The sun had almost set, and the sky was a deep blue-lead color. Only in the west, like a torn wound, the horizon blazed with a blinding glow. A gloomy chill had settled over the camp in the middle of the forest, where the excavation had now progressed.
Kairu sat at the edge of a pit, gazing at the ruins of some marble structures they had managed to unearth today. The greatest treasure was the books—massive volumes in jewel-encrusted bindings, handwritten on thick parchment pages used over five hundred years ago. It looked like Petros had unearthed a library belonging to a major, albeit half-destroyed city.
"What the hell am I even doing here?" Kairu thought grimly.
Too bad he didn’t have a good horse. He didn’t know the area. In theory, he could follow the road they came by, reach the river… and end up in completely unfamiliar lands… No, that wasn’t an option. Petros had been gone for a month and a half, and he was supposed to return soon.
Kairu stood up. Even talking with Mbagwa had stopped entertaining him. For variety’s sake, Kairu waved a shovel around near the Nocturns for a while, trying to help, then decided: enough. He was tired of doing who-knows-what, searching for who-knows-what, and waiting for who-knows-what.
He headed to the tent. He pulled the flap tighter because the mosquitoes were relentless. He sighed, lay down on the cot, and stared at the ceiling.
Fine. He’d endure a little longer, and then he’d leave, wandering the world like Yuf.
"I don’t care about your quarrels!" he whispered to no one in particular.
What would happen next?
With a familiar, unconscious motion of thought, he reached out for the thread of time and pulled it toward himself, plunging into oblivion. This time, he flew so fast it took his breath away. Not just through time, but through space, and he knew exactly what would happen in a few hours, in the pre-dawn darkness, thousands of miles away.
***
Dawn had not yet broken, but the sky had already turned a pale, blue hue. A thick white fog blanketed sea and land in an opaque shroud. The coast was quiet; only occasionally did a gull cry somewhere in the skies.
A large port city slept in the pre-dawn gloom. Ships with furled sails swayed gently at the docks. The city was immersed in sleep; even the animals on nearby farms weren’t stirring yet. No noise, no voices, no footsteps disturbed the near-dead silence.
No birds sang. The trees on the shore swayed their eternally golden leaves, which, in the foggy twilight, blended in with the uniform gray mass of the forests. The sea's waves lapped gently at the coast, licking the gray sand with white, foamy tongues.
The lighthouse on the island near the city was dark. No one, on such a foggy morning, would think to climb to the top of the tower or the roof of the governor’s palace to gaze out from a hundred feet above at the fog-covered sea. And no one would have seen what was happening just beyond the coastline, behind the thick white curtain.
Meanwhile, not far from the city, guided by the gray silhouette of the lighthouse, a tall black ship creaked slowly forward, its rigging whispering in the wind.
The ship was enormous—a frigate with a high and powerful hull. Beneath the bowsprit, a weathered figurehead of a skeleton with a saber in its bony hand stood proudly. Wide black sails caught the light morning breeze. The sides bristled with numerous tightly sealed cannon ports, and on the stern, a golden inscription gleamed: "Charybdis."
A man stood at the bow near the empty food barrels. A smirk was frozen on his weathered face. He wasn’t particularly tall, with long arms and short legs, but his body was packed with muscle, making him appear much larger than ordinary men. Despite the pre-dawn chill and strong wind, he wore a tattered sleeveless leather jacket over his bare chest, and over that a massive, rusted iron cuirass. On his feet were boots with iron studs in the soles. He was completely bald, his smooth, rounded skull without a single hair. One eye was covered with a black patch, but the other was unsettling: small, deeply set, and always glaring as if from beneath a brow. A huge gold earring dangled from his left ear, and several necklaces hung around his neck. A strap across his shoulder held the scabbard for a cutlass with a wide black blade, and tied to his belt were several human skulls strung on a rope—smooth, white, gazing out at the world with empty, cold sockets.
Even the man's face, taut with pale, thin skin like a mask, resembled a skull.
His name was one of those names that, years later, mothers would use to frighten their children. A name that had long inspired terror among those who sailed the Western Ocean. A name known and feared by every coastal governor. A name that, for years to come, would be synonymous with wealth plundered through violence. Many pirate captains had made names for themselves through strategic brilliance and brutality, but there came a day when all the buccaneers of Aktida, Vaimar, and Rikutiam united into one vast army under the command of the greatest among them, whose name rumbled like thunder:
Orwell Cassander!
It was with him that the Master from the Mainland had tied all his plans. With his skill in battle, his command, and his band of desperate cutthroats, each worth ten royal legionnaires. He was the one destined to lead the thousands-strong army through all of Laugdeil and wipe the nations of Aktida and Vaimar from the face of the earth.
