Готовый перевод История Королевы Эльфов / The story of the Elf Queen: Глава шестнадцатая. Долгая ночь Героя Королевы Эльфов

Chapter Sixteen. The Long Night of the Hero of the Elf Queen

* * *

Service in the city guard of White Harbor, the only city open to representatives of the lesser races of elves, had its peculiarities and distinctions that distinguished it from service in the city guard of almost any other city. And the main difference was that the White Harbor city guard was primarily engaged in what most people expect from the city guard, but do not always get. Keeping order on the city streets. Because the elves, who kept the city guard, recruited mostly representatives of the lesser races, liked order very much. And they didn't like it very much when someone broke it. That's why the well-equipped and equally well-motivated city guards of White Harbor strictly monitored this very order, trying to stop any mischief or not to allow it at all.

To be fair, there were practically no outrages in the only elven city open to outsiders, and if we compare it to other Free Cities, we can safely say that there were none at all. The strict accounting of all arriving guests and the absence of slums or simply poor neighborhoods in principle contributed to that. Of course, nothing is perfect, and sometimes trouble happens in White Harbor. But it was very rare; the elves' well-oiled mechanism of controlling city life rarely failed.

And as in any county, the White Harbor City Guard had its own tricks and professional secrets. One of these secrets, which Marjana, the daughter of Farbin of White Harbor, was told by her mentors during her training, was an unspoken rule: “Before the end of your shift, never do anything that does NOT require your direct intervention. At other times, being vigilant is not just necessary, it is a must. But not just before the end of your shift. Don't stop to check on obviously drunk guests on city streets who are yelling or laughing too loudly, but otherwise doing nothing wrong. Don't ask if documents and permits are in order for honorable merchants who carry their goods in too securely sealed chests on too well-protected carts to the city portal.

Because if you do it just before the end of your shift, then by some unwritten, but immaculately executed law of Destiny itself, you are much more likely to get into some shit. And the kind of shit that will come back to bite you in the ass.

An over-alcoholized guest from the Rising Empire, who had all the documents and permits in order, would calmly reach his office, but instead of these documents, he would grab a battle wand and start pouring battle magic on everyone and everything around him, thinking that he was going to be kidnapped or robbed. Which means he'll have to be restrained by force without any regard for his origins. And then your superiors will have to make a long and unpleasant explanation and prove through the mediation of the Oath Keeper's Priests that Forest and his guards had no ill intentions towards the honorable nephew of the Emperor of the Rising's Envoy. Who really hadn't broken any rules or laws of the city that would justify stopping and inspecting him. And then there was the matter of dealing with the victims of battle magic, and things were not going well.

At the honorable merchants in one of the chests, in addition to absolutely legitimate goods, just requiring by virtue of its specificity of reliable isolation and protection, will be found bound hand and foot firstborn maiden, kidnapped by friends of these merchants, although all her entourage is sure that she just decided to rest and relax in White Harbor. And you're supposed to be rewarded and thanked for your vigilance. And you'll get both in full for your vigilance. Except that separately, you will also get a HUGE thanks from the Grays, for your vigilance disrupted a long and carefully prepared operation to introduce the agentess of these same Grays in the guise of a slave.

Of course, both of these legendary incidents in the life of the White Harbor City Guard, which Marjana had been told by her venerable instructor-mentor, were just the most famous exceptions, not the norm. Exceptions in terms of the magnitude of the problems, not the rule itself, “no excessive vigilance before the end of your shift.” Normally, the problems for guards in the event of its violation were far more modest. But they were, and so consistently so that among Marjana's colleagues, there were rumors of a really existing law of Fate itself.

When she'd been a young girl who'd just been selected and had begun her training as a guardian, she'd been skeptical. She had been young and naïve enough not to follow in the footsteps of her parents, who had spent their lives in the merchant navy of the Forest. Usually, girls were reluctant to join the city guard, but she was made an exception because of her gift for magic, which had sprung up in her teens. Her parents were over the moon when it was discovered during a routine inspection of the younger races in the Forest. And so was Maryana herself.

But alas, her gift for magic was not very strong, and her childish and naive dream of becoming a great sorceress like Alinarel the Magnificent was extinguished almost immediately. As the elf-mages who examined her told Marjana, her gift was a little below average, and at best, she could expect to reach the level of a strong adept after years of hard training and study.

The same gifted elves offered her several options of where in the Forest she could be trained in magical craft and what specialty. The elves valued gifted young people and invested quite generously in their training. Out of all the options offered to her, Maryana chose to enroll in the Forest Guard training corps, which prepared, among other things, junior and middle-level commanders from the representatives of the younger races that had the right to live in the Forest. If she successfully completed her studies, this, in addition to a good enough allowance during her studies and subsequent service, also guaranteed her a junior officer's patent. And if you performed well in the service, you could also be a middle-ranking officer, which was great. And also, after the end of the obligatory agreed term of service, it would be possible, if desired, to go into private magical practice, having received the corresponding patent.

Marjana was a diligent and clever student. She carefully memorized everything she was taught, and at practical lessons she worked hard, learning the intricacies of creating magic weaves and serving in the ranks of the city guard. She passed the final exams and was officially enrolled in the city guard as an assistant commander of one of the patrol companies, having also received a patent of adept of the first stage. Of course, the actual service was not quite what she had envisioned it to be, even during her studies. None of the adventures she'd enjoyed hearing about in the training corps, but instead just a lot of routine. Boring, monotonous routine.

Patrols and duty, duty and patrols. No romance, but Marjana did her duty faithfully and without complaint, and in her free time, which was not much, she tried her best to hone and develop her magical gift. Her superiors welcomed it. Standard consumables, training materials, and access to common laboratories for magical practice were provided to her. However, it was just that, standard, that is, the simplest. She had to pay out of her own pocket for everything not included in this list, and although her salary was quite decent, the development of her own gift ate up a considerable part of it. But Marjana did not complain. Because gradually, magic weaves were given to her more easily, their complexity increased, as well as their possible number. All this led to the fact that after only three years of service, she was promoted to patrol platoon commander, as well as confirmed the right to a second-stage adept's patent. Which, for such a young girl, was not bad at all!

By the end of the agreed term of service, she would have a third-stage adept's patent, which would allow her to go into private practice or offer herself for consideration as an apprentice assistant to one of the real masters of magic. In theory, it was even possible to get in with one of the firstborn. But that bright future had yet to be realized.

And in order to live up to it, Marjana strictly followed all the rules and instructions, especially the unspoken and unwritten rule that her mentors had explained to her so thoroughly. Perhaps it was because of this that she was able to avoid getting into any trouble, which was rare but still happened in White Harbor. The most serious trouble she had personally encountered was when she had been involved in pacifying a public conflict between the Southern blacks and the Lizards. Relations between the inhabitants of the Southern Continent were not easy. Plundering raids were replaced by trading expeditions, alliances were made and broken. Nothing unusual.

But that particular time, the representatives of the King on the River had been angered by the fact that the Lizards had offered for sale in their representative office in White Harbor a batch of expensive but familiar goods for the Southern Continent. Only some of them bore the hidden markings of the Khotta trading expedition, which had been plundered and perished on the rivers of the Great Jungle. The plenipotentiary representative of the King on the River could not solve the issue quietly and behind closed doors, or rather did not want to, but instead organized a great show that took place right in the Central Trade Square.

Marjana's entire role then was to stand with her subordinates in a hastily organized cordon while the representatives of the two nations accused each other of all kinds of sins, fraud, and various forms of bestiality in the Central Square. Selective swearing with a characteristic southern accent was replaced by equally characteristic hissing and whistling, while the hastily arrived representatives of the Forest, mediated by the priests of Damokar, tried to understand the essence of the conflict and prevent it from escalating into a full-fledged battle. And there were chances, for the representative of the King on the River was a relative, and not too distant, of the chief of the lost trading expedition of the Khotta people. And he had bitten his teeth, demanding not only compensation for the stolen goods, but also blood money for his nephew or grandson.

Marjana didn't know how the elven diplomats had managed to persuade the lizards and the black-skinned southerners not to bring the matter to the point of murder and to talk normally behind closed doors instead of arranging something incomprehensible in the middle of the day. And she didn't really want to. The less you know, the better you sleep. At that moment she was more concerned about the fact that the set of protective amulets, which consisted of both the service amulets and a couple of self-made ones made of enchanted blanks bought with her own money, was getting hotter and hotter as the swearing of the Lizards and the Southerners became more and more selective and insulting. And when the elves led them away, she was genuinely relieved. And until today's unfortunate day, it had been the worst thing Marjana had encountered in her service.

It was still a long way from the end of her shift when the alarm came through the service communication amulet, informing her of an incident in the Zoo, as the people of White Harbor called the marketplace where all sorts of animals were sold. Marjana and her ten had rushed to the scene of the accident, and the other two ten under her command had been on the lookout. But almost immediately, it became clear that their help would not be needed, and the incident was resolved quickly and surprisingly peacefully. Though Marjana, when she checked the documents of the blond-haired, handsome half-elf, she was at first quite tense. No, his documents, certified with all the necessary seals, were in good order, as were his servants. Except that there was something missing. One small detail.

A family name. That said a lot to Marjana, who had seen some things and heard even more from her older colleagues. Like expensive clothes, made according to the latest fashions. And also very expensive and very high-quality amulets. Just one battle wand of a gifted half-elf cost, according to Marjana's estimates, as much as half of her annual salary. Maybe two-thirds. And besides the wand, he had a whole set of other amulets of the same quality as the wand. And let's not forget the healing alchemy he had, with which the half-elf had literally saved the life of a crooked boy from the Caliphate. It was worth as much as a year's allowance for a young guard, because the other one could not have healed the eyes of the little idiot burned by the acid of Dilafurelia in a few minutes.

The cherry on the cake was that the handsome half-elf was also gifted, and, as Marjana realized, he was noticeably stronger than her, a very strong adept, already close to the rank of master of magic. Adding it all up, one did not need to be a sage to realize that she was looking at the illegitimate son of one of the firstborn sorceresses. And obviously not one of the last ones, since she could afford to spend such money on the upkeep of a half-blood child. Realizing all this, Marjana already had a premonition of difficult proceedings and the imminent intervention of either the Greens or, much worse, the Greys. But to her amazement and relief, the honorable Cirial did not call for help from his mother's relatives or his mother herself. Well, or daddy, that could also be possible, though unlikely. Firstborn men are far less likely to have children with women of lesser races than vice versa. Cirial did not demand any compensation from the relatives of the rescued fool, but only wished to go away. Marjana was very glad of that, because all her experience of service in the city guard claimed that it was better to stay away from the Greens, if possible.

Therefore, having made sure that there were no claims from both sides and having received a new pair of excellent boots of expensive and well-made leather in addition to the fine for violation of public order, she left the Zoo with peace of mind, leaving the captain of the Caliphate ship to flatter the blond handsome half elf on her own. The rest of the shift went smoothly, and Marjana was almost convinced everything was all right. She safely handed over to her colleagues from the night shift and reached the barracks without any accidents with her men. Marjana was already standing at the entrance to the weapons room, where she was supposed to hand in the amulets and battle wands to be issued for the shift, when a literal HELL started.

The silence of the barracks was broken by the deafening roar of the alarm amulets, which the young guard had never heard before. At the same time, her service communication amulet came to life. And she wasn't the only one. Each of the commanders of the city guard, starting with the tens, had received the same message:

//"GENERAL ALERT! CODE BLACK!"

For the first few seconds, Marjana couldn't even realize what was happening. Code Black is very serious. It's a city-wide threat! When it was last announced, hardly anyone but the oldest members of the city guard could remember. Of the lesser races. But the firstborn commanders did. And they remembered what to do in such a case. The elf officer on duty on the first floor of the barracks reacted to the alarm almost instantly. Marjana had no idea there were so many interesting words in classical Elvish, while she and her men were hastily given reinforced battle wands, protective amulets, and vials of stimulating alchemy from the arsenal, which were immediately taken by everyone.

Then there was a desperate run with her platoon through the streets of the Residential Part toward the Trade Part, to the sound of the alarm bells and the light of dozens of glowing orbs that soared into the night sky, making it brighter than daylight. Marjana saw the first dead almost as soon as she crossed the gate separating the Trade and Residential parts of White Harbor. Right in the middle of the street, nearly a dozen bodies of guests and residents lay in pools of blood. Some had been killed in a single, measured blow. Others had almost been hacked to pieces with some enchanted blade or magic. And on the white wall of the house nearest to the massacre, a schematic palm was painted with the blood of the slain, under which was a short inscription in a very distinctive script of the elven alphabet: “We know”.

Mariana did not linger at the scene of the massacre, which could not be called a battle, since the dead had clearly been taken by surprise. The Green soldiers, who had also been alerted, were dealing with the dead and a few of the wounded who had miraculously survived. Their commander gave Mariana a short shout, ordering her to hurry up and take control of the section of the city assigned to them. She hurriedly did so, rushing forward with her men. It was surprisingly easy and even pleasant to run after the alchemy. It would be bad later, and she'd have to drink detoxicants, but that would be later. And we have to live until then!

On the way to their destination, they encountered signs of carnage twice more in the almost completely deserted streets of the city. The picture was the same everywhere. A dozen or half slaughtered guests or residents of the city. A bloody hand on the white walls of the houses. And the inscription beneath it: “We know.” True, at the site of the third massacre, in addition to the victims, the perpetrator was discovered. Dead, too, with his chest burned through with a heavy battle rod. And a face that didn't make sense. At a cursory glance, it looked as if the killer's face had been smeared into mush. Beside his body stood a large man with a clear admixture of orc blood, dressed in a once immaculate black and white servant's suit, now stained with blood, with a pair of battle amulets in the form of bracelets on his wrists. He explained himself in fairly good Elvish to the Gray agent while several Green fighters tended to the dead and wounded. At the same time, an obviously panicked and close to hysterics lady in a gorgeous navy blue, also thickly splattered with blood, was clinging to him from behind. And she was literally sparkling with a good set of protective amulets on full power.

As in the first time, Marjana did not linger, running past, only giving a brief salute to her elven superiors. Keeping her battle wand at the ready and with activated protective amulets, Marjane and her platoon soon reached the desired intersection in the Trade Part of the city, where they were supposed to take the defense in case of alarm. Briefly reporting to the Nest through the communication amulet that her platoon had reached its destination, she and her men immediately began to take up the defenses. Who would have thought that all those unscheduled drills the Greens had organized for the city guard after the Island King's raid on Morgrave would come in handy so soon? In less than ten minutes, the intersection was securely overlapped with magical shield-barriers powered by mobile storage crystals. Heavy battle wands, like full-fledged staffs, were placed on special tripods in key places.

After double-checking and then double-checking that each of her subordinates was at his post and ready to do what was required of him according to instructions and regulations, Marjana reported once again to the Nest through the communication amulet. She received a short reply from the on-duty officers, who were even more tense: “Copy that. Hold your position. Wait for instructions.”

Waiting for these very instructions lasted until almost morning and was quite nerve-wracking. Even though no battle had taken place. Several times, squads of fellow vacationers, who had been raised on alert, ran through the intersection occupied by Marjana's fighters. Once, a reinforced squad of Greens with a few Greys raced through. All the elves were in full sets of battle armor and carrying heavy magical wands. The faces of the firstborn were covered with dull enchanted helmets, they did not explain what was going on in the city, just rushed past the guards who were on the defensive. A couple of times, Marjana and her men heard the rumble of battle magic, but each time it was cut off almost immediately. In the morning, when the sun was almost above the sea surface of the Elven Bay, Marjana finally received a message from the Nest:

//“Nest to Seventeenth! The Sixth Green is on its way to you. You are at the disposal of their commander. I want your full cooperation. Copy that.

/“Seventeenth to Nest! Copy!”

The sixth squad of Forest Guards did indeed arrive, along with a few Greys. All the elves wore full sets of battle armor, just short of glowing from the full power of their protective weaves. The firstborn held mostly magical wands in their hands, though some had enchanted bows with equally enchanted arrows. The faces of those who could see them were extremely serious and grim. After passing the obligatory check with amulets and passwords, they were allowed inside the protective perimeter. Marjana briefly reported to their commander about the lack of incidents in her section. He listened to her with a cold look in his green eyes, then ordered loudly:

"Attention! We will now be conducting an identity check! I order everyone to stay where they are! Battle wands and amulets to be extinguished and holstered! Defense amulets to full power! When the inspectors approach, don't move, don't say anything, stand still! Execute!"

Inside the protective perimeter, the already tense atmosphere immediately became even more tense. The city guards began to cast wary and incomprehensive glances at each other, at Marjana, and at the arriving elves. And those in return glanced at them not once kindly, but also very tense looks. And Maryana never understood at what moment the firstborns managed to stand in such a way that they could keep each group of fighters in the crosshairs of their battle wands. Fortunately, the discipline ingrained in her head from her training and service had taken its toll. Straightening up, she shouted loudly:

"You heard the order! Carry out!"

