The Mist and the Lightning. Part 12. Ви Корс

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      Even without having even gathered and buried all the killed, both their own and the reds, immediately after the inspiring congratulations of the commander Atley Alis, they began to drink. There was a lot of space in the Fort, furniture, utensils and supplies too. The unclean ones couldn’t be stopped, however, no one tried to do this. The warriors of Zaf and the remaining ones of Tazh settled in the left wing, but the tables were pulled out to the square, and they immediately began playing music, took several red maids and slaves. All women found in the Fort were spontaneously divided equally between the unclean and mercenaries. There were very few women in the Fort, literally a dozen maids and the same number of slaves. But the unclean were still satisfied with this, although the maids were frankly so-so. The mercenaries of Kors were located in the central part and annexes to the right. They remained about two-thirds of the original strength, and thus, Vitor Kors still had the largest number of soldiers. The black and the unclean, no matter how they fenced them off from each other, nevertheless, willy-nilly intersected, and in the limited space of the Fort it was simply impossible to do anything about it, so this question was also allowed to flow. Now, drunk with victory and a joint assault, the people and the unclean got along. Although most of the blacks held their celebration in the right wing, many went out to the square, mixed with the unclean. In the main hall, tables were set for the elite: commanders and those who distinguished themselves during the assault. Here were all the surviving militias of the prince, their commander Shrad, and between him and Seamus sat satisfied Anya, a gold chain glittered on her neck, a beautiful pendant lay between her lush breasts. There sat also a noseless boy, the one who, during the storming of their first Fort, far from the border, was frightened by the “shooting sticks” of the reds and fled from the battlefield, for which he was severely punished by the lynching of the militia. This time he fought desperately, was not afraid for his life and, under a hail of arrows, made a fire in time, giving a sign to the warriors of Tazh and Tarl. Now, sitting at the table, he was already pretty drunk, and his face, tied with a wide strip of black cloth covering the severed nose, was joyful. There was also a chef from the transporters, who was dressed up in the clothes of a warrior and put to Tazh’s detachment for “extras”, but this no longer young man entered his role so much that he fought on a par with others and even managed to kill several reds. Marmer, who had been wounded, and several of his remaining soldiers were also there. Everyone ate and drank and enjoyed themselves.

      Holding a bowl filled with food from the holiday table, Lis came to Marcus. Seeing him, Marcus jumped up from his chair, his face was still the same bewildered and frightened:

      “Forgive me for what I was talking then, I was not myself…” He began to say.

      “Have you done anything?” Lis asked, and it was clear that he was only worried about this.

      “Yes.”

      “Show me.”

      Marcus poured powder on the tip of a knife into a wide stone mortar, very little, literally a few grains, and set it on fire with a thin wick, dropping it into the bowl. The powder flared brightly, a loud bang was heard, and the room was clouded with smoke. Lis looked at Marcus, as if he could not understand how such a small amount of powder made such a fire:

      “You did better than the reds,” he said, dumbfounded.

      “Thank you,” Marcus shyly dropped his eyes.

      Lis seemed to come to his senses and, grabbing a bowl of food, quickly shoved it to Marcus:

      “Here, eat!”

      “Thank you. Do you have a holiday? Congratulations on your victory,” Marcus said sadly. He turned to the window, located almost under the very ceiling of the low room, from there music, shouts and loud laughter could be heard. Lis also glanced at the window: the silhouettes of the celebrating warriors flashed through the dusty glass.

      “Reds suck! The unclean ones decide!” Zaf's warriors shouted loudly.

      “Yes. A holiday,” said Lis, suddenly clearly seeing Karina outside the window, her new white sheepskin coat couldn’t be confused with anything, and Nija, and the way their silhouettes approached each other. Lis froze, and then, as if coming to his senses, rushed out of the room, without even closing it, leaving Marcus in complete bewilderment.

      Quite mellow Daniel Crassus, so in a simple, familiar way, slapped Nikto on the shoulder. Apparently, Nikto, in his understanding and according to the teaching habit, remained a commoner boy, whom he, like Lis, chased in school all his life, and this patronizing attitude had already become a feature of his character.

      “Son of the Devil,” he smiled, looking at Nikto in a fatherly manner, like a wise mentor at a good student. “When you fight, this nickname suits you. You fight very well. How you and I smashed that fucking back gate of theirs!”

      Nikto smiled too:

      “Yeah…”

      Crassus looked at Arel sitting next to Nikto:

      “To give credit, Prince Arel fights better than anyone! You a little miss the speed, and he is very fast and powerful. His technique at an incredible level, I've never seen anything like this!”

      “He was taught by the finest teachers of the Royal Academy, and then he fought for many years, every day. He's been at war without a break for more than ten years, do you think this will be noticeable?”

      “Yeah,” Crassus looked at Arel with delight. He remained completely indifferent to these flattering words and praise, his handsome face didn’t express anything, as if Crassus was not talking about him at all, and Arel didn’t answer Crassus. And Crassus looked at the prince’s face, slightly arrogant in his indifference, only slightly shaking his head:

      “After I saw him in battle, I consider the cruel punishment that our King applied to him to be unfair. To make such a good warrior an outcast!” And Crassus thought for a while, but quickly cheered up again, turning to Nikto:

      “Well, what about you?! Tell me why do you look so girlish?!”

      “Crassus!” Vitor Kors, who was sitting next to him, threw a glance at him of not eyes, but lightning.

      Nikto, having heard such a comparison, at first was a little taken aback, but didn’t get angry at all, and then laughed sincerely:

      “Because I am a white half-blood.”

      Crassus laughed contentedly too:

      “Was your mother white?”

      “Yes. Mother is white, father is black,” Nikto answered, he looked at Kors, barely holding back a laugh. Kors suffered with the last bit of strength.

      “Was she a slave?” Crassus asked. “All whites are slaves. Are you the son of a white slave and a black master?”

      “I don't know for sure, I'm an orphan.”

      “Why are you called the Son of the Devil? What is devilish about you?”

      “My adoptive mother СКАЧАТЬ