There's no place for heroes.

And

"Damn the weather..." Dalemir thought, or perhaps said. The elf, buffeted by gusts of wind, slowly reached the inn. The distant lights of the lousy establishment filled him with hope. Soon he would tip back a glass of the cheapest and strongest liquor, the warming power of the alcohol spreading through his body. It would revive his limbs, and the apparent simplicity of the guests would lift his spirits. Who knew? Maybe today he would finally get a job befitting his qualifications. Not snow removal, but well-paid murder. Oh yes, that was what Dalemir needed most. Money. Dancing with death had long since ceased to excite him; only the bag of gold awaiting him after a job was done mattered. The cataclysm had forced most beings to gather in three cities. Three vast settlements. Not particularly picturesque, but fulfilling their purpose: protecting the population. Dalemir had moved to Dobrogrod less than two years ago. Forced by the rain to flee his homeland—the elven kingdom—he found refuge in the priestly city of Miligost. Here, no one cared about his origins, and his penchant for inflicting death was met with relative indifference. The authorities didn't deny murders unless they involved members of church institutions. The common folk, or as they called it, the rabble, were already overcrowded. The priestly government was rife with hypocrisy. Assurances of the common good and similar nonsense. Dalemir had so far stayed out of politics, so politics didn't bother him too much. After all this time, he even got used to the smell of Dobrograd; at first, the city's odor had made him gag. It was difficult to grow crops when it was perpetual winter, and the gigantic stables full of cattle didn't bring any freshness to the city. The elf stopped, only a few meters from the inn's door. He straightened, adjusted his hood so it fell over his temples, and strode confidently toward his temporary home. He kicked open the wooden door.

"You have to maintain your image," he thought. The inn's guests fell silent at the sight of him. Dalemir didn't say a word; they, too, didn't feel like talking to him. He sat down in a corner. After a moment, the innkeeper wordlessly placed a leather mug and a bottle of vodka in front of him. Dalemir pushed the mug aside, opened the bottle, and began to quickly drink its contents. When he finished, he felt much better. A few sips of strong vodka had a beneficial effect on him. Warmth spread through his body. The alcohol chased away bad thoughts. Dalemir was eager for a fight, and he looked around the inn to see if he could find anyone willing. Unfortunately, the guests were engaged in conversation, and they didn't look particularly tough. He leaned back in his chair and rested, head bowed. Bored, he began to eavesdrop on conversations; simple people were discussing very simple matters. The main themes were: "the number of women they had in the last week," "the amount of vodka they drank," "the superiority of the human race over other races," and "the disposal of property for the common good of the inhabitants of three cities." The last two come from a conversation between the young cleric Miligost and the cattle breeders. Dalemir began to consider harming the priest... when suddenly the door burst open. It almost fell off the frame. A short, humanoid figure staggered into the inn. The creature was a truly pathetic sight. Blood was dripping from its right shoulder, and its matted beard fell over its bulging belly. The people sitting closer to the door began to move away. The new guest was undoubtedly spreading a rather unpleasant odor (it's really hard to scare away the inhabitants of Dobrogorod with an unpleasant odor). It was undoubtedly a dwarf. The bearded man walked through the entire inn and plopped down in the chair next to Dalemir. The elf inhaled slowly, cleared his throat, and whispered,

"Fuck off. Now! You stink worse than the biggest barn in this city." The dwarf raised an eyebrow. He eyed the elf disapprovingly and wordlessly pulled a hip flask from his breast pocket. He took a long swig from the bottle and poured the rest over his shoulder. Dalemir wasn't used to this kind of treatment.

"Listen, stinker, in a moment I'll cut off your beard along with your jaw." The outraged elf placed his hands on the table and rose to a half-standing position, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. "You have one minute to get your bleary mug out of here!" The dwarf looked at Dalemir again. He growled, and before the elf could do anything, the blade of a wavy dagger landed between his fingers.

"I'm Burchard." Your name must be Dalemir, I've been looking for you." The somewhat shocked elf looked at the dwarf inquisitively. "What are you staring at? I said I was looking for you. We have work to do." Burchard snatched a knife from the table and slipped it up his sleeve.

