Time Of Traitors

4

For some time the Prisoner could not recover his breath from fear, while his weakening heart trembled in his ears, and his nerves cracked and torn like rigging aboard a ship dying in a storm. He got up on shaky legs, but could not stand it and sat down on a straw bed, the only object in the cell besides the stinking pot in the corner. The prisoner tried to detach himself from the world around him so that these frightening sounds would leave him alone. But with each new step of the shod boot, the frail body on the floor was shaken by a new wave of panic fever, thoughts jumped more and more frantically - from the past to the future and back, the mind refused to admit that its turn had come. The prisoner tried with all his strength to drive reality as deep as possible inside, but it pressed with a vengeance.

The prisoner crawled away from the door, dissolved in darkness, pressed his cheek against the cold stone. Even though the walls are lined with scratched cobblestones, behind them one can hear a panicked, feverish whisper: he even distinguished individual words, entreaties, promises and confessions, in which there was no longer any meaning. The rumble of metal on stone cracked the skull.

Then the muttering turned into the impact of some hard object on the floor, and this dirty sound grew with each heartbeat. Stronger and stronger it hammered behind the wall, and after it poured muffled, half-strangled cries. The frightening sounds were all interspersed with the rumble of footsteps until...

– I can’t!.. I can’t…

The ringing of keys, the creaking of the lock, the rusty hinges howling like the wounded. Loud swearing and sounds of struggle.

- I cut my whole head off, garbage, - spitting on the floor. - I said, I had to tie.

- Nothing to do. This one is useless today.

Soon the door slammed shut, the footsteps thundered again and died away right in front of the Prisoner's door.

The noise of the door being opened filled the chamber with a wild rumble that seemed impossible to endure and remain sane. All you could do was put your hands on your head and try to disappear. Nothing to see or hear. Pale light flooded the stone sack, the torn walls trembled under the power of these people. The prisoner looked up at the black silhouettes in the doorway, but quickly hid his face in his hands - the white flame shone too brightly.

- Will you go out on your own? - boomed one of them, thrusting a bull's head into a small box. Or you...

The prisoner didn't let him finish. The body screamed at the sudden movement as the legs kicked off the wall and the Prisoner plunged headlong into the white flames. He hit someone's jaw, hard as a stone, and his foot rested on something soft. He was greeted not by the heat from the burning tongues of flame, but by a groan, turning into a wild cry. His eyes burned with pain even behind closed eyelids and were already useless, so they had to hit by touch. By the time the Prisoner was knocked down and trampled on, the Prisoner could still smell someone else's blood.

- Stop! Enough!

The last thing the Prisoner received was a generous spit in the face. The moisture cooled the heat of the white flame a little. The prisoner kicked awkwardly at random, but only wasted his strength. He wanted to be beaten more. To be completely killed. It was better than what came next.

Everything would be easier without these antics. Answer the questions properly, you wouldn't have to beat you. More chances to live longer.

The prisoner only savagely spat at the voice. But the spit hit the wall in vain.

You won't follow my advice anyway. But still - keep the moisture. She'll still be useful to you. Do you still want to live? Or maybe you're wondering what happened to your friends? You will tremble - you will see. But I can't guarantee you'll like it.

The prisoner opened both eyes, but quickly closed them, unable to endure the bright light of the white flame. He tried to smirk in revenge, but only tore his swollen lip. This has not gone unnoticed.

Look, is he still smiling? Do you think someone got a better fate? Another day to sit in a stinking cell and atone for sins?

“Shut up already,” a new voice cut off his ardor. - Do business.

The voice was not loud, but he wanted to obey.

The paws grabbed the Prisoner, who was stubborn and groaning in pain, twisted his arms and neck with straps and, like an old rotten bag, threw him into a barrel. The white flame died down only when the lid was clogged from above, but the heat did not go anywhere - it only became stronger.

“Take it out,” was heard above his head, the world rushed to the side and the worst began.

The corridor began to move, and the Prisoner began to be thrown from side to side, showering blows from all sides. He could only close his eyes to tears and breathe in small portions: the air came out with pain, more like a death rattle.

- Can't stand it? laughed outside. “It’s better for you to die right now, before we get there.” Then it will be too late.

With each bounce of the barrel, he felt more and more sick - even if there had not been a drop of dew in his stomach for a long time.

He was brought to some room, the barrel hit and froze in place. When the lid was gone, the Prisoner was able to crawl out, vomit something liquid and take a deep breath, but the body found nothing else but to go into a fit of painful coughing. As he forced air into himself, the table rang, jangled. The white flame remained in the corridor. Somewhere a candle crackled. The sound of receding footsteps. Loop creak. Silence and the pounding of the heart.

The room was a small, semi-dark hole, lit by a single candle on the table. The straps tightened, keeping the Prisoner from freezing on the icy floor.

From the semi-darkness emerged a face that would fit only a dead man, so lifeless and cold looked this pale skin, polished to a shine. Deep sunken eyes - two bright slits. They bathed in a pale blue glow with a hint of silver.

* * *

Morning blue spilled everywhere, heavy head and stiff muscles.

Kres opened his eyelids and with difficulty escaped from the snares that had tormented him all night, dispersing the images and sounds that accompanied him even alone with himself. The dream slipped away with every heartbeat, but the wind still roared in my ears, screams mingled with insane laughter. Cres sought to drive away the frightening sounds, but could not grasp anything but air. As if in a swamp, he was raking the disgusting viscous slurry, and in its place a new mass was arriving, crawling into his mouth and depriving him of strength.

Ada snored peacefully nearby. She was quite alive, warm and very ... human, although in a dream Kres for some reason saw a dog in her place, which looked at him from the forest and constantly licked its bloodied muzzle. There was not a single blood stain on her haggard face, and lead bags lay under her clouded eyes. Cres certainly looked no better with his coarse stubble and clothes soaked in week-long sweat . Leaning over her, he brushed her bangs from her emaciated face. Then he shook his head, shaking off the bits of nightmare, and carefully got out from under his cloak so as not to disturb his companion.

The forest woke up a long time ago - it sang with might and main and burned out with an elusive life before the onset of real cold weather. Cres wandered around a bit, listening to the birds singing, trying to catch his breath. His chest groaned, his nose was clogged with mucus - spending the night in the cold and damp ruins would not be in vain for him. A good start to the journey, but how many more nights like this?

Their cozy house was not alone - other buildings, half hidden by turf and vegetation, met at every step. In appearance, they resembled roughly knocked together stone tables of four slabs and with a canopy roof on top, one could get inside only through a single round hole. Coming a little closer, it was impossible not to notice the half-erased outlines of people on the smooth stone, but the details and faces had long been lost in the distant past. His fingers were soon numb from the cool, dewy moss as Kres peered through the holes, hoping to get something useful out of them, but the walls hid nothing but dampness and greasy cobwebs. If once there were some household items inside, then they were stolen long ago by locals or time chewed up.

Cres would have given a lot to prolong those precious moments a little longer before returning for his boots. So I would walk and walk until sunset from one stone coffin to another - let everything freeze to Senches. He and Ada still have to wipe their feet in blood for days on end in order to cling to each other at night, shaking from the cold and fear of the drovers. And then, as scheduled, all night long to fight with Thirst, which will twist him into a groaning ball, which is worse than some kind of cold. A few more weeks will pass and they will have to climb the mountain - there it is already a matter of chance and endurance. The way back did not bother him anymore - it had long been overgrown with thorn ivy.