Danny Osipenko: Through the Thorns into the Abyss

© Danny Osipenko, 2022

ISBN 978-5-0056-1873-3

Создано в интеллектуальной издательской системе Ridero

«Execute her!» – ordered the Empress. Seized by hatred – and fear – she rose sharply from her throne and pointed her silver scepter at the Witch.

The Karga did not flinch. Shallow and wrinkled, she looked up at the ruler with a cold gaze, and her darting eyes squinted even more. The old woman was completely calm, and in her whole image – a quiet confident hatred. A smirk of gloating… And the ruler could barely contain herself. Her face was flushed and fierce, terror in her eyes. «Execute right here on the spot,» she added, struggling to pull herself together. «At once.»

The guards dared not disobey Lyra’s order. If it had been anyone else, they might have hesitated… But Lyra is the darling of the people, the chosen one of Heaven! The High Dervishes had recently spoken in praise of her. «She knows what to do. Her swords flashed in the setting sun, and the Witch lay dead at the foot of her throne. She fell, grinning sickly.

Never before had human blood been spilled at an Imperial palace. And if it had, it was only a few drops, because of stupid accidents. But KILLING people – even the worst ones – was strictly forbidden. It was not conscience or awe that kept people from doing such things – but fear of the light gods. The palace was a special place. Even the sacred Towers were inferior to it in their ritual purity. That is why if a courtier wanted to destroy another – he did it outside the White Marble Walls.

Now that custom had been broken. And it was not just anyone who broke it, but the great Lyra… A woman who was able to do in eight years what men could not do in eight decades-to unite the Cusuni Kingdom.

Her story is told here.

Chapter 1: Even the greatest journey begins with a single step

Laira was born in an ordinary village on the far northern outskirts. And from a young age she was distinguished neither by her particular beauty nor by her special talents. Neither was she of noble birth, though she was, as her fellow villagers later claimed, a pure-blooded cousin. Her father was literate and adored books about ancient warriors. Having inherited a watermill from his ancestors, he had some money. He could afford to buy a few shabby volumes at the fair. Having read from them tales and tall tales, he dreamed of military glory… Of exploits and campaigns, of soldiers’ friendship and comradeship. But with a fair weight, a prosthesis instead of a leg, and living in the wilderness, he had to content himself with dreams.

However, the man’s heart brightened when his son was born. «I will raise him to be a true warrior, a great hero. That’s right!» Alas, the son died at the age of six, poisoned by a local shaman for two apples stolen from her garden. The grief-stricken father was left with only his daughters. And he turned his dreams to one of them… Lyra. «My heir is dead, but my daughter will be great.» The man devoted all his energies, and his mind – not so weak, by the way – to raising her.

***

Young Laira grew up unusually tough, cheerful, and brave. Fighting was part of her life – she could beat up not only girls, but boys as well, including those older than her. Sometimes, though, she got her own ass kicked.

And she made a lot of enemies! Evil tongues, venomous jokers, high-minded denouncers and denouncers. In another, quieter era, Lyra would probably have been smeared with soot for misconduct. But it was the time of the Great Troubles, when the Talaisha dynasty had finally died out and many powerful clans, sects, adventurers, and other forces were vying for the Imperial throne. The Kuzuni kingdom was ablaze with civil war, mercenaries and brigands roamed the roads, and foreigners swarmed everywhere. In such conditions, of course, traditional values had fallen apart, and morals had decayed… The Empire’s northern fringes had suffered little from the war so far, but the general «decay» had touched them as well. That is why in most cases she got away with her antics.

It should be noted that thanks to her combative nature, she made not only opponents, but several real friends. Especially she made friends with six boys: insolent desperate Mithai, cold tough and honest Viran, sly smiling fatty Shinak, dreamy poet Sauri, cheerful big-hearted Gan, and smart calm good-natured Matah. They were thick as thieves. Together they found «adventures» on their heads, together they helped their fellow villagers to do dangerous work, together they committed petty crimes, and together they participated in village fights. Lyra was their leader, and all seven of them took care of, protected, and supported each other. As they grew older, the boys became Lyra’s lovers… «A vile band» the local dervish Karamas called them, promising a miserable life of vagrancy, and a shameful death. But fate had decided otherwise.

Lyra was also accompanied everywhere by a black cat and a faithful, shaggy dog. She loved them dearly.

***

The civil war was escalating and devouring many lives… But for now, the horrors were far away. The village of Laira was a long way from the major cities and trade routes, in the northern lands beyond the Yellow River, ruled by Prince Pai, a quiet man with little imperial ambition. Hunger had not yet threatened, either. Here the moist breath of the Sea was felt: the rains fell, the hills were green, herds of sheep and goats grazed. And gardens, protected from tundra winds by the Gray Mountains, were blooming. Nevertheless, the villagers listened anxiously and discussed the latest news – brought by vagrants and traders. And in order to protect themselves and their simple «riches», they built a fence around the village, bought several crossbows, selected their own commanders.

All this did not help… what’s more – played a bad service! As the cousins say, «fate has a rather dark sense of humor.

Laira well remembered the last day of her relatively carefree childhood. The spring sun was shining, warming her tenderly. Dandelions bloomed, tender grass grew. One could become intoxicated by the wonderful smells… The little girl, together with her six friends, was resting on the outskirts of the village, on a high but gentle hill, blown about by the breeze. Spreading a patterned rug on an emerald meadow, she played with Shinak and Viran in Tammashil, an ancient Cusunian game. She contemplated the checkered board intently. Shinak took the dice, shook them in his fist – and threw them. The bully raised her eyebrows in surprise – her «ally» was lucky again. He leisurely rearranged half a dozen pieces, overthrew the «enemy» combat mammoth – and waited for the «blow back,» from the slingers and six-armed giants.

The rest of his friends were loitering nearby.

– Come on, Viran, let’s go,» Shinak said softly and snidely, scratching his fat cheek. His button eyes scrutinized the battlefield as if there were little devils dancing in them. The boy took a honey pie from his bag – and took a bite of half of it. Slowly he chewed it, still thinking.

Laira was working her head hard, too, rubbing her chin and biting her lip. She and Shinak were up against Viran’s army. Who had been winning for the second hour-but still couldn’t finish the game. The final victory slipped through his fingers again and again.

– Don’t distract me,» he said coldly and colorlessly to Shinaku. – I’m working out the combinations.

– Of course you are…

– Yes. My father used to say: «Numbers are everything. The foundation of the universe.» He was good with numbers… Even went to engineering school in Saraban, but he failed. Didn’t have enough money for a bribe. I’ll beat him, though.