Текст книги "Eric (СИ)"

Автор книги: Марина Шпак

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Шпак Марина Владимировна
Eric

Chapter 1

Frozen a warm mushroom rain. Rare rays of the sun seemed to say goodbye to the leaves and grass, caressing them at last with neat touches. A dense fog was already flowing light, milk haze between the mighty trees, trying to fill the entire district. A blonde boy of about fourteen was flying along a forest path, touching the ground a little. Behind him, picking up his skirt, his mother was in a hurry. They fled the last of their strength, but it was impossible to stop, because the killers were chasing them. The guy wanted to stop and meet the offenders with dignity, as they killed his father, his two sisters and his three older brothers – his whole family – before his very eyes. The hatred and lust for revenge soared, bursting out of control, but the mother's strict look forced her to keep her prudery and continue her flight. They were heading to the old family crypt to hide from the chase. There were rumors that he was fascinated to safely store those who had blood in their veins, it is possible that this is fiction, but they have nowhere to hide. When the entrance to the crypt was just a few steps away, her mother screamed. Eric turned around and saw that she was sitting on the ground, and her pale face reflected fear, but what is there – a real horror. Seeing that her son hesitated, she yelled angrily: "Run! ". The guy wanted to rush to her, but two arrows whistled just next to him and had to hurry to hide behind a tree. Fear, pain, hatred – all mixed up in the body of this still very young man and seethed, issuing silent tears that quietly and helplessly rolled down his cheeks. Fortunately, to amuse himself with self-pity, the beloved did not give him-an arrow hit the trunk of the tree, and the mother crawled away, trying to distract the pursuers. He wiped his tears and, taking advantage of the moment, rushed to the side of the crypt to hide there. A jump, another jump and now a spiral staircase. Flying into the hall, he rushed past the resting ancestors to the far wall – there was in the corner a small niche near the floor, sufficient to hammer in and safely hide. Literally at the very wall, not noticing something on the floor, Eric stumbled, waved his hands and, knocking down some dust-covered stone from the ritual support, flew to the floor. The murderers who came next found a guy who was no longer breathing, apparently breaking his head in a hurry. His life was interrupted in May 6704 from the creation of the world, that is, in 1196.

