The Mist and the Lightning. Part 16

Kors heard and caught with a peripheral vision that Nobody got up and was approaching them.

“No! No!” Kors shouted with the last bit of strength, feeling the electrified air begin to tremble and vibrate, as if before a thunderstorm. He heard a rumble in his ears and an ever-increasing discordant cacophony of sounds.

“Iness! Iness, help me!”

There was a harsh clap.

A black figure with huge wings hung over his outstretched body. But the Demon did not lift him into the air as he expected. From the depths of this black figure, first from afar, and then closer and closer, with a low rumble at great speed, something began to approach him. Something incredibly strong, alien and ruthless, and Kors knew it was about to slam into him and kill him. He screamed loudly. The blow was so strong that it was thrown up from the mattress, and the bed shook. Something coming from the Demon burst into his chest, into his very essence, pierced him and broke. Bending convulsively, Kors wheezed, and it seemed to him that his heart had stopped and exploded into thousands of small pieces.

Kors screamed, practically losing consciousness from unbearable pain and despair. In some kind of haze, fog, in the last dying dash, he fell from the bed to the floor, clutching with stiff fingers into the broken post at the foot, gasping and wheezing. With an incredible effort, he got up and literally crawled to the door. “Quicker, quicker, get out of this room, out of this house!” He was dizzy and everything was floating in front of his eyes, he saw their black silhouettes, they pulled back a little, not holding him. Staggering like drunk, Kors rushed out, hitting the corners and stumbling over the steps of the porch, tumbled into a small square. The forces finally left him, and after walking a few steps, Kors fell to his knees in the dust, screamed hoarsely, rather howled, raising his face to the black night sky covered with heavy thunderclouds:

“Gods! Gods! Help me! Supreme God, save me, I beg you!” He shouted in despair.

Nearby, lightning suddenly struck with a bright blinding flash and a deafening rumble of thunder was heard. Kors covered his ears with his hands, bending to the ground. Streams of freezing rain fell on him from above. Kneeling, he put his face to these drops and, choking on the sobs choking him, shouted, swallowing them.

“Save me! Hear me!”

In the pouring rain, he crawled on the ground, wet and dirty, continuing to call, like a madman:

“My God! Help me! Save me, I beg you!”

Nikto came up to him from the house:

“Shout louder, he doesn’t hear you! Maybe he is sleeping?” He said, and his voice was terrible.

With a death grip, he squeezed Kors by the forearm, pulling him upward, dragging him behind him. Nikto dragged exhausted, unresisting Kors into the house and threw him on the bed, and he finally lost consciousness, falling into the darkness.

5

Progress

“Get up! Desmod has arrived.”

“Am I alive? Am I not dead?” Kors saw that he was lying on the bed, on some shabby skin, undressed and covered with a tattered, but warm and heavy blanket stuffed with lumps of matted wool. He looked around, dumbfounded. Painted Nikto without a mask and still with black plates in his eyes stood over him. Nikto threw his jacket and boots at him.

“You… you… undressed me and covered me?!” Kors asked in surprise.

“You were all wet and shivering. Why are you looking like that? Should I have left you to sleep in wet clothes?”

“No… no, I don’t believe… after what you did to me, to take care of my clothes?”

Nikto instantly mentally transferred him a piece of the events of yesterday evening. Kors saw himself from the side: he listlessly resisted and continued to cry, Nikto really took off his jacket, rather patiently and gently. Kors tried to push him away like an offended child, tears running down his face.

And Nikto said:

“Vitor, you are all wet, you motherfucker! Let me take your wet clothes off!”

Then he went into the next room and hung them there on chairs around the table. He brought a skin and a blanket and covered Kors.

Yes, it was true. The demon took care of him. Only Kors for some reason was not grateful to him!

“What have you done to me? What have you turned me into? You killed me!”

“Get up!”

“I don’t want.”

“How many times should I repeat? You are my retinue. Get up and follow me!”

Those unclean ones who came to the aid of Atley Alis’ army were, in Kors’ opinion, simply disgusting. This army consisted simply of some frankly bestial creatures, and their commanders, unclean Desmod and Marbas, generally had little in common with people. Zaf, Nija and Tazh, compared to these creatures, seemed just noble sirs. They traced at least some kind of human nature, while these godless creatures were just beasts. Nikto with his changed painted face matched them. And now Kors realized that there was a point in disfiguring himself and hiding his soft appearance.

