Another drained mug landed on the table with a thud. The beer wasn't bad and the meat was juicy, but the establishment lacked excitement; the people living here were boring. Just yesterday, they all ran to see some star, pfft! As if they'd never seen stars before. Just lift your head and look—see as many as you want! And no one was left in the tavern except for a Barbarian who was currently chewing on a large roasted ham, sitting in the same spot by the window. Hommi absolutely disliked Barbarians, and this tattooed giant inspired nothing but a growing desire to punch him in the face with every mug he drank.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon—maybe twenty minutes past, or maybe forty! There were practically no interesting people around, only the stupid Barbarian and a dozing fat man in the corner. You couldn't forge an axe with those same; it would be a waste to interrupt one's meal for them. Lazily picking at meat under mushroom sauce, the dwarf sank into his thoughts. Damned little town, a complete misunderstanding, there wasn't even a way to get out of here. Magic had broken down, bad weather was closing in from all sides, and on top of that, the guards had chased all the festive folk back to their homes. Oh, how brother will be displeased by his absence! And what could Hommi say in his own defense if he hadn't even managed to fight well?
The door flew open with a crash, and the blizzard touched those present in the establishment with the very edge of its windy cloak. Already slightly tipsy, hungry, frozen, and embittered, the mercenaries escorting a trade caravan stumbled into the room. Sitting down at a large table, they called out to the serving girl, who quickly disappeared behind the kitchen doors. A small barrel of beer was rolled in for them, the table was filled with hot food, and a local bard suddenly appeared from nowhere, immediately receiving several requests.
But for a serious conversation, something more interesting and own exciting was missing—something that didn't take long to arrive. When two-thirds of the food had been eaten, the barrel was almost completely empty, and several mercenary songs had sounded from the bard's lips, the door crashed significantly once more, letting in a company of dwarves stranded in the city. Bound for the capital, they were escorting a very important kinsman carrying a valuable gift for the king himself. A delighted Hommi began to quickly devour his lunch while there was still a chance. Well, finally, now it begins!
Sitting at another table, the dwarves frequently cast unfriendly glances at the mercenaries. On the road, these two categories of travelers conflicted so often that it was clear to everyone present in the tavern—expect a fight. The owner understood this too, having sent the maid in advance to invite a patrol squad of guards for tea. At first, everything was quiet; the dwarves chewed peppered meat with potatoes, sipped ale, spoke loudly and laughed. Then the parties moved on to loud jokes mixed with insults. And it ended with one of the dwarves asking to play the song "Wet Pants," which told of a certain cowardly mercenary. This was followed by several direct insults appropriate for the occasion. And finally, the moment came when the shouting brawlers leaped from their seats with movements polished to perfection. Without unnecessary chatter or drama, a tall man drove his fist into the bearded face of the sturdy short warrior.

Hearing about the impossibility of traveling along the tract due to bad weather, Arandor was furious. On his way back, he dreamed only of how this fraud, appointed as the chief curator here, would be literally thrown out of the guild after one angry letter to the capital. Then he remembered that all communications were currently severed; there was absolutely nowhere to go. Oben, who was waiting for him in the carriage, didn't even bother to wake up, so the merchant had to shake him well by the shoulder. Grumbling discontentedly, the bodyguard assumed a sitting position but asked nothing; everything was already clear. Arandor commanded the coachman "to Haven!", closed his eyes and tried not to think about anything.
The carriage stopped in front of a large two-story building—an expensive inn, whose first floor housed an equally expensive restaurant. Haven, owned by almost the bishop himself, had always been a favorite stopping place for wealthy foreigners. Smooth steps of white marble, always perfectly cleaned, led the visitor to luxurious ebony doors, behind which a smiling servant always waited ready. Ordering a table for two, Arandor went up to his room. He needed to tidy himself up before the evening at Lady Drake's; many other distinguished guests would be present. Including His Excellency the General, who might make a small exception in his order for an elven ambassador.
