Undead Beer

Winter. Pale and cold, like a frigid, aging maiden. Like the woman's sharp words, the frost penetrated the soul and pierced the body with hundreds of tiny needles, like words transformed into blows. And impenetrable darkness surrounded everything, and the pure, pale-faced snow crackled underfoot, and the Yeti's fur proved insufficient protection. And only the parched throat burned with thirst, and the mind was clouded by deceptive visions. And the light seeping from behind the dirty windows gave the lost travelers one last hope.

Three mysterious figures, clad in long, fur-lined cloaks, headed toward the source of the light. They walked with measured steps, humming a song for comfort. Evening was approaching, the sun drifted quietly beyond the wind-whipped horizon, and the stars opened their curious eyes. The three brave souls quickened their pace, hoping the gloomy, icy night wouldn't overtake them outside. The pinprick of golden light grew larger with each passing moment, until the travelers finally beheld a sight that heartened them: amidst the frosty wasteland stood a small, wooden building with a sloping roof blanketed with white fluff. The travelers rushed toward the cottage, happy to have reached the end of their long journey. They didn't need to knock on the door. They knew this place well. Beyond the weathered door, a world entirely different from the one outside awaited them. Warm air, saturated with the aroma of herbs, delicious beers at their fingertips, cozy, hard benches, and a family atmosphere. They came to this inn every evening for a beer.

As soon as they closed the door behind them, the innkeeper's hoarse voice greeted them.

"You scoundrels again! It's barely dark, and you're already rushing for a beer!" And your women are probably waiting in the cottage!

"They are, but where are they going to meet us?" laughed one of the guests. "Lovers come to them, of course

!" "What kind of lovers?" another one said indignantly. "Even a mammoth wouldn't touch such filthy old women. Anyway, never mind. Give me three mulled beers."

The innkeeper merely sighed in response to his unbridled thirst for a drink. Deep down, however, he was pleased with his earnings. Singing suspiciously cheerfully, he went to prepare the delicacy, while the furry trio engaged in serious conversation.

"Winter is coming.

" "We'll have to hunt mammoths.

" "Well .

" "We're too old. Better to sit here with a loving mug.

" "Well.

" "Besides, mammoths are supposedly protected. That means we shouldn't beat them.

" "Who said that? Some stupid old man, surely? And what if we hunt them, the gods will punish us?" I tell you, they'll soon have mammoths in the pen!

— Well.

They had no time to lament the low attendance at the inn, as an indescribable, terrible, herring-like stench filled the room, inducing vomiting and reminiscent of a fishing vessel that had sunk with its cargo of fish. Such a stench usually followed the ghost of a centuries-dead captain. The three beer lovers howled in agony like a she-wolf abandoned by a seductive werewolf. When the initial shock subsided, they resolutely covered their noses with the tails of their thick coats and moved resolutely toward the innkeeper's suspected and suspected location.

"Wait, the brewery's almost warmed up!" the man said confidently

. "Brewery?!" one of the travelers roared. "What rotten herrings were you trying to force on us?"

"Sir, I know it doesn't smell pretty, but you can't judge good cheese by its smell either!" In barbarian lands, they eat cheeses like those eaten with an old footstool and say it's a delicacy! Just wait until I bring you the beer, then you can talk."

He smiled jovially, then went to fetch the drink. The stench intensified. Three mugs filled with a cloudy, steaming liquid were placed before the guests. Calling it beer was like calling a nymph her mother-in-law.

They watched for a moment, pondering the possible side effects of drinking this filth. Finally, one of them made a brave face and slowly reached for the mug. He closed his eyes and drank it all in one gulp. His companions watched him intently until the other opened his eyes.

And in their eyes, they saw something they should never have seen.

A yellow, demonic glow emanated from them, illuminating everything around them with an aura of evil.

"Good beer," he announced in a voice that could have belonged to a ghost or a child locked in a metal trunk. "Soon terrible plagues will descend upon the world, and every beer will reek of moldy fish!"

With that, he laughed demonically and disappeared in a shroud of flames.

