Dust dancing in the air with her hooves in the air, clogging her nose now and then. The farmer sneezed, not daring to raise his eyes up - only a richly decorated harness spoke of the high origins of unexpected guests. - To the left, " the old man stuttered, fearing the wrath of the noble gentlemen. His hand, stretched in a thin glove, rose majestically and two coins fell into the dust - right in front of the peasant - with a muffled ringing.
The gold flashed dimly and the old man, daring not to believe his luck, rushed forward. His crinkled fingers scraped over the ground, grabbing a full palm of dust with the money. Another coin - another fiery glow of fire rolled on a little further and lurked under the plantain leaf. Two golden ones are a fabulous sum, but the rider does not care about money. A commanding hail, side spurs, and light-legged horses run at the same time - only the last one with a younger rider is half a step behind. And again, the clubs of dust hovering over the desert road, leaving behind the third village.
Few people see these riders: you can hear only a rare horse rusting and hooves banging. And if a tramp still has to hear these sounds at dusk, then soon in the villages and towns, another legend about the Ghost Guard of the Lower Denied is walking around. This time they meet only three people. The old man. A boy. Yes, some girl waving her hand after flashing in front of her detachment for a moment. The leader does not care about them - it is the duty of the churchmen and inquisitors, and the life of the freckled boy-servant becomes a little longer.
The road is covered with an invisible black ribbon at night and dirty gray during the day. Winter. The leader and his companion haven't seen snow for a long time - too seldom they are released into the outside world like a scarlet ruby lit up for the last time. In these places winter is indistinguishable from summer-only heavy, swollen clouds hang over their heads, forbidding them to see the forgotten blue sky.
The red grain and red hair, which are not hidden by a light helmet anymore, are burning in the consciousness on the face along with the wind. Moments of unforgettable freedom. Anyone who once had a name knows that no matter how fast they hurry, it is impossible to have time to do so. The one who sent them knows this, too. What is his purpose, if it is so clear that even they can not return to the former prisoner who left it. But there is a scarlet light in front of the eyes, a clear order, fresh wind in the face, miles of unfamiliar roads left behind, and people"s faces distorted by the usual fear of seeing them. In this new, changed world of overthrown gods, those who once praised them and those who were once respected along with the gods have themselves descended to serve their present masters.
The one whose name has long been burned and turned to ashes in the heat of a scarlet ruby knows that he is only a prisoner like the one he was sent to search for. Perhaps, if he had"t had only holes in his memory, he would have been able to even remember the face of his target, because he was captured and put on duty as many years ago. The name - former Lord Daryien Nick - does not tell him anything. Only the rags of the memories move for a moment before disappearing again in the scarlet flame, in front of his eyes, overshadowing the reality, there appears another"s smile, a black heap of hair with a tangled four-leaf clover, a hot breath, a hot volcano flame, a burning neck and a quiet shimmering lute. The stomach of the hooves is ruthless just like the one that captivated their flame - the smile melts, and only the familiar whisper rustles in their ears. …
They arrive in the city at dawn, when neither night darkness nor morning fog swaddling hides from the eyes quiet, as if extinct narrow streets and gray, collapsed walls of the prison, above which, having spread green branches in all directions, rises a tree, equal to which is not even in the forests of eleven lords. There is no point in searching the ruins - the one who waited for almost three hundred years for this miserable chance to leave the walls holding it, is no longer here for a long time. The very air in this extinct town smells and is soaked in magic, it is its sparks play now on carved leaves of a tree, in a matter of minutes has grown and destroyed to the ground and hated prison and shackles. The mission is accomplished.
The one who sent them foresaw this, it would be surprising if the outcome was different. The commander of the ghostly detachment looks back at his six companions. Unchangeable, not aged for a single day, the cheerful and gloomy faces at the same time, and only the youngest of them, once a sixteen-year-old redhead still twirls his head around, fidgeting in the saddle of his trotter.
