3

 

 

"Yes, Mr. Village Head," 3jaja said proudly. "The fight was fierce, but I won!" The gengar is dead. I expect payment in jingling coins.

"Son of a bitch," the village headman growled. "And what have you done!?

" "What's your point?

" "What? About killing our only tourist attraction, you idiot! Now no one will come to us! Didn't you know gengars are protected?

" "What protection? The innkeeper said—

" "Oh yes!" the village headman interrupted. "I knew it was him. He always talks like that, that's his mother! Foxes are eating his cattle, but he won't build 

" "3jaja, where are we going?"

The witcher didn't answer. He decided never to answer again. Inside, he was boiling with growing rage. All because of that incompetent scoundrel, Bajdel! He killed the gengar with his goat-like singing! What a cephalopod.

The poet, as usual, was muttering under his breath about boorishness, witchcraft upbringing, and peasant rudeness. Screw Bajdel. 3jaja, on the other hand, daydreamed sweetly. He imagined he'd just reached the Register of Secret Societies. Every dark organization in Alaspasia was listed there. There, one could find information about the Shadow Cooks, the Society of Undead Troubadours, and even the terrifying and disturbing Magical Association. If an association wasn't listed, it was either completely public or unworthy of attention. But Bajdel didn't need to know that.

"3jaja, where's Bydlino?

What's Bydlino up to? Does he have a mistress there, a Poet of the Year competition, or something?" Or maybe he doesn't want to go there, maybe he sang about the mayor being a drunkard and a debauchee, and now on the wall of every house there's a wanted poster with Bajdel's face, decorated with a mustache painted on by unruly children?

"Well, you know," the poet continued, undaunted. He loved listening to the sound of his own voice. He probably held long monologues in front of the mirror. He didn't care if anyone was listening or not. "In Bydlino, a friend of mine is writing down all these evil organizations; you could look there up those Fonklices..."

By the Cracks of the Old Man, does he have to know everything? A man like him should be a secret agent, not a poet! Psotka thought so too. They didn't listen to the musician anymore. The witcher was busy talking to the mare, and Bajdel was talking to himself, probably composing a new ballad or complaining about the state of the roads.

Finally, the brave travelers reached Bydlino. It was a rather large town, surrounded by stone walls. Inside, brick buildings rose. Anyone could get in, for Bydlino welcomed all newcomers, potential buyers of its famous vinegar. Once upon a time, cheap wine was produced here, making even seasoned drinkers puke, even those who remembered the days when cats pissed into poorly sealed beer barrels. Back then, your stomach would turn inside out after the first sip of the vile beverage. Then, they started adding the essence of black dragon's breath to alcohol, and no animal dared touch it again. In this case, your stomach shared the animals' opinion. Finally, the alchemist Ładzia, a lover of good fruit wines, came to town and advised people to produce vinegar instead of wine. There was no need to spend money on dragon essence anymore, and no one worried about something going sour. The alchemist, in turn, made a fortune and was able to pay the tax on moonshine production.

"Thanks to moonshine, Ładzia has lived for 100 years," Bajdel boasted, boasting of his knowledge of gossip, "and she looks only 95.

" But they weren't going to visit the alchemist. Instead, they headed towards the western edge of the city, where the Register towered majestically. Pushing through the crowds of townspeople hurrying to the market, they finally reached their destination. A two-story wooden building, crowned with shapeless sculptures shaped like potato peels, stood before them. It was surrounded by a neglected garden, where tame guinea pigs roamed. The animals sniffed 3jaja's shoes. They clearly considered the witcher a friendly creature, as they began rubbing against his legs and squealing with delight. Of course, the pigs weren't pets here, but rather vigilant sentries, alerting to intruders. Information about secret societies could easily fall into the wrong hands. Fortunately, Bajdel and 3jaja seemed honest and were let in without issue.

