In such weather you can’t even kick a dog out into the street, but the vigilantes are less favored than any mangy dog. After the third chipped mug of mead, Skeggi believed in it as much as in the obviously failed mission on which he and his comrades accompanied the Steward’s nephew.
The hall of the dumpy tavern on the side of the southern Tract was densely packed to the top as your pipe, with the corrosive aromas of overcooked stew, male sweat and cheap tobacco mixed with either plantain or something worse. The elderly housewife scurried between the tables, vigilantly looking at the combatants, noticing worn-out boots, crusty shirts and long greasy hair. By law, the owners of all establishments are obliged to provide overnight accommodation for the governor’s people, but this cost a pretty penny every time. But officials often forgot to cover expenses. Therefore, the old innkeeper Ghoewyn, having heard that a detachment was coming in their direction, managed to hide her most valuable possessions. The simple wealth consisted of dishes without large cracks that could still be washed, whole sheets, and barrels of ale. She also sent the stupid girls of her late sister to the temple for a couple of days to light candles for their mother.
The riot that broke out on the street made Ghoewyn frown even more: such downpours at the foot of the Unshakable could last for weeks, which means that winter supplies will have to be obtained ahead of time. Looking through the small window, assembled from the fragments of others, the woman kissed the tit shard, inlaid with silver and enamel, hanging around her neck, and muttered a protective saying.
The southern section of the tract, adjacent to the ridge of the Unshakable Peak, was dilapidated: tired of fighting the almost year-round bad weather, people collected their belongings and scattered in all directions. And a tavern with an inn, a dozen houses and a temple on a plain a couple of kilometers to the north survived only due to the intermittent help of the governor. And you often had to pay for this help — almost no one except the military used the Tract. Travelers preferred to spend three days traveling around Sour Lake in comfort rather than being stuck for two moons in a run-down eatery.
“Skeggy, ask the hostess if there is a normal drink, it’s not right for a relative of the Vicegerent to drink cow urine, which is called mead here,” Finn Sydenny Rhune sensed the discontent of the warriors, “And get a lute or at least a couple of whole spoons. What a bore, I can’t stand it.” He put his feet in new cowhide boots on the chipped table and leaned the back of his head against the wall and looked around the squad from under his long eyelashes.
The life-worn border guards had long been accustomed to hardships, but the news that they would be sent to the Unshakable infuriated even such stalwarts. Oh, how the most impudent ones, the same Skeggi and Prusto, were itching to find out what Finn had done to annoy his venerable uncle so much.
“Sir, I don’t have any ale, the wagon train should arrive tomorrow, we didn’t expect you until the third day,” Ghoewyn said hoarsely, rustling her undyed wool skirt, approaching with a steamed clay jug and a couple of shot glasses on a tray. “But there is juniper tincture, it’s not as elegant as they make it in the capital, but it will warm you up.”
Sydenny nodded briefly, lowered his feet to the floor, moved over and invited the innkeeper to sit next to him. To accompany the drink, she brought pickles, which she kept in her personal cellar cupboard for special occasions.
“Master Rhune, weren’t you warned about the Unshakable?” Without waiting for the young man, Ghoewyn drank the glass in one gulp without wincing and crunched the cucumber. “You walked without any insulation at all, without waterproofies, are you trying to kill yourself?”
It took Finn a couple of seconds to remember: “waterproofies” in these parts were large woolen raincoat-tents that were soaked with the sap of thick, thick trees that grow only on the slopes of the Unshakable.
- That’s how it should be, mother. We all must follow the orders. But tell me, is it possible to predict the weather to cross the Pass?
Two young warriors — Svald and Broga — were placed in the anteroom to guard the doors from the locals, but who would go to the tavern in a storm? So the young men were already finishing off their third bottle of mead and snacking on a simple potato stew with rabbit bones. They never expected to hear a confident knock through the peals of thunder. They exchanged glances and continued their activity, but the sound was repeated, and the door swung open, letting in a damp wind and sleet.
“A Kikimora?!”
“Nah, she’s the water girl, seethe blue hair?” Broga muttered in response, taken aback, looking with all his eyes at the traveler, who quietly closed the door behind her and walked up to their lopsided table.
”I need to talk to your commander, let me in.”
