Olga McArrow
Cold obsidian

To Alan Jackson,

my friend and mentor

who made this translation

possible.

Thank you!

Cold obsidian

Book 1 of “Obsidian Trilogy”

All poems in the book translated by Alan Jackson

Omnis is a world of unstable magic where all creatures are born with a natural ability to stabilize and use it. All creatures, besides humans. They were the only species that inherited the flaw of their creators – the immortal worldholders responsible for the very existence of Omnis.

To make things right, the worldholders created a system of three Horas with Hora Tenebris as the magic disperser and two other Horas – Solaris and Lunaris – as the stabilizers existing in equilibrium with each other. Inside the stabilized areas humans are free from their natural flaw and have full access to stable magic. But in a broad area where the stabilizers’ zones of influence intersect the magic is wild, anomalous. That area, known as No Man’s Land, divides Omnis in two.

Horas are the foundation of human civilization in Omnis. They look like precious gems encased in gold and silver. They are protected by magic that would destroy anyone who dared to touch them unless it’s a worldholder as well. They are impossible to steal. Even more: stealing them is useless, because they have no secret powers at all. Yet someone has stolen them nonetheless.

Who is the thief? What does he or she want? How did they overcome the protective spell? Worldholders themselves are puzzled. One thing is certain here: something big is going on.

Wise are my deeps, dark my coldness;

One I have sought, a warrior-poet –

Not thou, seeker! No swordwight thou,

No wise maker of the world’s song,

But a wild passion in thy pure breast

Hefts thy young soul; my heart trembles

Foreseeing thy death, myself thy bane,

Fate inescapable. The folk I see,

Hungry for fame, heart-slaved, mind-slaved,

Their shining lust by lich-light drawn

To the candle-flame of coveted pride,

Burn gloriously in battle with me –

Not thou! Not thou! No gleam-grabber thou!

Not thou! Not thou! No war-drum’s beat

Dances for thee! No dern magecraft,

No snake-syllables with sophistry snare

Thy unmarred soul; my timeless chill

Warms with thy touch; no woning in thee

For cold sin's taint; tears openly scape

Thy meek eyelids; thy mind soft clad,

Thy heart borne low, hands widely spread,

Scorning to bully or beat down others,

Opens to truth, to all truth’s source,

Each listening mind; thy light their praise.

One day thy cause shall call thee hither,

Facing my hero with failing power;

His part, his lot, thy life to shend

On that day forelaid, thy loss, thy doom.

Chapter 1. At the edge of No Man’s Land

It was blazing hot in Aren-castell that midday. Every fountain and every patch of shade was occupied by the citizens trying to escape the sun’s wrath. Life stood still. Dusty wind ruled the empty streets, sweeping sand, called “aren” by the locals, in tiny tornadoes leaving neat miniature dunes behind.

“Aren-castell” means literally “sand castle” and indeed the city looked like one, its little houses and towers resembling the ones a clumsy toddler would make while playing in a sandbox. A perfect illusion. The cement locals make with their “aren” is on a par with the Wanderers’ monolith when it comes to durability.

Vlada strode along the road, her thick boots breaking the neat wavy patterns of sand and dust settled there with every step.

“On a hot day every desert city looks abandoned,” she thought as she entered the city gates, unattended and wide open. “Quite creepy.”

She met citizens soon, though, beside the very first fountain on her way. If she hadn’t known what to expect she’d find this sight even more creepy than the seemingly abandoned city. There were only two types of faces there. All women and girls looked exactly like Del, their female ancestor: dark hair, black eyes, pale skin, and aquiline nose. Men and boys looked exactly like Emer, her husband, who had blond hair, green eyes, and dark skin.

Every city in Kuldagan desert is like this: copies on copies on copies, the founders’ features repeated in their descendants’ faces forever, without fail. Once you’ve seen a few you’d miss the noisy and annoying port cities of Mirumir or Adjaen where population is so diverse no face in the crowd is similar to another.

Children that looked like twins splashed in the fountain and laughed shrilly. Adults that looked like twins chilled in the shade, chatting and nibbling on fried nuts. Innumerable nut shells littered the square answering every step with a loud crunch.

Vlada was promptly noticed by the locals but immediately dismissed as uninteresting. In their eyes she was just another Wanderer paying a brief visit to the city. Someone might have approached her and asked her for news if it hadn’t been day.

True life in desert towns begins at night when the cruel sun sets allowing the sand to cool down. Then, amid the black velvet of desert darkness, the awakened cities shine as bright as the stars in the sky. People of Kuldagan work, trade, and live in general mostly at night. Days there are lazy, hot, and slow, filled with the idle chatter and the sounds of children splashing in fountains.

The Wanderers’ ways are different. They honor the day as much as the night. It occured to Vlada how nice it was to feel like a Wanderer again. Kuldagan had always been a jewel among Vlada’s memories. Its “aren” which is not exactly sand, monotonous rows of dunes, weird cities… all had a special place in her heart. She should’ve visited them more often without waiting for a reason. Then she could have just walked there at her own pace, enjoying the singing sand, the velvety nights, the lazy flow of daytime. Instead, she must prepare herself for an unpleasant conversation she’d rather not have…

Little houses scattered along the street like oversized toy cubes. Each sported a sign or two advertising the goods their owners were selling. Vlada wasn’t interested in souvenirs, though. What she needed now were food, weapons, and an inn. The word “inn” (dlar in the local tongue) marked five identical houses in a row. Not much of a choice. Food store was to open “with the last ray of the sun”, according to the sign. As to the weapon store, Vlada found it at the end of the street. A huge, screaming sign written in a fancy cursive suggested that the owners didn’t see customers often and were getting desperate. Being open in daytime despite the merciless Kuldaganian weather was a telltale sign as well.

Vlada shifted the backpack on her sore shoulders and headed to the door. The street was so silent she could hear the old clock on top of one of the dlars ticking under the dusty glass.

Thick windowless walls of the store kept most of the heat away, so it was pleasantly cool inside. Several lamps hung from the ceiling on long cords keeping the lower level of the building well lit and the upper dark. Weapons were everywhere: on every wall and a dozen of wooden stands below, in the open, inviting anyone to hold them, take a closer look, drop a hair on the blade…

The shopkeeper sat in a tall armchair with his back to the door, peacefully sleeping, it seemed. Kuldagan citizens are nocturnal beings. Staying awake during the day is not their thing.

Vlada decided to let him rest for now. She put her backpack on the floor and walked along the stands. She liked weapon stores since she was a kid. Such a pleasant distraction from the grim news seemed like a good idea at the moment.

She weighed a two-handed sword in her hands. That used to be her father’s favourite weapon, so she knew how to handle it, even though she found it too heavy to her taste. The morning stars took her attention next – her grandfather’s weapon of choice. Vlada took a closer look at each of them imagining what he would say about their designs, which things he would praise or curse, and how he would add a loud “tsk!” to every sentence when his emotions took over. It was always nice to remember him.

Bows and crossbows interested her less. Halberds, the city guards weapon, decorated in a peculiar way, took her attention for a while. Clubs and spears she passed.

The last stand displayed several katanas made by a local smith. Vlada stopped there. A katana was her weapon of choice. Of course, she didn’t come to this shop for them, but why not take a look?

She cast her eye down to the collection of katanas. They looked good and were made in the same style, obviously by the same master. All but the one that looked just a little bit different as if someone really wanted to imitate the master’s style but couldn’t yet. An apprentice, maybe…

A warm smile touched Vlada’s lips. She took the imperfect katana from the stand and made a few moves to feel the balance.

“Whoa, lady!” She heard a young voice. “Careful!”

It was the shopkeeper, now wide awake and watching her with a keen interest.

“Sorry, master,” Vlada apologised and put the katana back with a respectful bow.

“It’s okay,” he waved carelessly. “I’m glad I was smart enough not to come too close to you… What’s your name?”

“Vladislava. You can call me Vlada.”

“Kangassk. Just Kan to you.” The young man bowed courteously.

Vlada gave him a closer look. Kangassk had dark skin – its tone wasn’t the pitch black the local men had, though, but rather chocolaty brown, – black hair, and green eyes. He was shorter than the locals, and his face resembled neither Del nor Emer.

“You’re not from this city, are you?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m from here all right,” Kan growled, obviously irritated. “I’m just a freak, the shame of my ancestors and all.”

“I wouldn’t call you a freak,” said Vlada, frank and straightforward as usual. “I think you’re a very handsome young man.”

Kangassk shrugged, unconvinced.

“So where are you from? Who are your ancestors?” he asked.

Vlada smiled as she realized that the poor guy expected to hear the names of her city and its first people.

“My family is known as Wanderers in Kuldagan,” she said.

“Wanderers, huh?” Kan’s eyes brightened up. “So it was your family who drove the rare fire dragons into extinction?”

“Yes. Kind of…”

“You have my huge thanks then!” Kan beamed. “Aren-castell used to be their favourite resting spot during their breeding migrations. Imagine these scaly jerks perched on every roof like some crazy giant chickens! Everyone who dared to leave the house risked being eaten, fried, or both… May the master forgive me, I’m giving you 50% discount on everything!”

“So you’re not the master?”

“No, just an apprentice. And a poor one if you take my master’s word.”

“Okay… so, will you show me your guns?” Vlada went straight to business.

“Ah, guns… Firearms…” Kan hesitated.

“Yes, them. I need one.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to visit the Burnt Region.”

“Why? I wouldn’t ever go there, not for love or money! I heard…” He took a deep breath, obviously preparing to tell her some cool story.

“Guns, Kan,” repeated Vlada in a cold, slightly impatient voice.

“We don’t have any,” Kan confessed after an awkward pause. “We used to have a lot while the gold rush was still a thing, but now people don’t travel through the Burnt Region anymore, so we don’t make guns and haven’t ordered gunpowder in years. You can go to Torgor and…”

“Too bad!” said Vlada, adding the disappointed “tsk!” sound, just like her grandfather used to do when he was displeased. “I’m in a hurry, Kan. I can’t afford going back to Torgor. I guess I’ll go to the Burnt Region as is: with a sword. How much do you want for this katana?”

Kangassk gasped. During the next minute he made several attempts to say something, yet no sound came from his mouth. He looked like some unfortunate fountain fish suffocating on the sand. Finally, he gave up.

“Fifty coins,” he uttered painfully and then almost exploded with emotions: “Vlada, please, no! Even with a gun, it’s dangerous to go there!”

“Calm down, Kangassk. It’s not my first trip there.” Vlaga gave him a condescending smile and put the coins into his hand.

“Would you… maybe… like going somewhere tonight?” Kan asked hopefully. “We have a theater and…”

“No, thanks. I’d rather take a nap and be on my way in the morning.”

Kangassk followed the girl everywhere like a homeless puppy looking just as sad and miserable. He carried her backpack; he made awkward attempts at small talk – for he still wanted to talk her out of going to a certain death. She wouldn’t listen. Finally, clearly tired of Kan’s attention, Vlada gently took him by the elbow and walked him out the dlar door. The conversation was over.

Back in his store, Kangassk still couldn’t calm down. He either paced the room like a caged lion or sat at the table drumming his fingers on the laquered wood. Either way, his own thoughts were driving him up the wall. The utter silence of the typical Kuldagan midday made everything even worse. In a final attempt to distract himself, he grabbed the book he knew was an emotion killer: a thick and heavy Encyclopedia of No Man’s Land. It was far too advanced a read for someone like Kangassk, so he never tried to storm the paragraphs, he went straight to the summaries instead. Those were nice and clear as if some kind soul, definitely not the author, took pity on the students the monstrous book had been written for.

“No Man’s Land is a region of unstable, wild magic. Even the weakest spells become unpredictable and explosive there.

Rule one: never use magic in No Man’s Land and do not carry magical objects with you while travelling there.

Gunpowder’s explosive power varies from one region to another. In several regions (like Dead Region and Moon Region) gunpowder does not explode at all. Presumably, some gunpowder components may have a weak, residual magical powers, which the unstable magic of No Man’s Land affects.

In the North and South areas where magic is stable gunpowder explodes only when used in large quantities. That limits its use to city cannons and mines. Same stays true for the most regions of No Man’s Land, with small variations. Burnt Region stands out against the rest because of how little gunpowder you need there to produce an explosion. It makes the use of small guns possible.

Rule two: when travelling the No Man’s Land choose the weapons appropriate to the regions you are planning to pass through. Keep a sword or a dagger with you always and use a gun when appropriate.

The borders between different regions are blurry, so the regions are marked as intersecting circles on the map. Be extra careful in the interstitial areas…”

Kangassk closed the book with a slam. A tiny cloud of dust that had risen above it made him sneeze and obviously also brought these unseemly tears to his eyes. He felt sick.

Whenever he tried to cover his face with his hands in a pathetic gesture or to blink he saw Vlada’s face in front of him. That beautiful, smiling face under a messy heap of curls, bleached and gilded by the sun; her eyes, as deep brown as strong tea; her freckles… She looked absolutely alien among the perfect copies of Del he got used to see around him every day. She was brave. She was beautiful. She talked to him nicely unlike the locals…

Also, she was going to die. Alone. In the Burnt Region. Without even a gun to protect herself. And he, Kangassk, was going to let it happen. Or was he?

He looked around the store, taking it all in – the dull glint of unsold weapons, the dust slowly dancing in the the air – and thought about the life he had there, in that city. Pleasant memories were rare. For the perfect citizens praising the purity of ancestors he was a freak, an abomination…

“She called me a handsome young man…” Kangassk thought bitterly.

“To hell with all this!!!” he shouted. The next moment he jumped out of his armchair and started packing without saying so much as “May the master forgive me.” Having grabbed all he thought he would need, Kan went straight to the dlar where Vlada had rented a room and sat in front of her door, determined to meet her in the morning.

The curtains in the dlar room were so thick they let no light in when drawn, but the silence that came after a noisy desert night said it all: it was morning and the city was falling asleep. Vlada sat at the table, poring over a map of No Man’s Land where the circular borders of unstable regions were marked with red ink. She had a lot of plans already, starting with getting herself a fast charga in Border.

She had at least two weeks before the unpleasant conversation she dreaded, but they didn’t seem enough.

Vlada rolled up the map, grabbed her backpack, and pushed the door. The door didn’t even budge.

“What the…” Vlada cursed and kicked the stubborn thing with all her strength making the soft heavy object blocking it, a person, as it turned out, roll heels over head into the opposite wall. She recognized the young smith from the weapon store. He looked drowsy.

“What are you doing here?” asked Vlada.

“I… I’ve been waiting here all night, felt sleepy by the morning, and thought that if I took a nap with my back to the door you would wake me up. So you did!” He beamed, looking victorious.

Vlada raised her brows in a silent question.

“I’m coming with you!”

Silence.

“I mean it!” Kangassk insisted, his hands crossed on his chest. “I will follow you anyway. I can’t let you go into the Burnt Region alone!”

“Why not?” thought Vlada. “It’s not like a healthy young man will be a burden on the journey, and what a life can he, a “freak”, have here anyway? Getting away from that city might be a life-changer for him.”

“Are you good with weapons?” she asked quietly.

“Yes!” shouted Kan, unwillingly letting all the energy he prepared for persuading the Wanderer go into this word alone. It made Vlada chuckle.

“Which ones?” She smiled.