***

Eight years later, no one remembered the incident. A new owner had taken over the inn, the beer tasted like beer, and the yetis were breeding eagerly. But something was about to happen...

***

The village headman's sixtieth birthday was approaching. They had been preparing for it with zeal for some time. After all, not everyone has the opportunity to live to such an honorable age (accidents happen, and sons wanting to amass a fortune...). The village headman, however, was very lucky: he had lived to the age of sixty and intended to celebrate his birthday with the entire village. Dancing, beer, and merrymaking were promised—and for free, at that. The village headman probably thought that since it was the middle of winter and the birds were freezing in flight, no one would bother coming. He was wrong. For months, the entire village had been discussing the free drink. Sure, it would be stale and fermented, but everyone would be able to get drunk, just like anyone else.

But Rzepka had no intention of getting drunk. He didn't even intend to go to a party. He never went to parties, because no one invited him, and he'd never even been to an inn, so why would he go to the village headman? Why would he watch others pour themselves the golden drink and succumb to its charm? He didn't want to arouse jealousy, which always assailed him whenever someone drank beer in his presence.

He could never touch him, for a fate worse than a curse haunted him.

At first glance, the boy looked like an ordinary peasant: his hair was imprecisely trimmed, the color of straw, and a yeti cloak draped over his back. However, Rzepka was smaller and slimmer than his peers, because his body lacked the most life-giving element—hops. This was precisely his life's tragedy—he was allergic to hops. He couldn't drink a drop of beer, and because of that, his peers rejected him. They didn't want to associate with a boy who didn't drink; sober, he couldn't frolic with girls. Therefore, Rzepka spent most of his time daydreaming and contemplating nature.

On that day, when time had finally come and a turning point began in the lives of the inhabitants of the wild North, the boy was occupied with observing the yetis. He crouched in the leafless bushes, his entire mind focused on watching the furry creatures. A long time had to pass before he noticed someone tugging at his hair.

"Hey, wake up!" squeaked an impatient creature.

The boy shook himself out of his reverie and looked at the unexpected newcomer. It was probably a child from his village, though a slightly too-large woolen hat that fell over his eyes and a scarf that wrapped almost his entire face hindered any accurate judgment.

"Oh! So you're alive after all!" "Come with me, Daddy's got a job for you!

" "What job, Daddy? I'm not going anywhere until you explain it!"

The child sighed and made a face as if trying to explain something to an intelligent person differently.

"Well, Daddy says you're a freak and you have something for your carp, so you won't drink his beer. You know, he owns an inn and wants someone to help him dig up the barrels he found in the cellar.

" "Okay, let's go, but I'm not a freak!

" ***

"Hello, Turnip!" said the innkeeper. He was a portly fellow, but Turnip wasn't about to forgive him for being a freak.

"Hello yourself, deer.

" "What's with this bad mood, young man?

" "Please, first a freak, and now you're talking so nicely? I'll tell you something. This is discrimination!" This is worse than racially motivated persecution of gnomes! The constitution states that persecuting people due to their low tolerance for hops is not only prohibited but will also be severely punished by law!

In response to the monologue, the innkeeper only opened his mouth in surprise and stared blankly at the boy. He didn't understand a word of his speech. But Rzepka didn't look so well either. He blushed slightly and lowered his head. It was obvious he was ashamed of his speech.

"I'm sorry, sometimes I ramble on like that. I don't even remember what I said; I'm sure I only cursed badly. But I simply don't like being called a freak. Or is it my fault I can't drink beer?

" "I'm sorry too. Let's not think about it any more. You'll help me dig up some barrels in a moment, you'll get a little money, and I'll know you won't drink anything from me."

The man smiled sincerely, and then Rzepka changed his attitude. He forgave the unfortunate freak and eagerly marched toward the cellar. The innkeeper led him through the snow-covered yard to a hastily dug hole in the ground. The first one descended the rickety ladder and motioned for the boy to follow him. Inside, darkness reigned, but fortunately, the innkeeper had employed the long-forgotten art of lighting a fire with tinder and flint. Soon, the fire was crackling merrily on the torch and illuminating the forbidding, bolted door.

