2

 Sorry, the pork knuckle is out," said the obese innkeeper, wiping his clay mug. The man looked as a true innkeeper should, with a ruddy, chubby face, a prominent beer belly, and a black mustache in which cockroaches had made a nest. But what good is that if there was no pork knuckle! The witcher's world was in ruins.

"Maybe there's lamb?" asked 3jaja timidly. "Or a clay loin? Or at least those disgusting dwarven cham-bürgers?

" "No, sir," the fat man said, embarrassed, "we have nothing now. Only beans with marjoram..."

"What kind of innkeeper are you that you don't even have meat? Can't you send someone to hunt some?"

"Look around, sir, and tell me, could anyone from here possibly venture into the forest in such dangerous times?"

The witcher obediently began scanning the room. If it weren't for the infravision, he wouldn't have seen a thing, as the window panes were covered in a layer of dust from the Green smoke. Amid the fumes, the village crowd partied: peasants with straw sticking out of their shoes, village girls with perky bottoms, brats pretending to be adults by attaching false mustaches. Such people knew how to use a pitchfork, not a sword. They probably never held one in their lives. But pigs probably knew how to beat, just like their wives knew how to make excellent sausages. So what was the problem?

"Oh yes," the innkeeper stammered, seeing the astonishment on 3eggs' face, "I'm sure you're thinking now: why don't they slaughter a piglet? Well, there simply aren't any piglets. There aren't any animals anymore.

" "What do you mean now?" the witcher asked, "Were things different back then?

" "If you could have guessed! Since when did those gengars appear...

" "Gengars? Small, hairy, stinking, blue-eyed, and big-footed?

" "Yes, exactly like that. You're well informed! And those gengars devoured all the cattle, chickens, and pigs. Not a single chicken survived! A real tragedy, I say.

" "Calm down! I'll kill them, I'm a witcher."

As soon as he said that, everyone in the inn turned to him. Some began whispering, others made sounds of disgust. 3eggs felt uncomfortable. They'll lynch me soon, he thought. Meanwhile, the atmosphere was as tense as a woman on her period.

"I just wanted to help you!" the witcher shouted. "I wanted to kill the gengar so you'd be safe! So your children could play in peace and so you wouldn't have to constantly check on the goings-on outside while you were having sex! Does wanting to help now earn me hateful stares and mocking laughter? Shame on you! Do you think that just because I'm a witcher, I have no feelings? But yes, I am a witcher and I'm proud of it! If you don't want help, kiss your asses!"

The inn's guests froze. They didn't know how to react to 3jaj's flowery speech, full of spontaneous displays of emotion. So they simply stared at each other, waiting for someone to break the ominous silence. Finally, a blond girl with a distant look rose from behind the table and staggered toward the witcher.

"We apologize, sir," she said quietly, "it's rare for someone like that to come to our settlement. So don't be angry, sir, we're truly sorry. "

Saying this, she kissed him on the cheek. Applause and shouts of joy rang out.

"Beer for him! And call the bard, let him sing a song!"

"I'll go get the bard," offered an anemic peasant, guzzling wine straight from the jug. "He's probably snoring somewhere up there. Cursed half-elves, if only they could sleep all day."

Oh, a half-elf! 3jaja began to daydream. Meanwhile, the innkeeper offered him a beer, but the witcher didn't even look at the drink. He was in a dreamland where beer wasn't necessary. Instead, there was a handsome half-elf with large blue eyes and golden hair flowing in soft waves over his shoulders. In his slender, smooth hands, he held a beautifully crafted lute and, in a clear, melodic voice, sang a moving song about the great deeds of legendary figures. The words of the song were filled with the roar of the ocean, the sounds of battles where the fate of the world was decided. The sweet melody resounded with the trills of hundreds of birds.

Suddenly, the witcher was torn from his reverie. A voice, as if from afar, brought him back to reality.

I'll tell you a story about an old lake

, which no man can see .

Seeing only the silver surface of the water,

it transforms, whether old or young ,

into a rotting, stinking, worm-infested body

, where hydrogen sulfide is abundant and protein is scarce

. The voice seemed familiar. 3jaja looked at the bard. What he saw terrified him greatly. Had a beautiful dream turned into a nasty nightmare? Instead of the expected handsome blond, a large, broad-shouldered humanoid with greenish skin and pointed ears sat on the table. His facial features were remarkably delicate, contrasting sharply with his yellow fangs and flat, potato-shaped nose. The creature wore a rustic linen shirt and tight purple velvet trousers, accentuating the powerful muscles of his legs.