“Short bow! I’m the best archer in all Kuldagan!” That could’ve been true considering how rare archers are in a desert with too many rocks and too few trees. “Also swords, daggers, clubs, you name it. I’m a smith’s apprentice, so I’ve had some practice with every type of weapon I ever made”.

“Okay, I got it. Let’s go…” Vlada shrugged and signed Kan to follow her.

They left the city through the gates, still unattended and wide open.

Close to the mountain pass between Kuldagan and No Man’s Land the desert suddenly decides not to give up without a fight. Every dune becomes a tall rampart you have to storm if you want to keep going, every step takes you twice the effort.

Kangassk and Vlada travelled on foot, the Wanderers’ way. At first, the young man walked with a spring in his step, feeling all brave and inspired. He even tried to take the backpack from Vlada again to carry it along with his own. Two hours later he was secretly glad she hadn’t allowed him to do this. After two more hours, the journey, however short it seemed, had tired him out completely. He could barely walk, too exhausted even to be ashamed of himself for dragging his feet on the sand like an old man. Meanwhile, the girl kept walking at a steady pace like a true Wanderer raised among the dunes would.

“Wouldn’t it be better to travel in the night when it’s cool?” Kan asked her.

“No, it wouldn’t,” she answered in a peremptory tone and kept walking.

Kangassk was too tired to demand an explanation. Instead, he focused on trying his best to keep up with Vlada. Staying awake in daytime was another struggle that kept him busy. Nocturnal habits die hard.

He woke up from his monotonous half-slumber when a hard stone had suddenly replaced the dragging, soft sand under his feet. Kan found himself standing on the ancient road made of grey, time worn cobblestones obviously enchanted to keep the sand away. The edge of the Mountain Ring separating Kuldagan desert from the outer world seemed so close now! The monstrous dunes, Kuldagan’s last ramparts, ended there, fading into a flat rocky surface beside the mountains. Not that it changed much for Kan and his guide, of course, they still had a long way to go, but the view was uplifting.

A shady spot under the lofty black obelisk at the end of the road looked like a good place to rest after all the hours of walking under the merciless sun, so rest they did.

What is the easiest way to make people happy? Just take their basic comforts away for a while, then give them back.

Oh, how pleasant it felt to enter a shade again, to lie down on the ground, to stretch their tired legs, and quench their thirst! Especially the thirst! The best thing? There was no need to ration water: they were just a few days of journey away from Border, so they could drink all they wanted!

Exhausted, but genuinely happy, Kangassk fell asleep in the obelisk’s shade. He dreamed the airy, breezy dreams full of pure emotions, sparkling and gentle like a spray of fountain water back at home.

It was already evening, burning red and orange at the horizon, when Vlada woke him up. They were no longer alone. A caravan was approaching them by the ancient road, breaking the desert silence with lively human chatter.

“I travelled with them all the way from Torgor,” Vlada explained, “until we parted on the crossroads. They went to Aldaren-turin to trade there. Meanwhile, I made a detour to buy a gun in Aren-castell. I’m glad we’ve caught up with them. They will give us a ride.”

Kangassk nodded. Soon, after Vlada’s brief conversation with the merchant, he found himself travelling in the greatest comfort possible: on the back of a dunewalker. These huge beasts of burden, both obedient and quiet, have been traversing deserts since the beginning of days, heat and dust storms notwithstanding. Riding one felt like being gently rocked in a giant cradle. Kangassk found it quite pleasant, especially considering the fact that he shared a saddle with a beautiful girl. He even took the liberty of holding onto her waist pretending he’d fall otherwise.

“If it weren’t for the caravan, we’d be in for a rough journey,” explained Vlada. “The road is not safe. There can be bandits.”

Kangassk nodded knowingly. He had heard his share of merchants’ tales, most of which involved raids and bloodshed.

“You may stop clutching on to me, by the way,” Vlada mentioned casually. “Dunewalkers are not wild bulls, you won’t fall.”

“What if I get drowsy and fall asleep?” asked Kan. He didn’t like the idea of keeping his hands off the girl.

“Don’t.” Vlada refused to get the joke. “Stay awake and keep looking around. Tell me if you see anything suspicious. Lives may depend on it.”

It was getting dark. Kangassk, a typical city dweller used to associate nights with noisy crowds and brightly lit streets, faced the real darkness of a wild Kuldagan night for the first time. The darkness was terrifying, blinding, impenetrable. Evil. It swallowed the caravan whole, weak torchlights that people were carrying were barely visible against its cold black velvet, under a gorgeous milky way of stars burning above. Every noise, even the most harmless one, now made Kan’s heart race.

“We’ll have to stay in the saddle tonight,” Vlada whispered to him. “It’s not safe to camp here.”

“In the saddle…” Kan sighed, unhappy with the news. “Damn, my ass is already all numb and tingling…”

Vlada burst out laughing. It was such a brief moment of joy – for she had covered her mouth with her hand almost instantly – that it barely disturbed the silence of the night, yet it was enough to kill Kangassk’s anxiety altogether. He could no longer be serious about the horrors he used to imagine behind every dune. He caught himself smiling like a foolish child and thinking of how nice it would be to hear Vlada’s laughter again. This was the last thought the young man remembered before he saw the world suddenly swing above him and go dark…

There was no proper waking up. Kan’s consciousness was returning to him gradually, bit by bit: first the pain, then everything else. He touched his head and felt something warm and sticky in his hair. Blood? As he opened his eyes and raised himself upon an elbow to look around be found himself in the middle of the battlefield, most of which was hidden from his eyes in the darkness, but the sounds – cries of pain and clashing of steel – said it all.

Nobody seemed to notice Kan yet, considering him being just another corpse. Vlada almost tripped over him on her way to her next opponent. Then, still half stunned from his injury, Kan spent several immensely long moments watching his “damsel in distress” fight alone against a group of five swordsmen, her new katana in her right hand and a satellite sword in her left. She was methodical, keeping her opponents huddled together so they would constantly get in each other’s way, giving them no chance to use the advantage in numbers they had. Slowly, it sank in: the pretty girl Kangassk wanted so badly to protect was a much better fighter than he was.

The pulsing pain in Kan’s head twisted his perception in a nauseating way, muting sounds and turning everything in a blur. It felt a lot like being drunk. Kangassk had been drunk once, on his master’s famous cactus juice. It felt so bad he swore never to touch alcohol again. The most rational thing to do for a warrior in such a condition was to stay on the ground, pretending to be a corpse, yet Kan made himself stand up, draw a sword, and join the battle.

He must have looked ferocious, a screaming, drunken warrior with mad eyes and bloody head. Indeed, the group of little, non-human bandits he targeted fled in fear before him at first. They regained their courage pretty quickly, though. Soon, Kangassk had been surrounded and was fighting for his life. It didn’t take him long to realize he was doomed. Back home, he was so proud of the fighting skills he learned against his mother’s wishes, so eager to test them one day in the outer world! Here, they meant little, so very little…

Luck was on Kan’s side that night, though. Someone blew a horn behind the dunes signalling the bandits to wrap up the raid. They changed formation, surrounding a single heavy laden dunewalker, and retreated into the darkness they had come out from. Nobody tried to pursue them. The stolen dunewalker’s cries faded away soon. Dunewalkers are simple beasts, affectionate enough to feel sad about being taken away from their owners, but too stupid to fight on their side.

Non-human slingers standing on top of the dunes on both sides of the road were the last to retreat. Kangassk half expected to get another stone to the head from them as a parting gift, but nothing happened. After they were gone, it was a quiet velvety night again, the sea of undisturbed pitch black ink under a gorgeous starry sky.

There are two ways to gather honey. You can kill the bees with smoke, then open the hive and take everything. There will be no honey for you next year, though. Or you can take little, leaving enough for the bees to survive winter. This way you can have a new pot of honey every year. The bandits’ leaders weren’t stupid. They took what they could and let the caravan go.

The caravan stood still. There were scared dunewalkers to be calmed down, the wounded to be tended to, the dead to be buried. Grim, exhausted people moved around the makeshift camp in utter silence.

As Kangassk’s adrenalin rush ended his pain and horror caught up with him. Feeling sick and shaking, he fell to his knees. That was when he accidentally took a closer look at one of the bandits defeated by Vlada…

“Are you okay, Kan?” asked Vlada squatting down next to him.

“Yeah…” he exhaled and pointed at the dead men, “Do you know who they are?”

“Who?”

“Freaks," answered Kan, bitter grief in his voice, “like me. This one is even from the same city as I am. I see my ancestors’ features in him. Must’ve been treated like shit every day… ran away… became a bandit… His life could’ve been so different if he just weren’t ugly…”

Vlada put her hand on Kan’s shoulders in silence.

Finally, Kangassk got himself together. He stood up and wiped the blood from his new sword, a katana similar to the one Vlada bought in Aren-castell, but made by the master, not his stupid runaway apprentice. Kan turned his face away from the dead “freaks”. Desperately wanting to change the subject, he approached one of the goggle-eyed non-human bandits he had killed and touched the little furry body with the nose of his boot.

“I’ve never seen these creatures before,” he said.

“Maskaks.” Vlada shrugged. “There are lots of them in the North. No idea how they got here, though.”

“…So you’ve been to the North?” Kangassk kept questioning Vlada while she was bandaging his injured head.

“Yes. Many times,” she answered.

“What is it like?”

“Cold. Windy. Snowy in winter. You’ll like it there.”

“Oh, I read about snow! It’s frozen water. They say it’s beautiful…” Kan stopped dead mid sentence. “Wait! Are we going to the North?”

“Maybe, later. Right now we have to pay a visit to one special little region in No Man’s Land, then we’ll see. Now, off with the questions!” she said in a strict tone. “The caravan is departing soon. Get up onto the saddle, lean against the dunewalker’s hunch, and have some sleep. I’ll make sure you won’t fall. Go.”

“North…” whispered Kangassk, tired and drowsy. “Magical North…”

Gentle rocking of the saddle lulled him to sleep. On the very verge of the sleepy oblivion he felt Vlada’s little hands on his waist, carefully holding him so he wouldn’t be afraid of falling down.

Another day and a half passed. The caravan followed the road in complete silence, everyone tense, alert, and constantly looking around. Kangassk was no exception. His injured head hurt mercilessly, and the very thought that he might get a hit with a stone again made him furious, so staying awake wasn’t a problem. Also, he was prepared this time, bow, arrows, and all. No wonder a maskak who was unlucky enough to peek at the caravan above the dune, got an arrow to the eye.

“Yeah! Get it, sucker!” Kangassk growled victoriously.

“Good job!” Vlada clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve got the scout. There won’t be a second raid now.”

“Who knows?” There suddenly was a doubt in Kan’s voice. “Maybe he wasn’t alone.”

“Even so, they will know we are alert and ready, not an easy prey at all. They won’t risk it.”

A merchant riding a dunewalker in front of Vlada and Kangassk turned his face to them and nodded in approval.

Indeed, there was no second raid.

The dunes grew smaller and smaller with every hour. Soon, the ancient cobblestones of the road were clearly visible again, their sand-repelling runes heavily worn by wind and time, but still working their magic. The feeling of being watched, hunted, gradually faded. People began to talk again. Vlada explained to her companion how the road magic worked and shared some stories from her life as a Wanderer. With all the dangers behind them the journey became quite pleasant again; the time flew.

By the next morning they had entered Border. The town was small, but well defended, both from the ever-advancing sands and possible bandit raids. Unlike the rest of Kuldagan population, Borderers didn’t bother with preserving the ancestors’ purity, so there wasn’t a single pair of identical faces in the crowd. They also were diurnal people, busy during the day, sleeping at night, just like the rest of the world behind the Mountain Ring. Kangassk was shocked at the diversity of faces, at the bubbling, noisy day life, at the coolness of the air which was so different there, close to the mountains… Needless to say, he looked hilarious in his endless shocked excitement. Vlada couldn’t help smiling every time she looked at him.

Local inns went by the word “dlar” as well, but, having many storeys connected by winding staircases, resembled little towers. Vlada rented a whole storey on top of one such tower. There were three rooms there: one for her, one for Kangassk; the third room stayed empty for the sake of the perfect peace and quiet she wanted after the journey.

Kangassk had hoped to sleep through the day as he did most of his life, but Vlada didn’t allow it. His objections ignored, the wounded guy was dragged to the nearest healer to have his head treated properly. Since using magic is too dangerous so close to No Man’s Land, the healer treated him with some nasty smelling ointment and a decoction of burngrass root, which felt precisely like what its name implied: burning mercilessly. After Kan’s head had been treated and bandaged Vlada took him to the market to buy some armour. To his surprise, they passed by all the heavily laden stalls displaying chainmails, breastplates, helmets, and all kinds of exotic items. Vlada spoke to the local weapons dealer directly and asked him for kevlar. The old master had just snarled at first, but then changed his mind and brought her a couple of thick lined cloaks, time worn, dusty, and discoloured by the sun. The price the old man asked for them made Kangassk’s jaw drop. Vlada paid it in full, not even bothering to haggle.

Vlada tried her luck again, asking for a gun, but no, the old man didn’t have one.

“No one goes into the Burnt Region anymore,” he said. “Everyone goes around. It adds two weeks to the journey, but, hey, you’ll arrive in one piece, so that’s worth it.”

The kevlar armor he sold them was some kind of family legacy from the gold rush times, hence the high price.

“Maybe we should go around as well?” Kangassk asked Vlada that evening at dinner, meek hope in his voice.

“No,” she replied.

“Why? Just why!” Kan threw his hands up in indignation.

“Because I’m in a hurry.”

“To do what?”

“Hmm…” Vlada hummed, contemplating. “Okay. Let’s say, I’m going to the Dead Region to redeem my good name and help an old friend… You can stay here, Kan. It’s a free town. No one will ever see you as a freak here. Live your life. Be happy.”

“No! I’m not letting you go to the Burnt Region alone!” Kangassk crossed his hands on his chest, his lips set stubbornly, his eyes bright and angry again.

For a few seconds the only sound breaking the awkward silence was his furious breathing.

“You are not too bad as a fighter,” said Vlada out of nowhere.

“Beginner’s luck…” Kan exhaled with a hissing noise and scratched his bandaged head. “It was my first real fight, actually…”

“I’ll teach you. We’ll have time during the journey,” she promised.

Chapter 2. I wish I had a gun

Chargas step lightly on their soft, padded paws. Dry autumn leaves may rustle under their feet, their claws may click once in a while on a stony road, but when they walk on grass you can not hear them at all because your human hearing is not sharp enough for something so subtle.

Two charga riders followed a well-trodden trade road up to the crossroads where they turned north. The narrow path they chose was a remnant of the gold rush times. Back then, when thousands of people travelled that way, their heavy boots had worn the ground down to the rock. Like an old scar, the forgotten, overgrown path was still visible through the young green undergrowth. It didn’t snake around the hills and trees, it boldly went straight through every obstacle in its way, be it a meadow or a forest. Close to the obscure border of the Burnt Region the path emerged from under the grassy carpet of weeds and flowers and headed up, turning into a wide two-track road littered with innumerable shell cases that still glinted in the dust. Gold rush times were rough times…

“What’s in the Burnt Region now?” Kangassk asked Vlada. “Is it abandoned, since no one seems to go there any more?”

“Don’t get your hopes high.” Vlada shook her head. “Yes, it’s mostly a wasteland now, but people still live there.”

