Darkness; Book III: Darkness, #3

By Katarzyna Szewiola-Nagel

The final volume of the Darkness trilogy, a story in which the previously presented characters appear. The last encounter with magical realm introduces you to the unusual and brutal world of elves, dwarves and men. Nora, carrying her weapon, tirelessly travels towards Raghion to find her destiny. She remembers the moments spent with Leto, who also travels to achieve his goal.

 

Passion, fight and death co-create a dynamic plot, dedicated to fans of fantasy. In this group the numerous fans of J.R.R. Tolkien will have the opportunity to confront the well-known ideas about elves in the images of Seneh and Leto.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Royal Hawaiian Press
• Release date: May 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223924654

Book preview

Chapter 1

Nora marched along the guesthouse. The weather was favorable. The aura was patchy with drizzle interspersed with summer sunshine, which still warmed quite tolerably despite the shorter days. The road was overgrown with clumps of rustling grass, tucked here and there into gaps at the base of stones. The trees hummed snottily, the birds chirped and took flight nervously every now and then. Time dragged on undeniably for her. These were no single sunrises, but dozens that merged into one. She didn't meet many globetrotters. Most often, she saw dwarves on pack horses and elves who saddled up behind them. She didn't know the social hierarchy at the time, because how could she, but she concluded that the sharp-ears were the servants of the higher-born. She responded to greetings with a nod and a shy smile, brightening her dust-covered face.

She felt the unwieldiness of the weapon. Despite the sturdy harness, it dragged and jostled as she walked, and the straps of the mounts cut into her shoulders. She rejoiced in the fact that she had stocked up on marigold grease in one of the villages she passed. However, the problem with the pomade was that the herbalist had most likely measured the ingredient inaccurately, and the specifics provided bland relief, plus some of it spilled out of the pot. She made poultices from what was left, deluding herself that she would endure the rest of the journey.

In the village she was regarded as smart-mouthed, but now courage gave out somewhere and Nora cast a nervous glance behind her every now and then. After all, rustling in the tangle of skinny twigs did not always carry the promise of a hare. Occasionally, though rarely, she dined with casually acquainted wanderers, but intimidated, she held her tongue, even though the urge to interject disputes boiled under her skin with a tingle of words. It was a wonder that no one had preyed on the bundle she was dragging furiously behind her. It was as if the Redeemers were watching over her, and she repaid their providence with fervent thanksgiving prayers. To all intents and purposes, she remembered Leto's instructions. Caution and no trust! That's what you should stick to! - he used to say. But what would they rob her of? There was no silver ringing in the pouch, only copper. About virtue? No! After all, a wench with such posture is not touched by anyone.

The nights appeared to be the worst. Dark, saturated with the sounds of the forest, the clatter of the hooves of riders who galloped along the same paths as her. The roaring of horses and the hooting of owls. Sometimes she could spend the night in the stables. She paid for the privilege with her labor, and as harvest time sat on the shoulders of weary peasants, she was happy to entertain an east or two. It was customary for the innkeepers to stick her with cheese and bread for the journey, sometimes a piece of dried meat. The new and unfamiliar state of affairs exerted a strange stigma on her. The feeling sprouted, she would then take a deep breath and relish it. For the first time she was deciding which way she would put her steps, and if she went astray, she would blame only herself.

However, she had moments of doubt. Long, tiring and lonely days dragged by the melody of rustling soles. Endless long longueurs, green and purple marked by the first autumn leaves, which, like a signpost, told her that somewhere beyond the next fork the end of the tramp awaited.

Several times the trail was bisected by common bandits, whom she passed without skirmishing. Intimidated by the wench, the skinny toll collectors scattered through the bushes, and Nora, wrinkling her forehead, dragged on, paying no attention to those who lurked around easier ones to intimidate. None of her business.

The road had taught Nora to mask her fear. She feigned steadfastness, but also a desire for dialogue, especially when victuals had to be procured. That's what her father taught her, emotions worn like outerwear haven't saved anyone yet. In her spirit she screamed and broke into pieces, she missed so much support and a kind word. She associated fear with weakness, but who is a man who does not feel it?

The thought of the Capital gave encouragement. On cold nights she dreamed of barracks full of recruits. About soldierly vicissitudes and harsh training. About exertion and sweat that would run down her back in lashing streams. She asked questions she didn't know the answers to, but these debates occupied her head. She was intrigued by this large, unknown habitat. She couldn't imagine it, as if it persisted hidden behind a wall of impermeable fog matter. It was as if the simple mind, which had only seen huts surrounded by a ball-and-chain fence, could not cope with the enormity of the work of hands like hers.

She recalled her hometown settlement, when, wrapped in a leather shroud, she waited for sleep. She traveled with her thoughts toward a home that no longer existed. She brought back the smell of the air, filled with the buzz of bees and May flowers. The sounds of the barn and the voices of people... and then she thought of him. Leto.

It had to end this way. That's how she explained it, and probably because of that she was able to bite through the bitter of repulsion. Beautiful things don't last long, they are replaced by ruin. This is how she imagined love - as ashes. By now she could taste kisses and the touch of cool hands. Did she want to see him again? The echo of the sullen elf carried a tingling sensation to her lower abdomen. He always smelled of leather and fresh water, mixed with something else.