In their uterine hoarse voices, they spoke very quickly in unadapted unclean, and Kors didn’t understand them well. But it seemed that these were banal greetings and expressions of joy from the meeting, although from the outside it seemed that they would now grab each other’s throats as well as Kors’ one. Kors “heard” how Nikto, at some crazy speed, almost instantly mentally conveyed to Desmod a whole block of events that had occurred, and these were not words, but simply compressed information, in which Kors didn’t have time to make out anything concrete. Desmod, in response, also gave the Demon his vision of the situation and information about what was happening, as well as about each of his warriors. And the way they communicated amazed Kors. They communicated not with thoughts, but as if with emotions that were not clothed in words, conveying not just a word, but at once a whole spectrum: an image, sound, smell, emotion, both their own, and of everyone involved in it, and what really happened, and it was much cooler than words. Such blocks took an instant, giving a complete and multifaceted understanding of the situation, and it would take a thousand words, explanations and clarifications to describe all this concise information that was transmitted instantly. Kors understood now how poor and primitive were the communication skills of people who communicated with the help of words that didn’t convey, in essence, even a hundredth of what the Demon could convey in a split second. But Kors was so proud of his talent, he was sure that he perfectly heard the Demon and the unclean. How funny he was when he told Zaf, “I will break your defenses”. He didn’t understand their real communication, and only now was he able to grasp its essence, while he did not even have time to understand anything.

The unclean ones settled down in Riverside for the night, they kindled bonfires and made a terrible holiday with sacrifices. The soldiers hung each other on chains, piercing the skin on their backs with sharp hooks. They wounded their flesh without pity, passing hooks through the skin on their arms, legs, back, and if they did not hang themselves, then they simply hooked heavy weights to the hooks so that the wounded flesh would stretch. They pierced themselves through with thick needles, inserted sharp knives into their cheeks and lips, which protruded from their mouths. All this action was accompanied by a booming rhythmic beat of drums and howling of trumpets.

“Are you going to pierce yourself and hang yourself too?” Asked Kors looking at Nikto.

“No.”

“Why? It’s quite your style.”

“They make these sacrifices for the Demons to appease them and get help in battle. And I am the Demon,” Nikto answered, and, turning away from the raging crowd of unclean soldiers, went to the house. And Kors had no choice but to follow him.

Kors lay on his side on a dirty mattress in clothes and boots, blankly staring at the opposite wall and at the rat slowly picking something in the corner. Nikto and Arel kissed and hugged behind him, undressing each other. The sound of their kisses and the clang of taken off weapons falling to the floor drowned out the screams of the unclean and equally vile sounds of instruments outside the walls of the house. He heard and felt how Nik and Arel lay down on the bed, intertwining their bodies, the mattress trembling, and now, when they were very close, Kors heard their moans better, the hoarse hiss of Nikto, the tinkle of his trinkets and chastity belt. Arel, fucking him, screamed loudly, cumming, and Kors realized that Nikto again didn’t utter the coveted phrase either aloud or mentally, and, therefore, Arel was now free from this restriction. Kors didn’t turn to them, nor did he get out of bed. He didn't care. Even if Arel now turned him around, undressed him, ordered him to get down on all fours or suck him off, he didn’t care. It was as if they weren’t around right now, but it seems he was absent for them too, because, having fed up with the submissive body of the Demon, Arel didn’t touch Kors.

Kors stood under the canopy near the stable, getting ready to leave as they were returning to Crimson Rock. Nearby, the unclean of Desmod’s detachment were also preparing their horses for the journey and were talking loudly out loud. These unclean ones were simple soldiers and didn’t know how to communicate like their demonic commanders, and Kors couldn’t help hearing their chatter inattentively.

“For a horse to be fast and tireless, you need to smear his legs and stomach with deer fat,” said one.

“Reindeer fat is garbage,” the second objected to him, “you need to hang the tooth of a wolf, killed on the run, on a horse’s neck.”

“They say,” the third intervened in the conversation, “that the surest way to make a horse fast is to take a mole and with a knife, bought without bargaining, pierce its neck. And then put a few drops of blood on the horse’s head. And then you need to carefully remove the skin from the mole, leaving the paws, and stuff the skin with hay. And drag it three times along the face of the horse, from nose to ears!”

Kors just grinned, he had long been accustomed to the proximity of unclean beings. He had already put the saddle on the horse’s back when he saw Arel heading towards him. The prince walked slowly over and, looking at Kors with a slightly arrogant smile, stretched out his hand to the reins:

“Give me back my horse, Kors,” he said not harshly, but still in an orderly tone, and Kors, without saying a word, silently removed his saddle from the back of the most expensive horse in this world. From the horse of Prince Arel.

Together with the unclean, they crossed the river. Nikto, Prince Arel and Kors rode in front of the troops, heading for the Fort.

“Have you changed horses?” Nikto asked, looking at Kors with his black eyes, his face was open.

“Well, what was left for me,” Kors complained a little indignantly, “if he took it away from me!”

This horse of Arel, which he was riding now, was also very good, but Kors was still annoyed:

“And now I have to fuck with the next uncontrollable prince's horse!”

“So, your Beauty is with you again?” Nikto turned to Arel.

“Beauty?” Kors was surprised. “Was that not the name of the previous horse? Beauty, as far as I know, was slaughtered by Black Bey in revenge on Arel when you were ambushed in Lower during the Winter Festival. And he cut off his ears.”

“And you know everything,” Nikto shook his head, “all Arel’s horses have the same name,” he smiled.