“I wouldn’t,” Kan said with a lot of confidence.

Sasler was cleaning his rifle, carefully wiping every little lens in a clever device attached to its barrel. The very device that made him the most feared man in the Burnt Region: a scope.

Finally, satisfied with his work, he replaced the lid of the black case protecting the delicate lenses. When fully assembled, the scope resembled a bulging, unblinking insect eye.

As usual, before setting off for the hunt Sasler peeked into his house and waved goodbye to his wife and little son. This simple ritual was extremely important to him, for many reasons.

In the dense pine woods these hills were covered with the sunlight reached the ground in patches. Sasler avoided stepping on them, he preferred to stay in shadows where he felt more comfortable.

The weather was fine, not a single cloud in the sky. Sasler chose a comfy spot at the edge of the cliff in the shade between two blackberry bushes. He could see the whole meadow from there. All he needed now was to wait for some hungry animal to show up.

His bulge-eyed rifle lay next to him, its “eye” covered with cloth. Comfortably sprawled on the grass, Sasler waited for his prey. In such beautiful weather he could see further than usual, as far as the old road.

The old road… someone was there, heading into the heart of the Burnt Region…

“The old road goes up into the mountains,” Vlada explained. “People used to wash gold there, in the icy-cold springs, and build houses around them. Most little villages are abandoned now, but some people have stayed. I doubt they would like to see us, though. That’s why we’d better make a little detour through the forest.”

Kangassk sighed pensively and scratched his charga behind the ear. The mighty beast answered the stroke with a loud purr.

Sasler didn’t care about the old road, but he did care about his forest. Those two had just left the road and entered his territory! He grabbed his rifle, ripped the cloth off the scope, and took a closer look at the intruders.

He was glad he hadn't rushed to pull the trigger. The strangers looked very much like old Crogan's bandits, kevlar cloaks and all. It took him a whole minute to realize they weren't a part of the gang.

These two carried no guns with them, just three swords and a short bow. Plus, their chargas were heavily laden, obviously for travelling purposes.

Fools. Two young fools either seeking adventures or trying to make a shortcut through the Burnt Region despite all the warnings they no doubt got. Or, maybe, they are not fools at all, but in fact, someone much worse than Crogan’s thugs are…

Sasler tarried, balancing in indecision. The riders, two tiny black specks on the yellowish-green grassy carpet of the valley, were slowly moving in his direction. He couldn’t just kill them, not while them being innocent young fools was still a possibility. He needed more info. Having noted where they had entered the forest Sasler left the cliff. He decided to follow and watch those two, closely.

Sasler’s family was used to him being absent from home for days when he hunted, so he was in no hurry. He kept his distance, he stayed in shadows, he observed his targets from the higher ground.

From time to time he removed the cloth from the scope and took a closer look at the strangers. The scope’s high-power lens, a technological marvel no less wonderful than magic, allowed him to see their faces if he wanted and learn what they talked about. During the decades of hunting Crogan’s thugs, Sasler became quite good at lip-reading. This alone made him a threat to be feared enough to stay away from his forest. He was a local dark legend, an evil spirit reading people’s minds, striking from nowhere, unseen, unreachable, too precise to be human. Unknown to the outer world, the lonely hunter with a scope on his rifle kept Crogan's gang away from the south road and the towns it led to.

Sasler’s family knew his secret, but nobody else did. Crogan, who was way too religious for a bandit, saw the “ghost shooter” as a punishment from gods, always wondering what would they punish him for. Didn’t he pray often enough? Weren’t his sacrifices generous?

Old Crogan had killed a lot of people during his lifetime, loved a good torture too. If you had asked him whether he remembered a boy he had tortured to death for pure fun in his youth he’d just say, “Which one?” for there were many. Sasler did remember, though. The boy was his firstborn son…

“No, these two are neither Crogan’s thugs nor some other threat,” concluded Sasler by the end of the day.

The strangers, a girl and a boy, had young, honest faces. They smiled and laughed often, making jokes and sharing stories as they walked. Sasler himself couldn’t help an occasional chuckle while lip-reading their conversations.

“Adventurers,” he thought, “Young and stupid, brave and defenceless… The boy looks a bit like my late son. He must be about the same age… Sure, I’ll let them pass through my lands, but what then? What will happen when they enter Crogan’s territory?” Sasler squinted. He didn’t like the choice he faced. His family, wife and little son waiting for him at home, were on his mind, they always were, but now his late boy was too.

“No! No, damn it!” he whispered angrily waving the dark thoughts away. “I’ll look after the kids. I’ll keep them safe if I can.”

The evening came, gentle and breezy, so unlike the harsh desert nights Kangassk knew. It was time to camp, to everyone’s joy, chargas included. The beasts got tired too. Once freed from their burden they got themselves busy stripping the young trees from bark which was obviously a treat for them. Chargas are omnivorous, so they could go hunting if they wanted. These two weren’t in the mood for the hunt, though.

Vlada sent Kangassk to gather brushwood. By the time he had returned she had built a proper fire pit, with a little cauldron hanging on a hook above the neat ring of stones. The cauldron was filled with water, bits of salted meat and dried bread – the simplest wayfarer food. All that was missing was fire.

“Isn’t it dangerous to build a fire here?” asked Kangassk who felt uneasy in the forest. “What if somebody finds us?”

“I think it’s quite safe,” Vlada assured him. “As far as I know, the local bandits avoid this forest. They believe it to be haunted or something…”

“Oh, wonderful!” Kangassk gulped. “Then I’d better build the fire right away. At least I’ll feel safer.”

He didn’t even look at the tinderbox. Most likely he didn’t even know what a tinderbox was. Why would a Kuldagan dweller even need such a thing to make a fire? They have dragonlighters for that.

Kan promptly fished the dragonlighter out of his pocket. The pocket dragon was squeaking, clawing at his jacket, and trying to squirm out of his grasp. The little thing had just eaten all the tasty crumbles Kan poured into the pocket, so it was too full and sleepy to work, no wonder it was fighting back.

“See, this is a lighter,” said Kangassk, showing the dragon to Vlada. “Just squeeze it in your hand and – whoosh! – you have fire.”

Then he did squeeze the little dragon in his hand and moved its snout above the brushwood. The branches were a bit damp, so it took them some time to catch fire.

“See!” said Kan, clearly proud of himself. “Lighters are cool! We…”

There came a thin farting sound… Kan stopped dead mid-sentence, swore, and opened his hand. There was a grey foul-smelling spot on his palm.

“You little shit!” he roared.

Vlada had several minutes of good laugh as she watched Kangassk chase the rebellious dragon in the tall grass. The nimble little creature apparently had a lot of fun as well. After its owner had tired himself out and dropped the chase it quietly returned to its nest in the jacket.

It took way longer for Vlada to calm down. She burst out laughing every time she looked at Kangassk.

“He either has a rear valve defect like half of the lighters have or maybe he’s just an uppish beast…” Kan tried to explain, so hilariously embarrassed it only made Vlada’s fits of laughter worse.

Sasler didn’t quite understand what had just happened down there but seeing the kids laugh he couldn’t help but smile himself. He wished he could warn them somehow.

The young adventurers went to sleep without leaving a lookout. They trusted their chargas to keep them safe. The beasts had keen hearing and could see in the dark as well as cats do. On top of all that they were huge, sharp-toothed, long-clawed, and insanely fast. The kids carelessly used them as fluffy pillows at the moment, but if Sasler had attempted to approach the camp the beasts would be at his throat in no time. Approaching the kids in the daytime was a no go as well. This way he’d have to deal with the nervous young archer as well as chargas.

That night Sasler went to sleep with a heavy heart.

Riding a charga is like riding a wind. Kan read about the nomads who lived on the edge of the civilized parts of Omnis and rode the tall beasts with cloven feet. The nomads’ legs bent in as a result of so much harsh riding, their backs suffered as well. No charga rider ever faced such problems. Chargas run as lightly as they walk.

The day went well. Nobody bothered the travellers, the ancient woods didn’t slow chargas much. Kangassk, a desert dweller to the bone as he was, finally put up with the forest. It didn’t seem so “haunted” in the bright sunlight, after all. Also, Vlada’s unruffled composure reassured him every time his fears tried to return.

Twice they stopped to rest and eat during the day, on the third stop they made a camp. Kan volunteered to make a fire again. This time the pocket dragon did his job without accidents. Soon, the tired company was chilling out after a long day, waiting for the soup to boil in the cauldron. Vlada’s charga was busy grooming her spotted coat, very cat-like. Kan’s charga curled up by the fire. As for the tired people, they watched the sun slowly sink beyond the forest, each filling the silence with their own thoughts.

After the simple, but filling supper Kangassk fished a book out of his backpack and leaned against his charga’s furry side to read.

“I see you with this book every time we camp,” said Vlada cheerfully, “What is it about?”

“This is the Encyclopedia of No Man’s Land,” he replied with a hint of pride in his voice and demonstrated the dusty cover to Vlada. The title was barely visible there.

Vlada nodded respectfully. Kangassk couldn’t help wondering whether the young warrior could read at all, but dropped the thought quickly for he had no desire to make a fool of himself by underestimating her again.

Suddenly inspired, Kan decided to go not for a summary, but a real paragraph instead. He started reading, his confidence fading with every page. After having read five of them he had to admit he had gravely overestimated himself. The text looked as alien to him as if it had been written in a foreign language.

“Why would someone write like that?” He spat out a curse. “You must really hate your students to torture them so.”

With a deep sigh, Kangassk gave up. He turned over a few pages and found the summary translating the muddy paragraph into a proper human speech.

“…It took the worldholders thousands of years to refine the magical system of Omnis. The problem with stabilizing the magic field emerged right after the creation of Hora Tenebris, the central generator of magic in the young world. Many living creatures are capable of stabilizing magic on their own, but humankind does not possess that ability. Since unstable magic was impossible to control, humans needed an artificial stabilizing system.

The prototype stabilizing system consisting of dozens of small stabilizers equally distributed across the continent turned out to be ineffective and dangerous. The catastrophe that followed its test is described on page 568 of “The Sources of Magic”, vol. 21).

The next system was based on two high-capacity stabilizers: ember Hora Solaris and moonstone Hora Lunaris. Each of them had an effective radius half of that of Hora Tenebris. They were placed on the opposite sides of the continent to equalize each other and provide a stable magic field for humankind to use.

The area where their zones of influence intersect and cancel each other is known as No Man’s Land, an anomalous, unstable magic region.”

“Listen, Vlada!” Kangassk remembered all of a sudden. “I wanted to ask… Well, I heard a lot of scary stories about the Burnt Region back in Aren-castell. Do you know what happened there for real after the gold rush?”

“It’s a long story, Kan,” said Vlada in a saddened voice, scratching her purring charga’s chin.

“Just tell it to me in a nutshell. Pretty please?” Kan pleaded, with the cutest smile he could manage.

“Okay. In a nutshell,” Vlada gave in, “This region fell into complete anarchy during the gold rush. Lots of people from South and North flocked there. Little villages sprang up along the banks of the mountain rivers. People washed gold, traded gold, fought over gold. Add the region’s unique properties, those considering gunpowder, to the mix to get the idea what local wars looked like. You’ve seen the shell cases on the old road… In the end, half of the region turned into a burned wasteland. That was when it had gotten the name.”

“What was its name before?” Kan got curious.

“Green Hills Region”.

“Okay. Sorry for interrupting you. What happened next?”

“One of the gangs took over the region in the end. A man from Kuldagan, Crogan, was the leader. I have no idea which city he came from, but it sure wasn’t your Aren-castell. His thugs destroyed whatever future the region had. People prefer not to enter it any more. That means no trade. Everyone who could leave has left this place. Now the Burnt Region is just Crogan’s base where he returns after raiding the neighbouring regions.”

“What’s that guy like?”

“He’s a bloodthirsty monster if you ask me.”

Crogan had had hiccups for the whole day as if someone, according to a popular superstition, was thinking of him and not in a good way. His old wounds started aching, too, which made his mood even worse.

The leader of the dark horde poured himself a goblet of wine and sprawled on the sofa by the fireplace. His pet hyena, a gentle puppy to her dear owner but a vile, snappish creature to everyone else, rested her shaggy head on his feet. Crogan always had a soft spot for hyenas, preferring them to dogs. Once in a while, he let his pets tear some unfortunate prisoner apart to keep them happy. He was a kind master.

Crogan’s stone house looked quite cosy, at least until his guests learned that there was a torture chamber in the basement. Judging by all the hunting trophies and furs in the rooms you could think it belonged to an old hunter. A very religious old hunter, you might add after noticing the exquisite porcelain statuettes of the Three in the red corner. No servant was allowed to touch them. Crogan himself dusted the statues every day, before the prayer. He prayed quite often and with passion. It helped him to feel better about himself and always made his conscience, whatever left of it, shut up if it tried something.

“My lord!” someone shouted behind the door. “Your son has arrived!”

“Send him in,” ordered Crogan and took another sip from the goblet.

Young Crogan, named after his glorious father, was just twelve years old but looked like a proper thug already. His father thought the lad had a great future. He didn’t tell his son this, of course. Presumptuous kids are too much trouble.

“Well, well, son,” the crime lord smacked his lips, “I’ve got some news about your new adventures today. Would you kindly remind me what I told you to do?”

“You wanted me to collect the tax from Goldygate,” mumbled young Crogan.

“Yeees. And you did what?”

“Dad, I…”

“Shut up!” old Crogan roared. “The Three will punish you! Do you know how they punish those who disobey their parents?”

“But I…” the son tried to defend himself again.

“They will throw you into a fire pit,” he smashed his fist on the armrest, “The hottest fire pit, high in a…”

That was the moment when Crogan’s pet hyena heard a familiar word which made her jump with joy, eyes burning with hunger, teeth snapping. She thought it was that time again! Time to tear somebody apart! Fun time!

“Dad…” Young Crogan turned marble-white. “Dad, please, no hyenas…”

The crime lord stopped dead mid sermon. It took him a whole minute to realize what had just happened. All this time his son was staring at him with wide eyes, absolutely terrified, while his hyena was dancing about, yelping, snapping, waiting anxiously for the command to kill.

“You little fool!” Old Crogan roared again, this time with laughter soon followed by his son’s relieved sniggering. “Okay, you’ve learned your lesson,” said old Crogan, almost good-naturedly now, “What was that you wanted to tell me?”

“Well, about why I led the guys into the forest…” Young Crogan scratched his head thoughtfully. “I saw two strangers on the old road. Some brown man and his chick. No guns. We wanted to take them to you, but they went into the Haunted Woods before we could catch them. I can try catching them again once they’ve re-entered our territory.”

“Do this. I want those two alive and unmaimed, understood?” Crogan was grim and serious again. “I’d love to hear some news from our guests and possibly a tale about how they passed through the Haunted Woods unharmed. Go!” He paused. “No, wait! I’m coming with you. I don’t want you to screw up again.”

Old Crogan gave his orders at once. Soon, the party of twenty riders gathered in his yard. There were no chargas at his base for they didn’t get along with his favourite hyenas, so Crogan’s thugs rode taranders instead: huge, hulky beasts, horned and cloven-footed. Taranders didn’t care about the hyenas yelping and snapping before them, at all.

