Готовый перевод История Королевы Эльфов / The story of the Elf Queen: Глава восемнадцатая. Первая преграда на долгом пути домой Героя Королевы Эльфов.

Chapter Eighteen. The first obstacle on the long journey home of the Hero of the Elf Queen.

* * *

For several interminably long seconds, the motley group of fugitives stood motionless, staring in shock at the solid stone wall of the underground hall with the extinguished portal arch protruding from it, trying to realize what had happened. The first to come to his senses was, who would have thought, First. The dark elf turned sharply back to the man-made wall of massive stone blocks, intercepting his battle staff and blade. Staring tensely into the dark recess of the ruined gateway, he broke into a series of short commands:

"Cirial! Barriers! We're in the open! Armina, cover him! Diantrel to the main entrance! The rest of you, watch the breaches!"

The young man flinched in surprise, but immediately the reflexes practiced at the training grounds and the knowledge gained from the System made themselves known. A few moments of hasty formation of weaves, and their newly combat-ready squad was covered with a classic barrier dome. A very strong and reliable barrier-dome, one could safely say, of the level of a master of magic. At least in terms of the quality of the weave.

Then another one, of the same type but less dense, was added to it. Then, a third defense circuit consisting of dynamic segmented barriers was added to the dome barriers. Plus, Cyril additionally, without prompting from his mentor or First, covered their group with an illusion that made the fugitives invisible when viewed from the outside in most spectra of magical vision.

All this time his companions, willing or unwilling, were not standing idle, either, preparing to repel the attack of an unknown enemy, staring intently into the dark recess of the dilapidated gate or into the breaches of the wall. The Stepnians took their bows at the ready, putting the remaining enchanted arrows on the bowstrings. The elderly shaman, gripping his spear-staff, moved his lips silently and ran his fingers over the shaft, making the carvings that covered it glow. The predatory spirit, which had assumed the form of a sabre-toothed cat, froze beside him, ready to rush into battle. Shinda-Bah, along with his nephew and his aide, stood at the ready with their battle wands at their disposal. Shalah-Ana, who stood behind her husband's back, covered them by creating additional personal shield-barriers around the Caliphates. The unfortunate restaurant workers, along with the steppe children and women, huddled behind them and crouched down, clutching their protective amulets so tightly that their knuckles turned white. Diantrel, standing just ahead of her apprentice, held out her silver wand towards the gate and formed a powerful weave of chain lightning, ready to snap at any moment. Armina stood at Cyrill's side, holding a protective amulet in one hand, ready to project a classic magical shield-barrier, and in the other a battle wand with a battle weave ready to burst from it.

Everyone was tensely waiting for the mysterious enemies to attack at any moment and was ready to fight back.

Cyrill, who had finished creating the defense, also hurriedly grabbed the battle rod given to him and formed the weave of an enhanced magical arrow, which he liked so much for its simplicity and efficiency, and aimed it at the wall. A few agonizingly slow seconds passed. Then a dozen seconds. A second dozen. A third. A minute. But nothing was happening. No one was bothering their squad, frozen in the open, protected by the barriers. Not a single sound broke the silence of the incomprehensible place they had entered. Even the air, dry and warm enough, was absolutely still. Shinda-Bah was the first to ask the question that was on everyone's tongue:

"Any idea where we are?"

And he received an unexpectedly clear answer from First, who was intensely examining the man-made wall with eyes burning with magical fire:

"In the main vault of the Treasury of Kardarot."

"What?!"

The question was voiced aloud by almost half of the fugitives, including Diantrel, who turned to the dark elf in surprise. He silently pointed with the tip of his blade at the dilapidated gate. Or rather, to a section of the wall just above the gate. Looking closely, Cyril saw quite large and reliefs of incomprehensible letters, angular and sparse. Some of them were unreadable because of the potholes in the wall, but in general, they were quite distinguishable. Only with the help of the night vision mode granted by the amulets. Without it, he wouldn't have been able to see anything at all, since the place they'd come to was lit only by a few small crystals embedded in the ceiling. The light was dim and pale, and most of them flickered intermittently.

When the young man looked more closely at the incomprehensible letters, he suddenly realized the meaning of what was written: "The Main Vault of the Cardarot Treasury." A moment later, Cyril realized that it was Diantrel, not he, who had realized the meaning of what was written. The understanding was transmitted to him through the connection between the Companion and the Chosen One. However, right now he didn't care about that moment at all. He was more concerned with something else. And, as it turned out, he wasn't the only one. Guur'Aar, clutching his spear, whispered softly, his eyes burning yellow fire at the inscription:

"Did not the legends of the elders lie about the hidden treasures of the people of the foothills, which Radhaart the Fierce could not find, even taking their underground hail on the shield...."

Stopping mid-sentence, the old shaman turned to First and asked with noticeable apprehension in his voice:

"The travelling gate has brought us back to the fallen city of the foothills?!"

These words immediately made all the other fugitives even more wary and cast an anxious glance at the dark elf. In response, First shook his head and quietly said:

"No... Everything is much more complicated, and, if my intuition doesn't fail me, worse..."

"It doesn't fail," Diantrel, who had been silent until then, supported him, "I noticed it too. And I've already checked. Everything is so."

"What are you talking about?" The older shaman, who still spoke Old Confederate, frowned even more.

"We are in a spatial lacuna," the dark elf replied in a noticeably darker voice. "In a closed spatial lacuna. Listen to the currents of magic or try to call to the spirit world, and you will understand everything yourself."

The elderly shaman and Shalah-Ana tensed even more from these words and really covered their eyes, as if trying to hear something. Cyril, who did not fully understand what First was saying, also tried to listen to the surrounding magical environment. It seemed to be nothing, no natural sources of magic or artificial weaves.... Holy shit! After a moment, the young man realized what the dark elf was talking about. There was nothing magical around them! Nothing at all! No traces of natural magic, not even the slightest echoes, not even the slightest echo! The stone array of the side wall behind their backs, floor, and ceiling seemed absolutely monolithic, endless, and completely devoid of any magic.

Cyrill had never encountered anything like this before. From the very moment he started to master the difficult job of a wizard, he got used to the fact that magic in one form or another was everywhere. Even the smallest bits of it, even echoes or reverberations - but they were there! There was nothing here. Just a mass of monolithic stone. Judging by how quietly the elderly shaman cursed and how sharply the ship's sorceress exhaled, they realized it too. Meanwhile, First continued in a thoughtful voice:

"Moreover, in a very securely closed spatial gap, since even the fourth son of the Great Khan, the Chief of Chiefs, having managed to ruin Kardarot, could not get here..."

“Judging by what I see here, venerable First,” Shinda-Bak said diplomatically, without taking his eyes off the dark space beyond the destroyed gates and lowering his wand, “someone managed to get here after all."

With these words, the Caliphate captain pointed to the visible traces of the battle on the wall.

“It looks like that,” the dark elf agreed, “but considering that the hidden treasures of Kardarot have become a legend known throughout the Great Steppe and a significant part of the Underworld, I can assume that those who got here never got out."

The words made everyone else feel uneasy. It made them feel even more uncomfortable, for they were not in a happy mood as it was. And somehow involuntarily and unconsciously, all the fugitives tried to huddle closer to each other, and began to look even more closely at the outer wall of the main treasury of the fallen dwarf city. Standing close to her husband, Shalakh-Ana asked in a slightly trembling voice:

"But how did we get here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" The dark elf's voice had a philosophical note and a bit of fatigue in it. "We were let in here. And very cleverly, the edge of the transition was not felt at all, as well as the portal itself. Very cleanly done, I can tell you that. And they chose the transition point so well..."

"But why?" The ship's sorceress asked nervously.

"That's a good question," the dark elf said thoughtfully, continuing to watch the outer wall of the treasury, "but I don't think we'll like the answer, since no one has ever gotten out of here in all these years. Even though many have ended up here..."

These words made everyone feel even more uneasy, and the tension in the air was almost palpable.

"What are you talking about?" Guur'Aar asked, casting a glance at the dark elf.

In response, First let out a quiet, tired sigh and explained:

The area around Kardarot was considered a dangerous place not only because of the Garcains. They were nasty and dangerous, but they were blind. Their lack of sight made life easier if you could disguise yourself well and walk quietly. But many of those who thought they possessed these skills, or even really possessed them and ventured near the dead city, including in search of the lost treasures of the dwarves, disappeared without a trace. None of the missing people could be found, and some were searched very diligently, as much as possible, because of the swarms of harcaenians. But all to no avail, the traces of the missing that could be found seemed to have been cut off. No beacons, blood samples, or body impressions, nothing helped in the search.

The dark elf's words didn't make Cyril feel any better, as he stared at the dark recess of the gate and held it in the crosshairs of his wand. Shit, fuck, it was just fucked up, he went to the city and had a fucking good time! Meanwhile, First continued:

"Those who ventured into the city disappeared on a regular basis. Not all of them, not always, but regularly. Because of that, my kin, as well as other intelligent inhabitants of the Underworld, several times painfully burned, began to avoid this place. And now we know where all those poor souls have gone....."

“That doesn’t sound very encouraging,” Shinda-Bah said in a gloomy voice.

The other fugitives, judging by their faces, agreed. In response, the dark elf quietly chuckled and shook his head, not ceasing, however, to watch the entrance to the vault.

"But don't despair ahead of time," First said with a completely unexpected positivity, "it may well be that we will be the first to get out of here. After all, we have something that no one who got here before us had."

At these words, Cyrill, who had darkened no less than the others, involuntarily cast a surprised glance at First. What? Wait, was he really going to tell them...

"May I ask what this is?" Shinda-Bah asked in an extremely polite voice.

"Of course you may. And I, well, will even answer you," said First in the same unexpectedly positive voice. "This is it."

A? What? For a few seconds, Kirill, who had been tense, looked at the small leather-bound book, which had appeared in the dark elf's hands instead of a weapon, with confusion.

" A Communication Diary? You think you can contact the Forest?" There was a noticeable hope in the voice of the Caliphate ship captain who had recognized the artifact.

"I hope so," said First, opening his journal and writing in it with an enchanted stylus. "Of course, some of the missing also had communication and alarm amulets, but I have hope my communication device will do the job. After all, it was made by, I'm not afraid to say, the best artifact masters in the Forest. And while I'm trying to reach our failed saviors, I'll ask everyone else to keep an eye on the gate. Of course, most likely, whoever or whatever brought us here is not going to attack us right now, but we shouldn't let our guard down."

"Why are you thinking like that, First?" The old shaman asked.

"Because otherwise we would have been attacked immediately, the moment we got here and weren't ready to fight. It's the basics of underground hunting. The best place to attack is between halls. And on top of that, I don't sense or see any traces of active magic....."

"There are a lot of residual traces of protective and combat weaves,“ Diantrel joined the conversation, her violet eyes burning with magical fire, staring intently into the darkness beyond the gate and sliding along the walls, ”or rather not traces, but echoes of them. There had been a fierce battle here, but a long time ago. There were no active weaves. At least not on the outside. I can't say what's deep inside the vault, this stone absorbs and dissipates any attempts to probe with magic...."

"Can't we leave the same way we came?" the young waiter timidly intervened, pointing to the portal behind their backs.

Almost everyone, including Cyril, turned sharply toward him, which made the boy instantly stifled. But the young man's mentor glanced at the semicircular archway in complete earnest. She looked at it for a few seconds, and then shook her head with visible regret:

"We can't do it fast enough. The arch is extinguished and sealed, and quite securely. There's no way to awaken it without the key. Portal magic isn't my strong point, and it would take me a long time to find a lockpick, break through the defences, and unlock the arch. And let me tell you, I'm not sure I can do it at all...."

"And I doubt very much," First supported Diantrel, still writing in his diary with his stylus, "that whoever brought us here won't react in some way. Since he or she has the power to open and close this portal, the least he or she can do is just burn the portal circuit remotely. At worst, he or it could destabilise it at the moment of transition. So let's leave that idea for the very last resort....."

* * *

Tapping her manicured fingers on the table, Sivila glared at the open diary in front of her with tense emerald eyes. Beside it stood a half-empty mug with a fine collection of healing herbs that gave her strength, chasing away sleep and fatigue. At her side at the table sat several other Forest Supreme Leaders, just like her, who had been awake for almost two days. They, too, had half-empty or just empty mugs in front of them. They all had a lot of work to do. Difficult and different jobs. Problems, as it often happens, came all at once and suddenly. First, the tragedy in White Harbor, the consequences of which are still to be dealt with, then a serious breakthrough of demons in Dantmark. Such an event a priori requires close attention, because with the inhabitants of Inferno, only complete fools or madmen will joke. And all this was happening against the background of continuous attempts to find their precious, even very precious, in all senses, “Guest”.

At some point, it even succeeded. It was clear where the Guest was and what condition it was in, thanks to the news from Luaval. But the Queen was not happy about the news sent by her agent. Because it was impossible to reach the Guest and his companions quickly. A direct portal to the Underworld, without a reliable beacon at the exit point, could not be opened at such a distance. Moreover, the place turned out to be quite unfortunate and inconvenient, a dwarf town ruined during the Great Horde's campaign, which had now become a home for disgusting bloodsuckers.

Of course, that in itself was no barrier to the Forest. The Underground Guard Corps, painfully thinned after the failed attempt to capture Master, was immediately mobilized. A portal to the surface on the other side of the Coastal Ridge to the nearest entrance to the Underworld was urgently wired. All this only to find it securely destroyed by someone just a short time ago. Receiving this report made Sivila want to howl out loud. And not just because she had warned, she had warned! It was also because analysis of the available maps of the Underworld in those places (praise be to the First Tree that they were recent enough) showed that all the other nearest entrances to the Underworld went directly through Kardarot.