Returning to the first floor, Arandor encountered Oben, who had managed to fill his stomach without waiting for the leader. Reminding the bodyguard about the trip to the warehouses, the elf sat at the set table, waiting for the waiter. A minute later, snow-white plates with expensive dishes stood before him. Sipping red wine from a glass, he with pleasure tasted the most delicious meat under a delicate creamy sauce, appreciated the thick mushroom soup, and enjoyed the aroma of freshly baked bread. Seeming to have completely forgotten all his problems, the merchant became angry again upon learning that Oben had taken a bottle of very expensive wine with him.
But still taking pity, he did not burst into the servants' room he had rented for the bodyguard, but preferred to take a bath and dress appropriately before the trip. About an hour passed; Arandor was fastening his white shirt in front of the mirror when there was a polite knock at the door. The shaman, returned from a special assignment, stood on the threshold, stretching his lips into his usual detached half-smile. Arandor understood immediately—the negotiations had failed, although he hadn't hoped for anything from the start. The sleepy gaze of the shaman, looking somewhere toward the curtained window, shifted to the negotiator; smiling lips softly uttered "they did not agree." It was to be expected that local hunters would not risk violating the general's order forbidding departure from the city.
At the appointed hour, a carriage waited outside. Oben, despite his total possession of the bottle of wine, looked more cheerful than in the morning and was already waiting for the commander on the street. The carriage quickly moved toward the warehouses. The head of the caravan who met them only shrugged; none of his men had been able to find out anything about the stolen cloak. Finally realizing that there was no point in thinking about a timely arrival in the capital, Arandor gave the guards permission to rest. He himself, upset, tired and angry, went to the gala evening.
The negotiator left the carriage, stepping onto the snow-cleared stone path of the Drake mansion. The shaman followed him out, whom the lady, interested in various magics, very much wanted to meet. As for Oben, he trudged on foot toward the unfavorable district of Etelflad, where mostly various kinds of scoundrels dwelt. He, of course, told no one about his plans. A maid so beautiful opened the door for Arandor that, contrary to the rules of etiquette, he kissed her hand. The girl, red with embarrassment, led him into the hall, where all the main social figures had already gathered: the respected Naira Drake, charming the guests with her incredible red dress; General Naver, thoughtfully sipping wine from a glass; and many others.
Noticing the arriving guest, Lady Drake waved to him, inviting him into her company. Out of the corner of his ear, Arandor heard two women talking about some runaway maid who, according to rumors, had taken a thousand gold coins, a family amulet with diamonds, and a couple of thoroughbred horses. Thinking again about the Drakes' maid, he decided that material losses in this case could be quite relative. Kissing the hostess's hand, Arandor hurried to express his admiration for the richness of the reception. Soon, the general joined the conversation, greeted the respected negotiator and asked if there had been any problems on the road. Hearing about the bold robbery, the general shook his head with concern, promising to deal with this misunderstanding personally.
The evening proceeded in its own way; the gentlemen held social conversations, drank good wine, and listened to virtuoso musicians. The guests quickly appreciated the elven ambassador's ability to tell of adventures that had happened to him during his travels. The general even proposed a toast for the glorious acquaintance, which was gladly supported by all the guests. It was time for dessert; the maids, among whom was the one Arandor had taken a liking to, brought in silver trays with appetizing contents.
The calm flow of the evening was interrupted by the captain of the guard, who ran up to the general, quickly reporting on the situation. As information arrived, the general's eyes widened more and more, and his fists clenched tighter. Patting the soldier who had finished the report on the shoulder, he turned to the hostess, apologized for the forced departure, and walked briskly toward the door.

Junior Captain Ent Faragem entered the spacious cell once more, looking over the prisoners sitting in it with a sense of superiority and slight contempt. Opening a scroll with a habitual movement, he read several names, inviting those named to follow him. Among them were two old acquaintances who were not the most friendly toward each other... The dwarf Hommi—a lover of fighting, drinking, and eating well all along the way—cast malicious glances at the mountain Barbarian Loken, who disliked big cities, idiots, and recently, dwarves as well. The former had still managed to land a good blow on the latter's face, after which he was fully rewarded for it by having a beer mug smashed over his victorious head. In general, everyone remained satisfied, including the owner of the establishment, who charged the brawlers a triple bill for the broken furniture.