“Name yourself. We were ordered not to let in the locals… And others,” with a whistle, a dagger with a handle made of a boar’s tusk was stuck between them into the stained table. The guys immediately fell silent, crouched down, and under the icy gaze the colors of the July grass shrank like apricots in the sun. Svald only pointed his finger at the doors behind him, from which a stench and polyphony emanated.
The traveler took the dagger, threw off the hood of her long cloak, removed the wet blue-green strands that had stuck to her forehead, and, nodding briefly, kicked the door into the tavern hall.
“I need your commander,” she said loudly, standing on the threshold, her hand firmly on the hilt of her sword. — “And quickly.”
The vigilantes fell silent, someone coughed, and the creaking of leather and stools being pushed aside was heard. The men surrounded the traveler, but were silent, studying her unusual appearance. She looked around, grinned briefly, carefully placed her backpack on the floor and threw back the hem of her cloak, revealing a hammer in her belt, a sword sheath and dagger hilts on the tops of her boots.
“You know her? Who is she?” Finn, hidden for now by the backs of the vigilantes, looked at the unexpected guest. Ghoewyn grabbed her amulet again, shook her head negatively and disappeared into the back room, not forgetting the jug with the tincture. “It helped a lot, thank you.”
“I’ve been saying for a long time that these idiots need to be flogged,” Skeggi muttered and, stepping forward, stopped in front of the blue-haired girl. — “Who are you?”
“I will only speak with your commander,” the traveler repeated and clutched the hilt of her sword tighter, looking at the warriors. “Let’s skip the moment where you are trying to attack. I don’t have time for this.”
The man snorted contemptuously, shook a knife with a wide blade in his hand and swung it only to fly off to the tavern counter the next moment, knocking down several of his brothers. Playfully repulsing several other attacks, the traveler threw off her cloak, grabbed a short curved sword from its sheath and made several circular swings: the metal cut the musty air of the dining room with a piercing whistle. One of the vigilantes, having received a powerful blow to the stomach, knocked down the table at which Finn was sitting, and almost knocked him down.
“Enough!” Sydenny exclaimed, raised his palm in warning, but, to the surprise of the squad, he did not think of getting to his feet.”I am the commander of this squad. Identify yourself and explain yourself.”
Blowing a strand of hair from her face, the guest looked around sharply, picked up her bag, and, approaching, touched Finn’s throat with the tip of the blade. Then she winked and sheathed the sword and threw the luggage at his feet:
“Are you from the Vicegerent?”
“I am Finn Sydenny Rhune, nephew of the now living Vicegerent, ruler of the Eastern lands, bearer of the banner…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard this chatter many times,” she interrupted, rolling her eyes and glancing briefly at the noise from the side: “Do you want more?” — Instead of repelling Skeggi’s slow attack, the traveler snatched a dagger from her sleeve, and, sharply leaning forward, rested her knee between Finn’s legs and pressed the blade to his throat. Their faces were so close that she smelled Ghoewyn’s juniper tincture, while Rhune smelled the aroma of rotting hay and meadow flowers. He slowly raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, without moving a single muscle on his face.
“Everyone put away their weapons. My lady, please forgive my vigilantes, they are used to fighting first and then sorting out the circumstances. I’m ready to listen. If I find out your name,” mesmerized by the greenness of her eyes, he lowered his palms in a hugging gesture, and a sharply sharpened blade drew a painful stripe on his throat.
“I know such townspeople, boy,” without moving, she turned her head to Skeggi, who still stood with his sword at the ready. “Calm down, grandpa, I won’t touch him if he doesn’t want to.”
The warriors, following Sydenny’s silent signal, grabbed mead and a rabbit carcass from the fireplace and went to the second floor. Only Skeggi did not move, having learned a simple soldier’s truth over the years of service: “Don’t trust women.”
“Come on, go! I can stand up for myself,” Finn didn’t sound as convincing as he wanted with a dagger at his throat and a knee on his balls.
Finally they were alone. The guest put the blade back into the folds of her sleeve, straightened up, picked up the chair that the vigilantes had overturned, and sat down opposite Finn, not forgetting to drag the bag towards her.
“After what happened between us, you must at least introduce yourself,” Rhune grinned, and wiped droplets of blood from his throat. “Maybe you’ll come to my service? Otherwise, I’m not sure that at least one of my guys’ swords is sharpened as sharply.”
