****

The cart rumbled on the cobblestones, and he noted, absently, that the left wheel needed a new rim. The air was thick with the mingling scents of flowers and fish, sinking into every stone of the city and every breath scorched the throat.

It reminded him of the famous local soup—a steaming, fragrant brew made of anything that could be pulled from the sea or coaxed from the land.

‘Left your shovel behind, dear Meister Styler!’ Barnaba, the baker, cheerfully hailed him standing across the street, ‘Can’t just dump carrion anywhere, even outside the city gates.’

The Tauran halted. With the cloth habitually thrown over his shoulder, he wiped his forehead and shaved nape, shooed flies away from the three bodies sprawled on the cart. He reproached:

‘You surprise me, Master Barnaba. These gentlemen are alive, though... not entirely well.’

‘Trash is trash, dead or breathing,’ Barnaba retorted with the same cheerfulness.’You shouldn't show kindness to them. Next time, be sure to bring a shovel!’

‘You should read something uplifting now and then, Barna. Or go see a woman — might soften that warlike spirit of yours.’

The baker, a chubby, balding little man of middle age, smiled flatteringly. Bowing politely, the tauran grabbed the cart and, sometimes whistling, sometimes humming, continued his way to the city gates.

He involuntarily recalled the words of the one he never forgot.

‘...I have seen the waves of distant seas and the sands of the desert. Palaces of jasper and porphyry and huts - you won't believe it! - made of dung. I have seen people with skin as black as night and as pale as moonlight. Their customs and appearances vary, and it seems there are no two alike, for even twins differ in habits and character. There's only one thing that's common to all.’

‘What is that?’ he asked.

‘Bloodlust. Whether they are black, white, or yellow-faced, they cannot live in peace. Why do you think people have been killing each other for centuries - out of hatred, or for love - and cannot do without wars?’

‘I don't know. I'm not a human,’ was his response then.

A sweet girl, peddling greens and fruits, waved at him, beaming as if he carried not three men he had beaten, but a heap of roses.

‘You are my delight,’ he grinned and tossed her a coin.

****

All of life is deception; only death is true. So, the choice is not between the life and death, but between truth and illusion. But is it really a choice at all? Death awaits everyone and all roads lead to it. Whether you want it or not, you won't get lost. Just fall asleep, and the demons stir. From the depths of the heart, from the black mazes of the mind, they rise—dragging the soul into restless torment. Secret fears, unspoken desires — they take shape in the dark. The willpower alone is almost never enough to subdue them. Whether in sleep or death, sooner or later they will prevail even over the strongest will.

He dreamed of light piercing through the dense, lush foliage and Lady Isola… she was fondling him shamelessly. Her slender arms wrapped around his neck, her heavy, firm breasts pressed against his chest, her soft white hair fell on his face and her lips, cool, tender, moist, were almost touching his lips.

Truth is the enemy always attacks in dreams. A woman is a long night, a veil of darkness clouding the mind. Her love is like poison ivy, its blossoms golden and sweet – but its roots sink deep, strangling, poisoning, breaking even the mightiest oak. Desire blinds the warrior, lures him from his path, traps him in the fog.

‘Begone. Illusion. Begone,’ he thought and, fiercely resisting his weakness, he repeated, weaving words into a saving guiding thread, ‘The Chalice, symbol of sorrow and wisdom. The Bull, the sacrifice no one else can make. Only through death can sins be atoned. Death does not matter, only the will to die—only that sets the soul free. The Bull, sign of the sun and moon, of fire and earth, of silence and thunder. Of patience and wrath. Of purity. The Chalice, bond of spiritual brotherhood…’

He had almost defeated her, his weakness. He could almost see it now—the statue of white marble, luminous and vast. A towering bull, one hoof pressing down on the body of a fallen youth. Was it the beast they worshipped? Or the sacrifice beneath it? He pleaded to the horned god and almost heard in the darkness the soft, powerful voice of his Wrath.

‘Easy now,’ murmured the voice, ‘No need for that, boy. I am no apothecary, after all. I’ve only got one sedative. Best keep your eyes shut.’

He summoned every last shred of will and forced his eyes open.

The sun had sunk low, bleeding back into the sea. He lay on a hill, scoured by mistral, in withered, sunburned grass. Someone had stripped him of his lorica and draped his own cloak over him. Others weren't so cared for.

