《Outrage》 Prologue Prologue The stranger the dream appears, the deeper the meaning it carries. Sigmund Freud The frenzy of corporate raids, led by powerful figures, has engulfed the entire country. His firm, where my husband worked as a CTO, was not spared from misfortune either. The former technical director of a small company, who was fired due to the conflict and ?squeezing of money? between new and old owners, has been unemployed for the second month now, just ?sitting? at home. I quietly got our child ready and took our four-year-old daughter to daycare, leaving early to work for the salary of a public university employee, which this month will not even be enough to cover our family''s food expenses. I don''t disturb my sleeping spouse. Let him rest; he''s smart, he will be able to figure out how to get out of the deep financial abyss our family has unexpectedly fallen into. One might reasonably ask how famine can stalk a land where people toil. Yet, in Russia, this grim paradox is frequently seen, born of relentless economic turmoil and the wrenching transformation of society, each bearing down upon the lives of ordinary people. A relentless surge in prices wins the cost of survival spiraled beyond the reach of the diligent worker''s average wages. September 1st. Knowledge Day. All educational institutions in Russia have opened their doors to new students. Students, pupils, first-graders. And so, his spouse rushed off to work. Waking up that day, still in the grip of sleep, he couldn''t come to. The dream he had was unsettling. And he didn''t try to get out of bed. Is it the mystique of dreams that holds him? Knowing that he would soon forget what he''d seen in the dream yet still remembering everything that had happened, he forced his body to get up, sat at the desk, took out a pack of papers and a ballpoint pen. The year was 2004. The personal computer, once regarded as a luxury and a sign of prosperity, had been sold the previous month so the family could somehow make ends meet, with no chance to keep such a valuable item just as a word processor. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Letters poured from the pen, turning into the scribbles of rapid handwriting. The skills polished over hundreds of hours of lectures at his alma mater¡ªthe city''s main technical university, which he graduated from nearly ten years ago¡ªproved useful. Having transcribed into nearly indecipherable scribbles what he remembered from the dream, he leaned back in his chair, but the sense of satisfaction from the task didn''t come. Feeling a vague anxiety, my husband turned on the TV¡­ School number one. Sons and daughters. Fathers and mothers, right in the next block, but helpless to DO anything. Shock. ?What''s in your head? In your head? Zombie? ? - The terror for the children, for their children, innocent children, our children, taken hostage. Ignorance and fear. ?What are they doing with the lives of these kids?!?, desperation, anger, and wrath engulfs millions. Beslan. September 1, 2004. Chaotically, across all news programs. Television frames flickered, filling the screen and surrounding space with the blackness of blue radiation, squeezing the heart and churning the blood with the energy of OUTRAGE. Scene One. The Calling Quiet splashes of water rise with a crescendo and enter my skull. Waves of sound reflect inside, trickle down the back of my neck with a rustle, slide down, run along the spine, and the rustle of this tremor turns into a loud whisper, ominously imprinting words, one by one, into an inner part where, reluctant to hide, imperious letters crawl out, and the frail defense of closed eyelids fails, and the words blaze before my eyes: ?I am near! ? With my mind, I understand that I almost see the speaker; he hides behind the letters, he''s somewhere close, behind a bloody tangle, and I force my brain to find at least something from which I can piece together a picture of what''s happening. "Help!" The ripples, forming a wall behind the inscription, disperse, combining the rows of lines into whimsical zigzags. I see no details. I peer. No. None of the details of this face can I discern. I feel an inhumanly strong anxiety, realizing that such encounters do not happen by chance. I concentrate, trying to understand: "What can I, specifically I, do?" "No. It cannot be!" A thought, furiously repelled by understanding, pierces the body like a steel needle; my legs give way, and I fall to my knees. "Why?! Why me?!" But the one inside me (certainly not the conscience), not trying to hold back, raises the transparent fabric of a banner with new frighteningly large letters of a crimson-venous color. ?Ask yourself! ? Breaking vessels, blood rushes down, filling the heart with such longing that it''s about to burst, making me moan with the howl of a grey wolf. "Why?! What can I do!?" All the sounds fade, time slows down, stops, and the gripping pain in my chest, but I catch myself standing and smiling calmly. "Me. Of course, me. Because I won''t let