LITMIR.BIZ

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the front door opened.

      In the outer gallery stood an austere woman in a dark gray jumpsuit. At her knees, like a service

      dog, a compact robot-carrier was frozen.

      The visitor’s gaze traveled over the huge orange bag. Small feet in high blue sneakers peeking out of its throat could not go unnoticed. The attendant blinked, raised an eyebrow, curled her lips, but almost immediately her face took on its former aloof expression.

      The scanner in her hand beeped the report: «90% organic substance».

      «Biological garbage. Take it away,» she commanded the robot. «Furnace number 6.»

      Pies

      The brew in the cauldron bubbled and gurgled. Strangely dark steam rose upward and puffed across the ceiling, forming little manmade clouds. But these walls have seen more than that.

      The old house, built of gray rough-hewn stone, with oak beams in the ceilings and a dirty plank floor, did not give the impression of a permanent dwelling at all. It was more like a cave, a burrow into which one had to crawl out of necessity.

      The tiny mica windows let almost no light through, and now, in the twilight, they looked like cracks in the walls. Weapons hung here and there – bows, axes, clubs, short spears, a couple of crappy swords – drew crooked shadows under the dancing candle lights. In the fuzzy glare the gray, shaggy coat by the door looked like a beast, clawing at the stonework for some reason.

      Wolfe stirred the stew with a wooden spoon on a long carved handle, added herbs, stirred again, and sniffed. Yes, he thought, it’s ready.

      He pulled a deep clay bowl out of a pile of dishes piled beside the stove – a black one with a red rune pattern, looked closely, spat on it, and wiped the cracked glaze with his shirt sleeve. Then he filled the plate to the brim with chunks of stew.

      After extinguishing the overhead fire in the crooked stove, Wolfe set the bowl on the unexpectedly good-for-life striped wood table, sat down on a three-legged stool, and began to eat, occasionally burning and snorting.

      A knock on the door made him raise his head.

      «Go ahead, come in,» his voice sounded hoarser than usual. He craned his neck and coughed.

      Two men entered the house: sheriff Hunter and his eldest son. The heir and his shift are dragging him everywhere. Wolfe smirked, baring strong white teeth.

      «Greetings, Mage-Commissar,» the visitors bowed, not too flatteringly, though.

      Wolfe only gave a brief nod in response.

      «There’s a rumor going around,» the sheriff hesitated, «you know. We’d like to know if it’s true.»

      «I don’t know what people are talking about,» the man muttered between spoonfuls of food. «Ask me straight out, Hunter, don’t be a pussy. I don’t like it.»

      «Ahem. Ahem. Mage-Commissar Wolfe, is it true that you destroyed two witches who were plaguing the surrounding villages?» he swallowed and stared expectantly at his inhospitable host.

      «Ha!» Wolfe smirked again, his face creased so that it looked like crumpled paper – his deep wrinkles had long been his companions, only his yellow eyes still looked young. «See for yourself,» he nodded to the far corner of the room, hidden by the shadows.

      The sheriff went to the table, picked up the dirty candlestick with the lit candle, and stepped toward the place. Immediately he recoiled, unable to contain his trembling. His son suddenly turned strangely green, covered his mouth with his hands and, unsuccessfully struggling with gagging, jumped out into the street. A disgusting uterine sound was heard.

      «Ugh, he ruined my bushes, the devil takes it,» magician cursed. «You’re taking him with you too soon for duty.»

      «It’s all right,» Hunter said, «let him get used to it. We don’t live in the capital.»

      He shined the light in the corner again, examining more carefully the two female corpses lying there, an old one and a very young one, brutally chopped up and mangled.

      The sheriff shuddered with disgust, but to give him credit, he managed to hold himself together.

      «So that’s all?!» there was more fear in the question than in reaction to what he saw. There was also hope.

      «Everything is over. Everything.»

      «And they won’t… well, they won’t… rise again?»

      «No,» Wolfe squinted and lifted a bowl of leftover brew. «Here. Just the way it should be. Hearts and livers. I’ll eat it all and be done with it. Well, maybe I’ll have a tummy ache. Would you like a piece?»

      Hunter almost twisted.

      «No. Thank you,» he managed to squeeze out and spat the thick saliva that had accumulated: it smelled surprisingly good.

      «Anyway, all you have to do is clean up. Burn the trash and bury it somewhere far away,» the magician waved his hand at the remnants of the bodies. «They won’t come up again, I give you my word.»

      «Thank you, Mage-Commissar, from our whole village and district. You have saved many lives with this.»

      «Yeah, yeah…» Wolfe ruminated again, taking a sip of gravy over the stew, he was no longer interested in the sheriff.

      Hunter staggered for a while, then made up his mind.

      «Uh… Wolfe, but how did you get them?»

      The man reluctantly pulled himself away from his food and sighed.

      «How? As it should be. Look,» he looked toward the door where a long-handled axe stood propped against the wall, under the cape, its ragged surface darkened against the sharp, glistening blade. «Locks? They messed up there, of course, notably. Like real spiders. But if you pull the right string…»

      «I see. And the evidence?»

      «And who needs them? Those mothers whose sons and daughters have been kidnapped by these monsters? They already know. And they got their retribution. However,» the mage gritted his teeth, «there is something. The Protector should have enough…»

      The sheriff followed Wolfe’s gaze with his eyes.

      On an antique dresser was a basket full of pies. Some of the cakes were broken, and he could make out the gruesome stuffing – the baby’s severed fingers. Nearby lay a tattered cotton cap, scarlet as the dawn.

      Orange

      «We’re screwed,» Gafarro lowered the spyglass and shook his head hopelessly.

      Down below the castle walls, it was quiet now: his army had managed to beat off two attacks with almost no casualties. The attackers had not yet been able to get within a hundred yards of the moat surrounding the citadel, and each time they retreated. Now they were preparing to lay out one last trump card. And what one!

      «No, sorcerer, not even you can handle it,» he glanced sadly at his advisor, who was looking around. «My kingdom will not stand. Where did they find him from? I thought they’d all been wiped out long ago, and here we are.»

      The old mage didn’t seem to pay any attention to his words. He was staring intently and tirelessly into the horizon, where a new gray wave was beginning to creep on: the duke was determined to make another run. The enemy infantry, though badly shabby during the previous few days, was still astonishingly plentiful.

      But that wasn’t too frightening: Krumland recruited his warriors from the rabble, with no regard for their strength or skill, as long as they could move forward and hold their weapons, and Barbeza’s potion would give them courage and spite. What a bitch! The witch really went over to the enemy. She must have brought that monster. Ugh!

      Dorrenoi averted his eyes from the little flashes that ripped through the grayness of the dense morning fog. Damn you!

      «I would

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