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Chapter one
Business bustle reigned in the Ore town and its environs. Yes, of course, Ore town was not such a huge and densely populated city as the capital of the Black Ones. The Black City was home to at least a million inhabitants: black, half-blood and unclean. Stretching for many kilometers, it was the center of this world, and in fact it was a few cities which united in the Upper, Lower and Unclean limits.
And only about twenty thousand people lived in Ore town. But it had its own indescribable charm, and was not at all a dirty and gray town of miners and dusty mines, as one might think. No.
Ore town was bright and beautiful. The reds loved contrasting colors and painted their homes and palaces with tall, twisted spires in all the colors of the rainbow. Their city seemed like an outlandish toy, a piece of jewelry, covered in gold and carvings. The richness and beauty of Ore town was also facilitated by the large quantities of diamonds and other precious stones mined here. Not all of them went to the Upper World, and the townspeople prospered. A motley crowd seethed in the streets, as bright as the surrounding houses. Smart, richly decorated men, women and children walked in numerous parks, rested in open restaurants, gathered in groups like flocks of exotic birds, talked noisily with each other, and cheerful laughter could be heard from everywhere. The market squares were filled with townspeople, women in embroidered capes meticulously choosing from a variety of goods on the shelves. Free townsfolk were not at all as downtrodden and submissive as Lis portrayed to Karina. They were not altered or mutilated, nor did they wear a completely covering cape. Such a fate was prepared only for slaves, and even then, not for all.
The town belonged to several wealthy families who had their shares in the mines. There were seven of them, and they all competed in the beauty and luxury of their palaces. A long time ago, they agreed that each family would have its own primary color. Therefore, the city had: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, blue and purple palaces, and all the servants and slaves also wore the colors of their master, depending on which house they belonged to. The tall spires of the intricately twisted towers of the Palace of the City Mayor Kudmer shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, connecting the seven families together, so that the city could easily be called not Ore, but Rainbow town. And the high gloomy mountains with mines in its vicinity didn’t spoil the bright festive impression at all. The city of miners here, in the Lower World without a sky, was beautiful, as if its inhabitants, who came here from the Upper World many generations ago, tried to compensate for their longing for the real sky and the sun, making their habitat so festive and elegant. They managed to do it. And, of course, the outlandish bright Ore town amazed the imagination and forever remained in the memory of any traveler who visited and saw it.
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.
Igmer freezes:
“Alis? Where you're from?”
And the half-bloods tells the name of a seedy town, almost a village that Igmer knows all too well.
“Why is your last name, Alis?”
“That was my mother's name,” he is not surprised by the question, apparently he is often asked. Igmer notes to himself that the guy keeps well, doesn’t curry favor with him, despite the fact that he is a clear half-blood and this is now his advantage over other prisoners. But he behaves like black, and doesn’t make the slightest attempt to creep into the confidence of the red to save his life.
“And the name of the father?”
“I don’t have a father,” the redhead half-blood answers without any emotion, and Igmer moves away from him. Later, he gives the order to feed the captives, all the while mentally returning to the guy Atley Alis.
In the evening he comes to look at him again, scrutinizes him, as if thinking, and as if trying to solve something for himself. The half-blood is very thin, emaciated, and it is strange that he had the strength to fight. Igmer watches as he hastily eats from a rough iron bowl, without distraction, but not as greedily as one might expect, with some dignity. Only he doesn’t know that the reds, mocking their captives, poured them a soup from a trough for pigs, he doesn’t know it and doesn’t seem to even guess, is not surprised at the taste.
“And what does Crassus feed you in his school?”
The prisoner interrupts for a second, looks at Igmer:
“Nothing,” he finally says seriously and continues to eat.
Igmer breaks down and abruptly takes the plate away from him, splashing the remains on the floor:
“Give him a normal meal!” He shouts. And the red-haired half-blood looks at him with incomprehension.
“You look bad,” Igmer said finally, forcing himself to look away from the hungry red.