The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19
Ви Корс
The next series of the acclaimed series of books. Тhis story actually happened in a different reality (a different dimension, a parallel world); you can call it whatever you like, whatever you used to, whatever is convenient for you. Its essence will not change with that. All characters in the story exist and interact just like we exist and interact in our world. Only their names, the names of the gods, peoples and territories are not authentic; they just express the basic meaning the characters put into them.
Ви Корс
The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19
Chapter 1
They didn’t stay long in Riverside, and Kors was sincerely glad about this. He himself didn’t understand why he was so afraid of this place. It was somehow fatal for him. Here he attended the council of commanders before the attack on the Fort, and then he was an indisputable authority for his black warriors, he was one of them. Surrounded by his companions, he proudly sat in a place of honor at the head of the table, covered with a maroon velvet tablecloth, which Valentine had obtained from no one knew where that day. And he also sat at this table later, but the tablecloth on the table was crumpled and dirty. He sat alone in an empty house, his shoulders slumped and his posture of the chosen master forgotten – an outcast with a painted face, with a body covered with patterns of unclean ones, humiliated and turned into a slave.
Kors diligently drove these painful memories away from him. On that terrible night in this abandoned, decaying village, the Demon showed him his strength, but, in the end, Kors remained alive, and nothing seemed to have changed. Or so it seemed. But when, by the will of fate, he found himself in this cursed place, deeply hidden memories and emotions treacherously began to surface, spinning into a whirlpool of heavy thoughts and not giving rest. And Kors was well aware of the fact that he couldn’t calmly enter that room with a vile rat swarming in the corner.
The humans, the black warriors of Zagpeace and Tol, rode a few marches ahead as always, while Kors still commanded the unclean ones and rode with them. They were not particularly in a hurry, but they didn’t stop overnight either, resting no more than a couple of hours in a row. His captain, Parky, kept order in a long line of carts and numerous carts of various colors, loaded to the top with various goods. Periodically, he drove forward to Kors, and reported to his commander that everything was in order, or, on the contrary, said: “…one of the carts had a broken wheel, and they were a little behind, but they would fix it soon.”
“That’s because you didn’t properly distribute the load inside, and stuffed too much without thinking about the correct distribution of weight and pressure on the wheels,” Kors explained in an instructive manner, distracting himself from his gloomy thoughts with a conversation.
He looked at the bright black dots tattooed under the eyes of the unclean one, and involuntarily repeated to himself: “The last warning, the last warning… and how many warnings have I myself received during this time, so presumptuously casting them aside? They didn’t make tattoos under my eyes, but it looks like I got in trouble more than you, Ark.”
And Parky, it seemed, heard him, but didn’t say anything, and, having reported, returned back to the carts.
Next to Kors, but slightly behind him, rode Adrian. He was dressed in his warrior’s clothes, and his rather grown hair, with the help of some fixatives of the unclean ones, was beautifully set up in a high comb. Kors didn’t forbid him this, and from time to time turned to him, giving some simple instructions in the style of “give and bring”, using Adrian as his servant and slave. Adrian carried out everything.
“Adrian,” Kors told him, “I haven’t changed my mind, and I don’t take my words back. I still agree to let you go to the Unclean Limit when we return to the Black City. To release you to your wife and children. You are an unclean half-blood, and your father, as far as I understand, is a rich and noble true black. You have the blood of the chosen race, do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” Adrian replied indifferently, “but there is no turning back for me.”
That was his answer invariably, and his tattooed face remained as impenetrable as his thoughts.
And Kors, on the contrary, now even wanted to free Adrian. The uncleans made him a slave, punishing him for cowardice. The demon gave Adrian to Kors, knowing absolutely well that he was dooming the slave to torment. But now, Kors, to spite the Demon, did not want to torment Adrian any more.
Nik and Arel also often rode very close to Kors. He could see the Demon, and from this, he only felt worse.
Physically, it seemed, Kors more or less recovered and could spend many hours on the road, in the saddle, feeling neither pain nor weakness, but morally… Morally, he was simply crushed, and in the monotonous path between the endless desert hills, every now and then stumbling his eyes on such a bright spot of mop of white hair, Kors couldn’t help but think of Nik. He couldn’t help but remember:
“They are on their way from the Ore Town to the Crimson Rock. One of the haunts.
