Another job." "

In two days, you're to report to the inn "Under the Open Sky" in Musgawre. The task won't be easy; the reward is 100,000 gurguls. Wait for further instructions, burn this note." "For that much money, I think they want me to at least kill the king. We'll live and see."

He trotted gently along the road on a black stallion, the wind whipping his face, and the sunset flushed his cheeks. Autumn was approaching, the days were getting shorter, colder. The green of summer was fading into a palette of warm colors, pressing into his eyes with every step. The trees, in steady waves, transmitted the sounds of approaching winter. The roads were beginning to soften, and a light frost briefly fixed the tracks. He passed people more often; it was the last season for travel. Merchants, laborers, vagrants—everyone had to find accommodations. A dead period was approaching, when only the number of quarrels in bored households increased. Dorian was already approaching the city of Musgawre. There was a long queue at the gate, at least for the day's wait. Everyone was being thoroughly searched, tolls were being collected, and he had to be at the agreed-upon place today. He rode up to the guard post; they were very disciplined, and his path was blocked by crossed halberds. The private approached, looked at the newcomer, and, deciding he wasn't dealing with anyone important, spat.

"What are you talking about? The end of the queue is over there." He waved his hand carelessly towards the forest. "Have a nice stop, or I'll give you a ticket for obstructing the work of the city guards.

" "Fifty. I'm in a hurry.

" "If you're in a hurry, you'll pay a hundred.

" "Here's sixty, and that's no problem. Have a nice job." "These people are greedy. Tolls, vignettes, customs—no normal people can travel anymore. Hard times have come."

He drove inside the walls; the city sounded too proud, it was a pigsty. Poultry and livestock roamed everywhere. Among them were children, but only in name; their occupation and appearance didn't stand out much from the background.

He circled the market square, a small structure made of hewn stone, the entrance beneath beautiful arcades. A unique pattern caught the eye, but after a moment, it was clear that these were cracks.

"Nothing worth mentioning," he said to himself. Then he checked the side streets leading off the market square, to no avail. Resigned, he spotted a narrow gap between the buildings. He drove into it; it was quite long and winding. He passed brothels, luring men with lively displays in front of their crudely decorated establishments. "This profession will always be in demand," he thought. "We have to help poor women, after the operation, I'll stop by." His train of thought was interrupted by a humming sound coming from the room to which the low-set door led. He stopped, and after a while, he found what he was looking for: a small sign reading "Outdoors." He tied his horse in front of the entrance; it resisted a bit; no animal liked this atmosphere, humans being the exception. He entered, trying not to attract attention. He succeeded. The bar looked surprisingly clean.

"One beer!

" The order was filled immediately. He was given a cold drink in a tin mug dripping with foam. He looked around for a free seat, but unfortunately, he didn't spot one. Oh well, stops. Various shady characters seemed to have some sort of discount here, only one dwarf didn't look suspicious. Tables were densely packed, effectively limiting the movement of tipsy customers. There was a commotion, every now and then, struggling couples leaving for air, but one always returned. He wondered now where the appointed man with the advance was, and where the name came from for the cellar converted into a small inn.

"Mr. Dorian? "

"Depends on who's asking.

" "Paligórek. Never mind me. United Musgawre," he whispered, glancing around anxiously.

"I'm the king's fork."

"Let's go outside; it's quieter there." He followed Paligórek along the bar, and just behind him, they turned left. There was an arched passageway to the open-air section. "And there's heaven," he thought. They sat down at the table. In the corner, away from everyone.

"Let's get straight to the point. Isidore isn't easy to approach.

" "I guessed as much, after all, I was hired for this." "

Your modesty charms me. Be kind, but don't interrupt. "

Dorian merely nodded in agreement.

"Isidore loves to appear in public. However, he always has dozens of soldiers at his side. He's often protected by the spell of magicians, yet he tries to avoid them. Magic makes him dizzy, a ruler with such childish weakness—you understand. Everything is hidden from people, not even everyone in his immediate circle knows it.

