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adventures-of-the-creeping-bam · 2 years

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NEVER SPLIT THE PARTY: THE ADVENTURES OF THE CREEPING BAM, BOOK TWO: ONE COLD TRAIL - CHAPTER 13

If you’re new to the story, please go check out Book 1 first …

Book 2 Chapter 1 is here …

IMPORTANT: Please note this story includes content that may be considered mature, such as moderate battle violence, some strong language and occasional mild sexual scenes.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN: ART

I hit the ground before any of the glass, but as I roll forward to keep from cracking my ankles on impact the pieces I’ve clearly smashed loose start to rain down round me, although they’re less dangerous as they crack on the hard-packed dirt with the paper still pasted on. I hear more crashing nearby and through the corner of my eye see Yeslee land from her own dive through the other window and start running the moment she’s up, bow clutched ready at her side. I’m moving too, aiming myself on a slightly diagonal course away from her own. Hoping I’m on a smooth track to catch whoever’s trying to kill us.

The sound of more breaking glass behind me tugs a little at my attention, enough for me to chance a glimpse over my shoulder before I whip back to my path, so I barely catch Shay landing about where I did before. She seems to hit with something approaching my own ease, smart enough to roll too, and I trust her to follow my lead as I keep going. Then I catch sight of the opposite roof as I come out from under one of the tree canopies, and see movement up there, along with something whipping my way with a high whistling sound that grows louder very quickly. I recognise the arrow a split before I react.

Dodging sideways, I drop into a roll at the same moment, and the arrow thumps harmlessly into the lawn where I was a second’s fraction before. I’m running on all fours at first before I right myself, but stay low as I keep going, watching the shapes on the rooftop now. Three … no, four, at least, ducking and weaving as they’re ignoring me now, instead firing through the broken windows again. Not for long though. They can see me coming. Yeslee and Shay too. They ain’t gonna stick round for any of us to catch ‘em, no way they’re suddenly gonna get that stupid right after playing things so smart.

Then something much larger lumbers right past me and I realise it’s Big Man. He stops a little short of the building, right where I’m heading, and half turns my way. “I take it you require a means to climb, yes?”

There’s half a dozen ways I could get up there at a reasonable clip, but I like where his head’s at, this way I can keep my momentum up. “Nice one, Big Man!” I head right for him now, already plotting my way as he drops into a crouch.

As I arrive he holds his leading hand up high enough for me to jump up onto it and use it as a boost to spring onto his shoulder, and by then he’s already rising up again and I just keep going. I step up onto the top of his head, letting him reach his full height while I coil my legs up tight and then spring upwards just before he’s straightened up so I can use his momentum along with my own to fling myself as high as I can get. The eave’s too high for me to make it, but I’ve got the window below to work with, grabbing hold of the sill and scrambling onto it before looking up to gauge the best way from here.

Just in time to duck aside before an arrow aimed haphazard over the lip of the guttering takes me out, instead pinging off the rough stone of the sill and spinning off into the air. Fuckers … gritting my teeth, I tense low for a moment and then spring for the guttering, grabbing hold and hoping it’s sturdy enough to support me as I swing out into emptiness while working on pulling myself up.

There’s a heart-stopping moment when I feel the whole thing shift, but it doesn’t give out and I pull up at the same time I swing my leading leg over the top. I’m already taking in my new surroundings as I pull myself the rest of the way up, and the second I have a free hand to work with I draw my first knife. I have a breadth of moments to work with here.

First thing I see is some of ‘em already booking it over the ridge of the sloping shingled rooftop above, but there are four standing their ground. The two closest have already forsaken their bows, short but wickedly accurate over this relatively limited range, for the weapons on their belts, while the others ain’t shooting me now mainly cuz they can’t risk hitting their own. They’re all black-clad, head to foot, largely nondescript wool, leather and linen, and very little armour from the look of it, like they weren’t actually expecting trouble. Cloaked and hooded, and each one’s masked. Three just have thick black scarves tied over their lower faces, but one wears a carved wooden piece over his eyes, nose and cheeks, fashioned like some strange grey owl. He’s drawing a shortsword and handaxe but hanging back, letting his companions take the lead.

I slip my corresponding knife free in my other hand and step off the guttering, taking up as well as I can on the relatively firm ground of shale, the slope shallow enough I can get decent footing. I keep low and tight and wait for one of them to make a move, smiling a bit now in anticipation of the fight. It seems to have the desired effect, the one closing on me with shortsword and dagger frowning as he re-evaluates his current plan.

When I throw my right-hand knife he ain’t even remotely prepared so it catches him high in the left side of his chest and he folds as the breath leaks out of him, dying in little more than a blink after I caught him square in the heart. I pull at the same moment he starts to tumble and the knife seems to jerk him into a slightly different path as it tears itself free and whips back to my hand, so his body just tumbles right out into the open air off the edge instead of hitting the roof first. I catch the knife on its return almost without even looking and positively grin at the guy in the owl mask, who’s actually trying his best to back up now, clearly startled by my fancy enchanted blades.

Shay jumps the first one with the bow while they’re still distracted and doesn’t even try to do anything fancy, she just braces her feet and flings ‘em bodily off the roof. The higher pitched scream that follows tells me that one was a woman, then the other turns to the new threat as Shay draws her sword and cuts his arm off at the elbow before he can even toss his bow aside to draw a better weapon for close quarters.

“Fuck this.” Owl Mask mutters under his breath as he sheathes his sword and tosses his axe away while turning to scramble up the roof after the others. Just in time for Yeslee’s arrow to catch him in his shoulder and rip him right off his feet. He sails a good six feet and I shout at Shay to watch out as he flies right at her. She dodges just in time, and instead the screaming man in the fancy mask hits the one with the severed arm and smashes him right over the edge along with him.

“No time for that shit!” Yeslee growls at us, but when I look to her again she’s already up on the ridge, sliding over as I watch. I cast a look to Shay, who gives her sword a good whip to shake loose the few spots of blood on the crystal blade free and sheathes it again before shrugging and starting to climb herself.

Shaking the blood from my own knife, give it a careful whip once on each side across my thigh to get rid of the rest and snap both blades back into their scabbards so I have my paws free. I start up after Yeslees, moving fast and easy over the shingles now I’m very comfortably engaged on my favourite kind of terrain.

As I crest the roof Yeslee’s already sliding down the other side, firing off arrows as she goes, and two hit home, each fleeing figure getting turned over in mid-air before taking a tumble straight into the street below. Others bounce just wide of marks who are clearly just lucky as they dodge erratically, fate seeming to smile on one simply by making them stumble at just the right moment so they slip and fall while the arrow bounces off an inch from their head. They scrabble to hold on, just catching the gutter at the last, and hang as they try to right themselves.

Others are making for any cover they can find, while one at least is just booking it fast as they can, leaping right across one of the narrow gaps between roofs to the next building over as they desperately try to escape. Yeslee simply plants her feet just above the guttering and takes her time, leading her target, and I know she’s taking a deep breath and holding it ready before she looses. The arrow catches them high between their shoulder-blades and they just plunge face-first into the next alleyway, limp as a ragdoll.

“Yes, chill!” I growl as I skid down behind her. “We gotta take one alive, or we might as well just let ‘em all go.”

I don’t bother to wait to see if I got through to her as she draws her next arrow, but instead I keep running along the bottom of the shingles and then just step off onto the guttering. Whether it’s strong enough to support me or not doesn’t matter, I just use it as the jumping point to spring to the next roof across, and I’m just about light and quick enough that while it seems to snap and give under me I’m already in the air before it breaks away. I’ve landed and started running low along the base of the next roof when I hear the broken piece of rusty iron crash down below, then the alleyway comes up and I make the leap. It’s not a wide one, I clear it easy and don’t even break stride.

This time I go for one of my dart belts and slip a pair free of their loops as I start to make the sloping run up the angle around the approaching chimney, and the bowman hiding behind it doesn’t realise I’m there until I’m right on top of him. He draws the arrow he’s been nocking and tries to draw a bead on me but by then I’ve already slipped the first dart with the fingers in my other hand to whip. It catches his drawing arm just behind the wrist mid-pull and he loses his grip as it punches clean through the leather of his bracer and the arrow pings off the guttering to spin away into the open below.

Snarling a pained, fearful oath, he chucks his bow aside and tries to fumble for his shortsword with his one remaining good hand, but it’s on the wrong side. He tries to pull it underhand but I’m already on top of him before he’s drawn six inches of steel, and I drop low, skidding at the last to scissor his feet out from under him with a sweep of my legs. He drops in a tangled mess and I don’t even bother whipping the other dart, instead flipping it round in my hand and just jamming it hard into the side of one knee as he hits the roof beside me. This time he lets out a winded howl that I cut short as I smack my elbow hard into his face with a crack as I break his jaw. He slumps limp against the shingles and I extricate my legs from his.

