Chapter Twenty. The Very Tense Voyage of the Elven Queen's Hero.

* * *

Somewhere in the Great Steppe, north of the Coastal Ridge.

One of the few advantages of being of a respectable age by steppe standards was that there was no need to get up as soon as the sun lit up the sky in the east. One could lie in the yurt a little longer while the grown-up grandchildren prepared everything for the morning meal. With these thoughts, Khatlen-Dar, who had already awakened and had long since lived through more than fifty winters, rolled over onto his other side, wrapping himself more tightly in a pile of sturdy animal skins and trying to catch the last remnants of sleep. Only to jump to his feet a moment later when he heard the piercing cry of one of his granddaughters outside.

The years of a far from easy life spent in the Great Steppe had left their mark, and so, without even thinking about his actions, Khatlen-Dar grabbed his trusty sabre from under one of the skins. He ran out of the yurt, forgetting his age and his long-aching back, wearing only his undergarments, ready to repel unknown enemies who had somehow managed to get past a pair of guard dogs, border totems, and negligent sentries who had overlooked the threat. He froze at the entrance, almost tripping over his eldest son, who was running behind him. With his eyes wide open, the elderly nomad did not even notice that his jaw had dropped.

His tribesmen ran out of their dwellings with cries, awakened horses began to neigh, guard dogs barked, and the main totem pole in the centre of the camp lit up with bright light. In just a couple of dozen heartbeats, the entire tribe was on its feet. They stared in amazement at the nearly three-metre-tall colossus, either encased in steel or made entirely of metal, a man-made warrior of the gnomes, who had appeared out of nowhere between two neighbouring yurts. It stood completely motionless, leaning on six spider-like legs that sank deep into the steppe soil under the weight of the machine. But the magical weapons attached to its hands, capable of throwing flames and lightning, did not inspire confidence.

Pushing aside the frightened women and children, the armed men surrounded the terrifying giant in a semicircle, but did not dare to approach it closely, whispering quietly among themselves. Everyone waited for the words of the chief shaman of their tribe, who was standing at the central totem pole with all his disciples, already performing a kaml, beating a drum with a mallet and monotonously howling to his entourage. Almost a hundred heartbeats passed before the no longer young shaman, his eyes burning with yellow fire, his pupils and irises gone, spoke his words:

"There is no magic in him, and it hasn't been for a long time. His insides are cold, like a cold hearth, and lack the heart that gave him life."

The chief of the tribe, without lowering his bow with an arrow placed on the string, enchanted by the powers of the chief shaman in the magic fire, asked incredulously, squinting his already narrow eyes on a practically flat face:

"Where did he come from, and no one noticed anything until Ungun-Tsen went to get fresh water?!"

The chief shaman of the tribe narrowed his eyes, which were burning with fire, and silently whispered with his lips, after which he gave his verdict:

"This is a difficult riddle, even the most vigilant khao, who have been guarding our peace for more than one winter, have missed it... It did not come by land, did not fly in by air... It... simply appeared, as if existence itself had cast it out..."

At that moment, one of the chief shaman’s students, who was his granddaughter and promised to take her grandfather’s place in ten winters, said in an unexpectedly decisive voice, without taking her fiery eyes off the steel giant:

"An echo can be heard from it, similar to what is heard in the stone cities of the Khanur, when their sorcerers open the magical gates that connect distant places."

The chief shaman cast a stern glance at his granddaughter, who had become increasingly aware of her strength in recent years, but turning to the steel giant, he realized that she was telling the truth. The chieftain, who also cast a glance at the young shaman, asked:

"But who could have sent this warrior here? And why?"

"Good question... It was clearly created by the undermountain people. Their magical writings are visible on the armor... But why and how did he end up here... A mystery..."

While the chief shaman was speaking, one of the warriors approached the steel giant and carefully touched his leg, running his palm over it, under the watchful eyes of the rest of his tribesmen, who had not yet dared to approach. Then he carefully tapped the hilt of his saber on it and widened his eyes when he heard the sound:

"But it's solid! The paws are definitely solid!"

He raised his head and looked up at the bulk of the man-made giant:

"It's so much steel. And a dwarven one."

It took Khatlen-Dar a few seconds to comprehend what his cousin had said. Then his still sharp mind calculated how much the merchants were asking even for gnome steel, which required skill to work with so as not to spoil the material. And how much such a giant must weigh if even his paws were made entirely of it...

Judging by the excited voices of his fellow tribesmen, he was not the only one who had figured out what kind of wealth had fallen on the tribe literally out of nowhere...

* * *

Great Dantra, halfway between Morgrave and Dantmark.

Still, Tahira was ready to admit that there was a certain charm in being able to force that asshole Avelia to his knees in his cabin at almost any moment to enjoy Captain Bead's tongue. Something suspiciously resembling a conscience tried several times to bubble up from below deck, reminding her that she had almost ended up in a similar role. But Tahira quickly stifled the source of these sounds, parrying his bubbling with the fact that Avelius had brought it on himself. He decided to impose a contract on her, albeit not openly oppressive, but not even close to what he had been advised. He wrote the clause that allowed the new ship's magician to be punished with fines if she did not want to provide “personal services.”

So now let him pay for his stupidity and greed by kneeling before her and working his tongue. Especially since he's been getting better and better at it lately, having gained experience. Hooking her legs around the back of Businka's nominal owner, Tahira pressed his clean-shaven face harder into her rosebud, feeling the approaching denouement, which she herself was hastening by caressing her breasts, enlarged by her patron and benefactor. Biting her lip, the magician closed her eyes, feeling that now...

From the sharp blow, accompanied by a loud and painfully unpleasant crack of wood, she literally flew off the bed when she was thrown forward, right onto Avelius, who was still working with his tongue. And she wasn't the only one. Everything that wasn't firmly attached in the captain's cabin fell to the floor. What the fuck happened?! With a loud and choice curse, Tahira somehow got to her feet, reflexively merging with Bead, who had already become practically family. What happened to her ship?! What the hell?! At the same time, she tried to get dressed and put on her shoes. And, of course, trying to do three things at once didn't turn out well.

Having managed to put on one boot and almost button up her shirt, Tahira realized that she had forgotten her pants, after which she cursed and froze in place. With half-naked breasts, bare feet, and her pussy on display. Closing her eyes, she focused on the ship with all her willpower, merging with it to understand what had happened! And, having received a response, she did not hold back her selected three-deck curse.

The bead crashed into something, apparently a rock or stone, at full speed and head-on. Damn bottom-dwelling scum, you can't leave them unattended for a second, useless little things! In broad daylight! In clear weather! Where did you manage to find a rock in this current?!

Tahira did not hesitate to voice all these thoughts out loud while she was quickly getting dressed, with Avelius, who was also cursing like crazy, threatening to find the culprits, to rip them off, drown them, fuck them out, rip them off again and then drown them completely. By the time they ran out of the cabin, one of the sailors had already started pounding his fist on it, and outside they could hear screams and curses.

Throwing the door open, Tahira literally jumped out, without losing contact with Bead. The magic embedded in the ship's boards did not fail, so although the ship received damage to the bow, it was not as fatal as it could have been. And the barriers quickly woven by the sorceress sealed the hole, so Bead only drank a little of the river water.

Tahira didn't pay any attention to the Avelius first mate, as well as to his predatory gaze, which quickly slid over the sorceress's chest, barely covered by her undershirt. The size of which the entire crew had time to discuss more than once or twice, thinking that she couldn't hear. A couple of the most sharp-tongued sailors, who had a fairly decent appearance, had managed to find themselves in Avelius's place several times, even managing to assess the subject of discussion with their own eyes. Even if only with their eyes and without retaining a conscious memory of it, but still. For those who had a sharp and boneless tongue and no handsome face, Tahira arranged a slight intolerance to alcohol, causing upset after each libation. A trifle - but so pleasant!

However, now Tahira was not worried about possible obscene looks, nor a new round of gossip about how and in what position Avelius was fuck her. She was interested in only one thing. What was wrong with her ship, and who was that bottom-dwelling asshole who managed to find a rock in this section of the Dantra current to run into it in broad daylight? But having barely reached the bow of the ship, where most of the crew had already gathered, Tahira, ready to throw thunder and lightning, froze in place, her eyes wide and mouth open. What. The. Fuck.

The Bead didn't hit a rock. But a huge gate, almost two stories high, if you estimate the depth of the river in this place, made of dark gray material, bound with blued metal, and tightly locked. Gates. Which stuck out of the water with their tops. Gates. Just gates. Without anything. Almost like gates in a field. Only in a river. In Dantre! Which Bead, going with the current and with a tailwind, ran into with her nose, cracking pretty good. What the... Fuck...

Tahira didn't have time to fully comprehend the absurdity and banal impossibility of what had happened. As soon as she was about to join the rest of the team, who were heatedly discussing the eternal question of "who is to blame and what to do?" something boomed silently overhead. Her ears were hit unpleasantly, and for a moment, they felt blocked. And then...

"Fuck!!!"

"Carefully!!!"

"Fuck!!!"

"What the???"

"Watch out!!!"

"Aaah!!"

With such different, but very emotional cries, the crew of Bead commented on the hail of... bones that had fallen on their heads and their damaged ship. Having barely managed to cover herself with a shield on reflexes, using the amulet she now tried not to part with, Tahira bent down and covered her head with her hands, finally ceasing to understand what was happening?!

Fortunately, the hail lasted a few seconds, after which there was silence. Which was almost immediately replaced by selected three-deck curses and cries of pain from those who had been hit by a particularly large bone. Rising to her feet, Tahira looked around with bulging eyes. The deck of Bead resembled the lair of the lord of the undead of the North, as they are depicted in scary fairy tales for mischievous children. Bones. All sorts of bones, some as long and thick as her arm, were strewn all over the deck. Floating in the water. Even on the right bank, which was the closest, dozens, if not hundreds, of all sorts of bones were visible.

Raising her head, the ship's sorceress saw nothing above her except a relatively clear sky and rare white clouds. Squinting, Tahira switched to magical vision, but it also did not show anything unusual that would explain where all these bones came from, and what just happened? Fully sharing her thoughts, Avelius, who very luckily got hit right on the forehead by some bone, getting a hefty bump, literally screamed:

"What the..."

But the nominal captain of Bead was immediately interrupted by a shrill cry, more like a squeal:

"Aaaahhh!!! It's alive!!!"

One of the young sailors, for whom this was his first voyage, let out a bloodcurdling scream. It made Tahira and the rest of the crew jump in their seats. Then they all started shouting and swearing. Someone began to cry out to the heavens, begging for salvation. And he could be understood. A huge bone paw of some predatory creature was crawling across the deck of the Bead, with four fallen claws topped with huge talons. It literally dug into the ship's planks, raking through other bones, pulling itself up and crawling forward. Right towards the young sailor, caught in the bonefall at the side of the Bead.

Without hesitation, acting on reflex alone, Tahira struck with magic. A simple but nonetheless reliable magic arrow. Due to the rush and terrible tension, it naturally struck not the crawling paw, but the huge skull of some monster lying on the deck, splitting it into pieces. With a muffled cry, the young sailor jumped to his feet and... jumped overboard, while the rest of the crew continued to scream, swear, and pray aloud. The most experienced rushed for their weapons, but the first to run stumbled over some bone, the others fell on him, and a pile-up formed on the deck. Hissing, Tahira fired two more magic arrows in quick succession, finally hitting the paw that had almost reached the side of the ship on her third attempt, causing it to shatter into separate bones. Only then did she allow herself to scream at the top of her lungs:

"What the fuck?!"

It took quite a bit of time to clean up the mess. In addition to the cursed paw, several more living skeletons were discovered. One of them, the toothy skull of some predatory creature, turned out to be a particularly vile bottom-dwelling minnow. Until the very end, the rotten bastard did not reveal itself until one of the sailors came near. At that moment, the creature latched onto his leg, biting through his pants and drawing blood. It took the combined efforts of three other sailors to free the crew member, who was screaming in pain and fear. After that, they literally crushed the clacking monster into dust with whatever came to hand. The victim not only had to have his wound bandaged, but also had to be convinced that it was not a bloodsucking skull and that he would not turn into a vampire.

