Horizon of Darkness

Zeykin swung his axe with force, cleaving another rat, the weapon clanging against the stone floor. "Again, half the night spent sharpening the blade..." he thought sadly. The axe was clearly not designed for this type of attack. "I'll order some vegetables and meat," he decided, stepping on the tail of another rodent. The rat squealed and darted from side to side, as if scalded. The mercenary shifted his grip on the axe and struck flat – just for fun. Lifting it, he found only a wet spot where the rat had been. Frowning, the warrior turned the weapon and saw that the rat's corpse was stuck to it. A few sharp movements in the air didn't help – the rodent was stuck fast, its rotten insides acting like glue. "Even if it were a bird, a meat dish shouldn't be this cheap," he said, knocking the rat's body off the blade with the sole of his boot. "He must have thrown in some offal, the scoundrel." It wasn't that he was picky – life experience had taught him not to turn up his nose at any kind of food; spend a couple of decades eating disgusting slop, and even chopped beef anus once a year, on the prison warden's birthday, will seem like a delicacy to you – but deceptive advertising was still unforgivable. "The miners will eat rocks, and they'll eat special pastries with sawdust," he concluded, the result of his analysis of the tavern keeper's business strategy, finally scraping the remains of the enemy off the axe. "Oh well, never mind." Kicking the corpse into the drain and watching it not sink but float on the surface of the water – if it could be called that, this sewer cocktail – he naturally began to think about what he would wash it all down with. "Milk is out of the question," he thought. At his age, it would be good for his bones and heartburn, but the heaviness in his stomach and the problems associated with its poor digestion ruled out this option. Glancing at Joe, who was swaying and whose wooden leg was being gnawed on by another mindless pest, Zeykin once again thought sadly about how nice it would be after this sweaty job to sit down with a friend over a drink, chat about this and that, and get drunk. But, unfortunately, this was impossible – Dorobo hadn't drunk alcohol in over twenty years, since he was thrown in jail. The mere thought of having a relaxing drink brought up unpleasant, traumatic memories. "Kompot!" he decided, using the process of elimination, and slammed the heavy, thick sole of his boot down on a rat that scurried past.