And with a smooth movement, she put her battle wand away in her belt holster, putting the weaves in it to sleep. She put her amulets on full power. Her fighters, one by one, followed suit. The elf commander cast a brief grateful glance at Marjana, and then a couple of his fighters, along with the Gray agent, began walking from one city guard to another. While the other elves continued to keep everyone in their sights.

The tension hanging in the air at that moment could literally be felt with her hands, but luckily the checks were very quick. When the last of Marjana's subordinates was checked by the elves and the verdict “Clear” was pronounced, she felt a natural physical relief, as if a mountain had fallen from her shoulders, even though the check took very little time. And, judging by the faces of her colleagues, she wasn't the only one who felt that way. The elf commander, when the inspection was over, with unchanged face and the same cold voice loudly announced:

"Inspection is over! Take out your weapons, put them on full alert, continue to hold the defense, wait for further orders! Any attempts to move residents or visitors to the city immediately suppress, use weapons without warning! Execute!"

" May I have permission to speak?"

Turning to Maryana, the elf commander glanced at her briefly and nodded:

"Granted."

"What happened in the city? What is the situation?"

The face of the firstborn became even colder and gloomier, and in a dry voice, he said:

"The Dark Brotherhood has carried out multiple attacks across the city. Many have died."

Muffled, choice curses were heard among Maryana's fighters.

"The attackers, apparently, had been hiding in the city for a long time under the guise of other people or representatives of other races. Now, all attacks have been repelled, but the surviving fanatics are trying to hide by changing their guises. Therefore, the city is closed, and a total check of all residents and guests is underway."

At this point, the explanations from the elves ended, and the Green fighters, together with the agents of Grays, rushed off further, towards the Central Trade Square. Maryana, when they had run far enough, quietly formulated the general opinion:

"Fuck..."

The new day was beginning, but for some reason she was absolutely sure that it would be shitty. Just fucking shitty...

* * *

For several endlessly long seconds, Cyrill stood motionless, peering into the night darkness, trying to comprehend what had just happened and understand what the hell had just happened. But he didn't have time to think or understand anything, because the unknown person who had helped them in the battle, still wrapped in a camouflage field, jerked sharply and barked loudly in a distorted voice, raising his hand to the side:

"Dammit!"

Turning sharply to him, Cyril barely refrained from supporting the unknown man with a selective swear word. Though he wanted to. Because a little away from their merry company, just a dozen metres away, poorly distinguishable in the surrounding darkness, stood a female figure, tightly enveloped in black smoke. Smoke that even against the background of the night darkness seemed black. She did not pay any attention to the piece of meat that had been torn out of her right side, and not together with a part of her ribs. Nor did she pay any attention to the fist-sized hole in the centre of her chest. Or the left arm torn off below the elbow. The same black smoke oozed from all her wounds like a stovepipe. Her face was still obscured by the wrinkled old man's face, but her eyes were clearly visible. They were burning bright red fire, and looked straight at Cyril.

It looked terrifying, but the young man, learnt from many training sessions, raised his battle wand in a sharp movement and struck with an instantly formed weave of a classic magical arrow, putting most of his remaining strength into this blow. At the same time, Gata, Armina, and an unknown assistant struck at the same time. The catgirl's hands shot off a curved arc of lightning, the second maid threw a long enchanted needle that flashed a line of fire in the air, and the unknown man deftly threw a throwing knife, on which the symbols of enchantments flashed in flight.

All four strikes reached their target. The lightning struck the unknown woman in the area of her abdomen, and with a loud crackling sound, it exploded into many smaller discharges in different directions. Cyril's magical arrow hit her right shoulder and exploded with a rumble, causing no visible damage, as if he were hitting an enchanted stone rather than a living creature. Armina's throwing needle struck the female figure precisely in the neck, but instead of embedding itself in flesh, it shattered into small sparks as it barely touched the unknown. The knife of their mysterious companion struck the ghastly lady precisely in the region of the heart, but it too did her no apparent harm, barely stabbing her, as if it had been thrown not into a human body, but into the trunk of a tree. The unknown woman, further shrouded in black smoke, seemed to pay no attention to any of this at all. She tilted her head slightly to the side and said one single phrase in a distorted, as if mechanical voice, while continuing to look directly at Cyril:

"We knew."

And before anyone could do anything, she turned completely into the same black smoke, which almost instantly dissipated without a trace. There was no trace left of the lady, only the throwing knife fell to the ground with a quiet sound. A second passed. Another one. And then...

"Damn fanatical fuckers! May they all rot alive and turn to dust in unmarked graves in the roots of carnivorous trees! Where did they even come from in White Harbor?!"

Gata's loud and selective swearing in the purest Elvish was accompanied by quite a flurry of activity. The cat-lady picked up her enchanted bag, where she had put Cyril's purchases during the day, from a piece of the restaurant floor and began to quickly extract its contents. But instead of expensive incense or silk outfits, the bag was filled with a wide variety of amulets, crystal storages, martial arts equipment, and vials of alchemy. The quantity and quality of the items being retrieved would command the respect of even the gold teams of the Adventurer's Guild. And very big questions from the guards.

Armina did the same, but silently, taking one object after another out of her bag, some of which she immediately put on herself or handed to Cyril. Their mysterious companion made a short movement with his hand, and the throwing knife, which had fallen into the grass, flew back to him with an arrow, exactly with its hilt in the palm of his hand. At the same time, the camouflage field surrounding him, which made the figure of the unknown man blurred and indistinct, disappeared, revealing a tall man dressed in an obviously very complicated dark gray light armor, definitely of elven workmanship. His face was concealed by a hooded mask, so that only his violet eyes, burning with magical fire, were visible. He intercepted his throwing blade, stowed it in his belt scabbard, and replied in the same purest elven, pulling a binding amulet from an inconspicuous pocket:

"Good question, I'll be sure to personally ask Third once we get back, but for that we need to get out of here... Damn spawn of the abyss! I can't contact the Forest! My amulet is dead! It's like the weave was never there! Not even an echo!"

"Now... Damn, I wish they'd rot from the inside out! It's the same with mine! Armina!?"

The second maid, who had frozen for a moment, grabbed her communication amulet, squeezed it in her fist for a second, shook her head briefly, and continued to extract the hitherto hidden contents of her bag:

"Mine is dead."

"Cirial?"

"Mine too,” Cyril said gloomily, glancing around nervously as he finished creating a protective dome-barrier around their company.

The tiara, turned to night vision mode, made it possible to see where they were. It wasn't very encouraging. What he'd thought was a clearing was a small, flat lowland surrounded on all sides by gentle hills, also densely covered with tall grass. There was no sign of intelligent life to be seen or felt in the vicinity. In general, trying to listen to the world around him, Cyril realized that he could hardly detect any sources of magic nearby, natural or man-made. After White Harbor, where even without listening, he could constantly feel many echoes of other people's weaves, it was quite strange.

But the young man put it down to fatigue. He had less than a tenth of his own strength left, so he didn't feel very well. He wanted to lie back on the soft cushions of the sofa and lie for ten hours. Or better yet, twenty. But instead, after he finished creating the dome-barrier and putting the energy stored in one of his rings into it, he started pulling off his outer clothing. Once he had taken it off, he replaced it with his training vest, with his protective amulets already prepared, which Armina had given him. The maid herself was already wearing the same over her dark gray suit. Nodding gratefully to her, the young man began to adjust the protection and mentally cursed. Did a fucking good deed, saved a man. Went to a fucking restaurant, had a rest! I was exhausted from maintaining the illusion all day, and now... That's right! Mission accomplished! Ohhhh.

"Damn Dark Brotherhood tricks, I wish those damn fanatics were eaten from the inside by living vines,” Gata continued cursing in pure Elvish, taking a set of disposable battle wands out of her bag and handing some of them to the stranger in dark gray armor.

At that moment, the catgirl's appearance, which had been blurred and hazy since the battle in the Singing Sirens had begun, became clear for a moment, and then rippled as if she had been struck with a palm. A moment later, and instead of the catwoman, a tall elfess appeared, dressed in the same tight-fitting robes of dark grey cloth as Armina. With long, snow-white hair, a solid-sized chest, violet eyes burning with magical fire, and a very angry expression on her beautiful face. Having put on the same waistcoat as Cyril and Armina's and having removed a couple of additional protective amulets in the form of metal plates, she, not paying attention to the missing illusion, said in a strained voice, looking at their mysterious companion:

"First, we need to send out a call for help, use the alarm..."

"No. It won't work."

"What? Why?!"

"Listen to it. That fucking bitch covered us with some of her crap before she left. Some kind of cloaking field. Or more like a cloud."

"What? Damn it... "

"Can you dispel it?" First interrupted Cyril's mentor.

"Let me see. Hmm. It's something from the Dark Brotherhood's arsenal. Not a weave, but more like..."

"The divine miracles."

"Right. Hmm..."

Cyril, listening to their conversation, switched his diadem to magic vision and, after changing several spectra, understood what the elves were talking about. In one of the spectra, they all seemed surrounded by a black fog. It didn't look thick, but when trying to ‘feel’ it with magic, it looked like a very viscous and sticky cotton wool that absorbed the weaves. But not all of them, but only of a certain type. Mostly those related to the magic of space. The rest of the magic, according to Cyril's sensations, this cloud did not seem to notice it at all. But it didn't seem to affect him either. The young man's mentor realised it even faster and gave a depressing verdict.

"It's a bad case. There's no way to destroy this thing quickly. At least not by us. Besides, that bitch has her pinned down tight, and we can't get rid of it that easily."

"It's bad..."

"But there is good news. If I understand its structure correctly, it is also partially tied to the terrain, and when moving, it will lose some of its power, which means that if we get far enough from here..."

"Then we can use alarm amulets."

"True. But until it dissipates or weakens enough, we can't expect help from the Forest. They're probably looking for us right now, but because of this crap they can't detect us in any way, and they won't hear our call for help."

"But she and her friends, I suspect, know exactly where we are..."

"Damn it!"

Looking around and not seeing any landmarks, an angry and very tense Diantrel said through gritted teeth:

"First, can you figure out where we're going? I don't feel the direction of the Forest, or any other beacons..."

"Now I'll sort it out by the stars. And you finish packing faster!"

"Of course! Ciriall! Check all your gear, upgrade your storage crystals, and take some extra storage crystals for your protective amulets..."

"Got it, now."

"Armina, this concerns you too!"

"Already. I'm ready, venerable one."

"We'll have to use stimulating alchemy. First, have we managed to at least roughly understand where we are and in which direction to move?"

Their strange companion, gazing at the starry sky, did not have time to answer. He was preceded by an inarticulate sound that came from the side of the table, where there were still some of the snacks that had miraculously survived:

"Aaaaahm..."

Cyril, with his mentor, Armina, and the mysterious First, turned sharply to Shinda-Bah and the rest of the party, who had been forgotten. The honourable captain of the Caliphate ship was sitting on the cushions, clutching with his wife in four hands some amulet. So tightly that blood was dripping from their fingers. Next to them sat his nephew and first assistant, still covering him with a shield-barrier from the protective amulet. And from beneath the table peered the boy waiter and the half-blood siren who had so opportunely approached them in the restaurant to offer to order a song.

All of them had a very pale appearance and looked at the young half-elf and his companions with outright fear, one of whom turned out to be not a catgirl but a disguised elfess. Clearly a strong, gifted elf. And, apparently, the past shaking from the battle had had such a good effect on his brain activity that Cyril somehow immediately realised what they were all thinking about. That this company, which was obviously VERY difficult, didn't need any extra witnesses. And after a few seconds of very tense silence, his guess was confirmed by the waiter, who literally rambled on and on:

"Ready to assist you, honorable ones, in any way I can, as a loyal servant of the Forest and..."

The half-blood siren beside him almost screamed as well:

"I, too, am willing to do my best as a loyal ...."

The farce that had just begun was nipped in the bud by First, who literally barked:

"Quiet! Silence, all of you, until asked!"

He confirmed his words with a magic wand that appeared in his hand and pointed it at those sitting there. He was supported by Cyril's mentor, who also had her own silver wand in her hands. The twitching humans and one partly human immediately froze and shrank, and the fear on their faces became even clearer. But no one did anything, not even a squeak. And they couldn't do anything even if they wanted to. Against a full-fledged master of magic and a very strong adept, only Shalah-Ana could do anything, and that only on her own ship. They realised that. And Cyril and his companions understood it. His mentor and this strange First exchanged grim and quick glances, still holding their unwilling companions at wandpoint. But unlike them, Cyril understood something else; he understood it very clearly. That these humans and one non-human, in a good way, are really completely unnecessary witnesses for him. And in the current situation, they would probably be a burden. And it would be very effective not to kill them, no, but just to leave them here, wherever this ‘here’ was. Like a burden. Ballast.

And he also realized that if it hadn't been for that half-blood siren shivering with fear and cold, he might well be dead right now. And if it hadn't been for Shalah-Ana, they would all be where that red-eyed bitch had tried to drag them off to. It was her successful attempt to transfer them all to Shinda-Bah's ship with the help of a good-quality amulet-evacuator, obviously cherished for more than a year and not quickly recoverable, that had thwarted the assassins' plans. And something told Cyirill that if he were where they wanted to move them, he would be very sad. Probably mortally sad. The young man understood and realized all this surprisingly quickly. After that, he made a decision just as quickly.

He took a step forward, so that he was closer to the people frozen on the relocated section of the floor, and looked sharply into the violet eyes of First, who turned to him, and said politely but clearly:

"I can guess what you want to do, Honorable First. But if not for the extremely lucky intervention of the honorable Shalah-Ana, who tried to save us all by transferring us to the Smile of Fortune,” Cyril emphasized this word, "we would be the guests of these murderers now. And probably dead by now. All of us."

He said the last phrase, looking into his mentor's eyes. She, thanks to the mark and the connection of her companion with him, now literally physically understood what Cyrill was thinking. And, he realized very clearly, she clearly did not agree with him. Just categorically. Their exchange of glances and unspoken words lasted for a few moments. And then Diantrel gave in, lowering her staff and saying only briefly:

"First..."

He glanced at her, at Cyrill, and then there was a clearly demonstrative and infinitely tired sigh, but he also put away his weapon. And without giving a word to the people who had not yet had time to believe in the miracle that had happened, in the same sharp voice, he asked, addressing Shinda-Bakh:

"What about the wound?"

" А... All right, I can go honorable....."

"Show it!"

The merchant jerked and quickly unbuttoned his burnt shirt. On his chest, just above his heart, there was a mark, as if from a burn. Only a very bad black color.

"Okay. It sucks. There's no time to do it properly, so it'll be quick but painful. Get ready. You two, hold him tight."

The latter referred to Fehtan and Shalah-Ana. When they saw that First had taken out of his belt pocket a small healing amulet in the form of a sharp transparent crystal in a metal frame, they understood everything and immediately pressed Shinda-Bah against the cushions, laying the captain on his back. In a single movement, First put a sharp crystal right in the center of the wound. Thick and badly darkened blood immediately gushed from it. Shinda-Bah couldn't hold back a scream and arched his legs.

"Be patient! Okay, it's done!"

The whole process took less than a couple of seconds, and First straightened up, throwing the blackened and smoldering healing amulet-crystal aside in one motion. It burst into flame and burned up before it hit the ground. The captain was left with clean and smooth skin in place of the wound. Without giving anyone a second thought, the First ordered:

"Get up! That's it! You do what I say and how I say it! No discussion! No questions! If you jeopardize my life or theirs, I'll get rid of you in a second! Is that clear?!"

All six of them nodded quickly, somehow getting to their feet. Taking six sealed alchemy vials from Armina, he quickly distributed them to the people:

"Drink every drop. We'll have to run on foot, we can't create a portal. So we'll run, fast, and probably for a long time. What?!"

The last sharp question was addressed to the half-blood siren who timidly tried to raise her hand. She shuddered at the sharp voice of First, but she whispered, clearly nervous:

"Excuse me, honorable, I, uh. I don't have any shoes."

For a moment, Cyrill was even afraid that First would kill her right away. Perhaps that was what he wanted to do. But instead, he only growled:

"Armina!"

Cyril's maid immediately handed him a pair of amulets in the form of metal bracelets. He handed them to the frightened half-breed and instructed her:

"Put them around your ankles. Not like that! Damn it, give me-- It's done. They'll last a few hours."