When order was more or less restored on Bead, the wounded were helped, and the young first-timer was dragged back on board, the question arose in full force again. What the fuck was that, and what to do now?! There was no answer to the first question. But Avelius answered the second very quickly. Collect the skeletons! Who cares where they came from? Collect them all! And fish out the ones in the water! They're probably worth money, especially if they're magical! We'll sell them to alchemists or mages, they'll be good for something!

Hearing this order, Tahira barely restrained herself from sending the greedy idiot overboard. But after looking at the bones that literally fell on them from the sky, some of which really did glow in the magical vision, and making sure that there seemed to be no more direct threat from them, and everything around was calm, she decided not to interfere. Instead, she again turned to the inconspicuous amulet hanging on her neck, sewn into a relatively ordinary talisman, calling on her patron and benefactor.

* * *

The underground part of the ruins of Old Iyastar.

What exactly this rather large and spacious dungeon used to be was impossible to say now. It was not the past of this place that interested its current inhabitants, but the presence of several preserved tunnels leading to other parts of the dungeons of the Old City, a couple of inconspicuous exits to the surface, and another passage leading deep into the real Underworld. Simply an ideal place for the life of the middle tail of the Skaven clan.

That they are also properly equipped. Whatever the tailless ones might say about rat-folks, when it came to their own well-being, they were as hard-working as anyone. The dungeon and the surrounding areas were thoroughly cleared of any threats, all passages and exits were kept under close control, and weak spots that threatened to collapse were carefully reinforced. The skaven took their safety very seriously.

Over the past decades, they have settled in very well in their new home, building, without false modesty, a small underground town. Contrary to stereotypes about tailless creatures, it was not at all like a garbage dump, only underground. The skaven were very particular about the cleanliness of their homes, diligently disposing of all waste and carefully ensuring that the air purification and filtration system created by their gifted tails worked properly. Of course, simple air ducts would have sufficed, but the Scaven know how much junk can get into your burrow through the smallest crack.

And risking their tails, let alone the tails of their young, was unacceptable. The clan came first, as everyone was taught from the very beginning, and those who didn't understand this could have their tails curled or even torn off, sending them out into the wild. And, it must be admitted, things had been going well for the clan lately, if not perfectly. Scheff was very happy about this and, to be honest, proud. After all, it was largely thanks to him that the clan had managed to accumulate a decent supply!

At first, it was possible to sell the rumors and whispers to Cyrus, who always paid a good price for Scheff's services. It would be nice to find out who this cunning tail, which has once again disappeared without a trace, works for, even though he doesn't have a tail. Then there was a major commotion in Iyastar, which raised even more money. There was so much buzz at the time that all you had to do was collect the whispers and sell them to anyone who wanted to know what had happened in Sunny City. And the finale was the most successful deal of Scheff's entire life.

No one even thought of refusing the sun worshippers who asked for help in chasing the tail-twister that had made their lives so miserable. Or rather, some people may have had such thoughts, but try saying them out loud and you'll have your whiskers and tail torn out. But Sсheff demanded a hefty price for the risk to himself and his best tails, because even though the sun lovers had hired their best fighters for the job, following the trail of the tail-breaker who had caused all this chaos... That would make anyone's tail tremble!

And it paid off not threefold, but tenfold! Of course, the terrifying creature that crawled out of some unknown hole nearly burned their tails, but how much they managed to steal from the camp of the unfortunate soldier! Never before had so many valuable goods fallen into the paws of Scheff and his minions, and never again would they; there was no doubt about that. Lady Luck is such that she never lets you pull her tail twice! At least, not so strongly.

Of course, Scheff was no fool, so they stole from anyone but the sun worshippers. Because quarrelling with them would be completely insane; after that, you'd have to grab your tails and run away with the whole clan from your home. Ugh, it's worth remembering the paths they took home, loaded with goods up to their tails, it makes his heart ache! If they fell into anyone's hands, that would be the end! Just give the tailless ones a chance to rob the rats!

Of course, the sanctimonious fanatics showed up after a while, twirling their tails and mustaches, but Scheff was ready for them. He had to wriggle like a fish in a frying pan, but he still managed to lie his way out of it, saying they hadn't broken any rules! They led everyone where they needed to go, but fighting the terrible heroborina — no way, they hadn't signed up for that! But the sun-lovers did manage to get some of the loot, in the sense that the clan donated it to their dear neighbors, who had suffered a great misfortune. God forbid this misfortune should befall the poor rat folks; that would be a disaster!

But it's okay. Even what remained was more than enough for everyone, even the smallest tail! They equipped themselves properly for the pursuit of the tail-twister and took only the best! Part of the loot was put to use, greatly increasing the clan's power. From the sets of various amulets alone, the work of none other than tailless master magicians, Schiffa squealed with delight at all the minks! Even the most gifted member of the clan could not have made such things, even if she had the materials.

So, in the coming years, no tail in the clan would go to bed hungry, which made Scheff very happy. Because the clan comes first! Looking at his relatives gathered for a communal meal, communal meals were almost a ritual for the Skaven; he could feel his heart warming. The cooks responsible for the food filled the bowls to the brim with thick, steaming soup, scooping it from pot-bellied cauldrons, the smell of which could be smelled throughout the dungeon. Or rather, it would have been if it weren't for the magic of Schiffa and her students, which masked almost all smells. After all, the Underworld was nearby, and caution was never unnecessary.

Receiving his portion among the first, Scheff smiled gratefully at the young girl, who shyly twitched her ears and long, smooth tail. Inhaling the aroma of meat soup, the rat-man involuntarily recalled his half-starved childhood years, when life was so difficult for the clan. Those were lousy times, evil and perpetually hungry...

When everyone had received their portions, the clan gathered at long tables in the center of the underground hall and began their communal meal. But first, as was tradition, the Elder, also known as the Oldest of the Tails, spoke. Gray-haired like a hawk, he was the only one who still remembered the days when their ancestors lived elsewhere. Rising to his feet, he spoke in a quiet but clear voice:

Good times have come for our pack! Our storerooms are full, and our little ones fall asleep in their nests without fear for their lives, unafraid of every rustle in the darkness of the dungeons! So let us once again give thanks to those who have achieved this prosperity through their hard work!

All the Skaven, young and old, turned to Scheff and his followers, who were sitting together not far from the Elder. Feeling his whiskers rise against his will, Scheff stood up, bowed his head modestly, and replied:

"We did everything we could, but without Lady Luck's mercy, we would not have succeeded! If it weren't for her, we would not only have failed to make a profit, we would not even have kept our tails!"

The elder nodded in agreement and said:

"Indeed! May Lady Luck continue to smile upon our pack and send us her blessings!"

The entire clan agreed with this, letting out a chorus of satisfied squeaks. Smiling in response, Scheff shook his head and said with a tight smile:

"I would like to believe it, but alas, it does not happen. Such great mercy from Lady Luck, if it happens, then only once in a lifetime. Such happiness does not happen twice, I bet my tail to be chopped off..."

"Well, let's hope so..."

The dungeon where the clan of skaven lived shook, something cracked, and several pieces of masonry, plaster, and sand fell from the ceiling amid frightened squeaks and screeches. Lifting their heads, Scheff and the other rat-folks, who had jumped up from their seats, stared in amazement. A door appeared in the ceiling almost directly above them. It was a massive, sturdy door, bound in metal, embodying the very concept of reliability. A door that had never been there before. And now it was.

Before anyone could even twitch a finger, there was a muffled crash and clanging from the impact, and then the door flew open. And down, right into the space between two long parallel tables, fell metal-bound chests. With a deafening crash, accompanied by the screams and squeals of frightened skaven rushing out from behind the tables in all directions, they crashed onto the stone floor of the underground hall, right between the two long tables, bursting open from the impact. Their contents - silver coins - were scattered in all directions.

Ten heartbeats later, chests fell from the open door in the ceiling and a waterfall of silver coins poured out, forming a natural mountain of treasure on the floor. When the last chest fell, breaking in half from the impact and spilling its contents, silence hung in the dungeon. Several hundred skaven, old and young, stared at the mountain of treasure. At the door in the ceiling. Back at the mountain of treasure. Again, at the door in the ceiling, from which a couple more coins fell. In the ensuing silence, the sound of their fall sounded like thunder.

Following them, the silence was broken by a loud and doomed sigh-moan. Under the gaze of his tribesmen, who had turned to him, Scheff pulled a sturdy belt made of thick leather from his trousers with one sharp movement. Rolling it up several times, he clenched it between his sharp teeth and pulled out a knife with a jerk. It was a good knife, genuine gnome workmanship, which he had taken from the camp of the tail-breakers' pursuers. It was razor-sharp, and he had already had the opportunity to test its sharpness. Twisting naturally like an adder, the skaven clamped his free hand on the tail, almost at the tailbone. Sinking his teeth into the belt even harder, Scheff swung, taking aim and trying with all his might not to close his eyes so as not to miss. The female skaven, realising what was about to happen, hurried to cover the eyes of the youngest of the children. And a few moments later, the deathly silence was broken:

"UUUMMFFFaaaaaaa!!! Fuck! What are you standing there for? Help!!! Aaaah!!! It hurts so much!!!"

* * *

Royal Forest Palace, Secret Guard Corps, temporary office of the queen.

After signing the resolution and stamping it with her seal, Sшvila placed the report on the situation in White Harbour in a neat pile, alongside nearly three dozen other reports and memos she had already read, of which she received a considerable number every day. She immediately picked up the next one from another pile. After checking the sealed scroll and making sure there were no traces of magic or alchemy, except for those designed to protect the contents, Sivila carefully opened it and began to study the next report, also concerning the massacre in White Harbour.

Reading the sparse lines of the report on the deaths of representatives of the Eastern Empire, written in impeccable calligraphy, the queen thought distantly that recent events had become less controllable and predictable. Noticeably less predictable and controllable than she would like. Sivila was infinitely far from the vain idea of considering herself the smartest, most cunning, and far-sighted, despite having lived for almost four thousand years. If the centuries she had lived had taught her anything, it was that no matter how hard you tried to foresee and plan everything, there was always a chance that some trifle or accident would ruin everything. But that was no reason to let things take their course, and so Sivila did her best, within her means, to ensure that there were as few unpleasant accidents as possible in the life of the Forest or the neighbouring lands.

Enormous effort was expended by her, the other Supreme Hierarchs, and their subordinates to achieve the current state of affairs, where there is no real threat that could truly endanger the existence of the Forest and its inhabitants. And to ensure that this remains the case, she and her colleagues continued to exert considerable effort, having learned from bitter experience that if they allowed anything to go unchecked, even for a short time (by elven standards), the consequences would take a century or two to sort out.

It would be disingenuous to say that they succeeded in everything they set out to do, but they were largely successful. The best proof of this is the absence of anyone who could pose a military threat to the elves. No, some of their neighbours might go to war with the Forest, but they couldn't expect any real success. Even a small victory would cost them too much, and the losses would be too painful. Their other neighbours would definitely take advantage of that. And if they weren't smart enough to figure that out, the Forest would teach them.

More than an acceptable situation for the elves. Was. Until recently. Because now the carefully built system, no, has not collapsed, but is experiencing more and more tests for strength. Which did not please the queen at all, having spent so much effort to bring everything to the current state of affairs. There were many problems at the same time, and at the same time, there was only one problem. The Master.

Countless times cursed by her, Master. The mysterious Master, about whom they know so much and yet so little. Master, whose very existence poses a potentially greater threat to the Forest than a dozen new Chiefs of Chiefs. The power he had obtained, the tempting Tablet of Souls, was capable of completely overturning the balance of power that had been so long established in a very short time. If the predictions of Third's analysts, based on observations of the development of the Guest's forces, are correct, then the Forest may very soon (again, by elven standards) have a new archmage on its hands. One who will be even more terrifying than the forgotten Lord of the Empire that turned out not to be Eternal, or the Apostate who thought too highly of himself.