During audiences, a wall of air separates him from his subjects. Nothing can fly towards him, but—

" "I know," the elf interrupted impatiently. "If you want to lecture me on magic, you've chosen the wrong time."

"Good. As I said, he appears in a litter surrounded by a net, a very good one, invisible. That was a weak point. One wizard tried to exploit this, throwing a hail of fire, too weak. He burned Izydor severely. He couldn't have done it without the help of doctors, wizards, and priests. Well, he castrated the assassin himself; I won't go into the torture he was subjected to, because it's easier to list what wasn't done to him.

"Were there any other attempts?

" "Yes. We didn't know about the air wall—stabbed on the spot. In two days, his birthday will be. He celebrates it lavishly, and he has a double opportunity for it; the construction of Izydorion Castle has been completed." Paligórek grimaced as he said this; it was clear what he thought of his ruler and his architectural views. "The castle is supposedly impregnable." And now, the most interesting thing—the ruler's palace is in the central part of the castle, but Izydor is sleeping in the towers. There are six of them, one for one day of the week, and the middle section only sleeps on special occasions. It's definitely the ruler's birthday. Then he'll start with the left tower by the moat. That'll be the easiest time for you to strike. Any questions?

"Where's the down payment? I have to live on something, prepare.

" "Sure." Paligórek reached under his coat and pulled out a purse. "According to the agreement, fifty thousand gurguls now, the other half after the task is completed."

"A few more questions. Bars on the windows? Additional night spells?

" "Bars are there, but no night spells. Good luck.

" "Pay me some more." He looked around. "Quite a pleasant place. Goodbye, maybe we'll see each other again."

He stepped out into the streets. The tenement houses were shabby, people wandered around with their heads down, wading ankle-deep in excrement and garbage. There was a lack of will and materials to lay down boards, not to mention a sidewalk. Dorian wondered where the urban bustle and enthusiasm were; the answer to all ills had one name—war. The exception, among the gray philistines, were the ruddy drunkards with red noses and packages with known contents. Now they could revel, the best policemen at the front, and those who remained after numerous summonses from complaining people came anyway. They fulfilled their duty by taking their bundles; only one dark gate sufficed. Sewn up for a moment, they emerged with a heavy, sailor-like gait. This way, informing was stopped, because how could it be—a drunken policeman and a sober drunkard—it violated the vision of the rule of law still present in the minds of proud Musgaurian people. Once in Musgau, when drinking in public places wasn't prohibited, such images were absent; now everyone wanted to thumb their noses at the authorities.

I need to find somewhere to live. On the other side of town, a quieter one, he found a small studio apartment. A dark cubicle with a bed and a wardrobe, no unnecessary items. The walls weren't plastered, but they weren't exactly spotless either. Every now and then, a small rat would run through the middle; once, he was struck by a sword, splitting into two, quivering and spewing its entrails.

He didn't want to attract attention, so he chose this particular spot.

Tomorrow he'd have to go and examine the castle. Curiosity consumed him. He preferred planning time to actual action. Used properly, it offered a huge, but never 100%, chance of success. It was already dark, and his eyes had adjusted. Of course, his vision was incomparably better during the day, but there was no point complaining. Undressed, he began his exercises. Dozens of push-ups, one on each arm, a hundred sit-ups, squats. Controlled contractions of individual muscles. In his profession, fitness was crucial. A fight with an imaginary opponent, dream.

"I have bad news!!! My lord. They want to kill you again." The panting mage ran into the throne room while Isidore was receiving his vassals. He glared at the sorcerer, his face turning slightly red. But he tried to speak slowly and not show his subjects that he could be so easily unsettled.

"I know that. But I pay you for specifics that escaped my ears.

" "Unfortunately, I must disappoint you, my lord. I only know that he is a renegade of an alien race, and the most important thing is already in Musgawre.

" "Everything is clear. Let's kill all the non-humans in the city," he said with a sneer in his voice.

"The stars won't reveal anything more."

"You surely remember what happened to the previous court sorcerer who messed up.

" "Yes, of course." He remembered the impaled arrogant man, dying slowly.

"Good, now be gone."

