2

That night, they roused him from bed again. Another manifestation of the Chaos taint. It was beginning to tire him, and the prospect of no help in this dirty work was even more depressing. Dimka came for him, as usual. Polish learned his name was Dimka. He was the only one of the Stalgard Militia with whom he could have a normal conversation. A few days ago, Dimka had taken him after his shift to one of the inns in the city. There was singing and dancing, vodka and beer flowed freely. Dozens of soldiers who normally went about their duties were now rejoicing carefree. Polish was even asked to play something. Lenra's magic fed on joy, so the cheerful melody traveled to the inn's ceiling and flowed into the hearts of the listeners. It echoed with the notes of birth, the song of flowers, the flutter of butterfly wings, the summer breeze, and warm rain. Pure joy filled the hearts of the soldiers.

The party lasted until dawn, and the guests, the SM officers, sobered up surprisingly quickly and marched straight to their duties. Porost had to walk to the palace himself, but he was in such a state that he lost his way among the dark streets. The stench of the gutter and rotting refuse forced him to empty his rebellious stomach. He felt weak and his head pounded, but at least he no longer felt nauseous. He had no idea where he was. Not even what part of the city he was in. Even though dawn was breaking, the darkness somehow lingered in the street shadows. Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine. Exactly as when he first encountered the spawn of Chaos. Something was whispering to him. He couldn't move. He wanted to reach for Lenra, but his hands wouldn't obey him; anyway, he couldn't play. The whisper grew louder, chilling his blood, corrupting his mind with its black language. Finally, he saw eyes. Red dots in the rough, gray wall. Eyes piercing the depths of his soul... he was terrified like never before. He couldn't move a muscle. The eyes grew closer, closing in on him, and he couldn't even scream. The gigantic maw opened to swallow him... when suddenly it withdrew and began to shrink. He heard singing. The singing of several children's voices. They were approaching him... but he had long since fallen to the damp ground.

The memory terrified him, forcing him to overcome his fear again before each intervention. Fortunately, he was spurred on by the knowledge that someone else might take his place, perhaps a child. Children... why did the spawn of Chaos retreat when they approached? What do they possess? Innocence? No, that couldn't be it. Children are the easiest to mutate, after all. He decided to leave the topic for later.

He followed Sergeant Lotrefov, who led him to the squad waiting at the palace entrance. Oil lamps glowed yellow, illuminating the windless night. They hurried toward the city center. Postos wondered why the center? After all, there had never been any Chaos spawn there. In the main square stood the Temple of Urlyk. A stark stone structure with ornate battlements around the roof. Its walls hadn't yet had time to blacken, so the limestone walls stood out in the gloom. Dimka led the squad to the temple cemetery, which was sparsely occupied by new graves. He stopped before the gates of the royal tomb.

"That's where," Dimka pointed, "the grave digger had barely escaped..."

"Or maybe some dead guy just woke up?" interjected a private, trying to defuse the tense situation. But only silence answered him.

"In case of a dead man," Dimka looked significantly at the private, "we'll all go there."

The unit didn't look pleased, but an order was an order. Contrary to appearances, the Stalgard Militia were no cowards. They were capable of facing the greatest dangers by following the orders of their superiors. The Stalgard Militia was also known for being the last to retreat from the battlefield. However, the battle-hardened soldiers feared their ancestors most in the spirit world. They believed in the curse of the dead, which condemned the soul of the damned to eternal torture. An innate respect for ancestors is in their blood, so their fear is justified when they disturb their resting place.

The steel door creaked falsely. Dimka led the way down the stone stairs, holding his lamp high. Lichen followed close behind him, along with the unit. The smell of earth, dampness, and mustiness hung in the still air. Unsteady footsteps echoed loudly in the stone corridor. Suddenly, Dimka stopped dead in his tracks.

"What happened, Dimka?" Porost asked, concerned.

Dimka didn't answer. Porost glanced over his shoulder and saw...

A translucent white figure hovering in the air before them. He felt his heart leap into his throat, and his legs felt heavier than lead. Terror paralyzed him again. The specter's words reached the edges of his consciousness.

Beware the breath of the midnight mouth,

which, with the coming of the equinox , will enter

with fire, death, and fear, and

surprise the innocent.

Remember my advice

to defeat Chaos with Order .

Let the virgin song of the earth

change fate terribly.

The specter vanished, leaving behind a dead silence and sweat dripping down his goosebumps.

The guards, strangely enough, remembered nothing but fear. No one had heard the specter's words except Porost. He, however, had no desire to recall the event. The words blurred in his mind and lost all meaning. Over time, he forgot them, throwing himself into the flow of life in Praag. He often returned to the gardens, filled with birdsong and the scent of spring. One such day, he met the princess again, this time gathering flowers. His talisman hung from her swan's neck. When she saw Porost, she smiled and followed him.

They talked for a long time about various matters, sharing worries and problems. When they came to a difficult topic, Porost marveled at her sharpness, intelligence, and knowledge—attributes rarely found in the women of Praag. Amm, as he called her, finally began to confide in her. Her main problem was the lack of freedom. Constantly imprisoned within the palace walls, she rarely left Praag. But something else hurt her more. The knowledge that she would have to spend the rest of her life with a man as grumpy as her father. He came from a distinguished family and was wealthy. She knew her father would give her hand to the first suitor he pleased. She would have the same life as her mother, in her husband's shadow. She would marry someone she didn't love. Post embraced her, and for a long time she didn't tear herself away from him. He could smell the scent of her hair and the intimate warmth of her body.

Months passed. Post spent entire days with Amm, patrolling the city at night. Often, in disguise, they would sneak outside the city walls, into the meadows and fields of crops, greening and ripening in the midnight summer sun. There, they did something that would shape the lives of both of them, or rather, three of them.

And soon, the lives of millions... will briefly explain what happened until the few days before the spring equinox, which are the key moments in this story.

Amm became pregnant, which angered the royal couple. The mother was particularly angry, even wanting to kill the child, who had been conceived from the seed of a vagabond she had long resented. The king was decidedly calmer. When he looked at it calmly, he saw that his problem had solved itself. Amm would marry Porost, a newcomer of great power who had changed the face of Pragg. The people would be more pleased with such a wedding than if the princess had been married to a strange royal son they had never seen, unlike Porost, who had won the hearts of the inhabitants. Zoltan himself marveled at his actions. Since when had he cared about the fate of Pragg's inhabitants? After all, he had always desired power and honor, and the people were merely instruments. However, the city's fire, its reconstruction, the joint fight against Chaos, and Porost's arrival had changed his heart. Over the years, as the king toured the city during the holidays, he noticed that the people were truly happy that he was their ruler. They weren't crying out in fear; they were sincere. The king loved these people and did everything he could to build a safe city in these northern wastelands. The lichen arrived and did what the inhabitants sorely lacked. He gave them joy in life and brought safety to the streets. People rejoiced in working together and celebrating together in the city streets. They felt as safe within the walls of Praag as they did within the walls of their homes. The lichen knows no business ruling, so everything will be left in the princess's hands when Zoltan hands over the crown. No royal bastard will rule Praag.

The wedding coincided with the harvest festival, and the people of Praag rejoiced immensely. Praag had never seen such a bountiful harvest. Granaries were bursting with provisions for the long and harsh winter that had arrived unexpectedly early. With the winter came terrible news: Norsca had once again been invaded by Chaos. The port of Erengard is once again a refugee camp, to which proud families of brave warriors from the north are fleeing. Rumor has it that the army of Chaos is so vast that even the dwarves have begun abandoning their mountain strongholds, which they could not defend. Ships are sailing from the southern ports with mercenaries who are to form one great army with the people of Norsca and the dwarves.

The lichen of Amm were spending the happiest moments of their lives, which, ironically, were not to last.

***

Zoltan was awakened by a pounding on the door.

"Sir, open up!" someone shouted from behind the door. The king stood and went to the door, shuddering as he touched the icy marble floor. Winter had not yet left, even though it was early spring, so the chamber was chilly. The king pulled back the bolt. Sergeant Lotrefow stood behind the door.

"Sir, forgive me..." the sergeant tried to catch his breath. "The tendrils are burning."

The blood drained from Zoltan's face, and the hair on his skin stood on end. He went to the window and opened the heavy shutters. In the darkness of the starless night, Praag slept, wrapped in a blanket of snow, and a few miles to the north, the alarm fire blazed.

