Sword

- Such as you are unlikely to be able to become, but it's still useful to learn how to fight, - Varaha said in the morning. - Get up! - Find out your possibilities.

- I injured! My arm and leg hurt ...

- Get up! - repeated the mercenary. - A real man goes to the enemy in any condition. Only death can stop him. So be it, I will not hit you hard on the wounded leg and arm.

The boy got up with difficulty. The leg, swollen during the night, almost did not feel, let alone a battle fortress proper for battle. Varaha lifted the sharpened staff and handed it to the guy, and he picked up a weighty stick from the ground.

- I can't hold it with both hands, - the boy grimaced in pain.

- You and I will soon part. Then you will no longer have the chance to learn fencing from a worthy swordsman. Use this time wisely.

- I'll try ...

- People born of other people ... children ... only become sixteen years old like you. Many boys pick up weapons much earlier. Look at my movements. Remember. Fight off the blows. You have a chance to learn something just now! - with these words the mercenary hit the youth with a hail of lunges. The guy managed to repel only a few, - Slowly! Again!

And so the training went. Vtorak was happy to test himself in battle, although he suffered from the unbearable pain of yesterday's injuries. At the end of the training session, the blood from the opened wounds soaked the bandages that began to flow in thin streams to the ground.

- You will remember my lessons when the spear points are pointed at you, - said Varaha. - Then you will be glad that I managed to teach you at least something.

- The stick is not a sword yet ... - the young man shook his head.

- The stick is the weapon of the masters, - the mercenary objected, - The apprentice begins with her, and the master returns to her. - Such a stick can be fought using any weapon control technique. It can be used as a sword, and as a spear, and as a staff. Not a stick - a bad weapon, but you are an insufficiently trained fighter!

- I want a sword like yours ... - said Vtorak in a boyishly dreamy manner. - It is so sharp ...

- You're right. This is one of the best blades in these parts. I got it for a reason, however, I do not want to tell you about this now... Maybe later. So let's go. Today we need to get to Putnaya. Bandage your wounds and go.

The path to the village seemed incredibly long. Maybe the guy was burdened by wounds, or maybe he had nothing to occupy his mind, and therefore the road seemed longer. Varaha was laconic and spoke only on business, as if not experiencing much pleasure from communication. Again, tightening his cloak to the very eyes, he slowly walked along the road. The second man was surprised at how slowly the mercenary was wandering, because he himself would gladly have gone faster if his condition allowed him. However, the path continued. The ashen landscape spread widely. In some places the islands of dry copses blackened. The young man caught himself thinking that he would be interested to look at this region in the past, when all these dry, twisted branches rustled with lush, full of life-giving moisture, foliage. It was difficult for him to imagine the valley in green, instead of gray, but still, he tried hard.

By evening, travelers reached the village. Several dozen houses were fenced with a low picket fence. Varaha led Vtorak to the tavern, where he gave him some coins for bread with milk and ordered him to wait inside while he himself spoke to the village headman.

The young man watched him with misunderstanding. Has the mercenary decided not to leave him here in Putnaya, but to take him along and teach him the military craft? Vtorak looked around. The inn was a fairly large two-story building. Beside him stood several strong horses at the hitching post. The guy especially liked one large muscular trotter, to the saddle of which were sheathed with a huge, human-sized, two-handed sword. The blade was not wide, but incredibly long. Vtorok certainly wanted to see the owner of the sword, because a man sitting on such a great horse and able to cope with such huge weapons is probably an outstanding warrior, definitely worthy of respect. Thinking so, the young man, limping, hurried to the tavern.

The restaurant did not differ much from other houses. There were wooden tables and chairs in it. The hall was filled with the noise of conversations of visitors. Mostly these were local peasants, but several passing merchants and mercenaries. Vtorak went to the innkeeper to order himself some drink.

- Hey innkeeper! I'm thirsty. What do you have? - asked the guy.

- We have honey ... El ... herbal tinctures ... some bread and milk. Do you have money, tramp?

- Honey? What is it? What is it made of?

- It's such a sweet swill. They bring him from those distant places where there is still water and herbs, - answered the local man in a hoarse voice, standing nearby at the counter with his mug.

- Do such places exist?

- Of course they do.

- But then ... - Vtorak thought, deciding that he had missed something. - Why do you live here?

- I'm used to living here. Where else should I go.

- You can go along with the merchants who bring honey, - the young man suggested.

- Here we go! - the peasant grinned. - I cannot stand them!

- Right! - the innkeeper assented, - They're all kind of... not like that. Not right. They'll also eat along the road!

- But is it for the sake of a better life...

- Who said that life is better there? - interrupted the innkeeper, and the peasant nodded in response, - All one is everywhere!

- Well, okay... Give me honey.