It was too risky to fight their way to the Guest through a ruin swarming with hundreds of predatory and dangerous creatures, where there were other threats in addition to them. Especially since the Underground Corps had just suffered painful losses. So they had to draw another portal, to another entrance to the Underworld. It was free, but led to a completely different group of underground halls. It was impossible to get to the desired place directly through them; it was necessary to go around, and it was a considerable detour. Too much of a detour, considering the circumstances. But they had no other choice. The Forest Warriors hurried as fast as they could, moving through the Underworld as fast as they could. And still they were too late.

The damn fanatics had gotten to the fugitives first. Luaval had only sent a short code message that said, // "The enemy has found us. We're going for a breakthrough." After that, no new entries appeared in the queen's diary, which left her and the others involved in the Guest's supervision in a very tense state, already calculating the worst-case scenario.

So when new lines began to appear one after another on the blank page of the diary, the queen grabbed it in a lightning-fast movement worthy of other firstborn masters of the blade and pulled it toward her, nearly knocking over the mug. Leaning forward, she began to frantically read the lines of familiar handwriting. The Elder Enchantress and the Head of the Secret Guard were immediately at her side, peering over her shoulder. Sivila, Mirael, and Third read the message for a few seconds. Then the elven women let out an almost simultaneous sigh of relief. Third remained unperturbed.

There was a brief discussion, and then Sivila picked up her stylus and began to write a reply. The Elder Enchantress clenched her personal communication amulet in her fist and closed her eyes, tuning in to the right recipient. She answered almost immediately. The Supreme Emissary had been awake for the last two days, dealing with the deaths of the lesser races in White Harbor.

\\"I'm listening"

\\"We need to contact Undermountin. Urgently."

The head of elven diplomacy did not show even a shadow of surprise at such a sudden and direct request; centuries of experience were telling. In response, he only asked politely:

\\\"With someone in particular?"

\\"Preferably with the Supreme Council of Clans. Ideally with Bravlin"

"It's deep night in Undermountain now, to wake the Undermountain Lord, one needs a serious reason. May I know it?"

‘The missing have managed to contact us. ‘The Guest and his companions were in Kardarot's main vault. Our suspicions were confirmed; it was hidden in a spatial lacuna. They can't get out on their own, and it won't be easy to get them out. So we need the help of the dwarves.’

Roger that.

When she had finished speaking to the Supreme Emissary, Mirael turned her call to another recipient. She was one of the few people in the Forest who could call at any time.

\\"I'm listening"

In the Elder Enchantress's head, Alinarelle's voice was distinctly sleepy.

///‘Please forgive me for calling at such an unfortunate time, mentor, but we may need your help...’

//‘Does it have to do with a boy from another world?’

//Yes

//"Okay. I'll be there in half an hour..."

* * *

Humans and nonhumans seated in a semicircle, so that they could see the entrance to the vault, on cushions they'd brought from the restaurant, were illuminated by the light of a small magic crystal placed directly on the floor in the center between them. The expressions on most of their faces were not joyous, but not doom-and-gloom frightened either. Rather, everyone was tired and exhausted. At first, all the fugitives were pressed by the ominous atmosphere of the place they had arrived at. Or rather, where they had been so cleverly lured into. Despite the words of the dark elf, they were still waiting for the attack of the one who had organized all this. But as time passed, nothing happened. Not the slightest movement in the dark recesses of the half-destroyed gate or in the gaps in the wall. Not the slightest echo of magic. Nothing. Complete silence and stillness.

Of course, none of those fugitives who had serious life experience fell for it. Therefore, while the dark elf was communicating with their possible saviors through his diary, they did not sit idly. The white-haired elf and her apprentice immediately started to draw a ritual circle on the floor slabs with four hands, fitting it into the protection created by him from magical barriers. It was a blessing that the surface of the slabs was smooth enough. The old shaman laid his animal skin under him, sat down comfortably on it, and began to call quietly, calling out to the spirits he had left. It soon became clear that none of the inhabitants of the immaterial world, with whom he had agreements or contacts, could be reached. His call was trapped in this dungeon, unable to leave the walls that formed it. It was as if there was nothing beyond them. As he grimly informed everyone around him.

But that didn't make the old orc completely useless. Though he was unable to reach the spirits that had not been summoned before, he still had a part of his retinue with him, the retinue that dwelt in the numerous hangings, amulets, and other paraphernalia of his difficult craft. Previously numerous, but now noticeably thinned. But still, he had something in his arsenal. Sacrificing another bead of a dozen magic-infused white pearls, which he took out of a small pouch, the old orc awakened a dozen small spirits. Each of the pearl beads crumbled into ashes as payment for the services of the inhabitants of the immaterial world.

It would be more accurate to say that it was a single small spirit whose essence was divided into ten autonomous parts. But that was the case when small didn't mean useless. Yes, none of them were useful in direct combat. But they didn't need to be. Each spirit looked like an eyeball the size of a good-sized apple floating in the air. And each looked different. One resembled a familiar human eyeball. Another looked like the faceted eye of an insect. The third had a narrow vertical pupil, like a snake's. The fourth resembled a goat's eye, and so on.

As it is easy to guess, these spirits were primarily specialized in watching and observing. And they were good at it! They didn't blink. Didn't fall asleep. No distractions. And most importantly, each could see the world around them very well, including the intangible world, albeit only in their own particular spectrum. While the old shaman was distributing the sectors of vision and explaining to the summoned spirit what it needed to look for, Cyril and Diantrel finished drawing the ritual circle intended for pair work.

Then, having once again aroused the surprise of his companions and having spent the system currency that had noticeably decreased, the young man took out of his bag a small pouch of enchanted fine leather. After undoing the ties on its neck, he carefully poured the white crystalline powder that filled it into the outline of a circle. In his magical vision, the powder literally glowed from the magic that filled it, and in his normal vision, its crystals sparkled and shimmered. Not stopping there, he and his mentor distributed some of their remaining storage crystals to the key support nodes of the ritual circle. Only then did they activate the ritual circle, finally tying in the protective barriers and masking illusion that surrounded their location.

Under this increased security, everyone felt much more secure at once. But Diantrel was not satisfied with that. Leaving Cyril to prepare a whole list of attack and defense weaves, the elfess called Shalah-Ana, who was watching their actions with keen interest. The young man was ready to bet that the ship's sorceress had definitely learned something new for herself while watching him and his mentor drawing a ritual circle.

After a quick talk with Shinda-Baha's wife, Diantrel returned to Cyril, and the three of them began to make changes in the ritual circle, drawing an additional separate place for Shalakh-Ana. While they were doing this, the rest of the fugitives watched the entrance to the vault, still keeping their weapons ready. But as the defences became more and more secure and no attack came, humans and non-humans alike became increasingly calm. When the final touches of the ritual circle were complete, and Diantrel had personally checked all the weaves prepared by her apprentice and Shalah-Ana, waiting only to be filled with magical energy, the elf gave them permission to take a break.

They were visibly relieved by this command and hurried to take their places beside the other fugitives. It was impossible, after all, to be in a constant state of tension. And somehow it happened by itself that everyone was again divided into small groups. The Steppe, the Caliphates, with the restaurant workers who joined them, and Cyril with Diantrel and Armina. All the defences surrounding them were switched to the analogue of passive mode to reduce the consumption of crystal powder, which slowly burned to feed the created weaves. But at the same time, it was set so that in case of a threat, it would be instantly switched to full power.

The old orc, who had allocated his watch spirits, cautiously suggested sending a couple of scouts inside the vault. That idea was immediately rejected by First, who had been standing apart from the others, writing in his journal. Without taking his eyes off the letter, he said it was not worth the risk. Maybe we'll provoke what's inside the vault. And there was no doubt that there was something there. All those who had gotten here before them had disappeared somewhere.

And the previous visitors, as it turned out, had been here quite recently, about a week ago. The old shaman's spirit-eyes discovered this, having seen the barely visible footprints. And they were visible only in one of the variants of magical (or, better to say, spiritual) vision. Upon hearing this news, First immediately broke away from his diary and asked if Guur'Aar could show or illuminate them for him. To which he received an affirmative answer. Cyril, who was watching from the sidelines, realized that the shaman had allowed the dark elf to look at the world through one of his ten eyes. He looked around properly, and then gave a not very encouraging verdict:

"My kind. Seven of them. Most likely, a small detachment of hunter-scouts. They got here, like us, through a portal. They stayed around in front of the entrance for a while, then poked their heads inside. They didn't come back out."

Letting out a quiet sigh, First continued:

"Okay, here's the thing. I've sent word for help, the Forest already knows where we are, so now we just sit here and wait for instructions from our rescuers. If we're lucky, we should be able to get out of here soon. For now, we can get some rest, but don't get too relaxed."

These words noticeably encouraged everyone.

* * *

The boy-waiter carefully poured water from the elven flask into the wooden mug he had been given, which, as it turned out, had come from a hiding place in the elves' shelter, where their squad had failed to stay. After he had filled it almost to the brim, he handed the flask to the captain's nephew, who was sitting next to him on the same cushion, and he began to fill his own mug. The total volume of both mugs was comparable to that of the flask. And they were not the first to pour from it. Which was saying something. Such items enchanted to increase volume were not cheap. And those enchanted to lighten their burden were even more expensive. However, none of their unwilling companions were surprised at the elite equipment of the firstborn. They were happy to have the opportunity to drink and quench their thirst.

After taking a few sips of the water, which turned out to be surprisingly pleasant, albeit with a slightly strange aftertaste, the young waiter, wearing a uniform that had become noticeably dirty over time, said in a quiet voice:

"This is who pulled my tongue..."

In response to the questioning look of Shinda-Bah's nephew, who was sitting next to him and was about the same age as him, the boy explained:

"My paternal grandfather was a sea adventurer. He was hired to escort one of the merchant ships that sailed under the flag of the Forest from White Harbour to the Rising Shores and back. On their first voyage, their flotilla encountered raiders from the Ice Islands. My grandfather and his comrades-in-arms showed their best side in the battle, and none of the raiders who stepped on the deck of their ship left it. For their valour, they were offered a permanent contract. And after the second campaign, where they also showed themselves at their best, my grandfather and his surviving comrades were granted the right of residence in the Forest. And hereditary. As a small boy, I dreamed, listening to his stories, that someday I would be an adventurer like him. I looked at the Elven Bay and dreamed how I would sail the vast seas, see distant lands, fight pirates...."

"What stopped you, Tit? Didn't you have the determination?" asked Karahim, who filled his mug and handed the flask to Fehtan, sitting on the other side of him."

"Not at all," the waiter shook his head, "my grandfather strictly forbade me as soon as he heard about my idea, and my father supported him with his belt. It was not for that, he said, that I had risked my life, not for that I had miraculously escaped from the jaws of the sea's fearsome creatures of the Deep to bury my grandson at the bottom of the sea. Study, he said, Titus, and sit in White Harbour, and know no sorrow under the shadow of the Forest. But I still dreamed of being an adventurer someday, a fool, to have adventures like my grandfather. It seems that Fate-Goddess herself heard my thoughts...."

"You'd better not wail at her, boy, or she might actually hear and take offence," Fechtan told Tit.

The big bald man had also just finished filling his mug from the elven flask he had been given with a larger capacity and passed it on to Shinda-Bah.

"Better yet, thank her you're still alive," he continued, taking a couple of greedy sips.

Tit, whose full name was actually Titsytij, nodded immediately. Fechtan, taking a sip of water, smiled unexpectedly warmly at him and said:

"But you have my word: when we get out of this mess, if you ever think of fulfilling your dream, I'll be glad to see you on the Smile of Fortune. For a coastal boy who's never ventured further than his home bay, you're doing well...."

"If we get out," Shinda-Bah said quietly but distinctly, pouring water for himself.

"You too! Come on, we've been in more trouble than this! Especially since you know what... or rather who."

The assistant captain said the last phrase quietly, nodding faintly to the side. There were a couple of elves and a half-elf with his maid standing apart from the others, talking quietly. It was impossible to understand what they were talking about, even if you tried to listen. Taking a sip of water, Shinda-Bah replied just as quietly, at the same time discreetly applying his own small amulet, sewn right into his clothes. A very useful and inconspicuous amulet, preventing outsiders from eavesdropping on conversations.

"I have little doubt that the elves will save him. I'm not so sure about us, my friend..."

"Come on," Fekhtan said in an unexpectedly harsh but quiet voice, "if they wanted to get rid of us, they would have left us in the steppe. If they wanted to get rid of us, they would have abandoned us in the steppe."

"That's what they wanted. The Dark One definitely wanted it."

Startled, Tit cast a glance at the elves standing off to the side and then at the captain and whispered:

"Do you really think that they can us... after everything."

"I do not doubt at all the possibility of such a possibility on the part of the elves,“ Shinda-Bah said in the same quiet voice, ”for their own eternal lives are always more precious to them than those of mortals. The only thing that reassures me is that honorable Cirial didn't let his guardians get rid of us, going against them...."

Throwing another glance at the half-elf, Fekhtan said:

"For which I owe him my endless gratitude..."

"And mine too," Shinda-Bah nodded, "but will those who come to save him listen to him..."

There was an eerie silence. The Caliphates and Titus, who was sitting beside them, were silent, having fallen into unhappy thoughts after the captain's words. The steppe men sitting opposite them were busy with their own conversations. A half-blood siren was sitting with them, talking to the steppe women and their children, who listened to her with their mouths open, especially the girl. Karahim broke the silence with a firm shake of his head:

"I don't believe it. After he saved my life and didn't even ask for payment for it - I don't believe it. He wouldn't do that. And he wouldn't let them."

The captain of the Caliphate ship let out a quiet sigh and answered in a calm, but sad voice:

"I want to believe it, too, Karahim. But it may happen that the will of the venerable Ciriall will not be decisive, whoever he is..."

