My Unfinished Stories" Part 5 CHRONICLES OF THE LHYDIAN REALMS Book IV Book Four: Winter in Longend

I

My name is Mitch. Simply Mitch, without any nickname or surname. I have a curious story to tell you, which, as it later turned out, was the beginning of extraordinary and terrifying events initiated by a mysterious wanderer named Xenor. These events unfolded in the land known in this part of the world as Longend, from which I come.

And it happened like this:

Longend lies northeast of Indswijk, the castle of our graciously reigning prince Rupert de Wett. It is a small settlement: twenty farms, a sawmill, a temple to the snow goddess Frisian, Zimbewald's mill, and my father's inn, "The Red Dragon."

By the way, I don't know where my father came up with that name (when my grandfather ran it, it was simply called "The Inn"). As is common knowledge, dragons are intelligent, if vicious, creatures. However, they inhabit the warmer southern regions of Lydia, not, as Mayor Crambwell used to say when finishing his father's fourth barrel of ale, "the damned arse of this wretched valley."

There was much truth in these words, for Longend is the northernmost settlement, considered by all to be the edge of the known and inhabited world. Beyond this lies only a frozen land, an icy desert that no scholar (or fool) dared to explore. Indeed, there were those who, venturing north, promised great treasures and powerful artifacts, but all trace of them vanished, so further attempts were abandoned, wisely recognizing that this was an inaccessible and impenetrable land—a habitat for demons and snow giants.

The people living in Longend led a quiet life, fishing, working in the sawmill, and cultivating meager plots. In the evenings, they drank heavily at Dad's inn. Dad's inn stood in the middle of a partially overgrown advertising square, next to the mayor's house and opposite the Frisian Temple. Dad had few customers, as most of the residents lived on credit. So, they were the regulars—fishermen and lumberjacks, drinkers and boozers—the "flower" of Longend's social life. Once a week, on the first day of his life—Thull—a tax collector, as fat as a barrel of sauerkraut, Mr. Delmonte, would arrive.

One day, which was Mind—the fifth day of the week—I helped Dad at the inn. I usually spent the days in the barn tending the ducks, chickens, and geese, while Dad and Mom ran the inn. That day, however, Mom fell ill, and from early morning Dad was nagging me like a fiend.

"Mitch, the dog licked your face, did you make barrels out of the pantry!?"

- I did it, daddy.

- And did you sweep the room, you good-for-nothing!?

- I swept it right from the morning.

- And did you kill the fiddle, you rascal!? Noon is approaching!

- I did it, daddy, but you haven't tidied it up yet.

"What am I hearing?! You idiot! You're just slacking off, you rascal!

" He slapped me across the head with a cloth until it stung. "Come on, pluck it, and if I find a single feather, I'll tan your skin so badly you won't be able to sit on your back for a week!" he shouted, as was his habit, and he swung at me, but I managed to dodge. "Leave me alone with the guts. Maybe when Mother feels better, she'll make some soup for tonight!" he shouted after me and wiped the bar, swatting away flies.

There was little activity until noon. Blind was sitting, still sober, kicking himself with a mug of stale beer since the previous evening. Karlson was sitting, his nets blown away by the spring gale and unable to set out to sea. He and his father, Wolf, who was deaf as a post, were enjoying a keg of Dad's beer.

I took care of the goose, sitting on a bench in front of the cottage. I listened intently to the gossip spread by the customers. "Did you hear that

? Grombarg's daughter had a run for it with young Jacenty in the hay,"

Karlson said, emphasizing it with a loud belch.

"Wincenty!?" Wolf, unable to hear, made a trumpet of his hand and pressed it to

his ear.

"Jeaacentymm..." muttered a drunken Blind.

"Yeah, when it went wrong, they ran to Mother Dhora, who would have begged

forgiveness from the Frisian.

" "And the old man beat Jacenty and chased him off to his cousin in Indswijk.

" "Grist for the mill..." Blind stammered, hiccupping, and rolling under the table.

"Mitch!!!" Dad shouted, "come here quickly." Blind needs to be carried

to the barn, or he'll mess up the whole floor.

I threw the half-ravaged goose into the bowl, and Karlson and I dragged Blind out to the barn, throwing him on the hay.

