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The response was some kind of inhuman howl or moan. Poly clutched at her sister’s hair as she stepped into the living room.
Una tried to break free, turned around, and stumbled from another jolt. The can flew out of her fingers and hit the wall, spilling its contents all over it. Her sister forgot about the offender, rushing to the spilled puddle. Instinctively stepping back, Una suddenly bumped into something and fell awkwardly, hit the back of the holovisor.
The device wobbled on a thin leg and collapsed; the projector cone extinguished.
Moaning and rubbing her bruises, the girl rose to her feet.
Her father’s beastly roar shook the room.
A shiny bat of blond wood sank on Una’s head.
Her black hair soared, her skull crumpled under the impact and burst: bloody bits of bone scattered in all directions.
The girl collapsed to the floor. Dead gray eyes stared up at the ceiling, glowing with dots of diodes.
The man, no longer paying any attention to her, tossed the bat aside and fiddled with his holovisor. Straightening the base, he flicked the remote. A vague intermittent picture apparently satisfied him. Back at his rookery, the fat man plopped down on it again, froze, almost unblinking, stared at the screen.
Poly giggled against the wall, licking up the slime-like slurry. When she’d finished, she looked around the room with completely glassy eyes, stumbled over her sister’s body, and hiccupped.
The mother only turned around at her direct address, as if she had not heard the preceding noise.
«Ma-a-a!»
Staggering, the girl stood up and walked closer to the corpse. The mother came up too, fluttering her eyes incomprehensibly. Her aged mouth, with its bright lipstick smeared over it, formed into a mannishly surprised «O».
«Where… where we should put her now,» Poly hiccupped again, «lying here… I wanted to take her away… I earned it didn’t I?» she grinned crookedly. «Yes, I did»
«Well done, my daughter, well done,» the mother chirped like a sparrow. «I guess… I guess… I don’t know… Boo, tell me,» she turned to her husband.
He squinted, snorted, scratched his belly, smearing bits of gray-pink brain matter all over his light-colored T-shirt, and waved it off briefly.
The mother sighed, turned away, chewed her lips, then noticed the orange stain.
«Here,» she pointed her finger at the bag, «there’ll be pickers today, really.»
Still swaying, Poly looked back and forth between her sister and the garbage bag, then she mumbled, swallowing the interfering saliva, and nodded.
When they lowered the holder, the two of them shoved the body upside down into the sack, and straightened it: they couldn’t even fit her legs in the bent position. After twisting them this way and that, they looked at each other, shrugged and tied the ties as they were, with a bow on the protruding ankles. Then they took the trash pack out into the corridor, the mother returned to her interrupted rummaging, and the daughter plopped down next to her father, also clinging to the hologram.
About an hour later, the front door opened.
In the outer gallery stood an austere woman in a dark gray jumpsuit. At her knees, like a service
dog, a compact robot-carrier was frozen.
The visitor’s gaze traveled over the huge orange bag. Small feet in high blue sneakers peeking out of its throat could not go unnoticed. The attendant blinked, raised an eyebrow, curled her lips, but almost immediately her face took on its former aloof expression.
The scanner in her hand beeped the report: «90% organic substance».
«Biological garbage. Take it away,» she commanded the robot. «Furnace number 6.»
Pies
The brew in the cauldron bubbled and gurgled. Strangely dark steam rose upward and puffed across the ceiling, forming little manmade clouds. But these walls have seen more than that.
The old house, built of gray rough-hewn stone, with oak beams in the ceilings and a dirty plank floor, did not give the impression of a permanent dwelling at all. It was more like a cave, a burrow into which one had to crawl out of necessity.
The tiny mica windows let almost no light through, and now, in the twilight, they looked like cracks in the walls. Weapons hung here and there – bows, axes, clubs, short spears, a couple of crappy swords – drew crooked shadows under the dancing candle lights. In the fuzzy glare the gray, shaggy coat by the door looked like a beast, clawing at the stonework for some reason.
Wolfe stirred the stew with a wooden spoon on a long carved handle, added herbs, stirred again, and sniffed. Yes, he thought, it’s ready.
He pulled a deep clay bowl out of a pile of dishes piled beside the stove – a black one with a red rune pattern, looked closely, spat on it, and wiped the cracked glaze with his shirt sleeve. Then he filled the plate to the brim with chunks of stew.
After extinguishing the overhead fire in the crooked stove, Wolfe set the bowl on the unexpectedly good-for-life striped wood table, sat down on a three-legged stool, and began to eat, occasionally burning and snorting.
A knock on the door made him raise his head.