Fekhtan, who had been listening to the words of his friend and captain with an increasingly gloomy face, suddenly said:

"I'll bet a hundred Dirahs in silver he's the bastard of one of Sivila's sons."

Karahim and Tit' jaws dropped at these words. Shinda-Bah, however, took a sip of water and answered in all seriousness:

"Doesn't look like him, if to believe the portraits and engravings I've seen."

And then, without giving his assistant a chance to object, he continued:

"I'll bet one hundred and fifty dirachs in silver that Iardal's..."

"Oh well... although the color of the hair and eyes..."

The quiet discussions of the fugitives seated on the pillows were interrupted by the satisfied cry of First, who was still holding his diary in his hands:

"Well, finally, they deigned to do so!"

Everyone instantly fell silent and turned their gaze to the dark elf. He, casting a glance at his involuntary companions, said loudly:

"Get ready, help may be on the way!"

With those reassuring words, the First approached the portal arch. He stared at it for a few seconds, not at the arch itself, but at the wall from which it protruded. Then he let out a quiet “there you are,” and touched the area of the wall just to the right of the arch with his glowing palm, at a level a little higher than a grown man's stomach. For a moment, nothing happened, and then a portion of the wall rippled like the surface of water. A moment more, and instead of the stone mass, a rather wide square plate of dark metal embedded in it appeared. A moment more, and on the surface of its lower part, the clear but scanty runic letters of the dwarven alphabet, arranged in even rows, lit up with a bright white light. Numbers and various geometric symbols glowed separately. The top of the plate remained pristine black.

All the fugitives immediately came to life, stood up, and headed towards the arch, but First, without turning around, shouted at them:

"Watch the exit! Something might pop up right now!"

Everyone immediately stopped and immediately reversed direction, weapons at the ready. Diantrel, Cyril, and Shalakh-Ana took positions in the ritual circle, putting it into active mode. First, looking at the open diary, said in a clear voice:

"Dwalin, Dwalin, one, four, Rorik, Zeta, seven, six, Balin, Thorin, nine, three, Rorik, Gorin, one, five..."

He accompanied his words by touching the corresponding letters or numbers glowing on the metal plate. As soon as he touched them, they immediately glowed on the top half of the metal plate, forming an even line.

"..Uhtred, Modi, two, seven, Hoter and... Gorin!"

As soon as the dark elf entered the last letter, the combination he had typed on the top of the plate lit up for a few moments with a bright white light. A few moments later, the symbols on the portal arch began to glow white one after another, moving upward simultaneously from both of its lower ends. But as soon as they reached the middle of the arch, the combination First had typed blinked several times, then changed color to bright red. A moment later, the already lit symbols on the portal arch also changed color to bright red and then went out. On the dark plate, instead of the combination typed by the dark elf, several lines of scanty runic letters of the dwarven alphabet appeared. Having read them, First let out a distinct tired and doomed sigh and took up the stylus again, starting to write something quickly in the diary....

* * *

Almost immediately after receiving the news from Luaval, Sivila, together with Mirael and the Third, moved to another office, which was intended for particularly important negotiations. There, they were joined by the Supreme Emissary along with two trusted deputy assistants, who organised a direct channel of communication with the Undermountain by means of a dozen artefactual mirrors, which reflected the leaders of the most powerful dwarven clans, as well as the King-under-Mountains himself. Although Bravlin, as well as the other dwarves, had been awakened at a very early hour and without warning, they all looked more than respectable and dignified.

Not a drop of sleepiness or fatigue on their faces, which were coarse by elven standards. Thick and luxuriant beards of various colours, from bright red to coal black, were carefully combed and braided into various combinations of braids, depending on the particular clan and the main job to which a particular dwarf had devoted himself before he became the leader of his kin. The same went for the hair of those who had it. About a third of the dwarven leaders could boast only a luxurious beard while being completely bald.

However, the mirrors reflected only their faces, so Sivila did not rule out that some of the lords of the Undermountain were sitting in their nightgowns right now. It was simply impossible to dress quickly according to the strict etiquette requirements for negotiations of this level. That was the reason why Alinarel, who was the last to arrive for the urgent negotiations, did not bother and showed up in a simple house dressing gown. It was made to order by the best tailors in the Forest from one of the best varieties of spider silk bought from her dark kin. The cost of this ‘simple’ dressing gown was higher than other dresses in Sivila's wardrobe.

One of the two Archmagisters of the Forest had arrived, of course, in her customary hovering chair, sipping a concoction of her own making from a carved wooden goblet while two enchanted combs gently brushed her sandy hair strand by strand. But that didn't stop her from immediately taking in the situation and getting to work. It seemed to be a very difficult job.

To Sivila's pleasant surprise, the dwarves, as soon as they received the news that someone from the Forest had managed to get into the Main Vault of the Kardarot Treasury, showed an amazing willingness to co-operate and provide almost any kind of assistance. They emphasised three times that the contents of the vault were the exclusive property of Undermountain as the only legal and direct successor to Kardarot. The Supreme Emissary corrected the dwarf lords with standard elven politeness that only what was in the vault BEFORE the Great Horde ravaged Kardarot was their property. Anything or anyone who got there AFTER is not their property.

In a different situation, Sivila would have been the first to point out this nuance to the dwarves herself, but in the current situation, listening to all this, she really wanted to kill someone. At the very least, to hit someone very hard. Of course, she did not show her emotions in any way, instead assuring the honourable Bravlin and the rest of the equally honourable leaders of the dwarven clans in impeccable Dwarven that the Forest in no way claimed the contents of the safes and chests of the main vault. All they want is to save their kin who have unwittingly fallen into it.

It may well be that Erandril would strongly disagree with her. Not even maybe, but definitely not. Sivila did not doubt for a second that the Supreme Treasurer of the Forest would be very happy to get the contents of the vault. And first of all, not gold and precious stones, but promissory notes and contracts, certified on the altars of gods by magic seals and blood of those who signed them. But in this situation, it was more important for her and, as she believed, for the Forest as a whole, to get the Guest and his companions back. And judging by the fact that Mirael and Third immediately echoed her words, they were of the same opinion.

This was more than satisfactory to the lords of the Undermountain and their King. However, because of this, Sivila again wanted to kill or at least beat someone; the subterranean beards, with their standard dwarf stubbornness, demanded confirmation of her words in writing, with signatures and seals. Praise be to the First Tree that the Supreme Emissary was ready for such a thing (centuries of experience, after all!), and the standard contract, which required the most minimal changes, was already ready. It took some more time to exchange copies of the documents through the special portal chests operated by the Emissary Corps, to check them, to sign and seal them, and then to exchange them back.

By the time it was finally possible to get to work, Sivila was VERY eager, if not to kill and beat someone, then at least to fuck them hard in bed in the best traditions of the dark sisters. Alinarel, with a visibly bored face, had finished her potion, brushed her hair, and started cosmetic procedures, rubbing herself with creams and ointments of her own making, the ingredients for which cost the Forest a lot of money. Beforehand, however, she surrounded her means of transport with an opaque barrier, through which nothing could be seen even in magical vision. At least in the spectra available to Sivila, which was saying something. The barrier, however, allowed sounds to pass through, so Alinarel could easily take part in the conversation.

And at first, there was a hope that the problem could be solved with little blood. Yes, the Main Vault of the Kardarot Treasury was indeed hidden in a very reliable spatial lacuna, which the dwarves had spent, in Sivila's personal opinion, monstrously excessive power to create. It was not a good thing for them because after the devastation of Kardarot, they could not get into it, no matter how hard they tried. All attempts to activate portals from the outside had failed, as well as attempts to contact any surviving defenders. The latter was not such a fantastic option, since, according to the dwarves, the vault had a very solid stockpile of supplies and several defences. In theory, the defenders could hold out for quite a long time, even against a superior enemy who managed to break into the vault.

But to the great annoyance of the inhabitants of the Undermountain, all their attempts were in vain. In the end, most of them came to the conclusion that during the storming of Kardarot, some of the Great Horde warriors who had managed to break into the vault (the bearded men's faces were so grim and sour at the mention of this that Sivila's heart even warmed a little) had damaged the complex of artefacts that kept the spatial lacuna stable. As a result, the inner space of the vault was torn into separate segments and scattered across the Underworld. In all likelihood, they could have been manifested right in the middle of the rocky ground, sealing them in it forever.

It was not surprising, therefore, that the dwarves were so enthusiastic and accommodating when they received the news that someone had managed to get into the vault and that there was a connection with them. After getting into the details of how it happened and clarifying the details, the dwarves hastily pulled up their own archives, which turned out to be in perfect order. For, as the undermountin beards are fond of repeating: ‘Stone remembers everything!’

It was incredibly fast, even by the standards of elves, they found the code-password for the most emergency situation, and the impossibility to use the control-amulet key. It was to remove all restrictions and blockages from the portal arch and put it into free use. After that, all that would have to be done was to simply awaken it and adjust the entrance circuit so that the arch could become a support for the portal from outside and accept it. Diantrel and Luaval would have no trouble with that. Even the Guest could handle it.

The portalist teams in the Undermountain and the Forest were already fully prepared, waiting only for the response coordinates. But alas, everything did not go according to plan...

//"It doesn't work! I found the emergency control plate and entered the code. The arch started to wake up, but then everything stopped, and a message appeared:

//"DENIED! Command has no power!"

//"One moment... The dwarves are asking. Are you sure you entered the password code correctly?"

"Yes, Sivila, I entered the exact password code you sent me!"

"Couldn't you have made a mistake somewhere?"

//"I KNOW the dwarven undermountin, Sivilal! Both written and spoken. And I know the letters of their alphabet very well, they have been unchanged for almost a thousand years. I can answer you in it so that they understand."

//Yes, if it’s not too much trouble, could you quote exactly what message appeared on it?”

"One moment... It's done! Here you go, everything exactly to the letter."

...

Well, what do they say?

//"That your spelling of the dwarven alphabet is mediocre at best."

//S I V I L A

//"That's their direct quote. And they also say that it's very disturbing. And that it shouldn't happen."

//"Well, well. May I ask the honorable Lords of the Undermountain to be more specific in their words?"

"Now, wait... They ask you to enter another password-code: Thorin, Uted, one, zero, Balin, Dwalin, three, seven, Gorin, Rorik, four, five"

"One moment... Everything is the same; the same message appeared:

"DENIED! Command has no power!"

//"This is bad... The dwarves are asking..."

/"De..."

//"What happened? What's the matter? What happened?!"

* * *

Cyril, standing in his place in the ritual circle, watched the entrance to the vault, ready to use his pre-formed attack weaves at any moment. The rest of the fugitives, with the exception of the noncombatants, also kept their weapons at the ready and kept their eyes either on the main entrance or on the gaps in the wall. At least for the first few minutes, for sure. But gradually they began to glance back more and more often, to where First was corresponding with the Forest in an attempt to awaken the portal arch. And judging by the dark elf's heavy sighs and the way he was rapidly scribbling one message after another in his diary with his stylus in between typing the next code, the hope for a quick rescue was not justified.

Because of this constant looking back, Cyril missed the moment when the situation changed. To be fair, he had little chance of noticing this change personally. Neither did the rest of his unwilling companions. They were saved by long elf ears, which had become part of legends and myths. Specifically, the ears of Cyril's mentor, which were not only long but, as is peculiar to the firstborn, could hear perfectly. Diantrel, standing next to her student, suddenly shuddered and then frowned, staring intently into the darkness of the vault entrance. Her long ears twitched noticeably several times as she did so. After a moment, she assumed a fighting stance, pointing the tip of her wand at the entrance, and said, not too loudly but clearly:

"First! We have guests coming!"

Everyone instantly became even more wary, though it seemed like a long way off, and cast worried and questioning glances at the elf. For nothing had changed. Still the same silence and darkness. But here the dark elf, quietly cursing, quickly put away his diary and drew his weapon, taking a place next to Cyril and Diantrel. For a few moments, he gazed intently into the darkness of the entrance, throwing off his hooded mask, freeing his ears. After twitching them a couple of times, he nodded affirmatively:

"Two of them. They appear to be our predecessors. Running towards the exit, fast and barely concealed. From their footsteps, one appears to be wounded, the other is dragging him. Behind them. Something else. big... Strange... It's like... It doesn't matter! Get ready! Take aim for the exit! But do nothing without my command! Cirial! Defence and cloak at full power."

No one was going to argue with First. Everyone nodded silently and obeyed his command. The Steppe men drew their bows, the Caliphates stood in battle stances, the old shaman intercepted his spear-staff, Cyril switched the defences of their position to full power, and Diantrel poured a generous stream of energy into a couple of the most powerful attack weaves, using the ritual circle as a support. The crystalline powder that had been dusted with it flared brightly, beginning to burn quickly.

Having made sure that the defence was flawless, Cyril switched to attacking weaves as well. But he still couldn't see or hear anything, even using his magical vision. How did the mentor and First notice something? Or rather, heard it? He received the answer via a mental link from Diantrel:

"Years of training and practice. Prepare yourself, Ciriall, they are already very close."

Having given himself a mental kick and promised to be more careful not to "leak" unnecessary thoughts into the air, the young man bit his lip, desperately peering into the darkness of the entrance. The first one, standing next to him, quietly said, putting on his hood-mask again:

"Get ready! They're coming! Don't do anything without my command! Now... Here they are..."

With these words of First two dark figures, a male and a female, ran out of the dilapidated gate. Only the man was running, literally dragging his companion, leaning only on her left leg and tucking her right one. Thanks to his tiara and magical vision Cyril could easily see and recognise them as dark elves. Both fugitives were dressed in something that used to be something similar to the robes worn by First. Because now their clothes were torn in many places and looked more like the rags of vagrants, in addition to having escaped from a fire. They had no weapons, except for a short magic wand clutched in the dark elf's free hand. No protective amulets, in fact, either. Thanks to his magical vision, Cyrill could make out the dim flicker of a couple of them hanging on the fugitives' chests, but they were practically discharged. No other magical objects or cold weapons were visible to the young man. As they ran out onto the bridge, the dark elf, who was literally dragging his companion on his back, stopped abruptly. He looked around hastily for a moment, then jerked back inside, but immediately changed his mind. The reason was clear; now Cyrill could already recognise the rumbling sound of something approaching... something..... And he could see the glow of red light in the darkness outside the vault gates.

