Alexey Glazyrin - I’m not from here. Book one. Cry baby. Historical fantasy

© Alexey Glazyrin, 2020

ISBN 978-5-0050-7552-9 (т. 1)

ISBN 978-5-0050-7553-6

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

The second half of the fifteenth century, according to conventional terminology, is the Middle Ages. In the opinion of a modern, enlightened and all-knowing person, the Internet is to help him, grayness is utter, and darkness is obscurant.

It’s amazing how our ancestors could live there without TVs, cool cars, computers, and the same Internet. God be with him, with the Internet, there wasn’t even a laden bicycle, a horse and a cart and all the transport, and also plows and boats on rivers and lakes, and they moved between the rivers dragging on the same horses, that is, do not spin, the horse is the main vehicle, denseness and backwardness, in a word.

And not just to live, or better to say, to survive, but at the same time they managed to build up, for example, to collect from small pieces of some misunderstandings there, in the form of Slavic principalities that did not even have their own independence, tributaries, who are uluses of a large horde, a great power.

It’s all simple now, from our far, historically verified and correct, somehow by itself everything turned out with them.

But looking thoughtfully, one has only to wonder how they did it. Chants were then minimal, in the east the Great Horde, in the west the most powerful Grand Duchy of Lithuania, in the north all sorts of Livonian and German orders, and in the middle of Moscow the specific principality, which does not particularly stand out among the same specific principalities, is a trifle potty, in the opinion that the Horde Of Lithuania.

But somehow our ancestors managed to build their own country, without the modern technology, in the form of a nuclear baton, and so the Big Horde, the Principality of Lithuania, and all sorts of orders there vanished, and Muscovy crushed them under itself and included in the composition of its power, eventually becoming a powerful country, Russia. This is a mystery of history; this could not and should not be, but it happened.

Maybe it’s not a matter of technology at all, but of something else, for example, of spiritual aspiration, to this very creation.

Something like that, somehow, sitting down on my balcony and smoking another cigarette, I was discussing, not already young, uncle, over fifty with a tail, under the impression of a recently listened audio book about fellow travelers in the Middle Ages.

Where the main character famously becomes the hero of the bright eyes of all Russia, and even more famously smashes everyone who only encroaches on Russia. And why would he not have to be an epic hero, if he was hanged upside down by AK in various variations, and even on a no less epic cart with a machine gun Maxim, here you will become captive by epic, any Basurman for three hundred miles to go round it will become, not a suicide, he is in the end then.

Yes, even the daughters of beauties will start to woo, and at the same time they should poke the dowry, if only they take it, and do not dig it every time when he is a basurman, the owner of the steppe, he jumps along this same steppe.

And how it starts, this same epic hero, to wave his stripy-weighty spear, to slow down his whole horde, and you won’t stop anywhere, otherwise the barrier will be blocked and you will not pass by, there’s a boom-shaitan and signs with inscriptions: “Achtung, Achtung! Minen.”

At first, they tried to slip through, but in an instant the Basurman turned into a bunch of minced meat, and therefore he had to slow down the Basurman with all his horde, that is, a horde.

And this one begins to cast out over the poor Basurman, they say, why are you here, you are our heartache enemy, and a citizen of the steppes of the vast, with not quite right facial features, you jump a lot on the steppe, you understand, you raise it, you violate nature with harmony, in general, for speeding, a fine is a basurman, and he will get you off the horse, and he will give an insult to the pendal, and go object, in an instant he’ll catch up on his former cart, but the basurman will shoot, wait until the new ones grow up.

So the poor Basurman, at the head of his own horde, not small in his own steppe, sneaks like an aunt, circling three hundred miles this very Russia, which is vigilantly guarding the knight of the bright eyes of all Russia, and God forbid, what a horse will make a bad start, or a hoof raise their dust, at once the whole horde from the epic hero and rakes.

Oh, and there used to be life, no one gave him a basurman’s decree, well, he wanted to do it, and he wanted to knit whom and where, until this radish, that is, not a good person, showed up, but did not stand guard.

So, quietly, this is what the Basurman brought to, he even began to stutter inwardly, you can’t think too much, the Basurman was taught, and he knew that the epic hero knew how to read at a distance of thought, well, it’s a hundred and fifty miles, so I went around for insurance Basurman with all his horde, this very Russia for all three hundred, guided by a saying, do not be dashing while it is quiet.

In general, whatever you say, the great commander was a Basurman, almost like his ancestor, Genghis Khan, was able to overcome obstacles.

Thoughtfully experiencing the events of the heard novel, while also fantasizing and scumbagging himself, the uncle mentally cast out his mind over the author.

Oh, to run away from this current swamp, that’s where you could turn around. To which he himself sarcastically remarked, dreams, dreams, where is your sweetness, dreams passed there remained muck. Okay, it’s time to sleep, tomorrow again to drag on boring work…

In the predawn twilight, a loud and demanding cry of a child was suddenly heard. The watchman at the monastery gate wided his eyes in surprise and did not immediately understand where the sound was coming from.

But it’s not easy, and why the hell is it to bawl like that, the cocks still haven’t even throated, but no, he won’t always dawn to jump up and run to open the gates, what kind of service is this.

So, slowly moving away from sleep, thoughts began to stir in the head of the old gate guard Pantelei, who had been guarding these very gates to this same convent for several years, God knows where, where Makar did not drive calves.

Pantelei didn’t have much geography, he didn’t even know such a word, he was just used to believing that the monastery in which he had been working for more than a dozen years was, well, very far from places where real life boils.

Grunting, getting up from the lodge bed of his gatehouse, and reluctantly shuffling to the gate, he threw back the latch and opened the gate in the large monastery gate.

In the dawn dusk, just barely dawned dawn, stepping behind the gate of the monastery gate, he almost stepped on a basket from where the sound of the summer dawn came.

Here is an attack, the old man thought, there is no cross on these basurmans in sundresses, they will bring him in the hem, and they will deprive him of his old sleep. In his memory, standing for many years at this gate, this is far from the first case when local women threw babies into this convent in this way.