"Then I'll show myself to you." His figure melted away. It was an obsession. And, oh, the horror of what I saw! At that very moment four novices carried out the withered mummy of an old man with his unnatural body parts bandaged around the poles. Huge wooden poles, smaller and smaller sticks. Like a rack, an endless torture. "Relentless guard," a mysterious whisper suggested, its voice seeming to echo from everywhere. Bandaged in the most ghastly of forms were hands to a tree. One finger to one side, the other to the other. One of his hands was free, but he didn't need to lift it – I met his gaze. His clouded faded eyes opened. "Is he really still alive!" An unexpected conjecture struck me. "Withered, but still alive," the space around me said benevolently.....

I woke up. Birds were singing outside the window, quiet music was playing somewhere. There was a woman's quiet laughter. I lay on the bed and looked at the ceiling. This dream torments me every time I fall asleep. Ever since I got my freedom. The memories are as fresh as the first day. It's as if it's the first time. That's why I try to exhaust myself before I fall asleep, so I don't dream about it. "Well, how are you? Still alive? I'm so handsome, aren't I?" came a voice in my thoughts. I jumped up. He was about to say something else funny, but the connection to the Fortress Keeper had dissipated, as had the remnants of the dream.

And I was left sitting. Alone in bed behind a wooden screen. The wind blew fallen leaves right into my bed. It was better to get up right away than to listen to it, especially in slumber. I put my hand to my forehead and yawned sweetly. "Where am I? How beautiful! Embroidered with colorful threads… a fabric blanket? Looks like I slept like a king tonight!" flashed through my mind, and the memories of the previous day came over me in a rushing wave that swept away all obstacles.

I was surrounded by an unfamiliar interior, but it gradually rose in my memory. There was that window with the thinnest white cloth, from which the whitish light streamed. The ancient stone walls. Opposite me hung a painting, or even an ancient, ornate tapestry depicting an ancient event – the landing of the Dawn expedition on the shores of Amber Island. A small but richly decorated room. There's my bedside chest, where my belongings lurk. Here was the plaster that had crumbled to the floor when K'Yoevghahn had slammed the door in his usual rude fashion yesterday.

I got up. It was unusual to feel unclothed as an undead assassin. After wrapping and securing the straps, I checked and set my crossbow forward. The locking mechanism was multi-shot. I lifted the crossbow's affix with my thumb, and beneath it was a branding with the Dwarven numeral three. A circle, symbolically representing the Titan, and three points in different directions. I see, so it's a three-shooter. It's the kind of fake that the dwarves of the Blue Mountains supply to the special guards of Kostegrad.

I shook it, "It's strong!" ran my eyes over the smooth wood once more and fastened it behind my back – it fit perfectly. I bent down. Sat down. It doesn't constrict movement – "just what you need". I took my hunter's bag from the back of the chair and left the room.

A servant of Count Feanoth's house approached me. If one paid attention to his demeanor, he must have never had to leave the castle in his life. He walked down the corridor with his fist clenched in front of him. I didn't understand these mannerisms. It's one thing to hold your hand up, defending yourself from the creatures of the cover, and another… "this."

"Hunter, are you awake yet?" He was thinking about something of his own, so he faced me nose to nose in the doorway, "What carelessness! On the other hand, maybe that's why we exist, to protect people like him. Those who can't stand up for themselves." I looked at him from head to toe, "Put him in that caftan against Ulrich, the fight would be over immediately. And the knight won't even spare such an inexperienced opponent. I wonder if he can overpower a hound? Yes, no! Where can he go!"

His eyes widened as they met mine. What he read in them was a mystery to me. The servant's voice trembled, "Count Feanot is waiting for you. Come along." He waved a graceful, slender hand in a white glove, inviting me to follow him politely. Turning on his heels so that he even made the hem of his clothes rise up, the servant, beating a rhythm with his heels, headed down the corridor in the right direction.

"I don't think you could kill even a perootle!" I shouted after him. "Oh! That would be a terrible insult. If I said it to Ser Wimal Yaniso, he would challenge me to a duel. Even the boys of the Order can slay the lowliest wretch from the lowest creature of the cover. What to speak of seasoned warriors like the white knight. Turtlenecks, gown and white collar… Ugh! How can you fight in that?"

"We all have a job to do, hunter." But this guy didn't even bat an eye. The man turned around politely, raised his hands and folded them in some special gesture, grasping the edges of his cuffs.

"What is this? Magic?" I squinted at the unusual gesture. "Maybe he's a court magician, just with a quirk," I thought to myself.

"Oh, you mean that," the servant smiled and waved his hand lightly, then folded his arms across his chest, "it's just gallantry and fashion. I apologize for embarrassing you. Please come along, Count Feanot doesn't like to wait."

"So 'this' is called 'gallantry,'" I finally explained to myself this phenomenon, so sharply at variance with my picture of the world.

"He's probably right," I thought, and for some reason I got cold feet. Someone has to defend the wall, and someone else will walk around in a caftan and fold their fingers in an exquisite manner in front of their guests. I sighed and followed. When the servant saw that I had followed him, he continued on his way, turning around just as gallantly. The hem of his robe swept into the air again.

…

The feasting hall was being used for a meeting today. Fourteen hunters, who had been sent out by the Order to fulfill the Count's assignment, were seated here. Two hunting dogs were warming themselves by the fireplace. The exorcists settled down, removed their bags and other articles of clothing, and hung them on the backs of massive oak chairs. Spears and swords were laid out. I was the only one with a crossbow. I laid it down in front of me.