Soon they were standing before a solid door. The brass knocker was shaped like a dragon's head... or maybe a wyvern? The witcher thought for a moment, but couldn't guess. He would ask the owner at the next opportunity. Meanwhile, the poet knocked on the door. 3jaja lost sight of the enigmatic knocker. In its place was a faded frock coat speckled with goulash stains. A little above it, a vast bald head, covered with age-related discoloration, gleamed proudly. Halfway between the frog's head and the tailcoat, stretched a wrinkled face with a sharp, sack-rimmed gaze and a few days' stubble.

"Hello, sir," Bajdel greeted, "my friend has something to find here

." 3jaja blushed, which didn't escape the old man's notice.

"Oh, don't be such an elven maiden. You'll find anything you want here." Even about dwarven escort agencies... well, I'm here talking, and I haven't introduced myself. I'm a file.

"I'm 3jaja, nice

to meet you." "Well, now that we've completed the formalities, let's go in. I'll bring the wine right away."

The man shuffled deeper into the house, while the poet entered the vestibule. The witcher carefully wiped his elven shoes and also stepped over the threshold. Inside, the smell of dust, characteristic of old libraries, filled the air.

After a moment, the clatter of dishes and quiet humming could be heard.

"Come, friends!" the old

man called, but 3jaja wouldn't let himself be told. He moved hesitantly toward the room from which the sounds came. He found himself in a small room, in the center of which reigned a table with broken legs, covered with a tablecloth embroidered with pink flowers. A wooden plate of delicious-looking cookies and three pewter mugs, arranged in artistic disarray, topped the work. A carafe of wine stood in a place of honor. Plik and Bajdel were already sitting on the rickety chairs. They were engaged in a conversation about the role of poetry in winning women. 3jaja preferred not to interrupt them, as he knew little about the subject himself. Even if he wanted to seduce a woman, she wouldn't let herself be seduced. Since he couldn't intervene, he sat down on a chair and crossed his legs. The poet continued the conversation:

"It's not like if you sing a ballad about unrequited love, the chick belongs to you. I had this elf once, I gave her moonshine with poppy juice, flowers, and other such trinkets, and she wouldn't give herself to me. So I sang an elf song, and you know, there's no sex in their songs, just nature and butterflies...

" "And she finally gave it to me?

" "Oh, she gave it to me, and how! And all I had to do was undress her!"

"I had one like that once... A beautiful nymph, but compliments and kisses didn't work on her. Once I just got angry and dragged her into the bushes, and then, instead of running away, she started... oh, I can't. I still blush when I think about it. Anyway, it was amazing. Some people need a little violence!"

What cruel men, thought 3jaja. They treat ladies like objects! He, too, had once thought this was right. How wrong he was... There were no women in Mukhetootha, the witcher's stronghold. Until the age of 16, her pupils considered them mythical creatures from strange fairy tales. Later, the future witchers would sneak out at night to a remote village and observe peasants sleeping in haystacks. Then 3jaja, the newly minted monster annihilator, met a filthy old gnome. Maybe he didn't recognize her, but he grabbed something loose. The woman turned out to be familiar with magical practices and shot him with a Magic Ball. It hurt. From then on, 3jaja behaved like a gentleman. Soon he met Jane Achonen and paid no attention to other women (apart from a few underage girls who asked for it).

The witcher, bliss written all over his face, reached for the cookie. It smelled of nuts, honey, and something else. Something sweet, elusive.

Like jasmine and blueberries.

3jaja sighed and took a bite. The cake tasted like the legendary Amberosia, the Face's favorite dish. It was so crisp and delicate, melting in your mouth, leaving a delicate flavor that caressed the palate.

"You like it!" the old man exclaimed, "everyone loves my baked goods because I add a pinch of dust from old books."

The divine flavor suddenly began to resemble the wart of an unwashed goblin.