An arrow pings against the chimney beside my head as I rise and I drop into a crouch again, drawing one of my new daggers again and ducking back round the side as I chance a quick glimpse out into the open. Two of ‘em seem to have remained to cover the escape of the rest, hiding behind their own cover, one selecting another chimney like this one and the other the overhang of a roof-entrance, only whipping out long enough to draw beads on their targets and loose. Another shot whips my way and I duck back just in time to avoid the strike, so the arrow skitters across the shingles to my side before lodging in one of the braces holding the guttering in place.

One of Yeslee’s black arrows slams into the chimney the other one’s hiding behind and they cringe away from it, startled since the tip must erupt right out the other side in a cloud of dust and splintered brick. Thinking twice about throwing my knife at this range, I instead yank another dart loose and flick it fast before the startled hood’s able to hide again, catching them high in their shoulder as they pull back in. They stumble with a startled yelp and land flat on their back, then start to skid … shit, right over the edge. The pitch of their scream’s high enough to suggest a girl’s plunging into the street below.

“What were you saying about watching my shooting, Art?” Yeslee calls out, and I don’t have to see her face to measure her sarcasm right now.

Gritting my teeth, I glare back over my shoulder but hold my tongue, instead waving my hand to point out the remaining archer’s hiding place, then signal for her to cover me. I don’t bother checking whether she’s even looking to check if she caught my meaning, I just slip my offhand dagger free and crouch low, preparing to run.

She caught my meaning all right. As if on cue the remaining one takes a peak out to draw another bead, then Yeslee’s arrow whips past their cheek so close it likely rips a little gouge in their face and pins their hood for good measure. They pull back on reflex, startled enough to fall on their arse while their hood tears free, and I start running.

Picking up speed as I go, I wind up the slope of the roof enough to build the momentum I need before curving back down to get a little extra speed, then make the jump as Yeslee looses two more arrows to punch into the arch of the entrance. No need to worry she might hit me by mistake, she’s too good for that, even though one whips close enough as I leap for me to feel the wind of it. I land and don’t even worry about securing firm enough ground, keeping my momentum up as run diagonal up the side of the roof again, curving round the brick hump of the arch before pulling back down round the far side.

Two more arrows crack into the brickwork and I’m close enough I hear an masculine oath of sheer frustration as our target must be staying as far back from the steady barrage as he can. I drop at the last and skid down the remaining slope just inside the side of the hump, then as my feet touch the guttering I’m already tensing all I can into my thighs to coil for the spring. The aged iron creaks and he’d be an idiot not to catch it, but I’m already jumping as he turns my way, and while he tosses his bow to go for his shortsword I’m already on him.

He's a little taller than me, but built so wiry thin he ain’t no heavier, so it’d be an even match even if I didn’t have the advantage of surprise. I slash low and quick, catching his sword-arm across the back of the wrist and cutting deep, then I slam into him and drive him back into the low curving inside wall. He grunts as I drive the wind out of him, then follow up with a hard knee to his gut while he’s still trying to rise, and whatever fight might be left in him wheezes out as he crumbles onto the floor of the platform. I press him into the wall and bring my offhand knife up fast, putting the edge to his throat and pressing just hard enough to make my point as I growl: “That’ll do.”

The last of his fight goes away in an instant. I sheathe my right-hand dagger so I can reach up and yank his cloth mask down, and when I see his face I realise he’s even younger than I am. Human, fresh-faced enough his current attempt to grow a beard’s only succeeded in producing a fine shadowed down around his mouth. He’s attractive in a broad sort of way, but even if he wasn’t my enemy he’s not really my type. His light brown eyes are wide as they focus on mine, nibbling his lip in obvious fear. “Please, I can’t –”

“Stow it, we got some questions to ask, an’ trust me, you’re gonna answer ‘em.”

Yeslee scrambles round to perch on the low rail separating the platform from the drop, holding onto the overhang even though she doesn’t actually need it to steady herself, and her hard stare instantly fastens onto him. He opens his mouth like he’s gonna protest, but instead all that comes out is a rasping sound, and his eyes widen in something more like shock. Fuck … he’s starting to choke.

I pull my knife away as he slumps, his good hand going to his throat as he sprawls on the floor and starts to convulse, and as I watch, too surprised to do anything, he starts coughing up blood. What the hell … something seems to be happening to his neck, to the lower half of his face, it’s almost like it’s swelling. Something like the bloat when a body comes up out the harbour after a week or two in water, but it’s all red, like it’s enflamed. His writhing grows more desperate as he gasps and retches, and now blood’s pouring out of his mouth, from his nostrils, even a little from his eyes.

Without thinking about it I step back, pressing myself into the opposite wall as I try to just get away from whatever the hell this is. He squirms and thrashes for a few more moments, then his back arches one last time, rigid suddenly, as a last, rattling rasp croaks out of him, then he just goes limp. A long silence follows as I take it in, unable to process what the fuck just happened.

“Art?” It’s her tone that snaps me out of the trance more than anything else. Don’t reckon I ever heard actual shock in Yeslee’s voice before. When I turn to her she genuinely looks … gods, I think she might be scared. “Art … what the fuck did you just do?”

“Gods, Yes … c’mon, that wasn’t me. We wanted this guy alive, remember?”

“Well something tells me we both fucked that one up.” She can’t take her eyes off the corpse that, when I look back at it, seems to be bloating even after death. “What … what do we do?”

“Oh … wait …” Remembering the one I knocked out, I sheathe my remaining knife and step back out past her, jumping to the edge of the roof beyond so I can look back the way we’ve both come. I see Shay now, stood over the form of the one I stunned by the chimney, looking down at ‘em with sword still in hand but hanging loose at her side. Something about the way she’s staring with such wide-eyed incomprehension … damn it. That ain’t good.

“No.” I barely breathe it as I start running, building up some fresh momentum to carry me back across, and I don’t even slow down on the landing as I sprint the rest of the way to Shay. I barely even slow before I arrive, instead just bracing myself against the chimney as I skid into it. One glance at Shay as her very fearful eyes flicker towards me tells me everything I need to know.

“Shit.”

Truth be told I know it soon as I take in the body, cuz I sure didn’t leave him lying in this position, contorted and curled in on himself like he’s been thrashing about in pain before he died. I don’t want to, but I gotta make sure, so I move round a little and crouch down so I can pull the hood back and then yank down the mask. Human like the other one, but I can’t tell if he was young cuz the swelling already seems pretty advanced. Gods …

“He just … he just … what the hell was that?” Shay half mutters, half spits the words, seeming as angry as she is shocked now. “I‘ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t even touch them, it started while I was still on my way.”

Turning back, I see Yeslee’s making her way back to us, but slower now, taking her time and clearly being careful about where she’s stepping. Unusually timid indeed right now. Damn, she’s really rattled, looks like.

“We gotta get back to the others.” I flex my fingers, restless now. Wary. I look at the rooftops surrounding us, seeing nothing but unsure what that even means right now. “Whatever that was, it was fucked. We gotta get outta here while we still can.”

TO BE CONTINUED ...

#never split the party #The Creeping Bam #the adventures of The Creeping Bam #book 2 chapter 13 #fantasy fiction #original fiction #original fantasy fiction #to be continued

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boag · 1 year

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Book 15, chapter 19 of Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace, English translation by Aylmer and Louise Maude.

Free online ebook via Project Gutenberg

#this was one of my favorite chapters from war & peace when I first read the book at age 13…#and like I’m literally 20 now and this just popped into my head earlier having not read it in years #and I FOUND ITTTT #ughhhh so good I highlighted the parts that are most important 2 me #war & peace #leo tolstoy #russian literature #literary classics #reading list #diary

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cosmicrhetoric · 7 months

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the wintersmith prologue is so crazy. all the tiff books are about accepting responsibility willingly and with your eyes open but what if you were 13 and made yourself a perfect center for the seasons to pass through you cause well. someone's gotta LOL

#the this i choose speech is literally crazy augh. reading the first few chapters again after a very long time is like ok these are clearly #more for kids than the lancre witches books but also what 13 yr old is doing all this. she's so crazy only main character ever #wintersmith #tiffany aching #discworld #the line where in the back of her head shes like there will be more sheep. but these sheep are dying NOW and someone has 2 do smth

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moominofthevalley · 8 months

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its out now!! click here

tomorrow i'm posting this mitski-inspired crimes of passion oneshot very excited i cant believe i wrote fucking 2000 words today go autism go!