The warm April days of 2006 were going on. All of Russia was preparing to selflessly drink vodka in honor of the May holidays, a miniature salary and zero prospects. Our hero did not consider it necessary especially to stand out from the crowd in this honorable cause. Prepared to prepare Artyom for everything thoroughly. That is why, first of all, I bought everything necessary in advance, and secondly, I chose a place on the shore of a small river near Moscow, where, due to natural silence, Bacchus will be paid due tribute. Yes, it is him, since no other ancient deity is in our honor, as this merry fellow and joker. But, alas, this time his plans were not destined to come true. Yesterday an old friend called Jean, whom they met at a historical festival in the distant 2001. They there managed, having typed "for acquaintance", to fall down in a cesspool near to a cowshed. The process of swimming in the fragrant pond and the selfless struggle for getting out so close to them, that the guys became friends. In fact, his name was not Jean, but Ivan Kolodka, but the nickname so attached to him that all friends and friends just so his name. He was known as a good master of art forging, but this is more for the soul than for the cause. He also lived by the fact that for the last seven years he had been making armor for lazy lovers waving a halberd or falshion on a bougurta. If you do not know, then the correct bugurt is a massive staged battle in authentic equipment. His affairs were going very well, and the armor was sorted out like hot pies, and for quite expensive. And in the spring of 2003 he moved to live in Switzerland and buys there a small country house with a plot of land in a remote countryside in order to enjoy the smithy crafts for wealthy lovers of armor exclusives from around the world in a pleasant and quiet environment. Last year, the idea came to expand the range of its activities and master the production of alcoholic beverages for authentic medieval technologies. Why alcohol? So in fact the bachelor's life obliges – though it is pleasant, but sometimes unbearably boring. And here not only its own, natural and quality, as they say, "without chemistry", so also authentic wine and mead. And the soul is nice, and health is not in harm. So, he found materials describing the ways of making such drinks, figured out the technologies and began to build working premises, starting with a spacious cellar for storage and aging. The basement was built in the regime of not hitting a recumbent, that is, without hurrying anywhere, with your own hands. And then – in his spare time from work in the smithy. All would be nothing, but just a week ago, during the digging of the cellar, our newly-born Swiss stumbled upon some ruins – either the roof of the old house, or something else, but clearly something medieval. Quickly having realized that it's better to keep quiet (is there not much that is valuable there? ), And quickly completed the barn over the place of the failed basement (for hiding from prying eyes), he called, as you already guessed, our hero. So, let me recommend – Artem Zhilin, 30 years old, associate professor at the department of medieval history in a major Moscow university. He teaches three medieval languages: vulgar Latin, Old Russian with its artificial church form (Old Slavonic) and Middle Greek, which, however, is also called Byzantine. He is also the organizer and participant of many visits to archaeological excavations and the permanent head of the club for military historical reconstruction at the university, where he teaches the children historical fencing and making replicas of equipment. For what "struck" a small room under the workshop and for several hours every day in the university gym. Agree – an interesting characteristic. At first glance it seems that he is "a member of the Komsomol, an athlete and just a beauty. " And if you dig deeper? Let's start with the nickname, because it often very well characterizes the person, and our sophisticated intellectual in certain circles was called just like the Mustang. Agree – uncharacteristic for a quiet and smiling dandelion, who lectures on the medieval world from the university department and occasionally, sweating from overexcitation, wipes his pince-nez with a handkerchief. Our hero was born into a poor family and from the very childhood had to literally gnaw out from life what he needed. Parents, of course, tried, but, alas, not everything was in their power and capabilities. Therefore, Artyom grew up a strong, energetic and very energetic man, who was used to trying to achieve his own without long discussions. While still studying at the institute, he started his own business, but all of us, dearly loved by us, came in 1997, and left him in almost the same family shorts, completely burned out. This lesson, received in the twenty-first year of life, affected the style of his work, as he did not even think of retreating and dropping his hands. Pritorgovyvaya every possible counterfeit goods – from disks with software to polished skulls and other extravagant crafts, he lived to the end of his training. Not very nice, but it was necessary to live somehow and for some means. And eat smelly, and sleep softer. 2000 was a turning point in his life – it was at this time that he was fond of military historical reconstruction and fencing. Studenthood came to its finale, and on the horizon, the prospects of enlistment in the Red Army squads of the name of Kashchenko began to be clearly outlined. Of course, on a budget department. No, he was neither lazy nor weak, but the service in the army did not bring him any personal benefit at all – some problems. Yes, yes, yes – many will resent what they say, but what about the Fatherland? Or put forward the theses, like "only service in the army will make you a real man. " Alas, all these arguments are empty, as he had to achieve everything in his life solely on his own, and when he began to rise, his beloved Fatherland threw him and deprived him of everything. And he was not engaged in any trade or other heresy, but deployed a small service to repair household appliances, that is, he did a useful thing for people and the Fatherland. As for the physical training, it was better for him than for most graduates, since one can and should achieve one's own and need differently. Sometimes it does not interfere with the eye, for understanding the words. Therefore, as a very pragmatic person, he considered service in the army as a waste of time and effort, and therefore applied for postgraduate study. Combining the passion and the forced measure, he was able to achieve a very good result and defended his excellent thesis. At the same time he pierces the experimental laboratory for the department of medieval history, where he is engaged in creating replicas of equipment and armaments and exploring them comprehensively. In the second year of training, using the equipment that he bought for the grandee he won, he began to produce a variety of thematic crafts for sale – primarily cast bronze and tin items. It went well, and not bad. Having realized what is happening, he not only turns around the laboratory a circle of military historical reconstruction, which, under cover of which, seriously increases the volume of production, but also begins to use students in the technological processes of the workshop itself. In general, in the spring of 2006, he operated a small workshop, in which enthusiastic students worked "for thank you", and he, selling through these acquaintances in one large store these articles, received up to 120-150 thousand each month. In total, his monthly income went for 300 thousand. True, for the sake of cover, he was forced to teach students, leading some ridiculous seminars and lectures. After such a recommendation, it remains only to add a few touches. The fact is that Jean of the serious archaeologists and historians in friends was only Artem, who from the graduate school diversified his leisure not only with official excavations, but also with black archeology, and therefore had vast experience in such matters. So there were few options, more precisely, there was only one named Zhilin. Our assistant, of course, agreed, took a two-week vacation at his own expense and flew as quickly as possible to Switzerland at the invitation, to meet with his intrigued friend. Fortunately, he already traveled more than once to Jean, so that he was given a visa very quickly and easily.

