Prologue

* * *

The Spider.

The Hunger.

The Octopus.

The Stinger.

The Beast.

The Chained.

A person in a long, church-like robe sat on the knees right in the middle of a circular cell-crypt. Hidden deep underground in the rock mass, as far away from any emanations or magical vibrations as possible. The face was concealed beneath a hooded hood, and only the tips of the fingers, without rings, peeped out from the wide sleeves. Despite the baggy garb, a stack of unusual cards fluttered about in the skillful hands, as if in a gambling house, where a cheat was ready to let another easy victim go to waste.

Over and over again, the adept carefully shuffled the deck, drawing the six cards one by one. And over and over again, the same pattern was repeated. For each card of the dark essence, the worst of all possible signs fell out. The last, seventh card remained to be drawn, but the adept's slender fingers blended the layout, shuffled the deck, and again drew one by one the round, dense cards of matted bone. Which are stronger than steel and lighter than fluff.

The Church condemns divination not derived from the venerable science of astrology and knowledge of the course of the stars in the sky. So the possessor of enchanted objects runs the risk of attracting the attention of the servants of Pantocrator, and, with special bad luck, of meeting the Demiurges, who multiply the knowledge useful and cut off the harmful. But everyone wants to know the future, everyone wants to discover their destiny. So there is little to stop the risk. And so the 'enchanted' decks of Dark Jotish are a good, marketable commodity, they are taken with great alacrity everywhere, from small fairs to the salons of the Kingdoms.

But true masters know that there is no such thing as 'enchantment'. You can create a reading with anything, even greasy cards from the lowest-rated tavern. Even simple scraps of parchment with charcoal marks. True divination lies in the soul of the reader, in the abilities, refined by years of training. The cards are merely the tool by which the diviner's vague visions are objectified. A mediator between the astral and the elemental. A translator from the unknowable language of the supernatural. And the material is only a matter of prestige and aesthetics. But now the fortuneteller wanted to change the deck in the blind hope of deceiving the universe.

The adept sighed, stirring the cards again. The fingers trembled slightly. It wasn't good. Weakness was always bad. And especially so when you have to peer into the darkness of what was to come, through a web of uncertainty and a thousand mirrors reflecting probabilities many times over. The thin round plates rustled softly in his hands. Suddenly the fortune-teller changed his mind, and the cards went into a bronze box made to their exact size. And in the light of a large oil lamp, a silk pouch was brought out, in which small wooden strips, no bigger than a little finger, were tapped.

Before finishing the ritual, the fortune-teller sat motionless for a while. The one firmly decided for oneself that this ritual would be brought to an end and would be the last. Fate should be met with an open face and a clear look. And it took a few minutes of meditation to calm the spirit.

The interpreter's gaze slid thoughtlessly over the stone walls draped with discreet but expensive curtains. Over a small round table with a half-dismantled 'lunar' astrolabe. Finally by the closet, which looked plain and simple but had some smartly hidden drawers which couldn't be opened without knowing the secrets. There was nothing else in the cell worthy of attention, not even books or scrolls. The owner regarded his private crypt as purely utilitarian, keeping only the bare necessities. There was a separate laboratory for alchemical experiments and a tower outside the city for making horoscopes. Every important occupation had to have its instruments.

The adept took a deep breath, trying to capture the tiniest nuances of the scent of the rose oil the lamp was filled with. It was the scent that was believed to promote peace and concentration. On the second breath, adept imagined the cold air entering his body through the nose, washing the chest, descending to his feet, and tingling his fingertips, chilling out the trembling. On the third, a chill trickled down the heart, moderating its nervous pounding. It helped, unexpectedly quickly.

In the light of the lamp, the red silk of the pouch looked crimson. The lace unraveled instantly as if the pouch itself longed to release its contents as quickly as possible. The man disliked divination by the signs of the Old Tongue and didn't want to remember a time when one's could only afford stolen wood chips with the symbols of Jotish scratched on them with a nail. But today a simple, reliable tool seemed most suitable for the arduous task at hand.

The cell, of course, had no windows. The air came in through a long cranked duct, reliably silencing all sound and light. But the man knew that now the moon was at its zenith, and its rays penetrated everything, shaking the materiality of this world, opening the way to the impossible.

The best moment for the work.