A peculiar musky smell that made her lose her mind. Her femininity was blossoming and awakening from dormancy, and her provoked senses were boiling over. She was beginning to understand women. She was saddened that she had tasted delightful thrills so late. She had to learn intimacy from scratch. She would treat it as training, as a challenge.

The next dawn woke her with the chill and crystals of the first frost crouching on the branches of the trees. Rain fell during the night. It forced the traveler to look for drier lodging than the low-growing bushes. She found a spreading chestnut tree, not yet completely stripped of its leaves. Under it waited a few patches of dry ground. After a time, the rain reached her there too. She shuddered at every gust of cool wind, and still fell asleep.

This dawn was unique. It was spilling with pinkness, forming a fabulous pattern arranged from countless jagged clouds. The forest was filling with a pleasant hum. She yawned protractedly and adjusted the bundle under her head. The discomfort stung with a painful shudder running through her bones. Her stagnant muscles reminded her that she should quickly exchange the discomfort of the bare ground for something nicer, such as a mattress freshly stuffed with straw. A multicolored carpet of early autumn leaves stretched before her eyes. She felt hunger, worse than the cold itself. She extracted a beaker and the rest of the stale bread from her sack. Having satiated herself, she gathered the pit and, leaping over the uproots, returned to the tract.

She had not gone far when the thicket of roadsides began to thin. Before her were drawn majestic peaks, at the foot of which grew a mighty city. A juggernaut seemingly built of blocks. Once larger, once smaller, harmoniously merged into one.

White walls clearly separated the rest. The salty smell of the sea vibrated in the nostrils, the air refreshingly wrapped around the cheeks. She estimated the distance. By dusk she should reach it. Unless she runs, but this option did not promise to happen.

After a while, the travelers appeared to her eyes. For the time being, as small dots circling around something that resembled a wagon. She had to walk a dozen or so steps to gauge the degree of danger, to calculate the chances if they turned out to be bandits who were attacking walkers under the pretext of a damaged wagon. People were discussing and shouting at each other, snippets of conversation vibrated in the air. She felt that this time she did not run into merchants, but villagers.

They interrupted the pushing. Four men and a woman of considerable fatness were auguring a figure looming in the distance. The woman was approaching slowly. In clothing so tattered that their simple shirts looked like respectable tailor's craft. On top of that, the knitting woman dragged along with a sword slung across her broad back. Such sights did not often occur to them.

The peasant woman on the cart covered her mouth, as if she wanted to say something, but frowned at the last moment. The men, on the other hand, feigned a lack of interest. Nevertheless, Nora greeted the peasants with a nod. She passed them unhurriedly and was already preparing to continue walking, but behind her back she heard a snore:

"Who you are? - shouted someone.

Well, not from Raghion, have you seen her clothes? roared the peasant girl, then sniffed her nose loudly.

Nora slowed her step.

Surely kind of slouch, echoed the other.

But a woman with a blade? That's indecent, admonished the one who was squatting on the coach-box.

Excuse me. Nora stopped and turned back. Is there a problem with something?

They looked at each other. They were hardly speechless:

Well, there is the problem, spoke up the one who run off at the mouth first. The problem is in your blade, sweetie. You don't want to enter the city like that, do you?

The walker pulled down her eyebrows and put her hands on her chest. The farmer looked the oldest. Gray hair was silvery on his temples, and his face was marked by wrinkles that drew deep furrows in it.

And what do you, sir, not like about my sword? she fumed.

Sir, did you hear that? A hum ran through the assembled people.

It is now my manners that you do not like? She propped herself up by her sides and stepped from foot to foot.

No, no. The woman warded off.

Still smiling under her breath upon hearing sir.

Well, what the hell is the matter, lady? Nora turned red.

No one has called old Jemrik sir yet, she added after a few breaths.

The gentleman with the funny name croaked ironically:

I could get used to it, woman, he rebuked the white-headed woman and bowed low.

Nora did the same, in that she placed her right hand on her chest in a masculine manner and bowed her head towards the introducer.

They opened their mouths. Only high-born magnates greeted each other in this way. There was a buzzing silence.

Nora.

And that's it? A short, fat man who was leaning against the cart wheel stepped forward.

That's all you should know about me. She spread out her hands.

All right then, announced Jermik. The one over there who is whining is Alek, my cousin. He pointed to the fat man at the wheel. That woman is my wife, Irma. The one over there who doesn't talk much is my son Harik and the other Urik. That's it, the family.

She remembered those she had lost. She hoped that the smile that crawled on her lips looked friendly enough, but inside she wailed with despair.

If you help us with the wheel, we'll give you a ride to this town, Urik offered.

Look, the mute said a word, chuckled the fat man, who rummaged through his nails with a pick.

I'm not run off at the mouth in vain, fool.

Yes, yes, because you are the smartest, studier, he retorted.

Their coarseness instilled in Nora something she could successfully call trust. Not much, after all, one must keep a bit of distrust in reserve.

The gathering was reminiscent of those she had known from her family's village. Apparently, people do not differ much from each other, even if they are separated by a huge swath of land.

She looked at Urik. He had inherited his raven-black hair from his father and pale skin from his mother, his posture was already rounded, while his eyes sparkled playfully.

I'll help. I'm sick of the guesthouse, I get nauseous at the very sound of the word.

Great. Alek clapped his hands. Let's get to work, because it will take until sunset, and the old mare is probably disgusted here. He walked over to the horse and patted its rump. The animal snarled and went back to plucking grass.