“I didn’t come here to flirt, nephew of the Vicegerent,” she smiled out of the corner of her mouth and crossed her arms over her chest. “My name is not as important yet as the result of your mission. With such forces you will not overcome the Pass, you will only lose people and perish yourself.” Her eloquent glance from under raised eyebrows unpleasantly pricked Finn’s pride.
“Blue hair, clothes of nomads, expensive weapons — are you one of these, from Mavkas? And how do you know what my mission is?”
“So many questions, nephew of the now living Vicegerent,” the girl grinned, tucked her hair, curled from the heat, behind her ear, and reached for the jug of mead on the next table. “My job is this: saving idiots. And you are an idiot if you decide that with these old men, and without the right equipment, you can overcome the Pass. But even waterproofies won’t protect you,” she kicked her backpack at his feet, and from this squelching sound Rhune shuddered: “Come on, look.”
Finn, without taking his eyes off the traveler, bent down and yanked the ties loose: the thick, time-worn leather smelled of wet dog hair and something ferrous, sickly to the point of nausea. After hesitating, the man grabbed the bottom corner of the bag and shook the contents onto the floor.
“Oh you shouldn’t,” the girl couldn’t help but chuckle when Sydenny barely had time to bend over the bone bucket. “Well, should you go to the mountains, boy? Have you ever been in one decent fight? Or were you hiding behind your guys?”
The werewolf’s head, flattened by hammer blows, with its tongue hanging out, stank so strongly that it even overpowered the suffocating aromas of the tavern. Finn gargled with the carefully offered mead and rubbed his face with his damp palms.
“Are you trying to scare me or what? I know that on the slopes all kinds of evil spirits shy away. My guys are quite capable of dealing with a couple of ghouls.”
“Yeah, but at what cost,” she rose to her feet, looked at the remains of food on the tables and winced. “Hey, Ghoewyn, is there any better meat? I can’t even look at rabbit meat anymore.”
Finn didn’t have the strength to be surprised when the innkeeper quickly appeared with a bowl of steaming beef and vegetables. Placing a jug of wine on the table, the woman briefly hugged the girl by the shoulders and kissed her forehead.
“Don’t scare the boy, he’s not bad, even the vigilantes seem to respect him. But, Vilka, they definitely won’t cross the pass without you,” Ghoewyn brought the tincture back and poured it into the glasses: “Sir, I strongly advise you to take her as a guide.”
“Okay, stop,” Sydenny continued to stare at the guest, without touching either the drinks or the food: “Vilka? So, are you really one of Mavkas, the infamous Vendela? Or Vaylin? I’m sorry, I’m not sure what is the correct one.”
“Vila is okay,” the girl interrupted him. “You don’t need to know more. And keep in mind that my services will cost you dearly, but I act effectively,” and, as if everything had already been decided, she turned her attention to the plate of food.
“Why did you decide what exactly I need for the Pass?” under the mocking glances of the women, he spread his hands. ”Okay, that was obvious. But how did you know?” After thinking about it, Finn nodded understandingly: “Just like the innkeeper. You have a good network here, under the Unshakable. It would be useful in the capital.”
- Nah, I’ll pass. I have a lot to do here, both my own and others…” she kicked the werewolf’s head, the thickened blood from which was slowly absorbed into the floorboards: “And others.” Vilka took a large sip of mead and looked down at Sydenny: “Well, nephew of the Vicegerent, you haven’t visited the Insurgent before, have you?”
Rhune coughed, fidgeted, and immediately began picking at the beef with a snaggle-toothed fork.
“That’s what I thought. You have annoyed your uncle, no less.”
The raging wave of the hurricane enveloped the entire foot of the Unshakable, climbed with icy fingers into every gorge, crawled under every pebble. The tavern had been strengthened and insulated over the years, and now it stood ruffled, hiding its tiny eyes behind rubber-covered shutters. Mavka barely got out of the tiny room at the back of the building, next to the chambers of Ghoewyn and her family. Only in the evening did she go out and sit in the corner with a pipe, ignoring all the attempts of the vigilantes to talk to her. Her tobacco was unusual for city dwellers: with a tart aroma that interrupted the multi-faceted, many-year-old stench of the dining room.
By the end of the fourth day, the wind had died down, the violent streams of water from the sky turned into ordinary rain — ringing and cheerful. The inn and stables were protected from mud avalanches by an ancient system of gutters and stone walls, which even the Tsar’s army could not overcome. In the morning the sky cleared up completely, the sun came out and dried the moisture-soaked earth right before the eyes with its tenacious rays.
Ghoewyn sent a dozen vigilantes to clear the section of the road in front of the tavern — no horses would have made their way through the mud drifts to the path to the Pass. She herself stood on the threshold and put her hands on her hips: the endless struggle with nature had hardened her like steel, which is why she looked so indifferently at the “high-ranking officials” from the capital.
“You still haven’t named the price for help in crossing the Pass,” Finn appeared behind Vilka. She sat on a lopsided stool in the yard and sharpened a dagger with a leather belt. “Although I am close to the Vicegerent, our provision…”
“Boy, I am well aware of the riches of the Capital, don’t disgrace yourself,” she removed the strands of blue hair that had stuck to her forehead with the back of her hand, she turned around and looked into his eyes. “The Vicegerent sent you with a specific purpose, which he did not skimp on.” And you need to reach this goal alive, so don’t be greedy: I won’t take too much, only as much as the lives of yours and your so-called vigilantes are worth.”
Rhune treaded water, looked around, but his subordinates were tumbling in the mud, trying to remove heaps of dirt, stones and fragments of trees. After a short thought, he pulled up a wood chopping block that stood under the porch, sat down with his legs apart and took out his pipe.
The vigilantes, armed with shovels, made their way up, clearing the rubble, or, rather, tried to do so. The air was filled with swearing and the pungent smell of sweat. Skeggi screamed obscenities at the top of his voice, trying to direct his clueless subordinates in the right direction, but did not succeed much. Svald, still just a boy, squealed joyfully, sliding on his butt down the slope, and managed to knock down several comrades who did not have time to jump away in time.
“Don’t call me a boy, you’re no older than me, Vilka,” Finn’s pipe fell into the dirt as Mavka’s dagger stuck into the tree under his foot. “Hey! What are you doing?! I…”
“What? Are you going to complain to your beloved uncle?” the girl chuckled, pulled the weapon out of the deck and continued sharpening.
“First of all, don’t call me Vilka, you’re not my friend. Secondly, only I can transfer you and most of your blockheads beyond the pass. Third, in the end you will be willing to pay me even more than what I ask, after what you see in the shadow of the Unshakable.”
Leaving Finn to ponder what she had heard, she examined the dagger and sheathed it, the polished boar’s tusk hilt glinting in the dim sunlight. Then Mavka took out the sword, examined it and began to sharpen it on a leather belt, one end of which she held between her knees, and the other clamped in a vice on a chipped table nearby.
“So what should I call you so as not to offend?” Without looking into her eyes, he used his sleeve to clear the mouth of the pipe from wet earth. “How can I introduce you to my people? They… they don’t trust people like you, and…”
“They don’t trust women? Or non-humans?” Vilka snorted, lowered her sword and looked at Rhune. “You can call me Vila, that will be enough. As for your people,” she pointed with a very eloquent smile at Broga, who, with a joyful hooting, flew down the slope after his comrade. “I hope you don’t look up to them. Believe me, I am well aware of how people hate everyone who is in any way different from them.”Especially those who do not belong to their race.”
A gust of wind blew up her blue-green hair, tied in a ponytail at the back of her head. The sound of the sword blade moving back and forth across the leather was soothing and reassuring.
“I’ll talk to them,” Finn finally managed to score and light his pipe, but he immediately started coughing. “Tobacco is a no-no here.”
Vila gave him a long, serious look, chuckled and held out her pouch. Rhune sniffed it incredulously, but filled his pipe and lit some tart tobacco, which immediately made him cough.
“Ah, nephew of the Vicegerent, how were you so green sent to communicate with the Insurgent? Give it here,” Vila snatched the pipe from him, took a deep drag and blew out a ring of pale lilac smoke. “If you don’t know how to handle local leaves, then don’t even try to approach local women.”
A couple of minutes later, Finn, accustomed to the strength of unusual tobacco, if it was tobacco at all, leaned against a fence of time-bleached logs, lazily looking at his people, who finally, with the active assistance of Ghoewyn and Prusto, began to clear the way to the Pass. But he mostly watched Vila, who, being in a friendly mood, agreed to sharpen his sword, which had never been in battle before.