The owner carefully shook the pouch by gripping the neck. And then, with the long fingernails, he pulled out the first piece of wood, a little smaller than his little finger. It had a long vertical line scratched out across the entire length of the piece, and eight short ones, perpendicular to the long one, four in each direction. It was nothing like the most beautiful seven-color image of an eight-legged monster on a map of the finest bone. But the essence is the same.

The Spider.

The next piece of wood. A few dashes, shallow and thin, depict a human figure without a head.

The Hunger.

And four more, one after the other. The same invariable arrangement, three signs of the essence, and three states. Not a single sign of substance, that is to say, element.

What remained to be done was what the fortuneteller avoided: open the seventh. The fingernail creaked on the wood like a harpy's claw. If the adept had believed in the Creator, the one would have prayed more fervently now than the most faithful churchman. But the one had no faith, so he gritted the teeth and took out the seventh splinter, knowing for certain that it would be Death or the Thirteenth. The steady light of the lamp jumped, casting a crooked, ominous shadow over the curtains. The pouch fell out of his palm, the remaining wood spilled out in a small heap with a quiet clatter. And for a moment the man thought it was the clatter of bone phalanges on the skeleton's fingers.

The card would have been painted plain black. There was nothing on the splinter, just the smoothed over time, barely visible mark from the teeth saw that had once snatched a piece from the board.

For a few minutes, the adept sat silent and motionless, as if the result of the divination had turned him to stone. Then he gathered up the signs one by one and tightened the cord as if he wanted to hide all the evil of the world inside, not letting it escape. He pulled back the hood with determination and dropped the robe from his shoulders, as if the cloth were suffocating, enveloping him in a heavy weight.

In the light of the lamp, the adept's skin appeared ash-gray, slightly darker than its true color. Her hair, trimmed just above her shoulders, was, on the contrary, lighter. So from the outside, it might have looked like a statue of precious gray marble, rather than a young woman with skin of an unusual grayish hue. The impression was reinforced by the inhuman sculptural perfection and symmetry of the face. Just looking at it brought to mind the paintings of the old masters of the Empire, who had mastered the secret of the diamond section and the proportions of the figure. This face was so perfect that it did not even appear beautiful. Rather sinister, because the mortal world is incapable of producing something so complete. The thin, pale lips, almost a match to the skin, moved silently, as if reciting a prayer, but it wasn't a prayer.

The face glowed with the beauty of a demon. By contrast, the gesture the woman made when she stroked her temples was human and understandable. It was the movement of a tired man trying to tidy his thoughts and intercept a nascent headache. In the shadow of her palms, the diviner's eyes flashed a soft, pearly light, without pupils. She lifted her head, looked up at the low ceiling of the cave, dry and carefully cleaned of the old drawings that had once been left behind by the first servants of the Paraclete of Solace.

"Welcome, Spark," whispered the ash-skinned magician with pearl-colored eyes.

"Welcome..."

* * *

Part one.

'We not in Kanzas anymore...'

Chapter 1

'Dear diary'

'Dear diary'

The quill hovered over the page, its sharp sting twitching slightly. What to write next was not clear.

Elena could not sleep. And it was not just insomnia that seized her, but a strange feeling of unsteadiness, unreality of what was happening. It was more like her grandfather's stories about his second heart attack when he's exhausted, the drug-addled body could neither sleep properly nor swim out of the foggy haze. Grandfather almost became a writer, but the post-war era was merciless to his dreams, and the talented young man became a regular medic. He did but retained the vividness of language so that any story in his mouth sounded like an epic. Even if it was about things very, very unpleasant.

After twisting under the covers for more than three hours, Elena decided that maybe she'd had enough of the irresistible. If sleep is running away, she should do something about it.

She washed her face and walked around the apartment, empty until the next afternoon. Until her parents returned from their trip. She looked out the window, brewed a half-liter cup of coffee. She drank it, diluting it with a good portion of cream. She brushed the dust off the crossed rapiers that adorned the wall above the mantelpiece. Of course, there was no way to install a real fireplace in the city apartment, but her father had tried and created a very good imitation, which nicely diversified the interior. And the good old 'Dynamo' from 1970 looked much better over the pseudo-fireplace than just on the carpet.

Elena smiled, remembering the argument about the carpet and the angry Grandfather's cry of 'Philistinism!' The elderly medicine man knew how to say it in such a way that the pompous word looked appropriate and without pompousness. It's a pity he's no longer with the family... It's been three years now.