down. I''m better than all of them. I am the chosen one." Scene Two. The Old Man The Scene Two. Old Man He could not shield himself from the wind that tousled his silver mane. His long beard, the color of aged steel, brushed against the strap of his sword before disappearing beneath the edge of his chainmail. A face etched with wrinkles¡ªmarks left by nightly nightmares and daily worries¡ªyet reborn anew. The Old Man¡¯s gaze remained fixed on the approaching, yet still unseen, shore. A sudden gust of wind and the roar of the waves pulled him from the whirlpool of his thoughts. Instinctively, his hands moved, donning his helmet, dragging the iron edges down over his nose and eyes, leaving his cheeks at the mercy of the biting wind and the spray of waves, eager to soak, freeze, and weather his skin. The ship heaved upon the waves, revealing a gray strip on the horizon, darkening against the pale blue waters. This was their goal¡ªthe end of their voyage across the sea and, for many aboard, the end of their journey in life. Most of those surrounding the Old Man were beardless youths. Boys of yesterday, who today must fight. Must become men. And must die. Most of them, if not all, unless Svarog granted them mercy. Victory was a gift given only to the bold. But how many among these young warriors, eighteen summers old¡ªhalf the age of the Old Man¡¯s beard¡ªcould truly claim such boldness? The approaching silhouette of land left no room for doubt¡ªeach of them knew what was to come, and each battled fear in their own way, whether they knew how or not. The Old Man turned. Ratmir, a young warrior, wore a blue belt¡ªa woolen scarf peeking through his chainmail. He bent forward, gripping the ropes of the shrouds behind him. The boy swayed back and forth, pumping blood through his arms and back, yawning occasionally in a feigned display of composure. The scarf, barely visible beneath his chainmail, was a gift to the Old Man from his daughter, Svyatoslavna, whom the Herald had taken to the Black Sorcerer as part of a bloody tribute sixteen years ago. The memory stirred old wounds. The Old Man slipped past Ratmir without lifting his gaze¡ªuseless, foolish tears could not be seen. He took a step closer to the boy, then suddenly turned away. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. The movement brought him shoulder to shoulder with the Strange One¡ªa warrior who had arrived at the village only four days ago and who, just yesterday, had lost his daughter to the flames. And now, the host¡ªgathering every warrior from the settlement, young and old¡ªpursued the Herald, who had taken the Strange One¡¯s son to the Soothsayer of Chernobog. His son¡ªa tribute to a foreign god. The Strange One examined the burns on his arms, pressing the cold iron of his sword against them. He mouthed curses in silence, refusing to let the pain subside, though it was a mere whisper compared to the storm of grief in his chest. His resolve instantly dried the Old Man¡¯s tears. Neither would pity themselves in the battle ahead. Reflexes and experience would guide them when the fighting began. They would endure. Mokosh had sent the Strange One¡¯s family to them for a reason. It was a sign. They would face the enemy, even without Koloyar. Koloyar¡ªthe Smith. The only one who remained seated at the edge of the ship. His powerful torso, broad and sturdy like a great oak, rested atop thick, trunk-like arms. His bull-like neck, unprotected by a helmet, bore his head with an unshakable stillness. Clad in chainmail and belted with a sword, he observed his apprentices with stony calm. His eyes, usually brimming with mischief, now held a rare sternness, filling the young warriors with a fragile hope of victory. They stood before him in tight ranks. The Ceremony of Meeting Yaromir was much like every morning, yet today, a veil of clouds obscured the sun, and the warriors stood packed even closer together, leaving no empty space aboard the ship. The apprentices, clad in armor and wielding weapons forged by the Smith himself, raised their swords high. The blades caught the faint light of Yaromir, while the sheaths jingled softly against their leather belts. They gripped medium and large shields, their movements precise as they practiced combat maneuvers, stepping sideways in measured strides, guarding the space enclosed by the ship¡¯s high bulwarks. The ceremony would prepare them, would not let fear paralyze their bodies as the battle loomed ever closer. The tricks Koloyar had drilled into the youths since the age of five, driving them through the mandatory course of Spear and Sword, now played out in their minds. They used the final moments of calm, channeling the raging fire in their chests into raw physical energy. With sheer will, they crushed the vast, sticky fear clawing at their souls, compressing it into a small, nervous lump. They tamped down their anxiety under the weight of their weapons, burying it deep within¡ªenough to prepare themselves and not be paralyzed by terror in their