The huntress girl across from me had her feet on the table, swinging on the oak chair. I'd never seen a girl hunter before, so I looked in her direction. She pulled her hat over her eyes, showing with her whole look that she was ignoring me. We're loners.

To my right sat a hunter so ancient that he literally had glowing mushrooms growing on him like a chill. His hand twitched involuntarily from time to time, and saliva flowed from his mouth now and then. His shoulder was adorned with a servant's patch that read, "Meritorious Service to the Order of Hotta".

Opposite him, a thieving-looking assassin of the cold ones ran his eyes. With one arm over the back of his chair, he was picking at his teeth with a dagger. When he met my gaze, he nodded. "What do you want?" he said.

To his right sat the Best of Us. His hands were folded, his chin resting on them, and he was thinking about something. His ancient milchemist mask looked like a raven's beak. Once upon a time, one of the Archmages of Theanoth had cursed a fellow hunter of the Chill to never die. What drove him to such a strange curse, no one knows. But that hunter had somehow found a way to twist the spell, and now it worked differently, becoming a title among the exorcists. The Best-of-us really can't just die from the paws and claws of monsters. However, if he is in a group with other hunters, he may well die. And then will be chosen by lot again, among the survivors. Or as in the case of the current hunter – the last surviving member of the group will be recognized as The Best-of-us.

"Gorevetr! Is that you?" asked one of the hunters with a sword.

"I am," nodded one of the hunters with an axe.

"Don't die," grinned the killer of the creatures of the canopy.

"Don't fall off your hooves like your horse. By the way, where is she now?" Gorevetr answered him with a reciprocal grin.

"Feeding fish," the swordsman said, grinning.

"Fish? You can tell me later where you found fish in the depths of the continent," the axe-wielder shook his head approvingly.

I knew very well where one could lose a horse that way. Here, near the Castle, there's an old quarry filled with land fish. The locals often ask to rescue some livestock or get something out of it. Or who. There's piles of gold down there. Fools' gold. People go down to get rich, but all they find is a pack of land fish and hungry fish. They can be very hard to kill, especially in winter. These strange creatures survive even after a few blows to the head. Rumor has it that even the brain-deprived body of one of these amphibians continued to hunt for several more months.

Finally, Count Feanoth appeared. The honor guards froze to the right and left of the entrance, the hound dogs ran past and sprinted out of the hall. The Keeper of the Castle stood across from us, directly beneath a large hunting trophy in the form of a stag's head. It was the Horned Stag that was the symbol of Castle Feanoth. For this reason, two white and blue banners with the image of this noble animal were hanging to the right and left of the effigy. The castle Feanoth, the namesake of the clan, was an ancient barrier separating the lands of Fortress Ruch, which left behind its traditionally white color, as well as the lake fjords of the Northmen and the dwarves who lived in the Blue Mountains.

Myrtel Feanoth, to be precise, a hereditary nobleman and owner of these lands, looked around at everyone gathered. Apparently this meeting was unofficial or private, because the herald did not announce his appearance to all assembled. Stopping at "The Best-of-us" with a heavy gaze, of all those present at the massive table, the Count nevertheless addressed everyone, "Hunters, murderers of the fell! Of the plague that is spreading through our lands. I need your help in clearing the Rube Tract." He once again looked at everyone sitting in the hall with his penetrating eyes, but no one uttered a word.

And so the Count continued, "I wish to send my youngest daughter to Kostegrad and marry the son of the Keeper of those lands. To make the journey safe, I have asked the Order to provide fourteen brave men to clear the way of the most dangerous cold and infected creatures of the canopy."

"How much are you paying?" addressed the hunter who sat to the right of The Best-of-us. Everyone in the hall looked in his direction.

"I've already paid the Order. Didn't you receive your salary?" The Count studied the man who dared to ask the question with genuine interest. There was a royal condescension in his tone. The question itself was provocative. According to the laws of the Empire and the Order's statutes, hunters are forbidden to take more than one coin per task on pain of death.

"According to the king's decree," the mercenary tossed the gold coin carelessly onto the table, "we are entitled to this as payment for our work. Yes, it is! But it's not enough to even take a piss in your town. If that's all, you can slaughter me in the square for refusing to serve the Order and canceling my contract."

One of the hunters, tall and broad-shouldered, stood up and pounded his fist on the table. "The employer must provide his hunters with good, or even the best weapons he has. That is the law!" roared the huge man, who looked more like a bear.

The Count turned his head and leaned to the side.

"You will have a full hunter's kit. You'll get everything you need near the stalls, as well as a horse," the descendant of the Feanoth family commented disapprovingly on the assassins' performance.

"That's another matter!" The big man rejoiced and sat down at the oak chair. It rattled under such a large man. I realized why the giant had stood up. He would not let the earl say anything, such as rebuking the other hunter for insulting the dignity of his house. I don't think the Count would do that, though. Except that he doesn't blow dust off us.

The lord of the borderlands raised his face and addressed the crowd. His tone was now completely impassive, "We have held a tournament and summoned knights to fight evil. They will march ahead of you straight down the path and crush everything they see on and along the road. Your task is to go near the path and destroy all the lairs and everything that will be farther away, but represents a serious danger when moving along this path. You need to make sure the knights don't miss anything."

There was a creak in response, one of the exorcists of the chill took out a knife and scraped it across the beautiful oak table, leaving deep nicks. Then he raised his weapon and looked at its sharpness.

"You don't need to tell us how to do our job. It will be done…better. As best as it can be, after this shitty oser...." he spat out.

"If that is all, then I dare not detain you any longer." The Count's response was a mass shifting of chairs and a clamor of black robes.