5

 They paid as much for a night's lodging as a week would have cost in a normal inn in normal times. But before the war, avarice intensified, and as usual, the working people suffered, not only earning less, but paying even more. O sweet day of the Revolution...

3jaja didn't have much time to dream about that day; he was disturbed by the screams and the feeling that a donkey's tail was directly above his head. What's more, Bajdel snored to the rhythm of the melody "To Battle, Old Man." All that remained was a state of alert half-sleep and daydreaming. Even Psotka didn't want to talk.

Dawn came, heavy with clouds and the wailing of the healer, damp with dew, and red and white with scarves. Everyone was heading out of town. The sociable Bajdel wanted to follow them.

"You'll see, it'll be fun," he urged the witcher. "Where there are people, there's party and beer!

" "We're supposed to save the world from a great war," 3jaja reminded him, "not have fun at village festivals

." "What if there's a war there, and now it's times like these where everyone has to watch what the troops are doing? What harm will it do to follow them? Maybe you'll learn something along the way?"

The poet's arguments were, as always, irrefutable, so the witcher feigned reluctance and began grooming the horses, just as Bajdel was about to bid farewell to the innkeeper and wheedle a loaf of bread, claiming it was for the horse. Before Psotka could even feel the saddle on his piebald back, the musician returned, paler than usual.

"3jaja, do you know what goes on there?" he asked rhetorically. "It's usually some dive or den full of the worst scoundrels! Inside, there are guys so big that ten like you couldn't handle one, drinking beer mixed with piss and cursing like a dwarven sniper from under a bridge. On the ground lie broken dishes, remains of last year's lamb, some corpses, dried blood, rats scurrying, the girls have pimples and mustaches! This stable is probably cleaner than their rooms!"

The witcher had no intention of finding out. He quickly moved away from the dreadful place.

For now, he preferred not to mount Psotka, as a fall on an innocent human could have tragic consequences. Besides, the mare was afraid of crowds, so the witcher had to keep his head as close to his favorite's muzzle as possible, constantly whispering soothing words to her.

Bajdel also led his gelding by the reins to keep him from taking off the ladies' hats. The animal also suffered less when no poet was constantly nudging him with his heels.

So they all walked together, following the red and white mass, until they reached a vast meadow. There were roughly cobbled benches, half occupied. The people sitting on them waved their scarves and sang. On the other side, on sturdy stools, a smaller number of dwarves sat, composed as always. Bajdel and 3jaja sat to the side so as not to disturb anyone. Their mounts stood beside them so no one would dare steal them.

Bajdel noticed that at opposite ends of the meadow were two rectangular wooden frames, each with nets similar to fishing nets attached to them. I wonder what they were used for?

He didn't have time to think; a dozen people dressed indecently (and when the poet considered it so, it meant their clothes were worse than indecent), namely in red pantaloons barely covering their buttocks and white shirts, ran into the meadow. A moment later, an equal number of plump young girls in nothing but their underwear, wielding suspicious-looking paintbrushes, appeared. An elderly, overweight little man ran after them. After a long look, Bajdel concluded that the man was simply a dwarf, only not wearing plate armor, a rare occurrence for that race. But beneath the folds of his not-so-clean jerkin, the shape of an axe was clearly visible. A dwarf must always have an axe; without it, he felt naked.

The human men formed a neat line, while the girls stood beside the observers and stuck out their asses. The dwarf whistled loudly. Then a dozen dwarves emerged from the bushes, all dressed as one in scarlet jerkins and navy blue trousers. They also wore light chainmail and heavy axes, barely wiped clean of blood. The old dwarf gave them a signal, and they positioned themselves opposite the humans.

3jaja couldn't bear it any longer.

"Listen, what's this all about? What's going on here?" he asked, a bit abruptly, the red-haired boy, who crouched behind them to get a better look.

"And what about you? Did it come out of an elven ear?" the boy wondered, his mouth dropping open. "I guess all of Alaspasia knows, just you.