The soldier was already gone when the king summoned his servants and dressed hurriedly. The palace was already awake, as was the city. People flocked to the walls, gazing silently at the burning tendrils. From beyond the walls came the clatter of hooves and the neighing of a horse. The gate opened for a scout from the guard posts.

The king stood in the square before the city gate. He felt no chill, even though the cold north wind buffeted everything around him. The scout approached him. Suddenly, the horse's knees snapped with a crack, and the animal collapsed in agony with a blood-curdling wheeze and howl. The rider fell with his horse. The guards tried to lift him, but suddenly recoiled in disgust. They drew their swords.

"Sir," the messenger shouted hoarsely, "let them kill me! I beg you! Kill me, sir!"

"What happened, man?!" The king angrily grabbed the messenger by his cloak. He looked into his deformed face, then released him in disgust.

"Sir..." he croaked, "it was the wind that did this to me. It came from the north... we all look like this.

" "Is it just the wind, soldier?! Is that the reason the tendrils are burning?!" The king shouted, but he longed to hear a positive answer.

"No, ma'am. We were over the Drath Valley..." the messenger paused. "Not many of us returned from that reconnaissance... sir, the valley was full of them!" That cry was the messenger's last words, as he fell to his death in convulsions.

Zoltan staggered. He reached for his sword, seeking solace in the cold steel. However, he found none. He looked at the soldiers' faces. He should say something. Raise their spirits. But what should he say? Drath, a crater several miles deep after some catastrophe, is full of Chaos monsters. "

Let's prepare for battle," was all he managed to choke out.

Lichen

(Elf. Llihenes) - a symbiotic organism in which two types of creatures live in cooperation: fungi and algae. Thanks to their cooperation, these creatures can survive in extremely unfavorable conditions, for example, on bare rock, where no plant can take root. Their dying remains create the first soil, on which more demanding plants later grow. Lichens are called pioneer organisms because they bring life where there was none before.

Rhadamus Arvinov

"On the Plant and Animal Kingdoms"

***

A sharp night wind fluttered the robes of the traveler who climbed the Mound of the Damned. The mound, or rather barrow, built from the remains of burned Praag, was the grave of thousands burned in the fires of destruction. The new settlers hoped that trees would eventually grow on the mound, thus restoring order to this defiled land. However, this was not to be. A nearly one hundred-foot hill, located in the northern part of the city, haunted with its blackness and the stench of death for nearly twenty years. There were winters when the hills were not covered by snow, even though the entire city was buried to the rooftops. People stopped approaching it and named it the Mound of the Damned, for cursed were those who rested in this defiled grave.

The traveler climbed the hard, dry slope of black earth. In many places, the earth slipped from under his feet, forcing him to use a silver staff for support. His worn boots sank repeatedly into the cracked crust. He heard the earth screaming, calling for help, crying out for life. He stopped at the summit and plunged his staff into the dead earth. He knelt and sank his hands into the dry clay. A scream reached him! A scream that grew louder with each passing second. Every stone, every clod of earth, every grain of sand cried out, wept, and screamed in fear. It didn't know what was happening to it, why it was suffering so much, why every particle of it was tainted? Why didn't it feel its Mother anymore? Why couldn't it feel her song and warmth?

The traveler closed his eyes, a tear falling onto the dry, black earth, scattering into thousands of particles that, instead of being absorbed, flowed down the slope. The young man sat down and took the staff in both hands. He brought the small mouthpiece halfway up to his lips and placed his fingers on a few of the hundreds of tiny holes. He listened to the cry of the stones, then looked up at the sky. The yellow moon was shrouded in gray clouds, driven by the merciless north wind. He listened to the wind and heard its anger. The wind cursed what he saw in the north—what was disintegrating this world, shattering its eternal harmony. The young man's pink eyes looked hopefully at the stars, but even there he found no trace of that primal love. It was from the stars that Chaos had come. He looked deep into his own heart and found the Master's voice: "You were born of this Earth and are Her son. Listen to Her voice. Do you hear that singing?" This is a lullaby for you..." The boy found what he was looking for and released it into the magical bowels of Lenra, from which music emerged. However, "music" is not the right word. The sound of Lenra is not only heard, but also felt and seen. It is perceived with all the senses. The music wove into its notes the cry of stones and the cries of sand grains. It wove in the angry wind and the moonbeams. It wove in the cold glow of stars and the breath of night. The quiet melody of Mother Earth, for which the contaminated soil of the Mound of the Damned longed, danced over the hill and soothed the whimpering of sand grains. It silenced the cry of stones, soothed the anger of the wind...

***

Torches hissed in the pouring rain, and the guards' hobnailed boots struck dully against the cobblestones, making a clatter in the sleeping streets. Captain Reiganov stopped beside the house closest to the Mound of the Damned. Waiting for him were the old man and Sergeant Lotrefov, whose gaze was focused on the hill disappearing into the fog and darkness. "

I told that madman not to go there," the old man explained, "but he wouldn't listen..." "Too bad,"

Captain Reiganov waved his hand. "It would be good if he never came back, the only problem is the corpse..."

"Who cares about the corpses there," the old man squawked. "The crows will eat them, it'll be over..." He fell silent under the captain's unambiguous gaze. "

If necessary, you'll go get him yourself.

" The old man retreated and disappeared from the captain's field of vision, who was now standing at the private's side.

"Captain, do you really think we'll have to go get the body?" Lotrefov asked quietly, still staring into the darkness.

"That would be the best solution, Sergeant."

Lotrefov glanced at the captain's cold and confident expression, trying to read something in the stone features.

"And what if he comes back... and is normal?"

"You know the procedure, Sergeant, and you know what's happening in the city.

" "Yes, Captain. But..."

"No buts. If he returns, tie him up and bring him to me. If he resists... kill him."

"Yes, Captain." Lotrefov wasn't happy about the fact that he might have to kill someone without any obvious guilt. But the recent events in the city... those hands sticking out of the cobblestones and heads stuck in the walls. A chill ran down the private's spine. The captain was right. The hard days were coming back...

***

He was shivering with cold. Everything was wet and chilly. On top of that, a blade of grass was getting into his ear and making him nervous... He clenched his fists, enclosing the lush grass within them.

Grass!

He sat up and saw fields of greenery around him. A smile spread across his young, full lips, from which pure laughter burst. "

We did it..." He raised his hands to the sun and shouted, "We did it!"

The entire Mound of the Damned was covered in thick, lush grass, the green of which seemed to gleam in the midday sun. The boy took his staff and skipped down the hill, enjoying the joyful song of the grass bathed in the sunlight. Two men in leather uniforms, swords at their sides, waited at the foot of the hill. The young man slowed, his emerald robes blowing in the wind. The hood fell from his long, snow-white hair, revealing the traveler's marble complexion. His pink eyes were radiant with joy, though exhaustion was plain to see. Despite this, they greeted the guards warmly and trustingly.

"Stop! Don't approach!" The guard half-sheathed his sword. "You are under arrest for trespassing. Surrender your weapon and lie on the ground!"

The boy wasn't surprised by the guards' caution, but he still didn't understand what they wanted from him. A menacing look, however, told him it was better not to resist. The Master always said that an avoidable fight was evil. Don't kill unless you're hungry. Anyone who breaks this law loses the Mother's love. He threw down his staff and raised his hands. The guard caught him and forced him to his knees with a powerful kick to the lower abdomen. His vision blurred, and a pain, exacerbated by days of hunger, pierced his stomach. He fell to his knees in the soft grass. They bent their arms behind him and tied him with a rope, which they then used to drag him through the city streets. At the sight of him, the passersby fell silent, making a wide passage for the Stalgard Militia. People stared at him in fear, and a woman from the crowd threw a rotten fruit at him. Shouts and curses rang out. The guard pulled the rope harder, and the boy fell, hitting his head on the cobblestones...

***

King Zoltan stood at the window of his chamber, gazing out at the barren plain stretching far to the north. Every day he glanced anxiously in that direction, watching for the alarm tendrils that would flare as the enemy approached. He still remembered what had happened twenty years ago. He still had the same nightmares that had plagued him since the city burned. He clenched his fist around the sword's hilt until the knuckles in his wrinkled, scarred hand turned white. He felt comfort in the touch of cold steel and in the realization that he wasn't as old as everyone around him thought. He could still wield a sword and lead his soldiers into battle with a song of praise on his lips. He remembered the last battle with the northerners, only five years ago. He hadn't fought in it, but he had a clear view from the northern watchtower. Captain Reiganov and the long-trained Stalgard Militia had proven themselves to be highly skilled.