"Here it is," the innkeeper said, pointing to the rotten boards. "We need to knock out those boards and see what's inside. I've already looked in there, and I know there are some barrels, but maybe something else, maybe something else? Come on, grab the shovel and break them open, and I'll cover you."

Rzepka didn't like the prospect of being attacked by a beer golem or some other murderous creature, but he bravely pushed through the door like a prisoner condemned to death digging a tunnel with a teaspoon. Finally, the entrance collapsed under the pressure of the boy's barely visible muscles.

"Victory!" Rzepka screamed at the top of his lungs and threw himself into the innkeeper's arms.

Finally, the eternal enemy of his ancestors had been defeated. Now he lay in agony and whimpered for mercy, collapsed, and his black blood soaked into the earth he so hated, whose children he had been tormenting for centuries. Now the stupid door crumbled to smithereens. And good.

"You handled it well," the innkeeper admitted. "Now let me go in, we'll see what's inside."

Without saying a word, Rzepka stepped out of the way. The innkeeper strode briskly into the storage area of ​​all sorts of barrels, casks, kegs, kegs, and rats' nests.

"The real treasure trove has been revealed to us." Well, well.

"What's that stinking thing?" —the boy asked

. Indeed, there was something in the air, like the smell of rotten fish, but it was too faint to pinpoint where it came from. The innkeeper smelled it too, but he just shrugged.

"Something probably crawled in here and died. Don't worry, just help me drag those barrels out. There's probably some sour beer here; we'll serve it only when everyone's drunk and can't smell it.

" ***

The day everyone had been waiting for finally arrived. It dawned beautifully, with a golden sun and freshly fallen snow tenderly blanketing the fields and forests. From early morning, the entire village had been preparing for the celebration. Several long tables and worn-out benches had been brought into the meadow near the village headman's cottage. The villagers were busy with mental preparations and gossiping, while the sorcerer was conjuring the weather and performing the weather dance. Thanks to his efforts, dedication (you have to spend a lot of vodka to fall into a trance), and the gods' unexpectedly good humor, the weather was beautiful. The snow still lay lazily on the ground, and the birds sang their romantic songs. Perhaps they weren't singing there, but certainly somewhere in the world. Before anyone knew it, a velvety, fluffy dusk had fallen, and the people began to flock to the place of festivities. The village headman greeted everyone effusively and cordially, but after the first dozen or so people, he grew tired and went off to sip beer. The festivities could be considered to have begun. All the villagers politely plied themselves with the free drinks. To spare others the trouble of washing dishes, they drank the golden beverage straight from the barrel, treating their hair to hop conditioner at the same time. When everyone was more or less stunned, the village headman, rubbing his hands with joy that this time no one would interrupt him, climbed onto the barrel and began his speech:

"Dear comrades! Citizens, women, and all other inhabitants of our noble village. We are gathered here today...

" "Don't talk so much!" "—said an impatient voice.—If there's no beer, just say 'no beer,' and you won't call us scum!"

—Don't interrupt... What am I...? Aha... We're gathered to celebrate my sixtieth birthday. Sixty years isn't enough to get to know you all well...

"—You've lived with us barely half a dozen years!

—I said: don't interrupt! You're distracting me, this could end badly!

—Trill-apricots, that's it! Hurry up, sir, because I'm in a hurry to get home! Or bring me some beer!"

—The gods have punished me with life in this backwater, among peasants whose shoes are sticking out... Oh. Dear people, as you know, I'm already sixty... Yes, I'm already sixty, and I'd really like to thank everyone... Well, almost everyone, for your support. Without you, I would never have achieved what I have today! Wait a minute... Where's my ring?

"—It'll disappear soon! "—whispered some old woman to the young girl. "You'll see, he'll put on the ring and become invisible! And then he'll set off into the world, and that's all I'll see of him! He'll probably go to the dwarves who killed the dragon with them! Now she doesn't want to admit it, but I know better!"

"You're talking tall tales," the girl replied. "My grandmother is also true when she's had a drink. You'd better go home and rest.