With lightning speed, they groomed the wheel. Nora knew no less than those present.

The men did not expect the woman to have a trade in her hand. However, their thoughts were more fractured by the sword. They chatted about the weapon and the place from which she had come. They looked for acquaintances in those she mentioned in passing.

Nora was wavering between the truth and facts hastily put together. However, when she inevitably wandered in the story to her travel destination, she again felt the eyes drilling into her insistently.

Do you want to go to the Guard? To the City Guard?

She confirmed and stuck the last pin in.

Why there? Jermik was surprised. I don't even know if they accept women. He scratched his head.

They do accept, pronounced Harik, sitting on the ground and sweating from exertion. Recently in the market they celebrated a new decree. They are taking everybody. A new order from the Baroness. He grunted and spat profusely into the grass.

Why the hell? Irma scowled at the peasant.

As always, something with the mages.

Oh yes, sighed the fat man, who harnessed the mare. These mages, a plague. They barely made their Schools, and they whine that it's supposedly bad there. A bunch of freeloaders on the gold of the kingdom! I don't know where so many of them came from. When I was young no one bothered with the gifted. The mentors were managing. In time, the king issued a regulation, that's how these Schools were created. Ostensibly for the benefit of misfits. Nora listened in concentration. He continued: - Then the Baroness came up with control, conducted regular raids on villages and towns. It's a good thing she's in that fortress of hers now. Cursed woman."

What's going on Scholes that they're inciting like this? She asked in exasperation.

Who knows. People talk unbelievable things.

And what are they talking?

Does it matter? Let's go, or the night will catch us here.

She climbed onto the cart and, soothed by the clatter of the mare's hooves, advanced toward the great gates of the unknown. Time did not seem to drag long. Maybe it was because she was perpetually being chatted up about something.

The afternoon sun dispelled the sleepy mists, and the heat-dried sand floated merrily from under the wheels. Despite appearances, it wasn't that far to Raghion. In front of the habitat, as far as the eye could see, a wide swath of fields stretched out. In turn, beneath the walls crouched rows of white cottages, covered with red tiles. People they met, clad in linen robes, roamed around the properties. The bustle mixed with laughter and the sound of flocks filled the stuffy air.

In front of the gates, a villager pulled down the reins. Nora nodded in thanks and jumped down. The gates, which led into the bowels of the juggernaut, stood open. On either side stood guards. Polished pieces of medium armor shone in the glare of the afternoon sun. They seemed proud to the traveler then, as if they were two chiseled statues rather than living bodies encased in a harness of leather and iron.

The wagon creaked, and the coachman converted the horse. She still wanted to wave goodbye, but they disappeared in a cloud of dust just around the first corner. She sighed, as if that would give her courage. She adjusted her sword.

Here I am - she thought.

No one stopped her. She represented another soul who had strayed into the walls of the Capital. A great city is an excellent hiding place. It is also a place where one can start anew.

The network of streets made her feel lost. The stuffiness and stench hit the air. She understood that the metropolis would not be the same as the open spaces, that she had to get used to it. She wondered, had she made a mistake? In a flash she came to her senses. Now was not the time to lament. From everywhere, huddled people, elves and dwarves surrounded her.

Children looped underfoot like puppies released prematurely from a pen. She was also passed by several City Guards clad in light leather armor with the eagle crest embedded on their chests. At their belts they carried short swords, and on their backs undersized wooden shields with the same emblem - a two-headed bird gaped its beak in a silent scream. Tall buildings huddled together to form a clumped mass of agglomeration. In the windows she spotted fabric as light as spider webs, and on the windowsills plants of all shades of red, pink or purple. The women, meanwhile, wore flowing gowns, probably woven from fine linen, dyed in muted shades of brown and purple. They wove flowers or colorful combs into their hair. Chignons and braids prevailed, the opposite of what she was used to. Now she understood why her mother clung so stubbornly to her hair strands - a habit brought from home. The men were not much different from the commoners. They wore the same linen robes and leather breeches, tied at the waist with a thick thong or a belt ending in a silver buckle. Sometimes, instead of classic pants, they wore drab, lightweight robes, crowned with voluminous hoods. In their hands, meanwhile, they held inky sticks, and some had books or square pouches clipped to their belts on a special leather attachment. Each wielded a brown or black pouch, gleefully dangling with every step. She grasped at a glance that they were mages.

She stood in one place for a long time. She looked around, greedily capturing the feathers of color. She listened to the bustle. After many breaths, she decided that she would also get used to the stench, after all, dung is not a scent, and here it smelled similar. She didn't notice that she was being watched by an old man crouching by the stairs leading to the house.

Are you lost, lady?

She heard a trembling voice. She turned toward the source. The man was propping his chin on his hands, which he supported on a cane. He himself wore a purplish-brown tunic, and his light gray head was badged against the blue door behind him.

You can put it that way, she replied.

Then perhaps I'll show the way, if you're so lost.

Nora responded with a nod, and her eyes again went to the multicolored figures weaving through the streets.

So? he urged.

Barracks, barracks are the target, she said almost inaudibly, as if her voice was beginning to refuse to obey. Suddenly she felt nightmarishly tired.

Fortunately, he heard.

It's not far. You need to head up, there should be signposts a few streets away, but I'm not sure. The cursed elven bounty is successively destroying them.

At the word elven she became animated.