The magician bowed and walked out the back. He was seething inside. What justice is there in comparison to intelligence? He had more successes, but his resources were incomparably smaller. He'd been stuck in his solitude for a week because he'd detected some turmoil in a constellation. He knew instantly what that meant. A high probability of a change of employer. He'd had enough of this impulsive man constantly bombarding him with insults. And well, the reward for detecting an imminent threat is... continued solitude. Maybe it's a change of employer, but I think he'll gladly observe the stars. The task is the same, only the goal is different. I need to contact the assassin quickly.

Well, the castle was quite good, with a moat filled with mindless monsters. The walls were high, but somewhat uneven in places. The towers were manned by archers, tirelessly surveying the terrain. A drawbridge, fifteen meters long, with guards posted before and behind it. By the access road, a ridiculously camouflaged hut with a group of light-armed soldiers. "It

's harder than I thought." He closed his eyes and stood there for a long moment, imagining the task. "Imagination is very important; I'm not paid for additional kills, so I want to avoid unnecessary clashes. This exposes me to the inevitable danger of a greater concentration of enemy forces facing me, and that already has one name: defeat."

The bridge lowered with a clatter, like the effects of a clash between two armies of mythical titans. The heavy-armed soldiers rode out of the gate on horseback, followed by four wagons with cages full of men, and a group of archers brought up the rear.

"Execution," whispered the crouching elf.

The wagon train veered off the path leading to the city and turned toward the spy. They passed right in front of him; he could see the haughty faces of the soldiers. They knew the cages would never be empty, even if they circled like this several times a day, and for each of them, a single word from the ruler would be enough to make them practice meat. The drivers lined their wagons along the edge of the moat, archers in two ranks a little behind them, and cavalry to the sides. One of the heavy-armed men shouted,

"I am Xavier, you belong to me now. This is your last chance! If you reach the castle walls, you are free. If not, you should not care what happens next. Open!"

The order was carried out immediately. The condemned men ran out, their eyes filled with terror, their knees weakening at the sight of the monster swimming in the water. Hope, however, forced them to desperately plunge into the depths of the green water, which quickly churned. Screams, moans, and pleas filled the silence. A group of people remained on the shore, waiting for the opportune moment, which refused to come. They threw themselves, flailing with all their limbs at breakneck speed. One of them, of considerable stature, after a run, ran over the heads and torsos of humans and monsters, successfully reaching the other bank. A few others followed suit, but most of them had no effect. The hypercrocodiles had a modicum of common sense; they greeted each new daredevil with open mouths, and the next three made it.

"Remember," the commander said to the archers. "Only shoot at those falling from the wall. It's been a long time since so many have. I love this job." He rubbed his hands together and scratched his crotch. "Seriously, nothing excites me more."

Wall scorpions began to emerge from the cracks in the walls, alarmed by the noise. These small arachnids were a terror to anyone who wanted to live longer than five seconds after touching the stinger on their lightning-fast abdomen. The first climber pushed himself away from the wall, simultaneously shouting, "

You f——" The arrows tore through his torso, turning him into a bloody parody of a hedgehog. The remaining three seemed to ignore their former companion in misery, climbing with wild abandon. Their hands could no longer withstand the friction; blood mapped their movements, red, blood, blood... A delicate stream of blood began to flow on the wall, through the cracks. The scorpion struck another one: 1, 2, arrows, 3, 4, 5—already a corpse. The first to reach the top was the lowest of all, his ascent hindered by a pole tucked into his belt. His every movement seemed to have a practical explanation. He deftly extended his stick to greet the scorpions, which quickly began to fall away, knocked off by the cunning man with a strange appearance. He was stocky, with strands of muscle playing fluidly on his enormous arms, like tree trunks. His scarred face, typically human, clumsy, with a strong jaw and tight lips, reflected the immense effort he had been forced to make. With such a mass, climbing was impossible for an ordinary mortal.