" Seeing that no one was listening, the village headman abandoned his attempt to dazzle the villagers with his oratory skills. He thanked them, climbed out of the barrel, and cursed under his breath, hearing no applause.

"More beer!" shouted one of the partygoers.

Someone found more barrels, and they began to quickly unload their contents. Soon, however, no one paid any attention to the barrels, for an unexpected guest had appeared in the clearing. This gentleman, with his flowing hair and delicate features, looked more like an ethereal figure from dreams than a real being. Only the squirrels climbing up his coat allowed them to believe that he wouldn't soon disappear and vanish like mist. His shoulders were dusted with snow, and he walked with dignity, his light feet barely touching the ground. "

My gods!" squealed one of the more timid women. "Some strange creature has crept out of the forest! And those monstrous familiars of his will soon devour us all!"

The newcomer merely lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile and spoke to everyone in a silky, melodic voice, reminiscent of birdsong in spring:

"Do not fear me, people, for there is nothing to fear. I have come to you in peace. I have honored you with my most beautiful person, for my lovely ears have heard the splash of pure golden drops and the roar of foaming beer waves. Share with the representative of the Fair People!

" "People!" the sorcerer began in a mysterious, deep voice. "He is a true elf!" The villagers began to whisper among themselves, for each of them had heard of elves, but none had yet had the opportunity to see one. However, the healer silenced them with a sweeping movement of his hand, twisted by arthritis (strangely, the infusions of his herbs didn't seem to help). "Listen to me, people! Well, the ancient wisdom, passed down to me from my grandfather, my great-grandfather, says that elves can get drunk with one sip of beer. Let's give him half a mug then; he's an elf, after all; maybe he'll cast a spell on us to intensify or improve our sexuality?

" A merciless hubbub reigned among the people, everyone shouting over each other and trying to outdo each other in inventing increasingly improbable stories about elves. Finally, the old woman, the one who had been talking about the ring, climbed onto the table with surprising grace and said with even more surprising volume:

"You talk nonsense like, excuse me, old women!" My mother's mother used to tell me that far away in the forest, where our eyes cannot reach, there stands a city of elves and what higher magic resides there and a multitude of beautiful elves there!

Then the girls saw that the elf was truly beautiful, immortal, unearthly, and his ears, sharp as spearheads, were so alluring they were impossible to resist. Then they all threw themselves upon him, touching them and giggling. He, however, only smiled blissfully and gazed longingly at the beer barrel as it opened. Finally, the barrel was dealt with, but the villagers were not allowed to experience that slightly bitter, yet heartwarming taste. Instead, they experienced a cruel stench, heart-rending and lung-searing. The stench of rotten herrings mingled with the nauseating stench of a corpse and the aroma of a dwarf's socks. And the mountains shook to their foundations, for the world had never experienced such a stench. Hell broke loose, worse than any plague or war. Riddled with despair, the people prayed to the gods for this agony to end as quickly as possible, for the hour of death to come and put an end to their cruel suffering. But death never came, and the villagers felt their bodies transform, their skin softening, their once-young bones cracking. Their minds, once pure and innocent, now began to become worm-ridden and permeated with evil. The earth beneath their feet became polluted, and the fire of hatred burned in their eyes, and demonic venom seeped into their souls.

And they understood that they were no longer human, that their lives had been irrevocably extinguished, and in their place a ghastly fire had burned. They already knew they had become undead.

Yet they cared little.

***

The elf Dhibreain was already five hundred years old, yet he had never run as fast as he had that evening. He fled as if a pack of demons from the Bottomless Pit were chasing him. The icy air blew across his beautiful face, and the trees were just blurred lines. He sped along as lightly as the wind, not looking back, not dwelling on the events of a moment ago, the terrible stench and the terrifying images. He longed to see the faces of his people again as soon as possible, to talk to the animals, to be farther away from the nightmarish human rabble. Besides, if they didn't want to offer him beer, they could have just told him so; they didn't have to reenact that whole silly scene with the undead.