As soon as he fastened them on the siren's feet, they instantly surrounded her feet with a thin but strong protective barrier, protecting her feet from all sorts of stones, sharp twigs, and other stuff lying on the ground, creating a kind of analogue of shoes. However, the main purpose of these amulets was to protect the actual shoes from water when travelling through waterlogged terrain. In addition to these amulets, First and his mentor gave all six of them a pair of protective amulets each, as well as a pair of Light Step amulets attached to their hips. It was a very handy thing, easing the strain on their legs and allowing them to run longer and more easily. However, it was not worth getting carried away with them, as they, according to the mentor, rather quickly spent the internal reserves of the body, so it is better to use them on a full stomach. Fortunately, they were almost all very well fed now. Having installed a couple of such amulets for himself, Cyril mentally thanked Diantrel and the other elves for giving him so many consumables for this assignment. And he thought they were paranoid, just like they knew.

After distributing other equipment, like head amulets in the form of round metal plates attached to the temples and giving night vision, First quickly examined their strange company. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, and then he asked in the same harsh voice:

"Now you. Can you tell me how far it is to your ship and in which direction it is?"

Shalah-Ana, who was trying to cuddle up to her husband, shuddered at First’s voice, but quickly got her bearings and nodded:

"Yes! It's in that direction! I hear Smile's voice, but I can't say exactly how far it is... It feels like... he's coming from a thick fog..."

"I'll bet. What are we doing? Go that way! Hurry the fuck up!"

And everyone immediately ran in the direction Shalah Ana had indicated. And really fast. High-quality elven alchemy boiled in their blood, amulets did their job, and because of that, they ran without any difficulty; no tension was felt at all. Of course, it would be very bad later, when it was time to pay for this temporary reinforcement, but that would be later. It would have to be later. For now, their strange company was rushing quite successfully, not just forward, but up the hill, albeit gently, but still a hill. But it was not only because of their alchemy that they were running so fast and easily, but also because First, who was running, ha-ha, first, was literally clearing the way for the others, using an unusual amulet of the barrier type. It was literally crushing the grass in front of them into the ground like a roller, which made it easier to move.

It would have left a very noticeable mark, but Diantrel, who was behind them, had also activated some kind of amulet, clearly of the druidic type. It made the crumpled grass straighten up immediately, as if it had never happened. Convenient, I'll give you that. This way they would be able to escape from the cursed magic of those fucking assassins who disliked Cyril for some reason. Though the mentor and First still covered their squad with averting their eyes and masking amulets, and at the same time, they used some kind of complex kit to suppress possible markings. It was supposed to make it harder for the fanatics to pursue them. At the thought of the red-eyed lady, Cyril felt uneasy, and a chill ran down his spine. “We know.” What did that bitch even mean? Couldn't she have...

"Stop!"

When they reached the top of the hollow hill, First's sharp command caused everyone to freeze in place, causing some of the fugitives to nearly get hit and others to nearly collide with each other. Cyrill instantly grabbed his wand and prepared for battle, while Armina, who was running next to him, had a pair of long throwing needles that glowed faintly. A moment later, Diantrel was beside them, also ready for battle, wand in hand:

"What's up?"

"I want to understand something... Yes, that's right..."

Cyril, hearing these words and not understanding what First meant, also looked around. The hill they were climbing was high enough to have a good view in all directions. And thanks to the diadem, Cyril could easily make out the vast sea of grass illuminated by the moon and stars, which covered the gentle hills and plains to the horizon on all sides. Except for one. In the direction to which they were running, they could see high mountains with snow-white peaked hats in the forest at the foot. And they were, as far as Cyrill realized, not so far away. He could not estimate the distance more precisely, because the First ordered:

"There! Towards the mountains!"

And their squad rushed forward again, now descending the hill. Running behind everyone, Diantrel asked First tensely:

"Do you understand where we are?"

"Yes. We are on the southern border of the Great Steppe. On the other side of the Elven Bay, beyond the Coastal Ridge."

"Is this good or bad?" asked Cyrill, who, thanks to a two in Constitution, drunk alchemy, and amulets, was able to run without any problems.

"Yes and no. We weren't dragged too far. That's good. But we ended up in the steppe and on the other side of the Coastal Ridge. That's bad."

Cyril didn't bother to ask why that was bad, because he remembered his mentor's lessons, which she had recently given him in the Azure Bay. The Great Steppe, aka the Green Sea or the Sea of Grass, was not the safest place for strangers. And it was hard to say straight away which of its inhabitants posed a greater threat: the intelligent or the wild ones? The elves had a very difficult relationship with the former. Especially with those whose skin was green in colour. To be fair, not just elves. Since the collapse of the last Great Horde, there was no single state in the steppe. And there were numerous tribes, tribal unions or separate hordes, only one of which nowadays, with a great stretch, can afford to be called not even great, but Big.

The Confederation and the Forest traded successfully with some steppe chieftains or khans; others could be negotiated with by buying off raids with gifts, but there were others who, like the Northern Raiders, worshipped the Eternal Warrior and paid for everything only with iron and blood. And they were a constant headache for all their sedentary neighbours, including the Forest. And there were many places in the Green Sea that even the steppes preferred to avoid because of the monsters of various types that inhabited them. It seemed that the lands beyond the Coastal Ridge belonged to the semi-wild ones, if he remembered his mentor's lectures correctly.... Cyril's thoughts were interrupted by the sharp voice of First:

"What with that bitch crap?"

Running at the rear, Diantrel answered a moment later:

"It weakened, but less than a quarter. Very dense crap. It's not enough."

"Bad. Let's run further!"

"First! This crap leaves a trail behind us."

"Yeah... Quickly, put some pressure on it! We need to weaken it by at least a third, then we'll have a chance to send the call!"

And they pushed on. Unlike the elves, Cyril and Armina, the others did not run so easily, even with the alchemy they had drunk and their amulets. In any case, the young man could clearly see, thanks to the tiara, the sweat rolling down their faces, and the siren dressed in the same swimming costume was literally steaming. Still, the night was cool enough. But none of their companions complained, nor did they waste any energy talking. Shinda-Bah seemed to be the hardest hit by the wound. The boy waiter, though, wasn't used to the strain of such work. The captain's nephew, who had gone to sea with him, was doing much better.

So they rushed for some time, overcoming two more hills, smaller than the first. They had already travelled halfway to the top of the third, which was larger in area but not as high, when the First stopped abruptly and growled, drawing his battle staff and short curved sword:

"Halt! Damn..."

Everyone froze abruptly and immediately tensed up again. Diantrell and Armina immediately appeared next to Cyrill with their weapons at the ready. After waiting a second, the elf asked quietly:

"What is it, First? I don't... oh..."

Not understanding what the elves were saying or why they had stopped, Cyril looked ahead. There was nothing in front of them. Just grass and a flat, almost flat hilltop. What was the matter... Concentrating, he changed several spectra of magical vision again, looking ahead. As soon as he used the one best suited for detecting not classical magic weaves but the inhabitants of the incorporeal world, Cyril realized what the elves meant.

Almost the entire hilltop was covered by a dense dome-barrier. It wasn't created by classical weaves, but by a spirit. And specializing in creating not protective barriers, but masking illusions, because this barrier was an illusion in the first place. Cyrill, thanks to the knowledge he had received, had determined this clearly when he had only scrutinized its structure more or less closely. The barrier was of high quality and imperceptible. If it wasn't for the diadem given by the elves, he wouldn't have detected it. Unless it was a targeted search. How did First even notice it? And it was odd that his mentor hadn't noticed. Although, perhaps it was because of the damned cloud, which blocked certain spectra of magical vision. Not to mention normal perception....

"What are we going to do, First?" Diantrel asked quietly.

"There aren't many of them. Less than two dozen, from what I can see. A couple of gifted ones, but only one is strong enough - and he's clearly a shaman. So I suggest we start by knocking on the door and trying to talk to them. And let's hope they honor the law of hospitality. For their own good."

"Okay. But I'll do the talking."

"As you wish."

Before Cyril could ask what the elves meant, Diantrel took a step forward and waved her wand lightly. At the same moment, several signal threads flashed brightly in her magical vision, spiderwebbing the middle of the hill along the perimeter, noticeably below the beginning of the illusion and up to the level of the standing man's waist. Shit, how could he not have noticed them? He was looking at them on purpose! Yes, a mistake, how did he do it...

Cyril didn't have time to think about his blunder. Turning to the heavy-breathing and sweaty fugitives, who were glad for the respite, Diantrel looked at them with violet eyes and said:

"Be prepared for a possible battle. But do not do anything first. The steppe dwellers are ahead. I will speak with them."

No one even thought of arguing with the elfess; everyone nodded and became serious. After looking at all the fugitives, Diantrel held her gaze on her apprentice and looked intently into his eyes. Cyril immediately felt that his own reserve of strength, which had been almost emptied, was almost half filled. A moment later, he realized that Diantrel had applied the “ Mark of the Chosen One I”, transferring a third of her reserve to him. It happened instantly, without any visible effects or sensations. A moment later, Cyril felt his mentor's own reserve, also noticeably depleted, being fully restored, thanks to Magic Restoration II.

With a barely perceptible nod to Diantrel in response to her unspoken thought, which he felt clearly and without words, the young man applied the “8/10 Companion Modifier Recovery” token twice. Only then did the mentor turn around and move first towards the top of the hill. The others followed her without noticing anything. Although no, it seems that Shalakh-Ana noticed the changes in Cyrill and Diantrel's subtle bodies. At any rate, her eyebrows definitely went up for a moment at the sight of the young man's mentor, but she said nothing.

When there were only a few steps left before the border of the illusion that covered the flat top of the hill, Diantrel stopped and said:

"They have noticed our approach and are preparing to meet us, but do not see us clearly. Turn off the camouflage amulets, let them roughly understand who has come to them. Keep your weapons at the ready, but not in your hands. Do not turn off the protective amulets. Armina, cover Cirial!"

Everyone complied with the elf's orders and waited. Almost a minute passed. The bright moon shone peacefully. A faint wind drove sparse waves across the vast Sea of Grass. It was very quiet and dark. Then it was as if a theatre curtain had been pulled open in front of the fugitives, and the night darkness was illuminated by the bright light of several fires, behind which one could see some figures, and behind them a couple of good yurts. With a barely perceptible nod to First, Diantrel slowly stepped forward, followed by the others. As soon as they crossed the boundary of the illusion, it closed behind them again, hiding the hilltop from the rest of the steppe. Cyrill and his companions were stared at by a dozen tense and anxious pairs of eyes. Half of them were non-human.

Behind a large and bright fire, which was filled with magic and the stirrings of someone else, stood a tall and broad-shouldered orc of advanced age, but still of sturdy build. His long, grey hair was gathered into two thick braids that hung down the side of his head. The orc had all sorts of small bones, baubles, feathers, and who knows what else woven into them. And the orc himself, even without magical sight, had magic in him. And not only in him, but also in the numerous necklaces made of fangs and claws of beasts, a dozen of which hung on his chest. And also in the multitude of other attributes of shamanic craft, which were abundantly embroidered in his outfit, which reminded Cyrill of a dressing gown. In his hand, the old orc held a long spear with a good and sharp tip of dark metal. Its shaft was covered with carvings, and the shaman leaned on it like a staff. There was magic in the shaft, as well as in the tip, and it was powerful enough. The shaman's yellow eyes, staring intently at the uninvited guests, burned with magic fire, as did a pair of patterns on his cheekbones and forehead.

Next to him, at his feet, sat a pair of large black dogs... No, not dogs, but wolves. Huge wolves, clearly not simple ones, the magic was felt not only in the animals themselves but also in their collars, decorated with the fangs of wild animals. The animals sat quietly, but a magical fire burned in their yellow eyes, and the expressions on their faces were not at all kind.

To the left of the shaman, a little behind him, stood a grown man, a man with dark slanting eyes, hair cut short and black as tar, slightly touched with grey, a small beard, and a flat face, as if it had been hit with a shovel. He was dressed in the same steppe dressing gown as the orc, but not embroidered with numerous shamanic attributes. Although one necklace of fangs hung on his chest. And he, too, was leaning on a spear, which also had a sense of magic, albeit noticeably less than the shaman's weapon. Probably some sort of enchantment to enhance the blow and find the target.

To the left and slightly behind the man stood side by side a young boy and a teenage boy. The same slanting, also short-cropped, also dressed, with the same flat faces and adult steppe-like features. The older one was also leaning on a spear, but the younger one held a bow with an arrow on the bowstring. Their weapons were also magic, especially the teenager's arrow, which was a powerful disposable amulet.

On the right side of the old shaman stood a young orc of sturdy build, tall and broad-shouldered, with a rather fierce and masculine face, shorn almost to the nude. Like most humans, he was holding a spear, except that the shaft of the weapon was, like the shaman's, heavily carved and had more magic than the spears of humans. Just behind him stood a young Orcish woman, only slightly shorter than he, but not as broad-shouldered. She was also clearly well-built, with a stern but handsome face and short, boyishly cut hair. Like the youngest of the humans, she held a bow in her hand, with an arrow on the bowstring. Which literally glowed in her magical vision. But it was aimed, like the teenager's, at the ground, not at the guests.

Behind the armed men and orcs standing by the fire, at the entrance to the yurts, several more women of different ages were visible, and it seemed like a couple of children, who were quickly being pushed inside. Which was not without meaning, since both dwellings of the steppe dwellers literally shimmered with waves of light in a magical vision, and it was clear that they were protected quite well.

In addition to the yurts, a totem hammered into the ground in the form of a tall log, clearly divided into sections-storeys, literally shone in the magical vision. Each section was decorated differently and was the abode, as far as Cyril could understand, of a different spirit. Some sections were covered with carvings, some were decorated with claws and fangs, some with feathers and ribbons, and one was thickly painted with dried blood. And right now, all the old shaman's assistants who dwelt in it were not slumbering either, but were ready to respond to his orders. But he remained silent for the time being, watching the guests slowly approaching the fire. And as the fire lit up the arrivals, the shaman's grey eyebrows involuntarily rose higher and higher. And he wasn't the only one. The others, too, could not hide their surprise, and the youngest of the steppeniks' jaw dropped for a moment at the sight of Diantrel, and his slanted eyes literally popped up to his forehead.

And they were understandable. They didn't know who they'd expected to see, but it wasn't an elven sorceress in full battle gear, accompanied by a half-blood apprentice, a foursome of sweaty people dressed in the fashion of the distant Caliphate, one of them gifted, a similarly sweaty teenage boy in elven clothes, and a half-blood siren in a swimming costume. She was also out of breath and so flushed that her skin was steaming. They were joined by Armina, also dressed as a Forest saboteur, and this obscure First, wearing what looked like elven armour and full battle gear. Slowly walking forward, Diantrel stopped a few paces away from the fire. There was silence for a moment, broken only by the crackling of the fire. A rather tense silence. Then the elf nodded politely to her hosts and spoke in a strange-sounding language:

"Good health to you, honored sons and daughters of the endless Green Sea. I ask you to forgive me and my companions for coming uninvited to your fire and disturbing your peace. But it was not evil intent that brought us to you, but a wicked misfortune and the need it caused."

Cyrill realized with surprise that although he did not understand the language Diantrel spoke, he understood the meaning of the words she said. How so? The answer came from the System, in the form of a certificate that. // "Starting from the third level of communication, the Chosen One and his Companion can directly understand the meaning of each other's words..."

With a monstrous effort of will, Cyril hid the information from the System. Later, later, LATER! It was not enough to pass out right now for twenty-four hours, or even for two! The steppe men, who were clearly quite taken aback by the guests they had received at night, exchanged quick glances, and then the older orc slowly touched a small fang on one of his many necklaces. It flashed with a golden light, and at the same time, the orc's throat and lips lit up with the same light. He then spoke in the language of the Free Cities at a leisurely pace. His voice was powerful and bassy, but he spoke clearly and correctly, which surprised Cyril a little. To be honest, he expected a much more rude and primitive speech, in the style of some textbook barbarians from DnD.

And this orc spoke more than clearly, though with a strong accent, and his manner of speech was... quite old-fashioned. Cyril's systemic knowledge of languages told him it had not been spoken like that in the Confederation for quite a long time. A moment later, the young man realised that the orc spoke in the steppe dialect, but the words he said were literally changed in his mouth by some unusual spirit, translating them into the language of the Free Cities. And, judging by the manner of speech, this spirit had not updated its knowledge of Confederate language for a long time.

"And good health to you, who live under the canopy of the First Tree and in the hot warmth of the Sandy Sea."

Looking at First, who stood silently a little behind Diantrel, the orc frowned a little more deeply and added:

"And in the Womb of the Earth, which knows neither sun nor moon, nor stars, nor free wind."

