Dedicated to A.S. Kuzhelev from Pokrovskiy

14

Angel

Peace is always preferable to war.

The walls of the Fort, once so strong and unapproachable, built of dark burgundy, almost black mountain stone, so beloved by red architects, gaped holes with ragged edges. The dying defenders of the Fort writhed among the devastation in death agony, explosions tore off their limbs, many were buried alive under the rubble. Everything captured by them was destroyed and covered with the blood of the wounded and killed, as if something had now taken away its percentage for their past luck.

In the dense blackness of the smoky clouds, it was no longer possible to distinguish between day or night, only fiery flashes for a moment snatched the darkness and exploded it with sheaves of burning sparks, illuminating everything around.

It seemed that Death itself was present there, as an honored guest invited to a wild feast, it danced, circling, among the burning ruins, as at a ball, with each flash, snatching out life after life.

The force that ignites rage in the chest, fills the gaze with determination and a desperate desire to get out of the stone trap to freedom, was extinguishing in the hearts of the defenders.

Marmer with several soldiers from his squad, until the very last time was shooting from the cannon, not paying attention to the fiery boulders flying at him, and the fact that the cannon was red-hot. He shouted hoarsely:

“Fire! Fire!”

And he himself took heavy cannonballs, pushing them into the cannon with burnt hands, until a blazing fiery projectile, fired from a throwing weapon, blew the cannon and part of the wall on which they were to the devil.

Anya ran out of arrows, and there was no one with a full quiver nearby, and she, seeing through the loophole the guns of the reds, shrank in a low arch of still intact wall, as in her little shelter, and wept bitterly. Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving light streaks on her dusty face. Preparing for the inevitable, Anya stubbornly clenched a gold pendant in her fist, an award from Atley Alis for bravery, as if this decoration could help her in some way.

Mercenaries and unclean ones thrown from the wall tried to find shelter from burning cannonballs and pieces of masonry that were falling from everywhere. Shrad with his last strength managed to drag away fallen Zagpeace Gezaria, he was unconscious, and the brave peasant from the Estate of Prince Arel literally covered the commander with his body.

In front of Tazh’s eyes, a fiery projectile literally tore into pieces Tarl and several warriors from the Skull clan, who were fighting next to him, crushed them into the ground, leaving only a puddle of bloody mess.

The fort was burning, and the unclean horse of Nikto knocked out the stable doors with his hooves. The horses broke the reins and galloped into the opening of the destroyed wall. And only a few of the most stupid and tightly tied to the stalls remained, they whinnied pitifully, and Karina’s beloved horse suffocated.

The rear gate was blown out by a battering ram, and that section of the wall near the menagerie, which was selflessly defended by the unclean and young warriors from the school of Daniel Crassus for so many days, was destroyed, and there was no one else to protect it, and there was no way to do it.

What was the use of saving the back gate if the iron-wrought main gate had been torn down, and Lis once thought it was impenetrable.

The defenders of the Fort rushed about in its walls like rats in a labyrinth and didn’t know where to get away from the fiery stones and the reds who soon appeared in the breaches of the wall and were simply finishing off the crumbling army of Atley Alis.

Those who could still stand and hold weapons lined up in the main square, defending themselves and waiting for the main forces of the reds to rush through the main gate to them, realizing that now they would unleash all their fury and power on them.

And it wouldn’t take more than five minutes.

They prepared to fight to the last.

The reds rushed to the attack, and it was a real bloody massacre. There was no exit. All that remained was to fight, and the blacks and the unclean ones did it with the despair of the doomed, with their last strength, realizing that this was the end and they lost.

Lis fought like a man possessed, in the forefront, as if he wanted to die. And this moment was about to come, when suddenly the reds were confused. Their dense ranks parted, something pressed against them from behind. The attackers began to turn around and stopped attacking.

“What's happening?! What's going on, Nik?” Shouted Lis,” I don’t understand!”

Nikto didn’t had time to answer. Tol and his soldiers, whom he had brought with him from the Black City, burst into the main gate, crushing the reds, and there were many of them. The reds were not ready for this turn of events, they rushed about, and confusion began. But it didn’t last long – the fresh forces of Tol, striking from the rear, quickly crushed the enemy, and the defenders rejoiced.

“We have won! We have won!”

“Al!” Tol shouted.

And on the exhausted face of Lis sincere joy was reflected:

“Tol! Tol, damn you! Where are you from here?!”

“We followed in your footsteps,” Tol smiled, “you got so far!”

He looked around: everything around him was on fire, walls in many places were collapsed.

“What a beautiful fortress!” Tol said absolutely sincerely. He dismounted, heading for Lis, and he rushed to meet him, embracing him. They hugged each other tightly, like two friends and warriors. Finally, Tol, pulling back, patted Lis on the shoulder.

“Al, you sly ass, where did you get in?!”

He looked at Arel:

“Orel! How glad I am!”

And Arel, looking at him, smiled at him too:

“I am no longer Prince Orel from the family of Eagle, Tol,” he said, “now everyone calls me just Arel.”

Tol happily hugged him, not paying any attention to these words and the slightly surprised look that Lis, Kors and everyone else around had, because they completely lost the habit that Arel could speak, forgot his voice. And he said it to Tol so simply, and, as was his habit, drawing out his words a little lazily, and his beautiful low velvety timbre of voice, from which common people usually fell into a reverent trance, hadn’t changed at all.

“Nik!” Tol shouted, no doubt recognizing Nikto despite the mask. And they also hugged tightly.

“Karina!”

“Eh, no, Tol, I won't hug you!” She laughed. Her face was stained with gunpowder soot, very successfully hiding traces from the whip on her cheeks.

“You motherfucker, I don’t believe, we have won!” Lis said. Walls and buildings were almost destroyed, but Death, though reluctantly, retreated, remembering this place and wanting to return here to finally finish his dance.

“We have won, just as you said, Nik!” Lis shouted happily.

And Nikto put a finger to his mask, indicating a smile.

Kors stood and watched as the captive red warriors, who were lined up in the square, bowed their heads and knelt before Atley Alis, thus demonstrating their submission and loyalty to him. Now they would fight on their side. Lis approached each and asked for the name and rank, and his adjutant entered everything in a journal.

Kors saw Alis walk over to the red one, whose face was completely wrapped in dirty bloody strips of cloth that replaced his bandages. The warrior, like the others, when his turn came, bowed down to Lis and knelt down.

Kors watched them with bated breath, he perfectly understood who it was, but from his place he couldn’t hear their conversation. He only saw that Lis asked the red one something and then waved his hand to the side, to where the wounded prisoners were taken, they lay and sat a little to the side. The soldier, disfigured by Kors, stumbled to the other wounded. He didn’t look at Kors and didn’t see him, and Kors for some reason involuntarily smiled, he himself didn’t understand why, but he felt pleased. And Lis, no longer paying attention to the unfortunate red, continued and stopped at the next captured warrior.