Henry drank and squandered almost his entire fortune at cards. When the time came to transfer the inheritance to his son, he found the simplest way to rehabilitate himself he promised one of Beelzuviks Advisors a son, in exchange for a good monetary reward. But things didnt go as planned. Nermall ran away from home that night. He jumped into the sea, wanting to end his life. But he was picked up by pirates. A few days later he returned to his fathers house. Nermall wanted to kill his father. But he found an old beggar who, having drunk, stretched out his hand to live another day. Fate punished his father, so Nermall spared the man.
But Lisas face sometimes appeared in his dreams. She smiled. And in the end she always died.
The old man closed his eyes.
Nermall! he heard a familiar voice.
Chapter 7. Prophet
As soon as the sun appeared on the horizon, Nermall was already pushing his comrades aside.
Sleep well, sleepyheads! So sleep through life!
Old man, you slept through your youth, give us a rest too! Duncan muttered. But he got out of bed. Lewis and Still decided to take a walk around the village. The road is long, you wont rest until evening. And as long as its not too hot, you can go for a walk.
Okay, but you wont be long! said Nermall.
The young men walked along the narrow streets. The locals looked unfriendly at the strangers. They are dressed like a traveler, so few people recognize Still as a prince.
People were gathering in the square. A gray-haired man is tied with ropes to a post. The haystack under him is growing larger.
Whats happened? Still asked one of the passers-by. -What crime did he commit?
Damn him! Calling for trouble again. We told him throw away your books, but he is stubborn, no matter what! He writes and writes. These writers are nothing but trouble! Its either a matter, I understand, a farmer, or, perhaps, a blacksmith. Well, at worst, a soldier they are more useful than scribblers. They put letters into words that ordinary people cannot understand. The nobles read it, but the peasants will not end up in trouble.
So what happened after all? Should we be executed for books? Is this a crime?
Are you taught to read and write?
Still nodded. The stranger handed him a small volume covered in calligraphic handwriting.
Here, take it, read it for yourself, and youll understand.
Still began to read.
***
«They are coming. Can you hear that rumble? It is their horses that trample our land. And the lights are not fireflies, there is nothing good about them. These are torches with which they will set fire to houses. This time they gathered a small detachment. They wont burn the village to the ground. They will rape, several men will be killed those who are the most obstinate, who do not want to watch how a stranger saddles his wives. This time they are going to collect tribute. They do not need other peoples lives, only bread and flocks. They know that you cant take gold from the villagers. But they are patient. This time they wont come for long. Then they will come again. And the third time they will burn the village to the ground.
Can you hear that crackling sound? Its the branches breaking under their feet. They have no need to hide. They are not afraid. They know that the king does not care about the outskirts. The king will not send troops to protect us. He doesnt care.
Do you see the lights of the torches? So you caught their first arrival. Then there will be another one. But know that you wont survive their third visit. Run. They are coming!»
***
And what didnt you like about this story? Yes, he writes strange stories, but the writer shouldnt be burned for it! Steele was indignant.
I didnt like it that a week later a gang from Lorraine showed up!
Still and Lewis looked at each other.
They came at dawn. Everyone has a torch in their hand. Aliens burned several of our houses. They killed Will the blacksmith and abused his daughter. The bandits stole our horses. This freak he was always writing something. Thats why hes a clerk! He took advantage of the fact that there are no more people among us who are trained to read and write. I bet he brought trouble to our village before. So yesterday they caught him writing. But this time nothing will work out for the damned Zeymond brat! Well burn it. Let the soul of Pisarev burn in the inferno until the end of the human race!
Still and Lewis were carried away by the strangers story that they did not notice how one of the peasants was already carrying a torch.
Stop! You mustnt kill him! Still shouted.
Stranger, do you want to take a place next to him? said the one with the torch.
Stop, immediately!
Who are you, a tramp, to order the headman?
My name is Stillom, and I am the crown prince of King Dinor! Still raised his hand, and a gold ring glittered on it. Some of the peasants sank to the ground reverently. But the elder looked with an unkind look.
Where were you, prince, when the gang attacked us? Return to Tivol. And we will find a way to protect ourselves!
«If you dont understand normal words, well talk in the language of weapons,» Still took out a sword, «Drop the torch immediately?»
The headman threw the torch into the very center of the haystack. It caught fire.
Lewis jumped up to the condemned writer. He cut the ropes and pushed the weakened man further away from the fire.
Thank you! he said and fell to the ground, completely exhausted.
Still and Lewis carried the man to the inn. People moved aside, not wanting to look at the writer.
«Serves him right,» they whispered. Fate will give everyone what they deserve. We are all in her hands. Tenacious, freak! He probably wrote salvation in a book!
The innkeeper also looked disapprovingly when he saw the writer. But the rest are newcomers, they dont care about internal squabbles.
Nermall went outside for a while. And a few minutes later he returned, holding a small pinch of an incomprehensible plant in his palm. He rubbed the flower between his fingers and brought it to the writers nose. He coughed and opened his eyes.
***
My name is Murray. I was born here. Honestly, I would love to continue living, but will the locals really let me? My father was a chronicler, and he taught me to put words into coherent sentences. In his free time, he did nothing but write stories. Ideas seemed to fall on me from somewhere above. Sometimes in a dream something new will come, something that no mortal has ever seen. And then during the day they began to have visions. I wrote them down I cant keep them in my head! And then I began to notice that my ridiculous stories were not such a tall tale! Even the most unusual ones eventually came true, and in the most unexpected way.
All writers are prophets, some to a greater extent, some to a lesser extent! Still said.
Lately I have been having the same dream more and more often. Our village is attacked by a gang from Lorraine. Moreover, they come twice in small detachments. And the third time they march with a whole army towards Tivol. But along the way they burn our village too!
Are you saying that Lorraine will attack Suthering? Still whispered.
I rarely make mistakes. War is almost inevitable!
But an army from Morelia is coming towards us from the west. We will find ourselves between a rock and a hard place. We must get the book as quickly as possible. Otherwise, the enemies will trample us!
Nermall put a finger to his lips.
Do you hear? he took the sword out of its sheath.
What should we hear?
A out of breath man ran into the tavern.
Bandits! They attacked again!
The innkeeper hurried to bolt the door.
Do not rush! said Duncan. We need to go out and take a walk in the fresh air!