The weather was properly murky and foggy that morning, perfect for the manhunt. The fog filled all the lowlands like spilled milk. You could hide an army in that fog if you wanted. Old Crogan led the hunting team. He rode a white tarander harnessed in gold and silver as a glorious leader should. It’s been a long time since he went for a manhunt himself, so he felt great, the ache in his old wounds all forgotten. Once in a while, he threw a glance at his son, noticing how well the lad rode, how tall he became, how clever and shrewd his eyes were. Rebellious though he was, the young Crogan was a good son, worthy of his sire. Too bad he was so afraid of hyenas, but it couldn’t be helped: a rabid hyena tried to eat him when he was a toddler, that had apparently scarred him for life. Of course, Crogan gutted that hyena himself so all his other pets would see what awaited them if they tried to hurt his heir, but the fear remained, deep buried in the lad’s heart. Back in the house, when Crogan chastised his son for disobedience it was not the promise of burning in the hellish fire pit that made the young Crogan turn pale, it was the hyena. His father could only hope his boy would outgrow that fear one day.

“That’s where Crogan’s thugs mark the edge of the Haunted Woods,” Vlada was explaining the thin white dotted line on the map. “They’re afraid of these hills, so they don’t go there. Today we’re leaving the safe territory, Kan.”

“This is bad, right?” He sighed.

“We’ll be fine,” Vlada smiled, ruffling his hair gently. “We’ve already passed most of the Burnt Region through the safe land. Now we just have to cross the river and be off. There’s a bridge, but it is guarded, so we won’t go there. We will ford the river in its widest place where it is shallow.”

Kangassk couldn’t bring himself to read after they made their last camp on the safe land. He lay in the grass and watched the sky go dark. Lots of thoughts buzzed in his head: about Aren-castell, so distant now it could have been a dream, about the journey he got himself into, and about the purpose of everything. He envied Vlada. The girl had a clear goal ahead of her. He didn’t. He just tagged along, trying to be helpful. Not that she needed his help much…

The morning was foggy and damp. The travellers’ clothes and chargas’ fur were wet with morning dew. The beasts didn’t like being wet at all. They stopped now and again to shake the silver droplets off. Their riders didn’t have that luxury.

It was hard to tell in the fog whether they had already crossed the thin border between the Haunted Woods and old Crogan’s territory. Kangassk just assumed they were no longer safe, so he kept his bow ready. Fog made him feel uneasy, especially after the stories about sylphs, the fog dwellers, Vlada told him yesterday. They were nasty critters, those sylphs! Kan would rather meet bandits again. At least bandits were human and he knew how to deal with them.

Sasler left the hills he had been watching the strangers from. Up there he could move at a walking pace and still see them from the top thanks to the scope. Now, after they had turned to the river, away from the hills, he had to follow them closely, so he needed a ride.

A wild charga answered his call. The beast had been very fond of the old hunter since the day he saved her from the snare. Back then old Crogan’s thugs were still bold enough to enter Sasler’s territory from time to time and even put their snares there. Sasler hated snares with passion. He never used them himself. He also never hunted the hunters, other predators, that is. He rescued the little charga that day and nursed her back to health. Since then, whenever he needed a ride, she had been willing to help.

Holding onto the thick fur of the unharnessed beast Sasler rode down the hill, right into the milky fog. He very well understood how hard it would be to find the kids there and keep up with them, yet he had to try.

Old Crogan planned the ambush very carefully to provide the best possible example for his heir.

The river, Fervida, was fast yet shallow there, on the wide rocky bed, barely knee-deep. The strangers took their boots off before fording the river. They shivered as they entered the icy cold water leading their chargas behind. The poor beasts hated every step of the way by the looks of them.

Here they went, all four, two people and two animals, right into the trap. Crogan waited until they had reached the middle of the river before passing the signalling horn to his son. Blowing it proved to be hard for the young lungs, but the lad did his best. He managed to produce a weak, but distinguishable sound. The team, following the order, let the hyenas loose.

The fastest of the hyenas died first, it got an arrow between the eyes. Kan was quick. The second-best runner got an arrow to the side and yelped, spinning in circles and biting at the arrow shaft in a desperate attempt to get rid of it. Kan had drawn the third arrow, ready to bring another snappy monster down, but lowered his bow as he saw the bandits emerging from the fog at both sides of the river. Every single one of them had a gun.

The trap had closed. Here they stood in the middle of the river, with hyenas raging on both shores, anxiously awaiting a command to tear them apart, and the silent bandits standing behind the beasts, guns ready. The chargas hissed, baring their teeth, bristling their fur. Kangassk, not knowing what else to do, tried to shield Vlada with his body.

“Drop your weapons!” somebody cried to them from the western shore. The voice was young, impudent, and boyish.

“Do as he says, Kan,” said Vlada in a chilly tone.

They threw their swords, bow, and arrows into the river. The swords sank to the bottom, but the bow and arrows were carried away by the bubbling water.

Thanks to his wild friend’s acute sense of smell, Sasler had finally found the kids after a couple of hours. He climbed a lofty rock to rise above the fog a bit and took a closer look at them through the scope. That was when he had realized he came too late.

Two black figures stood barefooted in the middle of the river, their hands in the air, their weapons at their feet. Crogan’s thugs watched them from the both sides of Fervida.

Sasler’s heart began to race as he zoomed in to examine the bandits’ faces: both Crogans, father and son, had been there! The boy looked so much like his sire there could be no mistake.

“My revenge will be terrible, Crogan,” he thought, aiming at the little bandit’s leg…

Young Crogan uttered a shrill scream and fell to the ground, clutching at his leg. All the thuggish insolence he had been so proud of washed away in an instant, he cried like a child he was. His pants were soaked with blood and the stain was growing wider and wider.

“The ghost shooter! The Wood Ghost is here!” the bandits around him shouted, their fear quickly turning into panic. A moment later they broke the formation and started shooting in all directions in a desperate attempt to reach the unseen hunter in the fog.

The second bullet bit the young Crogan in the palm, adding to his agony. Then it was the thugs’ turn. The ones who had carelessly removed their kevlar cowls in the heat got shot in their heads and died instantly. The others weren’t so lucky and shared the young Crogan’s fate: the Ghost shot them in the legs.

Vlada and Kan froze where they stood, with their hands still up. Both were afraid to move at first but soon realized the ghost shooter was after the bandits, not them. They, on the other hand, had a new problem to deal with: the hyenas. The beasts, maddened by their masters’ panic, decided to go for the kill and charged.

“Kan, pick up your sword!” Vlada came to her senses first, just in time for the spotted monsters were already advancing from both sides.

The chargas took the first two hyenas and were busy ripping them apart, rolling and splashing in the reddened water. The rest of the pack targeted Vlada and Kan. Whoever that “ghost shooter” was, his attention had obviously been somewhere else at the moment, so they were on their own.

The outer world where people shouted and died, where two strangers fought back to back against the hyenas in the middle of the river, where everything that could go wrong did go wrong, no longer existed for old Crogan. There was only him and his dying son. The boy no longer cried. He curled up in the grass, gasping for air, his face as white as chalk. There was nothing the mighty gang leader could do, nothing.

When Vlada and Kan had finally crossed the river – Kan walking with a limp because one of the hyenas had bit him – they saw not the famous leader of the dark horde, but a broken old man devastated by his grief. Crogan wept, wept inconsolably, helpless and defeated for the first time in his life. His son was dying in his arms, nothing else mattered. Crogan's gun lay beside him in the grass, thrown away and forgotten. He took off his kevlar cloak, his only protection against the ghost shooter's bullets, and covered the boy with it so the Ghost would not torture him any more. One of the hyenas that survived the fight by running away in time snapped at the young Crogan's arm. Old Crogan broke its neck with his bare hands, his strength magnified tenfold by the grief.

"Please…" the boy whispered, "No hyenas, dad… I'm afraid." He went silent.

That was the moment when old Crogan went mad. He cried, tearing his hair out one moment, praying the next, he cursed, he begged his son to wake up… Then the world went dark for him, literally, for Crogan went blind.

Kangassk caught a glimpse of a dark figure walking through the fog. Soon, a stranger emerged from beyond the misty veil. He wore no kevlar, just a green woollen cloak over his worn leather clothing. The gun he carried had a black, bulging “eye” on its barrel. Uncovered, the “eye” blinked with every step. Kan couldn’t stop looking at it.

“This is your punishment, Crogan,” said the stranger, “Do you remember how you tortured my son to death? He was about the same age as yours. Does it seem fun to you now?”

The old man didn’t answer. He kept raving – praying, cursing, begging… but suddenly there was a glimpse of consciousness, so brief yet so bright.

“Kill! Kill me as well!” demanded Crogan.

“No,” the ghost shooter shook his head. His voice was icy cold, merciless. “I want you to live. And suffer, like I did.”

That said, he stepped over the dead boy’s body and approached Vlada and Kangassk.

“I’m Sasler,” he introduced himself. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you left the old road, wanted to keep you safe. Little did I know where you would lead me, kids. But I’m grateful. I dreamed of revenge for years. It feels good to be free again… Now, take the guns from the dead and be on your way. No one will hurt you any more.”

He didn’t wait for the answer, he just turned around and walked away. Soon, he was no more than a dark silhouette in the fog. The “eye” on his rifle kept glimmering through the white veil long after he had disappeared altogether.

Vlada and Kan left the deadly place with a heavy heart. All the way to the border of the region they kept hearing the old man’s cry.

Chapter 3. White gloom

The wounds didn’t let Kan and Vlada walk far, so they camped as soon as they left the Burnt Region behind them. Making a fire so close to the bandit territory was a bad idea but they needed hot water to wash the wounds, so Vlada decided to risk it.

They made their camp at the foot of a bare hill near a chatty cold rivulet snaking between the stones. Vlada left Kan with the chargas and went to fetch water. While she was away the good-natured beasts licked the boy’s wounds as well as their own. He didn’t protest. He was unable to, being barely conscious with fever. Hyena bites are nasty.

The travellers were lucky that burngrass, a field medic’s best friend, grew in abundance around that hill. It makes an excellent antiseptic when boiled in water. The chargas sniffed suspiciously at the cauldron with the burngrass potion. Obviously, treating them with it was out of question.

Kangassk’s leg, the one bitten by the hyena, swelled so badly it barely fitted into the boot now. Vlada, too, hadn’t come out of the battle unscathed this time. She got a stray bullet to the shoulder. Her kevlar cloak did help a lot, but the nasty piece of lead went through it anyway which resulted in a shallow but painful wound surrounded with a darkish bruise.

Their wounds treated, the travellers ate a cold supper and tried to sleep. It wasn’t easy. Kangassk could only guess what his companion might have been thinking about; as for him, he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the battle again, the old man crying over the dead boy, or a dark shadow of Sasler the punisher walking through the mist, the bulging eye on his rifle glinting with every step.

“Why did he do that to the boy? Revenge or not, that was over the top.” Kangassk muttered, his gaze wandering among the early stars in the sky.

“Snipers are like that. They’re cruel,” answered Vlada in a strangely knowing way.

“Who?” Kan asked again. The word was unfamiliar to him.

“Snipers. That man invented a scope to aim and shoot from afar. He is a sniper, the only one in the world for now.”

“How the heck do you know all these things?”

“Experience.”

Kangassk decided not to pursue the matter further. He felt weird. Something was definitely wrong here but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Vlada seemed as young as he was yet knew a good deal more. Was she older than she looked? It’s not that you can safely ask a girl such a question… Was she a mage? That would explain a lot. No, she didn’t look like one. A warrior’s daughter then? Possibly the only child, papa’s girl that had been given a sword as soon as she could walk.

“Experience!” Hah! Kan would have known a thing or two about the outside world as well had he travelled instead of breathing ash and dust in his master’s workshop.

So, nothing was wrong with Vlada after all? The weird feeling was just the fever getting into his head? There was no way to make sure.

They stayed in the camp that day to let the hyena bites heal enough to allow the injured to walk again. While Kangassk got just one bite, chargas got at least a dozen. For the moment both were as helpless as kittens. Vlada shared the dry wayfarer meal with the brave beasts and brought them a cauldron of water from the stream. Chargas lapped up the water like cats and looked grateful.

With three of four being in such a sorry state, it took the little group two days to reach the nearest town, Tammar.

The locals took them for Crogan’s bandits at first. Kevlar cloaks and guns kind of suggested that. The fright quickly turned to cheer when they heard the news, though. One Crogan dead, the other retired! Unbelievable! Praises, songs, and a shower of rose petals followed. Neither Vlada nor Kan was happy about it, though.

They gave their guns and kevlar cloaks to the town’s mayor for safekeeping. The grateful local ruler offered them food, meds, and shelter. That night Vlada and Kan slept under a roof again. Their rooms were small and simple but after all the nights they spent outdoors with mosquitoes anything with a roof seemed good enough.

“Reading again, Kangassk?” asked Vlada. She had walked into his room so quietly he never heard a step.

“Yeah, about that Region we’re in now,” he replied with a yawn. He was reading with all possible comfort: in his bed.

“Anything interesting?” she smiled and sat down on the side of the bed.

“Well, it’s the Calid Region. Known for its warm climate. Also, local magical anomalies are beneficial for soothsayers,” recited Kangassk. "Hmm… soothsayers. I saw their tents when we entered the town. Maybe it'd be interesting to pay them a visit, what do you think? Aren't you curious about the future?"

"I'd rather not know it." Vlada shook her head.

"But why?"

"Not knowing what lies ahead makes life less boring, Kan."

"Oh well, whatever you say…"

Kan closed the book and tried to raise himself up on one elbow to get closer to the girl but the elbow sank in the soft pillows.

"So what's the plan?" he asked with a faint hope in his voice. "Are we still taking the shortest road? No detours?"

"No detours." Vlada nodded.

She wore a light nightgown now instead of her usual travelling clothes. She sat on his bed, so near. All that made Kangassk wonder, "Why did she come? Does she want to stay? It would be really nice if she stayed…" His thoughts ran in circles repeating the phrase "She called me handsome!" again and again as fervently as if it were a prayer.

"I came to check how you feel," explained Vlada.

Kan broke into a cold sweat. Did she just read his thoughts? Was he that obvious?

"Glad to see you're getting better," she continued. "Well, good night!"

"I wish you had stayed with me," whispered Kan after Vlada had left the room.

Vlada's "goodnight" didn't work. Hours had passed yet Kangassk was still wide awake, tossing and turning in his bed. He tried counting gryphons, then sheep. Gryphons were a Kuldaganian thing, he knew now that people outside the mountain ring preferred to count sheep instead, so he did. Nothing helped him calm down and fall asleep, though. He thought he had got used to being diurnal during his journey with Vlada. He was wrong. Or maybe the young warrior girl wishing him good night while wearing a thin nightgown was the reason for everything…

Kangassk got up and sat by the window. The view was nice. Hundreds of lights twinkled below. The town seemed wide awake with the echoes of the last day's celebrations. There were happily drunk people roaming the streets, signs shone, highlighted by little lamps, merchants cried out their prices… Going for a walk suddenly seemed like a good idea.

Kangassk got dressed, took his sword with him, just in case, and left the inn. The noisy, almost Kuldaganian night swallowed him as soon as he stepped out of the door. Kan didn't have much money on him, so he just kept walking through the town, looking around, enjoying the noise, and smiling back to the celebrating folk, until he left the highly populated area and entered the dark, serene heart of the soothsayers' town.