#crimes of passion #choices crimes of passion #crimes of passion 2 #choices cop #trystan x mc #trystan thorne #choices game #choices stories you play #choices #playchoices #mitski #crimes of passion book 2 chapter 13 #in memoriam #autism #IM JUST ON A WRITING BINGE?

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mrdocreativearts · 16 days

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What happens when you leave Roxanne in charge? Uh...VERY good question -Bob

#magical robodoki #creative arts #new chapter #mrdoca book 2 #11:13 am

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saltnpepperbunny · 21 days

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I have to draw 146 more pages to finish FYR Book 2, holy shitttt

#spb's comics #finding your roots #i finished scripting book 2 tonight btw thats why i know #chapter 13 is gonna rock your socks #after chapter 12 steals your shoes and hides them in the attic

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itsalwayswellattheworldsend · 5 months

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Book 2 Chapter 12 - Richard Talketh With Ralph Concerning the Well at the World's End. Concerning Swevenham

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Synopsis:

Ralph and Richard discuss what's wrong with Ralph, and the two come up with a plan.

Summary:

“In the land and the thorp where I was born and bred there was talk now and again of a thing to be sought, which should cure sorrow, and make life blossom in the old, and uphold life in the young." "Yea," said Ralph, looking up from his tears, "and what was that? and why hast thou never told me thereof before?" "Nay," said Richard, "and why should I tell it to the merry lad I knew in Upmeads? but now thou art a man, and hast seen the face of sorrow, it is meet that thou shouldest hear of THE WELL AT THE WORLD'S END."

The next morning, Blaise went about his business, visiting the men of the Port at the Guildhall.[1] he asked Ralph to come with him, but he would not, and so Ralph stayed in the hall of the inn and sat thinking sadly while people came and went, but he heard nothing about the Well at the World’s End. He passed the next two days like this, except that Richard was among those who came to the hall and he talked to Ralph at times. That is to say, he spoke and Ralph acted somewhat like he was listening.

Now, as it was said before, Richard was old and wise and he loved Ralph greatly, likely more than he loved Lord Blaise, his proper master, for he had no mind for business or anything about it. So he stayed with Ralph and saw that he was sad and weary-hearted, so on the sixth day of their time at Whitwall,[2] when all the merchants were gone about their business and it was just him and Ralph in the hall, he said to Ralph: “This is not a prison, my lord.”

“So?” said Ralph.[3]

“If you doubt it,” said Richard, “let’s go to the door and see if they have turned the key or shut the bolt on us.”

Ralph smiled faintly and stood up, saying: “I will go with you if you want, but I think I will be a dull companion for you today.”

“Would you have been a better one yesterday, lord? Or the day before?”

“No,” said Ralph.

“Will you be a better one tomorrow?”

Ralph shook his head.

“Oh,” said Richard, “but you will be, or you may call me a fool.”

“You are kind, Richard,” said Ralph, “and I will come with you and do what you ask, but I must tell you that my heart is sick.

“Yes,” said Richard, “and you do not have to tell me that, dear youngling; anyone passing by can see that. But come on, let’s go.”

So they went into the street and Richard brought Ralph to the market and showed him Blaise’s booth (for he was doing quite well), but Ralph would not go near in case his brother wanted to drag him into a conversation. They went to the Guildhall which was both large and beautiful, and smelled like new-carved oak (for it was not yet painted), which reminded Ralph of his childhood when he would hang around the porter’s new house at Upmeads while it was being built.[4] Then they went to the Great Church and heard a Mass at the altar of St Nicholas, Ralph’s saint. It was a very pretty church, and also somewhat new, since Whitwall’s rise to prominence was so recent, and its altars were better than any Ralph had seen at Higham on the Way.

But when they came out of the church, Ralph looked at Richard with a blank and tired face, as if asking “What next?” And in truth he looked so tragic that Richhard, despite his concern for him, could hardly hold back his laughter.

But he said: “Well, foster son (for you are pretty much that to me), since this fair city does not please you, let’s go further out.”

So he led him out of the marketplace and brought him to the east gate of the town, which was called Petergate Bar,[5] and they went out and into the meadows under the walls, stopping at a little bridge over one of the streams—for it was a land of many waters. There, they sat down in a secluded spot, and Richard spoke to Ralph.

“Lord Ralph, it would be a shame if the sons of Upmeads made little or nothing of themselves. Now, as for my own master, Blaise, he has the makings of a noble merchant, but not of a noble knight; though he says that when he is rich he will abandon merchantry—though I’m sure he won’t. As for the others, lord Gregory is no better—and maybe worse—except that he will never be rich, having no self control, while lord Hugh is is likely to be killed in some meaningly squabble, unless he turns back to Upmeads quickly.”

“Yes, yes,” said Ralph, “What about it? I didn’t come here to listen to you badmouth my relatives.”

But Richard continued: “As for you, lord Ralph, I expended something from you, but now I’m not so sure. Your heart seems to be dead within you, and you must tend to it or else the body will die, too.”

“All right,” said Ralph.

Richard continued: “I am old now, but I was once young, and I saw and survived many things before I came to Upmeads. I am old, and I cannot feel certain hopes and pains that young men can, but I bought knowledge of them with experience, and I have not forgotten. By this, I guess that your dreariness is about a woman. Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Ralph.

“Now then, tell me about it, and your heart will lighten a bit.”

“I will not tell you,” said Ralph. “Or rather, to speak truly, I cannot.”

“Yes,” said Richard, “and though it would be easier now for me to tell you all the griefs of my life than it would be for you to listen to them, I do believe you. But maybe it would be easier for you to tell me something you want.”

“I want to die.” And he began to cry then.

But Richard said to him, smiling kindly: “That road is open to you on any day of the week. Why have you not taken it already?”

Ralph did not answer.

“Is it because you hope you will want something? If not today, then tomorrow, or the next day, or the next?”

Still Ralph said nothing, but he cried.

“Maybe I can help you hope, though you may think my words are crazy. In the land and town where I was born and raised, there was talk now and then about something to be sought, which would cure sorrow, make life blossom in the old, and uphold life in the young.”

“Yes?” said Ralph, looking up from his tears, “And what was that? And why have you never told me about it before?”

“What reason did I have to tell that happy young boy I knew in Upmeads? But now you are a man and have seen the face of sorrow, it is proper for you to hear about THE WELL AT THE WORLD’S END.”

Ralph jumped to his feet as Richard spoke, and he cried out eagerly: “Old friend, where were you born and raised?”

Richard laughed and said: “See that? There is still some distance between you and death! But turn around and look straight over the meadows past that willow and tell me what you see.”

“I see the plains spread out and a river running through it, with little hills past the water and the blue mountains beyond them. There is still snow on the mountaintops, though it is early July.”

“Yes,” said Richhard; “And do you see on that first little hill past the river, where a great grey tower rises above all the houses near it?”

“Yes,” said Ralph. “I see the tower and the houses, though they are small.”

“That is so,” continued Richard. “That tower is the Church of Swevenham, which is in honor of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus;[6] and the houses are the houses of a little town. What does that have to do with me? Well, I was born and raised in Swevenham, and indeed it was I who brought lord Blaise here to Whitwall, saying that it was a good place for merchants and because I wanted to see the little town and its great grey tower once more. Really, I didn’t lie—your brother is happy here, piling up coins upon coins. You really should go see his booth, fair lord; it is a pretty sight.”

But Ralph was pacing back and forth and he turned to Richard and said: “That’s all very good, but what about the Well at the World’s End?”

“I was going to tell you something that may or may not be worth noting: when I lived in Swevenham and was only eighteen years old—and now I’m sixty eight—two young men and one young woman from our town set out to see that Well. They knew a lot of lore about it, which they had learned from an old man, a relative of one of them. I never met this old man because he lived way off in the mountains, and these men were five years older than I was, so I was still a child when they grew up, and I didn’t pay attention to these sorts of things, just playing games and (and most of all) playing war and battle. God knows I’ve had all I can stomach of it since those days! However, I remember them setting out. They had a pack mule with them to carry supplies for the wilderness, but they went on foot, crowned with flowers and with pipes and drums heralding their departure, and many people came to see them off. By St Christopher! I can see it all as if it were yesterday. I was sad about the young lady’s leaving because although I was a boy, I had loved her, and she had let me kiss and fool around with her, though not for long.[7] Now, I remember that they had asked our priest, Sir Cyprian, to bless their departure, but he declined, for he believed that such a quest came from the inspiration of the devils, and was a memory of ancient, heathen practices.[8] As for me, I didn’t really pay attention, except that I was saddened that my white-bosomed, sweet-breathed friend was leaving.”