At the mere thought of the previous archmage, or rather his descendant, now guaranteed to have been born to a desert whore, whose blood was free from divine curse, Sivila felt a fit of dull and powerless irritation. She would have to deal with this as well, since giving the Dark Tower to anyone was... categorically undesirable. And where on earth had these desert bitches managed to find the Apostate's gifted descendant, capable of conceiving a healthy child?!

Against the backdrop of looming problems with the Daughters of the Desert coven, the fact that one woman who enjoyed playing with other people's minds was likely to cease doing so was little consolation. Mentally wishing happiness to the mother whose image Andarial had recently managed to find and sketch, despite all the protection of the witches, and hoping that the remnants of her brain would continue to flow into her milk-swollen breasts, Sivila set aside the report, placing her resolution and seal on it. She also had to deal with the diplomats of the new Lord of the East, whose messenger's relative had the misfortune of falling under the knife of the accursed fanatics of the Dark Brotherhood.

Taking the next scroll, she carefully checked it, made sure there was no danger, and opened the report from the group of field agents working in the Great Steppe. Sivila's eyes habitually skimmed over the flawlessly even lines written in calligraphic handwriting. This report was not as sparse and dry as the previous one. By elven standards, it was literally overflowing with emotion. However, Whisper's feelings were understandable. Few agents would be pleased to be urgently pulled out in the middle of an operation, especially one that was going quite well, thus wasting more than a year of preparation. Because of this, they now had to start all over again, practically from scratch. But even as she read and, importantly, understood what was written, Sivila's thoughts involuntarily returned to the main problem. The Master. The damn Master. The problem that she couldn't solve.

His fate was still unknown. Of course, the message received by the "Guest" via the Tablet of the Soul spoke in favor of the fact that Master had survived. But it was also impossible to completely discard the version of First and Third that the message was not from him. And here the queen found it difficult to say which option was worse - that Master was alive or that the message was from another isekai. Although, no, perhaps the worst option would be if both Master remained alive and another isekai with the Tablet was walking around somewhere. As if one "Guest" was not enough for them...

With a mental sigh, the queen made her resolution, approving practically an ultimatum put forward by Whisper, who demanded additional funds and assistants for her group. And she was already reaching for the next report when a separate amulet lying on the edge of her desk emitted a quiet melody. Sivila immediately forgot about the current routine and literally grabbed the diary through which communication with Luaval was carried out. The latest news received from her trusted agent, and recently official vassal, was more than encouraging.

He and his companions managed to capture the dwarven vault. But alas, they could not take control of it. Having reported the results of the battle and what they had to face, Luaval said that they had decided to rest, regain their strength, and then they would begin hacking the portal. This news noticeably encouraged not only the elves, but also the dwarves, who did not forget to remind them of the terms of the agreement ten times. Alinarel and Mirael immediately began to prepare everything that could theoretically be needed to help in the process of hacking the portal. And Sivila allowed herself a few hours of sleep, using one of the workrooms in the Secret Guard Corps, given to her disposal.

The short sleep brought almost no relief, so as soon as she woke up, the queen quickly brought herself to the minimum required form with the help of her faithful Astra, and immediately got to work, waiting for new news from Luaval. And now she waited. Opening the diary, Sivila quickly found the right page and read the new lines. For a moment, the queen realized the meaning of what she had read, and then she let out an endlessly tired and doomed sigh. Under the questioning gaze of her bodyguard standing slightly to the side, Sivila took her personal communication amulet and sent a call to Third. He responded almost instantly.

||"I'm listening.

//"We have a problem. The lacuna has destabilized..."

* * *

Somewhere in the Underworld...

For a moment, his ears became blocked, as if Cyrill had dived several metres into the water without preparation. At the same time, it felt as if a sack of cement had been thrown onto his shoulders without warning, causing his knees to buckle and the young man to fall, had someone not caught him from behind. The latter was the result of the recoil from a monstrous blow that had crashed into the solid barriers protecting the fugitive squad, which the young man had been supporting with a direct channel, strengthening them with all his might. And if it weren't for this risky move, which his mentor had warned him against, everything could have ended very sadly. Because the powerful blow that came from all sides at once, as if something had squeezed them with a hellish press, could have crushed the barriers. For a moment, Cyrill even thought that it was all over. He ran out.

But to his immense relief, it lasted no more than a second, and then the world outside the barriers, which had been shattered into thousands of fragments, regained its integrity. At that very moment, the pressure disappeared. The young man involuntarily exhaled with relief, feeling as if a mountain had been lifted from his shoulders. Gratefully nodding to Armina, who had been supporting him from behind and preventing him from falling, he and the other fugitives began to look around, trying to understand where they had ended up.

It was dark around them, but not completely. A few dim and cloudy small crystals, as well as a couple of clusters of mushrooms resembling toadstools, allowed them to see a small cave by their light. Compared to the underground halls where they had been before, it was downright small. It was no more than three floors high and not very wide. The fugitives were thrown out onto the only more or less flat and spacious place, as the rest of the cave's surface was either filled with stones and rock debris or stalagmites. Shinda-Bah was the first to voice the general idea:

"So where are we?"

First's answer was truly laconic:

"In the Underworld."

Turning to Cyrill, the dark elf also asked briefly:

"Cirial?"

The young man closed his eyes, tuning into the mini-map. It took him a few seconds to zoom in and figure out where they were before he replied:

"We were thrown to the southeast of Kardarot... About one hundred and fifty kilometers..."

“I see...” First drawled thoughtfully, “It turns out that we are approximately under the southeastern part of the Coastal Ridge...”

"Is this good or bad?" asked the Caliphate captain.

"More like good. If we can get to the surface and the coast, we consider ourselves saved. We just need to figure out where exactly we are in the Underworld. This is clearly a side tunnel. We need to get out into the main hall, there's a chance to get our bearings there. Ciriall! Rebuild the barriers into a marching version and cover us with a camouflage illusion."

"Okay, I'll do it now."

"In the meantime, we need to clarify something."

Turning to Litsana and Ilidris, who instantly stood almost at attention, First said in an extremely serious voice:

"You two. If you want, you can leave right now and try to get to your hometown on your own. I'm not going to stop you, but I'm also not going to help you. If you really are Hunters, you can get to Home with what you have in your hands now."

The brother and sister quickly exchanged glances, after which Litsana, looking intently at First, asked in an extremely polite voice:

"Are you really ready to let us go? Just like that?"

In response, First let out a quiet sigh, in which one could feel endless fatigue, and said:

"If you decide to escape at the right moment, now that we're out of the vault, the only way I can hold you back is by force, by binding you with fetters or putting you in shackles. That would make you a serious liability to the entire party, and a liability in the Underworld is a threat. So I'm not going to hold you back by force and make sure you don't do anything stupid. So I'm giving you two a choice."

Looking meaningfully at his relatives, First continued in a harsh voice:

"Either you leave right now, and that's where our paths diverge. Or you stay with us until we all get out of this mess. But in that case, you'll continue to do what I say until the very end. And if you decide to stay, and then run away after a while... I'll remember that. I give you both my word. So decide now."

The brother and sister looked at each other again, looking into each other's eyes for a few seconds. Then they nodded almost simultaneously, slightly bowing their heads, and Ilidris replied:

"Without supplies, it will be extremely difficult for the two of us to reach Rean na Kharan through the Wild Territories... even for hunters like us. Besides..."

At that moment, he looked meaningfully at his relatives, especially at the Senior of their squad.

"If we return together, it may very well be that the Elder Catcher will take it out on us for the failure of our mission..."

At these words, the wounded elf, still sitting in the seat formed by the barriers, twitched her ears noticeably, and there was so much warmth in her gaze at her subordinate that it would have been enough to heat a small village somewhere in the Arctic in winter. But this look did not impress Idris, and the dark elf finished:

"Therefore, we will stay with you until the end, First."

"So be it. Ciriall?"

"I'm already done."

"Then let's go. And be vigilant! Who knows where exactly we've ended up..."

No one argued with First, and the group of fugitives cautiously moved forward. Cyrill did not understand how exactly the dark elf determined which direction to go in the cave, but he did not ask, deciding to trust the professional. It was not easy to walk; they had to watch their step carefully, which the darkness did not help. Cyrill suggested lighting the way, for which all six dark elves, including the wounded, literally hissed at him. Bright light is one of the best ways to attract unwanted attention in the Underworld. Incidentally, all the fugitives quietly envied the wounded trio, as they were not walking on their own feet, but were comfortably seated on seats-barriers that moved slowly through the air.

At one point, when the group was delayed by a small pile of collapsed stalactites blocking the cave, Cyrill waved his hand and created another seat for the oldest of the steppe women, who was having the most difficulty. For this, he received sincere gratitude from all the steppe dwellers. And a mental comment from Diantrel on the subject that helping the infirm is wonderful, but it would be better for him to save his strength, as it is unknown what awaits them ahead. Cyrill replied, also mentally, that maintaining another stretcher-like device would not take much strength, and that way, they would move much faster. The mentor did not argue with him, but Cyrill vaguely sensed that she was again dissatisfied with them. The young man wistfully remembered the levitating chair provided to him by the elves during his treatment. He would have to get one for himself someday...

"Quiet!"

All extraneous thoughts immediately vanished from his mind as soon as First, walking ahead, raised his hand and hissed. All the fugitives who had just crossed the barricade immediately froze, listening intently and readying their weapons. This time, even Cyrill could hear sounds coming from somewhere ahead. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make them out clearly. They sounded like screams... Or were they? The firstborn, with their keen ears, had no trouble making them out. After a few seconds, First, who had been frozen in place, gave his verdict:

"There's a battle ahead. Dwarves. Most likely dark ones. Fighting off, judging by the screams, underground beasts. And very variouse ones at that..."

"What are we going to do?" asked Diantrel, instantly becoming extremely serious and getting her staff ready.

"Let's see what's going on there, and then we'll decide. Let's go! Be ready, everyone."

The squad, having taken up arms again, moved forward even more cautiously. Fortunately, the cave soon made a turn, after which it widened noticeably. There was even more glowing flora on the walls here, but there was noticeably less stone debris on the floor, so it became noticeably easier to walk. After rounding another bend, the fugitives saw the exit from the cave, beyond which the main hall was clearly visible. By this point, even Снrill could easily distinguish the characteristic sounds of combat magic being used. As well as the cries and screeches of some creatures.

"Everyone, get ready! Move with extreme caution. The passages are the best places for ambushes! Сiriall, watch the barriers and the illusion! Make it as reliable as possible, we must not be seen! The rest of you! Don't stick your head out and don't do anything without my command!"

Once again, no one dared to argue with First. With their weapons at the ready, the squad reached the cave exit and froze. There was not just a large underground hall. They found themselves at the edge of a naturally huge underground hall, wide and with a high ceiling, where dozens of crystals of various sizes twinkled in the darkness, resembling stars. And this hall stretched in both directions, as far as the detachment could see, for what seemed like a couple of kilometres. In the centre of this gigantic hall was a road. It was a solid road, paved with slabs, rising above the surrounding floor surface, wide, almost like a natural motorway, as on his native Earth. But the space on either side of it and up to the side walls was quite wild, scattered with fragments of rocks and stones, apparently left over from the construction of the road, as well as those that had been there originally. They were interspersed with small islands of underground flora and fungi, some of which glowed quite brightly.

As soon as the squad looked outside, the source of the noise became clearly visible. About two hundred metres to the right of the cave exit where the fugitives had been thrown out, a fierce battle was raging. In the middle of the road stood some kind of huge contraption on wheels. This marvel, clearly the work of gnome engineering, looked like something between a cart and a tank, only in the style of mago, paro, and who knows what kind of punk. This mago-tank was as long as a sturdy truck, if you include the container trailer, and twice as wide. Its high sides were covered with sturdy, metal-bound shields, like those on the Viking drakkars that Cyrill had seen in pictures on his native Earth. They also partially covered four pairs of huge wheels, a metre and a half high, wide, and also metal-bound.

In front and behind it were natural gun turrets, with barrels of real cannons sticking out. True, they were combined with two powerful and stationary magic wands. In the center of this miracle of the fantasy industry, there was a fortified superstructure, with something like a command bridge, also covered with shields, but smaller.