The sea fog began to lift slightly, though it still clung thick around the coast, cloaking the seaside city. The crew of the Charybdis, sixty savage corsairs, sat in the hold, awaiting the signal. On deck were only the captain, the helmsman, and the lookout in the crow’s nest. Cassander calmly watched the gradually approaching outlines of the city. He had clear instructions, and behind the stern of the Charybdis trailed a force he planned to unleash to achieve his goal.
Ships were moving through the sea.
From the right edge of the horizon to the left, blotting out the water with black hulls, an armada of several hundred ships advanced. They sailed under full sail, and it seemed as if a black shroud had fallen over the ocean. The pirate ships sailed so close to each other their hulls nearly touched. In places where more compact galleys with lateen sails maneuvered, one could step from one deck to another.
But the city slept. The seven coastal forts were silent. In a blunt wedge formation, with the Charybdis at the vanguard, the pirates approached the docks in silence. Gradually, they passed the lighthouse and sailed along a narrow spit that jutted out at a right angle to the shore, now only a cannon shot separated them from the wooden wharf.
The fog had almost completely lifted; only a few bluish clouds floated in the sky, awaiting dawn. The city lay before the Charybdis’s bowsprit like an open palm. Orwell Cassander, lowering his spyglass, said—quietly, yet clearly enough for the men sitting by the open hatch to hear:
"Time to move. Prepare for resistance. Our task is to land and strike from the waterfront. Signal the other ships in the vanguard. Let’s break their spirit in the first battle. Make it a slaughter. Flood the streets with blood. Plunder everything you can get your hands on. I trust I don’t need to explain the plan?"
"We’ll get you your victory," one of the corsairs grinned, stepping to the rail and wiping his cutlass with a rag.
"Glad to hear it. At the very least, I think all of Aktida’s treasures make a decent reward for bravery. So, ready? According to plan. Full speed ahead!"
***
The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, but one of the soldiers of the city garrison woke up as if jolted. His throat was dry. Guardians, wearing hastily donned cuirasses and wrapped in dirty cloaks, slept huddled together on cold stones among old moss-covered walls with embrasures, embracing their swords, bows, and ballistae; above them was the open sky. The wind roamed freely across the small platform, hidden among the trees opposite the city’s southern wall.
Descending the steps to the lower level of the fort, where a cart stood with moldy bread and the wine that people in the Southern Province drank like water, the soldier grabbed a flask, took a hefty swig, ran his hand over his stubbly cheek, and swore quietly. Casting a glance over the sleeping warriors, he stepped over someone, walked up to an embrasure, glanced briefly at the sea, and then, dropping the flask, cursed out loud.
Someone stopped snoring and turned over; another rose slightly, giving a bleary look at the one who had disturbed the peace. But the soldier, choking on wine, gasped and, coughing, rushed to the alarm bell.
A deafening peal shattered the morning silence along the coast. Someone jumped up and banged their head on a stone, someone screamed and grabbed a crossbow, others startled and ran to the embrasures, shouting something incoherent and joining the bell-ringer.
One soldier tumbled down the stairs, rushing toward the city. In neighboring forts, soldiers were waking, cursing dully, shouting, fumbling for weapons and bell ropes in confusion. Garrison troops clustered around ballistae and crossbows, hastily donning armor and rubbing sleep from their eyes, staring at the hundreds of ships under black sails approaching the shore.
Then the city awoke, and in the palace, looking down from above at the countless pirate armada, the governor and the fort commander hurriedly buttoned up their official uniforms and tried to decide what orders to give the garrisons, as the ships closed in on the shore and the first among them turned broadside to the docks and opened fire.
The element of surprise was lost, but the pirate fleet still managed to regroup and attack before the city’s defenders understood what to do.
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The ships advanced in three main lines. To the right and left, slightly behind the central group, moved large, powerful ships with long-range artillery. They were in no hurry. Their task was to hold off the city’s defensive fleet and bombard the forts. Their trump card was gunpowder—gunpowder for cannons and culverins, not yet officially invented in Aktida and therefore not in the cities’ arsenals.
These ships turned ninety degrees, arranged in a staggered formation, allowing narrow landing galleys to slip between them, and began shelling the waterfront. The city’s shoreline was engulfed in smoke, people scrambled into the streets, the first fires broke out here and there. Citizens grabbed whatever was at hand, city guards descended from the walls, dreading the landing. Arrows from bows were already arching toward the open decks of the galleys, and the first pirates were falling into the water, which was hissing and turning crimson. The offenders answered with arquebuses—bullets flying true, piercing men instantly, blood spraying on the docks and soaking into the rotten planks.