“What happened to them?” asked Ralph, “Did they come back?”

“I don’t know; I was tired of Swevenham after that and so I strapped on a sword and put a spear on my shoulder and went to the Castle of the Waste March,[9] sixty miles from Swevenham, and the Baron took me in and I joined his forces. There’s almost as little to be gained in my telling you about those deeds as there was in my doing them. But until now, I had never seen the grey tower of Swevenham again.”

“I should head for Swevenham right away,” said Ralph. “Will you come with me? It only looks like it’s four miles from here.”

Richard stayed quiet and furrowed his brow as he thought about this, and Ralph waited until he responded: “Foster-son, as I’ll call you, you know how it is with men from upcountry: that they’re most likely to tell a story if they’re not badgered about it. I think it would be best if I went to Swevenham alone, and better yet if I go on your behalf rather than for myself. Now, tomorrow is Saturday,[10] which is the market day in Whitwall, and I’m still young enough that some of my old friends should be alive and about in Swevenham: and if that’s the case, there will be at least one in the market tomorrow, and I will be there to find him. Then I’ll go back to Swevenham as a well-loved guest, and while I am there and talking about my doings and asking others about theirs, I’ll find out if there’s any new of the Well at the World’s End. How does that sound?”

“Yes,” Ralph said, “but how long will that be?”

“I will come back quickly if I find nothing, but if there’s anything to learn, I’ll stick around; so be patient.”

“And what should I do now?”

“Pass the time,” said Richard. “And to start, let’s go back and see your brother’s booth in the marketplace: it’s the bottom floor of a nice house which he is looking to buy, and he will marry a wife and settle in Whitwall, if things keep going this way. They have already given him freedom within the city and a brother of the Traveling Knights, for he is not only a charismatic man, but also he now no longer hides that he is of the family of Upmeads.”[11]

Notes:

[1] May refer to a port on the river where ships dock, but (as we’ve had no mention of boats anywhere the river seems to be pretty shallow at places), it’s more likely people who deal with merchants entering the town to register their goods and collect import taxes.

[2] Six days! That’s the biggest time-skip so far, but we still have all days accounted for as of yet.

[3] I should have made this note way earlier, but I wanted to say something about dialog tags. The style of dialog tags has changed a lot over the years and tends to be much more varied in terminology, though less varied in position. Morris places them before, during, or after a character’s speech, while we mostly put them in the middle (“Thanks,” said Ralph, “but no thanks.”) or at the end of speech (“I’m sad,” said Ralph.), but in this I often encounter dialog tags at the beginning (Ralph said: “I miss my horse.”), which aren’t used as much in modern writing, and tend to give a different feel to things. I often (but not always) restructure things. Also of note: modern writing tends to use a lot more descriptive speech words (“whined,” “shouted,” “mumbled”) but this story uses fewer, different words. Morris primarily uses “spake,” “quoth,” and “said” (all of which mean basically the same thing). I edit dialog tags to make them sound more natural to modern readers, but do not change verbiage to add emphasis or emotion. “Cried” is also used some, which I tend to translate as “shouted” (to avoid confusion with the other meaning of “to cry”). Basically, if I get repetitive on the dialog tag verbs, it’s modern and archaic styles not matching up and me not having enough neutral speech words to use.

[4] The “porter” is referred to as the “water-reeve,” and “porter” is my best guess. A “reeve” is an official in charge of something, Upmeads has a river, I assume the water-reeve is in charge of it somehow. Also, the verb used to describe Ralph’s loitering is “hang about,” which I updated slightly but is still funny and modern-sounding to me.

[5] Some googling turns up that “Petergate” is a street name in York (and elsewhere, probably), and “Bar” is a word for “gate” in place names (in England).

[6] “Yonder tower is of the Church of Swevenham, which is under the invocation of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus.” “Under the invocation” is a bit murky, and I haven’t been able to find a specifically defined reference to a church being “under the invocation” of someone or something, so I took a swing at it. As for the Seven Sleepers, there’s a story in Catholic mythology about seven young people who fled Ephesus (in modern-day Turkey) to avoid Roman persecution of Christians (like 200AD, I think?). Anyway, they went into a cave and slept, waking up some centuries later (number of sleepers and years slept varies). Not much else to say. Oh, the story also appears in the Quran.

[7] “I was sorry of the departure of the damsel; for though I was a boy I had loved her, and she had suffered me to kiss her and toy with her; but it was soon over.” I guess my one comment is that he stated that the two young men were five years older than he was, but did not mention the young woman’s age. In any case, although he refers to himself as a “boy” here, if you reread his speech, he was 18 when this all happened (not 13 with them at 18, which was my first, confused interpretation). Anyway, way to go, Richard, making out with an older girl.

[8] More intriguing views of the Church. Priests (and monks) seem to have a poor opinion of the Well at the World’s End, despite the story’s clear religious leanings. It’s an interesting internal conflict, one that I’ve pointed out before and will continue to point out going forward.

[9] A cool name for a castle. To explain the name a bit: “waste” refers to wilderness areas, especially those lacking in natural supplies, and “march” refers to a border territory. Basically, the castle is on the edge of a wasteland, and is known for its position there.

[10] And we have a day of the week! It’s Friday, July 11th, which gives me a list of possible years this takes place. Well, sort of. This is the medieval period, so it uses the Julian calendar… I’m a pretty big nerd, but calendars aren’t my strong suit. Also turns out there are a lot of years in the medieval period where July 11th was a Friday. I intend to put together a calendar timeline, but not tonight because I’m tired.

[11] A few notes: Richard talks differently from other characters? He has a tendency to use extended metaphors (example: he talks about going and finding out how things are in Swevenham as a farmer checking on the condition of a field), which I excluded because I’m tired and didn’t want to re-write in an understandable way. Maybe I’ll go back and change that later. He also says of Blaise that “they have already bidden to the freedom of the city, and to a brother of the Faring-Knights.” The first part means that the city officials trust Blaise and he’s been given clearance to do business and such in Whitwall (he’s a foreigner, so he would have originally been subject to restrictions and might have been barred from owning property). As for the second part… Uh, I’m not sure. My guess is the “Fairing-Knights” is a group of knights in the city that accompany merchants for protection, and he’s been assigned one of them to help him do business.

[Map] My initial reckoning was that Swevenham was east of Whitwall, due to the flow of things following the river so far, Ralph and Richard went out the east gate, and also because it’s described as having mountains beyond it (we will find mountains east of Whitwall soon), but on re-reading, I believe it might actually be to the north, since it’s described as being across the water from Whitwall, though which water that is is not specified (and there are a lot of streams in the area). Assuming it’s the Swelling Flood, Swevenham is probably north of Whitwall. I also placed the Castle of the Waste March to the north (about even with Wulstead), but we’re not given any indication of direction for it (north puts it closer to Upmeads though, which would help Richard end up there). I know I said I was going to revise the map, let’s just pretend I did (actually I think I’m going to wait until we hit the mountains and then revise this whole first section).

Map:

#the well at the world's end #william morris #the well - book 2 chapter 13

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clotpolesonly · 1 year

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i should not be left in charge of my own sleep schedule

#i have made such bad decisions lately #like 2:30am several nights in a row adlfkjghafdkjg #this is what happens when i read books #and when those books rotate through many POV characters #and i have a FAVORITE #so i keep saying to myself ok i'll go to bed after the next Yultes chapter #but then it takes 13 more chapters for it to get back to him!!!!!#*cries in tired*#personal post

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lesmislettersdaily · 1 year

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Little Gervais

Volume 1: Fantine; Book 2: The Fall; Chapter 13: Little Gervais

Jean Valjean left the town as though he were fleeing from it. He set out at a very hasty pace through the fields, taking whatever roads and paths presented themselves to him, without perceiving that he was incessantly retracing his steps. He wandered thus the whole morning, without having eaten anything and without feeling hungry. He was the prey of a throng of novel sensations. He was conscious of a sort of rage; he did not know against whom it was directed. He could not have told whether he was touched or humiliated. There came over him at moments a strange emotion which he resisted and to which he opposed the hardness acquired during the last twenty years of his life. This state of mind fatigued him. He perceived with dismay that the sort of frightful calm which the injustice of his misfortune had conferred upon him was giving way within him. He asked himself what would replace this. At times he would have actually preferred to be in prison with the gendarmes, and that things should not have happened in this way; it would have agitated him less. Although the season was tolerably far advanced, there were still a few late flowers in the hedge-rows here and there, whose odor as he passed through them in his march recalled to him memories of his childhood. These memories were almost intolerable to him, it was so long since they had recurred to him.