Jean met Artyom at the airport in Zurich. All problems at customs were quickly settled, and the guys moved forward towards the village house of our blacksmith, where, gloriously "pogudev", fell into a coma deep deep in the morning. And you thought that such a worthy and enthusiastic history of the guys will start right away to the point? Too bad. The guys at us have appeared romanticists, and to what romance the champagne of vodka in the company of the friend is alien? So it turned out that only by the evening of the second day they were able to walk, in an embrace with a terrible headache, to the place of excavation. The next ten days it is especially meaningless to describe, since the time dragged on quite monotonously, and represented some kind of organic symbiosis from alcoholic discussions, excavations and comatose dreams. By the end of the eleventh day they shoveled the quite impressive pit and were able to completely open a small building, which, apparently, was the entrance to a certain underground hall, as the ceiling of a more massive structure said, which turned out to be two meters deeper. Judging by all the external signs, it was some sort of medieval family crypt. We decided to enter the next day.

"Why? I needed a quiet place to work.

– And we have that, so you were prevented from killing the cuirass?

– Yes, they interfered. Do you remember how I ran around the authorities for the last year?

"Of course, only I still do not quite understand what exactly happened there. "

– It's simple – I tried to legalize to get a bank account and work normally with clients from countries of rotten capitalism.

"I remember that you left here almost immediately after that fuss. "

Right? Just there, legalized as an individual entrepreneur, I got a terrible amount of hemorrhoids and serious losses in finance, that is, I realized that now I'm working for food. You understand it's funny.

"So they tore it up? "

– Yes, exactly, and these clever men turned out to be so weak mind that they tore more than they could. But now they are on horseback – they do not get anything from me at all. And if they had smaller appetites, they could continue eating.

– I had orders from Germany and Britain, and customers wanted guarantees, as the amounts were rather big. It was absolutely wild to them that some master in far-away Russia is engaged in the manufacture of such high-quality handicrafts on the sly.

– Okay, let's not talk about sad things. What do you think of our find? I, frankly, find it difficult to comment on it. According to the style of architecture, it should refer to the early Middle Ages, maybe even to the Viking Age, and settle much further north. And then – no family vaults were built in those days, it was not accepted.

– Yes, I am also completely confused – no understanding of where it came from here. Especially since there were no locks and large settlements near those times. Okay, let's sleep. Tomorrow will be a hard day.

When they neatly opened the door in the morning and entered the room, they almost squealed with delight – judging by the thick layer of dust on the floor, this room had not been stepped by a man's foot for several hundred years. Can anybody imagine? The center of Europe and such finds! Wearing gas masks, taking flashlights and neatly descending the spiral staircase of stone, the guys got into a spacious hall with an area of about a thousand square meters. It was evenly studded with completely marble columns that were not decorated, supporting the grid of arched vaults. Between them the entire hall was filled with granite tables on which corpses that had been drained by time were lying in full parade. Almost all of the deceased were dressed in armor, and only a few are wrapped in pieces of decayed rags. It was embarrassing. The fact is that in the Christian tradition to bury with weapons is not accepted, and judging by the symbolism, this crypt was just that. In general – a completely incomprehensible and inexplicable phenomenon. At the far end of the hall was a free platform with a round bronze table of a strange kind in the center. While Jean was interested in picking chain mail on the nearest corpse, studying the shape of the rivets, Artem moved to this strange place. The table was in diameter of all centimeters thirty and had in the center a round support with a small notch in the form of an inverted pyramid. Through the dust, some letters appeared, so he gently cleared the pad and was able to read a passage of the phrase in Latin: "Animus intra manium ", the rest of the edge is destroyed along with the inscription, probably from time. A completely strange meaning, which, apparently, was some esoteric formula, alas, partially destroyed, in Russian it could be read as: "A living soul inside the soul of the deceased ". In general, it is completely incomprehensible, as, actually, and in general the purpose of this strange structure of cast bronze. After thinking about it, Artem began to circumnavigate the table, examining it for advice or other interesting details. Something rolled beneath the foot. He bent down and pulled out of the thick layer of dust a pretty decent polished piece of lapis lazuli or a similar egg-shaped stone. From one end this piece had a ledge in the shape of a pyramid. The first thought, as you guessed it, was to put this stone on a stand and evaluate the composition. Artem blew dust from the stand, looked back, looked at Jean's watchful and interested look, who, after neglecting the study of chain mail, watched Artem's actions, and inserted the stone into the hollow. Then he took three steps away from the stand, smiled and, momentarily frozen, collapsed to the floor. And the stone on the stand behind him sprang to the bronze surface of a handful of bright blue dust. Jean ran to Artem, felt his pulse and began to convulsively massage his heart. But it was too late – our hero left for the country of eternal hunting with a smile on his lips.

