Even the militia got closer, timidly perching on the edge.

Gorik did not notice how he fell asleep. A push on his shoulder woke him up.

– Do you think any of our people managed to escape?

The question puzzled me. Previously, such topics had not been raised. It was unpleasant to discuss the defeat.

Gorik scratched the back of his head.

– Hmm, I’m not sure, but Suvor Temple had a good chance of leaving. He was the first to break through to the archers, and if he was not shot in those thickets, he could have broken through when he realized that we could not win.

- Ramor. Erast,” added Kartag.

- Ramor is a mace. We send it soft-boiled. “Erast with an arrow,” responded Graul.

– Hugo Zimmel? “Young, but one of the best fighters,” Split asked.

“It was,” Gorik said gloomily. - They accepted it for four spears. Following Suvor, several more broke through; I couldn’t see who exactly.

- I am Buster. There’s someone in front of us,” Graul listed. – We ran into Turonian knights. Buster cut down two of them, but also…that one himself. I killed one and took out two before I was stunned.

“It turns out that, at best, three people left,” Split said half-questioningly and half-affirmatively.

“There are the same number of Amelians,” said Kartag. In response to the questioning glances of his comrades, he explained: “The Turonians discussed it.”

– I don’t care about the Amelians! – Graul exploded.

- Quiet. Why are you angry?

Graul glared from under his brows at Gorik, who was trying to calm him down, snorted and pointedly turned away.

The others looked at each other in confusion. Split was about to ask Graul what came over him, but Gorik Abo intervened:

“Leave it alone,” he moved his lips barely audibly. “He’ll calm down himself,” and louder: “The Marquis, apparently, also survived.”

“Well, yes,” Split readily accepted. - And probably not alone. It's just strange...

“My horse was shot at the very beginning, by the time I managed to get out, you were already far ahead, so I was almost in the rear, but for some reason I didn’t notice either the marquis or his guards.” Of course, they were a bit far away when it all started, but still...

“They went in the other direction to break through,” the mercenary said again. “There, the militia panicked, rushed around like a herd of sheep, our neighbors were immediately crushed, so the marquis’s guards could not get through to us. We were stupid and went on the defensive. We also had to make a breakthrough,” he waved his hand. – And I noticed the marquis’s detachment. They walked well - the fighters there turned out to be excellent. It seems that the Turonian knights squeezed them on the very side of the road. I don't know anymore. There was no time. Maybe someone is lucky.

Everyone fell silent. The topic has exhausted itself.

The guards showed up in the cell only the next day. We looked around. One said:

“But it’s quite calm here, not like others.” Even the corpses had to be carried out there.

They handed out food to the prisoners, the smell and consistency of which was reminiscent of slop, and they left.

The doctor never showed up in the cell. Not this day, not the next.

On the third day, all the prisoners and some of the other inhabitants of the prison were taken out and driven along the highway to the north.

Gorik and his comrades, remembering the conversations of the jailers, tried to exchange a few phrases with the others in order to find out how their relationships with their cellmates had developed, but the guards were in an agitated state and harshly suppressed conversations between the prisoners. From the rumors it was possible to understand that someone managed to massacre an elven detachment in the city, and now the enraged relatives of the murdered are on the prowl in search of those responsible. This turmoil did not pass by the Turonians. Patrols on the roads were strengthened, and all free fighters, instead of a well-deserved rest, took part in search activities. The current guards were also involved in the search, and upon returning to the city they were sent to accompany the column of prisoners of war, since the city commandant did not have another free detachment at hand. It is clear that such an order did not add joy to them, and they took their irritation out on their supervised ones.

The transitions were long, there was no food for the prisoners at all, perhaps for practical reasons - it is unlikely that exhausted prisoners would be able to escape - so even the prison gruel was remembered by them as the ultimate dream.

Along the way they encountered Turonian patrols several times, passed villages, and once passed through a small town - they usually avoided them. Local residents looked at the prisoners... They looked at them differently, but there were no indifferent ones. Confusion, surprise, sympathy, hostility, and even outright anger, as if the townspeople, who had lost their usual peaceful life, placed all the blame for what happened on the Pharos fighters. How come they didn’t protect, didn’t secure?! And who cares how many of them were killed in that ill-fated ambush?

Someone, looking at their tired, wounded compatriots, tried to give them at least a piece of bread. The convoy drove away the compassionate, not allowing them to reach the column, but the prisoners received some of the food. Provisions were hidden under the shirt or in the sleeves. In the evening, at a rest stop, they will divide them up, most of them will be given to the wounded.

A couple of days later, the captives arrived at their destination. The convoy zealously urged the prisoners on.

- Move, you walking sickness, there won’t be much time left. Almost there.

There were knowledgeable people among the prisoners.

No matter how the Turonians hurried their charges, they arrived in the dark.

Despite the twilight, many were able to see the destination of the path as it approached. And it wasn't Irs. They did not reach the city. At first glance, the place of arrival turned out to be an ordinary castle of a poor nobleman, located for some reason at the foot of the mountain. A rectangle about five or six meters high, made of brick. There are no towers. Instead, there are four towers at the corners of the building. Low, but with wide platforms that can accommodate ten shooters.

-Are they kidding me? – one of the prisoners said dumbfounded.

There were a couple more indignant screams. Someone enlightened the others:

- Irsky mine.

The whip whistled.

“Don’t talk your tongue, it’s better to move your legs.”

The guards did not bother themselves too much with their duties; they called out to the arrivals only after they had crowded together at the very gate, and the head of the convoy began to hammer the hilt of his sword into the oak doors.

We sorted it out quickly. The bolt being pulled back rattled, the gates swung open, and the tired squad was drawn into the fort.

The tired convoy commander was not in the mood for long conversations and after a short exchange of greetings he immediately asked the head of the local guard:

-Which barracks is freer?

“Choose any one,” he generously offered. “We don’t have any other guests...” here he laughed. When we arrived here, there wasn't a single soul here. Neither convicts nor soldiers.

- Oh how? – the head of the convoy was surprised. -Where did they go?

“You understand, there was no one here to ask, but our commander is so thorough.” As soon as he found out, he immediately asked someone in the city. The locals didn’t hesitate too much, they laid everything out as if in spirit. It turned out that the boss here turned out to be painfully responsible, he had just heard rumors about our invasion, so he, the bastard, immediately ordered the dismissal of all the convicts, he probably understood that a working mine would not be amiss for us, so he decided to make a mess of it anyway. After which he disappeared in an unknown direction along with his subordinates. What is your purpose in coming to us? Have you brought in new workers?

“No, we’re here temporarily...” the senior guard began to answer, but then stopped short. He turned, looked around at those gathered and menacingly asked his subordinates: “Why are they crowded together?” Have you heard that the barracks are free? Let's get them all there. Don't force everyone into one. Half in the first, half in the second - it will be just right.

The tired soldiers did not hesitate. They divided the crowd into two parts and took them to barracks. The prisoners, even more exhausted than their convoy, as soon as they got to the bunks, fell into oblivion. Only from time to time through the sleep could be heard the cries of Pharosian soldiers tormented by wounds, semi-feverish delirium and a dull cough.

In the morning they brought food. And, it should be noted, better than prison gruel. However, the hungry Farosians would be happy with that too. The second time they fed him closer to evening. Water was given three times a day, a mug per brother, and the prisoners were taken out to relieve themselves three times.

The next day followed the same routine. No prisoners were taken to work at the mine; it seemed that the guards were simply biding their time.

After a few days, the wait was over.

The morning began with the usual cry:

- Get up, bastards!

The heavy bolt being pulled back rumbled, the door swung open, but instead of four soldiers carrying a heavy cauldron, at least three dozen soldiers ran into the barracks and began beating the prisoners with clubs and the shafts of spears and halberds.

- Line up, freaks, everyone line up! - they shouted, generously distributing blows.

The Farossians, covering themselves with their hands, poured out of the bunks, lining up opposite each other in two ranks, to the right and left of the entrance. Someone foolishly tried to snap back, but was immediately hit in the teeth with a baton, after which they threw him down and kicked him for a long time with boots. The other, having received the first blow, twisted, straightened his legs pulled up to his stomach, and threw the soldier away from him with a powerful push. He jumped off the bunk, bent down, passing the spear shaft of an enemy running from the side over his head, blocked the blow of the next one with an extended chain of shackles, put his hands together, the chain sagged, and he hit it with a swing like a flail. There was a crunch. The Turonian flew to the middle of the passage, his head fell helplessly to the side, and everyone saw a bloody wound on his temple with bone fragments peeking out. There was a swearing, the Turonians who were nearby turned to face the enemy waving a chain, turned their spears with their tips forward and stepped towards him in unison. A sharp cry was heard from the entrance to the barracks, and they immediately retreated. Crossbows clicked. No less than six bolts hit the madman - there is no other way to call him - armed with a chain, one pierced the wall of the barracks, and three more flew into the crowd of prisoners. The sound of a falling body, a double cry of pain. The Farosians retreated in all directions, fleeing possible shots. On the dirty floor of the barracks one was lying motionless, the other with bloody foam on his lips, wheezing, convulsively twitching his legs - not a tenant! – clutching the crossbow bolt in his stomach with his fingers, the third cradled the hand that had been broken by the shot. An imperative shout and the clubs of the Turonian fighters forced the prisoners to line up near the bunks. Many - mostly militiamen - trembled in fear, casting wary glances either at the bodies of those shot down or at the crossbowmen lined up near the entrance.

- To the exit! – the commander of the crossbowmen barked. – Move, you sons of bitches, and don’t kick – there are enough bolts for everyone! ...Liver, livelier! – he urged the hesitant prisoners.

The arrows spread out to the sides, clearing the way, but the crossbows were still aimed at the Farosians. The prisoners rushed out.

- Why is he doing this? – someone asked ahead of Gorik Abo, passing by the dead man with the chain.

One of the Nugars responded:

- The wounds are inflamed. I couldn’t last more than three days without a healer, so I decided to leave like that, in battle.

– What do we have to do with it? Almost all of us were shot because of him! – someone’s hysterical voice came from behind the knight. - Abnormal bastard!

Gorik turned his head, trying to see the screamer, and gasped, receiving a poke in the ribs with a baton.

“Don’t turn around, walk,” a Turonian soldier who happened to be nearby said with a threat, slapping his baton on his open palm. Little did he know that in front of him was a man of noble birth. For sure. He looked too smug. Perhaps for the first time he had the opportunity to mock an aristocrat with impunity. And he confirmed this, said sarcastically, seeing how Gorik furtively rubbed the bruised area: “Do your ribs hurt, sir knight?”

Gorik threw a gloomy look at him and remained silent, did not escalate the already nervous situation. Promising to myself that I would definitely repay the impudent man a hundredfold, if such an opportunity presented itself. No one could yet boast that the Nugar knight had not avenged his humiliation.

- Shut up, you bastard! – the embittered voice of another Nugar was heard, followed by the sound of a crack. And without Gorik, there were those who wanted to reason with the one who had failed.

- Quiet there!

Walking past those shot, Gorik noted that there were no acquaintances among them - two Amel militiamen and one of those who had been here before the arrival of the prisoners of war, either a convict, or a thief from the city caught by the Turonians - and indifferently walked past. But next to the killed Nugar, he slowed down and bowed his head respectfully.

-Move faster! – the Turonian soldier urged him on.

Gorik Abo, squinting, stepped out of the dark barracks into the light, almost crashing into the Farossian walking in front of him, who for some reason hesitated, and was pushed into the back by the one walking behind him. The knight had difficulty maintaining his balance and immediately received a blow to the kidneys. Next to Gorik, grinning impudently, stood the same soldier. Apparently, in the person of the Nugar knight, he found a personal object for bullying.

-Are you okay, sir? – the tormentor asked feigningly politely.

“It’s normal,” the knight exhaled hoarsely, forcing himself to straighten up with an effort of will.

He looked around furtively, so as not to provoke further bullying from his overseer, who was stomping around next to him. In addition to three dozen soldiers urging on the prisoners and two dozen crossbowmen, at least fifty spearmen lined up on the platform between the barracks; there was also the commander of the detachment in knightly armor, his squire and clerk holding an unfolded scroll in front of him, as well as an incomprehensible fat man in rich clothes in accompanied by a dozen thugs. Archers could be seen on the towers around the camp. According to rough estimates, there are thirty to thirty-five people.

The Faros men lined up near the barracks were counted, checked with the list, after which the displeased, frowning commander asked:

-Where are the other four?

The senior crossbowman replied:

- Sir, three killed, one wounded. They rebelled, - he did not go into detail that only one prisoner resisted, and the rest of the dead accidentally fell under the fired bolts. - One of our soldiers is dead.

- Wells, sir.

– What about the wounded Farosian?

- My arm is broken, sir. Look, they pulled him out,” the crossbowman waved towards the entrance to the barracks.

A fat man approached and intervened.

“I won’t take it with a broken arm,” he said in a nasty voice. - He will die on the way. And other heavy ones, if you have them, I don’t need them.

The Turonian chief grimaced. He pointed his finger towards the Faros man with a broken arm, then at one of those standing in the ranks:

- To achieve this and that.

Two crossbow clicks - and two dead bodies.

Looking around the line of prisoners, the chief asked:

-Where is the other half-dead one?

- Among those killed in the barracks, sir. It was he who started the fight with our soldiers.

“At least you’re lucky here,” the Turonian commander sighed and, turning to the clerk: “Cross off five.” Drive these aside and open the second barracks. Finish the dead meat as soon as you get it out, then report back.

The spearmen led the Farosians aside, while the rest of the Turonians took care of the inhabitants of the second barracks. They were also driven out, lined up, counted, finished off several wounded and added to the first.

“There are ninety-three people in total, Mr. Tarokh.” Sign and pick it up.

Tarokh puffed out his cheeks with displeasure, muttered something under his breath, but signed the handed scroll. He asked grumpily:

– Can you accompany me to the piers?

- As agreed.

The gates swung open and the prisoners were driven out. There also stood a cart into which Tarokh and the Turonian commander climbed.

“Drive them to the piers,” he finally ordered.

The driver cracked his whip and the cart rolled briskly forward. Following her, the soldiers drove the prisoners. Naturally, run. Those lagging behind were encouraged with invigorating thrusts of spears and life-giving kicks. The cart soon disappeared from sight, but the soldiers continued to chase the prisoners. So they fled all the way to the city. Near the city walls we turned towards the river. Only near the piers were they allowed to stop. Many immediately fell to the ground, gulping air and coughing violently. Only the Nugars remained on their feet with the mercenaries who had survived the battle joining them. There are about thirty people in total. This run was not easy for everyone, but not a single one fell; the exhausted were supported by their comrades. While still running, they unconsciously huddled together in one group.

Gorik Abo stupidly looked at the barges swaying (or maybe it was he himself swaying) near the pier and could not believe what he saw. Above the tent on the bow of the front barge hovered the Erget badge that immediately attracted his attention, and taking into account the kind of craft the merchants of this state do... Finally, it dawned on the knight that he was not imagining things, and he exhaled:

– Have them all as my horse!

- Gorik, what are you doing? – asked Graul.

- Look at the badge above the tent!

Graul burst into a stream of curses, and others supported him. Those who did not understand were explained what fate was in store for them, after which they did not remain indifferent. The captured soldiers did not expect such treachery from the Turonian margrave. What could be more shameful for a warrior than slavery?

- Why are you crying? Did you want to go along the ridge?

The shouts died down, but the Pharos warriors continued to grumble quietly.

Those lying on the ground were kicked up and driven onto the last two barges. The soldiers who were sticking together were driven away, but the Turonian commander intervened:

– It’s better to separate these. Nugars.

The henchmen of the Erget slave trader nodded understandingly and divided the Pharos fighters into small groups. Gorik Abo and four comrades were sent to the first barge, Graul ended up on the second, Kartag and Split with a couple of mercenaries - on the third. The knight did not have time to see where the rest of the Nugars were taken, having climbed onto the high deck of the barge. The only thing I was sure of was that no one was sent to the front line. Without allowing the prisoners to look around, they were immediately driven into the hold.

It was cramped downstairs. The people there grumbled with displeasure at the sight of the new arrivals, but the guards ignored their cries.

“Don’t even think about starting a fight,” one said finally before closing the hatch.

Left without at least some kind of lighting, the Farosians were forced to jostle near the stairs, waiting for their eyes to get used to the surrounding darkness. Any attempt to move forward was immediately met with scolding from those around him.

- Faross! Is there anyone? - Gorik decided to identify himself.