Unutterable thoughts assembled within him in this manner all day long.

As the sun declined to its setting, casting long shadows athwart the soil from every pebble, Jean Valjean sat down behind a bush upon a large ruddy plain, which was absolutely deserted. There was nothing on the horizon except the Alps. Not even the spire of a distant village. Jean Valjean might have been three leagues distant from Digne A path which intersected the plain passed a few paces from the bush.

In the middle of this meditation, which would have contributed not a little to render his rags terrifying to any one who might have encountered him, a joyous sound became audible.

He turned his head and saw a little Savoyard, about ten years of age, coming up the path and singing, his hurdy-gurdy on his hip, and his marmot-box on his back.

One of those gay and gentle children, who go from land to land affording a view of their knees through the holes in their trousers.

Without stopping his song, the lad halted in his march from time to time, and played at knuckle-bones with some coins which he had in his hand—his whole fortune, probably.

Among this money there was one forty-sou piece.

The child halted beside the bush, without perceiving Jean Valjean, and tossed up his handful of sous, which, up to that time, he had caught with a good deal of adroitness on the back of his hand.

This time the forty-sou piece escaped him, and went rolling towards the brushwood until it reached Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean set his foot upon it.

In the meantime, the child had looked after his coin and had caught sight of him.

He showed no astonishment, but walked straight up to the man.

The spot was absolutely solitary. As far as the eye could see there was not a person on the plain or on the path. The only sound was the tiny, feeble cries of a flock of birds of passage, which was traversing the heavens at an immense height. The child was standing with his back to the sun, which cast threads of gold in his hair and empurpled with its blood-red gleam the savage face of Jean Valjean.

“Sir,” said the little Savoyard, with that childish confidence which is composed of ignorance and innocence, “my money.”

“What is your name?” said Jean Valjean.

“Little Gervais, sir.”

“Go away,” said Jean Valjean.

“Sir,” resumed the child, “give me back my money.”

Jean Valjean dropped his head, and made no reply.

The child began again, “My money, sir.”

Jean Valjean’s eyes remained fixed on the earth.

“My piece of money!” cried the child, “my white piece! my silver!”

It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him. The child grasped him by the collar of his blouse and shook him. At the same time he made an effort to displace the big iron-shod shoe which rested on his treasure.

“I want my piece of money! my piece of forty sous!”

The child wept. Jean Valjean raised his head. He still remained seated. His eyes were troubled. He gazed at the child, in a sort of amazement, then he stretched out his hand towards his cudgel and cried in a terrible voice, “Who’s there?”

“I, sir,” replied the child. “Little Gervais! I! Give me back my forty sous, if you please! Take your foot away, sir, if you please!”

Then irritated, though he was so small, and becoming almost menacing:—

“Come now, will you take your foot away? Take your foot away, or we’ll see!”

“Ah! It’s still you!” said Jean Valjean, and rising abruptly to his feet, his foot still resting on the silver piece, he added:—

“Will you take yourself off!”

The frightened child looked at him, then began to tremble from head to foot, and after a few moments of stupor he set out, running at the top of his speed, without daring to turn his neck or to utter a cry.

Nevertheless, lack of breath forced him to halt after a certain distance, and Jean Valjean heard him sobbing, in the midst of his own reverie.

At the end of a few moments the child had disappeared.

The sun had set.

The shadows were descending around Jean Valjean. He had eaten nothing all day; it is probable that he was feverish.

He had remained standing and had not changed his attitude after the child’s flight. The breath heaved his chest at long and irregular intervals. His gaze, fixed ten or twelve paces in front of him, seemed to be scrutinizing with profound attention the shape of an ancient fragment of blue earthenware which had fallen in the grass. All at once he shivered; he had just begun to feel the chill of evening.

He settled his cap more firmly on his brow, sought mechanically to cross and button his blouse, advanced a step and stopped to pick up his cudgel.

At that moment he caught sight of the forty-sou piece, which his foot had half ground into the earth, and which was shining among the pebbles. It was as though he had received a galvanic shock. “What is this?” he muttered between his teeth. He recoiled three paces, then halted, without being able to detach his gaze from the spot which his foot had trodden but an instant before, as though the thing which lay glittering there in the gloom had been an open eye riveted upon him.

At the expiration of a few moments he darted convulsively towards the silver coin, seized it, and straightened himself up again and began to gaze afar off over the plain, at the same time casting his eyes towards all points of the horizon, as he stood there erect and shivering, like a terrified wild animal which is seeking refuge.

He saw nothing. Night was falling, the plain was cold and vague, great banks of violet haze were rising in the gleam of the twilight.

He said, “Ah!” and set out rapidly in the direction in which the child had disappeared. After about thirty paces he paused, looked about him and saw nothing.

Then he shouted with all his might:—

“Little Gervais! Little Gervais!”

He paused and waited.

There was no reply.

The landscape was gloomy and deserted. He was encompassed by space. There was nothing around him but an obscurity in which his gaze was lost, and a silence which engulfed his voice.

An icy north wind was blowing, and imparted to things around him a sort of lugubrious life. The bushes shook their thin little arms with incredible fury. One would have said that they were threatening and pursuing some one.

He set out on his march again, then he began to run; and from time to time he halted and shouted into that solitude, with a voice which was the most formidable and the most disconsolate that it was possible to hear, “Little Gervais! Little Gervais!”

Assuredly, if the child had heard him, he would have been alarmed and would have taken good care not to show himself. But the child was no doubt already far away.

He encountered a priest on horseback. He stepped up to him and said:—

“Monsieur le Curé, have you seen a child pass?”

“No,” said the priest.

“One named Little Gervais?”

“I have seen no one.”

He drew two five-franc pieces from his money-bag and handed them to the priest.

“Monsieur le Curé, this is for your poor people. Monsieur le Curé, he was a little lad, about ten years old, with a marmot, I think, and a hurdy-gurdy. One of those Savoyards, you know?”

“I have not seen him.”

“Little Gervais? There are no villages here? Can you tell me?”

“If he is like what you say, my friend, he is a little stranger. Such persons pass through these parts. We know nothing of them.”

Jean Valjean seized two more coins of five francs each with violence, and gave them to the priest.

“For your poor,” he said.

Then he added, wildly:—

“Monsieur l’Abbé, have me arrested. I am a thief.”

The priest put spurs to his horse and fled in haste, much alarmed.

Jean Valjean set out on a run, in the direction which he had first taken.

In this way he traversed a tolerably long distance, gazing, calling, shouting, but he met no one. Two or three times he ran across the plain towards something which conveyed to him the effect of a human being reclining or crouching down; it turned out to be nothing but brushwood or rocks nearly on a level with the earth. At length, at a spot where three paths intersected each other, he stopped. The moon had risen. He sent his gaze into the distance and shouted for the last time, “Little Gervais! Little Gervais! Little Gervais!” His shout died away in the mist, without even awakening an echo. He murmured yet once more, “Little Gervais!” but in a feeble and almost inarticulate voice. It was his last effort; his legs gave way abruptly under him, as though an invisible power had suddenly overwhelmed him with the weight of his evil conscience; he fell exhausted, on a large stone, his fists clenched in his hair and his face on his knees, and he cried, “I am a wretch!”

Then his heart burst, and he began to cry. It was the first time that he had wept in nineteen years.

When Jean Valjean left the Bishop’s house, he was, as we have seen, quite thrown out of everything that had been his thought hitherto. He could not yield to the evidence of what was going on within him. He hardened himself against the angelic action and the gentle words of the old man. “You have promised me to become an honest man. I buy your soul. I take it away from the spirit of perversity; I give it to the good God.”

This recurred to his mind unceasingly. To this celestial kindness he opposed pride, which is the fortress of evil within us. He was indistinctly conscious that the pardon of this priest was the greatest assault and the most formidable attack which had moved him yet; that his obduracy was finally settled if he resisted this clemency; that if he yielded, he should be obliged to renounce that hatred with which the actions of other men had filled his soul through so many years, and which pleased him; that this time it was necessary to conquer or to be conquered; and that a struggle, a colossal and final struggle, had been begun between his viciousness and the goodness of that man.

