The pages, with the slightest mishandling, were ready to crumble into dust. The letters were illegible, and the many faded decorations in the margins only made deciphering harder, especially considering the complexity of the dead language.

  Petros cursed, wiped his pince-nez every few seconds, and nervously tugged at his thick mustache as he mechanically leafed through a bulky printed dictionary titled "Archaic or Obsolete Words of the Late Ancient Nocturn Language," published as auxiliary literature for historians. It was tough. But there was no turning back. That damned library gave him no peace, day or night.

  The creaking of the wagon bouncing over potholes was distracting. So were the workers’ voices ahead and behind, the cawing of crows somewhere in the sky, and the rustling of leaves bending in the wind. The book’s age—two thousand years—and the absence of printing presses at the time didn’t help. Nor did the constant awareness of his own helplessness before this mountain of folios, some of which had been unearthed during the current expedition, while others he'd gathered from libraries all over Aktida when the excavations had just begun.

  "Is this it? Did you find what you were looking for?"

  "Looks like it," Petros replied slowly. "The answer is nearby. Somewhere among countless construction records, reports for the administration, protocols, memos... The key is to sift out the excess and cross-reference data from various sources. If multiple independent authors agree on something, there’s a good chance it’s true."

  "Show me," Remiz said, squatting beside him under a canvas awning, surrounded by piles of field gear and chests of ancient scrolls and manuscripts. Petros carefully handed him a long scroll rolled around a wooden rod.

  "Item twenty, Historical Writings Archive," he recited by heart. "Author: Toruavic Mellier. ‘A Work on the Great Mystery: The History of the Creation of the Silver Ring of Sanctuaries in the Valley of Tinakto and the Holy Sites Wherein They Lie.’"

  "But you said you didn’t trust fiction."

  "I still don’t. But reliable sources from that era are scarce. And our recent finds suggest that the esteemed Mellier wasn’t lying, at least not about the main points. This book, in combination with the documents we’ve unearthed here, will help us pinpoint the location of the main temple in the Selinel Mountains with surgical precision. You know the language, Remiz. Will you help?"

  "Gladly." The Nocturn sat down beside him and began rummaging through the books, reading their titles aloud. The wagon rocked rhythmically. In the distance, horses neighed as they were urged on by the drivers. Letters danced before their eyes, and that was distracting too. But there was no choice.

  ***

  "Whew! Wow! Not too long ago, you were stumbling just at the thought of this technique!"

  "I'm learning."

  "No argument there. But what I was trained to do over the course of a year, you’ve mastered in a couple of weeks. Keep this up, for Aktos’ sake, and pirates will flee at the mere sight of you."

  "You're flattering me. Better not, or I’ll get too proud and lose my edge. Besides, we still keep having repeats of what happened during the first training session."

  "What did you expect? To reach martial arts master level on a crash course?"

  "We’ll have a final battle in the last training session. Wanna bet? By autumn, I’ll be able to disarm you."

  "Try it, braggart! Come on then..."

  ***

  "Look here, Remiz."

  Petros dangled his legs off the wagon seat, took a deep drag of tobacco smoke, and traced an arc on a thick, yellowed, handwritten map of the Southern Province from the Early Era with a pencil. He mumbled some numbers, calculated the scale, and marked another point roughly at the center of the map. Then he wrote down its coordinates in degrees and connected it with a line to his arc.

  "See? If my measurements are even close to accurate, then two neighboring shrines are about a hundred miles apart, and two more are sixty miles apart, all lying along this arc. We’ve got an angle of about 150 degrees so far, so by using the radius, we can determine the center. It’s a point 200 miles east of Nalvin, right on the border of Tinakto. That margin of error is too small to be coincidental. And if we extend the arc using that center and radius, we get a sequence of points in this area." Petros marked a cross on the map near the northern spur of the mountains. "We have a remaining arc segment 160 miles long. We’re here, the last segment was 60 miles, so we’ve got one more at 100 and another at 60. That leads us to think the shrine should be somewhere around here."

  "Things look different from above," Remiz said thoughtfully. "You’re right, doing the coordinate measurements."

  "I wrote my dissertation on semiotics," Petros snorted. "Especially signs left in deserts, on mountain plateaus, and so on. You have any idea how many civilizations left such symbolic traces? Nocturns are no exception in that regard."

