Olga McArrow
Hot Obsidian

Everyone knows Lifekeepers, the warriors of mercy, those who bring light and justice to the darkest corners of the world where even stable magic does not reach. But few know the Order of the Hot Obsidian, a small but ancient group of cultists running the Lifekeepers as a mere facade for their own agenda. Well, this book is about them. Them and the ten boys they send on a mission, knowing that only one of them will survive in the end.

We will learn about Kangassk’s father and mysterious the Hora thief along the way as well.

“Hot Obsidian” is the second book of Obsidian Trilogy but, since it explains the same events from the other side of the conflict, you can read it before “Cold Obsidian” just fine.

-–

Read the book with the author’s illustrations here: https://mildegard.ru

All poems in the book were translated from Russian by Alan Jackson. Visit his site as well: https://www.cosxhyp.xyz

To the outer world, domain of cruelty,

No warmth I yield, no due from my hot core;

An outcast spirit my true security -

Ill upon ill my gift, as herebefore.

When I was born, my fire, my heart-light glowed

Red through my dark volcanic glassy skin:

My frame, my prison, body, and abode -

My truth; hot fire in hard obsidian.

In the outer worlds, domains of cruelty,

No love I find from folk in either realm.

Have you the courage to take hold of me?

And in that throng of foes be overwhelmed?

No miser I, no niggard hoarding gold;

To you, whose brave heart or whose mind insane

This challenge takes, I will repay ten-fold:

A world I’ll give to you, in fief and main!

A human life a ripple is in the stream;

A thrush’s song, a snowflake in the spring.

My bearers fly, forgotten as a dream

At dawn; and I forgotten lingering.

So has it been, but now a promise sure,

Wrought by a sage, of immortality

For you, my bearer-youth, my end, my cure,

My heart-beat’s beat, my own eternity.

So take me, boy, your panoply of war,

Take me, your deathlessness, your hope, your crown,

Take me, and rule the world you’re destined for,

Take me, your power, your Hot Obsidian.

Chapter 1. Magrove temple

When the truth about the origins of a world gets forgotten, religions take its place. Small grains of the truth are still hidden in them but their adepts lack the tools to pick the precious grains out. They guess, they argue, they make statements without proof. Contradictions grow, sparkling endless wars between people, dividing them, consuming them, destroying them. That is how the Primal World fell, my children. Whether Omnis will follow its steps, is up to you to decide.

Hansai Donal. Forbidden Book of Omnis

Blessed is the one who has seen Magrove forest in spring when there is more purple than green. This is how diadems – local trees with long, drooping branches – bloom. In spring, their petals, purple on one side, white on the other, fall everywhere like snow and confetti, giving the forest an otherworldly look. It’s hard to get lost in this forest of thin trees and wide paths, unless you mean getting lost in thought.

Magrove forest is one of the sacred places for Lifekeepers, warriors of mercy. They wear simple clothes and lead simple lives. The only sure way to spot such a warrior is to look at his or her sword: it’s always, always a katana without a handguard. By removing handguards from their swords, the Lifekeepers open a way to the blunt side of the blade. That allows them to use a wide set of fighting techniques which would be impossible otherwise; the techniques they often use to immobilize their enemies without killing them. The techniques they use to save lives.

That day, ten great masters went through Magrove forest with their apprentices, all heading to the Temple of Life where they had agreed to meet. Godless, this temple had always been open for everyone, it celebrated life and made no demands.

It was a quiet morning filled with sunlight. Two dozen young Lifekeepers were practising sword katas in the temple yard while small groups of older warriors scattered around the temple garden spoke of life, death, and philosophy in hushed voices. No one wanted to disturb the serene silence of the magical spring. Everything – sparring sessions, loud debates, merry songs – could wait.

Blooming diadems – their rich aroma, their otherworldly colours, their petals softening footsteps on every path – reigned over everything here. The ancient city of Firaska was humming like a busy beehive not far away but its restlessness had no power in this place. Good. Young Lifekeepers needed peace and quiet to learn well. And old Lifekeepers needed the same to heal their wounds and keep their demons away.

The sun was slowly rising above the horizon, a tiny spark reflected thousands and thousands of times in droplets of morning dew. The dying night’s breath was still heavy on everything, big or small, and the air was cool and damp. Two men on the temple balcony wrapped their woollen cloaks around them to stay warm.

One of them was old, his hair a snowy crown, his eyes two frozen azure pools, his stance a display of power. His name was Sainarnemershghan Saidonatgarlyn (though the world knew him better by his pen name – Hansai Donal) and he well knew the history behind it. The history that had its roots in the fall of Erhaben.

The second man was younger, his hair barely grey at the temples, and looked so much like Sainar that there could be no mistake: those two were relatives. The younger man’s name was Kangassk Abadar.

“You’ve always been the first, son,” said Sainar with a proud smile. “I bet your apprentice has the same spirit. I haven’t seen him for so long! What can you tell me about your boy?”

“My Juel is a pureblood Faizul and that says it all,” said Abadar proudly. “He is a fearless warrior and a strong leader. He would already be leading armies to war back in his homeland.”

“Well, he’ll have to lead a group of nine boys for starters,” chuckled Sainar. “We’ll see how easy he finds it!”

“Where are you sending them, father?” asked Kangassk Abadar. There was scepticism in his voice and a hint of challenge. “And what is the point? Only three of them are adults. Okay, Majesta’s boy is sixteen and Orlaya’s is fifteen, but the rest are just little children.”

“It’s not your place to argue with me, son,” said Sainar, his voice as gentle as a blunt side of the blade touching a victim’s neck. “I will explain everything when the time comes. But first, I want to take a look at the boys.”

***

The apprentices of Sainar’s ten children had never met before. Now they stood in the temple’s library, all ten of them, and studied each other in silence. The sun was already high; its slanted rays fell into the library hall through the tall, narrow windows and gilded every dancing speckle of dust along the way. No other student shared the room with the ten young guests. They were alone in the spacious hall.

Juel Hak. His reddish skin and slant-eyed face leave no doubts about where he is from. Faizuls are nomadic tribes from the fringes of the charted Omnis. Hunt, war, and torture are what their kind is particularly good at. Civilized Omnis and its magic frighten them, so they usually stay away from the charted lands and spend their lives quarrelling between each other. Kangassk Abadar bought Juel from one of the tribes when the boy was only three. Now his apprentice is twenty-two and has no memories of his family but his character is still Faizulish to the bone. Luckily for him, this is exactly what makes Abadar proud.

Orion Jovib. A distant descendant of Ziga, the legendary pirate all port taverns from Adjaen to Mirumir still sing about. Jovibs remember their history as well as Saidonatgarlyns do, mostly because of their naming tradition: they always name the first son Orion, the second son Ziga and the first daughter Meralli. And then tell the kids why when they grow up and start asking questions.

Orion is eighteen. He has a relaxed attitude of someone who rarely dwells upon the past. Jovibs are like that: always open to changes. Pirates today, bards tomorrow, servants of justice the day after, then hermits and scholars, and then suddenly pirates again…

It’s hard to argue with Orion; it just always seems that he is one step ahead of you. Clever and cunning, he could have been a leader if he wanted. And not a despotic type like Juel but a charismatic one, making people wish to follow him… on any questionable path he chooses.

His teacher – Kangassk Lar – is not much older than Orion himself. Orion became Lar’s apprentice at the age of eight; Lar was twenty-one at the time. Now, when Orion is as tall as his master, they look like brothers.

Lainuver Boier. He is only eighteen, just like Orion, but is already a professional thief. Just like all the Kangassks’ apprentices, Lainuver is a powerful ambasiath – a magically talented person with untapped potential. The way he uses the properties of pure ambassa is quite unusual, though. He is good at being unnoticed when he wants to and at deceiving people.

His master – Kangassk Aranta – is a thief’s daughter. She has never really left her mother’s trade, so, naturally, she never regretted her apprentice’s choice.

Still, thief or no, Lainuver is not that bad as a person. He is well worth the Lifekeeper’s title.

Bala Maraskaran. A former slave boy from Ebony Islands, now an apprentice of a clumsy, accident-prone man known as Kangassk Majesta. This particular Kangassk brought a good deal of disappointment to his father and now his apprentice is following the same steps.

Bala is sixteen. His skin is pitch-black; his hair is bushy; his smile is pearly-white and very, very powerful. This is the kind of smile that makes people forgive him a shattered ancient vase or an expensive sword broken on the same day it was bought. Bala has a heart of gold. At sixteen, he is still a big, kind child.

Irin Fatum. He is fifteen, just a year younger than Bala. This boy rarely unsheathes his sword. Just like his master – Kangassk Orlaya, a short and fragile woman – Irin prefers bow and arrows. Longbows are out of his league yet but even a shortbow is a serious threat in his little hands. Especially if the arrows are poisoned. A pebble is not a toy in Irin’s hand either. Anything that can be shot or thrown, he will use as a weapon.

He rarely speaks. His habit of being silent for hours while waiting for a perfect moment to attack became a foundation of his personality. Size and age differences aside, Irin Fatum, the most questionable of the young Lifekeepers in the library, resembles a smaller version of Juel.

Those are the oldest of the ten. They fell into their roles as soon as they met.

In the newly-established hierarchy, Juel Hak became the leader, Orion Jovib – the leader’s rival, Irin Fatum – the leader’s ally. Lainuver Boier, impressed with Orion’s wit and cunning, allied with the pirate’s descendant. And Bala Maraskaran, the kindness itself, just kept trying to make everyone be nice to each other.

The big boys paid little attention to the rest of the ten for those were mere children.

Pai Prior. A boy of thirteen. An ambasiath, just like everyone there but an ambasiath who has always dreamed of being a mage like his parents. His master – Kangassk Vesperi – did her best to keep the boy away from magic but he still kept learning new spells somehow. Sometimes it seemed to her that he was inventing them from scratch. Maybe that was true.

What else is absolutely true is that no power in the world can stop the boy from practising magic. Restraining bracelets could, but this is the kind of spell only worldholders are allowed to cast, to poor Vesperi’s regret.

Sainar and Vesperi thought long and hard what to do with the boy and finally decided to let him be. His self-made spells are too simple and weak to hurt his ambasiath potential anyway. All Vesperi has to do is to keep Pai away from serious magic.

There is always a lively, flickering fire in that boy’s eyes, the kind of fire a poet or an artist has when inspiration lends them wings.

Milian Raven. Or, rather, Corvus. He is twelve. They say the language his surname belongs to had been long dead even before the worldholders left the Primal World to create Omnis. Milian likes ancient languages but still prefers the modern form of his surname, because, in his opinion, it sounds better.

Young Raven is a bookish kid, so unlike his master Kangassk Marini, a talkative woman with a bubbly, cheerful character. She would prefer a noisy tavern to a cosy library any day. Her apprentice – quite the opposite. Milian prefers books to people and fantasies to the real world.

He doesn’t like the other nine boys being there. Oh how much he would give for them to go away, so he could look through all the library books in peace! But no, they are not going away. They keep talking, they keep arguing, they keep fighting over their places in the team.

Milian instantly disliked both the newly established leader and his rival. And Lainuver too.

Kosta Ollardian. He is twelve, like Milian – only Milian is tall for his age but Kosta is short. For some reason, he looks especially sad with a sword.

There’s a big purple bruise on his right cheek; Kangassk Ollardian is ruthless with his son… Yes, son. The boy inherited his grandfather’s magical chalice filled with transformed magic – ambassa – to the brim, so Kangassk Ollardian talked Sainar into accepting Kosta as one of the chosen ten. No one is happy about that, though.

Kind and obedient, this boy has no warrior’s spirit in him at all. There is light in his heart but this is the light of a fire burning very low.

Oasis. A feral child of the urban jungle of Lumenik. He has never had a surname, never had a proper first name as well, and never knew his exact birth date. Is he twelve or thirteen? Or maybe fourteen? No one knows. The boy is short and stout and wide in the shoulders. His master – Kangassk Adgar – is proud of him despite Oasis doing very poorly in all things science: he started learning too late.

Oasis’s cheerfulness is akin to Bala’s but it's not accompanied by clumsiness. Clumsy children just don’t survive in an urban jungle.

Jarmin Fredery-Alan. The youngest of the ten. He is only six. His little sword looks like a cute toy even though it’s rather sharp. His master – Kangassk Eugenia – hasn’t had time to teach her little apprentice much yet but she loves him with all her heart like her own son.

Things took a bad turn after Juel made a cruel joke about Jarmin. The little boy burst into tears.

“Hey you, boar! Leave the kid alone!” Orion stepped up. That was brave and rather reckless of him, considering the difference in size and weight between him and the Faizul.

Jarmin ran up to his protector, hid his face in Orion’s sleeve and started bawling even louder. Jovib gently ruffled the child’s yellow hair.

“No true Lifekeeper would hurt a child,” Lainuver joined Orion with a menacing sneer.

“Friends, friends, please, let’s not fight in the holy place!” Bala jumped from his seat and stood between the rivals with his hands widely spread in a pleading gesture.

Juel and Orion exchanged looks. Faizul was fuming; the pirate’s descendant was smiling; but neither of them was going to forget the incident.

Meanwhile, the unseen hierarchy was rearranging itself behind their backs, some sympathies shifting to Juel’s side, the others – to Orion’s.

The rivals did drop the matter, just like Bala was pleading them to do, but only for now.

“Wipe your tears, young warrior. It’s all right now,” said Orion to the crying boy. “Just wait until you grow up! Then you can beat all the shit out of this stupid boar. I bet he won’t be so brave when you’re his size. Do you like stories? Maps? How about we find the biggest world map in this library and make some plans for our future journey?”

That did cheer little Jarmin up. Several minutes later, he was sitting on the lap of his new friend and looking at the biggest map he had ever seen. It even included some territories that most other maps just ignored: Faizul lands, for example.

The other boys, Juel and Irin excluded, crowded around the map as well, pointing at various cities they had visited with their masters and sharing their stories. Bala’s and Oasis’s stories were the best.

Bala had even visited Kuldagan once. When he was telling about it, everyone listened to him with bated breath; in Bala’s stories, Kuldagan Desert seemed a wonderful alien world full of wonders.

Oasis’ adventures in Lumenik Hive made everyone laugh. Like any good storyteller, he knew which words to choose when he saw the audience. He could have easily told the boys very truthful horror stories from his past life if they were in the mood for that kind of entertainment. But for now, he just wanted to cheer everyone up. And he did. Even Kosta and Milian snapped out of their gloomy mood and looked genuinely interested.

When Oasis stepped out of the spotlight, it was their turn to shine. Two wide intersecting circles going through all the map prompted a question about Horas, the magical stabilizers, and there Kosta and Milian, the bookish boys, were the experts.

Excited, Milian even took a dried up diadem fruit out of his pocket and slashed it with his pen-knife to illustrate his story better.

“Imagine that this dry tail here is Hora Solaris and this bump on the side is Hora Lunaris and there is a stabilizing field around each of them. If you leave just one Hora in the world, its influence will cover all the planet…” Milian was explaining, his eyes full of lively interest.

“It’ll detonate,” said Kosta sceptically and rested his head on his hand, thoughtful. “I read that someone had tried that in the past. Things went boom.”

“I know! I was getting to it!” Milian waved the argument aside. “So – hypothetically! – if we leave just one Hora, its influence will cover the whole planet. But if we add another, the tension between them will create a nice belt of a border dividing the planet into two magically stable halves. Intersecting circles don't show that!” That said, he drew a perfectly straight border between the tail and the bump. A crunch followed; two sugary halves of the fruit fell to the floor.

“The canonic way to draw the border has its practical use,” Pai Prior, the only practising mage among the ten, joined the discussion. “The strength of a Hora grows weaker as we move away from it. On the opposite side of the planet, it must be so weak that it fails to stabilize magic at all. And there, between the Horas, their influences conflict with each other, creating anomalies. It’s always good to know where your spells may randomly start exploding.”

“Bravo, colleagues!” Orion snapped his fingers. “You are both right! Let us proceed!”

Scientific lingo mixed with ordinary clowning around did the trick, making everyone involved in the discussion laugh.

Juel and Irin didn’t join in the fun. They sat on the opposite side of the long table and talked about Faizul battle tactics. Orion wanted to comment on the topic by describing said tactics as “Smash them with da ax!!!” but restrained himself. It was neither the time nor the place to add fuel to the fire.

The library had a tall, arched ceiling made from a single dark crystal, black on the inside and transparent on the outside. A balcony going around the crystalline structure offered a great view on the hall below that looked like a deep, sunlit well to the observers. Thanks to the wonderful acoustics of the place, the observers could perfectly hear everything that happened in the library.

Not a single word escaped the ears of ten Kangassks and their father standing on the balcony. They heard Juel’s cruel joke and Jarmin’s crying; Milian’s emotional lecture and Pai’s arguments; all the anger, all the laughter, everything.

Everyone had learned something while watching their own and their siblings’ apprentices that day. Sainar learned even more for he was keeping track of his children’s reactions as well. He saw Abadar frown at Juel’s actions and Lar grin at Orion’s. He saw Eugenia clench her fists when her Jarmin started to cry.

“Father!” Eugenia turned to him when she could no longer keep silent. “You can’t be serious about sending him on a mission! Jarmin is only six! I beg you: wait for a few years or at least don’t send him with the others!”

“My daughter,” said Sainar in a soft but relentless tone and stroked her hair like a little child’s, “everyone is equal in the eyes of destiny. Often, it’s the smallest and the weakest one that gets chosen. Also, don’t you see: he has his own protectors now!”

That was when Jarmin was crying while hiding his face in Orion’s sleeve.

Chapter 2. The liar’s speech

Warriors on the Lifekeeper path are confident and level-headed. They know the difference between love and lust, learning and mindless parroting, truth and lie, loyalty and fanaticism. Warriors of the Order of Hot Obsidian build their lives upon the same foundation. The Order is no place for mindless fanatics!

Sainarnemershghan Saidonatgarlyn. Neophyte’s handbook.

Sainar made his speech right before dawn in a large, dimly lit hall. “They must concentrate on my voice. Yes, my voice, and not on my face…”

Preparing the speech took Sainar a long time. Never before had the man whose words were strong enough to make a worldholder angry had to prepare his speeches beforehand. Whether he spoke as Hansai Donal or in his own name, he always spoke from his heart. Sainar’s words had always been a pure fire: passionate, straightforward, honest, and enhanced with his ambasiath power. But now…

The simple test he had made yesterday changed everything. Watching his children react to the simple events down in the library; having his daughter – Kangassk Eugenia – openly confront him made Sainar reconsider everything.

He raised his children to hate the worldholders and their reign, he taught the Kangassks to trust the Order’s judgement. And faithful followers they all turned out to be, indeed! So what was troubling the great leader now? Just one little thing, so simple but immensely dangerous. The thing he had realized yesterday…

They love their apprentices.

What was wrong with it? The thing is, according to Gerdon’s plan, nine of the ten boys were to be sacrificed to the Hot Obsidian, there was no way around that. But what would happen now if Sainar had honestly told the Kangassks about that? How would they react? Oh, he already knew how!

Sainar may be their beloved father and their fearless leader but eight out of ten Kangassks would turn against him the moment they heard of the purpose their apprentices had been raised for. And whose fault is that? His own. Hadn’t he lectured them about honesty and truth, hadn’t he raised them all as Lifekeepers, hadn’t he been an example of everything he taught? Oh, their sense of justice was firm and true all right! And it would flare up as fast as dry grass does when it meets a fiery spark.