Severe pain in the head and darkness. Artem tried to understand what happened to him, but the reality swam away, as if chuckling at him. Even to collect thoughts did not work – they, reptiles, ran and jumped like mad in the head. Strongly muddied. His head and arms were wet and sticky in something, and his ears were so buzzing that all the sounds around him were oddly intertwined in a strange echo from the working transformer. An attempt to call Jean was not crowned with success-only a kind of choked wheeze flew from his throat, and even that was very quiet. Lying on the floor and plenty of old dust, Artem realized that there was nowhere to wait for help, and slowly crawled to the place from which he was drawn by a weak breeze. The darkness was pitch-black, so much so that sometimes thoughts of loss of sight came to my mind. The body completely disobeyed and was greatly numb, because of this in the hall he crawled for about an hour, from time to time losing consciousness and bumping into tables and columns. Then a lot of time left for the overcoming of the spiral staircase. Having got out upstairs, exhausted and tired our poor fellow finally disconnected. However, he was lucky that he got out into the fresh air, so the loss of consciousness slowly went into a healthy sleep. The morning awakening brought freshness and bodily vigor. Opening his eyes and stretching, he twisted – his head shot from every movement, again began to vomit. Apparently, a concussion occurred to him, but he could not understand what he could do about it. And where did Jean go? Did this hero leave him alone to lie in the dust? It's not like him. Slowly rising and with half-closed, sleepy eyes, he went out into the opening of the house he had unearthed. He looked in front of him and froze. A couple of times blinked and, opening his eyes wide, fell on the ass with a surprised expression on his face. How could it be otherwise? Around, instead of a pit with a shed was a forest, and the house was not in a large hole, but level with the ground. Miracles! Was he so magically caressed on the head that he became so exotic raving? At that moment, his head shot back with pain, and Artem, reflexively, grabbed her hand. Instead of a small, neat "hedgehog" were long hair laid in a hairdress – the usual plague, dirty. Sharply yanking his hand away from his head, he examined it. The state of general surprise intensified with each new fact – and now his gaze wandered over the hand of a teenager who, for some reason, was all smeared with blood. Hastily examining himself, Artem issued a plaintive howl, more like the whining of a battered dog – after all, he even had no hair between his legs. And instead of a well and harmoniously pumped body was the body of an ordinary teenager. Not very flimsy, of course, but a teenager. Charming, just charming!