Even with normal vision, this mago-tank looked more than impressive, and with magical vision, even more so! Cyrill easily distinguished several dozen small protective barriers, overlapping and tied to the shields covering the sides and the commander's bridge. In addition to these, there was also a general protective barrier covering the mago-tank from above, but broken up into separate segments. Only a completely blind gifted person would fail to notice the glow of the powerful combat wands combined with the cannons, located in the bow and stern turrets. And the metal of the cannons was clearly not simple either. Looking closely, Cyrill could see runic inscriptions entwined around the barrels, glowing in his magical vision. There were also smaller firing points located along the sides, covered by shields. There were stationary magic wands of medium power. Compared to those in the gun turrets.

In short, the firepower of this creation by the dwarf masters of fantasy mechanics was more than decent. And right now, it was demonstrating it! All the weapons of this magic tank were firing furiously at dozens of various creatures circling around it. All of them, without exception, looked quite scary and frankly creepy, in Cyrill's opinion. More precisely, it was not the tank firing but the stocky figures in armour. And quite successfully, with each volley, they shot down one beast after another, but the rest continued to press forward.

Well, yes... During their lectures, the mentor had given Cyrill a couple of times the opportunity to examine elven atlases depicting underground fauna. The images were impressive, especially since they could be projected in three dimensions and viewed from all angles. But it is one thing to see a picture, even a magical one, and quite another to see such creatures in real life. Among those attacking the mage tank were creatures resembling a hybrid of ostriches and reptiles, with powerful beaks and sharp claws on the joints of their winged paws. They were huge, several metres long, centipedes. A whole flock of rat-like creatures, only the size of a good-sized sheepdog, some of which were also covered with scales. Some winged creatures, with membranous wings resembling bats and evoking unpleasant associations with Garkains, but many times smaller.

And all these beasts rushed madly at the defending dwarves. By the time the fugitives appeared, the entire road and its shoulders for several dozen metres around the mage tank were littered with the smoking, chopped, torn to pieces, burnt, and crushed corpses of the attackers. But the beasts stubbornly continued to rush at the defenders, suffering losses, retreating, rushing back into the attack, and so on, over and over again. Moreover, some of the creatures were quite effectively striking the mago-tank with magic. And the centipedes were spewing streams of some kind of corrosive slime from their mouths with chelicerae, no worse than garden hoses under high pressure. And this stuff was clearly not simple, because when it hit the protective barriers of the mage tank, it noticeably wore them down, starting to bubble right on them.

For a few seconds, the fugitives watched the battle. Then First, in a quiet voice in which notes of surprise could be discerned, thoughtfully said:

"What the heck..."

"What are you talking about?" Cirill asked, not taking his eyes off the furious battle, where another attack of scolopendras, supported by a swarm of rats and flying creatures, was drowned in streams of magical flame emitted from the rear gun turret.

The dark elf turned to him for a moment and pointed his hand at the raging beasts:

"This simply shouldn't happen. These are all wild predators and competitors at that. They shouldn't gather together at all, much less rush in a crowd to death..."

"Did they set them on purpose? Is this someone's ambush?" the Senior Hunter immediately suggested, immediately starting to look around.

The other dark elves and the rest of the fugitives followed her example, but First shook his head.

"I doubt it. It's too troublesome and unreliable to gather such a crowd, and even such a crowd won't be able to take the heavy war chariot of the dwarves; no matter how hard they try, the bearded ones will simply..."

"They're sitting on the accumulators!" Diantrel suddenly blurted out.

Under the questioning glances of those around her, the elf pointed at the dwarven mage-tank.

"Their generator is silent; they are currently using magical energy from auxiliary storage devices, but at this rate, they won't last long..."

As if to confirm the sorceress's words, some of the small barriers, having received another dose of poisonous rubbish from the centipede that had managed to get too close, burst apart with a crash.

"So that's it... Now that's interesting..." First drawled, "Guur'Aar, can you send the most inconspicuous of your eyes to take a closer look?"

“I will,” the elderly shaman nodded, and immediately one of the eyes that had been circling around him flew forward, dissolving into the air until it was completely transparent.

"Sabotage. Someone deliberately disabled it and prepared an ambush," the Senior of the Hunter squad gave her verdict without waiting for the results of the reconnaissance.

Squinting her eyes unpleasantly and starting to shake her head more violently than an owl, she continued:

"We need to be on guard; there is probably an ambush somewhere, waiting for the defenders to use up their energy reserves. Can you figure out what kind of clan this is?"

“Judging by the signs on the shields, this is the Duunir clan,” Ilidris said, narrowing his red eyes.

"Duunir... I heard about it, but I haven't personally encountered it," his Senior shook her head, thoughtfully folding her arms across her chest, "so I can't even guess who could have arranged this sabotage for them..."

"It was not betrayal that deprived them of the hearth of magic that fed this self-propelled chariot, born in darkness," Guur'Aar suddenly spoke up, interrupting the dark elf.

In response to the questioning looks, the old shaman raised his hand, and an image of the battle appeared in front of him. The view was slightly from above and from the other side of the road, which the fugitives could not see but was clearly visible to one of the Ten-Eyed One's eyes, sent on reconnaissance by an elderly orc. From another angle, the fugitives could see a huge piece of stalactite that had pierced the deck of the mage tank, right at the base of the central superstructure. Next to it, several dwarven figures in sturdy chain mail armour made of blackened metal were busy at work. They had already broken most of the stalactites into relatively small pieces, throwing them overboard immediately, and were now removing the remains. Judging by the runes burning on their armour and the brightly glowing inlaid crystals, they were using magical amplifiers; otherwise they would not have been able to lift such boulders. For a moment, Снrill even regretted that the sharp-eyed spirit did not transmit sound, as this process was surely accompanied by interesting comments.

Looking at the image, the Senior of Hunters fell silent for a moment, and then, with truly exemplary elven arrogance, she jerked her head:

"I don’t believe in coincidences like a stalactite accidentally and so successfully falling right on a war chariot."

Turning to First, she continued:

"This is definitely an ambush and a trap!"

He asked an unexpected question in response:

"But then, where are they?"

The Senior raised her eyebrows in confusion:

"Who?"

"Where are those who set this ambush? I've been looking around for forty heartbeats, using all the magical vision available to me, and I don't see anyone intelligent nearby except us. But I do see animal tracks. Lots of tracks from all kinds of underground beasts that ran by not long ago. The ones attacking the dwarves now aren't the first ones to pass through here today. Somehow, it doesn't seem like an ambush. It's more like something scared the inhabitants of the surrounding Wild Territories, who usually stay away from such roads."

"You speak the truth, born in darkness," supported First Guur'Aar.

"Ten-eyed also saw abundant traces of living creatures of the sun not knowing. As well as that which drove them, something on the stone path, something, not of their own free will, they ran here."

The Senior of Hunters was silent for a moment, then demonstratively folded her arms across her chest and said, pointing at the mago-tank:

"If this is not an ambush by one of their enemies, then we should be even more careful! The thing that alarmed so many animals clearly does not bode well for us."

“I agree, we can’t be too careful,” Diantrel nodded.

Turning to First, she asked:

"Should we hide here and wait for help? Or should we intervene?"

The number of fresh animal corpses around them had increased significantly, but magical vision revealed that the glow of the protective barriers had become noticeably dimmer, and their number had decreased. The same was true of the stationary wands firing shots. Some of the gnomes, who had previously been firing from handheld wands, had already taken up cold weapons, fighting off various creatures climbing onto the mage tank with two-handed axes. The first one thought about the question for a few seconds, then replied:

"I suggest we help them first, then talk. We are now on the Eastern Underworld Route," the dark elf pointed to a small stone milestone at the edge of the road, covered with dwarven runes and elven script. "Approximately under the eastern part of the Coastal Ridge. It will take us quickly to a suitable exit to the surface, on the shore of the Elven Gulf. Especially if we get a ride."

"I wouldn't count on such kindness, even if we help them in battle," Diantrel said doubtfully, not taking her violet eyes off the struggling gnomes, "even the inhabitants of Undermountain can be well... stubborn. And their dark brothers are much worse."

"I believe in your diplomacy," First smiled wryly, "and I really hope that they will not be deaf to the voice of reason. For their own good."

After which he briefly ordered:

"Do it."

Cyrill's mentor did not argue further. Taking a step forward, she began to form an offensive weave, and an empty space formed around her. After spending a dozen heartbeats on preparation, Diantrel struck, not skimping on putting more reserve into the attack. With a loud crack, a branch-like lightning bolt shot from the tip of her staff, striking a particularly large centipede, whose armour had successfully withstood the gnomes' magical attacks and literally shimmered in magical vision. But it couldn't deflect the elf's lightning, causing the predatory creature to convulse, curling up into a ball and writhing like a snake in a frying pan.

The mentor's lightning bolt split into several smaller bolts, striking a dozen other smaller creatures in a chain reaction. Several rats, a couple of flying creatures, and a beaked hybrid of an ostrich and a crocodile were successfully struck down. The sudden attack, and such a powerful one, threw chaos into the already disorderly ranks of the underground beasts, causing their next attack to falter completely. Having suffered losses, the remaining creatures retreated from the mage-tank, and after receiving a couple more lightning strikes from nowhere, they finally fled, scattering in all directions. Some, however, did not forget to pick up the pieces of their destroyed comrades' carcasses.

Some fleeing animals were finished off by dwarves shooting them in the back. But almost immediately, the bearded men, who had clearly noticed where the lightning bolts were coming from, turned the rear turret of their magic tank precisely towards the fugitives, as well as several smaller magic wands on the sides. Several powerful magic lamps on the central superstructure and at both ends of the magic tank were also aimed at the fugitives. Their beams began to search the entrance to the cave, and they did not just shine; Cyrill felt that they were noticeably straining the illusion covering the fugitives, trying to destabilise it. However, the gnomes did not shoot. Instead, a rough male bass voice, amplified by magic, asked something in an incomprehensible language. Unexpectedly, Cyrill understood the meaning of what was said.

"Who are you?! Show yourself!"

Another moment later, the understanding came that the mental connection with Diantrel had worked again. The mentor more or less understood the meaning of what was said, though with reservations, since she spoke Undermountain Dwarf, and this was clearly the dialect of the dark dwarves.

"Cirial, remove the illusion, but leave the barriers. And be prepared to strengthen them."

"Got it. Wait, where..."

"Don't shoot, we want to talk!" Diantrel shouted in Undermountain Dwarven, also amplifying her voice with magic.

When the illusion that had been covering the squad disappeared, the defenders of the underground mage-tank were silent for a few seconds, then a rough bass voice was heard:

"Come here! Don't walk too fast! Don't do something stupid!"

Exchanging glances, the fugitives cautiously moved forward, under the cover of protective barriers. The five rescued Hunters looked particularly sour, clearly unhappy about being kept at gunpoint. In fact, it was obvious that they categorically disliked the whole idea. But surprisingly, none of them argued. When the group of fugitives, moving cautiously between rocks of various sizes, underground flora, and the carcasses of dead animals, approached the side of the road where the mage tank was standing, the command was given in the same rough bass voice:

"Stop!"

The fugitives froze. Diantrel, who stood in front, said in a loud voice:

"We mean no harm. Can I speak to the senior?"

At the same time, the mentor noticeably reduced her camouflage, causing her to glow significantly brighter in magical vision. The crew of the magic tank also clearly noticed this and assessed Diantrel's power. Cyril, who could already clearly make out the stocky figures clad in blackened plate armour taking up positions behind the side shields, noticed them exchanging glances. He could also clearly see that the magic wands aimed at them were no longer glowing as brightly as they had when they first saw them. It seemed that the dwarves had already used up a considerable amount of their energy reserves. At some point, they apparently came to a decision, and the same rough bass voice coming from the command bridge said:

"Good. I am speaking. Do not do something stupid, otherwise it will be very painful to regret!"