Even quiet and gentle Kangassk Eugenia and that silly buffoon Kangassk Majesta would rise against their father. Only the eldest two – Abadar and Orlaya – would remain loyal. And why? Oh, the irony! Because they are the only fanatics of the whole lot. Those two were raised by Gerdon while Sainar was travelling across the world, busy with spreading his rebellious teachings.

Sainarnemershghan hated fanaticism and lies, the two things that perverted all the noble doings and dreams of humanity, but now, now he had no other choice but to use them himself. It was either that or throwing three thousand years of the Order’s existence out of the window.

In the dark hour before the dawn, in the dimly lit hall, Sainar was telling lies to his own children, for the first time in his life. Later, he had a private conversation with Orlaya and Abadar in his study. He was right about Gerdon’s apprentices: they remained loyal to the cause and were willing to send the boys to certain death. Each of the two saw their own apprentice winning the Hot Obsidian’s favour and being the change the world so desperately needed.

Just like only two masters of the ten knew the truth about the incoming mission, only two apprentices were let in on the secret.

“…You will lead your unit through safe lands where the biggest danger you may encounter is a bandit gang,” explained Kangassk Abadar to Juel. “All the mages, Grey or Crimson, will wish you good luck when they see you and even risk their lives for you in case of danger. Upon seeing your swords, every ambasiath will share their food and shelter with you. But as soon as…”

“…But as soon as one of you takes hold of the Hot Obsidian,” explained Kangassk Orlaya to Irin, “all the world will turn against you. Every mage will meet you with a sword and a lightning spell. You will have to avoid people and walk through the wildest lands. Believe me, the creatures that live there will seem much easier to deal with than two furious armies of South and North combined. And remember…”

“…Remember, “ Abadar warned Juel, “that the Order was working for three thousand years to make it happen. There is no way back now. One of you must carry the Red Eye out of the No Man’s Land even if all the rest of you die. I hope you will be the last one standing, Juel. Bring the stone to the Benai Bay on the shore of Karmasan Sea. They will wait for you there…”

“…The ones that wear grey and silver,” Orlaya whispered to her apprentice. “From them, you will learn what to do next and which path leads to the destruction of the worldholders. It’s most likely that Juel will take the Red Eye at first. Don’t fight him. Let him carry your burden while he can. The stone has a mind of its own, it will measure you all up and decide who deserves it the most. Be patient, Irin, and it will eventually come to you. Stay safe, my boy. You alone are important. Everyone else is expendable. Be strong. Be patient. Be the one that carries the Hot Obsidian to the Benai Bay!”

The ten left the Temple of Life at noon. Many Lifekeepers, young and old, gathered to wish them good luck. They knew little of the boys’ mission; to them, it was some simple quest they had been given to prove their worth and learn a thing or two along the way, so the general mood was lighthearted and cheerful. Eight boys of the ten were all smiles; only Juel and Irin remained grim.

The masters took their time to have a chat with their apprentices before seeing them off. Kangassk Eugenia was buttoning Jarmin’s jacket so he would stay warm and telling him to be good and to do as the older boys say. Kangassk Majesta tried to give Bala some books and scrolls and kept dropping and anxiously picking them up. Orion and Kangassk Lar shared jokes, laughed, and patted each other on the shoulders, just like two brothers would… Every Kangassk had something to say at the last minute and Sainar couldn’t bring himself to hurry them up. His children, the ones he had lied to, looked so happy that it broke his heart.

The magnitude of his sacrifice reached Sainarnemershghan only now: to keep the Order’s mission alive, he had betrayed everything he stood for, everything he believed in, everyone he loved. He knew he would never forgive himself.

Chapter 3. Rain and stories

All that I dream of

Is there, in the endless sky,

There, where the sun shines.

All that I hold dear

Is there, in the endless sea,

There, where the moon drowns.

All of my sorrow

Is here, on the joyous earth,

Where I have no place.

Ziga-Ziga. Haiku of the nameless continent

Firaska is a small but ancient city. The city every Saidonatgarlyn had a special connection to. The city that was there during Erhaben’s Golden Age and after Erhaben’s fall. The city where Malconemershghan was born.

To Juel’s little team, it was just the first step on their long journey. The boys were supposed to shop for supplies there and buy themselves a Transvolo to Torgor. Lainuver, having counted their money twice, concluded that such a laughable sum would never interest a mage powerful enough to know the Transvolo spell. Orion was more optimistic about the matter. They were young Lifekeepers on a quest; a bunch of cute kids to most people, a reminder of some special Lifekeeper-related story to the rest. It was unlikely that anyone, even a powerful mage, would charge them much for a spell. With enough luck on their side, they could even get a Transvolo for free!

The road to Firaska was wide and well-tended to, so walking it was pure joy. The boys, quiet at first, started talking to each other. Careful words soon turned into a lively chatter, with jokes and puns and bursts of laughter.

When someone asked about Firaska’s origins, Oasis answered him with a story. Three thousand years ago, Firaska was a tiny settlement on the edge of the nastiest part of the No Man’s Land, the part where the darkest, vilest creatures lived. The first Firaskians must have been exceptionally brave people to live there. What were they fighting for, why didn’t they settle on a safer spot? Freedom. That was the answer. The dangerous place they chose for their city was their ticket to independence from both South and North allowing them to stay within the territory of stable magic at the same time.

Hard times create strong people, the proverb says. True. Malconemershghan was one of them.

He left Firaska when Sereg the Grey Inquisitor took him as an apprentice but he kept the Firaskian spirit in his heart. If the Grey Inquisitor hadn’t killed him and destroyed his followers, the whole North would have been as free now as the old Firaska was. Was. Because Firaska became an ordinary Southern city and lost its freedom forever.

“Who’s been in the North?” Orion asked, looking around.

For a while, the boys were silent, then Kosta Ollardian spoke up in a quiet, quivering, wheezy voice, the kind of voice someone with a chronic illness might have.

“I’ve been in the North once,” he said. “It’s crazy cold there. I was ill for the whole journey. My father says that the North is a bad place. He hated it when grandfather sent him there.”

“My master says there’s,” Jarmin took a deep breath, “CEN-SOR-SHIP!” he said in a loud whisper. “What’s censorship, Orion? Is it an evil ghost ship?”

Someone snorted, stifling his laughter, behind Orion’s back. Orion kept his cool.

“No, Jarmin, it just means that there are some things you are not allowed to say and write in that country,” he explained. “I don’t think their censorship is that bad, though. I’ve been in the North several times and they definitely have way fewer shitty books in their bookstores. Maybe the South needs a little bit of censorship too.”

“Well, our dear Sainar would strongly disagree with you, I’m afraid,” said Lainuver with a sly smile.

The weather was warm, the company was merry, and the road was easy, but even with all things perfect, you can’t walk from Magrove forest to Firaska in a single day. By the evening, the boys had to camp.

Judging by the clouds gathering in the sky, it was going to rain, so they had to find a proper shelter if they wanted to stay warm and dry that night. But where could they find one in the smooth grassland between the Lifekeepers’ holy place and the nearest city? There were trees, of course – a thin diadem here – and there but they were no help.

The boys kept walking. They were no longer joking around: the possibility of spending the night in the rain was no fun. In an hour or so, a rather promising purple-white spot got Juel’s attention and he ordered his unit to leave the road and head there.

The bright spot turned out to be a circle of ten slender diadem trees. Most likely, a lonely traveller had camped there once, ate a sugary diadem fruit, and planted the seeds – or maybe just thrown them away. The trees that had grown out of those seeds were beautiful, a very welcome sight in the middle of endless green, only their crowns weren’t thick enough to offer any cover from the rain. But, with nowhere else to hide, the young Lifekeepers made their camp there.

They piled their backpacks in the middle of the tree circle and spread a couple of extra blankets over them so they wouldn’t get drenched in case the weather indeed decided to take a nasty turn. Jarmin, the brave six-year-old who had been keeping up with his grown-up companions the whole day without even a peep, dozed off right there by the backpack pile. The others sat on the ground, leaning against the trees, or just sprawled on the grass.

Rainy forebodings aside, the evening was beautiful. Bala wholeheartedly enjoyed it. Orion, nervously chewing on a grass blade, kept looking around, still hoping to think of some solution to their shelter problem. Juel was doing the same, only in a less obvious way. In his relaxed but watchful state, he resembled a charga, the big cat Faizuls like so much. Pai and Kosta moved closer to Oasis to ask him for more stories. Lainuver sat beyond the circle, cross-legged, his back to the group, thinking of something personal that seemed to be troubling him way more than the incoming rain. Irin had walked away and was currently shooting birds with his bow. From time to time, a painful squeak reached the diadem shelter; the hunt was going well.

Milian happened to end up being all alone. Not that he minded it, though. To him, a bookish boy, that day had been a serious overdose of human interaction. He felt emotionally drained now and just wanted to be by himself for a while. Milian decided not to walk far away; leaning against a diadem tree behind the backpack pile and putting his hood on was enough.

There was a moment when he lifted his eyes to the cloudy sky grumbling above the thin purple-white crowns and a stray thought entered his mind: these slender diadem trees could make a fine roof if someone would tie them together. And if this someone would also cover that roof with several blankets, just like they did with the backpack pile…

Milian Raven liked the idea at once. He stood up, tried to bend one of the trees. Yes, the trunk was flexible enough! Now he just needed to get help. That meant addressing one of the leaders. Milian chose Orion at once.

“Orion? Orion!” Raven tugged at his sleeve.

“What’s up?” Orion yawned.

A brief explanation later, to everyone’s surprise, Milian and Orion grabbed two coils of rope from the backpack pile and started bending the trees. The rest of the team watched them with distrust at first but then they got it: they were going to sleep under a roof after all! Everyone joined the building process, even Juel. Little Jarmin, woken up by the commotion, found himself inside a beautiful living tent of branches and flowers.

Their spirits high again, the boys got back to lively talking, mostly about what to make for dinner. Juel left that matter to Bala who seemed to know a thing or two about cooking and actually making food taste nice.

A true Lifekeeper is always observant, even in little things. Especially in little things. And Juel was a true Lifekeeper. He noticed that Milian had brought his idea to Orion and not him. That would not do. It was time to start setting things right.

“Good job, man!” Juel patted Milian on the shoulder, hoping that the praise sounded as sincere as he wanted. “Just one thing: in the future, if you have something important to say, come to me first. Keeping the leader uninformed can be dangerous to the whole team.”

“Okay,” Milian shrugged. “Whatever you say…”

“Jarmin!” Juel turned to the little boy. “I want to apologise for that joke I made yesterday. It was stupid. Please, forgive me.”

He said no more, leaving his companions to their thoughts. While the whole gradient of moods and opinions was shifting and rearranging behind his back, Juel grabbed his backpack from the pile, unrolled his sleeping bag, and started preparing for the night. He knew he was doing the right thing now, both for the mission’s and his own sake. Juel had hated Sainar’s decision to send him on this very questionable journey with a bunch of children. Now, he had finally made peace with that.

“Those guys are not all that bad,” he told himself. “They’re all my brothers of the Order. They’re all warriors, even the youngest ones. Maybe even little Jarmin is worth something, we’ll see; he is a powerful ambasiath too, after all… As to me, my master has always said that I must learn to keep my pride in check. All right, I will. Trust can be powerful, so let’s make them trust their leader.”

The wayfarer soup the young Lifekeepers had for dinner tasted like a proper homemade meal with Bala’s spices and Irin’s birds thrown in. The rain did finally start and quenched the campfire but, luckily, the diadem tent turned out to be a good enough shelter that kept both water and wind away.

Soon, night swallowed the world outside the tent; rain swallowed the sounds that could warn you about a danger. From time to time, a cold water droplet or a wet purple-white petal fell from the tent’s roof on the boys sleeping below. Sleeping. Jarmin no longer felt safe among them when there was no one to look out for danger. He felt alone and painfully vulnerable now. The No Man’s Land with all the nightmarish creatures Oasis had been talking about that day was close. Even worse: Kosta had mentioned that some of them – moroks – can wander outside the unstable lands and attack travellers even beyond Firaska. What if one – or a whole pack of them! – was prowling about the grasslands or maybe even lurking outside the tent right now?

Jarmin sat and wrapped his blanket around himself, shivering. He was so scared already that Orion’s unexpected whisper had almost made him jump.

“Can’t sleep, Jarmin?” asked Orion and added, looking around, “Well, you’re not alone. Looks like we’re all awake.”

One after the other, the boys raised their shaggy heads and exchanged looks in the dark.

“I’ve never been so close to the No Man’s Land,” whispered Kosta. His voice sounded even worse now when the air was cold and damp. “I know that it’s a rare thing that some dark creature sneaks beyond Firaskian patrols but it’s not impossible.”

“Orion…” said Jarmin with a pitiful sniff. “What are moroks like?”

“Oh no, no scary stories in the nighttime!” answered Orion with a nervous laugh. “That would be bad for the team’s morale.”

“Okay… But maybe you can tell me a fun story then?”

The pure hope in little Jarmin’s voice was too touching for him to refuse.

“Well, I know some stories. They’re not as cool as Oasis’s are, of course…” said Orion.

He even yawned as a part of play-acting and it worked: the listeners’ interest spiced up now, everyone moved closer; Pai promptly cast a light spell to scare all the night fears away and create a proper storytelling atmosphere. The spell – Fiat-lux, as Pai named it – resembled a classic Liht only remotely. It was much more flammable; every droplet that fell onto it from the leaky roof went up in vapour with a sharp hiss as it would on a hot frying pan. Also, Fiat-lux was a rather unstable light source, it flickered like a candle in the wind. That only suited the story-time, though.

“How about a cool real-life story?” asked Orion. “Our Sainar is not the only one who remembers his family history three millennia into the past!”

“Ah, yes, Aranta said you’re a descendant of that pirate…” Lainuver tried to chime in but Orion frantically waved his hands. “I’ll get to that! Story first!”

***

Three thousand years ago, there lived a great pirate Ziga-Ziga. It’s unknown whether his ambassa or his talent was the reason, but no one could match him in his bravery and his cunning except his friend Orion the son of stars. Together, they raided ships. Together, they spent their bloody gold on deeds good and evil.

But it wasn’t only the joy of piracy that the two friends had in common. Often, they stood together on the bow of Lafarg, Ziga’s giant trimaran, and looked at the horizon, where the charted sea ended and Ocean Fayera began. They talked of unknown lands and dreamed of visiting them one day, but for a long while, the dreams just remained dreams.

But one day, following the calling of his heart, Ziga left Orion in charge of his fleet and sailed to the uncharted sea alone. He returned a different man. There were wonders in Ocean Fayera he had never known existed: islands made of pure ice and inhabited by wingless birds; giant sea monsters as big as ten Lafargs combined but as tame as little lambs; and there was a large continent no one had ever visited before. It was a land of wild, unstable magic and emerald dragons.

Unlike Kuldaganian pocket dragonlighters and nomadic yellow dragons – mindless monsters with morbid curiosity and voracious appetite – emerald dragons were intelligent. They had a civilization and a language of their own. They knew love and friendship. They were a lot like humans, actually, only they lived much longer: up to two thousand years.

Ziga had never learned their language but the dragons, being far smarter than he, had learned his. They didn’t stop there: next, they learned to take human form.

The world of humans interested them greatly. After all, dragons, intelligent and mindless alike, are naturally very curious. But, while interesting, our world seemed too dangerous and frightening for them. Back then, not a single dragon had followed Ziga back to the charted Omnis.

Back in the known sea, Ziga returned to his old trade. He told everyone about the dragons, he sang of them, he wrote about them but no one seemed to take him seriously. His tales spawned fairytales, his ballads inspired funny verses, his writings got ridiculed and criticized for no one would believe a pirate’s word. Not a single human had followed Ziga’s call to visit the dragon continent. After a while, disappointed, Ziga began forgetting it too, falling more and more into his old ways.

But everything changed after he met a very special girl – Meralli. It was a girl given to Orion by the sea itself; she had no memories of her past; she spoke in poems; she seemed alien to this world… like a dragon that had taken human form and forgotten about that. Ziga fell in love with Meralli the moment he saw her. But upon finding the love of his life, he lost his best friend: he and Orion had a fight over Meralli. In the end, Ziga won the girl’s heart and Orion made peace with him but things could no longer be the same between the old friends.

Next time Ziga heard the call of Ocean Fayera again, he answered it. He left everything to Orion – his fleet, his riches, and his blessing – and sailed to the emerald continent on a little dimaran – Jovibarba (that’s where our surname comes from!). He took no one with him but his wife Meralli and their little daughter.

Ziga lived and died among the dragons but some of his descendants chose a different path.

A part of our family moved back to Omnis about a thousand years ago. In the beginning, there was so much dragon blood in the descendants of Ziga and Meralli that they could take dragon form at will and lived for centuries. But as they mixed with humans, their dragon traits faded over time.

Now look at me. The only dragon trait I have is curiosity. Well, maybe audacity is too.

***

The story cheered the audience up. That and the cosily warm Fiat-lux under the ceiling helped the young Lifekeepers shake off the uneasy feeling the night was giving them.

“So, when dragons take human form,” asked Milian, “where does the excess mass go?”

“Ah, a scientist to the bone…” Pai gave him a condescending smile. “They’re natural mages, all of them. And mages have their ways of bending the laws of physics a little bit.”

“Natural mages… And no need for stabilizers. Cool,” said Milian thoughtfully. “Ah, why can’t we humans be like that?”

“We can’t do a lot of things,” Bala smiled. “Just look at us, compared to animals: no fur, no claws; blunt teeth, poor eyes, poor sense of smell… My master says that the lack of something always gets compensated with another thing: a weak person can compensate for their weakness with intelligence or cunning, for example. This is exactly what we as a species do. If we could naturally stabilize magic, we may not have developed civilization, we would have been just… animals.”

“You’re quoting the enemy now,” Orion made a sly remark.

“True,” nodded Milian. “This goes back to Helga before she became Vlada the Warrior. But, to be fair, the book where I saw that quote had been written a very long time before Erhaben.”

“I always thought that it’s not wise to hate a creation only because you hate its creator,” agreed Bala. “Helga spoke the truth…”

“You’re treading on a very thin ice here!” shouted Irin. He had been trying to keep quiet but his patience had finally run out. “Have you forgotten everything that the Order has taught you? You,” he pointed at Orion, “the one who is so proud of his ancestor, a bloody pirate! Maybe you’re proud of your name as well?”

“I am,” was Jovib’s calm reply.

“It’s the name of the worldholders’ minion!” Irion growled.

“For a Lifekeeper, you’re too fast to judge, Irin,” Orion shook his head. He remained unruffled under the younger boy’s angry gaze; there was even a tone of pity in his voice. “The world is not black and white, it’s not even grey. There’s always a No Man’s Land between good and evil where any anomaly can happen.”

“Go back to sleep. Everyone.” That was Juel’s voice. Low, cold, commanding voice. “I’ll set a lookout so we all can feel safe. Irin, you will take the first watch. Orion will change you in two hours. Then Lainuver. And kill the light lest it blinds the lookouts to the dark.”

The team followed Juel’s orders. Despite all the fears, the rest of the night was calm, calm and boring.

Chapter 4. Transvolo from Firaska

“Teach me

Lots of all sorts!

Teach me

New facts, new thoughts!”

I dreamt,

I questioned,

But I was taught by Fate’s contempt -

Taught my lesson.

I didn’t know I’d see

the day’s end

When malice and night on me

descend.

But the thrawn mind

learns night-lore too;

A new teacher I’ll find

When I’m new.