This did not escape the attention of the man, who squinted.

You must, sir, dislike elves very much, if you despise them so much, she bubbled.

I don't like them, and I advise the lady to do the same. They are slick and cunning. Gold-mouthed and deceitful like the whores of the docks. Be careful, because more than one has already flipped on their good-naturedness.

She shrugged.

So, to the barracks that way? She pointed with her finger in the direction of an alley that was beginning to climb upwards.

Well, there, he confirmed.

Thanks, good sir. She made a clumsy bow. I vow to serve the crown well.

She heard laughter behind her:

Another one who thinks she has won her life because she joins the Guard. You will still cry for freedom, child.

She walked unhurriedly in the indicated direction. It will be what it is supposed to be. She is at her destination, the goal she has dreamed of for so many springs.

Chapter 2

The pale sun kissed the dust of the tract with golden streaks. Dust swirled in these flashes like the finest jewels. The sparkling cloud rose and fell, fueled by a breeze that carried a hint of autumn. Beeches with rusting foliage and oaks with massive branches lost their leaves, which crumbled, separated from the life-giving sap of the stately plants. Strands of mycelium twined between the roots and in places bloomed with bundles of drab or red hats. Lazy birds once soared with a shriek, once flew off with a flurry. Sometimes it rained. Wet and oppressive drizzle tore through the bushes and stung the animals hidden in the thickets with its chill. And although the morning frost pinched the last green blades of grass, one could still sense the fleeting hand of summer caressing the forest paths with rays.

Seneh saddled his horse. The black-furred animal shook its ears, and a thicker mist of heated air gushed from its snores.

The elf started up dawn. The cool morning pinched the rider's skin. He pulled his shoulder blades together and straightened up, as if he wanted to stretch his muscles, but the position he had assumed a few beats of the clock earlier did not allow it.

Guesthouses did not receive him in a friendly manner. A stranger, in addition to a non-human, usually meant trouble. And although the assassin was not looking for swaras, these were hatching in the simple and superstitious brains of the natives. Sometimes he dyed his silverite blades crimson.

The myopia of the villagers was exasperating, perhaps because he cheered science, not superstition, and considered stereotypes to be foolishness and a symptom of simplicity, after all, not every sharp-eared is a commis chef and a thief. Short naps did more harm than good. Deep-set eyes now framed dark circles. To his anger, probably only to himself, he had overstepped the path, and the horse, if he were a rational being, would probably be blustering under his snarls now, displeased at having to drag himself through the uproots, for the rider had taken as his goal the trampling of old paths that were no match for hooves. The bond with the earth rumbled under Seneh's skull, stronger than the need to deliver the news. So he breathed in the air saturated with the scent of mycelium, tasted the sweet breeze and accepted the caress of the leaves that brushed his cheeks and hands as he trudged through the brushwood. So he cared for a friend with a shiny mane, now braided into a series of thin braids that rhythmically twitched as he trotted. Stops, fresh water and handfuls of oats gave rhythm to the journey. Supplies were dwindling in the yuks, but according to calculations, there should be enough to eat. They have perhaps one east of the road left, unless fate orders otherwise. Fate reaches everyone. It doesn't matter if they are a peasant or a lackey in the service of the king.

He didn't think about the convoy. The mercenaries were a bunch of half-wits who would have plowed their own mothers for a handful of coins. Leading them was already punishment enough. Fortunately, a well-paid one. Lonan paid a lot. Dwarf gold never stank, especially since the Alchemist had been giving him a peculiar form of friendship since the springtime. Sometimes it seemed that the mage clad in black surrounded him with a kiss of almost tangible trust. It was comfortable, but also tiring, especially when he wanted to complete an assignment alone, without the Baroness' dog panting right at his neck.

Now the attention of his thoughts was occupied by the woman hidden inside the wagon. She persisted like a recurring nightmare. Once enticingly sweet, other times venomous like a viper. A flash of yellow eyes, so much like his irises... The shape of the petite face brought back a wench he had known, but it is nonetheless undeniable that this one had given birth to a creature so slippery and obnoxious. He repressed the thought as quickly as it ignited in his ride-weary self. A more pleasant image was the one with which he warmed himself during lonely and icy nights - the vision of his lover. Cool as a rock and inaccessible as the cliffs against which idols of greenish water crashed. He contemplated her as if she were the depths of the sea, unpredictable and full of mysterious creatures. He loved its unpredictability. He, a stoic with clotted blood, she a volcano brimming with emotion. The misalliance lasted for many springs. Over time, he transformed into something they did not comprehend. He knew that the Baroness's apparent loneliness was food for those who had no life of their own and had to feed on someone else's, while he was impressed by her constancy. She forgave and turn a deaf ear the fact that her lover warms the alcoves of many a streetwalker. He saw her infrequently, or rather, it was she who wanted to encounter him occasionally. Endless sneaking around the corridors, shrouded in the blackness of night. Secret rendezvous in the summerhouses of the palace garden, pits smeared with the soot of torches, imbued with a heavy atmosphere of anticipation that erupted into passion topped by quarrels. She always softened in his hands. She surrendered to Shadow's will. He longed for this when, driven by another partition, he would sink into the alleys of the cities. When he waited for a victim, hidden somewhere in an attic. None had given him as much pleasure as this seemingly waspish knitter. Her touch burned the tissues with ice, and her breath oozed with the mist of mint caramels she so adored. Her hair, freed from its ornate pins, still retained its youthful bounce, as did her body, white and firm with small ruddy breasts that ended in cherry-colored nipples. And even her adoration of the night could be lost if only she would let herself be touched. He loved how she ran her slender hands over the scars that densely crisscrossed time-fatigued body. As she touched the silver tattoos climbing up her arms and entwining on chest like prickly vines. He longed for the glow of her eyes gazing at him fondly, against the stars and the dew on the buds of tea roses. He remembered perfectly the day he saw her. He spotted a girl in the shadows, strolling wrapped in a band of green. She was already avoiding the sun at that time. At that time, she wore her hair loose, which fell to her shoulders in light waves. She pinned in them buds of flowers she got from a friend. What was her name there? Katarina? Katlyn? He couldn't return the thought of the name. The human woman grated his insides like no other. And although he had tasted more than a few by this time, she was a morsel he could not refuse. Their first meeting ended in a tug-of-war. He recalled with exuberance the nail-torn cheek and nose from which the ruby seeped. She then gave herself to him on a summer night, saturated with drizzle, in bushes sprinkled with white flowers. They were then enveloped by petals that clung to their bodies entwined in an amorous frenzy. Then it broke off, she pushed him away as if to spite the emotions he saw in her eyes shining with excitement, only to return with redoubled force. A woman unpredictable, strong as fine wine.