Kors combs Nik neatly, pushing his platinum white hair up from his forehead and temples. He carefully clips them with hairpins, planning to continue to braid his braids or make a tail, but suddenly he notices how cute Nik is with his hair pulled back a little and at the same time with fluffy thick strands sticking out a little further on the sides. Kors puts down the hairbrush and leaves Nik like that, admiring him and seeing that one naughty thin strand has already jumped out of his pinned up bangs and lies on the face of his beautiful boy. This unbearably touches Kors, he looks at the naughty hair sticking out on the sides of his face and slightly shifted back, and they really remind him of the fluffy long ears of a cute puppy. Kors laughs, and Nik purses his lips in displeasure and shakes his head in annoyance, not wanting Kors to laugh at him, and another thin strand of white spills out of the mass of his hair.”
Nik, standing aloof, spits quickly to the side, spitting out of his mouth as sharply and far as Lis fires bullets from his musket.
Kors literally freezes in shock:
“Stop it,” he hisses, “put on your mask immediately!”
Kors knows that in the mask, even if Nik moves the lower shield as far forward and upward as possible, he still won’t be able to spit so valiantly. Nik, realizing that Kors is dissatisfied with him, squints slightly in his direction and quickly puts on his mask. And later, in their camping tent, Kors rips it off his face and hits his son on the lips with his palm, straight from the shoulder, backhand:
“Don’t you ever do that! Don’t you dare spit like a beast!” Kors yells at him.
Nik shrinks and tries to shield his lips with his palms, but doesn’t resist and remains silent. He doesn’t look at Kors, doesn’t raise his eyes, although his face expresses obvious displeasure. And Nik never spit on the ground or to the side in front of his father again.
They stood by the picturesque lake for three days, and Kors no longer remembers for what fault he makes Nik climb under their camp bed. He tells him that as punishment, Nik will lie there for exactly an hour, and lowers down a heavy cover of skins. Nik obediently and quietly lies on the floor, but Kors himself becomes very bored without him, and he barely maintains the allotted time. Barely waiting for the hour to finally pass, he abruptly lifts the covers, revealing his sweet boy. Nik lies face down on the floor, his face buried in his folded hands. He slightly raises his head, and, squinting from the light, tries to look at his father, and he frantically pulls him out and pulls him towards him, while hastily unzipping his fly with his other hand, and presses on the back of his head, pressing his face to his crotch.
Why is he recalling this now? It’s all over and there’ll be nothing more. But thoughts of Nik stubbornly spin in his head, endlessly playing the same melody, a song about lost love. Just like a hurdy-gurdy! Nik was right about it!
The same. One and the same, and so on in a circle. Ding. Ding. Ding…
Ding. Ding. Ding.
“Their room in the Fort. Nik sits on the bed and Kors moves his finger up, down, left, right. This way he restores his son’s vision and trains his eyes. Nik tries to follow his hand. Kors slowly brings his finger to the tip of his nose.
“Look!” He orders. “Look with both eyes at my finger!”
And Nik obediently shifts his eyes to the bridge of his nose, into a bunch, and it’s so funny and amusing that Kors, unable to restrain himself, begins to laugh. He shakes his head, pressing his hands to his chest and bursting into laughter, and Nik sits in front of him, shrinking, and, as usual, out of frustration, he sticks out his already plump lower lip a little forward, with his expression, provoking a new fit of fun and laughter in Kors. Nik looks at him reproachfully and with some resentment that Kors is making fun of him so openly.
And Kors pleads with him through laughter:
“Nik, Nik, honey, don’t pout, everything’s fine! You did it great. It was just so funny!”
But Nik doesn’t support Kors’ fun and continues to pout and twist his mouth.
Well, smile, smile! Kors asks him, and Nick stretches his lips into an artificial smile that looks more like a grin. This is how a tamed predator grins, obeying the owner, but demonstrating that he doesn’t like it when he teases him. And Nik, like a beast, snarling a little, “smiles”, showing fangs, while still not daring to disobey or bite. It only gives Kors another flush, and a minute later the cure is forgotten and Nik is moaning under him.