Milian Raven, from the “Thorn poem”

Aven Jay Zarbot heard two young voices crying out her name. Again. And just when she was finally going to have her lunch! Those students! Those stupid, stupid kids… Aven took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m a Crimson Guardian on duty, an experienced mage, and a responsible adult,” she repeated her daily mantra in her mind. “I’m going to be super patient with those kids even though all I want is to strangle them both. Let’s consider it a punishment for me being a stupid kid myself once…”

“Master Zarbooot!” the young mages cried again.

Aven stifled a curse.

“What!” she roared, the soothing mantra instantly forgotten.

“Take a look at the road! There are visitors. What do we do with them?”

Aven sadly glanced at a sweet diadem bun she had been hoping to eat in peace and put it into her pocket, with much regret.

“What do we do with them! Hah! Oh, why can’t these youngsters just work it out for themselves for a while? I can’t babysit them all day!” she grumbled as she was making her way upstairs to the lookout tower. Once there, she grabbed a spare pair of binoculars and took a look at the visiting party.

Great! More stupid kids!

The visitors in question were ten young Lifekeepers. The youngest of them must have been six or seven. The oldest looked like a pureblood Faizul. And all of them looked like trouble. Aven had seen enough during her service to know how much trouble even one ambasiath can be and there were ten.

“Follow the standard welcoming procedure, boys,” said Avenge with a sniff, then she fished the bun out of her pocket and took a bite. She bit through the white dough into the soft jam core at the first try. The diadem stuffing was honey-sweet and bloody-red.

The young Lifekeepers carried no forbidden items and seemed just a bunch of ordinary neophytes on a quest. With the Temple of Life being so close to Firaska, their kind visited the city often. The leader of the group – a young Faizul – was the only unusual thing. Aven decided to ask him a couple of questions, just to be sure he was who she thought he was. There was no harm in asking and the young mages under her supervision could use the opportunity to learn a thing or two.

“I greet the great warrior! May his blade be praised by the Moon!” she recited the only Faizulish phrase she knew. The young man’s reaction surprised her. His wide shoulders drooped, his cheeks blushed as if he was ashamed.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t give you a proper answer,” he said in her own language, without even a trace of foreign accent. “I barely remember the language of my people. I grew up in the charted Omnis, my lady.”

He seemed like a genuinely good boy. The way he responded to her simple test… it was not play-acting, the Faizul did feel ashamed for failing to return the greeting. Immediately, Aven felt bad for hurting him so. She did not remark on the incident and proceeded with the usual questions instead.

“What is the purpose of your visit to Firaska?” she asked.

“We want to buy a Transvolo here,” said the young Faizul.

“Where to? And what for?” Aven continued.

“To Torgor, to fulfil our mission,” was the Lifekeeper’s answer, as truthful as it was vague.

He wasn’t stupid, that one, even though he looked like a simple savage, Zarbot thought. The boy didn’t even try to deceive her, the head of the Firaskian Crimson Guard, but he wasn’t going to be open with her either. Aven had a hunch about the boy and his followers; something in them made her heart tingle with that subtle sense everyone serving on the edge of the No Man’s Land has: the sense of hidden danger. But she had no evidence against them, no logical reason to send them away.

Aven let the Lifekeepers pass, of course, but made a note to herself to keep an eye on them. That tingling sense of hers had never let her down before. Those ten kids were trouble.

***

Most cities of the charted Omnis have peacefully spread beyond their armoured shells ages ago, for their inhabitants had nothing to fear from the outside world anymore. But Firaska was one of those who still needed all the protection it could get. It had thick walls, lofty watchtowers, and massive gates that it kept closed all night. Also: strict curfews and brightly lit streets patrolled by mage Sevens.

What was the city like within the walls? Crowded. Ancient. Noisy. A labyrinth of tall, sometimes dangerously overhanging buildings flooded with pedestrian traffic by day but empty by night when only the Crimson Guardians were allowed to stay outdoors.

To avoid losing each other in the crowd, Juel and his teammates had to walk in a single chain, holding hands. Milian was the last one in line, following Orion who was carrying Jarmin on his shoulders to keep the little boy away from the frenzied crowd.

Milian had not liked Orion in the beginning but things were different now.

Orion’s grasp on Milian’s hand was firm but careful; to him, young Raven was just another little kid that needed to be kept safe. That seemed both awkward and heartwarming to the twelve-year-old boy who couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have a family and a father…

Several sharp turns of the alley later, the Lifekeepers found themselves at the central square of Firaska, the only open space inside the city walls. In the centre of that luxury, shining like a precious gem, was the heart of the city: Helga-Vlada’s College of Battle Magic. Originally, the building was a fortress Firaska had grown around. It had narrow windows, a moat filled with water to the brim, and a drawbridge. But now it looked as peaceful as an old warrior who had retired to spend his remaining years playing with his grandkids. Students were throwing paper birdies and magical sparks from the fortress’s windows; tangerine and diadem peels – a whole fleet of them – floated in the moat’s water; swift little fishes nibbled on them; colourful dragonflies soared above the moat.

Pai looked at the college with wide eyes full of awe. The young self-taught mage was seeing a proper magical establishment for the first time in his life; to him, it felt like beholding a lovely oasis in the middle of a desert.

“Let’s go?” said Orion, a tinge of uncertainty in his voice.

“What? All ten of us?” laughed Oasis. “I’d say you don’t need an army to storm this thing now,” he added with a grin and a sharp nod in the direction of the old fortress.

Juel pondered that for a moment. They already had drawn too much attention to themselves at the gates, so he didn’t want to make things worse. Both Sainar and Kangassk Abadar told him to keep quiet. There was another thing to consider: Juel Hak knew nothing about magic.

“Pai,” Juel addressed the boy. “You’re our only mage. Go there, investigate the place, find someone who knows Transvolo.”

“I will!” Needless to say, Pai practically shone when he said that. “Will you go with me, Milian?”

Raven nodded.

“Meanwhile, I’ll look around the city, if you don’t mind,” Oasis, the urban jungle specialist, chimed in. “We may have to stay here for a while, so a cheap apartment can come in handy and…”

“Go. Learn what you can. Just be careful,” Juel stopped his cheerful chatter. “Today, we will stay in that inn,” he gestured toward a long narrow building at the edge of the square. “Meet us there.”

“Sure! I’ll be back before the curfew. See ya!” said Oasis with a careless smile.

Before diving back into the crowd, he left his sword with Orion to keep. Right: when you are exploring an urban jungle, a long sword only slows you down. The boy didn’t go unarmed, though, for he still had his knife with him.

Orion shook his head and smiled as his eyes followed Oasis rushing toward an adventure.

“It may take us some time…” Pai hesitated under Juel’s heavy gaze, “but… but we will do our best!”

“Let’s go!” Milian pulled at his sleeve.

That was how the young Lifekeepers split for the first time.

As Pai and Milian made their way to the college doors, the students in grey cloaks lined with crimson noticed them. Some even followed the two young Lifekeepers to find out what they were up to but everyone kept their distance.

It rained briefly over the square as if some young mage were practising water magic. Their clothes dotted with water droplets, Milian and Pai reached the moat and stopped there, fascinated by a neat underwater ecosystem that kept the water crystal-clean.

Those beautiful violet sponges, cultivated by the worldholders themselves, according to the books, were filtering the filth away. Green and red algae provided oxygen and food for the fish. The fish cleaned the sponges of parasites, etc. There were many more other species, too small to see with a naked eye, involved in the maintenance of the system’s balance but who ever remembers them when there are those huge violet sponges that look so alien and so cool…

“Lycopersicon abberata,” Milian couldn’t miss a chance to show off his biology knowledge, “a true masterpiece of bioengineering.”

“What’s bioengineering?” asked Pai.

“It’s a branch of science that messes up with life-things’ genetics. And ‘genetics’ means everything we inherit from our parents and pass on to our children,” explained Milian gladly. “Water-cleaning systems are super new, I heard.”

“Must be,” Pai made a wry face. “I still remember that time when I visited Lumenik with my master. The moat was so filthy there… and I fell in it…”

“Ugh!”

“Ugh indeed!”

Milian imagined that too vividly for his own good. Falling into the moat of the biggest industrial city in the world must have been quite a lifechanging experience. Near-death lifechanging experience, probably.

“Maybe even Lumenik’s moat and sewers are clean nowadays,” said Pai with a hopeful smile on his lips. “I like it that moats are just little city lakes now and no one expects wars and sieges anymore.”

“Same,” muttered Milian. He was more concerned with the fact that his friend was standing too close to the water and leaning forward too much. In his daydreaming state, Pai could fall into this moat as well, so Milian carefully took him by the shoulder and led him away, toward the bridge.

The ancient blocks the college fortress was made of were cool to the touch and so infused with magic that even a non-mage could feel it (as a childish sense of wonder or a gloomy foreboding of impending doom – it all depended on the person’s character). If someone were to take even a small piece of that stone into the No Man’s Land, it would certainly explode somewhere beyond the border.

The narrow windows didn’t allow enough sunlight inside the building, so the mages compensated for that in their own manner: light spheres of all sizes and stages of perfection floated everywhere. Seeing so many active spells in one place was too much for poor Pai. He just froze there, his mouth agape, his eyes wide with wonder, and nothing Milian would say or do could make him snap out of it.

One of the battlemage magisters noticed the curious boy and stopped by.

“This is a Liht spell, kid,” he explained in a kindly manner.

“I know,” said Pai, his voice sad and yearning, “I’ve always wanted to cast one myself.”

The magister raised his brow, surprised, and gave the boy a closer look. Judging by the handguardless sword and a simple cloak, it was a young Lifekeeper. Most of them were ambasiaths.

“Did you ever try?” the magister asked, very carefully.

Pai nodded.

“Can you show me?”

Pai nodded again.

It was the second time that Milian saw Pai cast his Fiat-lux. Just like the night before, he waved one hand above the other and quietly sang a wordless song over them. The spitting, hissing ball of light appeared above Pai’s palm; he made it float near one of the perfect corridor Lihts. But if the Liht was staying in place, Fiat-lux kept bobbing up and down like a cork on the waves: Pai’s levitation spell was different from the classic one as well.

The magister was surprised, to say the least, but he did his best not to show it. He scratched his chin thoughtfully, frowned, then turned back to Pai.

“What a curious little thing,” he said. “A hybrid between the classic Liht and a battlemage’s fireball. Very, very interesting. Did you invent the formula yourself?”

“Yes!” Pai couldn’t help being proud.

“Oh well…” the mage made a wide welcoming gesture. “My name is Einar Sharlou. I’m a junior magister of battle magic. I teach here. How can I help you?”

Einar was surprisingly nice to the two seemingly useless boys (kids of their age are too young to be accepted into a magical college). After a tour of the college, he took them to his study where he treated the boys with the best Southern coffee and sweets and asked them a lot of questions about their life. Milian got tired of stepping on Pai’s foot under the table every time his friend was about to say too much. Sharlou didn’t notice that or maybe just didn’t show that he noticed: he just moved on to the next topic.

When the Transvolo question resurfaced again, the magister had to disappoint his guests: there were only two mages in the college powerful enough to cast such a difficult spell and both of them were away now.

“How hard is it to learn Transvolo?” asked Pai.

“Very. It’s a spell few people can master. I can only hope to be one of them someday,” Einar sighed.

“May I try?” Pai continued.

“Ah, you are a very talented lad, Pai Prior,” laughed the mage, “but don’t try to jump too high too soon. Anyway, if you, both of you, would like to visit our library, you have my permission to do so…” he hesitated. “You see, I firmly believe that every ambasiath is a potentially powerful mage. People like you are extremely rare. So if you want to… Of course, our senior magisters are away now, but we can accept you both even in their absence by assembling a junior magisters' council and voting. Just say a word and you’ll become students here. No exams.”

Milian half-smiled sceptically at that. Pai grinned, his eyes shining. But despite their reactions to Einar Sharlou’s offer being so different, both boys jumped at the opportunity to see the library. Pai grabbed all the books about Transvolo he could find and lost himself in reading. Milian wasn't so quick in choosing his subject. After wandering among the tall, dusty bookshelves for a while, he felt a familiar warm feeling flicker under his heart; that was how he usually picked a book to read. Today, it was the newest edition of Encyclopaedia of the No Man's Land. Milian disliked its simplistic chapter summaries at once but enjoyed the chapters themselves immensely.

Through the desert of scientific lingo and the jungle of diagrams, through the dry, emotionless text and the iridescent lens of his young imagination, Milian Corvus saw the No Man’s Land so vividly that he forgot about time itself while he was reading.

It took him only four hours to read the whole book but, as he returned the encyclopaedia to its place, he knew that the memories of what he had just read would not fade in his mind for many years to come.

Upon his return to the real world, Milian saw the library drowning in the reddish light of a young sunset. It was time to go. Raven quickly found Pai, he even raised his hand to shake the young mage by the shoulder but froze, having seen him read.

Four hours. Four hours it took Milian to finish reading just one book. Pai had already been through six. Astonished, Raven shook his head and looked around, hoping that no one else had noticed… But no, the whole crowd in the library did, the librarian included. All eyes were on Pai now; there was a whole spectre of emotions – from horror to wonder – on the adult mages’ faces.

Gerdon Lorian, may his soul rest in peace, always found the ambasiaths amusing and compared them to elephants trying to quietly tiptoe through a pottery store. A talent combined with ambassa is always so horribly visible that trying to hide it only makes things worse.

“Let’s go, Pai,” whispered Milian. “It’s evening already. We must get to the inn before the curfew or we’ll have to spend the night with Crimson Guardians.”

“Yes… yes, of course.” Pai nodded obediently and closed his book. He still looked like he wasn’t all there, though. “I’ve read so much! I just have to share my thoughts with someone or I’ll explode.”

“Sure, sure, no problem,” muttered Milian as he helped his friend return the books. “You can tell me everything on the way.”

Pai was so excited with the possibility of finally learning some real magic that he lost all caution; he was barely in touch with reality. If he had been alone, he wouldn't even have found his way to the inn. Milian had to drag him through the evening crowd by the hand and keep the conversation going at the same time because Pai would not shut up about what he had read that day.

So passionate was the self-taught mage’s speech that it made Milian doubt his choice of the ambasiath path in the end. Milian Corvus did what he had never thought he would ever do: he dared to consider becoming a mage himself! But the fragile idea had been broken almost instantly: some thug, annoyed with the tardiness of the crowd, smacked Milian on the head as he was elbowing his way through. It hurt, both physically and emotionally, but it helped Milian sober up and get back to reality. He and Pai had things to do, they couldn’t both have their heads in the clouds.

Thanks to Milian, they reached the inn just in time.

It got very quiet in the room when they closed the door behind them. Everyone dropped what they were doing, only Orion kept cleaning the sword Oasis had left him for safekeeping, but there was a silent question in his eyes as well.

“Well, what did you learn?” asked Juel.

He was looking at Pai as he said that because it was Pai’s mission. But Pai Prior was in no position to speak coherently, so Milian had to do the talking.

“We talked with one of the magisters,” he explained. “He told us that the mages powerful enough to cast Transvolo are out of the city now, they may not return for months.”

Pai was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, busy with following a pattern of dancing tigers on it with his eyes, his thoughts still somewhere far away. His voice sounded very far away too when he said, “That’s enough time for me to learn Transvolo myself.”

Nobody dared to laugh.

“How much time do you need exactly?” inquired Juel.

“A month. Maybe two,” mused Pai, his idle fingers brushing through the carpet’s fur.

“Too long,” the Faizul shook his head.

Orion gave Oasis’s sword, now as shiny as a new mirror, a last look, sheathed it, and cleared his throat.

“As far as I remember,” he said in a matter-of-factly way, “Sainar gave us no deadlines.”

“Yes! And Transvolo may prove useful!” Bala joined him.

“Agreed,” nodded Lainuver. “We could use some more time as well. While Pai is busy with Transvolo, we can learn a thing or two about the No Man’s Land and its dangers. I’d hate to go there unprepared, if you get what I mean.”

“We can’t afford that,” Juel stopped the arguments. “We don’t have enough money for rent and food…”

Someone knocked at the door. Hard. Probably with a boot.

“And here goes the hero that will solve our rent money problem,” guessed Orion. That said, he stood up and headed toward the door.

The late visitor turned out to be Oasis. The team’s urban jungle specialist was tired, bruised, sweaty, and angry (for being left behind the door for too long) but glad at what he had found.

“Hi, pal!” Orion greeted him cheerfully. “I've cleaned your sword. Take good care of it from now on.”

“Who’s beaten you up?” asked Jarmin, his eyes wide with worry.

“Ah, that…” Oasis waved his hand and made a bored face. “Local street urchins. A whole gaggle of them, strength in numbers and all… Well, I think I’ve taught them a lesson. Knocked down five of them; the rest ran away. Scum.”

Another ambasiath elephant made a jingly run through a pottery store. Just great…

“I hope you haven’t killed anyone?” frowned Juel.

“Of course not.” Oasis sprawled himself on the soft carpet, pure joy on his dirty face. “To tell the truth, I almost grabbed my knife when they started throwing stones but I managed without it. Ah, it’s been years since I’ve had a proper street fight. I used to be good even before my apprenticeship; now, it’s all child’s play.” Oasis rolled to the side, his face suddenly serious again. “Almost forgot: I found us a cheap place to live. No carpets there but it’s still cosy.”

Juel and Orion exchanged glances. Pai watched them both with burning hope in his eyes.

“Fine,” yielded the Faizul. “We’ll stay here to learn about the No Man’s Land and Transvolo.”

“Huzza!” Orion winked at Pai, “Do your thing, mage!”

Chapter 5. Child of the night

“Our food tastes like ashes to them, it allows them to survive but they can not thrive on it. Often, they hibernate for centuries to conserve energy but they can not remain in that state forever. Once in a while, they have to hunt. The only food that can satisfy the hunger of a child of the night is human flesh…”

Helga-Vlada and Sereg, “Tome of Dark Creatures”

The Order of Hot Obsidian is an elusive thing. You will never find it unless you know exactly what to look for. And even then, all you can see is just the tip of the iceberg.

There is a famous ambasiath, known to Omnisians as Hansai Donal, a rebel, a romantic, and a powerful speaker. There are his ten children and their apprentices. Twenty one members in total. There used to be twenty-two when Gerdon Lorian, Sainar’s step-brother, was alive, but that was a very long time ago…

After having been scattered around Omnis for many years, the members of the Order had reunited again, ready to fulfil their oaths, but there was no unity among them. Instead of being a single ray of light meant to slash through the darkness, their moods were a swarm of wandering fireflies, harmless in their disconnection. Only Abadar and Orlaya remained unfased, the rest of Kangassks were full of doubts and worries rekindled by their father’s strange behaviour: after his latest speech, Sainar barely talked to anyone and averted his eyes often.

Had they known about the true purpose of their apprentices’ mission, it would have been the end of the Order, indeed. But they didn’t know. Soothed by their ignorance and by the enchanting beauty of the diadem forest, Sainar’s eight younger children did worry about their boys, of course, but, most of all, they were glad to be together again.

***

Mornings were still chilly, the kind of mornings that only poets and artists might enjoy.

That morning, two people met at the Temple balcony to watch the dawn together: Eugenia and Lar, the youngest of Sainar’s children, if, of course, you don’t count one Kuldaganian boy he had left and forgotten along with his mother…

Eugenia was twenty-three, Lar was thirty-one. They had been best friends since they had first met, one bright, sunny summer, when Sainar took little Eugenia from her mother and brought the little girl here, to the Temple of Life. Magrove forest was golden with ripe fruit; when the fruit fell on the ground, they sometimes burst, scattering their sweet, ruby-red seeds around.