Echoes distracted him from the monotony. The clatter of hooves rhythmically gave meaning to the journey. Images shifted palpable and eternally vivid. He knew that what he wore on the outside was rapturously a facade. A shell for those who could tap into a more sensitive interior. It's like a repetitive song.

A dryness lined with compassion nesting at the bottom of the heart. Now that age marked his veneer, he appreciated more his place in this carrion infected with ruthlessness.

With his brow raised, he was fulfilling the purpose that fate had set for him. He belonged similarly to the few stealthers who remember, who, bearing the stigma of survival, break the shackles of magic surrounding memories. The clan knew. He could not feel safe. Death lurked stealthily camouflaged in the form of a silver blade hidden in the sheaths of a mercenary's cloak. Sooner or later he would know its taste.

A gull's shriek tore the air. He sobered up stimulated by the squeak of the white-gray bird. Reality broke in under his eyelids with an image as longing as what he was still contemplating before breathing. He stopped the horse. Space sprawled before him sweltering from the warming air. Familiar images were arranged in geometric constructions of buildings. The smell of the sea irritated his nose. He could almost feel the saltiness of the air on his tongue. He inhaled it like the best fragrance. Just as he guessed, the east and the fortress swung open the thick wings of the steel-forged gate.

He threw back his hood with a firm gesture. He felt unwashed. Before reaching the castle, he must bring his body to pristine cleanliness. The Baroness hated dirt, so the city, thanks to Alvena and the dwarves, who eagerly nodded to their superior's fancies, had several baths adapted to the needs of men and women. It was also a business meeting place where interested and wealthy townsfolk finalized business deals.

The saunas were additionally frequented by local streetwalkers, who delighted in passing the time. Seneh, like many like him, found there not only pleasure, but also income. At this thought, his narrow lips widened. If he gets it right he'll play longer in Norion this autumn, who knows, maybe even overwinter? - he thought. The huge elven district is full of backstreets and places that were suitable for a dream hideout, usually received him without much trouble.

Usually... Now he had to rebuild his damaged trust. He reached out to find out who holds the honorable office of doyen for the time being, but it was a hitch from a sharp-eared man who got lost in the meanders of narrow alleys. And then there's the Baroness... so close. At every beck and call of the yearning caress of arms.

He blinked reflexively. His tongue stuck to his palate. He did not crave the water he carried in the beakers strapped to his saddle. The sight of the habitat triggered an appetite for alcohol, which he could only buy here. A pitch-black mead sourced from wild bees. It was as intoxicating as stygium, but it was not addictive, only delightfully irritating the nerve tips that hid most shallowly under the skin. The tingling sensation enveloped a pleasant, merrily flared feeling of unease that he could not otherwise experience.

He leaned toward the animal's muscled neck and patted its sweat-warm coat. He pulled the reins and steered the gelding onto the narrow road that wound a rusty ribbon in front of them. Fragments of clayey ground were peeling away from under the hooves. Seneh urged his mount on with the strokes of his heels.

The landscape was evolving. Behind him he left tall trees with flexible branches that resisted the pressure of the coastal wind. Now grew before him clumps of dewy shrubs and clusters of seedlings that were too licentious to be called stately. In the thicket of the diversity of fauna, a multitude of all sorts of small creatures were breeding. Rabbits with gray fur and rodents fawned like clods of soil.

Birds with spotted feathers that merged with the densely scattered stone. Chirping clouds of sparrows and smaller, feathered life formed shape-shifting shapes in the skies. He breathed it in. He was approaching the desired. All that remained was a plain, dotted with scattered farms. The habitat's inhabitants are usually Jerms and peasants in the service of the Baroness. Land smoothed by plows and human hand, stripped of the gifts of summer, now prepared for the arrival of cold weather sadly looked up to the sky.