Dew glistened silver on the White’s armour and the vambraces - by dawn, no doubt, his rheumatism would flare up. The Golden had once again lost his precious glasses. The blood on his left temple had dried and the wound looked worse than it actually was. All their weapons and bags were piled up at seven stones, tombstones, each with a bull's image, which, to tell the truth, resembled more of a sitting horned dog.

The Scarlet let out a rasping laugh – then hissed in pain. It felt as though his skull had split, the jagged edges grinding together, causing monstrous pain. He got up and went to check on his comrades, although he was sure that the tauran, not sparing their pride, spared their lives.

The White — Brother Erik, a mighty northerner — lay fast asleep, his palm tucked beneath his cheek, snoring peacefully. The Golden, Brother Jorge, the Iberian, caught Scarlet’s wrist before he could touch him. Squinting his short-sighted eyes, he asked with an unusual roughness:

‘That bastard got the better of us again, did he?’

Then, without ceremony, he gave Erik a sharp kick in the small of his back.

The latter sat up, shook himself like a waking up dog and said, chuckling:

‘It's been a while since I was knocked out with one blow! Sheer delight!’

‘Lazy bastard,’ hissed Brother Jorge, ‘I hope you didn't fall asleep during the fight?’

The northerner grinned.

‘What fight? Do you mean the slaughter of the innocents?’

To prevent the elders from quarrelling out of annoyance, the Scarlet hurriedly asked:

‘So, what are we going to do now?’

The Golden reached for the bridge of his nose to adjust nonexistent glasses, pulled his hand back and cursed.

‘At the far cape, beyond the port, a boat will be waiting for us. Going back to the city would be... unwise.’

The Scarlet nodded. Half a year ago, another hastatus in a scarlet cloak couldn't stand the townspeople's mockery and hacked up a greengrocer. The city authorities threatened to close the port for the Order's ships should this happen again.

‘Still,’ he said firmly, ‘I would like to go back and talk to him.’

‘Talk to him? About what?’ the White wondered.

‘Why did he choose such a miserable life? What keeps him in this wretched, fish-reeking town? How dare he neglect his duty?’

The Golden raised an eyebrow, ‘Who cares? He has to return to the Order, that's all.’

‘But we can't force him to return,’ the Scarlet said. It's been nine years since he…’

‘Twelve,’ corrected the White, ‘Well… given that, maybe it's worth asking him. Get up, Jorge, you old mole. Lean on me while we climb off this damned hill…’

‘Better if I go alone,’ said the Scarlet.

‘Smart. A soldier won't hurt a child,’ said the White, hesitating and this time he and the Golden chuckled in unison.

‘That's my point,’ the Scarlet responded without a hint of embarrassment, ‘he doesn't know me. And in any case, he wouldn't stoop to a duel with someone in a scarlet cloak.’

‘You're not going there in a scarlet,’ the Golden cut him off, reaching for his pack.

The Scarlet nodded again — no sense in provoking trouble. He dumped the contents of his own pack onto the ground, unrolling a kilt he always carried, muttering:

‘Didn’t think this would ever come in handy…’

‘Well, well,’ the White drawled, watching the Scarlet shake out his kilt.

The Golden, more familiar with the customs of other nations, staggered to his feet — moving as if hungover — and helped the Scarlet change.

Once dressed, the Scarlet secured a club at his belt, fastened a dagger, and adjusted his sporran. His hand brushed over the haft of the labrys.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ the Golden muttered.

‘Unless you’re planning to wear it under your skirt,’ the White laughed.

‘Alright,’ the Scarlet said. ‘I’ll hire a boat in the port. When — ‘

‘We’ll wait here. Until noon,’ the Golden cut him off.

‘Wouldn’t it be better for you to return to the ship?’

‘We’ll wait,’ the White insisted, slapping a nearby rock as if it were a horse or a faithful dog. ‘Here. In good company.’

He smirked. ‘If you don’t come back, we’ll have to go after you. And this whole mess will get us all killed, so…’

The Golden finished for him: ‘Be sensible.’

They embraced and the Scarlet, no longer hesitating, descended the hill and headed towards the city gates.

‘Clever lad. He'll go far,’ the White said, watching him go thoughtfully, ‘Who would have thought - to talk to him!’

‘If there is somewhere to go,’ the Golden retorted, ‘The Order is in decline and if Asterius doesn't return…’

‘Damn him!’ the White exclaimed, tenderly touching a lump on his forehead, ‘What a sheer bastard!’

Novella by Gloria Mu, translated by YB

Artwork by Aleks Klepnev

Published with the authors permission