A couple of figures, barely visible behind their shields, who had been standing on the command bridge, disappeared from view, apparently descending into some kind of hatch that was invisible to the fugitives. A minute later, there was some movement and commotion on board the mago-tank, directly opposite the central superstructure. From the roadside, where the group of fugitives had stopped, it was not clear what was happening there, as the marvel of gnome engineering was quite high. But after about a minute, everything became clear when the two side shields covering the gnomes behind them were carefully removed, revealing the passage hidden behind them and lowering a ladder. Three gnomes slowly descended the ladder. The one in front was clad in noticeably more luxurious plate armour, made of blackened metal and decorated with gold engravings in the form of runic characters. It was also encrusted with precious stones, clearly accumulators of magical energy.

Cyrill clearly saw the protective barriers surrounding him, as well as the reinforcing weaves running directly across the surface of the armour. A natural combat exoskeleton, fantasy version. He had no weapons in his hands. However, combat amulets were clearly embedded in the forearms of his armour, even if they were not ‘unlocked.’ But his companions, in less fancy but also plate armour made of hardened steel, had their weapons at the ready. Each of them carried a massive shield in one hand, into which an amulet was embedded, projecting an additional barrier, and in the other... no, not a stereotypical axe, but a heavy combat staff, and they were fully charged and ready for use.

The trio of gnomes slowly approached the fugitives standing on the side of the road and stopped at the very edge of the road. For a few seconds, Cyrill and the other fugitives stared at them. And they looked at the fugitives. The young man could literally feel the gears turning in the head of the eldest of the trio as he saw the company standing before him. The dwarve's face was largely covered by a powerful helmet, but thanks to his magical vision, Cyrill could make out eyes as red as those of most dark elves and dark grey skin through the slits.

"Whoever is behind the name Golden Hands, why are you here?!" broke the prolonged silence, the chief dwarf, no longer so loud, but still quite gruff in his bass voice.

Thanks to his connection with Diantrel, Cyrill understood the general meaning of what was said, albeit with reservations. The mentor, barely nodding in greeting, with exemplary elven composure, said in the Dwarven language of Undermountain:

"Greetings, venerable sons of the mountains."

After a pause, Diantrel looked closely at the trio of gnomes. The chief narrowed his eyes, but also slightly bowed his head in greeting and replied:

"And to you, good health, worthy sorceress daughter of the first forest."

Diantrel continued:

"My companions and I, by the will of Fate, accidentally found ourselves in this place. We do not wish you harm. All we want is to return home."

As Diantrel spoke, Cyrill heard the creaking of gears in the head of the main dwarf more and more clearly. And not only in his head. The other stocky, bearded men who continued to hold them at gunpoint, standing on board the mage-tank, were also clearly not so stunned at the sight of Cyrill and his companions.

“By chance...” the leader said slowly, deep in his voice, continuing to look around at the extremely motley group of fugitives with an intent and distrustful gaze.

A group of four Caliphate members, one of whom is a female sorceress, dressed in dusty but clearly not cheap clothes. The same dusty steppe dwellers, half of whom are orcs, the eldest of whom is clearly not a weak shaman. A small detachment of dark elf hunters, half of whom are wounded and sitting on magical analogues of wheelchairs, as well as one elderly steppe woman. And the cherry on top is an elf sorceress whose power the gnomes have already had a chance to appreciate from her lightning bolts and subtle body. As a bonus, there are Cirill and Armina, who also never fit into the realities of the Underworld, and a couple of unfortunate restaurant workers. After looking over the entire squad with a keen eye and making some incomprehensible conclusions, the leader of the trio of dwarves turned back to Diantrel and slowly muttered:

"If the honourable spellcaster speaks the truth, the warriors of the Duunir clan also do not wish to quarrel with you and your comrades. I am grateful to my brothers for their help in battle. If you wish to see the sky up close, there is a way to get there. It is a quick walk from this place, and I am ready to tell you the way."

"It was clearly not easy for the mentor to understand the dialect of the dark dwarves, but she understood the general meaning, and Cyrill understood it with her. Diantrel bowed her head slightly again in gratitude and asked:"

"Can the venerable senior warrior of the Duunir clan tell me where exactly the exit to..."

At that moment, completely out of the blue, the entire underground hall shook noticeably, causing one of the fugitives to almost fall over. A weaker but distinct tremor immediately followed the first powerful jolt. The chief gnome reacted instantly, uttering something between a cry and a curse, strengthening the protective barriers surrounding his armor. Two bodyguards immediately appeared beside him, providing additional cover with their shields. The gnomes remaining on the mage tank followed suit, almost all at once. At the same time, the main protective barrier covering the marvel of gnome engineering was rearranged, transforming from a segmented structure into a smooth, solid dome.

The reason for all these manipulations became clear almost immediately. A loud crack came from somewhere above, and debris of various sizes, including entire stalactites, began to fall throughout the huge hall through which the Eastern Tract passed.

"Cirial, ba..."

"DONE!!"

Without waiting for orders, the young man rearranged and reinforced the upper part of the barriers protecting their group. And as it turned out, it was very timely, because a couple of relatively small stones flew down from the ceiling right at them, bouncing off the magical protection with a deafening crash and crack. However, given the height from which they fell, even a small pebble would have been enough to crack their heads open. Many fugitives instinctively ducked, covering their heads, but nothing else fell on them. A couple of large pieces of debris fell on the dwarven magic tank, but they also bounced off the protective barrier without causing any damage.

The shaking continued according to Cyril's feelings for about a minute, and all this time, something was constantly falling from the ceiling. At one point, it became really scary that the whole dungeon was about to collapse, but it passed, and the shaking stopped as suddenly as it had begun. For a few seconds, the fugitives and the tank crew resembled frozen wax figures, nervously listening to their surroundings. Then the leader of the dwarves burst into a short but choice string of curses, the meaning of which the mentor understood only vaguely. Something about some children of filth and unworthy deeds that their mothers had done with someone else who was also bad.

He cursed and said through gritted teeth, quickly looking around:

"Bad. This time is long. Bad..."

"What's the problem, sir?" asked Diantrel, who had somehow managed to pull out her magic wand.

The chief of the trio of dwarves turned sharply to the elf and said in a gloomy bass voice:

"The deep earth trembles, frightening nearby predators. They flee in fear and anger along this path. So be it, four together this time!"

As if to confirm his words, various cries and screeches rang out from several side passages that abounded adjacent to the huge hall through which the tract stretched. Literally a couple of seconds later, they were joined by the loud roar of some obviously large beast. Diantrel and the other dark elves almost simultaneously twitched their ears and turned their heads. A couple of seconds later, the mentor delivered her grim verdict:

"Animals. Many. Different. Running here."

After which, she turned to the chief of the dwarves and asked something incomprehensible:

"Andar tak?"

He turned to her, looked at Cyril's mentor for a moment, then nodded briefly and replied just as incomprehensibly:

"Andar tak."

Then, surprisingly quickly, he removed the gauntlet from his right hand, took a step forward, and extended it to Diantrel. The elf stepped out from behind the protective barriers to meet him and shook his hand. For a few moments, their clasped hands were enveloped in a bluish light, after which they simultaneously released their grip. And Cyril, through a mental connection with his mentor, understood that what had just happened was a magical way of confirming the goodness of intentions. Something like a mutual lie detector test using the limited fusion method. Those being tested partially reveal themselves to each other. This technique is quite common among those who have to visit places of varying degrees of savagery and communicate with the local inhabitants. Of course, it is far from 100% reliable, but at least there is some guarantee that you will not be stabbed in the back, which is better than no guarantee at all.

Apparently satisfied that there were no hostile intentions between them, Diantrel and the chief dwarf nodded to each other once more. Then the latter roared in his bass voice:

"Hurry up! There's not much time!"

Diantrel turned around and nodded briefly, confirming:

"Let's go!"

There was no need to repeat it twice, and the group of fugitives followed the three dwarves onto the magic tank. As soon as the last of them climbed aboard, the dwarves immediately raised the ladder and put the shields back in place, blocking the passage. It soon became apparent that although this marvel of dwarf engineering looked very large from the outside, there was surprisingly little space inside. And with the arrival of a crowd of nearly twenty humans and non-humans, there was no space at all. The problem was solved quite simply. All those unable to fight were sent to the lower deck, where, as Cyril understood, there was an analogue of the engine room and supply warehouse. Of course, he was accompanied by one of the dwarves fighters, and only after the commander of the mage tank repeated five times: “DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING!”

None of the steppe women, their children, or the wounded dark elves argued, obediently descending through the hatch in the deck near the central superstructure. The rest of the fugitives, who had prepared their weapons, were distributed along the sides of the mage tank, reinforcing the defenders from among the gnomes. Cyril, along with his mentor, instantly identified as the most powerful striking force, was politely but insistently asked by the chief dwarf to go up to the command bridge at the top of the central superstructure. Diantrel did not argue, as it would be the best vantage point. Cyril was again entrusted with the function embodied in the now sacramental phrase “CIRIAL BARRIERS!”

By this time, the cries of various animals pouring out of the side corridors had become quite distinct. Everyone was preparing for defense, checking their weapons, and the commander of the mage-tank, who had taken his place on the command bridge, where it had become much more crowded with the appearance of Diantrel and Cyrill, was giving out instructions:

"Don't strike first! Go first with a large pack! Let them pass! Strike only the one who attacks first! Strike the first and strongest! Kill the strongest, break the pack, and run!"

Listening to the words of the chief gnome through the repeater in the form of a mentor, Cyril reinforced the gaps in the mago-tank's defense with separate barriers. Damn, again the reserve is just over half, at least use the token to create another magic source. Yeah, a source wouldn't hurt here, nor would a good ritual circle. Try covering such a monster with barriers on all sides. And it would be good to camouflage it so the beasts couldn't see where it was... Stop! Stop... STOP!!!

A sudden insight formed into an idea in literally a second, and Cyril turned sharply to his mentor. Diantrel was already forming the chain lightning weave, which now came much easier to her. The dwarf commander pointed to the side passages visible in the distance, from where the underground dwellers would have to push forward.

"Why should we fight them?!"

Both immediately turned to the young man, not understanding what he had asked. The dwarf literally did not understand, since Cyril had asked the question in Elvish, and the mentor did not understand the meaning. But after a second (what a cool thing telepathy is, allowing you to use ideas and images instead of words!), she got it. She was silent for a moment, then nodded sharply and ordered:

"Do it!"

"What is your assistant-student-servant saying?" The chief did not understand, watching as Cirill began feverishly forming the weave.

Diantrel smiled faintly in response and said:

"You'll see..."

* * *

Beasts poured out of several side tunnels and passages leading to neighboring underground halls almost simultaneously. The beasts were of various kinds, but the vast majority were predatory. A whole flock of creatures resembling rats ran out of one passageway, although some were covered with scales in places, evidence of magical mutations. From another passageway flew a whole flock of shrill creatures resembling bats with membranous wings, but with long snake-like bodies, which gave them a triangular shape in flight. Several centipedes that had been seen earlier crawled out of another passageway, rapidly moving their dozens of legs. And from the cave where the fugitives had been thrown, something resembling a huge armadillo ran out, only the size of a rhinoceros, with powerful paws and moving surprisingly quickly between the rocks and stones.

And this huge mass of all kinds of underground creatures, which under normal circumstances would have tried to devour each other first, paying almost no attention to each other, rushed to flee. The strongest and most confident rushed straight along the Eastern Underground Passage. The weaker ones meandered along its edges, between rocks and patches of vegetation. But they all ran in one direction. Straight to where a rock rose up in the middle of the passage, its origin unknown. It was a massive rock with almost vertical edges, impossible to climb and much easier to run around. And the animals began to run around it, dividing into two streams, which, after circling the rock, rejoined behind it. And they continued to run on.

They paid no attention to the corpses of their fellow creatures lying around the rock in the middle of the road. Almost. Only some of the largest predators managed to grab individual pieces of their predecessors' torn carcasses as they ran past. But the vast majority ran past without paying any attention. The main wave of beasts ran past the rock in less than five minutes, rushing either further along the road or turning into side passages beyond the rock. Ten minutes later, only a few remained near the rock, apparently the hungriest predators who had decided to feast on the bodies of the previously killed inhabitants of the Underworld. But even they, for the most part, did not eat the carcasses on the spot, but tried to drag them somewhere to the side, to the roadside, and feed there.

