The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19

Kors stretched sweetly, and, still in a good mood, mentally called Parky, addressing him: “Parky! This is your hangman. Set down the camp and bring my horse to the White Lord’s tent.”

Parky didn’t react to the “joke” and immediately answered him absolutely neutrally: “Yes, commander.” Like nothing happened yesterday.

Very quickly — Kors had just managed to get dressed — his captain appeared near their tent. He rode on his horse, and without any rope, Grrkh obediently followed him, who still had neither a saddle nor a harness. Verniy immediately began to saddle it for Kors, and Kors, already in words, asked his foolish wolf if everything was in order in their camp, and heard the usual answer that everything was in perfect order.

“Tell Adrian to come here, let him ride next to me,” Kors ordered, “and you watch the carts.”

“Yes, Commander,” Parky saluted, and they parted.

Kors didn’t care about Parky now, he no longer wanted to beat him and punish him. The anger subsided, replaced by an overshadowing joy from the fact that Nik didn’t stop loving him. However, a little later, when they were already driving along the road, Kors, a little moving away from the initial euphoria, began to think about what had really happened? Did he manage to get away with it? Or not? Nik and Arel won’t pressure him anymore? Kors dodged the “reflection” with an iron bar? He couldn’t give an exact answer and a guarantee to this.

They rode all day. And Kors felt tired. A surge of strength and joy passed, as if he borrowed them, and here it is — repayment with interest. He barely made it to a short halt, literally slipping off his horse and falling on the skin near the fire lit by Verniy. Valentine began to boil some stinking rubbish in a pot. Nik and Arel were in no hurry to leave their horses. Standing next to them, they examined them and discussed something quietly. Arel lifted the front leg of his Beauty with his hand, leaning towards it and carefully examining his knee joint. Kors realized that he was madly wanting to drink or take a reducing agent. He lay on the skin on his side. The smell of Valentine’s stew seemed unbearable, he was sick, and every minute more and more.

“So be it,” Kors thought doomedly, and as soon as Nik approached the halt site, Kors nervously sat down and asked:

“Nik, will you give me the restorative?”

In his heart, Kors was even afraid that Nik would suddenly refuse him and not give him the restorative. But Nik immediately took out a box from his bag.

Moreover, he said:

“Here, take it for several days at once, so as not to ask every time,” and handed Kors a couple of small glass bottles. Tightly sealed, they retained within themselves a concentrate of restorative power.

“Do you have something to dilute it? Or should I give you?” he asked Kors, also sympathetically.

“I have, Nik, thanks…”

After a couple of hours they went on, and Kors didn’t regret at all that he had taken the drug, perfectly aware that otherwise he simply wouldn’t have been able to continue the journey. And now, having eaten Valentine’s stew with relish, he felt quite cheerful on a horse. And so it continued. On short halts, Kors took the restorative, and after that he could go further in a good mood. After about three or three and a half hours, he began to get sick, and his mood deteriorated. Hishead became heavy, and unpleasant sensations rolled in a panic wave, knocking down the breath. His body was covered with sticky sweat, and he had no strength to remain in the saddle. But, fortunately, they often stopped for short halts, and Kors immediately “cheered up” in this way, interrupting from hour to hour and enduring this tedious road.

The unclean ones rode day and night. Nothing special happened. But it was enough for Kors that Nik was there. He didn’t talk much to Kors, he was silent and seemed to be tired, exhausted, but he didn’t drive Kors away and didn’t humiliate him. During the halts, Nik didn’t part with his crutch and could hardly walk, strongly dragging his lame leg. His face was still covered with bandages, and he, too, was taking the “restorative”, Kors saw with bitterness that bleeding ulcers reappeared on his son’s arms.

At one of the next short halts, Nik threw back his hood with some anger, and, moving the hair covering his face to the side, pressed his hand to the bandage on his mutilated cheek:

“Oh-oh-oh…”

“Nik, are you hurt? What’s up with you?” Kors immediately became alarmed.

“It twitches terribly and itches under the bandages,” Nik complained.