"Let him sleep here

, and when he sobers up, you can ask him for his payment, you rascal. Get back to my fiddle and get going quickly, because you'll have to work for your food, you little brat!" Papa urged me, lashing me with the rag again, as he used to say, "to get going."

Papa was a big man with a plump, red face. He cared for us as best he could in those difficult times. He had come to Longend thirty years ago with a band of mercenaries, accompanying a scholar who wanted to explore the northern wilderness. But they drank at the inn for two weeks, and my father caught the innkeeper's eye, and it should be added that my father's eye was quite clouded by the beer. When he finally sobered up enough to see better, there was no trace of my father's companions, and the innkeeper told him to call himself father-in-law. That's how it is in our Longend: every five years someone comes, and immediately complications arise.

That's how my father transformed from a warrior into an innkeeper, and when Grandpa Ulejt passed away, he took over the business himself.

In the evening, the inn's clientele increased. After a long day's work, more and more guests were arriving. There was the mayor of Crambwell, the plump miller Zimbewald, five fishermen boasting to each other about their catch. There were three lumberjacks reminiscing about the "good" old days, Karlson with his deaf father, although the latter always sat there. Mother bustled about in the kitchen, preparing soup for supper. By the afternoon, she felt better, so she helped her father with the guests. I sat in the corner on a stool, carving gargoyles with a knife my father had given me, dreaming of soup, because my stomach had been playing tricks on me for an hour. The

inn was bustling, and the more dinky the people drank, the more fun it became. In the smoky room, half of the eight tables were occupied. At the first table sat three large sawmill cabinets dressed in tanned snow bear skins. Further on, the mayor, the miller, and Father sat by the fireplace, complaining about taxes. The third and fourth tables were occupied by fishermen, led by a now-drunken Karlson.

It promised to be an evening like many others in Longend, at the end of the world.

The gale had picked up, blowing harder and harder, and thunder could be heard in the distance. Outside, lightning flashed from the fish bladders. The wind had picked up.

"The storm is coming, it's a good thing we brought the boats ashore." The ghosts were howling as if

the devil himself were playing a tune for the dance," one of the fishermen raised his tankard in a toast.

"Let the devils howl to their doom!" he shouted.

"Let them howl!" all the guests replied, draining their tankards.

Konrad entered the room, shaking off drops of water on the floor. The poor man's face was gloomy. It was the local bard, or rather, his poor substitute. "Good evening," he greeted everyone. Thunder rumbled in the distance. "I don't like this storm. It's coming from the mainland, and a certain uneasiness hung in the air."

Everyone looked at the bard. As everyone knew, storms coming from the mainland were very rare, and not always for natural reasons.

"It's certain the magus is starting another experiment.

" "Sit down here with us, Konrad," Karlson invited him, spilling beer on the table.

"On a night like this, even your ramblings are better than the thunder.

" "You fool, you fellows, it's shameful and superstitious to be so afraid of storms," ​​the mayor said,

quickly ducking as another clap of thunder ripped through the air.

"Ho ho, Mr. mayor, be careful not to utter those words at an unlucky hour

. Legends say that storms from the mainland bring all sorts of misfortune.

" "And there are legends, you assholes," the mayor sneered.

"Play your pipe a little harder, it'll drive away the bad guys and cheer

everyone up," Dad reconciled everyone. "Let's have a drink, folks. Matilda! Bring me another barrel.

" "Come on, you rascals, you drunkards!" Mom said, but she had brought the barrel.

setting it on the table in front of Dad.

"Damn, not woman," Dad laughed and slapped Mom on the rump. The plump

woman turned and smacked Dad on the head. "You'd better rub garlic on me, old goat, not guzzle with the guys." At this, everyone burst out laughing, and the bard played a cheerful tune for encouragement and general joy.

Suddenly, the inn door burst open, and a hooded figure stood in the doorway, looking like an apparition in the lightning flash. Everyone was speechless, staring at the newcomer. For a moment, it seemed to me that red coals were burning where the stranger's eyes should have been. An icy chill ran through me (not like the one I get on frosty evenings).

"Won't you invite me in, my lord?" the traveler asked, still standing

in the rain. He addressed Papa directly, even though Papa was sitting at the table with the others. It seemed to me that the newcomer knew exactly who the host was, yet Papa didn't stand out among them.

"Please... Come in, ladies," Papa stammered, slowly rising from the bench.