Which half of him was an elf? 3jaja thought, because surely not the outer half!

When the man finished singing, he asked the witcher for a word. The villagers nodded understandingly. "Two changelings have made a good match."

"Is it true you're half elf?" 3jaja asked bluntly as soon as they were alone.

The humanoid's face turned a rotten green, which meant he was probably blushing.

"Well... yes," he replied after a moment's thought, "but it's not my fault I look like this! My father was walking through the forest one day, unarmed, because he only wanted to listen to the birdsong, when suddenly a female troll attacked him and dragged him into the bushes! I didn't want to look like that! My soul is elven, after all, just trapped in this hideous body!

" "I understand," 3jaja sighed, patting him on the back. "I had no choice either. No one asked me if I wanted to become a witcher, and now people look at my green hair instead of my true heart." But what can we do? We have to fight monotypes, because even though we're all different, we should be equal!

— Oh, 3jaja, you're great at talking when you want! I think I'll compose a ballad about intolerance.

As he spoke, the bard suddenly began to shrink. His skin changed color and his fangs disappeared. The creature became a man. And what a man! Not only did he have red hair, but his trousers remained tight. The witcher had dispelled all doubts. The man standing before him was Bajdel, the most surprising and infuriating musician and poet in the world, and his friend, depending on how much beer he drank.

"You... how did you do it?" 3jaja whispered with difficulty.

"Oh, silly," Bajdel cackled. "I was fed up with all these women harassing me, so I changed my appearance. You have these acquaintances with beautiful sorceresses. Now everyone listens to me willingly, but women won't dare touch me!

" "Have you noticed that as soon as I enter an inn or even a beer stand, I always have to meet you there?"

"No, but I noticed"—the poet emphasized the word strongly—"that you have to kill some gengars and you don't want to take your friend with you!

" "And how am I supposed to take you? In that form, the beetles die at the sight of you, and you can't show yourself in this form, because what will you tell people?

" "Okay, tell them you lifted the spell of an evil witch or something. After all, you're a witch, aren't you?

" "I can't believe I took you with me," 3jaja complained to Bajdel, "you're making a terrible noise, and we have to surprise them!"

The noise was caused by the poet wearing beautiful blue slippers, the latest fashion among Tazmania's artistic circles. Unfortunately, they were simply not suitable for sneaking around.

"Someone will be here at this hour! Normal people are asleep now!"

The witcher, of course, didn't reply. Arguing with Bajdel was not a pleasant activity. The musician always managed to prove his point. He wouldn't be convinced by words like, "You're so stupid! Most monsters hunt at dawn, while idiots like you roam the forest like a flock of mackerel, begging to be devoured."

"Come on, witch, don't be angry," said the poet, seeing his friend's sour expression. "Relax! Look at what a beautiful day has arrived and rejoice with the larks!"

The day was indeed promising. Dewdrops lay on the moss like virgins' tears. The air was saturated with moisture and freshness. Cheerful chinchillas hopped on the tree branches. Wild boars and polecats frolicked in the bushes, searching together for fallen acorns and spurge roots. The shiny flowers of the limp weed opened their blue heads, feeling the life-giving rays of the sun. The forces of darkness fled to hollows and dens, taking their undeserved rest, already thinking about the next night, filled with bloodshed and hatred. In the sunlight, the world seemed safer... but appearances were deceptive.

But 3jaja didn't notice the beauty of nature. He was too absorbed in observing a strange footprint in the grass. The witcher suspected it belonged to a gengar. There were specks of dirt on the blades, and the area around it smelled of farm animals. The witcher was thrilled to discover that the footprint was still warm.

"Yes, yes, fascinating," Bajdel said ironically. "Who cares about some stupid footprint!?

" "Go play somewhere else! You're bothering me!

" The poet flew into a rage. He shook his head, began jumping up and down, and flailed his arms. He resembled a chicken trying to fly. But instead of flying (he couldn't because he didn't drink the dwarven moonshine of Krasny Bysior, which gives you wings), he spat on the footprint, dug it up, and stood beside it with his arms crossed.

"You stupid brat!" 3jaja shouted. "What have you done?"

The witcher tried to sniff the remnants of the print, trying to determine from the scent and percentage of copper atoms which direction the monster had gone. But all he smelled was Bajdel's perfume, scented with buttercups. The poet always smelled like that. Whenever a room reeked of buttercups, all the women fainted, knowing their beloved bard would soon enter.

"So that's who you are! You'd rather kill me than save the trail of some dirty monster!"