No sleep. But not awake, either. A sense of the unreality of what was happening was piling up, prompting her to do something unusual, strange. Something that would make it clear that this was not a dream, but a clear reality.

For example, one could start a diary. Why not? A suitable notebook, moleskin or something similar, with ruffles and a cute picture, it been lying in the far corner of the closet for more than two years. There was no need for it at all because Elena only used spring-loaded notebooks, from which it was so convenient to tear used, already useless sheets without any pity. But for the diary, a beautiful, very 'girlie' notebook is just right. And for such an occasion, she can use a special calligraphy pen 'Tachikawa G'.

But the problem was that it went no further than two simple words. A big black drop gathered at the tip of the pen, and Elena couldn't decide what to write next.

'Dear Diary...'

* * *

Anyone who lives from the Profit knows that it's best to go down in five. Three is too few. If income happens, there won't be enough people to carry it away. And if someone gets hurt, the wounded and the one who drags him out, that's minus two backs and four arms, which can't be loaded with sacks of thick leather with the enchanted padding. Though, of course, anything happened, but, as a rule, the one who was 'touched' in the darkness - not a fighter and not a carrier. And it is necessary to get the man out. First, the tradition. Second, Pantocrator says so. Thirdly, as long as he's alive, he won't get up and run to catch up with his former comrades...

Yes, three is too few, five is just right. Of course, a lot of dashing guys don't go down for the Profit with less than ten men. But it's a tricky business. Down below, as a rule, in front can not stand up more than two. And sometimes one can barely squeeze through. So when someone jumps up (and they always do, so the whole difference is who will jump this time), only one or two ahead can fight properly. And there is, as team alchemist Bizo would say - "a painful question" - why pay more to those who are not involved in the fight?

So five men are the right number, time-tested. If everyone's hands are growing in the right way, that's enough. To beat up anyone who is hiding in the darkness of the dungeons, looking out for hunters with vertical pupils, facets, or not looking at all with blind eyes, but listening with sensitive ears. And if someone doesn't get beaten by a group of five, there's no sense in playing against a group of ten. And it's time-tested, too.

Again, the fewer faces in the brigade, the easier it is to get away, the less crowding in the cramped dungeons. And for someone who lives from the Profit, the ability to run fast and far is just as important as the ability to wield an axe deftly. Only a fool would go down with a sword... and where does the brigade get the money for good swords?

But six fighters would be fine, too. As it is now.

"Fire," muttered Santeli, turning his head. "More fire!"

A good torch was smoldering in the commander's hand, not half burnt out, but the alchemist got the point.

"It doesn't work," Bizo shook his head guiltily as he ran his palm around the moon crystal. His palm was dirty, with wide black grooves under his broken fingernails, and the glass was old, clouding, and cracked. But not long ago it had exuded enough light, and now it barely flickered, like the lousiest candle. The alchemist whispered tried and trusted words, tapped the crystal, stroked it like the thigh of a young virgin (for which he never had money anyway, but, as you know, everything seems sweeter and more desirable in dreams).

It's useless.

"You bloody charlatan," hissed Santeli, driving the torch into the split fork at the steel pen of the slingshot, so that the weapon itself lights the way ahead. "Give me more fire, or he'll put us down here!"

Bizo did not answer, continuing to mutter and shamanize. With the same success, that is, without any visible result.

"We went to get the Profit..." Vial whispered, clutching the thick shaft of his slingshot in his sweaty mittens. "M-m-mother, al was good..." The lancer's teeth began to grind.

"Shut up, talker," Shena commanded furiously. "Quiet! Listen!"

Actually, it should have been Santelie, as the man in charge. But the commander was distracted by a shadow that flickered at the very edge of the darkness and the dim light from the torch.

"It's not working," Bizo complained. "It's not working!"

It had to be decided, and quickly. And Santeli decided... But simultaneously with his decision the moon crystal shone with the brightest light that it had never known, even in its best times, for a long time. It was this light that finally convinced the commander that they must not just run but run very fast because down there everything that happens suddenly and unusually is trouble.

* * *

The ink drop finally came off the quill and squished onto the cover. Elena sighed sadly. As it usually happens - something unnecessary and forgotten now seemed important and valuable. The notebook with the smudge was a pity. And a diary, especially 'Dear', with a blot on the cover - it was not quite ... It was wrong in general.