The penultimate unfortunate fell, his left leg finding no purchase and dragging his entire body. Sometimes such a small piece of stone under one's foot can prove to be a lifesaver. All it took was a slight shift to the right; fate had other plans. The scenario repeated itself; a cloud of arrows immediately caught the would-be Icarus. He slammed into the ground with a thud, burying himself in the muddy bank, filling the hole.

"Well, we have a tough guy." He's probably deluding himself into thinking he'll get out of this mess in one piece. The commander didn't lose his good humor. "Where's he squeezing in?!! Fire!!! You losers, what are you waiting for?" The question was unnecessary; shots were already whistling toward the narrow window. The smile vanished from the sadist's face in an instant, replaced by a carp-like look of surprise.

"What's that supposed to mean? Nobody could have gotten there. It's impossible. We'll return to the castle, eliminate him without a trace, and everything will be over. At least I hope so," he added silently.

A nearly naked giant with a loincloth burst into one of the lavish corridors, his sides and hands bruised. The guard stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of him.

"Demons! Help!" he said, more pleading than calling for help. His sphincters gave way, and a sticky mess filled his pants. He was completely stunned. The intruder ran up and punched the young man in the solar plexus. He sank into the ornate armor like a rag doll, impaling himself on the protruding dagger.

"This wasn't supposed to be my shift. Never do such favors, for you never know the price you'll pay," he whispered and closed his eyes.

"Thanks for the advice, maybe I'll use it sometime. Where can I go now? Why didn't you say so?" He moved to the right, having previously put on a brigandine over his chain mail shirt. He couldn't find suitable trousers, as they all ripped at the buttocks with the slightest movement. "Too bad, I probably won't find a tailor here." He walked, looking around carefully. The sight of the luxury surrounding him was

astonishing. "The end result is truly impressive." The corridor was five meters wide and about seven meters high, with an arched ceiling with beautiful frescoes depicting demons at feasting, partying, and fighting. Sculptures stood on pedestals along the corridor, paintings hung, and the whole space was outshone by chandeliers, all enormous and adorned with crystals. The whole thing created an impression of extraordinary harmony and lightness. Forward." The thought of survival was becoming increasingly clear in his mind.

"You're here, you rascal. Now try hiding!"

"It must have been such a mess here for a long time." "Shhhhh." The elf whistled softly and reached his destination. The curious knight slowed his pace and turned towards the bushes. He leaned over them, a moment later emerging from the bushes at a brisk pace and joining the group.

"It's the cafeteria food." They couldn't recognize him; his cloak obscured his face; many did the same, so he didn't stand out.

"Mmmm," one of them nodded. The group entered the castle almost at a run. The interior looked as impressive as the facade.

"Seal all the corridors along the eastern wall at lightning speed. Whoever catches him will receive 200 gurguli and an additional week of paid leave." A generous reward; the troops dispersed the moment his superior finished speaking to the gurguli. Dorian ran into the first corridor he encountered; his plan was clear. Catch the unfortunate man, hand him over to his captors, thus ingratiating himself with them, and then attack when the opportunity arose. However, between theory and practice lies a vast chasm, a component of which is called luck. Luck had seemed to favor him so far, so why should it be any different now? He sped through the corridor, which seemed to be a collage of muted colors, with a bright glow from the ceiling. At the end was a vast hall, echoing with the sound of footsteps, magnifying them many times over. After a cursory survey of the area, he took the stairs down. He ran, ran, the steps seeming to flow beneath his feet, while their immense expanse threw wave after wave. Dorian, slightly out of breath, seemed to ignore the battle cries of his new "comrades," instinct told him to continue downward. The winding, tiny, cold, dark stairs demanded maximum concentration to move. Suddenly, the monotony of twists and turns was interrupted by a wooden door with metal hinges and fittings. The stunned soldier felt the solidity of this door on his forehead. He was thrown back, sprawled on the floor, arms spread out in an inverted parody of a silent greeting.

"Hard," he groaned, rubbing his aching forehead. To his horror, the obstacle suddenly vanished. Someone opened the door, and the empty space was filled by a short, narrow figure with the appearance of a beaver. Her teeth protruded, making it impossible for her to speak without spraying a sticky mist of saliva around her.

"And what are you saying here?" The gnome woman struggled to pronounce "ch," then wiped the secretion from the corners of her mouth with her sleeve.

"Ugh." He immediately realized she was dealing with the cook. "I'm looking for a fugitive.

" "Bravo! Bitch, keep looking, but don't bother me here."

He had to wipe his face with his sleeve first, then shouted back with more confidence:

"Shut your beak and get to the pots, quick!

I think I went a bit too far," he thought, filled with anxiety about his future. The gnome woman spat at his feet and yelled behind her:

"Newbie, give me a moment!" Then, to the man who was getting up.

"I won't have just anyone spitting on my cereal." A half-naked thug immediately emerged from behind the doorframe.

"I told you, stay out of the kitchen, they're only making me crap here." Chase him away!

The cook quickly leaped to Dorian, grabbed him around the waist, put him on his back, and started up.

"Stop right now! I know who you are. They're looking for you all over the castle."

The fugitive threw him against the wall and then went over to see the results. Contrary to his expectations, the elf grabbed him by the ankle and threw him to the floor. They locked in an embrace, switching positions, first one on top, then the other.

"You didn't let me finish. I'm not a soldier, I'm on your side. A conspiracy..." He couldn't say more, struck in the nose by a bull's-eye.

"Why should I believe you? Huh?

" "You have no other option. I don't know how you managed to hide in the kitchen, but they'll find you there quickly. I'm preparing an assassination attempt on Izydor, and you'll help me.

" "Where does this confidence come from? There have been many brave men before.

" "Because I wasn't the one who tried.

" "Who are you, arrogant?"

"Dorian, otherwise known as the Cougar."

"Somehow I don't believe you; your name means nothing to me, and your fighting style doesn't exactly impress. "

"I didn't want to bother you.

" "Sure.

" "Do you want to talk about the flaws in my defense now? Do you know how to get to Izydor?" And how should I address you?

"No. Yes. Waris. Follow me." Without looking back, he sped through the corridors, only occasionally pausing for a moment of reflection. The elf quickly concluded he had overestimated his partner and began looking around himself, trying to locate their location. To no avail.

"Wait! Do you hear that?"

2

One of the chambers, along a corridor less frequented than the others, was the abode of Slowdale, the court wizard. The room vibrated with accumulated energy, the scent of almonds dominating the air. The windows faced the courtyard, allowing them to be larger, which lessened the interior's gloom. To the right was a small bookcase, several shelves perpendicular to the wall; the left side was a mirror image of the right, but instead of books, it contained ingredients for almost every known potion, infusion, or oil. In the center stood a desk: solid, wide, oak, and large enough to hold dozens of reagents at once. A mixture had recently spilled from one of the test tubes, fumes still rising from it. Behind the counter sat a trembling occupant.

"Nothing, nothing! It's impossible! Damn books." The mage grabbed his staff and began waving it, possessed by the lack of results from his work. As if touched by a magic wand, a crystal ball shattered, and jars of herbs burst. The entire laboratory was engulfed in a cloud of dust. Amidst the frustrated man's curses, a fire-starting spell was uttered. Incunabula caught fire, and demons broke free from their cages. The eye-pleasing collage of colors swept more and more objects into its embrace, slowly tightening its grip around the possessed man.

"I'll kill him, or I'll go mad. Enough of this, I won't be a dog in his service." He walked through the fire as if his office burned down every day. As he said goodbye to his old job, he glanced at the books and a spark appeared in his eye:

"You'll be useful, though. I'm leaving this place, but first I'll clean up a bit. Hahahaha." His joy vanished from his face as quickly as it appeared. Behind the door, he saw two people, seemingly human. Euphoria turned to fury, he raised his staff, and swung it in circles, muttering a spell. The confused soldier and the kitchen boy, after exchanging glances, overpowered him. They pinned him to the floor, knocking the vibrating staff back against the opposite wall. Waris straddled him, pressing his entire weight against the bridge.

"How can we get to Izydor, and what's your last wish?

" "I'll take you.

" "Wrong answer. You canceled your last wish. So?

" "Assassins? You fell from the sky. I have a plan..." Dorian, known as the Cougar, couldn't contain himself:

"Will I find anyone in this castle who doesn't want to kill your king!" A castle of lunatics and madmen, I could have listened to my father and become an arms dealer.

"How can I prove to you that I want to help you?

" "No. You don't have to, I believe you.

" "Dorian, are you sure?

" I said. "You weirdo, you're going ahead of us after all, you'll be our shield. Know that I wanted to kick you in the face and just ignore you, but maybe you'll be useful. But remember! One false move. Now lead the way." They passed through more passages and corridors. The splendor was breathtaking. Frescoes on the walls depicted the creation of the world, chaos, with the goddess Age, a beautiful, lush woman, watching over it. Under her gaze, the shapeless mass took on the normal, flat form of the earth, where life began to emerge.

Waris stopped at the cosmogonic image, touched it with his fingertips, and wept bitterly. When he noticed the confused looks of his companions, he said in a trembling voice,

"My brother. He created all this, and I was his assistant." The slain king wanted a unique work. Nothing like it could have been created anywhere else.

"I'm sorry, Waris, but we have to move on. We will avenge him." Dorian patted him on the shoulder and looked at the work. "It's truly impressive." The wizard interrupted his thoughts.

"Death. Isidore was an idealist. He wanted to create a model state where everyone would live well. He believed he would be a better ruler than his brother. He had a good start with a few well-aimed reforms, then a slippery slope. Crime was the only way out, political prisoners, concentration camps—people live in fear. We will free them from this

." "Yes. Don't bore me with pompous slogans; I'm in this for the money. How can I be sure that my successor won't be a greater sadist?

" "There's never a certainty, but there is faith that gives me the strength to act."

"Let's get going, because these speculations won't get us anywhere." Waris kept looking around. "We need to come up with a plan of action; I know where no one will disturb us." They passed through another corridor, the exhibits consisting of paraphernalia seemingly dragged straight from a torture chamber. Breaking wheels, beds on which people's joints had been pulled, devices for crushing limbs, cauterizing rods; the list could go on. The whole team felt somehow uneasy, and the wizard instinctively increased his pace. He looked around.

"I haven't been here in a while. And here it is.

" "The wall is a simple illusion, amplified by the strong influence of this place.

" "Go first, how do we know it's not an ambush?" Waris didn't hide his suspicions, still wary, waiting for an opportunity to eliminate the guide.

The guide entered without a word, waving his hand from behind the bricks in a silent invitation.

"There are no luxuries here, but there are plans to the castle and peace and quiet. We're in this wing now, there are guards on the road, but that's no problem. The worst are the select members of the bodyguard. Even I, the greatest magical talent in this castle, have to grovel before them.

" "Interesting. How do we get to Izydor? Surely you don't mean to tell us we have to defeat a squad of highly trained assassins." Dorian was also losing patience.

"No, that's pointless. You have to rely on my extraordinary intellect here; reason will always triumph over strength.

" "Get to the point, because we'll soon empirically test the weight of your brain.

" "Look at the map and listen...

" "If that's true, Slow Dude, then you'll be rewarded." Izydor didn't outwardly show any anxiety; he was playing along.

"Thank you, sir, for your generosity.

" "And where are they now?

" "They're wandering in the corridor by my office; I created the illusion of a labyrinth there."

"You did well." He glanced at his security chief. "I want them alive!

" "Yes." He clicked the toes of his heavy boots, turned on his heel, and marched away. All the seniors followed him out of the room.

"Well, I'll have a delicious evening." The slowwaster was surprised that Izydor didn't want to retreat to his chamber, which created a fortress within a fortress. This is bad. I have to think of something.

"King, for your safety's sake, I suggest you take a precautionary approach to the 'fortress.'"

"A fair point, although I don't think the assassins are dangerous; since a mere sorcerer located them. I'll go to the state hall now to greet the foreign guests. That's all, you may leave."

The entire procession moved through the right door, while the ambush was on the way to the "fortress," behind the middle door. The commandos, their crossbows ready at a moment's notice, followed by swordsmen in light armor, a jester, and several advisors. In the center, surrounded by a line of select, ever-vigilant men, was the king. A quartet of crossbowmen brought up the rear. Such a guard was required by procedure in extraordinary times. Climbing the stairs was a separate mission, a considerable effort for the leader's tactical skills.

To the uninitiated, it looked quite comical; subsequent pairs were sent out to scout outposts, creating outposts, using mimic signals, constantly observing the living room, and providing cover. To the expert eye, it was an extraordinary display, requiring considerable skill and perfect coordination. However, in all this machinations, the most important person had been forgotten. Isidore, in his flowing golden robe, bored by the spectacle, began to drift off in his thoughts. He ignored the gesture of his hand to halt and stepped onto the knight in front of him. Both were surprised, suddenly interrupted from their various activities. The king jumped back, his foot wrapped in incredibly expensive fabric. He spun around and collided with the balustrade, specially lowered to create an effect of lightness. Finding no sufficient footing, he soared downward like a puppet. A dull thud made everyone realize what had happened.

"As life, so death," someone from the guards blurted. Confusion permeated every face. Always obedient, untaught to think independently, they didn't know what to do in this new situation. They stood leaning against the balustrade and staring blankly down.

"Now there's an opportunity to give the kingdom to Trebor; let Musgawre be one again." The mage was happy; perhaps I'll stay in this position after all. New prospects, opportunities for advancement are opening up.

"Keep your mouth shut. I'm taking over and appointing myself First Secretary. I'll introduce a new order." The former commander of the guard quickly acclimated to his new role. He'd always secretly dreamed of it.

"Tie up the Slowworm. Lock him in his office and never let him out of my sight. Execute it!

" "It seems to me the plan has gone awry. We have to act alone. Dorian?

" "Just a moment. Hush, I hear footsteps."

Three men emerged from the stairs. Two Musgawrans, fully armed, were leading the bound wizard. Passing the hiding place, the mage signaled his comrades to rescue him… unnecessarily. They silently penetrated the illusions of the wall and struck both of them simultaneously with a swift stab in the back, at heart level.

"What happened?"

"We don't have much time. The mission is already off, Izydor is dead. We have to escape. I'll cast a spell that will cause chaos in the stables. Then we'll screw up through the supply tunnels, don't be surprised. The main gate is fortified, and I don't feel like dying foolishly just yet. Follow me. "

They ran at breakneck speed; the wizard had to use spells. The worst part was descending into one of the halls; they must have encountered someone there, and they did.

"The chosen ones," Waris groaned. "There's no way back, Slowwack, use your head."

They swallowed and moved in a mini-phalanx. The brawler with a raised two-handed sword, Dorian with a light, one-handed sword, and Slowwack stopped and began chanting the words of some spell. Three against five, young though they were, but with training as good as the seasoned veterans. No one shouted; fiery arrows moved ahead of the two in the vanguard. They had burned their opponents enough; their task was now much easier. Scorched, they nevertheless resisted. The mage couldn't help the turmoil that had arisen; after a moment's thought, he smiled to himself.

"Oriammio vilo fonta et latanka." Strings of white mist shot from his fingers, striking the combatants and wrapping themselves around them. Everyone was immobilized; now all they had to do was approach with a misericord and free their own.

"Remember. The power of science is power. Oh, damn." Another group of soldiers, much larger, ran out of the door.

"But stamina is also important. Get ready!"

All three fired like a catapult. Reaching the entrance to the tunnels just as soldiers were approaching from the other side, they would have posed a serious obstacle. They would have, but they were too late, so they transformed into a pursuit group. The slowworm, running, laboriously recited another pyrotechnic spell. The explosion ripped through the ceiling, the smell of ozone filled the air, a powerful force shook the tunnel, and stones shot out like a slingshot in both directions, striking both those fleeing and those pursuing. It was better to move away from the explosion than run into it. The pursuit was effectively halted. Not without injuries: the wizard was hit in the thigh by a stone, Waris had a burnt face, and Dorian had a cut on his eyebrow. They had to hurry; the exit was very easy to block. The entire group was utterly exhausted, the mage fainted, but they held him up and continued on. The art of sorcery required immense concentration, but also a source of energy. The person uttering the spell is like a crater; immense power emanates from them and can destroy them. This profession was not particularly popular, especially for those with the right predispositions. Such unfortunates were called lunatics, madmen, or lunatics; their psyche is highly sensitive. In the confusion, the slowworm could not precisely control the energy flows; the effect was almost immediate.

They reached the exit, camouflaged on the hillside, without incident. Caution told them that a whole garrison of elite soldiers was already waiting for them behind the hatch. They delicately lifted the heavy, metal and wooden hatch, and their premonitions… proved wrong. They were free. They raised their hands in a gesture of victory, and armed Musgawran soldiers emerged from behind the trees.

"Fuck. We were so close. We won't sell out cheaply." Waris swung the figure eight with his sword and assumed a fighting stance.

"Wait. They're not from the castle." Dorian turned to the knights. "May I speak to your commander?" A murmur of dissatisfaction could be heard from the ranks of the battle-hungry warriors.

"Who's asking?" A tall, slightly gray-haired man in the most intensely yellow armor stepped out from the ranks.

"Greetings to Mr. Paligórek, Dorian bows." I know it's hard to recognize me." He wiped the blood from the right side of his face.

"Ah! Indeed, congratulations. To tell the truth, I didn't believe you'd make it." A dignified figure emerged from behind him.

"Hello. I'm Trebor, and this is my army. I invite you to a meal, you must be tired." Dorian opened his mouth as if to say something, but the king waved him off. They lacked nothing at the feast. The professional assassin pondered: This was supposed to be my most difficult mission, the most expensive, and the longest preparation. And now, one day, and destiny has done the job for me; no one will let me get a word in. But do I really care about solving the mystery? It will be excellent publicity, so until they throw me out, I have to enjoy the hospitality.

Trebor was like an anti-brother; he didn't flaunt himself, knew almost all the soldiers, marched alongside them. He was the antithesis of the king, he broke all conventions, his subjects loved him, other rulers considered him an oddity, intelligent, but odd.

Before the meal, the three of them conferred, agreed on the details of the attack, and the entire sum was to be divided equally. The king sat at a nondescript end of the table.

"So, tell me how my brother died. Don't exaggerate, but don't take it too lightly either. I'm curious how this is possible; so many people tried, planned for weeks. And you, you're a master.

" "Thanks, king, but I couldn't have succeeded without the help of these two of my companions. And from the beginning, it would take a long time to tell. While I was carefully observing the castle, an opportunity arose... And so we stumbled upon you in the forest. I have two questions, king. How do you intend to take the castle? The defenses there are very strong. How did you know the attack was successful?

" "You'll know the answer to the first question soon. And the second, magic. We are entering a new era, Dorian; we must utilize the latest scientific advancements. After we eat, I invite you for a walk, to take over what is mine.

" "With such a handful of soldiers?"

"Actually, I don't need them. They'll hand over the castle themselves; the king is there to rule. Now they have no one, peace is the most desirable thing, and only I can offer it. Besides, you'll see." Trebor quickly mounted his bay steed and, with a small escort, set off along the road to the castle. He rode up to its walls, the herald announced who they had the pleasure of meeting, and a moment later the bridge was lowered. The "return of the king" echoed throughout the chambers; he rode proudly into the main square and waited. A moment later, the naked former commander of the guard was thrown at his feet.

"Flog him and mete out the punishment as for a thief. He seized power, and I can't stand it.

" "I beg you, but not the hand." The former first secretary burst into tears and pressed his right hand to his mouth.

"If you don't want to accept this punishment, I can impose another. You have violated the law.

" "Sir." Forgive me, I beg you. - He whimpered at his feet. - Then you'd better punish him for theft.

- So be it. Get him out of my sight. - He took a deep breath. - Home again. - He laughed and jumped off the horse. - But my brother bought me a mansion.