The roadside inn was not crowded during the day.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, sir, very much,” the red warrior answered quickly. His clothes were frayed and torn in several places, his gilded shoulder pads and bib were dented, there were abrasions on his forehead and sharp chin, and his right hand hung from a sling.
The old man nodded to the maid, and the girl quickly placed a plate in front of the young warrior.
“Eat,” the old man winced, “you smell with tobacco so much. Even the smell of food doesn’t kill this vile stench.”
The warrior froze:
“I beg your pardon, sir Igmer.”
“Eat,” the man nodded imperiously towards the plate of stew. He was no longer young, and his hair was grey like a mountain ash with hoarfrost. The whiskey was almost white. Clothes made of scarlet brocade were decorated with embroidered patterns and precious stones, luxurious fabric shimmered in the sun rays falling from the windows, and flames seemed to run through it. And in spiky yellow-orange eyes, despite his age, fire also danced. He literally burned the red warrior with an attentive gaze.
He, embarrassed, began hastily and awkwardly to wield the spoon, holding it in his left hand, hastily sipping from a deep bowl.
Igmer sat down opposite and began to look at him thoughtfully.
It was a long time ago… a very long time ago… and… like yesterday. They utterly defeated the enemy’s army at Komra, most of the blacks died in a deadly cauldron of encirclement, and those who survived were captured and very soon will envy their dead comrades.
“This one, half-blood, is very fast, he fought well,” his adjutant says to Igmer and points to the young soldier.
Bright red, thin and short, with neat, but at the same time a bit predatory facial features, the prisoner looks like a wild beast, directly in the eyes, not lowering his gaze, not bowing his head, his mouth is stubbornly compressed into a hard line.
“Yes, I noticed him on the battlefield, and not only because of his hair. He fought to the last.”
“A young animal from the school of Daniel Crassus.”
“Another cannon fodder from the school of Daniel Crassus,” Igmer shakes his head skeptically. “What is your name, red half-blood?” He addresses the prisoner in black language.
“Atley Alis,” he answers, still not embarrassed, looking with narrow yellow eyes full of hatred.