" "I'm from Zaa, there are no dwarves there, so I don't know," the witcher lied. That is, he lied about his origins because he had no idea of ​​the population of that distant country.

"Oh yes," he nodded pityingly, glancing at the green hair. "Zaa is far, isn't it?" But they make good spices there, only expensive... Well, here they're playing a game. People versus dwarves. It's a game called soccer... Dwarven-style fusball. They run after the ball and try to kick it into the goal. And that old guy is the referee and tells them if they do something wrong... but the best ones here are the cheerleaders. Have you no idea how they wave their tits...

"Wait. Does that mean there's no war? Won't pure virgins cry? Won't children pray to the gods to save their fathers? Won't Bajdel write trash about brave hearts?" "

You came up with that too," an older gentleman with noble features joined the conversation. "Who's going to buy beef from us, and from whom will we get such good beer? War could kill the modern economy and that, what do they call it? Demo-something. We live in new times now. The era of ununnil!"

"Quiet!" the boy interrupted. "The dwarven cheerleaders are coming... what disgusting women! The game is about to start!"

The only feminine element of the cheerleaders were their enormous breasts, suspended from fat bellies. The dwarves had beards like the males, and probably smelled the same way. It's no wonder many dwarves sought lovers among the much prettier halflings, spending the night with their wives solely to perpetuate the species.

When the entire group arrived on the field, the referee gave a signal, and the dwarves began singing their national song in the harsh, incomprehensible dwarven tongue. The spectators in the stands (only on their side, of course) rose and began swinging axes, and surprisingly, they didn't hurt themselves.

When the others finished singing, the official anthem of the Underground Principality of Tazmania began to play—simply the most popular song among drunks, "My Cane Has a Head at the End." Then people rose from their benches and jumped, shouted, hugged, and lifted their scarves to the sun. The cheerleaders squealed, nearly losing their panties.

Fortunately, the madness ended with the referee's whistle. A black-and-white pig's bladder, vaguely round in shape, was brought onto the field. The teams lined up oddly on the field, and after the "Who's Got the Ball" ritual, the game began. A very boring game. Nearly two dozen furious men chased the ball, and two caught it when it got too close to the goal. 3jaja soon grew tired of this and, as usual, drifted off into a sugary dreamland. Bajdel, meanwhile, kept shouting, "Let's go, people, oooo!" and gazed at the young bodies of the human cheerleaders with the eyes of a passionate seducer.

I'll fall asleep soon, 3jaja thought. The uncomfortable, noisy night had taken its toll. The witcher fell into the arms of Lady Senka, the goddess of sleep.

And while he dreamed of Jane Achonen's green eyes, the crowd began to lose. The goalkeeper couldn't keep up with the catch, and the dwarf boots, as the hostile elves called the dwarven boots, kicked them out at incredible distances. Soon, the crowd was losing 10-0. Many fans ate their scarves in grief, and the cheerleaders refused to shake their asses. Meanwhile, in the opposite stands, a joyous frenzy reigned. The dwarven cheerleaders danced with axes. The fans jumped for joy, tossing their weapons. Again, no one was hurt. Too bad, some nasty elf would think.

Bajdel woke his companion as soon as the match ended. The score: 27-0 to the dwarves. Defeat.

"The referee's boots!" someone shouted. "He rigged the score! He disallowed the goals!"

"Get the fuck away from the referee!" a dwarf shouted in a loud bass voice. "You can't play, so you blame him!"

This was too much. The enraged fans attacked each other. A brawl ensued, with both sides having equal chances. While there were more people, they had only primitive scarves for weapons. They attacked chaotically, while their opponents advanced in a tight column. Blood flowed thick and freely until someone found a referee. The terrified dwarf was strangled with a scarf. The score was then considered even, and most of the fans went home. A handful of the most persistent remained, pummeling each other with their bare fists to savor the fight longer. A team of humans and their trainer also remained...