***

"I'm here, fuck!" announced a drunken voice. Father must be back, Turnip thought. He's talking like a real drunk!

"Honey, don't get so excited!" Mother soothed. "Lie down and rest... Ugh, you stink, have you been guzzling some rotten moonshine again? How many times have I told you...

" "Shut up, you old hag!" I won't tolerate you anymore, die, you ugly bitch!

"Turnip! Come here right now! Daddy's drunk, help me lock him in the cupboard!"

The boy's father was in a pitiful state. He stank of stale herring, his eyes glowed with an unhealthy yellow gleam, and his skin took on the color of dried blood. His body swelled like a pumpkin, covered with a greenish coating, resembling an old corpse. Rzepka suddenly felt doubtful.

"Mom, are you sure this is the father?

" "Do you think I fathered you in the bushes with some unknown man?" the woman said indignantly.

"No! This fellow here isn't your husband, that's what I mean!"

The mother gave the strange man a careful look and decided she must have been mistaken. How could she have mistaken this scoundrel and scumbag for her husband? Without a second thought, she threw the drunk out the door and bolted it securely.

"You're finished, you impure woman!" the eccentric threatened. "And besides, the Black Host will destroy your world anyway, ha ha!

" "Gods, the old man is drunk!" Isn't he ashamed? He's spouting nonsense at innocent people's doors.

Rzepka sighed and retreated behind the stove to fall asleep. But he was destined for no sleep that night. He had barely closed his eyes and sunk into the black softness, had barely begun to snore cozily, when a terrifying scream roused him from his slumber. He hadn't yet shaken off his numbness, but he knew who was begging for mercy. He didn't need to go to the other room to know that his own mother lay dead on the floor, her body being torn apart by the undead. He knew his world was crumbling to ashes, that he had just lost everyone he loved; perhaps not even the turnips in the garden were left standing. A dead silence enveloped his house, broken only by the munching of living corpses. The air was filled with the stench of rotting fish.

He didn't cry. Gritting his teeth, he donned his yeti cloak and opened the shutter. A chilly wind blew into the room, bringing snowflakes with it. I'm not afraid, the boy thought. Fear is good for... for weak, little boys who can't drink? For effeminate turnip farmers who've never seen a sword?

Well, Rzepka was terribly afraid, shaking all over, and his thoughts raced through his mind like drunken beetles frolicking at the Festival of the Forest. But the boy had made a decision. While still a child, he had heard of a temple to the god of the Face near his village. He had never been there, but people said it was located on one of the main roads, so it was hard to miss. Rzepka wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and jumped outside. He sank knee-deep in snow, and an icy wind enveloped his body. Everything was covered in white fluff. The howling of the wind brought to mind the howling of ghosts with no chance of release. The boy's body shuddered again, but he bravely pressed forward. He passed the sleepy village, hearing no barking dogs or the shouting of drunken youths. The entire settlement seemed dead.

Dead—the word struck him like a thunderbolt. Suddenly, all the events coalesced into a coherent whole, and Rzepka's mind grasped the gravity of the situation. The stench of herring, the undead, the deaths of the villagers—there could only be one explanation. Bloodthirsty pirates reeking of fish had arrived in the village and, having transformed themselves into undead (making the harsh climate easier to endure), had murdered the entire population to drink their blood. Rzepka hadn't touched the villagers, because why drink blood without hops?

Yes, a good explanation. He smiled to himself, but quickly sobered. Before him stood four pairs of yellow dots. The dots grew larger with each passing moment, finally glowing right around him. Now he had no doubts. Four tall, unnaturally swollen figures stood over him. Their eyes glared at his, as if trying to see into the boy's inner self.

Rzepka's heart raced. They were upon him, they would soon capture him!

