Dedicated to A.S. Kuzhelev from Pokrovskiy
14
Angel
Peace is always preferable to war.
The walls of the Fort, once so strong and unapproachable, built of dark burgundy, almost black mountain stone, so beloved by red architects, gaped holes with ragged edges. The dying defenders of the Fort writhed among the devastation in death agony, explosions tore off their limbs, many were buried alive under the rubble. Everything captured by them was destroyed and covered with the blood of the wounded and killed, as if something had now taken away its percentage for their past luck.
In the dense blackness of the smoky clouds, it was no longer possible to distinguish between day or night, only fiery flashes for a moment snatched the darkness and exploded it with sheaves of burning sparks, illuminating everything around.
It seemed that Death itself was present there, as an honored guest invited to a wild feast, it danced, circling, among the burning ruins, as at a ball, with each flash, snatching out life after life.
The force that ignites rage in the chest, fills the gaze with determination and a desperate desire to get out of the stone trap to freedom, was extinguishing in the hearts of the defenders.
Marmer with several soldiers from his squad, until the very last time was shooting from the cannon, not paying attention to the fiery boulders flying at him, and the fact that the cannon was red-hot. He shouted hoarsely:
“Fire! Fire!”
And he himself took heavy cannonballs, pushing them into the cannon with burnt hands, until a blazing fiery projectile, fired from a throwing weapon, blew the cannon and part of the wall on which they were to the devil.
Anya ran out of arrows, and there was no one with a full quiver nearby, and she, seeing through the loophole the guns of the reds, shrank in a low arch of still intact wall, as in her little shelter, and wept bitterly. Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving light streaks on her dusty face. Preparing for the inevitable, Anya stubbornly clenched a gold pendant in her fist, an award from Atley Alis for bravery, as if this decoration could help her in some way.
Mercenaries and unclean ones thrown from the wall tried to find shelter from burning cannonballs and pieces of masonry that were falling from everywhere. Shrad with his last strength managed to drag away fallen Zagpeace Gezaria, he was unconscious, and the brave peasant from the Estate of Prince Arel literally covered the commander with his body.
In front of Tazh’s eyes, a fiery projectile literally tore into pieces Tarl and several warriors from the Skull clan, who were fighting next to him, crushed them into the ground, leaving only a puddle of bloody mess.
The fort was burning, and the unclean horse of Nikto knocked out the stable doors with his hooves. The horses broke the reins and galloped into the opening of the destroyed wall. And only a few of the most stupid and tightly tied to the stalls remained, they whinnied pitifully, and Karina’s beloved horse suffocated.
The rear gate was blown out by a battering ram, and that section of the wall near the menagerie, which was selflessly defended by the unclean and young warriors from the school of Daniel Crassus for so many days, was destroyed, and there was no one else to protect it, and there was no way to do it.
What was the use of saving the back gate if the iron-wrought main gate had been torn down, and Lis once thought it was impenetrable.
The defenders of the Fort rushed about in its walls like rats in a labyrinth and didn’t know where to get away from the fiery stones and the reds who soon appeared in the breaches of the wall and were simply finishing off the crumbling army of Atley Alis.