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

The dark elf looked at his kin for a moment, then quietly whispered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "young morons." Out loud, he said something else:

"Let's wait, if they do stick their nose back in, then that will be their problem, we won't go after them. If they run out, then first we'll see what's behind them..."

As if hearing First, his kin intercepted the tribeswoman, practically hanging on him, and ran across the bridge. Straight towards them. Or rather, in the direction of the portal, as the dark elves who ran out. could not see Cyrill and his companions. They had just managed to run across it when out of the dark recess of the vault entrance came... or rather drove out, with a loud murmur and clatter.... something. At the sight of what appeared outside, Cyrill was stunned for a moment, trying to understand: what the hell is this?

From the outside, it looked like the combined sick fantasies of a structural engineer and a prop designer from a B horror film. On a rectangular platform, thick enough and relatively wide, was mounted something that resembled in its shape and appearance a huge torso of a metal armour. True, it was about a metre and a half high and almost a metre in diameter. This torso was thickly covered with runic engravings that glowed in the darkness. However, only some of them glowed, and a small part of them, most of them, were either constantly flickering or periodically extinguished. In the same place where the left arm of a normal armour would begin, this thing had something that looked like a gun turret. Only, instead of guns, it had twin magic wands sticking out of it. You could almost say they were staff, given their length. The tips of the wands had crystal tops that glowed a wicked red light.

But this thing did have a hand in place of its right hand. Or should he say, a paw? It was a large bone paw, previously belonging to some large animal or monster. And this bony limb, attached to the place where there used to be the same gun turret, was tightly clutching an obviously magical staff, additionally tightly bound to it....

The head of this, uh... unidentifiable thing... was wide and flattened. It was as if someone had taken two metal plates and covered one with the other, leaving a narrow slit between them. And in that slit, dozens of red lights glowed, some of which, however, blinked every now and then, just like the engraving of the torso. In addition, several whitened skulls were mounted on this head, only one of which resembled a human one. The rest belonged to beasts or monsters of some kind, one was definitely Garcaian.

And they were not made for beauty or pathos. The eye sockets of all the skulls burned with the same red fire, except for one, which belonged to an animal of prey. That one's eye sockets burned with emerald fire. The garcain skull, which had no eye sockets, had a sketchy eye burning directly on its forehead. It moved with the help of two powerful and wide wheels made of the same material as the doors in the suburbs of the dwarven city, and shod with iron. The wheels were only on one side of the thing. On the other side, the paws of some large animals were somehow attached to the platform. Or rather, the bones of the paws, which the thing was shifting quite vigorously.

The wheels and the lower part of the torso were covered by powerful shields attached to the platform, shrouded in metal and with protective amulets embedded in the centre. Once they had undoubtedly covered the entire perimeter of the platform, protecting the wheels, the metal torso, and possibly anyone riding on the platform. But now the shields only remained on the side of the wheels and the front. Looking closely, Cyrill could easily distinguish that all of them bore numerous marks from past battles. Many of them were even pierced through, and a couple of them had protective amulets that were obviously in critical condition, because of which they were reinforced with crutches in the form of various bones glowing in the magic vision, nailed or tied directly to the outer sides of the shield.

For a few seconds, Cyril stared at the thing that had crawled out of the darkness of the vault in his magic vision, trying to figure out what the hell it was. There was no doubt that it was something man-made. There was no doubt that it was not something to be trifled with. Despite its strange appearance and obvious traces of numerous repairs, it had enough magic power. Cyril could clearly distinguish several segments of a powerful magical barrier that covered the thing from the front and sides, in addition to the physical shields installed on the platform. The bony limbs were covered with thick strands of magical weaves that made them move.

Powered this... construct. a rather powerful source of magical energy inside the metal torso. Cyrill couldn't estimate it accurately because of shield-barriers, but at a quick glance, he would consider it comparable to his own reserve. Sort of. It was hard to tell for sure because the barriers surrounding the construct not only protected it, as they should, but also made it difficult to assess in magical vision. But the magic weavings enclosed in the staffs, judging by their brightness, Cyrill could estimate quite confidently at the level of a very strong adept, or even a novice master of magic. However, it was impossible to determine their orientation. The ones that were native and sticking out of the analogue of the gun turret, to all appearances, belonged to the fire element. But what was in the staff, which was held by a bone hand.... Strange, it seemed to resemble something like a healing magic weave.... Distantly... Again, it was impossible to determine more precisely because of the construct's defences.

But what the fuck is this? Thanks to the mental connection, Cyril clearly felt that his mentor had the same question in her head. However, Diantrel's question had a slightly different connotation, not of incomprehension, but rather of surprise. While the young man was thinking about it, not forgetting to take the thing under the scope, the dark elf, who had run across the bridge, threw a short glance behind his back and rushed forward even faster with the despair of the doomed, still dragging his tribeswoman on his back. The strange thing followed them, spinning its wheels and shifting its bony paws. At the same time, it aimed a staff clutched in its limb-paw at the fugitives' backs. Meanwhile, First, having quickly formed a plan of action, asked quietly:

"Diantrel! Can you jump to him, hit him, and back?"

"Yes... I can, but it won't do any good, I can't break through his barriers in one hit, even if...."

"You can do it. Look closely, near the mount of the left pair of battle wands. There's a gap in the armor from the impact; a whole segment of runic script was knocked out. They patched it up, but it's pretty bad, so if you hit the patch exactly, you'll penetrate the armor and blow his core apart."

"I see. But... No, I can't do it in one hit. That area is covered by a shield barrier, I need at least two hits..."

"I know! That's why you and Cirial should hit that iron at the same time. He'll hit it exactly in the torso, right in the center, and with all his might, preferably with a concentrated beam, so he'll redirect all his defenses to his reflection. And you hit the patch, and hit it with all your might. You got it?"

"Yes," they both answered almost simultaneously.

"All right, then. Then go ahead while this one's--"

At that moment, the strange thing that had crossed the bridge after the fleeing dark elves used its battle staff, clutched in its bony paw. She struck accurately, hitting the male elf who tried to rush to the side at the last moment. But the blow was not what Cyril had expected. Instead of killing or injuring the fugitives, the greenish beam that came off the tip of the staff left no wounds on the dark elves. They both simply collapsed to the ground.

//"Paralyzing beam," - the understanding came to Cyrill from his mentor through a mental connection. - "Effective, but only against unprotected targets."

As if to confirm her words, the dark elf managed to roll over onto his back. Apparently, his only protective amulet, which was almost discharged, had weakened the immobilizing magic a little. He raised his hand, which still held his wand, and discharged it fully into the construct approaching him. True, with zero effect. The fiery arrow that glistened brightly in the darkness of the vault struck exactly in the center of the torso armor. And helplessly scattered with hundreds of bright sparks, shattering against the barrier in front of him.

"Cirial?"

"One moment..."

Rebuild the weave, from magical arrow to beam. Neutral hue, essentially pure energy. Maximum concentration. Maximum focus. Aim. Reinforcing projection circles. The thoughts-actions followed one after another, as if he were back on the training ground, practicing the use of ritual magic in battle. It was a little scary, though, because this wasn't a training ground, and the price of a mistake was...

//"Cirial, calm down, you can handle it."

The young man gave himself a mental kick and nodded to his mentor. So, everything is ready, all that is left is to pour into the weave his reserve, which will be further strengthened by the ritual circle. It's going to be a big bang!

"Ready!"

"Go!"

Cyril struck. Putting the maximum amount of strength he could keep under control. His reserve flowed into the formed weave, receiving additional strengthening due to the ritual circle, which he filled with not the cheapest powder of magically active crystals. The latter flashed brightly again, burning and intensifying the attack. Three glowing concentric small circles of projections, which worked like focusing lenses, appeared in the air in front of the young man. At the tip of his wand, a dazzlingly bright, small glowing ball appeared, only to shoot forward a fraction of an instant later in a thin and equally dazzlingly bright beam no thicker than a pencil.

A beam that struck right in the center of the construct, right into the frontal shield, flared up in front of it. A fraction of a second later, to break through it and hit the metal torso armor. A fraction of a second later, to break through it too, to come out of the construct's back and hit the only remaining gate flap, from which sparks and red-hot spatters sprayed in all directions. And then extinguish.

For a moment, the darkness of the vault was illuminated by the bright light of the beam. Then it was plunged back into darkness. But only to light up again a moment later. There was a deafening rumble that would have been painful to the ears in the confined space, had it not been for the protective barriers. With a bright flash of fire, the torso of the incomprehensible construct exploded from within. Shards and fragments of metal, parts, fragments, and who knows what else flew in all directions. The flat head with the skulls flew almost through the ceiling. Even under the protection of the barriers, which despite the distance hit some of the debris, many of the fugitives involuntarily ducked and squinted at the explosion, some quietly and some not so quietly cursed, some shrieked.

The construct, in fact, simply ceased to be. In its place, there was only a skewed platform, with one of its two wheels and almost all of its bony limbs and legs torn off. Only one of them, twisted at an unnatural angle, continued to twitch convulsively. In place of the armor and torso, there was only a pile of smoking, mangled metal, some of it red-hot.

All the fugitives admired the spectacle for a few seconds, then slowly turned to Cyril, stunned by the effect of his shot. He realized belatedly that his characteristics had increased since he had been practicing ritual magic. And the powder he'd bought at the Auction was much better than the one Diantrel had used. She had a particularly expressive look in her eyes. After all, she had already prepared to use Blink to instantly close in on her opponent for a strike. And, as it turned out, it was a good thing she didn't. Otherwise, it could have turned out sadly. For a few seconds, there was silence, broken only by the clanking of the construct's increasingly silent limbs. It was broken by the disgruntled voice of First, coming from a little to the side of the room:

"Damn, I didn't expect this thing to be such a piece of junk..."

With a twitch, Cyril and the rest of his willing or unwilling companions turned toward the dark elf, who was carefully laying a couple of his kin on the ground under the protection of the barriers. Uh... What do you mean?! When did he run after them?! He just... I mean, he was just here! When-- How the hell?!

"... that it couldn't even take a single blow. Although,“ he continued, taking a couple of dark elves to the floor, ”you hit pretty well, too. Didn't expect that."

"What the hell was that?!" Shinda-Bah asked nervously, still holding the magic wand he had been given, pointing towards the entrance to the vault and glancing at the smoking remains, then at the rescued dark elves.

"This was once," First pointed at the smoking remains, "an example of the pinnacle of dwarven golem-making. Around the time of the Great Horde. But how it turned into such a god-knows-what is a very good question. I doubt that the dwarves modified it like that."

"What's wrong with them?" Diantrel asked sharply, pointing to a pair of her dark kin that lay motionless on the floor where First had placed them.

The two underground firstborns looked frankly lousy. Cyril had never interacted with dark elves, but all their light relatives always looked extremely elegant and presentable. They could be on the cover of fashion magazines right now. These two looked like a natural pair of tramps who'd escaped from a burning house. Up close, in addition to the clothes that had turned into rags, Cyril could also clearly see numerous abrasions, scratches, cuts, and burns. The right leg of the dark elf was tightly bandaged with bloody bandages above the knee; she also had a bandage on her head, covering her left eye. Her companion looked only slightly better, also bandaged and bandaged in several places. But both dark elves were breathing, albeit frequently and intermittently. First one, letting out a tired sigh, leaned over them and took out a small vial from his belt pocket. He put on a metal cap with a needle and injected it alternately into the neck of the two kin.

"Dehydration, exhaustion, overdose of stimulant alchemy, many small and medium wounds... But they should survive."

Raising his head to Diantrel, he asked:

"Can you take care of them? I have to answer the Forest, they must have been very upset when I half-heartedly stopped. I neutralized the paralysis, but they could have been hit by the explosion. I didn't have time to shield them. When they come to their senses, I'll have to question them."

"Of course. Cirial, Armina, help me."

"Sure."

Nodding contentedly, First rose to his feet and ordered:

"The rest of you! Stay vigilant, watch the entrance! Something tells me that it wasn't this junk that battered them so much..."

* * *

There were more elves in the room reserved for important negotiations, where a very tense and difficult meeting with the sub-mountain dwellers had been going on for the past hour. There were also more mirrors and those who were reflected in them. Above the table was projected a voluminous diagram of the Main Vault of the Kardarot Treasury, which had been found surprisingly quickly in the archives of the Foothills. It was very detailed, with many notes. When viewed from above, the vault looked like a straight cross, its four sides converging to a large circular space in the center. This circular space was the vault where the dwarves' riches were located. The sides leading to it were divided by thick partition walls in two along its length, and numerous partition walls across.

Thus, each side of the cross was divided into equal square segments-sectors. And each such sector was a separate and well-protected area of defense. In fact, each such sector was a small fortification. These fortifications were one of the main problems that stood in the way of rescuing the “Guest”....

Taking a few sips of fresh and cool water, as the stimulating potions were already making her nauseous, Sivila turned to see Alinarelle, who had already managed to completely change her clothes and complete all of her cosmetic procedures:

"Are we sure there's no way we can get through to them from the outside?"

One of the two most gifted of the entire Forest, who was carefully examining the projection of the vault, covered with numerous markings in the dwarven undermountain language, shook her head:

"Not without serious risk. As the venerable Master Architect Khodrin correctly pointed out, an attempt to break through from the outside will most likely lead to spatial destabilization of the forming contour of the spatial lacuna in which the vault is located. As a result, its inner rooms will be scattered throughout the Underground, and some may even be thrown to the surface. And it will be lucky if the rooms-segments themselves remain united, and not divided into separate volumes of unstable space."

"I would add to the words of the honorable Lady of the White Tower of the Forest,“ said a stately, sturdily built dwarf with a luxuriant dark brown beard and a literally polished bald head, ”that I doubt very much that the space-stabilizing mechanisms of the vault are even in satisfactory condition. And this multiplies the probability of such an outcome if you try to penetrate it from the outside."

"What about the portal?" Third asked, his voice emotionless as always, staring at the storage diagram. "They definitely won't be able to unseal it?"

"If I could even see its weaves,“ Alinarelle shook her head, ”I would not hesitate to support the idea of breaking its seals and taking control of it, easily explaining to my student's apprentice there how to do it. But to our mutual regret, the only link we have to the vault is the handwritten diary of the venerable Sivila. Which, while having undeniable merits, also has a serious drawback. The main one is that it is severely limited in the type of information it can convey. To draw by hand a weave pattern of the desired quality, and even so complex as a portal.... it requires a great deal of very specific expertise that no one in the vault possesses."

"An option to use the 'lockpicks'?" Third asked, still indifferently.

"With those available to them - I would not count on success," again shook her head, venerable archmagister, "Especially since the conclusions that can be drawn from the unsuccessful attempt to use the codes-passwords are very disturbing ..."

"There can be only one conclusion, Honorable Lady of the White Tower of the Forest," said the gray-haired dwarf, who, despite his age, had very thick hair, beard, and sideburns. "The only way to deprive them of their power over the portal was through the main control room of the Vault. And only the Supreme Guardian could use it."

"I do not in any way question the skill of your ancestors, Honorable Master Protector Durgrim,“ Alinarelle replied with a polite smile, ”for we all know how meticulous the Sons of the Mountains are in guarding their treasures. But given the situation with the Vault, I doubt that it was the Supreme Guardian who made the changes..." she said.

"Who and why removed the password codes from the portal's controlling weaves is not important right now,“ the Elder Enchantress interrupted her mentor delicately, ”What's important is something else. We know for a fact that someone is controlling the portal. And that means that someone could destroy it if they saw the attempted break-in."

"I doubt that very much,“ Third shook his head in surprise. ”There's only one portal. And judging from what we've heard from the vault, he needs it to abduct living things from the outside. Which means he won't sacrifice it. Which, however, can't stop him from destabilizing it during the activation process. By the way, why is there only one portal? I was expecting, admittedly, four entrances-exits, one at the end of each direction."

"It was the original idea, but it had too negative an effect on the stability of the forming spatial contour,“ Master Architect Khodrin shook his bald head, ”even one portal is a serious stress point for a stable closed space. And four is practically a guarantee of disaster sooner or later. More likely even sooner."

"What if we try to cut off the portal from the main control post and then calmly break into the arch?" suggested Sivila.

"You can't do it quickly," Master Architect Khodrin shook his head again, "and it's also very unlikely that it will happen unnoticed. Especially now."

"So," Sivila concluded gloomily, "there's only one option left. Get to that main control post and seize it?"

The answer was a heavy silence, which, as we know, is a sign of agreement. It had been clear to the queen an hour ago. She was not an active practitioner of magic like Mirael, let alone the honorable Alinarelle, but she knew a lot about magical security. Her status and position obliged her. And here she and the other participants of the meeting faced the problem with the same separate sectors into which the sides of the cross that formed the vault were divided.

The dwarves who inhabited Kardarot had done their best to create a masterpiece of enclosed-space architecture that even the Apostate would have appreciated, especially in his early years. The dwarves did not just hide their vault in a very securely enclosed spatial lacuna, where you could try to get in without authorization. They also divided the interior of the lacuna into separate sectors. Which you could swap between! Not to play with transitions between sectors, building hidden portal arches between them, which can also be very effective, much easier, and not so costly.

No, the dwarves had worked hard, sparing no effort and resources, to achieve that the storage sectors could change their location in one piece. And it happened almost instantly. How they managed to achieve this effect, while maintaining more than acceptable stability of the internal space of the vault - a mystery, the answer to which Sivila would not refuse to know. Nor would the rest of the Forest Supreme Leaders here, especially Alinarelle. But, understandably, the dwarves were not going to share such secrets. If they had any left at all, and had not been lost in the fall of Kardarot.

However, the mechanism by which the dwarves achieved this is not important now. What is important is something else. Such manipulations with space turned the attempt to storm the vault into a natural hell for the attackers. Let's imagine that with great difficulty, the invaders managed to break through the first line of defense and capture the two outermost sectors facing the portal zone. And just as they are about to advance further, or consolidate while waiting for reinforcements, they are suddenly transported deep into the defense of the vault, to the far ends of one of the other three sides of the cross. Where a fresh force of defenders pounces on them from three sides. And in place of the captured sectors, other sectors, also occupied by the defenders, appear before the fresh forces of the attackers, which are to be captured again.

Of course, as the dwarves themselves recognized, such a shuffle of space is very costly in terms of energy and requires very skilled craftsmen to maintain it. So there can be no doubt that it is not in the same perfect condition now as it was in the last days of Cardaroth. And often, this technique, whoever is sitting in the vault right now, will definitely not be able to use it. Most likely. Almost certainly. Except that Sivila very much doubted that sudden movement in space would be the only problem for the ‘Guest’ and his companions on their way to the central segment of the vault. Especially after Luaval, who had made everyone nervous, had contacted them again and told them what kind of problem they had, whom they had met, and how. And they would have to make their way to the center of the vault. Where the treasures of the dwarves are located. And where is the main control post, without capturing which they will not get out of this vault ...

* * *

"... this is the news," said First, in a calm and even, a little indifferent voice.

The fugitives, gathered around him, but so they could see the entrance to the vault, grew visibly gloomy as they considered what they had heard. With a heavy sigh, the old shaman, leaning on his spear-staff, said in a somber voice:

"Hard news..."

“That’s putting it mildly,” Shinda-Bah supported the old orc.

"What do you suggest we do?" Diantrel got straight to the point.

With a sudden grin, the dark elf put away his diary, through which he corresponded with the Forest, and with a decisive step, headed towards the kin lying a little aside on the cushions from the restaurant. After Cyril, Armina, and his mentor had cleaned their wounds and treated them with medical alchemy, and the latter had applied a few healing weaves, they looked better. Not perfect, but at least they didn't look like hobos who had just escaped from a burning building. Both rescued dark elves were athletically built, with well-trained bodies and short white hair cut in the same manner.

Exemplary bodybuilders and athletes, as soon as they get better, can be placed on the covers of sports magazines or in the advertisements of fitness centers. Especially the female elf. She had not-so-relief musculature, like her male kin, but still, it is obvious that physical training is not neglected. She was a model phytonian, as they would say on her native Earth. However, to Cyril's taste, her hairstyle didn't suit her at all. After all, he thought that the fair sex should have long hair. Otherwise, the dark one was quite pretty, especially after Diantrel had carefully dressed the wound above her left eye and changed all the bandages. However, the young man had never met an ugly elf woman before, and he suspected that such women did not exist in this world. At least in appearance. Though her upper forms were frankly unimpressive, especially against the background of her mentor. Even before the systemic changes in her appearance. Breasts are B at best. However, it looks very organic on her body. Apparently, Cyril was already used to Diantrel's forms.

"For starters - to properly question the hero-lover we rescued, who, to my surprise, turns out to be not so useless, as it seemed to me at first glance."

"Why did you change your mind about him and think they were sharing a bed?" Guu'Aar looked at the dark elf with interest.

"Because otherwise he would not have dragged her on his back, but thrown her down to try to save himself. And he is not so clueless because he has already come to his senses some time ago and listens to us attentively, but he is very skillful not to show it in any way."

As soon as First said these words, the rescued dark elf, lying motionless on the cushions before, opened his bright red eyes sharply, staring at the approaching kin with a wary and tense look, and he got visibly tense. However, sliding his eyes over First, he apparently realized something at once and relaxed again. Wow! Looking at the rescued dark elf, Cyril could not hide his surprise. He, with his mentor and Armina, dealt with his wounds and saw his subtle body in a magical vision. Cyril was not even close to being a mage-healer, but he could easily understand that both dark elves were badly hurt. They should have spent another six or seven hours at the very least, even with all the healing alchemy and healing weaves Diantrel had put on them. How did he even regain consciousness so quickly, and how did First notice it?!

There was no answer to these questions, and the only thing that comforted Cyril was the realization that came through the connection that his mentor was also surprised by the dark elf's quick recovery. And she, too, had missed the moment when it happened. Meanwhile, First, who stood next to him, but not close to him, said in a calm but firm and demanding voice when he tried to sit up:

"Lie down, don't try to get up, you'll open up your wounds in vain. Can you talk?"

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze sliding, in which amazement was increasingly evident, over the very motley company of fugitives who were looking at him, after which he stopped short and said clearly:

"Yes, I can."

"Okay. City? House? Step? Task?"

The dark elf lay back on the pillows, made himself comfortable, and began to answer:

"Rean na Kharan. Ilidris of House Zaatran. Hunter of the Second Initiation, Fourth Scouting Squad. Long-range reconnaissance, free search."

"How did you get here?"

This question caused a noticeable shadow to cross the dark elf's face, and his eyes flashed unkindly, but he answered clearly and immediately:

The squad leader decided to take a chance. She wanted to distinguish herself in front of the Catcher, who watched ours and two other squads. So we wandered to the outskirts of Kardarot and ran into a Garcain ambush. It was a small pack, but it had a big fucking leader. We had to retreat quickly and with a fight. Other creatures began to fly to its noise, so we ran fast. And during the retreat, when crossing between halls, we fell into a hidden portal and ended up right here. No one even realized it. And when they did, it was too late.

"Go on?"

"At first, we tried to use the portal, but it was useless; it didn't react in any way. We waited for twenty-four hours, nothing happened, and then we risked going into the damn vault, because there was nothing else to do. Stocks are low, there is nowhere to replenish them. We got in without any problems, went through several rooms where there was nothing but traces of an old battle, and then we were ambushed."

"How was it? Were the passages clear? No doors?" Ilydris was interrupted by First.

"In the first rooms, there were no doors at all, it was obvious that they had been knocked out, and with meat and a very long time ago. In fact, there were only huge holes in the walls. Further on, in a couple of places in the passageways, there were rubble piles. In one place, there was a barricade of them. But that was just in the beginning. Then it changed."

"Go on."

" Like I said, we were in a good ambush. No one suspected anything until the whole squad went into the next room. And as soon as we entered, we were hit from all sides with battle amulets and wands hidden in the walls and ceiling. All in the best traditions of the dwarves. We withstood the first blow, saved by protective amulets, and reacted immediately, trying to retreat back to the hall from which we came. But we couldn't..."

"Let me guess. You suddenly found yourself in a different room than the one you came from?"

Ilidris's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he immediately regained his composure and nodded briefly:

"That's right. But we realized it too late, all the rooms there are similar to each other, and we didn't notice it in the heat of battle. We just wanted to regroup and think about what to do next, but they wouldn't let us."

"Golems?" First nodded towards the debris.

"Right. With the same... changes as this one. And also a bunch of trash, assembled from some fragments, whole parts, and various bones."

"More details? What's this trash?"

The dark elf, lying on the pillows, carefully shrugged, trying not to reopen his wounds:

"I didn't get a good look at them, they were coming at us from three directions. I remembered a couple of them, one looked like the skeleton of an ordinary subterranean beak, only with battle wands attached to its skull and dwarven hand shields attached to its ribs. Another seemed to resemble a small dwarven turret for stationary battle wands. But with bone paws from various underground monsters and a few of their skulls instead of the usual eyepiece crystals."

"I see. What happened next?"

Then our squad was separated. We had no chance to fight off such a crowd, but Litsana and I managed to break through the attackers to the passageway. We used up all our remaining disposable combat amulets, switched our defenses and cloaking amulets to afterburner mode, and ran for our lives. We ran through two rooms, and that's when we hit the locked doors for the first time. Nice doors, secure and locked, just the way dwarves like them. We had to turn into a parallel passage, where some of the doors were also locked. So we crawled into a corner under a pile of rubble and hid there, covered with overlapping camouflage fields. Strangely enough, those things didn't even look for us right away. What happened to the others, I don't know. When we hid, there were no sounds of battle, and afterwards we didn't see any of them.

"I see. Next?"

Another dark shadow crossed Ilidris's face.

And then... We hid in dark corners for days, trying to find a way out and avoid those damn golems. And as long as we had charges in our camouflage amulets, we managed to do it. We tried to save them, as well as water and food supplies, and used alchemy, which is left for the last day, but today, a few hours ago, the disguise ran out, and these damn creations of dwarves almost immediately detected us. Or maybe it wasn't them, but something else, I can't say for sure. For several hours that thing, the dark elf pointed toward the golem's wreckage, chased us around the damn vault. A couple of times it seemed we'd broken away, but then it found us again. We were running out of strength, Litsana was wounded, she couldn't run properly, and I thought that was it, our eternity was over. I don't even know how, by some miracle, we managed to run out here, where you saved us.

"Speaking of her."

First pointed to the dark elf, who was still unconscious.

"Is this your Senior?"

"No. Her right hand. And I do not share a bed with her."

"Really? Unexpectedly." First's voice took on a surprised and cheerful tone.

Casting an attentive glance at the unconscious elf, he asked with noticeable interest:

"Just don't tell me that you dragged her along, depriving yourself of even a ghostly, but still a chance for your salvation at the cost of her life, for the sake of a promise to share your bed in the future?"

Ilidris suddenly smiled and shook his head cautiously:

"I would not have passed the Second Initiation if I had been so foolish as to believe such promises, especially in such circumstances."