The witcher hastily reached for the carafe. He sipped the wine until the crunching grit cleared his throat. The drink tasted quite good. It was strong and semi-dry, pleasantly cooling and heady. 3jaja hadn't noticed before he'd already drained the container halfway. He didn't care. He licked his lips and set the carafe down on the table.

"Ho ho!" File thundered. "Do you like the wine too? And drink to your health. It's almost calorie-free and sodium benzoate-free, because I made it myself from spiderwebs grown among books."

3jaja felt his colon perform breakneck synchronized swimming, his stomach twisting. But his esophagus curled inward, so as not to upset the kind old man. Just to avoid looking at those abominations...

" "Let's go see something about this organization,"

File asked. He agreed, and the three of them marched up the worm-infested stairs. The entire floor was transformed into a vast library. On carefully dusted shelves lay volumes, grimoires, and hefty tomes with yellowing pages, bound in leather. How could anyone find anything here?

Bajdel repeated 3jaj's doubts aloud. The old man only smiled and led them to a strange device. It was composed of a crystal ball, a board adorned with ancient runes, a white mouse in a cage, and a gray box sparkling with colorful, magical lights. The old man grabbed one of them, and suddenly the ball glowed, and inside appeared the image of a door. Above it was written in the Elder Speech: MACROCHARD DORS 80

"What's that?" Bajdel asked, surprised. He must have seen a great wonder, for the poet was difficult to unsettle.

"COMP," File replied calmly.

"What?

" "The Crystalline Circuit of Universal Magic." COMPUTER.

"Does it do something?

" "Indeed, it does a lot. Thanks to it, I can find the contents of any book by typing a single word. I can talk to the inhabitants of all of Alaspasia, as long as they have a computer! Or I can send a message to my friends and arrange a role-playing game session.

Bajdel had heard of RPGs before. It involved a few people getting together and choosing the stupidest of them, the Master of Stupidity, by secret vote. He then directed the fates of players, who took on the roles of messengers of the future, and ordered them to roll dice. Alaspazja's most popular system was Cyberskin 1969. The action took place in a world dominated by savage skinheads from the Słupia River. RPG maniacs could spend all night playing adventures like "bring a beer to the Bald" and imaginatively killing mythical cyborgs or unimaginably terrifying monsters from the future—hippies. Battles involved players rolling dice on the table, and the GM interpreting the result as they pleased. You could also hit the GM and be devoured by the bailiff with a +3 Bag the next time.

But invite them to such a session with a message...

"Message!" 3jaja remembered. "Can you send mail to those who don't have a computer? Can you send them Fonklic?"

"No, why do you ask?

" "I want to know who's sending Fonklic!

" "Well, look."

With that, he took the mouse out of its cage, grabbed it by the ear, and pulled its tail. Something thundered in the sphere, glowed, and strange symbols began to jump out inside. The old man tapped a word on the tablet, probably "Fonklic." The box rattled. Finally, some text appeared in the sphere.

"Hit, sunk!" File shouted. "We've got them! Self-attack from Żelkowo. Book 633, page 402.

" "Żelkowo is here! A sausage throw from Bydlin!" Bajdel rejoiced. "We'll kill them and find powerful artifacts!"

The poet took the book from the shelf and began leafing through it.

"Here it is! I found it! Here, witcher, read it!"

3jaja blushed.

— But you know, I can't see very well without my glasses... and it's written so unclearly...

"Can't you just tell me you can't read? I understand that some people come from the lower classes and haven't had the opportunity to learn!

Bajdel believed that if someone could read, they were immediately a nobleman. The poet himself was, in fact, the son of an impoverished nobleman and the matron of a brothel. He grew up in his mother's workplace and was taught to read and write solely so he could keep accounts. Courtesans adored the red-haired boy and would talk to him all day. He was the only male who didn't treat them like whores. That's why they confided in him all their problems. Of course, Bajdel was a child then, and as he grew older, he eagerly visited whores, using his boyhood experience to seduce women.