The newcomer had crossed the threshold, but his figure seemed blurred, as if blurred. His face was still obscured by the hood of his leather cloak, and he held a long staff in his hand, which he now leaned on. He swept the room with a gaze that made everyone shrink in on themselves. He stood there for a moment, speechless. Finally, he spoke to Papa, his voice deep as a temple well. "I'm looking for food and a place to stay, host. Will anyone be found here?

" "He will, he will." Papa regained his voice, but his

nervousness was still palpable. "We don't often have guests here, sir..."

The newcomer stepped forward. "You don't often say that. That's good. That's even very good, host." My name is Xenor. Lord Xenor – a shadow of fear crossed the pale faces. So it was a magician or some kind of sorcerer; only such people used the title of lord. I had a feeling nothing good would come of this visit.

II

That evening, the newcomer scared away all the guests, who, to my father's dismay and despair, went home without even finishing their beer as soon as the storm passed, which ended very quickly, the moment the magician or sorcerer took his place by the fireplace.

Dad's lamentations vanished as soon as the traveler tossed a bag of gold onto the table. He asked for food and a tub of water. And Dad beamed even brighter when the newcomer announced he intended to rent a room for a week. In the meantime, he sent me upstairs to help Mother prepare a room for the guest. I carried the magician's luggage, which consisted of two medium-heavy travel trunks, upstairs. What surprised me most was that the magician didn't have a mount. It seemed he had come here on foot (at that time, I didn't yet know that magicians could teleport, levitate, disappear, and do a few other bizarre things). When Mother and I went downstairs, we were immediately petrified when we saw the way the newcomer spoke to Dad. It didn't seem like a normal conversation; Dad was talking about the northern wastelands, pausing every now and then to resume, and so this one-sided monologue continued late into the night. One thing that terrified me was the expression on Dad's face, which was as white as parchment, and sweat beaded on his forehead. Yet, he spoke words and sentences in a dispassionate voice. It seemed Dad was answering the other's questions. Except the other said nothing! He just stared at Dad and stared. Only then did the newcomer's face catch my attention. Pale, gaunt, and bony. Dark shadows danced around his sly blue eyes, and his eyebrows were bushy and devilish, their outer tips arching upward. It was hard to tell his age. Depending on the fire in the fireplace, his face grew younger, thirty years old, then gray again. Fifty, sixty. He had a tattoo on his bald skull; intricate black and red patterns, like ancient runes, adorned his head. Red was the only color interwoven in his strange wizarding attire. The rest of his cloak and tunic were black, and he wore a nine-pointed platinum star around his neck and a similar ring on his finger. I examined his staff. Runes danced on it, as if possessing a life of their own. I would have loved to examine it closer, but the newcomer held it close. Finally, he stood up, and my father blinked in surprise and roared at me, "Why are you just standing there, you idiot? Take the magician upstairs!

" "No need, I'll find him myself," he winked at me and smiled, but the

smile didn't convey sympathy. I shivered.

I didn't sleep well that night. I dreamed of nightmarish ghosts reaching out their clawed hands at me and smiling that same terrible smile.

The next morning, a large crowd gathered in front of Dad's inn. It was quite a sensation; not only had someone new appeared, but also a sorcerer. Also standing on the sidelines was the local witch, Halla, who lived on the outskirts of the settlement. She stood there, looking out the window of her room. Dad, furious, stepped out in front of the inn and shouted to the people.

"Listen, people! Godom, no one sends me heresies. Our guest."

He'll be staying here for a whole week, and all those who want to see him can join me for refreshments!

"Is it true that the Great Magus has arrived? And that he'll

summon some devils?" asked one of the residents, then quickly spat at his feet.

"Is it true that he's the Great Magus, or the Great Magus, I don't know. I also don't

know that he summons devils. He only told me that he wants peace and that he came to study... To study our legends and tales.

" "And what is this Magus's name? Tell me, innkeeper?"

Halla, the witch, spoke for the first time. Father was about to answer, but somehow got stuck. He tried again, shrugged, and said, "I don't know, it's so strange... Ugh, I don't remember!" Ask yourselves, but in the evening, because Mr. Magus is asleep now.

"Well, get back to work, people! You heard that

you'll find out everything in the evening," the mayor urged the people. And he himself, taking his father by the arm, pulled him deeper into the inn.