"Then why?"

"She is my sister."

“That’s it,” First said slowly with some strange intonation.

And then, with the same notes of joy, he asked:

"Mother ordered that you can not return to your home without your sister?"

"No. She would not care. But her mother values ​​her granddaughter very much. And, anticipating the next question, I will say right away, Litsana was told the same thing by her."

Hearing this, First grinned widely, and Ilidris, once again glancing at the fugitives, said:

"If there are no other questions for me for now, may I know who my saviors are, and how the children of the Forest, the Great Steppe, and the Hot Sands end up in this place forgotten by all the gods at the same time?"

"You can. And I'll even answer some of your questions. We ended up here the same way you did. We got into a hidden portal, running away from a pack of garсains. And we ended up on the outskirts of Kardarot, escaping from the Dark Brotherhood's killers."

For a moment, the dark elves looked into each other's eyes. Then Ilidris nodded slowly and said:

"I'm sure it's an interesting and undoubtedly long story. May I also ask if you have any water supplies?"

"Yeah, Arminf."

Cyril's maid, who, like the rest of the fugitives, was listening to the conversation between the two dark elves with interest, immediately came to the First and handed him the flask she had taken out of her bag with a larger volume. He had already carefully handed it to Ilydris, who had taken a sitting position. The dark elf accepted the flask calmly and took only a couple of sips, but he could feel how thirsty he was. First nodded and allowed it:

"Drink as much as you like, we still have enough water. For now."

Ilidris didn't have to be asked twice. After taking a few more greedy sips, the dark elf carefully turned to his unconscious sister and lifted her head, bringing the flask to her lips. First turned to the entrance to the vault, folded his arms across his chest, and said in a thoughtful voice:

"Not an easy task..."

Diantrel approached him and was also looking at the entrance. She asked in a quiet but serious voice:

"Do we have a chance of getting to the center of the vault?"

In response, First slowly shook his head and said:

"We can handle golems and stuff, especially if we're prepared and coordinated. I suspect they're all in about the same condition as this wreck. After all, it's been centuries since the fall of Cardaroth. There's a reason whoever's in the Vault uses the bones of those who come through here as parts. He may have a few more or less intact ones, but they're not the problem. The main problem is that this bastard will throw us from one part of the vault to another, to fresh positions, and thus will not let us to the center. And we won't even realize it right away. We'll think we're making our way to the center, but we'll end up at a dead end. And we'll have new positions behind us. In the end, he'll just wear us out. And we're gonna have to get directly into the main vault. I don't think its doors will be open."

"We can send some invisible khao for reconnaissance. I have a few of those left with me," suggested an elderly orc who approached the elves. "They can not only pave the way in the darkness but also show us hidden landmarks..."

"It won't help," First shook his head, "they won't be able to get to the other three sides of the storage. And after the first shuffle, neither the markers nor the beacons will be of any use."

"It is. We've seen it firsthand," Ilidris said.

"Should we use some analogs of a guiding thread?" Shinda-Bah suggested.

"The same thing, it will break with the first move..."

"Is there any way to interfere with these shuffles? Is there any way to damage the weaves, or what makes it possible to move parts of this vault like this?" His wife joined the discussion.

"It's not a bad idea, but we have no idea what makes it happen,“ First shook his head again, answering Shalah-Ana, ”and even if we did, I personally wouldn't risk harming the mechanisms that maintain the stability of this space...."

"What if you, Father, were to summon many small лhao that are like a guiding fire in the night steppe, and leave them at every step of our way?" The orcish woman, silent until then, spoke up, turning to Guur'Aar.

He sighed heavily and shook his head:

"A sound thought, my daughter, but there are not so many with me, and the new ones will not hear my call and find their way to us...."

Cyril, who was listening to the discussion, was also thinking hard about how to solve the problem. Yeah, he went to the fucking restaurant, completed the fucking quest. Eh, give me the cheat code to open the map ... Wait a minute! The thought-insight made the young man freeze on the spot. He then gave himself a mental kick. A good mental kick with a gold-plated army boot.

Not paying attention to the association that came to mind, the young man clapped his hands and shouted:

"Stop! Wait a minute!"

Everyone fell silent and turned to look at him. In fact, everyone, including the steppe women standing aside with their children huddled around them, and Ilydris, who was sitting on the cushions, was also taking part in the conversation. Cyril looked intently into the eyes of First, who turned to him, and asked:

"Did I understand you correctly that our main problem is the inability to navigate the storage facility due to constant spatial movements?"

The dark elf, slightly squinting, nodded slowly:

"You got it right, Cirial."

The young man could not help but feel his lips stretch into a smile. A very vindictive and malicious smile. And under the uncomprehending and wary glances of those around him, he distinctly said:

"He fucked up..."

* * *

"Are you ready?" Cyrill asked quietly.

Armina, who appeared to be completely calm, nodded briefly. After a quick glance with his mentor, the young man pressed the mental button that confirmed the activation of the ability “Share the burden of the Chosen One II”. There were no external effects at all. The girl just flinched and froze, looking somewhere in front of her. Several system messages appeared one after another in front of Cyril's mental gaze.

Attention!

A new Companion has been acquired: Armina, daughter of Darat

The new companion will be granted 3 bonus talent points and 1 stat point.

Evaluation of actions in progress. Please wait...

A minute or so passed. From the outside, it looked like the young man was just sitting on the cushions a bit away from the other fugitives, resting with his mentor and maid, gathering his strength for the upcoming storming of the vault. In fact, everyone was busy with the same thing, but no one else had left the vault, and everyone was visibly calmer. Though not completely relaxed, they kept their weapons at the ready, and the ten-eyed spirit of the old shaman continued to keep watch. But just in case, Cyril surrounded them with the thinnest, almost weightless illusion. Thanks to it, it really seemed that they were just having a quiet conversation. It was not likely that anyone would pay attention to the oddities in their behavior, which was already enough.

After a minute, Armina shuddered again, coming to her senses, blinked several times, and barely audibly whispered:

"Amazing... This is..."

"You have been examined from all sides by eyes from which nothing can be hidden. Your entire life, from your first breath to this moment," Diantrel said in a quiet voice.

Armina nodded quickly:

"That's right, honorable."

Cyril mentally pronounced the coveted word Status, reading what the system had awarded his maid. It was strange that this time he didn't need to confirm the activation of the Companion again. And he was not allowed to make changes in Armina's appearance without her knowledge, as in the case of his mentor. There must have been some bug in the System with Diantrel, which was then hastily fixed! Well, never mind the Demiurge-level programmers, what's important now is something else. So, what do we have here?

Name: Armina, daughter of Darat.

Level: 12

Connection level with the Chosen One: 2 (increased)

Type of connection with the Chosen One: Maid-Guardian/Master.

Class: NOT SELECTED

Characteristics: 1

Talents: 3

Constitution: 2

Sensitivity: 1

Power: 1

Control: 2

Source: 1

Spirit: 1

Resistance: 1

Acquired Knowledge:

Oral and Written: Classical Elvish, Free Cities, Northern Theocracy;

General knowledge:

"Advanced skills in handling throwing weapons (needles)", "developed skills in handling short melee weapons (knives/daggers/stilettos)", "developed close combat skills", "developed intelligence skills", "developed bodyguard skills", "developed skills in handling amulets and artifacts", "developed skills in providing medical assistance", "developed knowledge of broad-based alchemy"

Minor Knowledge:

Acquired properties:

"Trained Body I"

Companion Modifiers:

Cyril read the description of Armina's status and felt twofold. On the one hand, against the background of Diantrel, she looked not just pale, but transparent. However, it was quite understandable, the mentor was a gifted woman with a lot of experience behind her. On the other hand, after reading the description of the knowledge his maid possessed, Cyril was involuntarily surprised. It was not a servant's kit after all. No, Armina and Gata said, of course, that they had undergone special training, and it was logical to assume that the elves would not put just anyone to him. But still...

Running his eyes once again through the status lines, Cyril caught on the very first and most pumped skill “Advanced skills with throwing weapons (needles)”. Whoops... For some reason, his long-ago conversation with the maids, when he was still just settling into this world, came to mind. The conversation where they said they had special training, and he jokingly asked them what they had been taught. Not to stick needles in the necks of an isekai? And then he remembered how Armina had shot a red-eyed lady with a throwing needle, albeit without much result (so that she, the black-smoke bitch, would be fucked in all her holes by her superiors). A chill ran down his spine at the thought. What a maid he had. And with this girl, he sleeps in the same bed.... Okay, okay, not what you're thinking about right now! Hmm... So, why is there no class?

As if hearing his words, Armina, who was also studying her status, said:

"I need to choose a Destiny on which my further path will depend, and the lines that I will gain."

"What do they suggest?" Diantrel and Cyrill asked almost simultaneously.

"Assassin, Spy, Agent, Guardian, and... Concubine..."

The last proposed class, or, as Armina said, Destiny, the girl voiced with some hesitation. And even seemed to blush a little, although the latter could have seemed to Cyrill.

"Interesting... I wasn't asked to choose a Destiny, but was immediately assigned "Battle Sorceress," Diantrel said thoughtfully."

"I'm guessing it's because Armina is only on the twelfth level... I mean, step, and you're on the fifty-second..."

"After escaping from the Dark Brotherhood and completing the mission, already on the fifty-third," the mentor automatically corrected Cyrill.

Whoops... That's right, he hadn't checked Diantrel's status after all those adventures; he hadn't had the time. Okay, he'll deal with her after we pick Armina's class. It took some time to discuss this stupidly important issue. Because some of the classes offered to her, although similar at first glance, still had their significant differences, which increased with development.

With “Assassin,” everything was clear without the title. Or rather, the name. A class specializing in all sorts of ways to take the life of the chosen target. True, it offered a fair number of ways and directions. According to Armina, the lines of the Tablet informed her that this class had a lot of development options. And when she chose it, she was immediately given several specialized advanced-level knowledge to choose from. And it gave knowledge not only on how to kill the intended target, but also how to get to it, bypassing guards and defenses.

“Spy” emphasized, also as the name implies, espionage. Gathering information, acting, recognizing lies, infiltrating where not called and not invited, breaking defenses, avoiding traps, and knowing how to hide. Knowledge of how to eliminate those who interfere in this, not the most revered, but extremely necessary craft, the class also bestowed, although not as generously as the “Assassin”.

The Agentess was a cross between an Assassin and a Spy. It was a kind of universal class, combining the traits of the other two, taking a little bit of both.

“Guardian” was in fact the same bodyguard. A class sharpened to protect the chosen target. It opened the way to knowledge not only in combat, and even, according to Armina, not so much in combat, but in those that allowed to recognize the threat to the ward. And how to either avoid that threat, prevent it, or repel it. And, of course, knowledge of how exactly to protect her ward.

“Concubine,” however, made Cyril's mental eye twitch. Because this class was as fucked up as half of the rewards he'd gotten for completing the quest and escaping the Dark Brotherhood. Though not completely useless. Some local Padishah would be delighted to have such a class. Knowledge of various tantric techniques, accelerating the restoration of reserve and regeneration, weakening or dispersing negative effects, giving temporary buffs-enhancements of various kinds. But honestly, for some reason, Cyril was starting to feel sick inside from this class offered by Armine. And he wanted to shake the neck of one bastard very firmly, preferably to the point of crunching. Well, first we have to solve the urgent problems.

It didn't take long to discuss the choice of class. Given the situation they were in, the Guardian class was the best. “Spy” would be useless right now, as well as “Agentess”. “Assassin” was already more interesting and could be useful in theory. But in theory. Since the battle will have to be fought, as everyone has already realized, first of all, Cyril and Diantrel, as the main strike force of their small detachment. And everything that can give Armina the choice of class “Assassins”, already possesses First. And at a much higher level, if we speak in system terms. It's silly to even talk about “Concubine”. That's why Armina, after a glance at Diantrel and Cyril, confirmed the choice of the “Guardian” class.

As soon as it happened, the girl froze again for a moment, eyes wide and exhaling slowly. And there was a lot to be excited about! First of all, the choice of the class increased two points in Constitution, and one point each in Resistance and Sensitivity, thus bringing Constitution up to a four. Which, by the way, was not bad at all! A free characteristic point was added, bringing the Constitution up to a five. It's even surprising that Armina's appearance hasn't changed in any way.... Stop... Stop!

No, the girl hadn't turned into a female version of Iron Arnie. She didn't have the pumped-up muscles you'd expect from an increase in Constitution to a five. But her breasts... Looking at his maid and now bodyguard, Cyril was willing to bet that she had gotten bigger. Not much, and not even noticeable if you didn't look closely. But she had definitely gotten bigger by about half a size. And from somewhere came the certainty that Armina didn't and wouldn't realize the change. No one realizes it, except Cyril, came the sudden realization.

The young man shuddered involuntarily and looked around. For a moment, he thought he heard a woman's laugh. A satisfied laugh. But Cyril didn't notice anything suspicious, writing it off to the stress of the events, and returned to the changes in Armina's status.

In addition to bonus characteristic points, the girl was also given the “Vigilance I” property, which, who would have thought, made Armina more vigilant. Now the girl would more easily notice oddities, inconsistencies, and other details that indicate that something is wrong. The property is, by any means is not useless. True, and this was stated separately in the property description, it only worked if Armina KNEW what she noticed was wrong. If a person doesn't know the clan and tribal insignia of the steppesmen on their clothes, how will they realize that they don't correspond to each other? So the steppe people aren't who they say they are. Still, it's a great property.

Armine also upgraded her “developed bodyguard skills” to “advanced bodyguard skills” and gave her the property “Fortitude I”, which made her a bit stronger in every sense, and also allowed her to bear injuries a bit more easily. And both physical and magical, which was also not once unnecessary. After that, the girl, for a few minutes, as if she had fallen out of reality, sat motionless and stared at nothing. Cyril only understandably exchanged glances with Diantrel, knowing perfectly well that new knowledge was being poured into Armine's consciousness.