He kept walking at a slow pace to avoid disturbing his healing wounds. Unknown to him, his gait looked quite heroic because of that, as if he were an old, tired warrior on a stroll, not a hyena-bitten runaway smith thinking of a certain young lady in the nightgown.

"Hey, hero!" someone called in a thin voice. "Come, I'll tell your fortune!"

Kangassk turned his head to the speaker and smiled when he saw a little girl no more than ten years old. She wore a long frayed dress, a proper soothsayer attire, but along with her skinny figure and messy boyish haircut, it made her look like a funny little sparrow. The girl sat on a squeaky folding chair by the wall and looked very serious. An unlit sign beside her written in childishly crooked letters clearly stated her business here.

"So you are a soothsayer?" said Kan with a soft chuckle. He couldn't help feeling like a real, hardened warrior now, towering over the child.

"Of course! I'm an Illian. All women in my family have the gift." The girl sniffed at him meaningfully, her pride obviously hurt by the stranger's disbelief. "Let me tell your fortune and see for yourself!"

Kan approached the child.

“Why do you sit there alone at night?” he asked.

“No real soothsayer reads fortunes in daylight,” she explained, clearly being very proud of being the real one. “Day is for charlatans and the fools who believe them. The future can be properly seen only at night!”

“Sorry, I didn’t know.” Kan squatted down beside the kid. “So, how much?”

“Five coins,” said the little soothsayer in such a tone that clearly meant there could be no arguments about the price.

“Expensive…”

“You want your fortune told or not?”

Kangassk had never seen such a proud and confident child before. Beatings, starvation, cruelty? There was no doubt the girl had never known such treatment.

He dropped the argument and put the five coins on her little palm.

"Now you must say: I give Zanna permission to read my fortune."

Kan repeated the words.

Zanna closed her eyes and frowned, thinking. She was supposed to look mysterious, Kan thought, but instead she looked like a little schoolgirl solving a math problem. It was hard not to laugh.

"Your name is Kangassk, you are from Aren-Castell," the girl began to chant in a slow and quiet manner so unlike her usual speech. "You are twenty years old, a warrior. Now ask your question."

Laughter died on Kan's lips. The little girl was a real soothsayer after all. In a moment, he no longer felt curious about the future. What he really wanted was to get out of here immediately. Not that it would have been fair to the kid…

"Okay," he exhaled, then took a deep breath. "I'm travelling with a girl, Vlada. Will we… err… ever be together? Will she love me?"

"Understood. Now wait. I will look for the answer." Zanna nodded and closed her eyes again.

It seemed like a very long wait to Kangassk though it could not have been longer than a minute before Zanna had opened her eyes again. The young soothsayer's face went from quiet serenity to surprise mixed with anger and fear.

"Go away, old man!" she demanded, her thin voice trembling with fury. "Are you deaf? Take your money and get out of here!"

Since Kangassk didn't move fast enough Zanna threw his coins back at him and shrieked, "Get out!!!"

That did the trick; for Kan had no desire to explain the situation to the local guards. He hobbled away as quick as his bad leg allowed him and headed straight to the inn. He wanted no more "adventures" that day.

Back in his room, Kan put the unlucky five coins back into his purse. He felt strange. He couldn't even decide whether he wanted to know what the girl had seen in his future. So many questions…

That night and half the day Kangassk slept as only a true Kuldaganian can. He would have slept even longer if it wasn't for a random whiff of wind that moved the edge of the curtain aside and let a ray of the bright sunlight in. With the light shining in his eyes, Kangassk had to wake up.

He noticed that his leg had got much better, the boot was no longer tight around it. The wound healed so well that if it weren’t for the ugly dark spots the burngrass treatment left on the skin no one would have noticed the bite marks. The burns still hurt even though the wound no longer did. What a vicious herb that burngrass is!

Still yawning and blinking at the merciless light, Kangassk walked up to the window. It was long past noon. The city, fully awake, buzzed like a busy beehive below. The merchants advertised their goods and haggled about the prices. Several diurnal soothsayers sat in the shade and offered people to read their fortunes by their palms. Kan recalled little Zanna Iliann’s opinion of them and grinned knowingly. His joy was brief, though, for he quickly recalled her scared face and shrill voice as well. What could have scared her so?

Local inns were nothing like dlars Kangassk knew. Instead of a cosy common hall with a fireplace and a dancing floor there was a boring dining room downstairs with rows and rows of ancient tables, each sporting a wide collection of cuts and stains. Where were people supposed to dance? Did they even dance there at all? Sad…

Kangassk didn’t find Vlada in the dining room. Her own room turned out to be empty as well. It looked so tidy that one might wonder whether she did spend the night there at all. The bed seemed untouched, the closet was locked, and the bed table was way too clean. Its identical twin in Kan’s room had all sorts of things on top of it: dry bread crumbs, withered apple cores, a greasy encyclopedia…

Kan sat on the bed and took a closer look at the table. There were two sad looking candles on it: one melted down to a waxy puddle, the other reduced to a little stump. Someone had obviously been reading all night. Was Vlada an avid reader? Kangassk had never seen her with a book before but he did see her poring over maps for hours. Indeed, there was a scroll on the little shelf under her bed table, a map, as Kan had found out when he unrolled it. And what a map! He had never seen anything like it before.

What do you usually see on a world map? Countries and cities, rivers and mountains, roads and forests. This map made all of the above seem unimportant. The names and places of Omnis, the world, were still here, printed in pale ink, but they served as a mere background for something else.

No Man’s Land, on the other hand, was a bright mosaic of colours, each Region outlined with a perfect red circle, each circle intersecting with several others. Mysterious numbers and symbols, notes and marks were everywhere. Kan had no idea what they meant. Also, he now wished to know why his homeland, Kuldagan, was marked as one of the No Man’s Land Regions. It had never been considered that. You could even use magic in most of its cities! Still a Region it was, a red pentagon inside the mountain ring, a weird bulge on the side of the neat border of No Man’s Land formed by two intersecting circles, golden and silver, so large that their centres were close to the map’s edges. The golden circle had its center in Yga, the southern capital by the sea. The silver circle was drawn around a little northern fortress named Grey Tower.

Omnis, the real world, so mundane and usual, had suddenly shown its true colours to the naive provincial guy Kangassk was. He frowned peering at the odd patchwork of Regions in the middle of the map, at the strange symbols, at the two intersecting circles, golden and silver…

“The stabilizers!” He slapped himself on the forehead as the realization hit him. “How could I forget! The golden one must be Hora Solaris, then the silver one is Hora Lunaris! I read about them recently. Yes! That’s it!”

It was the only lucky guess he had that day, though. The numbers, symbols, and notes still remained a mystery to Kangassk. What was Vlada’s secret? Why would a simple Wanderer need such a map? What he, Kan, got himself into? There were so many questions but not a single answer.

Finally, Kangassk gave up, carefully rolled up the map and put it back on the shelf. He needed to think.

He couldn’t think on an empty stomach, so he ate a breakfast in the dull dining room below. Alas, no fresh ideas visited him while he ate. He felt like a real life person suddenly thrown into a fairy-tale. It wasn’t like Kangassk didn’t enjoy fairy-tales. He did! He read all the fantasy stories from Aren-Castell library and even ordered some books from the passing traders. He did dream of being a hero, too, as a kid. Who didn’t? What was the problem now? The problem was him being an ordinary guy, not a great warrior, not a mage, not a Chosen One. What happens to ordinary guys in fairy-tales? They usually die to show the readers how the monsters work or just for drama’s sake.

“I am an ordinary guy,” Kan told himself back in Vlada’s room again and gently touched the parchment of the wonderful map. Was it even parchment at all?

The heat became so fierce that it made even the loudest merchants hush up. They still kept advertising their wares but in much weaker voices. The river of their customers got reduced to a trickle anyway. Most people preferred to hide from the heat in their homes and have some iced tea instead of shopping. The young lady selling ice seemed the only person who was happy with the weather.

The merciless heat, unusual for that Region, reminded Kangassk of Kuldagan in an unexpectedly nostalgic way. His home town, the place he hated with passion, looked quite nice from afar. Well wasn’t it magic! Kan made a firm decision to let it stay this way. Somehow being an ordinary guy in a fairy-tale still seemed better than returning to that backwards sand hole and being treated as a freak again.

Speaking of freaks… Since no one here saw him as one, there was no need to hide himself in daylight, so Kan decided to try something he had always wanted to. He left his jacket and shirt at the inn and went for a walk topless just like half the citizens on that hot day. He totally mingled with the crowd of the tanned, half-naked locals. No one cared. It felt amazing!

As Kangassk kept wandering around the town, his feet seemed to follow his thoughts. How else could he find himself in the same alley where he met Zanna the night before?

The girl was still there, seated on the same chair, but she had put her sign away and changed her soothsayer outfit to patched boyish shorts, an oversized shirt with its sleeves cut off, and a pair of leather sandals too big for her little bare feet. She held a frosted glass bottle of icy water in her hands, just like most of the citizens that day.

Since Zanna had already seen Kangassk, running away was no longer an option. So he made his best smile, waved to the girl, and kept walking. He didn’t have to walk very far to see the full picture, though. Two steps were enough… Zanna was not the only one enjoying the shade of that house. Vlada was there too. The young Wanderer occupied a little folding chair similar to Zanna’s and sat there with her back to the cool stones of the wall. Kan remembered the question he asked the little soothsayer about Vlada and felt blood flushing to his face. What a fool he was! And now he was going to pay for this, he felt it in his gut.

Zanna sprang on her feet, put her skinny hands on her hips, and announced in the loudest voice she could, “That’s him!!!”

For a moment, Kan thought that running away as soon as he saw the girl hadn’t been a bad idea at all.

“I’m… well… just walking by,” he mumbled and lowered his eyes.

“He’s not a hero! Not a great warrior either!” Zanna kept going, her voice getting more and more miserable, her black eyes glistening with tears.

The girl turned her face to Vlada, looking for support. She was openly crying now, with real, bitter tears, not the plain salty water that spoiled kids produce on a whim to get treats.

“I don’t want it, Vlada! Do something! Please!” Zanna sobbed.

“Come here, my dear,” said Vlada in a soft, quiet voice and embraced the little soothsayer. “Everyone has a destiny: you, me, Grey Inquisitor from the Grey Tower, our friend Kangassk here, everyone. The world is a written book where past, present, and future exist all at once. It is true that we can not change the future. But it is also true that we can not completely foresee it, understand it from where we are. Many years will pass, Zanna, before what you saw, that glimpse of your destiny, comes true. A lot of things will change by then. You will change as well. When you’ll look at the situation in its real light, with your own eyes, it won’t be the same thing that upsets you now. Trust me.”

Zanna calmed down after a while. She returned to her squeaky little chair where she sat in silence, rocking back and forth, cradling the cold water bottle in her arms, thinking. After several minutes of being like this she stood up and approached Kangassk who was still standing there, afraid to move, holding his breath and feeling like a total idiot.

The child was so small that even Kangassk who was way shorter than an average man towered about her like a giant. Zanna came so close she had to crane her head to look him in the eye. Kan met her stern gaze steadily and didn’t flinch.

“Here, have some water,” said Zanna, frowning, and handed him her water bottle. “You’ll need this. It’s crazy hot today. And this is something to keep you safe in your journeys…”

She took off the little bauble she wore around her neck – a black, glassy pebble with a hole for the string in it – and offered it to Kangassk. He bowed his head to the child and received the simple gift with all possible seriousness as if it were a medal of honour.

The last half an hour had been so silly, weird, and bewildering at the same time that Kangassk had come to his senses only on his way back to the inn. Vladislava walked beside him, whistling a happy tune that seemed vaguely familiar to Kangassk.

“What were you and the girl talking about when I came?” asked Kan, trying to sound as casual as he could.

“Women’s stuff.” Vlada smiled and moved from whistling the tune to singing:

So don’t expect me on the beach

‘Cos I ain’t gonna stay.

I wish an angry shark would come

And bite your leg away!

So that’s why the tune sounded so familiar. It was one of the Mirumir teasing verses. Even Kangassk knew some despite being a desert dweller and living so far away from the sea. The traders brought them, the locals caught the exotic melodies up… It had always been nice to collect another one, especially if there was a shark in it. Too bad he was in no mood for silly songs. Kangassk sighed and touched the black pebble Zanna gave him. The pebble was warm.

They left Tammar the next morning, at dawn, true to the old wayfarer tradition.

Just a couple of days ago the city meant nothing to Kangassk. Now, he felt sad leaving Tammar behind. He kept looking back, waiting for something, feeling the unnamed lingering hope in his heart slowly die by the minute…

"Why was Zanna so mad at me?" he had asked Vlada yesterday.

"No soothsayer ever reads her own fortune. It's not the same as foretelling things for someone else. Another soothsayer would be gentle with her, softening the negatives, emphasizing the positives, offering advice. Reading your own fortune means facing the unfiltered truth, alone, without help. Your destiny was connected to Zanna's, so while reading your fortune, she had accidentally glimpsed her own. The vision wasn't pleasant."

Kangassk had barely managed to keep silent while listening to Vlada’s words back then. He was so angry with her! He had never thought he could feel about her this way. All those mysteries and puzzles of hers… her keeping him in the dark about the goal of their journey… her silly songs and tunes during the most serious moments… He felt his blood boil. The silent rage, coming from his chest upward, almost made him choke on his own words.

“Our destinies cross, you say?” he spat out. “How?”

Vlada didn’t answer. In a while, Kan’s anger burnt out in that silence like a fire deprived of oxygen. That was for the best. By the end of the day, he felt empty and tired, he lost all his interest in fortune-telling and adventures but at least he managed to stay on good terms with Vlada.

Kangassk decided to call it a win and get an extra dose of science to lull himself to sleep that night. Encyclopedia of No Man’s Land was helpful as always. The ability of dry scientific texts to drive anxiety away was undeniable. The bookish world without mysteries, magic, and wonders seemed so safe, so predictable, so quiet. The horrors were no longer scary when given names. The journey didn’t seem that dangerous with all the tips and directions. Page by page, sentence by sentence, the old textbook did its job: it quenched fears, silenced doubts, and made its reader sleepy along the way.

“White Region (W.R.) anomaly is a result of a failed magic stabilization experiment that used dozens of little stabilizing Horas placed close to Hora Tenebris. The first experimental stabilizer was placed in what is now the centre of the W.R. Its sudden explosion created the anomaly – “white gloom” – that exists in the W.R. to this day. Possible explanations for the experiment’s failure: insufficient size of the Hora, lack of the antipode, placement in close proximity to the magic source.

An hour after the catastrophe the W.R. had been covered by a substance of undefined nature that could be registered neither by magical nor by physical instruments. To human eye that substance looked like a dense fog covering the land. The explorers who entered the fog reported a peculiar vision disturbance: the gradual disappearance of colours and contours of objects. The disturbance intensified as they moved toward the centre of the Region. The effect of one colour – white – swallowing everything resembled a reverted darkness, hence the name of the phenomena. Upon leaving the white gloom area the explorers’ vision returned to normal.

“White gloom” effect makes the detailed exploration of the W.R.’s central area impossible. Only the periphery of the Region is mapped.