In the presence of these lights, he proceeded like a man who is intoxicated. As he walked thus with haggard eyes, did he have a distinct perception of what might result to him from his adventure at Digne? Did he understand all those mysterious murmurs which warn or importune the spirit at certain moments of life? Did a voice whisper in his ear that he had just passed the solemn hour of his destiny; that there no longer remained a middle course for him; that if he were not henceforth the best of men, he would be the worst; that it behooved him now, so to speak, to mount higher than the Bishop, or fall lower than the convict; that if he wished to become good he must become an angel; that if he wished to remain evil, he must become a monster?

Here, again, some questions must be put, which we have already put to ourselves elsewhere: did he catch some shadow of all this in his thought, in a confused way? Misfortune certainly, as we have said, does form the education of the intelligence; nevertheless, it is doubtful whether Jean Valjean was in a condition to disentangle all that we have here indicated. If these ideas occurred to him, he but caught glimpses of, rather than saw them, and they only succeeded in throwing him into an unutterable and almost painful state of emotion. On emerging from that black and deformed thing which is called the galleys, the Bishop had hurt his soul, as too vivid a light would have hurt his eyes on emerging from the dark. The future life, the possible life which offered itself to him henceforth, all pure and radiant, filled him with tremors and anxiety. He no longer knew where he really was. Like an owl, who should suddenly see the sun rise, the convict had been dazzled and blinded, as it were, by virtue.

That which was certain, that which he did not doubt, was that he was no longer the same man, that everything about him was changed, that it was no longer in his power to make it as though the Bishop had not spoken to him and had not touched him.

In this state of mind he had encountered little Gervais, and had robbed him of his forty sous. Why? He certainly could not have explained it; was this the last effect and the supreme effort, as it were, of the evil thoughts which he had brought away from the galleys,—a remnant of impulse, a result of what is called in statics, acquired force? It was that, and it was also, perhaps, even less than that. Let us say it simply, it was not he who stole; it was not the man; it was the beast, who, by habit and instinct, had simply placed his foot upon that money, while the intelligence was struggling amid so many novel and hitherto unheard-of thoughts besetting it.

When intelligence reawakened and beheld that action of the brute, Jean Valjean recoiled with anguish and uttered a cry of terror.

It was because,—strange phenomenon, and one which was possible only in the situation in which he found himself,—in stealing the money from that child, he had done a thing of which he was no longer capable.

However that may be, this last evil action had a decisive effect on him; it abruptly traversed that chaos which he bore in his mind, and dispersed it, placed on one side the thick obscurity, and on the other the light, and acted on his soul, in the state in which it then was, as certain chemical reagents act upon a troubled mixture by precipitating one element and clarifying the other.

First of all, even before examining himself and reflecting, all bewildered, like one who seeks to save himself, he tried to find the child in order to return his money to him; then, when he recognized the fact that this was impossible, he halted in despair. At the moment when he exclaimed “I am a wretch!” he had just perceived what he was, and he was already separated from himself to such a degree, that he seemed to himself to be no longer anything more than a phantom, and as if he had, there before him, in flesh and blood, the hideous galley-convict, Jean Valjean, cudgel in hand, his blouse on his hips, his knapsack filled with stolen objects on his back, with his resolute and gloomy visage, with his thoughts filled with abominable projects.

Excess of unhappiness had, as we have remarked, made him in some sort a visionary. This, then, was in the nature of a vision. He actually saw that Jean Valjean, that sinister face, before him. He had almost reached the point of asking himself who that man was, and he was horrified by him.

His brain was going through one of those violent and yet perfectly calm moments in which reverie is so profound that it absorbs reality. One no longer beholds the object which one has before one, and one sees, as though apart from one’s self, the figures which one has in one’s own mind.

Thus he contemplated himself, so to speak, face to face, and at the same time, athwart this hallucination, he perceived in a mysterious depth a sort of light which he at first took for a torch. On scrutinizing this light which appeared to his conscience with more attention, he recognized the fact that it possessed a human form and that this torch was the Bishop.

His conscience weighed in turn these two men thus placed before it,—the Bishop and Jean Valjean. Nothing less than the first was required to soften the second. By one of those singular effects, which are peculiar to this sort of ecstasies, in proportion as his reverie continued, as the Bishop grew great and resplendent in his eyes, so did Jean Valjean grow less and vanish. After a certain time he was no longer anything more than a shade. All at once he disappeared. The Bishop alone remained; he filled the whole soul of this wretched man with a magnificent radiance.

Jean Valjean wept for a long time. He wept burning tears, he sobbed with more weakness than a woman, with more fright than a child.

As he wept, daylight penetrated more and more clearly into his soul; an extraordinary light; a light at once ravishing and terrible. His past life, his first fault, his long expiation, his external brutishness, his internal hardness, his dismissal to liberty, rejoicing in manifold plans of vengeance, what had happened to him at the Bishop’s, the last thing that he had done, that theft of forty sous from a child, a crime all the more cowardly, and all the more monstrous since it had come after the Bishop’s pardon,—all this recurred to his mind and appeared clearly to him, but with a clearness which he had never hitherto witnessed. He examined his life, and it seemed horrible to him; his soul, and it seemed frightful to him. In the meantime a gentle light rested over this life and this soul. It seemed to him that he beheld Satan by the light of Paradise.

How many hours did he weep thus? What did he do after he had wept? Whither did he go! No one ever knew. The only thing which seems to be authenticated is that that same night the carrier who served Grenoble at that epoch, and who arrived at Digne about three o’clock in the morning, saw, as he traversed the street in which the Bishop’s residence was situated, a man in the attitude of prayer, kneeling on the pavement in the shadow, in front of the door of Monseigneur Bienvenu.

#les mis #les mis letters #volume 1: fantine #book 2: the fall #chapter 13

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zigtheeortega · 1 year

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i finished crimes last night................ trystan thorne my babygirl I LOVE YOU

#no i'm genuinely obsessed w trystan it's disgusting #MY HEART WAS FLUTTERING BEFORE THE FIRST DIAMOND SCENE AND THEN ALL THE SWEET MOMENTS AFTER THAT ???#and the ENDING ???? THE PLANE SCENE ................#i need book 2 right fucking now i'm not playing pb I NEED TRYSTAN BACK RIGHT NOW #best single li book ever like . i'm already itching to replay #and to write trystan fics . i started one before i got to chapter 13 and now that i've plowed through the end i wanna finish it so bad #i'm gonna shut up now but my brain is consumed by them jsyk .#jade.txt

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miss-celestial-being · 1 year

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just finished a chapter!! ✌️

#next chapters gonna be set on the ark #idk why i do this to myself but whatever #at least the book will be interesting #and i did the math and if it takes 2 days to finish a chapter then itll only take 26 days to finish 13 chapters and that abt how many i need #7 + 13 is 20 and id say thats a good number of chapters for volume one #like to cover two separate stories #3 if you count the grounder pounder story #(ngl i might delete my grounder character)#(so it may only be 19 chapters but thats ok too)#boredbeestalk #angel of death

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benirium · 7 years

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[Наследники II]

[The Heirs II]

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Глава 13: Наследие отверженного

Клинки-близнецы степенно подступали к Деонусу. Тот указал мечом на угол, свободный от трупов. Роза же боролась с собственными сомнениями. Подумав о Нане, девушка пожалела, что не взяла её с собой. Она сразу же помотала головой, отгоняя дурные мысли: нет, злоупотребление силой Орхидны могло погубить в той всё человеческое. Уж лучше распрощаться с жизнью, чем навлечь беду на сестрёнку. И всё-таки её сердце сжималось при виде теневых братьев, идущих на смерть. Раздумывая над тем, стоило ли присоединиться к ним, северянка бросила косой взгляд на второй меч, брошенный Джином на пол... Нет, от её боевых навыков тут прока не будет... Как и от любого оружия, за исключением эфенского. А выручит ли магия? Роза принялась подбирать заклинания.

Деонус, упиваясь собственным превосходством, стал более откровенен. Мужчина признался, что на самом деле восхищается мастерством Теневого Сокола — подобный уровень был недостижим для него даже в лучшие годы. В прошлую встречу он позаимствовал лишь часть той неимоверной силы, но в этот раз она всецело принадлежала ему... «Стоило мне раньше послушать блаженных людишек!» Подняв оружие, Никефорус ринулся вперёд — Ганакс остановил его разящий выпад, но это чуть не стоило хозяину равновесия. Совладав с телом, юноша уличил момент и нацелился на правую длань своего визави, но уже в следующий миг возникший над ним вражеский меч сорвал атаку. Последовал толчок такой силы, что парня отнесло почти на три шага. Тот с трудом выпрямился — пожалуй, ему ещё повезло.