From the darkness came:

- How can it not be? Eighteen people from the seventh garrison, two from the fourteenth. Sami who?

- Nugars.

- Well, come to us.

- We would be glad...

“Oh, well, yes, well, yes...” Gorik thought that the speaker was shaking his head at that time.

Dissatisfied exclamations were heard, in response, someone’s confident voice advised the dissatisfied to shut up.

Soon the reason for the commotion became clear. A dark silhouette appeared next to the new arrivals, tenaciously grabbing Gorik by the hand, he said:

- Cling to each other and to me.

The Farosians followed the guide. From time to time they would cling to someone with their legs, and curses would be heard in response. The inhabitants of the hold made do with only verbal expressions of dissatisfaction; they did not resort to assault. The wandering in the dark ended quickly.

“Take your seat,” said the guide, releasing the knight’s hand and, setting an example, plopped down on the floor.

The Farosians sat down.

“Sergeant Kress, seventh garrison,” the man sitting opposite Gorik introduced himself.

“Gorik Abo, Nugar knight,” he responded.

The sergeant introduced the rest of the soldiers, Gorik introduced his companions.

“So we met,” said Kress.

- But it’s not the right reason.

“I would also be glad to meet under other circumstances.”

- That's for sure.

Both interlocutors sighed at the same time.

At the pier, the Turonian commander said goodbye to the merchant.

“Don’t worry, Honorable Tarokh, the promised protection will be waiting for you at the agreed place.”

He shook the plump hand of the Yergeti slave trader and, accompanied by his soldiers, went to the city.

The merchant climbed the gangplank onto the front barge and ordered it to set sail.

Go your own way.

He's alone, and there's no way around him.

Don't even know why

And you don't know where

You are walking…

Go your own way.

You won't be able to get it all back

And you don’t know yet

What's at the end of the dead end

You will find…

Epidemic

“They’re fast,” one of the prisoners whistled.

- Nothing surprising. The city didn’t resist,” another responded.

- Do you think so?

- Maybe they took him by surprise?

In response - a contemptuous snort.

- And where should I take them? – he grumpily asked the head of the convoy. – I don’t have any free cameras.

– Scatter several people on camera. If they make room, they’ll fit in,” suggested the convoy commander.

– My local bandits are through the roof. They will arrange a massacre for me and yours.

- What do we care? They'll kill each other - that's where they'll go.

- It is truth too.

Carelessly kicking aside the militiaman sitting on the floor, he waddled towards the Pharosian fighters standing at the entrance.

“Well, they stood up like step-brothers,” he extended his hand and patted Split familiarly on the cheek.

“Let’s go find a place,” Split suggested.

Graul immediately walked forward, stopping at the bunk near the barred window.

– What to look for, this is the best option.

- Busy, you say? – Graul asked again and, enraged, threw him off the bunk. - It's already free.

- Disappeared from my eyes. I'll cripple you.

“He can,” confirmed Gorik, who was nearby.

Graul nodded. The mercenary muttered something affirmative.

The camera went silent in interest. Everyone wanted to know whether the recognized leaders would give in or resist the arrogant claims.

They gave in.

Dmitry Christenko

Dragon's blood. Hold the line

Go your own way.

He's alone, and there's no way around him.

Don't even know why

And you don't know where

You are walking…

Go your own way.

You won't be able to get it all back

And you don’t know yet

What's at the end of the dead end

You will find…

Epidemic

“They’re fast,” one of the prisoners whistled.

- Nothing surprising. The city didn’t resist,” another responded.

- Do you think so?

- Maybe they took him by surprise?

In response - a contemptuous snort.

- And where should I take them? – he grumpily asked the head of the convoy. – I don’t have any free cameras.

– Scatter several people on camera. If they make room, they’ll fit in,” suggested the convoy commander.

– My local bandits are through the roof. They will arrange a massacre for me and yours.

- What do we care? They'll kill each other - that's where they'll go.

- It is truth too.

Carelessly kicking aside the militiaman sitting on the floor, he waddled towards the Pharosian fighters standing at the entrance.

“Well, they stood up like step-brothers,” he extended his hand and patted Split familiarly on the cheek.

“Let’s go find a place,” Split suggested.

Graul immediately walked forward, stopping at the bunk near the barred window.

– What to look for, this is the best option.

- Busy, you say? – Graul asked again and, enraged, threw him off the bunk. - It's already free.

- Disappeared from my eyes. I'll cripple you.

“He can,” confirmed Gorik, who was nearby.

Graul nodded. The mercenary muttered something affirmative.

The camera went silent in interest. Everyone wanted to know whether the recognized leaders would give in or resist the arrogant claims.

They gave in.

The camera, already tuned to the spectacle, hummed in disappointment.

Ignoring the rising roar, Gorik Abo jumped onto the bunk, relaxed and closed his eyes. His companions were also accommodated. Even the militia got closer, timidly perching on the edge.

Gorik did not notice how he fell asleep. A push on his shoulder woke him up.

– Do you think any of our people managed to escape?

The question puzzled me. Previously, such topics had not been raised. It was unpleasant to discuss the defeat.

Gorik scratched the back of his head.

- Ramor. Erast,” added Kartag.

- Ramor is a mace. We send it soft-boiled. “Erast with an arrow,” responded Graul.

– Hugo Zimmel? “Young, but one of the best fighters,” Split asked.

“It was,” Gorik said gloomily. - They accepted it for four spears. Following Suvor, several more broke through; I couldn’t see who exactly.

“It turns out that, at best, three people left,” Split said half-questioningly and half-affirmatively.

“There are the same number of Amelians,” said Kartag. In response to the questioning glances of his comrades, he explained: “The Turonians discussed it.”

– I don’t care about the Amelians! – Graul exploded.

- Quiet. Why are you angry?

Graul glared from under his brows at Gorik, who was trying to calm him down, snorted and pointedly turned away.

The others looked at each other in confusion. Split was about to ask Graul what came over him, but Gorik Abo intervened:

“Leave it alone,” he moved his lips barely audibly. “He’ll calm down himself,” and louder: “The Marquis, apparently, also survived.”

“Well, yes,” Split readily accepted. - And probably not alone. It's just strange...

Everyone fell silent. The topic has exhausted itself.

The guards showed up in the cell only the next day. We looked around. One said:

“But it’s quite calm here, not like others.” Even the corpses had to be carried out there.

They handed out food to the prisoners, the smell and consistency of which was reminiscent of slop, and they left.

The doctor never showed up in the cell. Not this day, not the next.

On the third day, all the prisoners and some of the other inhabitants of the prison were taken out and driven along the highway to the north.

A couple of days later, the captives arrived at their destination. The convoy zealously urged the prisoners on.

- Move, you walking sickness, there won’t be much time left. Almost there.

There were knowledgeable people among the prisoners.

No matter how the Turonians hurried their charges, they arrived in the dark.

-Are they kidding me? – one of the prisoners said dumbfounded.

There were a couple more indignant screams. Someone enlightened the others:

- Irsky mine.

The whip whistled.

“Don’t talk your tongue, it’s better to move your legs.”

We sorted it out quickly. The bolt being pulled back rattled, the gates swung open, and the tired squad was drawn into the fort.

The tired convoy commander was not in the mood for long conversations and after a short exchange of greetings he immediately asked the head of the local guard:

-Which barracks is freer?

“Choose any one,” he generously offered. “We don’t have any other guests...” here he laughed. When we arrived here, there wasn't a single soul here. Neither convicts nor soldiers.

- Oh how? – the head of the convoy was surprised. -Where did they go?

The next day followed the same routine. No prisoners were taken to work at the mine; it seemed that the guards were simply biding their time.

After a few days, the wait was over.

The morning began with the usual cry:

- Get up, bastards!

- Line up, freaks, everyone line up! - they shouted, generously distributing blows.

The arrows spread out to the sides, clearing the way, but the crossbows were still aimed at the Farosians. The prisoners rushed out.

- Why is he doing this? – someone asked ahead of Gorik Abo, passing by the dead man with the chain.

One of the Nugars responded:

- The wounds are inflamed. I couldn’t last more than three days without a healer, so I decided to leave like that, in battle.

– What do we have to do with it? Almost all of us were shot because of him! – someone’s hysterical voice came from behind the knight. - Abnormal bastard!

Gorik turned his head, trying to see the screamer, and gasped, receiving a poke in the ribs with a baton.

- Shut up, you bastard! – the embittered voice of another Nugar was heard, followed by the sound of a crack. And without Gorik, there were those who wanted to reason with the one who had failed.

- Quiet there!

-Move faster! – the Turonian soldier urged him on.

-Are you okay, sir? – the tormentor asked feigningly politely.

“It’s normal,” the knight exhaled hoarsely, forcing himself to straighten up with an effort of will.

The Faros men lined up near the barracks were counted, checked with the list, after which the displeased, frowning commander asked:

-Where are the other four?

The senior crossbowman replied:

- Wells, sir.

– What about the wounded Farosian?

- My arm is broken, sir. Look, they pulled him out,” the crossbowman waved towards the entrance to the barracks.

A fat man approached and intervened.

“I won’t take it with a broken arm,” he said in a nasty voice. - He will die on the way. And other heavy ones, if you have them, I don’t need them.

The Turonian chief grimaced. He pointed his finger towards the Faros man with a broken arm, then at one of those standing in the ranks:

- To achieve this and that.

Two crossbow clicks - and two dead bodies.

Looking around the line of prisoners, the chief asked:

-Where is the other half-dead one?

- Among those killed in the barracks, sir. It was he who started the fight with our soldiers.

“There are ninety-three people in total, Mr. Tarokh.” Sign and pick it up.

Tarokh puffed out his cheeks with displeasure, muttered something under his breath, but signed the handed scroll. He asked grumpily:

– Can you accompany me to the piers?

- As agreed.

The gates swung open and the prisoners were driven out. There also stood a cart into which Tarokh and the Turonian commander climbed.

“Drive them to the piers,” he finally ordered.

– Have them all as my horse!

- Gorik, what are you doing? – asked Graul.

- Look at the badge above the tent!

- Why are you crying? Did you want to go along the ridge?

The shouts died down, but the Pharos warriors continued to grumble quietly.

Those lying on the ground were kicked up and driven onto the last two barges. The soldiers who were sticking together were driven away, but the Turonian commander intervened:

– It’s better to separate these. Nugars.

It was cramped downstairs. The people there grumbled with displeasure at the sight of the new arrivals, but the guards ignored their cries.

“Don’t even think about starting a fight,” one said finally before closing the hatch.

- Faross! Is there anyone? - Gorik decided to identify himself.

From the darkness came:

- How can it not be? Eighteen people from the seventh garrison, two from the fourteenth. Sami who?

- Nugars.

- Well, come to us.

- We would be glad...

“Oh, well, yes, well, yes...” Gorik thought that the speaker was shaking his head at that time.

Dissatisfied exclamations were heard, in response, someone’s confident voice advised the dissatisfied to shut up.

Soon the reason for the commotion became clear. A dark silhouette appeared next to the new arrivals, tenaciously grabbing Gorik by the hand, he said:

- Cling to each other and to me.

“Take your seat,” said the guide, releasing the knight’s hand and, setting an example, plopped down on the floor.

The Farosians sat down.

“Sergeant Kress, seventh garrison,” the man sitting opposite Gorik introduced himself.

“Gorik Abo, Nugar knight,” he responded.

The sergeant introduced the rest of the soldiers, Gorik introduced his companions.

“So we met,” said Kress.

- But it’s not the right reason.

“I would also be glad to meet under other circumstances.”

- That's for sure.

Both interlocutors sighed at the same time.

At the pier, the Turonian commander said goodbye to the merchant.

“Don’t worry, Honorable Tarokh, the promised protection will be waiting for you at the agreed place.”

He shook the plump hand of the Yergeti slave trader and, accompanied by his soldiers, went to the city.

The merchant climbed the gangplank onto the front barge and ordered it to set sail.

Since the reprisal of the six elven shooters - Grokh later greatly regretted that he did not have the chance to participate - Gleb and his companions did not waste time. Having confused their tracks, the small detachment managed to break away from their possible pursuers. They discovered an abandoned hunting lodge in the forest, where they spent six whole days, waiting for their exhausted comrades to gain strength. Healthy fighters also did not waste time, doing exhausting training every day.

Gleb had never achieved victory in fights, but he was not too sad about this, eagerly absorbing all the techniques shown. He had a lot to learn from his comrades. And Grokh, and Suvor, and Nantes turned out to be surprisingly skilled fighters, which, however, gave them the opportunity to survive to this day. And the rest of the warriors, gradually regaining their strength, sometimes began to join them.

Of course, experienced fighters were quietly surprised by Volkov’s clumsiness, because the heir to the throne was taught fencing by the best sword masters, but Thang, who noticed their bewilderment, gave a plausible explanation that after being seriously wounded, the Marquis did not have time to regain his form. The explanation was accepted. The warriors nodded thoughtfully and began training Volkov with renewed vigor. Having gone through many battles, they have absorbed one immutable law: personal skill is the key to survival.

Gleb recognized that they were right and, taking advantage of his free time, constantly trained, improving his skills. Previously, during palace training with Vittor and Thang, he trained because he thought that in a world where edged weapons reign, the art of fencing could be useful. Now he didn’t think so... He knew!

When you face each other in a duel to the death, the sword decides who lives and who dies. And if you want the mortal lot to fall to your enemy, and not to you, you need to wield a weapon better than your enemy.

Over the past days, his body was covered with bruises from missed blows, more than once he rolled head over heels, knocked down by a heavy shield or a fist as strong as a stone, but he did not retreat, stubbornly rose to his feet and continued the fight, not paying attention to the pain. With his tenacity, he managed to earn the sincere respect of experienced fighters.

So now he spat blood from his broken lip and resumed his attack. Past! Suvor repelled the attack of the right gleb with his shield, retracted the left blade with his sword, made a swift pass and struck with his head in a completely unknightly manner. Volkov managed to bend over, and the two helmets collided with a rattling sound that made his teeth ache. The mistake did not bother the experienced fighter. Despite the fact that his vision darkened from the blow, Suvor drove his knee into Gleb’s stomach and, to top it off, slammed his heel down onto his foot. Volkov hissed from the pain that twisted his broken insides and jumped back, trying not to step on his aching foot.

Suvor lowered his weapon and said:

- Enough, Marquis. The fight is over.

His opponent did not object.

Gleb hobbled to a bench near the wall of the hut and, taking off his boot, began to carefully feel his injured foot. Every touch caused pain, but he was able to draw the comforting conclusion that there were no fractures.

Meanwhile, a new fight began. Grokh, swinging a heavy falchion, pressed on his opponent, but the knight, taking advantage of his advantage in speed, deftly dodged each time, allowing his accelerating opponent to pass. Groh turned around and resumed the attack, relying on a powerful pressure. Suvor, on the contrary, decided to play defensively and patiently waited until the enemy was exhausted.

- Good! – Thang, who hobbled, spoke out. The wound had not yet fully healed, and he could hardly use his right hand, let alone take part in fights. This upset the orc the most. He looked at Volkov, who was grimacing in pain, and asked: “Did it hit you hard?”

“I trampled my whole leg,” Gleb answered, beginning to massage his bruised leg with light touches.

- Well, not Grokh! – Gleb snorted.

Thang smiled too. Indeed, if the heavy Grokh had attacked, Volkov would not have escaped with just a bruise.

Attracted by the duel, the rest of the fighters of the small detachment also approached: Nantes, the old fisherman Dykh, emaciated, with protruding ribs, dressed in only pants tied with a rope, the younger orc leader Krang from the Orm clan, a young relative of Thang, Groh and Krang, who miraculously survived the massacre carried out by the Turonian troops, somewhat similar to a wolf cub Yong, strong as an oak, stroking his long mustache sergeant of the palace guard Kapl, Merik and thin, reminiscent of the physique of a teenager, sub-centurion of the militia Raon.

They began - with the exception, of course, of Merik - to loudly comment on each successful attack of the fighters, discuss the advantages and disadvantages of the fighters, but soon they became bored with the role of passive observers. Dividing into two squads, they staged a group fight.

Taking advantage of the fact that all his companions were busy training, and the only spectator besides the two of them - Merik - was too far away, and was also completely absorbed in watching the fighting fighters, Volkov decided to get something from Thang - the only one from whom he could ask anything, without fear of putting yourself in an awkward position - answers to long-standing questions. He would have asked earlier, but all the time there were some more important things to do.