Vtorak took his mug, paid, and went to the other end of the hall, deciding that the conversation was over. The young man looked around the institution, but at first glance he did not notice a warrior, according to whom it could be said that he knows how to handle a two-handed sword in battle. The boy decided that he might be sitting on the second floor and later go downstairs, but in the meantime it's worth looking for a cozy place. His attention was drawn to an unusual person at the darkest table. He sat alone, did not speak with anyone, but he had a very unusual look. Vtorak sat across from him and finally examined him. He was an old man of lean physique, dressed in a full set of combat armor. On their surface, scratches and dents left by the enemies in the battles were easily noticed. There was a gilded circle on his chest. In some places, under the belts and between the metal plates, the ground clogged up there was noticed, it seems that the armor was dug from the grave of the owner, like some important trophy. The old man's gray mustache and beard, tied with leather straps in several places, almost reached the floor. On the shoulders from under the helmet, which he did not even take off at the tavern table, white hair fell, giving off senile yellowness, reaching the middle of the back. The raised visor revealed a tired, doomed expression of a withered face. Wrinkles that cut deep into the skin only emphasized the slender features: hollow eyes, under thick, spreading eyebrows, prominent cheekbones and a hooked, falconry nose. Noticing Vtorak, the old man twitched, breaking his thoughtful numbness and, having thrown off the expression of a certain doomed loss from his face, breathed a sense of pride and strong confidence into him and looked demandingly at the newcomer.

- Who are you? And what are you doing at my table?! - asked the warrior.

- This is not your table. You just sit behind him, - the young man objected.

- And that's true… - the old man again lost in thought. - All I own now is the relics of scolded perfection and the memory left to me by others... how bitter.

- What are you talking about? - asked Vtorak, taking a sip from the mug of honey. His scent fascinated the young man and intoxicated his mind. The pain in the wounds began to slowly dissolve and subside, releasing tense limbs.

- I could not return what was... but then, what is my purpose? Why have I lived in the past all my years?..

- You should not think a lot about the past and guess the future either. You live in the present, so think about who you are now, - Vtorak answered, looking around the tavern's visitors, who were obviously carried away by much more interesting conversations. He kept trying to figure out the owner of the two-handed sword among them. Suddenly, the old man jumped up and clinked a plate-gloved hand against his chest, straightened proudly and said:

"Life of the knight is a path of honor.

Bravely he's guard every weak from the horror.

His sword strikes the darkness as a ray of the Light.

His speech never contains the poison of lie.

Glory to the knight who conquers the darkness!

May his bright sword never lose its sharpness!"

- Bravo... - From surprise the young man did not find other words. The old man seemed eccentric already, but it turned out that he still had something to surprise, - What was it?

- The old code that every knight of the Golden Circle must follow! - Shame on you people, - he suddenly exclaimed to the whole tavern, - that you do not know these sacred words! What can we say about following them ... - he added a little quieter, - In the code the whole meaning of our existence! It contains all our strength ... - the knight suddenly bowed in a fit of uncontrollable cough, after which, pale, he sat back at the table. None of those present paid any attention to him.

- Did the Knights of the Golden Circle serve the Pure in the Kingdom of the Sages? - guessed Vtorak.

- Exactly!

- How did you live so long! The kingdom collapsed a long time ago...

- I was not yet born when this beautiful paradise was burning with a terrible fire ... - the old man said sadly in his voice, - But my father ... he was one of them ... he brought light to people and protected them! I wear his armor, I fight with his sword! I don't want people to forget that holy time...

- The past will be forgotten one day anyway, - Vtorak shrugged, - What's the use of wasting energy on fighting the inevitable.

- The past is all that we have now... - the old man objected with pressure, - Only by looking at the past you can create the future!

- I am satisfied with what I see, - the young man was annoyed by the persistence of the old man, and the boy hoped to stab him with what he had said.

- Because you haven't seen anything else ... - the old man snorted contemptuously. He rose from the table again and headed for the exit. Through the open window, the boy saw the old man staggering slightly, with difficulty climbed a horse, whose saddle an unprecedented sword was fastened. The guy was amazed that the old man possesses such great weapons. He even felt uneasy about how he had just allowed himself to speak in such a tone with such a powerful warrior. He, it was, wanted to get up and catch up with the knight, but he already pulled the reins and galloped away.

Vtorak drank the honey and climbed out. Varaha was already approaching the entrance to the tavern. He took off his hood, revealing to the sky his glistening bald, like a polished copper shield.

- We will spend three days here, - he said, - You will just rest a bit and heal. Then help me look after the elder messenger. It will be necessary to escort him to a neighboring village through the forest.

- I am glad that you will not leave me here, - Vtorak said gratefully, albeit with a slight mistrust.

- Not worth it. You will have a hard time.