Yeah, business. Not every day and not every character is in a similar situation. Well, what should I do? Lie down and die? It is necessary to understand. So, we have a situation connected with changing the perception of the surrounding reality. That is, our hero suddenly began to feel that the whole world around him changed. This can be the result of three incidents. First, he can sleep and see a remarkably realistic dream, in which he fully realizes himself. Secondly, his brain functions related to the processing of information received by the receptors were violated, in other words, the surrounding reality remained the same, just a defect in perception. Or, as a version of this version – just some sudden mental illness. Thirdly, it really turned out to be in some other spatio-temporal continuum, and its material realization, that is, the body, differs from the original version. What is the conclusion of all this? Surprisingly, the conclusion is the same and universal in the current situation. That is, in order to feel comfortable and organic, he must act as if everything that surrounds him is real. To do this, it is necessary to establish the most harmonious and natural interaction with the surrounding reality, that is, to live a natural and harmonious life. The question of the method of return arises, and, alas, is immediately excluded, because the memory of our hero does not possess information about the conditions and the "point of entry" into the current state, which speaks either of a "one-way ticket" or some factors that personally do not depend on it. Such factors can be anything – from a parade of planets in some stellar system, something there focused on a specific point of space, and the excessive concentration of a unique mixture of gases before the devil does not joke, divine intervention. He, of course, does not believe in the gods, but the fact of their existence, still does not exclude. So, sat our hero, puffed, touched an itchy temechko with a very solid wound and, beautifully telling the wind about all close and distant relatives of some grandmother for all the good things, began to look around. Literally ten steps from the crypt, they found a silk belt, and scraps of some dress. A small stash was sewn in the belt, only seven denarii and a dozen obolov. The grass was badly crushed and dirty in the blood – obvious traces of the struggle. He carefully studied his findings and again went into a stupor. The fabric was quite rough, and coupled with the storage method and type of coins, spoke of a low technological level. What a wonderful start! He still did not have enough to be in the Middle Ages. About the guys from the reconstruction clubs, all the options swept the blood, because it was a lot and it was fresh – so much blood could be lost, only with a good wound. It is possible that the person who bleeds died. In general, everything is somehow strange and suspiciously obtained. Well, all right, conclusions early. The sun had already risen above the treetops, and Artem decided to return to the crypt to examine it. Even during the excavation, he discovered a system of old copper mirrors to illuminate the room, and he decided to use them. He went downstairs, leisurely, walked around the hall, examining the corpses of long-dead people for profit. Strange as it may seem, the goal that led him to this crypt until he lost consciousness, not only did not go anywhere, but also intensified. Looting, though ignoble occupation, but he did not have options – he needs at least some property. As the fact that he is waiting for him ahead, he did not even imagine, therefore he considered it important to take out all the useful things from the current situation (and the crypt). Little help? For survival, all means are good. There was a lot of armor and weapons in the hall, but almost all of them were either not in size or substandard, mostly, of course, the last one. Rummaging through the bodies, he was able to discover only one thing that delighted him – it was a small crossbow, a very simple dressing, with glued bow and primitive descent. The body of the owner of this sensible unit was quite fresh and still unsweetenedly stank, which indicated a good chance of its functioning, albeit suffering from long-term storage. The most unpleasant thing was to remove the belt from the corpse with a hook. What did you want? Not everyone can restrain vomiting, gently embracing a fragrant stinking corpse. Our gatherer of ownerless property roamed the crypt for an hour and a half and chose a crossbow with a belt, a dozen bolts and a simple knife with a hard, narrow blade in neat sheath, in fact a dagger. By clothing, of course, it did not work out – either decayed, or badly in size, or strongly smelled of decay and decay so that a man in such clothes could easily accept a rebel dead man.

Gathering all his hare, the guy went out into the fresh air. Gently laying, bandaging and putting it on his shoulders, Artem went to look for some brook or other source of clean water. Went randomly, that is, on the only path that led from the crypt. It's hard to say whether he was lucky or not, but half an hour later they heard a distant murmur of the brook, which was discovered in about twenty minutes, but with great difficulty, as it flowed in thick reeds and willow. A little climbing along the stream he found a couple of large boulders, where he settled himself, to wash himself of his own blood.