- Listen, Thang. When several Turonians discovered us after that ill-fated ambush, one of them launched a fireball at me. Small. Or big, I don’t know what your criteria are. In short, it's about the size of my fist. So, I’m interested in: what was this all about? Magic?

Thang looked at Volkov in surprise, and then said:

- Certainly. Why are you asking? Haven't you met magicians before?

- Yes, we don’t have them at all. That is, there are all sorts of charlatans, such as fortune tellers, traditional healers, seers, who extract money from gullible simpletons, or from those who, in despair, are ready to grasp at any straw. At least I haven’t met anyone capable of shooting out clots of fire. Here we consider magic to be fiction. Maybe you can tell me about her? And one more thing: why didn’t this fire hurt me, only burned my shirt, and there were no traces on my body except soot?

“Hmm, I’m a simple orc, I had no dealings with magicians,” it was clear that Danhelt’s bodyguard was at a loss. “Except for the fact that the healer healed me several times after I was wounded, and once cut some weak incompetent in half with a falchion, he only managed to set fire to a couple of our shields, apparently he didn’t have enough strength for anything more powerful.” I met a shaman, but that was a long time ago, when I lived in a tribe, yeah. And his students too. He had two. Arrogant, arrogant... I am one of them, ahem... - Thang hesitated and turned the conversation to another topic: - So the magicians... I can only tell you what I heard myself. There are classic ones. These are those who were trained according to the classical method in guilds, from mentors or in schools. They are also simply called magicians. They are divided according to directions, there are elementalists, healers, necromancers... The latter were almost all driven out by the clergy, and if anyone remains somewhere, they do not advertise their orientation. The couple lives in the duchy, but they do not flaunt their activities. And rightly so! Our church doesn’t have much influence, but why bother people for nothing. They sometimes collaborate with the Secret Guardians. Erno uses their services when necessary, and at the same time keeps them under supervision. And there are those who are not considered classic. Why, I don’t know, don’t ask. These are shamans, soothsayers, bards, healers...

Thang took a break from his story, and Volkov hastened to take advantage of the pause to clarify:

– Are healers also magicians? Did you talk about them then when you promised that everything would be all right with the wounded? It turns out they were treated with magic?

- How else? – Thang was surprised. - Of course, with magic. I said healers. Elementals are thrown there with fire or lightning left and right, necromancers, those zombies from corpses are made and controlled, and healers heal. Without magic, herbalists heal, midwives, chiropractors. Most veterans can bandage their wounds. No, healers do bandages and use herbs and ointments, but the main thing for them is magic. There are, of course, those who, apart from a couple of simple spells, are not capable of anything more serious, but Erno does not hold back against weaklings. And masters can heal severe wounds on the same day, so that in the morning there will be no trace left.

“Wait,” Volkov noticed an inconsistency in his story. “Then what about our wounded who remained in Amelie?”

“How do I know,” the orc said indignantly, “I’m not a healer.” They said that everything was fine with them, and that’s all. I didn’t go into details, I don’t understand. Maybe they were wounded with a special weapon. Magical or runic, which prevent healing. Maybe there was some kind of poison on the blade. Or maybe the wounds were such that although they were healed, it took several days of rest for the final recovery, so they didn’t let us go. It happens. I myself remember once lying around for almost a decade, idle, although my wounds were completely healed on the first day, only barely noticeable scars remained.

- It's clear. Why is there no magician-healer in the palace, since they are not uncommon?

- What makes you think that? Of course I have. How could it be otherwise, what if one of the visitors in the palace becomes ill?

“He never came to see me.” Although... this is understandable. I’m healthy, I’m not sick, I’m not going to die, but letting extra people in with me is not profitable. Suddenly I’ll let it slip.

Who needs another initiate into my secret? But the fact that the heir to the throne performed the ritual without the help of a magician is a question. Or is that ritual not related to healing? So it was possible to invite another magician, not a healer. He himself said: there are both elementalists and necromancers in the duchy. Maybe there are others, for example, those who specialize in rituals. Or are you worried about the secret? No one could have foreseen the resulting result.

“I don’t know about the ritual, I only heard that only a blood relative can perform it.” That’s probably why Eliviette saw him off herself. Here, other magicians would be of no use even as support. They tried to treat Dan when he was unconscious, but to no avail. You asked: why didn’t the magic work on you? So common, it generally has a bad effect on dragons - be it combat or healing. They said that about nine-tenths of all strength is wasted, or even more, when the dragon is in its second form. In humans it is simpler, but associated with fire, it has almost no effect in any form. Do not believe? Go, put your hand in the fire and see for yourself. So there is not much need for magicians in the palace. In dragons, wounds heal quickly, and they almost never get sick. In ritualism they make do with their own resources. They don't really care about combat magic. Some magical items can be ordered, if necessary - in this case the magician does not have to live in the palace.

– Okay, you can do without magicians in the palace, but why weren’t there any in our squad? Both healers and fighters would not hurt us.

- How did this not happen? The mercenaries have very weak healers, but they did exist. In one detachment there was even a battle mage, although I wouldn’t consider him a mage - what kind of mage is he who has enough strength for a couple of lightning bolts, which cannot even kill a person. I don’t know about the capital’s knights, but I think that some of them had healers in their retinue, maybe some had an elementalist. But the guards riflemen definitely had both a battle mage and a healer. I can’t say anything about the healer, but the magician was riding not far from us, and in the first salvo three arrows were shot into him. The rest, I think, were either put down at first, or they were slaughtered while they were coming to their senses. Maybe someone managed to do some magic, but weakly, so that we didn’t even notice. And we didn’t look out for them. Why do we need them? The only serious magician who could help us during the breakthrough - I mean the guardsman - was already dead.

After finishing the conversation, they watched the fighters train for some time, then Thang complained that he himself could not participate, and it was boring to watch from the sidelines, and went into the hut. Volkov decided to check whether the fire really could not harm him, went up to the fire, having first made sure that everyone was busy with their own affairs and no one was watching him, rolled up his sleeve and put his hand into the flame. Thang was right. Gleb did not feel the heat, only a pleasant warmth. Then he examined his hand - there were no burns, not even a hair was burned, only the skin slightly reddened, but soon returned to its original color.

Returning to the bench, Volkov began to think about the information he had received and was so carried away that he did not notice how the fighters finished training and went their separate ways. No one dared to bother him. Gleb looked in surprise at the empty battlefield and noted to himself that there was no point in being so immersed in one’s thoughts - one could miss one’s enemies. And in general, magic is an interesting thing, but it’s better to put off your interest for later and take up a more promising idea, so that this can come later. Watching the group fight, Volkov noted that while the personal skill of each fighter was not in doubt, the warriors in the group did not work very well. They knew how to maintain formation, but they limited themselves to this, not using its advantages and each acting on his own. They certainly could not be compared with the Roman legion, where all the soldiers act harmoniously, like a single organism.

Gleb thought, scratching the growing, rough stubble on his chin. There is no doubt that Eliviette will not accept the loss of lands, which means that the war with the Margrave of Turon will drag on, because both sides act in the same way, as in the times of the earthly Middle Ages, when the main striking force on the battlefield was the ramming attack of knightly cavalry. The infantry has proven itself well in the defense of fortress walls, but in a field battle it acts only as auxiliary troops and uses the formation only in defense against attacking cavalry or to approach enemy infantry, after which a chaotic slaughter begins, where everyone fights individually, entering the battle, when the soldiers in front die. The battle, as a rule, continued until one of the sides, frightened by losses, fled.

The situation is slightly better with mercenary infantry units and a few elite units, such as the palace guard. But their tactics are also much inferior to the time-honed and hundreds of battles-honed tactics of the famous Roman legions, which were the best infantry and a constant role model, at least until the advent of the era of firearms. And if Gleb manages to create here something similar to the Roman system, with his ability to maintain combat formations for a long time, to rebuild in accordance with the requirements of the changing situation on the battlefield, their discipline and orderly military hierarchy, when in the event of the death or injury of one of the commanders If there is always someone to take control of the war without long disputes, bickering and listing noble ancestors, then many losses in the war will be avoided.

Inspired by the idea, he gathered his associates and began to explain to them the advantages of the Roman system, drawing diagrams on the ground for clarity. The warriors, listening to Volkov, looked at each other, some nodded in agreement, appreciating the advantages, some chuckled skeptically, doubting the ability of the recent peasants to correctly carry out the complex formations drawn by Gleb, but there were no indifferent among the experienced fighters. There were no categorical opponents of the proposed idea. Everyone became interested. Only Suvor expressed concern that the majority of the soldiers were recruits: they still have to be taught and taught how to use a sword and a spear until they become at least some semblance of real fighters, and there is not enough time to learn these tricks.

Gleb objected:

– In order for recruits to approach the level of knights trained since childhood, it will take about twenty years. And learning these, as you put it, “tricks” will take a year or two. Just a couple of years, and, staying in formation, they will be able to successfully resist much more experienced, but out of formation, fighters!

The knight retorted:

“As soon as they lose formation, one veteran will chop up a dozen of these opponents.”

Volkov agreed:

- Right. This means there is no need to lose track. In addition, no one forbids them to further improve their individual skills, so that in ten years they will be able to act effectively in both cases. But the main thing is build! If the enemy has broken through the battle formations, it is necessary to restore the shield wall as soon as possible, and not get carried away with single battles.

Gleb's arguments seemed quite convincing to those gathered.

– Your Highness, how did you know about this system? – while the others were silent, pondering what was said, Merik asked.

“I read old books,” Volkov used a classic excuse.

The warriors spent three days practicing the new technique. Gleb did not show them complex formations, which require more than one month of regular training to master. He tried only to improve the effectiveness of the equipment known to them and to show some of the techniques of Roman soldiers known to him. After joint training, veterans experienced first-hand the benefits of joint action. Particular delight was caused by the technique when the main tool is not blades, but shields, pressing, overturning, and crushing the enemy’s battle formations like an indestructible wall. Swords perform quick, rapid thrusts, and most often it is not your opponent who is attacked, but his neighbor to the right. The warriors laughed, imagining the confusion of their enemies when faced with such unusual tactics.

On the morning of the fourth day, the small detachment continued its journey.

The cart had to be abandoned, and Thang was placed on the horse. The rest of the soldiers moved on foot.

The detachment safely reached Kahora, but there they were unsuccessful.

Shuffling along the river bank, they looked for an opportunity to cross, but in vain! Large Turonian detachments stood near all the bridges, near all the crossings, and there was no way to pass them unnoticed. Hiding from enemy flying squads prowling around the area, the fighters were forced to retreat further and further up the river.

Now they wandered despondently through the soil, muddy after the previous rain, crawling under their feet, wrapped in wet cloaks and teeth chattering from the cold. Apparently, one of the local celestials thought that too few difficulties befell the small detachment, and, so that life did not seem like honey to them, he arranged for them to undergo forced water procedures. In addition, last evening they ran out of the last of their provisions, and hunger little by little, so far only with slight hints, began to make itself known.

Hunger, cold, fatigue... Moreover, as we moved away from the main concentrations of enemy troops, Turonian patrols were encountered less and less often, and for the last couple of days they had not appeared at all. And the soldiers of the detachment inevitably relaxed.

Probably, this is the only way to explain that the experienced and cautious warriors managed to miss the appearance of the cavalry detachment. Noticing a detachment trudged through the puddles, the riders turned their horses in their direction. It was too late to run. And how far can you run across a muddy field on your own two feet from fast riders?! And for what? To run means to admit your guilt! Maybe we can still get out? And the squad remained in place. While waiting for the horsemen, the warriors quietly checked whether the swords came out of their scabbards easily, and, if the conversation took an undesirable turn, they prepared to sell their lives dearly.

– Half are young animals. “We didn’t even learn how to properly hold ourselves in the saddle,” added Suvor. An experienced knight could assess the training of the fighters at first glance.

“There’s enough for us,” Thang said, awkwardly sliding off his horse. He preferred to fight on foot, like any orc.

The horsemen reached the detachment and surrounded the small group with a ring, pointing the sharp stings of their spears at them. A warrior in long, knee-length chain mail and a rounded helmet with wide brims advanced from the ranks of the cavalrymen, pushing his horse half a corps forward.

- Who are they? - he asked.

“Travelers,” came the short answer.

The leader of the cavalrymen carefully examined the small detachment, fixing his gaze on the armor and weapons visible under the cloaks, and grinned:

-Where are you going?

“Where they pay well,” Nantes answered.

He had been a mercenary for a long time and, since they decided to pose as a free detachment, he could best cope with the role of a seasoned dog of war. He didn’t even need to pretend—his own experience was enough.

- And where is it? “I wouldn’t refuse it myself,” the commander of the cavalry detachment laughed.

His subordinates liked the joke, and they supported the leader with loud cackling.

Nantes grinned, making it clear that he appreciated the joke, and said in a feigned cheerful tone:

- As you can see, we are looking.

The rider frowned. His gaze froze.

“It seems to me,” he said, lazily drawing out his words, “in front of me is a gang of robbers.” And we have a short conversation with these brethren - put a noose around your neck and hang it higher. For others, so to speak, for edification.

The remaining cavalrymen narrowed the circle. The spear heads swung forward in warning. The horse under one of the riders bucked, and the young guy, trying to stay in the saddle, waved his spear. By pure chance, the sharp tip slipped close to Volkov’s face and caught the hood of his cloak with its edge. The sound of material being torn was heard. Suvor grabbed the spear shaft with his hand and knocked the rider out of the saddle. Absurdly waving his arms, he collapsed under the horses' hooves. The second horseman poked the obstinate knight in the face with a narrow, triangular tip, but Gleb grabbed the sword from its sheath and cut the shaft with one blow. The rider was left with a useless stump in his hands. He threw it aside with a curse and grabbed the hilt of the sword. The crash knocked him and his horse over with a powerful jolt.

The cut hood slipped off Gleb’s head, and the leader of the cavalry detachment raised his hand and shouted to his soldiers:

- Stop! – The horsemen lowered their raised spears. Their commander quickly jumped off his horse, dropped to one knee, not paying attention to the liquid mud, and turned to Volkov: “Your Highness, I humbly apologize... They didn’t recognize me.” Allow me to introduce myself – foreman Miklos.

His subordinates were dumbfounded. Still would! During an ordinary detour, meet the Marquis of Farosse himself. There's enough talk for a month now! It will be possible to show off to your friends and impress the cheerful girls.

Gleb was no less taken aback. Walking around the capital, accompanied by Thang, he met crowds of people, but none of them recognized him as Danhelt Phaross. And then the second meeting - and his incognito was opened again!

The explanation was banal. The capital's residents, busy with their daily worries, did not pay too much attention to passers-by, especially to unremarkable passers-by. How many of them are wandering around the capital?! And they didn’t feel such admiration from seeing the members of the ruling house, having seen enough of the ceremonial palace outings. Provincial residents are another matter. For them, the only meeting with the rulers and their heirs is an Event that will be remembered for the rest of their lives. And since the greatest chances of getting from the province to the palace belong to the best fighters accompanying their noble overlords, or the commanders of military detachments, it is not surprising that both Dykh and the leader of the encountered detachment - both veterans - identified the Marquis of Phaross.

- Get up, Miklos.

The commander of the cavalry detachment stood up.

– Your Highness, allow me to invite you to the castle of my master Baron Kyle.

- Mmmm... And your baron won’t mind?

- What do you! Baron Kyle will be happy to welcome such a distinguished guest to his castle.

Suvor intervened in the conversation:

– Are there any Turonians here?

The commander of the cavalry detachment noticed knightly spurs on him, so he considered it necessary to answer the question asked. Bowing his head respectfully, he said:

- Where do we get Turonian soldiers from, sir... Sir?

“We know that the Turonian soldiers are now strengthening themselves on the coast of Cahors, Sir Temple, but to our joy, they have enough other worries and have not yet reached us.”

Suvor said gloomily:

- They'll get there. What will you do then?

Miklos answered evasively:

- The Baron will decide.

“Of course,” the knight answered sarcastically, “the baron will decide!” Enemy troops are roaming our land, and you are huddled in your castle and sitting, waiting until your beloved baron makes a decision. It is still unknown what he comes up with there! “Suvor finally found someone on whom to vent the irritation that had accumulated since the day of the defeat. – Or are you ready to humbly bow your heads before the Turonian bastards, huh?

Miklos turned pale with anger. He was not a knight, but even ordinary warriors have pride. The commander of the cavalry detachment was not going to tolerate insults even from a nobleman.

-What are you hinting at, sir? – he said, pressing on the last word as if he had spat it out.