The only animal species living there is sylpha (Silphys vulgaris), the sole representative of the True elves (Elvenidae) family. Sylphas are small creatures about the size of a sparrow. They belong to the class of air spirits (Airae), feed on the fruit of southern juicer (Pirum mali) and the seeds of witch's pseudofruit (Pseudospermum veneficae), the northern relict. Sylphas are capable of stabilizing wild magic and using it for hunting and self-defence (see "Omnis Fauna", book 2 "Fauna of No Man's Land", page 334, published by North-South company)."

The last line of the resume did the trick. The heavy book fell out of Kan's hand as he went to sleep as fast and sweet as a baby.

…Kangassk looked at the sleeping city, golden in the morning sunlight. The unnamed hope faded under his heart and let the more mundane feelings take over. Whatever he had hoped for, it did not happen. Soon, Tammar disappeared from view as they entered the forest. The road, wide and well-trodden, snaked at the feet of the ancient pine trees.

"This town's name is Tammar. It's the biggest town in the Calid Region," Kan told himself, hammering the info into his memory. "I shall not miss it on my way back."

He didn't even wonder whether he would return. He knew he would.

They didn't have to enjoy the road for too long because no roads led to where Vlada wanted to go. Soon, they had to make a turn, leave the well-trodden path and enter the woods.

Separated from the pines with a bushy undergrowth, there lay an old oak forest as beautiful and spacious as a fairy-tale temple. The oaks grew freely, each a thick column with a gorgeous crown of boughs making sunlight fall down in slanted rays. The forest floor was soft with young grass and bright yellow flowers. Beyond doubt, chargas enjoyed their every step. The thick grassy carpet must have been a great change after all the dusty road littered with sharp little stones.

They didn’t hurry. Vlada had accounted for everything. They had to make their last camp by the very border of the White Region because camping beyond that point was not possible.

As the day drew on, Kangassk started to notice the first signs of the vision disturbance: a white leaf here, a white patch of grass there. The further Vlada and he went into the forest, the more uncanny white spots they saw and the bigger these spots became.

“It reminds me of snow,” said Vlada with a careless smile. She even stopped her charga to take a better look at the ancient oak crowned with white gloom. “An oak silvered by snow! Very poetic.” She turned her face to Kan. “Alas, things are going to get real ugly, real soon… Let’s camp here. And since we have some extra time on our hands, how about a little swordplay? I promised to teach you, remember?”

The lesson was long… It reminded Kangassk of his training with an old Wanderer who had stopped in Aren-Castell once and spared some time for a certain boy-freak too persistent to ignore, too useless to take as an apprentice…

Vlada was way more gentle with Kangassk than that Wanderer, old Osaro, had been. She still smacked him with her wooden sword whenever he failed to dodge or parry but did her best not to hurt him too much. Kan wasn’t even sore by the end of the lesson yet that experience was enough to prove once again that him surviving back then, in the fight with the caravan raiders, was pure luck. Every gentle nudge, every careful smack of Vlada’s wooden sword would have been fatal if they fought for real and he missed dozens of them.

Later, when they were washing the dust and sweat off their faces by the icy cold stream, Kangassk tried to crack a joke.

“I feel like a little green tomato now,” he said. “Someone tuck me into a felt boot and put me out of sight until I cease being a greenie!”

To his surprise, Vlada laughed, giving him that wonderful silver laughter again, the one he had always enjoyed so much.

“Do tomatoes grow in Kuldagan?” she asked.

“Suuuure,” Kan drawled, nostalgic. “With so much sun, everything can grow there if you just shelter it properly and give it enough water. Once I didn’t and the sun fried my tomatoes. Then I became so protective of my little indoor garden that my tomatoes often turned out green. Evergreen. That’s where an old felt boot came handy…”

They kept sharing silly memories and making jokes all the way back to the camp, all bitterness between them erased, everything made well once again. The chargas who had been guarding the camp in their absence went hunting as soon as they had returned, leaving the humans alone with the cold cauldron and unlit bonfire. Kangassk waved his dragonlighter above the dry firewood and kindled a fire without accidents this time. Having been warmed up by swordplay, chilled by the icy cold water, then warmed up again by the fire felt amazing.

The darkness of the young evening thickened around the little camp with a fiery heart where wayfarer soup quietly bubbled in the cauldron and two tired but happy people enjoyed their rest. Kangassk stretched on his woollen cloak beside the fire and asked Vlada to “entertain the tired warrior with a story”. He made his voice sound so overly hoarse and solemn to imitate a classic fairy tale hero that it earned him another moment of Vlada's laughter.

"Oh which story does your noble heart desire, my lord?" she played along.

"Tell me the tale of the White Region, my lady," he replied with all proper dignity.

"There is no tale, only dull scientific reports." Vlada shrugged. Her voice was her own, casual again. Obviously, their make-believe game was over. "You read the summary of them yourself, as I recall. Do you have questions?"

"Yes. You said no one goes there? Really? No one at all?"

"Nowadays, no one at all. Many explorers lost their lives there. The Region was marked as impassable and then almost forgotten. There is nothing valuable in the white gloom. Why risk your life for nothing?"

"Why didn't the explorers return? What killed them?"

"Most likely, falling from a great height did. White Region is as full of holes as ripe cheese. Nobody knows where the holes end or whether they end at all. The further you go the thicker the white gloom becomes. It's dead easy to fall into one of those holes when you can't see anything. Mapping the holes is impossible because they shift from time to time as the anomaly in the centre pulses."

"Well, I hope you have a really good plan on your mind because otherwise going there looks like a suicide."

"Of course."

"Maybe you'll even tell me about it, huh?" Kangassk felt very, very uneasy again.

Vlada took the little cauldron off the fire, placed it on the ground between her and Kangassk and handed him a spoon.

"We have the chargas with us, Kan," she explained, "that's why we'll be perfectly safe in the white gloom. I'll tell you a bit about them so you'd understand. Chargas are sentient creatures with a culture of their own. We didn't buy them for our journey, we hired them. They promised to keep us safe but as soon as we reach our destination they will go back to Border, to their human foster father. As to the white gloom, chargas don't see it the same way we do. They can still feel the effect of the anomaly but it doesn't blind them. So this is the plan: the chargas will carry us through the white gloom. They may even scare most of the sylphs away."

"Ugh, sylphs…" Kangassk shivered, bonfire and hot soup notwithstanding. “I read a lot of things about sylphs, none of them good. At least they’re herbivores… right?”

“Yes, adult sylphs are,” Vlada nodded, “but they still need a host to lay their eggs into so their carnivorous larvae would have food and shelter. Stay in the white gloom for too long and… you get the idea. That’s why you should never camp close to their territory. You wouldn’t die, of course, but being a sylph host,” she raised her hand in a meaningful gesture, “would be quite unpleasant.”

“So that’s true…” Kangassk shook his head.

Suddenly, as if by magic, the camp didn’t seem so nice and cosy anymore, imagination filled the darkness beyond the oaks with all kinds of horrors. With chargas still being away hunting the scenery looked even more threatening. No wonder Kan had such trouble to fall asleep that night. It was windless and therefore so quiet that he could hear every acorn the oaks dropped as it bumped noisily into the leaves on its way to the ground. Some animal howled in the distance? Here you go: falling asleep is cancelled again.

Eventually, Kangassk got several moments of peace that were enough for the sleep to claim him. When a late acorn fell right onto his head giving him a loud flick Kan didn’t even feel it. By this time his sleep was as deep as a Kuldaganian well.

It was so terribly early! It would be so not just for a traveller but even for a mad sunrise-drawing artist. No way waking up that early was normal! The pale pink line of light at the horizon was so thin the stars above didn’t care, they shone, bright and clear. The night, dark and cold, still reigned in the sky.

The chargas were the ones who woke Kangassk up with their soft paws and rough tongues. Vladislava was already wide awake and by then and was busy packing. She offered Kan her flask to help him brush the last remnants of dreams off. The fiery drink made him instantly imagine what being a fire breathing dragon might feel like. The stuff was that strong. Eating something with such a fire burning in his throat and stomach was out of question. Kan started the journey as he was: dishevelled, hungry, and only half awake. The world around him was a blur of colours. Blue made way to green and yellow as the sun rose but white gradually engulfed everything as they went deeper and deeper into the sylph territory. Finally, Kangassk fell asleep in his saddle, his head leaned against his charga’s furry neck.

The strange potion Kangassk had so trustingly drunk from Vlada’s flask got in his head in the most unexpected manner. He woke up with a start, feeling so brisk and full of energy it seemed he would never need to sleep again. The discoloured forest around him resembled a living pencil sketch slowly drowning in skimmed milk. The sky turned grey, the horizon burned white. Kan quickly glanced back, hoping to catch a glimpse of the colourful world they left behind. There was none. The anomaly affected his ability to see, he remembered, it didn't change the world.

Vlada rode beside him, looking like a living sketch herself, or like a celestial, mystical being. Both chargas lost their spots and stripes. Kangassk himself no longer was chocolaty brown. The white gloom thickened by the minute, eating the very contours of things away. But that wasn't the worst. The worst thing was them no longer being alone: the sylphs had arrived.

Colourless and silent, they looked like jellyfish with their headless bodies and restless tentacles. They kept their distance for now. A direct look made them flinch and hide in the trees. The sylphs were clearly afraid of the creatures that could see them. But as the white gloom approached the travellers, so did they. Kangassk remembered his bow carried away by Fervida. It had probably already reached Gileda by now and maybe even found a new master. A pity. It might have been useful here.

Two hours had passed, judging by the alien-looking white sun slowly crawling up. Kangassk was already almost blind, most of the world replaced in his mind by the white gloom. There were no more oak leaves, branches, and acorns, just an amorphous rustling mass above. There were no more grass blades, just a shapeless shaggy carpet on the ground. There were no more pretty “jellyfish” at the fringe of vision, just a squirming, wriggling mass resembling a huge hungry monster. And it moved even closer to the travellers.

Soon after Kan had lost Vlada to the white gloom his field of vision shrank so much it ended at the arm’s length, just where his charga’s head with angrily folded ears was. Several more steps toward the heart of the White Region – and the world went white, swallowed whole by the reversed darkness. That’s when Kangassk felt the presence of the sylphs. They swarmed him, not biting yet but actively seeking something: a pulsing vein maybe or a softer place on the skin, who knows… The sylphs chirped and screeched, their little bodies were all over Kan. One heartbeat, two, three… he clenched his teeth… two more – and he cracked up.

“Take them away from me!!!” he bellowed swinging his invisible hands in the air. “Help!!!”

“Stop it, silly!” Vlada’s voice came somewhere from the left. “Get yourself together! You don’t want to fall from the saddle here, believe me.”

Well, that was sobering. Kan stopped yelling and started thinking. He couldn’t do much to keep the sylphs away but he could do at least something, so he wrapped his cloak around him tightly, hid his face and hands and leaned against the charga’s neck, face down. That was a very good idea. Chargas could see in the white gloom just fine. From time to time Kangassk heard a loud crunch when one of them crushed a sylph or two with her jaws. After a while, most of the sylphs learned to stay away from the chargas’ heads, but only the heads. They still crawled everywhere else. And there were so many of them! Finally, even the chargas lost their nerves and ran.

Kangassk whimpered miserably with every step, his face buried in his charga’s fur. The world before his closed eyes was dark, with dancing colourful spots, which was way nicer than the unnatural, spotless whiteness of the real world he didn’t dare to look at again.

“You can get up now, Kan,” Vlada addressed him after a while.

He straightened in his saddle and beamed: the world was grey! Lovely, lovely grey! There were shadows in it and contours, still patchy, but quite readable. Kangassk could tell there were trees and ruins around.

The sylphs began their slow, reluctant retreat into the white gloom. Kan resolutely shook the most stubborn ones off his clothes and put to the sword several bloodthirsty specimens which kept pestering him and his charga no matter what. Vlada did the same with her own bunch of pursuers. The rest of the sylphs learned the lesson and kept their distance.

Kangassk made a deep breath and exhaled. It was over, they had gone through the gloom!

“I thought I’d go crackers there!” he sighed. “Damn sylphs…”

“Yeah, nasty critters. They give me creeps,” Vlada nodded.

The chargas agreed by setting their ears back and growling. The clever beasts looked very tired but kept running at the same pace. They had no desire to meet the sylphs again.

Kangassk looked around.

“What are these ruins?” he asked. With the danger behind them, he was back to his curious self again. “Who lived there?”

“Scientists mostly,” answered Vlada with a sad smile. “The worldholders had a big lab here. It poisoned two Regions in one go when it blew up. One of them we’ve just passed. The other is ahead of us.”

“The Dead Region…” Kan shivered and asked no more questions.

The grey sky above the Dead Region slowly turned blue, a dark, evening blue where the first stars already twinkled.

Chapter 4. Meeting place

The ruins kept dragging on to the north. The land around them was flat and bare, so the only thing that stood between the travellers and a horizon here was a thin veil of dust raised by the chargas’ paws from the ground.

Kangassk noticed that at some point the ground began to slope in the direction of the Region’s centre. He soon understood why: the ground they walked on was in fact a bottom of a huge crater. The ruins there no longer looked like broken teeth sticking out of the ground, they were just piles of crushed stone and dust scattered along the way and formed a circular rampart by the crater’s centre. To climb it, Vlada and Kan had to dismount from their chargas and go on foot. The view from the top of the rampart was so alien it sent shivers down Kan’s back. In the former centre of the ancient catastrophic explosion stood a huge black cube, perfectly smooth, undamaged, and free from dust. A lonely man sat on the cube, his cloaked head bowed, his shoulders slouched. He leaned his heavily worn staff against one of the cube’s polished black walls. Silvered by the young moon, the staff shone through the night like a fantasy mage’s weapon would.

Vlada approached the man.

“Hello, Sereg,” she sighed. The sadness in her voice was so deep that even Kangassk who had no idea what it was about could feel it too.

“Hello, Vlada,” replied the man. He didn’t sound happy as well.

The man named Sereg removed his hood and stood up. He was so tall he towered above Vlada and Kan like a mountain but his physique didn’t match his height: Sereg was so thin he looked starved. Kan could not guess his age. The stranger’s hair was grey, either with age or with dust, there were dark shadows under his eyes as if he had been running or fighting for a long time. One moment his face seemed young yet but the next moment it didn’t, not after your eyes met his.

Now, when Vlada stood beside this strange man, she looked way older than her young face suggested as well.

Sereg had no sword on him, just the steel bound staff, no doubt as heavy as a solid rock. Kangassk, a smith’s apprentice, knew the very moment he saw that thing that it was no mere walking stick but a weapon as deadly as a sword in the right hands.

“I came through the Chasm,” said Sereg in a hollow voice.

“Why?!” exclaimed Vlada.

“I was in a hurry.” He bowed his head slightly. “Didn’t want to be late.”

Sereg and Vlada sat at the edge of the cube. They paid no attention to Kangassk at all, he just stood there, as still as a statue, his hands resting on the chargas’ necks.

Sereg took a deep breath.

“Vlada,” he said in a grave voice, “it’s not easy for me to say this… At first, after my journal had disappeared I didn’t think much of it. Yes, I put an incineration spell on the journal no thief would survive. But I remembered showing it to Orion and thought that maybe after I had removed the spell back then I just forgot to restore it…”

“What happened, Sereg?” asked Vlada quietly.