There was a knock, and the door was opened by a guard, announcing the arrival of Captain Reiganov.

"Sir," the captain said, "we threw this mutant into the dungeons."

"Did he say anything?

" "No, sir. We didn't ask anything."

"Take me to him.

" "But sir..." the captain's voice trailed off as the king turned, the voluminous furs clinging to his broad shoulders rising with a heavy breath of anger.

"Yes, sir." Captain Reiganov placed a fist to his heart and left. The king followed him, trying to suppress the anger rising within him. Everyone treated him like an old man unfit to rule, unable even to gird himself with a sword. He will show them! He is still strong enough to father an heir. So far, Malpenia has only borne him two daughters, neither of whom will ever wear the royal crown. Kislevite law is absolute, and he does not want a foreign bastard on his throne. They'll find out soon enough...

He descended a winding staircase illuminated only by the faint glow of torches. Reiganov pounded on the solid steel prison gates. The nearly seven-foot executioner, wearing leather belts that hugged his barrel-shaped torso, opened the door and bowed at the sight of the ruler. "

Lead the way to the new one!" Reiganov ordered.

The guard nodded and set off down a dark corridor, permeated with the stench of filthy bodies and excrement. One of the cells belonged to the new one. The lock clicked, and the red torchlight fell on a shrunken, frail figure in the corner of the cell. The executioner entered and kicked the prisoner with a hobnailed boot. "

Get up! Show some respect and get your shitty ass up. The king is here!"

The prisoner raised his head, which was adorned with a large clot of blood on his right temple and mouth. The king took the torch from the guard and approached the prisoner.

"Bring a bucket of water!" Let him at least wash himself! The colossus stepped out.

The Lord studied the young face. In the torchlight, he saw only snow-white hair and red eyes.

"Are you a mutant?" The young man let out a quiet groan and shook his head.

"I'm not surprised they mistook you for him... red eyes, white hair. Where did you come from, boy?"

The guard brought water and set it before the prisoner. The boy began to drink greedily from the bucket of dirty water. A moment later, he vomited in the corner of the cell.

"Wash him and bring him to me," Zoltan ordered . "Yes

, sir."

Zoltan ran energetically up the stairs until he entered a long ground-floor hall, the walls of which were almost bare. Only a few coats of arms, shields, and paintings, no tapestries or elaborate works of art. The king looked at his home and once again cursed Chaos. It was he who destroyed the old palace, full of family heirlooms collected over the centuries. Everything burned because everything was contaminated.

Is this young man an emissary of Chaos? No... that's impossible. If he were, he would be hiding and destroying, not causing grass to grow over the Mound of the Damned. No, he's not evil... but he's certainly important. He might be useful.

He shook himself out of his reverie when he saw the boyar Nicolay Aleksyeyovich Rasaganov on his way, announcing his arrival with a booming voice, telling of his difficult journey to the ruler's daughter, Ammarietta. The daughter noticed her father first.

"Father! Nicolaya has arrived! He says they're having a beautiful spring."

Zoltan casually smiled at his daughter, who took after her mother's beauty. A slender figure and wide waist, full breasts, and long, black hair braided in a long braid. Only her blue eyes were those of her father. Her mother came from the royal family, so the daughter's proud bearing was not only her father's. Nicolay was a short, portly, middle-aged blond man. A thick beard and small blue eyes gave his ruddy face a bawdy, joking nature. That's why Ammarietta was so fond of Uncle Nicolay, who brought gifts for the entire family every winter. Zoltan fell into his brother's arms and they began to kiss.

"How are you, Nicolay?! Is your mother well?"

"And you're well, well, and happy, brother! Because Nikolla will marry Bokh's son!"

"Is that true? Nikolla was always smooth, but she wanted to win the Tsar's son's heart. And that's what a mother must be happy about!

" "And she is happy, happy. Otherwise, the wedding will wait.

" "I'll go tell your mother! Goodbye, Nicolay," said the delighted Ammarietta, and with childlike enthusiasm and grace, ran down the wide hall.

Zoltan embraced his guest and led him to his chambers, where servants were bringing food and grays. They talked for a long time, and the topic of the northern wastelands, which had been silent for too long, as if heralding a coming storm, came up frequently. The door banged, and Captain Reiganov entered, bowing and announcing that the prisoner was ready for interrogation. Zoltan ordered the Elder, the king's only trusted advisor, to be brought in.

The young man entered, hunched and weak, supported by the captain. He was clean, though his simple clothes were still stained with blood.

"Let him sit," Zoltan ordered. The captain sat him down on one of the stools.

"Sir, I beg you," the boy choked out, "give me my staff...

" "What staff? Captain, bring it immediately." The captain looked at the prisoner with contempt and anger and left.

Nicolay didn't ask any questions. He knew it was useless to interfere in his brother's affairs if he didn't speak up himself.

"Who are you?" the king asked.

The prisoner didn't answer, but stared at his food, entranced. The king, seeing this, threw him a slice of bread, which he began to munch hungrily.

"So who are you, and what did you do on the Mound of the Damned?"

After chewing and swallowing, he answered with difficulty. "

I freed the land from suffering, my lord. I listened to her cry and comforted her with the Mother's song. She herself was revived; she only needed a little love..."

His sentence was interrupted by the entrance of the advisor, an elderly man leaning on an ancient staff. He bowed to the nobles.

"You summoned me, sir?

Yes, Dadric, kindly sit down." The king turned to the prisoner again.

"Tell me your name. I am Zoltan Aleksyeyovich Rasaganov. And you?"

The young man slid from his chair and knelt.

"Forgive me, sir... but I must have my staff..."

"Very well, you will receive it soon. You are only to answer my questions. What is your name and who are you?

" "My brothers call me Llihenes, the Lichen. I can bring life where it has died... People call us the Shepherds of the Earth..."

At these words, Dadric rose, agitated, and thundered.

"Heed the words of an offspring! Do not insult the ruler of Praag!

" "What is it, Dadric?" asked the king, surprised by the advisor's sudden outburst.

"The Shepherds of the Earth disappeared thousands of years ago! The oldest books mention them even before the elves departed for the Western Lands." They were known for their ability to command the earth to produce, among other things, magical plants from which they created potions. They also used the earth's power to kill...

"You lie!" Llihenes jumped up from his chair, his eyes blazing, barely able to stand. "My brothers never killed!"

Dadric held back his anger, and a sly smile spread across his lips.

"Please, please. How impudent! And he lies like a dog. Don't listen to him, sir, he's a liar and a cheat. The shepherds of the Earth were only elves, and he doesn't look like an elf to me... maybe just a mutant!" Dadric thumped his staff on the marble floor to emphasize his words. The lichen panted heavily, trying to calm himself, just as his Master had taught him.

"The Masters," he began, "taught me respect for the wisdom that comes with age. But they also warned me against overconfidence, which turns wisdom into foolishness." The boy's words fueled the advisor's anger. "A man must be careful of his actions throughout his life, no matter how wise they may seem. Therefore, I ask you

, my lord, to hear me out." "Speak, boy, I am listening." The king seemed amused that his over-the-top advisor was so angry. He ordered them both to sit down. The boy reached for a cup and poured himself some water. When he had quenched his thirst, he began. "

I was raised in Athel-Loren, a mighty and beautiful city that has grown for thousands of years in the heart of the forest of Loren, where humans are forbidden. From my earliest years, the elves taught me how to listen to Mother Earth and her children. How to live in harmony with her and benefit from her infinite gifts." When I and my gift had grown up, I was taken before the Great Assembly, where seven other men like me were waiting. I was the youngest, but I was not humiliated in any way. We were all given the same task. We were to go to the eight corners of the world and teach members of our race how to live in harmony with Nature and how to heal it when it is wounded. As humans, we could teach other humans, because no one trusts elves. And so we departed to fulfill the mission for which we had prepared our entire lives. My goal is to show how, with the help of Mother Earth, who suffers under the heel of Chaos, we can defeat the forces of evil and destruction. "

A neat story, young one," said the old man, "but any charlatan can make one up on the spot. I've heard enough of the servants of Chaos using its foul magic to deceive people. You are a spawn of Chaos, you red-eyed mutant!" Dadric seethed with anger and struck the ground with his staff.

Suddenly, the door opened and a little girl ran into the room with a flowerpot.

"Daddy, Daddy! I planted the seed just like you told me. Will it grow now?" the child asked in a shrill and naive voice.

The small child released the tension hanging in the air. The king took the gir the girl onto his lap.

"How many times, Sonya, have I told you not to interrupt when I have guests?"

"But, Daddy! Will the plant grow now? Will it grow?" The king felt embarrassed because he knew he couldn't win against the child.

"It will grow, but you have to wait; in a few days you'll probably see it growing."

"Not now?" the child looked sad.

"No, Sonya, you have to wait..."

"Can I see this flower, child?" the lichen spoke in a soft and pleasant voice. The child boldly approached and handed him the flowerpot. The advisor wanted to say something but was afraid to interrupt when the king remained silent. Llihenes placed his hand on the soil in the flowerpot and closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them and smiled. "It's good soil, honey, a beautiful flower will grow from it." The girl was happy with such an answer.

There was a knock, and Captain Reiganov entered with a long, silver object in his hand.

"Sir, this is the staff, as you ordered."

The king nodded.

"Leave it and you may go." Reiganov stood for a few seconds, a little too long, and, surprised by the king's rough treatment, he walked away, still glaring at the newcomer. Before Porost could say anything, the staff was in Dadric's hands. He examined it carefully, taking in and savoring the sight. He gently traced the dents and holes with his fingers, as if they were precious.

"Merciful lord... he speaks the truth," he choked. "Forgive me, king, and you, traveler. I have never seen this tree with my own eyes, but I have read much. It is Orlandian—a silver tree that does not grow in human lands. It has magical properties..."

Llihenes stood and, swaying, took the staff from Dadric. As soon as he touched it, his posture straightened and his face brightened. He lifted the lichen to his lips and played.

The song was alive, resonating in the warm chamber, and filled the listeners with a strange, primal

peace. It made them wander far away, visiting lands they had long forgotten. They were aware they had lost something important, something that gave them understanding of the world. Something they only now noticed the loss. The melody, its indefinable sound

, wandered hypnotizingly until it was brutally interrupted by Sonya's shriek. The silence that reigned could have been cut into sheets. Sonya approached the pot from which a beautiful flower with red petals was growing. The lichen slumped heavily to the floor.

***

Several weeks passed, during which the Lichen gained immense respect among the inhabitants of Praag. Whenever there was any sign of Chaos activity in the city—screams of unknown origin, moving walls and pavements, or stones with eyes—he would come and play the lichen, whose music warded off evil forces. Despite his respect, people still distrusted and feared him because of his appearance. This, however, didn't deter the gangs of children who followed him everywhere, begging for stories about foreign lands and elves.

Throughout all his interventions, in which Chaos was driven away, he noticed one pattern. All these incidents occurred on the outskirts of the city or in almost completely abandoned parts of it. In streets so dark and dreary that everyone felt trapped by darkness and lack of life. The Mound of the Damned had changed beyond recognition. It became a playground for children, one of the few green spaces in the city, as city children were not allowed in the royal gardens. There were no signs of Chaos contamination anywhere near the hill. He wondered what all these connections could mean.

Every day, he ate meals with the royal family. This was a great honor for him and a source of envy for Captain Reiganov, who, to put it mildly, wasn't particularly fond of Porost. During his many conversations with the ruler of Praag, Porost learned about the city's history—the recent battles and the defense system. Zoltan was primarily interested in news from the outside world and Porost's combat capabilities. Porost didn't know his own capabilities. He had never fought anyone, let alone the servants of Chaos, whom he had been warned about on the trail and whom he had never encountered. Besides, he abhorred fighting. His master had taught him that power should only be used as a last resort. No one had the right to kill unless they were hungry or felt threatened. Despite this, Porost had no desire to use his powers against living beings, even if they served the forces of Chaos.

There was a lot of work in the city, and he couldn't get used to life at such a pace. So he often retreated to the palace gardens, which bloomed and greened in spring. There were no old trees in the park, only young, teenage trees, barely a few meters tall. In the gardens, he could rest, lulled by the song of Nature. One day, he met Ammarietta here, lost in sadness. He sat down beside her and tried to find the reason for her distress. The princess remained stubbornly silent at times, and at others, she would fall into a feigned good humor, laughing and pretending nothing was wrong. Unwearying, Porost began to tell me about his childhood. He had never told anyone about it, but he felt he could trust Ammarietta.

"I once asked a teacher where my parents were. The teacher told me that my parents were dead, and that I had been found as an infant by merchants trading with elves. The elves, seeing a homeless child, took him in and gave him to the Teachers. When I left the forests of Loren less than three years ago, I came upon an abandoned village where only one old woman lived. She opened the door for me, even though it was already dark, and let me stay the night." In the glow of the kerosene lamp, I looked into her eyes. They were pink... Later, she cried as she served me soup. "

The next day," he continued, "the old woman was dead. I buried her in the old village cemetery. When I returned home to collect my belongings, I noticed a letter the old woman had written before her death. Besides the words 'I'm sorry,' there was a wooden pendant depicting a heart radiating like the sun. Since then, I've always had it with me. It brings me luck."

He took the talisman from around his neck and placed it in the princess's hand. For the first time, he saw her sincere smile and could look deeply into her blue eyes.

"I can't accept this. You don't even know me, and I know you even less...

" "Do you see the problem? Because I don't," he replied carelessly. "It's nice to have someone to talk to seriously. It's a sign of my trust. You have the key to my soul."

Ammarietta snuggled up to him and left. Polish sat for a long time, pondering what ha

d begun on that stone bench.

Spread your elbows (10-ost)

 

As his friend took three boyish steps up the three steep steps leading to the hall, he dedicated the first step to his youthful indiscretion. It was this very childishness and lack of restraint that had landed him on those three steps, and he now cursed them heartily. He wanted to dedicate the second step to the transitional period in every man's life, when the reality around him slowly begins to become nightmarish. And he took that step well; he stumbled, and instead of a third step, he crashed spectacularly into the floor. Overwhelmed by the bluntness of this metaphor, he gathered himself for a few seconds, clumsily massaging his bruised knee. He adjusted his cuffs and collar in the mirror and unbuttoned the button at his neck. The emptiness began on his right arm and ended on his left. All the filthiest prostitutes and whores had gone to bed, but his mother was still waiting for his friend. And for the big one, curse her filthy womb. The big one stood before his friend in the center of the room. He had calculated the right spot perfectly, his shadow imprinting itself on his friend with exceptional clarity. Between them, a few round prairie bushes wandered aimlessly in the gusts of wind. The friend sang a cheerful banjo tune loudly in his head, and someone nearby whistled a modulated note. Both of them froze. The vein in the big one's forehead bulged with a sudden pulsation. The friend's pupil constricted to the size of a pencil lead dot. The space between them thickened and darkened, their steaming breaths mingled like a crumpled audio tape, a tape of exceptionally bad music. They stood there for a few more minutes, and nothing happened. The friend decided things were no longer threatening, but starting to get silly.

"Okay, we're leaving."

The big one's biceps flexed under his jacket.

"Okay. Lead the way."

His friend was doing quite well, limping slightly on a bruised left knee. The big one behind him was stamping loudly, trying to instill fear in his opponent. They stood in the universal grayness of a very early morning. The same hopeless rain was falling, the streetlights glowing pale and disgusted at the situation unfolding between their iron posts.

"You know what, somehow..." the friend began with a prepared line, but he didn't finish because he was punched in the face. The impact carried him thirty centimeters above the sidewalk, he dug heavily into the hard pavement and covered himself with his feet. The big one cleared his throat, rubbed his fist, and moved toward him. The friend stood up with the silent help of the streetlamp, tried to kick the big one, bounced off his body like a ball, and fell over again. The big one tried to kick him in the head, slipped on the sewer grate, and slammed onto the sidewalk next to the friend. "2:1," the friend thought, and with all his might, punched him in the testicles. His opponent groaned, grimaced, and stood up heavily, leaning against the same streetlamp. The streetlamp, vaguely under the shade, had insulted their ancestors. The big one reached for the silver butterfly, but it was firmly embedded in the broken skull of his lover, stretched across the back of the one whose name was not mentioned. Instead, he shot Friend in the ear, and the whole world lit up with a fabulous rainbow. He wanted to stand there for a moment and gaze at the colorful contours, but he was caught between two vise-like hands. Big Man began to strangle him, his arms gripping his friend crosswise, and the friend felt as if he were about to implode. For the third time that evening, his eyes filled with a red mist. The bubbles in his lungs began to burst one by one, punctured by broken ribs, his heart choked and froze. He stroked Big Man's short stubble on the back of his head, in accordance with the Christian principle of forgiving one's enemies. And he died.

Come back.

He would have died.

With a screech of tires, a red racing car emerged from around the bend. It slammed into the compact mass of friend and Big, plunging its painted metal into the protein and carbohydrates. For a moment, they were both on the hood, wind in their hair, panic in their eyes. The friend felt gravity inexorably pull him toward the wheels. The Big man beside him also began to slide, scratching the smooth, glass-like bodywork with his nails. Their legs scraped against the speeding road. The friend lost his balance, plummeted, waving his arms desperately. He felt the metal pole of a passing lamppost beneath his fingers and clung to it with all his might. The force of momentum ripped him from under the joyfully singing wheels, and Big man flashed before his eyes, disappearing beneath the red hood. There was a crack and the biological crunch of a snail being crushed, and Big's mother waited a long time. The red car's wheels squealed in triumph, the vehicle spun backward and came to a stop. His friend knelt, panting heavily, on the wet sidewalk. Through the rain-drenched windshield, he saw auburn curls and hazel eyes staring at him with amusement. Promotion sat on the lap of a slender Latin bullfighter, who was nonchalantly smoking a good cigar. They both waved, and then the car took off gracefully and disappeared around the bend of the wall. His friend was now completely alone, breathing shallowly through cracked ribs. He was preparing his last good line. Warning, be careful with fire, it's forbidden to use the vehicle while it's in motion, cancel immediately after entering, okay, let's go.

"Life sucks," the friend said, turning on his heel and heading home.

Epilogue

Theoretically, the grotesque change of seasons doesn't apply to places like bars, gateways, and wine-drinking squares, because it's unimportant, irrelevant. Yet everyone feels the cyclical nature of the seasons with their skin, the passing seasons clinging to their eyelids like droplets. You can immediately tell how cold it really is: the smoke becomes bitter and acrid, your hands claw, turning red in the creases or during the creases. And when it gets really hot, really drunk, there's nothing like the magical intoxication of leaves and flowers, with or without companions. Because in this frantic season, leaves and buds gain strength and aroma. And from this excess, they burst painfully at night, spewing poisonous green sap on those passing beneath them. The branches are sticky with this sap, the benches are sticky, and you can slip. The sap drips down branches and leaves onto hands and faces, collects in scars and open wounds, and stings like hell, the flesh burning like salt. Thousands of creatures float in the air in a blue mist. The condemned man tilts his head and drinks straight from the tap; the winged creatures carefully prick him with their stingers and drink from the condemned man. The pyramid of animals lasts for a moment, then the buzzing gray particles fly off to commit suicide in a sea of green sap. A fate also destined for the condemned man. People turn different colors, the pH in their mouths changes, they stink of sweat and sun. The friend sat at a table, talking to the virtual.

"We have to get going, it's getting late. It's beautiful, and then it can only get worse.

" "Don't exaggerate, it's not that beautiful yet."

"You're right, I'll stay a while longer."

The virtual fell into thought.

You know the feeling when you're reading a particularly twisted and complex sentence, following a convoluted and deceptively woven plot, holding a book in your hand, and a gang of drunken idiots are screaming outside your window, and you can't tell if it's them screaming or the book screaming. You start reading these people with a vengeance and you stop noticing the difference: whether it's you reading or being read, whether it's you writing or being written, whether it was an echo or maybe it was a deer.

"It's better to talk to friends.

" "Those friends are also a slippery slope. They all flee from the general buzzing and steaming. It's hard to find them when they're camouflaged among the leaves and bushes. Because your eyes are unaccustomed and your hand is unsteady.

" "Sometimes, sometimes."

The virtual looked, looked? at his friend and noticed that he was truly tired. She looked at him with a certain astonishment, for she had never before looked at him in the full essence of looking. My friend was slightly worn at the folds from such senseless staring, his badly fused ribs ached, and the fingers of his left hand trembled slightly. The skin had dulled over the years, creasing over worn cheekbones. He should have been sold some time ago, when he still had some value; now he symbolized only an occupied chair and nothing more.

"I know what you're thinking. Stop it," said the friend, "it has to be that way, in all good books the heroes are left alone at the end. That's a very logical ending; anyone who thinks otherwise needs to read their own book carefully, not foolishly go by the chapter titles.

" "Robert Jordan was left alone at the end in Hemingway.

" "And Ravik was left alone at the end in Remarque, too.

" "Wronski was left alone at the end in Tolstoy.

" "Tyrmand was left alone at the end in Tyrmand.

" "Eden was left alone at London's.

" "The waiter was left alone at Hrabal's.

" "Constant was left alone at Vonegut's.

" "Kafka's beetle was left alone at the end.

Humbert's Lolita was left alone at the end

." "Or maybe Humbert was left alone at the end.

" "Hermann was left alone at the end in Hesse.

" "Swords were left alone at Shakespeare's, too.

" "Innocence was left alone at Laclos's, too.

" "Boredom was left alone at Flaubert's."

"The corpses at Camus's were also left alone in the end.

" "But at least they were eaten by worms," the somersaulter sighed quietly from under the table.

"Damn," the friend rejoiced, "there's hope after all."

The End.

And so ends the story of the Friend, the Condemned, the Lover, the Somersaulter, the Virtual, the Chinese Promotion, and the Big One. And of course, of ethanol in all its colors, flavors, concentrations, vessels with shapes as exotic as they are useless, of drinks with an umbrella, a cherry, a sponge cake, or a bucket of vodka, a tank of spirits diluted with tonic, a sea of golden, tart beer. I survived, so I write this

Well, let's go!

 

I'm the unluckiest guy I know. Simply a pit of bad luck. When you say Marian, you mean unlucky. It's always been that way. In elementary school, I was a well-behaved, if not particularly gifted, student; never skipped school, attended every school event, was the teacher's favorite, and suffered from severe cramps after the occasional F. At the beginning of eighth grade, Marta joined us. A pretty blonde with blue eyes. All the boys wanted to date her, but that was all. Kaśka, who was sort of friends with her, once spread the lie that Marta could only date the coolest guy, meaning someone who, for example, knew how to inhale a cigarette. So we lit up, almost all the boys in the class (except Kuba and Michał, who'd gone from the Pole to pinball, and Krzysiek, who happened to be sick and staying home at the time), after a cigarette behind the school. I choked on the smoke like the shipyard workers in the newspaper during a strike. I almost couldn't spit it out, my eyes were running like a faucet in the first-floor school bathroom, I was dizzy, and my legs were like jelly. Someone called the teacher, everyone ran away, and I was always the worst in PE class. So only I, a coughing, trembling orphan, was caught. Then came the parents' call, suspension, a good beating from my dad. The guys later said I'd burst into tears over those cigarettes, and no one wanted to be my friend anymore. And Marta would go out with everyone afterward, just carefully avoiding me.

It was even worse at technical school. My name is what it is, so my friends called me Maryśka or Marycha. That was fate. The nationwide repression of the "you use, you lose" anti-drug campaign meant that teachers at the time viewed me as a pot smoker and marked me like a junkie in the class register, regularly claiming that even if I had written something, I probably wrote it back, because my brain was so fried by marijuana that I couldn't have done it myself. Bearing the stigma of a child with tobacco in my mouth, I stayed away from cigarettes until my final exams, and I never saw the whole pot thing, even though my classmates were constantly enjoying themselves with it. Whenever a major drug scandal broke, the principal always started the interrogation with me. However, nothing was ever proven. Anyway, I tried to be a polite and exemplary student, which is especially difficult when everyone is watching your back. I was the class president and the library liaison for two years. I went to the math teacher for sweet rolls and coffee during breaks. I prepared the school newspaper and participated in assemblies. I fought for my grades, damn, how I fought. It's hard to tell how much I sucked up to someone back then. I rarely left the house; my friends always looked at me with a distance. I didn't play football with them because I still wasn't good at PE; they didn't want me. They didn't take me out for a beer because once on a field trip, I puked after just my second drink. Right on my teacher's shirt. I didn't have anywhere to meet any girls either, so prom was finally coming up, and I was still a virgin. I ended up going with Ewa, a friend of Łukasz's girlfriend, the guy I'd been sitting with for the past six months because the teacher had placed us in the same desk. That we were supposed to resocialize each other. From the very first meeting at his house, we made a big impression on each other (meaning Ewa and me, of course); we both seemed to like each other. I looked at her lips, her breasts, her legs, and suddenly felt like I was falling in love instantly. So passionately and immensely. We met a few more times before the prom; I took her out for fries, to the cinema, and twice to a disco because she liked dancing. The day before the party, Paweł told me that Ewa had told his girlfriend she thought she wanted to go out with me, so he advised me to make sure she was good at the prom because I could pass before I even graduated. I totally rocked it: hair gel, a new suit, expensive leather shoes. I'd worn briefs my whole life, but for this special occasion, I wanted to wear something special, totally masculine for the first time, something my friends had been wearing for a long time. I wanted to wear boxer shorts to the prom. So I did. I was already pumped up from noon, all I could think about was Ewa and what to say to her and how awesome it would all end. At the prom, as proms do, we drank a bit, and the blood started to pump,My long-hyped hormones suddenly went haywire, and my otherwise small penis suddenly began to stick out stiffly like an icicle in the cold, unable to stop. My tight panties no longer contained its shape, and it displayed its entire length uninhibited, idiotically straining against my pants. When I danced with Ewa, I'd drill a hole in her thigh; when I wasn't dancing with her, she had to watch the grotesque sight of my strangely draped pants. I went to the bathroom and soaked it in cold water, thinking about everything but sex and Ewa's sensational curves, all to no avail. My penis was as big as in a porno. During one of my soaks, when I left Ewa alone and ran under the cold water tap, I mixed up the toilets and accidentally went into the women's room. I realized it when I heard women's voices approaching. Panicked, I ran into the first stall I came across and locked myself inside. I quickly realized that the girls who had scared me off were Ewa and Łukasz's girlfriend. Ewa told me I was horny for her, even though she didn't know. She laughed, saying it was pretty obvious. Łukasz's girlfriend told Ewa that she saw it too and that she should be careful with me, because apparently I'm a bit of a junkie, and if my dick is constantly sticking out, it could be from drugs, maybe meth, or even Viagra. And if it's from Viagra, then not only am I a junkie, but I could also be some kind of crazy pervert, and that could end badly. Ewa got scared, and Łukasz's girlfriend said they were actually leaving soon, so if Ewa was scared, they could take her with them and take her back. So the three of them drove off. Łukasz drove his girlfriend first because it was closer, and then Ewa. As soon as they left, my penis fell off like a rocket. To make matters worse, the stall door got stuck, and they had to call a locksmith to the ladies' room to get me out. Ewka wouldn't answer my calls, and of course I never passed her exams. But Łukasz passed three weeks before his final exams.She laughed that it was quite visible. Łukasz's girlfriend told Ewa that she saw it too and that she should be careful with me, because apparently I'm a bit of a junkie, and if I'm constantly erect, it could be from drugs, maybe meth, or even Viagra. And if it's from Viagra, then not only am I a junkie, but I could also be some kind of crazy pervert, and that could end badly. Ewa got scared, Łukasz's girlfriend said they were actually leaving soon, so if Ewa was scared, they could take her with them and take her back. And so the three of them drove off. Łukasz took his girlfriend first, because it was closer, and then Ewa. As soon as they left, my penis fell off like crazy. What's more, the bathroom door was stuck, and they had to call a locksmith to get me out of the women's room. Ewka didn't answer my calls; of course, I never got laid. However, three weeks before the final exam, Łukasz passed it.She laughed that it was quite visible. Łukasz's girlfriend told Ewa that she saw it too and that she should be careful with me, because apparently I'm a bit of a junkie, and if I'm constantly erect, it could be from drugs, maybe meth, or even Viagra. And if it's from Viagra, then not only am I a junkie, but I could also be some kind of crazy pervert, and that could end badly. Ewa got scared, Łukasz's girlfriend said they were actually leaving soon, so if Ewa was scared, they could take her with them and take her back. And so the three of them drove off. Łukasz took his girlfriend first, because it was closer, and then Ewa. As soon as they left, my penis fell off like crazy. What's more, the bathroom door was stuck, and they had to call a locksmith to get me out of the women's room. Ewka didn't answer my calls; of course, I never got laid. However, three weeks before the final exam, Łukasz passed it.

I don't have the best memories of my university years either. For five whole years, I pored over books like moles on a Cracovia pitch, and I didn't meet a single girl during that time. Except for the few girls in our major. The last Juwenalia was supposed to be an exception. The guys and I picked up a few cheerful university students and planned to have fun together during those crazy days. I got redheaded Zuza, a bit crazy and unpredictable, but really cool. It was great; we went wild at concerts and ate at outdoor barbecues on campus. Well wasted, we went to my university, supposedly for a walk. We sat on the hood of a parked car and started going at it hard. I made myself comfortable, and she pulled down my jeans and panties—briefs, not boxers—to my ankles. She asked where my condom was. I honestly told her I didn't have any, and if we could go without. She said we probably couldn't, but she knew where there was a vending machine nearby. She took off her panties from under her short skirt and put them on my head, covering my eyes. She kissed me and asked me to wait patiently for her. So I waited patiently. I waited for a few minutes, fifteen minutes, two hours. I don't even know when I fell asleep just sitting there. The professor woke me up in the morning. As it turned out, the owner of the car parked below me. He had had a few glasses of wine with the group for his student festival and decided to take a taxi back, so he left the car at the university. I don't know why neither I nor Zuza noticed that someone in the car in front of us had clearly smashed the side window and, excuse me, shat inside. I didn't finish my studies. But Zuza and I had been dating for almost two months.

Then I took on various jobs, with varying degrees of success. Sometimes I even met a variety of women, and somehow, I even almost got married once, but bad luck, my middle name, usually completely undressed everything before I even had time to undress a single blouse. A friend of mine, quite the sweetheart, finally got me the job. He told me so many times what a great job it was, what great girls came to the courses—serious, just-out-of-high-school-age girls or still quite young college students—and how many he'd already had, that I thought I knew everything about the job. I applied, got a company car with a big Elka on the roof and the number—what else?—thirteen. Two days later, I was supposed to drive with my first student. Excited as a teenager, I shaved particularly thoroughly, perfumed myself, dressed up, got a youthful haircut, and at ten o'clock sharp, I was waiting for her in front of the company office. Finally, she arrived. Not too pretty, not too young, but all in all, not bad. It could always be a boy, so there's no point complaining. After a few minutes, it turned out these weren't her first hours behind the wheel and she was already quite the master. I struck up a friendly conversation, offered her a few compliments, adjusted her seat belt, and helped her turn the steering wheel. It turned out she'd already graduated, had a job that required her to finally get her license. She'd actually finished her course and was just buying some extra hours before her exam to practice. She didn't want to go to the parking lot. She asked me to drive around town for a bit, as she had a few errands to run. No problem, little one, I thought, I'll go with you wherever you want, I'll go with you, hey. I didn't really have much help, as she was doing quite well. I only touched her occasionally, saying her hair might get in the way, so I'd brush it away, and then again, saying you have to push the stick in hard when you're in reverse, so you can push harder. Neither my gaze nor my touch fazed her; in fact, she reciprocated my subtle pleasures. We only drove through strange places, stopping at strange buildings and locations. She'd get out for a maximum of thirty seconds, get back in somewhere, grab her purse, and then we'd go again. And so it went several times.

Today I'm in jail. In cell number—what else?—thirteen. I'm writing a story that "is supposed to help me understand the fundamentals of my crime and the causes of my subsequent downfall, to better understand it and avoid a repeat in the future." It's part of my rehabilitation. It turned out that in the apartments we were visiting at the time, the bodies of people who had passed out after using a contaminated drug, completely new and rare on our market, were later found. Witnesses found that my car, an Elka from a certain company, parked at several of these spots. To make matters worse, the laboratory services found tiny traces of the powder in the car itself. The company supposedly knew nothing about my driving, because apparently, a guy was scheduled for that time, and he filed a complaint because when he showed up for the driving test, both I and the car were already gone. And during the investigation, as it turned out, I couldn't give her a precise description twice, so as not to give contradictory details. Well, bad luck is bad luck.

SHADOWS" PART 2 The

ion launchers were the first to deploy. They whistled ominously, showering the barricades opposite with fire. Immediately after, the tanks responded. The flash was so intense that it took a moment to assess the extent of the destruction.

What remained after the shelling was simply impossible to imagine. Instead of fortifications, they faced a pile of rubble, wood, and metal, strewn with corpses. To make matters worse, a fire broke out, completing the destruction.

Seeing this, the captain ordered the advance to the city center. The tanks were sent ahead to clear the street before the infantry passed.

Over the next half hour, they encountered just over a hundred rebels. Poorly clad and equipped with outdated weaponry, they posed no serious threat to the state-of-the-art government commando.

None of the enemy attempted to surrender. On the other hand,

taking prisoners was not even considered. Santier considered this highly inadvisable, even dangerous. According to him, prisoners of war were considered "the highest risk element," capable of derailing any military operation. Furthermore, the lack of prisoners also meant no witnesses to his brutal behavior, which he habitually displayed during combat. While his soldiers were still there, he could absolutely rely on their loyalty. They remembered nothing that hadn't been ordered directly by Santier.

They reached the administrative complex without any major problems. It consisted of eleven tall buildings. Their distinctiveness was immediately apparent. Constructed

of lightweight and durable neo-composites, they were exceptionally impressive. Their

shape resembled monstrous sails, rising into the sky.

It was at this point that the resistance visibly thickened. Somehow, the rebels had managed to gather some more modern equipment. Some of them even wore top-of-the-line combat armor, standard equipment for the army.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers screamed in horror,

"Good God, that's our boys' equipment!"

Among the crowd of rebels, they spotted equipment that had previously belonged to the group of Lieutenant Meyers, commander of the second subunit. By some unexplained means, a whole host of brand-new rifles and body armor had ended up in their opponents' possession.

But there was no time to dwell on this. Action was necessary, and decisive action at that.

Captain Santier was about to give the order to attack when something unexpected happened. A wave of terrible heat ripped through the air, knocking the soldiers back a good dozen meters. As they struggled to recover, they were overcome by nausea and dizziness. Those who managed to get to their feet came under crossfire from two opposing buildings. Furthermore, something bad began to happen to the tanks and artillery. The crews completely lost control. For a moment, they spun in circles, throwing columns of fire in completely random directions. Several of them collided with each other, others plowed straight into the terrified soldiers, further intensifying the panic. A moment later, all the machines froze, also for no apparent reason.

The expedition's defeat seemed inevitable. A significant portion of the unit was eliminated from the fight, either by rebel fire or by their own equipment. Less than half an hour after the clash began, less than a third of the men remained on the battlefield. Worst of all, no one had any idea what was happening. Had they been exposed to some new type of unconventional weapon? Or was this simply one big nightmare they'd soon wake up from?

The commander left these speculations for later. For now, he decided to save at least some of his forces. He was already turning toward his second-in-command when a blast of energy struck him squarely

in the heart. Santier stiffened and, with a resigned grimace, sank to the ground.

However, in the general chaos, no one realized what had happened. Lieutenant Marcus Norton was the first to notice. Amazingly, he was one of the few who didn't lose his cool. He gathered a handful of survivors around him and, under heavy fire, breached one of the buildings. With that, everything was on the line... 

Forest

Taking a few steps, I stopped, my rifle pressed more tightly to my shoulder, and listened to the forest for a moment. They were walking around, and there were many of them, perhaps even a platoon—that was all I was certain of, hearing hundreds of different sounds. From every direction, someone was creeping toward me. They were stealthy; the only sounds they made were the snapping of delicate twigs, the scraping of tree branches, the crushing of undergrowth. But I could hear them; they were getting closer.

I decided to kneel and rest for a moment. As I lowered myself a little, something cracked in my knee joint, loudly, incredibly loudly. They must have heard it. Finally, I placed my knee on the ground. I tried to breathe as calmly as I could, but I felt myself needing more and more air; I had to take a sharp intake of breath. Everyone had heard it; now they were surely coming my way. I glanced at my watch, but in the pale moonlight, further diffused by the tree branches, I couldn't read the time. I was afraid to illuminate my watch; it would be madness, even in this insane reality. I had a flashlight on my rifle, as bright as a car headlight, but I knew if I used it, it would be moments before I died. It had to be around three, an hour until dawn at most. An hour at most, I had to check, I took the risk, shielded my watch with my other hand, and shined the light. It was 12:04.

I felt myself shaking again, but this time in a different way. Every now and then, with relative regularity, a terrible shiver ran through me, causing impulsive spasms in my arms and legs. For a moment, I tried to fight it, gripping my rifle tighter, but it was useless. I gave up; I could endure it even more if it weren't for my breathing. He was starting to shake too; I couldn't draw a steady breath, and every inhale made a sound like a record skipping. Is this madness? How much longer can I endure? I asked myself. But soon, they were getting closer. Could death be worse than what I was experiencing now?

A warm, terrifying heat enveloped my insides, rising to my lower spine, where it stabbed me cruelly, materializing my fear. I heard a branch snap. Someone was close, closer than I had ever been today, to my left. I knew that if I didn't let them know I'd noticed them, I'd gain a few more moments of life. I couldn't move suddenly.

Slowly, imperceptibly, I raised my rifle. My thumb touched the firing selector; the weapon wasn't ready to fire. I couldn't release the safety without making a noise, but I had no choice. Gently, step by step, I tried to move the selector lever 90 degrees. To no avail, the weapon responded with a deafening "click!" I trembled so much that I could barely hold the rifle in my hands.

They haven't killed me yet, I thought. They're lying there now, aiming at me, just waiting, checking if I'm not alone. I've fallen into an ambush, I've lost, and I'm dead. They'll shoot me the moment I turn around. I wonder what they'll hit? In the head? Certainly not... In the torso? What organ? My vision went dark. What choice do I have now? A grenade? They'll mow me down before I throw it. Should I shoot them? I don't even know exactly where they are.

My throat was dry, my tongue felt like a wooden stake, surrounded on all sides by sandpaper.

I have to shoot, I'll fire a few bursts, I'll die anyway, but I'll fight.

"What's the point in tearing away another second of my suffering-filled life?" A voice that kept coming back to me. A voice more terrifying, in its rationality and perceptiveness, than the forest itself...

Suddenly the wind rose, rustling through the branches of the old trees. In the distance, I heard the sound of a branch breaking. This was my chance, I realized. I turned toward the enemy, simultaneously taking a shot. It didn't come off as quickly as I'd hoped. Adrenaline filled my entire body, every nook and cranny. My heart ignited. I was burning, literally burning with emotion: excitement and terrifying fear. There was no way to aim, I could barely see anything. But the enemy was close, I knew I'd hit. And I fired, simultaneously switching on my tactical flashlight, and fired twice.

The rifle kicked me in the shoulder.

The world slowed, there was no one there, now I saw it. I fired into the empty forest. "You finally managed to make a noise," a voice inside me said.

Every enemy for miles around heard the shots. My closest allies were a day's journey away. I understood that soon I would find out: what true fear tastes like. 

Spread your elbows (9)

The convict scribbled numerous autographs on her legs and breasts, always adding a few tricky flourishes that arced deep beneath the hem of her underwear. Indeed, he had achieved a certain perfection in his aesthetic flourishes. To start on her back and end on her thigh, one had to guide her hand lightly and confidently, even carelessly, over all those bulges, tracing them with a marker line—yes, good, good. The bulging girl twisted like a turtle lying on its shell, trying to see the convict's tag disappearing into her buttocks. They were invariably disappointed when they discovered that the convict was just the convict. Not Elevated, Raised to the Podium by Poems, or Awarded, Awarded Money for Film, or Discovered, Discovered as a Member by the Famous. But simply Convicted, Condemned to the Face by Vodka. And those who witnessed his lifelong moratorium sincerely sympathized with him and pitied him, because, in truth, he was a pathetic figure. He sat alone at a table, unable to even play a single word, and he was very much alone. The guys ignored him, the girls had long since given up on him, and yet, he was convinced, if fame ever bought him a coffee, even exchanged a few words, the whole picture would change dramatically. He would become likable and desirable, and he felt that was precisely what he lacked. Despite the ravine wrinkles and the axe-like snout. And even if no one liked him, he wouldn't care, because he would be famous. He wouldn't have to sign autographs on his unwashed groin and sweaty back; he would sign them on the president's wife and the pope's wife, if only he wanted to. And if they didn't want to, he'd force them, take them by the face, or, if he were in a good mood, grab their chin, and order them, compel them, coax them, because he'd be famous, artificially famous—filmistic, balletic, and operatic. And he could insult everyone, or on the contrary, praise everyone, and he'd sing songs and deflower teenagers. Because he could, not that he wanted to.

But it was to no avail, prevented by that one bubble that didn't rise from the bottom of the glass, didn't catalyze a mass of critical popularity, didn't create the bonds of triple recognition. The bubble simply screwed things up, and perhaps, kudos to him for that. The condemned man received some miserable rudiments, but that's not the worst thing, being condemned rudimentarily, but that's a lie, because that's precisely the worst. All those who were not rudimentary, loved fully and completely, inhaling and exhaling, with their whole breast and pure heart, knew that this was the worst - and they felt pity and sympathy.

Condemned, Lost, Called Names, Insulted by Face, Neck, Abdomen, Hands, Feet, he rose and moved toward the exit, accompanied by silent compassion visualized on his hunched back. He passed the table where Fikołek sat, staining everything red, and then he didn't pass again. At Fikołek's table sat a short, stocky, plump man, panting heavily and sweating profusely. Before him stood a dozen or so glasses of various sizes filled with rainbow-colored liquids. In the center stood a mug of beer, filled with a foul-smelling liquid obtained by pouring all known and unknown alcohols into a single glass vessel in appropriate doses. The Condemned Man stood, feeling the marker slip from his hand. For in that brown mug, at the bottom of the glass, a bubble of wondrous beauty blooms timidly with pale, opalescent petals, a bubble like a fern blossom, a bubble reflecting the lofty and famous Convict. And any moment now it will burst on the fat man's tongue, and he will become a director filming adaptations of national epics. The convict grabs a nearby chair and, with a swing, hits the fat man in the back of the head with it. The fat woman knocks the bubble out of the way. The convict lunges forward like a great, wrinkled feline with an axe snout, seizes the mug, and downs it in a magnificent gulp, a legendary gulp. But the bubble, despite the terrible suction and decompression, escapes backward, backward, downward. The condemned man knows that one way or another he'll get to that sloppy little bubble, grinding it between his teeth, crunching it open, sucking out its marrow, and spitting it out. The little bubble knows this, so he runs, leaping from mug to mug, terrified by the Condemned Man's gaping, toothy jaw, condemned to the little bubble. The condemned man throws the mug aside, grabs another, and drains it. The little bubble escapes while it still has room. He chases after it, with grim mastery destroying every possible refuge the little bubble might have, hiding place after hiding place. He pours a whole sea of alcohol into himself, and the little bubble runs forward in panic. The entire audience respectfully steps aside. "Please make way," the condemned man steps, then staggers, tossing empty glasses behind him. He corners the little bubble at the bar, and it slips through the cork into the bottle and lurks at the bottom. The condemned man tries to dig it out with his finger, but it's too deep, then with a straw, too deep. So he tilts his head back and drinks intently, another, another. The ethanol concentration in the condemned man increases, his warning light goes on, the magical intoxication has long since evaporated. Now only chemicals turn to poison and poison to acid. The condemned man's hair curls, turns gray, and falls out, his hands turn black and shrink, his ribs tighten under the rustling skin, his face is covered with brown spots. And he keeps drinking because he only has four more bottles left. And three more, and two more. The condemned man begins to smoke, his insides and esophagus dissolve, holes form in his skin, and black blood spurts out. Only the last bottle remains in his hand, with a bubble lurking at the bottom.He holds it, shaking like an old man. He kneels, his corroded joints refusing to obey him. This must be the end for him, but with a cracked fingernail he presses the cork in and tilts the last bottle. He can't drink it, because his lips have burst like ripe cherries into the red pulp. A purple slit appears in his throat, through which the condemned man sucks in a hiss. And that's when he lifts the bottle with a final gesture. The boy, let's be honest, won't accomplish much more in life. He jams the bottle down his throat, neck to neck, and collapses headfirst, the smoking skull collapsing with him.

They laid him in the corner of the room, built a small heap over his charred corpse, and hung a plaque on the heap: "Famous because he drank himself to death."

The lover sat uncertainly, his back against the woman whose name remained unmentioned. The gray paint on the walls was fading at an alarming rate, peeling off in wide flakes, leaving lighter marks. The space was becoming empty left and right, chairs lying noticeably on the tables in neat rows. Foolish, uncultured people say they lie there so the floor can be swept. But this is false, false, and a lie, because on a table night, that is, a bright human day, those tables and chairs move like hedgehogs across the empty halls, catching the walls with the spikes of their wooden legs. And there's no such moral poetry in sweeping the floor; it's completely unnecessary, or at least that's what the lover imagined. In the other corner of the room, against the backdrop of Fikołek's bloody corpse, some other women were sitting. The lover smiled at them again and again, hoping that his beloved would slap him with a bang, take him by surprise if he didn't wait. But the lover waited like hell the whole time, so he couldn't meet his woman, and the women across the room, because it was morning, must have been heavy-duty whores, so the lover couldn't meet his woman, and they were drunk too, lesbians, so the lover couldn't meet his woman. He remembered that his woman wouldn't be like him, completely and utterly; she would be the exact opposite, an antithesis and complement one moment, a substitute and equivalent the next. The whores across the room were unfortunately useless, because, in truth, the lover had a fair amount of whore in him. He picked up the cigarettes from the table and lost faith and hope in that very moment. And when he lost it, he found it again. He sat next to her, so close. To be honest, he always sat with his back to her. To the one whose name hadn't been mentioned. If it hadn't been mentioned, it meant he completely, utterly, truly didn't know her. And he was glad that at least she would have a positive ending, not like the Condemned One, he looked anxiously at his little henhouse. At least one hero deserved a good, proper ending, a bit awkwardly sticky and familiar, but also truly pleasant and pleasant. She'd turn around in a moment, the better profile, no, nudge him with her elbow, and then turn to apologize and say something ambiguous. Or she'd jump up abruptly, and they'd make love on that wooden table. Or they'd get up on three, four, and walk out holding hands, sit on a bench, and say all sorts of things. He wondered if she was beautiful, like a gothic, soaring woman, or just pretty, but pretty especially for him. Maybe she'd be silent, mysterious, and have big, understanding brown eyes. Or maybe she'd be blonde, laughing, tanned, and lively. He was a little afraid, but really, he wasn't afraid, because for the first time he was certain; his previous certainties were fading and fading one by one from the warmth radiating down his back. And it truly was a beautiful moment in a lover's life, if not the most beautiful.Why only a minute? Because a shadow had left its mark on the lover.

A rectangular shadow, sloppily made, cracked across, the shadow of a peasant, the shadow of a boor. The lover shuddered, because the shadow had already left its mark on him once, and then it had left its mark on him again, and it hurt like a son of a bitch, and the lover didn't want it to hurt again. But the shadow moved over the lover, the lover exhaled. But then he bit off a bloody, fleshy piece of his lip. Because the shadow stopped on the one whose name was unmentioned. He heard a hard hand gripping the fragile wrist, far too tightly, and she hissed in pain.

"Come on, you'll be the next Chinese promotion."

The lover choked with fury.

"We'll go dancing. Then you can invite me for coffee.

" "Leave her alone."

The lover was astonished to find herself standing before a large man, holding his arm. Surprised, he recoiled.

"Go away..."

The fist, like a loaf, missed the lover's head by millimeters, because the lover was terribly nearsighted. Luck was on his side today. So he shrank, terrified for the moment, and punched the big man in the nose, where it hurts so much. The big man fell, more from the shock than from the impact, because no one had ever hit him before. He lay on the floor, terrified, and with his crash, he enacted the happy ending of a knightly lover who gains the upper hand over his opponent and rides away with his beloved on a black horse into the distance, blue with pain. But shit, always, remember, achtung, because this is important, listen carefully, shit, shit, and nothing, and bad. Because the big man pulls from his belt the object his grandfather had kept in his ass for three years in a prisoner of war camp. The object is beautiful and silver, and it's not a watch. He shakes the silver larva, which slowly spreads its silver, shiny limbs and wings. Now a silver butterfly sits on his hand. He takes a short swing and throws it at the Lover, who ducks. The butterfly, with a whoosh of air splitting in two, flies above him and turns with a metallic screech. The Lover makes a half-turn, the motif gracefully gliding under his wrist, passing his head in a sharp arc and accelerating. The Lover stands in a silver halo, a heavenly light radiating from him. It resembles stained glass windows in churches on a sunny summer day, when the slowly setting sun illuminates them in various colors. The butterfly circles so quickly that it is no longer visible, only the squeak of fingernails dragging across the glass is heard. It brushes the Lover's forehead, and blood spurts, and strokes his hand, and blood spurts, and touches his neck, and blood spurts. The Lover feels a blow to the head and falls, darkness envelops him, his blood mingling with the pink blood of the somersaulter and the black blood of the condemned man. He rested his fading gaze on the motionless back of the one whose name remains unmentioned, and quietly died. Was it worth it?