Suvor, as if running into a conflict, replied:

“I’m not hinting, I’m saying it directly.”

– This already smacks of an insult!

- Oh really?! Isn’t it an insult that you are inactive when the Turonian margrave invaded our territory?

Miklos placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. Suvor readily repeated his movement. Both exchanged glances so furious that if their eyes were capable of kindling fire, they would have already turned into two piles of ashes. With a clang, the swords slid out of their scabbards.

Gleb had to intervene to prevent unnecessary bloodshed.

- Gentlemen, calm down! – he fearlessly stood between the opponents.

- Swords in sheaths! - Grokh roared and stood next to Volkov, ready to parry the blow in case the rage clouded the eyes of the quarreling warriors so much that one of them raised a sword against the heir to the throne.

The warriors continued to exchange withering glances and were in no hurry to remove their hands from the hilts of their swords.

– Dare to disobey an order? – Gleb asked, adding menacing notes to his voice.

Suvor grimaced and reluctantly unclenched his fingers, letting go of the hilt of the sword. Miklos bowed to Volkov, removing his hand from his weapon.

- I beg your pardon, Your Highness.

Gleb nodded graciously, taking on the role of the true heir to the throne.

“Allow me to once again invite you to my master’s castle.”

Sergeant Kapl approached Volkov from behind and excitedly whispered in his ear:

- Mister, it’s not worth it. Suvor said it correctly - it is still unknown on whose side this baron is. Perhaps he has already sworn an oath of allegiance to the Turonian margrave. In this case, having accepted the invitation, we will find ourselves in a trap.

Gleb answered just as quietly:

– We have no other choice. If they are our enemies, then the baron still won’t just let us go. If we don’t go to the castle, he’ll organize a chase for us. Will we be able to break away from the cavalry detachment? Personally, I highly doubt it. If the baron is loyal to the Pharos throne, then by our refusal we can inflict an undeserved offense on the baron and ourselves push a vassal loyal to the throne into the hands of the enemy. “And he concluded: “No, we’ll have to accept the invitation, and then... Then we’ll hope for the best.”

Drop sighed. He realized that Volkov had already made his decision and was not going to change it. The sergeant agreed that the choice made by Gleb was the best in their situation... But how he did not want to once again endanger the life of the heir to the throne!

Miklos led his horse to Volkov:

“Your Highness, my horse is at your service.” Of course, he cannot compare with those noble horses that are more befitting of your position, but I have no better one.

- Thank you, foreman. But you needn’t become poor - you have a good horse. Maybe outwardly he is inferior to expensive horses, but otherwise he is quite... yes, quite good.

Miklos became dignified, looking around proudly. Everyone is pleased when something that belongs to you is praised. Especially if the praise comes from the mouth of a person whose opinion is taken into account by the most influential people in the duchy.

Volkov climbed into the saddle. The horse, arching its steep neck, cast a displeased glance at the stranger who dared to climb into the saddle. He neighed briefly, turning to the owner. His look expressed bewilderment, it seemed that he wanted to say: “How can this be the master?” Miklos stroked his muzzle soothingly. The horse sighed noisily and snored into his master's hair. Reconciled.

One of the soldiers gave up the saddle to Suvor. The other seated Merik behind him. Thang, with the help of his comrades, climbed onto his horse. The rest of the detachment did not get horses. However, most of them were not too worried about this. The orcs calmly surrounded Volkov, who was sitting in the saddle. Miklos took the horse by the bridle and led him along. Everyone else followed, mixed together: both Baron Kyle’s people and Volkov’s companions.

Several horsemen, obeying the commander's order, whipped up their horses and galloped forward. Miklos, as if apologizing, said:

– It is necessary to warn about your arrival, Your Highness, Mister Baron, so that he can prepare a worthy meeting.

Suvor snorted and opened his mouth, about to announce what kind of meeting the baron would prepare for them, but he ran into Volkov’s sharp, dagger-blade gaze and remained silent.

When powerful stone fortifications rose ahead, Gleb could not hold back his admiring sigh. When he moved with the army, he saw many fortified cities, and saw knightly castles, but most of them could not be compared with the stronghold of Baron Kyle.

At this point the river curved crookedly, and the castle, built on a high hill, was washed on three sides by water, so that the besiegers had only one way to attack - from the fourth side.

Thick walls, made of huge granite blocks, look indestructible for any siege weapons. The tall towers bristled with many narrow loopholes. The baron - or rather his distant ancestors - did not limit themselves to the usual construction of only corner towers. Gleb counted as many as six of them! And that's not counting the dungeon!

Gleb was surprised how the hill held all this weight, and Miklos explained that under a thin layer of soil there was a rocky foundation on which the foundation of the fortifications was built.

The bridge was lowered, the gate gate made of thick iron rods was raised, and travelers passed into the castle without hindrance.

Near the donjon, a festively dressed crowd of men and women, numbering about a dozen, awaited the arrivals. There are two in front of everyone - the owner and mistress of the castle.

The hooves of the horse Miklos had borrowed tapped the stone-paved courtyard. The escort was a few steps behind.

Approaching the crowd, Volkov slid off his horse. He looked carefully at those greeting them, paying special attention to the owners of the castle.

The man appears to be about forty-five years old. Broad-shouldered. Tall. Dressed in a green velvet camisole with rich embroidery, dark green, almost black, trousers tucked into high boots with golden spurs. A long sword hangs from his belt. He looks strongly built, with bulging bulges of muscles, but - the consequences of a carefree, peaceful life - he has already become overweight and fat. The face is absolutely impenetrable; due to the lack of emotions, it looks like a stone mask. Only lively, attentive eyes stand out. Fingers adorned with rings stroke his well-groomed beard. Thick, without a single gray hair, dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.

The woman looks ten to fifteen years younger than her husband, but maybe even smaller, slender, petite - almost two heads shorter than the baron - and very attractive. The skin is clean, bright, the face without a single wrinkle. It probably still attracts crowds of fans. A strict, one might say chaste, green dress with a chin-length collar descends to the ground. Dark hair styled in a high updo. On the thin, aristocratic fingers there is only one piece of jewelry - a wedding ring. Wide-open brown eyes framed by thick, fluffy eyelashes look softly and somewhat... Scared?! Confused?!.

The owner of the castle stepped towards the guest and, having made the required bow, spoke in a rich baritone:

“I welcome you to my castle, your highness.” Feel at home here.

Gleb bowed in response:

- Thank you, Baron Kyle. I gladly accept your invitation.

– Let me introduce: my wife, Baroness Ingrid.

The Baroness curtsied and extended her narrow palm to the guest. Indris's lessons were not in vain: Gleb bowed gracefully and gently touched the soft, velvety skin with his lips.

- My respects, Baroness.

The Baroness turned red, glanced at her husband, but was in no hurry to remove the pen from Volkov’s palm. Baron Kyle cleared his throat meaningfully. Ingrid hastily pulled her palm out of the guest’s hand and pulled back. Gleb took a step back, embarrassed, as if he had done something indecent. Although... The Baroness really interested him, and if her husband weren’t around, then... Who knows, who knows?.. Volkov had successfully resisted the charms of the capital’s beauties for a long time, but now he might well not be able to resist. What was the reason for this: long abstinence?.. The call of the flesh, which understands at the genetic level that given the current risks, life can be interrupted at any moment, and now demanding to fulfill the laid down program for procreation?.. Falling in love?.. A fleeting impulse of passion?.. But one way or another, the miniature baroness, without making any effort, managed to accomplish the impossible - to make the image of Elivietta fade in Volkov’s memory: a distant, unattainable ideal that struck Gleb from the first meeting. How long?!

Baron Kyle suggested proceeding to the main tower. But, as Volkov understood, the invitation extended only to him alone, and not to his companions.

- And my people? - he asked.

“Don’t worry, Marquis, they will be taken care of.” If there are knights among your companions, then, naturally, the invitation extends to them. But sitting at the same table with the soldiers?! – the Baron winced. – Or with the orcs... No, I do not at all question their bravery or loyalty to your highness...

Gleb remembered the attitude of the capital’s nobles towards the orcs. Place orcs at your table?!. Yes, for noble gentlemen this is a loss of dignity. That's it!.. Period!.. They don't care that most of the same orcs recently shed their blood for the Pharos Duchy and paid the highest price for their loyalty to the Marquis - with their lives!

And during the campaign, many nobles looked askance that Volkov spent too much time in the circle of his guards. Perhaps the only ones who treated his guards kindly: both the orcs and the mercenaries from the palace guard, were the Nugar nobles. But they themselves, in the opinion of most nobles, are not full-fledged knights, but rather half and half! You bastards! The same commoners, only with golden spurs!

And now, when Gleb introduced Suvor to Baron Kyle, he looked at the knight and asked in a sour tone:

- Nugaran?

Apparently, he shared the general opinion about the Knights of Nugara.

“Yes,” answered Suvor, proudly raising his chin.

“He’s a knight,” Volkov added quietly but impressively.

The baron did not oppose the heir to the throne, but it was clear that Suvor received the invitation only thanks to Volkov.

– Your Highness... Sir... Come in.

Together with the owners, they entered the tower. On the threshold, Gleb looked back at his companions, but several servants had already approached them and led them towards the barracks. Apparently, the baron decided to give them a place next to his soldiers. The baron's retinue followed the guests.

– Your Highness, my majordomo will show you the apartments allocated to you.

An elderly man dressed in green livery approached the guests, bowed and introduced himself as the majordomo of the castle. To Gleb he seemed somewhat similar to Indris. The profession leaves its mark.

Following the majordomo, Gleb and Suvor climbed to the third floor of the tower. He pointed to the rooms next door.

Volkov entered the chambers assigned to him, consisting of two rooms. I looked around. The walls were draped with green velvet. Embroidered carpets are hung on them. A table decorated with carvings and gilding, several chairs and armchairs. There is a fireplace near the wall. There are gilded lamps on the walls. The oak parquet floor had been cleaned, the table, chairs and other furnishings had been wiped with a damp cloth, but despite the open windows, the air in the room smelled of dust and mustiness. Apparently, these chambers were intended for special guests and were not used very often. Most likely, they quickly put things in order, having learned from the messengers who were the first to arrive at the castle about the arrival of the Marquis. The second room was smaller. Two-thirds of its space was occupied by a huge bed—it could fit ten people—with carved posts and a thick canopy of the same green color. A low carved table sat next to the headboard.

Two healthy men burst into the front room, straining to drag a huge wooden tub. They placed it in the middle of the room. Next, several servants began carrying buckets of hot water. Steam poured out of the tub. Having filled it with water, the servants quickly left the room. Gleb felt his body itching, which had not been washed for a long time, hastily threw off his dirty clothes, smelling of smoke and sweat, and plunged into the hot water with pleasure. Of course, a wooden tub could not compare with a luxurious palace bath, but that didn’t matter now.

The majordomo looked into the room. Seeing Volkov's head sticking out of the tub, he turned and quietly ordered something. A silent servant jumped into the room, grabbed the scattered clothes and dragged him to the exit. Next came two girls with towels and other bath accessories. Giggling and darting their eyes with interest, they approached the tub. Volkov preferred to wash himself, which caused sincere bewilderment among the servants in Amelie, but in recent days he was so exhausted that, finding himself in hot water, he became weak, felt completely exhausted and, without objection, surrendered to the capable hands of the maids. They diligently set to work. They rubbed and scrubbed, removing the dirt that had stuck to the body, splashed with water, rubbed with soap root until the skin acquired a pinkish tint.

Having sent the maids away - they did not want to leave, but Gleb was adamant - Volkov got out of the tub, feeling clean and refreshed, and wrapped himself in a large towel. He sat down in a chair, leaned back, and blissfully closed his eyes, feeling a pleasant lightness throughout his body.

There was a timid knock on the door of the room.

- Come in.

The servant's head popped into the room:

- May I, Your Highness?

Having waited for permission, the servant entered, laying out clean linen, several suits, shirts and Volkov’s old clothes, cleaned and mended, on a chair.

Gleb put on clean underwear, chose a shirt that suited his size, went through the proposed suits, but they were all made in green colors - as Volkov had already realized: the baron’s favorite color - he put them aside. The excess green color was annoying. I put on my hiking pants and jacket. He girded himself with a belt with blades. The patiently waiting servant said that the ceremonial dinner in honor of the arrival of the heir to the throne at the castle was ready, and the marquis was expected in the main hall.

In the corridor he saw a Nugar knight leaning against the wall. With a bored expression on his face, he played with the dagger. The blade of the blade fluttered like a butterfly between the knight’s fingers. At the sight of Volkov, he perked up, sheathed the dagger and inquired:

“Are we going already, Marquis?”

– Yes, you shouldn’t keep your hospitable hosts waiting.

Suvor chuckled; he still had not changed his opinion regarding the hospitality of Baron Kyle and, unlike Gleb, who limited himself to swords, did not neglect armor.

Following the guide, they went down to the second floor and went into the main hall. When Volkov appeared, everyone present stood up. The majordomo jumped up and led Gleb to the place of honor at the head of the table, next to the baron and baroness. Suvor was seated at the end of the table, farthest from everyone present. This is how the baron showed him his disdain. The knight clenched his teeth, rolled his jaws and remained silent, but swore to himself that he would not forget such humiliation and would find a way to get even with Baron Kyle and his minions, who were now casting malicious glances at the humiliated Nugar.

Gleb understood that the place allotted to Suvor was a mockery, a spit, but they could not afford to quarrel with the baron. Now during the war, every ally was important. And Volkov asked Suvor with his gaze not to start a quarrel.

If someone else had been in Volkov’s place, this would not have stopped Suvor. No one has the right to stand between a knight and his honor!

The Nugar knight did not have a very high opinion of the representatives of the capital's nobility and at first obeyed Volkov only by virtue of the oath taken to the heir to the throne, but during the hardships they experienced together, Gleb managed to win the respect of the Nugar. He did not exude arrogance, like the Amel knights, he treated veterans with respect, did not hesitate to eat from the same pot with the soldiers, shared all the hardships of the journey equally, in turn stood guard, carried the wounded on his shoulders, and personally went on reconnaissance. And how famously did the two of them deal with the pointy-eared bastards?! Suvor smacked his lips with pleasure. The heir of Duke Tormahillast deserves to follow him... Both to glory and to death.

And now Suvor will carry out the silent order of the overlord, even... Even if he doesn’t like it...

Baron Kyle rose from the table and declared, raising his goblet of wine:

“Gentlemen, I propose to drink to the health of His Highness, who has honored our castle with his attention.”

Those gathered unanimously picked up the baron’s loyal impulse and began to praise the Marquis of Farosse in a friendly chorus.

...Dinner went on as usual. Volkov, sitting in a place of honor, had polite conversations with the owner of the castle, showered the hostess with compliments, politely answered the questions of others, drank wine, and tried all the dishes. He was polite and courteous, charming most of those gathered. He seemed to sincerely enjoy the celebration organized in his honor, but Suvor, the only one present who had spent a long time in the company of the marquis, was able to notice Gleb’s sigh of relief when the dinner came to an end. Who else could consider that the heir to the throne is unpleasant to Baron Kyle, and would be able to use the acquired knowledge to his advantage, but not the straightforward Nugar knight. He had already learned that the Marquis did not like either ceremonial meetings or crowds of flatterers and preferred the company of his soldiers. It’s strange, Suvor heard that earlier, before his injury, the marquis, on the contrary, was a great fan of balls, hunting and other entertainment, as, indeed, was his sister. Knight Suvor should have been irritated by such disregard for noble society on the part of the Marquis of Farosse, but the warrior Suvor fully supported his overlord. And it’s not that Baron Kyle insulted the Nugar knight! At least Suvor wanted to think so...

Baron Kyle was furious. Skillfully hiding his feelings, he, like Volkov, eagerly awaited the end of the celebration. But the reasons were completely different. Perhaps one of his long-time vassal friends was able to sense the irritation raging in the baron, but drew erroneous conclusions from it. They decided that Kyle’s irritation was connected with the attentions that the young marquis showed to the baron’s wife. Fools! Like most nobles, the baron was forced to marry not out of love, but out of convenience. The marriage was beneficial to both families, and the baron agreed, but did not have ardent feelings for his wife. And after the birth of the heirs, he completely considered that he had fully fulfilled his duty to the family, fortunately that the plump, busty maids and peasant women were always ready to brighten up the lord’s night. And the wife... What good is she, skinny? There's nothing to even hold onto! I would have floated her long ago to some monastery of the All-Father, if there were not priests in such a pen in the duchy. So neither the advances of the marquis, nor the behavior of his wife, who favorably accepted the signs of attention, could cause dissatisfaction in the baron. On the contrary, in another situation he would have been even more happy and began to calculate the opening prospects. Now he was more worried about the arrival of the Marquis itself.