Sereg didn’t answer, not with words, at least. Instead, he removed something from his neck and showed it to Vlada. Kangassk could see it too. It was a silver pendant on a long chain, once beautiful, now brutally vandalized as if someone had torn a big jewel out of its delicate pattern.

“No one besides us could have survived touching this,” stated Sereg. “You know why.”

Before Sereg said this, Kangassk had been just angry. Now, he was furious. He didn’t care for the unimportant details, like the fact that those two both were mages, obviously, but he did care about that man bluntly accusing Vlada of theft… His strength boosted by anger, Kan covered the distance between Sereg and himself in one jump.

“How dare you!” he shouted. “I know her! Vlada is honest and brave! She’d never fall so low as to steal some stupid bauble!” The grim silence that followed was like oil poured on the flames to Kan’s anger. “Apologise to her! Now!” he demanded.

Sereg gave the Kuldaganian boy a long, grim look. An expression of subtle mocking cruelty crossed the mage’s young face. The next moment Kan thought that he probably should have ran while he still could. The mage grabbed his staff and, leaning on it, slowly drew himself up to his full height. Kangassk had to crane his head to keep the eye contact, just like little Zanna had to recently. Sereg’s eyes were no longer grey, there were eerie blue fires lurking in them now.

“Be silent, soothsayer,” said Sereg with a distant, cold threat in his voice and a bit of the recent cruel mockery now put into words, “In my North, carrying a soothstone is worth from five to ten years of prison and all that time you’ll be busy felling trees in the bitter cold. Just saying.”

Kangassk flinched away from the mage, grasping at Zanna’s stone. He no longer felt brave or heroic, suddenly very much aware of what being an ordinary guy in a fairy tale feels like.

“Whoa, Sereg, take it easy,” Vlada stepped in. “His bride gave him that stone, he had no idea what it was.”

Sereg threw a suspicious glance and Kan, sniffed contemptuously, flicked the dust off his cloak, and seated himself on the stone beside Vlada again.

“Where did you find this little fool?” he asked with a sneer, his voice still ringing with distant anger.

“In Kuldagan. He insisted on coming with me, didn’t want to let me go into the Burnt Region alone. He is my valiant protector, sort of.”

Sereg glanced again at the startled boy who still stood there grasping at his stone, and gave a little choke of laughter.

“It’s not funny,” said Vlada reproachfully. “Way too many people had mistaken me for a mortal girl and gave their lives trying to save me. Kan had nearly lost his head too.”

“…No, it couldn’t have been you!” said Sereg out of blue and jerked his head up like a man awakened from a bad dream. “You were with him, crossing Kuldagan, when I discovered the theft of Hora Lunaris. This boy would confirm it, I’m sure. And he is right: you would never fall so low. It’s not your style, it’s not you… You know what, I forgive him. I’ll even give him a licence for his soothstone if you want. Just one more thing, Vlada… I know you can’t lie. Tell me, tell me now, looking me right into the eyes, that you didn’t take Lunaris and don’t know where it is.”

“I didn’t take Lunaris and don’t know where it is,” Vlada nodded.

A sudden realization struck Kangassk then, the moment of truth when all the pieces of the puzzle – little oddities, hints, suspicions – suddenly made sense.

Hora Lunaris! The stone that Kan called “stupid bauble” was one of the legendary magic stabilizers. The worldholders made it. Protecting it with a deadly spell was also their doing. “You can’t lie…” Here you go: Vlada the Warrior Who Can’t Lie. “In my North…” – a threat thrown by Sereg the Grey Inquisitor, the northern lord, no one else.

The wonderful world that had always seemed to be so far from everlasting Kuldaganian boredom, now was as close as it could be.

Kan felt dizzy upon realizing who were the two mages in front of him; who was the pretty girl he’d wished to stay with that night in Tammar; who was the morose guy he’d yelled at not a long time ago…

“What now, Sereg?” Kan heard.

The conversation had been going without him for some time. The worldholders, their recent bitterness gone, sat at the black stone side by side, holding their hands like a couple of enamoured kids and discussing their next move. The tired chargas, curled up in a ball, slept by their feet; the Dead Region remained silent. Not a single living soul in the whole world had noticed Kangassk’s “eureka!” moment.

“Let’s go to my Tower,” said the Grey Inquisitor. “I failed to track the thief while the trail had still been hot, so I guess it’s time for a proper investigation now. I hope we’ll learn something together.”

“May I take Kangassk with me?” asked Vlada the Warrior in exactly same tone a child uses to ask her mother whether she can keep some dirty, scrawny stray kitten. She even added: “Please, Sereg…”

“Oh, all right, for goodness sake…” the mighty mage yielded.

Yes, he allowed her to keep the kitten. Exactly that… Kangassk barely restrained himself from dropping a snarky comment about the situation.

They woke the chargas up. Since there were only two chargas but three people now, everyone travelled on foot. They had at least three days of slow walking in front of them according to the map. Maps don’t take a ton of minor obstacles into account, though, so in reality, journeys always take longer.

They didn’t come very far that day, just far enough to make a camp where it would be absolutely safe from sylphs. Kangassk, however tired he was, had a lot of questions but kept them to himself for the moment. The worldholders spoke quite freely when they thought he wasn’t paying attention and their talk was worth listening to.

Vlada mentioned that “Chasm” again, the shortcut Sereg used to get to the Dead Region quickly, and suggested using it to return to the Grey Tower. The stern northern lord turned pale as she said that.

“No way!” he refused. “You have no idea what’s going on there at the moment. The Jesters are raging. And the Stygian spiders… No, we’re not going back through the Chasm! Period.”

Two new words and a lot of new questions… Kangassk understood little but kept listening.

Their next day’s journey through the Dead Region was uneventful. The grey, monotonous landscape and the slow walking pace they were now moving at made all three people sleepy and grumpy. The gloomy mood didn’t affect the chargas, though: fully rested, unburdened, they frolicked around like little kittens; bags, packs, and rolls jumping at their furry backs as they played. The mighty beasts barely noticed them at all.

Kangassk kept observing the worldholders, the faint hope of seeing them perform a wonder or two still alive in his heart. Unfortunately, Vlada and Sereg didn’t even talk much that day. They walked side by side in meaningful silence, Sereg carefully matching his stride to Vlada’s pace, and looked no more majestic and powerful than Kangassk himself.

The further away they went from the crater the brighter the world looked. Soon, seeing tiny yellowish blades of grass sticking through the soft carpet of grey dust made Kangassk’s heart jump with joy. He had become very fond of everything green since he left Kuldaganian sands behind. Now, he even knelt down and gently stroked the sad tuft of wasteland plants with his palm, thinking of how he missed fields and forests he barely knew way more than anything related to his sandy motherland.

His hopes high again, he hurried to catch up with the rest of the group.

The grey day passed like a bad dream. That evening, they camped at a tiny islet of grassy turf at the edge of the Dead Region. There were meadows and trees visible in the distance, so the next day’s journey looked promising. But the night before it? Not so much…

They were out of firewood, so their supper was dry wayfarer rations and cold water, their only protection from cold were their cloaks. The chargas had to make do with wayfarer rations as well for there was no game to hunt and the local yellowish grass was not to their taste, the very grass Kangassk had kneeled to stroke several hours before.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Kan asked the chargas. “Sure, it’s not as green as you’d like but you can’t be so picky when…”

“Huh-huh, good luck making them eat moongrass, kid!” Sereg sniffed at him. It was the first time the ancient mage had noticed the Kuldaganian that day.

“What’s wrong with moongrass?” Kan asked, being as sincerely naive as he was curious.

“Moongrass is deadly,” explained Vlada, “it’s a kind of grass you need if you want to poison your arrows.”

“I had no idea…” Kan sighed and fell silent.

He kept himself busy with nibbling at the dry ration bar for a while and let his thoughts free to go whichever way they liked. They could go exploring all kind of dreams and fantasies but no, they chose to dwell on the past and make Kan’s mood spiral down into the greyest gloom as they did that.

“His bride gave him that stone,” Vlada had said yesterday, “he had no idea what it was…”

Kangassk nearly choked on his food. His loud, raspy cough that followed, was so cruel it made Vlada worry for his well being. The ancient worldholder sat beside the puny mortal and carefully patted him on the back.

“Vlada…” Kan uttered between coughs. “You said… cough… yesterd… cough… something about my bride and that… ss.. stone…”

“And?”

“So that… cough… little… cough… brat… is my future bride? ‘D… destinies cross’… You meant – this way?”

“True,” Vlada confirmed all his suspicions with one word and one nod. “Believe me, you disappointed her as well.”

“Why’s that?” Kan asked, so annoyed and surprised all of a sudden that he forgot about the cough.

“Zanna’s grandmother promised her a great mage and warrior for a husband when she read her fortune. Later, Zanna’s imagination might have added some extra virtues to the picture. You didn’t stand even close.”

“I see,” said Kan gravely and spread his hands in a defeated gesture. “Not a mage, not a warrior, just a usual guy… Yeah, I get it now…”

Kangassk heard the second worldholder snort behind his back in an attempt to stifle a burst of laughter.

“Hey, cheer up! She gave you the stone, after all,” Vlada patted his back again. “She’s giving you a chance…”

“Hmph! Like I need a snotty brat for a bride!” with that being said – in the most spiteful and offended manner – Kangassk turned his face away.

The pocket dragon went for his evening walk to stretch his paws and wings a bit. He tried his luck at hunting for a while but the only game for him there were gnats – nasty critters, hard to catch, no fun to eat – so he switched to burning grass instead. The tiny dragonlighter must have felt mighty and powerful now, finally having something to defeat. The poisonous moongrass burned and shrivelled, blue smoke curled and danced around him as he spat his tiny bursts of fire back and forth.

“That’s the lovely grass for you,” Kangassk said to himself, all the gloomy thoughts and dark regrets summed up in one phrase. “And I even kneeled to stroke it, like a fool…”

He counted that day among the bad ones, made a wish so the next day would be better, rolled himself up into his cloak, leaned against his charga’s furry shoulder for a pillow, and went to sleep.

Chapter 5. Red eyes effect

The last Region they had to cross on their way to the North was Shamarkash. It took them two days to reach a proper road leading there, the very road Vlada and Kan had followed since Border and then left to enter the Burnt Region. It made a long detour to keep the travellers safe from the worst anomalies of No Man’s Land; getting back to it was good news, at least Kangassk thought so.

That day they were finally not alone on their journey, the only downside of that fact being that the people they met had been terrified of them at first. To the five young traders armed with rusty swords and handmade crossbows, three strangers and two chargas looked like a mighty bandit army. The oldest of the traders was the same age as Kangassk, the other four were just kids. As to their goods, there wasn’t much in the cart pulled by a sad scrawny donkey.

“…It’s all honey, honey,” the elder trader kept babbling non-stop, still nervous after the initial shock. “It’s our first time on the road. Our land is famous for its honey, you know, yes, it is. So we decided to sell some. Who else would if not us? We’re the only youngsters in the village full of old people…” He fell silent for a few moments, then gasped as the realization struck him, “Oh, where are my manners! My name’s Astrakh. These are my friends Yles, Will, and Ergen, and this is my little sister Klarissa.”

The fifth trader turned out to be a girl dressed as a boy.

“Do you even realize what you’ve got yourself into, kids?” asked Vlada in a voice full of sincere pity.

Young, brave, stupid. Greenies. Children. It’s an adventure to them, a child’s play. Take your honey, ride to the nearest city, sell it, buy something cool, go back… What can go wrong, really?

“Is something wrong?” wondered Astrakh. He saw the warrior woman frown at his words and the tall man behind her nod in a grim and menacing manner but he still had no idea what was going on.

“It’s a miracle that you’re still alive,” explained Vlada, “that nobody has cut your throats yet.”

Astrakh turned pale and swallowed nervously…

“You’d be an easy game even for a band of maskaks,” Vlada continued. “You have to join a big caravan, with guards and all, if you want to travel by the road with a load of goods. Going like this will get you killed! You have no idea how lucky you are…”

“Fools are always lucky,” Sereg put a word in too.

Astrakh quickly bowed to Vlada and her companions and called his little team of wannabe traders aside to have a word with them. The conversation they had was short and emotional, all frantic gestures and loud whisper. Several minutes later, Astrakh approached Vlada again; her, not Sereg. She must’ve looked like the leader of the group to him or, maybe, seemed less scary that her grey-haired, tall, grim friend.

“Please,” begged the young trader, “let us come with you to the nearest city. We’ll pay, I swear! As soon as we’ve sold the honey…” his last words sounded as pitiful as a kitten’s first meow.

“We don’t want your money,” said Vlada, “but we’ll see you to the city… What was its name, Sereg?”

“Handel.”

“Exactly. Once you’re done with selling and shopping there, join a caravan. The other merchants will give you a hand, especially if you share some of your famous honey with them. They all know how hard it is in the beginning, so they help young people like you. You’ll be alright, kids.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” The poor boy looked so grateful! He was likely an inch from falling to his knees and kissing the ground Vlada stood on…

“Why?” asked Sereg later, when they were back on the road with the young traders walking a dozen steps ahead of them.

“I couldn’t just leave the kids behind,” Vlada shrugged.

“Osaro, an old Wanderer I once knew, used to say,” Kan’s shy voice joined the conversation, “that all our deeds, good or evil, return to us in the end.”

To Kangassk’s surprise, both worldholders turned their heads to him, gave him a long look, and nodded in approval without saying a single word.

Some other day, he would have been immensely proud of himself for something like this; today, he wasn’t. He barely felt anything at all. The apathy, so unusual to Kan, seemed a heavy burden pressing unseen at his shoulders and made every step harder. What was going on with him? At first, he blamed his conscience that kept picking at him for his thoughts about Vlada back in Tammar and his fight with Sereg in the Dead Region, but no, there was something else. He felt sick…

“The Region of Shamarkash!”

Kangassk found himself in the creaking, wobbly cart, comfortably seated among the honey pots with the Encyclopedia of No Man’s Land in his hands. He read snatches from the book outloud, raising his voice high at the end of every phrase and flinging his arms like a madman. The audience – two worldholders and five merchants – laughed wildly.

“The ancient poet named Mal…ko…nemershghan! Oh my, what a name! Well, that guy said:

‘This alien land I saw at dawn,

It was my morning dream.

Three fearsome blazing suns there shone,

Two clouds, with lights agleam…’

What kind of poem is that, I ask you?” Kan commented boldly. “Three suns! Was he drunk, that Malconemershghan, or what? He saw double… no, triple!”

The audience cheered… and there, Kangassk woke up. What seemed naturally funny while he had been dreaming turned into complete nonsense on his waking up and made him cringe, blush, and wish to disappear. Also, he still felt sick.

Kan saw a patch of the dark, starry sky above his head, then the faces of the people surrounding him came into focus: Vlada, Sereg, and the merchants; all of them looked troubled.

“He’s delirious now,” said Klarissa, Astrakh’s little sister.

Vladislava touched Kangassk’s brow.

“Yeah, and he’s burning up,” she said and bit her lip, thinking. “Any ideas, Sereg?”

“Well, there is not much we can do here without magic…”

“Magic!” Astrakh exclaimed. “Oh wow, you’re mages! So why don’t you just, you know, cast a healing spell or something?”

