บททั้งหมดของ Wanderers Of the Night: บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

Leaf greeted the two riders with a roar of voices. Frightened residents almost threw themselves under the hooves of horses, trying to tell about the events that had taken place. Yarsi silently looked at the faces twisted with fear, at the trembling hands, nevertheless squeezing a simple weapon. Someone was holding a club, someone was holding a wide knife, and some had pitchforks or scythes. Although the villagers were frightened, no one was going to leave their houses. The headman was met at the entrance to the outskirts, it was clear that the old man was waiting for them. He gave the heir to the throne a piercing look and bowed his head. Unlike the others, he did not rush towards the riders. Perhaps he was the only one who immediately realized that the sent messenger could not ride to the capital in such a short period of time, could not have time to tell anything. Yes, and the guests did not appear from the side of the main road, but arrived directly through the fields, without ta

e werewolf watched the retreating rider and walked several times along the road, crossing it from curb to curb. Starosta Listovoy loudly distributed instructions, dispersing people to their homes and forcing them to get ready for the road right now for the night. The villagers obeyed, but the werewolf was still surprised by their slowness and incomprehensible disregard for danger. He already realized that very strange people live in Miros - who care little about their own lives, but are ready to defend the defense of their own kingdom to the end. Or not strange, but simply different than he used to see next to him - not like in Reet, not those who care only about their own good, but are ready to stand with a mountain for their relatives, for neighbors, for their people. The villagers calmly and busily loaded carts with their belongings, seated children on top of the bales, harnessed horses, tied lowing and bleating cattle behind. Ownerless chickens, which no one tried to catch, ran

Vic growled quietly, the paralyzing effect of the magic sword taking its toll on his own condition more and more. The hostile energy running from the hand like prickly fire was already felt at chest levels and began to flow to the legs. The blows were getting weaker, and the movements themselves were slow. Another dead man received a blow to the chest, and not to the head - the hand did not rise higher. Vic stepped back, watching as the enemy staggered, trembled, but did not fall. Behind someone pulled at the clothes, pulled on himself, almost knocking over on his back. The Vistolets twitched, turned around with a jerk, realizing in some kind of stupor that the hand holding the weapon no longer obeyed him. The fingers unclenched by themselves, and the sword flew to the ground. Vic stumbled, his semi-paralyzed legs almost causing him to fall. He slowly took a step back and quickly looked around. The dead confidently closed the circle in a multi-row crowd. The nearest ones were alread

Yarsi took a deep breath and paced the room. A childhood friend did not just appear that night. This visit could be interpreted as Daitra's great hope that Miros was still her protector. The Daitras are too accustomed to living behind the back of a strong, warlike neighbor. Their own army has long existed only for appearances and mainly consists of palace guards, those who really wanted to be warriors went to Miros. Yarsi grinned gloomily, yes, the war has not yet begun, but most of the army is already drawn to the western border - the border with the lands of Tinasa. In the forges, swords are reforged day and night - silver is poured into their blades. But Yarsi placed much greater hope in the archers. The longer they can keep the dead within sword range, the greater the chance for the living. In addition, silver tips required much less material than swords. And the fact that silver acts on the dead, he had already seen during the battle at Keront. True, the sword that Vic held i

The sun's rays pierced the foliage with too bright strokes, making it impossible to enjoy the flight. Vic hissed through his teeth, the blinding light in his eyes causing him to lose his bearings over and over again and fail to dodge the branches. They mercilessly beat him in the face, lashed his shoulders and clung to his wings. Tired of fighting, the Vistolet dived down and immediately stepped into the shadows. The wings obediently pressed against the back, even no effort had to be made. This action turned out to be so natural, as if he had been a winged creature all his life. The Vistolet chuckled grimly and broke into a run. It was close to the meadow. Vic rounded the parking lot and, keeping under the trees, went out to the children, trying not to turn his back or sideways. However, the front of his clothes was also quite tattered, and through the tatters, curved scratches were visible, deeply tearing the skin. The Vistolets strongly hoped that they would soon be delayed, but s