"Listen, Klaus. It would be good if this news didn't reach

the prince's benefactor, because they'll send someone here to ask me questions. And that will only cause problems and unnecessary complications.

" "Don't worry, mayor, things will be fine with Magus. Let Thulla

go for a walk during the day or something. You better worry, so people don't get tongues wagging, and then both you and I will get something out of it.

" "I take it, innkeeper, that we've come to an understanding. You know how to make deals, Mr. Klaus

. Until supper." – the mayor said goodbye and quickly left.

I spent the entire day in the barn helping my mother prepare the gusli and chickens, because my father had decided to throw a grand feast that evening in honor of the dignitary Magus. He even had the brandy prepared for the special occasion.

The entire population of the settlement gathered for the evening feast, except for the younger and infirm who had remained at home. The weather was fine, so my father set up tables outside. Fires were lit, and calves and pigs brought by the people for supper were roasting on them. It was already dusk when Konrad, with the mayor's permission, blew the horn to signal that the feast was ready.

There was no end in sight to the singing and dancing. The already heavily intoxicated townspeople were growing impatient, and some began to question whether the Magus had actually arrived. Finally, Father summoned me. He told me to run to Magus and ask for supper. Terrified, I went upstairs, remembering the dreaded guest. I stood before the door, unable to bring myself to knock. I said all the prayers I knew and, gathering myself, waved my hand at the spot where the door had been a moment before. But the door opened a fraction before. I gasped in fear, and my heart almost leaped out of my throat. Magus stood before me, looking down at me, smiling the same smile he had given me yesterday.

"Father and the mayor are asking for supper, sir," I stammered, terrified.

Magus looked at me and smiled even wider. Another cold shiver ran down my spine. "They're asking for supper, you say. He he, that's good, even excellent. If it's what you want," he added, as if to himself. Then he turned to me, "Lead the way, then, innkeeper's son. May what you ask for be done."

He was dressed the same as last night. His tunic shimmered in various shades of black in the firelight. He sat down at the table with his father, the alderman, the miller, and his mother, Dhora. At first, the people cast timid glances in his direction, but as time passed and more ale was consumed, the atmosphere relaxed, and some even toasted the success of the High Magus and his studies. I, on the other hand, sat down by the fire, keeping an eye on the Magus and his staff.

"We are pleased to welcome such an eminent guest as you, ladies, to Longend. I am the alderman here. They call me Crambwell." The alderman began the greeting and introductions. "Allow me, sir, to introduce you to Mother Dhora, the patroness of our temple." The magician bowed exaggeratedly towards her. Dhora returned the greeting, regarding the guest with great interest. "This is our miller, sir...

" "My name is Zimbewald! At your service." The miller interrupted him and rose

to attention.

"You already know the innkeeper. So, allow me to satisfy your curiosity, sir...

Ah, you will be conducting studies and researching legends for us. And what legends interest you? If it's not a secret."

The Magus looked at the mayor, and his eyes sparkled for a moment. I thought it must be some kind of magic, since no one but me could see the Magus's strange eyes. But he quickly smiled and, in a pleasant but hissing voice that sent shivers down my spine, replied. "Thank you for inviting me, my Lord Mayor, to this wonderful supper..." The Mayor and Father brightened at this praise. "...this is my first time in these parts. And I already like it here. It's a great pity I can't stay longer. But time presses on, and urgent matters hurry me along." The Magus toyed with this poor court etiquette, and I sensed the growing tension. "I'm interested in your tales concerning the islands situated in the sea. Years ago, a traveler named Khalim visited here and set out to explore these islands. He found something there that now belongs to me"—his eyes sparkled again—"but it is only part of a whole." And I'm interested in finding the missing part, which will be very useful in my work."

The mayor's eyes widened, nearly popping out of his head. His surprise was unending, as was that of the others sitting at the table.

Dhora spoke first. "Sir, we've all heard of Mr. Khalim. But what you say, that he survived, we can't wrap our heads around. Which way would he return, because no one has passed this way.

" "Truth be told, sir, Mother Dhora, no one has ever

returned from the icy lands. Never! Don't believe what these fools are saying,"

the miller added indignantly. "

This is the end!" I thought; the tension was practically condensing over the area. I felt as if my ears were about to explode. A strange smell hung in the air (later I could name it; it was ozone). But the magician still held back from exploding, and that the pressure was coming from him, I had no doubt.