When she came to her senses, the question arose as to where to allocate the remaining three talent points and one characteristic. The latter was invested in her Constitution, bringing it up to a five. But it was much more difficult to decide where to spend the talent points. As both Cyril and Diantrel had already experienced, they wanted everything at once and twice.

Armina herself tried to increase the most powerful skill first of all, but alas, “Advanced skills with throwing weapons (needles)”, according to her own words, was at the limit of her characteristics. To raise it, the girl needed at least two more characterization points in the Constitution. And ideally to bring it to the cherished ten. Therefore, after joint discussions, the girl decided to increase the two acquired characteristics and “developed skills in handling amulets and artifacts” to advanced. The latter was due to the fact that if she had to fight in the upcoming battle, it would not be in close combat, but with magic wands and amulets. “Vigilance II” increased the chances that Armina would be able to spot a lurking threat.

Of course, First would give her a huge head start in this matter, but in their case, an extra pair of eyes that could detect a possible ambush was not unnecessary. In addition, this property from the second level also slightly increased the reaction, allowing the girl to react faster to the threat. And “Fortitude II” increased her chances of survival. That, combined with 5 in Corporeality, wasn't bad at all.

Having distributed the points, Armina fell out of reality again, waiting for her body and mind to assimilate the changes. Cyril and Diantrel looked at each other, exhaled almost synchronously, and then moved on to what the elf had hoped to postpone until she returned to the Forest. “Unpacking” her portion of the rewards for completing the task, as well as the battles that followed.

For the usual reward, Diantrel received two talent points that could be spent on enhancing existing properties or meta-skills, as well as upgrading “developed mastery weaving elemental magic (air)” to “advanced mastery weaving elemental magic (air)”. Which was, to put it bluntly, awesome. And it required a good amount of time to properly internalize the new knowledge. But who would give them that time? Judging by the way the elf's pupils dilated and her gaze stared into nowhere, Diantrel was experiencing all the same delights that Cyril had been experiencing a little earlier, when the rewards for completing the assignment were being downloaded into his head.

As a good reward, the elfess received, unlike Cyril, here was a really useful and NORMAL token “Purification 10/10”. Which, as the name made clear, allowed to instantly cleanse the body of any foreign substances. Poisons, alchemy - it didn't matter! The token removed everything completely. After reading its description with Diantrel, Cyril felt a terrible desire to howl in his voice. Where was this token when they were recovering from the effects of the alchemy?! It was a dream come true! A natural cheat code for such a situation! First, he used the stimulants, and then, when they ran out and it was time for the withdrawal, he used the token! It's beautiful!

However, its use was somewhat of a double-edged sword. It removed all extraneous substances, making no distinction between deadly poison and healing potion. So it was still worth using it with caution, so as not to accidentally lose buffs, as they said on the vastness of the native Internet.

Diantrel's artefact was also normal, unlike Cyrill's. And it suited her very well, too! The Lightness of Soaring that appeared on her chest at the moment of confirmation was a small silver pendant in the shape of two wings, curved in such a way that they formed a heart. In the centre of the pendant was a light blue faceted crystal glowing with a soft light. And this artefact was intended, as one might guess from its name, to make flying easier. It reduced the weight of the wearer, thus reducing the cost of levitation.
не так все просто

In general, Cyrill was already familiar with such amulets. But this artefact had an amazing efficiency by their standards in terms of energy storage/consumption per duration/degree of weight reduction. After calculating, Cyril concluded that at full power and with a full charge, the ‘Lightness of Soaring’ could reduce Diantrel's weight to almost nothing for almost half an hour. For a mage of her level, and with a clearly aerial orientation, she could fly freely at very high speeds and with minimal effort.

Now that's a goddamn cool artifact! Why didn't they give me one instead of this rope from the sex shop? Where can I exchange it for something equally useful and suitable for me?

Obviously, no one responded to Cyril's mental lamentations, so he and Diantrel, who was in a borderline state of consciousness due to the new knowledge pouring into her mind, moved on to the perfect part of the reward. A random characteristic point fell to the mentor's Sensitivity, bumping it up to a five. Which wasn't bad by any means, but it would have been better if it had hit one of the three profile characteristics for a mage. With a free one, it would be possible to raise the same Power to thirteen, making it equal to the Source.

Two limited talent points were added to the two already available for the normal reward. But Diantrel didn't get the specialised knowledge of the developed level! Because, as the System reported, all of Diantrel's profile knowledge had either already reached or exceeded the advanced level. So the mentor was upgraded from ‘advanced creation and use of advanced ritual circles’ to ‘masterful creation and use of ritual circles’, thus adding another masterful knowledge to Diantrel's arsenal.

The elite token she got again made Cyril mentally send rays of goodness and diarrhea to Master. Because other than the very fact of his existence, it's impossible to explain why HIM got the frankly vulgar “Role Change Guarantee 1/1” and Diantrel got “Gifting random property 5/5 (elite)”. Where the fuck is fairness?!

An elite mentor token, fully justifying its elite level, could be applied to any sentient being and grant it one random elite property. Just one and random. It was impossible to use the token five times on someone else, thus buffing them up to their eyebrows. Or rather, as the description said, you could use the token five times on someone, but then each new property would replace the previous one. Which would be, to put it bluntly, a waste.

Oh, man, this is so cool! No, that's really cool!

Reading the description of the token along with Diantrel, who was feeling about the same emotions, albeit more restrained, Cyril was about to ask his mentor to use it, when his eyes caught on one word that made him falter. Random. The property would be RANDOM. Yes, an elite one, but a RANDOM. What if... No, shit, the System doesn't give useless things, much less elite things! It can't be like that! It can't be...

As if mocking him, Cyril's imagination painted an image of him, but with a long cock-tentacle, which he used as a whip to fight off a crowd of some green goblin-like creatures. The cock-tentacle was choking them, grabbing them and throwing them in all directions, pouring some white acid, shooting out with a pressure like a good fire hose, and piercing them through, while Cyril, with his arms at his sides and his pants down, was laughing loudly. And all this was against the background of a song about a pensioner who had passed away.....

He felt a chill run down his spine, and he shook his head, pushing the delusional fantasy away. No, no, no, no, fuck it! Shit, I mean... So, enough, enough, calm down Cyril, the System can not really give you such a ... It can't, I said! Your patroness won't let it happen, trust in her, the most Magnificent of all, hail, hail to her! All right, that's enough! Moving on, what's the artifact the mentor got? Uh-oh.

Diantrel's artefact was really awesome! And, again, perfectly suited for her! The ‘Horn of Storms’ was a curved horn of some beast, shrouded in silver bands and engraved with air-themed engravings. Clouds, lightning, whirlwinds, that sort of thing. The function of this artefact was, in fact, one and only one. When used, it created, as one could guess from the name, a natural storm in a limited area. Which made it a very powerful weapon of mass destruction.

The hurricane wind, created by the artifact, not only had a huge force, capable of tearing trees from their roots, but also very quickly stripped the unfortunate people caught in it to the very bones. It worked especially well if the horn was used near a lot of sand. The hurricane wind was supplemented by shock therapy, in the sense of powerful lightning strikes.

Of course, it was possible to fend off this storm, but it would take some effort. After reading the description of the artifact, Cyril recognized that he could withstand it only by standing in an already prepared position. With a good ritual circle, sprinkled with quality reagents, creating several good barriers around him, and being with a full supply of energy. Then yes, he would survive the artifact's use. However, in the end, most likely, he could be taken with bare hands, as he would have no strength left to resist. Or very little.

Yeah, it's a powerful thing. Any local power-holder would tear his hands and head off to add it to his arsenal. This can multiply by zero a small army, or at least seriously weared it! Especially if you catch it at the right moment. Since this was another coolest property of the horn, he created a storm in seconds. Seconds! No preparation, no ritual circles or tambourine dancing. Blow, and not in the sense that most of Cyril's compatriots would think of, and instead of a clear day, a hurricane rages over the heads of the enemies. The wind whipped those very heads to the state of polished skulls.

Although it took two months to recharge, against the background of the artifact's other properties, it was a mere trifle. When it appeared in the elven woman's hands, she stared at it for a few seconds, holding it like a small child. Then Diantrel shuddered and hastily put it away in one of their bags with increased space. And Cyril mentally commended himself for not being too lazy to cover them properly with the illusion. Because if their unwilling companions had seen it, it would have been scary to imagine what they would have thought of them.

Diantrel looked at Cyril, ensured the horn was safely secured, and mentally warned him not to tell anyone about the horn for the time being. Except for First, sitting not far from them with the same diary in his hands, periodically writing something in it. Cyril mentally replied that he was not a fool and understood everything.

For an additional reward, the elfess received, as promised, one free talent point. After that, it was the turn of rewards for the previous battle. And there Diantrel was given no more than Cyril, having also counted her battle with the damn cultists as a deed. That was partly logical, because it was his mentor who had largely pulled the battle on herself, albeit with the help of her apprentice and an elderly shaman.

Unlike Cyril, who only got two characterisation points, Diantrel got three. Two in Power and one in Control, bringing them to thirteen and fifteen respectively. She was also upgraded from ‘advanced control of internal energies’ to ‘masterful control of internal energies’.

That was the end of the awards, and it was time to distribute the remaining talent and characteristic points. Cyril glanced at Diantrel, despite the new knowledge already pouring into her mind, she held firmly and began to issue mental commands. The characteristic point goes to Control as it was intended, raising it to seven. Gritting his teeth, Cyril spent all three of his limited talent points on the meta-skill "Orientation in Space III."

As soon as he did that, an analog of a textbook map, as in some computer game, instantly appeared in his mind. And it was three-dimensional, with the possibility of marking, zooming in, zooming out, changing angles, and orienting to the sides of the world. All the places he had been to were displayed on this map. The places he hadn't been to were hidden by the classic “fog of war”. However, their current location was not displayed on the main map, being a separate “layer”.

Three free talent points go to increasing “advanced basics of creating and using ritual circles”, “advanced basics of magical combat tactics”, and “advanced skills in creating magical weaves”. Let's rumble, as they say. A mental confirmation, and they are upgraded to “advanced creation and use of ritual circles”, “advanced magic combat tactics”, and “advanced magic weave creation skills” respectively.

Two points of the companion modifier go, by prior agreement, to "Magic Restoration II", which Armina receives. Perhaps not the most optimal choice, given her class, but in their situation, the ability to instantly restore the strength of Kirill or Diantrel will be much more important.

At the same time, Diantrel invests the remaining free characteristic point into Power, bringing it to fourteen. Two free talent points go into ‘Advanced Magic Combat Tactics’ and ‘Advanced Magic Search Techniques’, raising them to ‘Master Magic Combat Tactics’ and ‘Master Magic Search Techniques’ respectively.

Deantrel spent all four of her limited talent points without a flinch to acquire the same meta-skill as Cyril's, ‘Access to System Purchases IV’. Which made sense, since he had almost exhausted his limit of system currency. And Diantrel had it, though not as much as Cyril had before he started shopping, but still a noticeably different amount from zero. So to speak, the starting capital. And taking into account the situation they were in, the opportunity to buy for them was not superfluous. At least the same trivial food, which they couldn't get anywhere in this damned storage.

Last of all, Diantrel exchanged a mental phrase with Cyril and used the elite token she had received. Twice, on herself and on him. Inwardly, Cyril squirmed, refusing to believe it, denying it with all his might, chasing away the thought of what he might get. For a moment, he thought of a woman's chesty laughter again, but he didn't even pay attention to it, reading the lines of the Status.

Attention!

The property “Subtle Body Mimicry (elite)” has been obtained. Changes will be made to the Player status automatically.

After reading its description, Cyril felt as if not even a stone, but a natural Everest, had fallen from his shoulders. He was afraid to the last that the system would again give him some blatant obscenity. But whether it had stopped glitching, or whether it was the fact that it had gifted him with the property of Diantrel, and Cyril was not going to complain about such a property as “Subtle Body Mimicry (elite)”. Because it was really awesome!

Now it would be easier for him to adjust his subtle bodies to the right level of strength. His mentor had long ago explained to him during the training on the control of internal energies that for an experienced, gifted person to walk, shining with subtle bodies, was like walking naked. But if earlier to hide his aura Cyril had to strain in one way or another, now he could easily and practically, without any expenses, mask it better than any chameleon! Well, the earth chameleon for sure, who knows what in Beriadon is found.... It doesn't matter!

The main thing is that this property is cool and useful! Training with his mentor at the training ground had clearly explained to Cyril how important it was to be able to completely hide any manifestation of his magic. And now he could hide himself so well that not every master of magic would recognize him as a gifted one, even if he was tested! Unless he's a specialized search specialist, and even then, it's not a sure thing. Even a magister might not recognize him, but it depends on the situation. Man, with this ability, he would have passed that exam with flying colors! Wow, that's cool, that's a normal trait! So, what did Deantrel get? Oh, my gosh.

The mentor, judging by what Cyril sensed through the mental link, had similar thoughts. Because she had gotten the “Stormborn (elite)” property. And it was as cool as Cyril's property, even if it had a completely different focus. This property, as you can guess from the name, increased Diantrel's natural predisposition to the air element, bringing it to a new qualitative level. Any air elemental weaves would now become many times easier for her. However, earth elemental weaves will be much more difficult and require more strength. The water and fire elements were much less complicated.

There was no doubt that her children would inherit that predisposition as well. In addition, it increased her Control and Power by one more unit, bringing them to fifteen and sixteen. Which, to put it bluntly, was so cool that it was even a bit enviable! Two characteristic points at once! No, of course, his attribute was also good, and he had a great synergy with the School of Illusions, but still.... Two characteristic points! He is still a little jealous. Just a little bit.