The other steppe men were even more surprised at these words and tensed visibly, glaring at First. And not only they. Shinda-Bah and his companions also seemed to understand what the shaman meant. And they were also very surprised, looking at the First with apprehension. Meanwhile, the old orc continued, glancing at the unexpected and uninvited guests:

"I believe and see that a great misfortune has befallen you when you are on foot in the middle of a dark night in the boundless Steppe. And I see an evil magic upon you, which hides you from the eyes of all, like a stinking smog. Tell me, thou who knowest the power of wind and thunder, what misfortune has brought you to our campfire this deep night? If you have come to our campfire without malice to us, or to those who are our kinsmen and friends, we will not drive you away, and we will help you in any way we can."

Diantrel nodded gratefully in response and began to answer rather quickly, but clearly, speaking in the same strange-sounding language:

"In that case, honoured spirit caster, I will waste no time and be very direct. My companions and I were attacked by those known in the Great Steppe as the Black or Bloody Hand. It happened less than an hour ago, in the White City of the Sea Horses of my people. With their dark sorcery, the servants of the Black Hand tried to kidnap us, transporting us somewhere to themselves. Only by miracle and luck, my gifted companion was able to prevent them, at the same time trying to move us on her sea horse. Because of this, Black Hand's servants were unable to drag us where they wanted us to go, but we didn't get on her seahorse either, and ended up in the Great Steppe, one run from your campfire. The sorcery of the Black Hand prevented us from calling for help, and neither I nor my apprentice could dispel it quickly, and we did not risk staying where we were for fear of pursuit by these fanatical murderers. If there is one of your servants, honourable one, who can dispel or weaken this sorcery so that we can call for help to my tribesmen, I swear on my blood that they will reward you generously."

As Diantrel spoke, the steppe men's faces became even more surprised, if not more fucked up. It was not so easy to believe what his mentor had said. On the other hand, they saw right in front of them such a colourful company, which in the middle of the night in the steppe is really very unlikely to meet. After listening to Diantrel, the Orc Shaman frowned even more, and the fire in his eyes became noticeably brighter. He glanced at the elder of the steppe men, who was visibly alarmed, then looked again at the uninvited guests with a heavy gaze.

Cyril at that moment strongly suspected that what the old shaman wanted most of all now was to send them, who had literally fallen on his grey head, far away. What stopped him, most likely, was that it was not good to refuse a very well-armed and equipped master of magic, supported by two adepts, one of whom was also very well armed. Even though the old shaman himself, according to Cyril's estimations, who had assessed him in his magical vision, was also quite close to the rank of master of magic. Yes, he's on his own land and at home, which would add to his chances in battle, too. And maybe he would indeed be able to prevail over the uninvited guests, who knows what tricks he has up his sleeve. But what would be left of his few loved ones after this battle? Looking into Diantrel's eyes, he nodded slowly and said in the same unhurried voice:

"Khao whispers to me that there is no lie in your words, who has learnt the power of wind and thunder. Indeed, you are in dire misfortune. It was a long time ago when I last heard of the dastardly deeds of those who serve the nameless horror, and mark their victims with the Black Hand. Their sorcery is heavy and treacherous as they are, it is true. Alas, there are none among those kha who serve or owe me who can dispel or weaken it quickly, but my name is heavy among them, and there will be those among them who can help you. But to call them is not a quick matter, and they may ask for a fee....."

The old shaman didn't have time to finish his words, half-whispering and sharply intercepting the spear with both hands. The rest of the steppes followed his example. Cyril, Diatrel, Armina, and First also drew their weapons, but not to fight with the shaman and his kin. Turning round abruptly, they saw the reason why the night darkness was suddenly illuminated by a bright light, which made it almost as bright as daylight for many kilometres around. From the tops of several hills, dozens of bright lights that looked like flares soared high into the night sky. And most of them flew up into the sky just in the direction from which Cyril and his companions had come. And on the top of each of the hills, from which the incredibly bright lights flew up into the sky, illuminating the whole steppe as far as the eye could see, the young man could see, thanks to his diadem, a couple of figures dressed in black, as if oozing smoke.

For a moment, everyone watched the scene without saying a word. Then Diantrel turned sharply to the old shaman and shouted in a commanding voice:

"Reinforce the concealment, hurry up! These lights help them see what's hidden!"

The orc, clearly unaccustomed to such a tone, cast an indignant glance at Diantrel, but restrained himself and, grasping his spear-staff more comfortably, silently began to whisper something. A moment later, part of the carving on the shaft flashed with golden light, and the carving on one of the totem's segments lit up with the same light. In the same instant, the illusion-barrier became saturated with energy, becoming more dense and reliable. And at the same moment, two bright red beams, which looked like laser beams from the side, seemed to rush out from one of the figures in each pair. These beams began to glide rapidly across the vast sea of grass in all directions.

The old shaman growled angrily, trying to make the illusion-barrier stronger, denser, more invisible.... But almost immediately, the rays coming from the pair of dark figures closest to the camp slid down the hill where it stood. Including the top, passing over the illusion barrier. In that instant, everyone seemed to stop breathing. For a moment, the beams fumbled around their hill and then passed by, continuing to look for the fugitives next. In that instant, everyone seemed to exhale at the same time. Except Cyrill. Because the young man, thankful for the gift of knowledge, suddenly realised clearly and distinctly that the shaman had made a mistake. The illusion had become too dense. The beam was supposed to pass through the illusion, and it literally jutted into the edge of the barrier, going no further. If the beholder notices this... He did!

As soon as Cyril thought about it, a pair of rays coming from the eyes of a distant figure, shrouded in black smoke, came back sharply, once again hitting the boundary of the barrier. And began, by all appearances, to press on it. The shaman snarled angrily and grabbed one of his necklaces, but it was too late. Nearly a dozen more paired beams struck the illusion-barrier, destabilising it, and it failed, literally disintegrating instantly, all at once. One section of the totem cracked loudly as the spirit inside it was literally disintegrated to the muffled shriek of the old shaman.

The red paired rays began to glide swiftly across the summit and the people and non-humans standing around the fire, causing Cyril to associate them with the laser sights of the sniper rifles of his homeworld. And what did not add to his joy at all was the fact that, as almost immediately, they all focused precisely on him. He even reflexively applied the minor elite knowledge he had been given, creating a defence around him, but it was unnecessary, as the beams were immediately extinguished. For a few seconds, the young man, along with his companions and the steppe men, stared silently at the motionless dark figures on the tops of several neighbouring hills, clearly visible thanks to the lights burning brightly in the sky. Diantrel, with eyes burning with magical fire, intercepted her rod and said sharply:

"There are fewer than a dozen and a half of them, I don’t see any strong magicians among them!"

Turning to the shaman, who had grown very gloomy due to the death of an obviously valued spirit, the elf continued in a commanding voice:

"We can fight them, buy some time! You can summon spirits that can at least weaken their magic. Once that happens, we'll issue a call for help, and the Forest will send....."

On the three hills that were closest to the steppe camp, dark figures moved. Before the elf could finish her sentence. Or rather, one figure in each pair moved. All of them synchronously formed blades of black smoke in one short movement and struck their partners in the chest with them. They did not resist and instantly collapsed, but before they could touch the grass, they turned into large and thick clouds of black smoke. In a moment, they completely dispersed, but in the place of each cloud, there appeared about a dozen new figures covered with the same black smoke. And on the hill nearest to the camp, which was occupied by them, one figure, standing a little ahead of them, stood out clearly among the figures. A distinctly female figure. With eyes burning with red fire. Cyril could see it clearly, thanks to the diadem that could magnify the image. And he commented on what he saw very succinctly and succinctly:

"FUBAR..."

* * *

With her arms folded across her chest, Sivila pressed her lips together grimly as she stared at the two dozen large artefact mirrors hanging on the wall in a special room in the Secret Guard's section of the Royal Palace. The mirrors reflected various places, mostly as if someone was looking at them with the magic vision from a bird's eye view. About half of the places reflected in them were within the city walls of White Harbour. And those reflections were not the most pleasant. Numerous reinforced patrols of Forest and City Guards, streets blocked off, bodies covered with sheets, lying in rows on the streets waiting to be identified. Two places had the most of them. At a fairly well-known establishment in the city, the Singing Sirens, and at one of the large warehouses in the Port Part, which was rented by the Rising Empire's representative office. In addition to the view of it from above, one of the mirrors reflected its interior.

It looked as if there had been a hurricane, a fire, and a flood in succession. Most boxes, chests, barrels, and afmores were broken, battered, or burned. All sorts of goods were lying on the floor, reduced to utter disrepair. Actually, the assumption of alternating natural disasters was close to the truth, considering that it was in this warehouse that the accursed fanatics of the Dark Brotherhood had organised their hidden lair. Very well hidden. They had managed to dig an entire underground floor, in addition to the existing basement in the warehouse. And they'd done it without anyone knowing, even though all such work was strictly monitored and controlled in the city. Which meant exactly one thing - they did it all very long and carefully. As if they had been slowly digging for a couple of years, at the same time creating a disguise.

In parallel with the construction, these fanatical killers were busy, it was now obvious to everyone, carefully and precisely eliminating suitable residents of the city and taking their places. Mostly from among the employees of the trade missions of the lesser races who lived in White Harbour on a permanent basis, predominantly single or with few families. The method they used was, needless to say, extremely dark and bloody, but at the same time disgustingly effective. A combination of sacrificial ritualism and obscure analogues of the Dark Brotherhood's divine miracles could fool most, even very good checks.

It was also obvious that the hated cultists were preparing something serious. They had hastily destroyed almost everything in their lair before the Secret Guard's bloodhounds had caught wind of them and the warehouse had been stormed by the Forest Warriors. But even in their defeated state, their hideout was impressive. They'd only build something like this for a very serious action. Living quarters, warehouses with food and supplies for magical practices, and two separate laboratories for the latter. One of them, judging by what the Secret Guard operatives were able to understand, was used to create, change, and maintain the facades in working order. The other lab was the centre of the ritual circuit, masking the lair itself. And of course, there was an altar room in the lair, where these fanatics would be without it.

An empty room, with only a huge palm painted in blood on the wall. In which, as usual, there was nothing that could make it clear who or what the patron of the Dark Brotherhood was, thanks to whom it had risen from the ashes and dust time after time. Re-creating its shelters to strike its vile and disgustingly effective blows from them.

The cultists' lair discovered and destroyed in White Harbour was not the largest of those found and destroyed by the elves in their time, but still impressive. Destroying such a thing would be a good thing not only for the Forest, but for the lesser races as well. As was foiling the plans of the zealot assassins. And the fact that they were thwarted is no longer in doubt. What the Dark Brotherhood could not take away was the ability to wait, plan, and strike at the right moment, making it extremely painful in its effectiveness. But this time, the fanatics were clearly not acting according to a prepared plan. Yes, they had killed many residents and visitors to the city, and the total number of confirmed casualties from the attack, not counting those who had been eliminated in advance for the purpose of substitution and occupation, was close to two hundred.

But if the Dark Brotherhood had struck in their trademark style, there might have been a few more casualties, but these fanatics would have had almost no losses. They were also very good at hiding in the shadows after their attacks, using their obscure tricks that made both the adepts of magic and the servants of God gnash their teeth. This time, many of the fanatics did not even try to escape from the scene of the attacks. On the contrary, they stayed there, continuing to kill and fight until they were killed. And in a couple of cases, not even by guards, but by random passers-by, from among the guards of important guests or residents. And it happened precisely because, as it now turned out, the fanatics needed to create panic in the city at any cost, to sow chaos and turmoil in order to distract the city leaders from the place of the main strike. Which they did at the Singing Sirens.

There, too, they had reaped a rich and bloody harvest, with less than a third of the visitors and employees surviving, most of them siren-singers. But the zealots had taken a heavy toll on the place by their standards. Twenty-four dead were counted in the establishment, an incredible number for the Dark Brotherhood. Usually they operated in small groups. Here, the fanatics used literally all of their agents who were in White Harbour. And, it was extremely unpleasant to admit, they had a disgustingly high chance of success. In fact, the only thing that saved the Forest from disaster was the fact that their target, at the very last moment, unexpectedly for them, practically foiled the attack they were preparing.

And it would seem that Sivila should be happy that it was possible to discover and open such a terrible and invisible pustule on the body of the Forest. Ideally, of course, it should have been discovered much earlier by the Secret Guard, but to blame Third for this failure would be tactless, given the specific nature of the enemies, which affected literally every reasonable and developed nation. Yes, now the Supreme Emissary would have to deal with the relatives and patrons of the most important of the dead guests of the city, who were entitled to protection and security by right of the guests. Yes, there are wounded among her kin, including some seriously, but, praise the First Tree, there are no dead. But. But! But!

The reason why the queen hadn't slept a wink the whole night before (and she wasn't the only one) was because of WHO the target of those damn murderous fanatics was. A very precious “Guest” in every sense, who had been released into the city to fulfil an assignment offered to him by the Tablet of the Soul. And who is now unknown where!!! With a willful effort, Sivila suppressed another outburst of wild irritation mixed with equally wild rage. She had spoken! She warned! But no, they were tempted by the rewards promised by the Soul Tablet! We send the best men with him, give him extra equipment in case of any possible trouble, give him a thorough briefing - and what's the result?!

Because of the damn conditions of the assignment, there were essentially only three agents covering the Guest. Diantrel, his maid, and Luaval. A rapid response team of Secret Guard agents, who were constantly and continuously covering the isekai, had to be dangerously far away from him, otherwise, the mission would have been considered a failure by the Tablet. Yes, his escorts had been given a whole arsenal hidden in specialised storage bags from the Secret Guard's special stocks. Yes, his escorts were thoroughly briefed, as was the ‘Guest’ himself. And at the very moment, when they had almost calmed down, and were just waiting for the foreigner to return home, everything was covered with the known body part of the goblin female!

Even though the rapid response team responded very quickly. Despite the fact that the Singing Sirens were instantly rushed to the Singing Sirens on alert by EVERYONE they could. Despite the fact Diantrel and Luaval, as is now certain, had worked perfectly. ‘Guest.’ Still. Kidnapped!!! Practically out of the Forest! Despite their best efforts!

All of this made Sivila want to do many things that she had never allowed herself to do in public, and privately, she allowed very, very rarely and not all of them. But that would be extremely rash and counterproductive, and completely unacceptable for the Queen of the Forest. So Sivila worked all night, along with the rest of the Forest's Supreme Leaders, once again despising the night's sleep. In the name of the First Tree, how much she would give for the opportunity to get an extra ten hours a day from the river of time. Twenty would be better. Dreams, dreams, dreams, no time for them now. She had to concentrate on the results of the search for the alien.

The only thing is that, despite all efforts, there were no results. The whereabouts of the Guest could not be ascertained. The Dark Brotherhood fanatics, who had cursed her for this night specifically and for her whole life in general, had pulled off one of their tricks, for which they were so disliked by the people around them. Not only had they stolen an isekai, but they had done it in such a way that his trail was untraceable. Because there was literally no trace! None at all! Most of the usual portals can be traced in one way or another, it's just a matter of time and resources. In the extreme case, to understand the direction or at least the approximate range of the radius of movement. But the Dark Brotherhood didn't leave even an echo of the weaves of spatial magic, because they didn't use it. Sivila would have paid dearly to find out how they did their tricks, too.

But that was half the trouble. The Forest was not a place where idiots were in power, as she truly wanted to believe. Therefore, the possibility that the ‘Guest’ might be kidnapped, he might try to escape, he might be lost accidentally or ‘accidentally’ because of the powers acquired from the Tablet or the artefact, was foreseen by them. The Forest had samples of his blood and casts of subtle bodies. And not in a singular form. The artefacts issued to him were skilfully woven with hidden alarm beacon tags. He had separate specialised alarm beacon amulets to signal distress. ALL of this applied to his companions as well. It was thought, in all probability, that this would help track the ‘Guest’ almost anywhere. But it didn't. None of the beacons worked. Nor did any of the search methods, including the blood search, which was one of the most effective.

When the grim agents of the Secret Guard reported it to Sivila and the others involved in the Guest's supervision, the queen could barely keep from wailing and smashing her face with her hand. The only thing she realised was that the isekai and his companions were alive, thanks to the same blood samples. Though given the Dark Brotherhood's tricks, Sivila wasn't entirely sure of that now. That didn't put her in any kind of positive mood either.

Just the day before, Andarial had had another session of insight, using her newfound powers. A successful session. She managed to find out what she needed to know, despite the best efforts of the bitches sitting in the Great Desert. True, the news did not make Sivila and Third happy, but only added a new headache to the prospect. But after the last very difficult session, Andarial, terribly satisfied and happy with her newfound ability to see, needed a good rest. A couple of days at the very least. Better yet, three or four days. Though the latter, as Sivila strongly suspected, was simply the whim of the Forest's best seer. With the incredible gift from the Guest, she had become an even more valuable resource. And she was well aware of that, so now the earliest she could be brought in to search for the foreigner was tomorrow morning. Which would be a separate headache, since Andarial's schedule was no lighter than Sivila's. But there's nothing to be done; finding the Guest is now the number one priority for the entire Forest. The main thing is that he should still be alive by then.

Waiting until another attempt to locate the missing beacons had failed, Sivila nodded silently to the tired and exhausted agents and headed for a separate small office for important meetings. First, Third, and Mirael were already waiting for her there. The latter was even more exhausted than the queen, as she had been directly involved in the search as a strong gifted. First and Third, on the other hand, were unfazed. The latter's eyes were tired, though. It had never disappeared from the First's eyes for centuries. After closing the doors behind her and waiting for the defences to come up to full strength, Sivila spoke at once:

"This is a failure. A total failure! And I warned you!"

Mirael and Third said nothing. But First, when she sat down in her place, answered in a completely calm voice with notes of endless fatigue:

"Not at all. Firstly, we have no confirmation yet that the Guest or his companions have perished. Secondly, we have learned something very important."

Sivila folded her arms over her chest and spoke slowly, casting a quick glance at Third:

"With all due respect, I don't think finding the Dark Brotherhood's lair was worth it. Although I don't deny that eliminating it potentially saved us from much greater troubles in the future."

Looking at the queen with a look that expressed nothing but fatigue, First answered with an unchanged voice:

"I didn't mean finding the lair of these killers, although its elimination may well have saved the eternity of some of our kind. I meant something more important."

“And what then?” the queen asked.

"We have received very important confirmation regarding our dear Guest".

“And what is it?” Sivila asked patiently.

"That our ‘Guest’ is one of those isekai who, by nature, are both a magnet and a catalyst for all sorts of trouble. My more poetic companions, who had to deal with such isekais personally, called it Hero's Fate, Hero's Burden, or Hero's Attraction."

"One incident alone does not prove it," said Third.

"One incident - of course not," agreed First, "but the fact that our precious in all senses ‘Guest’ in his first outing in public, albeit not directly, revealed the existence of a deep and well-established cell of fanatical killers, which overlooked your subordinates. It is already a serious argument."

"It turns out, if I understood the archives correctly," Mirael said, understanding what the First meant, "that no matter how hard we try, the Guest will still find trouble on his or our heads?"

"They will most likely find him," First shook his head, "And this will really happen, no matter how hard we try to protect him from them. Even if we lock him in the Royal Palace, creating ideal conditions so that he sincerely does not want to go anywhere, sooner or later, something will happen. Moreover, the archives claim that the longer the Hero's Burden accumulates, the more powerful the effect will be."

“How then?” asked the Queen, “Will a small star fall on the Royal Palace?”

"As an option. According to the same archives, it is much more likely that something will happen first, which will lead to the involuntary arrival of the ‘Guest’ to another place. For example, a malfunction in the portal complex, or an involuntary activation of a portable small portal artefact. And now the isekai finds himself in some city, where at this very moment there is a breakthrough of infernal spawns...."

First's speech was interrupted by the quiet melody of Third's personal communication amulet. If it worked now, it could only mean one thing: the call was urgent and important. The current head of the Secret Guard immediately clutched the amulet in his hand and accepted the call. He listened to the report in silence for a few seconds, then turned to his mentor and said in a serious voice:

"A demonic cult cell was busted in Danmark last night. There was a serious fight, details are being investigated..."

At that moment, a quiet melody came from the queen's side. As soon as she heard it, Sivila snatched the artifact diary from her work bag, enchanted to increase its internal volume and lighten its weight, and placed it on the table. The rest of the meeting participants were immediately at her side, knowing full well who was the only one who could write a message for this diary. Opening it to the right page, Sivila read the fresh lines along with the rest of her kin.

* * *

Cyrill never denied that he had certain disadvantages. But he was also sure that the number of his advantages outweighed them. One of his virtues he always considered his ability to get ready for school and then for the institute quite quickly. Unlike some of his relatives, who, going to the guests or restaurant, even having started preparations in advance, are sure to be late with the exit for an hour or even an hour and a half. Because of which everyone will be nervous, shouting at each other, and swearing. In general, Cyrill suspected with some degree of male chauvinism that such a flaw was inherent in most women, no matter what world they lived in.

But now, if he survived this too long a night, he was ready to admit that at least the beautiful half of the two steppe families he had met were completely devoid of this defect. At least in extreme situations, like the one they were all in now, their women pulled themselves together VERY quickly indeed. When the illusion-barrier that had sheltered the steppe camp collapsed under the strange search beams of the fucking killers, and reinforcements arrived, all those around the fire looked for a few long moments at the dark figures shrouded in black smoke. And then the latter rushed forward at the same time in black shadows, and at a great speed, as if each of them had speeding boots on his feet. They rushed forward, looping and leaving trampled paths behind them in the tall steppe grass, flashing with the lights of their red eyes. All this was perfectly visible thanks to the illuminating lights still burning in the sky, which lit up the steppe for many kilometres around.

The first to react was the orc shaman, letting out something between a roar and an incomprehensible curse:

"Uaaarak khaar!!!"

He accompanied his roar by twisting his spear sharply and thrusting it into the ground with all the force of the blade tip. As it sank into the ground, a wave of light descended from the orc's palms, travelling down the threads of the shaft and into the ground. At the same moment, the hill seemed to shudder, and Cyril felt and saw in his magical vision how new barriers were forming around its perimeter, this time fully protective, covering it from all sides, overlapping. At the same time, the young man felt the spirits dwelling in the central totem, which had already been put on full alert by the old man, leave it.

A couple of wolf-like creatures rushed towards the shaman and circled around him, preparing to support him in direct combat. Several more spirits began to reinforce the hill's defences. One of them, which in Cyrill's magical vision looked like a huge snake and literally exuded poisonous energy, consisted of a dozen smaller snakes that continuously intertwined. As soon as it crawled out of its totem section, it immediately disintegrated into individual snakes that hid in the grass and completely merged with it. Another spirit, in the form of an eerie mixture of scolopendra and millipede, barely crawled out of its section of the totem before immediately burrowing into the ground, going somewhere deep into the hill. Its power reeked of the dampness of earth and, to a lesser extent, the hardness of stone. A few more spirits, resembling birds of prey and imbued with the power of the wind, flew into the now not-so-dark night sky, giving the shaman a chance to watch the approaching enemies with his own eyes.

At the same time, the rest of the steppe men took up positions around the old shaman from all sides. The orcish girl and the slanting teenage boy, who had stepped back, simultaneously released their enchanted arrows into the sky, which shot upwards as if they had been propelled not by a bowstring but by a good powder charge. After that, they immediately sent another enchanted arrow into the sky.

Meanwhile, Diantrell, who was looking at the approaching enemies with a tense gaze, said in a confident voice:

"There are many of them, but I see only a few gifted ones! All the rest are just nourished by borrowed darkness, seasoned with blood. We can all fight them!"

Turning to the old shaman, she continued:

"My apprentice and I can buy you some time! Call upon any spirit to weaken the spell that hides us so we can call for help..."

At that moment, Cyril, tensely watching the approaching enemies, noticed that some of the dark figures on the hill nearest to the camp, which was occupied by them, remained where they were, without running away. Including an obviously female figure, with eyes burning brightly with red fire. In addition to her, thanks to the tiara, the young man could make out four other unknowns lined up behind the damned lady who had arranged this voyage for him. And somehow he was sure it was her.

And barely Cyril had time to wonder what they were waiting for, this unknown bitch gave him an answer. The lady made a single graceful gesture with her right hand. A moment later, her subordinates synchronised their right hand, forming a blade of black smoke in it. Only to stab them into their chests in the same synchronised motion a moment later. As soon as the black smoke blades pierced them, all four of them instantly turned into clouds of black smoke. A moment more, and the four clouds gathered into a single but large cloud that covered almost the entire hilltop. A moment more, and the cloud dissipated without a trace, and on the top were dozens of humanoid figures, wrapped in the same damned black smoke. And in the magic vision given by the diadem, Cyril could clearly see that at least four of the newly arrived figures had the same black smoke a little bit thicker than the lady who had summoned them. The young man couldn't help himself and shouted in his voice:

"Fuck!"

And he was not the only one who shouted. Shinda-Bah and his wife and first assistant also shouted something in their native Caliphate. And it was clearly not something good. The Steppe men who were covering the shaman did not lag behind them, gripping their weapons tightly. The slanted eyes of the human part of them became five pennies each, and there was a frank fear on their faces. So, too, did a couple of young orcs. A noticeable shadow flickered across the face of the mentor who had cut her off at the half-word. The boy waiter and the half-blood siren just made some inarticulate squeaks. It was the First who reacted most restrainedly. He stared at the reinforcements arriving at the assassins for a moment, and then he said in a harsh, still altered voice:

"We need to leave! Quickly!"

Diantrel turned quickly to him. For the first time, real fear appeared on the mentor's face:

"We can try, here..."

"No! There are too many of them. They will overwhelm us! We must leave, quickly!"

Turning to the old shaman, who was still clutching the spear stuck into the ground, from whose palms the light continued to flow down the shaft of the weapon and go into the ground, and whose eyes sparkled with yellow magical fire, First shouted:

"Arahan-Hao! Shenta nah! Hoya! Arahan-Hao! Deshkan ara natar! Shenta nah! Hoya! Ar ala muar!"

Cyril didn't understand what he said. But the orc shaman clearly understood him. His face twisted with anger and tension, and he glanced at the First with a quick glance. Then, at the rapidly approaching dark figures. Then, at the eldest of the obviously frightened steppe men. Again, at the figures. At Cyril and his companions. And then he let out a natural roar:

"Uaarkhatan!!!"

The old orc accompanied his roar by pulling his spear sharply out of the ground and twisting it. A moment later, the camp was immediately enveloped in a dome-like mist as thick as milk. Like a theatrical smoke-machine, it began to flow out of several small holes dug along the perimeter of the summit. In them, as far as Cyrill could understand, were buried either miniature totems, or just beacons-anchors, after all, he was not a shaman to understand it. But what he could understand was that the fog was not only thick, but also infused with magic. No, not magic, but rather the opposite. According to Cyrill's sensations, the fog had the analogue of a negative charge and was designed to absorb and digest any magic, except that which carried a tinge of the old shaman's power. The latter, as soon as it happened, let out a new roar, turning to his kin:

"Ayahar! Shenta nah! SHENTA NAH!!!"

Immediately, without saying anything, the Steppe men rushed away from him in different directions, shouting something as they went. Some of them ran towards the yurts. Some of them ran to a couple of carts that stood behind the yurts. And some of them rushed to a small herd of horses, sleeping peacefully on the far gentle slope of the hill, under the care of no other than a couple of spirits. The old shaman turned to his uninvited guests, who had brought such trouble on his grey head, and spoke in the same old Confederate language, thanks to the spirit interpreter:

"We must buy time to make our escape a success! Help us hold off the enemy while they are saddling the horses and harnessing them to the carts! Otherwise, we'll never escape them."

The latter applied to Cyrill and Diantrel first and foremost. The elf nodded and answered with an evil smile:

"With pleasure."

Then she turned to Cyril. He understood her without words, and without words, he activated the token “Enhancement of a Companion”, spending one of the ten charges. At the same moment, Diantrel's eyes naturally flashed with magical fire. And she became noticeably brighter in her magical vision, gaining three temporary points of Power, which increased to fourteen. The smile on her mentor's face grew a little wider, and the wind began to swirl around her, ruffling her white hair. She turned to the orc shaman, who raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly not realizing how the elf had increased her power, and spoke briefly:

"I'll need a window in the fog. On my word, open it. I will strike with lightning and wind. Cirial! Cover me with your shields! Armina! Cover Cirial! First and the rest of you, help with the retreat!"

Cyril, Armina, and the old shaman nodded silently in response. The others also silently left to help the steppe men hurriedly saddle their horses and load the carts. The mentor intercepted her staff and stood in a classical stance, and stood still for a moment. Then Cyril felt how she began to form weaves one after another. And very quickly, despite their complexity. At the same time, the wind around her became noticeably stronger, and then she... She began to rise smoothly but quickly into the air. A couple of moments, and Diantrel hovered above the camp at a height of three meters, at the very edge of the fog that covered the camp. Somehow, she reminded Cyril of the character Storm, from the movies about X people, as the young man's mother called them. Moreover, the appearance was remotely similar. In any case, the hair color was almost identical. Cyril's ill-timed association was blown away by the loud shout of the elf who had finished forming a complex and obviously difficult weave:

"Now!"

The orc shaman swung his spear briefly, and immediately part of the misty dome in front of the mentor was blown away, revealing a view of the surrounding steppe, still brightly lit by the lights burning in the sky. And the lights, as it seemed to Cyril, became even more. Yes, it was! The dark figures rushing towards their hill, the closest of which were already very close to him and encompassed him in a semicircle, just before his eyes, right in front of him, launched a couple more analogs of flares into the sky. And then the approaching figures became dramatically smaller. Because Deantrel had struck. And Cyril's mentor struck with full force. From the tip of her silver wand, two branching bolts of lightning exploded with a deafening roar and struck several of the nearest dark figures. To immediately spread to the neighboring ones. It was almost a classic chain lightning, so much loved by Cyril in DnD universe games.

And just as effective, as it turned out. Almost half of the dark figures that had come closest to the camp were knocked out by the mentor's blow. Cyril saw them collapse into the grass, and the black smoke that covered their bodies dissipated. Of those who were struck by Diantrel's lightning, only two or three had survived, thanks to the fact that at the moment of the lightning strike, the black smoke that enveloped them had thickened sharply, absorbing the force of the strike. They had survived because they were the last in a chain of lightning that had wasted its main charge on the first targets.

His mentor tried not to let her enemies get a chance to regain their senses. One more swing of her wand, and at the foot of the hill, three powerful and rapidly gaining momentum whirlwinds began to form. And judging by what Cyril saw in his magical vision, the air of these whirlwinds was not harmless at all. In any case, when they moved in a circle along the foot of the hill, there was only bare ground without a single blade of grass where they passed.

And the mentor continued to burn with lightning. Diantrel's strength was not spared, and she spent her reserve generously, pouring it into her weaves. The wand of her mentor spewed one lightning bolt after another, but now it was not chain lightning, but point lightning, knocking out individual enemies. A couple of dark figures were suddenly struck by enchanted arrows, which had been launched earlier by the steppe men exactly into the sky, and literally exploded when they hit the black figures. But unfortunately, their opponents were not dummies for training, and did not allow themselves to be shot at. Some of the figures that ran to the hill sharply and synchronously went to converge with each other, and as soon as they converged, they were tightly covered by a single shield of the same damned black smoke. Under its protection, they continued to move forward, but not so fast. The other part of the fleeing figures also stopped abruptly and synchronously. A moment later, they formed several dozen arrows of black smoke and fired a volley.

Some of them hit the barriers formed by Cyril around the mentor. It was good that the young man had protected Diantrel with three magical barriers of different types at once. And it turned out to be not unnecessary, because at the external similarity, the bloody arrows turned out to be completely different in content. Some turned out to be analogous to armor-piercing shells, which successfully penetrated the first two layers and bogged down only in the third. Others didn't even penetrate the first layer, but siphoned off its energy, acting like antimagic dischargers. But the most insidious arrows were those that sharply changed their trajectory at the last moment and struck not at the mentor, but at Cyril.

If it hadn't been for Armina, who reacted instantly and sharply applied a pair of hand defense amulets, creating a pair of shield-barriers in front of the young man, it might not have turned out well. Cyril cursed in his mind and gave a short nod to the girl, while he continued to cover himself in addition to his mentor. Meanwhile, Diantrel continued to strike, sparing no effort, unleashing lightning after lightning on the enemies. At the same time, she sent her whirlwinds forward. One of them managed to hit the nearest group of black figures, blowing away the smoke that covered them and lifting their bodies into the air, rapidly stripping them to the bone. The other two hit the attackers only tangentially, but drew in some smoke arrows.

But the enemies were not idle either. The arrows kept flying toward the camp, volley after volley, forcing Cyril to constantly renew his defenses around the hovering elf and around himself. Diantrel's lightning bolts, despite the power they put into them, pierced through the thickened black smoke, knocking out at best one of the figures hiding behind it as they continued to advance. The tornadoes leveled some of the attackers' defenses and intercepted quite a few arrows, but the more they sucked in the black smoke, the more they loosened, losing the integrity of their weave and the power invested in them. Soon, it became clear that no matter how hard the mentor tried, she could not hold her enemies. However, the old shaman and his retinue had their say. The old shaman and his retinue spoke up, intercepting the spear-wand and raising it towards the advancing enemies.