Несмотря на расклад, виртуозные навыки Джина по-прежнему впечатляли Деонуса. Услышав, что тот с удовольствием присвоил бы его тело, принц похолодел: возможно ли такое? Клинок Никефоруса, ожидавшего этой заминки, поразил вражескую плоть. Фантастическая траектория, неподвластная мышцам и суставам простого смертного, не оставила Эвернайту возможности уклониться. Полководец, изогнувшись точно плеть, «хлестнул» бандита по левой руке. На обмякшей конечности проступило пунцовое пятно, но наёмник не издал ни звука. Полагаясь лишь на правую руку, Джин принял оборонительную стойку, однако противник вдруг замер в неестественной позе — его спину пронзило копьё Таяна.

В ответ по пещере разнёсся громогласный гогот. Ещё секунда промедления, и Таяна задели бы обильные брызги крови вперемешку с ошмётками плоти — это лопнул один из трупов. Никефорус бравировал, что способен прикончить обоих одним махом, но великодушно предоставляет им возможность реванша. Эвернайт без раздумий бросился на него вновь: он опасался, что монстр переключится на его спутников при первом удобном случае. Казалось, нахлынувшее отчаяние сделало тело почти невесомым, — поздно было колебаться: он и без того висел на волоске от гибели. Даже если вырвать победу — вокруг лишь одна смерть. Разве ещё представится шанс продемонстрировать преимущества человека пере�� богом? Хотя бы на призрачные мгновения.

Кипроза не следила за ходом схватки. Она зажмурилась, проговаривая заклинание — длинное, сложное и никогда ранее не практикуемое ею. Уже на последних строках послышался чей-то комментарий: «А как же подарок от Денни?» Девушка вздрогнула от испуга, и заклинание прервалось. Лихорадочно осмотревшись, она никого не увидела, но, вспомнив голос Сноудена, нервно воззвала к нему. Затем, немного уняв эмоции, она повторила обращение спокойнее.

Казалось, драгоценные секунды тянулись целую вечность, пока прямо у своего уха Дейер не услышала шёпот: тот снова призвал вспомнить, какой предмет ей оставил Денистриос. При мысли о менторе, направившем её в столицу просвещения, Роза машинально потянулась к деревянному пруту, пристёгнутому к поясу. Единственный известный ей эффект данного оружия — паралич. Впрочем, ничего другого не оставалось: Кипроза резко соскочила вниз. В лодыжке раздалась вспышка боли — эта была не та высота, которой стоило пренебрегать хрупкой леди. Ей следовало спуститься с помощью магии, но она не могла терять время на очередные чары. Наплевав на подвёрнутую ногу, девушка хромая побрела к алтарю, спотыкаясь о груды мертвецов.

Джин стойко держался, но, как и в Большом театре, противник казался абсолютно неуязвимым. Нет, хуже: похоже, с каждым последующим исцелением мощь врага только возрастала. Словно в строго прописанном спектакле, где в независимости от действий Эвернайта всё придет к назначенному финалу, — а пока Никефорус попросту развлекался. Разбойник вдруг подумал: каково это — умереть от рук божества? Мифические герои, отчаянно бросающие вызов сверхъестественному, в результате падали или покорялись. Абсурдно, что идол сам снизошёл до Политимоса, хотя тому никогда не приходило в голову бросать вызов высшей силе. Ни один из античных сюжетов не разворачивался подобным образом, а значит, все предания на поверку оказались не более чем ворохом пожелтевшей бумаги. Неужели весь смысл становления богом заключается в банальной возможности отомстить за обиды через насилие? Что толку называть озлобленное чудовище богом?

Примечательно, что стиль фехтования Никефоруса не изменился — только благодаря этому бандит оставался жив. Но то ли ещё будет: он не имел ни малейшего представления о пределах возможностей бога и его смертной оболочки. Что если дух прочно прикован к своему сосуду и не способен существовать самостоятельно? Это было бы закономерностью или исключением?.. А что если не все идолы вышли из людей? В какой момент тех подменяло бессмертное нечто? Ясно одно: покуда есть тело — есть и слабые места. Пока Джин строил теории, в поле его зрения показалась Роза, ковылявшая за спиной Деонуса, — в своеволии ей было не отказать. Однако в сердце юноши затеплилась надежда, когда он понял задумку северянки: та двигалась к алтарю, на котором совсем недавно родилось божество. Может, «пуповина» ещё цела?

Кое-как добравшись до жертвенника, Кипроза огляделась: под ногами хрустели тонкие сухие ветки, ранее окутывавшие тело жертвы, но верхушка древа по-прежнему пульсировала жизнью. Вскарабкаться на него мешала резь в ступне, но выбирать не приходилось. Мельком взглянув на Сокола, она совершила первую попытку. После нескольких неудач девушка лишь усугубила своё положение, когда в ноге хрустнула кость. Не обращая внимания на невыносимую боль, она вновь потянулась к скользкому стволу. Внезапно Кипроза почувствовала толчок снизу — но, увы, скромной помощи Луция оказалось недостаточно. Вручив тому свою поясную палицу, она предложила барду взобраться вместо неё.

Люк искренне недоумевал, как вообще можно что-то срубить топором, от которого остался только черенок. Не став пререкаться, он просто пожал плечами и шустро залез на дерево. Нацелившись на самую живую его часть, менестрель замахнулся и хорошенько треснул по ней. В тот же момент раздался инфернальный вой — желая поскорее заткнуть уши, Квинтон чуть было не отпустил ветви. Одновременно с этим «пламенеющий» клинок Джина повторно настиг военачальника. Вопреки ожиданиям, в этот раз его рана не только не затягивалась, но и, наоборот, разрасталась — из неё проступила чёрная жижа. Потерявший дар речи Деонус озадаченно потянулся к разверзнувшейся в груди дыре, из которой повалил красный пар. Когда его тело безжизненно рухнуло наземь, плоть мертвецов вокруг стала вздуваться и клокотать. Роза — единственная очутившаяся в западне — не сдавалась и пыталась отползти, но безопасный участок находился слишком далеко.

Неожиданно что-то оторвало девушку от земли: она и сама не сразу осознала, что парит над тёмным углом пещеры. Но каменные своды быстро сменились ослепительным солнечным светом в чистом небе над лазурной гладью моря. От стремительного подъема она едва не потеряла сознание. Опустив глаза, намокшие от слёз радости и встречного ветра, Дейер, словно во сне, увидела знакомые белые перья.

Под ними растянулся отлогий берег Дельфинада. Когда-то Кипроза просила Снежную птицу побывать здесь вместо неё, даже не мечтая об их воссоединении наяву. Юная волшебница обратила взор к обнесённому стенами городу, но мелодично щебечущий голос, смеясь, возразил её идее. Вместо этого птица прочертила несколько кругов вниз, к воде, коснулась её когтистой лапой и вновь взмыла вверх. Роза, поддавшись всепоглощающему восторгу, прикрыла веки.

Напоследок Сноуден рассказал ей о Ландри, покинувшем Крепость Ели после совершенно им убийства.

Потеряв абсолютно всё, скиталец пару лет странствовал по свету, пока судьба не свела его с Альфом Сиддином. Тот приютил и занялся обучением чужестранца, хоть последний и мечтал изучать кардинально иную область науки. Когда Ландри поделился с наставником желанием записаться на одни из курсов Библиотеки ради доступа к её архивам, географ открыл там собственное направление. За три года преподавания Альф обзавёлся всего семью студентами, однако, несмотря на убыточность затеи, не закрывал школу. Естественно, когда мужчина пропал, Дейер поставил на карту всё, лишь бы отыскать его. В распоряжении не было ни единой зацепки — даже дочь Сиддина сдалась. На самом деле, всё это время тот томился в заключении у фанатиков Сина. И он не просто противился их замыслу пробудить Виталиса — он прибег к магии, дабы обратить себя в камень. Поскольку мужчина держал совершенно обычную школу, никто и не догадывался о его чародейском амплуа — он просто не желал обучать колдовству других.

Потерпев неудачу со строптивым Альфом, бродяги Сина похитили его внука — тогда-то северянин и напал на их след. Угрожая жизни восьмилетнего мальчика, сектанты шантажом добились согласия на проведение церемонии. Однако ту прервал Ландри, ранив Чернодрево и сбежав с учителем далеко за море. Только тогда на месте Сноудена был Денистриос — теперь Кипроза поняла, как все ошибались насчёт её старого чудного друга. К сожалению, по дороге истекающий кровью Альф скончался — Ландри и сам с трудом выкарабкался, но умер два года спустя. Вместе с Денни он перед своей смертью привёл в замок молодого Сноу, благодаря чему его наследница сейчас осталась в живых. Снежная птица — и правда покровитель семьи Дейер.