3jaja fell over. He laughed and laughed, rolling on the ground, soiling his clothes, and squashing insects that hadn't managed to escape. Bajdel kept stirring up new emotions. It would be funnier to find a man with a candle (candles had recently gone up in price, so no one would do that).

The poet, too, laughed like a horse and a mink. He lifted the witcher from the ground, dusted him off, and hugged him in a bear hug.

They hugged and kissed in token of unbreakable friendship, and meanwhile, all around them, the clatter of flat feet, inarticulate calls, and squeaks echoed. The air filled with the stench of corpses, blood, and butyric acid. The birds stopped singing. They had arrived!

They would come from everywhere, unseen,

clothed in the black cloak of night,

long since declared dead.

Your every thought will wound you,

even your every whisper will

betray you. You perish! Only death is visible. It sows

madness and despair . It raises its

claws ,

ready to strike. It is

the ruler of your fate

. Beautiful, cruel, and vile

. It has brought you here

to the bloody sacrificial altar.

Scream! Beg! Nothing will save you now

, Bajdel recited in one breath. 3jaja, meanwhile, grabbed Geralt and assumed a position from which he could easily strike and simultaneously dodge. With a sinister glint in his eye, he looked like a valiant warrior.

"Come out of hiding, you vile creatures!" he thundered.

Then, as if on cue, monsters began to leap from the thicket. There were a dozen of them, each armed with fangs and claws. They looked truly terrifying. Their bodies were bulging, hairy, and blue, their large, unwashed feet with six toes, and their grasping, gnarled hands. Large, yellow eyes looked askance at the world. They immediately surrounded 3jaja and Bajdla. The poet, without hesitation, picked up a stick from the ground and swung it at the nearest gengar. It connected. The creature somersaulted straight at the witcher. The witcher, surprised, froze, and thus the gengar impaled itself on Geralt's point. Blood spurted profusely, like red rain.

Meanwhile, another monster began biting 3jaja's leg. The witcher kicked him in the jaw and began jumping on his skull. Something crunched and crackled, until finally only red goo remained, here and there flecked with blue fur. The remaining gengar were furious and began to attack their enemy with redoubled fury. 3jaja defended himself fiercely, gracefully parrying blows and elegantly severing heads, like a skilled manicurist trimming her nails. He spun in a mad dance where death was the orchestra, and his sword begged for a final fight. He saw blood everywhere, regardless of whether it was his own or the monsters'. He wanted more. He slashed and slashed, striking everything that came his way. He and Geralt, locked in a battle embrace, the rough hilt, silver glints before their eyes, red flowing smoothly down the blade. The opponents were gone now, but the blade hadn't finished its work yet. It sliced ​​until 3jaja finally satisfied its slicing desire. He stood alone in the wilderness, exhausted, his clothes soaked in blood, but happy. His thoughts turned to the skies...

"3jaja, they're really coming!" a cry rang out

. The witcher shook himself from his reverie. He looked around. No sign of the gengar bodies, no gore on the pure greenery; Geralt sat calmly in his scabbard. He had to give in to his dreams again.

And then he saw him .

The creature had two rows of sharp-edged yellow fangs, dripping red foam. From its round, blue-haired body hung thin, long arms with curved claws. Bloodshot, slanting eyes stared directly at 3jaja. Their gazes met at the same level.

The witcher closed his eyes. He grabbed Geralt and slashed backhandedly. The monster jumped back at the last moment. Then 3jaja swung, trying to stab the gengar in the carotid artery. The blade whistled through the air, blue tufts swirling, but the creature made a three-quarter turn and found itself right next to the three eggs. With a powerful blow, he knocked him to the ground. He tried to tear the witcher's body with his claws, but instead he only staggered and collapsed unconscious into the grass.

"I hit!" Bajdel exclaimed with joy.

A stone lay next to the monster. But the gengar was still breathing. But the poet seemed unaware. He pulled a harp from his robes and intoned a song: "

The enemies are defeated,

and we are victorious."

Glory awaits us.

Honey and booze.

Hey, hey-oh-hey.

Honey and booze.

Perhaps the song didn't soar to the heights of artistry and artistic genius, even for a drunken old man, but it wasn't composed to delight with carefully selected, golden rhymes and a wealth of stylistic devices. Legend has it that the warriors of Belville sang it after their victory over the dark forces. That was precisely its purpose—to emerge from a thousand roaring throats of tough warriors. Otherwise...

"By the Great Revolution! His ears are moldy!" screamed 3jaja

. Indeed, the monster's auditory organs began to ripple and become covered with a gray coating. It stank of shit. After a moment, instead of the gengar, there lay a puddle of brown slime.