At the same moment, the flames of the fire, in which Cyril could feel someone moving at first sight, spewed out dozens of fiery arrows with an eerie roar. No, not even arrows, but rather mini-missiles that shot forward, leaving long plumes of sparks behind them. The bonfire was completely extinguished, and only a single bright spark travelled towards the old shaman, disappearing into one of his necklaces. The fiery missiles fired by the guardian spirit rained down on the advancing enemies. It was quite spectacular, just like a magically powered multiple rocket launcher!

The entire space in front of the hill on which the camp was located, and the slope of the neighbouring hill in front of it, was ploughed over. Unfortunately, the enemies had obviously expected something like this, and as soon as the fire missiles came towards them, they immediately struck back. Only not with black smoke, but with some black sludge, which Cyrill associated with crude oil. Unlike oil, this stuff, spewed out by several groups of dark figures, did not catch fire, but on the contrary, absorbed and extinguished some of the fire missiles. Though a couple of groups advancing under the cover of the smoke shields were badly hurt.

At the same time as the fiery projectiles struck the snakes hiding in the grass, and under the cover of the grass, they came quite close to some of the attackers. They tried not to engage in battle, trying to sting the enemy with one swift lunge and then hide in the grass again. Some of them even succeeded. But then one of the dark figures spoke, surrounded by a particularly thick smoke that made it impossible to even roughly estimate its shape.

She was in the center of the attackers, under the cover of a few of her henchmen who protected her from Diantrel's lightning bolts. She was in the center of the attackers, covered by several comrades protecting her from Diantrel's lightning. And that, in turn, began to spread rapidly over the ground, flowing down the hill next to the camp like water. It was literally pouring out of the clot the figure had turned into, a rushing stream. When it reached the foot of the hill, it began to rise forward up the slope, moving toward the camp in a wide fan. Cyril could clearly see how this smoke instantly made the grass wither and crumble to ashes. And at the same time, this stream was revealing and destroying the traps prepared by the shaman. In any case, when in several places the black smoke that reached the foot of the hill was scattered by such good explosions, the old shaman became visibly gloomy. Because his scattered clubs began to gather together again.

Some of the snakes did not have time to hide in the grass, or realized too late the true danger of this deceptively slow smoke, instantly getting bogged down and quickly dissolving into it. The millipede, which had emerged from the ground at the wrong time, managed to grab one of the attackers, but was immediately forced to retreat underground, so as not to repeat the fate of its comrades. Seeing this, the mentor hovering in the air struck a lightning bolt at the clot, at the same time unleashing a hurricane on the smoke flooding the hill. Her blow did not harm the clot, but the smoke stopped, and the part of it that began to rise to the hill with the camp was scattered. At the same time, a pack of ghostly wolves sprang out of the inconspicuous grass and rushed to attack the nearest killers, pinning them down. But that didn't stop the onslaught, the other attackers didn't even notice.

The first of the groups behind the smoke shields was already climbing the hillside where the camp stood. His mentor, who had spent most of her strength, was trying to hit them with lightning bolts, but she was already under continuous fire from the second line of attackers, who were firing volley after volley at her. Seeing this, the old shaman gave a doom-laden growl and swung his spear again. The hill shuddered as several dozen buried amulets or other shamanic paraphernalia exploded, sending clouds of debris, clods of earth, and some of the attackers into the air.

Had it not been for the protective amulets, Cyril would have been stunned. But even without it, the recoil from so many magical charges triggered at once hit his subtle bodies unpleasantly. Yes, the old shaman had taken a very responsible approach to the defense of his camp, how many man-hours had he spent to install so many analogs of magical mines? He must have spent more than a year building up this defense. Alas, even that only delayed the attackers. It couldn't stop them. But there was no need for that, because before the ground settled, a shout from the side of the yurts came from the older male steppe:

"Gurar! Ala san! Shenta nah!!!"

Cyril and Armina turned sharply and saw him riding a good-looking horse with a bow in his hand and a quiver full of arrows that shimmered with fire in their magical vision. His spear was hooked in some clever way to the saddle in an upright position, also glowing in his magical vision. Most likely, some sort of protective enchantment meant to protect the rider. The horse was protected by patterns drawn directly on the hide with some kind of paint that was clearly not the most common. Next to the steppe man, also on horseback, sat the First, who was quite confident in the saddle. In one hand he held a battle staff, in the other he held the reins. Behind them, they could see a pair of carts pulled by two horses, in which the women of the steppe and Cyril's unwilling companions were sitting. Around them, on horseback, were two young steppe men and a couple of young orcs. They were also all armed with bows and spears. The first one waved his hand to Diantrel and shouted loudly:

"Everything is ready, let's go! Quickly, before they come to their senses and surround the hill!"

There was no need to ask anyone twice. In one swift movement, the mentor floated down and ran towards a couple of carts. Cyril, under the cover of Armina, kept up with her. The old shaman, with another swing of his spear, thickened the fog again, hiding the camp from the gaze of the enemies, and also ran towards the carts, not at all old man-like. Beside him ran a pair of his big wolves, who had sat beside him the whole fight. So, at what point did they grow to the size of ponies? Or were they like that from the start? Whatever! Having reached the nearest cart, Cyril literally flew into it, with Armina and Diantrel. The old shaman also jumped into the next one. As soon as all four were aboard, the carriage drivers shouted to the horses, and the pair of carts, under cover of several riders, immediately sped off down the far hillside towards the mountains. The fog surrounding the camp let them pass without any trouble. Besides the steppe riders, a small herd of unsaddled horses galloped beside the carts. Everything else was abandoned.

Once in the cart and clinging to its high side, Cyril allowed himself to catch his breath and look around. Opposite him, on the other side of the cart, sat two slanted women with the same flat faces as the men. One was elderly, with gray hair. The other was young, about twenty years old, quite pretty, though a bit of an amateur. Cyril had nothing against Asian women, but he was more used to Japanese and Korean actresses of adult films, and their faces were not so flat after all. A couple of children of about six or seven years old, a boy and a girl, clung to the young woman from both sides. All four of them looked at the trio of an elf, a half-elf, and a human girl who had jumped into the cart with completely stunned looks on their faces. The cart was being driven by another slanting middle-aged woman, and quite skillfully at that.

In the neighboring cart sat Cyril's unwilling companions, clinging to the sides of the cart, with faces only slightly less stunned than those of the steppe women. Their cart was driven by a big green-skinned orcish woman with a powerful bass voice, at one glance at whom it was clear that she could stop a mammoth by the trunk. Cyril did not understand what she was yelling at the orc shaman who had climbed into her cart, but judging by the intonation, it was nothing good. He only growled something in response and then turned, holding on to the side of the cart, to the neighboring cart, where Cyril and Diantrell were. In the same old Confederate language, he shouted in a powerful voice:

"You wasted all your strength, you who have known lightning and wind! It is unlikely that the enemies will let us go without pursuit. For me alone, and on the move, will be..."

At that moment, Diantrel, who had spent almost three quarters of her reserve in a very short time, without saying a word, used her companion's modifier “Magic Restoration II”, replenishing the spent strength. Cyril also silently used the token again, restoring the modifier. During the fight, which lasted only a couple of minutes, he spent a little less than a third of his strength and felt pretty good. Though it was probably a consequence of the alchemy he had drunk.

The old shaman, having seen with his magic vision how in the blink of an eye the elven woman, who had obviously used up most of her strength, had completely regained it, was clearly stunned. His fanged jaw dropped from such a sight. And he wasn't the only one. Shalakh-Ana, who was also looking anxiously at the exhausted Diantrel, was as stunned as the old shaman. The elfess, having regained her strength and not allowing anyone to regain their senses, began to give out commands in a sharp commanding tone:

"Cirial, you are the protector! Don't waste your strength on attacks, protect the horses first! If they are killed, we are finished! Armina, place additional protective amulets from the third set on the cart, then cover Cirial!"

Cyril was not going to argue with Diantrel, so he immediately started to form protective barriers around the carts and horses, which was not so easy. Much because the carts were traveling on the steppe slope, which was not an asphalted road. Bumps, holes, gopher burrows, or who knows what else, all this did not add to the comfort. The cart shook and tossed, and if it had not been for the enchantments that had strengthened the wheels, axles, and other parts, it would have fallen to pieces very quickly from the very fast pace at which the horses were rushing.

The fact that the objects to be protected were in motion didn't make the job any easier, which meant that the barriers had to be attached not to the place, but directly to them. And to do it in such a way that they would not conflict with the existing defenses, or with the amulets that Armina, who was surprisingly agile in the shaking cart, attached to its sides. The maid also handed a couple of protective amulets from the spare set to the thankfully nodding steppe women. The older one gave hers to the younger one, who put it on her daughter and put her own on her son. But the latter suddenly shook and pointed to the middle-aged woman who was leading the horses, shouting something in her native tongue. The old woman and the young woman looked at each other, but did not argue, and handed the additional protective amulet to the charioteer, who hung it around her neck without looking back.

The mentor, on the other hand, managed to deftly throw one of her spare kits onto a neighboring cart, which the old shaman caught and began to set up on his cart. He also summoned a pair of air spirits, which were now circling around the fugitives, to ward off any possible strikes from the smoke arrows. As the fugitives descended the long and gentle slope of the hill where the camp had been left and raced across the small plain toward the mountains, the eldest of the steppe men jumped from Cyril's cart and shouted something to Diantrel, apparently asking for something. The elven woman responded by pointing toward the mountains, but she had no time to say anything.

Behind them, at the site of the abandoned camp, there was a deafening rumble that half the steppe must have heard. It was accompanied by a powerful flash of fire, which illuminated the surrounding land in addition to the illumination balls still hanging in the sky. Turning around, Cyril saw that the hilltop had turned into one huge blazing fire, the flames of which soared into the sky for a dozen and a half meters. The sight was impressive. Turning to the neighboring cart, the young man saw the old shaman's face lit up with an evil and bloodthirsty smile. But after a moment, it faded away.

Because the bright flames of the huge fire were extinguished instantly, all at once. In the light of the fires burning in the sky, the fugitives could clearly see several dozen dark figures with eyes burning red, who stood motionless on the ashes, looking at the fugitives. Ahead of them all was a female figure, clearly distinguishable thanks to her diadem. The shaman cursed and growled loudly:

"Haru! Haru!"

Both drivers heard him and immediately shouted at their horses, forcing them to speed up. The shaman turned to the tense Diantrel, who was staring at the hill, and shouted in Old Confederate:

"Those on foot cannot keep up with the horsemen, and their dark power will not help them! Our horses are good. They are protected by the loyal Khao. They can go fast for a long time. When we break away from the damned enemies, call for your reinforcements...

At that moment, several new flares soared into the sky from the top of the hill where the steppe camp had been reduced to ashes. And in their light, it became especially clear how about a dozen figures, covered with black smoke, were literally bent in an arc, and then they were transformed into some smoky beast-like creatures, standing on four legs and with eyes burning with red fire. Some of the remaining humanoid figures immediately jumped on their backs, and the beast-like creatures immediately rushed after them at a very fast speed.

Something similar in meaning to "Oh, dammit!" was shouted in unison in Elvish, Caliphate and Steppe languages.

* * *

Having held the position of Reverend Mother for many decades, Aurora had many benefits, rights, duties, and privileges. Which, as she quite rightly believed, she had more than earned through long, persistent, and, what is no less important, productive work for the good of the cause of the Eternal Sun. However, there was something that she really lacked and something that even HE could not give to his faithful follower. Free time. Or at least just extra time.

Although the mechanism of the structure she headed in the Hierarchy of the Theocracy of the Sun-faced was debugged by her and worked more than effectively, there was always work for the Reverend Mother that required her direct participation. And it will be so until the Eternal Sun shines over the entire world. And that is not a fact. And after the monstrous in their sacrilege events that took place in the very heart of the Theocracy of the Sun-faced, Aurora had even more work. In fairness, not only she, but all the highest Hierarchs worked like hell, driven by one single goal - to find and punish the culprit.

At one point, it seemed that the hour of retribution was near. The trail of this scoundrel, hiding his true name behind the nickname "Master", was found. A hastily organized chase through lands that had never known the sun or stars, in which not only the servants of the Eternal Sun took part, drove him into a corner, like a wild animal. But at the last moment, everything went to hell, and almost ended in a monstrous catastrophe. Or rather, an even more monstrous one.

The monster from the depths of the underworld that had appeared at the sounds of the battle with the puppets enslaved by Master could have killed all the pursuers if HE had not sent the First of His Servants with them, disguised as a mortal. But even Mirantir was not sure that he would have been able to defeat the creature that had risen from the depths, full of strength and so close to the source of these very strengths. In the open air and in the light of day - yes, quite possible. But not in the lands of eternal darkness, where there is no sunlight. As everyone has now understood, the First of HIS Heralds did the only thing possible to save his followers and those who hid behind their backs.

He had sacrificed himself and thrown back into the bowels of the earth the one who had come from them. Aurora, like many others, had not given up hope. Yes, there had been no word from Mirantir since that fateful day. But He had not felt the death of the First of His Servants, though He should have. Perhaps. After all, the bowels of the earth are one of the elements most repugnant to HIM, and only the depths of the sea can compare with it.

And as if that terrible loss wasn't enough. As if the loss of his brothers and sisters wasn't enough. The thrice-cursed and anathematized Master was gone. Aurora, along with Archilictor Meyer and the other High Hierarchs, studied the images of the fateful battle almost moment by moment. But it was impossible to give a definite answer as to the fate of the sacrilegious one. With equal chances, he could either escape or perish. And so, Aurora searched. She searched everywhere she could. Spending the money earned by the hard work of the simple laborers of the Eternal Sun. Spent the obligations accumulated to her among the foreigners. Several times, she made new commitments herself. But all to no avail.

Or rather, the results were there, and what results they were! During the search for this Master, a great deal had been found. The most extensive searches and raids that had not happened since the invasion of the Greedy Mistress, may her name and false promises be consigned to oblivion, had opened a lot of pustules. Only the most important one, the one for whom the search had been organized, could not be found. Not a single trace. It was possible that he had indeed perished in the flames and darkness of the earth's bowels. But until Aurora herself saw his dead body, she, as well as HE, would not rest. And first, she would make sure that it was really Master's body and not a deception created by a skillful chimerologist.

If only Mirantir hadn't taken the Master's cursed artifact with him into the bowels of the Earth, which had been transformed by HIS power into a near-perfect search tool.... How much simpler things would have been... So much if... Okay, there was no point in grieving over what she couldn't fix. She's got to work with what she's got. And what she's got. Because the tragedy in the Underworld wasn't just about loss. Sister Fayana, who had taken on a new name after the Rite of Dedication, was, without exaggeration, a very valuable asset to the cause of Eternal Sunshine. Especially considering. her people's unusual sincerity in embracing their new faith. Aurora would have found the latter hard to believe if HE hadn't marked her with his mark.

The former Supreme Catcher of the Great House of Senrass, the strongest of the Antak na Shardan, knew a great deal and was eager to share her knowledge, which was especially valuable to Aurora and Archilictor Meyer. Yes, some of the most valuable secrets of her former kin, protected by the strongest of oaths, she had lost when the ritual of Renunciation, hastily performed by them, had literally “taken” them from her. But even what Sister Fayana retained was not without interest. From the balance of power in the underground hall, to the whole network of informant agents, to the secret lairs and passages that led from Antak na Shardan to the surface. And on the surface above lay another city. The main earthly abode of the Lady of the Seas, proudly called the Heart of the Sea.

All this opened up some very interesting possibilities. The Supreme Envoy of the Theocracy had already had several conversations with the chief diplomat of the Great House of Senrass, who was very skilfully hiding behind a polite and haughty smile a wild anger at her former companion, who had decided to suddenly change her way of life and her priorities. On the whole, these negotiations went surprisingly smoothly and successfully, which could be considered a miracle, given the very nature of the dark firstborn. But the latter found themselves in a very awkward position, for Sister Fayana did indeed know a great deal about her own former House. Including things she wasn't supposed to know. This, in turn, made the dark ones incredibly compact by their standards. In particular, they had already agreed, in exchange for silence about some of their secrets, to provide some rather valuable services to the followers of the Eternal Sun. Under mutual guarantees, certified by magic, blood, and HIS altars. Of course, in the case of dark elves, there could not be full guarantees, but Aurora was not born yesterday.

Otherwise, she would have been over the moon just to be able to get in and out of the Islands, where outsiders were usually only liked as commodities on the slave market. Especially if they didn't pray to the Lady of the Seas. But now it was only a feeble compensation for the tragedy in the Underworld. Compensation that she was going to take full advantage of, however.

"This is where you can get out with the least risk, Reverend, but the path to the city will also be much longer."