An inhuman groan and a low wail reached his ears. The monsters trudged through the snow, leaving foul tracks in its wake. The boy froze, paralyzed by fear. Incapable of the slightest action, he stood there, watching the approaching tormentors, each second dragging on mercilessly. Fear gripped his mind; he no longer heard a sound outside, felt no cold, no dampness in his pants. Fear didn't extinguish one thought, a deep-rooted, primal thought that had saved many others like him. This thought kept repeating: run.

run! He realized it, and he started moving, slowly at first, but then faster and faster. He began to feel the cold, the wind lashing his body, lashing the snow harshly. He trudged blindly, sinking into drifts, and the bare branches of trees struck him. Yet he persisted in his efforts, not looking back. He was afraid of what he might see; he could still feel the breath of the undead raiders on his neck. Darkness enveloped him. He didn't know if the moon had hidden behind the clouds or if fear had robbed him of his sight. Yet he felt he was heading towards the right place. Although his body still shivered with cold and terror, his soul felt pleasantly warm. He believed he would reach his destination, that he would at least save himself. And among the many thoughts that suddenly began to flit through his mind, one still dominated:

Run! Owls hooted ominously, trees bent their twisted branches toward him as if to stop him. The undead were following him, he could feel it. The monsters moaned terrifyingly, calling for him to join them in the land of death. The howling of the wind turned into the howling of lost souls. Turnip's heart beat so fast it seemed about to burst from his chest. But he ran and ran, and again he no longer listened to the voices around him; he was too tired to strain his senses; with his last remaining strength, he continued his mad dash. His legs ached, his lungs burned with living fire. With every breath, he grew more and more weary. Yet he knew he had to run forward, even if he died right there on the road, buried under the snow, devoured by the monsters. He ran...

***

Kronius polished the altar of the Face. He liked to clean the smooth stone with a soft cloth; it brought him a sense of peace and solace. He could whistle old melodies then, and no one would mock him. All the priests were probably asleep, and he didn't expect any of the faithful to visit the temple so late. He calmly glanced around the interior of the sanctuary: it wasn't impressively large, but it was perfectly adequate for these rural conditions. The wooden walls were covered here and there with faded rugs. In the center of the hall stood the altar of the Face, lit by thick candles. The whole thing had a mystical, slightly old-fashioned feel; the atmosphere seemed just right for the temple.

Of course, some repulsive heretic had to ruin everything. He thoughtlessly burst into the temple, bringing snow to the meticulously washed floor and almost extinguishing the candles with a slam of the door. Kronius would have shouted, "Go away, the Face only serves until dusk," but the appearance of the newcomer touched his old heart. The stranger turned out to be a boy, perhaps fourteen years old, who looked emaciated and exhausted. The youth was breathing heavily, barely able to stand, and sweat was beading his forehead.

"Lord! Have mercy!" he whispered with his last strength, then collapsed unconscious to the ground.

Kronius only nodded, half in understanding, half in sorrow. He wondered who this young man could be and why he was wandering around temples at night. Finally, he decided it was worth reviving him; perhaps he would say something interesting. The priest brought a cup of water from his quarters and poured it on the stranger's face. The man licked his lips with delight and asked for more. The old man complied, but this time he sat the boy down on a bench and handed the cup to his trembling hands.

"Drink, to your health," he said tenderly.

"Thank you," the young man whispered with difficulty. He was still having trouble catching his breath. "I have to... I have to tell you something..."

He said nothing, however; he lost consciousness again. The priest sighed and settled down beside him to wait for him to wake up. Who knows what news this mysterious visitor had brought? Perhaps his trained deer, which had been kidnapped by barbarian foxes last year, had been found?

He had waited a long time. At first, the boy slept soundly, but fitfully, but when he awoke, he was too shaken to say anything. Nevertheless, the wait was worth it. The youth spoke:

"A great misfortune has befallen! The undead have come to our village! They are so... awful, they must have devoured everyone, only I am still alive! I beg you, sir, save me!

" "Undead, you say..." the priest mused

. "Exactly! They have yellow eyes and smell of fish. Bad fish, at that!

" Kronius struggled to suppress a laugh. A peasant comes to him and talks about the undead, who would have thought! He's probably had too much moonshine or some other filth.

"I understand, son. But you see, if they have yellow eyes, it's not so bad! Imagine what it would be like if they had red ones, that would be it! My peas sometimes turn red when they talk too much. And this special variety with blue horns has eyes so red it's scary to eat! They stink of fish too, especially at dawn."

