doubt they tried to be aloof from the soldiers, made scornful faces and avoided dealing with simple warriors, but the sergeant could put up with it.
Only once an incident happened when stupid Luther drank too much beer, clutched a young she-mage in the corner of the tavern and got handsy. Nevertheless the sergeant didn’t have to interfere – he just watched Luther running like hell to the backyard. The sergeant could swear that Luther’s pants were steaming at that moment. The rest of that evening Luther was sitting in the water trough – as soon as he raised his bottom from the water, his pants started smoldering again. So the incident was over at that point by demonstrative but not very violent punishment. Whisker apologized to the fiery she-mage – she listened to him dryly keeping a scornful grimace on her beautiful face. The sergeant promised to punish the retard and the incident was over.
The fiery she-mage… a well-groomed bitch considering herself blue-blooded.
Although… Whisker thought it would be nice to spend a couple of hours with such a pretty maid at the tavern hayloft. She was so curvy – built for comfort. But it could happen only in his dreams – such a peach was definitely not for soldiers, tavern girls was their maximum level. The second mage – a man with a well-groomed grey beard – was always reading, even while riding a horse. He was turning over pages calmly and making some notes by a white feather from time to time. The sergeant was sure that the grey-beard mage had never dipped his white feather into the ink-pot but the feather kept on making notes that only the mage could understand. It was magic. And it was better to keep away from it. As well as from the mages. Only in that case you could be safe and sound. Although the scribe-mage was trying to keep aloof, he didn’t make anyone angry as he paid attention to nothing but his books with worn-out pages. He wasn’t looking even at the graceful young enchantress riding nearby. And the attentive soldier’s eyes couldn’t miss the fact that such disregard of her beauty and youth irritated and even drove the fiery enchantress angry. But she tried to conceal her feelings as she was obviously afraid of the mage – her companion – there was a peculiar aura of nobleness and power of the ancient aristocratic clan around him.
In the last village, that they passed without halting they met a talkative peasant. He explained how to get to their destination in detail but refused flatly to be their guide and to accompany them, even a copper coin as a reward for his help couldn’t tempt him. Neither could five coins. He must be living in clover since he refused money so easily. But actually when the peasant started murmuring something about a ‘dark priest’ dwelling in Forest Metochion and raising the undead from their graves, the sergeant realized that he was talking to the insane. What an absurd collocation – Dark Priest! How did he manage to use two contradictory words together? What was the elder thinking about? A dozen of scourges was not enough to punish him for such gossips. But three dozens of scourges would be up to the handle to prevent him from bothering other people with his silly fairy-tales. As soon as he recovered from the punishment, he would become cleverer and would learn to keep his bad mouth shut!
In contrast to the indignant sergeant one of the priests treated the peasant’s fairy-tales rather seriously and asked him about all the details absolutely ignoring the fact that the entire detachment was waiting for him under the scorching sun. The sergeant was about to roar at the frail puritan. He wanted to remind him who the principal was but facing the cold glance of ultra blue eyes he got embarrassed, kind of fizzled out and didn’t dare to open his mouth. When the priest came to the horse, took a red belt out of the cantel bag and wrapped it carelessly round his waist, the sergeant started sweating with fear and