Sister Fayana, who was sitting at the desk opposite Aurora, pointed with her long and well-groomed fingernail to the desired point on the map of the main Island, which had become noticeably more detailed.

"Here you can get out practically on the outskirts of Kuordemar, but this passage is controlled by a clan of Skavens living under the city. And they, in turn, are held very tightly by the tails of the Invisible Guard. But rats are always rats, and it is possible to come to an agreement with them, although it is difficult to make them honor the agreement."

Aurora nodded in response to the words of the dark elven woman sitting across from her, dressed in the impeccably tailored white and gold robes of an initiate, and made a mental note to herself. Fayana continued to list the known exits from the Underworld to the Islands one by one, commenting on their advantages and disadvantages. Falnar, sitting on the edge of the table next to them, was taking notes so that he could add the new information to the closed working archive that the Sons and Sisters used during their assignments.

And the more the dark elf told her, the more Arvora was convinced that the old idea of thanking Calisto's followers for the trade in the Theocracy's inhabitants captured in the raids of the accursed Northern Raiders was now quite feasible. Or rather, it had been possible before, but it had been a one-way trip. Now, with the new information from Sister Fayana, her Children had a chance not only to strike, but also to go back. The operation would have to be properly thought out.

"Thank you again, Sister Fayana. Your knowledge will be of no small use to the cause of the Eternal Sun," Aurora thanked the dark elf when she finished listing all the exits to the surface that she reliably knew of.

"I very much hope so, Reverend Mother. And I hope that I will be able to serve our common cause not only with my knowledge," Sister Fayana nodded in response, smiling slightly.

"You can be sure that there will be work for you and your outstanding talents," Aurora smiled back at her, "As soon as you have fully recovered from the wound you received, we will return to this conversation."

Rising to her feet in one elegant movement, Sister Fayana nodded politely to the Reverend Mother and her assistant, then left Aurora's office. Although both inside and outside the sun were shining brightly, it was already deep night according to Iyastar's internal time. So as soon as the doors closed behind the dark elf, Aurora allowed herself to lean back tiredly in her chair and close her eyes. Where could she find another dozen or two hours in the day? Falnar, silently rising from his seat and knowing perfectly well the preferences of his superior, immediately approached her from behind and began to massage her shoulders. He gave her a grateful smile, which became frankly playful when the hands of Aurora's young assistant moved from her shoulders to a little lower, penetrating under the white and gold robes of the Reverend Mother and began to massage her breasts.

This went on for some time, during which time the assistant managed to unbutton the top of Aurora's robes completely. When her breasts were fully exposed, the Reverend Mother stopped Falnar with a brief gesture and rose to her feet. Seating herself on the edge of her desk, she pulled her aide to her side. He instantly burrowed his face into his superior's tits, simultaneously pulling up the hem of her robes and unbuckling his own belt. Aurora wrapped both arms around him, wrapped her legs around him, and buried her fingers in his hair, pulling him even tighter against her as her personal communication amulet, resting on a special stand on the edge of the desk, emitted a soft melody, which could only mean one thing, given the lateness of the hour. Something important had happened that required the Reverend Mother's immediate attention. For a moment, she and Falnar stood motionless, frozen in each other's embrace. Then Aurora, without letting go of the aide who was already practically getting down to business, held out her hand and accepted the call:

//"I'm listening"

The voice of the Daughter on duty immediately rang out in her head. She, already an experienced servant of the Eternal Sun, immediately, without preamble, got down to business:

//"The Archilictor asks you to come to him as soon as possible. Urgent news has just arrived from Dantmark! There was a breakthrough of infernal creatures. A serious battle took place..."

//"I heard you, my daughter. I will arrive soon."

Having extinguished the amulet and put it back in place, Aurora turned to the assistant, who was looking up at her, still burying his face in the naked chest of the boss. Mentally sighing tiredly, the Reverend Mother again embraced him with both hands and asked:

"Where did we stop?"

Falnar, understanding her desire perfectly, entered her in one motion, causing Aurora to moan softly and contentedly. Could she allow herself some rest after all?

* * *

After closing the door of the room behind her, Fayana, formerly named Fayassash, slowly began to undress and get ready for bed. Getting used to the new rhythm of life and the almost complete absence of darkness was not easy at first. The first couple of weeks were especially hard, but it became easier. The good-quality blindfolds made of soft, dark fabric, which did not let in any light at all, were a great help.

It was more difficult to get used to her new position. It was a real challenge, but she worked hard at it, regularly reassuring herself and reminding herself that the Eternal Sun made no distinction between men and women. Only one thing matters. Your merit. And her old life with the matriarchal order remained in the past, in the depths of the Underworld, burnt in the crimson flames of the bowels, suffocated in the suffocating darkness. Now she has a new life and a new purpose in that life. A new purpose.

Fayana took off her outer garments completely, leaving only her shirt on, and lay down on her new bed. Compared to her former abode, her current cell wasn't even funny. She kept her slaves in the best of conditions. Fayassash would have been at least quietly furious at such a place, promising herself to take revenge on those who had chosen to humiliate her in such a way. Fayana, on the other hand, was fine with this cell. All the more so because she didn't plan to stay in it for long.

She made herself comfortable on the still unaccustomed narrow bed, closed her eyes, and put on her blinders. Today has been more than a good day. One of her new goals in life was one step closer. As soon as she thought of it, it immediately appeared before the dark elf's eyes. Majestic, reserved, self-confident, in impeccable white and gold robes, with a stern and commanding face. The Reverend Mother Aurora. At their first face-to-face meeting, when Fayana had just undergone the rite of acceptance of a new faith and life, she had clearly realised. This is it! Her new goal! The place of the Reverend Mother.

It is there that she can best prove herself in the service of the Eternal Sun. And she will definitely get this place, just give her time. This wish-aspiration became her priority goal for the next few years. But not the only one. Because the second goal was Reverend Mother Aurora herself. Having seen her up close and personal, Fayana also clearly realised that she not only wanted her place but also wanted her directly. Powerful, strong, skilful and beautiful even by the standards of the firstborn, even if her beauty was mature rather than youthful.

To defeat such an opponent and to reap the benefits of that victory would be the best proof that she was worthy to take her place. Of course, most of the usual methods of fighting against rivals, which Fayassash would have used so willingly, were unacceptable to Fayana. The cause of the Eternal Sun does not allow actions that would harm the followers of the cause in particular and the cause in general. But Fayana has no intention of harming her, no, no. There are other methods, completely non-lethal and even relatively harmless. What would be wrong if the Reverend Mother had another clever assistant, who would gradually take on more and more work, easing the heavy burden of the boss?

Fayana would even be satisfied with the option that everyone would continue to think that it was Aurora who was in charge of the Daughters and Children of the Theocracy's special monastery. And what will happen behind the closed doors of her office - only HE will know. And if Fayana proves that she is worthy and not just not worse, but BETTER, then HE, she is sure, will not mind her little antics. And to prove it, it is necessary to try hard. The Reverend Mother's defense is good, but Fayana has already outlined a few options for how to get close to her. It's just a rough outline, but give her time. She's as patient as any true Catcher. And then.

The Reverend Mother reappeared in front of the dark elf's mental gaze, but now in the openly vulgar image of a street performer. Almost completely naked, not counting the jester's cap on her head, all in white paint, Aurora stood in the corner of her own office, with a silly smile on her equally silly face and giggled quietly, rhythmically juggling several dildos. The strange and incomprehensible fantasy, however, turned out to be surprisingly arousing. Fayana even regretted that she didn't have a trusty, handsome humas boy at hand to ease the excitement with his tongue. Interesting, she would have to memorize this image and try it out when she reached her goal.....

* * *

"Left! Watch out!"

Armina's loud and sharp shout made Cyril hastily rebuild the segmented magical barrier, weakening the front and right side to repel another volley of black smoke arrows. Maintaining a solid barrier under constant fire would not be enough strength. At the same time, another loud explosion sounded from the right side, where the second cart was rushing, from detonated disposable combat amulets, the local analogue of grenades.

"Behind! From the top!"

Another shout from Armina, another hasty rearrangement of defenses, and a trio of not even arrows, but literal spears of black smoke, slammed into the magical barrier, draining its reserve and streaming behind the rushing cart in helpless shreds. A moment later, a curved arc of lightning flew from the mentor's wand, striking the pursuers with a crackling sound. But unfortunately, instead of her intended opponent riding a beast-like creature, she was attracted at the last moment by a clot of smoke circling around it and acting as a lightning rod.

"Watch out! On the right!"

Another rearrangement of the defenses. Another volley of black smoke arrows was repelled. But the price for that was an increasingly sagging reserve. Both rings had long since been emptied. Cyril had already spent his reserve, restored immediately after moving to the steppe by his companion's modifier, and Diantrel restored it again, at the cost of another token charge. It happened instantly and without any negative sensations. But along with the restored reserve, Cyril realized that it would be possible to repeat this trick without negative consequences only one more time. Each subsequent use would increase the risk of trauma to the subtle body. And he would have to use the modifier because he had less than a third of his reserve left, and he would need his strength soon. Otherwise, they'll all be very sad.

They almost succeeded. When the bloody killers rushed off in pursuit on horseback on their comrades, who had turned inexplicably into creepy black smoke scarecrows, the old shaman realized at once that it was a bad deal. Therefore, he did not wait and immediately used another prepared trump card. Cyril had no time to understand what kind of spirit came to his call, but only felt the taste of blood and ashes on his tongue. And then the whole small herd of steppes turned to ashes with a wild roar hit his ears. From manes to hoofs, entirely and completely, burned in a moment in a bright and very hot flame, which felt so palpable that it gave those sitting in the carts a fever. A fever that the spirit who had come took part for himself. And the rest he gave to the remaining horses, literally pouring it into them. The animals, with a loud roar, rushed forward as if they had doubled their strength.

But even this acceleration was not enough to break away from the pursuers, who were inexorably closing the distance. If they were all on horseback, then yes, there would have been a chance. But not with the two carts, which did not fall apart, despite all the enchantments, only because the old shaman had summoned a very peculiar spirit right after the acceleration. It was not very strong, one might even say frankly weak, against the same millipede or compound snake that had been left on the hill near the abandoned camp. His strength was the dust of the road, the squeak of wheels, and the clatter of hoofs. And it consisted in the fact that he practically gave the fugitives the effect of a normal and smooth road. It prevented the horses from stumbling, as if it smoothed out the bumps and leveled the holes. Utterly useless in direct combat, but incredibly effective for traveling on horseback at high speed.

This spirit made life very easy for both Cyrill and his mentor, because it would take more than one practice to cast magic in a cart that was bouncing and jumping. While the last one started to strike lightning and air blades at the pursuers again. The others were not idle either. The mounted steppe men, rushing beside them, synchronously launched arrows enchanted to find their enemies on their own into the pursuers. First regularly struck from his magical staff with fire, magical arrows, or a beam of light. Shalah-Ana, who was also given a spare battle wand and its storage crystals, kept up with him. Every now and then, disposable battle amulets rushed to meet their pursuers, only to explode immediately or after a moment.

Cyrill was tempted to take part in the battle, but his mentor, instantly sensing his thoughts, literally barked at him, telling him to concentrate on defense and only on it. And as it turned out, she was right. Because the pursuers, as soon as they reached the striking distance, immediately began to strike with their arrows, aiming at the horses. And not just arrows. One of the spirits of the old man-shaman caught the smoke rope formed at the level of the knee, which was hidden in the tall grass on the path of the fugitives. The latter dispelled it at the cost of one of his necklaces. Otherwise, the horses would have broken their legs. The stakes of black smoke that had appeared right in front of Cyril's cart were dispelled at the last moment, and then the old orc concentrated on clearing the road.

So they raced along the steppe for some time, snarling and fighting off their pursuers. And it seemed that salvation was close at hand. Without even listening, Cyril physically felt how the strange magic of the pursuers, which prevented them from calling for help, was weakening. It seemed, just a little more, just a little more! But alas, the pursuers realized it too, and they were not going to let go of their prey. When Diantrel was almost ready to try to send a call for help, the two riders who were closest to the fugitives accelerated sharply, rapidly closing the distance. Both the steppers with their bows and the First and Shalakh-Ana with their wands struck at them at the same time. Most of them even hit them.

But it was pointless. Because even before the accelerated pursuers were struck, they formed blades of black smoke and struck themselves in the chest with them. Instantly turning into clouds of the same black smoke, completely. The fugitives' blows only hit the creepy, beast-like creatures, killing them. But it didn't matter, for the pursuers had achieved their goal of renewing and even thickening their cursed cloud that concealed the fugitives. Hearing the desperate cry of his mentor, Cyrill felt that now he was really scared. And, to all appearances, not only him. Everyone understood that they could not escape from the pursuers. They also realized that. Turning to the old shaman, Diantrel shouted loudly:

"Are there other tribes here?"

He, continuing to watch the road, shouted back in the same outdated Confederate:

"To whom we can reach - no! And to call for help will not work, I have already tried, the damned witchcraft does not allow my call..."

"Is this Kardarot?!"

First's loud cry interrupted the old orc mid-sentence. Turning towards his companion, who was racing on a borrowed horse, Cyrill saw that he was pointing towards one of the mountains, which had become noticeably closer.

"What?"

"Mountain! Is this Kardarot?! A dwarven city, ravaged by the Great Horde?!"

Understanding what was being discussed, the old shaman nodded:

"Yes, this..."

"Let's go there! If we get there, we can break away!"

"What?! Are you crazy, you want to die..."

"I want to save you all!!! And I know how!!! Let's go there!!!"

First didn't even shout the last phrase, but literally roared. No one dared to argue with him, and the fugitives did change direction, moving toward the mountain he had indicated, which was noticeably higher than the others. Without ceasing to watch the road, while the others tried to hold back the pursuers, the old shaman shouted:

"We can't cross Gjarna, the nearest ford..."

"Let's go straight across the lake on the water!"

"What?!"

Now it was not only the old shaman who was clearly stunned, but also the steppe dwellers who were riding next to First.

"You are a madman..."

First didn’t listen, but turned to Cyrill and shouted:

"Cirial! We'll have to create a barrier that will hold us, and the horses can run along!"

"What?!"

"Ciriall, type number three, for crossing water!" Diantrel explained to the young man.

"Ah... Got it, okay, I'll do it!"

"Try harder! Otherwise, we're finished! There's no other way to get to the right place quickly! The horses will die first!"

"What are you talking about, you madman? How can he hold us? He's almost out of strength..."

At that moment, the mentor, without saying a word, restored Cyrill's reserve with the companion's modifier. Which is why the old shaman was once again shocked, seeing how the strong adept, who had clearly spent more than half of his strength, became full of energy again. What he thought remained a mystery, but out loud he only shouted:

"So be it! Let's go!"

And they rushed forward. Their pursuers kept pace and did not let them relax. The fugitives managed to knock out one or the other, but each one was replaced by a new one. At some point, it became clear that they were being driven, waiting until the victim ran out of strength to finish him off with one decisive blow. Gradually, the nomads' arrows were running out. One by one, the necklaces and other attributes of the shamanic craft of the old orc fell to ashes. Both of his tame wolves fell, knocking out the closest opponents at the cost of their lives. The storage crystals in the battle wands used by First and Shalah-Ana were emptied. The stock of explosive amulets was steadily melting away. The defences covering the carts and the riders beside them were weakening with each blow.

For a moment, Cyril didn't pay attention to where they were going, he was completely absorbed in only one thing - maintaining the defence around their small group. Very quickly, it became clear that he would not be able to maintain a solid defence for long, not around such a space and not at such a speed. He had to create several separate barrier shields and continuously shuffle them around, exposing them to enemy attacks. Thanks to the diadem and the alchemy he had adopted, as well as countless training sessions under the guidance of his mentor, he was quite good at it. But still, his reserve was inexorably being used up, his strength was decreasing, and he was feeling worse and worse.

When he had less than a quarter to go, and his body was as tired as if he'd had a good workout at the gym, Cyril's attention was drawn to the loud shouts of his unwilling companions. When he looked away from the magical barriers that covered the riders and the carts, he saw they had travelled around a small hill to a small plain that ended in a lake of dark water. It was about two or three hundred yards wide, and on the opposite side of it a huge mountain, forested at the foot, with a snow-white cap on the distant summit. And, to all appearances, there were some ruins at the foot of the mountain, but it was impossible to make out exactly because of the greenery.

The young man could see all this without difficulty, because their damned pursuers continued to set off their damn lights during the whole chase. Cyrill did not understand how the whole steppe had not fled to this fireworks display. But what he clearly understood was that the light of these lights was very effective in destabilising illusions. Diantrel realised it, too, and through their internal communication immediately forbade Cyrill to waste his strength on them.