first battle. And if the Expedition was fortunate, it would not be their last¡ªnot for the warriors on the ship, nor for the families left behind in the village. The Smith stepped forward, turning his face toward the rising Yaromir over the waters. With deliberate gestures, he guided the warriors'' breaths into a rhythm of self-control, allowing the streams of Force to fill their bodies and spirits with Svarog¡¯s blessing. He did not yet know that he would not take part in the battle to come. Scene Three. Koloyar Scene Three. Koloyar Four days before the Expedition: The day began for the Smith as it always did. The sleep that had embraced him just an hour before dawn slipped away abruptly, awakening him to the familiar silence of his home¡ªthough, to him, it was never truly silent. The habit of rising half an hour before the Meeting had followed him since childhood, when he would rush to training with the previous Smith of the settlement¡ªa man who had once held the same role and, more than thirty years ago, had entrusted it to Koloyar. The evening before, the Smith had personally inspected the coal delivered by the village boys. In truth, life in the settlement had long settled into such a rhythm that there was little need for this check. All the boys of the village knew: the forge must never lack coal. And should the unthinkable happen¡ªif the two apprentices on duty, for some dire and near-impossible reason, failed to bring the required daily supply¡ªthen the entire swarm of village lads would spring into action. They would rush to the smoldering clearings, their young hands gathering the precious fuel, their faces streaked with soot and determination. There were always enough willing helpers to ensure the forge could burn as it should, ready to craft weapons, shape rings of chainmail, and even forge kuzlo¡ªthe iron tips affixed to wooden plows, helping turn the earth for the coming harvest. For this, the Smith never held back his praise. These boys deserved it, always. For their labor, for their training, for every effort they made¡ªwhether in the precise execution of a combat maneuver during sparring or in the swift and skillful completion of a task in the forge. He gave freely of his knowledge, pouring it into them with the warmth of a father¡¯s heart, shaping them as carefully as he shaped the steel beneath his hammer. He loved these boys as if they were his own, and perhaps even more¡ªbecause, as for his own children would be a very long time before he could see them, never really. As he woke, the Smith did not rush to open his eyes. Instead, he lay still, his mind already at work, reviewing the plans for the day. He considered how he would conduct the warriors¡¯ training, what he would teach in the forge, and which of the boys were ready to take on greater responsibilities. The eldest among them, in time, would find their place in the Village Council or become respected men in their own right¡ªpeople whose voices carried weight, whose judgment even the true Elders of the settlement would heed. And among them, under the quiet guidance of the Old Man, the future of the village was already being forged. ?I will take Svyatogor as my right hand,? Koloyar decided. ?He sees things as they are, understands their essence, and his warrior¡¯s skill is sharp.? He recalled how the young man had assisted in the forge the night before¡ªthe way he explained the subtleties of working the furnace to the younger apprentices, his words thoughtful, his reasoning sound. The others listened to him, the younger ones and even his peers. And if Koloyar entrusted something to Svyatogor, he never had to worry about it being done well. ?I will meet with the Old Man, discuss his appointment. If he approves, we will soon name a new leader for the apprentice troop.? Koloyar always consulted the Old Man before deciding which of the boys would lead a warband. Because when the time came to choose his own successor, there was no way he could do it without the Old Man¡ªit just wasn¡¯t happening. No one had ever set this as a rule, yet it had been this way for as long as anyone could remember¡ªan unspoken law, as natural and immutable as the rhythm of the forge itself. "To grasp Svyatogor with the right hand. To see the true and a benevolent tyro, " Koloyar was already mentally talking to the Old Man. The Smith always discussed with the Old Man each of the boys he promoted to be leaders over the packs. And he must tell the eldest of the village about finding his replacement. Although no one imposed the obligation to discuss decisions regarding the apprentices, it seemed to happen naturally and had long been an unwritten rule. "Cheredima trebna,"[1] the Smith smiled at his own thoughts, recalling his participation in the Council of Elders, managing the affairs of the settlement. [1] ?Cheredima trebna, ? which could indeed be translated from Old Slavic as ?It is necessary to follow the established order.? The Old Man''s catchphrase, which he always let out when disputes arose among the participants in the evening meetings. There were several such phrases, uttered by the most authoritative elder, that had become the rule and motto of the village. Each meeting was opened by the Old Man with the same address to the people: "Soveche sezd§Ñti."