Baron Kyle was not an out-and-out scoundrel, but he was a sober and calculating man and foresaw impending troubles on the part of the Turonian margrave. The baron understood that the lands up to Cahors were virtually lost for the duchy, which means... This means that it is necessary to establish connections with the future ruler Algerd, and harboring the marquis is not the best start to fruitful cooperation. And now what i can do? Give the marquis over to the markraf? Cover? In any case, troubles cannot be avoided. All that remains is to choose the lesser of two evils... Why?! No, why did the road lead the Marquis to his castle?! Choose that other path, and now Baron Kyle would not have to be tormented by doubts.

Handing over uninvited guests to Algerd of Turon is a good way to declare one’s loyalty to the new government. No doubt the Margrave will appreciate such a gesture. It will be possible to make a good career at his court, increase his possessions, or even become related to Algerd. He knew that the margrave had three children: two sons - both unmarried - and a daughter. Much more attractive prospects than having a marquis as his wife's lover. As you know, Pharos dragons can flirt as much as they want, but they marry only with their own kind. But to hand over the Pharos marquis to the Turonian margrave would tarnish the honor of the family with betrayal. Even among Algerd’s supporters there are many people who will condemn the baron’s act. And don’t forget about the revenge of the Pharosian court! It’s good that among the marquis’s companions there are no members of influential Amel families who would be personally interested in punishing the traitor. But even without that... To have Erno Altin as an enemy?! There are too many rumors about his vindictiveness... Even if half of the rumors are idle fiction... But he will take revenge!

Giving the marquis refuge means incurring the wrath of Algerd of Turon. Only a complete idiot would quarrel with the future overlord! Conceal the appearance of the marquis in secret? Will not work. Too many people know about the arrival of the heir to the throne at the castle. You can't shut everyone's mouth. Probably the soldiers who have already met Danhelt of Pharos are bragging to their girlfriends that they have personally seen the heir to the throne. What about the rest? Servants... Guests... In less than three days, rumors about the appearance of the Marquis will reach the Turonian Margrave. And on the fourth, a large Turonian detachment will appear under the castle walls. And what will he do then? Defend? He won’t last even two decades against the Turonians. You can’t count on help from Amelie either...

For the first time, Baron Kyle did not know what to do.

With the end of dinner, the guests dispersed in all directions, and the baron continued to sit at the table, staring blankly at the empty goblet. Someone touched him on the shoulder. The Baron raised his head and looked at the one who disturbed him. Ingrid... Wife...

The Baroness looked at her husband with concern and asked what was bothering him. This innocent question caused Kyle to burst into anger. How can she understand the reasons for his concern?! What does she care about the consequences that the arrival of the Marquis may lead to? She didn't even think about them. All he can do is make eyes at the guests. I’m ready to jump out of my skirt at the sight of a cute little face. This is in front of my husband!

The baron was unfair: throughout the entire marriage, despite her husband’s numerous infidelities - which he did not try to hide - she never gave any reason to suspect her of adultery. She suffered in silence when the baron had fun with busty village women and maids.

- Leave me alone! Stupid!

No matter how irritated he was, he should not take his anger out on his wife. It is inappropriate for a noble lord to yell at his wife; a groom can do this, but not a baron. It’s good that they were alone and no one saw this unsightly scene.

The Baroness recoiled from her husband. She feared the Baron more than anything in the world. The tough, domineering, harsh husband rarely raised his voice to his missus. It happened that it was not just the voice. The main thing is that there is no public quarrel, her husband believed. What happens without witnesses is a private matter for the spouses. And now he could not limit himself to just words, but his hand was heavy.

The Baron rose heavily from the table, sweeping his goblet to the floor with his wide sleeve, and left the banquet hall, not paying attention to his fearfully frozen wife. What's the use of continuing the quarrel? Shout or shout, but the matter will not be solved on its own! He will have to choose anyway. But how hard it is to make a choice...

But you have to!

The baron wandered around the entire castle, and the servants, who had already heard about the bad mood of the owner, tried to disappear from his path in advance. Nobody wanted to fall under the lord’s hot hand.

Rising to the very top of the tower, the baron walked up to the battlements and stared into the distance, as if he hoped to see a clue there. Heavy, confident steps were heard behind him. Someone came and stood next to me. Captain Honore! He is the only one who could voluntarily come to the baron, who was in a bad mood. Kyle was not wrong in his assumption. Indeed, it was him. The confident voice of the chief of the castle guard boomed:

- Sir, were you also worried about the arrival of His Highness at the castle?

The Baron thought there was a hidden hint in the words spoken, but no. Looking into the honest, open face of his trusted warrior, Kyle realized that he was saying exactly what he was thinking, without any hidden subtext. Honore was only worried that Turonian soldiers might follow in the Marquis's footsteps, and the castle... The castle would not withstand a long siege. Another idiot! It's not about the Turonian soldiers - it's about the Marquis himself! But is it worth telling Honore everything? Will he understand? And the baron answered in a neutral tone:

- Yes, it worries me.

– Will I order patrols to be sent out? – Honore asked.

There is joy in the captain's voice. He shifted the problem that bothered him onto the Baron's shoulders, and can no longer be tormented by doubts. Lucky! What do you order the baron to do? Who to ask for advice? The All-Father? But he won't answer.

- It won’t be superfluous.

As they say: no matter what a child enjoys...

- I obey!

“Send dozens of Miklos, Varon, Bert and Zorg,” the baron ordered.

He had not yet made a final decision, but just in case, he decided to take advantage of the opportunity and, under a plausible pretext, remove the most unreliable soldiers from the castle. Those whose honor may be higher than loyalty to Baron Kyle, if he nevertheless orders the capture of the heir to the throne and his people. Although... although the marquis’s companions may not be taken alive.

- Miklosa? – asked Honoré. “But, sir, Miklos' men recently returned from patrol. The soldiers are tired.

- Okay, send him instead... Three dozen will be enough.

“Yes, sir,” Honore replied and went to give instructions.

Gleb knew nothing about the baron’s torment. While in the castle, he rested his soul and body, enjoying short moments of peace. During his wanderings, he learned to appreciate the small joys of life: tasty food instead of boring fish and a handful of stale crackers, warm, heated wine instead of water, dry clothes, a soft, warm bed instead of a cloak thrown on the ground. But, no matter how much he wanted to stay here longer, he understood that tomorrow he would have to continue his journey into the unknown, so as not to expose his hospitable hosts to unnecessary risk. Maybe not even on foot, if the baron turns out to be a true patriot of his homeland.

Before going to bed, Volkov decided to visit his companions. Having caught a running servant, he inquired where his companions were placed. The servant readily explained, and he, accompanied by Suvor, set off towards the barracks.

About three dozen horsemen galloped to the open gate. Immediately after the soldiers left, the bridge was raised.

-Where are they looking at night? – Suvor asked in surprise, suspicions stirred in his soul again.

A passing soldier readily explained:

“Sir, Captain Honore, by order of Monsieur Baron, ordered the dispatch of patrols. If Turonian soldiers appear in the area, we will know about it.

-Have you been expelled before? – the knight still could not calm down.

“Of course, sir,” the soldier was surprised. - How could it be otherwise? Only before they got by with one dozen, but now, look, they sent as many as three. Apparently, Mister Baron is worried about the safety of His Highness.

Suvor stopped asking questions. Either his paranoia had finally calmed down, or the knight realized that he still wouldn’t learn more from a simple soldier.

The Baron ordered that a small annex near the barracks be allocated for rest for Gleb’s companions, but they were not there. Volkov and the knight found their companions in the barracks itself, where they, surrounded by local soldiers, told stories. With the arrival of the noble gentlemen, the soldiers tensed, not knowing what to expect from them. But, to their considerable surprise, the heir to the throne did not boast of his origins, he behaved evenly and benevolently. He willingly joined in the conversation, asked his companions how they were placed here, and wondered if their healing wounds were bothering them. Suvor did not lag behind him, but the Solats already knew that he was one of the Nugar nobles, and they all knew! - they never disdained the company of ordinary soldiers, you can’t even say that they were noble gentlemen. But the heir to the throne?! Yes, any provincial baron behaves a hundred times more arrogantly.

The behavior of the Pharos soldiers was no less surprising. They did not hesitate when the Marquis addressed them, they eagerly joined in the discussion and were not afraid to enter into an argument with him, as if in front of them was just an old friend, and not the heir to the throne himself. And with all this, it was clear that they sincerely respected their overlord and were ready to do anything for him.

Gleb had no idea that with such an attitude towards his companions he was winning the favor of the baronial soldiers. Volkov did not forget that he had to play Danhelt Faross, but he was not born heir to the throne, he was an ordinary person, even if he ended up in the body of the Marquis Faross, and did not understand why he should humiliate with arrogance people for whom he has friendly feelings , although, if necessary, he could be tough and even cruel. Gleb saw how most nobles behaved, but did not want to follow their example, believing that it was low to assert oneself at the expense of other people. Volkov acted as he was used to on Earth - treat people the way they deserve, no matter who they are. This principle gave him a lot of trouble, but he did not give up on it on Earth, and will not give up now...

Time in the company of comrades passed quickly, and soon I had to leave the warm company. Not only his old comrades, but also the baronial soldiers saw him off with sincere wishes. Thang, despite the wound that had not completely healed, was eager to spend the night at the door of his chambers. The rest of the orcs were ready to support the bodyguard Danhelt in this endeavor, but Volkov refused, saying that there was no point in offending the owners of the castle with mistrust. Suvor, who accompanied him, shook his head reproachfully. It was he who gave the orcs this idea.

Having reached the chambers allotted to him, Volkov climbed into bed, stretching out freely on the wide bed, but did not have time to fall asleep.

The door creaked quietly and a quick, light figure slipped into the room. There was a quiet knock: something was placed on the bedside table, the rustling of clothes falling to the floor was heard, and a hot naked body climbed under the blanket, pressing its lush breasts against Volkov. Half asleep, Gleb reacted to the appearance of the uninvited guest as he should, and his hand rushed to the sheath lying at the head of the head. A quiet laugh was heard, and a woman’s voice whispered, burning with hot breath:

“Sir, you will need another sword now.”

With these words, the soft palm of the uninvited guest slid between Gleb’s legs.

- Who are you?

Continuing to press closely to Volkov, the girl said:

- Laura. Mister Baron ordered that your Highness be kept company.

Mister Baron gave orders?! Apparently, Kyle paid attention to the glances Gleb cast at the baroness and, fearing for the safety of the family hearth, took preventive measures by sending a maid to the guest. It was very nice of him, but he worried about his wife completely in vain. No matter how much Volkov liked Baroness Ingrid, he had no intention of dragging her into bed. It’s simply disgusting, while visiting, to take advantage of your position and harass the wife of the hospitable host. Gleb was not an ungrateful pig.

Volkov desperately wanted to sleep. Tomorrow morning a hard road awaited him, and it would be nice to have a good rest. He was looking for a plausible pretext under which he could send away the midnight guest without offending either the girl or Baron Kyle, who undoubtedly acted with the best intentions, but...

But, looking at the naked girl clinging to him, he changed his mind. Long abstinence - but he is by no means a monk! – and the proximity of a hot young body awakened desire. All thoughts except one – that same one! - flew out of my head, Volkov’s lips found the girl’s soft, hot lips and... For a long time, drawn-out moans were heard from the marquis’s bedroom, followed by loud cries of happiness.

Several of the baron's trusted people were waiting in the corridor for the end of the meeting - Kyle, after much deliberation, decided to go over to the side of Algerd of Turon and hand over Danhelt of Faros to him - listening to the sounds coming from the room, they exchanged quiet comments from time to time. They were supposed to capture the heir to the Pharos throne when he calmed down and fell asleep. But about three hours had already passed, and the marquis, who had seized the supple female body, did not even think of calming down.

...The minutes flew by one by one, adding up to hours, and Volkov was still tireless. His partner turned out to be an amazingly skillful and passionate lover. Apparently, the baron sacrificed one of his passions. Only at the end of the fourth hour did Gleb lean back on the pillows, greedily gulping air with dry lips. Laura slid her swollen lips over Volkov’s cheek, reached for the bedside table, leaned onto her lover with a belly wet from sweat and smeared her hot nipples across Gleb’s lips. Volkov, twisting, caught the wrinkled, swollen nipple in his mouth and squeezed it with his lips. The girl laughed, fumbled for a half-empty jug of wine, took a few sips and handed it to her weary lover. Volkov greedily fell to the jug, swallowed the wine to the last drop and stretched out on the crumpled sheets. Laura shifted, making herself more comfortable, put her head on his shoulder, pressing her soft chest tightly against him, and threw her heavy leg across her stomach. Stroking his tangled wet hair, Volkov imperceptibly dozed off.

When Laura quietly climbed out of bed, he woke up. I wanted to call out to the girl, but I was so lazy! Relaxed in bed, he silently listened to the quiet rustling sounds. It was clear from the sounds that Laura was trying to move as silently as possible, but this did not alarm him at all. So she threw on her nightgown, collected the rest of her clothes and left the bedroom. The door to the corridor creaked, and a man’s voice asked quietly:

Laura replied:

- I recently fell asleep.

“We’ll wait,” another male voice said gravely.

- We're waiting, I said! Do you want him to grab the sword? How will you take him alive then?

There was the rustle of crumpled clothes, a resounding slap, and Laura’s angry hiss:

- Take your hands off, bear.

- Look, you touchy one. You might think it's the first time.

- She has no time for you. Now give her only nobles. Look, she was pouring out under the marquis, screaming so much that I thought my voice would break.

– It’s easy for you to say, but what does it feel like for me now? I got caught so insatiable that everything will hurt for a decade now...

The door closed, cutting off the quiet whisper.

Volkov lay in bed with his heart pounding. The snippet of conversation I heard caused alarm, and Suvor’s suspicions came to mind.

Something had to be done. Pulling on his underpants, Gleb deliberately loudly knocked over the empty jug and stomped towards the exit. I wanted to take the swords with me, but I changed my mind and put them aside so as not to arouse suspicion. He broke off the leg of one chair and placed the piece near the door, so that it could be quickly grabbed. Opening the door, he stood on the threshold, scratched his bare chest and, looking surprised at the sight of four strong guys hanging around in the corridor - two near his door and two near Suvor's door - asked:

– Have you seen Laura?

As he expected, the sight of an unarmed man did not arouse any suspicion among the four guys.

- She's gone, your highness.

Gleb made an offended face:

“How did you leave?.. Why?.. Oh, okay,” he waved his hand and turned to one of the guys: “Listen, friend, help me out - the wine is completely gone.” Bring a couple of jugs, will you?

After exchanging glances with the others and waiting for a barely noticeable nod from the elder - if Volkov had not been on his guard, he would not have noticed - he replied:

- It will be now, Your Highness.

Gleb turned, preparing to go into the room, but looked back at the remaining trio and said:

“Laura and I got a little naughty there, we even overturned the table.” Put it in place, otherwise I’ll break my legs in the dark.

The guys playing the role of servants followed Volkov into the room. Gleb didn’t want to turn his back to them, but what if they hit him with something heavy on the back of the head? - but I had to take a risk, posing as an unsuspecting klutz.

- Where? - asked the elder.

- In the bedroom.

Stepping forward, one of the guys tripped over a chair standing in the way and overturned it with a crash. Gleb prudently did not light the lamp in the room. While everyone was distracted by the noise, Volkov picked up an improvised baton standing by the door and brought it down on the head of the nearest guy. He fell to the floor without a sound, and Gleb, jumping over the lying body, knocked out the second one with the same blow. The third began to turn around, but, unlike Volkov, who could see well in the dark, he did not have night vision and did not understand that the situation had changed radically. He earned a punch to the solar plexus, and when he bent over in pain, he received a baton on the exposed back of his head.

Volkov dragged all three into the bedroom, cut the sheets into long strips, twisted them into a rope, and skillfully tied up the unlucky catchers. He shut their mouths so that when they woke up ahead of time, they wouldn’t make a fuss. Gleb quickly dressed, tightened the belts of the hunter, fastened the belt with swords and sat down on a chair, waiting for the last capturer to arrive.