The central group of ships surged ahead, bearing down on the port. At the vanguard were the fleet’s flagships: Charybdis and a dozen more frigates and brigantines. Their bow guns thundered, sinking docked merchant and military ships at point-blank range, smashing them below the waterline. Crews lined the decks, ready to attack. Drums beat, rifles fired in salute. It was the first time firearms had been officially used by any army.
Dozens of ships on the flanks attacked simultaneously, bombarding the coastal forts hidden in cliffs and forests. The forts responded—not immediately, but they did—ballistae and catapults roared to life, tearing through sails. A din rose like none the shores had ever heard. People in the city fell to the ground, stunned, clutching their ears, fleeing from the docks to the eastern gates, where the cannonade reached only as a distant rumble. Thousands of cannonballs flew over the waves, the sea boiled and hissed as hot metal splashed into it, pounded the docks, and took on a crimson hue. A true storm hit the city’s defenders.
Stone bastions collapsed one by one, burying soldiers under rubble. Pirate ship hulls cracked like nutshells under catapult fire; ships sank one after another. Pirates cut down masts and leaped onto the decks of surviving galleys, allowing more ships to advance without striking the wrecks below.
The central armada pushed forward. Charybdis maneuvered deftly, dodging the city’s artillery fire. And then, finally, the city fleet awoke. From a cove hidden behind the northern cliffs, a dozen large ships sailed to intercept the enemy. Reaching open sea, they attacked, crashing into the neat pirate formation.
But the balance of power remained with the pirates. The coastal forts had fallen. Among the debris of houses and defenses lay dozens of mangled bodies and still-glowing cannonballs.
The pirate flagship squadron engaged fiercely with the city’s ships. They exchanged fire at a distance, city ballistae targeting decks and sails, pirates firing cannons at the hulls. The boldest ships closed for boarding, grappling hooks flew, and bloody battles erupted on the decks. Bodies floated in the sea. More hooks whistled through the air, sabers and cutlasses flashed. Soldiers mounted a desperate defense, and many pirate ships were sunk in the ghastly battle. But one by one, the city’s ships were destroyed, barely delaying the landing forces reaching the shore.
This delay lasted barely half an hour, during which the pirates destroyed all the city’s remaining ships. But it was enough for the governor and city officials to make a decision: evacuation.
The pirate flagship squadron had gone down, and smaller vessels approached the shore. Only Charybdis remained intact among the large frigates.
Breaking through the flaming chaos at sea, Orwell Cassander still managed to bring Charybdis to the southern shore. The anchor dropped in the shallows, and the first landing boats hit the water. Sixty corsairs, sixty cutthroats drew their blades and charged through the coastal brush toward the city walls. They led the vanguard of marines who had landed from the galleys that made it to shore.
The sea battle was over. The city fleet lay at the bottom, having sunk around thirty pirate ships, barely a tenth of the enemy armada. On the ruined, burning waterfront remained only a few hundred soldiers of the main legion, who engaged the pirates attacking from all sides. New galleys and drakkars smashed into the shore, moored at the docks, and swarms of pirates flooded the waterfront, quickly pushing the defenders back beyond the city walls, killing all in their path.
The streets still bore traces of the chaos from the civilian evacuation. Everyone who could hold a weapon knew: you couldn’t negotiate peace with pirates. That’s why the men, armed with crossbows and bows, took up positions in homes or rushed out to meet the offenders with swords and axes. In the forest, a true magical battle flared—mages from the Mage Guild fought for every inch of coastline. Arrows rained down on the enemy in the city streets. A bloody massacre began.
And on the city’s outskirts, the last residents poured into the streets in crowds, fleeing into the forests with only their most precious possessions in hand, protected by small detachments. Gradually, the city emptied. The last defenders fell. Pirates marched solemnly through the deserted streets.
The looting began.
While pirate squads hunted down those who had foolishly fled east or south, cordoning off territories and killing the last refugees, the city was overrun by raiders breaking into homes, grabbing anything in sight, stuffing their pockets with gold and jewels. Orwell Cassander, along with his crew and officers, ceremoniously took over the governor’s palace. An hour later, when the sun rose above the forest and bathed the ruined city in blood-red light, all the pirates gathered in the main square by the entrance to the new admiral’s residence and divided the spoils. Sitting right on the cobblestones, they noisily celebrated their swift and easy victory, cleaned their weapons, and discussed their next push inland.
Above the blood-soaked city streets, a calm summer dawn rose slowly.
***
Woody Miles was unlucky.
After a long break and wandering through the forests, he had hoped to head to a southern city and quickly earn a small fortune. But on his very first outing, misfortune struck. The house he broke into turned out to be enormous, with a maze of rooms, and he spent several hours at dawn wandering around, trying to find something valuable without waking the owners.
Woody Miles was a thief.