Only there was no blot. None at all. It was as if the ink drop had vanished into thin air, melted in the light halfway between the pen and the notebook, whether it was moleskin or something else. The girl shook her head, looked at the quill. Clear, just tiny beads of black and nothing else. And not a drop on the notebook.

Elena sighed and suddenly realized that it was all from strange insomnia. She didn't get enough ink, and she thought she saw a drop. And she wanted coffee again. She felt an unbearable craving for coffee. And there is coffee in the house, but, as Grandpa used to say, it must be 'whitened', and she was out of cream.

Elena strode barefoot into the kitchen. The parquet linoleum felt cold on her soles and reminded her of an unpleasant parental dispute about the renovation and design. That rare case when her father managed to insist on his point. As for the window frames... Well, that was a long time ago.

In the fridge she found a total lack of cream, milk, and even ice cream, that is, everything that can be poured into a coffee cup ironically called 'barrel'. So ... then one has to go out and buy it!

A large round clock with cuckoo and cones on chains (actually a battery inside) scattered its thin hands across the white field. It was almost half-past four... A little late for shopping. Or on the contrary, a little early. On the other hand, the convenience store is on the first floor on the opposite side of the house. The neighborhood is quiet and nothing is likely to happen in the quarter-hour it takes to buy one bottle of melted milk. And the cool night air, at least, will cheer you up, relieve the feeling of waking sleep.

As she took her jacket off the rack, Elena hesitated, trying to remember where her purse was. Wasn't it still in the leather vest? And when she threw on her outerwear, the denim jacket fell to the floor. It was like falling through the disembodied body of a ghost.

* * *

It seemed impossible, but the moonstone flashed even brighter, burning the eyes. Judging by the fact that Bizo involuntarily shrieked and dropped the faceted crystal, it burned with more than just light. And that was impossible because the crystals from the Silvery Mountains always remained as cold as the night light whose borrowed light they fed on.

In the next instant, the stone was extinguished, turning into plain glass. In contrast to the magical flare, the torches seemed almost pitch-black, so Santelie missed the blundering attack. The shaggy shadow glided beneath the low vault, flicking its clawed forelegs, wrapped tightly in its folded webbing, with unimaginable speed. Too fast for a creature that relied on bone and muscle power.

Without time to strike, Santelli released the shaft of his slingshot and rolled over his shoulder, evading the broad sweep of the sickle-shaped claws. Luckily, it only caught the very edge of the thick leather collar, ripping through the thick boiled leather like a razor through silk. The roll was not yet over, and the leader drew his dagger, the last hope of the fighter. And at the same time he smacked his face on the treacherous rock, so that blood immediately poured into his right eye. It wasn't that Santelli was praying. He didn't have time for that. Things were happening too fast. He just hoped that Shena would be able to put the creature on the spearhead of the ahlspiess in time. At least, she'd been good at it before. The huntress was the fastest in the little brigade, and rightfully so.

Fortunately for Santelli, the feeble-minded subterranean creature didn't go after the swift and nimble man. Instead, it attacked the next man in the tight formation. Behind the brigadier, there was a clang and a thud. Kodure screamed as if he'd been skinned in one fell swoop. Or at least a good chunk of it.

And the next moment the world shuddered as if a giant cramp had passed through the rocky interior, twisting the network of dungeons beneath the Grey Lands. Santelli flew to the rocks again, miraculously not dropping his dagger, clutching at the weapon as if it were his last hope.

* * *

She was able to pick up the jacket only on the third try. It was as if the jeans and the thin Elena fingers existed in parallel dimensions. Therefore, like cogs of gears in different planes, they could not mesh in one reality. Elena mechanically threw her clothes over her shoulders, without putting her hands through the sleeves, and thought that this must be what insanity looks like. When things suddenly happen that just can't be.

Or it's a dream. Just a dream. And there's still a calligraphy quill in my hand. Where did it come from? Isn't it...

She saw herself in the mirror, caught out of the corner of her eye a silhouette in which something was wrong, something very wrong. The girl stared at the long and familiar features; the reflection looked back with huge eyes with dilated dark pupils. Her hand reached into her disheveled hair to smooth the unruly red strand that had slid down her right cheekbone.