The idiot didn’t even become wary when he didn’t see his friends, probably imagining that they had already dealt with the marquis on their own, and burst into the room as if it were his own home, stupidly flapping his little eyes. Gleb quickly covered the distance separating them and, while he was staring into the darkness, lightly stabbed him in the stomach with the tip of his sword. Feeling the touch of cold steel, the last unlucky catcher froze in place, almost dropping the heavy jug.

- Hold it tight. And so that not a sound! – Volkov whispered. The frightened guy grabbed the jug tightly. “Did the Baron order you to tie me up?” – The prisoner remembered that Gleb ordered him to remain silent, and nodded his head. Volkov received an answer to his question. – Now carefully place the jug on the floor. Well done! - Having waited for him to follow all the instructions, Gleb hit the hilt of his sword just above his ear and caught the falling body.

Dragging the guy to his friends was a matter of one minute. Tied up and gagged in the mouth also didn’t take much time. One could try to question him first, but Volkov doubted that he knew much. Gleb has already received confirmation that the catchers acted on the orders of Baron Kyle, and the reasons... It is unlikely that the baron explained to his henchmen the motives for his actions. I should ask the baron himself! Thoughtfully, leisurely... You can dream as much as you like, but the baron, having conceived betrayal, was undoubtedly concerned about his own safety. You need to gather your people and get out of the castle before the alarm is raised.

First of all, Volkov went to Suvor. He was sleeping peacefully. Gleb shook the sleeping knight by the shoulder. The warrior's hand first rushed to the sword, closing his fingers on the hilt. Then Suvor recognized the one who woke him up and released his weapon. He sluggishly raised his head and rubbed his eyes with his fists. The look is sleepy. He looked with disapproval, saying: what a dream he ruined for me, and again dropped his head onto the crumpled pillow.

- Suvor, Baron Kyle betrayed us!

But now the knight was overcome. Shaking off his drowsiness, he sat up abruptly in bed and grabbed his sword again.

- Sure? – the knight himself suspected the baron, but could not help but clarify.

“Four idiots should have tied us up sleeping,” Gleb answered. It was not for nothing that the second pair of catchers were hanging out near the Nugar’s door! “Now they are lying around in my room.” One said that Baron Kyle gave the order.

The knight began to dress. Asked:

- What we are going to do?

“Quietly, without noise, we take our people and get out of the castle,” said Volkov. Suvor nodded. He would like to first get even with the traitor, but he understood that Gleb proposed the best plan. Now the main thing is to escape from the trap that has been laid, and to take revenge... You can take revenge later. - Throw on a cloak to cover your armor.

They slipped out into the corridor like silent shadows. They quietly went down the stairs. The door to the tower was bolted, but, fortunately for them, it was not guarded. The castle courtyard was also empty, and they, unnoticed by anyone, reached the annex where their comrades were located.

A couple of minutes to explain to others what is happening. It took a little more time for the veterans, accustomed to any surprises, to get ready, and so they poured out into the yard and moved towards the gate...

Before they had time to cover even half the distance, an alarming sound of a horn was heard, torches flared up, illuminating the castle courtyard, and from both sides - from the keep and gate fortifications - Baron Kyle's steel-clad vassals poured out. The owner of the castle hedged his bets. The baron himself stood on the upper steps of the main tower, prudently hiding behind the backs of his fighters. At the alarm signal, half-dressed soldiers pour out of the barracks. Apparently, no one initiated them into the baron’s plans.

Gleb's companions close shoulder to shoulder. Their faces are frowning. Fury boils in his eyes. The tips of the swords sparkle menacingly. They are ready to fight to the end. Who is brave - come first!

The baron's knights understand that the one who steps first will certainly die, and the second and third will also die. They involuntarily slow down. The soldiers turn their heads completely in confusion, not understanding where the enemy is.

- Kill them! Take the Marquis alive! - Baron Kyle roars from the steps.

Kill?.. Kill?!. Kill?!! KILL!!!

Again?! Gleb is overcome by despair. Is it really because of the Baron’s betrayal that he will now lose his last soldiers, his last comrades?! Volkov’s eyes were covered with a crimson veil. Despair gives way to gut-searing anger. Not to happen! He has already lost too many people who trusted him! The rage rising from the depths of his soul bursts him from the inside. It seems to him that he is growing taller, his shoulders are expanding, his arms are filling with strength. He is shaking with the desire to sweep away, destroy, tear apart all the enemies who stand in his way. A low, menacing growl escapes from his chest...

The baron's vassals, spurred on by a menacing shout, rush forward. A trio of orcs rushes towards the warriors running from the gate: Krang, Groh and Yeng. They are overtaken by a clumsy, but moving with amazing speed, a grotesque figure with two small pulsating humps on the shoulder blades and a muzzle that only vaguely resembles a human face, crashes into the baron's knights blocking the road, scattering them to the sides with amazing ease. Senor Kyle's vassals try to defend themselves, but their swords, hitting places not covered by armor, either slide powerlessly along the shiny scales or leave light, superficial cuts. Screams of rage give way to cries of despair. The invulnerable monster is madly rushing towards the gate. The knights running from the direction of the donjon hesitated and stopped. Baron Kyle made threats, but could not force them to attack. It’s scary... It’s scary to approach a raging monster, roaring wildly, like a maddened beast thirsty for blood.

...Gleb did not remember how he found himself in the circle of enemies. He spun around in the crowd with a growl, slashing in all directions with sharp claws and feeling blows raining down from all sides, but the scales held on. Light pokes are not scary for her, but her opponents cannot swing properly in a crowded crowd... With claws?! Scales?! Gleb doesn’t have time to be surprised - the withering anger burns all extraneous thoughts. Suddenly his vision grew dark, weakness set in, his legs began to tremble, and Volkov was awkwardly led to the side...

Already broken, the warriors, ready to flee, saw how the terrifying monster unsteadily shifted from foot to foot, swayed and almost fell, straightening up with difficulty. The knights of Baron Kyle perked up and attacked the enemy with renewed vigor. The monster was still blindly swinging its paws, but any experienced fighter could see that it would not hold out for long. And so it was! Letting out a roar that turned into a pitiful sob, the monster fell to one knee, dangling its paws helplessly. His figure flowed like a wax toy under the hot sun, and in its place appeared the Marquis of Farosse, trembling with weakness. His face was pale and exhausted, his blond hair was darkened with sweat and wet locks stuck to his forehead, he convulsively swallowed air with his mouth wide open.

The sword whistled, clanging across the plates of the bakhterets. Volkov was thrown back by the blow, and he was forced to lean his hand on the ground. The baron's vassals forgot that he had to be taken alive, and rushed to finish off the powerless enemy. A couple more blows and Gleb would have been defeated. But the loyal orcs had already broken through to him. The mighty Rumble spins the heavy falchion madly, killing one enemy with each blow. Nearby, young Yong is plastering enemies with two swords. He lost his weapon in battle, but did not lose his head, picked up the swords of defeated opponents from the ground and rushed into battle with renewed vigor. On the other hand, the younger leader Krang jumped up to the fallen Volkov, covered him with himself, and cut right and left. The pitiful scraps remaining from the knightly detachment retreated back, leaving seven dead comrades under the orcish feet.

If the knights had gathered their strength, they could still destroy the trio of opponents, but they hesitated, and they were overwhelmed by the second wave of attackers. Seeing that the second detachment of Baron Kyle was hesitating, the rest of Volkov’s companions hastened to help their comrades. Suvor, Kapl, Nantes, Dykh, Raon - all veterans - even Thag, who had not properly recovered from his wound, and the young, inexperienced Merik, unanimously attacked the demoralized enemy, however, the boy was almost immediately thrown back so as not to get in the way.

- We're going up. “Let’s lower the bridge,” Krang told his comrades who arrived in time, and, leaving Gleb in the care of the other companions, the trio of orcs, with Drop joining them, rushed up the stairs to the lifting mechanism.

- Hold them! – Baron Kyle yells furiously and waves his sword. - Don't miss it!

The knights from the second squad swung forward. Looking at each other uncertainly, without any formation, confused soldiers move behind them.

Volkov, hanging on the shoulders of his comrades, raises his head, and his gaze stops at the soldier. Pushing aside the supporting fighters, he straightens up and takes a step forward. Gleb intuitively feels that now it is still possible to prevent a new massacre and save his comrades, but delay even for a moment...

- No, don't listen to him! Kill them! – Baron Kyle yelled, jumping on the spot, but he was too late. The soldiers are already lowering their weapons.

“...He hopes to buy the favor of the Margrave of Turon by handing me over to him.” Your guest! Who will he sell next?! – Volkov’s voice continued to boom, drowning out the pitiful cries of the baron. - You? – Gleb’s finger pointed at the foreman Miklos, then at his neighbor: – Or you? - to the next one: - Or him? Don’t believe?.. Don’t want to believe!..

A flying ax, thrown by one of Baron Kyle's knights, whistled in the air. A sparkling crescent moon flew straight into Volkov's face. Suvor jumped forward, shielding Gleb with himself, and knocked the ax aside with his shield.

The soldiers began to murmur. They are confused. They don't know who to believe. They swore an oath of allegiance to Baron Kyle - that’s true. But the baron himself swore allegiance to the Faros throne.

- The Baron is a scoundrel and an oathbreaker! – Gleb’s words sound to the soldiers like a voice from above.

- Ruby! – the baron presses on the other side.

Cursing, Miklos quickly steps forward, no one has yet had time to understand what he was up to, and the warrior found himself next to a short line of Volkov’s comrades, a sharp turn and now the former warrior of Baron Kyle stands in the same line with them. Following him are the soldiers of his dozen. Not all... But most!

Miklos! Vile traitor! Baron Kyle was ready to strangle the foreman who had gone over to the side of the Marquis with his own hands. As well as the soldiers who followed their foreman. With my own hands! Everyone! Squeezing the life out of each traitor drop by drop. Slowly. Looking into fading eyes.

- Scoundrels! Ungrateful pigs! - he breaks out in a frenzy. - Kill! Don't spare anyone!

But the call is in vain. More and more hesitant soldiers are going over to the side of the heir to the throne. Only those whose relatives live on the baron’s lands remain. And young people and mercenaries unencumbered by families join Volkov’s detachment.

The knights slowly retreat to the donjon. They see that most of the soldiers have gone over to the side of the heir to the Pharos throne, and are preparing to defend the entrance to the main tower if the enemy decides to go on the offensive. Many of them deep down condemn the baron’s act, but the main thing for a knight is loyalty to his overlord. And they remain with their master. But not all, not all... There are also those who are not afraid to tarnish their honor by apostasy and put loyalty to the Motherland above loyalty to the overlord.

Honore, Captain Honore. Faithful assistant. A relative showered with favors. An illegitimate bastard, approached and favored by the baron. He leaves his master.

Gustav Bray - one of the most desperate knights, loyal and incorruptible - tears the gold chain donated by the baron from his neck and throws it at his feet. The knight's handsome face twists into a contemptuous grimace. He leaves... Joins the Farosians...

Some of the former soldiers - already former! - the barona throws a spear at the retreating knights, flying off the iron-bound shield with a ringing sound. But this is only the first sign! Other soldiers are already ready to follow the example of the daredevil. Baron Kyle sees this. He does not want to risk his precious life and jumps inside the tower. The emboldened soldiers advance in an all-crushing wave towards the huddled group of knights. The second spear flies to the side, the third - the knights skillfully cover themselves with shields. The heated soldiers are thirsty for blood. If the Wolves had not taken control, they would have torn apart his companions with the same fury. But he managed... Someone is already drawing a sword from its sheath, preparing to fight hand-to-hand with the baron’s minions.

Orcs are pushing into the front rows, only after emerging from one battle, they are happily ready to get involved in a new one and take revenge, revenge, revenge... For everything: for the treacherous attack of Algerd Turon, for the death of comrades in an ambush set up by Turonian soldiers, for all those hanged, chopped up by order of the Margrave. And so what if Baron Kyle has a very indirect connection to the Turonians?! In their eyes, he is just as much an enemy... If not worse, because he stabs on the sly, in the back of those who trusted him.

And they are not alone in their desire! Suvor Temple rushes forward, supported on both sides by veteran sergeants: Nant and Kapl. Another moment and they will cut into the pitiful formation of enemies, destroying everything in their path, but Volkov’s voice is heard:

- Stand!

The soldiers, accustomed to submission, freeze for a short time, and this pause is enough for the baron’s supporters to jump into the donjon and lock the strong doors behind them. Following the hastily retreating enemy, the crowd rushes with cries of rage and rains down a hail of blows on the doors. Thick oak boards bound with iron strips make a dull hum, but they hold up.

Grumbling dissatisfiedly, the crowd retreated from the doors.

- Teners! To me!

Excited junior commanders emerge one by one from the seething human whirlpool. Seeing a familiar face, Volkov gives the order:

- Miklos! Gather your people and place them at the gates.

Volkov is not afraid of an attack from the outside - all the enemies took refuge in the donjon - but he knows how dangerous an uncontrollable crowd can be, and strives to divide it as quickly as possible into small detachments under the command of his commanders. It’s better to let them do useless work and quietly grumble at the idiotic orders given by their superiors than to smash everything around in madness. One spark of an example is enough, and the brutal crowd will rush to rob, burn, destroy, and rape. Volkov did not have warm feelings for the traitor baron, but did not want innocent women and children to suffer. And I didn’t want to watch how the knights and soldiers who remained loyal to their overlord were killed. The real enemy is not these confused people, but the Turonian margrave. Smart, cunning, ruthless...

- Yes, your highness! – the foreman barks smartly in response, devotedly devouring the heir to the throne with his eyes. He recognized Gleb as his commander and is ready to carry out any order.

Miklos rushes into the crowd like a hawk, pulls out his subordinates from the general mass and sends them to the gate.

- Form in dozens!

The crowd moved. The soldiers gathered in dozens and evened out. Their commanders rushed along the forming formation, urging on the slowest ones. A few minutes and instead of an amorphous, loose crowd, a clear structure appears. The foremen lined up in front of their soldiers.

His companions are approaching Volkov. Gleb hastily ran his eyes over them and sighed with relief - everyone was alive. Two unfamiliar knights approach along with their old comrades.

“Gustav Bray,” the first one introduces himself and, kneeling on one knee, holds out his sword with outstretched arms. “My life and honor belong to you, your highness.”

Unlike the time when a detachment of orcs bought from slavery swore allegiance to Volkov, Gleb did not fall into a stupor. Now he knows what to do.

“I accept your oath, Sir Gustav,” says Volkov, touching the outstretched sword with his fingers.

The knight rises from his knee and steps back, making room for his comrade.

“Honoré Bruce,” says the second, “captain of the castle guard.” My life and honor belong to you, Your Highness.

“I accept your oath, Sir Honoré.” Stand up.

Volkov looks at the lined up soldiers. There are at least seven dozen of them. He steps forward, stops in front of the right-flank foreman, looks into his eyes:

-What's your name, foreman?

The young, hammer-like, tall and broad-shouldered fighter with dark curls - surely more than one girl’s heart yearns for the brave young man - is embarrassed by the close attention of the heir to the throne to his modest person, but Gleb is waiting for an answer, and he pushes out his tongue, unruly with excitement:

- Terp, your highness.

– Are you ready to fight the Turonian invaders?

- Ready, your highness.

-What's your name, foreman?

“Bravil, your highness,” the next one answers.

He is the complete opposite of the previous one. A short, battered elderly fighter. You couldn’t call him handsome, no matter how hard you wanted: his nose was broken and turned to one side, his front teeth were missing, his face was covered with small pockmarks. The soldier does not look too impressive, like the first foreman, but his gaze is firm and direct. This one, if he admits that you are right, will stand until the end.

– Are you ready to fight the Turonians?

“Always, your highness,” Bravil grins, showing a gap in his teeth.

- Keep it up, fighter! – Volkov nods approvingly and moves on to the next one.

-What's your name, foreman?

- Colon, your highness.

Colon is also not young. The soldier's head is clean-shaven. The face is wrinkled and covered with a dark tan, which makes it resemble a baked apple.

– Aren’t you afraid of the Turonians?

The foreman proudly raises his head:

- Let them be afraid of us. We didn't invite them to our place.

Volkov pats him on the shoulder:

“You’re right: let them be afraid of us.”

- The name of?

– Mark, your highness.

The foreman looks at Volkov with poorly concealed insolence in his eyes, as if he wants to say: “Let's see, Marquis, which of you will be a commander.”

Well, well... I myself looked at the young platoon commander, recently from school, in the same way. Like, you, of course, are a lieutenant and all that, and you have officer’s shoulder straps on your shoulders, but... You were young, stupid...