"We have work to do?" Dalemir stood up. "Listen... I work alone! It's always been that way and it always will be. I have no intention of putting together some grotesque team, much less sharing the payment for the task with some bearded stinker," the dwarf laughed loudly.

"You could have worked alone clearing snow from the sidewalks; we know you're a great mercenary, and you currently have no occupation that would fit your profession, I'd say." Burchard grinned, revealing three gold teeth. "Let's have a drink, and then you can come with me to the catacombs outside the city. A priestess of the ancient gods is waiting there; she wants to talk to you.

" "And what is she doing in the catacombs? Does she enjoy the company of corpses?

" "How am I supposed to know what she's doing there? She told us to come there, so we'll go there." The dwarf shuddered at the thought of the priestess. A mysterious aura surrounded her; he could still feel her thoughts in his own head! He couldn't resist her will. "Besides, as I said, she's a priestess of the ancient gods. She's probably hiding from Miligost's people in the catacombs." "This is the

first I've heard of any ancient gods. I'm an atheist, I don't give a damn about gods and their priests." We'll go there, and she'll start telling me to devote myself to the faith, sacrifice my fortune (which I don't have), and serve people, as befits an elf—a member of an inferior race! I don't understand why I would go there at all." Burchard sighed, expecting that explaining this to the elf wouldn't be easy. "

Listen, elf," he said rather loudly, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "I said the priestess serves the ancient gods, not Miligost. You have no idea about faith; anyway, in both my homeland and yours, these gods were worshiped long ago. In those days, humans weren't yet on Earth. Those were the years when the world was experiencing its springtime. You're very young for your race, that's obvious; I hope you'll learn some restraint with time." Burchard pretended not to notice the expressions the elf was making. The dwarf examined his arm; it was no longer bleeding, but the sleeve of his sheepskin coat was in tatters. "Exactly, you owe me four gold pieces for the sheepskin coat. When I asked about the elf Dalemir at the inn on the outskirts of town, the innkeeper hit me with a leather whip, and his daughter started throwing plates of food at me. Don't be shy, my friend, you buy the vodka, and we'll deduct the rest from your pay." The elf, for some reason, didn't leave the table. He'd always wonder why he'd agreed to go with the dwarf. He motioned to the innkeeper. After a moment, two bottles of vodka and two mugs appeared in front of Burchard and Dalemir. They both pushed the mugs aside.

II

. "Is it still far? We'll be walking for half the night; I didn't know this city was so big." Dalemir asked for the distance to his destination for the seventh time. Burchard responded with unusual patience for a dwarf.

"It's not far, you can do it. The city isn't that big; we're a bit outside the metropolis, but we're approaching the necropolis," he laughed at his own joke. The elf couldn't help but laugh; the snow was falling harder and harder, and the terrain they were walking on didn't even have a sidewalk. The landscape was downright eerie. The moonlight reflected a silver glow on the snow-covered plain. Here and there, withered, black tree stumps protruded from the ground—reminders of ancient times when the land teemed with life. To Dalemir, everything seemed strange, sickly. The melody of the wind's howling, the howling of the wolves, and the dwarf's rasping breathing made the elf's heart flutter. What exactly was he afraid of? Flat terrain, with no threats from anywhere. He chuckled to himself at his own fear. He began to examine Burchard. What did he actually know about the dwarf? Very little. He's probably a mercenary, believes in some ancient gods.

"Why did I trust him?" the elf wondered. "I let him lead me to the middle of nowhere. How the hell did I end up here? Why am I going with him? Will I be able to kill him? Burchard showed how fast he is at the inn. I have to be careful with him..." Dalemir was planning a possible fight with Burchard. Assessing the opponent is crucial.

"Whatever comes, will happen, I've gotten out of worse trouble," Dalemir thought with a truly elven carelessness.

The dwarf heard a mutter. He looked at the elf. He seemed very lost in thought.

"Did you say something?" he asked.

"Me?" No, Dalemir replied.