Вот только тёмный бог, покинув тело погибшего Сиддина, вселился в доброго и беззаботного мальчонку — Деонуса. С тех пор тот кардинально и бесповоротно изменился.

Розе не давал покоя неприятный парадокс: они с друзьями убили того, кого так отчаянно стремился спасти прадедушка. Демон действительно слишком многое отнял.

Грандиозный полёт завершился на другом безлюдном побережье. Спустив Кипрозу, пернатый посмотрел на неё сверху вниз: Сноу попросил подругу больше не провоцировать его своими опасными вылазками и дать пожить спокойно. Он аккуратно подставил клюв, которым иной раз даже перекусывал людей пополам, под миниатюрную девичью руку. Ответив нежным поглаживанием, подруга детства прошептала: «Денни искал тебя, но теперь, увы, спит непробудным сном. И всё же навести его хоть разок. Он переживал». В знак согласия Снежная птица дёрнула крылом и попрощалась: «Поменьше бы подобных поводов для встречи...»

Роза с грустью в глазах проводила крылатый силуэт. Оторвав взгляд от морской синевы и черноты скалистого острова, она посмотрела в сторону Дельфинада — путь предстоял неблизкий. Обернувшись на птицу, успевшую превратиться в мутное пятно на горизонте, северянка обиженно пробурчала: «Но я же сломала лодыжку...»

*** Двенадцатого ноября реконструкция Дома Теневого Сокола окончательно завершилась. До того момента главные герои так и не увиделись: Джин приходил в себя у доктора Темены, а Кипроза — в Доме каменотёсов. Таян стал выезжать на прогулки с Орхидной, чтобы девочка не скучала без внимания сестры, а Луций изо дня в день наведывался на стройку, где ссорился с Неоптолемеосом, чтобы вечером неизбежно помириться за пинтой горячительного.

Казалось, проволочка с выпиской Сокола была неслучайна. Даже странно, что родное гнёздышко встретило его в почти исконном состоянии, — по крайней мере, та часть, что просматривалась с площади. К примеру, на пыльной наружной стене опять нарисовали птичью тень, хотя под рисунком установили новенькие врата. Впрочем, на подходах к ним стоял уже набивший оскомину ядрёный запах сигарет, что всерьёз насторожило юношу: неужели вонь лошадиного навоза с ними тоже навсегда? Но, к счастью, новую конюшню построили во дворе.

Только двери отворились, радостные братья подорвались с мест и метнулись ко входу — однако внимание их атамана безраздельно захватила обстановка первого этажа. Когда навстречу ему вышли обнявшиеся за плечи Люк и Неопс, он возмущённо воскликнул: «Чья это была идея?!» Вместо неухоженной конюшни и гниющей кухни «ревизора» встретили пёстрые диванчики с шёлковыми подушками, стены элегантно прикрывали шторы и занавески, а с одной из сторон разместился длинный бар, сплошь заставленный выпивкой. Сбоку пристроились расписные столы и стулья, а потолки сверкали люстрами.

Луций сгорал от нетерпения узнать, пришлось ли приятелю по душе его чувство стиля: для облагораживания базы он приложил массу усилий и позаимствовал несколько идей у бара «Изумрудный тюрбан»... точнее, начисто скопировал. Юноша там, по правде, никогда не бывал, но к роскоши ему было не привыкать. Впрочем, это отнюдь не значило, что он одобрял подобный выбор — ранее Политимос с трудом сбежал из похожей золотой клетки. От обилия приторных ароматов уже подступала мигрень — схватившись за лоб, командир пробухтел: «Вы превратили наш дом в пошлую забегаловку...»

Конечно, ему пришлось уступить подчинённым, которые, стоит признать, действительно светились от счастья; среди всех нововведений ряды блестящих бутылок снискали особую популярность. У южанина остался единственный вопрос — проблема финансирования этого вычурного бедлама. «Грубо говоря, мы продали командира», — лукаво улыбнулся Люк, предпочтя опустить щекотливые детали. Всё дело в том, что позаимствованные у Леониса деньги сценарист поставил на Деонуса Никефоруса. Само собой, он ничуть не сомневался в искусности Теневого Сокола, но всё же был уверен, что противник имел выверенный план. Просчитав и организовав всё мероприятие, Луций и не мечтал о личном гонораре — он с самого начала планировал истратить весь куш на наёмничий штаб, дабы доказать Кипрозе искренность своих намерений в отношении ордена... а заодно избавиться от унизительного прозвища трусливого квартиранта с третьего этажа.

Сама северянка, сидевшая за баром, тоже не преминула подойти поприветствовать Правого Клинка. И очень кстати: у него к ней накопилась уйма вопросов, — хотя он не рисковал задавать их при других патрульных. Вскоре к стойке подтянулись Таян и Люк. За стаканчиком Имбирного напитка, рецепт которого был подсмотрен всё в том же «Изумрудном тюрбане», их приятельская беседа вернулась к обсуждению Никефоруса. Кроме нашей четвёрки никто не знал, как тот встретил свой конец: полководец пока числился без вести пропавшим. Поскольку в этом происшествии фигурировало слишком много необъяснимых вещей, ребята не торопились с донесением для городских властей. Даже если заброшенный остров отыщут, прилив вскоре смоет большую часть следов — если, конечно, напротив, не вынесет на берег уцелевшие трупы.

Никефорус расправился с Чэ Джу и его приспешниками, почувствовал предательство с их стороны. Парадоксально: те следовали своей миссии целых три тысячи лет, а провал потерпели одним днём. Состояние древа Сина вселяло надежду на то, что восстановить его уже невозможно. Вместе с тем, процесс восхождения в боги друзьям всё ещё оставался непонятен. Кипроза склонялась к тому, что Виталиса следовало считать кем-то вроде могущественного колдуна, помешанного на культе бога кражи. Но где бы ни крылась истина, коварный план призыва пошёл наперекосяк. Неужели мистическая сущность давным-давно пропала, а фанатики просто не догадывались об этом?

В день церемонии произошло кое-что ещё: верхние уровни «Аркинума» обрушились, словно по округе прокатилось землетрясение. После расчистки завалов театра под ними обнаружились гигантские древесные корни, которые, стоило им только встретиться с солнечными лучами, сразу зачахли. Это ли настоящее Чернодрево? Тогда что же они видели на острове? Одну из его частей? Джин предположил, что у растений общие корни, переплетённые на огромном расстоянии: когда наружу пробился малый «росток», древо в Дельфинаде тоже возродилось, — а когда погиб, старшее постигла та же участь. Роза продолжила: «Вполне возможно, во времена Сина остров был районом города — они не так уж и далеко друг от друга».

Когда их разговор дошёл до темы спасения Дейер, не дававшей покоя одному Соколу, объяснений тот так и не дождался: Левый Клинок признался, что некий доброжелатель попросить оставить детали в тайне. Вместо этого он взглянул на Ганакс, столь своевременно вернувшийся спустя тридцать лет: Эвернайт рассказал, что меч покоился в могиле пасынка Карона, — это был своеобразный прощальный подарок мальчику.

Шумная компания проходящих мимо патрульных прервала их обсуждение — не имея закалки по части распития спиртного, те успели изрядно накидаться. Захмелевший Хал ненароком поставил командира в неловкую ситуацию, попросив того исполнить песенку, — как оказалось, стараниями Каяра потаённые таланты Джина уже не являлись таковыми. Вспомнив, какую похабщину он пел сослуживцам, в этот раз Джин наотрез отказался. Заинтересовавшись вокальными данными домоправителя, Кипроза выудила из кармана какую-то вещицу и зажала её в кулачке. Заметив пытливый взгляд собеседника, она ухмыльнулась: «Тогда будешь должен мне одну песню!», и передала Джину табличку из слоновой кости. Литеры на обороте гласили: «Бессрочный пропуск», а ниже красовалась подпись Великого Тиреноса. Кипроза и сама не знала, за какие заслуги удостоилась такой чести, — на подобный абонемент мог рассчитывать даже не всякий аристократ. Скорее всего, пропуск принадлежал её прадеду — похоже, библиотечный король поступил так неспроста. Видимо, это своего рода извинение за подмоченную репутацию семьи.

Через пару минут Дом Теневого Сокола заполнил манящий аромат. Харат подавал фирменное блюдо наёмников — фаршированную курицу. Взглянув на соседку, Джин вспомнил, как опоздал на их первый общий завтрак. Уж в этот раз парой картофелин дело точно не ограничится!

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