- Igen, your highness.

- Laroche, your highness.

One is tall, thin as a sliver, the second is the complete opposite - a short, fat man, but they look alike, alike... The same wrinkles around the eyes, a predatory squint. Archers. Without any doubt.

There were eight foremen, and Volkov beat them all. Then he returned back, carefully looked around at the lined-up soldiers, remembering the faces turned to him. It was felt that the fighters were waiting for his address, but Gleb did not know how to give long, incendiary speeches and would gladly shift this responsibility onto the shoulders of others, but now no one could replace him, and he was forced to begin:

- Soldiers! You all already know that the troops of the Turonian Margrave invaded our lands. I don't know when help from Amelie will arrive, but we shouldn't sit idly by. Yes, we are not enough to resist them in open battle, but we can destroy individual enemy units. They should not feel safe on our land. - He took a breath and continued: - Soldiers, I cannot promise you either money or rich booty...

Someone from the back rows mockingly shouted:

– Has the treasury really become completely depleted?!

Several people laughed, but one of the foreman put his fist behind his back, showing it to the mockers, and they immediately fell silent.

“I’ll get better,” Gleb answered cheerfully. - I made a mistake. I can promise a lot, but to keep my promises...

His companions were talking quietly behind him. Suvor said with despair:

- This is the worst speech I have ever heard. I wouldn’t be surprised if after his appeal half the soldiers ran away.

- Yes, if not all.

Only the orcs remained silent. In their homeland, long speeches were not required from the leaders - the orcs were always ready for battle anyway.

Meanwhile, Volkov continued:

“You can see for yourself that I only have armor and weapons with me.” Oh how far it is from the treasury! - The soldiers burst out laughing. “The only thing I can firmly promise you is that there will be crowds of enemies thirsting for our blood.” There are so many of them wandering around our land that it’s impossible to miss each other...

The soldiers became quiet, began to look at each other in bewilderment and quietly talk to each other. Suvor grabbed his head. Gleb’s words were not suitable for ordinary soldiers; they could only inspire those who, like Suvor, had personal scores to settle with the Turonian soldiers and only wanted revenge.

- No, well, what is he talking about! – the Nugar knight squeezed out.

The same words were spoken by the joyful Baron Kyle, watching the gathering through the loophole in the tower.

Suvor, overwhelmed by gloomy forebodings, missed a large chunk of the speech, and when Volkov finished his address with the words:

-...But no matter how many there are, we will throw them out of our land! We will make you pay in full for every drop of blood shed!.. For every tear!..

He was extremely surprised. His painful forebodings did not come true. The soldiers responded with a unanimous roar:

There was a terrifying roar. The fighters frantically pounded the hilts of their swords on their shields.

Someone screamed wildly to the accompaniment of blows:

- Danhelt! Dan!.. Helt!..

Others supported:

- Dan! - the sonorous clang of swords on the frame of shields. - Helt! - second blow.

Suvor looked back at his comrades and whispered in an incredulous tone, as if afraid to disrupt the wave of enthusiasm with loud words:

- He could!

Surprise and delight.

But his comrades did not pay attention to his words. They, caught up in the general impulse, chanted along with the rest of the soldiers:

- Dan-helt! Dan-helt!

Suvor felt that he too was being overwhelmed by general delight, and he shouted in a jubilant voice, splashing out the emotions bursting from his chest:

- Dan-helt!..

Volkov stands, looking into the distorted faces of the raging soldiers. Finally, the fighters gradually calm down. Gleb turns his head and calls Captain Honore.

He jumps up to Volkov. The captain's eyes sparkle with delight.

- Yes, your highness.

Gleb winced, he couldn’t stand it when people addressed him by a title, especially one that didn’t belong to him, and said:

- Just Danhelt or Marquis. It’s possible - Dan.

- But... But, Your Highness...

Volkov cuts him off mid-sentence:

- Captain, are you a warrior or a court sycophant?

The question unsettles Honoré. He blinks his eyes in confusion and answers:

“So, address yourself like a warrior addresses his commander.” Respectful, but without servility. The palace is already full of sycophants. This also applies to everyone else,” Gleb turns to the soldiers frozen in the ranks. If Indris had heard Volkov now, such a disrespectful attitude towards the butler’s title would have given him a shock. And Elivietta, the true heir to the throne, would hardly have approved of the trampling of family honor. But they weren’t around, and Volkov, who felt like one of his own among the soldiers, didn’t trample his boots for nothing for two years! – it was easier that way. – Take an example from my companions.

- Yeah! – Suvor confirmed. The Nugar knight did not see anything humiliating in Volkov’s proposal. He sincerely respected Gleb. A worthy person does not need to poke everyone in the eye with his title. He already has something to be proud of. Only weaklings and nonentities are constantly afraid of losing their dignity, because... Because they don’t have it!

It cannot be said that Volkov’s offer did not flatter the warriors. It was flattering, so flattering! But it seemed too unusual to the soldiers. Even Baron Kyle is a baron! Just a baron! - and even then he did not condescend to address him in a familiar manner even with honored veterans and demanded that they address themselves as “your honor.” And here is the heir to the throne himself! And he doesn’t flirt with the soldiers, he’s not a hypocrite - the old soldiers felt this in their guts - he says what he thinks.

And his companions do not look stunned. Okay, orcs - what can we take from them? - wild people. No concept of respect! They will poke any king. Nugaran? Well, that one is in his repertoire! Values military valor above all else. But the rest?! Two sergeants, an old man, a boy-like warrior in quilted militia armor, a boy... And they take it calmly. Apparently, they really got used to keeping a close relationship with the heir to the Faros throne during their joint wanderings.

- Captain, we will have to leave the castle. You will need to take with you a supply of food, arrows, and spears. Are there any good carts?

- Yes, yours... Marquis.

- Carts and horses. Are there any blacksmiths?

- Yes, Marquis. Among the soldiers, foreman Terp is quite good with blacksmithing equipment. – Volkov nodded, it was not for nothing that he compared the foreman to a hammerman. I guessed it right. – Kupros can also do it. The castle blacksmith retreated to the donjon with the baron's soldiers, but his apprentice Van remained here.

– Take a camp forge, if available. Make your arrangements, captain.

- I obey, Marquis.

Captain Honore stepped forward, taking more air into his chest, and began to pour out orders in a thunderous voice.

- Terp, you and Van go to the forge with yours and gather everything you need. You will figure out what to take... Colon, Bravil - you have supplies and carts... Mark, Doroh, Savat - you remain to watch the entrance to the tower. Don't let them even stick their nose out. And don't relax, not on vacation. I’ll see...” Honore waved an impressively sized fist in front of his subordinates’ noses. - Cavalrymen... Oh yes!.. Igen, replace Miklos at the gate - let him fly here like an arrow. Laroche, you and yours are in the barracks armory - it’s a pity you can’t get to the castle! – Carry all the ammunition you find with you. You will find the carts near Bravil... or Colon. They will object - you will say, I ordered...

The soldiers began to bustle when they received the order. Having broken up into small groups, led by junior commanders, they scattered around the castle buildings. They opened locked warehouse doors with axes, rolled carts into the yard, and loaded bags of grain, crackers, and cereals onto them. Laroche swept the armory clean, loading the cart, almost fought from Bravil's hands, with wooden shields, leather and quilted armor, boots, felt liners, leather and iron helmets. His subordinates carried armfuls of bundles of arrows and spears and simply wooden blanks. Terp with difficulty heaped a camp anvil, a portable forge, bellows onto the cart, collected all the workpieces and tools: large and small hammers, pliers, punches, chisels, two grinding wheels, and did not forget thick leather aprons and gloves.

Miklos ran up, and Honore sent him to the stable, ordering to inspect the horses, selecting harnesses and saddlers suitable for the long journey. He explained to Volkov in a guilty tone:

- The only cavalry foreman left.

Gleb was surprised:

- The only one? What about the rest?

- Infantrymen, Marquis. There were only fifty mounted soldiers in the castle.

– And only Miklos remained?

Honoré replied:

- Yes, Marquis. Roctor remained loyal to the baron. Varon, Zorg and Bert with their men were sent on patrol by order of the baron. I also wanted to send Miklos, but he had just returned, and the people and, most importantly, the horses needed rest. As I now guess, even then he decided to hand you over to the Turonian margrave and, in order to protect himself from a possible rebellion, he sent away in advance those whose loyalty was in great doubt.

– Did he not trust them?

The captain was confused:

– It’s not that he didn’t trust, Marquis, otherwise he wouldn’t have accepted them into his service. Rather, he did not want to test their loyalty - after all, before taking the oath to the baron, they served in the ducal garrisons, like most of their subordinates. But he had no idea that the rest of the soldiers would take your side.

Suvor, who had been silently listening to their conversation, intervened:

- Nobody had any idea.

The captain agreed:

- That's right, sir. No one had any idea,” and then to Volkov: “And how did you hook them?”

Gleb shrugged. He himself had no idea what prompted the soldiers to take his side. Loyalty to the throne?

- Honore, how many soldiers do we have? Looks more than fifty. I'd say closer to a hundred.

The captain thought, closed his eyes, remembering. Like any good commander, he remembered all his subordinates by sight. He began to list in detail:

– Miklos and his entire dozen in full force. All are experienced fighters. With them are six more... no, seven young guys, recruits assigned to his ten for training. Total: seventeen riders. Four more remained from Roctor. Twenty one. Colon and nine of his subordinates. Bravil with six soldiers. Savat has five, Doroh has seven, and also Mark and Terp - they have thirteen fighters between them. All spearmen. There are forty-six of them. Another twenty...” Honore paused, frowned, counting in concentration. - Eighteen... seventeen... no, still eighteen - I almost forgot about Kupros! - spearmen left without their commanders. Igen and Laroche have fifteen soldiers. The first has seven, the second has eight. Plus they themselves. Seventeen archers.

Suvor, surprised - usually rich nobles recruited a much larger number of shooters to defend the castle - asked:

– Why are there so few archers?

The captain cast a quick glance at Gleb - is it worth answering the questions of the constantly interfering knight? But Volkov himself looked interested. Honore had to explain:

– Some of the archers – no one knew that a war would start! - were sent home. Those who were recruited from the locals. Another four dozen are in Bala. This is the city. Or rather, a town.

- Large garrison! – Volkov said respectfully.

Suvor was even more impressed. A Nugar nobleman, even in the best of times, could not afford to support more than seven or eight fighters.

- How could it be otherwise, Marquis? Baron Kyle has a lot of lands - he can compete with other counts. The baron's younger brother also has his own castle. Part of his squad is with us: Rune - he and the baron retreated to the donjon - and Bravil. These are his foremen. The eldest baronial son also has his own house in Bale, he manages everything there,” Honore explained. “But his people are not here, he himself doesn’t have enough - he constantly begs his father. Even the old baron's friend, the one who commanded the detachment at the gate - you turned his head away with your bare hands - had his own people.... Also, they were constantly found with us - they became ours. Doroh will be one of his people. And Zorg too.

- Okay, this is all clear. How many fighters do we have in total?

- In total... There are a hundred and two people in total, Marquis.

- Wow! A good squad is coming out. You can also pinch the Turonian scoundrels,” Suvor happily rubs his hands.

Gleb does not share his enthusiasm. He remembered how the soldiers of the Turonian margrave defeated almost one thousand three hundred people, and was not going to underestimate them. And don’t forget about the elves serving Algerd. They are few in number, but they are excellent marksmen and trackers. Such a large detachment cannot be hidden from them so easily. The margrave may also have magicians. The fact that they did not show themselves in any way in that massacre organized by the Turonians does not mean anything. Maybe they were in reserve and should have intervened only as a last resort. Or they accompany the margrave himself. Mages are an unknown quantity, and should not be discounted. By the way, how are Baron Kyle doing with them? Volkov voices his question.

- There is only a healer in the castle. He’s already old, he doesn’t even leave his chambers,” Honoré answers. He immediately explains: “His rooms are in the donjon, so we won’t see the healer.” Bala has its own healer. There is a magician there too. Not too strong, but the baron’s son is happy with this and resorts to his services when necessary. Yeah, the baron’s friend also boasted that he now also has a magician in his squad. Well, as a magician... well, one name, just to show off.

- Where is he? – Gleb and Suvor asked at the same time. The Nugar already managed to grab his sword.

The captain waved his hand casually:

– I’m telling you: the magician is so-so. To him a real magician is like a beggar to a ducal crown. It's lying there at the gate.

“Couldn’t you have warned me right away that he was already dead?” – Suvor spoke, putting the blade into its sheath.

Honore did not answer. And Suvor did not expect an answer.

– Maybe we should send messengers to the patrols? – the captain asks Volkov.

The captain knows his subordinates and is confident that the cavalrymen sent from the castle, in anticipation of the events that took place, will take the side of the heir to the throne, as most of the soldiers have already accepted.

Gleb ponders his words. The temptation to get at least a couple dozen more horsemen into your squad is great... great. But if the captain misjudges his subordinates, then they will send the messengers to certain death. Gleb does not want to lose his supporters, he is not ready to cold-bloodedly send people who trusted him to death, but it is stupid to miss the opportunity to fill the ranks of his supporters with cavalrymen. Specifies:

“Captain, are you sure that, having learned from our messengers about what happened, they won’t be killed?”

The captain is confident. He answers without a shadow of a doubt:

- Yes, Marquis.

- Send it, captain.

Honore calls the nearest soldier and demands to call Miklos.

Poor Miklos! That night he had a lot of running around.

The soldiers continue to quickly load the carts. But the pace slowed down - the fighters were tired. Gleb sees this, Suvor sees it, Captain Honore sees it, but he cannot linger. Honore orders that the people of Dorokh and Mark replace the fighters of Bravil and Colon, and Savat - Laroche. Tired, wiping the pouring sweat with their sleeves, the soldiers take a position opposite the locked doors of the donjon, and their comrades set to work with fresh strength. Laroche, having lined up his men behind the spearmen, goes to the armory and explains something to Savate, who replaced him. He nods, vigilantly monitoring the work of his soldiers. He does not hesitate to personally crawl under the cart and check the axles, wheels, and bushings. They don't need any breakdowns along the way.

Suvor nods at him and says respectfully:

- Thorough!

Honore grins:

- Laroche is no worse. That’s why I entrusted the equipment to both of them. These arrows will not be forgotten.

Miklos ran up.

“Send messengers to the patrol dozens, let them inform them about what happened and offer to join,” says Honore. Miklos nods. – Gathering near the old mill, you know where it is. We'll meet them there. If by that time we have gone further, we will leave a couple of fighters and let them catch up with the tracks.

Gustav Bray intervenes and says:

“It will be better if I go to Varon.” He would rather listen to me.

The captain looks questioningly at Volkov. Gleb doesn't mind. The captain has known the fighters for many years, and, as they say, he holds the cards in his hands.

“Okay,” Honore agrees and turns to Miklos: “Give Sir Gustav one soldier to accompany him.” And send the rest in pairs.

Five minutes later, six horsemen stormed out of the gate. Gustav on a tall, massive horse, covered with a blanket with a coat of arms, and five cavalrymen on fast, lean horses, inferior in rank to the knight's horse, but much more durable.

Miklos, having sent his people, returns and asks:

“I picked up the draft horses, we take our own with us.” What are we going to do with the rest? In the stable there were still the riding horses of those who chose the baron's side, and also the knight's horses.

“We’ll take it with us,” said Gleb.

The rest of the foremen came up and reported that the order had been carried out. Supplies were collected, ammunition was loaded onto carts, and horses were examined. The detachment was ready to go.

– Maybe the spearmen left without commanders should be divided among other dozens? - asks Honore.

- There are eighteen of them, right? What dozens are they from? And who commanded them now? Did they work together with the others?

– Four from one, six from another and eight from the third. They helped Terp, Kupros commanded them.

Gleb asks a question:

– Are there any candidates for the position of commanders?

– In the last one, where there are eight, Kupros can handle it, but in the rest I don’t even know, they’re all young.

– If we transfer anyone from the others?

Honore thinks about it and shakes his head negatively. Dozens are already incomplete, and the people have already worked together in them; pulling fighters out of there will only make things worse.

“I wouldn’t,” the captain replies.

Well, Honoré knows better. He knows all the fighters. But leaving dozens without commanders is not good. The captain still believes that the remaining fighters should be divided among the remaining tens, but Volkov has a different solution.

- Kupros!