"Fine. Don't waste your energy talking and thinking too much, we still have a long way to go," Burchard grumbled. What does he know about the elf? A hired killer, he goes where the pay is higher. Apparently, he's quite good at what he does. He has an exceptionally violent temper. Not good at his job. Although, depending on how you look at it... He pondered. If he's working with that old woman, supposedly a priestess... I'm old, I won't have time to draw my axe before my head rolls in the snow. But I let myself be tricked, things aren't looking good, Burchard. Never accept orders from unknown priestesses again, especially if you're working with a skilled elven assassin. The dwarf frowned.

They walked on in complete silence. The wind had died down, the wolves were scattering. The only sounds were the dwarf's rasping breathing, the elf's light breathing, and the crunch of frozen snow under their boots. An old cemetery was already visible on the horizon, with the entrance to the catacombs within. The atmosphere was becoming unbearable, and the eerie atmosphere filled them with dread. Suddenly, the elf's sharp eyes caught sight of a shape. Soon, the dwarf saw it too. They both quickened their pace. After a few steps, the sound of singing reached their ears. A few more, and they saw a figure. Dalemir stopped in amazement. A little girl, about six years old. A snow-white dress reached her ankles, her feet bare. She stood in the snow in only a thin robe. In her tiny hands, she held a flower—a faded flower. The melody of her sweet song drifted on the wind. Even though they didn't know the language the girl sang in, they easily guessed the meaning of the words. A beautiful song about a childhood lost too soon. Burchard approached the little girl, wanting to wrap her in a warm sheepskin. The girl turned her back to the dwarf. A silver dagger protruded from her body, and no blood seeped from the wound. The flower had long since withered. A tear rolled down Dalemir's cheek. The elf fell to his knees, buried his fingers in his raven-black hair, and cried out in horror.

"Laura! It was an accident! I'm sorry." Suddenly, all the memories flashed before the elf's eyes. A beautiful, warm spring. Greenery all around, the scent of flowers. Innocent games with children. Laughter.

"And now I'll show you how to throw a knife skillfully. Someday you too will learn.

" "Yes! Dalemir, please.

I didn't see her. She wasn't there. No! Blood. A scream. Death... exile. Hatred."

The elf quickly gathered himself. A bestial murderer, that's what he was.

Burchard looked at Dalemir, turned to the girl, but she was gone. Suddenly, he understood everything.

"Your first time, eh? A dirty elf," he said, and spat fiercely at his feet. In response, he heard only the echo of his own voice. Silence.

They continued their journey. The necropolis was not far, but the going was very difficult. The old dwarf's fatigue and the weight of the elf's memories did not favor a swift march. The silence that hung between the companions became increasingly oppressive. Soon, the panting Burchard decided to break the conspiracy of silence.

"How could you do that in a hundred thunderbolts?" Burchard asked with unconcealed anger. The elf remained silent. "If I ask!? Explain this, defend yourself, damn it! Surely you're not that ruthless?" The dwarf's shout caused something within Dalemir to snap. The elf who had been walking ahead stopped and turned around.

"It was an accident, but I have no excuse. I killed her." The grimace of pain that twisted the elf's handsome face was quickly replaced by a hateful glint in his eyes. "It's none of your business, don't ask about it."

Burchard muttered something under his breath. He understood the elf; he, too, had a lot on his conscience. Essentially

, they were cut from the same cloth. "Never mind, let's get going. I don't like it here, I really don't." They could already see the cemetery gate. Slowly but surely, they approached it. Suddenly, a figure blocked their path. Burchard groaned, and the elf stopped dead in his tracks. Before them stood a dwarf who, even by dwarven standards, was terrifying. Half of his face was a bloody mess, the other contorted in a nasty smile. The apparition stood with legs spread wide apart, holding a thick leather belt in its right hand.

"Burchard, my son, come to your father," the dwarf's ghost sneered. "What about you, won't you say hello to your father?" Burchard stood stone-faced, a grimace of terror appearing on it for only a moment. He drew his axe and charged at the apparition, screaming.

"I'll kill you again, you son! This is for your mother!" A furious Burchard had already swung his axe when the apparition vanished into thin air.

"You've learned nothing, son. Nothing." Where did that voice come from? The dwarf glanced at Dalemir, but he, too, had no idea what was happening.

"What devilish tricks are these? Let's get out of here, Dalemir, as quickly as possible." The elf nodded, and they quickly approached the necropolis gate. They caught up in their march and passed through the gate simultaneously. The moon was full.