The chief of the dwarves, who was watching this scene, turned to Cyrill, who was all sweaty from the tension, and said in a deep voice, nodding his head contentedly to him:

"Clever deception! A good deed!"

Nodding in response, the young man looked around for Armin. The maid was on the main deck of the mago-tank, along with the other fugitives, a battle staff in her hand. As if sensing his gaze, she immediately understood and, with a single movement, took a flask out of her bag, deftly throwing it right into Cyril's hands. He nodded gratefully and took a few greedy gulps. Phew, good!

"Glad we could help you. Now... Be careful!!!"

The mentor's scream merged with the screams of the other defenders who had managed to notice the danger. Cyrill, alas, was not one of them; that is why he almost dropped his flask of water and choked on top of that. What the?!

The answer to his unspoken question came in the form of a deafening crash as one of the small side passages shattered into stone fragments, right next to the magick tank frozen in place by the illusion, only on the opposite side from where the fugitives had come. It wasn't even a passageway, just a narrow slit that a person of normal build could only squeeze through sideways. It had been. Just a moment ago. Now, in its place was a large hole from which a stream of stones poured out with a loud rumble.

"What the... Damn it!!!"

Cyril voiced his last thought aloud, and he wasn't the only one. Because what he had initially taken for a pile of rocks turned out to be a damn earth elemental! With a deafening roar, dozens of boulders of various sizes, but all relatively round in shape, rolled out, immediately taking on the shape of a ball. In the center of it was a huge boulder, two meters in diameter, which glowed particularly brightly in magical vision. More precisely, the veins covering it glowed, like marble, standing out brightly against the background of the main mass of stone. The same veins glowed on the other smaller stones, which rolled continuously around the main one or directly on it.

And Cyril didn't like their brightness at all. Nor did he like the oppressive feeling of enormous weight, dry heat, and literal impenetrability that emanated from the elemental. Even with his Sensitivity score of two, the young man fully appreciated them in the few moments while the creature rolled around in place. And he barely had time to utter a thoughtful “Fuck” to himself, assessing the power of this enemy and the degree of its protection, when it rushed forward with unexpected speed. Straight at the mago-tank hidden behind the illusion. And Cyril, as if time had slowed down for him for a moment, clearly realized one more thing, thanks to the knowledge granted by the System. That elementals perceive the world differently than living beings, even those endowed with magic. And to deceive them, completely different illusory weaves are needed...

He was just realizing this when his mentor and the dwarves reacted, as did some of the fugitives. At the command of the bearded leader, a dozen handheld and stationary magic wands and even a couple of enchanted arrows struck the rolling stone wall simultaneously. It was impressive, but completely ineffective. Almost a third of the magical charges, in the form of energy beams or classic magic arrows, simply ricocheted off to the side, causing no harm to the elemental's stones. The clumps of flame simply scattered into small splashes and showers of sparks, at best blackening individual parts of the stone body. Even though the flame was magical and should have stuck to them, it simply flowed down and quickly went out. The rest of the blows, at best, simply chipped off small pieces from the stones that formed the elemental's body. More like crumbs, really.

Even the mentor's lightning bolt, which flashed brightly in the darkness of the dungeon, struck one of the medium-sized stones and split it into several pieces. At the same time, she had just destroyed a dozen different animals with lightning of the same power. And the earth elemental did not even seem to notice the loss of one of the particles of its body. With an intensified rumble, it rushed forward, straight at the mage tank. At the same time, the glow of the veins on the stones that formed it intensified sharply, after which the stones seemed to be surrounded by a translucent film.

//“A protective barrier,” Cyrill decided, sharing this thought with his mentor, who responded with a dull and tense irritation, aware of the problems ahead. And the elemental did not disappoint her. A couple of small stones rolling down the main boulder suddenly accelerated sharply, separating from the body and beginning to circle around it, like the Moon around the Earth. After making a couple of turns at increasing speed, they rushed forward on the next turn, no worse than cannonballs. To Diantrel's cry of “СIRIALL, BARRIERS!!!”, they struck the protective barriers of the mage tank.

And they didn't just hit, they exploded with a deafening roar. Small fragments flew in all directions, no worse than shrapnel. Most of them were stopped by the tank's protective barriers reinforced by Cyril. But not all of them. Some, imbued with natural earth-colored magic, acted like armor-piercing shells, breaking through the protective magic. Fortunately, they were stopped by the shields covering the sides. However, it was with great difficulty, as one particularly large fragment almost broke through. Damn it!

"Gnorin! Khudrin! Arbashtar, abrashtar ana!!!" The chief dwarf shouted something incomprehensible.

As it turned out, these words were incomprehensible to Cyrill and his mentor. But his subordinates understood their commander perfectly. In particular, those sitting behind the stern and bow turrets. Turning unexpectedly quickly toward the elemental, they struck it simultaneously from both ends of the magic tank. And then it turned out that the gnome cannons were not really cannons at all. In the sense that they did not fire using gunpowder, even alchemical gunpowder. As Cyril was later told, they were more like fantasy railguns. They were loaded with special arrow-shaped shells, which were also enchanted. These shells were propelled by the magic embedded in the barrels. And so the dwarven artillery showed itself at its best!

The first two shells struck the elemental with a deafening roar, literally shattering two of its medium-sized boulders into small pieces and breaking through its protective barriers. He clearly didn't like that. Slowing down, he roared even louder and began to send one small boulder after another toward the mage tank, imbuing them with magic. And with different magic, the bastard! Because of this, some boulders worked like high-explosive shells, exploding at the barriers and trying to hit the defenders with stone shrapnel. Others worked like dischargers, perfectly destabilizing the protective barriers and depleting their reserves. Still others acted as armor-piercing projectiles, and these became a real problem, as they could only be stopped using multi-layered barriers of increased density. The first layer was penetrated by the stone, but it lost some of its force and acceleration, so the second barrier was very likely to stop it. The third barrier was certain to do so.

The problem was that the mage tank was large, Cyril was alone, and the elemental was not only strong, but also did not stand still, the pest, starting to bypass the defenders in order to get to the bow. Thus, depriving them of the opportunity to fire at it from the stern gun turret. The defenders understood this, and the commander tried to set his marvel of gnome engineering in motion, but to no avail. Amidst the incessant shouts and orders of the chief gnome, a real artillery duel began at extremely close range. The dwarf gunners pounded the elemental with their shells, sparing no ammunition in the turret magazines, trying to split its central and main boulder. In response, it showered them with its stone shells, trying to suppress the turrets of the mage tank. The rest of the defenders showered the enemy with magic, which at least weakened its protective barriers. Well, Cyril, cursing under his breath, non-stop rebuilt the protective barriers of the mage tank, trying to simultaneously repel the elemental's attacks and conserve energy.

Damn, he clearly took a wrong turn somewhere, a normal mage should be smashing everything around him with fireballs, not all this! A normal wizard in his beloved DnD doesn't need any other spells at all...

"Cirial!"

The shout from the mentor, who sensed that the student was thinking about something else, knocked the unnecessary thoughts out of his head, forcing Cyrill to fully concentrate on protecting the mage-tank, which was cracking under a natural rockfall.

The end of the fierce artillery duel came unexpectedly. When the elemental had almost circled the mage tank, so that only the bow turret could now fire at it, one of the gnome gunners managed to hit the central boulder. It would seem that it would be difficult to hit a two-meter boulder, but the problem was that not only was the elemental not standing still, but the other stones that formed its body were constantly rolling over the main one, forming a mobile shield and regularly taking the blows. So, only after knocking out some of them, one of the two dwarf gunners managed to hit the target. The arrow-shaped projectile struck the main boulder directly, and at a good angle, not ricocheting, but piercing the stone mass, knocking out a pile of fragments and leaving deep cracks.

The elemental clearly did not like this at all. The rumbling of its stones became deafening, and the glow of the veins on its stones was simply dazzling, especially on the main boulder. The gnomes' projectile literally flew out, like a champagne cork. And the elemental... rolled away at tremendous speed. To where the other beasts had fled before. Not forgetting, however, to throw one more boulder-shell as a parting shot, imbuing it with magic from the bottom of his heart, which almost ended in tragedy. Since this pest turned out to be armor-piercing and high-explosive, to use earthly terms. Thanks to the earth magic invested in it, it broke through the main barrier of the mage tank, the additional barrier created by Cyril, and only then exploded with stone shrapnel.

If it weren't for the dwarves' armor and the fugitives' personal protective amulets, given to them from the elves' reserves, the large stone fragments imbued with magic had every chance of killing someone. But the defenders got off with a slight fright. As they watched the elemental roll away, a resounding silence fell among them. Which was almost immediately broken by the angry bass of the dwarves' commander, who burst into curses that Diantrel understood every other word:

"Damn you, son of a deep hole, mother, for doing such a shameful thing with that filthy piece of trash, that piece of shit! Burn in the deep fire, you piece of garbage from the Golden Hands forge!"

“I completely agree with your assessment, venerable one,” said Diantrel, looking after the elemental with purple eyes burning with magical fire.

Exhausted Cyrill, who had less than a third of his reserves left, allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Hmm... If the dwarves didn't have their magic cannons, things could have turned out very badly. With air magic, which was the mentor's main striking force, it would have been very difficult to defeat such an enemy. The gnomes' commander turned to her and was about to say something, but didn't have time. From somewhere deep inside the mage tank came a loud cry, followed by equally loud cursing. In any case, Cyril was somehow sure that only cursing could be that loud. It was perfectly audible, thanks to the hole in the deck made by the stalactite. The gnomes turned sharply toward the shout, which was gradually getting louder and louder. A few seconds later, the hatch leading to the lower deck burst open with a crash, and a dwarf literally jumped out, swearing loudly.

A female dwarf, as suggested by the complete absence of a beard on her face. And her gray shirt, thickly smeared with something dark and soaked through with sweat, tightly hugged the characteristic curves of her chest. These curves were substantial, rivaling those of Gata, who had remained in the Forest. The dwarf woman's thick, light red hair was gathered into two tight buns on her head, and her eyes and half of her face were covered by thick glasses resembling aviator sunglasses. Judging by the glow of the lenses, they provided a form of magical vision. She wore baggy pants made of dark gray fabric, smeared with something, and sturdy boots. A wide leather belt hung around her waist, from which hung a variety of tools. In her hands, the dwarf clutched a stone that glowed brightly in magical vision.

However, so was she. Her well-developed, subtle body, which was barely concealed at the moment, clearly indicated that she was gifted at the level of an average adept. The dwarf ran out onto the deck, paying no attention to her relatives who had rushed toward her, and began to look around. At the same time, she continued to swear loudly in the dialect of the dark dwarves, so that Diantrel, and through her Cyril, understood only every second word and could only vaguely grasp the general meaning:

"Udniir! Udniir! Dakhnatr fuck children dirt earth deep hole we all be fat ass depth long! Udniir!"

"GAIAKAL! Ashtan!!!" The commander of the mago-tank literally barked at the gnome who had run out, jerking from the command bridge in her direction.

She stopped mid-sentence at his roar, then abruptly pulled off her glasses, revealing a rather dirty but generally pretty and chubby face. She had a distinctive appearance, with dark gray skin and bright orange eyes. The female dwarf immediately widened her eyes at the sight of the land dwellers standing on the deck next to her kin, who had appeared out of nowhere. She even opened her mouth in surprise before a couple of gnomes rushed towards her from their positions at the side gun emplacements, literally grabbed her by the arms and dragged her back inside the mago-tank, slamming the hatch cover behind them. From which muffled but quite distinct cries and choice curses immediately rang out.

An awkward silence fell on the deck. The chief of the dwarves let out several very heavy sighs, and the tension around him was almost palpable. Diantrel, with an elven imperturbable face, asked politely, pointing her chin at the hatch cover, from behind which the muffled cries of the dwarf continued to be heard:

"Do you have any problems, venerable Udnir?"