A soldier with a thick black beard and the same hair comes forward, looking no longer like a warrior, but like a highwayman. Well, that's how they're usually portrayed. A sly squint from under the heavy brow ridges protruding forward. The sloping shoulders of a wrestler, muscular arms overgrown with black hair, thick legs confidently trampling the ground. On the palm of the left hand, wide as a shovel, on the back side, there is a large spot of an old burn. Finding himself in front of Captain Honore and the heir to the throne, the soldier pulls himself up.

– Divide your charges according to the tens in which they served, and take command of the ten in which you were a member.

- I obey, Marquis! – the newly appointed foreman responds joyfully.

He quickly splits the soldiers into three small squads and becomes the head of his dozen.

Volkov looks at the two dozen left without commanders. The soldiers are all young, and it is clear that they are inexperienced. The captain was right - there are no worthy candidates for the vacant positions among them. But Gleb has other worthy contenders.

- Breathe! - Volkov calls, and the old fisherman comes forward. - Take ten! - indicates a squad of six people. - And take Merik with you.

- I obey, Marquis.

Suvor quietly, so that only Gleb could hear, says in an indignant whisper:

“You, Marquis, gave Merik to me as a squire.”

Volkov, in the same whisper, turning his head slightly in his direction, answers:

– You still don’t teach him anything. Only now I remembered that he is supposedly your squire. It would be better for Dykha to be under supervision; anyway, he constantly hangs around with him. Or do you mind?

Suvor waved his hand:

- Let him take it. Less fuss for me.

“So we agreed,” Gleb sums up and raises his voice again: “Krang!” Yong! You are joining this ten,” Volkov points to the last detachment without a commander. – Krang will be the foreman.

“But, Marquis,” the orcs protested in unison, “we must protect you.”

“Groh and Thang will handle the security.”

- But we...

– You must, first of all, follow my orders! So? - Volkov says firmly and, after waiting for a nod of agreement, he snaps: - Do it!

The orcs are not too happy with the new appointment, but they do not dare to protest anymore - they remain silent. The soldiers are also not happy that some orc was appointed as their commander, but they are also silent.

- Why are there no sergeants in the detachment? – Volkov asks the captain.

Honore answers:

– Marquis, the baron did not want to give ordinary soldiers a lot of power and, when necessary, appointed temporary sergeants from among his knights.

- It's clear. Sergeant Drop!

– You are appointed commander of the first... first platoon. Dozens of Colon, Bravil and Savata.

Gleb would prefer to reorganize the detachment according to the Roman model - fortunately he knows their tactics well, but the small number of the detachment did not allow creating an effective formation, like a cohort. And there was no time for any innovations. But it’s not enough to introduce Roman titles - no matter how much you call a chicken an eagle, it won’t fly any better! - it will take months and years of hard work to transform the feudal freemen into a disciplined army. But if such an army is created in the future, then an intermediate link between ten and hundred centuries will still have to be introduced - the gap is too big... And how did the Romans not think of this in their time?! However, this is a thing of the past. Or – heh-heh – the future. If so, let there be a platoon. Or is it called something else here? Gleb thought about it, but did not change the order.

If the sergeant was at a loss, he did not show himself at all, he responded:

- Sergeant Nantes!

The sergeant of the fourteenth comes forward - where is his squad now? - garrison.

“You are appointed sergeant of the second platoon,” says Volkov. – You have dozens of Marks, Dorokh and Terp under your command. Take command.

- I obey, Marquis.

– Raon is appointed sergeant of the third platoon, consisting of dozens of Kupros, Dykh and Krang.

The former militia commander was surprised:

Raon's surprise was justified. A militia sub-centurion officer is not an authority for professional military units; they won’t always trust even a dozen. But Volkov learned from Thang that Raon is not only a former mercenary and a good fighter, he is also a good commander - maybe, as a commander, he doesn’t have enough stars in the sky, but he must cope with three dozen... He could cope with a hundred. And, most importantly, Raon is an excellent supplier, who was at the head of the Amel militia as a master of the second thousand, but was removed from his position by the intrigues of ill-wishers. There are always too many applicants for such a bread-and-butter position, who think not about the task assigned, but about their own pockets.

“Sergeant, orders are not discussed,” Gleb snapped.

- I obey, Marquis.

- Captain Honore is appointed commander of a hundred spearmen.

- I obey, Marquis.

Captain Honore looks calm, only a slight mockery creeps into the depths of his eyes. It seems to him that he understands the motives of Volkov’s orders - the Marquis places people loyal to him in key positions in the detachment. There is no doubt that the sergeants should serve as a counterweight to Honore himself, should he decide to violate the orders of the heir to the throne. The captain is right... and wrong at the same time. Volkov deployed his men not because he was afraid of Honore’s betrayal - a warrior would never suspect such a thing - the reason was different: the newly joined soldiers, unlike their old comrades, were not familiar to Gleb, he did not know their strengths and weaknesses, and therefore could not make changes in the detachment, but he managed to study his companions well and could imagine what to expect from them in a given situation.

– His deputy is Suvor.

The Nugarets is not the best candidate for a deputy commander, Gleb would prefer to see a more seasoned person in his place, but... firstly, there are no other candidates more suitable for this position, and, secondly, Volkov hoped that having received the appointment, the knight will feel responsible for the people entrusted to him and will be more self-possessed. Suvor’s explosive, sharp character had already begun to stress Gleb a little - it’s difficult to be around a person without knowing what kind of trick he might pull in the next minute.

“I obey, Marquis,” the knight responds, but there is no enthusiasm in his voice.

- Miklos!

- Here, sir.

– Divide the available cavalrymen into two dozen and appoint commanders. You will be their sergeant.

The warrior's eyes shine.

- I will, Marquis.

- Captain, command the performance.

- Soldiers! Listen to the order...

Eliviette Farosse looked at her reflection in the mirror while the maid's quick, skillful hands combed her thick wave of long, blond hair. A meeting of nobles awaited her in the large reception hall, and she was required to appear before them in all her splendor. No matter how dark the news brought, no matter how alarming the situation, she - the Marchioness of Farosse, heir to the throne - must appear before those gathered in a dignified manner.

There was a delicate knock on the door. Only one person knocked like that.

- Come in, Indris.

“Your Highness, the noble assembly is beginning to worry.” “I was sent to find out when you will honor the light of Pharosian society with attention,” said the butler, delicately averting his eyes. It's not the place of servants to stare at the half-dressed heiress to the throne! Even so trusted.

Throwing a sly glance at her faithful assistant, Eliviette said in an angelic voice:

“Tell the noble assembly that the Marchioness of Pharosse will deign to honor them with her attention when ... when she deigns.”

The confused butler asked:

- Will you, when will you? Should I pass it on?

Elivietta sighed quietly. She did not at all think of mocking one of her most faithful assistants, but what else could she do? The heir to the throne cannot flee at the first call of her vassals. This could be regarded by the metropolitan nobility, who are able to notice the smallest nuances, as a weakness of her power. And one cannot show weakness even in prosperous times, not to mention the current troubled period. The tenacious Amel lords will not fail to use any opportunity that comes their way to strengthen their positions, and the Marquise Farosse did not want to become an obedient toy in the hands of the capital’s clique.

But there are also rumors spread throughout the capital about the death of Danhelt Faross! The most convenient time is to subordinate to your influence the only surviving heir to the Faros throne. Especially if she is frightened by terrible events.

The Marquise was not afraid. Alarmed - yes. Concerned - yes. But not scared. Although someone may decide otherwise... And will try to take advantage of it.

Unlike the others, Elivietta did not believe the rumors about Dan’s death - in her heart she still called the invader by the name of her brother - the last time she felt his mortal wound. Not now. This means Danhelt did not die. And this gave me some hope.

- Ready, madam. Will you allow me to style my hair or call Master Unholtz?

- No, it’s not worth it. You can go, Varena.

Eliviette decided to leave her hair flowing freely over her shoulders. A heavy wave of long hair is a decoration in itself, attracting the admiring glances of men. This will also add an element of defenselessness. But – not helplessness! No matter how hardened the intriguers those gathered may be, by their masculine nature, they will intuitively feel the desire to protect her. You shouldn’t expect true knightly impulses from them: the prudent heads of noble families are not heroes of romantic ballads or naive youths, but... In a conversation, any little thing can turn out to be decisive! And, in order not to look too vulgar, you can cover your head with a translucent cape. Yes, this is the best way! And choose a dress in dark tones. It will be symbolic. A modest outfit will show that the Marchioness of Farosse mourns the dead members of the capital's noble families along with their inconsolable relatives. Perhaps such a gesture will be appreciated. Another additional plus in negotiations.

Elivietta did not know what the nobles came with, but she did not expect anything good from the future meeting and prepared in advance for a difficult fight, taking into account every little detail. In difficult times, initiative from below - if this initiative comes from the capital's noble society - threatens with many alarming surprises.

Eliviette takes off her thin, translucent nightgown, leaving her naked. He winks provocatively at his reflection in the mirror. She was happy with her body.

Breasts are ideally shaped - not large, but not small either - strong and elastic. The tummy has a beautiful navel cavity, flat and toned. The waist is thin, there are no folds or fat deposits on the sides. A triangle overgrown with blond hair at the bottom of the abdomen. The legs are long and gracefully shaped. Eliviette turns sideways to the mirror, putting her leg aside and sensually bending over. Strong, toned buttocks flash in the mirror. A wave of spilled hair slides over the body, tickling clean, silky skin covered with a golden tan.

– We are simply a miracle! – Elivietta laughs, throwing her head back and blowing a kiss to her reflection.

A warm breeze slipping through the open window caresses the naked body, like a sensitive, gentle lover. Elivietta freezes blissfully, closing her eyes. But she cannot afford to abandon her worries for a long time - unresolved matters await her, and a meeting of the nobility awaits. The marquise runs into the next room, she still has to choose a dress suitable for the occasion.

There are a lot of outfits. The marquise, thoughtfully biting her sponge, sorts through the dresses, but the choice does not take long. A suitable image has already been formed in your head, all that remains is to recreate it live. A modest, unadorned black dress seems appropriate for her.

Usually the marquise is dressed by efficient maids. Usually... but not always!

Thin, black, translucent, openwork lace stockings made of elven silk slide over smooth skin, gently hugging long, slender legs. The elastic, springy strip sits tightly on the upper thighs. A narrow black piece of silk covers the groin, thin fingers confidently tighten the side ties of her panties into elegant bows. Next comes the turn of the dress. Sewn exactly to the figure by the best tailors, it does not puff up anywhere, does not pinch, and lies on the body like a second skin.

Returning to the mirror, Elivietta makes several turns.

A black, tight-fitting dress with a high collar, with all its closed appearance, did not so much hide as emphasize the graceful lines of the figure. Elivietta thoughtfully looked at her reflection, tapping her protruding lip with her long finger. Despite all the outward modesty, the outfit looks frankly provocative.

She decided to change her dress, but then changed her mind. She smiled cheerfully. Well, let! On the contrary, what you need! The most ardent champion of morality will not be able to find fault with the dress chosen by the marquise. The style of the dress is not only modest, but most modest. And the rest... It would be better for the noble assembly to stare at her ideal lines, dreaming about the forbidden and quietly drooling, than to sprinkle pseudo-smart advice about the current situation.

Elivietta threw a light, almost weightless cover over her head that matched her dress. She let me out - let them think that she accidentally got out! - a strand of hair.

She was distracted by another knock, and a respectful voice from behind the door reminded her:

- Madam, the meeting is waiting.

The Marquise smiled at the corners of her lips. Poor Indris still can't calm down. That is, she knows that he is worried. To everyone else, the butler looks like the living embodiment of equanimity. I ran my fingers over the decorations. I thought about it. Both gold and silver go well with black. But which stones to choose? Diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires? Sapphires go well with her eye color, but not with her black outfit. Blood-red rubies will add sinisterness to her image, and it is already quite gloomy. Perhaps, diamonds as clear as a tear would be best, but don’t get carried away. A silver hoop will be enough to hold the cover, with one large stone in the center, and silver earrings, also with diamonds, a necklace... Without a necklace, the collar of the dress is high. Ring? One. Also silver and with diamond. No, not this one - too massive. It's high time to get rid of it - I've never worn it. And not this. It comes out of the headset. Found it! No... but, by the way, why not? The marquise admired the ring tightly wrapped around her finger with a transparent drop of diamond...

- Madam?

- Indris?

The butler enters, carefully closing the door behind him.

- Madam, meeting. The nobility begins to worry.

– How long have they been waiting?

- Two hours, madam.

Elivietta thought, tilting her head slightly to the side and putting a finger to her cheek.

“They’ll wait a little longer,” she decided.

“As you wish,” Indris answers calmly. He is imperturbable, but in the smallest details, the marquise, who has studied her trusted assistant well, senses the disapproval coming from him.

– How do you like my outfit?

It’s not for nothing that Elivietta is interested in the butler’s opinion. He has a trained eye. He understands outfits - men's and women's - no worse than the best tailors in the capital and will give the most inveterate coquettes a head start.

Indris' gaze meticulously glances at the marquise. The mask of calm on his face remains unchanged, his fish-like, indifferent eyes do not express any emotions, as if in front of him is not the most beautiful girl in the duchy, but a mannequin for demonstrating outfits. Accustomed to universal admiration, the girl involuntarily feels wounded. Insensitive blockhead! No, the pale, pedantic butler doesn’t captivate her at all, but he could have shown at least a little emotion! Even more worried about the meeting. When, after a careful examination, Indris spoke, his voice sounded as dispassionate and dry as always:

– The outfit is not bad, but, in my opinion, it looks a bit gloomy.

Eliviette snorts:

– Is that all you can say?

The butler shrugs.

- And what else?

“They could have praised me,” the girl says, wounded.

Indris will not be convinced by this. Over many years of service, he has built up a thick shell on his soul, and no one’s whims, witticisms and insults hurt him. He treats any disturbances with philosophical calm, like weather changes: any rain, any thunderstorm will end someday. Is it worth paying attention to them every time? So it is here.

- For what? The work of the master is immediately felt. The dress fits well. Although I don’t know whose merit is greater: the master’s or your body?

Any compliment is pleasant, but not from the lips of Indris. In his presentation there is only a dry statement of fact, and Eliviette feels even more wounded. It would be better if he just kept silent! Indris's primness, politeness and correctness sometimes sound like sophisticated mockery.

Eliviette angrily turns to the mirror, sorting through the jewelry, as if she had not yet made her final choice.

Indris smiles deep down. He is accustomed to the whims that roll over Eliviette from time to time and treats her eccentric antics the way a loving parent treats the whims of his child. The children of his late master became his own for the butler. As much his own as his own children... if not more so. And if these spontaneous clashes with Eliviette had stopped, he would have felt deprived.

– What should I convey to the noble assembly? – Indris asks in the same serene voice.

Outwardly, he is cold and collected, but from the inside - Elivietta feels it - he is all radiant with contentment.

Capellina (chapel)- helmet XIII (according to some sources - XII) - the first half of the XV century. They were cylindrical, cylindrical-conical or hemispherical headboards with rather wide and slightly downward brims riveted to them. The helmet was used until the beginning of the 16th century. Later chaplains began to be made no longer riveted, but from a single piece of metal. Often the helmet was made in such a way that it could be used to cover the upper part of the face, for which the brim was made somewhat lower and wider, and in the front there were viewing slits or special cutouts that formed, as it were, holes for the eyes and a nosepiece. Sometimes the chaplaincy was supplemented with a metal necklace, which also covered the lower part of the face. This was especially true for mounted warriors. (Hereinafter, author's note.)

The entire capital's militia is divided into four thousand, led by thousands. Master of a Thousand is a Pharosian military rank designating the second-in-command of a thousand, responsible for training, supply, and headquarters.

Dmitry Christenko

Dragon's blood. Hold the line

* * *

Epidemic

“They’re fast,” one of the prisoners whistled.

- Nothing surprising. The city didn’t resist,” another responded.

- Do you think so?

- Maybe they took him by surprise?

In response - a contemptuous snort.

- And where should I take them? – he grumpily asked the head of the convoy. – I don’t have any free cameras.

– Scatter several people on camera. If they make room, they’ll fit in,” suggested the convoy commander.

– My local bandits are through the roof. They will arrange a massacre for me and yours.

- What do we care? They'll kill each other - that's where they'll go.

- It is truth too.

Carelessly kicking aside the militiaman sitting on the floor, he waddled towards the Pharosian fighters standing at the entrance.

“Well, they stood up like step-brothers,” he extended his hand and patted Split familiarly on the cheek.