III

"Where the hell are we? What's going on here?" the dwarf shouted questions, though he knew he wouldn't get any answers. Dalemir was as surprised as he was. They both stood in a small depression, the grass green all around them! The sky was blue, and the sun was pleasantly warm. In the land of eternal frost and darkness—their home—it was unimaginable.

"Let's get out of this hole and figure out where we are?" The elf was very happy with the greenery and sunshine. Burchard looked rather dissatisfied.

"You go, I need a moment to rest," he said, and sat down in the middle of the hollow. He pulled his ever-present hip flask from his breast pocket and emptied it all in one gulp. Sending the elf up clearly had a purpose. Burchard tried to sort everything out in his head. First the girl, then his father, who had died at the hands of his son centuries ago. The pain in his chest was becoming unbearable.

"Burchard! War! Hundreds, thousands of soldiers! We're right in the middle of the battlefield! Come here and see for yourself," the elf shouted excitedly. "Burchard? Do you hear? Come here." Silence. Dalemir turned around. The dwarf was lying right in the middle of the hollow, crouched, the flask in his hand. Driven by a bad feeling, the elf quickly ran downstairs. As he got closer, he heard the groans of the old murderer.

"War? This is too much... what a fucking pain," the dwarf muttered in a hoarse voice.

"Burchard, what's wrong with you? We have to run, they're coming!" Dalemir started shaking the dwarf. But he only babbled incoherently. The elf, unsure what to do, gave Burchard a powerful slap in the face. This seemed to sober the old man. "

Get the hell up... try to see who's attacking... and then run as fast as you can. I'm staying here," the dwarf rasped. The elf drew his sword in one movement and placed the blade against Burchard's apple. Nervously, he began to speak through gritted teeth.

"We entered this mess together, we'll emerge from it together. This is no time for honor and heroic deaths. I won't let you die, you old stinker. It's not that easy." I don't know where we are, I don't know who we'll be fighting, but damn it, we will fight! Dalemir knew no mercy, didn't know what a request was, but he wielded a threat almost as skillfully as a sword. Burchard glared at the elf. It was a harder art than he'd previously thought. Yes, Dalemir, with his speech and undoubted courage, had inspired the dwarf's admiration. The elf's words, as he had expected, had an effect on Burchard's ambition. The old mercenary forgot his heartache and exhaustion. He decided to improve the elf's self-esteem. There was no denying he enjoyed giving orders.

"Give me a minute, I need to get myself together," he cleared his throat. "We don't have much time, so run up the hill and try to figure out who's fighting. We have to join one of the sides, preferably the winning one.

" "Well! That's better." Dalemir tapped the dwarf on the shoulder and briskly ran up the hill. Suddenly he felt completely different. He was no longer a ruthless murderer. He felt like a free, carefree elf again. He paused for a moment.

"What's happening? Someone is manipulating my mind. I can feel it!" The thought vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

The armies were clearly gathering for an attack. Those in the north were already marching straight towards the hollow where Burchard sat. The army in the south seemed motionless. Suddenly, trumpets sounded. The cavalry of the southern army had charged into battle! We can't escape now, the elf thought. What should we do? Dalemir ran downstairs.

"So pale elf, are the armies of darkness attacking?" Burchard tried to make a joke. It failed miserably. Dalemir's face was still a shade of white, not green. The elf spat, cleared his throat, and said, his voice trembling slightly.

"It doesn't matter which army it is. Do you hear it? It's the clatter of horses. They're already approaching." Hopefully, that other army won't move, and the one behind us will be friendly.

"Let's stand against that steep wall; the horses will probably jump over us. Until the infantry gets here, we're relatively safe." Burchard had already pressed his back against the nearly vertical wall of the valley. Dalemir loosened his sword belt and checked if it was coming out of the scabbard correctly.

"I have a better idea." The elf ran up the hill and lay down in the tall grass directly above the dwarf. Burchard tapped his head.

"You'll die, you fool, the horses will trample you!" The cavalry was getting closer. Burchard pressed himself against the wall of the hideout, even afraid to think what would happen to his head after meeting a horse's hoof.

"This elf is a lunatic," he said to himself. "What does he think he's thinking? This isn't some damn hero story."

"Stop muttering, you better get ready to run fast," Dalemir whispered. Burchard tried to decipher what the words "run fast" meant.

"Is he supposed to run somewhere? Joker, where exactly? Right under the horses' hooves? Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe he has a deal with those riders? What are you even thinking, old fool? What kind of deal...this elf is trying to get your lame ass out of trouble, and you're still thinking about conspiracies." "It's a waste of a knife on the likes of you," Burchard argued with his own thoughts.

"They're close. I'll take that black horse; the rider seems rather frail. I'll manage," Dalemir mused. "Damn, if only that damned dwarf made it to the top, or rather... if he doesn't make it, I'll leave without him. Let everyone fend for themselves, who is he to me? The stinking dwarf, all this fuss because of him, I should kill him myself. Maybe then I could go home?" Dalemir shuddered at the thought of Laura's ghost. "What are you thinking, stupid elf? He knows as much as you do. Giving someone even a shred of trust isn't so much, is it? What's going on? I'm getting lost in this story. I don't understand where this idea of ​​heroically capturing a moving horse came from..."

"Better focus on the jump. They're close," a voice sounded in his mind.

The ground shook with the clatter of horses' hooves. A hunched Burchard still hesitated.

"Trust him? Until the day this has come to this, I myself wrote anti-elvish slogans on the walls. Now my life depends on, perhaps, the most lousy of the lousy race." The first rider leaped over the valley, and the crouched Burchard cursed under his breath. "Damn it, what am I supposed to do?" The second rider leaped over his head. "Damn it, I'll do as he says." The slightly sulky dwarf prepared to run.

"Run!" came the elf's voice.

Dalemir remained focused, pressed against the turf. He could already see saliva flying from the first horse's mouth. The rider, perhaps even more focused than he, or perhaps terrified, paid no attention to the elf. The warrior on the black horse was approaching; he would be third. The second steed ran lightly past Dalemir.

"Now or never," the elf thought, and shouted with all his might, "Run!"...if only you could hear him, he finished in his thoughts.

After the shout, the dwarf steeled himself to run. He held his belt and trousers with his hands. Another steed leaped over his head. He ran as fast as his old legs could carry him.

The Karosh was right in front of Dalemir. Dalemir pulled the rider from the saddle in one movement and mounted his steed. The horse didn't feel much difference, jumping lightly over the crevice. On the other side, Dalemir braked sharply. Terror gripped him...

"It was an elf... What kind of war is this? Where are we?" Burchard's shouts sobered him. The dwarf was already reaching the horse. The elf turned and offered his hand to the old man, barely pulling him onto the karosh.

"How did you do it? I underestimated you, elf. You've got vodka here, but forget about the sheepskin coat. Go, as fast as you can in the beast's hooves, you can see the forest to the east," the dwarf shouted at him. Surprisingly, the rest of the cavalry didn't seem to notice them.

"No."

"What did you say? I misheard, I think..." The dwarf's expression fell.

"You didn't mishear me, I need to find out what this war is," Dalemir said calmly. "You can dismount if you don't like it. I'll handle it myself.

" "Damn it. The elves are nothing but trouble, so go wherever you want!" Burchard had no choice but to agree. Dalemir spurred his horse toward the enemy army. They passed other riders, but they didn't even spare them a passing glance. No one paid any attention to a dwarf riding with an elf? Strange, but Burchard and Dalemir didn't dwell on it. The elf spurred his horse, his mind racing with thoughts. Who was the enemy? Who were the elves fighting? Where were we?

They could already clearly see the first ranks of the enemy army. Human archers were drawing their bowstrings. A hail of arrows rained down directly on the cavalry. There was no chance of survival. They already knew where, or rather, when, they were. Wars right after humans appeared on Earth. The first and last elven-dwarven alliance. This is the end; whatever force had shown them the past had allowed death to reach them with its claws. The screams of the dying, the neighing of wounded horses, and the wild cries of archers. All these sounds mingled together. Dalemir felt the arrows piercing his body; they were too close to escape. I don't want it to end like this. No. These were Dalemir's final thoughts, and after them, he fell into darkness. A blissful darkness soothed his soul.

IV

. Darkness, cold, fear. Is this what eternity after death will be like?

"Thank you," Burchard thought. "I could use a drink. Damn, what a senseless, banal story... I met that woman. Such immense power emanated from her fragile body. She told me to find the elf Dalemir, so I found him. She told me to come to the catacombs... I didn't get it, we didn't get it. What's this all about? I can still understand the ghosts. The vodka at the inn might have been of poor quality. Goddamn it, I don't understand that war. You can't get so drunk you can see entire armies. Plus, the pain in your butt, probably from riding, is quite real. It's good that he's dead now. I didn't deserve to live. I killed my father because he killed my mother, because he beat me for everything. After that, I killed many times, no respect for life. I even took money for it. Earning a living by taking lives... that's nonsense. Cruel nonsense." It's good that I've come to my senses at least a little in my old age; at least I know what I did was pointless. I just pity that elf. His eyes when he saw the ghost of that girl. He regretted not being as ruthless as I was at his age. I had no remorse. I'll bet two bottles that after every murder, his conscience torments him. I understand him; he killed to survive. Even when I had money, I killed... inflicting death is like an addiction, oh, to look into the eyes of a victim as the life drains away dispassionately. Funny, it still excites me. Even after death, he fucks like before... how it drains me...

"Open your eyes. It's time," a voice echoed in Burchard's head, or maybe in the darkness?

Darkness, pain, fear. I knew this would be the case after death, the elf said to himself. "What could I expect from a life like this? Even my death had no meaning. The question is, which does? We don't know our destiny, so we can't fulfill it. Another senseless existence. I think I know why I killed, not for money, though that's how I explained it to myself. I wanted to be important, to give meaning to my life. I was the last one they saw before they departed into the eternal abyss. Now I see that what I did was wrong. I deserve this punishment. For eternity I will lie here and think about my life, which I completely screwed up. Damn it, how did this even happen? Burchard, Laura, the ghost of an old dwarf, the war. The war of the first races with humans. We lost it. The alliance between the two peoples was too fragile. I remember the words of the old elves... if we had held on to our alliance back then, we would have defeated the humans. Why should I have seen this? Why should I have died there?" Was this supposed to be some kind of reconciliation with my people? Possible. Through death I was banished from my home, through our shared death I was united with them. But what does Burchard have to do with it? Maybe he's an exile too. We probably sinned similarly in our lives. Funny, so different, yet the same. Pity the old man; he deserved life more than I did. Whatever I say, I'll give a damn. I speak of him as a friend. I have no friends. I am a murderer, I was one, and I must remain so. No sentimentality, only ruthlessness.

"Wake up. It's time," a voice rang out in the darkness.

V

They woke at the same moment. They looked at each other. No time for conversation. Both were debating whether to continue or retreat and return to the city. Stubbornness, innately dwarven and acquired by the assassin, prevailed. They stood up simultaneously, brushing the snow from their already soaked clothes. Their minds boiled with thoughts. A drawn weapon shattered the terrifying graveyard silence. A dwarven battleaxe and an elven light one-and-a-half sword gleamed with cold steel. Both sensed the evil lurking in the darkness of the graveyard. It wasn't easy to explain, but the atmosphere was seething with hatred and fear.

"It's trivial," Dalemir thought. "An old, haunted cemetery, like the fairy tales used to scare small children. The dead will surely attack us soon," he sneered. But the graves didn't open, no moans escaped their depths. That wasn't what was terrifying about this place, this time. Silence. It filled him with fear. Burchard swung his axe—a test, to get his muscles moving. Experience told him a fight would be inevitable. Strangely enough, he felt better knowing that a skilled elven mercenary would aid him in the fight. Dalemir, too, consoled himself with the thought of his companion's help. When it seemed that the atmosphere of terror would tear the cemetery apart, they saw a hunched figure approaching.

"Old man," hissed Dalemir, whose elven eyesight allowed him to more quickly and clearly see the approaching creature.

"Is this supposed to be an enemy?" Burchard said, and burst out laughing. The dwarf's booming voice echoed throughout the necropolis. Dalemir also laughed lightly, rather quietly. The joy generated by the apparent weakness of the approaching enemy freed the mercenaries from their fear. The dwarf, swinging his axe nonchalantly, approached the old man. When he had a clear view of him, covered in rags, the old man extended his open, deathly pale, wrinkled hand.

"Halt!" he said in a confident voice, a little too confident for an old man, but the assassins paid little attention. "Whoever wants to pass must fight."

"You, grandfather?" Burchard sneered. "Old man, isn't it time to retire? What are you guarding? There's just a mass of snow and a few tombstones here." I don't know what it was like in your time, but now it's nothing of value." He burst into loud laughter again. How unnatural it sounded in this cemetery. The dark eyes in the old man's wrinkled face gleamed with a strange light. Another signal that an observant person would have considered disturbing was missed by his companions. Dalemir joined Burchard in mocking the old man.

"Let us go, grandfather, you'll get some vodka and a woman. It warms you like nothing else, and I see you could use some warmth." He chuckled eerily. "I know you have plenty of women here, but they're not exactly lively." The mercenaries practically reeled with laughter, the old man stood unmoved. After a moment, the joy faded, the old man lowered his hand. He spoke.

"You won't be fighting me, and as for the women living here, you'll soon meet one of them." Burchard and Dalemir ignored another warning signal. An image of a woman resembling the old man, weak and incompetent, flashed through their minds. Their surprise knew no bounds when they saw a figure emerge from the shadows, behind the old man.

"What's this..." Burchard stopped mid-sentence, probably wanting to conclude his statement with a scathing curse. A huge warrior with an extremely unpleasant appearance stood before them. The woman's massive, muscular body was pale, almost transparent. She was covered only with scraps of fabric. In both hands, she held enormous swords.

"An opponent straight out of a silly children's story... damn it, I never thought I'd be fighting something like that..." Burchard couldn't believe his eyes. Dalemir, knowing the fight was inevitable, searched for the giantess's weak points.

"That's not the end of the surprises tonight. The winner will receive 100 gold coins." The professional killers were speechless.

"No, this is a joke!" "What the fuck is this, a graveyard olympics?" the dwarf said, a bit indignant but also amused. The old man disappeared.

"100 gold coins... that can buy a lot of pleasure..." Dalemir swung his sword in a sweeping motion and attempted to run towards his opponent, but Burchard clung to his leg! The elf fell flat on the graveyard path.

"Are you so greedy for your grandfather's money? Let's see who gets there first!" the dwarf hissed, running as fast as he could. His opponent remained unmoved. Dalemir quickly rose and gave chase. Both of them already envisioned the reward for defeating the monster. The dwarf was already within reach of the giantess's sword. The woman roared wildly and swung the weapon she held in her left hand. Fortunately, the graveyard horror was as large as it was stupid and slow. The blade missed its target. Burchard laughed and was about to deliver the final blow, leaving the warrior no chance of further fighting, when a dull pain spread through his back. The dwarf felt the ground slip from under his feet. Dalemir stood triumphantly over his fallen companion. But he had no time to mock the dwarf now. The giantess slashed with her sword at the height of his head. Dalemir parried the blow, but the impact knocked him to his knees. The warrior's second sword was already falling on his neck when the woman howled in pain. She turned her back on the elf, a dwarven battle axe protruding from her back. The monster, with the last of her strength, intended to wipe the bearded aggressor from the face of the graveyard. The defenseless dwarf awaited death, both swords inexorably striving to decapitate his old head. But the terrifying blow was never delivered. The elf's sword lodged itself with tremendous force in the warrior's back. The blow took her life. Burchard smiled weakly.

"So, what do we split evenly?" he asked.

"I killed her, but 50 gold coins would be better than nothing." Let's go to the catacombs, it's time to explain everything." Dalemir yanked his sword from the body of his dead opponent.

VI

Burchard and Dalemir were now walking briskly, all the terror having left the cemetery. Was it because of the giantess's slaying? They didn't know. In any case, they were moving quickly now and were just before the entrance to the catacombs. They could smell the growing stench of decay. The wealthier among the inhabitants of Dobrograd were buried in the large tomb. Although the tradition of visiting the graves of loved ones had faded due to the spread of faith in the god Miligost, the catacombs had no shortage of new "inhabitants." Wealthy merchants and city dignitaries were still buried here. Their bodies, in an advanced state of decomposition, gave off a nauseating, intense odor.

The elf eyed the enormous stone gates—the entrance to the tomb. With their combined strength, they pushed against them and created a gap that they could easily use as a way in. It was bright inside, and four burning torches rested on each of the columns supporting the vault. Who lit them?

"Hey, priestess! It's us! You summoned us!" Burchard shouted loudly. Strangely, they felt no fear as they stood in the vestibule of the gigantic tomb. The feeling of danger that had haunted them since leaving the inn in Dobrogrod had vanished. Burchard's call met with no response. They took a closer look around the interior of the catacombs. Both side walls were dotted with numerous entrance niches. Above each entrance hung a plaque, either with the name of the deceased or the date of death. It was impossible to tell how long the tomb was. Everything was bathed in a yellowish glow.

"That priestess tricked us! We went to such lengths to meet her, and we found the tomb empty!" Dalemir was overcome with anger.

"Easy, elf." Hold your tongue." A stooped old woman in white robes emerged from the nearest alcove. "The tomb is not empty, and I do not advise disturbing its inhabitants. Remember, young Dalemir and you, aged Burchard, one should always show respect to the dead. You murderers should always remember that death is queen..." Dalemir interrupted the old woman's speech, angrily interrupting her.

"Stop talking nonsense, priestess. We know what death is; we certainly have a greater understanding of its meaning than you. I've seen it in the eyes of the dying many times. Every minute her sinister yet beautiful face stood before me was etched in bloody marks on my memory.

"Don't be arrogant, elf, and as for you, Lady," Burchard said, concluding with a note of respect. "I would prefer you pay us the dues for risking our lives and tell us, in your kindness, why we had to come here." The priestess laughed.

"But my dears." I have no money to pay you; you have gained something much greater on this short but tiring expedition." Burchard blushed and took the axe handle in his hand. Dalemir half-slid his sword from its scabbard.

"What have we gained? My saddlebags are still empty," the elf hissed. "

You amuse me, elf. I didn't mean material virtues. You have gained something eternal, beautiful, something that can save the world!" The old woman's voice trembled with ecstasy.

"Speak quickly, old woman! What have we gained?" There was not even a trace of respect left in the dwarf's voice. He massaged his axe as he spoke, ready to draw his weapon immediately. The old woman straightened. Her dark, gleaming eyes were fixed on the mercenaries. "You have gained friendship! Friendship that will save the world!" the priestess shouted as if intoxicated by too much alcohol. Dalemir wrenched the weapon free. He intended to force the old woman to pay. Burchard looked at him and smiled.

"Dalemir, don't you understand? She's offering us a mission that, if successful, will save the world from destruction." Burchard grinned, the torchlight reflecting off his golden teeth. The priestess smiled just as broadly, though less mockingly than the dwarf.

"You've hit the nail on the head, dwarf! Everything you've experienced since leaving the inn has been a great trial! Now you will embark on a mission that will save the world! You will bring spring back to this land and protect...

" "And what will we gain from this?" Dalemir asked matter-of-factly.

"What do you mean?" The priestess hadn't expected such a question.

"The elf wanted to ask how much you'll pay us for this.

" "I won't pay you anything for this. You'll gain eternal glory, a place in the pantheon of heroes, and your friendship will be solidified, it will be eternal." The old woman's speech would probably encourage most people to embark on the journey. But Dalemir and Burchard simply looked at each other and said together.

"Thank you," they laughed. "

Saving the world doesn't interest me, at least not for free. Be glad, old lady, that your head is still resting on your shoulders. Happy searching for dupes." The dwarf turned on his heel and left. The priestess looked at Dalemir pleadingly.

"I'm sorry, priestess. There's no place for heroes in today's world. Farewell." The elf walked lightly out of the tomb. He caught up with Burchard. The wind carried the old woman's screams.

"You can't leave like this! God has revealed his word to me! You are to save the world! Wait! We will pay! We won't forgive you for this!" The elf and dwarf quickened their pace. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to reflect on the snow.

"You know, Burchard... I despise heroes.

" "That's right. There's no place for them here. Let's go for a drink."