Not by choice, but out of poverty—crippling taxes had ruined his parents’ fortune, and they spent the rest of their lives wandering from town to town with their young son, breaking into rich homes in hopes of stealing something. Woody considered himself a professional. He always knew exactly what he needed, what he could sell quickly, took no more than necessary, could evade the guards, and escape from prisons. There hadn’t been a jail he couldn’t break out of, or a chase he couldn’t outrun. Over time, making money became a kind of sport: steal—sell—stash the money—get caught—escape—hide out in the woods until the heat died down and the guards forgot his face. He was used to being invisible and couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
But this time, luck was not on his side.
Peering into the darkness, he first explored the second floor, having climbed onto the balcony. Carefully, he oiled the door hinges and peeked into every room. He circled around the bed of the peacefully snoring owner, rifled through his bag and took twenty gold coins, rummaged through the desk drawers but found only valuable documents and long lists. Woody was only interested in cash. He crept down a creaky staircase, freezing several times when he thought he heard a door slam somewhere. He walked through the first-floor hallway, searched the hall, admired a set of weapons, and pried out the gems from the sword hilts. Altogether, it was worth a couple hundred coins.
Woody found the kitchen, a small pantry with flour and brooms. Somewhere beyond the wall, the cook was snoring. Woody merely glanced in and left: he knew there was nothing of value there. He rightly assumed that such a mansion must have a cellar, and finally found a small door leading to a staircase.
He had to go back to the kitchen for flint and a candle. The cellar was pitch dark, and the tiny flame barely lit the way. Woody descended and discovered a pantry with food, a wine cellar, and a storage room where supplies were kept in sacks for a rainy day.
First, he took the money—just enough not to weigh him down or jingle. Then he thought: it would be a sin not to take advantage of the opportunity. He set the candle securely, opened several food sacks, pulled out a dusty, round bottle and began to feast.
By his estimate, he had been in the house for about an hour when a door creaked loudly upstairs.
He instantly blew out the candle and pressed himself against the wall, listening intently. At least two people were moving around on the first floor. He heard a low voice but couldn’t make out the words. Then, to his horror, he remembered: he had forgotten to close the cellar door. His professional instinct had failed him.
And then—at first he thought he imagined it—he heard the distant sound of an alarm bell.
The footsteps upstairs grew louder and clearer. Someone shouted. Doors slammed. The house buzzed with activity, and Woody, hidden in the cellar, wondered what could have roused people so early in the morning.
Then came a crash, and Woody remembered: the house was near the waterfront. The walls shook, screams of terror rang out.
He took a risk. He crept out of hiding, approached the stairs, and looked up. Someone was moving things, then came the sound of footsteps, and Woody recoiled—someone with a lamp was coming down to the cellar. The thief hid behind one of the barrels, reasoning that the wine cellar would be the last place someone checked—and he was right. The house's occupant ran straight to the stash of money, cried out, having found evidence of Woody’s presence, grabbed what he could, and rushed outside with bags of gold.
Then, directly above him, a woman screamed in agony. There was coarse laughter, shouting, swearing, sounds of blows, breaking glass... Woody shrank back. He was afraid.
Someone was running upstairs. Men exchanged hoarse words. The smell of tobacco smoke wafted down, then the stench of burning furniture. Woody realized: he had to get out. It was unlikely he’d be able to leave unnoticed now.
Someone came down into the cellar slowly. They sniffed the air loudly. They moved toward the wine room, passed the barrel just a few feet from Woody. The lamp cast light on the bottle-lined walls. The footsteps faded. Woody rose, tiptoed toward the stairs, peeked out, and slowly began climbing, when right in front of him appeared a brute in a blood-splattered cuirass, covered in scars, with filthy hair and a pipe in his mouth.
"Knew someone was hiding in the cellar," the man said.
Woody cried out and recoiled. A blade pressed into his back.
"Boss! Should I just finish him off?"
The thief froze. The tip of the sword tickled his spine.
"Shackle him. We’ve got a long march through all of Aktida. Someone’s gotta haul the cannons, right? He looks strong enough."
An hour later, Woody, his hands tied behind his back, was thrown into a room in the governor’s palace along with a couple dozen slaves.
***
A new day was dawning over the city.
Orwell Cassander stepped into the courtyard. His army had scattered through the streets and, for the moment, turned into a horde of drunken looters. That was fine. They’d earned it. They had two days for rest and plunder. No one would disturb them during that time. No one had escaped. No one would reach the capital in time to report the fall of the largest city in the Southern Province.
Let the pirates have their fun.
There was still much work ahead. In two days, they would set off on another campaign, and this victory would serve as a motivation to conquer new lands.
The Master would be pleased.
Orwell Cassander laughed, surveying the burning city drenched in the blood of the Alvens.