«Go ahead, come in,» his voice sounded hoarser than usual. He craned his neck and coughed.
Two men entered the house: sheriff Hunter and his eldest son. The heir and his shift are dragging him everywhere. Wolfe smirked, baring strong white teeth.
«Greetings, Mage-Commissar,» the visitors bowed, not too flatteringly, though.
Wolfe only gave a brief nod in response.
«There’s a rumor going around,» the sheriff hesitated, «you know. We’d like to know if it’s true.»
«I don’t know what people are talking about,» the man muttered between spoonfuls of food. «Ask me straight out, Hunter, don’t be a pussy. I don’t like it.»
«Ahem. Ahem. Mage-Commissar Wolfe, is it true that you destroyed two witches who were plaguing the surrounding villages?» he swallowed and stared expectantly at his inhospitable host.
«Ha!» Wolfe smirked again, his face creased so that it looked like crumpled paper – his deep wrinkles had long been his companions, only his yellow eyes still looked young. «See for yourself,» he nodded to the far corner of the room, hidden by the shadows.
The sheriff went to the table, picked up the dirty candlestick with the lit candle, and stepped toward the place. Immediately he recoiled, unable to contain his trembling. His son suddenly turned strangely green, covered his mouth with his hands and, unsuccessfully struggling with gagging, jumped out into the street. A disgusting uterine sound was heard.
«Ugh, he ruined my bushes, the devil takes it,» magician cursed. «You’re taking him with you too soon for duty.»
«It’s all right,» Hunter said, «let him get used to it. We don’t live in the capital.»
He shined the light in the corner again, examining more carefully the two female corpses lying there, an old one and a very young one, brutally chopped up and mangled.
The sheriff shuddered with disgust, but to give him credit, he managed to hold himself together.
«So that’s all?!» there was more fear in the question than in reaction to what he saw. There was also hope.
«Everything is over. Everything.»
«And they won’t… well, they won’t… rise again?»
«No,» Wolfe squinted and lifted a bowl of leftover brew. «Here. Just the way it should be. Hearts and livers. I’ll eat it all and be done with it. Well, maybe I’ll have a tummy ache. Would you like a piece?»
Hunter almost twisted.
«No. Thank you,» he managed to squeeze out and spat the thick saliva that had accumulated: it smelled surprisingly good.
«Anyway, all you have to do is clean up. Burn the trash and bury it somewhere far away,» the magician waved his hand at the remnants of the bodies. «They won’t come up again, I give you my word.»
«Thank you, Mage-Commissar, from our whole village and district. You have saved many lives with this.»
«Yeah, yeah…» Wolfe ruminated again, taking a sip of gravy over the stew, he was no longer interested in the sheriff.
Hunter staggered for a while, then made up his mind.
«Uh… Wolfe, but how did you get them?»
The man reluctantly pulled himself away from his food and sighed.
«How? As it should be. Look,» he looked toward the door where a long-handled axe stood propped against the wall, under the cape, its ragged surface darkened against the sharp, glistening blade. «Locks? They messed up there, of course, notably. Like real spiders. But if you pull the right string…»
«I see. And the evidence?»
«And who needs them? Those mothers whose sons and daughters have been kidnapped by these monsters? They already know. And they got their retribution. However,» the mage gritted his teeth, «there is something. The Protector should have enough…»
The sheriff followed Wolfe’s gaze with his eyes.
On an antique dresser was a basket full of pies. Some of the cakes were broken, and he could make out the gruesome stuffing – the baby’s severed fingers. Nearby lay a tattered cotton cap, scarlet as the dawn.
Orange
«We’re screwed,» Gafarro lowered the spyglass and shook his head hopelessly.
Down below the castle walls, it was quiet now: his army had managed to beat off two attacks with almost no casualties. The attackers had not yet been able to get within a hundred yards of the moat surrounding the citadel, and each time they retreated. Now they were preparing to lay out one last trump card. And what one!
«No, sorcerer, not even you can handle it,» he glanced sadly at his advisor, who was looking around. «My kingdom will not stand. Where did they find him from? I thought they’d all been wiped out long ago, and here we are.»
The old mage didn’t seem to pay any attention to his words. He was staring intently and tirelessly into the horizon, where a new gray wave was beginning to creep on: the duke was determined to make another run. The enemy infantry, though badly shabby during the previous few days, was still astonishingly plentiful.
But that wasn’t too frightening: Krumland recruited his warriors from the rabble, with no regard for their strength or skill, as long as they could move forward and hold their weapons, and Barbeza’s potion would give them courage and spite. What a bitch! The witch really went over to the enemy. She must have brought that monster. Ugh!
