The Mist and the Lightning. Part 16. Ви Корс

      In their uterine hoarse voices, they spoke very quickly in unadapted unclean, and Kors didn’t understand them well. But it seemed that these were banal greetings and expressions of joy from the meeting, although from the outside it seemed that they would now grab each other’s throats as well as Kors’ one. Kors “heard” how Nikto, at some crazy speed, almost instantly mentally conveyed to Desmod a whole block of events that had occurred, and these were not words, but simply compressed information, in which Kors didn’t have time to make out anything concrete. Desmod, in response, also gave the Demon his vision of the situation and information about what was happening, as well as about each of his warriors. And the way they communicated amazed Kors. They communicated not with thoughts, but as if with emotions that were not clothed in words, conveying not just a word, but at once a whole spectrum: an image, sound, smell, emotion, both their own, and of everyone involved in it, and what really happened, and it was much cooler than words. Such blocks took an instant, giving a complete and multifaceted understanding of the situation, and it would take a thousand words, explanations and clarifications to describe all this concise information that was transmitted instantly. Kors understood now how poor and primitive were the communication skills of people who communicated with the help of words that didn’t convey, in essence, even a hundredth of what the Demon could convey in a split second. But Kors was so proud of his talent, he was sure that he perfectly heard the Demon and the unclean. How funny he was when he told Zaf, “I will break your defenses”. He didn’t understand their real communication, and only now was he able to grasp its essence, while he did not even have time to understand anything.

      The unclean ones settled down in Riverside for the night, they kindled bonfires and made a terrible holiday with sacrifices. The soldiers hung each other on chains, piercing the skin on their backs with sharp hooks. They wounded their flesh without pity, passing hooks through the skin on their arms, legs, back, and if they did not hang themselves, then they simply hooked heavy weights to the hooks so that the wounded flesh would stretch. They pierced themselves through with thick needles, inserted sharp knives into their cheeks and lips, which protruded from their mouths. All this action was accompanied by a booming rhythmic beat of drums and howling of trumpets.

      “Are you going to pierce yourself and hang yourself too?” Asked Kors looking at Nikto.

      “No.”

      “Why? It’s quite your style.”

      “They make these sacrifices for the Demons to appease them and get help in battle. And I am the Demon,” Nikto answered, and, turning away from the raging crowd of unclean soldiers, went to the house. And Kors had no choice but to follow him.

      Kors lay on his side on a dirty mattress in clothes and boots, blankly staring at the opposite wall and at the rat slowly picking something in the corner. Nikto and Arel kissed and hugged behind him, undressing each other. The sound of their kisses and the clang of taken off weapons falling to the floor drowned out the screams of the unclean and equally vile sounds of instruments outside the walls of the house. He heard and felt how Nik and Arel lay down on the bed, intertwining their bodies, the mattress trembling, and now, when they were very close, Kors heard their moans better, the hoarse hiss of Nikto, the tinkle of his trinkets and chastity belt. Arel, fucking him, screamed loudly, cumming, and Kors realized that Nikto again didn’t utter the coveted phrase either aloud or mentally, and, therefore, Arel was now free from this restriction. Kors didn’t turn to them, nor did he get out of bed. He didn't care. Even if Arel now turned him around, undressed him, ordered him to get down on all fours or suck him off, he didn’t care. It was as if they weren’t around right now, but it seems he was absent for them too, because, having fed up with the submissive body of the Demon, Arel didn’t touch Kors.

      Kors stood under the canopy near the stable, getting ready to leave as they were returning to Crimson Rock. Nearby, the unclean of Desmod’s detachment were also preparing their horses for the journey and were talking loudly out loud. These unclean ones were simple soldiers and didn’t know how to communicate like their demonic commanders, and Kors couldn’t help hearing their chatter inattentively.

      “For a horse to be fast and tireless, you need to smear his legs and stomach with deer fat,” said one.

      “Reindeer fat is garbage,” the second objected to him, “you need to hang the tooth of a wolf, killed on the run, on a horse’s neck.”

      “They say,” the third intervened in the conversation, “that the surest way to make a horse fast is to take a mole and with a knife, bought without bargaining, pierce its neck. And then put a few drops of blood on the horse’s head. And then you need to carefully remove the skin from the mole, leaving the paws, and stuff the skin with hay. And drag it three times along the face of the horse, from nose to ears!”

      Kors just grinned, he had long been accustomed to the proximity of unclean beings. He had already put the saddle on the horse’s back when he saw Arel heading towards him. The prince walked slowly over and, looking at Kors with a slightly arrogant smile, stretched out his hand to the reins:

      “Give me back my horse, Kors,” he said not harshly, but still in an orderly tone, and Kors, without saying a word, silently removed his saddle from the back of the most expensive horse in this world. From the horse of Prince Arel.