The next morning, Kors returns to treatment and says:
“Now let’s train your eyes again.”
And Nik starts to indulge and moves his eyes to the tip of his nose, or one eye to the nose, and the other, on the contrary, away from the bridge of the nose, strongly to the side. Kors doesn’t understand how he can do it so cleverly and funny, they both laugh. And, despite the fact that Nik is making faces and openly fooling around, he still remains incredibly charming and sweet, and Kors is unable to scold him for the disrupted lesson, and they love each other again.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Everything always happened passionately, violently, brightly. On the first run, Kors came very quickly, and only on the second and third time he could fuck Nik properly, and then he began to speed up again. As soon as he rested and took a break for a couple of hours, everything started all over again, and the first orgasm overwhelmed him literally instantly. Kors was constantly overused his cock till it bled, unable to stop in time, because he wanted Nik every minute. Without thinking about the consequences, he healed abrasions with strong remedies. Under drugs, it was not difficult, the pain from instant healing was almost not felt. Everything was great! Only too many strong stimulants, too many and often used, and now his potency said to him: “Goodbye.”
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Why does he continue? Not even specific situations are spinning in his head, but simply different moments associated with his boy: Nik turns his whole body towards him, instead of just turning his head, and casts a quick glance from under his brows, from the bottom up. Involuntary trembling of the hand. The clumsy gesture with which Nik tries to straighten his hair and keep his bangs out of his eyes, knowing that Kors gets annoyed when his hair obscures his face. The way his shoulders and perpetually disheveled top of his head sink down when Kors begins to scold him, calling him a drunkard and a brainless fool. At such moments, Nik’s eyes began to shine with tears, and each time it happens faster and faster. In the end, as soon as Kors began to read his lectures, Nik’s eyes were already wet. And for Kors, it was an unforgettably pleasant memory.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Very soon, Kors realized for himself what hurtful words had the strongest effect on Nik. Nik didn’t react strongly enough, but rather indifferently, to accusations that he was a criminal, that he beat someone, extorted money and created chaos in the Black City. The honor of the warrior and the fact that he pissed it off worried him very little. But he reacted to the “complete drug addict”, although he reacted stronger to “drunkard”. He remained impenetrable to accusations that he had ruined his body and arms with tattoos, but cringed when Kors accused him of foolishly ruining his appearance, and now he had a scar on his face. Nik didn’t react to the fact that he was illiterate, but if Kors called him a fool and stupid, he got upset. And Kors always put pressure on these pain points. A drunkard and a fool – these words upset Nik more than others. He nervously raised his hands, bringing them together and clenching them into fists, and began to beat himself on the top of his head.
“Stop immediately!” Kors told him sternly. “From the fact that you now knock yourself on your bad head, your mind will not increase, but only the last one will be knocked out!”
And Nik was sitting in front of him, sniffing and stubbornly rubbing his eyes. But Kors considered it the best when, nevertheless, one or two tears fell from glass eyes. Then, filled with incredibly pleasant emotions himself, like Nik’s eyes with tears, Kors impetuously hugged his son and explained that he was scolding him for his own good, in order to help him become better. And Nik should understand this, not be offended by his father and be grateful to him. And Nik thanked and asked for forgiveness.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Even now, after everything that had happened between them, those memories still made Kors feel good in his stomach.
Nik was driving nearby and seems to have noticed Kors’ looks or heard his thoughts about him. Kors understood this, because the Demon slightly turned his masked face towards him, and then, turning away, let go of the reins, and, raising both hands, put the cloak hood over his head, covering his hair. He pulled his hood up, shading his already covered face. Passing his black-gloved hand a few more times over his mask, he carefully tucked a few unruly white strands under his hood. Kors saw how, on his hand, wrapped in an expensive thin leather glove, a golden ring with a dark green stone was put right over the glove. Kors’ gift. And Nik wears it. The stone shines brightly and shimmers. True blacks wore precious rings on their fingers, but never wore them over a glove, it was considered a vulgar sign of bad taste, and before Kors would never allow Nik to do this, but what can he say now? He no longer has the right to point and make remarks, and Nik, with his savage notions of beauty, of course, put a ring on top of his glove for everyone to see and so that he could show off the jewel.