  "I see. You've clearly been studying mysteries like this for a long time."

  "Yeah... When will those turtles finish digging? Hey, itru lu khannu karin-im?"

  One of the Nocturns, dragging out another batch of chests and gilded interior decorations from the excavation site, grimaced and replied grumpily. Petros frowned.

  "Second day at the sanctuary and still no results... and we haven’t seen any cities for almost a month. Our supplies aren’t infinite. Soon we’ll have to ration, and after that, live off the land. Good thing we’ve got Rita—she’s used to hunting... What do you think, Remiz? Maybe we should take a shortcut and head straight to Nalvin? That way we’ll reach the mountains faster and replenish our provisions."

  "How can I advise you when even you are in doubt?" the Nocturn replied with a question of his own.

  ***

  "Amazing. I never would have thought it possible to make such progress in such a short time. Well then, if you ever have to fight someone to save your life, at least I’ll be confident that you won’t just stand there stupidly waiting to have your head chopped off. Now then, let’s go through the main moves one more time. Overhead slash!"

  Clang!

  "There. Good. Attack. Like that... Oh, look at that! You dodged! Blocked! And now you're attacking! Take this! Wonderful."

  "You don’t regret... teaching me?"

  "Not at all. And don’t take breaks – in a real fight, you won’t get a chance! That’s it. Better. Hit! Excellent. Oh!"

  "Sorry."

  "No, that’s fine. I’m pleased with how I’ve managed to train you. Hey, we haven’t practiced this move yet! Try it!"

  "Hah!"

  "That’s right. Where are you... You’re getting... a bit too cocky... Oh!"

  Kairu lowered his sword, jumped aside, and lightly poked her shoulder. Breathing heavily, Rita pulled her sword out of a pine trunk, thick brown sap immediately starting to trickle down its bark.

  "You’re dead."

  "What was that?" she asked, wiping sweat from her forehead. "A feint? Makes sense. I didn’t expect that from you. My mistake. You’re becoming a serious opponent, and I’m getting too overconfident... Alright. Let’s say I’ve taught you all the basic moves. Well, most fighters also have their own tricks. For example, while your hands are busy with the sword, you can use your legs and body weight. In a real fight, fairness isn’t what matters. Use whatever you’ve got. Kicks, teeth, punches with your off-hand, strikes below the belt—it all helps, especially... when you're fighting a man. You lot are all too straightforward. A sword slows your arm, but a palm strike to a turning opponent’s neck—much faster."

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  "I’ll keep that in mind," Kairu said coldly. "But I’m not going to practice it on you."

  Rita smirked.

  "Then practice on Viggo later. You can also use your surroundings. Fire, water, trees, sand, fog—all can be to your advantage. Sand and snow can blind an opponent. In the dark or fog, use your hearing and follow footsteps. Hiding behind a tree, as you just saw, can buy you a few seconds. And if someone does that to you—only a strong shield will help."

  "Alright," said Kairu. "I’ve had a good education. The rest of the time we have, we’ll just refine what I’ve already learned, because a month really isn’t enough. And afterward... we probably won’t have any time. Can I ask you something not related to fencing?"

  "Shoot."

  "Have you known Petros and Yuf for a long time?"

  "Yes..." Rita sheathed her sword and slowly walked along the pits where Nocturns were clearing the remains of another sanctuary. "But for Aktos’ sake, don’t ask for details. Maybe I’ll tell you later. It’s all too complicated, and I know very little myself. Sorry. I’m waiting for Petros’ story just like the rest of you. I can’t add anything to it."

  "Damn it," Kairu said grimly. "When will all of this finally start making sense?"

  "It won’t, Kairu. Not even for Petros or Saelin, even though it all started with them."

  "I got the impression it started with the Lake of Aktida."

  "We’ll never know that either, because no one remembers those events, two thousand years ago. And I think it’s better not to dwell on it. It’s all so tangled... I can’t explain it, honestly. And I can’t say anything. I only know Petros because he showed up in Petista not long after my father disappeared. He helped me then. Said my father had once been his friend, and he had promised to take care of me if anything ever happened to him... Well, something did."

  "And your mother?"

  Rita was silent for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was tight, as if something were stuck in her throat.