Selected stretches were covered with bundles of straw, while others looked like stubble fields. In the distance, boats swayed on the gray water. From a distance, they presented themselves as childish toys that had been carelessly abandoned in favor of other, more interesting activities. The harbor opened this side, which he trotted toward. He knew that this point was exposed. He was keenly aware that the wall that separated it from the interior had been cleverly constructed, for there were only three gates leading to it, including the main one. Sturdy towers were erected at each, with guards constantly watching over them. A traveler could see the outlines of ballistas from afar.

He often stopped at a harbor tavern with the suspicious name Under the rotten eel, although it by no means served a stew of perishable fish. The tavern's fame attracted mercenaries, dwarves and thieves to its doorstep. As a rule, ship's boys, captains of moribund rovers, mercenaries and, of course, whores were seen there.

A random marauder would leave there with an empty purse, relatively toothless, often broken, importantly, not on his own strength. So when Rotten Eel was mentioned in company, there was this peculiar expression of disgust mixed with curiosity on the faces of those gathered. The owner of the tavern - Kanin, a big gentleman with the musculature of an aurochs and a bald skull, belonged to the type of man who was better not to be confronted.

However, he possessed a pleasant voice, which aroused considerable dissonance in new guests. He was accompanied by a bodyguard, as one should probably call a battle-experienced but bored man with thinning hair, through which shiny baldness shone, and a face with sunken cheeks covered with dried skin. He kept an eye on order; when necessary, he would slap first the native in the face with piss, and then the one who interrupted the busy activity. They both made up the crew. If your pouch was empty, you could pawn whatever the innkeeper could cash.

Even shoes, if they weren't knitted. Seneh recalled the establishment with liveliness, but also amusement, because what happened within the walls of the inn stayed there forever, even if someone ended up with his throat slit. At night, the sea received him as eagerly as its predecessors. He used to play there often. Norion is an ideal place to hide, but also to make money. Captains mostly didn't get along on cargo. Dwarves apprehended guards for smuggling stygium, and lords coveted poisons as effective as they were undetectable.

The plan to go to the inn demanded execution, preferably already. He will eat a fish dish with black bread and drink krasnowodski's lichen beer. Then he will top it off with mead, which he hasn't been able to forget since he first tasted it. He will have a nice chat with the innkeeper, and then, well, he will probably look around for something appetizing, necessarily human blood. With the sunrise, washed and clothed, he will visit Alvena. She will pretend to be surprised, after all, this has always happened. The spies will soon report to her that he appeared within the walls, what he did and how long he stayed. At the very thought of this, his mouth twisted in the sly grin of a satisfied cat that had just hunted a sparrow.

The closer he got to the human cluster, the harder his nostrils were irritated by the decay. Literally everything reeked. From the people, the narrow streets, to the houses, taverns soaked with seaside moisture, sweaty guests, vomit, as well as cheap liquor. It was full of stagnant salt water standing in barrels, barges full of fish and toiled fishermen with oiled hair. Above, out of sight, hidden behind a barrier erected of white stone, hid the merchant districts, unimaginably different from the municipal ones.

Flowered and well-kept by those who were paid to ensure that the appearance of the streets did not defile anyone with ugliness. There, the smell of plants and perfumed bodies wafted through the air. Corners and narrow alleys were cared for. Cascades of multicolored perennials flowed from shutters painted blue and from pots set on windowsills, attracting countless swarms of buzzing insects. It was similar in a district populated by nobles, which merged with merchants on one side and elves on the other. The place inhabited by the long-eared creatures was shrouded in a mysticism that was difficult for people to understand, as if the atmosphere absolutely did not match what surrounded them. Magic and the elves' strong ties to their ancestors were blamed. Few non-humans left the safe territory for longer than necessary. Although trade between revolves flourished at its best, they were generally wary of allowing themselves to be completely controlled by those moving through the narrow gate. Most of the juggernaut’s residents were well aware of the layout of the areas hidden behind the wall of greenery, but only a few ventured into its enigmatic corners. It was not difficult to see the hand of the dwarves here, who bore responsibility for the growth of the tunnels and the sub-basements, foundations and some tenements carved into the rocks. They managed to use ingenious networks of pipes to draw water from underground springs, which was quite a rarity for the residents not only of the elven district, but most of them. Almost all households had a pump in the house, unless the density of the stone cover was beyond the capabilities of long-bearded creatures, then one was mounted for the people, in a stone circle located in the center of the square, to which everyone had free access. Some of the stone structures were stocky, while others were soaring, decorated with various colored stones. The work of the dwarves has always been recognized by thick and crude walls, but solid and for centuries resisting coastal storms. On the other hand, elven buildings were erected in a more sublime way, with soaring shutters, crowned with fanciful arcades and door frames embedded in chiseled frames. The city held many secrets and, like Raghion, over time became a small state within a state, growing and gradually strengthened.

Seneh stopped the horse. He rolled his eyes around the area. The two guards stationed at the first gate that led to the fishing district looked like figures carved in soft wood from a distance. A stone mask expression crossed Shadow's face. He reached over his back and shaded his face in one motion. There was a slim chance that the youngsters on duty were rookies. He hopes so, because if they're old stagers, the Baroness will hear with this sunrise that he has arrived at the threshold of the city.

The men at the wings guessed who he was. Not only his mount of noble, aristocratic blood betrayed him, but also the tattoos on his hands, which he had not covered with leather gloves, as if the assassin was indifferent to whether he was noticed. They didn't stop him, they moved only slightly. The visitor nodded in greeting and plunged into the bowels of the noisy port.

The noise hit him hard. Intensified by its narrowness, it did not sound like a beehive full of industrious insects but rumbled like a cascade of stones. A mixture of many races intertwined a multicolored and dense carpet. Women in greasy dresses made their way through the muddy floor of the clay streets. They carried bread and gray turnips in baskets. Somewhere someone shouted an offer of not so fresh fish, but at a good price. Clustered whores bared their dirty breasts and lured passers-by. The elf was finally home. He openly admitted that he missed this place.

Under the rotten eel was hiding in a narrow alley just off the docks. Tying his horse to a palisade, he saw that the paddock was pawed by three doe-tailed ponies that pricked up their ears at every sharper sound. He inferred from their presence that he would meet several dwarven aristocrats in the tavern.

The richly decorated bridles shone with gilded elements, and the animals looked well cared for and even, let's call a spade a spade - fattened. That they are not afraid of thievery either? - he puzzled in his mind. Before he could turn around, a stocky gentleman with sharp little eyes and a smile full of grated teeth appeared next to him. He recognized in him Amin - a stable servant, the same one whom he had beaten last spring for card shuffling. The man, most likely chased out of the warmth of the horse stalls by his employer, was pacing the stable area in the faint hope of picking up a potential recipient of a small service.

Why don't we walk the horse to the stable? He eagerly started without a greeting and soon stretched his hands towards the reins: Here, sir, they can foully lead him away, and you wouldn't want this noble animal to fall prey to common horse thieves, would you? He grinned at the elf, who was wracked by the stench of chewed tobacco.

Shadow twisted his lips. Trust is the last thing he could discard from this sponge, but he knew him well enough to consider the offer made.

Keep an eye on her otherwise you will answer with your head, understood? he hissed.

Sir, the mare will have the driest stall in the stable, I vouch for it with my master's head.

You will vouch for your own. Now get out of my sight. He drove him away with a firm movement of his hand.

This one, however, remained where he stood.

One gold coin is due, sir. Shadow spotted an outstretched coulee covered with a myriad of gnarls and imprints.

Here you go, dog son. He pressed the shiny gold money into his fingers.

The man bowed low.

Thank you, sir. The stables are where they were last time, around the corner, right by the market. Come over, sir, in the morning. She will be clean, full and rested.

I hope so, he muttered.

The mud reached his ankles. The man who was now escorting his traveling companion was sinking as deeply into it as he was. And he should be used to the unsteady texture of the ground. Here, however, it always took on this texture - semi-liquid dishwater mixed with soil residue. The trusting filly followed led by the reins. After a while they disappeared into the gray smoky air. Seneh was left alone.

The elf looked around. A keen eye was on the lookout for shadows creeping across the ground and suspicious glints of light, flashes of gray robes and anything that could mean that a blade master was hiding in the twilight. Somewhere at the bottom of his tainted soul sat a goblin that reminded him that he was not immortal. Everywhere he could encounter a clan mercenary who looked careless movement. However, nothing meant the surroundings, not contaminated by the presence of death. He calmed down and moved toward the cobblestones.

The cobblestone sidewalk led directly to the Rotten Eel. Before he reached it, and it was only a few steps away, he heard the echo of raised voices, fake music and the stench of urine, with which the soggy walls of not only the inn, but also the neighboring orchards, were marked. Nothing has changed - he sighed. Harmider cut through the loud baritone of the innkeeper, who reproached the fat man.

He stepped onto a stone step and pushed open the blue door. These groaned with long-defunct hinges. Heat bubbled up in his face. Seneh crossed the threshold and let the regulars watch him. He knew that the sight would do him no harm, but the faces turned to him would betray identity. They would allow one to read whether they were hostile, or whether there was someone lurking in between who one should pay attention to.

The owner's murmur cooled curiosity and the rebuked returned to the glasses and wenches, who eagerly sued for swagger under the voluminous folds of their skirts. Kanin greeted him with a wide smile, so huge that the little pig's eyes had turned into narrow slits and it was doubtful that he could see anything through them.

The elf seated himself in the corner of the bar. He adjusted his coat so that it covered his pointed ears, although he didn't give a damn if anyone didn't like the race he came from. He hid his hands in the voluminous halves of his sleeves. The silver embedded in his skin shimmered in the glare of the flickering candles. In the opinion of onlookers, he might have been regarded as the town's hangman, but tattooed bodies also adorned ship captains, thugs and sometimes the bolder whores, but not the kind he had. He therefore kept a proper distance.

Kanin put his mug down on the bar. Black slits of eyes pierced the newcomer:

Who do I see? he queried and curled the corner of his lips. His skin wrinkled from the grimace.

Did you miss me? Seneh rested his chin on the top of his hand and coquettishly fluttered his eyelashes.

The thunderous retch of the innkeeper echoed through the room. The innkeeper was shaking all over from it. He knew Shadow and usually greeted him differently. Sometimes puffed up or exhausted, sometimes angry and self-centered. Today he was brimming with inexplicable energy and fed his desire to joke around.

Oh, yes, he said, without suppressing his amusement. It's been a long time since you've been here, in fact, fewer and fewer of you are around, he saddened. Too bad, decent guys of you.

Have they all been slaughtered?

I don't know. They say they left, others report that they got what they deserved. Brother, if I were to trust every word I hear, I'd probably be eating plankton on the docks right now along with the fish. Now, what are you going to eat? Let me guess? Don't tell! He put his finger ostentatiously to his lips, a stew and black bread? he announced, tilting his head as a sign that he was waiting for an imminent answer.