The commander of the mage tank turned to her, but then the hatch cover flew open again, and the female dwarf literally jumped out once more. She wore a thick helmet on her head and a heavy leather jacket that was clearly too big for her and barely fastened at the chest. Ignoring her kins who were climbing out after her, one of whom now had his head uncovered, revealing his short, ash-grey hair, wet with sweat, and a luxurious beard with sideburns, she screamed again, turning to the chief dwarf, who had jerked again and who, as it turned out, was called Udnir:

"Udniir! Dahnaatr, trouble is coming to an end! This piece of stone is bad for the earth, mother," the dwarf shook the shard of stone clenched in her hand, glowing in magical vision, "it will pierce right through the armour! It will pierce the Aarkian heart completely! Now there is no blacksmith's workshop that can repair it, only Golden Hands himself!"

At this point, she fell silent, looking up at the main Udnir and placing her hands on her hips. The main dwarf let out another heavy sigh and boomed in a gloomy voice:

"What sin have I committed to deserve this misfortune? This whole journey has been one long series of misfortunes!"

“Honorable Diantrel,” said Litsana, standing on the deck, addressing Cyrill's mentor in Dark Elven, "this honorable daughter of the mountain people, bearing the name of the Beloved by Gaia, unable to hide her overwhelming emotions, said that the fragment of the earth elemental in her hands had damaged the generator of this war chariot. Specifically, it had struck the main crystal accumulator, shattering it into pieces. So now, only the Golden-Handed Patron of Masters himself could repair it without a suitable workshop."

Turning to the dark elf, Diantrel cast a glance at her before slowly saying:

"So that's how it is..."

With the help of Litsana, who acted as a translator from DarkDwarf to Dark and Classical Elvish, greatly facilitating communication, they managed to establish normal communication and at the same time find out what was going on here. As it turned out, the crew of this combat self-propelled chariot, which Cyril continued to refer to as a mage tank, was part of a large and well-protected caravan carrying supplies from their home city, where the Duunir clan lived, to their working settlement-outpost. It was a routine trip, most of the way along the Underworld Tract, and no serious problems were expected. But when more than half of the journey had been completed, something like a small earthquake occurred. And it was Udnir's mage tank that was hit by a damn stalactite, which the dwarf had managed to curse five times during the conversation. It was a good stalactite, breaking through the passive protective barriers (why waste energy unnecessarily?!), the upper deck, and hitting the generator that powered the mage tank.

Such a breakdown is unpleasant in itself. But as soon as the dwarves, cursing the collapsed stalactite, stopped to repair it, fortunately, they had spare parts, a second misfortune occurred. After a small earthquake, the local wildlife seemed to go berserk all at once, rushing out of the side passages and neighboring halls adjacent to the main hall through which the Underworld Tract passed. Most of them would probably have just run past, but someone, frightened, began to attack them with magic, causing the animals to pounce on the gnome caravan as if they had suddenly lost their instinct for self-preservation.

It goes without saying that the dwarves fought back, killing a bunch of local fauna, but they also suffered losses and injuries, as their caravan had only two combat chariots, the other two being transport vehicles. One of them was badly damaged, so it had to be towed. After consulting, the gnomes decided to split up. Udnira's crew stayed behind to repair the vehicle, as the repairs promised to be long but feasible, while the rest of the caravan moved on. They left their kin additional fighters and supplies, of course, and promised to send reinforcements as soon as the wounded were delivered to the working settlement.

But no sooner had the rest of the caravan left and the crew begun repairs than several more tremors occurred, each slightly longer than the previous one and accompanied by the appearance of a new batch of crazed beasts. The beasts had been behaving more aggressively than usual in the Underworld lately. The crew did not engage in combat first, but now the beasts, apparently sensing a threat from them because of the corpses lying around, rushed to attack the mage tank. The dwarves fought back, but because the mago-tank's generator was damaged and there was no way to replenish the reserves in the wands and turrets, the situation was gradually becoming more and more threatening.

And now it had become critical, because the main crystal accumulator, which, as far as Cyril understood, was the key element distributing energy throughout the mago-tank's systems, had been split by the last shot of the accursed earth elemental, spoiling everything before leaving. And there was no way to repair this damage on the spot, as storage crystals were expensive, and especially so if they were large enough to be used in a mage-tank. No one carried such an expensive and rare item around as a spare part.

When Udnir finished explaining the situation, Diantrel, who had been listening attentively, asked thoughtfully:

"Tell me, venerable Udnir, if we help you with the repairs, will you help us in return by taking us to the one hundred and seventeenth signal pillar of the Eastern Underground Path, next to which there is an exit directly to the surface?"

In response, Udnir let out a loud laugh and replied:

"For your help in fighting these beasts, honorable one, I would gladly take you to your destination, since you so desperately need to reach the coast of the Elven Bay, and I would even help you carry your load. But I highly doubt that you will be able to help us with the repairs. Don't think I'm belittling your powers, honorable spellcaster, but the ++Strongman consumes a tremendous amount of energy. If you think you can power him with your magic, I'll tell you right now, it won't last long, unless you go at the slowest possible pace. Here, we can't do without a generator running on good alchemical fuel. And it can't be repaired without a crystal accumulator. So here's my word: it's better to stay with us, wait for help together, and then we'll take you safely wherever you want to go."

“I heard you,” nodded Diantrel, after which she turned to the gifted dwarf, “Tell me, venerable one, did I understand you correctly that the main thing you need for repairs is a suitable storage crystal?”

The dwarf who had been standing nearby all this time, and whom her kin had tried unsuccessfully to send back to the engine room several times, nodded:

"For the most part, yes, I've already patched up the rest."

"So that's how it is. Shinda-Bah?"

The Caliphate captain, listening to this conversation with the other fugitives, got his bearings instantly, thanks to the spirit translator Guur'Aar. Taking a step forward, he opened the bag he had borrowed from the vault and took out one of the storage crystals he had taken from the vault.

"Will this one do?" asked Diantrel.

The crew of the dwarven mage-tank froze in their tracks, looking at the crystal sparkling with polished edges.

* * *

An attempt at meditation, to restore strength, did not really restore that strength, nor did it bring any relief. The reserve managed to rise to about forty percent. And the reason, surprisingly, was precisely that this very strength, that is, magical energy, was in abundance around him. The surrounding magical background in this part of the Underworld was almost twice as saturated as the one Cyril was used to in the Royal Palace of the Forest. But the natural magic scattered around was heavy, hot, and viscous, and he had to protect himself from it so as not to accidentally absorb it. Otherwise, you would restore your strength, of course, but you would get many times more problems because of it. Magical poisoning, as Diantrel explained to Cyril long ago, is no more pleasant than ordinary poisoning. And subtle bodies can be damaged by unpurified natural magic, no worse than the liver can be damaged by methyl alcohol.

Cyrill forbade himself from paying any attention to the hanging system messages in principle, ignoring them with all his might. Because he didn't need to pass out again for a whole day, or even two. So no, he'll watch everything, but at home, AT HOME I SAID! Oh, I wish I could get back to my native chambers as soon as possible, to hell with all these adventures, give me back my luxury room!

While Cyrill tried to regain his strength and get some rest, his other companions, whether willing or unwilling, did not sit idly by. The gifted dwarf woman, who, as he understood, was something like the chief mage-engineer-mechanic-artifact maker on this mage tank, bearing the well-deserved name ++“Strong,” took the crystal and asked three times, “Are you sure?” before rushing off to repair the generator. The dwarf fighters hurriedly replaced the small accumulators of the turrets and small side firing points, which Diantrel and Shalah-Ana volunteered to charge. Because who knows how long the repairs will take, and then they'll have to fire up the generator, so it's better to have the main caliber weapons ready for battle.

Guur'Aar, who apparently had no better time in the Underworld than Cyril, took it upon himself to observe the surroundings with the help of his Ten-Eyed Spirit. Those who were not involved in reloading the tank's guns simply looked around, keeping their personal weapons at the ready. Because caution is never superfluous in the Underworld. But overall, the atmosphere on board the ++Strong One was tense and wary, but with a noticeable hint of positivity. Like, we fought back, everything is fine, now we'll fix ourselves up and get out of here to a safe place. And, of course, in such a situation, questions inevitably arose. When everyone had more or less caught their breath after the battle with the elemental, Udnir once again wondered how Fate had brought such a motley crew together and thrown them into the Underworld. And where did half of them get their gnome weapons, especially ones with the markings of the long-lost colony of Undermountin?

He asked politely, but it was clear that the commander of the mage tank really wanted to get some kind of clear answer. So Diantrel decided to give some answers, especially since if she didn't, someone else from their group might do it. Without going into too much detail, the elf explained that they had been attacked by assassins from the Dark Brotherhood, who had used their magic to transport them from White Harbor to the southern edge of the steppe. Then they had been driven to the outskirts of Kardarot. There, after barely fighting off the assassins, they stumbled upon a lost vault, where they found all these weapons. And when the vault collapsed, they were thrown here. Something like that.

When Diantrel finished her laconic explanation, the dwarf commander gave an equally laconic one:

"Wow..."

“That’s a very appropriate description of what happened to us,” nodded Diantrel, finishing filling one of the small storage crystals that fed the onboard stationary wands with energy.

At the same time, she did not stop sliding her violet eyes over the surrounding landscape.

"I've heard all sorts of tales about the lost treasury of Kardarot, but this... This is just fucking insane," Udnir boomed in a thoughtful bass voice.

If it weren't for his helmet, he would surely have scratched his beard as well. The dwarf commander probably wanted to ask something else, but at that moment, Guur'Aar, standing on the deck with his eyes closed and leaning on his spear-staff, suddenly opened them and roared something loudly, shaking his head. In response to the questioning looks of those around him, he growled:

"It's hard! Not a good place for someone who has spent their whole life under the open sky! It's hard! It's stuffy. It's hot. And it's khaos here..."

Looking around with his eyes burning with yellow fire, he continued in a gloomy voice:

"They are furious. They are afraid. They do not heed the call."

Turning to Diatrel and Udnir, standing on the command bridge, he quietly said:

"Something is very wrong here."

Udnir said in a no less gloomy voice:

"We notice! Since that massacre near Diyarten, the beasts have gone berserk throughout almost the entire Underworld. The city even had to double its patrol teams of hunters, otherwise all the slaves in the feeding fields would have been devoured..."

At that moment, something groaned deep inside the tank, and a moment later, a woman's scream rang out through the hole left by the stalactite. But this time it was a joyful scream. At the same time, all the gifted ones, including Cyrill, who had given up trying to regain his strength through meditation, felt a source of magic ignite somewhere down below. It was still very small, but distinct and literally growing stronger before their eyes. A few seconds later, the hatch leading to the lower deck swung open, and Gayakal climbed out again, a satisfied smile on her now even more grimy face. Once again, she was wearing only a shirt and no headgear, except for her glasses, which were pushed down onto her forehead. Ignoring her relatives, who had started twitching again, she said in a satisfied voice:

"Done! I had to tinker with it to attach it; the shape is not quite right, but praise be to Gold-handed, I managed! Once the first portion of fuel burns, we can move off!"

"Gaiakal!"

Bas Udnir's voice sounded more like a roar. Glancing at him quickly, the gnome rolled her eyes and was about to close the hatch, but Cyril stopped her:

"Gaiakal-ada?"

Although he understood the dwarves' words thanks to the Diantrel-Conect-Translate system, he could not speak the dwarven language. But he remembered the dwarf woman's name, as well as the respectful form of address “ada” that his mentor added to it. Everyone nearby, including the frozen Gaiacal, turned to him. The young man had been sitting on an empty box brought from the lower deck of the mago-tank, leaning his back against the central superstructure, under the watchful eye of the faithful Armina. Having fully appreciated his merits in protecting the ++ “Strong One” from the elemental's boulder shells, none of the gnomes even thought to dispute his right to rest. The apprentice assistant to the venerable sorceress needed to regain his strength, and she had no objection, so she let him recover. Therefore, when Cyril suddenly spoke up and addressed Gaiacal directly, it couldn't help but attract attention. Especially from the dwarves, who reacted surprisingly nervously to her every appearance. In response to the questioning looks of the female gnome and those around her, Cyril, unable to hold back a smile, asked, simultaneously using his token:

"Can you show me your boobs?"