The poet lifted his already snub nose and read in a proud voice:

"Samoatak: an organization based in Żelkowo, established in 1974, founded by A. Rzeper; specialization: production of fonklices, road blockades, turnip cultivation; Samoatak has 17 members"... hee hee, what a slaughter it will be! "

Slaughterhouse"—he spat three eggs onto the fluffy carpet with saliva still stained by the cookie.

And they both laughed devilishly.

To call Żelkowo a backwater would be to insult all the other backwaters of the world. For the five cottages leaning around the well, there was no name. That's why the place was called Żelkowo, and the name meant pink piglets frolicking with children in the yard, an endless field of turnips, and picturesque old women weaving shapeless rugs.

When the two mysterious visitors, one green-haired with a menacing sword, the other elegant astride a matted gelding, arrived at the settlement, its inhabitants didn't even notice them. In other places, Bajdel and 3jaja were either greeted as heroes (when the witcher slew a monster or the poet had admirers there) or had tomatoes and lettuce thrown at them (when the witcher refused to pay taxes or the poet composed a couplet about the local hero's small penis).

But Bajdel wouldn't be Bajdel if he hadn't devised a way to attract attention. He ran up to an old woman sitting on a bench in front of the cottage and yelled in her ear, "Wake up! The guests have arrived!" The old woman merely glanced sideways at the musician and returned to the half-sleep state she had been in moments before.

"They're as crippled as those Fonklics here," the musician declared. "We'd better get away from here, or she'll get us!"

Suddenly, a dirty boy, about six years old, emerged from behind the hut. There wouldn't have been anything unusual about the child if he had even a shred of clothing on.

"Grandma's deaf as a post, she didn't hear what you were saying," he said politely.

"Yes, we saw it, but we wanted to make sure," 3jaja explained. "Listen, boy, do you happen to know where Mr. Rzeper lives? We'd really like to meet him."

The child's mouth dropped open in astonishment, revealing a collection of impressive gaps in his teeth and a record-breaking accumulation of cavities.

"I wish I knew! There's no Rzepier here.

" "What do you mean there isn't?" Bajdel asked, surprised. "And who makes Fonklic?"

3jaja thought Geralt would spontaneously spring from his vagina and slit the poet's throat. Talking about Fonklic in public is like... well, anyway, they could hang you for it. Or at least put Fonklic in beer.

But the child reacted completely differently than the witcher expected. Villagers can be unpredictable, like a cow let into a tavern.

"Couldn't you just go there? Go there."

He pointed to a cottage no different from any other. The same filth, the same neglected yard.

Meanwhile, the child had disappeared, and his friends were left to fend for themselves. What could they do? They tied the horses to the fence, though they feared someone might steal them and turn them into rocking horses or beef tenderloin.

The closer 3jaja got to the door, the more uneasy he felt. He could already feel the icy breath of the Fonklics on the back of his neck. But he wasn't afraid. Fear is something witchers don't know. They don't know.

They don't know!

Somewhat comforted by this thought, he pushed against the door with all his might. He thought it was bolted shut; after all, dangerous things were happening behind it, things mortal eyes had no right to witness. Meanwhile, the entrance stood wide open. 3jaja learned this when he landed on the floorboards with the broken door.

"Careful, you'll get dust in my hair!" Bajdel squealed. The witcher brushed off the supposed dust and looked around the room. It had no windows; the only light came in a narrow stream through a hole in the roof. Piles of papers were piled on the broken shelves. On the large, roughly constructed table, larvae crawled, white as a princess's panties. Insects of the same color sat on the ceiling. The entire room was filled with the flutter of hundreds of tiny wings. The stench of stale meat hung in the air.

Bajdel felt a cold sweat run down his back. Only after a moment, seeing that the owner of the establishment was probably not home, did he straighten up and raise his head. But he was still hiding behind the witcher.