The boy's shoes were sticking out, and his expression didn't indicate any exceptional intelligence, yet he managed to imagine that Kronius was making fun of him.

"Listen," he continued after a moment's thought, "I know I'm a peasant and all, but why don't you believe me? I really saw undead, by the gods!" he said in such a tone that the priest began to have doubts. The kid looked like he'd experienced a lot, and he looked at me with pleading eyes, and it was impossible not to believe him. But where did these monsters come from in such a peaceful place?

"What's your name, boy?

" "Rzepka.

" What a stupid name, he thought. Hillbilly, like a hundred and fifty. Or like cauliflower.

"So, Rzepka, are you sure you saw them? You haven't had any beer, have you?

" "I wish I could at least drink that beer! But no, I'm allergic to hops! And they don't sell moonshine in the village because they don't care about potatoes! So you can't say I'm some kind of drunkard. I saw the undead with my own eyes.

" "Good gods! A hop allergy! That's a tragedy! Do you remember anything else?

" "I do! They were talking strangely, something about the Black Ententes... no, the Hosts, that they were supposed to take over the world. Rascals."

"When the blackness of death drives out the ice and death smothers life, then the herring stench will come, the wronged will understand," Kronius recited in one breath. "A tacky poem, I know... but Father Niegbor recited it on his deathbed, and only these provincial rhymes came to mind. Do you understand, boy? Thanks to your disability, you will be able to save the world! You are the chosen one of the Face!"

The boy smiled broadly, like a toad hearing that it is beautiful. He didn't know how he was supposed to defeat an entire legion of terrifyingly strong monsters on his own, but the gods should take care of everything.

***

Meanwhile, amidst the black, fetid vapors, amidst the ceaseless, tainted fire, reigned Horovius, lord of the undead. For thousands of years, his figure had been a legend in the North; since the dawn of time, his boundless wrath had inspired fear and dread. They said that one of his glances could destroy even the strongest soul, one word shatter all life. Yet the fearsome ruler was not quick to kill. He lurked quietly in the cellars and cunningly planned his attack. Finally, his cunning mind, his brain coils black as death itself, savagely devised that it would be best to attack the sleepy village and begin expansion from there. And he gathered his legions, known as the Black Host, and clothed their vile souls in the bodies of beer-loving mortals. And the innocent beer, the most harmed by his degenerate schemes, he turned into the essence of herring. The first phase of the plan succeeded brilliantly; not one of his warriors suffered the slightest harm. Now he sat comfortably on his bone throne and pondered. A very interesting thought was just dawning in his horned skull with a crimson glow when his shoeshine boy approached him. The shoeshine boy didn't really have much to polish, as Horovius's bony feet hated all kinds of footwear, but the title of his position and his monthly salary remained.

"I dutifully report, Mister Terror of Virgins, Destroyer of Life, and Demonic Anointed One," the shoeshine boy began clichédly, "that our scientists have detected that someone is thinking earnestly of you. We've already located him; he's in some wooden shack near our base. Unfortunately, he's such an insignificant creature that we haven't determined his identity.

" "Never mind," Horovius said in a ghostly voice that evoked shivers and nausea in delicate beings. "I'll move there immediately. I wonder what such a mortal wants from my terrifying presence?"

With that, he laughed devilishly before disappearing into a shroud of flames. The effect was spectacular, even charring the remains of the shoeshine boy's fashionable cap.

***

He arrived in a blaze of hellfire, reeking of ethereal herrings, frivolously flapping his leathery wings and buzzing with every single bone. His black figure, radiating cruel evil, made a fitting impression. Two mortals retreated to a corner and watched him warily from under their brows.

"Buahahaha!" Horovius laughed as demonically as his drunken voice would allow. "Tremble, worms, for here comes the Destructor, the Devourer of Flesh! I will destroy you and your entire world, and it will be like farting on a pea to me! I adore peas, so the deadly fires will not consume them.