Most of the day passed before Artyom, in damp but fairly clean clothes, went out again to the path. The tests of the crossbow resulted in a completely satisfactory result – his toy was stretched tightly with a belt, but beat quite accurately by 50 steps. The pull, snap, was no more than 80-85 kg, in general, for such devices a bit, because because of the short stroke of the bowstring, not all energy was transferred to the bolt. Although, it was difficult to assess the tension force because of a new body, which is still not used to. He walked quite quickly, as the evening was approaching rapidly. Already at dusk, from behind the turn, some wooden houses looked out, surrounded by a wooden wall with a gate. Nearby, at some distance was a very respectable courtyard with a busy homon inside. It was like either a big village or a small town with a completely mesmerizing view, especially the rooftops covered with rotten straw and the almost complete absence of traces of a technocratic civilization. Neither a crumpled pack of cigarettes, nor a used condom. Even the road looked as if the car did not defile it with its tires. This greatly alarmed and increasingly reinforced the version of the assessment of the surrounding space-time continuum as a deaf Middle Ages. Having stood a little on the edge of the forest and crumpled, stepping from foot to foot, pondering what is waiting for him inside, our hero nevertheless decided to move to this yard and look at everything closer, since he did not want to sleep on the street at all. Inside was a lot of people who drank, ate and made noise behind simple wooden tables. They looked quite normal for the countryside in the Middle Ages, that is – dirty, primitive clothes from a homespun cloth. When Artyom closed the door almost the whole tavern, with pale, surprised faces, stared at him. Artyom chuckled, bowed to the audience and, ignoring the massive, unconcealed stupor among the Aborigines, approached the peasant behind the counter. There he in Latin asked him about the room for a rest and dinner. He something pomochal in some German dialect, scratched the back of his head and, seeing a misunderstanding, shouted to some Luka. A minute later, a young guy in a cassock approached them, and acted as an interpreter, although, of course, he knew Latin very badly. The room at night and dinner with breakfast cost one obol, and there was food – how much you eat. Having eaten in the room, Artyom took his place on the trestle, after barricading the door with the help of a shop, undressing and washing. About five minutes later, our new boy was already fluttering in the arms of Morpheus. The most unusual thing for him was that he had to explain for a long time about water for ablution. It was so unexpected for the locals that only the third time they realized what exactly he was asking. Apparently local humanoid living creatures are not at all accustomed to regular water procedures. Strangely enough, but the old jokes about the "European dirty" are quite natural. And these are trifles, in comparison with what awaits him in case it really is a natural European Middle Ages.

The morning came suddenly. To wake up, our dormouse has warmed up and warmed muscles for half an hour. Only after that I washed the remaining water from the evening, dressed and went down to the common room to eat. There was quite free and incomparable with yesterday's crowd, only a few visitors and the host. When Artem moved to the counter, wanting to order something for breakfast, someone shouted loudly behind his back: "Eric! " Of course, our hero did not pay any attention to this scream and, reaching the counter, began to set out to the stranger, who was looking at him in surprise, what he wanted to eat. He tried to convey his thoughts in Latin, but apparently his companion did not possess it, so it was very slow and difficult. Artem tried to speak on the Middle Greek, but on the increased diameter of the concentrated eyes realized that this language he had not even heard, unlike the first. This already on the nerves of fun could continue for quite some time, but one of the visitors came up behind him, slapped him on the shoulder and said something to the owner of the tavern in the already familiar German dialect. Everything immediately began to move, and after a couple of minutes they were already sitting with strangers at the same table and having breakfast. This strange visitor, who introduced himself as Rudolph, was quite tolerant of Latin, so he could talk to him. It turns out that it was he who called Erica, that is, it. Artem decided to play a little and said that he hit his head badly, so he does not remember anything, even his name and his native language, only Latin. In evidence, he showed a thread where under the hair was a dissected section of skin in a crust of baked blood. In general, having eaten well, managed to talk interestingly. Rudolf was the friend of Eric's father, and wanted to meet with him yesterday in this tavern, located near the small town of Aarburg, on the banks of the Aar river. But it didn't work out The day before yesterday he was killed with all the children. So today, with the dawn, they were taken to the Munster Abbey, which is a few hours' journey to the southeast, in order to prepare for the burial. And his, youngest son, and his wife began to look for. They thought that they could escape from the killers, who, incidentally, had already been caught and hung in the trees near the village. His new acquaintance was very kind and, seeing the sour face of our youngster, decided to please a little. It turns out that he had an uncle who lived nearby, in the castle of Lenzburg. After the story of the kindness and responsiveness of a loving uncle, Rudolph suggested that they conduct there, of course, promising to return with him to the burial of the family. All this was surprisingly gracious, although alarming. But, alas, judging by the face of this solid white-bearded man, who was simply shining with happiness at the sight of his son, who was accidentally surviving his beloved friend, and neatly arranged people who performed the roles of visitors, they had no choice. So he also had to smile and say in the most joyful voice that he was immensely grateful to such a good and decent person and would gladly accept his help. Word for word, but after half an hour they were already moving slowly along the road with a small escort. Artem trotted on the mare next to Rudolph, and he told him with a good-natured smile some funny stories about the adventures with his father.