The witcher, in turn, was carefully observing the suspicious worms. They reminded him of something.

When he remembered, it was too late.

Fonklice!

As soon as he uttered the thoughtful word, a man, probably A. Rzeper, entered the room. His face resembled a turnip that had been lying in the sun too long. He was no different from other farmers in this respect; his skin was tanned and brown, and his hands were calloused from work. However, there was a small detail in his appearance that set him apart from the peasants, something the witcher knew well. It wasn't the weapon the peasant carried on his back; in these dangerous times, most would spend everything on the flimsiest sword. It was his eyes.

The man's eyes were brown.

3jaja froze in fear. He couldn't oppose him; the witcher's code forbade it, and besides, Rzeper was much older than him and would surely win. The peasant, seeing the witcher's stupefaction, hesitated for a moment, but finally decided to fight. From its leather sheath, he drew a heavy, gleaming silver pitchfork. He gripped the tool like a two-handed sword, baring his yellowed teeth in a monstrous grimace.

"Death to you, city folk," he hissed in a country accent.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not a city folk," 3jaja replied. "I was raised in Mukhetootha. So you see, I'm a witcher like you, so why are you attacking me?

" "Me? I think a cow got your ear caught. I'm a peasant and I protect the countryside from the likes of you. You think because you're from the city, you can do whatever you want, run riot here, kill innocent monsters, buy up our lands and build modern pigsties, put Tazmanian farmers out of work, and bring in filthy dwarves!

A peasant isn't a witcher, so you can kill." 3jaja, heartened by this thought, reached for Geralt. As soon as he felt the coolness of the perfectly balanced hilt, a pleasant warmth enveloped his body. He knew how to fight. He had killed many times.

Turnip, however, stood as unmoved as a rock. He wasn't afraid of the green-haired youth. He wasn't impressed by the magic sword or the significant scar. Over thirty-seven years of fighting, he had learned to judge an opponent by their fighting skills, not by their muscle mass or menacing gaze. In principle, those who glared the most and wielded the largest swords fell the quickest. Besides, the heavier the axe, the weaker the head, the sages said.

Of course, 3jaja didn't care what impression he made on his opponent. With a certain amount of nonchalance, he grabbed Geralt with his left hand and executed a precise whirligig over the peasant's head. Then he grabbed the sword in both hands and began tossing it up to the very ceiling of the hut, ensuring it always landed headfirst, because that way it could be caught elegantly. To conclude the demonstration, he struck Turnip in the throat with the flat of his sword, making a sound similar to a frog's croaking. The witcher smiled from ear to ear and bowed acrobatically.

Turnip watched these antics with pity. He didn't attack, however. Thirty-seven years of experience had taught him not to rush. He who strikes the first blow meets the gods first, the sages said.

3jaja didn't believe in gods, so he eagerly engaged in battle. He slashed from below, aiming for the stomach. However, the peasant, with the agility of a country cat in heat, leaped aside. The witcher whizzed through the air. He was about to stagger and fall, but with considerable difficulty he managed to brace himself on Geralt's blade. This moment of weakness was exploited by Turnip, who stabbed his opponent in the chest. A split second before the fatal blow, 3jaja managed to dodge, but didn't have time to withdraw his hand. He watched in horror as three blades mercilessly approached his wrist.

The cold steel and the numbness of dead tissue. And then a searing pain, as if the pitchfork had been laced with poison. The witcher struggled to open his closed eyelids and looked in horror at the place where his hand had once been.

It was still there.

Not even a scratch. The prongs of the weapon had missed his hand, passing by. The witcher breathed a sigh of relief. However, he was not destined to rejoice in his good health. The furious peasant wasn't about to let him off the hook. Roaring something in the village dialect, he swung the rake at the three eggs. The witcher was shocked; he stood no chance. His skull would likely have been crushed by the agricultural weapon if Bajdel hadn't intervened. So far, no one had deigned to notice him. So he stood quietly in the corner, not interfering with the fight. But now he remembered a spell a sorceress friend had once taught him. He remembered, he had a fondness for that spell. It was called the Burning Stone, and it could ignite the victim's hair. Nothing more, but the poet knew no other spells.