“I took the horse away from you?!” Arel was indignant. “You were the first to take it away from me! And you tore his mouth with the bar bit!”

“Your horse was badly brought up!”

“He just didn't want to obey you! Damn, how could it be ?! Nik, he crippled my horse!”

“I don’t know, Arel, how you dealt with him, but your horse was simply uncontrollable, and only harsh training measures brought him to his senses,” Kors replied sharply.

“You just didn't have to steal my horse! There was no need to take what didn’t belong to you! You are not his master, and therefore he didn’t obey you and rebelled.”

“Wow, rebelled! Eh, he didn’t understand a single command! You didn't seem to work with him at all! Arel, I wonder how you didn’t break your neck and die in battle, your horse was wild! You should be grateful to me and say “thank you” that I kept him and raised him as it should be, and now he perfectly fulfills the commands.”

“Nik, he ruined my horse,” repeated Arel very upset, again throwing an angry glance at Kors:

“Did you put on double-bit mouthpiece for him? What have you done?!”

“I just controlled him,” Kors was also already upset by this conversation and the prince’s claims.

“Okay, Arel, what do you want from me? Should I pay you compensation? Or if he doesn't suit you anymore, bring him back. Should I pay for him? I'll buy him from you, okay?”

“Aha, here I am! No really!”

“Here, take it,” Kors took out several large gold coins from his wallet, handed them to Arel, “this is for my help in training!”

But Arel didn’t take the coins, turning away:

“Just don’t even dare to approach him anymore!”

“Your Beauty, beauty prince?”

“Yes!”

“And what is the name of this horse, which is now mine? Beauty too?” Kors could hardly hold back his laughter, and Nikto, looking at them, smiled with his now black mouth.

“You can call him what you want!” Arel was still annoyed.

“Okay, Beauty can only belong to, as far as I understand. Is this horse a mestizo?”

“Yes, he’s half unclean,” Nikto confirmed.

“And he's quite obedient,” Arel said calmly. “It will be easy for you with him, Kors.”

“Thank you, Prince Arel.”

The army of the unclean was already on the approaches to Crimson Rock when the wind blew from the Fort, pouring them into an unbearable fetid stench of rotting flesh. Lis, as usual, didn’t care about the burial of those killed in battle, saving wood and coal for forges and not burning corpses. He ordered to remove everything of value from the dead, take away armor and weapons and simply throw the bodies into the moat behind the walls, sprinkling them with earth a little.

Unclean Marbas sniffed and smiled, as it seemed to Kors, with a double row of sharp teeth:

“Nice places,” he said.

Having met their fellow tribesmen in the Fort, the unclean ones were very happy and arranged a holiday. A full-fledged feast didn’t work out, since food supplies were already scarce, but the unclean Desmod and Marbas brought enough booze and all kinds of substances to get stoned with, and that was the main thing. Throughout the night, to loud music, the unclean bawled songs, arranged friendly competitions and danced with the bear. They kept the entire Fort awake with their noise, endless drunken shouts and howls. But Lis didn’t interfere in this action, because the day before from a man sent to the east, Marmer, a carrier pigeon flew in with a report that everything was calm in Ore town. No preparations for war were visible, no walls were being fortified, and there was no movement of any allied forces. The city continued to live an idle peaceful life, and Kudmer took no action to defend himself. This news greatly encouraged Lis and calmed his nervous condition.

6

Worries

Igmer was reading the report of the agent from Crimson Rock.

The red counted how many soldiers were in Sigmer’s army, how many horses and weapons, noted the presence of a bear. He indicated that the black officers in command were Zagpeace Gezaria and Ram Murh, the unclean ones were commanded by a commander named White Lord, and the red ones by Marmer. On his own behalf, he added that iron discipline reigned and everyone carried out the direct commands of Sigmer, which he gives out personally, always in the morning and then often also during the day. He very rarely transmits orders through his adjutants. In the evening, Sigmer also personally checks the fulfillment of tasks and requires a detailed report, often in writing, even if it is some trifle. Everyone is accountable to him, both black and red and unclean. He often checks everything himself. He cares about everything. He is very strict. The slightest hitch or poorly done work is punished. The pillars for the guilty are always busy, despite the fact that everyone is already afraid of punishment and is trying their best. Warriors are whipped mercilessly, left in a punishment cell without food and water for the slightest offense. Often Sigmer personally takes part in the execution, and if he doesn't like something, he immediately hits it in the face, maybe right in the conversation. In addition, during the day he conducts training for the soldiers and teaches them how to handle the weapons of the reds. He himself and his Wild Cat, who doesn’t leave him even for a single step, perfectly shoot from muskets. The gunpowder is made to them by a black named Marcus, and he did quite well using the records of the reds. The fort was destroyed and rebuilt by them in a rough manner, only the main tower is intact. But they are clearly not going to stay in it. Sigmer collects the carts, there are few supplies, and feeding is becoming scarcer every day.