Sainar and Gerdon went inside the Temple to talk about some important matters in private and left three-year-old Eugenia all alone in the yard. The unfamiliar place scared her even more than the unfamiliar man – the father Eugenia had never seen before he had appeared out of nowhere and taken her away from her home. No surprise that the little girl started to cry. But she stopped the very moment she heard Lar’s kind, lively, and very concerned voice say, “Hi! I’m your brother! Did someone hurt you? Just tell me and I’ll beat him up!”

Lar was eleven… Oh how long ago that day seemed now!

“Good morning sis!” Lar smiled at her, spreading his arms for a hug.

“Morning,” answered Eugenia, embracing her brother.

“Why are you up so early today?”

“I wanted to speak with a trader from Firaska, to learn something about our boys.”

“Any luck?” Lar looked her in the eyes. “I just know it: you’ve learned something interesting! Your eyes are shining.”

“They must be having a problem with getting a Transvolo… or maybe there’s some other reason why they’ve decided to stay there for a while…” said Eugenia.

Lar noticed that his sister was shivering, so he held her closer to himself and threw his cloak over her shoulders.

“You’re so caring,” Eugenia smiled, “just like I remember you.”

“I know,” grinned Lar proudly, “I’m a good big brother. So, how are the boys?”

“Like elephants in a pottery store!” Eugenia laughed.

“Oh well!” Lar raised his brows in a silent exclamation. “Father must have foreseen what a TEAM of ten ambasiaths could do. Even though it has been over twenty years already since his last visit, the people of my city still remember him and his epic misadventures.”

Brother and sister laughed together, just as carelessly and wholeheartedly as they did when they were children… But, suddenly, Eugenia fell silent.

“Father… He’s a good man,” she said, looking her brother in the eyes. “Why does he need that war? Why’s he doing all that to us and the boys?”

“I don’t know…” Lar’s face turned grim as well. “I hope that he truly wants a better future for the whole Omnis and isn’t just mad with the thoughts about revenge.”

“Revenge for Erhaben!” said Eugenia bitterly. “It’s been poisoning countless lives all those centuries… Why keep the hate alive?”

They were silent for a long time watching the world turn dawn-red and golden like a fallen diadem fruit.

“I’ll tell you one thing, sis,” Lar finally broke the silence. “I taught my Orion that he’s a free man and that once his education is finished, he can decide whether he stays in the Order or not. I think you should talk to your Jarmin about this as well.”

“I will,” nodded Eugenia and hugged her brother again. “And now,” she smiled shyly, as if being afraid of scaring the new hope away, “let’s hope that our boys won’t do anything stupid or…”

“Dangerous?” Lar sniffed. “C’mon, sis, you’re an ambasiath yourself. You well know they have a right to their own adventures. And that they need some danger and mistakes in their lives to grow up…”

***

They were paying their rent in copper instead of gold now that they moved out of the inn, but that was fine with everyone: both the landlady and the Lifekeepers’ team. The flat the boys now lived in was in a crooked building clinging to the inner side of the city wall like a swallow’s nest. Only one of their rooms had a window and that window opened into a small enclosed pocket of space between the house and the wall. A tiny balcony bridged the gap. You wouldn’t fall from it even if you wanted to so no one minded Jarmin sitting there for hours, busy with his painting.

Slowly, one small patch at a time, the boy was filling the grey canvas of the wall with beautiful things, weaving a tale of an alien world. There were immense towers of glass and steel, each as tall as Vlada’s or Sereg’s, metallic, machine-like birds with angular wings, and a maze of bridges and roads.

Jarmin bought his paints and brushes himself, using the pocket money Kangassk Eugenia had given him. Juel scolded the little boy at first but even he came to like the alien landscape eventually. He didn’t take his words back, though, for the paints were expensive and the team was on a limited budget.

Jarmin knew what he was doing when he chose the best paints that Firaska could offer: with the paints of such quality, his alien landscape was going to stay there forever and neither rain nor sunlight, neither time nor flames would be able to ruin it. It was going to stay there no matter what, outliving its master for centuries to come.

Ambassa makes any talent shine and Jarmin’s was no exception. But, unlike his brethren, he was the quietest of the ambasiaths around.

Time passed slowly. While Pai and Milian were busy with learning Transvolo, the rest of the boys found something to occupy themselves as well. Oasis dived into Firaskian urban life, making friends and enemies, breaking old street rules and establishing his own. After Lainuver, who was older and more experienced in the way of shadows, had joined him, the duo turned into a force to be reckoned with.

Juel and Irin spent most of their days training with young Crimson Guardians. All Lifekeepers are skilled warriors, often being taught to fight since turning three, so the boys’ guidance was very welcome at the college training grounds. Several young mages, impressed with Juel’s swordplay, removed the handguards from their swords. Several days later, they were already calling the Faizul “master” and followed him everywhere like ducklings, eager to learn anything he was willing to teach them.

Irin became a regular at the college shooting gallery. He gained some fans – but not “apprentices” like Juel – as well. Every Crimson Guardian, young and old, wanted to see him shoot. Irin never missed. Wind, fog, darkness – nothing could stop him from hitting his target. But, despite his shining talent, no one liked the grim boy. Ambassa makes many things shine, and some of them are not nice. There was an aura of cold, menacing danger around Irin and people subconsciously felt it.

While most of the team kept their activities consistent, Orion, Bala, and Kosta didn’t. Orion could join Juel and Irin at the training grounds (young Crimson Guardians enjoyed his company) or Oasis and Lainuver at their shadow “business”, or Pai and Milian in the library. Sometimes, his wanderer’s spirit became so infectious that the other boys followed his example. Then you could see Pai and Milian spar with the college students or Juel and Lainuver spend a day in the library (Einar Sharlou gave them his permission to do so). Those two always sat in opposite corners of the reading hall but borrowed the same books from time to time.

Bala and Kosta spent their days differently from the rest of the group.

Bala, who was always hungry for stories, dedicated his time to gathering all the stories Firaska could offer. Since he always valued listening to stories over reading them, his main hunting grounds were Firaskian taverns. Soon all the tavern regulars, travellers, and barkeepers knew and welcomed the cheerful dark-skinned boy. Bala had little money to spend but was always generous and irresistibly charming when it came to sharing stories. He told people of his travels with his master, of North and South, of Ebony Islands and Chermasan Sea; he sang foreign songs and narrated foreign legends; he knew a good number of teasing verses too, both from Mirumir and Adjaen. Whenever Bala Maraskaran visited a tavern, curious folks followed him and the tavern owner’s business got a pleasant boost because of all the drinks and food they bought.

Kosta’s case was more complicated.

At first, hungry for knowledge, young Ollardian used to spend his days in the college library with Pai and Milian but then his illness got worse. On his last visit to the library, he borrowed a book titled “Tome of Dark Creatures”. That was how he spent his time now: bedridden, coughing, and reading the darkest textbook imaginable. Kosta’s breath was wheezy, superficial, difficult; if he tried to breathe deeply, his cough returned, making the boy painfully bent double in his bed. It seemed that his lungs were slowly filling with liquid with every passing day.

Kosta’s teammates, concerned with his condition, didn’t hear a single complaint from the stoic boy.

“It’s all right,” he always said. “It happens to me sometimes but it will pass.”

One can only guess how painful his life must have been that he had learned to accept such suffering as normal.

Kosta's condition worsened with each passing day. First, he put his book of horrors aside because even reading became too difficult for him, and then he stopped talking.

Bala brought a foreign healer to him once, a powerful mage who had happened to visit the city tavern Bala was a regular at. After examining the patient, the mage healer said, perplexed,

“Physically, he's fine. His illness resembles a severe case of magical addiction but it’s unlike any case I’ve seen.” He turned to Kosta. “Tell me, my boy, have you ever been to the No Man’s Land or the No Man’s Waters?”

Kosta nodded. He indeed had travelled with his father a lot.

“Did you enter any anomalies? Handled magical objects beyond the stable territory?”

Kosta shook his head.

The healer asked him many more other questions after that but failed to determine the source of his magical addiction. In the end, the mage had to give up. He chose to be honest with the brave boy.

“There is no cure…” he began and wanted to add something hopeful and soothing, but stopped when Kosta just nodded knowingly.

The powerful mage and renowned healer, Bala’s guest left the dark apartment deeply sad and defeated. He refused to accept any payment for his wasted time.

A week had passed after the healer’s visit. Kosta looked like a ghost now, so pale and thin he had become. There was no way to help him. Even returning to the Temple of Life would not solve the problem, for magical addiction is a mysterious illness without a known cure, not something you can treat with potions or magic.

There was no more fun and laughter in the little flat that the team was currently calling home. Every morning, the boys woke up early and left as quickly as possible. They trained and learned twice as hard as they used to, grateful for any distraction that could take their minds away from Kosta’s situation, even for a little while.

Only Jarmin always stayed by Kosta’s side, keeping the silent boy company, reading to him, brushing his hair, and bringing him tea. Bala forgot all about his story-hunting and switched to recipe-hunting instead. Soon, he knew all the healers in the city and all the merchants at the market. He bought himself a bag of medicinal herbs and a cauldron and started brewing a new potion every day.

“I’ve just learned this recipe today! It’s awesomely strong stuff. It must help,” he said every time he brewed another one and added when it failed to work, “Don’t worry, I have another recipe right here…”

Bala’s optimism was the only thing that made Kosta smile now.

Clumsy as he was, Bala was good at potion-making, just as good as he was at cooking, maybe because those two things had a lot in common. His potions did produce some effect, just not the one he was hoping for: a bit of colour returned to Kosta’s cheeks, his cough became softer, and his hair grew long and shiny.

Still, the invisible disease kept filling the boy’s lungs with liquid, slowly but steadily.

***

In the beginning, that morning seemed no different from many previous ones. Jarmin tucked the blanket around Kosta to keep him warm and got back to painting. The little artist worked on its magnificent steel bridges today. Bala’s cauldron was merrily bubbling on a small stove fuelled by Pai’s Fiat-lux. Bala added the last ingredient to the mix, stirred it for a while, took a sip from the spoon, and decided that the potion was ready. He filled a cup, dropped a small cube of diadem sugar into it to sweeten the medicine, and brought it to Kosta who drank it obediently, in small sips, as he always did.

Everything was just like it had been yesterday, everything but the look on the sick boy’s face. There was fire in his eyes that Bala had never seen there before.

His cup of medicine finished, Kosta got out of his bed and started to dress. And not just dress: he put on his sword belt as well.

“Where are you going?” exclaimed Bala. He clumsily waved his hand as he did that, making a pile of pans and pots tumble down from the table with a crash.

Kosta unsheathed his sword, gave it a long look, then sheathed it again.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, very quietly but with determination. It was the first time he had spoken in weeks.

“No, you can’t!” cried Bala, throwing himself between Kosta and the only way out of the room.

Jarmin had left his balcony and was peeking from behind its door now, frightened by the scene.

“Bala… my friend…” said Kosta with a weary sigh. “I’ve been waiting for weeks. My illness used to pass by itself before but looks like it won’t now. If I wait any longer, I will die in my bed. I must do something. Just trust me, please. I will return healthy. Or won’t return at all.”

“What’s on your mind? Suicide?”

“No. I’m going to deal with what is torturing me. Please, let me go.”

Bala was silent for a long time and under this silence, his doubts were having a mortal fight…

“Fine…” he gave in at last. “But I’m going with you!”

The Crimson Guardians would have had a lot of questions to a child leaving the city alone, but a child accompanied by an adult warrior was okay in their book. No one had stopped Kosta and Bala from leaving Firaska.

Free from the claustrophobic labyrinth of the city, both boys were glad to enter a huge, green, open world of Southern wilderness. The air was so fresh there! Kosta even tried to draw a deep breath but regretted it right away: his cough returned.

He could not stop coughing for a long time. Kneeled on the grass, he pressed his hands against his chest and patiently waited for the coughing fit to pass. When Kosta stood up, he had no voice and a horrible wheezy sound accompanied his every breath now.

“I should’ve done it a week ago,” he thought as he saw pity in Bala’s eyes. “It may be already too late.”

“Let’s go,” he said in a wheezy whisper. “We have a long way ahead of us.”

They followed the main road at first but left it after an hour. Their pace was slow but Kosta already breathed heavily and could not go any faster no matter how much he wanted to. Moving forward in a steady, non-stopping pace was the best he could do now, and he did. Hours passed but they had not stopped to rest even once. Had not exchanged a single word either.

Finally, they reached the Firaskian forest, a dark, ominous mass of ancient cedars.

Despite being so close to the city, the forest seemed wild and untouched by people. There were plenty of cedar cones scattered under the trees; every glade was full of berries. Obviously, no one picked local nature's candy – that alone should have made Bala suspicious but it didn’t. He enjoyed the forest too much for his own good. He picked herbs, nuts, and berries along the way, stuffed the herbs into his pockets, gorged on the forest gifts himself and fed them to Kosta.

For the first time in weeks, Kosta didn’t refuse food, knowing that he needed all his strength to meet what he was going to meet.

But strength was what he had not. Four hours after entering the forest, Kosta had to stop to rest and catch his breath. He resumed his journey shortly, as stubborn and methodical as ever in his efforts, but his next “sprint” lasted barely three hours. Then and only then, it dawned on his careless companion that they would not be able to return to the city before dark.

“Kosta,” he said in a terrified, hushed voice, “we have to go back, now!”

Young Ollardian, sprawled on the ground, opened his eyes, bloodshot and watering because of his endless cough, then made an effort to get up and leaned against the nearest cedar tree for support. His wheezy breath was painful to hear.

“Of course…” he whispered. “We will go… it doesn’t matter where to now… Please, sit with me… I have to tell you…”

But he didn’t have the chance… A terrified, wailing cry interrupted him mid-phrase. It must have belonged to a young child scared out of their wits.

“Stay here,” pleaded Bala, torn between his helpless friend and the helpless little stranger. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Don’t…” wheezed Kosta, trying to grab his sleeve, but Bala was too quick for him.

“Late once again,” he thought bitterly. And then he got up and tried to run after his friend.

Two seconds into the run, Kosta started to cough again. His lungs could not take it anymore. His heart was close to its limit as well; it pounded so fast in a desperate attempt to keep up with the sick body’s demands that Kosta felt close to blacking out. His vision dimmed, blurred, overcast with dancing green specks. He had to slow his pace to stay conscious but didn’t dare to stop, knowing that any delay could cost Bala everything.

“Breathe… breathe… breathe…” the boy chanted in his thoughts.

Bala was running through the forest in the direction he had heard the child’s cry from. The undergrowth was thick there; that made Bala’s long sword a real burden that slowed him a great deal. Luckily, the child, a little boy, jumped out of the bushes right in front of Bala.

Marascaran went down on one knee and tried to calm down the kid and learn what had happened to him. The boy looked about five years old: he seemed younger than Jarmin. He was scrawny, dirty, and dressed in filthy rags; his arms and cheeks were red with scratches that running through the undergrowth had left him. The boy’s little face was a mask of utter terror; it made all the horrors of the No Man’s Land that Bala had heard of from his teammates flash before his mind’s eye in a split second.

“What happened to you?” he asked, trying to sound as calm and confident as he could.

“They killed mommy…” whispered the child, his voice gone, probably from crying so loudly.

“Who?”

“They’re scary, evil! With long teeth! There!” the boy pointed his finger somewhere beyond Bala’s back.

“Stay here and be very quiet,” said Bala. He stood up and unsheathed his sword. “I’ll go have a look…”

“NO!!! Bala, don’t!!!” That was Kosta’s cry. One could only guess what that kind of effort it had cost him. “Step away from it!!!”

Surprised and startled, Bala turned back to the child. And recoiled instantly in horror, with his sword in front of him…

The mask of the human child now thrown away, the creature that had lured Bala here started to change into its real form. The eyes, blue and teary the second before, turned glassy and black. A heavy brow overhung them now. The nose sunk into the skull and turned into a narrow slit. The corners of the mouth stretched almost to the ears, revealing two rows of pointy teeth bending inward – a deathly trap for any prey. The “kid’s” arms lost their gentle appearance, they stretched and twisted, turning into grabby paws with long, clawed fingers.

The only thing that remained unchanged was the former boy’s ruffled fair hair that now crowned the creature’s ugly head.

A recent memory flashed in Bala’s mind, answering his silently screaming question: morok. That was all he had managed to think of before a wave of horror paralysed him. Now, he could not even run away.

Bala had no idea what had bought him and Kosta those several precious seconds that changed everything; why the monster hadn’t jumped at the paralysed prey right away: it was the sword. Bala still clutched his katana in his hands, he hadn’t dropped it even in the face of the No Man’s Land horror. Moroks are not stupid, they know well how dangerous human weapons can be. So the monster hesitated, just a moment, but that was enough for Kosta to reach Bala and stand between him and the shapeshifter.

In an attempt to buy himself some time to catch his breath, Kosta looked into the monster’s eyes, sending it an unspoken challenge. His heart pounded so fast he could hear it over all other sounds. His hands trembled. But he felt no fear. The fear that had been torturing Kosta for weeks, was gone now. Young Ollardian felt more confident than ever now when everything fell into place. And he was ready.

Furious with the little human’s challenge, the morok answered with another wave of horror that washed over Kosta without any harm but made Bala lose his mind, drop his sword and fall to his knees crying.

Kosta stood his ground. Between his friend and the monster. He deliberately kept his hands off his sword to send a message: I’m ill, I’m weak, I’m unarmed, come and get me. But the morok was old and experienced enough not to fall for this trick. Instead of jumping at Kosta, he threw another horror wave at him, perfectly aware of Kosta’s immunity to it: the monster’s target was Bala.

Kosta didn’t see what was happening to his friend but he heard Bala’s cry. That cry no longer resembled a sound of a human being, that cry was a primal, animal signal of agony. It was as clear as day: Bala would not survive another wave. So Kosta had to make the first move and the morok was ready…

Bala saw only the end of the battle, only then his sanity returned to him along with his ability to control himself. The morok had no armour on it but still took Kosta three precise hits to kill the monster. Even mortally wounded, it was strong, aggressive and dangerous. Every time Bala thought that it was dead, the monster attacked again.

All Kosta’s training, all his talent, all his ambasiath’s power went into that battle, fitted into mere seconds that seemed as long as life. Everyone knew Kosta Ollardian as a shy, sickly kid who would never hurt a fly. Now, Bala had a glimpse of a very different Kosta: a methodical, merciless monster slayer. He played the role to the end, for after the battle was over, he didn’t fall to his knees exhausted and terrified, no. He proceeded with destroying the morok completely by cutting its heart out of its chest and trampling it on the ground until it stopped beating. And then Kosta’s coughing returned with redoubled strength.

Kosta’s legs gave way under him, he dropped his sword, bent double, and sunk to the ground. He coughed and coughed, spitting out chunks of something black. In the end, the black became liquid, then the liquid turned red. Only then the coughing stopped.

Kosta wiped his bloody mouth with his sleeve, got up, and raised his face to the sun. He was smiling; the colour returned to his cheeks; the horrible disease was no more.

Bala sheathed his sword and approached Kosta.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, desperately trying to find the answer for himself, but there was too much blood on the young Ollardian – both his own and his enemy’s – to know for sure.

“No,” answered Kosta. For the first time since the very beginning of their journey, Bala heard Kosta’s real voice, unchanged by wheezing or panting. It was a very pleasant voice: childish, clear, kind. “And you?”