“Because,” Sereg lowered his voice, “we’re still deep in the No Man’s Land. The healing spell may work, may fail, or may explode in my hands and incinerate everything in a hundred meters radius around it, it’s all chancy here. Want to risk it?”

“No…” Astrakh’s head drooped.

“Hey,” Vlada waved her hand at them in an impatient gesture, “stop it you two!”

“Maybe, we can still help him without magic?” Klarissa spoke up, still as shy as ever. “We have a bag of medicinal herbs with us. I can make him a potion and add some honey to shake off the fever.”

“Do that,” Vlada said to the girl and then turned to Sereg. “I think he caught something in the White Region. Come, let’s talk in private.”

Sereg nodded and stood up. Before following Vlada, he stopped to cast a glance at Kangassk. The boy lay on the ground, his eyes rolled back again, and frantically chanted Malconemershghan’s poems.

Vlada and Sereg walked along the stunted, dusty trees growing at the side of the road. The worldholders wanted to put enough distance between them and the mortals before speaking freely, unheard and unseen.

“Sereg,” said Vlada as soon at they stopped, “Kangassk’s illness scares you, I can see it in your eyes. If it wasn’t for you, I’d think he’d just caught a cold or his stomach hadn’t got along with wayfarer rations and spring water; it’s his very first journey, after all… But you…”

She put her hands on his shoulders in a long-forgotten gentle gesture. Sereg made a step back, startled like a man rudely awakened from his sleep, and turned away. He stood there for a while in complete silence, watching the stars twinkle in the dark sky and the sharp horn of the moon shine through the fleeting clouds. There is no way to look a tall man into the eyes when he doesn’t want it, he just lifts his chin up and leaves you wondering below…

“Sereg,” Vlada called to him in a quiet voice and added all of a sudden, “Sergey…”

The Grey Inquisitor lowered his eyes to meet hers.

“For ages,” he spoke slowly, like in a dream, “I haven’t heard this name… It feels strangely nice to hear it again…” He sobered up. “Your Kangassk is delirious, true. But that Malconemershghan he quotes is an old acquaintance of mine. This is what troubles me.

“No, you can’t remember him. Everything about this man is within your memory gap territory. I’ve never told you about Malcon before for there had been no reason to disturb the past. Looks like I’ll have to now. Well, know this: because of that man I burned down a city once. I also burned him. And, what’s most important, his book.”

“What book?”

“Heh, the book…” Sereg craned his head with a sad half-smile. “It was full of stupid little poems similar to those your little fool is reciting now.”

“I don’t understand…” Vlada looked at Sereg in helpless bewilderment, her eyes wide open. The huge age gap between those two was evident now, only there was no one nearby to notice that.

“These poems are a code. He wrote his book with the code. A book about non-magical interference. Malconemershghan was a genius, I give him that, one of my best apprentices ever and… my favourite student. And I killed him, burned him down to ashes, along with his followers, his city, and the very memory of his existence. I had to. Otherwise, Omnis would have been a dead world now. You remember the Stygian spiders, don’t you, Vlada?”

Vladislava covered her face with her hands and slowly sank upon the ground. The silence around them was so heavy and deep Sereg could hear her heartbeat.

Not a long time ago, just about two thousand years, in the North, between the Sumo Mountains and the place where Fervida meets Gileda there was a great city. It had a name back then: Erhaben. Now, that name is long forgotten and the remains of Erhaben are marked as “The City of Tricksters” on the maps. No one goes there for there is nothing to see among the overgrown ruins and ancient dust.

Malconemershghan was a genius and a dreamer. The citizens of Erhaben loved him so much they chose him to rule over them. He promised to lead his people into a great future, and he kept his word, working day and night to make his great dream come true.

He discovered the primal force with which Omnis had been created by the worldholders, the force that, unlike magic, needed no stabilizers, the force undisturbed by the anomalies of No Man’s Land. If anyone succeeded in mastering it, they would be able to move mountains with their will alone.

Malconemershghan dug deeper into that matter. He spoke of the primal world where the worldholders had come from, the world where every single person was their equal and the primal force of creation ran freely. That’s how his great dream was born, a dream of sharing the power of worldholders with the people of Omnis, a dream of the Golden Age.

The shining dream had blinded him. He could not even conceive the non-magical force to be dangerous but dangerous it was; so dangerous, in fact, that the worldholders themselves refused to use it. What used to be harmless in a newborn world full of primal chaos became deadly and destructive as the world matured and entered the realm of order and balance.

Malconemershghan refused to hear of it; his apprentices, inspired by their master’s dream, would not hear of the possible danger as well. Crazy poems were being chanted on every corner of the great city, disrupting the balance.

Sereg had come in time, almost in time to save the day… Omnis had survived, the order prevailed, but the balance remained unstable even five years after the fall of Erhaben. And when the charred ruins of the Tricksters’ city had been already overgrown with grass and the world seemed safe again, hordes of unimaginable, alien creatures flooded Omnis: the Stygian spiders, as people would call them later. It was no war, it was slaughter, a bloodbath. Who were these creatures? Where had they come from? Were they indeed alien invaders that came to prey on the weakened world? Were they the last creation of Malcon and his followers, blinded by hatred and revenge just as much as they used to be blinded by the golden dream? There is no answer still…

“Vlada, he’s crying!” the traders complained to her when she returned to them with Sereg in tow.

And yes, Kangassk was crying his eyes out. He lay on the ground, covering his face with one hand and grasping his soothstone with the other.

Vladislava touched his brow.

“No more fever,” she said, reassuringly. “Just tears… Hey, Kangassk, speak to me. Tell me what you saw.”

When Kangassk found out that the nightmare was over, he sighed with relief. The moment of joy was very brief, though, for as soon as he opened his eyes he became aware of his tears and saw the pity on the faces of the traders around him.

They – and not just they, the worldholders too! – had been watching him cry like a baby for who knows how long! It was a disgrace poor Kan had no idea how to ever wipe out. He was so ashamed with himself he wished the earth would just swallow him up.

Kangassk wiped the tears from his face with a dirty hand and struggled to his feet. First of all, he glanced around the assembled company to make sure no one was going to crack a joke. No one was. Good! Slightly encouraged by the polite silence, Kan decided to answer Vlada’s question.

“I saw Malconemershghah,” he said, the ridiculously long name sounding easy and natural for him now. “I saw a burning city… I saw monsters. Some were a dark horde, fast and blurry, crushing everything on their path like a black tide. Some looked human from afar and resembled a bad joke up close: sharp-toothed, long-clawed creatures dressed like jesters. Yes, I was scared!” The last phrase sounded like a challenge, a test whether the listeners would take him seriously. They did; everyone, even Sereg.

“I know what’s wrong with him,” said the Grey Inquisitor, addressing his words to Vlada alone and ignoring everyone else. “He carried a magical object into the White Region, his soothstone. Looks like it didn’t go well with the local anomaly and triggered something. The boy saw the past or maybe a glimpse of the future. That’s what those stones are for, after all. Only it’s not that simple. You know, he wouldn’t be raving over an ordinary vision…”

That said, he walked away and sat where the light of the fire couldn’t reach him, a dark, ominous silhouette against the moonlit road. Vlada understood him; as for the puny mortals, he rarely bothered with explaining things to them.

“I’m sorry, Kan. I should’ve told you to get rid of the stone,” said Vlada, compassion and sadness in her voice. “It seemed harmless. I’ve never thought that the White Region could even notice a thing with such a weak magical potential.”

“I wouldn’t have left it anyway,” said Kangassk firmly as he unclenched his fist and let the warmed up pebble fall on his shirt. The black soothstone glinted in the moonlight and sparkled reflecting the distant stars. Why was it so important now? Kangassk didn’t understand himself. “Vlada, I think I have a right to know… Who was this Malconemershghan? Why did Sereg burn the city because of him?”

“He made a very dangerous discovery, Kan,” the answer was vague, unwilling, and not to the point.

“What discovery?!!” Kan exploded all of a sudden. “He wrote poems! Silly, childish poems!”

Vlada ignored his rage, again, just like she did back in Tammar. She walked away from the group of mortals and joined Sereg. They talked and talked to no end, like ancient mages often do. As to the common folk, they wanted their rest and food. Kan had little choice here; he joined Astrakh’s traders for supper.

Soon, they were sitting around the cauldron full of hot porridge sweetened with honey, scooping the delicious meal with their spoons. They talked little and in a cautious whisper.

“Those two are great mages!” whispered Astrakh. “You have no idea how lucky you are to travel with them, Kangassk!”

“Why’s that?” sighed Kan.

“Becoming a mage’s apprentice is what I’ve been dreaming of my whole life. I’ve never cared whether my teacher would be a kind mage like Vlada or an evil mage like Sereg… He’s evil, right? You said he burned down a city!”

“I’ve seen it in my vision. I have no other proof.” Kan turned away.

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’re teaching you!” exclaimed Will in a loud whisper. “That’s awesome!”

“Actually, no one has taught me anything so far,” retorted Kan in a gruffy tone; thinking of Sereg tended to trigger the worst in him. But thinking of the other worldholder… “Wait, no, Vlada did,“ he admitted, softening his voice, “She told me stories and taught me some fencing tricks.”

“See? What did I tell you!” Will grinned.

“That’s just the beginning!” Klarissa patted Kan on the back. “And how did you think they were going to teach you magic here, in No Man’s Land, huh? I’m sure you’ll get all the training you wished for once you’re back on the stable lands! You have a great future. Trust me, I know!”

“How?” Kan sniffed at her; he was in no mood for jokes and sappy encouragements.

Klarissa tugged at the thin string on her neck and revealed a small soothstone, just like his own. Kangassk’s eyes became very round; he gasped…

“Hide it, you silly girl!” he hissed at her under his breath. “If Sereg sees it, you’ll go to prison for five, no, ten years! And will spend them felling trees in a bitter cold!”

Unlike the Regions Kangassk passed through before, Shamarkash had a very distinctive border, a beautiful one at that: flowers, a whole “river” of flowers, so wide it was hard to tell where it ended.

“The border! We made it!” cried Iles and Ergen, the youngest of the five traders, and dived into the flowery river. The marvelous plants were so tall they closed in above their heads like sea waves.

The flowers cheered up everyone: the traders who ventured beyond the No Man’s Land for the first time, Kangassk who had been especially unfriendly and sulky for the last few days, and even the mages who had obviously missed their magic a lot during the journey. The older traders picked flowers to make themselves wreaths, the kids played tag with the chargas among the tall plants, Kan smiled for the first time in days, and the ancient mages threw sparkling spells at each other, happy to be themselves again. The traders’ old donkey remained a sole island of tranquillity among the madness: to such a simple beast, the blue river of flowers meant only food, a lot of food that no one was going to take away.

Vlada beckoned Kan to come closer and showed him a small plant she pulled up by the roots, the plant with blue flowers everyone liked so much.

“This is karlaman,” she said and made a pause to see whether Kangassk was interested; he was, so she went on, “or, scientifically speaking, tall karlaman – Karlamanus altus. It’s extremely sensitive to the strength of magical background in the area and grows only at the borders of No Man’s Land where the tension of magical forces is the strongest. You see a river of karlaman – that’s the border for you, unless you’re in Kuldagan, of course…” She returned to the previous thought: “So, No Man’s Land is wrapped in flowers on both sides: Karlamanus altus grows on the northern border; Karlamanus lineatus, or striped karlaman, on the southern. It looks similar to his plant, only its leaves have stripes.”

“Got it,” Kangassk nodded, “It’s a natural indicator of antipodal magic.”

“Wow, you even know the proper scientific term! Attaboy!” she praised him.

“Well, I like to read…” said Kan, humble, confused, and a bit blushing.

“When karlaman starts spreading or gets sick and dies out on vast spaces, that means something’s gone wrong with one of the stabilizers. We used that a lot before we framed the stabilizers about eleven thousand years ago. The borders used to dance a lot back then and tuning the Horas manually was such a chore… Well, lesson’s over. Remember the karlamans!”

Vladislava handed the flower to Kangassk and ran away to catch up with Sereg. The small caravan slowly moved forward, further and further away, but Kangassk still stood where he was with the blue flower in his hands…

He thought of the mangled silver frame of Hora Lunaris, imagined the worldholders working on the miracle device someone had so ruthlessly destroyed to get to the precious stone; and kept trying to get over one eerie phrase pounding in his head: “about eleven thousand years ago”…

She’d just stood there, Vladislava the Warrior, all sweet and down to earth, speaking of an unimaginably long number of years as if it were nothing special… Also, she explained the sacred inner workings of the world to him, a provincial boy, like he was five…

What should he do? What should mortals do in such a moment? Drop to their knees in awe? Kangassk didn’t feel like it. Also, he felt no awe in his heart. He felt something else; connection, responsibility… as if he were no longer a usual guy thrown into a fairy tale but an important part of the story.

He spent way too much time lost in thought. The little caravan, swallowed up by the karlaman river, was nowhere to be seen. Lucky for Kan, his faithful charga returned for him to carry him to the others.

He was no longer lost, in more ways than one…

Kangassk leapt into the saddle and hurried to catch up with his companions. The blue “river” of Karlamanus altus looked more and more like a real river and less than a thick twisty bed of flowers as the distance between it and the little group of travellers grew. One last sprint up the hill, one last glance back – and Kangassk was back with his group again, on the road through the forest.

After the vast open space they had just left, the new scenery seemed claustrophobic. Rows of tall, broad elms with bushy, spiky undergrowth between them stood like two solid walls by the sides of the road; their long branches intertwined above, blocked half the light, and made even a sunny day look gloomy.

This place, so unlike the spacious oak forest near the White Region, gave Kangassk creeps. He had no idea plants could do this to people. That forest stirred some primeval fear even in the desert native. Kan felt watched, hunted, and he wished to get out of here as soon as possible.

In a couple of hours, as the sun went down, it became worse, way worse. It was the horror of Kuldaganian night outside the city walls, all over again. The traders felt it too; all five became skittish, grabbed their weapons at the slightest noise. The worldholders… well, those two were their usual selves: not the slightest sign of being nervous at all.

Time passed, as painfully slow as dripping resin. Stars twinkled through the intertwined branches above. And something… someone, Kangassk could swear, was watching their every step.

“Maskak!” Kangassk shouted, instinctively reaching for the bow he no longer had. “Damn! Someone shoot this thing!”

Astrakh had his crossbow ready and was in a position to shoot the non-human scout but, taken aback, he just stood there, gaping. Kangassk grabbed his weapon and aimed but he was too late.

“I lost him… Now he’ll bring friends,” he said, angry and bitter.

“No worries,” Vlada reassured him and cast a glance at Sereg. The Grey Inquisitor nodded and removed a fat purse from his belt. Vlada continued, “We’ll keep walking. Most likely, they will attack us in where the road goes around the hill.”

“See?” she addressed the traders now. “What did I tell you? Remember joining a caravan next time and be generous when it comes to hiring guards!” and then turned to Sereg again, “Do you know that your maskaks are now wreaking havoc in the South as well?”

“No,” he grunted, untying the purse. The clever knot opened easily when he tugged at the proper string.

“Okay, kids,” Vlada glanced around the group of the frightened mortals, “you too, Kan, listen up! When it gets hot, you are to stand behind us. You can shoot if you want, but no getting into close combat and no heroics. Understood?”

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