I also had no doubt that this tension would find release in the near future. The mage spoke slowly, drawing them out as if stemming a flood.

"Khalim possessed a powerful scroll, which he used in the face of the greatest danger.

It allowed him to teleport to a place in the far south called Ashyria. But before using it, he was wounded by a poisoned magical missile and died shortly thereafter. We couldn't save him then, but there are ways to extract valuable information from the dead. "

The priestess jumped at these words.

"I knew it! Necromancy! I knew that symbol on your medallion from somewhere!

Now I remember, you are an Adept of Forbidden Magic! Oh, venerable Friza! Ashyria, a breeding ground for demons!" she exclaimed.

"Bravo!" The sorcerer rose from the bench with a sweeping movement

of his hand. To my horror, I realized I couldn't move. A similar horror was visible on the faces of those gathered.

"A keen priestly mind!" the sorcerer sneered. "Then you already know that the key to

the knowledge I seek lies in the basement of your goddess's temple. I have reached the end of my journey; power and authority lie within reach. You dared not reach for it, jealously guarding access to it. Fools! Now the time has come for it to reach its rightful heirs." The priestess, unaffected by the magician's spell, backed away, simultaneously making a complex movement with her hands. A moment later, a ball of fire hissed through the air. Reaching the magician, it burst into millions of sparks, putting him in an even better mood.

"Priestess! Your wretched magic cannot harm me." His figure

glowed, and his face radiated a power that could not be stopped.

"I will never allow you to break the seals that guard the secret!!!" She unleashed

another spell, this time a bolt of lightning, its zigzagging ribbon striking the sorcerer's outstretched hand. He parried it easily.

"You won't stop me, you can't. I've traversed dimensions

you don't even suspect exist. The time for vengeance is coming! The time for a new order! And chaos will pour through the Seven Gates of Wantoria!"

At that moment, hands covered my mouth and lifted me backward into the bushes. Terrified, I felt someone's quickened breath on the back of my neck. The drama I had been a silent observer of continued to unfold before my eyes. The sorcerer raised his staff, its runes now glowing with fire.

"Infidels, bow before Lord Xenor of Ashyria, messenger of your new god, Zeth!" What happened next haunts my dreams to this day. The staff glowed with a stronger light, and Mother Dhora's torso and head were engulfed in flames. Her scream was drowned out by the cries of the prisoners. Despite the hand over my mouth, I vomited. Xenor looked at the others and, savoring the moment, spoke. "As for you, I have other plans. I still need you. Therefore, I order you to forget!" He moved his hand again, and the terror vanished from his face. He sat down again next to the mayor and roared with throaty laughter, saturated with mockery and hatred. The surprised mayor looked at Papa and the miller, then they too burst out laughing, roaring as if they'd just heard the best joke. In that moment of triumph, the sorcerer didn't notice my disappearance. The person who had captured me smelled of herbs and forest. And I knew that scent! It was Halla, the witch from the house on the outskirts of the settlement. She must have sensed that I recognized her, because she turned me around and whispered directly to my face, "You must be strong now, Mitch! You must not speak to anyone about what you saw here." With my mother. My father. With no one, you understand! – I nodded.

"A man will be here soon to help us, but until then, you can't let anyone know you saw something!" she whispered something else I didn't understand, but I felt every muscle tense. Only after a moment did it dawn on me that I could move again. "Run, you rascal, to your mother. And remember..." she raised a finger, "...You didn't talk to me either. When the time comes, I'll call you. Run!"

And I flew, shooting out of the bushes, right between the tables. I wanted to turn left, towards my mother. But I slipped on the mud and lost my balance, desperately flailing my arms, trying to regain my balance. And, to the great amusement of the revelers, I tumbled right next to the fire, slicing the skin on the back of my hand on a protruding piece of spit. I got up in a flash and fell into my mother's arms. Clinging to her, I burst into tears. I stayed close to my mother until the end of the feast, but whenever I had a chance, I'd glance at Xenor, who, along with Papa, the mayor, and the miller, were chatting, bursting into laughter every now and then. Another thing alarmed me. No one else was paying any attention to the small pile of ash, trampled on by the feasters. I was awakened