Strength... As soon as he thought about it, his mentor used the modifier again, restoring Cyril's reserve completely. This time, the sensation was not the most pleasant, as if a wave of icy water had rushed through his veins and sandpaper had been run over his skin. Gritting his teeth, the young man renewed his mentor's modifier with a couple of mental commands, and she restored her strength as well. How many times tonight? The third? Or was it the fourth? Judging by the way the elf's face contorted for a moment, it was even worse for her. But after a second, Diantrel commanded sharply:

"Сirial! Get ready! Form a weave! We have one try! Carts as close together as possible! You three in front! You and First bring up the rear!"

The latter referred to the steppe horsemen.

"All forces - only for defense!"

Biting his lip, the young man began to quickly form the required weave of the barrier. It would take a lot of strength; an ordinary barrier would not withstand such weight for a long time, it would need to be reinforced, and it would be necessary to make it stable and dense, so that horses could run on it smoothly. And it's not enough to create it, you need to make it dynamic and prolonged, as the mentor would say. That is, the back part should disappear as soon as the horses pass over it, to be formed in front of the front part. And all this at the speed of the horses, which were already guaranteed to be overrun. Fuck, he went to a restaurant!

"Cirial!"

The loud shout-command of the mentor coincided with the activation of Cyrill's weave. At the same moment, a faintly glowing barrier appeared near the lake shore, wide enough for two carts to pass through, and four times longer. It began at the water's edge and then stretched straight over the water's surface. //“It is good that today there is no wind and the water is calm” - a thought flashed and immediately disappeared in Cyrill's mind. Because the mere creation of a barrier-bridge, on which the horsemen and carts lined up in a column, instantly took away a fifth of the reserve.

They were very lucky that their pursuers apparently didn't realise until the last moment what they were going to do. And when they did, the moment was lost. Instead of flying into the dark waters of the lake at full speed, the fugitives ran over the barrier bridge. Dozens of arrows of black smoke flew in the back of the fugitives, but Cyril did not pay attention to them. He was completely occupied with only one thing: continuous rotation and maintenance of parts of the barrier-bridge. One mistake, and the front riders would collapse into the water. One mistake and the rear riders would crash into the water. Keep up the speed. Keep the pace. Keep the distance. Hold the width. Hold it. Hold. `Old. `Old. `Ooooold!

His strength was dwindling at a monstrous rate, his head began to rumble, and chills began to spread through his body. At some point, Cyril felt that the reserve was dangerously close to its bottom, but at that moment, he was infused with the power of his mentor, who gave him a third of her energy, using the “Mark of the Chosen One”. It was barely enough when the fugitives jumped over the barrier bridge to the opposite shore of the lake. Cyril had no strength left at all, and if it hadn't been for Armina, he would have collapsed to the bottom of the cart.

His head was buzzing, his legs and arms were weak, and he had no strength at all. Somehow leaning on the maid, Cirill turned towards the lake. And let out a doomed half-groan:

"Fuuuck..."

Because a dozen goddamn dark riders on fucking scarecrows were rushing towards them. Right through the water! Or rather, they were using the same principle as him. Not a single barrier, but the same black smoke that rose over the water beneath each limb of the beast-like fear-mongers, giving them a foothold. This is fucked, Cyril realised aloofly and doomedly. Someone was shouting something, but he didn't care anymore. He didn't even have the strength to be scared, he had put everything into creating and maintaining this improvised crossing. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that he should renew his and his mentor's reserves again and give the enemies a fight. But there was no strength even for a mental command. For a moment, he saw a glimmer of something golden in the night sky, but he was not sure, because his mind was beginning to fail due to the monstrous exhaustion.

And then the water beneath the first of the pursuers opened with a fountain of splashes, something incomprehensible and large flashed, and the beast-like thing with its rider disappeared into the dark waters without a trace, leaving only circles on the water. The rest of the pursuers stopped abruptly, and some of the fearful creatures stood on their haunches. A moment later, the water surface opened with fountains of spray under another of them, and he was dragged by something into the dark waters. Then the pursuers rushed back to the shore, trying to reach it as quickly as possible.

"Oh, no, it’s normal, even fucking awesome,” Cyrill said, his tongue slurring as he described what he saw.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzjoDZ_vb9E

That's what he thought he said. In fact, it was something like ‘aenaarnozbszhe’. The young man didn't realise it, though. His eyes were getting darker and darker, and he could no longer understand what was happening. Someone literally on his hands pulled him out of the cart and carried him somewhere, someone shouted something, before his eyes flashed some faces, familiar and not so familiar, some trees, bushes, rocks, then they were replaced by the stone arch of some tunnel. The last thing Cyrill heard before the darkness swallowed him up was a deafening rumble that hurt his ears.

* * *

The dreams replaced one another and were surprisingly vivid, realistic, and schizophrenic. First, Cyril found himself at some rally in the middle of a vast green steppe, in a crowd of orcs, goblins, slanted humans, and beastmen. In front of them stood a solid-looking man in an ultra-expensive navy blue Brioni suit, with an unruly mop of straw red hair and a face painted green. With a most serious look, he was broadcasting in a confident voice from his podium that he was MEIKE HORD GREAT AGAIN! He would never allow Winnie Ze Poo to build his Great Asian Wall on the border with the Steppe, and thereby deprive the common Horde-man of an honest livelihood in the form of plundering raids on the lands of the Rising Empire. And that Alliance Zucks(*), though whose, Cyril did not understand. And judging by the reaction of the crowd, no one understood what Alliance it was, and what zucks had to do with it, but the rest of the ideas of the inhabitants of the Steppe clearly liked it.
T.N.

* * *

A spacious room, in the centre of which a dark-haired woman with an oriental face lies on a special bed with her legs spread wide. The woman is obviously gifted, quite pretty on the whole, but pale and exhausted. She literally wrung out like a lemon. A good ritual circle infused with healing magic doesn't help her much. Neither do several other women in dark loose robes who stand around her, holding her hands, wiping sweat from her forehead, and cheering her up. One of them stands in front of the poor woman, between her spread legs, and urges her to hold on a little longer.

The next frame. The same dark-haired woman was half lying on a pile of pillows, holding a baby wrapped in nappies, with dark hair and bright green eyes. Cyril's one glance was enough for him to feel the rudiments of a magic gift in this baby. Potentially very strong. But now the infant was busy sucking diligently at his mother's breast while a dozen women in dark robes surrounded the woman in labour in a tight ring.

They were different in appearance and age, but all of them shared a common shade of magical gift. They looked at the baby and his mother with such satisfied faces that if Cyrill had a mimimeter at hand, it would have burned out before it was even switched on. The room where the woman in labour and her support group were was imbued with three layers of protective and healing magic, so that it could have survived an atomic explosion. And most of all, this magic was around the baby and its mother. Cyrill strongly suspected that he hadn't seen it all yet. In addition to the magical defences, there were silent guards with strange white eyes that didn't seem to blink at all.

* * *

A futuristic-looking flat with two women sitting on the couch. Or rather, one human woman with green eyes and red hair, and one blue-skinned azari alien. The latter is dressed in a tight-fitting black leather suit. The other was in some sort of distinctly paramilitary garb. Both of them literally reek of predatory danger and strange power, remotely reminiscent of magic. And also desire and passion. At some point, the two women drew closer together, and the magic-like power that filled them flashed brightly in Cyril's perception. It seemed that both women tried to absorb each other with their energy. But it was the red-haired woman who succeeded, to the alien's complete surprise.

The next frame, and the last one, with a face twisted with surprise and fear, on which there is not a single drop of the former predatory confidence left, frantically struggling with poorly obeying legs, tries to crawl away from the sofa. The human woman, whose green eyes burned with a strange fire, looked at the slowly undressing human woman with natural horror:

"What have you done?!"

Pulling her futuristic-looking T-shirt over her head and remaining naked to the waist, the red-haired girl licked her lips predatorily and with an evil smile answered in a playful voice:

"The same thing I did to your mother..."

* * *

A huge underground lake, no, not even a lake, but a whole sea, with water black as darkness, illuminated by rare and meagre specks of crystals in the high stone ceiling. On its shore, among the miserable shacks made of shit and sticks, the latter being in obvious shortage, some humanoid creatures were swarming. Bubbly-eyed, they resemble an upright hybrid of a frog and a common fish, like a crucian carp or a carp. But not all of them. A couple of them stand out from the background with toothy mouths, black bottomless eyes, and fishing rods with torches like sea anglers. Standing on the shore of the subterranean sea, they say something to their more peaceful-looking relatives gathered around them. But what they were saying, or rather gurgling, Cyril could not understand.

The next moment, the water of the shore near the strange fishmen's settlement churned, and then a human male figure with a pair of wings behind him sprang out. It looked as if it had been drowned, fished out, burned at the stake, drowned again, and then beaten. There was hardly a healthy spot on its body; one wing was clearly broken, and on both wings, almost all the feathers were either broken or burned. But the unknown man's eyes shone with sunlight.

A couple of fishmen with toothy mouths staggered for a moment, and then began gurgling something to their kin and waving their paws, pointing at the intruder. And it is unlikely that they asked to meet him, to feed and water him. It must have come to the same conclusion, because its eyes suddenly flashed like air defense searchlights of the Great Patriotic War, illuminating the whole miserable settlement and its inhabitants for a moment. And from this light on several coastal beds with thickets of some stunted underground plants, the latter grew wildly, in a couple of seconds growing half a meter and becoming noticeably thicker. A couple of them even produced some very unappetizing-looking fruits. The fish people were clearly stunned. For a few seconds, they all stood motionless. Then they rushed forward, but not at the stranger, but at a couple of anglers.

A new frame, and the unknown winged guest with a slightly dumbfounded face looks at the crowd of Fishmen, who, having torn off the heads of their fellow anglers, laid them in front of him on the shore, and knelt and began to bow, gurgling something in their language and gawking and already bulging fish eyes.

The new frame, and the unknown guy who has more or less put himself in order, with a tired face, speaks syllable by syllable to the crowd of fish-people surrounding him:

"Mi! Ran! Tir!"

The answer was a unified one:

"Muuuuurlaaadiiin Buuul! Muuuuurlaaadiiin Buuul!"

For some reason, it seemed to Cirill that the stranger really wanted to smash his face with his hand at that moment.

* * *

New frame. A strangely familiar elven teenage girl, wearing a snow-white toga and golden sandals on her slender legs, performs a series of movements resembling something between ballet pas and kung-fu kicks. From what sandals one after another fly off her feet, and with the speed of a bullet, fly forward. And as soon as one sandal flies forward, a new one appears in its place. At a decent distance from the girl stands some young guy, deftly dodging them in the style of Neo from The Matrix, and flying millimetres away from his face, gilded (or maybe all-gold) shoe objects with a rumble are slammed into the stone wall behind him, punching big potholes in it.

New frame. New frame. New...

* * *

The darkness receded slowly and reluctantly, my thoughts heavy and ill at ease. How cold it was, and hungry.... A wave of invigorating warmth swept through Cyril's slender body from head to toe. Experiencing a sharp burst of vigour, Cyril opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the exhausted and tense face of his mentor. Leaning over him, she clutched his head with two palms, gently pouring her power into him. But as soon as Diantrel realised he was awake, she was visibly relieved. Cyril tried to say something, but did not have time. A flask of water was brought to his lips, and he, realising how thirsty he was, took a few greedy gulps. The life-giving moisture, slightly saturated with neutral magical energy, cleared the fog in his head and gave him strength. Taking a few more sips, he asked cautiously and tried to sit up:

"Are we out?"

"Quiet, lie down, you have serious magical exhaustion. You need to rest," the mentor did not let him get up, laying him back down on some kind of blanket or a traveling cloak that smelled of horses.

When Cyril turned his head sideways, he saw that he was lying against a wall in some stone room with high ceilings. His mentor was leaning over him, Armina was sitting next to her, and the First was on his feet a little away from them. In the centre of the room, a simple amulet-light burned with magical fire on the floor. As soon as the young man moved, nearly two dozen pairs of eyes looked at him. At the opposite wall, the steppe men were sitting huddled together. On the right, a little apart from them, Shinda-Bah and his relatives were huddled together. And next to them, closer to Cyril, sat, also huddled together, a boy-waiter, whose name he never learnt, and a half-blood siren. And their faces were all haggard and never cheerful.

But when Cyrill stirred, they too became noticeably more animated, and relief lit up the eyes of many. Turning back to his mentor, Cyrill asked quietly:

"Where are we?"

Instead, First, who stood leaning his back against the wall where Cyrill was lying, answered him:

"In the Underworld. Specifically, on the outskirts of the underground part of the dwarven city of Kardaroth, in one of the surviving buildings."

Oops. That's news.

"What happened?"

Turning to him, First answered with barely noticeable sarcasm:

"If you don't remember, fanatics from the Dark Brotherhood tried to kidnap and kill us."

"This is what I remember. How did we end up underground?"

"It's obvious that I brought us here..."

"First!" The mentor’s voice was harsh and completely in no mood for fun.

Throwing an unkind glance at him, she turned to Cyrill and explained:

"The first meant that he led us to a passage into the Underworld known to him, which had previously been used by the dwarves who lived in Kardarot."

"Unfortunately, we didn't have a chance to cover our tracks, and our fanatical friends didn't want to let us go,” he added to Cyrill's mentor, ”so we had to go to extreme measures and use the last remaining battle amulets to collapse the passageway behind us."

Feeling fear prick his heart, Cyrill asked:

"And what are we gonna do?"

Turning to him, First, who still hadn’t removed the mask-hood from his face, shrugged:

"Specifically, you need to rest and recuperate. I'll be on duty. And the rest of you, sit still, do NOTHING without my permission, and wait for help to arrive."

"Were you able to send the call?" Cyrill immediately felt a surge of strength from this news.

"Yes, as soon as I find us at least a somewhat safe shelter."

"But how... I still feel that..."

"Through the artifact diary. The Forest already knows. Help will arrive soon. So rest, Cirial. You did a great job at the lake."

"Um... Thank you."

With these words, the young man leaned back on what he now realized was the cloak of one of the steppe dwellers, and closed his eyes. Oh... what a night it had been, damn it. Okay, he needs a little... Hey, hey, no-no-no, what the... Fuuuuck. Against Cyrill's will, the lines of the task that had gotten him into this mess appeared before his eyes.

Attention!

You have been offered an average assignment!

Conditions:

Together with a companion (Diantrel of the House of Winterblooms, daughter of Edenril), spend at least twelve hours in any city other than the Royal Palace of the Forest with a population of at least ten thousand intelligent beings. The companion must be under an illusion for the entire time, posing as a completely different human/elf/gnome/orc/beastman/lizard.

Restrictions:

During all twelve hours, it is necessary to be in public and accessible places. In addition to the companion, the number of intelligent beings notified of the assignment must not exceed six units.

Conditions of execution:

Common:

The Companion must not be identified as Diantrel of the House of Winterblooms, daughter of Edenril, by anyone around her for the duration of her stay in the city.

Good:

The Companion must, together with the Chosen One, successfully pass the personality test at least three times using magical means not lower than the level of a specialized adept of magic, without arousing any suspicion.

Perfect:

The Companion, together with the Chosen One, must successfully pass a personality check at least once using magical means of at least the level of a master of magic, without arousing any suspicion. During the entire stay in the city, no one should notice the fact that the Companion is under an illusion.

Additional:

While in the city, create at least ten small stable illusions, unnoticed by others, each of which must last at least an hour without being recognized as an illusion.

Awards:

Regular:

Increase one random profile skill by one level for the Chosen and Companion. Two talent points that can be spent on enhancing existing properties or meta-skills for the Chosen and Companion.

Good:

One random medium token for each Chosen One and Companion. One random artifact from the System Auction for each Chosen One and Companion from the top-value segment, after confirmation of receipt.

Perfect:

One random and one free attribute point for each Chosen and Companion. Two talent points for each Chosen and Companion, which can be spent on enhancing existing or acquiring new meta-skills or properties. One elite token for each Chosen and Companion. One advanced level of specialized knowledge for each Chosen and Companion. One random elite artifact for each Chosen and Companion, upon confirmation.

Additional:

One random advanced-level profile knowledge for the Chosen One and one free talent point for the Companion.

And then the young man was overwhelmed by the information that began to pour into him.

* * *
Author's Note:

Ufff. 53 pages. I have no energy for proofreading. I decided to move the statuses, as well as the analysis of the awards received by Cyril and Diantrel to the next chapter, because this one is already overgrown.

(Looking at the chapters of Avada. Mm-hmm.)

As usual, many thanks to those who read, comment, ask questions, correct typos, and give likes. I'll try really hard not to procrastinate. I really will. Thank you all for that. That's all for today, Brinar. I'll respond to comments tomorrow, most likely in the afternoon.

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
Его статус: идёт перевод

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86674/586936

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP