Chapter 1

Frozen a warm mushroom rain. Rare rays of the sun seemed to say goodbye to the leaves and grass, caressing them at last with neat touches. A dense fog was already flowing light, milk haze between the mighty trees, trying to fill the entire district. A blonde boy of about fourteen was flying along a forest path, touching the ground a little. Behind him, picking up his skirt, his mother was in a hurry. They fled the last of their strength, but it was impossible to stop, because the killers were chasing them. The guy wanted to stop and meet the offenders with dignity, as they killed his father, his two sisters and his three older brothers - his whole family - before his very eyes. The hatred and lust for revenge soared, bursting out of control, but the mother's strict look forced her to keep her prudery and continue her flight. They were heading to the old family crypt to hide from the chase. There were rumors that he was fascinated to safely store those who had blood in their veins, it is possible that this is fiction, but they have nowhere to hide. When the entrance to the crypt was just a few steps away, her mother screamed. Eric turned around and saw that she was sitting on the ground, and her pale face reflected fear, but what is there - a real horror. Seeing that her son hesitated, she yelled angrily: "Run! ". The guy wanted to rush to her, but two arrows whistled just next to him and had to hurry to hide behind a tree. Fear, pain, hatred - all mixed up in the body of this still very young man and seethed, issuing silent tears that quietly and helplessly rolled down his cheeks. Fortunately, to amuse himself with self-pity, the beloved did not give him-an arrow hit the trunk of the tree, and the mother crawled away, trying to distract the pursuers. He wiped his tears and, taking advantage of the moment, rushed to the side of the crypt to hide there. A jump, another jump and now a spiral staircase. Flying into the hall, he rushed past the resting ancestors to the far wall - there was in the corner a small niche near the floor, sufficient to hammer in and safely hide. Literally at the very wall, not noticing something on the floor, Eric stumbled, waved his hands and, knocking down some dust-covered stone from the ritual support, flew to the floor. The murderers who came next found a guy who was no longer breathing, apparently breaking his head in a hurry. His life was interrupted in May 6704 from the creation of the world, that is, in 1196.

The warm April days of 2006 were going on. All of Russia was preparing to selflessly drink vodka in honor of the May holidays, a miniature salary and zero prospects. Our hero did not consider it necessary especially to stand out from the crowd in this honorable cause. Prepared to prepare Artyom for everything thoroughly. That is why, first of all, I bought everything necessary in advance, and secondly, I chose a place on the shore of a small river near Moscow, where, due to natural silence, Bacchus will be paid due tribute. Yes, it is him, since no other ancient deity is in our honor, as this merry fellow and joker. But, alas, this time his plans were not destined to come true. Yesterday an old friend called Jean, whom they met at a historical festival in the distant 2001. They there managed, having typed "for acquaintance", to fall down in a cesspool near to a cowshed. The process of swimming in the fragrant pond and the selfless struggle for getting out so close to them, that the guys became friends. In fact, his name was not Jean, but Ivan Kolodka, but the nickname so attached to him that all friends and friends just so his name. He was known as a good master of art forging, but this is more for the soul than for the cause. He also lived by the fact that for the last seven years he had been making armor for lazy lovers waving a halberd or falshion on a bougurta. If you do not know, then the correct bugurt is a massive staged battle in authentic equipment. His affairs were going very well, and the armor was sorted out like hot pies, and for quite expensive. And in the spring of 2003 he moved to live in Switzerland and buys there a small country house with a plot of land in a remote countryside in order to enjoy the smithy crafts for wealthy lovers of armor exclusives from around the world in a pleasant and quiet environment. Last year, the idea came to expand the range of its activities and master the production of alcoholic beverages for authentic medieval technologies. Why alcohol? So in fact the bachelor's life obliges - though it is pleasant, but sometimes unbearably boring. And here not only its own, natural and quality, as they say, "without chemistry", so also authentic wine and mead. And the soul is nice, and health is not in harm. So, he found materials describing the ways of making such drinks, figured out the technologies and began to build working premises, starting with a spacious cellar for storage and aging. The basement was built in the regime of not hitting a recumbent, that is, without hurrying anywhere, with your own hands. And then - in his spare time from work in the smithy. All would be nothing, but just a week ago, during the digging of the cellar, our newly-born Swiss stumbled upon some ruins - either the roof of the old house, or something else, but clearly something medieval. Quickly having realized that it's better to keep quiet (is there not much that is valuable there? ), And quickly completed the barn over the place of the failed basement (for hiding from prying eyes), he called, as you already guessed, our hero. So, let me recommend - Artem Zhilin, 30 years old, associate professor at the department of medieval history in a major Moscow university. He teaches three medieval languages: vulgar Latin, Old Russian with its artificial church form (Old Slavonic) and Middle Greek, which, however, is also called Byzantine. He is also the organizer and participant of many visits to archaeological excavations and the permanent head of the club for military historical reconstruction at the university, where he teaches the children historical fencing and making replicas of equipment. For what "struck" a small room under the workshop and for several hours every day in the university gym. Agree - an interesting characteristic. At first glance it seems that he is "a member of the Komsomol, an athlete and just a beauty. " And if you dig deeper? Let's start with the nickname, because it often very well characterizes the person, and our sophisticated intellectual in certain circles was called just like the Mustang. Agree - uncharacteristic for a quiet and smiling dandelion, who lectures on the medieval world from the university department and occasionally, sweating from overexcitation, wipes his pince-nez with a handkerchief. Our hero was born into a poor family and from the very childhood had to literally gnaw out from life what he needed. Parents, of course, tried, but, alas, not everything was in their power and capabilities. Therefore, Artyom grew up a strong, energetic and very energetic man, who was used to trying to achieve his own without long discussions. While still studying at the institute, he started his own business, but all of us, dearly loved by us, came in 1997, and left him in almost the same family shorts, completely burned out. This lesson, received in the twenty-first year of life, affected the style of his work, as he did not even think of retreating and dropping his hands. Pritorgovyvaya every possible counterfeit goods - from disks with software to polished skulls and other extravagant crafts, he lived to the end of his training. Not very nice, but it was necessary to live somehow and for some means. And eat smelly, and sleep softer. 2000 was a turning point in his life - it was at this time that he was fond of military historical reconstruction and fencing. Studenthood came to its finale, and on the horizon, the prospects of enlistment in the Red Army squads of the name of Kashchenko began to be clearly outlined. Of course, on a budget department. No, he was neither lazy nor weak, but the service in the army did not bring him any personal benefit at all - some problems. Yes, yes, yes - many will resent what they say, but what about the Fatherland? Or put forward the theses, like "only service in the army will make you a real man. " Alas, all these arguments are empty, as he had to achieve everything in his life solely on his own, and when he began to rise, his beloved Fatherland threw him and deprived him of everything. And he was not engaged in any trade or other heresy, but deployed a small service to repair household appliances, that is, he did a useful thing for people and the Fatherland. As for the physical training, it was better for him than for most graduates, since one can and should achieve one's own and need differently. Sometimes it does not interfere with the eye, for understanding the words. Therefore, as a very pragmatic person, he considered service in the army as a waste of time and effort, and therefore applied for postgraduate study. Combining the passion and the forced measure, he was able to achieve a very good result and defended his excellent thesis. At the same time he pierces the experimental laboratory for the department of medieval history, where he is engaged in creating replicas of equipment and armaments and exploring them comprehensively. In the second year of training, using the equipment that he bought for the grandee he won, he began to produce a variety of thematic crafts for sale - primarily cast bronze and tin items. It went well, and not bad. Having realized what is happening, he not only turns around the laboratory a circle of military historical reconstruction, which, under cover of which, seriously increases the volume of production, but also begins to use students in the technological processes of the workshop itself. In general, in the spring of 2006, he operated a small workshop, in which enthusiastic students worked "for thank you", and he, selling through these acquaintances in one large store these articles, received up to 120-150 thousand each month. In total, his monthly income went for 300 thousand. True, for the sake of cover, he was forced to teach students, leading some ridiculous seminars and lectures. After such a recommendation, it remains only to add a few touches. The fact is that Jean of the serious archaeologists and historians in friends was only Artem, who from the graduate school diversified his leisure not only with official excavations, but also with black archeology, and therefore had vast experience in such matters. So there were few options, more precisely, there was only one named Zhilin. Our assistant, of course, agreed, took a two-week vacation at his own expense and flew as quickly as possible to Switzerland at the invitation, to meet with his intrigued friend. Fortunately, he already traveled more than once to Jean, so that he was given a visa very quickly and easily.