Chapter 4. Ward No. 1 (Part 4)

  The adrenaline from the night's incident ebbed away, leaving behind a pleasant, cottony fatigue. Outside, beyond the armored walls, the rain hummed again, but now the sound didn't seem hostile. It was just background noise, emphasizing the comfort within.

  Dmitry ensured the "guests" had cleared off far enough (radar showed a clear field for a kilometer around) and powered down the main screens. Only the soft amber floor lighting remained—"night mode," so as not to disturb the sleeping Toby. The boy, pumped with medicine and impressions, slept deeply and serenely.

  Dmitry walked over to the kitchen area. He needed to calm down. Release the tension. He pulled out a tin of loose-leaf tea. Tie Guan Yin. A light Oolong. The brewing ritual was important. Rinse the teapot with boiling water. Pour in the tightly rolled leaves. Inhale the aroma of the dry tea—the scent of lilac and fresh grass. Pour in 195°F (90°C) water. Discard the first steep ("wash the tea"). Pour again. A minute later, he was sitting in the chair, holding a hot gaiwan. The tea’s aroma wafted through the cabin, mixing with the scent of Rosso Nobile.

  Dmitry took a sip. "Good," he exhaled.

  He turned on the wall panel, routing the audio to wireless headphones to keep things quiet. What to watch? Action movies and horrors were out immediately—he had enough reality for now. He chose a BBC documentary series, "Planet Earth." The episode on mountains. On the screen floated the majestic peaks of the Himalayas, snow leopards hunting on cliffs, and David Attenborough’s voice speaking of eternity. Dmitry looked at the familiar landscapes of his home planet, but his thoughts were far away.

  He was a traveler. He had crossed half the world. He had seen the dunes of the Sahara, the geysers of Iceland, the jungles of the Amazon. Но all of that had been explored. There were maps, guides, routes, hotels. Here... he glanced at the window, where the contours of a foreign castle loomed in the darkness. This was Terra Incognita. A whole world. Vast, uncharted, dangerous. New continents. New races. Magic (or what they called magic). Ancient ruins. An explorer's itch woke up inside Dmitry. The very same urge that forced people onto flimsy caravels to sail beyond the horizon.

  "I want to see it," he whispered. "I want to see their capitals. Their mountains. Their seas. I want to map this world."

  He minimized the movie window and opened the Ark’s system panel. Tab: "Resources." Euphoria was replaced by cold calculation.

  Fuel (Diesel): 42%. 336 liters.

  The figure glowed in an alarming yellow. The race through the marsh had devoured a monstrous amount of diesel. Low gear, wheel spin, winch operation, hydraulics—consumption had been near 100 liters per 100 km. Plus the generator running during stops. 336 liters. In highway mode on solid roads, this would last 1,000 kilometers. In off-road mode—God willing, 300. And then? Then he would turn into the most expensive piece of real estate in this world.

  "We aren't going far," Dmitry noted, sipping his tea. "I need fuel. Lots of fuel."

  He opened the BTL Reactor tab. That very "barrel" he hadn't wanted to install. Status: Ready. Productivity: 20 liters/hour (at full load). Feedstock: Wood, coal, biomass.

  To fill a full tank (returning the spent 450 liters), the reactor would have to run continuously for nearly twenty-four hours. But that was the ideal. In reality, it needed feedstock. Dmitry calculated in his head. Diesel yield from wood—roughly 15-20% by mass. To get 450 liters of fuel (about 380 kg), he needed to burn... nearly two tons of wood. Two tons of dry wood.

  Dmitry looked at the forest outside. Plenty of trees. But they were green. They needed to be felled, cut into logs, dried (though the reactor could eat wet wood, the efficiency would drop). This was work. Heavy, long, physical labor. He would have to turn into a lumberjack. And he needed a base. A safe place where the machine could sit for a week or two while he harvested wood and fed the reactor.

  "So, a stopover," Dmitry decided. "We aren't going anywhere. We’re dropping anchor. Castle Prast is the perfect spot. It has walls (even if they have holes). It has people (even if they are destitute) who can help haul logs in exchange for food. And it has Toby, who needs to finish his treatment."

  "Irony of fate," Dmitry smirked. "I bought a vehicle for thirty million to race against the wind. And I’ll be sitting in the backyard of a medieval castle working as a stoker, shoving logs into a furnace."

  But there was no choice. Autonomy required sacrifice. But when he filled the tanks to the brim... this whole world would be at his feet.

  He had made a mistake. By intervening in the conflict with Reinhard, he had broken the prime rule of an observer: "Do not stand out." Now the city would know about the "White Dragon." Hoof would know. The Guard would know. Rumors would spread faster than a plague. In a week, it might not be debt collectors, but an army. Или mages from the capital. He had time. How much? Three days? A week? Until the bureaucratic machine of the Empire (or Kingdom) processed Reinhard’s report about a "glowing demon."

  "I need fuel," Dmitry said aloud. "I need to top up the tanks and be ready to bolt at a moment's notice." He glanced at the fuel gauge on the panel. 41%. Critically low for a maneuver if he had to fight his way out or go off-road. Gathering wood was no longer a matter of comfort. It was a matter of survival.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He finished his tea. Put down the gaiwan. Doused the light, leaving only the floor nightlights. Tomorrow he would stop being a guest. Tomorrow he would become a partner. Because he couldn't fell this forest alone.

  Dmitry lay on the bed, placing his pistol on the nightstand near his head. Sleep came heavy and dreamless, like falling into a black pit.

  Dmitry was woken not by an alarm or a security signal. He was woken by the sensation of someone else's gaze boring into the back of his head. An instinct honed by years of solo travel worked flawlessly. He snapped his eyes open and rolled onto his back.

  Directly in front of his bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was Toby. The boy was wrapped in his glowing pelt like a mantle. His hair stuck out in all directions, but his eyes... his eyes burned with a feverish, fanatical brilliance. He stared at the sleeping engineer the way believers stare at a saint stepped out of an icon.

  "Good morning, Great One," Toby whispered as soon as he saw the "deity" wake up.

  Dmitry rubbed his face with his palms, shaking off the remnants of sleep. He glanced at the wall panel. Time: 07:15. External Temp: +4°C (39°F). Battery Charge: 71%. (The night show with the searchlight and the climate control had eaten into the batteries).

  "Toby..." he groaned. "Why aren't you sleeping? You need a routine."

  "I couldn't sleep," the boy answered seriously. "I was thinking."

  "About what?"

  "About my future."

  Toby knelt and bowed his head, pressing a hand to his chest. "Take me as an apprentice, Master Dmitri!"

  Dmitry sat up on the bed, swinging his legs down. "An apprentice?" he smirked. "And what do you want to learn?"

  "Everything!" Toby exclaimed fervently. "I want to understand the language of the Spirit. I want to be able to conjure fire from a finger. I want to command the Iron Beast!"

  The boy began to fold his thin fingers, listing his virtues: "I know how to groom horses... I mean, I can wash the Beast! I know how to sharpen knives. I can wash clothes. I eat little. I know how to catch rats! I will be useful, Master! I won't be a burden!"

  In the child's voice sounded such desperate hope that Dmitry felt uneasy. In this world, apparently, children grow up early. The concept of "childhood" is replaced by the concept of "utility." If you aren't useful, you die.

  Dmitry reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. "No need to catch rats here, I have a hermetic seal," he said softly. "As for the apprenticeship..." He stood up and stretched, his joints cracking. "First, you must do one thing. The hardest thing."

  "Kill a dragon?" Toby’s eyes widened.

  "No. Get well. As long as you’re coughing and swaying in the wind, no studying. My Beast likes the strong."

  He stepped over to the medical cabinet. "And now—the initiation ritual. Turn around and drop your pants."

  Toby, who had expected a magical rite, was slightly embarrassed but obediently followed the order. The antibiotic shot (Ceftriaxone, 1 gram, intramuscular) was painful. But the boy didn't even peep. He only clenched his teeth tightly and gripped his pelt. "Good job," Dmitry praised, covering the injection site with a bandage. "Like a man."

  "And now—breakfast. Kitchen magic."

  Dmitry walked to the kitchen block.

  He was too lazy to cook steaks in the morning, and the boy's stomach couldn't handle heavy food yet anyway. He pulled out a packet of freeze-dried chicken noodle soup. He put a pot of water on the induction cooktop. Toby, forgetting the pain in his backside, was glued to the countertop. "There is no fire..." he whispered, staring at the black glass surface. "But the water is boiling. How?!"

  "Induction, brother. Magnetic fields agitate the metal molecules," Dmitry explained, knowing that to Toby this sounded like "wind spirits dancing a jig."

  He poured the contents of the packet into the boiling water. The aroma of chicken, dill, and home comfort wafted through the cabin. "This is dehydrated food," Dmitry explained, pouring the soup into mugs. "Quick, hot, and healthy."

  They sat at the table, and Toby slurped the soup, squinting with pleasure. To him, this "Doshirak" from the future was tastier than royal feasts.

  Ding-dong. The melodic chime of the doorbell rang through the cabin.

  Toby jumped and dropped his spoon. "Enemies?" he looked at the door in terror.

  Dmitry calmly pulled up the feed from the external cameras on the large wall monitor. At the edge of the moat, before the lowered bridge, stood two men. Karl and Hans. They looked pitiful under the light morning rain. Wet clothes, hunched shoulders. Hans held a bundle in his hands; Karl leaned on a stick. They didn't dare cross the imaginary line Dmitry had drawn with the searchlight last night. They stood and waited humbly.

  "Friends," Dmitry reassured him. "Come to check if I ate you for breakfast."

  He put on his jacket. "Stay here. Finish the soup. I’ll be back shortly."

  "Can I... look at them?" Toby asked timidly. "Through the 'magic window'?"

  Dmitry nodded at the monitor. "Watch. Just don't touch anything. The Spirit is watching you."

  "I understand, Master!"

  Dmitry stepped into the airlock. After the depressurization procedure, he descended to the wet ground. Rain was drizzling, turning the morning into a gray haze. Dmitry approached the edge of the moat. Karl and Hans, seeing him, bowed. Hans—low, from the waist. Karl—reservedly but respectfully.

  "Does Toby live?" Karl asked. His voice trembled with tension.

  Dmitry nodded (the Amulet of Envoys hung around his neck under his jacket). "He lives. He is eating soup. Temperature 36.6 (97.8°F). The crisis has passed. He’ll be running around in a couple of days."

  Hans exhaled loudly and crossed himself. "Glory to the Seven... and glory to you, Master Dmitri."

  The old servant stepped forward, holding out the bundle he had kept under his jacket away from the rain. "This... this is for you. The Baron commanded it."

  Dmitry took the bundle. He unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay a loaf of bread. Black, coarse bread, flecked with bran. Heavy as a stone. This was the bread of the poor. But Dmitry knew this was the last thing they had in the castle. They had given him their bread in gratitude for saving the boy.

  Dmitry felt a lump in his throat. He carefully wrapped the bread back up. "Convey my thanks to the Baron. This is a precious gift."

  Karl straightened up, assuming a serious expression. "And one more thing, Master Dmitri. His Lordship Baron Coen requests your presence. Right now." The butler glanced at the castle. "There is a conversation. Not for the street. And not for extra ears."

  "Regarding the night guests?" Dmitry guessed.

  "And regarding what comes next," Karl answered evasively. "The Baron awaits you in the Small Drawing Room."

  Dmitry checked the fuel indicator on his wrist remote (duplicating the vehicle's data). 41%. He needed fuel. He needed to resolve the security of his stay. And he needed to understand how deep he had stepped into the mire by protecting this castle.

  "Fine," Dmitry nodded. "Wait. I just need to grab... a few arguments."