“I’m fine…” Bala lowered his eyes. “Forgive me for being a burden…”

“There was nothing you could do,” Kosta reassured him. “Moroks are masters of manipulation, both psychological and magical. You had no chance of winning. It usually takes a battle Seven to kill a monster like this one.”

Bala glanced at the monster. Now, when the morok was dead, Bala was afraid that its body would take a form of a child again. But no, it didn’t.

“I thought creatures like this were afraid of the sun…” Bala shook his head. “Why did it pretend to be a child?”

“It wanted to split us at first,” Kosta frowned, “and then – to make you turn your back to it so it would attack you from behind.”

Bala winced at those words. Suddenly, all the horror he had been through, welled up in his heart again.

“Moroks are not stupid,” explained Kosta. “They know how dangerous a sword can be. It’s unlikely that you would have killed it, it knew, but it didn’t want to get wounded. Hence the performance… Bala, it’s a good thing that you kept clinging to your sword. No way I would have got to you in time otherwise.”

Now, when Bala had a good look at the beautiful forest’s true face, he dreaded the prospect of staying here after dark. They got lucky this time but few people get that lucky twice in a row.

With Kosta’s disease defeated – literally – the boys could move much faster now, so they headed back to the city in a run.

Running was difficult for Kosta, still weak from the weeks-long ordeal, but easy enough for Bala to allow gloomy thoughts and doubts pester him as he ran. How could a sick, dying boy have defeated the monster worth of the effort of a professional battle Seven? How could he resist the waves of horror the morok kept sending his way? Who was Kosta for real?

So many questions but no answers.

***

Someone knocked at the locked gates of Firaska. It was a quiet, almost shy knocking but the Crimson Guardians took it as seriously as they would a blaring alarm. Hundreds of newly-made Liht spheres, thrown from the watchtowers, dotted the grass beyond the walls, chasing the darkness away. But they didn’t reveal much. There were no monsters around, just two human figures by the gates: the very kids that had left the city in the morning. On seeing them, Aven Jay Zarbot cursed under her breath: she knew those young Lifekeepers would be trouble.

The younger of the two was holding a dirty bundle in his arms. When one of Aven’s mages demanded him to open it, the boy obeyed. He threw the rags aside and raised his trophy with both hands for everyone to see.

It was a severed head. A morok’s head…

***

“There are many dangerous creatures in our world. You need only a warrior to stop most of them. You need a mage to stop the ones of a more dangerous kind. And a battle Seven to stop the most vicious ones. But not all dangerous creatures are children of the night. This is the term reserved only for the monsters that specialize in humans, imitate their appearance and even speech while hunting.

Are children of the night sentient? Is their behaviour conscious? There are many opinions but no one knows for sure.

Our book does not delve in such discussions. It teaches you how to fight the dark creatures.”

“Tome of Dark Creatures” by Helga-Vlada and Sereg, a handbook of Crimson Guardians and Grey Hunters, first published in 1254, the newest edition published in 14501

Chapter 6. Between a rock and a hard place

Q: Are fairies dark creatures? Fairies are known to attack humans sometimes.

A: No, they are not. This is evident from the creatures’ behaviour. Fairies are hive species that react to anyone breaking into their hive or treading on their territory in the same way that bees or wasps do: by attacking the intruder. They never hunt humans on purpose. They also do not eat meat.

Q: But a fairy body is similar to a human body. Is it not an imitation of human shape, one of the signs of the darkness? And what about fairy larvae that can live in any dead creatures, including humans, feeding on decaying flesh?

A: Neither of those facts proves anything unless another fact, the most important, is present: imitation of human behaviour. No fairy imitates a crying child to lure a wanderer into its lair. No fairy uses human empathy as bait.

Fairies are dangerous, magically active animals you should be wary of but no, they are not dark creatures, not the children of the night.

“Tome of Dark Creatures” by Helga-Vlada and Sereg, Appendix 2

Firaskian walls followed the same protocols as temporary field perimeters did: they were divided into five segments, each segment had its own leader, a high-ranked Crimson Guardian. Aven Zarbot’s segment was the most important one of the five: she was in charge of the city gates. That circumstance made her a chief battlemage in Firaska but only in times of peace. If an emergency were to happen, like a massive invasion of dark creatures, the Elder Rule would make the oldest, most experienced Crimson Guardian – Sarien Sarra, a fragile old lady with grey hair and devastating magical powers – the head of the Firaskian mage army.

As Aven was walking through Firaskian alleys in the middle of the night in a company of five other mages, she couldn’t stop wondering whether the time to enforce the Elder Rule was now…

“Do you know those boys, Aven?” asked Sarien Sarra in her usual tone: cold, spiky, making everyone feel like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar. Zarbot wrinkled her nose as she heard the question. Couldn’t help it. Luckily for her, it was dark enough, so no one noticed anything.

“I saw them enter the city in a company of eight other Lifekeepers and talked to their leader. He said that they were on a mission and wanted to hire a Transvolo mage in Firaska and jump to Torgor,” reported Aven. “For some reason, they decided to stay in the city, though. They earned the trust of one of the college magisters, visited the college library, and trained with the young mages. That was unexpected but not suspicious. Young Lifekeepers often travel together and share their experience with everyone who wants to learn, it’s their tradition. Magister Sharlou spoke well of them, so did the college swordmasters…”

“What kind of magic did the boys use to kill the morok?” Sarien interrupted her.

“It was killed with an ordinary sword,” said Aven.

The other mages exchanged puzzled looks behind Aven’s back. The rest of the way, everyone kept silent…

Lots of warm Lihts floating under the ceiling of a detention room filled it with enough light to keep all the night horrors at bay and enough warmth to make it cosy. Bala and Kosta shared that room with several sleeping citizens that had been caught by the guards in the streets after the curfew. What those people did was not a crime and the detention they got was only for their safety because of all the dark creatures prowling around, so the room did not look like a prison cell and the cots there were clean and comfortable.

The morok’s head had indeed allowed Bala and Kosta to enter Firaska at night but it had also alarmed the whole Crimson Guard. There would be questions, lots of them. Tired as they were, the boys were too worried to sleep now.

Kosta walked up to a sink in the corner of the room, grabbed a bar of soap and began scrubbing the dried blood from his hands, hair, face and clothes. The water turned crimson-red; there seemed to be no end to the bloody filth no matter how hard Kosta tried to wash it away.

Bala, feeling sad and useless, sat on his cot, and hid his face in his hands. A swarm of questions he couldn’t answer tortured him. He could make neither heads nor tails of the situation. What kind of disease Kosta had? Why did it pass after the morok had died? Why was Kosta immune to the morok’s horror magic? Who was that boy after all…

For the first time in his life, Bala regretted not having been reading more. The only things he could remember about moroks were a snippet of one of Kangassk Magesta’s incoherent lectures and a couple of his teammates’ bedtime stories.

He knew that moroks were dangerous magical creatures of a dark kind, because they preyed specifically on humans. He knew that the magic they used was not “spells” but rather a limited set of patterns. They knew a few illusion tricks – they used those to fake human appearance – and could spread waves of horror-inducing magic. An ordinary person could resist one such wave at best. Bala could not do even that: the very first wave had paralyzed him. But Kosta… Kosta stood his ground like a breakwater, through all three…

When Aven and Sarien arrived at the detention station, a couple of young Crimson Guardians woke up everyone in the room and escorted them away, leaving Bala and Kosta alone. They were going to be questioned, that was as clear as day, so they prepared themselves. Kosta, now scrubbed clean of most of the bloody filth, hastily combed his hair with his fingers in a feeble attempt to look nice. Bala did his best to put on a brave face; he was the “adult” here, after all, and needed to look like one.

Seeing the “adult” warrior the Crimson Guardians had told her about, the “adult” who in fact was just a teenager scared out of his wits, Sarien got suspicious, to say the least. But learning that this boy wasn’t even the one who had killed the morok and that the younger one – a twelve-year-old! – had done it, made the old mage almost furious. Was Aven Zarbot that incompetent? Obviously, those kids were not the ones who had killed the monster! But who did it then? And why did that person decide to hide? That seemed worthy of Sarien's attention.

“I heard, my dears, that you had killed a morok,” said Sarien sweetly, like a loving grandma would, while her battlemage companions inconspicuously spread around the room, keeping an eye on the boys’ every movement.

“Not we,” said Bala, a shame in his eyes, “Kosta did. To protect me. He is the true warrior here.”

“You?” Sarra gave the younger Lifekeeper a long look, with a very convincing surprised expression on her face. The kid’s clothes were still splattered with blood even though he had tried his best to wash it away.

“Yes,” he nodded with quiet dignity.

“Oh how interesting!” almost cooed Sarien and sat at a cot next to Kosta’s. “I feel that you are telling the truth, my sweet. But it’s all so very puzzling! The morok was killed with a simple sword. It’s so rare! You see how old I am and I’ve seen that done only once in my whole life. Thirteen years ago. I was leading a team of young mages through the Firaskian forest and we met a whole pack of moroks: four ancient monsters hunting together! Their illusion was extremely convincing: they pretended to be a family – wife, husband, two kids – and played their parts so well that it took us long enough to recognize the trap. By the time we did that, we were doomed. My companions were no battle Seven, and a single mage, even a mage of my calibre, was no match for a morok pack. A young woman saved us that day and she, too, like you say you did, killed the moroks with only a sword. Only her sword had a handguard, unlike yours, and was not a katana. But that woman was immune to the horror magic, just like you must be if you’re indeed a morok-slayer. She had raven-black hair, black eyes, and – I never forget a face, my dear! – she even looked somewhat like you.” Sarien looked Kosta in the eye, a silent question in her gaze. “Well, what else? The woman was wounded in the fight and I treated her wounds; it was the least I could do to repay her. That encounter left her four claw marks on her right shoulder. She didn’t say much about herself, not even her name, but she mentioned that she was from the No Man’s Land.”

Aven and her fellow mages were listening to Sarien with bated breath, surprised, to say the least. Why was she suddenly so friendly and open with the boy? Even they, her battle brothers and sisters, had never heard that story!

Kosta Ollardian was silent for a long time but Sarien Sarra didn’t say anything to hurry him up. Aven had no idea that her boss could be so patient.

“That woman was my mother,” Kosta confessed at last.

“Small world!” Sarien smiled admiringly. “Tell me, my dear, are you your mother’s only child?”

“No. I have siblings,” answered Kosta, as honest and vague as Juel was with Aven when they first met.

“Ah, don’t worry, I’m not going to interrogate you about personal things,” said the old mage in a warm, soothing voice. “It’s the way you and your mother resisted morok magic that interests me greatly. Your mother never taught me her secret. Will you?”

“No,” Kosta shook his head.

“But my dear boy,” Sarien chastised him softly, “it can save countless lives. Just think about it!”

“It’s just impossible to learn,” explained young Ollardian. “It’s what you can only be born with.”

Sarien Sarra looked disappointed but didn't change her sweet attitude toward the boy.

“Tell me, where is your mother from?” she moved to the next question. “Are all people in her native land like her?”

“There is a small settlement in the No Man’s Land. It’s almost near the Karmasan Sea, in the forest. The name’s Marnadrakkar.” Kosta shrugged. “But my mother is an exile. She was not like the other people there, so they told her to go away. That’s all I know. My mother rarely spoke about her past.”

The younger Crimson Guardians exchanged a few silent gestures when their boss wasn't looking. After so many years of working together, they had their ways of understanding each other without words. It was as clear as day to them that the old mage had big plans either for the boy himself or for his mother’s people.

Before his simple no, she must have dreamed of legions of specifically trained monster-slayers marching through the No Man’s Land. But after that, the flow of her thoughts changed: now it was Marnadrakkar people that interested her.

Sarien Sarra had a way of making a suspect spill everything out and was very creative in her approach. The grandmotherly tone she had chosen for that shy little boy was working extremely well. Slowly, one tiny confession at a time, the young Lifekeeper was opening up.

He knew little about his mother’s origins, indeed. Her ancestors called themselves Marns and were a small tribe surviving between a rock and a hard place, with yellow dragons reigning over the Karmasan Sea and children of the night prowling in the No Man’s Land. That must have been why there were so few of them.

Aven and her three fellow mages listened to Sarien Sarra with breathless attention. One word from her – and the Elder Rule would be enforced; one word from her – and the massive raid on the No Man’s Land dark creatures would begin. That meant a bloodbath, the end of the fragile peace they all were working so hard to keep, that meant a lot of mages, warriors, and civilians would die… One word. Just one word. Maybe not even Sarien’s but Kosta’s if he really knew something the old mage needed.

There was a moment when Aven was sure that her worst fears would come true: Sarien fell silent for a while, thinking, brooding over something, a frowning, pondering expression overshadowing her mask of grandmotherly kindness. Finally, she wished the young Lifekeepers goodnight and signed to Aven and the others to leave the room.

***

“You didn’t tell her everything, right?” asked Orion, a shaky mix of optimism and desperation in his voice. He was the one who broke the silence that followed Kosta’s report of the last night’s events. “That disease of yours is gone. You are no longer coughing.”

“Yes. I didn’t mention that to lady Sarra,” nodded Kosta.

Bala opened his mouth to say something but dropped the idea as he suddenly recalled the end of Kosta’s illness, that mass of black clots and red blood he had coughed out…

“My father warned me against telling anyone about it, even you. I was allowed to speak about my immunity to wild horror magic but never about the cause of my magical addiction,” he explained looking at Orion alone.

“Why?” a question followed. That was Lainuver.

“It would make me too valuable to Greys and Crimsons, Father said. They would recruit me whether I wished that or not.”

“Call me a shlak if I get what’s going on,” Oasis shook his head. “Kosta, can you just… explain that to me that like I’m five? I swear – and everyone else will join me, I bet – that your secret will be safe with us. We’re all your brothers of the Order, after all. And your friends.”

Not a single muscle moved on Juel’s face to betray his emotions but the last phrase hit him hard. Since the very beginning of the journey, he was doing his best to be distant. He failed. Those boys were good people. The more time he spent with them, the better he got to know them, the more he liked and respected the whole lot.

That peaceful time they were having together in Firaska worked wonders on the team’s mood. Also, it made Abadar’s words about the true purpose of the journey and the true fate of everyone under Juel’s command seem distant, almost unreal. Now, Juel’s memory shoved all that into his face again.

Anger, terrible, uncontrollable like a forest fire, rose in the young Faizul’s heart, consuming everything he held dear, leaving only duty and oaths behind…

“Shut up!” he growled at Oasis but instead shut up himself, terrified by his own inner rage.

Oasis took no offence. Just like Kosta was immune to horror magic, the urban jungle boy was immune to insults of any kind. He didn’t care to reply to Juel’s outburst – indeed, he barely even noticed it. Only Kosta mattered to him at the moment.

“I wasn’t going to keep you in the dark forever,” said young Ollardian. “I just had hoped that it would go away like it always had before. And, honestly, I didn’t know how to explain such a thing to you properly…”

“So your magical addiction is a reversed one: not absence but presence of the addiction’s target triggers it, right?” said Milian, excited. “It’s an extremely rare type!”

“Yes,” Kosta nodded again. “But not only a morok can trigger my illness. Any other child of the night can: drekavak, navka, siren, vetala, bargest, werewolf… you name it. The closer they are to me and the longer I stay close to them, the worse my illness gets. You saw that yourself. It started with just a sore throat at the Magrove Forest but worsened every day I stayed in Firaska. I hoped that the monster would go away or that the Crimsons would kill it.” Kosta lowered his eyes, suddenly shy. “I’ve never killed any dark creatures before. This morok was my first kill…”

“Why didn’t you tell us? We could've helped you!” grunted Lainuver.

Bala turned to him and made a hasty forbidding gesture which, along with Bala’s sad face, explained a lot. Maraskaran alone, of all people here, knew how helpless a warrior was when a wave of morok’s magic hit him.

“Well, we could have told the Crimsons about the monster then,” Lainuver kept going, “let them face that thing with a couple of battle Sevens!”

“No, we couldn’t,” Orion stopped him and added with a tired reproach, “Kosta already told you why. Just imagine what the mages would do to him if they learned that he can sense the darklings!”

A heavy silence fell. It made the gloomy little room look even darker, despite the golden rays of the morning sun slanting through the open balcony door.

Kangassk Ollardian was right to warn his son against revealing his secret to anyone. And most likely about the mages instantly recruiting him too. They would drag him into every raid, use him to detect dark creatures as a village sorcerer uses a divining rod to find water. “Oh, the boy is coughing again? Good! Reinforce the perimeter and tell everyone to stand ready!”

Kosta’s life would turn into endless torture. How long would he live? An illness that makes you cough blood is no joke. Oh, but no, they would not let him die too soon! They would prolong his life – and suffering! – with medicine and magic and in the end they would assign a battle Seven to him so the donors would sustain his life as long as possible.

Sainar used to say that the worldholders and their mages would do anything “for the greater good”. So why wouldn’t they sacrifice one boy to a "good" cause…

That made Sainar’s own decision – about sacrificing not one but nine boys to his Order’s plan – look quite ironic. But only Abadar, Orlaya, and their apprentices knew that, of course.

For the whole time of Sarien’s Sarra interrogation, it was touch and go whether Kosta would live. The boy steered through all her tricks and traps as gracefully as a pirate captain steers his ship through the Perilous Archipelago. Even Juel gave a deep sigh of relief after learning that. He wished he could somehow steer between his oaths, duties, honour, and the Order’s mission the same way and bring his little team – all the boys – alive to the final point of the journey. It was a beautiful dream, a dream worthy of living for. One moment, it quenched Juel’s rage and lit a small candle of hope under his heart. But a reminiscence that rose in his mind the next moment barred its way…

“I don’t want to lead these people to their death,” said Juel, looking his master in the eye. “I’m not a murderer and not a liar.”

“I know,” said Kangassk Abadar, crossing his arms on his chest. His cloak was flapping in the wind like a flag. “I will be honest with you, Juel. There is no one to murder there. They died a long time ago, even before becoming the apprentices of the Order. You alone are real of the whole team.”

“I don’t understand…” recoiled Juel.

“I know. But you will,” Abadar leaned forward. “You will see the truth, all of it, very clearly, when you step onto the shore of the Karmasan sea with Hot Obsidian burning on your chest.”

“…died a long time ago…” The cruel phrase echoed in Juel’s mind again.

He raised his eyes and saw that a lot of time had passed while he was brooding over the past, relieving the strange conversation over and over again in the vain hope of grasping the meaning of his master’s words.

Bala was busy cooking breakfast for the whole team. Kosta had changed into a clean set of clothes and was asking Pai about a magical way to remove blood stains because plain soap had been no help. Orion was making a wooden flute for Jarmin, and Jarmin was nagging Oasis about more stories…

With Kosta's life no longer in danger, there were chatter and laughter in the room again. More than ever, the small flat felt like home.

“…you alone are real of the whole team…” another echo rose from Juel’s memory.

The austere Faizul hid his face in his hands. He felt like crying now, as a helpless little child would.

Chapter 7. Divide

When I was small

My sworn oath was spoken

And I will honour it whole.

My word was given

Ere my mind was woken

When there was peace in my soul.

I kept my promise

Through the years, unbroken

And I have won me a sword.

If I could return,

Knew what it might betoken,

Yes, again I would give my word.

Max Milian, when he was a child

Einar Sharlou was enjoying the view opening from the college loftiest tower. He was alone there, on the balcony, alone with his thoughts.