Cyril was thinking the last thought as he felt himself starting to feel a little overwhelmed. His mentor, judging by the sensations of their connection, was also feeling the same. The last thing Cyril saw, while still able to think straight, was First, who was next to them.

* * *

Once again, moments of enlightenment, while new knowledge flowed into the mind, and subtle bodies were rebuilt to meet the increased characteristics, were replaced by delirious visions-dreams.

A dark, spacious room, without windows and without furniture. In the centre, there are blast marks, bodies or pieces of bodies in dark clothes. And also blood, lots of blood, which evaporates into black smoke. Thick black smoke. A little further away from the blast site are figures in similarly dark robes. Some are wounded, but most are unharmed. Many are holding weapons. They pay no attention to the dead, nor to the wounded. They all stare with burning red eyes at one single figure. A female figure with the same red eyes looks at the site of the explosion and gradually begins to laugh. The laughter, quiet at first, becomes louder and louder, turning into outright hysterical laughter.

Change of frame.

Another room, lit by magical lights in wall niches. No furniture. No windows. Just bodies. Many bodies in dark clothes are lying in pools of blood on the floor. In the center of the room stands a female figure in the same dark clothes. Only now are they torn in many places and soaked with blood. Blood oozes from the wounds on her arms and legs. It drips from the two long daggers clutched in his hands. It drips down her face, which you can't see because of her long, black as pitch thick hair, tangled and clumped together. The only thing clearly visible is the red fire burning in her eyes.

The woman laughs a low, gurgling laugh, oblivious to the knife sticking out of her back, plunged to the hilt. Nor the needles sticking into her thigh and forearm on her left side. All her attention is drawn to the image of an open palm, fingers turned upward, painted on the stone wall. She stares at it and laughs, spitting blood every now and then. And then the blood begins to vaporize, turning to thick black smoke. On her, on the bodies of the dead, on the floor.

But it's not just the blood that vaporizes. The dark garments of the laughing woman disappear, turning to smoke, leaving her completely naked and revealing a beautifully trained body, covered with many scars, and high, large breasts. The smoke oozes out, and the wounds on her body disappear, literally squeezing out the knives and needles, leaving new scars in their place.

And then the dark smoke abruptly takes the shape of a hand that grabs the woman by the throat, jerking her nearly half a meter above the floor. Her laughter turns into a wheeze, but she doesn't think to resist. Her lips move soundlessly, her hair falling down over her face. A few seconds pass, and then the smoking hand disappears, and the woman falls to the floor. To sit down and start laughing quietly again. Gradually, the laughter grows louder again, but now it turns into a frenzied shriek, followed by an animalistic growl.

The room begins to disappear when Cyril feels as if someone is gently hugging him from behind, pressing his head into something incredibly pleasantly elastic, and then pushing him forward. His already confused thoughts become even more confused, the young man seems to say something or even orders, no, commands, and then everything is hidden by darkness....

Change of frame.

The bedroom is furnished with luxurious elven-style furniture. On the wide bed lies a naked, handsome young man with an obvious admixture of elven blood. His face is full of pleasure, his half-closed eyes staring at the ceiling. On top of him sits, smoothly moving her hips, a pure-blooded elven woman with long straight blonde hair and light green eyes. The young man doesn't even look at her, completely absorbed in the pleasure brought by the movements of his skilful lover.

But she really wished he would look at her. Because there's no pleasure on the firstborn's beautiful face-just pure fear, and panic in her green eyes. She would love to scream, but her mouth is full of her own underwear, which she chews desperately, not realising the very possibility of spitting it out. She would love to get off her young lover, but every time she lifts herself off him, almost off his cock, it's as if an unknown force is pulling her back, forcing her to mount him and repeat the same motions over and over again. She would have liked to use the amulets and cold weapons hidden in the bed, but her palms were stuck to her own breasts, unable to get away from them, unable to stop massaging them and rubbing some fragrant oil into them.

But even that is not the reason for the elf's real panic. The reason is behind the naked, young, and very pretty girl sitting in a chair in the corner of the bedroom, with a clear face, grey eyes, and thick brown hair, who is watching the elven girl riding a handsome half-elf on the bed. With one hand, she touches her breasts, squeezing and stroking her nipples, with the other, she strokes her slightly rounded belly, occasionally slipping a little lower. Behind her, in the darkness, someone is standing, talking cheerfully to her, suggesting a change of roles, reminding someone who is the legal wife and who is the lover.

The naked girl in the armchair nods affirmatively at this, becoming more and more satisfied as she looks at the pixie riding helplessly on the young man. Someone standing behind her responds to this with a contented laugh.... someone... who?

Change of frame. Change of frame. Change of frame...

* * *

"Cirial?"

When he opened his eyes, he saw not the ceiling of his chambers, but the ceiling of the same damned vault where they had come. Armina was leaning over him. Thoughts moved in her head with difficulty, with much creaking and crackling. Too much information crammed into her in too short a time. Again.

"M-m-m..."

"Here, drink some water. How do you feel?"

"Lousy. But when Master almost killed me, it was worse," the young man answered honestly, taking the flask from the maid's hands. "And how are you?"

"I feel fine now, thank you. Even though... I still have a hard time believing all... this..."

Nodding understandingly and taking a few greedy sips, Cyril sat up on the cushions and looked around. Diantrel had already woken up and was now sitting with her eyes closed, crossing her legs and putting her hands on her knees. The rest of his unwilling companions were busy talking quietly to each other in small groups, a little away from them. Separated from everyone else sat a pair of rescued dark elves. Litsana, as her name seemed to be, must have just recently woken up, for she was drinking water from a flask, looking around with a frankly bewildered look. Her brother was sitting next to her, telling her something quietly.

Turning to First, who was also sitting next to Cyrill, Diantrel, and Armina, the young man quietly asked:

"How long were we unconscious?"

"I feel like it's about six hours," the dark elf answered just as quietly, "I told the others that you haven't fully recovered from the battle with the cultists and the escape from the Garcains, and that you need to regain your strength. To do this, you decided to use one of the methods of joint meditation, which turns into a paired sleep."

“They believed it?” Cyrill asked carefully, taking another sip.

"Not all, but all pretended that they were satisfied with this explanation,” the dark elf shook his head, “they saw too many strange things,” he added, throwing a quick glance in their direction.

"We'll deal with this later," said Diantrel, opening her eyes, "but first we need to get out of here. Ciriall, how are you feeling?"

"Not really well. My head is buzzing, too much knowledge in too short a time," Cyrill repeated the answer honestly. "And how do you feel?"

"More or less the same, but it's getting easier. Did anything happen while we were unconscious?"

"No," First shook his head, "No one tried to get out of the vault, not even echoes of magic were heard or seen. Whoever is sitting there they are waiting for us to come in ourselves.

“It's understandable,” the elf grinned, “there is no food or water here, which means that sooner or later we will be forced to go into the vault."

"True. Speaking of which. We still have water, I took it in reserve, and it will be enough for several days. But there are not many supplies left, especially since there are more of us..."

"You don't have to worry about that. As long as my mentor and I are alive, we won't run out of food and water. I don't promise delicacies," Ctrill said, casting a glance at the food section of the Auction, "but I'm ready to guarantee that we won't starve."

"I am sincerely glad to hear that. In that case," First rose to his feet with one elusive movement, "when you come to your senses, I suggest that we discuss with our companions a plan of further action. Especially since our saviours," he said sarcastically, "while you were resting, have shared some surprisingly sensible insights into our situation. And what we might be facing."

* * *

Character statuses at the end of chapter eighteen:

Name: Diantrel of the House of Winterblooms, daughter of Edenril.

Level: 53

Connection level with the Chosen One: 3 (strong).

Type of connection with the Chosen One: Mentor/Apprentice.

Class: Battle Sorceress

Characteristics: 0

Talents (free):0 (limited): 0

Constitution: 4

Sensitivity: 5

Power: 15

Control: 16

Source: 13

Spirit: 3

Resistance: 4

Acquired Knowledge:

Oral and Written:

Written and spoken: Classic Elven, Dark Elven, Free Cities, Northern Theocracy, Island Kingdom, Southern Caliphate, Undermountain Dwarven, Western Steppe, Central Steppe, Green Steppe, Northern Kingdoms, Ice Isles, Rising Empire (Classic/Simplified), Gem Cities dialects, Southeastern Lesser Kingdoms.

General knowledge:

“advanced mastery of martial weaves”, ‘developed mastery of generalist weaves’, ‘advanced mastery of elemental magic (air)’, ‘advanced mastery of elemental magic (fire)’, ‘advanced mastery of elemental magic (earth)’, ‘advanced mastery of elemental magic (water)’, “master creation and application of advanced ritual circles”, ‘advanced barrier and protection weaves’, ‘master control of internal energies’, ‘developed mastery of advanced amulets and artifacts’, ‘advanced ability to work with powerful external sources’, “advanced dueling with magical wands”, ‘master magical combat tactics’, ‘master magical search techniques’, ‘advanced magical disguise techniques’, ‘developed wilderness reconnaissance skills’, ‘developed wilderness survival skills’, ‘advanced magic-diversion skills’, “advanced mago-martial training instructor skills”, ‘advanced healing weaves’, ‘advanced archery’, ‘advanced fencing with one-handed blades (classical elven school)’, ‘advanced knowledge of general alchemy’, ‘advanced agent work’.

Minor Knowledge:

"Blink"

Acquired properties

"Developed Subtle Bodies III", "Refined Reflexes III", "Magic Sense III", "Trained Body II", "Forest Sense II", "Elven Health (Racial)", "Source of Magic", "Magic Boost (Elite)", "Stormborn (Elite)"

System modifiers:

"Access to System Purchases IV"

Tokens:

"Purification 10/10", "Gift a random property 3/5 (elite)"

Companion Modifiers:

"Share the Burden I", "Mark of the Chosen One II", "Magical Restoration II", "Healing of the Subtle Bodies II", "Physical Healing I", "Mental Link I"

* * *

Name: Cyrill

Level: 23

Class: Wizard

Characteristics: (free) 0; (limited) 0

Talents: (free) 0 (limited): 0

Companion Modification Points (0)

Constitution: 2

Sensitivity: 2

Power: 10

Control: 7

Source: 11

Spirit: 1

Resistance: 2

Acquired Knowledge:

Oral and Written: Classical Elvish, Free Cities, Northern Theocracy;

General knowledge:

“advanced management and control of internal energies”, “advanced skills of working with external energy sources”, “masterful skills of creating magical barriers”, “advanced skills of creating magical weaves”, “advanced basics of techniques of magical dueling with battle wands”, “developed tantric techniques of energy recovery”, “advanced creation and application of ritual circles”, “advanced tactics of magical combat”, “developed basics of working with advanced amulets and artifacts”, “advanced methods of magical search”, “developed general weaving of elemental magic”, “developed methods of magical disguise”, “basic skills of working under water”

Core/root knowledge:

Developed Mastery of the School of Illusion:

Creation and maintenance of point, small, medium, and large territorial illusions.

Creation and maintenance of static, dynamic, and adaptive illusions of all types.

Creation and maintenance of illusory doubles/clones/copies.

Creation and maintenance of hypnotic illusions of a wide range.

Creation and maintenance of complex illusions of a wide profile.

Thickening and saturation of created illusions.

Minor Knowledge:

"Protective Field (Elite)"

Acquired properties:

‘Blessing of Harmonious Magical Development’, “Strengthening of Subtle Bodies II”, “Regeneration of Subtle Bodies II”, “Magic in Blood (Elite)”, “Enhanced Magic”(Power 10), “Source of Magic”(Source 10); "Mimicry of subtle bodies (elite)"

System modifiers:

‘System Assignment III’, ‘Intensive Development III’, ‘Access to System Purchases IV’; "Orientation in space III"

Tokens:

Companion Modifier Restore 1/10, Companion Enhancement 9/10, Awesome Melons 81/100, "French Kiss 25/25", "Naughty Tongue 2/3", "Temporary Magic Source (Granting Lust and Passion) 4/5", "Role Change Guarantee 1/1"

Special:

Chosen by Aurial the Magnificent, Supreme Keeper of the Balance of Worlds, Standing Guard of the Balance of Powers: hidden effects.

Active Ability: "Share the Burden of the Chosen One II"

Available number of activations: 0 (recharge 1 standard month).

Available number of companions: 2/2

* * *

Name: Armina, daughter of Darat.

Level: 12

Connection level with the Chosen One: 2 (increased)

Type of connection with the Chosen One: Maid-Guardian/Master.

Class: Guardian

Characteristics: 0

Talents: 0

Constitution: 5

Sensitivity: 2

Power: 1

Control: 2

Source: 1

Spirit: 1

Resistance: 2

Acquired Knowledge:

Oral and Written: Classical Elvish, Free Cities, Northern Theocracy;

General knowledge:

"Advanced skills in handling throwing weapons (needles)", "developed skills in handling short bladed weapons (knives/daggers/stilettos), "developed close combat skills", "developed skills in broad-based intelligence work", "advanced bodyguard skills", "advanced skills in handling amulets and artifacts", "developed skills in providing medical assistance"

Minor Knowledge:

Acquired properties:

"Trained Body I", "Vigilance II", "Toughness II"

Companion Modifiers:

"Magic Restoration II"

* * *
Author's Note:

48 shits. The chapter was slow because there was a lot of fiddling with character statuses. Add here, raise there, write it all down, and still I'm not sure I didn't miss anything

There were no lemons as such, but there will be in the future, now guaranteed, thanks to the token from Her Milfness.

I didn't have enough strength to proofread the final part, so PB is my helper. Traditional gratitude to the likers and commentators, I promise that I will try not to delay the update.

Good wishes to everyone.

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86674/587881

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP