On the other side of the river, under a large, water-eroded overhang from which single, soft rootlets of vegetation hung, the second sister was crouching and waving frantically at them, letting out warning whistles. Darma sprang to her feet, hastily pulling on her clothes. She grabbed Dorky's shoulders and pulled his face close to hers.
"Something dangerous is coming. Hide, now!" Her words were devoid of the expected softness and murmur, replaced by a battle-ready tension.
The boy didn't need to be told twice. He was already hopping on one leg, pulling on his pants, then quickly gathered his gear and rushed up the embankment to hide in the thicket. A few seconds after he nestled between an overgrown boulder and a clump of prickly pear cacti and pressed himself to the ground, a single, grotesque figure emerged from the bushes on the other side, moving with quiet, cautious steps. He was very close to the hidden Narma. From under his leather, pointed hood, his monstrously long and crooked nose protruded, and deep within, evil eyes glared, one at least twice the size of the other. He was half a man's height, of an indeterminate build, dressed thickly and bizarrely: in a coat cut as if sewn from remnants of various, mismatched fabrics. In his hands, he held a blackened, wide crossbow with a bolt loaded, its jagged, serrated tip bristling. He looked around, jutting out his lower jaw. A chill ran down the boy's spine at the thought of encountering him without the assistance of the Huntresses.
From where he was, he couldn't see Darma, which caused unbearable anxiety, but he was pleased that Narma remained calm and did not reveal herself to the intruder. The latter approached the edge of the embankment, sniffed, then extended a long finger and unerringly pointed to the spot where the young runaway had earlier slept and made love. A guttural cry pierced the air, and three more emerged from the thicket, including a ceremonially, or perhaps clownishly, dressed old man with a wreath of grey hair pulled back by a headband. All were armed, hideous, clumsy, and had those disturbing, uneven eyes. Dorky had never seen representatives of this race, so he tried to match them to one of the terrible stories he had heard about the inhabitants of the wasteland. These could be kobolds – a cunning, treacherous folk of semi-civilized cannibals and murderers. Or something else. He hoped they weren't kobolds. His deliberations were interrupted by Darma, who, emerging unexpectedly from the bushes on their side of the bank, took a short run and, with a leap, smashed the crossbowman's head, finishing a spectacular swing with her other weapon besides the whip – a smooth club, carved from a single piece of ash-colored stone. The creature's skull caved in, and black gore gushed from its ears and nose. The limp corpse trembled on its short legs for a moment, then crumpled and thumped to the ground.
"You bastards have the nerve to step onto Uurb clan land!" she roared furiously, turning to the next opponent. Dorky's ears and cheeks flushed hot. She was very attractive in her fury. The scales of victory seemed to tip towards the Orc side, but the other kobolds shook off their slight shock and prepared for battle. The opponent with an eye patch crouched, dodging the Orc-woman's blow, and slashed her with a toothed sickle straight into her thigh. The boy, observing the scene, noticed with disgust that as the blade cut into the flesh, the kobold brought his face closer to the spraying blood, smiling wider and wider, and even seemed to lick his lips. The Orc-woman did not miss a beat and did not stop her movement; she spun over her shoulder and, suddenly changing direction, rushed directly towards the old man who stood with his hands raised above his head and looked at her calmly. As soon as she wound up for a blow that by all rules should have torn off his jaw and thrown it two hundred feet away, he mumbled some ear-ringing words under his breath and vanished, only to reappear a moment later on the other side of the river, quite close to the boy's hiding place. The display of magical power shattered his feeling that the skirmish was under the control of the twins. Here, everyone was much more dangerous than they seemed. But could he be of any use? It was hard for him to watch his lover and her wonderful, somewhat colder sister struggle alone with these grotesques. He wondered if he could crawl up and stealthily bash the old man in the ear with his stick, or hit him with all his might in the neck with a shield? Fear initially paralyzed his movements. Meanwhile, Darma hammered and parried the blows of the two remaining warriors, and the sorcerer, from his new perspective, noticed Narma and her ambush. He shouted triumphantly, raising his hands. Before Dorky gathered himself to interrupt the spell, another wave of magical energy pierced the air, and the landscape elements around the crouching huntress moved and blurred, then instantly enclosed her in an amorphous, tight cage under the embankment. Dorky saw the Orc-woman trapped inside deliver terrible kicks and try to break the earthy-rooted bars with a spear, but it was beyond her strength. Her face, pale with rage, appeared and disappeared in the few breaks in the impenetrable barrier, and a torrent of curses cut through the air. Meanwhile, the other Huntress managed to shatter the gnarled knee of the one who had wounded her earlier, to which he reacted by falling sideways, with hysterical roaring laughter and evident urination. Seeing that his henchmen couldn't cope, the sorcerer shouted menacingly and pointed a finger at her, but although luminous energy began to gather around him for a moment, something cracked, flashed, and went out – it simply didn't work out for him. Exhausted, he dropped to one knee and blew his nose into his fingers, panting and coughing. Seeing an opportune moment, Dorky sprang from his hiding place and threw himself at him with the stick. Although he struck with all his might, under the influence of excitement he missed the head, hitting only the collarbone. The impact of the blow bent the old man to the ground, and the stick even cracked and broke. The next dozen seconds did not go according to the boy's plan. There must have been strong armor under the motley robe. The old man scrambled to his feet and, hissing menacingly, dealt him several powerful punches to the stomach and liver, easily knocking the inexperienced opponent to the ground and sending him into an orbit of terrible pain. Beaten, disappointed by his weakness, the young man, through clenched eyelids, saw another treacherous opponent, previously hidden in the thicket, join the fight. The net with weights he threw had bound Darma, who was just about to dispatch the kobold armed with a crooked cleaver and brass knuckles. Now she could do nothing. The net was strong, and the weights were attached so cleverly that any action brought her disadvantage. Although she struggled, kicked, and tried to grab their clothes, they packaged her like ham, suffocated her by holding her head in the dirt and sand, and then skillfully handcuffed her. The same fate befell the boy, but the old man apparently resented that blow to the back, so for good measure, he kicked him in the temple, then simply sat on him, reached into his bosom, and began to chew something disgusting, sighing and squirming a little. His companions shouted questioningly, pointing to Narma, but he shrugged and spread his hands. He could not or would not remove the magic cage she was in. They did not like this, but only protested with their expressions. Without wasting time, they eagerly processed their own dead man, taking the crossbow, cutting the pouches from his belt, and cutting off his ears, which they began to tear out for each other, then burst into cackles and stuffed them into their mouths, one each. Their blocky, strong teeth stubbornly ground the raw meat and cartilage. Dorky and Darma looked at this and at each other, and their faces spoke more than words. After this brief display of customs, the oppressors redirected their attention to their wounded one, the one with the crushed knee. He had been holding his leg with both hands the whole time and rocking in circles on the trampled ground, whimpering, laughing, and drooling. The net-wielder glanced at this, then turned to the sorcerer with a short, questioning shout. The old man smacked his lips, shook his hair, and impatiently showed the wounded one to get up. The latter immediately understood the gravity of the situation. He shut up and tried to lift himself on his elbows, putting on a serious face, but immense pain immediately shattered this facade, and a grimace cut across his ugly mug. He blinked his eyes, twisted his wretched face, smacked his lips, showing that it was nothing. If anyone looked into the old man's eyes, they would find dark amusement there. His gnarled, bluish fingers snapped a few times, pointing towards the river. The healthy kobolds understood the message, raising their eyebrows and bursting into giggles. As they dragged the trembling cripple into the current, he thrashed and screamed at the top of his lungs. They drowned him, holding him by the head. Dorky felt sick. A few minutes later, they were already driving them through the wasteland, into the unknown, and the whip taken from Darma, now wielded by the sadistic old man, once again set the rhythm of their wandering.
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