Of course, a stew and black bread. Pour me a good beer or mead too, as long as it's not adulterated, or I'll gut you like a cod, he threatened.

The innkeeper, however, knew this grimace well.

I wouldn't give you adulterated in life. I like my guts in their place. He patted his squat belly and bent down to pick up his glass, which he slid toward Seneh. The latter seized it briskly. A moment later, the bottle of foreboding half-pint stood before him. The host rolled up the sleeves of his stained shirt and disappeared into the back room. The visitor uncorked the beverage and put the neck of the flask to his nose. Satisfied, he took a generous sip. The alcohol spilled sweetly over the inside of his mouth and flowed softly down his throat, finally dropping to the bottom of his stomach in a hot cloud. Blissful warmth crawled over the tissues. A tingling sensation reached the shallowest layers of skin. And it only took a few drops for happiness to fill the elf's ride-weary mind. At the same time, the owner returned from the back room.

You have to wait a few breaths. I have a new cook and a couple of crested larks to help. The kitchen maid is as skittish as a doe, but she is doing well.

And what happened to the ones that were still in existence before the previous winter? I remember Irma well, she was so... he languished for breath.

Yes and even hardworking, she didn't steal from anyone, no one complained, but she ended up in some good brothel, as she called it. The rest of one morning announced that they were sick of my shitty silver, so I told them to kindly fuck off. You know how it is. I don't force anyone there to spread dishwater around the room, he lowered his voice. There are a lot of people who will roll up their dresses for copper. You just need to know where to look.

Do you think it's unfair competition? Shadow poured himself a glass.

Kanin shrugged:

"I don't know. They were here for a long time. Now the basics have to be smashed into the heads of the stupid geese from scratch, because these ones spill more than I can accept. They howl when someone's paws reach out, and on top of that there have been some pouches cutting, and I can't allow that. You know, what's out of sight is out of mind, but when someone is bothering my ass that they've run out of silver, I'm already screwed. On top of that, when I look at their dull expressions on their faces, I feel like shoving those rounded asses, because maybe after that they would get some blush, and their lips would curve at least in a grimace of anger. Hell knows what has happened to these girls.

So, where did you get them? Maybe it's time to look around for some more savvy ones?

It's hard to find them now. All of them are stupid, as if someone had cut off their brains. They say it's the fault of that witch - the Baroness, that she suppresses the people. But she's not a mage, so that she could cast curses left and right. You know, peasant talk. Seneh nodded: They look like fish guts. And our whores are already getting old. Not that body anymore. Although here no one complains, because they have a trade in hand, he laughed rubbishily. You comprehend: 'in hand'. But the newcomers are unlikely to pay for the deserved goods.

The elf nodded as a sign that he understood. In turn, this one continued his monologue:

The nicer ones moved to the merchant district. Apparently, now the aristocrats and nouveau riches are more generous, and if someone catches their eye, they will even pay in dwarven gold, so the bitches have it good. At this he nodded his head disapprovingly, as if he could not stand the current state of affairs.

So, I won't have any fun today, then? What a pity, he sighed and put the cup to his lips.

Well, it's rather bad, because these new ones, I tell you, not much fun, like saintly. They could act as candlesticks in this damn temple.

Shadow twisted his mouth. The flushed throat was doing him good. He was curious if it was true, or if Kanin's words could be put between fairy tales. The innkeeper sometimes happened to color some of the facts. Not that it bothered him, but reserve was usually enough and separating the truth was no trouble. It was enough to listen to the whispers in the markets and alleys. To read from the movement of lips what was fractious and to glue it into a neat construction.

A petite girl emerged from the back room, clad in a gray dress girded at the waist with a white, slightly soiled apron. Her hair was meticulously hidden under a white cap topped with a frill. Only a blown-out single light strand flowed carelessly onto her forehead. Her eyes were as big as a doe's and as blue-green as the sea on a summer day. Her face was as delicate as herself, and in her posture, she betrayed only fear. She wiggled her pupils this way and that. Most likely looking out for the one to whom she should give the food.

The assassin squinted his eyelids. He grunted loudly enough to catch the kitchen maid’s attention. She stopped and turned slowly toward the sound that presumably summoned her.

The man behind the bar crossed his arms, straightened up and rolled his eyes once at the elf, then at the wench. He knew Seneh well, and his gaze just expressed the fact that the man had chosen the one with whom he would spend the night.

Shadow was like a fox in a henhouse full of fat poultry. He didn't pick just any hen, he preferred delightfully young and juicy morsels. A sly grin crawled across his broad jaw. He could sense the fear. To fuel it further, he reached for the hood that still rested on his head and, crossing his gaze with her, slid it free. That way she could see who she was dealing with, not only while serving the meal, but also afterwards, but she didn't need to know that now.

The young woman parted her lips. She realized that the newcomer was not someone she had met before. The scarred face and hands marked with tattoos froze the blood and stimulated those zones in the brain that create unbridled imagination. The fact that he was an elf heightened her sense of unease. She had dealt with them in the past and did not recall it well.

She took a deep breath and placed the platter right in front of the stranger.

Thank you, Seneh replied. He didn't stop scowling at her thoroughly.

She shuddered at the sound of his voice. She nodded and was out of sight in a flash.

"You said you had all