Dorrenoi averted his eyes from the little flashes that ripped through the grayness of the dense morning fog. Damn you!
«I would not fall into despair, Your Majesty. There is always a way to fight.»
«But it’s a dragon!» Gafarro couldn’t hide his horror. «A stone-skinned, fire-breathing creature. What soldier could resist the flames, eh? The horses are snoring, you hear them? They smell that foul stench… Thank goodness it’s not flying.»
«Exactly!» the wizard held up his finger meaningfully. «It’s not flying. You noticed it too, my lord. So my eyes were right. Hmm. What else do you see?»
The king squinted at his companion with suspicion, but didn’t rant. He raised his spyglass and stared at the dark spot in the center of the approaching army.
«The dragon… not young, crawling slowly, but it seems to me that this does not affect his breathing: he’s puffing fire… Greenish, with a streak of yellow along his backbone… He’s about fifteen yards long. Oh, wait a minute… he’s got wings, but they’re tiny and rudimentary.»
The mage hummed so loudly that the king flinched and turned around abruptly.
«What?! Did you think of something?»
«Yes, I have a thought,» nodded Dorrenoi. «Tell me, Your Majesty, what is our food supply? Or rather, what fruit do we have?»
«From the fruit?!» the ruler’s eyebrows rose almost to the border of his hair. «You picked your time…» he paused, looking at the stern, serious face of his advisor, «well… if that’s what it takes… what do we have? Fruit… you know, not much. Except maybe five bags of apples. Dried plums, a dozen bundles. Grapes have all been crushed for brew. Hmm… There’s plenty of jam, though. Oh, here’s a couple more cases of oranges: they brought them just before the first attack and I forgot.»
The wizard smiled.
«Oranges, you say? Just in time. Oh, just in time! Get everything to the trebuchet!»
The king opened his mouth in amazement, twisted his head, glanced at the already discernible monster without the magnifying glasses, and turned to the wizard again.
«Are you out of your mind?! What oranges?»
«Bring it, I say! Don’t waste any time. We’ve got to get there before they get too close.»
After giving his orders in a few short phrases, Gafarro set the spyglass aside and sat down heavily on a sandbag, leaning against the battlements of the tower. Covering his face with his hands, he sighed sorrowfully.
«Take it easy, Your Majesty. Maybe the battle will be over in a few minutes, yeah,» Dorrenoi rubbed his hands together. «Listen to me… It’s important, vitally important, that as many oranges as possible hit the dragon, you hear. The more the better. How to do that is not up to me. You’re the best in the business. You can mix it with rocks, you can mix it as is… it doesn’t matter. It’s up to you. Just make sure you hit him before he gets within a hundred and thirty or a hundred and forty yards. He’s got a thirty-yard flame. And here already our soldiers are standing. That’s so they don’t get hooked, you know?»
The king’s eyes lit up with interest and, more importantly, hope.
«But what will this shelling do for us?»
«Uh, I’ll explain later. „If you’re not sure, don’t promise,“ as my teacher used to say, bless his bones. If it works, then it works.»
Gafarro stood up and clapped the mage on the shoulder.
«All right, I’ll trust your knowledge, my friend. Besides, what else can we do? So, you say, hit the dragon?»
«Yeah, in the muzzle, in the eyes – the best.»
From behind a narrow door in the wall, a panting soldier ran out, carrying a crate of sweetsmelling orange fruits like the sun. He was followed by another.
«Here, Your Majesty, your wisdom, is all there is.»
«Over there,» the king waved toward the two tall trebuchets that occupied most of the third tier below the observation tower. «Mix it with the gravel. I’ll be right back,» he glanced around. «May your wiles work, wizard,» and he hurried toward the stairway that led straight down.
Dorrenoi, grunting and barely moving his legs – knees, be damned – headed out the same way, but bypassing the inner galleries and passageways. When he finally reached the vast and terrifyingly large, crane-like, overgrown killing machines, they were all ready. It was just a matter of waiting until the target was at a calculated distance.
These few minutes passed in silence, only to the anxious sighs reverberating in the back of their heads.
The monster was very close: even the carved scales on its thick flanks could be seen. The smell was nasty: rotten, musty, and lifeless, and it made the horses in the vanguard roar and sprang to their feet. Nauseating. Well, on the plus side, they hadn’t all eaten in twenty-four hours.
Around the monster, the Duke of Krumland’s mercenaries and bandits stomped in close lines. Pitchforks, spears, and axes were what this filthy rabble carried as weapons. Yes, their combat was not intended to be noble, so…