  "She was killed in her home in Mainor, a year before my father vanished."

  "I’m sorry," Kairu murmured. His thoughts drifted. Suddenly, with chilling clarity, he realized that during the journey with Petros' caravan, he had almost forgotten about his intention to return to his village as soon as possible.

  "I promised Petros I’d go with him to Nalvin," he said. "And after that, when he, in his words, ‘leaves us,’ I want to finally go home. I’m tired of blindly following him and staying in the dark. If he keeps being secretive in Nalvin, I’ll just drop everything, buy a horse, and run. I used to be afraid of getting lost, but from Nalvin, I can find my way. Just don’t tell him."

  "I won’t," Rita promised quietly. "And you should see your family before it’s too late. I understand. Just be careful when you head back. Remember, soon this place will be crawling with pirates..."

  "All the more reason for me to get to the village as fast as possible," Kairu answered darkly.

  ***

  August was drawing to a close, and so too was the long road to Nalvin—and for Petros, the path to the mysterious shrine in the Selinel mountains. More and more, the area carried the scent of coming autumn, inevitable, bringing not just the rich harvest of the country’s fields and gardens, but also cold, wind, rain, and a strange, silent desolation.

  The skies grew overcast. If the days were oppressively hot, by evening dark swatches of cloud gathered into a patchwork shroud, rumbling, flashing with lightning, and bursting into thunderstorms. The caravan, laden with a whole collection of books gathered from across the Southern Province, moved slowly, often bogged down on roads that turned into sticky muck under endless streams of rain. And more and more often, while the workers greased axles or cleared mud, small detachments of people passed them on the road.

  It was like watching mule drivers herding animals through mountain villages. These weary, conscripted peasants, young and old, unshaven, emaciated, clad in heavy, awkward armor, were surrounded by several tall Legion officers in polished cuirasses who barked at the human herd, enforced marching rhythm, and whipped stragglers across the back. The people marched, grimaced, and muttered curses at the soldiers between verses of some rousing patriotic song—but they still marched.

  "They’ll march differently if we lose at Nalvin," Petros said quietly, watching another column pass. "Here in the Southern Province, the authorities are more aggressively rounding them up into the army, because they know the threat is real. But they still don’t believe their little ordered world is shaking. Once the battle at Nalvin becomes known across the world, we’ll see different soldiers. Soldiers who know who they’re fighting and why. But for now, as long as the enemy is just a phantom to them, we won’t see much patriotism. In the end, they’re just ordinary people, torn from their plows and forges, who’ve lived their whole lives in the isolated confines of villages and hamlets."

  "That’s no excuse..." Viggo growled. "They’re the ones the outcome of Nalvin depends on, and that outcome is crucial! If the pirates break through to Mainor, to the capital... things will get bad. Right now, Aktida has a great chance—so long as we use it in time..."

  "Our task lies elsewhere."

  "So, you don’t care at all about Aktida’s freedom?" Kairu asked. "Doesn’t matter to you if it’s a king or Professor Saelin on the throne?"

  "If I’m right, and the ancient Nocturns were right too, then Saelin will end up on the throne no matter what," Petros said. "And there’s no point in trying to stop him. The battle for Nalvin is a hopeless cause, I’m sure of it. So if I were you, I’d get as far from the battlefield as possible. But that’s your choice. All of you, except Kairu."

  "I don’t understand you, Alvens," Viggo muttered. "If something like this happened in Vaimar... I’m a captain in the Fighters' Guild. I swore an oath to serve my homeland and protect the king. And if some mad professor set pirates loose on my country, plundering cities, killing and raping, I’d be the first to volunteer to defend it! But this is happening to your land, and you act like you don’t care?!"

  Petros turned to him.

  "To be honest, Viggo, I don’t care. There’s nothing in this country I love. My time will come when even the ghosts of palace feuds are gone, when only Saelin and Vaimar remain, and the country must be cleansed of its government. Made into no man’s land again. That’s worth passing through purifying fire. Until then, I don’t care about Nalvin’s fate or whether it’s Saelin or some rebel Alvens who overthrow Emerlun. Either way, the last heir of that once-great dynasty likely won’t pass his crown to a son."