Those were the last days of spring but the weather was summer-hot. It turned the whole city into a giant frying pan and made the college moat the only safe haven for everyone suffering from the heat. Einar could hear students and other kids splashing in the college moat and deeply regretted being unable to join them. A magister's status had its downsides, indeed…

With a tired sigh, Einar turned away from the city and gave the lush green of the Firaskian forest a long, yearning look. There was shade, beautiful, tempting shade under the ancient cedars; and quiet. If only that charming place weren’t crawling with dark creatures… like the one his young friend Kosta had killed recently. A twelve-year-old ambasiath.

The morok was about two centuries old. Einar was the one who had put its head into a formaldehyde jar in the college museum, so he knew that for sure. Just like most mages, Einar Sharlou usually considered the ambasiaths’ way a waste of magical potential. But sometimes, their deeds made him doubt himself. Kosta’s famous victory over the moroks was certainly one of those. And all when he, Sharlou, must finally decide what to do with Pai!

Pai Prior was a talented boy; even more: a boy living and breathing his dream of becoming a mage. He studied so hard, he shone so brightly! He was everything Einar dreamed of being and was never going to be, but instead of getting jealous, the junior magister wanted to help. After these months, the very thought of letting such talent go to waste became unbearable to Einar Sharlou.

But accepting Pai to the college was easier said than done. Mages and ambasiaths had an unspoken treaty that forbade either side from recruiting children from the other. Overcoming that was no laughing matter, especially for someone standing so low in the mage hierarchy as Einar did…

A scream interrupted Sharlou’s thoughts… a painfully familiar scream.

A Transvolo done properly looks like a ripple in the air for an outside observer, a slight blur similar to the one you see when hot air “dances” above a frying pan or a Firaskian street on a summer day. That ripple plays tricks with the observer’s vision, making it impossible to spot the exact moment when the Transvolo’s caster appears.

The Transvolo witnessed by Einar Sharlou above the college was wrong, horribly wrong. There was no peaceful ripple in the air, no gentle blurring of vision. No, the fabric of reality itself had twisted in a tight knot that burst with a sickening gurgling sound when the caster of that abomination appeared. Pai Prior.

If it wasn’t for Einar Sharlou who had happened to be there by pure chance, that fall would have killed the boy. Yes, Pai knew levitation spells: both his own and the classic one, but lifting yourself with a levitation spell is no easier than lifting yourself by your own bootstraps. Einar caught him with a hastily cast levitation loop just in time.

The magister lifted Pai to the balcony and released him there. The child mage was ghastly pale, his teeth chattered, he trembled like a leaf in the wind, clearly shaken by the experience. His saviour looked no better.

“Let’s go to my study and drink some coffee,” said Einar Sharlou. Pai nodded, a blank expression on his bloodless face.

A cup of steaming coffee and a chocolate cupcake restored Pai in no time – he even started laughing at his mistake – but did little to calm down his young mentor. Einar wanted details – how exactly Pai had cast that horrible Transvolo – and wanted them now.

“You are lucky, lucky kid!” he said, covering his face with his hands. “The basic principles… you don’t understand them at all. I can’t blame you – they take years to learn and comprehend – but attempting Transvolo without them is pure madness…”

“But master Sharlou! I noticed some similarities, patterns, and…” Pai tried to chime in.

“I know,” Einar stopped him and added softly. “I know. You are a very talented lad, Pai, and it shows. But, please, next time, take me with you. I haven’t built my bridge to casting Transvolo yet but I know the theory well. And another thing: don’t experiment with height yet, work on the ground level. Next time, no one may be there to catch you.”

…For many years, Einar Sharlou had been dreaming of this moment, the moment when he would see the stars of Transvolo for the first time. Of course, he had always imagined casting it himself, not just following a thirteen-year-old mage. But the stars were no less beautiful for that.

One of them was closer to them than the others, Einar could even see one of its biggest planets, a gas giant, slowly moving in front of it. So that’s why Pai’s Transvolo was wrong: its path came too close to a star, to an alien sun harbouring alien worlds. For a moment, Einar felt a burning desire to know what kind of worlds they were but he had no chance even to ask; the stars disappeared, replaced by brief darkness followed by the colours and sounds of the real world.

Einar and Pai crash-landed on the library floor and stood up, surrounded by students, magisters, and librarians, all looking at them with their mouths agape. Milian, the only smiling face in all the crowd, put his book aside and cheered the Transvolo mage who, he knew (unlike the rest of the crowd) was Pai and not Einar. Awakened by Milian’s hearty cheer, the library hall roared with happy voices, all praising Sharlou for what they thought he had done.

“Your targeting still needs work,” Einar whispered to Pai. “You missed the spot by four halls!”

“I know,” smiled Pai, almost glowing with pride and joy. “Sorry, master.”

***

“Juel! Pai's learned Transvolo!” That was Jarmin, greeting the team leader with a happy yell when Juel returned from his training on the college grounds. “And I’ve finished my painting!” added the little boy no less happily.

Juel took a deep breath, leaned against the wall and stood there in silence for a while. Then he slowly sank to the floor and sat there, cross-legged and bow-backed like a sullen stone gargoyle on a graveyard.

“Juel, are you okay?” asked Jarmin, all his mirth turned to worry in an instant.

“I’m just tired,” said Juel. He didn’t even try to sound convincing.

After that day’s excruciating training in the blazing sun, the news of Pai’s success became a final blow to the young Faizul. Reality shoved his true mission into his face again and there was nowhere to run. Indeed, if he were to try, his own master, Kangassk Abadar, would find him even beyond the charted lands and kill him, slowly. Same with Irin, Lainuver, and Kosta: their Kangassks took the Order’s oaths as seriously as Juel’s master did. The rest of the boys, those with more liberal masters… the rest Sainar would find and destroy himself.

Juel Hak had no choice. He had to go. And he had to make everyone follow him whether they wanted or not. Strangely, these thoughts helped Juel calm down, and when he did, a dream, fiery, rebellious dream, lit up under his heart again: to subvert the Order’s expectations and instead of sacrificing the boys to the mission, lead them safely to Benai Bay.

Juel’s breath steadied, his emotions stopped their frantic dance; the young warrior was at peace with himself and felt safe on his journey again. It was a false feeling of safety, he knew, but just like wild Faizuls, his people, the ones he didn’t even remember, he used self-deceit often to keep going and knew how to trick himself into believing the lie. So he did.

“Tell me about your painting, Jarmin,” he said, in a surprisingly good-natured way. “What kind of world is it?”

“Oh, it’s Primal World, of course!” Jarmin explained, eagerly.

“Primal World…” musingly repeated Juel and smiled, as sincerely as he could, sealing that dream, that lie of his.

***

In the library reading hall, empty in the evening, Einar Sharlou gathered the rest of the junior magisters. They didn’t even try to act serious. All of them were their usual selves, what senior magisters called “mere kids in mage robes”.

Einar made a nervous gesture asking for silence. His peers hushed up a little, half-curious about what he was going to say.

“Do you know why I’ve gathered you here today?” asked Einar.

His audience – four junior magisters – nodded.

“It’s about those Lifekeeper boys,” said Mariana Ornan, the youngest of them all. Young though she was, that mage was much closer to casting her first Transvolo than Einar.

“Exactly!” he said, trying to sound brave. That wasn’t easy when Mariana looked him in the eye. “I need your help, my colleagues and friends. Let us accept the boys into our college. We can do that even in the absence of the senior magisters…”

“Only if we vote unanimously,” remarked Ronard Zarbot (Aven Jay Zarbot’s younger brother was obsessed with laws; his growing up with the head of the Crimson Guard for a sister was showing again).

“Yes, I know…” Einar cleared his throat. “Well, Pai and Milian are young but we can help them catch up with grown-up students and…”

“Heh, I can already imagine the elders’ faces when they hear the news!” Mariana chuckled, not kindly at all.

Krynn and Leona Sarion – twin sisters – exchanged puzzled looks and nodded simultaneously. Einar always found their ability to understand each other without words uncanny.

“Listen, Einar,” Krynn spoke up, “don’t we have a kind of ‘non-aggression pact’ with the Lifekeepers? We don’t recruit their kids, they don’t bother ours, etc…”

“But…” Einar tried to say.

“The Lifekeepers from the Temple of Life will be even less happy than our elders. You realize that, right?” said Leona.

Einar felt a cold lump of fear growing in his throat and swallowed nervously.

“Good to know that you’re aware of the consequences.” Krynn nodded with an approving half-smile. “We get it. ‘Every shlak brags about its own swamp’, so to say. Ambasiaths are just a waste of magic, etc.”

“Yeah. She means that we’ll support you but only if the others say yes first,” translated Leona.

“Mariana, Ronard?” Einar Sharlou turned to the remaining two, unmasked hope in his eyes. “What do you say?”

“Yes,” said Ronard simply.

“All right, I’m in,” gave up Mariana.

“Good.” Einar exhaled, relieved. “I’ll speak to the boys.”

Einar had thought that convincing his fellow magisters would be the hardest part. He was wrong. Never before, in his whole life, had he been worrying and fretting so much as he was when walking the long, empty central corridor of the college, full of dying Lihts and echoes, on his way to speak to the Lifekeeper boys…

***

Everything had been packed a long time ago, everyone was ready to depart. The team sat on the carpetless floor of their dark flat, waiting for Pai and Milian to return. Time dragged, as slow and lazy as dripping tar. The boys ran out of jokes, stories, and ideas and were just silent now, each one brooding over his own thoughts and fears.

The evening light was playing weird tricks with Jarmin’s paintings behind the balcony door, flooding the alien world there with red and purple. More than ever, the little flat felt like home now. Everything there was a fresh memory: Bala’s kitchen niche, the long dining table, the bunk beds… the fat spider in the corner (she was a pet and had a name now!)… the potted succulent on the windowsill, the stain on the floor…

The tar of time dripping lazily. Slanting, reddish rays of the dawn filled with dancing dust. Silence… Some boys dozed off right where they sat. Juel envied them. He was all nerves. His face was a stone mask but his mind was a screaming, fiery hell. No wonder that he jumped on his feet as soon as he heard faint footsteps behind the door. The rest of the team, yawning and muttering something under their breath, got up too.

Milian and Pai entered the room and apologised for being late. Both looked like they have been through something. Something important. Milian looked gloomy, Pai was all smiles, so, clearly, the event had hit each of the boys differently.

“I packed your bags!” announced Bala happily. “You’re all set!”

“Let’s go,” yawned Oasis. “My legs went numb while I was waiting for you two.”

“Same!” Jarmin piped up.

Pai sighed. The smile died on his face, replaced by a painful, worried expression.

“I’ll send you to Torgor on Transvolo,” he said, frowning. “But I’m not going with you. I’m staying here.”

Silence followed. Everyone was looking at Pai Prior now. There was pure hatred in Irin’s gaze, helpless disbelief in Bala’s, compassionate understanding in Orion’s… One way or another, everyone was waiting for an explanation.

“Explain yourself, Pai,” said Juel in a cold, intimidating tone that made the young mage recoil in terror.

“Magister Sharlou offered us a place in his college,” Milian answered in Pai’s stead. He had to crane his head to look the tall Faizul in the eye. Juel towered about him like a mountain, a furious, ready-to-explode mountain… “He said that we won’t even have to pass the exams.”

“And?” demanded Juel. He was looking at Pai now.

Pai, as red as a boiled lobster, was shaking under Juel’s gaze, unable to utter a single word.

“I refused,” Milian spoke up again. “Magic is not my thing.”

“And I… agreed…” squeaked Pai miserably.

“You’re coming with us,” Juel cut his pathetic explanation short.

There was nothing more to talk about. The brat’s rebellion was quenched. Good…

Juel was about to turn his back to Pai and tell the others to prepare for the jump when he heard a yell,

“No!!! I’m staying here! I want to be a mage!!! You won’t stop me!” Pai was hysterical now.

“I will stop you then,” sneered Irin at that. “Go on, try to run away. I swear I’ll find you wherever you go and kill you in the most painful way possible. My arrows will reach you before you even get a chance to learn your first battle spell!”

“Irin!” Bala tried to calm everyone down, as usual, but no one had even noticed him now.

“…Yeah, I’d love to kill a deserter,” continued Irin, a dark, carnivorous glee in his voice. “Go on, Pai, renounce your vows and run. Your Transvolo can buy you a couple of days but I’ll find you, oh I will…”

“What’s wrong with you, people!!!” exclaimed Milian, rushing forward. “Leave him alone! He’s been dreaming of magic his whole life! Magic IS his whole life! I…”

Juel reached Milian in one wide step, grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. The impact was strong enough to take young Raven’s breath away.

“Never,” growled Juel. “You hear me? Never stand between me and someone else. You don’t want to challenge me, whelp, oh, you don’t…”

That said, he released Milian’s shirt and let the terrified boy fall to the floor.

“Juel, stop it.” Orion’s voice, clear and calm, was like a ray of light in the darkness now. “Let me talk to Pai.”

Orion took the terrified young mage by the shoulder, led him out of the room, and closed the door behind him. With a loud sigh of relief, Pai leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor where he sat, a shivering kid in an oversized cloak, exhausted and miserable.

His saviour squatted next to him.

“Listen to me, Pai,” said Orion firmly. “You can’t win here and now, not against Juel, not in the middle of the mission. So do what I say. Tell your magister pal that you’re not refusing but postponing your decision. Colleges enrol new students only at the end of summer anyway, so you’re not losing anything. Don’t argue with Juel and, I beg you, stay away from Irin altogether: that kid is insane, mark my words… So here’s the plan: you’re completing the mission with us first, then you must take your plea to your master. Kangassk Vesperi is a clever, reasonable woman, she will listen to you and will help you. You can’t do anything in the Order without your master’s support, you understand?”

“But…” Pai sniffed and stifled a moan. “But it’s my only chance to be a mage. What if I miss it, what if…”

“Bah!” Orion chuckled. “It’s just a shitty provincial college, Pai. With your talent, any University would kill to have you! So don’t sell yourself short, kid.”

There was a faint smile on Pai’s trembling lips now and hope in his puffy, teary eyes.

“Your main goal is to convince Vesperi that a powerful mage will be more useful to the Order than another ambasiath. Most other Kangassks will support you too, I’m sure. They’re good people. And Sainar is their father, he’ll listen to them.”

Pai was sobbing now, all his fears, his doubts, his anger pouring out of him in tears.

“There, there, warrior…” Orion patted him on the back. “It’s okay. I’m on your side too. Let’s go get that obsidian. After that, you’ll be a full-fledged Order’s member, not some child, and your own voice will have some weight as well.”

Back in the common room, Orion, his face grim, his eyes full of smouldering anger, winked at Juel: it is done, we’re good to go.

The looks that the other teammates gave their leader, spoke it all: the peace and trust that they all had achieved during their stay in Firaska were broken again. Juel Hak had failed as a leader in the eyes of Irin, and as a friend and elder in the eyes of the rest of the boys. That would not be easy to rebuild, indeed!

Chapter 8. The border

Across the border, even the best maps

Have nothing left to say

A void where stars sleep, flickering,

The Moon’s haven by day.

Across the border, across the border –

The end. Nothing moves on.

Water drains down into darkness,

Earth is sliced off and gone.

Far off, in darkness, shining myriads

of stars hang overhead.

I chose my path, and held to it, when

Across the border it led.

Crossing the border changed me, to them

I grew ugly, a repulsive goon –

Not all at once – in separate stages,

Measured, phased like the Moon.

The days once were when handsome I seemed!

My future filled with hope!

When at my zenith, with the strength I’d dreamed,

I crossed the border

Adult Milian. A canto of “Thorn poem”

The team fell into Pai’s Transvolo like a handful of stones thrown into a cold abyss. Despite all the efforts of Einar Sharlou, his young apprentice’s spell still included passing too close to the alien star.

“The Primal World!” exclaimed Jarmin, pointing at the golden sun, that pulsing ball of light that seemed no bigger than a Liht sphere from here. “Pai, please, let’s get closer, let’s take a look!” the little boy begged.

Nobody doubted Jarmin’s words. Nobody. His discovery shook everyone in the team, even Irin. For the first time in their whole journey, Irin’s teammates saw his face lose its usual twisted, menacing expression; it was almost serene now; there was lively interest, a spark of curiosity, a tinge of daydreaming… In the light of the Primal World’s sun, the little fanatic seemed just a boy his age, someone you would want to be friends with.

The beauty of this star seemed healing. The last argument had left a wide crack in the team’s mutual trust but now it felt like the crack was mended with invisible glue. In the face of the living legend, the young Lifekeepers felt united again.

“I wish I could do what you ask, Jarmin,” said Pai with a longing sadness. “But I’m afraid. Coming close to a star is extremely dangerous and I’m just a newbie. I might kill us all if I try…”

“Too bad…” sighed Jarmin.

“I wonder,” Milian squinted his eyes as an exciting idea came into his head, “whether it’s possible to use Transvolo for interstellar travel. What do you think, Pai?”

“I’ll find out one day,” said Pai Prior with determination. “But later, when I’m a proper mage.”

The stars faded into darkness before their eyes as the young Lifekeepers fell out of the Transvolo void into the real world.

The real world was pitch black, filled with Omnisian stars above and with cold sand below.

“Where are we?” asked Lainuver. He tried to sound confident but his voice betrayed him.

“In Kuldagan, of course,” answered Bala, a gentle smile lighting up his voice. “I’ve been there once with my master. This is what Kuldaganian night looks like beyond city walls. If there is no moon to light the way, it’s that dark. And it’s always cold at night in the desert.”

“Did something go wrong, Pai?” asked Juel cautiously. “We were supposed to land in the city.”

“I didn’t dare risk it,” confessed the young mage. “There are too many objects there. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to calculate everything properly and would hurt someone. But we’re not far away, I swear!”

“Yeah, it’s just the dunes. They are quite lofty and obscure the view,” explained Bala. “I bet that we’d see the city right away if we climbed one. Kuldaganian cities shine like stars on the earth by night.”

“Like stars on the earth…” Milian echoed his words. And whispered,

O lovely land,

Entrancing land,

Far from woe, far from sorrows within;

As if dreams hide

Where the night sky ends, the earth begins…

It didn’t seem that he intended someone to hear his newborn poem but in the night that quiet, even whisper can be too loud to hide anything… The whole team heard the boy. Embarrassed, Milian fell silent.

“So you’re a poet, Mil…” said Orion, a strange thankfulness in his voice. “Why haven’t you ever read us anything of yours?”

“I preferred to listen to your stories instead.” Milian laughed the question away. “Let’s go. It’s getting colder and colder by the minute.”

Orion shrugged, unconvinced by his friend’s nervous laughter. What kind of storyteller was he if he couldn’t even notice a poet beside him? Orion made a promise to himself to shut up the next time someone asks him for another story so Milian would have a chance to shine as well.

The dune they chose to climb was a mighty beast. It took the team a while to reach the top. Their feet sank in the sand with every step, the cold wind drained their warmth slowly but steadily, and their cloaks were no help. But all their efforts and suffering were rewarded in the end when they reached the top of the sandy monster and saw the shining lights of the city below.

Stars in the sky, stars on the earth; a place where dreams hide… All that Milian had expressed in his snatch of a poem before anyone had seen that with their own eyes. Poetry is a sister to magic, yes, but it also has a lot in common with divination. Fortune-telling.

Seeing the lights of the city and hearing its distant murmur lifted the team’s spirits again. The Lifekeepers ran down the dune with a burst of boyish laughter, eager to reach Torgor, that shining diadem crowning the dark sands.