Having collected signatures from the detainees, the captain waved his hand, pointing to the exit. Not believing their luck, the people left the dungeon building one by one. Instead of a night in a cell, morning questioning, conversations with the captain, and foul porridge made of water and manure (at least that's how it tasted), they were released in all four directions. The dwarf assumed this was somehow related to a holiday or the involvement of foreign peoples in the conflict, so he wasn't particularly worried. Outside, of course, it was already evening; for some reason, soldiers were scurrying around and wagons with banners were passing by. It didn't look much like preparations for a celebration.
The hungry people trudged toward the nearest tavern. Weighing the options, Hommi followed their example; there wasn't much else to do anyway. In the establishment, all conversations were about one thing: a giant monster had attacked a small village in the outskirts of the city, people had fled, a Sorceress from the guards who arrived the day before had failed, and the general had gathered two hundred archers for defense. First stars, now a monster—strange people! But despite all the apparent absurdity of the situation, Hommi was very interested in this news. It was exactly the kind of fight he dreamed of; such a thing wouldn't be embarrassing to brag about to his brother when explaining his absence. Finishing his beer, the dwarf went outside, heading back toward the dungeon.
The captain familiar to him was equipping large sleds, by which soldiers were waiting. The dwarf simply boiled with rage when he saw among them his sworn enemy, the tall Barbarian with a giant sword on his back. But there was nothing to be done; he had to reconcile himself to this. For some reason, Faragem was glad for any reinforcements, even those consisting of tipsy brawlers, so Hommi received permission to depart with them without further talk. Giving no importance to the captain's excessive compliance, the self-satisfied dwarf impatiently waited for the command to act. When the moment finally arrived, in the sleds, besides numerous containers, there were only two sworn enemies and the junior captain on the driver's seat.
- Try not to block the view for real warriors with your bulk! – Hommi grumbled discontentedly.
- Try not to get underfoot, beer barrel.
Thus began the triumphant cooperation of two seasoned warriors.

Waking up from loud conversations between business-like mages, Drakkoshka poked her head out slightly from a pile of blankets she had borrowed from other cots. In the half-empty guard barracks, it became unbearably cold by the end of the night; someone decided that heating the stove was just a waste of time. Outside it was dark again; once more they faced a cold journey along snowy roads and through dark forests. Maybe if she just stayed lying there, they would forget about her? But no such luck. The senior captain, appearing as if from nowhere, loudly proclaimed "get up, young lady" and, with a sense of duty fulfilled, went to equip the transport.
Sleepy and in rumpled clothes, she emerged from her cozy warm lair. Almost colliding in the passage with a southerner who nearly spilled hot tea on her, the maid burst into the dining room. As it turned out, the only food present was dried meat with beer. Considering such a breakfast unacceptable, especially after everything she had endured over the last twenty-four hours, she demanded that the kitchen be placed at her disposal. Quickly chopping vegetables and meat, adding one Creator knows what else, the girl prepared a whole pot of edible food. Attracted by the smell, Alexis immediately rushed in, surprised by the unusual activity in the kitchen; for this, he was forced to carry the heavy pot into the dining room.
Having seated her forced acquaintances to consume normal food, Drakkoshka returned to the kitchen with the intention of preparing an equally normal hot drink. Fortunately, the kettle was relatively clean, some herbs were found, and the tea itself didn't smell of mold, which was a very good sign. Having prepared the fragrant drink, the girl poured it into mugs and carried them into the dining room. The sated wizards expressed their great gratitude to her for the work done; the senior captain noted that it would be nice to get such a housewife at home, with which, surprisingly, Fail agreed. Smiling and pleased with herself, Drakkoshka set the mugs on the table.
Having fully restored their strength, the people left the cold house, climbed into the equipped sleds, and moved forward. All last night Ment had led them through the forest, searching for "gems" one by one; a total of eight pieces were destroyed. As it turned out, other expeditions had been sent to the other cardinal directions as well; one could only guess how many of these curious pebbles still remained on the earth. But the general magical atmosphere had become much lighter; the wizards felt this clearly, and only a little more effort remained.
Then, beyond another hill in the forest, a familiar glow appeared; Alexis, ignoring the objections of the mage and the captain, drove the horses straight through the forest, thereby increasing their arrival time at the necessary point. A sharp glowing stone was stuck between two trees, having never reached the ground. The mage tried to reach the gem with his staff, but it was too high. To create a crack, it was enough to touch the stone with a hand; it was surprisingly unresponsive to all other types of influence. After a short meeting, it was decided to lift up the lightest member of the team, providing her the opportunity to touch the wretched thing. No matter how Drakkoshka resisted, she was the one who had to climb. Standing on Alexis's folded arms, she climbed onto Dag's shoulders, but still couldn't reach. Then she grabbed a nearby branch with one hand, caught the curve of the trunk with the second, jumped, pulled herself up, and finally touched the cold smooth surface of the gem with her palm. Before she could rejoice, she slipped and flew down with a shriek. The southerner, who reflexively caught her in his arms, was slightly surprised by the sudden gift from the heavens.
- I did it! – Drakkoshka reported.
- My congratulations. – replied Siver-Fail, letting her continue her fall.
Today's snowball, carefully crafted by the maid, did not repeat yesterday's success, hitting the man in the shoulder. It was good that the senior captain helped the girl get back on her feet, thereby reducing the degree of her dissatisfaction. The magical stone creaked, clicked, and crumbled to the ground as silver dust. Ment pointed the direction to the next—and last in this area—gem.
As the sleds advanced into the forest, the mage spent more and more time checking the map, and when a light appeared in the distance, he sighed heavily. The horses' path was blocked by a fence of large crooked sticks fastened with shrub branches. There was nowhere to go; on one side was a ravine, on the other a thick forest, and ahead an impassable barrier. Through huge gaps in the fence, white radiation was visible; there could be no mistake—what they were looking for was somewhere there. Not daring to cast spells in dangerous proximity to the gem, Ment asked the captain for advice. After reflecting, Dag examined the fence and struck it with his halberd, knocking out several snow-covered branches holding the construction. Shaking his head, the mage still did not interfere with the unscrupulous destruction of someone else's property. Pushing aside the thick crooked sticks, the captain stepped beyond the fence; the others followed him.
Walking toward the light, the unwanted visitors quickly stumbled upon the master of this place. A large gray troll sat by a campfire, roasting a piece of meat on it; two meters away from him, an abnormally large "gem" shimmered with light. Giving the command to stay behind the trees, Ment went to introduce himself to the owner of the estate. Hearing footsteps, the troll turned his head, jumped up and stomped his feet.
- Respected troll! – the mage shouted. – We are from Etelflad, my name is Ment, I am a mage!
- My land! Mine! Go away! – roared the troll, but then seemed to think it over. – Morrut Tullus is my name, I am very busy, you leave now! Spousibbo!
- My friend Morrut, the thing is that by fate's will this same gadget fell upon your land! – the mage pointed to the gem. – This stone is very dangerous, although certainly beautiful! Allow us to dissipate it, and after that we will immediately leave, not daring to disturb you further!
After these words, the troll's eyes spun in different directions, his fists clenched, and he growled.
- Mine! Mine! Mine! I won't let anyone touch my shiny! Get out, spousibbo!
Ment tried to negotiate, but the troll refused to listen; he stomped his feet, waved his huge arms, and roared. Giving up, the mage returned to the others, only shrugging.
- We'll have to go back and call negotiation specialists here.
- So maybe we can sneak in unnoticed and touch the stone with a hand? – asked Drakkoshka.
- The stone is huge; here we need to combine the energy of two, or even three people.
- Shall we beat it? – suggested Fail.
- Absolutely not! – Ment exclaimed. – Trolls are listed in Hreyuod's Red Book as one of the rarest species of creatures!
Drakkoshka, who had never seen trolls before, asked permission to talk to him. The mage nodded his head, continuing to explain something to Sezam. The girl carefully approached the campfire, on which the roasted piece of meat had already managed to char on one side. The troll turned his head toward her, made a grimace, glanced at the gem and grunted "not take my shiny."
- You should flip the meat, Mr. Tullus. - noted the girl.
The surprised troll spun the pole and howled in grief upon seeing the black crust on the appetizing chunk. They talked a bit about the weather. It turned out that because of the blizzard, the respected Mr. Tullus was left without his favorite treat—chickens roasted to a golden crust. The merchant, who had promised to bring many different delicacies in exchange for skins, mushrooms, and berries, sent word that he would arrive only after the holiday. Then Drakkoshka asked if he wanted to exchange his glowing stone for a roasted chicken. Hearing about the star once again, the troll first became angry, then thought it over. The mage told him that the stone would crumble into dust in a few days, and the troll, of course, believed such a respected person. Making a difficult decision for himself, he demanded "many" tasty roasted chickens with a golden crust in exchange for his precious shiny.
Pleased with the diplomatic skills opening up within her, Drakkoshka ran to tell the others about the concluded agreement. Hearing the terms of the deal, Ment thoughtfully scratched his beard and asked the pertinent question: "where on earth will we get such a quantity of chickens?". The girl remembered that in the cellar of the guard barracks where they spent the night, there happened to be several pieces. The mages decided to stay here to ensure nothing bad happened to the troll and the stone, while the others went for Tullus's ransom.
Flying into the dark kitchen, the girl began giving orders left and right. Thus Alexis was forced to light the stove, Dag to carry chickens from the cellar, and Fail to search for all sorts of ingredients for her. The southerner demonstratively resisted the assignments but still performed them; he very much wanted to finish this fascinating adventure as quickly as possible. The first chicken went into the oven; the second was preparing to follow its example. Sauces, pepper, spices, salt, fruits—all this swirled around the maid with incredible speed, participating in the preparation of festive food for a lonely troll. The overly curious southerner, who had never seen such cooking before, received a pinch of pepper straight to the face. He shouldn't have distracted the master at work!
No one counted how much time was needed to prepare this pile of chickens, but the result satisfied everyone. Most pleased was the respected Morrut Tullus, who, having barely tasted the blessed golden chicken in spices—juicy and tender—completely forgot about his ephemeral preciousness.

Another visitor entered the gloom of the tavern; swaying, he sat at the bar, demanding beer. Upon receiving his order, he placed a small steel figurine on the table, drawing the owner's attention to it. The fat bearded man only shrugged, returning to wiping mugs, but soon disappeared from view for a couple of minutes. Someone's hand abruptly tore the hood off the mysterious visitor's head, revealing Oben's fair-haired head to the world. A moment of surprise, then an unskilled blow, which the elf easily dodged. Slipping out of the resulting encirclement, he kicked the nearest man in the stomach, split the second one's lip, and dropped the third to the floor with a skillful trip. Freezing in a combat stance, Oben waited for new attackers, but no brave souls were found. From somewhere deep in the hall, a hoarse voice rang out:
- Get lost while you still can.
The click of a pistol lock was heard; a large man rose from his seat, closely watching the further actions of the dangerous bloodhound. Putting the figurine in his pocket, Oben left the establishment and headed to the next one. From a dark alley, a quiet "pointy-ear" was heard. Hiding in the shadows, a person concealing their face behind a black scarf looked around fearfully. As soon as Oben approached, he assured him that he knew who the figurine belonged to and where to look for this person. Naturally, information cost money.