[2] And the response of those present: "Deyati kupno lade." And these words had long become the motto of the settlement. All the villagers, out of habit, used the wisdom of these phrases in everyday life and authoritatively repeated them, not at random, but absolutely accurately copying the intonations of the Old Man. "Soveche sezd§Ñti," when faced with a difficult decision, one villager would say to another. [2] ?Soveche sezd§Ñti? might translate to ?Let''s gather for the council? or a similar phrase referring to the assembly of the council. "Deyati kupno lade," [3] he received in response, not only with a detailed opinion from the speaker but also with concrete neighborly help. [3] ?Deyati kupno lade? could be interpreted as ?To act together harmoniously? or a phrase encouraging collective action and unity. How and why this rule was established was not important. The main thing was that it worked, and all issues the village Elders discussed, were always from two points of view, where one tried to oppose the other, and in the case of complete heartfelt agreement with the proposed decision of the issue and non-disputable. But, after discussing aloud, the dissected was executed exactly as agreed. The Smith opened his eyes, mentally reminded himself to discuss Svyatogor''s candidacy with the Old Man, and smoothly getting up, sat on the bed, dropping his feet onto the floor with a dull thud. He was not afraid to wake his family; the Smith-Mentor should never have had one. This was the main rule, thanks to which the village got a respite from the curse''s action and, at the same time, the rule was a secret not told to the simple villagers. ? The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Widows and well-regarded ladies of the community certainly harbored a fondness for the enviable single man ¨C both those who were once his youthful pupils and those recently bereft of their spouses. Remarkably, in the village, there was a high count of widows: for every two married women, there was one widow. And while the incidental touches from the ladies, who perhaps unwittingly flirted with the hero during training sessions or village festivities, kindled in the Smith an irresistible urge to banter, such interactions never escalated into anything further on his part. Yet, with the widows, it was a dignified conversation where he explained that a domestic life was not in his future, and if he ever embraced anyone closely during the village celebrations, he inspired strict discretion regarding these encounters. Only if this understanding was mutually accepted would their intimate moments transpire again, invariably filled with deep warmth and his substantial masculine vitality, leaving the fortunate woman falling asleep in a bed warmed by Koloyar. Nevertheless, such occurrences were rare for the widows who, reminiscing long afterward, patiently awaited another rendezvous, regretting the pact to shroud their affection in secrecy. True, sometimes a lady might share confidences with her fellow widow about her longing for her past partner, occasionally mentioning the Smith. When the tear of unspoken yearning rolled onto her pillow, it became the epitome of pent-up emotion, particularly when learning that the Smith''s absence was due to the company of another neighborly widow. When the moment of overflowing sentiment arrived, leading to inquiries that demanded explanations, Koloyar remained reticent regarding queries of affection or its lack, instead playfully engaging in delightful banter and sealing gestures of camaraderie with tender, lasting kisses. Should a lady take serious umbrage, it served as an unmistakable signal for him to step back, and Koloyar would correspondingly halt his dispositions. He¡¯d deftly switch topics to recount the forge''s affairs, the training sessions, and his proficient pupils, gracefully withdrawing from the personal endeavors of any lady bereft of hope in captivating him. And in casual village encounters, which were inevitable, he would cite pressing obligations. Should the ladies attempt to visit, perhaps with the intention to lend a hand at the forge, the notion was outwardly welcomed. Yet, such advances were consistently parried by the apprentice lads, the residents of the smithy, who met these overtures with fervent, sinewy frames. A ladies'' gift of food was enjoyed in good spirits, and any assistance in the homestead swiftly diverted undue attention away from Koloyar. This was his way of guiding the young men not only in combative and blacksmithing arts but also in the finer points of relating to ladies of stature. His pupils revered him, while the graceful widows and respected matrons became for the more mature lads yet another stirring incentive to dedicate themselves earnestly to their craft. Many apprentices aspired to be the chosen successor to the Smith, but he did not explicitly groom anyone to take his place, trusting that any of the senior apprentices would, given time, fill his role if the final dance with mortality beckoned, a competition where extra time could no longer be vied for by the Smith. Koloyar, well-prepared for his fate, held a secret hope that his own end would come swiftly, to avoid the sorrow of enduring more of his apprentices¡¯ funerals. Bearing witness to the burning pyres on which his departed pupils lay was a torment he deeply wished to forgo. Sitting up in bed, the Smith shook head, envisioning the glow of the forge before him, sparks scattering in all directions. "That''s why it is not possible," he muttered with a wistful chuckle, dressing in his work attire before stepping out into the fresh morning air. Beyond the gate, the Blacksmith, having broken off a branch from the apple tree and chewed on it a bit, looked eastward, where, not yet fully visible as a complete sphere beyond the forest, shining with rays, Yarilo ¨C the grandson of the God who gave warmth and life to the earth ¨C rose into the sky.[4][5] [4] The Rod is the supreme God of the Slavs. The creator of all that exists and does not exist. The progenitor of Svarog and Lada ¨C the Father and Mother of all the other Slavic Gods. [5] Yarilo is the spring-summer aspect of the Slavic sun god, linked to fertility, growth, and the vitality of youth. The Smith turned to face north and, swaying slowly and smoothly back and forth with increasing amplitude, began to wait for the Encounter. A shadow flickered by, and at first one silhouette, then two more, and then more, appeared behind the teacher ¨C his disciples joined in, silently keeping pace with the movements of Kolyar, starting the ritual of greeting the sun, which in a single moment, noticeably reddened the sky above the forest with its warm and bright rays, touching the group of people standing below. The Smith''s consciousness dissolved in the morning air, smiling and with slightly closed eyes, he caught the sun''s rays, alternating on the left and right sides of his face. Svyatogor, who was the first shadow, rejoiced that he was standing next to the teacher again that day, and that the teacher was radiating some incomprehensible yet almost tangible energy, sharing it along with his joyful emotions with the surrounding world and with his disciple. The boy was glad to greet another beautiful day at the start of the spring month of May. And the smiling Yarilo would bless the people with good fortune, bring millet, turnips, gudies, lead fish to the river, fill the forests with game and fur. Till today, till this very moment that had just arrived, Svyatogor thought that the Smith always smiled at the face of Yaromir, because he did not want to offend the Forefather, and simply rejoiced at another new day, beginning with the morning sunrise. But now, carefully repeating the Smith''s movements of the Encounter, also smiling at Yarilo, Svyatogor, suddenly caught a ray of sunlight from the corner of his eye, pulled out an especially bright sunbeam that slipped into junior''s soul, and, instantly warming the body, passed through with a warm wave, heating the muscles and bones down to the feet, to the very heels and, reflecting from the ground, filled Svyatogor with its strength. This beam, unexpectedly, became such an overwhelming surge of vigour that Svyatogor wanted to leap, soar into the sky, but, imitating Kolyar, he held himself back and turned the second half of his face to Yarilo. And, desperately hoping that this first encounter was not just by chance, he began to wait for another ?own? ray. And Yaromir did not need to be pleaded with. He sent a flow of sunlight, but not with one beam, but a full-flowing stream that slipped into Svyatogor''s eyes. The lad squinted from pleasure¡ª?God''s grace flowed through him, and unable to conceal his joy, he laughed and bowed to Yarilo. ? The Smith looked at Svyatogor, raised his hand in greeting, smiled, and whispered. ?The Discipliner''s time has come! ? And without a pause, he continued with a full voice, addressing everyone at once. ?May God grant us bounty! ? Immediately, a dozen young voices echoed in response. ?May God grant us bounty! ?¡ªasking for grace from the generous Yarilo. ?Finish without me. You''ll lead the warm-up, and then fetch Istislav, ? Kolyar told Svyatogor, ?today he will assist, we will be teaching the young ones,? the Smith assigned the task, already virtually handing over full responsibility to the new Discipliner of the squad. Nodding to the boys that they should continue, and receiving a bow in return, which straight away signified confirmation, understanding, and willingness to comply with the order, the Smith hurried to morning breakfast and bed drills with Pelageya, a charming woman with three decades under her belt, however, who only reflected a dim sadness in her brown eyes. The experience of years lived added just a hint of noticeable melancholy to her face, but Pelageya stood out among the other beauties with her refined yet sturdy figure, leading into full, broad hips, and above the flat stomach, high, uplifted breasts that drew in the male gaze. Pelageya''s breasts had another pleasing quality; when the Smith looked at them through the fabric of the sarafan, their buds swelled, brazenly fixating on Koloyar with their protruding nipples, unlike Pelageya''s eyes, which shyly averted to the side, modest in the presence of another¡­ And the Smith, having remembered this, hurried to the fifth house from the edge of the village, where lived this very kind, good-hearted, and sad woman, located on the same side as the yard of the Elder, surrounded by a high solid fence and standing remotely on the outskirts of the village. And an hour later, faced with the decision regarding Svyatogor, under the tender gaze of Pelageya, Kolyar felt compelled to resolve the matter with the Elder as quickly as possible. Scene Four. Istislav Scene Four. Istislav 89 hours before the Expedition: ?We do a half-swing with the shield upward to meet the enemy, ? the Smith surveyed the band, made sure that the entire formation of students was watching intently, lifted his shield up, balancing it on his elbow. ?We raise the sword together with setting the shield, ? Koloyar, continuing the motion, laid the sword''s blade flat on the edge of the shield. ?We step slightly to the side and forward, continue raising the shield, whether taking a hit or not, it doesn''t matter, the opponent can''t see my sword now, ? speaking and demonstrating simultaneously, the mentor captivated the attention of the younger lads. ?With a gliding strike along the shield''s edge¡­ hit! ? Yelled Koloyar, showcasing the technique while thrusting at an imaginary foe. ?To master the technique to perfection! Everyone must! In any condition! Tired or not, it doesn''t matter! Then you''ll win and save everyone, ? the Smith tells the boys, lowering his voice at the end of the phrase and then loudly again. ?Let¡¯s watch it once more! ? slowly, he demonstrates the technique again. From around the corner of the forge, two figures emerged. Leading the way was Istislav¡ªa broad-shouldered man with the powerful, steady stride of one who had long walked the paths of war. His curly, russet beard caught the bright, scorching sunlight, trapping its glow in its thick mass, while his sharp eyes, shadowed beneath a furrowed brow, scanned the path ahead with the wary ease of an experienced fighter. Beneath the loose drape of his untucked tunic, muscles shifted with every step, their movements honed by years of wielding steel. The trousers were held to one side by a wide scabbard, which swayed under the control of the round tip of the medium sword''s handle, dictating the measured gait. Sturdy leather boots pressed firmly into the well-trodden ground, ready to support his master''s attack at any second. Behind him, half-running to keep pace, was Svyatogor¡ªa lanky village youth, barefoot and dressed in a simple linen shirt and trousers. Though his steps were lighter, filled with the restless energy of boyhood, he worked hard to match Istislav¡¯s bearing, squaring his narrow shoulders and setting his jaw in unconscious mimicry. His keen eyes flicked between the warrior¡¯s movements, drinking in every detail, every motion, as if by sheer effort he could absorb some of the man¡¯s hardened strength. ?Good day, warriors! ? Istislav addresses the boys in training. ?Ohoho, look who''s here! Imshti! ? Koloyar jokingly mispronouncing Istislav''s name as a battle cry, short, as with every true warrior, an abbreviation meant to save strength and time in battle. ?Aaa, healthy, Ka! ? Istislav responds and opens his arms wide to the Smith, who had set aside the shield and was sheathing his sword. Friends exchange hearty claps and wrap each other in a hug. Istislav, filled with admiration for his older comrade, grips Koloyar firmly and, mustering all his strength, lifts him off the ground. With a grin, he spins them both in a wide arc, his boots digging into the earth as he struggles under the weight. Koloyar doesn¡¯t resist; instead, he leans back slightly, letting Istislav enjoy the moment. After a few turns, Istislav sets him down. As soon as his feet touch the ground, Koloyar, smiling, pats friend on the shoulder and says intentionally loudly. ?Has the noble warrior rusted chasing after his wife? ? The boys fall silent, recognizing the familiar mock tone of voice, eagerly awaiting the continuation of the spectacle. ?Yeah, a bit, ? whispers Istislav faintly, ?Although¡­? and after a pause, much louder ?¡­ I have a steel sword, I can take a head off the shoulders,? and suddenly, his expression changing, the warrior challenges the Smith with a look. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ?That''s hardly the case, ? Koloyar smiles, with that smile that makes everyone around uneasy. ?Check it out. Aaa, Ka?!? Istislav, locking eyes with Koloyar, draws his sword, smiling even more menacingly, taunting his comrade in arms. The boys during the end of this sentence went completely quiet, for it was for them that the friends were performing. The entire formation just watched Istislav and the Smith, eagerly hoping to witness, right then and there, a fight between two masters. The Smith, seeing the boys¡¯ open mouths, laughed and put a huge hand on his friend''s shoulder. ?I won''t check completely, but take a shield in your hands, and let¡¯s show the kids how to circle in pairs. Like this, ? here he paused again and looking at the approaching formation continued with a voice that rings across the clearing, ?So that all fighters remember! Learn and be able to perform the techniques unconsciously. ? ?Ratmir,? Koloyar turns, dropping the faux solemnity, to one of the boys standing in the middle of the formation of older kids, ?Go on, bring the practice weapons from the forge.? With these words, the Smith takes off his helmet and, in a half-voice, gives orders to the apprentices as he always does. ?Gather in a circle,? he says, tracing with his hand the usual spot for a duel. *** In the middle of the circle, as the Smith''s sparring partner, stands Istislav, changed into his attire¡ªa tall warrior in chainmail covering the entire body, clasping the legs halfway up the thighs, and his face invisible under a solid helmet with a vertical slit for the eyes. The Smith and Istislav demonstrate the technique, first slowly, then in rapid succession. ?So, boys, watch and memorize, so that you can distinguish the details at combat speed. ? The warriors demonstrate the technique slowly once more. Svyatogor is already standing by them and, catching Koloyar¡¯s eye, extends two wooden swords to the warriors. They sheath their combat swords and lay them on the ground. They take positions opposite each other and start circling the field. Imshti, slapping the sword against the shield, Ka, with the sword resting on his shoulder, playfully holds the shield with his other hand and gauges the distance. Istislav strikes hard with the sword directly at the unprotected head. It seemed that the shield fused with the figure of Koloyar, grew in the path of the sword, and, instantly, Ka, leaping to the side, thrusts his arm forward with the weapon, landing a direct blow on the opponent''s helmet. A strong muffled thud, the Smith''s practice sword springs back, a crack of wood is heard. Istislav steps back slightly, reacting to the hit in silence. Another droplet of pause, and they and the Smith charge at each other again. Istislav swings again, the Smith lifts the shield, but Istislav isn''t planning to fall for the same move again, and instead of striking from above, he squats down, twirling the sword, directing the strike to the shin, below the shield. But from there, the Smith''s sword flies out, parrying the blow, another crack is heard, and Ka, using the rebound inertia, redirects the weapon to the opponent''s shoulder. The strike hits its mark, but the wooden weapon can¡¯t withstand it and snaps with a crunch. Ka leaps aside. ?Stop. Enough,? he lowers the broken sword and shield to the ground, straightens up, and continues to look at Istislav, while the Smith''s breathing remains utterly calm, as if there had not been that whirlwind of training, yet unrealistically fast combative battle. Imshti slowly bows his head, averting his gaze to acknowledge the superior skill of his comrade, exhaling loudly several times, trying to catch his breath. The Smith removes his helmet and turns to the band. ?Is everyone clear? Slowly in sequence, alternating with three repetitions and then swap partners. ? The boys each turn to face their sparring partner. ?The elder pairs start. ? Pairs of enthusiastic students begin to talk to each other and practice the techniques. The Smith approaches his recent opponent. ?Excellent form, buddy, to be honest, I didn''t think I''d get you a couple of times¡­? ?In battle, even one blow is enough to be the end, ? Istislav also removes his helmet and looks at Koloyar. ?Well, don''t worry; it was a good lesson that benefited the lads. Look at how you twirled the sword from below; it was just the thing, and we displayed the technique fully, from above and below. No accidents occurred, and the boys will be ready for both. ? ?Yes, to be like you. Water off a duck''s back with you, Koloyar, whether from above or the side, ? Istislav twirls the helmet in his hands, looks at the dent in it, and continues, ?Well, it turned out okay, but my cap got dented. ? ?There''s a bit. I''ll fix it now and make it better than new. ? But at this point, Istislav protests, quickly interrupting his friend. ?No, I can hammer it out myself; let me help with your boys'' chain mail. They can apprentice under me again, ? Istislav suggests, ?at the same time, I''ll train up some speed in my shoulders, I am indeed a bit out of shape.? The Smith with the fighters remains on the training field, Istislav heads to the forge.