  ***

  It had been raining for three days. At times it intensified, roaring, turning into solid torrents of moisture pouring from the sky; at other times it would die down and silently drizzle with tiny droplets of unpleasant dampness. The sun occasionally peeked out somewhere on the horizon, barely illuminating the gloomy road leading deep into the Southern Province—an impassable and abandoned road running alongside long-overgrown, rust-eaten rails. The path twisted among spruces and birches swaying in the wind of the approaching autumn, winding through tiny hamlets and deserted fields, over which only crows circled, as if sensing that blood would soon be spilled nearby.

  At one of the forks in the road, Petros halted the column. Walking off to the side, he put two fingers in his mouth and let out a sharp whistle. The Nocturns stirred with excitement, and Rita smirked. They waited for a few minutes, and then a distant neighing sounded, and from the forest burst four horses of various colors, foam on their lips and sweat glistening on their necks, galloping onto the road. They were equal in size to Petros’s own steed.

  "Meet them," said Petros, addressing Kairu, Viggo, Remiz, and Rita. "These are the Hellsteeds, a breed I created myself during my research in magic. They are dozens of times stronger than regular horses, even wild mustangs, and only unicorns might outrun them. They are also magically bonded to whomever I assign as their master. They always sense their master’s true feelings and will follow him invisibly wherever he goes. When called, with a mere whistle, they will appear immediately. These horses can outrun the wind and cover in two days a distance that would take a regular horse, even galloping, two weeks. They will always serve you, pull you out of any trouble, even at the cost of their lives. Believe me, this is a royal gift—and you’ll need them. Kairu, take the white one. I hope it will always help you choose the right course of action. Rita, the chestnut one is yours. He, like you, is freedom-loving and fierce. Don’t expect calmness or reason from him, but in a dangerous moment, he won’t abandon you and will be a true battle companion. Viggo, with this black horse, you won’t feel burdened by your heavy armor and weapons. He’ll carry you and even your friends if needed, and his hide will protect you well—this horse is not easily killed. Remiz, the bay stallion is yours now. You are wise, and you can always rely on him—he won’t charge into battle blindly, nor will he cower. He’ll follow your orders precisely."

  Remiz bowed. Viggo awkwardly followed his example.

  "Thank you," Kairu muttered. "But why such a gift for us?"

  "You’ll need them very soon. And besides, you can’t find a good horse for a fair price these days, not even with a lantern in broad daylight. There used to be farms and stables in Surrell, maybe there are still some in Asternia. But horses like these, who need no stable or feed, who always get you out of danger, are an incredibly valuable gift. If you ever have to go on foot, just release them, and they’ll always follow you and sense your location. Unless you cross an ocean—but even then, they’ll wait for you on the shore."

  "Thank you, Petros," said Rita. "I know you don’t have any more of these Steeds… And right now, this is a great gift to me."

  Petros nodded and fell silent.

  "I’ve made a decision," he finally declared. "I think we should take the risk now to avoid a greater one later. We’re heading south, to Nalvin, and from there I’ll go to the mountains. I’m almost sure of my calculations, so I can afford to stop following the rails and the ruins of cities. Kairu, Viggo, Remiz, Rita—mount your horses. I’ll need all the free space in my traveling library. Now, move out!"

  The rain was still drizzling, making visibility difficult, shrouding the far end of the trail in a gray veil. It bothered Petros. The drops endlessly drumming on the roof of his swaying wagon seemed like the devil’s tricks, interfering with determining the exact location of the ancient shrine.

  They rode until evening, urging on the soaked regular horses pulling the wagons. The Nocturns ate dinner perched on the driver’s benches, snatching cold pieces of meat from each other and passing around a water flask. Kairu, Viggo, Remiz, and Rita rode slightly apart, side by side, talking and satisfying their hunger with the last of the food from their packs. It got dark late; twilight settled around eight o’clock. Petros, shut away in his library under lamplight, surrounded by books and maps, remained silent, completely absorbed in his work.

  The Nocturns stopped the caravan themselves around nine, turning off the road and setting up under the trees in the dark, as the rain made it impossible to light a fire. The light still glowed behind the curtain of Petros’s wagon.

  "If only we were in a city already," said Viggo, wrapping himself in his cloak. "It’d be easier there. And he’s still awake, scheming something. I think he’s close to telling us everything."