In the cold air, their every breath was a puff of white vapour that the desert hungrily snatched away the moment it appeared; their every step was a fleeting impression in the sand, soon erased by everlasting winds; their voices were devoid of echoes, swallowed by the dunes. The desert holds few memories…

“I heard that Kuldaganian nightlife is truly something!” said Lainuver. He was so cold that his teeth chattered, making speaking difficult, but he just couldn’t wait to share his excitement.

“Oh we’ll have fun there all right!” Oasis’s happy voice joined him in the dark. “I’m so sick of Firaskian curfews!”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Bala, “but Kuldaganian nights are mostly work, not fun. It’s just too hot there by day to do anything, so the locals mostly live by night.”

“Oh…” Oasis’s enthusiasm died in an instant. “And what about the city we’re going to from here? That ‘Border’? Is it just like Torgor?”

“No,” said Bala remembering his visit to Border five years ago. His speech became slow and thoughtful. “Border’s people are diurnal. It’s a bit like Firaska: a city with walls and a little army to defend them. They have desert raiders threatening them from one side and No-Man’s-Land bandits from the other. But there are no curfews, so ‘nightlife’ is a thing there, yes. I think you’ll like it!” He tried to sound cheerful and supportive but with the cold that cruel, even Bala couldn’t be his usual self.

Kuldagan is a land of mystery. Formally, it’s a part of the South but in terms of magic, it’s an anomaly. Torgor is the last city where magic is reliable; further north, casting spells is a gamble. The closer you are to Border, the city guarding the entrance to the No Man’s Land, the higher the stakes in that gamble are. That’s why no mage ever takes their Transvolo further than Torgor.

Torgor is a big, busy city, similar to Mirumir in many ways, zigarella smoke excluded. There are little shops, cafés, and dlars (local inns) on every corner and a spectacular market in the central square where all kinds of curiosities from around the world are sold.

The cult of Ancestors’ purity is still a thing in Torgor but it’s slowly fading, losing its influence to the massive multicultural flow of merchants and tourists passing through the city every day. Most of the Torgor locals still look somewhat like the city’s first people: Arnika who was a blue-eyed, brown-skinned redhead and Vadro, her husband, who had pale skin, grey eyes, and silver hair. But very few modern Torgorians are perfect copies of their Ancestors nowadays.

To everyone but Bala who had already been to Torgor, seeing so many similar faces seemed creepy. The boys couldn’t help commenting on that, though in very hushed voices not to be overheard by the locals.

Juel, trying to mend the team's morale, made an unusual decision upon their arrival at the city: he allowed his teammates to spend their money freely. They had saved a lot by having their own mage learn Transvolo instead of hiring a specialist and even earned some with Lainuver’s and Oasis’s shadow business, so he could allow such a gesture.

The trick worked like magic! Soon, Juel’s warriors were laughing again, happy with all the souvenirs, treats, and books they got from the market. But Juel himself couldn’t even crack a smile; in the gloomy light of his true mission, the whole world seemed dreary to the young Faizul. He left the others to their fun and went away to look for a caravan that would agree to take them along. Beyond Torgor, joining a caravan is the only sure way to reach another city alive; you don’t walk the dune sea alone unless you are a Wanderer.

To Juel’s teammates' credit, they didn’t forget about their duty amidst the fun and bought a set of proper desert clothes for every team member – thick, layered, woollen cloak, jacket, and trousers – to keep both daily heat and nightly cold at bay. Bala went through several dlars asking people everything about the desert and its “aren”, which meant much more than just “sand” in the local tongue. “Aren is sand, glass, and monolith,” Kuldaganians said, “but only Wanderers still remember how to tame the third – monolith – aspect.” That was an interesting but not very useful piece of information. The useful one was about maskaks. Bala told Irin everything about those creatures and stressed the importance of spotting and killing them in time so they wouldn’t tell their bandit masters about the approaching caravan. Irin took Bala’s warning very seriously and promised to be on alert. He even visited a local smithy and bought himself an extra hundred of arrows for the journey. Jet-black, with striped feathers and barbed arrowheads, they looked deadly.

That night, filled with shopping, asking around, looking around, and enjoying the exotic city, turned out to be so exhausting that the boys fell asleep in their rented room just where their exhaustion had caught up with each of them: at the table, on the floor, among the backpacks… Orion was snoring by the door where he had collapsed after stumbling over the doorstep. He had overestimated his stamina a bit while tasting local alcohol.

That was how Juel found his team after a rowdy night. For a while, the mighty Faizul just stood there, at a loss what to do, then looked at the lukewarm sky, sighed, and curled up in the nearest bed like a big, heavy cat. He knew he could trust his inner “clock” to wake him up in time. And he needed a nap after a sleepless night too.

Bala, the most responsible one of the lot, woke up even earlier than Juel and made a hurry-up breakfast for the team and a simple sobering potion for Orion.

Refreshed but still sleepy, the Lifekeepers paid for the room and headed to the gates to catch up with their caravan.

The merchant the caravan belonged to, an elderly woman, frowned as she saw the young warriors. That they were young, she knew (Juel had told her that), what she didn’t expect, though, was a gaggle of kids. She gave Juel a grim, reproachful look. He replied with ardent praise and swore that each of his teammates would be worth at least three bandits in a battle and that having a master archer in the caravan might even save them a battle altogether. That was the longest speech Juel’s teammates had ever heard from him. Their leader could be eloquent when he wanted! Finally, the old merchant nodded in approval. Lifekeepers did have a good reputation, even young ones, after all.

“My name is Ramayana Arnika-Vadro,” she introduced herself to the younger boys. “You are welcome to join my caravan. May our journey be an easy one.”

…Patience. Patience. Patience. This is the very first lesson a Lifekeeper must learn and they all do. Even Jarmin, a six-year-old, had learned his lesson of patience years ago, so he endured the hardships of the desert journey stoically, without even a pip, even though they were nearly killing him. His teammates and the merchants did everything they could to ease the little boy’s suffering. Ramayana allowed Jarmin to sit on one of her dunewalkers instead of walking the sands himself. Juel, Orion, Bala, and Lainuver shared their water with him. The younger Lifekeepers – Kosta, Pai, Milian, and Oasis (Irin just didn’t care) – wanted to share theirs as well but Juel forbade that. Those four were still too young, so depriving them of water would be a sure way to turn four capable warriors into helpless children. Jarmin’s troubles aside, the journey was going well, probably thanks to Irin who kept watching for maskak scouts as he had promised and shot them all at sight.

Caravans rarely go straight to Border; they usually take a little detour to one of the smaller cities to have a rest, trade a bit, and refill their water supplies. There are two such cities on the way from Torgor to Border: Aren-Castell and Aldaren-Turin. Ramayana Arnika-Vadro preferred the latter. Juel and his team didn’t care what she chose; water and rest were all they could think about then.

When Aldaren-Turin had come into view, everyone cheered, even Ramayana’s most seasoned followers. But their joy was a bit different, tinged with their knowledge of the true hardships that awaited them beyond the Turin-Castell crossroads.

“Aren-Castell” means “sand castle” in Kuldaganian; “Aldaren-Turin” means “battle turret” which sounds much more serious. Soon, the Lifekeepers saw why. Every Kuldaganian city is surrounded by a wall but only Aldaren-Turin’s wall is made of a pure monolith, which is aren in its third, known only to Wanderers, aspect. Even more: that wall looks like a remnant of some other structure, gargantuan in its size, possibly an ancient fortress, broken at its foundation and carried away by some monstrous force. Rami and Otis, the first people of Aldaren-Turin, founded their city in the ruins of that structure and called its jagged outline a wall. Even defeated, the unnamed “turin” protects people still…

“Their ‘turin’ sounds familiar to ‘turris’,” mused Milian. “How tall do you think that ancient thing had been? Orion?”

Orion dozed off again; during the journey, he had learned to do that while walking and abused his new skill shamelessly. He jerked his head up as he heard Milian’s call and stared at Aldaren-Turin’s wall for a while, thinking. Slowly, a familiar smile dawned on his tired face. A moment later, he was already tugging at Jarmin’s cloak to wake him up. Lulled by the dunewalker’s steady pace, the boy was sleeping tightly; he didn’t look very happy at being awakened like that. But Orion asked, “Hey, kid, want to hear a fairy-tale?”, changing Jarmin’s mood in an instant. The little boy smiled, very carefully, of course, so his dry lips would not crack again.

With Milian and Jarmin both ready to listen now, Orion began his tale. He didn’t approve of that pathos-filled tone most professional storytellers used, so his stories always had that flavour of sincere simplicity in them that his teammates liked. His speech flowing with a steady, graceful pace like a wide river, his tone, changing and dancing to give every event a flavour, every character a voice, his unfailing confidence – nothing betrayed the fact that he was thinking up his stories on the go, picking them up everywhere, like a curious toddler picks up colourful pebbles and seashells from the ground.

Right now, the “seashell”, picked up by Orion and turned into the story was Milian’s question about the ancient structure that used to be on top of Aldaren-Turin’s “wall”.

It happened in a faraway world where people were a lot like us in that their knowledge grew way faster than their self-awareness did. Such disbalance never ends well.

Those people believed that their world was created by gods and that the gods lived in the sky. Eventually, somebody came up with an idea of reaching the sky so people themselves could become gods. The idea turned out to be so strong, captivating, and infectious that it outlived its creator and kept spawning various cults for centuries. The Cult of the Tower was the strongest of them all.

For years, the cultists placed one row of stone blocks above the other, lifting incredible weights with their machines and magic. Countless generations lived and died for the sake of the crazy dream. From birth to death, the cultists toiled at the enormous building site, having little time for anything else. Eventually, the “unnecessary” things like love, games, poems, and songs were forgotten. Only one song, the howling song that helped them keep the rhythm while working, survived in the end. Love and friendship didn’t survive at all, replaced by the endless loyalty to the cult.

Day by day, the cursed tower grew, a black splinter in the skin of the earth.

Meanwhile, the gods watched from above, curious. They threw no lightning bolts and sent no curses upon humanity. Why would they? For a god, hurting a human being is like hurting a feeble-minded child; nothing to be proud of there. Breaking their tower? Sure, the gods could do that easily but why would they? Who in their right mind breaks a baby’s toy? Not gods. So they watched and they waited for little creatures down below to teach themselves a lesson.

…Being born in such a world in such a time is one of the worst things that can happen to a poet. But zealot worlds would die if no poets were born in the most difficult times. So Milia, a little blue-eyed girl, was born in the Tower Cult.

While her peers were building toy towers from pebbles and meowed miserably trying to sing the howling song of the builders, Milia made up songs of her own. There were words in them, rhymes, and music. She could turn anything into a song or a poem: golden autumns, chilly dawns, starry sky – all things she saw around her. The older Milia grew, the more powerful her songs became. And – oh, the horror! – some children left their pebble towers and howling exercises to listen to her sing.

People began talking, spreading rumours and fears around the girl. She is just a child and yet people wander from the true path because of her songs, only children for now but what will happen when she grows up? Then adult engineers and mages, workers and slaves will fall for her witchcraft and the Tower will fall. Then humanity will be doomed to crawl the earth forever and all hope of reaching the sky will be lost.

One early morning, three cult leaders – Chief Engineer, Chief Mage, and Chief Priest – held a council at the foot of the Black Tower. All three were old people, with families, with children and grandchildren of their own. Neither liked the idea of killing a child but they decided that it was necessary.

“For the future of humanity!” said the Mage and the Engineer.

“And to save the souls from sin,” quietly added the Priest.

But the sun that rose above the horizon, turned into fanatic flames in their eyes. They were flickering there like hot embers, for all the world to see… including the gods in the sky.

Soon, the three leaders announced their decision to the crowd. No one was brave enough to stand up for Milia, the shackles of faith and habit were that heavy on people. The most open-minded of them only wept when they saw the guards lead the girl to the Tower. The others just stared in silence.

“You will be led to the top of the Tower,” said the Priest, “so the holy sky would drive all the sin from your soul. Then you will be thrown down. This is the decision made in the light of the dawn before the gods themselves. Today, at midday, you will be put to death.”

Milia lifted her eyes to the top of the skyscraping Tower. That moment, fear of death seized her and took her gift of speech away. People watched in horror at the miracle of their life, now destroyed; watched the poor child try to say something and fail to do so, the very child that had been singing so merrily for them just a few hours ago. Yet again, not a single person stepped out of the crowd to help the little girl.

In the midday, Milia’s long ascension to the Tower began. The way up would be difficult for an adult warrior, let alone a child. Sometimes, she had to walk the stairs, sometimes she had a chance to catch her breath when a part of the way could be covered in a mechanical elevator or a magical levitation device. A group of armed guards clad in white followed the condemned child everywhere.

By the end of the way, Milia was so exhausted that she became as white as chalk herself. Bitter cold reigned on the top of the Tower, ferocious winds howled there, and the air was so thin the girl could barely breathe.

When Milia reached the last storey, half-built, open to the elements, the first stars were already shining in the dark, velvety sky. There were so many of them! Above the lights of the city, there was nothing that could outshine even the smallest ones. There was a river, a whole river of stars!

The power of the beautiful sight took Milia’s breath away, she gasped, she felt the fear of death release its grasp on her throat, and, finally, she sang. She could make everything into a song, even the river of stars, the river of worlds in the sky where the gods dwelled.

Carried by the wind to the foot of the Tower, that song made people wake up. They no longer stared up in silence, waiting for Milia to fall; they stirred, they cried, they cursed the Tower and those who condemned the innocent child to death. Only the three Chiefs remained unmoved by the song.

“What a horrible sorcery!” they said. “We were right to condemn the child. Just imagine what would have happened if the little witch had a chance to grow up!”

Only the gloomy warriors clad in white didn’t acknowledge the powerful song. All of them had been deaf from birth; that was why they were chosen to follow the girl. They threw Milia off the Tower, just like they were ordered to.

No one saw the child’s body fall but everyone saw the fall of the Tower itself. In roar and thunder, torn apart by huge cracks, it crashed to the ground, centuries of endless toil and howling songs turned into rubble and dust in a single moment.

The city was spared – by pure luck or the will of the gods, who knows. The only victims of the fall, by a strange coincidence, were the three Chiefs and the deaf guards. Blinded by freedom, inspired by hope, people searched and searched for Milia’s body, some even believed that she had survived the fall but no, the girl was never found.

Why did the Tower fall? Did the gods have a hand in it? Who knows.

Sometimes, heavy things just collapse under their own weight, Towers and cults alike.

As to the people awakened by Milia’s song and the Tower’s crash, they did learn their lesson. Technology, magic, and faith, when they are not balanced by other things, make unstable constructions and you need balance first of all to reach the sky where the gods dwell.

Unbalanced things always fall.

“Jarmin fell asleep again, poor thing,” said Milian. “I don’t think he’s heard the ending.”

“Yeah, he probably hasn't…” Orion scratched his neck. That sunburn on his skin was itchy. Or maybe he was feeling unsure of what he wanted to say and the subconscious gesture just betrayed that. “What’s important, is that you have. The tale was for you, Mil. Some thoughts are better told this way, you know.”

“Ah, I get it now,” Milian nodded. “That’s why you called her ‘Milia’, huh? And the tower… it’s the Order, right? You think it’s going to fall.”

“Glad to know we’re on the same page,” Orion nodded, his face unusually serious.

“And the reason is?” Milian looked him in the eye.

“Fanaticism,” was Orion’s answer. “Our glorious leader is one step away from the point of no return. Well, at least I think so. But the problem is that I have no idea what to do about it.”

“Yeah… me neither,” sighed Milian.

They walked the rest of the way to Aldaren-Turin in silence.

Ramayana’s caravan spent one day and one night in the city. Juel’s team took this time to rest and have fun. Aldaren-Turin’s market was nowhere as impressive as Torgor’s but the boys enjoyed it all the same. Some things they bought there were unique to the city and would surely make great mementoes in the future. Some books, written by the locals, were one of a kind. Handwritten and clumsily bound in cheap leather, they narrated stories only the author and a few of their friends had ever read. Taking these books on a journey into the big world seemed an interesting idea to Milian, and his friends quickly joined the fun, making the local unappreciated writers’ day.

Jarmin was a little child and children of his age are special to Kuldaganians: they are the only people allowed to swim in city fountains. It doesn’t even matter whether they are freaks that broke the Ancestors’ purity taboo or foreigners that look even more alien. They are kids and childhood is holy. So Jarmin spent the day in Aldaren Turin’s fountain, his flaxen hair looking funny among the bald heads of the descendants of Rami and Otiz, neither of which had hair on their body, brows and eyelashes excluded.

Local dlars’ walls were thick enough to keep the rooms cool even in the fiercest heat of the day and warm even in the fiercest cold the night, so everyone enjoyed the best rest possible. Speaking of walls: only Aldaren-Turin’s city wall was made of monolith; all the walls inside were plain aren concrete. The descendants of Rami and Otiz were no different from other Kuldaganian citizens in that matter.

Monolith interested Pai greatly. He wouldn’t shut up about the Wanderer’s “magic” that they used to manipulate the aspects of aren, the “magic” that worked in the unstable zone somehow without exploding. He tried to ask around, hoping to learn more, but had no luck. Definitely, a Kuldaganian city was no place to learn the Wanderers’ ways.

Pai found some consolation after the caravan had left Aldaren-Turin, though, for they now followed an ancient road paved with rune-inscribed stones enchanted to keep the sands away. Since they had stepped on that road, Pai did little but staring at those runes, absolutely fascinated by them.

For the rest of the team, the journey was as mirthless as before. Thankfully (most likely due to Irin’s constant vigil and excellent marksmanship) no bandits bothered the caravan. At some point, Ramayana Arnika-Vadro approached Irin and asked him to stay and work for her. He refused but did that so loudly and hastily that there were no doubts about how much he actually wanted to accept the offer.

When the lights of Border came into view, it was early evening with only a few stars in the sky. The collective light of the city’s oil lanterns and firefly jars made it look like a gate to the dark unknown beyond. A gate to the No Man’s Land.

Milian felt his heart sink at the sight. The image was more that it seemed. It felt like approaching a point of no return, an unseen border beyond which nothing would ever be the same. The boy could not explain the dread it was giving him and had no words to express the feeling; but the others must have felt something similar for they were all grim despite the comforts and curiosities the city could offer.

The team left the city the next morning on the backs of ten chargas that stepped so softly on the firm ground that replaced the shifty Kuldaganian sand beyond the border.

Chapter 9. Road to Tammar

Having killed a master, kill their apprentice as well, even if the apprentice is just a little child, for children grow, children learn, and children can hold a grudge. The child you’ve spared will become a warrior or a mage and come after you to avenge the master. Think of the future, always.

Assassin’s Handbook, part three

No Man’s Land. The territory of anomalies where each anomaly has a ‘heart’ that defines its centre and a circular border. Sometimes those borders cross, making the anomalous effects cancel or enhance each other but, more often, they barely touch.

Imagine a cook using a round biscuit-cutter on a thinly rolled layer of dough. Once the future biscuits have been all cut out of the layer, small, oddly shaped pieces of dough remain. This is what so-called ‘interstitions’ of the No Man’s Land look like, the territories between the neighbouring regions which don’t have overlapping borders. While still wild and unstable, the magic of interstitions is not explosive. Also, it is uniform, without any quirks an anomaly can produce.