The next moment the reflection in the mirror rippled, like in a Hollywood movie when they use the 'wave effect'. Elena realized that she could see a coat rack through her. An old Soviet coat rack in the form of a large, full-wall frame of gilded plastic with horizontal bars and hooks. It was Grandpa's favorite hanger, which the old medicine man had defended from all encroachment.

She wanted to say something like, 'Oh, my God'. Or 'Damn it'. Well, one way or another, she was supposed to say or do something. But the girl only moved her lips silently. And, repeating her movements exactly, the ghost in the mirror fiddled, looking at itself with huge dilated pupils.

And then the lights went out all over the world at once.

* * *

Change! the dreadful thought stabbed like a dueling saber.

"Fuuuuuuck!!!" Kodure yelled at the top of his voice, hitting a sob. "He's tearing my leg off!"

No. It seems not. Otherwise things would be very different now. It wasn't. But then what was it?

"Shut up," Santelli said, "He didn't. If he had, you'd be quiet and peaceful by now, and you'd be easier to carry."

"LEEEEG!"

"Shut up, I said!" The brigadier shouted at the top of his voice. "We'll take you out, take you to the cart, and then we'll bandage you up. If necessary, we'll saw it off as it should be."

Santelli estimated the route back, as well as the number of torches left. He correlated it with the approximate speed of movement, adjusted for the wounded, who would not walk himself. It was enough. Not much, but enough, which meant Kodure would live a little longer, at least to the wagon. There, in normal light, it would be clear whether his leg was worth bothering with, or whether the Gray Land would be filled with the nameless bones of another vagrant.

"I don't want!!!"

"Then you will die. Shut up."

Sheena rummaged in her purse, pulled out a vial, and tipped the contents into Kodure's mouth. The glass clattered loudly, crunching against his teeth. The soldier coughed, swallowed noisily, and quieted down for a few moments.

"Bizo, you fucking charlatan, what was that?" asked the foreman.

The alchemist, before answering, glanced warily upward. Where the darkened vaults of the cave were already quite smoky, and dust mixed with stone crumbs was crumbling. How the brigade had not fallen was a mystery. However, the sudden cataclysm scared the monster away, which was lucky from all sides.

"I can't guess," Bizo muttered quietly at last. "It's like some kind of magic."

"You're an idiot," Santeli said, unceremoniously, as he was already aware of the scale of the failure. Minus the fighter, minus the last vial of 'milk', minus the Profit in this hole. Because what we could have extracted, but did not - it's like a net loss.

Bizo looked down, not answering or interrupting, realizing that he had been talking nonsense.

"Drag the fool more quickly," muttered Santeli. "Let's wrap it up."

"At a loss," Vial whispered, but very quietly.

Kodure yelled again, finally getting a good look at his leg. Sheena must have thought she'd done enough good deeds for one day and gave him a slap with her left hand, which was covered in a ringed gauntlet. Her hair fell out from under her leather helmet and hovered in icicles over her eyes, reddened from dust and smoke, like a midday witch.

"Shut up," the woman advised the wounded man very firmly. "Or walk yourself. On one leg. You'll get more wound, then they'll take it away for sure, and you'll sit in front of the temple and beg for alms. Maybe they will give it to you."

The lancewoman was not usually much of a talker, so much so that Kodure was dumbfounded and silent again when he heard her speak so long and heartfelt.

"How will I live without a leg?" The wretched man sobbed softly and whimpered again.

Santeli sighed, thinking that everything this week had gone through a spider's ass. It wasn't exactly a loss, but when you add up all the expenses, you don't even think you've made any money. And the crew... and the whole...It's a good thing Kodure wasn't a big loss. A rogue student, a runaway from the Kingdoms, had joined the brigade by accident and would be just as likely to leave it by accident.

Bizo, meanwhile, shook the crystal, leaving it from palm to palm, like a hot turnip. And what the alchemist thought remained unknown. But what he did think was that it was strange and looked like strong magic. Very strong, like in ancient times.

But everyone knows that there is no magic left in the world for two hundred years. I mean, there is, but just enough to do tricks and not too strong witchcraft. And even if it did come back...

He tried again to bring the crystal back to life, or at least to conjure up a tiny fire. The stone remained deader than dead, and the fire turned out as it was supposed to be, that is, weak, barely enough to light.

The alchemist shrugged his shoulders perplexedly, carefully tucked the crystal into his broad pouch-belt, and hurried off after his partners.

* * *