He began to utter an incantation with uncertainty. "Ameviem odoeghn vudnidig nead!"

As soon as the ancient words sounded in his mouth, a thick, light gray fog enveloped the peasant. Rzeper angrily shouted what he thought of Bajdel's mother. It was true, so the musician took no offense. The peasant, on the other hand, shouted ever new curses, associated with beets torn from the plow and anuses stuffed with pumpkins. Finally, he fell silent unexpectedly. It turned out the spell hadn't harmed him. Fake magic.

However, it allowed the three eggs to recover. He straightened and lifted Geralt for a fatal blow. But before the sword fell heavily on his enemy's shoulder, Rzeper tried to strike the witcher. Instead, he aimed his pitchfork from the floor, making a large hole. The peasant's head hit the boards with a loud crash. The sound of bones cracking, a soft smacking sound, and then a terrifying silence enveloped the entire room. Neither 3jaja nor even Bajdel felt inclined to speak. They were worried whether their opponent was truly dead.

All signs pointed to it. A growing pool of blood lay around the corpse. The body was growing stiffer and colder. You could push your fingers into Turnip's eyes and he wouldn't even make a sound. He was as dead as a corpse. Well, thirty-seven years of experience isn't much compared to billions of years of magic.

"What did you cast on him?" 3jaja asked after a moment.

"I don't know?" Bajdel replied, a bit confused. "Definitely not Burning Stone, hehe. Wait... oh, I know, it was... I can't, but I'm an agent. Central!

Oh gods, even the poet has started using dwarven taunts. As if you couldn't learn hard work from bearded men. But no, today's youth only have to adopt bad habits.

" "What?" the musician grumbled in response to his friend's bleak look. "Oh, yes. You know what, I cast a Force on him! Good, right?" He was so strong that he punched the man in the face with all his might!

The witcher didn't find this funny. One must remain serious at critical moments. So, instead of looking through other people's correspondence lying on the shelves, he busied himself searching the peasant's body. He found a bulb of garlic, a sacred symbol of some village deity, a pocket knife, and a letter. Could Turnip be reading?

"Yes, I know," Bajdel laughed, "you forgot your pince-nez and want me to read it. Here you go."

3 eggs, red with embarrassment, handed the poet a crumpled piece of paper, stained with blood and urine. The letter read:

Dear Friend!

The time has come for this event to take place. I ask you to come immediately, for no one motivates our team to fight like you do. We will show the dwarves what we are capable of! I have a new secret weapon: the dribbled pass. See you in Bierkowo on the Day of the Sly Wolf.

Your Aen'Ghel

. "What's that again?" the witcher asked in surprise. "There's going to be a battle! The people want to conquer the dwarven tribe by giving them Fonklice. Let's hurry to Bierków, save the world! What is Sly Wolf Day?

" "The common folk call days so strangely because they don't know the numbers. Peasants. Or Sly Wolf, or Red Mammoth. What difference does it make? We can go to Bierków for a beer... that's it, we're out of here."

3jaja grabbed the poet by the tailcoat

. "What do you want?" the musician got offended.

The witcher gave him the peasant's pitchfork and gestured for him to watch what would happen next. He grabbed Geralt and, with a wild scream, charged at Fonklice. The monsters were too small for the sword to hit them, but they fled, stressed, to the four corners of the world so as not to cause any more harm. The poet enjoyed this game very much. He hefted the heavy weapon and began chasing the insects in a frenzied fury. And even the pitchfork wasn't too heavy for him!

The fonklice soon scattered like tadpoles fleeing a puddle from a stinking dwarf's boot. The task could be considered accomplished. Time to set off for Bierkowo!