Everyone around them suddenly lost interest in the young man. Udnir began giving orders, the gnomes started preparing the magic tank for departure, and Gayakal herself, no doubt due to the influence of the token, understood what was wanted of her. The dwarf let out a loud sigh and rolled her eyes again. Her rather pretty but dirty face took on an expression that said, “Oh, as if there's nothing else to do, fine, whatever, screw you,” after which she lifted her shirt with one movement. Cyril saw a pair of very impressive tits, with nipples that stood out against her dark gray skin, almost black and shiny with sweat.

Approaching the young man with her breasts exposed, she froze in front of him, a mixture of slight irritation and boredom on her face. But Cyril leaned forward with a satisfied smile, enjoying the view. Not bad tits, even if the dwarf's appearance, and her dark complexion, were quite exotic to him. Reaching out his hand, he wanted to assess her dark gray firmness, but received a light slap from Gayakal, who clicked her tongue and said something. Putting on the saddest and most pitiful face he could muster, Cyril folded his hands in front of him in a prayerful, pleading gesture that seemed to be interworldly.

The dwarf let out another sigh, rolled her eyes again, but finally relented and nodded. Smiling contentedly, the young man reached out with both hands and gently squeezed her breasts, beginning to caress them. Definitely a win! Diantrel's are better, of course, but these are quite good too. The skin is smooth, and the smell of female sweat and something else technical only adds a certain zest. Gently pressing the dwarf's hardened nipples with his thumbs, Cyril noticed her bite her lip.

Somewhere deep down, Conscience made some kind of indistinct sound, but was immediately sent packing. Like someone who introduced himself as Common Sense, Cyril didn't understand, and sent him far away as well. And anyway, has someone already forgotten that it was only thanks to this token and his decision to evaluate the breasts of the half-breed siren (what's her name, damn it) that he wasn't taken prisoner in that ill-fated restaurant? That's right! So there's no need to get excited and deny him the pleasure of appreciating such a great and beautiful thing as women's breasts! Suddenly, it might help him again...

Duuuuurrrm!

The entire underground hall shook noticeably again, this time so much that even the mage tank swayed slightly. The crew and fugitives burst into short cries and curses. Gaikal jumped away from Cyril in one movement, lowering her shirt and covering her head with her hand, over which a protective barrier formed. The young man did not lag behind her, mentally cursing. As before, debris of various sizes rained down from the ceiling, a couple of pieces landing near the mago-tank. But unlike last time, there was no tremor after the jolt. No one even paid attention to this or the debris falling from the ceiling.

A moment after the underground tremor, everyone on board the mago-tank was drawn to a light, like a bonfire, illuminating a section of the Underworld Tract about 500 meters from where the mago-tank was standing. It came from a fairly large passageway leading to the adjacent underground hall. From there came a muffled but distinct rumbling, the sound of which sent shivers down Cyril's spine and made the hair on his body stand on end. And, apparently, he wasn't the only one. The other fugitives and members of the mago-tank crew also froze in place. The faces of the gnomes were indistinguishable, but Cyril's involuntary and voluntary companions visibly paled. Armina, standing next to the young man, literally clung to his forearm with her hand, and he didn't even notice when it happened.

The silence that had fallen over ++Krepkoye, caused by everyone unconsciously holding their breath for fear of making the slightest noise, was broken by the thunderous voice of First:

"No, no, nooo!!! Are you fucking kidding me!?"

The dark elf's voice was full of undisguised malice and... fear? Come on! In any case, it sounded like a thunderclap in the middle of the stunned tank and made Cyril jump in place. And he wasn't the only one; many gnomes, including Udnir, grabbed their weapons when another dark elf appeared out of nowhere on the deck.

"Hey! Hey! Who are you..."

"First! What is this?!" Diantrell's loud cry interrupted the dwarf commander, who was wide-eyed and pointing his hand at the dark elf who had appeared out of nowhere.

And there was something in the mentor's voice that Cyrill didn't like at all. Fear. A distinct fear, close to horror. First, who had not taken his eyes off the light that illuminated the Underworld Path, said in an unexpectedly muffled voice:

"The Terror of Diyarten. I can't confuse it with anything now. So Mirantir couldn't defeat it..."

"WHAT?!" half of the dwarves and Litsan with Ilidris cried out in unison, turning grey with fear.

"How?! No, that's not... Where from..."

"Start the chariot!" First's sharp command made everyone fall silent mid-sentence.

Turning sharply towards Udnir and Gaiakal, who had frozen next to Cyrill, the dark elf literally screamed throughout the entire underground hall:

"START YOUR CHARIOT! QUICKLY!!!"

Duuuuurrrrrrm!!!

The underground hall shook again, but now it felt as if the source of the tremor was not somewhere deep underground, but relatively close by. At the same time, the crimson light illuminating the passageway became noticeably brighter. So did the rumbling coming from the neighboring hall. Various cries, howls, and screeches could also be heard. Individual underground inhabitants began to run out of several side passages on the side where the light was coming from. For the most part, these were those who were unable to run fast or for long, preferring to hunt from ambush. There were a couple of large frog-like amphibians that moved with heavy leaps. Or a huge, desperately writhing snake, whose scales changed color to match the surrounding landscape as it moved. And from some crack, a whole flock of small, shrill creatures flew out, vaguely resembling bats.

"START THE CHARIOT!!!"

First's new cry made Gayakal rush to the lower deck with an indistinct squeal. Udnyr, who had literally jumped onto the commander's bridge in two leaps, from where the ++“Strong” was controlled, grabbed the control levers, or whatever was needed to steer the mago-tanks, but immediately let out a doomed cry:

"Don't be late! We don't have the necessary heat, and the magic takes too long to work! We need to run on foot and try to escape through..."

He was interrupted again by the dark elf's scream, which hit the ears of everyone on the mage-tank:

"CIRIAL, CHARGE THIS FUCKING GENERATOR FOR THEM!!!"

The young man understood what First wanted even before he finished saying his name, immediately rushing after Gayakal. After all, the threat to one's life is a very good motivator for mental activity. However, in a moment, only one thought-word was racing through his head: //“Fuck, fuck, fuck, BITCH!!!”

He literally flew down the stairs, designed for short gnomes, almost tripping on the last steps. They led at a steep angle to the rear of the mago-tank. Here, apparently, was something like a warehouse for supplies, fuel, ammunition, and spare parts. It was dimly lit, hot, and cramped, but the tiara, which gave him night vision, saved him; without it, he would surely have fallen and most likely broken something. The non-combatants who had been driven here earlier didn't understand anything, shouting and asking questions, but Cyril paid no attention to them, rushing after the figure of Gaiacal. The dwarf woman rounded the stairs and rushed along the narrow passage along the side of the tank to the central part of the lower deck.

To where his heart was. A huge generator that powered this marvel of dwarven engineering with magic. Running up to it, Gayakal frantically threw open a door, and the bowels of the mago-tank were illuminated by a bluish light. From behind the gnome woman, Cyril saw what looked like firewood or briquettes burning with a blue flame in the generator's furnace. This was the small source of magic that everyone had just felt. Now it had grown larger, but it was clear it was not enough to set such a machine in motion. It simply did not have enough power.

Duuuurrrrrm!!!

New heart-rending cries and curses rang out from above, among which the loudest was the combined scream of First and Diantrel: “CIRIAL!!!” The latter also repeated it through a mental connection. Fuck! With a kind of sob-cry, Gayakal threw something into the furnace, causing the flames to grow brighter, but Cyril paid no attention to it. Where is he? Where is he?! Ah, there you are! Part of the generator's casing, just above the furnace door, had been removed, revealing its mechanized innards. Among them was the crystal storage device given to the dwarves. A mental command. Confirmation? YES, FUCK!!!

The effect was instantaneous. The crystal lit up with a bright white light, a quiet hum sounded, and a wave of magic rolled naturally across the mage tank as the source of magic created by the token began to fill its systems with it. Immediately, a low hum sounded, some mechanisms moved, and the growing roar of the local equivalent of a motor could be heard. This naturally scared the hell out of Gaiacal, who screamed and jumped away from the generator, not understanding what had happened. Cyril, meanwhile, shouted at the top of his lungs:

"START!!!"

* * *

In the Secret Guard Corps, in those rooms where all the agents involved in the search and rescue operation for the “Guest” were located, there was a tense bustle. Extremely tense excitement. More than a dozen specialist magicians performed the search-and-detection ritual over and over again, using the remaining blood samples and molds of the missing persons' ethereal bodies. Sivila, who was watching their actions, appeared calm on the outside, but inside, the queen was as tense as a string, waiting for the results. Before her lay a diary, open to the page where Luaval's final message was written in his rapid handwriting.

"THERE IS!!! There is a response! I'm tuning in!"

The cry of the ritualist leading the magical search made Sivila flinch slightly and turn sharply to the map projected in the air, which depicted the lands to the east of the Forest.

"Now... The response is weak, strong interference..."

"They are in the Underworld, the exact location cannot be determined, only an approximate area..."

Divide into sectors and check them precisely, find the place with the maximum response...

"Contact the Underground Corps detachment and have them stand by..."

While Sivila watched dozens of specialists trying to figure out where the Guest had been moved to again, she almost missed the moment when a new entry appeared in the diary. She almost snatched it from him, scanned it quickly, and felt a weight lift from her shoulders. There was still a mountain left, but at least one stone had been removed.

"They were thrown to the Eastern Underworld Path, around the one hundred and seventy-third post!"

Everyone immediately became even more agitated, focusing on the specified location and raising maps of that part of the Underworld. Within a few minutes, two things became clear. First, the “Guest” was indeed where Sivila had said. Second, it would be impossible to reach him quickly, since all known exits to the surface located close to him were located among the gorges of the Coastal Ridge, and it was extremely difficult to hang a portal there.

While everyone was thinking about what to do, several more messages arrived from Luaval. After reading and quickly analyzing them, everyone agreed with his suggestion to take advantage of the dwarves, who happened to be nearby, to reach the exit that led directly to the coast of the Elven Bay. It would be easy to set up a portal there, and they would finally be able to retrieve the “Guest.” And his companions. Whose numbers had just grown.

Mentally grimacing, Sivila felt a helpless and dull irritation. She hadn't liked what was happening from the very beginning, and now she liked it even less. The more outsiders got involved, the more problems there would be with covering their tracks. Now these gnomes too... Dwarves... At the thought of the bearded brutes, Sivila mentally wished the Supreme Emissary strength and luck. Because the representatives of the Undermountains, having received the news that the Kardarot repository had been destabilized, were, to put it mildly, not thrilled. Some of them immediately made claims to the Forest for compensation, arguing that it was because of the actions of the elves that the lacuna had collapsed. The Supreme Emissary, of course, was no stranger to such negotiations and claims, but Sivila sincerely sympathized with him. Since the stubbornness of the dwarves had become legendary, on par with the beauty of the elves, and he did not want to spoil relations with his neighbors...

While those involved in the rescue operation were preparing everything necessary for laying the portal and even discussing the option of sending a detachment of the Underworld Corps to meet the fugitives, the queen received several more messages from Luaval. After reading them, the idea of sending Forest warriors to meet the “Guest” and his companions began to look very appealing. Especially if several groups of Secret Guard operatives were sent along with them, which would allow the issue of unwanted witnesses to be resolved in one way or another...

After the idea was approved by a majority vote, everyone immediately got to work preparing to hang the portals and transfer the fighters and agents. At the same time, analysts began working on options for interacting with the “Guest” so that the boy would not do anything foolish and at the same time would not turn him against the Forest. Oh, how difficult it can be with humans.

Thoughts about the shortcomings of the most common of the lesser races flew out of Sivila's head as soon as she saw the new message appear in the diary. For several endlessly long seconds, the queen peered at the writing, trying to comprehend it. When did she finally manage to do so...

"STOP!!!"

Sivila hasn't screamed so loudly for a long time...

* * *

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86674/587883

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP