6 the end

"Is this your man?" Stogniew suddenly asked, struggling to regain his balance. "Have him thrown into the dungeon! There he will repent!

" "I've come to pay you, my lord!" Bloody bruises appeared on the steward's face. "For my wife and daughter! For how diligently you took care of them!

" "You're drunk, you fool!" Odrzywół shouted, his face pale. "Leave before my patience runs out!

" "No, my lord!" Sil stood firmly on his feet, but an astonishing transformation was taking place in his body. Slowly, his gangly figure shrank, taking on the slightly barrel-shaped shape of a corpulent man with gray hair.

"Do you recognize me now, Prince?" he hissed through the remnants of his yellowed teeth.

"Gam from the Severed Part!" Odrzywół groaned drawlingly.

"Yes! The same! Gam, whom you hunted for his magic and whose wife and daughter you kidnapped to your princely brothel!" Anger flashed in the man's eyes. Stogniew leaped from the bench, finally realizing that the intruder could threaten his precious guest. However, a gesture from the Prince stopped him from calling the guards.

"So you want to ransom them?!" Odrzywół asked, sneering. "But what will you pay me with, poor fool?

" "This!" The magician's hand extended to the Prince. "Whoever possesses this Stone may fear no one! It is the Stone of the Depths! All the Middle Lands will pay homage to its possessor!" Thanks to it, you will create an empire that no one and nothing can resist!

"The Stone of Dali!" whispered the prince's plump lips, unconsciously licking them. "The Stone of Power! I'll give you my wife and daughter! Give it!" The man pushed the chatelaine, who was still giggling foolishly, off his lap.

"Take it!" The man dropped the Stone onto the prince's bare hand.

Immediately, the gray stone glowed with an inner glow, turning greenish. At the same time, something strange began to happen to the prince himself. First, his massive chest collapsed. Before he realized something was wrong, he lost both his arms and legs, which were sucked into his body. It seemed as if the prince was shrinking at an alarming rate.

"Take it!" the prince managed to scream before his mouth collapsed into his face.

"It's yours!" the mage growled and laughed shrilly. "You fool, you thought I didn't know that my Alisa and poor Recza are long dead! You'll be paid for this!"

When he finished speaking, Prince Odrzywoł was reduced to a pile of rotten rags. Jolanda recoiled in disgust from the spot where the powerful man had stood a moment ago.

"Traitor!" roared the suddenly sober Count Stogniew. "Guards! Take him!"

However, no one was willing to obey his order. A terrible silence fell in the hall, broken by the voice of a gray-haired man.

"People of Dali! I, Gam of the Severed Part, have never betrayed anyone! This man"—he pointed to the smoking remains—"wanted me to give him the Stone! You saw it with your own eyes! This Stone is truly capable of giving power over Zagórze to whoever picks it up! But one must possess the Power! Otherwise, the Stone will swallow the brave! That's what happened to Odrzywoł!" The mage fell silent, carefully observing the reaction of those gathered, and then thundered again. "Do any of you, people of Dali, wish to take up this Stone? Perhaps you, esteemed Count?" Stogniew recoiled as if from the attack of a poisonous snake. "Perhaps you, madam?" The old man's hand pointed at Yolanda, who merely hid her face in her folded hands.

"So there are no longer any people in Dali endowed with the Power!" the gray-haired man wrung his hands. "I, Gam of the Severed Part, tell you that the rightful ruler of the Stone is among you!" the mage paused to call out in a strong voice. "Brag! Come to me, cavalier!" the old man waved his hand encouragingly.

All eyes turned to the slight, bent figure of the hunchback, crouching where the man had left him. Now fearfully, pursued by surprised glances, he approached the table.

"Go ahead, boy!" the mage encouraged again. "Lift the Stone!

" Brag's small hand tightened on the gray surface. The shouts that echoed through the hall no longer frightened the hunchback. He looked straight into the chatelaine's brown eyes.

"People of Dali!" the mage's voice thundered in the meantime. "Most of you probably didn't realize that this humble boy, whom many of you humiliated beyond measure, possesses such immense Power that the might of all the armies of Zagórz pales in comparison. This boy is a HUNCHBUN!!!

For a long time, no one could silence the crowd! Many who had previously been completely oblivious to the hunchback's existence now demanded that he be given full control of the castle! Stogniew himself fell to his knees before him and begged for protection, offering to place his hands in his.

Brag, however, only looked into Jolanda's shimmering eyes, and when he finally saw a glimmer of encouragement in them, he turned away.

"Let's go!" he said to Gam from the Torn-Off Part.

The chill of the night restored his clarity of thought. He peered, trying to penetrate the darkness.

Behind him was a growing hum of noise, and before him...

And before him, a whole world opened!

THE END

5

Brag, hearing these words, clenched his fists nervously. This stray from the Painted City had dared to insult Yolanda. The man noticed the hunchback's nervous movements and immediately patted him unceremoniously on the shoulder and, with a friendly expression, said:

"Well, don't be angry with me, Mr. Brag! She's not without her beauty, that's true! But does she have a soul? Practice tells you so, Mr. Chevalier!"

The hunchback, unaccustomed to being treated as an equal, simply stammered and let himself be led out into the narrow corridor leading to the tower where unruly subjects were kept and where the castle treasury was located.

"Here we can talk without fear of any unruly ears being turned toward us," the tall man stated calmly, when they had left the chaos of the common room behind.

"Who are you, sir?" – the hunchback finally managed to choke out. – And how do you know my name?

"You may call me Sil of the Severed Part!" the mustachioed man bowed his gangly figure. "At least I'm currently serving as steward to His Lordship Prince Odrzywol, though I think the real reason that ox keeps me is so he can laugh at my antics. So I'm a fool, young man, that's what I am!" he laughed, twirling his mustache mischievously. "These days, it's safest to be a fool! Especially next to a degenerate like Odrzywol!

" "You don't like your prince, sir!" Brag chimed in, just in case.

"Yes, I don't!" the man calling himself Sil snorted. He immediately calmed down, however, and continued more quietly: "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about, chevalier! Not that!" He pulled the hunchback into the darkness of the corridor. "I saw how you looked at that blond-haired girl! You want her, don't you?" He paused and studied Brag for a moment, on whose face, despite the dim light, he could see spots of red. "All right! Don't get carried away! It's normal! You're still young, so you're thinking of love!" He nodded. "Then you'll get rid of all that extravagance. A practitioner tells you so!" He fell silent again and looked around carefully. "If you help me with a certain undertaking, I'll make sure she's yours today.

" "But how will you accomplish that, sir?" the hunchback asked with disbelief.

"You can rest assured about that!" the lanky Sil assured Brag with such conviction that Brag believed his words.

"So what do you demand, sir?" the hunchback pricked up his ears.

"I want you to go down with me to the distant dungeons and fetch a certain item!" "The mustachioed man said in a hushed voice, simultaneously pushing Brag toward the stairs.

"But, sir!" the hunchback defended himself. "I've never been to the dungeons! What good is someone like me to you? You need someone there to help you defeat the Dark Forces!

" "I already told you, chevalier, that's exactly what I need!" the hunchback growled. "I've been waiting years for a day like today."

The man's yellow eyes suddenly turned into narrow slits, and his face suddenly transformed into a predatory mask, not much different from the heads of sand vipers. But Brag, walking ahead, didn't notice.

"They're not on guard today!" Sil said as if to himself. "It's a holiday in the castle! That's good! Just as long as I don't fall into the hands of those nasty cavers! But with him, I'm in no danger!"

The hunchback listened to the quiet whisper coming from behind him. He didn't quite understand what the thin man was talking about. Besides, the man frightened him a bit. However, he took his promise to win Jolanda very seriously, and now, as he walked down the stairs, that thought preoccupied him most.

Indeed, the stairs leading to the dungeons were unguarded, although normally, at least on the side facing the strongroom, there was always a guard. The castle servants, in fact, detested this duty, and the hunchback often listened to the grumbling of the guard on duty in the dungeons. Over time, it even became customary to assign guarding the strongroom as punishment. Strange incidents did occur, and the guard often failed to return from the dungeons. However, in Dale, the underground was rarely discussed, and even the most courageous in the castle tried not to mention it. And now Brag and his companion were venturing deeper and deeper into the dark corridors, which emanated menace. Sil, however, seemed to know perfectly well where he was heading. He never hesitated when they reached a fork in the road. At one point, when they were far from the place where the bravest of the guards were approaching, the mustached man suddenly stepped forward and signaled the hunchback to slow down. In the barely flickering light of the torch held above his head by the steward, Brag noticed shadows flitting up the stairs.

"They're just ghosts!" Sil reassured. "You don't have to stand on them; they won't harm you! Watch your step, gentlemen, and avoid moving shadows!" he finally instructed, giving the signal to continue.

They set off down again, though the stairs had meanwhile widened and slowly, almost imperceptibly, transformed into a walkway descending slowly.

"We're almost there!" Sil said back.

"What are we looking for, sir?" the hunchback asked timidly, not expecting an answer.

"A certain Stone!" the thin man replied, to Brag's utter surprise, stopping in a small, egg-shaped alcove. "Here we will rest! For the most difficult part of our journey awaits us soon. And in the meantime, I will tell you a little, chevalier! For as I see, although you are the son of the great Zend, you know little or nothing of the world beyond Dala.

" "No one wanted to talk to me!" the hunchback whined pitifully, hiding his face in his stained hands.

"That will change after all!" Sil raised his thin hand, as if summoning to witness the immense powers that watched the world from afar. "And from tonight on! I promise you this, chevalier!" The steward stroked the young man's disheveled hair, and the young man, sensing this, looked into the man's face.

The force of that gaze made the mustachioed man's soul whimper, and it took a long moment before he managed to force the next words from his constricted throat.

"You see, chevalier!" he said slowly. "The world doesn't end with Dali! Nor does it end with all of the Upland. Far beyond the Brown Mountains and the Dyed River lie the wild wilderness of the Upland, and further northwest still, the populous Upland, where houses are dotted with colorful flowers, for they know no war. And even further west, at the gates of the Ocean, lies the hundred-gate Megana—the capital of magic, where in mighty towers of white stone dwell wizards of unimaginable power. It was from there that your father once came, and there, chevalier, your fate will surely one day be fulfilled." The steward looked into the hunchback's black eyes, and a shiver of dread ran through him again. What fate were those eyes preparing for the world? He preferred not to know!

"Did you ladies know my father?" the hunchback asked in a low voice.

"Did I know him?" Sil laughed hoarsely. "You see, chevalier! Our poor Upland doesn't like magic!" He's afraid of her! There might still be some village witch! As long as she doesn't get too close to the settlement. There are no real magicians here at all! And your father was a magician, the likes of which are few even in Megan. He taught me true magic! He was my master!" Sil gasped, as if the memory were piercing his soul. "It was he who, before his death, revealed to me the secret of the Depth Stone! We are going for it, Brag, son of Zend. In the Middle Lands, the magicians from before time placed the five foundations that build this world. Each of these things gives its owner incredible POWER, but only a few can wield them! Only those with a natural gift of Power are capable of possessing them. As if out of spite, one of these objects was placed in Dale, in the depths carved by the great goblins from the Brown Mountains before the Zagórzans arrived here.

" "What do you ladies intend to do with this Stone?" The hunchback leaned his crooked back toward the steward. The hunchback unexpectedly covered his face, as if afraid of the hump's proximity. A spasm of surprise crossed Brag's face. "What are you afraid of, sir?" he asked. "Me?

" "I'm not afraid of anything!" the mustachioed man sharply denied, straightening proudly. "The stone will be my payment for his wife and daughter to His Highness Prince Odrzywol. The payment he deserves!" The steward's face darkened again, and an inhuman hiss parted his mouth.

Brag, however, had no time to be frightened by his companion's appearance. Suddenly, just behind him, the hunchback felt a presence. One glance was enough to determine that the creature approaching him certainly had no friendly intentions.

The hunchback had once seen a small mud snake that had wandered into the castle courtyard. Now, behind him, its oversized relative was hurtling toward them at incredible speed. Great knots of powerful muscles propelled the snake at a speed unattainable by humans. There was no time to escape! They had to defend themselves.

A sword blade flashed in the thin man's hand. The hunchback carried no weapon, so he stood with his legs slightly apart and his fingers spread wide, waiting for the attack.

"Use the Force!" he heard the same call as in the Goat Witch's cave. He felt the steward's fingers on his hump and a sudden tingling sensation spread throughout his entire body. He remembered the flash of white light this time. He didn't lose consciousness entirely, as he had the first time.

Fire spread through the rocky corridor, consuming everything in its path. The monstrous snake charred in an instant, and the powerful strands of muscle turned into a sizzling mass of burnt flesh. A foul stench spread around him, nearly taking the hunchback's breath away. He glanced behind him. The gangly steward seemed unharmed. He slowly brushed the dust from his cloak.

"What happened?" Brag finally gasped. "Where did this fire come from?

" "It's your hump!" the mustachioed man replied calmly. "The Power is hidden within it! Have you noticed, chevalier, how afraid everyone is to touch it! For them, it's death!

" "I didn't know!" the hunchback hid his face in his hands. He was terrified! He, who was being tossed around by everyone in the castle, possessed the Power.

And the Power that could kill. Proof of this lay just a few steps away in the form of a large lump of blackened, stinking flesh. Suddenly, he lifted his head proudly! No one would toss him around again, not in Dale, nor anywhere else.

"Let's go!" he commanded, unexpectedly even to himself.

And surprisingly, the steward, without protest, followed him! And Brag walked as if he knew the way. Indeed, somewhere on the fringes of his consciousness, a vague memory of a place he had been a long time ago, lingered. The gangly mustachioed man smiled grimly. This was exactly what he was counting on! For the awakening of the hunchback's Power! Without it, they would never have been able to find the Vault of the Stone.

They came upon it a moment later.

Brag first stopped, fidgeting and turning on his heel. Then suddenly he leaped to one of the walls and touched it with his twisted back. Something in the rock thundered, roared, and finally, moved by an incomprehensible force, it opened in both directions, revealing the interior of a large room.

At a massive table, on a small stool, a gray-haired man sat, watching them. Only after a moment did Brag realize he couldn't see them. No one could penetrate such a thick layer of cataract. The Vault's keeper was blind, though despite his disability, he seemed to penetrate their minds more thoroughly than if he had looked them directly in the eye.

"You have come for the Stone!" a booming voice boomed, though the old man's mouth remained closed. "It is there!" – A bony hand moved towards the table, where a grayish piece of rock lay. – Let him who has the POWER take it!

Brag wordlessly approached the table and took the Depth Stone. It immediately settled in his hands, and the hunchback felt a warmth spreading through his body. The face of a man, as clear as day, appeared before his eyes, as if he were speaking to him. But the words didn't register! He knew this was something extremely important.

"You'll come back here again, boy!" the old man's hoarse voice echoed inside the hunchback's head. "You'll come back to your own doom or the world's! Then you'll understand! Now go! "

Brag rose from the knees he'd knelt on when he'd taken the Stone.

"Let's go!" he ordered.

The crypt wall sealed itself immediately after their departure. A moment later, nothing marked the location of the rock chamber.

The return journey, even though they were climbing uphill, seemed devilishly easy to Brag. He easily leaped several steps at a time, clearly increasingly frightening the gangly steward.

When they finally reached the corridor the hunchback was already familiar with, Sil abruptly stopped the young man and hissed,

"Remember, chevalier, the Stone is mine! Give it to me now!" A predatory hand extended toward the hunchback.

"And your promise, sir?" Brag closed his hand with the Stone inside and straightened his hunched back proudly.

"I swear to you, chevalier," Sil's voice softened, "that this very night Yolanda will turn her heart to you! But now you must give me the Stone!"

Brag unconsciously thrust his hand forward. Something deep within him told him to listen to the gangly man. To his surprise, the steward covered his hand with a thick cloth before taking the gray Stone. Later, when the object was in his hands, he scanned his entire body with visible fear, as if searching for any signs of change. He noticed nothing, however, and with an expression of triumph, he moved forward.

The common room was no less noisy than when they had left. The only sign of the feast's progress was the numerous legs sticking out from under the tables, those who had clearly finished participating. Surprisingly, Stogniew was still on his feet and shouting drunken remarks at Prince Odrzywoł, who held the chatelaine in his powerful arms. Jolanda clearly no longer minded the giant's aggressive caresses. His exposed left breast and the smile plastered on his face were visibly proof of this.

The hunchback closed his eyes, fearing another wave of heat would erupt from his hump. His companion, however, didn't look at him. With a slanted face, he approached the main table with mechanical steps.

"His Highness the Prince!" he said in a thick voice, but no one paid him any attention.

Odrzywół was still holding the breast of the chatelaine, who was giggling lustily. Only a hard slap on the table from the steward's thin hand made the prince take notice of the intruder.

"It's you, Sil!" he stammered, waving his arms uncoordinatedly. "What do you want? I didn't summon you, you fool!

4

The defenders first heard a terrifying roar, and then a terrifying creature appeared before their eyes. On short, barrel-shaped legs, a shape resembling a giant worm, with a multitude of rapidly moving jaws, glided toward the wall. A slender sand viper sat on its rounded neck, clearly guiding the monster.

"A rock dragon!" groaned the experienced Kleba, who recognized the creature he had once heard of at the inn on the Dyed River. He knew just how dangerous this barrel-shaped monster was.

The rest of Dali's inhabitants learned of the rock dragon's capabilities moments later. Its first blow dislodged several massive boulders, which immediately vanished in the monster's terrifying jaws. The next blow from the dragon's head knocked off their feet most of the defenders standing on that section of the walls. It became clear that the monstrous beast would inevitably breach Dali's fortifications. The leader of the attackers, who had been directing their actions from afar, also understood this. A high-pitched whistle suddenly resounded near the rock dragon, signaling the sand hunters to regroup. Their long greenish-brown columns clearly moved toward the monster's area of ​​operation, waiting for the right moment to pour through the hole it had made.

The old baron also understood this, and with violent gestures and shouts, he began to gather the men around him, throwing them to the spot where he expected the final decision would soon be made. With despair in his eyes and his long hair disheveled, he struck down with powerful blows the sandeelers who had managed to scale the walls.

Meanwhile, Brag, who was still carefully guarding "his" chatelaine, though this earned him no interest from Jolanda, also noticed the threat threatening the walls.

"Water him!" he roared at Kleba. "Hot water!"

But no one heeded his shouts, and the hunchback was finally forced to abandon his position and roll with remarkable agility to a large jug of steaming water that one of the servants had just brought up. With great difficulty, he lifted it above the battlement and looked down. The great, dish-shaped head of the rock dragon was just below him, biting into another enormous stone block.

At that moment, the wall swayed, and for a moment, Brag lost his balance and, staggering, nearly spilled the boiling water directly onto his head. With his last remaining strength, he tipped the bucket over and watched the monster react.

Water sprayed in all directions, striking the beast's wide-open maw. The roar that followed nearly deafened the ears of the castle's closest defenders. The sand viper, perched on the creature's neck, tumbled headfirst into the barrel-shaped legs of the rock dragon, which, after a short jump, fell to the ground and began to quiver throughout its monstrous body. The beast was no longer a threat.

A shout of triumph rose from the castle battlements, and the defenders attacked the besiegers with even greater ferocity. A few of the braver ones overstepped their bounds in the thick of the fight and jumped on the fallen pine trunks onto the necks of the sand badgers, slashing mercilessly at the exposed places.

In the distance, something even stranger was happening. Suddenly, from the western road, sounds that could easily have been the blare of war horns were heard. Everyone who could listened in disbelief, while the peasant women gathered around the plump Flo squealed joyfully, pointing west.

"Help! Someone's coming to our aid!" they shrieked, growing louder!

Finally, the eagle-eyed guard Zado, who, ignoring the whirling blades whizzing around him, leaned far out from the top of the western tower, shouted joyfully.

"It's Odrzywół's cavalry! Prince Odrzywół is coming to our aid!"

The joyful news immediately spread along the walls and energized the defending guards. No one was heeding the danger any longer! The fame of Prince Odrzywół, ruler of the Painted City, encouraged everyone. Now the monstrous attackers had to surrender.

Ignoring everything, Kleba gathered a group of warriors armed with enormous axes around him and ordered the gate opened.

"The squires won't blame us later for waiting for them like hens in a henhouse!" he hissed to one of his men.

The sand squirrels panicked. It seemed no one was controlling them anymore. The high-pitched screeches echoing from the distance clearly testified to the defeats inflicted upon them by the riders of the ruler of the Painted City. The guards from Dale were not lagging behind either. They pressed forward, slashing furiously at the fleeing ones with their copper blades and literally bathing in the greenish blood of the monsters, who were now fleeing back towards the dark depths of Stary Bor. For the pursuit had no intention of venturing there.

Brag was panting heavily, exhausted after his latest exploit. When the last sand squibs had vanished from beneath the castle walls and the retainers began clearing away the dead bodies of the fallen defenders and throwing down the triangular-headed attackers, who had

been finished off without much ceremony, the hunchback's gaze sought out the chatelaine. Seeing her safe, he breathed a sigh of relief and immediately took a few steps toward her. Jolanda was slowly brushing aside the golden strands of hair that had fluttered in the wind during the battle. By chance, her gaze lingered for a moment on the hunchback's face, contorted with sudden emotion. A brief grimace, the meaning of which he couldn't fathom, froze his heart, and the words he heard nearly knocked him off his feet.

"You have done well, my defender!" The chatelaine nodded approvingly, and Brag felt ready to leap into the rock dragon's throat for her.

He did not have time to answer her, however, because almost at the same moment a high guard from the personal guard of the count himself approached the girl and, bowing his head, said:

- Your eminent father, madam, calls you to accompany him when he greets our savior – Prince Odrzywoł!

So Yolanda followed the powerful guardsman, while poor Brag, who dared not follow, followed her with his gaze, trying to keep her in sight. He saw the chatelaine's slender figure approach Stogniew, who was pacing the courtyard. He spoke to her with a distinct reprimand, clearly criticizing her for needlessly exposing herself to danger. However, the hunchback didn't hear the words. Besides, everything else was drowned out by the loud shouts of praise for the riders from the Painted Castle. Even Brag leaned out through a narrow opening in the wall to get a better look at the cavalcade of soldiers approaching the castle gate.

Indeed, the sight of them could have evoked shouts of delight.

In neat ranks, riders dressed in plain colors, riding on beautiful black horses, their long lances raised, gleaming bloody in the sun high in the sky. It almost seemed they were returning not from a battle, but from a parade. Particularly noteworthy was the enormous knight in gilded armor riding at the front, a large knight in his hand swinging a large lance, which he swung with such ease as if it were made of wood rather than venerable, well-forged copper.

"Odrzywół!" A murmur of admiration rippled through the castle walls.

And the prince himself, hearing these hushed voices, twirled his long mustache cockily and smiled, his lips slyly twisting, and intently surveying the castle, which he had never been to before, and which he practically considered his own.

Brag had the opportunity at that moment to take a closer look at the powerful magnate, who happened to be passing by the spot where the hunchback was leaning.

The very name Odrzywół spoke for itself. Indeed, there was something about him that resembled the power of the beast he bore. His powerfully arched chest betokened incredible strength, and his hands, as large as loaves of bread, must have served his owner to crush an opponent with a single blow. His flat face, while not particularly handsome, clearly concerned the prince the least. With a proud look from his gray eyes, he swept over the half-bowing residents of Dali, who were already cheering him without embarrassment. He gave a gracious nod to the panting Kleba. He knew him as Stogniew's envoy to his court.

Meanwhile, the count and his daughter were already standing at the castle gate. Odrzywół dismounted gracefully from his horse and approached Mr. Dali on foot, which was met with resounding applause from the residents, whose chorus of cheers drowned out Stogniew's first words. Only the raised hands of the mighty prince, signaling that he now wished to speak, silenced the crowd.

"Eminent castellan, and you, noble lady Jolanda!" the prince's voice boomed in the suddenly ensuing silence. "I believe that these hideous monsters have done no significant damage to your noble city, and that we arrived quickly enough to completely crush them! I also believe that all this will ultimately prove beneficial, and that the Painted City and Dale will be united in eternal friendship! And the hideous sand-eaters will be condemned for all eternity!"

"We are grateful to you, eminent prince, for your rescue!" the fat count bowed courteously. "And how much we will make this known to everyone at the feast we will throw in your honor this evening, to better celebrate the joy of victory over the monstrous creatures that sought to crush us! I beg you, ladies, to your rooms! Your men too!"

Stogniew turned and led the prince toward the manor, to the constant cheers of the castle's inhabitants. Behind him strode the enormous Odrzywół, holding the blushing chatelaine by the hand.

Brag turned his head and sat down heavily against the wall. No one paid him any attention anymore. Everyone was absorbed in the entrance of the castle by the savior's party, triumphantly led by old Kleba.

To the hunchback's surprise, old Flo found him near the pigsty, bringing him an invitation to a feast. However, his exploits on the walls had clearly been noticed. Brag was so delighted that he forgot to even question the plump cook about her dealings with the Goat Witch. He practically ran toward the bright interior of the castle common room, where guests were being entertained. There were so many of them that makeshift tables had been set up in the courtyard for some, and wine liqueur was already flowing freely there.

The hunchback, however, managed to reach the castle's spacious common room, where a massive oak table, laden with a variety of food and jugs lapping dully with frothy liqueur, loomed over the diners. At it sat the eminent Prince Odrzywół himself, tenderly embraced by Count Stogniew, who was barely able to stand. The beautiful Jolanda watched from the side, a proud expression mingled with clear distaste at her father's behavior.

Brag then felt as if he were seeing a figure straight out of his dreams. Her beauty dazzled him so much that he sat down on the threshold for a moment, only a violent tug brought him back to reality. He stepped aside, making way for the servants, who were just bringing in the next course for the diners' tables. Meanwhile, the hunchback had fallen back into a stupor. He practically couldn't take his eyes off the slender figure of the chatelaine, openly adored by the enormous prince, something against which—to Braga's growing despair—she clearly had nothing.

The words of the drunken Stogniew, who shouted to Odrzywoł with a terrible laugh, completed the bitterness.

"Our alcoves are comfortable, my lord prince!" he cackled loudly. "If that's your wish, you won't have to wait long for your first night with your wife! What, prince?!

" "Father!" Yolanda's cry momentarily sobered the obese count, who staggered and looked with a clearer gaze at the chatelaine's suddenly pale forehead. "I haven't been blessed with the green branch yet, and for now, the prince is not my husband!

" "But I will be, my lady!" Odrzywół muttered, his thick lips twisting into a sly smile. "Sooner than you think!"

"I see it's time for me to seek refuge in my own chamber!" Yolanda replied dryly, leaping to her feet, and only their combined strength could stop her from carrying out her threat.

Brag was about to rush to his beloved's rescue, and would have done so without fail if not for a bony hand that grabbed his arm with indescribable force, nearly knocking him to the ground. He turned angrily to deal with the insolent man. He saw a tall, stick-thin man in the colors of the twig-haired manor. Beneath a black mustache that hung down to his chest, a mocking smile played across his thin lips.

"It's not worth it!" the intruder murmured soothingly.

Brag felt a sudden tingle run down the curve of his back. He knew that voice! He knew that man! He didn't know where, but he knew. The force of the memory washed over him in a sudden wave. It had been so long ago! The woman's narrow face and those long whiskers that tickled his face.

"You are Brag, son of Zend!" the newcomer stated rather than asked. The hunchback unconsciously nodded his shaggy head. "You want to reach high!" added the mustached man. "You have every right! But she's not worth it! "

3

Only a moment later did he regain control of his reflexes enough to take a closer look at the now motionless shape. Brag had never seen a creature even remotely resembling it. From the appearance of its head, however, he deduced that he was looking at a representative of a fearsome tribe of desert people, more commonly known as varvars, and in the Zagórze region simply called sand vultures. Brag had never heard of desert people ever leaving the Great Wilderness of the East. And even though Zagórze was directly adjacent to their habitats, no sandeel had ever crossed the Impassable Mountains that separated the two lands. Just as no human had ever mustered the courage to explore the Great Wilderness. True, there were tales of a magun named Sagu who supposedly ventured into these inhospitable regions, but since he was never heard from again, it was believed he simply turned back and fled out of shame, perhaps even to the hundred-gate Megana itself.

Brag didn't delay any longer! He had to leave this death-smelling cave. And follow the Witch's directions to the West.

When a gust of cold air finally enveloped him, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was the middle of the night. He hadn't expected so much time had passed since he entered the Cave. A dull rumble reached him from the distance. And the rustle of the wind rustled in the tall pines, but it wasn't this that alarmed the hunchback. From the east, where the Impenetrable Mountains towered, a rumbling sound could be heard. Brag already knew what it was. The wild Varvars had crossed the border. And they were heading straight for Dal! Although he hadn't yet seen the approaching packs of monsters with triangular heads, he was certain they were heading straight for the castle. His castle!

He broke into a run, not waiting for the morning sun this time.

He didn't really know why he was doing so! After all, nothing good had ever happened to him in Dal. He had practically no friendly soul there. But only one thought throbbed in his mind: Warn Jolanda! Warn Flo! Warn Count Stogniew!

Before the first rays of sunlight reached him, his bare feet clattered on the wooden bridge, as always, spanning the steep moat. Dal had no fear of attack!

Brag screamed like a man possessed, pounding the oak towers with his hands. The sleepy guard appeared only after a long while, but seeing the hunchback, he spat on the ground in disgust and was about to hit the intruder on the head with a heavy goad when the intruder, cleverly dodging under his hand, burst into the castle courtyard, filling it with screams.

"Terror! Terror!" Brag screamed at the top of his lungs, luring more people onto the dew-soaked stones that lined the square behind the gate. "Sand-eaters! The sand-eaters are coming!

" "You've lost your mind, you freak!" growled a grim guard who had just stumbled out of the tower. "Sand-eaters in Zagórze! Something! You must have eaten yourself a mad meal, you rascal! Come on, catch the freak!" he ordered a manhunt and stretched out his enormous paws.

Brag, however, was not easily captured. Using his almost childish size, he easily eluded the still-sleepy guards, screaming ever louder:

"Terrible warwars! SAND-Eaters!!! Save yourself, who can!"

His roars drew more and more people into the courtyard.

"What are those screams?!" – The powerful voice of Count Stogniew, who leaned out of the window of the castle common room, finally brought the growing din under control.

Even the hunchback, hearing him, stopped and allowed himself to be led to the window without resistance.

“This freak has gone mad, sir!” the guard growled, trying to force the hunchback to his knees. To his surprise, Brag, despite the man using all the strength of his knotted muscles, refused to be pinned to the ground.

“Is that the crooked one?” Stogniew asked, unconsciously straightening his disheveled shirt and narrowing his nearsighted eyes. “What does this freak want?

” “Honored Count!” the hunchback bowed proudly, ignoring the guard’s hand that tried to cover his mouth. “A dozen or so miles from the castle, near Kozia Grota, I was attacked by three sand vultures, and in the distance I could hear their entire army approaching!” Brag bowed his head again and said, "Order, eminent lord, to close the castle gates! They'll be here before the sun rises high! Order the walls to be tended, venerable count! Before it's too late!" The hunchback fell silent and stared intently at the count, who was nervously pulling at his long mustache.

"Sir!" said Kleba, the commander of the castle guard, who had meanwhile appeared in the courtyard and was eyeing the hunchback warily. "That rascal escaped from the castle yesterday and wandered around Stary Bór all day and night! And what was he doing there?" Kleba shrugged and tapped his forehead expressively, making it clear what he thought of all this!

"Certainly, sir," added the second guard. "His mind was agitated, and he's gone completely mad." "Maybe he's even hooked up with the yahoos! It's easy for such a freak!" Hang the dog! It had never been heard of a sand-eater appearing on this side of the Impenetrable Mountains! Hang the freak! That was it!

The crowd that had gathered in the courtyard murmured in agreement! Shouts rose, and some of the clasped hands turned black with stones.

"Sir!" This time Brag fell to his knees. "Order messengers be sent towards the Goat Cave!" he howled hollowly. He couldn't understand why they wouldn't believe him.

"Look at the freak!" voices rang out. "He's dreaming of Goat Cave! He's in cahoots with the Witch! He wants to sell us to a witch! By the gate, the scab! Hang the freak!"

And the scream grew louder and louder. Already a few of the braver men began to reach for the hunchback, tugging for now only at the tattered jerkin he was wearing. Only fear of the wrath of the powerful count, who was pensively observing the entire scene and continuing to tug at his long mustache, kept everyone from carrying out their threats against the hunchback.

Finally, Stogniew gave an angrily snort and, turning on his heel, disappeared through the window.

The crowd immediately interpreted this as a gesture of acquiescence, and dozens of merciless hands seized Brag and dragged him toward the castle walls, where the impatient farmhand had already thrown a rope through one of the gargoyles, dangling all the way to the ground. The second one quickly twisted the noose!

The hunchback didn't defend himself! Suddenly, everything became completely indifferent to him. These stinking manure men, and then the people who looked no better than the sand scavengers he'd encountered in the cave, were they worth saving?

He felt a wave of heat spreading just below his neck. He knew what was about to happen! On his head, he felt the rough surface of the noose the hated Marg was throwing around his neck. The hunchback's muscles tensed involuntarily.

But suddenly, just above his head, a terrifying scream rang out, chilling everyone. One of the guards, eyes wide with fear, pointed to the east and screamed an indescribable shriek. Those on the battlements seemed petrified with fear.

"Loooooo!" one of the guards finally found his voice. "Stary Bór is marching to Dali!"

Indeed, the darkening forest line in the distance seemed to be slowly approaching the castle walls. Shouts of terror rang out. The first terrified guards began to run down the walls. Seeing this, Kleba rushed toward the gate and, forcing several of his men to leave, lowered the heavy portcullis with them.

Count Stogniew himself also appeared, roaring like a wounded beast, thrashing about the courtyard in his silver helmet, calling the warriors to the walls. His example had an impact on the rest, and the confused guards began to return to the walls. However, the first to appear was Brag, and in his hand gleamed an abandoned oak bow.

When panic broke out on the walls, the hunchback freed his neck from the noose and, without waiting for anyone, nimbly climbed a protruding beam, grabbed his bow, and surveyed the surroundings carefully, leaning out from the castle bay window. At first, it seemed to him that it was indeed Stary Bor (Old Forest) that had set out to conquer Dale. Only after further observation did he realize his mistake. Indeed, the great crowns of the old trees were swaying, moved by some overwhelming force, which indeed gave the impression of movement, but a different wave was rolling toward the walls.

"Sand-eaters!" Brag roared with all his might, and immediately fired his first arrow at the invaders, which sank into the shimmering ribbon of greenish bodies that were gliding towards the fortifications of Dali.

The hunchback's shout clearly sobered several of the castle's garrison. Count Stogniew himself had already managed to climb his enormous bulk onto the castle battlements and, seeing the approaching attackers, shouted,

"Arrows at them! Arrows!" And following the hunchback's example, he grabbed his bow and began shooting at the approaching sand-eaters.

Soon, a whole group of guards joined them. For now, however, their missiles were causing little damage among the enemy. The arrows were clearly ricocheting off the strange, brownish bucklers the warvars were wearing.

Brag, panting from the constant drawing of his bow and the unleashing of his copper tips, paused for a moment, wiping away the greasy sweat that had fallen from his eyes. Now he could better observe the army of sandeaters, which, like a rising wind, was approaching the castle walls. They moved without much order, as if unguided. Stumbling over each other, they crowded beneath the castle gate, and the hunchback once again saw the glowing greenish round eyes set on a triangular head. The monsters' long, curved paws gleamed menacingly with blades he had already become familiar with, but they now seemed far more dangerous than before. Some were also equipped with strange-looking weapons, the purpose of which Brag initially couldn't guess until one of the sandeaters released it with a whistling sound. A shimmering shape with curved horns soared into the air with a howl, striking one of the guards in the forehead before returning to the great guard's hands. Brag glanced at the fallen defender and immediately averted his eyes in disgust. Half the guard's face turned to pulp.

But the defenders' arrows also began to wreak increasing havoc among the sandeaters. Realizing that the brownish bucklers were a barrier to the projectiles, they tried to hit the hideous triangular heads directly, and more and more quivering bodies tumbled into the moat.

In the meantime, Kleba, who was one of the few who had experience in fighting on the walls, ordered the women and the peasants staying in the castle to bring stones to the walls, which were piled up in one of the courtyards for this purpose, and ordered old Flo, who was moaning with fear hidden near the well, to take a few cooks and boil as much water as possible, which they were then to deliver to the defenders.

The Count's booming voice also emboldened the defenders. Brag, realizing he could do more damage to the attackers with stones, began hurling them at the larger groups of enemies. Every now and then, a sandeel he hit would whistling down to the greenish-slimy ground at the foot of the castle. Suddenly, the changeling caught a glimpse of golden hair not far from him. With her brow raised proudly, Jolanda shot toward the guards with a bow and a spinning wheel, the kind the hunchback had once seen Kleba wield. One of the guards shielded her with a large wooden peak, trying to protect the chatelaine from the curved spears hurled by the sandeels. Unconsciously, Brag took a few steps toward her, and then, with horror, he saw the guard guarding Jolanda fall backward, while a whirling shape flew toward the chatelaine.

What happened next was beyond Brag's description. With inhuman speed, the hunchback leaped into the air and, in one movement, caught the flying blade right in front of the count's daughter's face. He himself couldn't understand how he had accomplished this.

Now he was the one protecting the chatelaine.

Meanwhile, the defenders' situation was growing increasingly dire. However, there was a will guiding the actions of the triangular-headed sandeels. After the initial, chaotic attacks on the walls, which the attackers had undertaken, clearly hoping for complete surprise, they had regrouped, and now methodically, successive waves of the greenish army were pounding the walls of Dali. Apparently, following their orders, when they failed to seize the castle's main gates, they tried to scale the walls. Some made use of their long paws, tipped with sharp claws, which they used to cling to the smallest cracks in the walls, climbing upwards with catlike agility. Others used slender pine trees cut down in the nearby forest.

But the worst was yet to come!

2

Brag stopped only when the castle walls were obscured by the first trees. During one of his escapes from stones hurled by the farmhands, he came across a small hole in the wall. A grown man had no chance of squeezing through, but Brag resembled a teenage boy and easily fit through the narrow gap, perfectly camouflaged by large tufts of thick burdock. It was through this that the hunchback now escaped, guided mainly by instinct. He knew no one would believe the changeling and that the guards would simply beat him to death. Flo's screams must have lured Kleba, and seeing her unconscious or—what Brag feared most—dead, he would have mistaken him for an attacker who wanted to rob the cook or dissuade her of her virtue. No explanations would have helped. Who would want to listen to such a wretch as he?

One thing was certain: he couldn't stay in the castle!

At first, he ran blindly. Only the powerful blows of branches and the dull hooting of the fluff birds, which had risen into the air, startled by the noise the hunchback was making, sobered him up. He realized that any further breakneck sprint through the forest might end in the nearest fallen tree, or in the jaws of some predator aroused by his noises. And the tales of Stary Bor, whose territory he now found himself in, were so chilling that Brag's matted hair instantly stood on end.

He spent the night at the foot of a mighty pine tree, shivering with cold, or perhaps more so with mounting fear. He was unable to gather his thoughts. Every sound made his legs leap, and only an effort of will kept him from running back toward the fortress darkening in the distance. Fortunately for him, the night ended quickly, and slowly, the clearer outlines of trees began to emerge from the darkness, illuminated by the first, still faint rays of the rising sun.

As the darkness of night, and with it his nightmares, vanished in the glow of a summer day, the hunchback delved into the rustling forest, having previously nourished himself with a few handfuls of picked berries, whose tart-sweet taste lingered for a long time. Although he practically never strayed far from the castle, he knew which direction he should head. Every inhabitant of Dale had heard of the Goat Cave and its inhabitant. The mere thought made Brag's legs buckle, and sudden waves of heat radiated from his contorted back.

But the hunchback continued eastward, delving deeper and deeper into the Old Forest. He had nothing left to lose. The road to the castle was closed to him. Sometimes, in moments of despair, he felt like collapsing under a tree and waiting for his impending death. Yet something kept compelling him to keep going. He walked blindly, no longer paying attention to directions. He knew he would end up in Goat Cave, even if he didn't want to.

Even before dusk, Brag noticed a change in the monotonous landscape. The terrain began to pile up, and the hunchback found it increasingly difficult to overcome each obstacle. He was incredibly lucky that no predator had yet picked up the trail of such easy prey. He did see two large bears, but they ignored him completely. Somewhere in the distance, he also heard a herd of feeding wild boars. However, he didn't encounter any bloodsuckers or dwarves. Unfortunately, his hope of reaching Goat Cave before darkness fell was dwindling. And he had no desire for another night in the middle of the forest.

And that was when he saw it!

Goat Cave emerged before his eyes, as if plucked from the bowels of the earth. In an instant, it was gone, and when he blinked, it was there. He rubbed his eyes in astonishment and stared at the cave's dark, musty cavity. He knew he had found Goat Cave!

It took a long time, however, to gather enough courage to enter the darkness that enveloped the cave. A few deep breaths and the image of the chatelaine standing in full sunlight helped him take a few tentative steps deeper into the cave. Contrary to his first impression, the cave's interior wasn't dark at all. A strange glow emanating from the damp walls illuminated the cave with a ghostly glow.

Brag walked along a narrow, winding, meandering corridor. Every now and then, his bare feet sank into something soft. Curious, he bent down and lifted a piece to his eyes. The smell alone spoke volumes. It was goat droppings. Now he understood the name given to the cave.

He stumbled upon the witch as unexpectedly as he had stumbled upon the cave moments earlier. Suddenly, the corridor transformed into a vast rock chamber, a large bonfire blazing in the center. It was exactly as Brag had always imagined.

The witch, stooping, was stirring a huge ladle majestically in a huge cauldron of steaming liquid and humming a bawdy song to herself. In the flickering firelight, the hunchback could get a good look at her. She was certainly very old. Her face resembled a pockmarked swamp, and the only relatively smooth appearance was her sharp, searching eyes. The hair on her head, completely gray, was already so thin that the wrinkled skin showed through in places. A single surviving tooth, yellowish-brown, protruded from her half-open mouth.

The witch seemed unaware of the hunchback at first, completely absorbed in stirring the cauldron and bellowing out verses of a song about some goat girl that all the goats in the area were eager for. Only a loud clearing caused the witch's head to turn towards the newcomer.

"Aaah..." she gurgled. "Son of Zend! Please! Please! I mean, fat Flo couldn't keep her mouth shut!"

Hearing these words, Brag's eyes widened in astonishment. In Zagórze, witches rarely interacted with humans, living far away in the forests or wilderness, and although each county boasted of having its own witch, their help was only resorted to as a last resort. So how did the witch know old Flo?

"What's got you so confused, dear?" the Witch gurgled. "Come here!" she waved a withered hand. "Let me take a look at you, dear! The son of Zend! Well, well!"

Brag reluctantly submitted to the Witch's thorough inspection. Her dry hands lingered on his crooked spine to pat him affectionately, muttering incomprehensible words as she did so. Brag was completely unprepared for this. People were rather afraid to touch his hump. The witch's examination lasted a while longer, and the hunchback began to grow impatient.

"Son of Zend!" the Witch repeated once again, smacking her lips obscenely. "Beated? What, my dear? Beaten!" she asked first, then firmly stated, stumbling upon one of the numerous scars left by the castle servants' "caressings." "They probably beat him often! And called him a changeling? What? My dear? Such is our fate! We have to get used to it! And if not, then run! Run, my dear, wherever our eyes may take us! Just as you have just done! You did well!" She patted his hump again, which tingled pleasantly.

"Lady!" Brag finally stammered, emboldened by the Witch's familiarity. "Lady, tell me about your father!"

"You don't know anything about him! What, my dear?" the Witch laughed caustically. "So sit down and try my spirit!" With a wide motion, she poured some steaming liquid into a mug pulled from her breast pocket.

The liquid was thick and stinging. Brag choked immediately after the first sip, and after a long moment, he barely managed to catch his breath.

"First time, eh, my dear!" the Witch laughed. Brag nodded. "They didn't give it, did they? And spirit is good for worries! Oh, good! And you, my dear, are you feeling heavy? Drink more! Spirit only stings at first! Drink!" the old woman encouraged him with her dry hand.

So the hunchback took a long sip, and this time the drink flowed smoothly down his throat. A moment later, Brag felt his mind seem a bit clearer than usual, and his worries were drowned in momentary oblivion. The Witch smiled broadly with her toothless lips.

"See, my dear?" she nodded, looking at the hunchback with obvious satisfaction. "It will do you good, son of Zend! So you want to know who your father was?" Brag nodded, and the old woman took a deep breath and, scratching her brown warts every now and then, began to tell her story. "He was a strange man—this Zend! In a crowd, no one would have noticed him. Small, squat, from a distance, he resembled a barrel rolling on the ground. How can appearances be deceiving? When he first appeared in my Grotto, I didn't see his true POWER either. But when I looked into the fire, then..." A sudden reminder of the old fear flashed across the Witch's face. "It's better not to evoke that..." the old woman looked at the hunchback carefully. "Zend was a man I've never met, and I've lived longer than I can remember for generations. But he had powerful enemies!" So powerful, in fact, that he had to flee from them all the way to our own Zagórze. He, the all-powerful magun, before whom entire kingdoms trembled, sought refuge with me, a poor Witch from a land he might never have heard of before. But the forces pursuing him…" The old woman paused again and, gasping for air, plunged her lips into the still-steaming liquid. Only after a few sips was she able to continue her tale. "They caught him in the marshes near the Great Pass of the East. I warned him about THEM! I saw THEM in the fire! But he only made me swear to look after you and left for the wilderness to keep danger away from you and your unfortunate mother. And I watched over you as best I could, Brag, son of Zend!

" "Did you order Flo to look after me?" the hunchback asked in a hollow voice.

"Yes, my dear!" the old woman nodded. "You were supposed to keep a low profile!" And mature into what your father destined you for!

"What is this?!" Brag exclaimed, his eyes burning.

"You'll know in due time, my love!" the Witch replied seriously. "Your time hasn't come yet! But IT'S close, really close! I can feel it!" The Witch's gaze drifted unconsciously to the blazing fire, which instantly glowed under her gaze.

Brag then imagined the flames taking on a human form, beckoning him with a beckoning hand. He was about to ask the Witch about this when a dark shape flew past his head, striking directly at the old woman's chest. The Witch staggered, and a stream of thick blood gushed from her mouth.

The attackers attacked in complete silence. There were three of them. Three dark shapes separated and began slowly approaching the hunchback cowering beside the fallen Witch. Their triangular heads held few human features. Their birdlike, hooked noses gave them an eerie appearance, deepened by their round, pupil-less eyes, glowing with a greenish light. In their overly elongated, severally bent paws, they held menacing-looking blades.

"Use the POWER!" the Witch moaned, desperately raising herself to her feet.

The hunchback looked at the old woman in fear and helplessly spread his arms.

The monstrous creatures were now just a few steps away, and Brag could smell their swamp-smelling breath. He knew that in a moment the silver blades would descend upon them, and nothing would matter to him anymore. And that was when he felt the Witch's hand, raised by force of will, touch his back. He felt a strange wave of heat spread around him.

He had no recollection of what happened next. When consciousness returned, he first smelled the foul odor of burnt flesh, which nearly knocked him unconscious again. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw two still-smouldering mounds of blackened remains, amidst which glistened silver blades. A little further on, the last of the attackers writhed in terrible pain, tucking his half-burned feet under him and trying to crawl away from his terrifying enemy.

"What happened?" Brag's voice was filled with utter astonishment. He looked around with astonishment, unable to understand. Had he done it? But how?

"It's POWER!" the Witch moaned with great difficulty, her lips covered with a layer of burnt skin and her eyes clouded over. "You have to get used to it, my love!" She is your treasure and your misfortune!" she interrupted, seeming to lose consciousness. But it only lasted a moment. "Your father gave it to you as a gift! But remember, if you don't learn to control it, your fate will be terrible!

" "How can I learn?" the hunchback howled. "Teach me!

" "Go to the West!" the Witch said, her voice growing weaker, and drops of bloody foam appeared in her mouth. "Be careful of..." She

didn't finish. A violent spasm swept through her withered body, after which she froze. She was dead!

Brag turned away from her suddenly diminished body, which was undergoing rapid decay. The Goat Witch had survived the moment of her death by many decades, and now Nature was claiming its rights. When the hunchback found herself next to her shrill, howling attacker, all that remained of the old woman was a pile of rotten bones.

"Don't touch me!" The horribly mutilated creature's voice resembled the screeching of a fluffball. The monster tried to crawl away toward the cave entrance.

"Who are you?" Brag asked in a resigned tone, not expecting an answer.

"We will be avenged!" the creature lashed out, and before the hunchback could react, with a lightning-fast movement, he sliced ​​the scaly skin of his throat with his blade. Greenish blood spattered onto the hunchback's bare feet, his stomach unable to bear it any longer, and a slimy liquid gushed from Brag's mouth.

The Hunchback's Secret.

The first stone whistled past his ear, and he slapped it heavily into a nearby puddle, brimming with black, manure-smelling water. He unconsciously moved his dry, dry tongue, licking a few drops that fell, cooling his lips. The water stank even in his throat. He curled up, passively waiting for the next stones to fall, which would inevitably fall on his crooked back. Brag was used to this kind of entertainment. The castle guards were simply bored, and to lighten their moods, they set the local farmhands on him. They then watched as they tried to straighten his crooked back, cackling venomously as they made bets on which of the castle thugs would finally crack the hunchback's skull. But Brag had a hard skull! When the farmhands had had enough, he'd crawl away to his hiding place near the stables, where he'd burrow into the rotting hay until a kick from one of the stablehands brought him to light, or his hungry stomach demanded to be stuffed with the scraps that a merciful hand sometimes left near the castle common room.

Brag suspected this was the work of old Flo, who, for some unknown reason, seemed to be watching over him, though when he found himself in her domain—the dark castle kitchen—he'd often taken a heavy beating from her heavy hands. Brag knew, however, that her blows wouldn't really do him much harm, at least not as much as he expected from the enraged farmhands. And anything could anger them! Even today, he hadn't quickly enough stepped out of the way of the overweight stable boy, Drog, who merely glared at him with his one good eye, spat, and screamed at the top of his lungs,

"Changeeeeeat!"

And that was enough!

A moment later, Brag, crouched in pairs, was fleeing from a horde of screaming minions who, in a circle, drove him into a square covered in mud puddles near the pigpen, from which there was no escape. Slowly, the circle tightened.

"What, you freak?!" hissed shaggy Marg through his remaining teeth. "We're about to split your disgusting gnome head!" He picked up a slimy stone from the puddle at his feet and threw it. Brag closed his eyes and waited. But to his surprise, no more stones flew in his direction. Startled, he opened his eyes slightly.

The circle was broken! The farmhands huddled near the wooden beams of the pigsty, and shaggy Marg knelt in the middle of a puddle-like puddle before a figure standing in a shaft of sunlight. It took Brag a moment to realize who the person whose appearance had so suddenly interrupted the farmhands' "fun" was.

It was Jolanda! The daughter of Count Stogniew—the local castle-keeper who ruled Dali with a stern hand.

"What do you want from this poor man?" Yolanda demanded in an angry voice, and with an imperious movement, she parted the minions swarming at her feet. At that moment, Marg, suddenly pale, plunged his shaggy hair into the stinking puddle.

This humiliation of his greatest enemy brought Brag inexpressible joy. Until then, he had been the only one who usually ended up in the putrid water.

The count's daughter took another step forward, careful not to smother her long, scarlet dress in the mud.

"Leave him alone!" she said proudly, raising her head and, after a careless glance at the unfortunate man she had rescued, spun on her heel and, like an apparition from another world, vanished from the hunchback's field of vision.

Brag was unable to move for a long moment, and not out of fear of the farmhands or the castle guards, who, as if on command, had vanished from the castle walls. Until then, Brag had only seen the chatelaine once, and from a considerable distance. He had seen her, of course, when she was still a child, playing in the castle courtyards with several nannies. But then Jolanda left for a long time. It was said that old Stogniew had sent her to study at the court of Princess Fiolunella in Kuropatki, where she was expected to acquire the necessary refinement and manners appropriate for a woman of her standing, which she certainly wouldn't have been able to achieve with the vulgar women who inhabited the castle in Dali. True, the count was reluctant to part with his beloved daughter, and only the intervention of Grafina Monto, the sister of his wife, who died young, persuaded him to send Jolanda to Kuropatki.

Now, however, as the rumors of some vague threats looming over the normally peaceful lands of Zagórze grew louder, he preferred to have his daughter nearby. And so, about a month earlier, amidst a procession of copper-clad guards, the iron-clad wheels of a graceful two-wheeled carriage clattered against the castle stones, from where the blue eyes of the chatelaine gazed proudly at the family nest. It was then that Brag saw her for the first time.

Meanwhile, rumors began to spread among the farmhands and castle servants about a possible attack threatening Zagórze from the Great Empire of Apostates, whose serpentine armies were expected to descend from the shadowy slopes of the Brown Mountains at any moment. However, this was perhaps the least feared in Dalia. After all, the castle lay far from the expected attack site, separated from the mountains by the mighty fortifications of Grodgórze, where the valiant Count Mąciwił resided. It was widely known that he would sooner order himself buried under the castle moat than allow even a single apostate to pass through his lands. Furthermore, nearby was the considered impregnable Painted Castle, which, according to prophecies circulating among the mobs, could never fall to the non-humans. Dalia was more afraid of news coming from the west and south. The few merchants who traversed the Great Southern Road during this turbulent time spoke over a mug of frothy wine of eyes gleaming on the slopes of the Blue Mountains, and even of packs of terrifying mountain gnomes flashing in the distance. There were even rumors that the threat might also come from the east, though, as far as human memory stretches, no tribes of sand people had ever been heard of leaving the Great Eastern Wasteland.

And there must have been some truth to these rumors, spreading through inns and servants' chambers, because the Count himself often rode out at the head of his guards, gleaming in the summer sun, only to disappear for a few days. Upon his return, he ordered messengers sent to the green slopes of the Blue Mountains, while the guardsmen from Dale, for the first time in centuries, ventured into the terrible marshes along the banks of the Dyed River. What were they searching for there? But they preferred not to know about this in the castle.

A feverish rush gripped all the inhabitants of Dala. The local peasants, living in the nearby hamlets, without waiting for orders from the stewards or for the grain to ripen, went out into the fields with sickles and reaped the barely yellowing ears of corn. And strangely enough, none of the count's servants even tried to stop them. The castle was also growing in population. Everyone who could, at least, sent their children into the castle grounds. The area was emptying!

And the castle was in an ever-increasing uproar!

The only creature who seemed unconcerned by the growing commotion in the castle was the hunchbacked Brag. From the moment the chatelaine took him to his defense, he had lived as if in another world. The proud figure of Jolanda, as he had seen her then, constantly flashed before his eyes. Bathed in the golden rays of the sun that illuminated the storm of her golden-red hair, she seemed to him then as beautiful as any other inhabitant of the whole of Zagórze, and perhaps even of all the Middle Lands.

Ignoring the insults hurled at him by the young chatelaine's maids as they passed, or even the buckets of waste poured out of the windows, deliberately dropped by the kitchen boys directly onto his matted head, he spent his days wandering near the tower where Count Stogniew's daughter's chambers were located. Sometimes, through the narrow windows, slightly ajar because of the heat, he managed to glimpse the outline of a woman's head, which he guessed represented the adored chatelaine. And one day, he saw her in all her glory when, encouraged by the beautiful summer weather and the absence of her father from the castle—who, for reasons unknown to her, had strictly ordered her not to leave the walls—she and two of her ladies-in-waiting emerged from the tower for a stroll. When Brag saw her emerging from behind the heavy door, just a few steps away, he froze. He waited for even a single gesture from her, and watched, trying to memorize every detail of her slightly pale face and dark blue eyes.

"Lady!" One of the ladies-in-waiting looked at him with disgust, spitting directly in the hunchback's face. "Changeling!"

Brag waited for his adored chatelaine to defend him again, but Yolanda didn't even deign to look at him. Only the slightest movement of her hand toward the powerful guardsman following her indicated that she had indeed noticed his presence.

The next thing Brag was aware of was a pig's snout methodically sniffing his face. He lay in the center of the pigsty, thoroughly covered in pig droppings, and it seemed to him that there wasn't a single whole bone in it. Through his swollen eyes, he had difficulty making out the blurred shapes. With a loud groan, he rose and limped toward the exit.

For the next few days, he stopped guarding the chatelaine's tower, tending to his battered, hunchbacked body. Fortunately, the castle servants were occupied with entirely other matters, and for now, at least, they left him completely alone. So the hunchback's only concern became the daily bowl of food his loudly growling stomach demanded. Sometimes, he would surreptitiously allow himself to be locked in the pigsty, and before the pigsmen knew it, he would be eating a bit of the churned-up swill from the trough. Sometimes, old Flo would take pity on him and angrily summon him to her kingdom. She would then offer him slightly stale vegetable peelings, which, after the pigs' swill, tasted like a dish from a royal table. Afterward, Brag had to spend long nights scrubbing the dried-up deposits of grease from the brass pans and pots the enormous cook piled at his feet. Blood gushed from the hunchback's wounded hands. But he didn't complain!

After about six days, he returned to his post beneath Yolanda's tower. This time, however, within a few hours, a gruff guard appeared beside him and, with a few brutal kicks, threw him out into the main courtyard. Swinging a large mace menacingly, he growled a warning over his head.

"If the eminent Lady Yolanda complains again," he rasped, spitting lumps of greasy saliva onto the hunchback's matted head, "that your stench is disturbing her sleep, I'll tear off your filthy head, you freak! Do you understand?" The guardsman brought his horned mace down sharply.

Brag felt a stinging sensation on his cheek. One of the thorns brushed his face.

He didn't return to the tower that day. Instead, a plan began to form in his mind.

In the evening, he crept to the window of the small basement where, he knew, the old cook spent her evenings. In a whining, broken voice, trying not to be overheard by the guards bustling about the yard, he began to call out:

"Madam! Eminent lady!" he called softly, before finally thundering with greater courage, "Eminent Flo!"

This seemed to be what had provoked the reaction. The parchment paper covering the shutter rustled, and first the cook's greasy, gray-streaked hair peeked out of the window.

"And who the devil brought there?" Flo asked hoarsely, brushing away the tufts of hair that had fallen over her face. Brag emerged right in front of her thick nose. "And is that you!" she cleared her nose, absently wiping it with her soiled cuff. "Are you hungry, I'm sure?"

"No, Eminent Lady!" Brag shook his head. "I have another matter for you, eminent Flo!

" "You?" the old cook drawled hoarsely. "For me? A matter?

" "I think you know what it is!" The hunchback's voice was filled with certainty. Flo leaned out further and glanced suspiciously at the surroundings.

A moment later, the door creaked open, and a strong hand pulled Brag into the basement, whose interior was illuminated only by a tar-smelling torch stuck near the door. Despite the prevailing semi-darkness, the hunchback could clearly see the tension in the housekeeper's face as she nervously filled a brass mug with the foaming liqueur. Only after taking a long sip did she turn her plump face toward the hunchback.

"You did find out, didn't you?" she asked tensely, gazing intently into Brag's face.

"Yes, I did!" the hunchback confirmed confidently, though he had no idea what the old woman was talking about.

"I always told her you couldn't hide it from me for long!" Flo squeaked as if to herself. "But she was so stubborn! So stupid!" she shrugged angrily, her half-naked shoulders. "And your father...! I've never seen such a freak before! To be happy that he had a hunchbacked child. No wonder!" she nervously jumped up from the bench she'd been sitting on. "After all, what can you expect from a stray from the far West? Apparently, before he came to us—to your mother's misfortune, poor thing—he lived for many years in terrible Megana, where people live alongside misfits.

" "My father wasn't from Zagórze?" Brag stammered with effort. Old Flo's face suddenly contorted with sudden anger.

"What did he come here for, you tramp?" she screamed, pushing him toward the door. She tried not to touch his arched back, which the hunchback noticed. "Get out!" she roared across the courtyard. Crouching, Brag fled toward the barn, fearing the fat cook's furious shrieks would bring the castle guards after him.

All night, his mind buzzed with swirling thoughts. Buried deep in the rotting hay, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

Brag was practically devoid of childhood memories. As if through a fog, he sometimes saw a woman's head bending over him, but he couldn't see her face. It was as if she were hiding it from him. He only clearly remembered the woman's voice. A soft, soothing whisper that lulled him to sleep. But until now, he had never thought of her as his mother. He accepted the fact that he had no one close to him as completely natural. So far...

The conversation with old Flo had completely unsettled him. He went to her to ask her advice on how to get closer to the adored chatelaine. He wanted to ask the plump cook to intercede for the noble Count Stogniew to accept him as Jolanda's stable boy. He believed that this would allow him to spend at least a short time close to the chatelaine. Meanwhile, the cook's sudden outburst of anger prevented him from even uttering his request.

Flo, after all, knew something about him! About him and his parents!

Brag was now thinking more and more about his parents. He even stopped wandering to Jolanda's tower, where a taciturn guard lay in wait for him. However, he barely took his eyes off the plump cook, trying to avoid her, for since their late-night conversation, her attitude toward him had changed dramatically. Not only did she stop feeding him, but upon seeing him, she even set the angular cooks on him. It was fortunate that the increasingly dark news reaching Dali continued to distract the peasants from his presence. And the castle was increasingly bursting at the seams with the sheer number of people who had gathered behind the defensive walls. It was easy for the inconspicuous hunchback to hide in such a crowd.

Brag, meanwhile, waited for an opportunity. He knew his only chance to learn anything more from the fat Flo was to approach her when her mind was clouded by the wine liqueur she drank in copious amounts. However, due to the increasing number of guests at the castle, the old cook had less time for herself than usual.

Fortune finally smiled on the hunchback. That day, a large ladder-type cart, laden with crates and household vessels, rolled into the castle. Atop it sat a gigantic woman with arms like tree branches, calling out to Flo in a booming voice. The greeting, which Brag silently witnessed, indicated that the two women were very good acquaintances, though they hadn't seen each other for years. When the hunchback saw the greenish reflection of a large flask in the giantess's hand, he knew his moment had come. Despite his stomach growling, he didn't leave his post near the kitchen until late in the evening, when finally, supported by one of the cooks, the old cook stumbled out, barely dragging her feet.

Without much difficulty, unnoticed by anyone, the hunchback slipped into the wine-smelling basement. Flo lay on a pallet, probably abandoned there by a farmhand. She tossed and turned, as if convulsed by sudden fear, and from her mouth came gibberish words whose meaning Brag couldn't initially fathom. Only when he leaned over the woman's massive frame did the meaning begin to sink in.

"Damned foundling..." Flo hissed. "Beware... HE'S approaching! The cave... Ugh... Hide, I'll find... The witch... Hide!!!" At the last word, which turned into a terrifying howl, the old woman jumped up and looked around with her dazed eyes. When she noticed Brag leaning over her, she yelped and cowered, as if expecting a blow.

"Who am I?" the hunchback tried to seize the moment. "Who were my parents?!" he shook the woman's trembling shoulder.

"Noooooo!" A piercing shriek escaped the old woman's lips, and Brag almost wanted to flee, convinced the scream would bring the entire castle guard down on him. But he hesitated for a moment, and then the woman let out a snarl directed at him. "GOAT CAVE! Go to the Goat Cave..."

After uttering these words, Flo staggered and fell unconscious to the floor, finally frightening the hunchback. Brag ran out of the cook's basement as if chased by a pack of apostates and butted his head directly at the approaching Kleb, the commander of the guards. The man, surprised by the sudden appearance of a man before him, crouched down, giving the hunchback time to slip out of his powerful hands.

A cross—

incredible

—what's that?—The younger brother walked to the window, as two large shadows momentarily tried to obscure the shining full moon.

—They returned.—The older brother turned away from the window and tightly grasped his younger brother's hands.

Excitement sparkled in his eyes.

—This is probably bad, isn't it?—The younger brother tried to squirm out of the tight embrace.

—Not this time, little brother.—The older brother adjusted his glasses on his nose.—This time, it's good.—He let go of his brother and began pacing the room, repeating under his breath,—This time, it's very good.—

The younger brother sat down in an armchair next to the aquarium, where the fish had retreated to their hiding places made of coconut halves.

—What? Don't you remember what happened last time they came to our house?—The younger brother could barely choke on the words through his tears.—That was the last time we saw Mom and Dad.

—Yes, I know.—The older brother stopped before him and knelt down.

The twinkle in his eyes grew ever more distinct.

"And this time I'm very glad of it."

The younger man closed his eyes as if to keep all the tears to himself. His heart seemed to burst his chest, pounding harder and harder. He hadn't been able to keep his eyes closed since the last time those "bad people" visited their apartment building. And this time, drops leaked from under his eyelids.

The older man stood up and walked over to the wardrobe. A large, carved one with heavy doors. They creaked as he opened them.

He glanced over the shelves and bent down to pick up a large, heavy suitcase that lay at the bottom of the wardrobe. He slid it under him and stood on it to reach the top shelf, which was too high even for him.

"What are you looking for?" the younger man asked, opening his eyes, which were already quite swollen. The

older man didn't answer, just grunted for a moment, stretching to grab what he'd been trying to get rid of all his life.

These memories had been tormenting him for a long time. Now, without his parents, he couldn't make ends meet. They had once been his support and comfort on difficult days. When they left three years ago, he was eighteen, and his younger brother only four. He barely remembered their faces. Perhaps that was why he looked through the family photo album every evening, mostly of his older brother. The album of photos from his childhood disappeared. Exactly three years ago.

"I have it!" the older brother exclaimed, quickly jumping down from the suitcase and slipping the item into his pocket so the younger brother wouldn't see it.

He tried to strip him of all hope that their parents would return home.

If the younger brother knew what the older brother had found on the shelf in the closet, hope would return. But it was unknown whether the parents would return. Someone was definitely coming back, as evidenced by the shadows moving against the full moon. And the older brother was certain who it was

.

A red car screeched to a halt in front of the building. The two-story house with its slightly sloped roof obscured the rising full moon. Only the residents of the corner apartments could view this daily miracle of nature. When someone now pulled into the parking lot of building number 73, as the owner of the red car had done, they drove into the shadow of the rising guardian of the night.

The red Opel had parked just so, evidenced by the crunch of the stones scattered across the freshly laid parking lot. The tinted windows hid the driver and passenger both day and night. But the residents of apartment number 73 knew exactly who they were. The strange couple

from apartment number 8. A bald, neckless, broad man got out of the car. He glanced up at the first floor, where a ginger cat sat in the window, half-covered by the blinds. The ginger roommate in apartment number 4.

The bald man sniffed the frosty night air and walked around the car. He grabbed the passenger door handle and opened it. A faint smile appeared on his face when he heard the soft bark of a small miniature rat. He took it from his companion and opened the door wider, helping her out.

"Come on, little one, it's late," he said in a deep, low voice.

The little one straightened up and slammed the Opel door behind her. She opened her nostrils wider, letting the evening air fill her lungs.

"Late, but very pleasant." She looked at the bald man and took the dog from him.

"Grab your groceries from the trunk and come home."

She winked.

"I'm waiting for you."

He quickened his pace and almost ran to the trunk.

The little one was already opening the gate when the first light emerged from behind the building wall, illuminating the bald man rummaging through the trunk.

"Hurry!" he heard as she disappeared down the stairwell

. "Hurry up..." as if the echo of the little one's voice had reached him.

The trunk lid came loose slightly and hit him in the head.

"Damn!" he cursed, rubbing the injured spot on his bare skull. "Damn it!"

He lifted it, locked the trunk, and began reaching for the shopping bags again.

The moon illuminated his efforts beautifully. For a moment, it cast a shadow, only to shine back on the man struggling with the groceries.

"So many groceries, he won't help..., he won't even ask..." he muttered under his breath.

He shifted the bags to one hand, feeling their ears dig into his fingers with their full weight, and with the other, he reached up to close the trunk lid.

Usually, when he did this, the closing trunk lid revealed a soothing view: three trees standing on the other side of the street.

The trunk lid slammed shut, and the Bald Man dropped the grocery bags from his hand.

"Oh fuck..." he managed to say, and collapsed against the chain-link fence, pushed by something so sharp that when he hit the ground, his head hung only by the vertebrae of his neck, exposing all the wonders of the human esophagus.

Gushing drops of blood hit the freshly washed body of the red Opel, giving it an even bloodier appearance. Literally bloody.

Something, or someone, once again blocked the moonlight from falling on the car and lifted the shopping bags. Only two ravens perched in the middle tree watched the whole thing, occasionally calling out in their screeching bird language to warn the neighborhood.

There was no sound of footsteps, nor the creak of the front door opening. The chain-link fences clanged lightly against each other as they found their way to the second floor.

On the first floor, the light was dimming, and only the faint, dry sound of a board bending could be heard as a large figure slowly emerged on the tiled floor of the second floor. Fingers were slowly being attached to the nets' ears, and they were no longer suspended in midair. In the distance, the bird's screeching warning sounded again.

The tall, bald tenant of apartment number eight, groceries in his right hand, grabbed the doorknob with his left and opened the door. Without saying a word, without even announcing his return home, he closed the apartment door behind him, where the sound of running water from the shower could be heard.

***

"Did you hear that?" The little one ran to wake his brother.

He was asleep in the armchair next to the aquarium, his clenched fists pressed together. A piece of string protruded between his fingers.

"What?" the older one jumped up. "What happened, Johnny?"

Johnny stood over him, his eyes filled with terror.

"They're already there," he said, widening his already large blue eyes. "Witek, they're upstairs.

" "How do you know?" Witek calmly rose from the armchair where he had dozed off.

"I heard a scream," he raised a finger, "that lady upstairs was screaming. I was in the bathroom and I heard..." He began gasping for breath, trying to tell his older brother everything.

"Calm down, little one. Are you sure?"

He looked at him with wide eyes,

"like he'd never seen anything like that before."

Witek grabbed his hand and pulled him into a small room. He told him to lie under the bed and stay quiet.

"Don't say a word," he said, putting his finger to his lips, "and under no circumstances come out.

" "Unless you call me?" Jasio leaned out from under the bed. "Right? You'll call me?"

Witek narrowed his eyebrows and stood up.

"Under no circumstances, Jasio," he said, "until the moon sets and you see the first rays of the sun.

" "Okay, little brother," Witek heard as Jasio hid under the bed again.

He ripped off the sheets and pillow and stuffed them into his brother's bed to keep him warm. "Come on, it's going to be a hot night."

"Don't be afraid, I'll be back."

"I know," a quiet voice, muffled by the pillow, reached Witek. "

I promise," he thought. But those weren't his words. They were the last words he heard from his mother when she went to look for his father.

"I promise, I'll be back. Don't worry," she said through tears. Just like him now, she told them to hide under the bed.

He could hear the sound of the door closing, the footsteps on the stairwell. And silence. A long, ominous silence, broken by a scream. A woman's. As

he stepped out into the hallway, he glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven.

***

Twelve hours earlier, the writer's watch at number two had struck eleven. Only one more hour until noon. In his left coat pocket, the vibrating alarm on his cell phone informed him of a meeting. Karol Witel didn't need to check the screen. He hadn't had any additional meetings scheduled for a long time.

He was supposed to meet with his publisher in an hour. He wasn't exactly happy about it. He was late, even very late, handing in the final chapters of his latest novel. Thoughts no longer crowded his head like they used to. They didn't gather in his cell phones or race with cell phone connections like they used to. After ten books published in 12 years, he'd burned out internally. He hadn't written down a single dream in a year. Nothing since he'd moved into his new apartment. Emptiness. Creative Desert.

"Hi, Uncle Karol," he heard a boy's voice and looked up.

Little Jasio stuck his head out of the second-floor window of apartment number five, flashing his white teeth in a smile at the writer.

"Hi, Jasio. How are you?" He knew perfectly well that the little one lived with his older brother and that Grandma stopped by every day to check if everything was alright.

And that the boys' refrigerator wasn't empty. Sometimes even he tasted Mrs. Antonina's specialties when he happened to be watching his younger brother.

"Everything's okay," the little boy shouted and disappeared into the room.

Witel slammed the door to the Punto and put the keys in his pocket, where his cell phone with the meeting reminder lay. He walked along the gravel parking lot for a while, mentally counting the cars that occupied it. One, two, three. One, two, three.

He stopped for a moment, turned, and stared at the sun, which had been behind him a moment before. He closed his eyes reflexively, letting the sun's reflections dance beneath his eyelids.

I'm at rock bottom, he thought, and pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket. He turned and entered the menu. He found his sender's number and pressed OK.

"Paweł?

" A voice answered in the receiver

. "I won't be coming to your place today. Paweł, I have to write another chapter," he lied. "Something just occurred to me. "

Paweł asked if he was lying.

"I'm not lying."

Karol pulled the phone away from his ear and took a deep breath.

"You'll have the complete text by next Friday, okay?"

Paweł nodded and said he had to be in his office by one o'clock on the twentieth, with a folder full of typescript pages.

"Okay."

Karol only had two hundred pages of typescript. He was certain that if inspiration ever struck him, those last hundred would knock the reader off his feet. He'd been toiling on his eleventh novel for six months. Out of ideas, he began writing about his life. He hoped that what was selling so well now would resonate with the person who fed him: his reader.

Five of them showed up at the first author's meeting. At the last, nearly a hundred people had already come. He was a big deal, and he knew it. He was a writer.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Karol?" He was jolted out of his reverie by...

"Hi Witek." When he turned around, he saw his neighbor, Jasiek's brother. "Are you coming home?

" "Yes, the foreman gave us the day off today. There's no work, you know how it is." Witek scratched his head and headed for the stairwell.

"Wait!" Karol shouted after him, but he had already run up the stairs.

Witel put his hands in his coat and fumbled for his apartment keys. When they jingled between his fingers, he nodded and headed for the gate.

He didn't have to climb the stairs to find himself in the cozy four walls he'd recently taken over. The apartment itself had been empty for three years. After the tragic, one might even say gruesome, murders that had occurred four years ago, no one wanted to move into the building. Strangely enough, the only remaining residents were two boys whose parents disappeared during the tragic events of that night. At first, it was assumed that the murderer who killed almost all the residents of the building, except for the two boys, had kidnapped their parents. Later, a certain deputy inspector surmised that he had probably managed to bury the bodies in the garden surrounding the building. Following this idea, nearly a dozen policemen dug up the garden, loosening the soil, and the new family from apartment number 1 had fresh, oversized tomatoes for the second year running. The parents were never found, let alone their bodies, despite various investigative ideas. Nor was the murderer found. A year ago, after three years of investigation, the case was dropped. The newspapers stopped reporting it after a year and, when they announced the drop, published only a brief notice. Karol stumbled upon this information quite by accident while leafing through the morning newspaper. On a real estate website, he found the number of the building's owner, a well-known figure throughout the city, with a smile on his face.

He called immediately, and the next week he was hooking up the TV and placing his laptop on his desk. The novel he had started had to be finished.

***

"Run!" Karol shouted to Witek as he stood over the headless corpse.

"Mr. Karol, this is..."

"Yes, I know, Witek, get out of there.

" Karol stood by the fence, looking at the boy and the headless corpse on the other side of the fence.

"Mr. Karol, there's nowhere left to go today. They're back."

The writer held his breath, trying to figure out what Witek meant.

He approached his dead neighbor and examined the cut on his neck closely. The same. Exactly identical to four years ago. He could see well thanks to the moonlight. It hadn't been so bright in a long time. The night hadn't been this bright in a long time.

Karol looked at Witek as if he were crouching over the bald man from number eight. He looked up and examined the shadows they were casting in that spot.

Three.

There were actually three of them. Him. Witek. The headless corpse lying under the fence, which shouldn't cast a shadow because..."

Witek abruptly rose from his crouch, looking at the writer with terror in his eyes.

"Mr.... Karol..." he choked out.

Karol didn't turn around, but watched as the shadow, which didn't belong to either of them, moved and grew smaller and smaller. Closer and closer.

The writer was now one hundred percent certain that something, or someone, was coming their way. He didn't need to turn to check which of the neighbors wanted to look at the corpse with them. Looking at the boy, he knew that what he saw wouldn't be his neighbor, and if the boy didn't like it either.

Horror, pain, and despair flashed in Witek's eyes, as if on celluloid.

"Mr. Karol," he whispered, "don't turn around, just run quickly toward the stairwell.

" "Why?" Karol wanted to turn his head.

He was consumed by pure human curiosity, which, as the English say, killed the cat.

Witek glanced at the writer, and Karol realized the boy wasn't joking.

"Quickly," he whispered, "I'm running after you."

Karol obeyed and began to run. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at what he had been forbidden to see. He shouted and accelerated, almost tripping as he ran onto the sidewalk leading to the apartment building.

"Don't close the door, I'm running after you," he heard Witek say, and the sound of feet clattering behind him.

Another sound reached his ears. The sound of air being torn apart by wings meant they were being chased. They were the next target.

"Run to number five. The door's open!" Witek shouted, gasping for breath as he ran up the stairs, closing the windows in the hallway.

The writer reached the first floor and, without thinking, turned the handle. Indeed, the door wasn't locked. He stopped in the hallway and consciously looked around for any uninvited guests. Witek ran right behind him, nearly knocking him over.

"Get inside quickly!" He forced out the last of the air in his lungs.

He closed the door behind him and took a deep breath.

"What was that down there?" The writer leaned against the wall, gasping for air just as greedily.

"The same thing that appeared four years ago. The night our parents disappeared." Witek turned the key in the lock and slid the bolt.

Karol noticed that the door didn't have any protection against burglars, let alone against the thing he saw walking towards him.

"Where's Jasiu?" he asked, concerned.

"Easy." Witek patted him on the shoulder and stepped away from the door.

At that moment, something struck it so hard that a crack appeared in the doorframe, and the metal bolt bent slightly, giving the two men little hope of lasting power. They ran to hold it. They couldn't let that thing get inside. They looked at each other, and at that moment, another blow bounced them off the door. They pressed against it again, waiting for another attack.

Thirty seconds later, they heard retreating footsteps in the hallway.

"He's leaving," whispered Karol, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Witek stepped away from the door and leaned his hands on the side dresser. "Please help me."

They pushed it towards the door and went into the kitchen. Witek, passing the bedroom door, became concerned.

"Jasiu?

Silence."

Karol looked at him and asked, too.

"Jasiu?

Silence.

" Karol felt fresh air rushing across his face. The windows were open in this apartment!

"I'll be right back," whispered Witek, putting a finger to his lips, and entered the bedroom.

Karol nodded and walked to the kitchen window, which overlooked the most illuminated part of the garden. He pulled back the curtains and looked around the garden. No one.

"Witek!" he called to the boy without turning from the window. "No one's here, I think we're in peace for now.

" "That's good," he heard the boy's voice behind him and calmed down.

He looked for a moment longer and felt incredibly sleepy. He rubbed his eyes and turned away from the window.

Witek stood before him, or so he thought. A huge figure with wings and gray skin spoke. It spoke in Witek's voice

—don't be afraid—and bared its teeth, revealing all its diversity. One fang covered the other, giving Witek, or whatever stood before him, a double set of teeth.

Karol felt terror seep through his trousers. Wet terror.

The creature-Witek extended its paws toward the writer, and he could see they were tipped with sharp claws. Sleepiness returned. He had time to glance at the cross hanging around the once-boy's neck. He slowly sank onto the windowsill and sank to the floor.

***

If I'm at the pole, I forgot my warm jacket, Karol began to come back to life.

He instinctively stretched his arms and encountered the strong resistance of the dark wall. He opened his eyes. Nothing. Dark. His knees were tucked under his chin, making it difficult to breathe.

He felt the walls in front of him and beside him. They were pressing down on all four sides, as if he were trapped inside something.

"Plastic," he muttered.

And it was terribly cold.

He held his breath for a moment as something shuffled past his mailbox. "Am I a prisoner?" he thought. When the shuffling stopped, he began to fidget so he could reach his cell phone in his pocket. Locating it, he pulled it out and pressed a button. The screen immediately glowed brightly. Suddenly, his eyes revealed the same interior he'd seen every morning when he took out the milk. He was locked in the refrigerator, which amused him slightly. But a moment later, when the phone's screen went blank, darkness enveloped him, and terror gripped him as well. "

Shut up, Mr. Karol," he thought. But at that very moment, something shuffled under the refrigerator where he was sitting, and he heard something heavy scraping against the tiles. They'd pushed the door open, he thought. Bastards.

The light in the refrigerator flashed as the door opened. Karol didn't want to move from his seat. Especially when he saw what was opening the door for him. A small gargoyle that looked just like the whip creature grinned broadly at him, revealing equally colorful teeth, slightly stained with blood. Oh God! It held out its hands, also tipped with sharp claws.

"Hello, Uncle Karol," the little creature said, pulling him out of the refrigerator.

Impossible.

"Johnny?" The surprised writer collapsed onto the tiles, gasping for fresh air.

At that moment, the whip creature entered the kitchen and ordered the whip creature to leave.

"Quickly," he repeated.

Johnny folded his wings and left.

"Welcome back, Karol." He helped him up, digging his claws into the writer's shoulder.

Karol stood up, brushing frost off the sweater he'd put on before leaving the house. The remains of food in the fridge also fell off.

"Back? So far, I'm pretty confused. We were just running away from someone like you," he pointed at Witek, who bore no resemblance to the boy, his neighbor.

Witek stretched and stretched his wings.

"A gargoyle..." Karol muttered.

"Excuse me?" Witek nudged the lamp with one wing.

"You're a gargoyle, right?

" Three years ago, a woman from class four called me a winged monster, but a gargoyle can be one too.

Karol's sanity was returning, thawing out after his time in the fridge.

"Why the fridge?"

Witek shrugged, causing his wings to move as well.

"So you're safe

," he grumbled. "In the fridge? And safe from what? From you?"

Witek bared his teeth, blood dripping down them in a wide grin.

"I don't think so, Mr. Karol. No matter how we look, you're safe with us.

" "I'd like to believe that." Karol adjusted his sweater and left the kitchen, brushing against Witek's wing. It was rough and slightly cut his face. The boy, who no longer looked like a boy, looked after him, grinning again.

When Karol entered the room, he saw little Jaś, no longer looking like Jaś, with his wings stuck in the armchair, resting his head on his hands. He playfully thrashed it with sharp claws growing from his hands.

"Jaś?" Karol asked, turning his head as he heard Witek passing behind him. "

It's his first night, Mr. Karol. He's a little embarrassed and maybe also a little upset."

"Unsettled, I'm Witek, or whatever your name is. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to explain it to me." He walked over to Jaś and sat down next to him in the other armchair.

Witek found a seat on the couch, and although it was uncomfortable, he sat down, curling his wings as much as possible behind him.

"Okay," he began, "listen." Whether you believe it or not, we're good...

"Aha," Karol sighed.

"Aha," the boy continued, "that won't change. We won't hurt you. They are..." He pointed at the window.

"Are they?" Karol was becoming increasingly amused by the whole situation.

He smiled faintly.

In one bound, Witek spread his wings and jumped at the writer. He grabbed him tightly by the neck and opened his jaw, bringing his teeth to the neck, where an artery was nervously pulsing.

"No!" little Jasio shouted, raising his head.

Witek brought his teeth to the neck, and his eyes took on a bloody color.

"Witek!"

At that moment, the boy loosened his grip and threw back the writer's head.

"That's how they'll get you..."

He walked back to where he had jumped to Karol.

Karol rubbed the pressure point, looking at the boy in disbelief.

After all, he had described such things in his books. Vampires, gargoyles, witches. The true horror he'd been writing about on sheets of paper was unfolding before his eyes.

"So you," he corrected himself, "are the good guys, right?

" "It seems so.

" "So who are the bad guys?"

Witek spread his wings as if he was uncomfortable sitting.

"Gargoyles."

The writer smiled faintly again.

"Yeah, that's a stupid question."

At that moment, little Johnny turned to Karol.

"Our parents were good gargoyles, and they defended the house from the bad ones three years ago.

" "Did they die?

" "Probably," Witek replied. "We don't know for sure. No one found their bodies."

The writer knew the answer, but not wanting to test the little gargoyle's composure, Johnny stood up and nodded to the older boy.

"Let's go to the kitchen.

" "Gargoyles cry?" he asked, surprised when he heard Jaś crying from the living room.

Witek shook his head and looked at Karol reproachfully.

"Sure," he grumbled, "we're a little stronger than you, but just as sensitive as you."

"I'm not crying," the writer shuddered.

Witek smiled and leaned into Karol's ear.

"Of course," he whispered, "it's the cats that meow in your apartment."

The writer could no longer hide his astonishment.

"What did you want to tell me?"

He scratched his head and looked at the young gargoyle standing before him.

"You don't know how you die, do you?" Karol asked

. "No. He's still alive," Witek replied, "and I intend to survive this night."

Karol stood on tiptoe to whisper in the boy's ear.

"You're crumbling into dust."

Witek jumped back as if struck by lightning and leaned against the kitchen cabinets.

"I don't believe it!" he shouted, covering his eyes.

"Yeah..." Karol muttered and left the kitchen with a wave of his hand. "What am I supposed to say?

" ***

"Where are they?" one of the creatures muttered, approaching his friend who was feasting on the woman from the second row.

He rose and stood almost at attention, folding his wings behind him

. "Wipe yourself, you idiot. I'm asking, where are they?" He approached the blood-stained gargoyle.

"I don't know, the Most High," he replied uncertainly.

The Most High glared at him. His eyes, whose blackness blended with the gray of his skin, instantly turned red.

"Moron," he muttered, turning away from his hungry companion and adding, "Food is just an addition to today's task. We have to find them! I don't intend to wait another three years!"

***

Karol paced around the room, trying to gather his thoughts. In the morning, he drank rolls of milk. The closer to midnight, the hungrier he became, and even a visit to the refrigerator didn't quell the hunger. How was that possible? He thought. Okay. They might be those... Gargoyles over there, but why was there a cross on the neck of the big one, I mean, Witek?

As he spoke, he took a close look at the object hanging from the boy's neck. On a thin, well-worn leather strap hung a cross. And not just any cross. Certainly not the kind you saw around the neck of the average resident of this country, who defiantly called himself a believer.

He heard shouts outside and the guttural voices of the Gargoyles talking outside the window. Until sunrise, if they didn't find them, they would survive. Of course, if the boys didn't get hungry.

He focused once more and began counting his steps between the mental intrusions that haunted him before writing his next book.

Despite its apparent significance, the cross appeared before Christian beliefs; he began to compose a prologue in his mind.

"Mr. Karol," Witek interrupted.

"Excuse me?

" "What did you just say?" The boy rose from the couch he'd been occupying for some time.

"Me?" he said, surprised.

"You were talking about it, so quietly." The boy approached him, touching the cross on the strap with his claw.

The writer grimaced slightly and swore under his breath, not hiding his anger at being unable to keep his mouth shut. Even when he was thinking.

"Yes. You're right." Now he had to share his thoughts with Witek. "What you have around your neck," he began, "is a cross, in case you didn't know. And not the typical Christian one that almost everyone in the area wears.

" "Right?" the boy asked in surprise, lifting it to his eyes with his claw.

"It's known that it's one of the oldest symbols of humanity," Karol continued, "known in most ancient religions. Every major civilization you've read about had objects bearing this symbol. It was usually associated with a form of worship of the forces of nature."

"But from what I've read," the boy interrupted, "vampires and gargoyles are afraid of crosses."

"That's true, and they certainly are," Karol replied, "and I hope we won't have to find out."

Wings fluttered outside the window. Karol quickly ran to the lamp next to the armchair and turned it off. In a whisper, he ordered the boys to hide.

"Silence!" He put a finger to his lips.

He looked at Witek and almost jumped with fear. The gargoyle's eyes glowed red, and in the darkness they looked even more monstrous. He looked at Jaś. The same. Only this time he had expected such a sight.

Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass, and with a gust of wind a winged creature flew into the room. Twice the size of the boys, and what's more, its blood-red eyes illuminated almost half the living room.

"I know you're here!" A guttural voice cut through the living room so forcefully that a scratch appeared on the hallway mirror.

A gargoyle twice the size of the ones the writer had seen today paced the floor of the room, carefully looking around.

Witek's eyes flashed in the darkness, which Karol noticed and immediately cowered in a corner.

What happened next changed the writer's life profoundly.

***

"Hello?"

Karol sat comfortably in his armchair. The sun was shining outside. A week had passed since those events, and he had just spoken to his publisher, proudly informing him that he had a finished manuscript for his novel.

"You can throw that one away," he smiled into the receiver.

Just a week ago, he watched in horror as two gargoyles fought. He saw blood and gnawed human remains scattered in the courtyard of his building. He accidentally kicked the head of a woman from building four, who rolled at the feet of that foul-smelling gargoyle. What saved him from certain death now hangs around his neck.

Witek managed to throw it at him at the last moment. Even though he was winning against the Most High, he knew he had to completely transform, which resulted in him removing the cross from his neck. Little Johnny was too young to become a true gargoyle. With a single throw, the Most High smashed him against the wall. He crumbled to dust, falling to the floor in the wind. When Witek saw this, he decided on the worst. If the Most High won, he would reappear in another three years, and blood would flow down the building's facade. What protected him from becoming a demon ended up in the writer's hands.

"Yes, I'm sure," he said into the receiver, twirling the cross hanging around his neck between his fingers.

It would protect him now.

It had to. If the second gargoyle hadn't scratched him downstairs in front of the building, he wouldn't have written the novel in a week. He wouldn't be in such good health. Everything's fine. Except for one thing. When he sits and writes, he gets a strange itch between his shoulder blades.

"It's going to itch anyway," muttered a newspaper that flew past the writer's eyes.

A hand slowly appeared attached to the newspaper, and behind it, the silhouette of the boy who died a week ago in apartment number five. At least, that's what the police determined.

"Coffee?" Witek suggested

. "With pleasure," Karol replied, rising from his chair. "With the greatest pleasure."