Most interstitions are tiny, mere islands of peace surrounded by several anomalies, but some are long enough to be turned into trading routes. Brevir interstition is one of them. It looks like a trunk of a twisted tree on the map with all its tributaries and turns. Every tributary has a road of its own. Every road is a pulsing artery moving goods and people between the No Man’s Land settlements. While you’re following Brevir, you’re perfectly safe. There are villages and cities clinging to the road with lots of inns and markets; there are other traders to travel with. But once you’ve left Brevir, you’re on your own and the further you go, the more dangerous your journey becomes.

Chargas step softly. As graceful as cats, as powerful as bears, and as intelligent as human children, they are the best companions when it comes to travelling through dangerous lands. A grown-up man on a charga’s back looks like a fragile kid. And a kid riding a charga is the cutest thing ever.

Marin had just noticed one from afar.

His curiosity stirred, he opened a box of spyglasses he was going to sell in one of the big cities and grabbed one. Yes. The tiny figure on a young charga – almost a kitten – was a child. Some of his companions were children as well.

Children travelling through the No Man’s Land? That was worth investigating!

Marin expected no danger from the curious group. Firstly, his caravan was still on Brevir, which is safe, and secondly, the kids on the chargas were obviously Lifekeepers, members of a closed order with ancient traditions of peace and mercy. There was nothing to fear from meeting them.

The team on the chargas moved faster than Marin’s cart caravan, so the Lifekeepers caught up with it soon. The caravan’s taranders – elklike beasts of burden – were the only ones unhappy with that: taranders are afraid of chargas, their natural predators in the wild. As to the caravan’s people, everyone welcomed the young travellers.

“Safe journey to you!” Marin greeted them when the team reached his cart. “Where are you heading?”

“To Tammar,” answered their leader, a young man that looked like a pureblood Faizul.

“Oh!” exclaimed the merchant. “It’s dangerous to leave Brevir here. I wouldn’t do that, especially if I had children with me. Some gang might consider you easy prey… Would you like to join us instead? We’re going to Gurron. From there, it’s only a day’s journey to Tammar, on a safe road.”

“Thank you,” the Faizul nodded, so very politely, “but we are in a hurry. And we are not easy prey. Safe journey to you!”

The Lifekeepers passed Marin’s caravan and disappeared from view after taking the next turn on the road. Marin’s eyes followed them as they walked away. A flaxen-haired child riding a charga kitten was the last in their procession. The boy must have been about six years old but he wore a full Lifekeeper attire, complete with a real sword.

Seeing him had nearly made Marin tear up. No, Jarmin did nothing special; he was busy playing the wooden flute Orion had made for him and listening to Orion singing to the tune. But he reminded Marin of something, something precious, something lost forever…

For a moment, the merchant wanted nothing else but to abandon his caravan and join the Lifekeeper boys. The emotion was so sudden and strong that he felt drowning for a moment and gasped for air.

“Marin! Are you okay?” he heard his friend, Hasse, ask. Hasse had sped up his tarander to catch up with Marin’s cart and now was looking Marin in the eyes, worried.

“That boy…” the merchant muttered and shook his head. “His little sword is just like mine…”

“You have a sword?” Hasse raised his brows, surprised. He had never seen his friend wield a weapon.

Marin reached for his travelling chest where he kept his personal belongings and rummaged in it for a while. The object he was searching for turned out to be at the very bottom: a bundle of rags and papers with something long inside it. Marin unwrapped the thing and handed it to Hasse.

“Is it a toy?” the warrior asked with a smile.

“No. Unsheath it and see for yourself,” said Marin reproachfully. “It’s a katana made for a child. See? The hilt is thin enough so a small hand can grasp it.”

“No handguard,” noticed Hasse.

“I used to be a Lifekeeper. A long time ago.” Marin’s voice was deeply sad.

“Was? What happened?”

“Ah, my dear Hasse…” Marin laughed mirthlessly and put his old sword back into the chest. “Bad luck happened. I was six when a group of assassins ambushed my master and me. My master died. I survived, thanks to Urhan, but remained a cripple for life.”

“I had no idea…” Hasse shook his head. “I thought you were Urhan’s son.”

“I am. Urhan saved my life, nursed me back to health, adopted me, taught me his trade… he is the only father I’ve ever known.”

“Yes, yes, of course. It’s not what I meant,” Hasse apologised. “I just thought I knew you, old friend.”

“I, too, thought I knew myself. I thought I had buried my past for good. But those boys made me remember. Not that it matters now. Even if I weren’t a cripple, I wouldn’t be able to avenge my master. I have no idea who was after him. I was too young to be trusted with any secrets. So… so it just hurts.”

They rode in silence for a while. The sides of the road, overgrown with young willows being played with by the wind, were a mass of restless green and dancing sunlight patches. Marin kept looking at the turn the young Lifekeepers had taken. He still couldn’t let it go.

“What was your master’s name?” asked Hasse.

“Gerdon Lorian.” Marin smiled and turned to his friend. “He died on that very road those boys chose. This is why I never go directly to Tammar. Too many memories.”

***

The road to Tammar is overshadowed by a massive natural wall striped with multicoloured layers of shale and limestone that make it look like a giant piece of cake, the “cake” being a steep hill that had been cut through to make space for the road. Only its western half survived to this day. Covered with silky grass and dotted with bright ramniru flowers, it was still a sight to see. Travellers following the road in summer always found a free meal ready, for ramniru flowers are as sweet as raspberries.

Across the road from the striped wall, there was a young birch grove growing on the ashes of a forest where Gerdon Lorian had been ambushed. The young Lifekeepers were riding through one of their Order’s important historic sites but they were completely unaware of that. To them, it was just a place that looked unsafe for many reasons.

Orion set his charga to a run and quickly caught up with Juel.

“Do you think we’ll be attacked?” he asked.

“No.” Juel shook his head. “As I told that merchant, we’re not easy prey. Even if you don’t count children, we have three adult warriors and ten chargas. Attacking us would be too costly for any gang and we carry nothing valuable enough to cover the costs. I say we’re safe.”

“Heh…” Orion looked around, nervous. “I don’t like this place. There is something dodgy about it. I can’t explain it, I just feel it with my gut… I suggest we speed up, maybe tell the chargas to run all the way to Tammar.”

Surprisingly, Juel agreed. He might have had a similar feeling about the place or just wanted to shorten the journey. Anyway, he commanded the team to speed up a little. Orion thanked him and returned to his place, in the tail of their caravan, next to Jarmin.

“I told Juel about your forebodings,” said Orion to the boy. “I had to tell him they were mine, though, so he would listen.”

“Don’t you feel anything?” exclaimed Jarmin, anger and disappointment ringing in his thin voice.

Orion shook his head. Seeing reproach in Orion’s eyes, Jarmin sighed, his shoulders drooped. He leaned against his charga’s furry neck and scratched the big kitten behind the ears. Orion left the child to his brooding, thinking that little Jarmin needed to grow up a bit. Learning that other people are not obliged to feel what he feels and think what he thinks might be the first step on this way.

Pai had been in a gloomy mood since the morning, so Milian had no one to chat with that day. He rode beside his mage friend in thoughtful silence and killed time by daydreaming, recalling the Kuldaganian book he had bought in Aldaren-Turin, and looking around. He had a good memory but, still, comparing the copy of the No Man’s Land map he had in his mind with the landscape they were slowly moving through was not as easy as he thought it would be: the world was just so big!

According to Sainar, they were to look for the obsidian somewhere close to Tammar, in the woods on the border of the Burnt Region. According to the map, they had a thin, winding road in front of them and zero chance of reaching the city before dark. Camping was unavoidable. It’s not that Milian hated camping – he had got used to it, actually – but, unlike Bala and Juel who had been travelling a lot with their masters, he still preferred a bed to a bedroll, a fireplace to a bonfire, and a house with walls and roofs to a flimsy tent. The only thing about their current journey that Milian liked was chargas. The idea of using one as a pillow at night seemed both cute and hilarious, the chargas’ ability to protect their riders was reassuring…

Kangassk Marini, Milian’s master, used to berate her apprentice’s lack of focus quite often. She’d do that now as well, no doubt, for her boy was the last to hear the alarming sounds from the other side of the hill.

“Sounds like a swordfight!” said Bala; he was the first to notice them.

“Yeah, it is,” confirmed Juel. “Lots of swords are involved, too…”

Orion moved to the head of the caravan and squinted his eyes, listening. Jarmin’s foreboding turned out to be true, after all: there were bandits nearby all right. Maybe they even watched the team from the hilltop. Only they weren’t after the Lifekeepers; they choose a different prey…

A reckless, fiery feeling filled Orion’s heart to the brim. ph, Lar would be so angry with him if he knew.

“I’ll help them!” said Orion Jovib in a tone that allowed no arguments, and ordered his charga to run.

“Get back, you fool!” yelled Juel but Orion didn’t listen; his figure grew smaller and smaller with every passing moment.

Juel uttered the foulest Faizulish curse he knew, spat to the ground, and turned to the team, “Irin, Bala, follow me! Lainuver, stay with the kids!”

Far away, in clouds of dust raised from the road by dozens of feet, under the crowns of slender birches, amidst the lazy symphony of distant bird singing, a battle was raging. It could be barely seen from where the younger part of the Lifekeeper team stood. The kids tried to distinguish their elder teammates in the dusty crowd but that was easier said than done.

Lainuver, the only adult among the frightened children, seemed so tall and so serious now. He did his best to look confident, too, even though he didn’t feel even remotely like that. To him, a shadow master, forests were alien territory full of unknown dangers he was not trained to handle.

He felt even worse when he glimpsed dark silhouettes moving among the trees. The creatures ran on all fours but didn’t resemble dogs of wolves. Soon, everyone saw why. As the first creature jumped out of the undergrowth and met Lainuver’s blade, their nature and origin became as clear as day. The animals were tamed shlaks – ugly, massive brutes that looked like a weird mix between a wild boar and a dog. Armed with sabre-teeth instead of tusks, heavy in their front part of the body, they flew forward like bricks. The shlaks’ masters followed their animals soon. They looked relaxed, even careless, so sure they were in their victory. For real: who were they to be afraid of? Chargas? Shlaks would deal with them. Kids? Pfft! They’re good enough warriors to deal with kids. Aren’t they?

Chargas growled and formed a line in front of the young Lifekeepers…

…Orion jumped into the battle with very little idea about the side he would be on. But everything became clear to him as soon as he saw the tamed shlaks: the bandits were Shlakers aka the cheapest professional assassins in the No Man’s Land. They are not very subtle in their ways but are brutally effective. Someone must really have wanted their current victims dead…

Now, once Orion knew which side he was on, he spent no more time pondering the situation and announced his appearance by cutting off two Shlakers’ heads with one stroke. Following his lead, Irin started sending arrows into the crowd, picking out the assassins with deadly precision.

“Oh, Jovib… you brainless son of a…” thought Juel as he bellowed a Faizulish battle cry and clashed into the assassins’ formation from the side while his charga took a juicy bite out of one of the shlaks that wasn’t smart enough to run away while it still had a chance.

…Chargas growled and formed a line in front of the young Lifekeepers. It’s not that they were determined to hold it, though: you just don’t do that when fighting against shlaks. A shlak is built like a brick armed with four sabre-teeth, a brick with its centre of mass skewed heavily towards the head. When that creature runs at you, it’s wiser to step aside and attack its back and thin hind legs instead. But to make that tactic work, you need the stupid beast to firmly believe that you’re holding the line. Pretend to be ferocious and determined or paralyzed with fear, whatever works for you. Chargas knew that. And their acting was top notch.

The shlaks charged, putting everything they had into that. The chargas let them come close, jumped aside with cat’s grace, and attacked their backs. The Lifekeepers did the same. Stepping aside from the line of a direct attack is a simple skill every child warrior knows, so even Jarmin had no difficulty evading the shlak that tried to ram into him.

The shlaks tried to slow down and turn around, but it wasn’t easy, considering all the effort and force they had put into that charge. Most were gravely injured or killed before they could regroup and do any damage. That was when the Shlakers joined the fight.

Most of their assassin brethren were away, fighting their main targets, only five were here to deal with the ambasiaths. With chargas busy fighting the shlaks, the boys had to deal with the Shlakers themselves. The boys: eighteen, six, twelve, thirteen, and… thirteen years old. Milian totally forgot about his birthday today…

Four of the Lifekeepers stepped forward to meet the assassins, shielding Jarmin from them. Every handguardless katana was already red with shlak blood. Every young face was grim and deadly calm.

Adult assassins couldn’t hold back their sneery comments as they faced the boys. But a cry from one of their brethren that fell on the ground with Jarmin’s knife in his throat wiped the smirks from their faces in an instant. The remaining four assassins charged, with a roaring battle cry.

…Orion’s charga got careless or maybe he did… anyway, he found himself in the air – and time slowed down for a moment – before hitting the ground so hard it knocked all the wind out of him. As he staggered up to his feet, he saw Juel and Bala fighting their way to him. Bala was good but Juel… Juel was amazing! Orion made a note to himself to never get on the Faizul’s bad side.

Three skilled warriors and a master archer that had unexpectedly joined the fight messed up the assassins’ plans completely. Soon, the Shlakers were retreating. No one pursued them.

Silence fell on the battlefield, only to be replaced by the forest’s careless symphony of singing birds and rustling leaves. The saviours and the saved ones took a good look at each other for the first time.

The saved ones wore simple black clothes, well-worn and salt-stained, and carried heavy, broad cutlasses bearing an uncanny resemblance to butchers’ tools of the trade.

Shoving his people aside, the leader of the saved ones approached the Lifekeepers. He was a ghastly pale man; the way he was dressed suggested that he wanted to hide as much skin from the sun as possible. He wore a cloak with a tall collar; his thick gloves reached his elbows and were wrapped with extra cloth where they met the sleeves; a pair of obsidian-black glasses and a wide-brimmed hat with a broken feather completed his outfit.

Even though it was obvious that the saviours’ leader was Juel, the pale stranger looked at Orion alone and gave his thanks to him.

“Thanks for your help, guys!” he said in a voice that seemed strangely familiar to Orion. “I’m in your debt forever! If you need any help, any problem solved, just ask for Sumah – that’s me! – in any tavern of Tammar, Gurron, or a port city. I always pay my debts.”

“May I take a look at the wounded?” Bala interrupted him. In a moment, all the eyes were on his dark, lanky figure. “I’m a healer,” he explained.

“Do that,” said Juel. “Orion, let’s go check on the kids.”

“Allow me to keep you company,” Sumah unceremoniously chimed in. No one argued with him. “Meanwhile, my people will stay here and help your healer… So, what are your names, my saviours?” he asked.

“Juel Hak.”

“Orion Jovib.”

“Ah, nice to meet you,” the pale man smiled. “The worldholders’ immortal apprentice’s name! Very interesting!”

Juel shrugged. He didn’t find any of that interesting. Or amusing. He still felt like hitting Orion in the face for endangering the mission and being a reckless fool.

“I see you guys are Lifekeepers,” Sumah kept rabbiting on. “But I must admit that you’re quite good at killing people too.”

“Some lives can’t be saved. Some shouldn’t be,” Juel quoted Kangassk Abadar, his master.

“The situation was desperate,” said Orion, apologetically. “I just had no time to plan anything properly… Had I tried to spare anyone, I’d just die myself…”

“Oh yeah, fascinating philosophy,” nodded Sumah, obviously thinking of something else. “Very, very interesting indeed!”

The picture on the other side of the half-hill changed everyone’s mood in an instant: there was a battle too and that battle had ended just recently. Juel and Orion run to the site; Sumah, now grim and frowning, followed them at a steady pace.

“Anyone’s wounded?” cried Juel in that thunderous voice of his. He was still running but the question couldn’t wait.

“I am. Now what?” grumbled Lainuver. He was sitting in the middle of the road, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

Pai answered too, not with words but with a single pitiful wimper. Curled up on the road’s side, he was holding onto his slashed thigh. Had that wound been deeper, he would have been dead already, but, luckily, the wound was shallow, so it was extremely painful, yes, but not life-threatening.

Milian didn’t answer at all: he had no breath left to do that, having had suffered a blow of a battle staff to his ribs, a glancing blow, not direct, though: otherwise the ribs would have been broken.

The rest of the younger Lifekeepers looked battered too. Still, no one was dead or dying. Both Juel and Orion sighed with relief.

“Jarmin?” Orion called for the boy. “You okay?”

Jarmin raised his head and whispered:

“They killed Varro…”

“Who?” Juel turned to Orion.

“His charga. The kitten,” he explained and turned to Jarmin. “Varro died in battle protecting you. We will remember him as a true hero.”

Jarmin could no longer hold back the tears. He didn’t run up to Orion like he often used to before, he didn’t make a single sound. The six-year-old warrior mourned his friend in silence, alone, and didn’t want anyone to share his pain.

“There were five Shlakers,” muttered Juel, looking around. All the bandits had died of sword wounds, all but one who had a little throwing knife between his clavicles.

“That’s Jarmin’s work,” explained Lainuver. He was not so grumpy now with his charga taking care of his wounded shoulder.

“Great throw,” nodded Juel. “But I wonder why there’s no blood…”

“Because I didn’t kill him!” Jarmin’s voice rang with anger. The boy jumped to his feet, ran to the fallen assassin and took the ‘knife’ out of the wound.

It was a weapon built for throwing all right but it was no knife: instead of a blade, it had a little lead weight to move the centre of mass forward and a short, thick needle. Jarmin sheathed the strange weapon and said,

“He will wake up by the evening. He’ll think twice before hurting anyone again!”

“I should’ve guessed!” Orion slapped himself on the forehead. “Kangassk Eugenia is a master poisoner and paralyzing poisons are her speciality! Well, Jarmin, looks like you’re the only true Lifekeeper today.”

“No!” retorted the boy. “Varro died because of me!”

“Oh my! That kid will have quite a character when he grows up!” That was Sumah, who had kept up with his saviours and now quietly stood behind them.

Orion winced: that remark suddenly hit home and hit hard. He knew what Sumah was talking about. Behind Jarmin’s naivete and kindness, behind his childish cheerfulness, his love of stories, his curiosity, his artistic talent, loomed something dark, something menacing. And it took a stranger to make Orion properly notice that! Shame.

“We forgot about Milian,” said Jovib with scorn. “Mil, how are you?”

“Fine…” hissed the boy, straightening himself up. Speaking was still hard for him, so his reply was more like a self-soothing chant, “I’m fine… fine… fine… I will be okay in a minute…”

With a huge effort, Milian managed to stand up, and leaned against his charga for support. The charga praised his bravery in her own, cattish, way: by gently nudging him with her nose.

The chargas were all wounded, not seriously though. Only Varro was unlucky today. Mourned by the humans and the beasts both, the big kitten lay there in the dust, looking as if he were asleep.

Of all the human part of the team, Lainuver’s and Pai’s wounds were the worst. Lainuver had to fight several adult opponents at once and one of them was quick enough to get through his defences. Pai had simply repeated Gerdon Lorian’s mistake: he preferred reading, meditation, and daydreaming to swordplay and was now paying for his carelessness.

Still, no one blamed Orion, the reason for all the trouble. No one, not even Juel.

When the assassins saw three warriors leave their group and rush to help Sumah’s, they decided that the whole Lifekeeper team was Sumah’s friends. What did that mean? Right: that meant that they would get paid extra for their heads. So the Shlakers attacking the kids was entirely Orion's fault.

But why was no one judging him now? First, seven human lives had been saved today and second, staying out of the battle would have had its own consequences for the team – like all of them having to live with the fact that they stood and watched people being killed and didn’t lift a finger to help them.

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