" "Do something!" whispered Kronius, clinging to Turnip. "The prophecy spoke of you, now, go to him!"

Turnip emerged from the corner and stood erect before the lord of the undead. It didn't help much, as the boy was almost half the demon's size. He felt like an insignificant speck.

"Excuse me, sir," the young man began timidly, "I don't mean to offend you, but you could knock before entering... And that... well, I don't have a problem with the undead... in truth, you are honest creatures...

" The priest, hearing this, clutched his head and sighed in disbelief. How could this boy be as stupid as he looks? Never mind, Kronius cast a spell to increase his courage and immediately felt more confident. He stepped before the specter and said in a solemn tone:

"Demon, you vile creature! I order you to return to the Bottomless Pit, or wherever you reside! You will no longer devour innocent peasants! Shoo! Trick or treat! This boy standing before you is the hero spoken of in the ancient prophecy. He will destroy you and your filthy kin!"

The undead laughed again, not demonically this time, but quite sincerely, and almost pleasantly, if not for the metallic thud and the bared array of sharp fangs.

"I can already see the peasant defeating me! You've really amused me, old man, huhuhu. And have you, my son, ever seen a sword in your life?

" "No, sir," Turnip replied obediently, "but I saw my aunt drive off a wild boar with a broomstick.

" "Oh, she's a brave warrior. But so they don't say I'm cheating later, we won't fight with swords, or even with magical broomsticks inscribed with dwarven runes. We'll face each other in a mortal duel to the death, and we'll fight with our stomachs! Bootshine, come here!

" Bootshine also appeared, engulfed in flames, but it looked less impressive. Instead, he held a large vessel under his arm, something resembling a bottle, but made of something resembling metal, dyed purple.

"Always at your service, Mr. Horovius!" the shoeshine boy smiled. "I have so much vodka here that I'm almost ashamed to give it away. But what you need, you need. Here you go."

He set before them a demijohn and two large goblets, from which blood was probably drunk during rituals. Kronius wrung his hands again—how could Rzepka defeat a demon at drinking? May the gods watch over him...

"Let's begin!" said the delighted Horovius. "I'll drink first, because I can't wait." He poured himself a full goblet and downed it in one gulp, as if it were the freshest apple juice. "Excellent! Help yourself, little boy."

With shaking hands, Rzepka poured himself some alcohol and carefully raised it to his lips. He immediately remembered the only time in his life he'd ever drank moonshine. The moonshine tasted repulsive, burned his throat, and after just one cup, he began to feel dizzy. Later, he vomited on his host's new shirt, and from then on, even the most vile spirits were no longer shared with him. The boy smiled bitterly and took a small sip. The vodka was about 120 proof and tasted like tart roots. He felt like a cup they poured cat piss into to later offer to a neighbor. However, he took a second sip and with great effort managed to empty the goblet.

"Lovely!" the undead praised. "It tasted good, didn't it? And they say I have strange tastes and I'm an old drunkard..."

The demon drank the nectar again in a way that proved his unearthly drinking habits. Then he belched loudly and passed the bottle to Rzepka. This time, consuming the divine drink must have taken him much longer. As he sipped the last sip, he was already seeing double. He poured the next goblet not into himself, but beside him, and he was completely indifferent to what happened. Horovius was triumphant.

"You lost, child."

He laughed, this time demonically, and spread black flames around himself. Rzepka watched everything in sight turn to dust, until finally he, too, turned to ash. He could smell the stench of burning flesh, but his mind, clouded by the vodka, refused to accept the pain. For a moment, he saw the fire consuming him, until he sank into a luminous abyss.

***

The temple burned long after the forest had charred. Perhaps it was magic that caused the seemingly fragile wood to resist the flames. Yet, from the temple of the Face, only ash remained, and Horovius and the Black Host continued their conquest. They still used the beer trick. Villages and towns fell, the legion of the undead grew stronger with each passing day, but surely someone could have defeated him... in another time, under different circumstances, but someday a brave man would appear, with a stomach of steel and a head that knew nothing about hangover. Someday he would... And meanwhile, pale snow slowly covered the ruins...