The trainer's name was Aen'Ghel. 3jaja learned of this while he was talking to his charges. So, another mystery was solved. A duel is simply a match, and there will be no war... a lowly warrior could drop everything and return to the brothel, but the witcher saw things the human eye couldn't. The trainer might have known the boss from the Fonklics... One must save the world while there's a chance.

"I'm going back to Zuu," Aen'Ghel declared

. "We're going to Zuu," 3jaja told Bajdel, "Immediately.

" But he quickly regretted his decision. His gaze met that of an exceptionally beautiful creature. It was a girl, no more than sixteen years old, but she had the figure of a grown woman, plus a youthful freshness and allure. All it took was a lowering of her eyelashes, a subtle smile, an involuntary flush on her cheeks, and the witcher was already head-over-heels in a magnificent pool of feminine charm. The girl couldn't help but notice. But she was clearly shy, because instead of approaching 3jaja, initiating a mock conversation, she blushed even deeper and pretended not to look at him.

And nothing would have come of this fleeting infatuation if the witcher hadn't had a devoted friend, a charmer who knew the ropes of teenage girls. Invaluable Bajdel!

The poet approached the girl, kissed her hand, and grinned mischievously.

"Hello, little flower. Sad day today, isn't it? Don't worry, they'll win next time.

" "Yeah," the young woman replied in a gruff voice that completely matched her appearance. "

You're taciturn. Too bad. Perhaps you'd like to get to know my companion better? Just dress up, because you don't look your best in that outfit."

The girl looked at her clothes, or rather lack thereof, with embarrassment, then quickly ran into the bushes, leaving only a glimpse of her white legs. She returned, transformed beyond recognition. She no longer resembled a shy calf; her long linen dress concealed minor imperfections and perfectly accentuated her firm breasts, untainted by the filthy touch of a man. It was these breasts that drew the eye, obliterating her gray hair, overly round face, and short stature. To 3jaj, the girl was a walking miracle.

When she approached him, as usual, he lost his cool and stubbornly stared at the ground, as if watching the grass grow and the ants play. But the ants had emigrated when they heard about the game.

The cheerleader was also watching the nonexistent ants. She couldn't bring herself to look the witcher in the eye.

And again, Bajdel sprang into action, saving the unfortunates from endlessly staring at the grass growth. The poet ran up to the girl and began pulling her hand. She resisted at first, but soon politely allowed herself to be led to 3jaja.

"Okay," the poet began, pleased with himself, "don't be like children. You're acting like you've never seen a person of the other sex. Hehe... nice joke, huh? Now introduce yourselves. Come on, 3jaja! Tell her something about yourself!"

"Of course," the witcher stammered uncertainly, still not taking his eyes off the ground. "I'm a witcher, 3jaja.

" "And I'm Sasasanka," the girl introduced herself shyly. "Not Sasanka. My father was drunk when he gave me his name, and that's why it's so idiotic. "

The witcher beamed.

"Mine isn't beautiful either. But that's okay. You know what, maybe you could come with us to Zuu, we'll save the world and have some wine while we're at it, and I'll buy you apple juice, eh?" 3jaja forgot his shyness, but still watched the ants.

"Okay, why not? I've never been there, and my mother doesn't need to know where I am. You're a nice man, offering the girl juice, when you could drag her into the forest and just plain rough her up. I think I like you. Only my mother won't like you if she finds out that..."

She said it at a bad time. Just then, a fat old woman appeared on the horizon, her rolling pin raised like a hammer, rolling up her apron and cursing. She looked remarkably like a Sassans.

"Shut up, you flounder!" she huffed. "Are you hanging around with mutants? I'll teach you a lesson! "

And before anyone knew it, she'd grabbed the girl by the ear.

"And that's it," Bajdel said. "Now, quickly, to the ship to Zuu... Oh, witch, don't worry, Psotka wouldn't have been able to support you both anyway. You'll find yourself a new chick."