Ойкумена / Oikumena: Глава 1

Part one.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 17:57

'We not in Kanzas anymore...'

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 17:58

Chapter 1

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 17:58

'Dear diary'

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 17:59

'Dear diary'

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:00

The quill hovered over the page, its sharp sting twitching slightly. What to write next was not clear.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:02

Elena could not sleep. And it was not just insomnia that seized her, but a strange feeling of unsteadiness, unreality of what was happening. It was more like her grandfather's stories about his second heart attack when he's exhausted, the drug-addled body could neither sleep properly nor swim out of the foggy haze. Grandfather almost became a writer, but the post-war era was merciless to his dreams, and the talented young man became a regular medic. He did but retained the vividness of language so that any story in his mouth sounded like an epic. Even if it was about things very, very unpleasant.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:04

After twisting under the covers for more than three hours, Elena decided that maybe she'd had enough of the irresistible. If sleep is running away, she should do something about it.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:06

She washed her face and walked around the apartment, empty until the next afternoon. Until her parents returned from their trip. She looked out the window, brewed a half-liter cup of coffee. She drank it, diluting it with a good portion of cream. She brushed the dust off the crossed rapiers that adorned the wall above the mantelpiece. Of course, there was no way to install a real fireplace in the city apartment, but her father had tried and created a very good imitation, which nicely diversified the interior. And the good old 'Dynamo' from 1970 looked much better over the pseudo-fireplace than just on the carpet.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:09

Elena smiled, remembering the argument about the carpet and the angry Grandfather's cry of 'Philistinism! The elderly medicine man knew how to say it in such a way that the pompous word looked appropriate and without pompousness. It's a pity he's no longer with the family... It's been three years now.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:11

No sleep. But not awake, either. A sense of the unreality of what was happening was piling up, prompting her to do something unusual, strange. Something that would make it clear that this was not a dream, but a clear reality.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:12

For example, one could start a diary. Why not? A suitable notebook, moleskin or something similar, with ruffles and a cute picture, had been lying in the far corner of the closet for more than two years. There was no need for it at all because Elena only used spring-loaded notebooks, from which it was so convenient to tear used, already useless sheets without any pity. But for the diary, a beautiful, very 'girlie' notebook is just right. And for such an occasion, she can use a special calligraphy pen 'Tachikawa G'.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:15

But the problem was that it went no further than two simple words. A big black drop gathered at the tip of the pen, and Elena couldn't decide what to write next.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:15

'Dear Diary...'

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:16

* * *

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:16

Anyone who lives from the Profit knows that it's best to go down in five. Three is too few. If income happens, there won't be enough people to carry it away. And if someone gets hurt, the wounded and the one who drags him out, that's minus two backs and four arms, which can't be loaded with sacks of thick leather with the enchanted padding. Though, of course, anything happened, but, as a rule, the one who was taken out in the darkness - not a fighter and not a carrier. And it is necessary to get the man out. First, the tradition. Second, Pantocrator says so. Thirdly, as long as he's alive, he won't get up and run to catch up with his former comrades...

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:34

Yes, three is too few, five is just right. Of course, a lot of dashing guys don't go down for the Profit with less than ten men. But it's a tricky business. Down below, as a rule, in front can not stand up more than two. And sometimes one can barely squeeze through. So when someone jumps up (and they always do, so the whole difference is who will jump this time), only one or two ahead can fight properly. And there is, as team alchemist Bizo would say - "a painful question" - why pay more to those who are not involved in the fight?

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:39

So five men are the right number, time-tested. If everyone's hands are growing in the right way, that's enough. To beat up anyone who is hiding in the darkness of the dungeons, looking out for hunters with vertical pupils, facets, or not looking at all with blind eyes, but listening with sensitive ears. And if someone doesn't get beaten by a group of five, there's no sense in playing against a group of ten. And it's time-tested, too.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:43

Again, the fewer faces in the brigade, the easier it is to get away, the less crowding in the cramped dungeons. And for someone who lives from the Profit, the ability to run fast and far is just as important as the ability to wield an axe deftly. Only a fool would go down with a sword... and where does the brigade get the money for good swords?

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:45

But six fighters would be fine, too. As it is now.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:47

"Fire," muttered Santeli, turning his head. "More fire!"

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:47

A good torch was smoldering in the commander's hand, not half burnt out, but the alchemist got the point.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:50

"It doesn't work," Bizo shook his head guiltily as he ran his palm around the moon crystal. His palm was dirty, with wide black grooves under his broken fingernails, and the glass was old, clouding, and cracked. But not long ago it had exuded enough light, and now it barely flickered, like the lousiest candle. The alchemist whispered tried and trusted words, tapped the crystal, stroked it like the thigh of a young virgin (for which he never had money anyway, but, as you know, everything seems sweeter and more desirable in dreams).

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:54

It's useless.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:55

"You bloody charlatan," hissed Santeli, driving the torch into the split fork at the steel pen of the slingshot, so that the weapon itself lights the way ahead. "Give me more fire, or he'll put us down here!"

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:56

Bizo did not answer, continuing to mutter and shamanize. With the same success, that is, without any visible result.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:56

"We went to get the Profit..." Vial whispered, clutching the thick shaft of his slingshot in his sweaty mittens. "M-m-mother, al was good..." The lancer's teeth began to grind.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:00

"Shut up, talker," Shena commanded furiously. "Quiet! Listen!"

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:01

Actually, it should have been Santelie, as the man in charge. But the commander was distracted by a shadow that flickered at the very edge of the darkness and the dim light from the torch.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:03

"It's not working," Bizo complained. "It's not working!"

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:03

It had to be decided, and quickly. And Santeli decided... But simultaneously with his decision the moon crystal shone with the brightest light that it had never known, even in its best times, for a long time. It was this light that finally convinced the commander that they must not just run but run very fast because down there everything that happens suddenly and unusually is trouble.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:05

* * *

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:16

The ink drop finally came off the quill and squished onto the cover. Elena sighed sadly. As it usually happens - something unnecessary and forgotten now seemed important and valuable. The notebook with the smudge was a pity. And a diary, especially 'Dear', with a blot on the cover - it was not quite ... It was wrong in general.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:08

Only there was no blot. None at all. It was as if the ink drop had vanished into thin air, melted in the light halfway between the pen and the notebook, whether it was moleskin or something else. The girl shook her head, looked at the quill. Clear, just tiny beads of black and nothing else. And not a drop on the notebook.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:09

Elena sighed and suddenly realized that it was all from strange insomnia. She didn't get enough ink, and she thought she saw a drop. And she wanted coffee again. She felt an unbearable craving for coffee. And there is coffee in the house, but, as Grandpa used to say, it must be 'whitened', and she was out of cream.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:11

Elena strode barefoot into the kitchen. The parquet linoleum felt cold on her soles and reminded her of an unpleasant parental dispute about the renovation and design. That rare case when her father managed to insist on his point. As for the window frames... Well, that was a long time ago.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:12

In the fridge she found a total lack of cream, milk, and even ice cream, that is, everything that can be poured into a coffee cup ironically called 'barrel'. So ... then one has to go out and buy it!

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:17

A large round clock with cuckoo and cones on chains (actually a battery inside) scattered its thin hands across the white field. It was almost half-past four... A little late for shopping. Or on the contrary, a little early. On the other hand, the convenience store is on the first floor on the opposite side of the house. The neighborhood is quiet and nothing is likely to happen in the quarter-hour it takes to buy one bottle of melted milk. And the cool night air, at least, will cheer you up, relieve the feeling of waking sleep.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:19

As she took her jacket off the rack, Elena hesitated, trying to remember where her purse was. Wasn't it still in the leather vest? And when she threw on her outerwear, the denim jacket fell to the floor. It was like falling through the disembodied body of a ghost.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:21

* * *

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:16

It seemed impossible, but the moonstone flashed even brighter, burning the eyes. Judging by the fact that Bizo involuntarily shrieked and dropped the faceted crystal, it burned with more than just light. And that was impossible because the crystals from the Silvery Mountains always remained as cold as the night light whose borrowed light they fed on.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:36

In the next instant, the stone was extinguished, turning into plain glass. In contrast to the magical flare, the torches seemed almost pitch-black, so Santelie missed the blundering attack. The shaggy shadow glided beneath the low vault, flicking its clawed forelegs, wrapped tightly in its folded webbing, with unimaginable speed. Too fast for a creature that relied on bone and muscle power.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:38

Without time to strike, Santelli released the shaft of his slingshot and rolled over his shoulder, evading the broad sweep of the sickle-shaped claws. Luckily, it only caught the very edge of the thick leather collar, ripping through the thick boiled leather like a razor through silk. The roll was not yet over, and the leader drew his dagger, the last hope of the fighter. And at the same time he smacked his face on the treacherous rock, so that blood immediately poured into his right eye. It wasn't that Santelli was praying. He didn't have time for that. Things were happening too fast. He just hoped that Shena would be able to put the creature on the spearhead of the ahlspiess in time. At least, she'd been good at it before. The huntress was the fastest in the little brigade, and rightfully so.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:49

Fortunately for Santelli, the feeble-minded subterranean creature didn't go after the swift and nimble man. Instead, it attacked the next man in the tight formation. Behind the brigadier, there was a clang and a thud. Kodure screamed as if he'd been skinned in one fell swoop. Or at least a good chunk of it.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:51

And the next moment the world shuddered as if a giant cramp had passed through the rocky interior, twisting the network of dungeons beneath the Grey Lands. Santelli flew to the rocks again, miraculously not dropping his dagger, clutching at the weapon as if it were his last hope.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:53

* * *

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 18:16

She was able to pick up the jacket only on the third try. It was as if the jeans and the thin Elena fingers existed in parallel dimensions. Therefore, like cogs of gears in different planes, they could not mesh in one reality. Elena mechanically threw her clothes over her shoulders, without putting her hands through the sleeves, and thought that this must be what insanity looks like. When things suddenly happen that just can't be.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 19:55

Or it's a dream. Just a dream. And there's still a calligraphy quill in my hand. Where did it come from? Isn't it...

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 20:00

She saw herself in the mirror, caught out of the corner of her eye a silhouette in which something was wrong, something very wrong. The girl stared at the long and familiar features; the reflection looked back with huge eyes with dilated dark pupils. Her hand reached into her disheveled hair to smooth the unruly red strand that had slid down her right cheekbone.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 20:09

The next moment the reflection in the mirror rippled, like in a Hollywood movie when they use the 'wave effect'. Elena realized that she could see a coat rack through her. An old Soviet coat rack in the form of a large, full-wall frame of gilded plastic with horizontal bars and hooks. It was Grandpa's favorite hanger, which the old medicine man had defended from all encroachment.

Camrad_RIP 08.11.21 в 20:12