Nick spurred on the Unclean Power, driving a little ahead and away from Kors.
Kors thought that the Demon’s real face was as black as his mask, and now he understood why the Demon liked to wear it so much. As strange as it may sound, but in the mask he looked more like himself. And the Demon used the cute features of Kors’ son only for seduction and deception.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Kors became very sad. How good it was to be ignorant of the lies that reigned around him, suffocate with love and delight, squeezing “his boy” to his chest, the boy who he considered Nik to be, in a slightly rough and passionate embrace. To look into those transparent eyes, often made up, lined with black and burning on a pale face, to hear his groans, to see and feel how Nik cuddles and clings to him. How could Kors assume that they themselves, and not at all their ill-wishers, would destroy such an ideal relationship? And now what? Now what?!
There is no longer his little white boy, his beautiful doll, so sweet, affectionate and obedient, and bright eyes in long eyelashes will no longer look up at him from the bottom up, waiting for him to order. And seductive lips will not pout cutely from frustration because of offensive words. And now, from the bitterness of unfulfilled hopes, Kors himself had treacherously tears in his eyes. All immersed in his grief, he didn’t immediately notice Zaf, but he rode up to him, and Kors, recollecting himself, quickly wiped his wet eyes with his palm. “Damn, what does he want?”
“Vitor,” Zaf looked at Kors very seriously.
“No, this doesn’t look like flirting or some kind of tackle at all,” Kors thought quickly and said politely:
“Good evening, Zaf!”
“You know,” continued Zaf, without answering to the greeting, he seemed agitated, “you can always call me mentally. If you want. Don’t endure or bring it to a critical situation, ashamed to ask for help. Vitor, just call me and I’ll come and try to do my best.”
“Zaf, what are you talking about?” The way Zaf carefully continued to look into his face, and these words about some kind of “critical situation” that could happen, made Kors feel as if a spring tightened in his stomach, and these were very unpleasant sensations.
“There is no point in playing a hero,” Zaf continued, “it won’t help you in any way. It you will feel bad, call me. I have known the White Lord for a very long time, but I know only one thing about him for sure: you can expect anything from him. So call me, I myself offered help, this is not your weakness.”
Kors froze in the saddle. He looked at Zaf’s flattened broad nose. Because of the plugs, it didn’t have a nose tip as such, there was just a flattened flat cake with a small vertical notch in the middle. Poor Zaf, he was once handsome, long ago, before they performed this disfiguring procedure on him – it seems that his father did it. So he told Kors. From Shagezh’s childhood memories, Kors remembered Zaf as young, with still very small stones in his nostrils, his nose was not so terribly flattened. Everything happened gradually, and now Zaf’s face was irrevocably damaged. That was a sign of belonging to a clan, family. The younger belongs to the older. Could Kors ever do something similar to his son, disfigure him like that? No, he was not able even to cut off a lock of Nik’s hair!
Zaf is also a Demon, what is his animal essence? Who is he? The human bodies of Nik and Arel are not like their bestial essences. Nik doesn’t resemble a reptile at all, well, maybe only with movements sometimes: either completely motionless, frozen, or sharp and fast. How is Arel similar to a bat? Is it his dark hair color? No, all this is somehow unconvincing. If Kors himself has goat horns on his head, then there is absolutely no evidence for this in his physical body. Who are you, Zaf? He can be anything.
“Thanks, but I don’t need help,” Kors said, “I think everything will be all right.”
Zaf smiled mirthlessly, shaking his head slightly.
“Then just come to visit us when we are at a halt. Let’s sit, have a drink, play cards.”
“Thank you for the offer, Zaf,” said Kors. He thought: “That’s all I wanted, well, no, cash me out, I don’t need your hospitality.”
And Zaf, without saying anything else, turned his horse around, driving away from Kors.
Kors tried his best to see his face. “Shit! Something large, squat, powerful, like Zaf himself. Covered with black wool… No, it’s not wool, but it looks very much like thick, dark brown, almost black, fur. Not an animal. Zaf is not a beast. He is closer to Nik. An insect. Thick hairy paws, consisting of several joints. located around the body. A lot of them.”
Moving away from Kors, Zaf, as if sensing his gaze, turned around, and Kors saw his round dark eyes flash. Two huge round eyes. “No, damn, it’s the round plugs in his nose that shimmer dark green, not his eyes at all!”
Kors shook his head, warding off the obsession. What did Zaf mean? He was very serious and even somewhat nervous. He was afraid for Kors. Gods! Thoughts rushed about in Kors’ head like thunder lightning: “The demon said: “I will develop and train you.” What does it mean? Train him like Arel? But what’s the point of making Kors mute? Fasten his tongue like the prince’s one? Kors hears everything and can carry on any conversation mentally. For Arel, probably, this torture was beneficial, forcing him to develop an internal dialogue. Arel was dumb and didn’t hear anything except the phrase: “I allow you to come.” The demon suffered with him and was forced to make him dumb. The lack of physical ability to pronounce words aloud involuntarily stimulated the prince to look for other ways of communication. Compensating for his dumbness, he developed.
But Kors doesn’t need it. He sees people’s lives, to say nothing of standard chatter. There is no point in developing it. What else? To be a slave like a prince? Sitting naked at the feet of his owner while he smokes and plays cards – is this development? Nik said, “I don’t like beating you,” and he usually expresses himself clearly. However, at the limit, he beat him up without the least effort. And what? Didn’t he like it? Doesn’t he want it? Doesn’t he love it? Well, but Prince Arel still loves it! I’m done! They will beat me like I beat them, “mirror”, as Nik says. What to do? What should I do? Call Zaf for help? After all, he hinted at it. How humiliating. Zaf said, “Don't be a hero.”
Kors felt scared.
Chapter 2
To top it all off, as if responding to Kors’ gloomy mood, the weather turned bad and it began to rain. At first small and barely drizzling, very quickly it turned into a deafening downpour, and the unclean ones decided to finally stop for a full-fledged halt. They began to put up tents for the night, but while this was happening, Kors managed to get wet through. He froze and no longer understood why he was shaking, from the cold or from fear. Wrapping himself as tightly as possible in a long cloak, he stood near his horse and waited impatiently for the unclean ones under Parky’s command to set up a tent. Kors had already forgotten the last time his tent was set up. During all the campaigns, he always lived with “his boys”, but this time he didn’t know what to do. Nik and Arel had gone far ahead and were lost in the rain and bustle of preparing for a halt. Where did he have to go? After all, he also had his own place to sleep. As always while waiting, Kors lit a cigarette nervously. Trying not to get his cigarette wet, he bowed his head hard, pulling his hood up as far as he could. And at that moment, in his mind, the order sounded very clearly: “Come here!” Kors flinched in surprise and immediately threw the half-smoked cigarette aside. Where was he supposed to go? He looked around nervously. Where in this confusion did he have to look for Nik? Kors nevertheless decided to go a little forward, in the direction where they had left earlier. He couldn’t ignore the order, he simply was not able to do it, to disobey. Even physically. His legs themselves carried him to no one knows where in the depths of the camp being set up. He barely had time to grab his horse by the bridle, leading him along. Not having made even a couple of dozen steps, Kors saw a dark figure, clearly heading towards him. Despite the fact that the walker was wrapped in a cloak, and his face was hidden by a low-pulled hood, Kors didn’t doubt who was in front of him. Such a proud posture of a born master could only belong to the prince. Arel approached. In the evening twilight and the veil of rain, his gray face looked absolutely inhuman. It was a dead mask. Beautiful and equally repulsive in its icy indifference.
“Follow me, you’re going to spend the night with us,” Arel told him without any intonation.
“But…” Kors glanced back at his nearly pitched tent in confusion, “but after what happened? Why?”
Arel shrugged his shoulders lazily.
“It doesn’t concern me, so said Nik,” and, turning away, he headed in the direction from which he came.
