The pirates’ head guard strode along the rows of chained prisoners, swinging a whip, baring his teeth, and clearly enjoying his power. There were about a hundred of them, filthy, ragged, emaciated, covered in bloody welts. A hundred toys for a handful of pirates who found maniacal satisfaction in spilling others’ blood.

  Woody Miles hunched down. He knew the captain hadn’t liked him since Surrell and was already used to taking the next blow without complaint, only gritting his teeth. The overseer turned to another prisoner, and Woody lifted his head. Pain kept him from straightening fully, but he forced through it and reached toward the pirate’s back pocket, slipping out a knife with a swift, practiced motion.

  He hadn’t earned his reputation as a master pickpocket for nothing. The knife slid out silently, gleamed in the sun, and disappeared up Woody’s sleeve. He sighed with relief. Helping the pirates during their assault on Nalvin was never part of his plan.

  "There’s no prison Woody Miles can’t escape from," he thought with grim satisfaction.

  ***

  The Hellsteed wasn’t merely galloping—it was flying. Hills and forests blurred past so fast that Kairu had to squeeze his eyes shut, clutching the horse’s hot neck and praying it wouldn’t crash into a tree trunk or thicket. But the steed miraculously avoided obstacles, always finding the right path. Still, even at this speed, it took several more hours before the towers of Nalvin rose in the distance, and the alarm bells could already be heard. The trumpet blast pursued him, growing louder the closer he came to the city. That sound carried fear. But Kairu never even considered turning back or urging his horse away.

  Either we all leave here, or none of us, Viggo’s voice echoed in his mind. They were still waiting for him. That meant he would find them.

  When the grey city walls finally appeared between the trees, Kairu pulled his horse to a sudden stop. The sound of horns was deafening now, as if a trumpeter stood right beside him, but he still saw no one. He dismounted and gently patted the horse’s neck, whispering:

  "Go. Wait for me beyond the walls. I’ll find you once we get out. Stay close, okay?"

  The horse seemed to understand. It neighed softly, shook its head, and galloped away, vanishing behind the trees. Kairu turned and began walking toward the city. His throat was dry, his heart pounding wildly. With a shaky hand, he drew his sword, his father’s sword. It had tasted the red blood of snow wolves and the black blood of the turand, had stared into the eyes of a lich. A weapon made to kill.

  Kairu emerged at the forest’s edge just as the Aktida army began pouring from Nalvin’s gates into the open field, taking up their assigned positions. No one noticed as he approached—he wore the armor and uniform of the city militia. Everyone was staring in the opposite direction, toward the sound of horns and war drums. Toward the forest. Toward death, approaching fast.

  He walked among the soldiers, who weren’t even trying to hold formation. They swayed like drunkards, some probably were drunk. Fear hung over the untrained force like a poisonous cloud, infecting anyone beneath it. Kairu turned his head, searching for Viggo and Remiz.

  Finally, he spotted them—at the rear ranks, near the gates. They were also scanning the crowd, searching for him. Kairu rushed toward them, weaving between bulky warriors in heavy armor, but was quickly stopped by wave after wave of soldiers pressing forward.

  "Where do you think you’re going?! Deserting? Get back in line!" a harsh voice barked. "Only forward, you greenhorns! Anyone who turns and runs without orders gets an arrow in the back!"

  "Viggo! Remiz!" Kairu shouted desperately, and they heard him. But it was too late: the crowd moved like a river, carrying him forward with it. In the end, he had no choice but to turn and be swept up in the current toward the inevitable. There was no escaping the ranks now.

  The horns on the walls began to sound a march. Battalion commanders rode out in front, turning to address their troops, explaining the movement tactics… And there, at the forest’s edge, the pirates charged. With sabers raised and battle cries on their lips, they raced forward, ready for slaughter. Loud cracks rang out, sharp and ear-splitting, raising puffs of black powder smoke. The front lines of Nalvin’s defenders were thrown into chaos: death had arrived, sudden, immediate, and all the more terrifying than the gleam of steel. But still, they advanced. A commander’s shout rang out from somewhere far off, arrows flew skyward in response, returning fire to the enemy. The ranks that included Kairu moved forward, at first cautiously, with no idea what awaited them ahead, then faster. Then they ran, their fear melting into adrenaline and surging battle-rage…

  Then they heard the clash of swords ahead, and a moment later, Kairu was in the heart of the battle.

  ***

  "NAA-A-A-ALVIN!!"

  The cry was everywhere, filling ears, pushing soldiers forward, making them grit their teeth and think of the city behind them. Kairu ran with them and didn’t see how the flanks met in a furious, frenzied melee. For him, there was only one figure that mattered—a hulking brute in crude iron armor worn over bare skin, with tangled grey hair braided into thick cords, gold earrings in both ears, beady eyes, and a belt of sharkskin. In the few seconds they had, charging toward each other through the crowd, Kairu took in every detail of him.

  Then the hundred feet between them vanished. The pirate bared his yellow teeth and struck first, leaping forward with a powerful diagonal slash. It was a simple, brutal attack meant to take off a man’s head, an attack Rita had shown him many times. Just like in training, Kairu dodged, slipped under the blade, spun sharply, and slashed upward under the arm, into the unarmored flesh.

  His ears rang with screams of rage, triumph, and agony, and he barely registered the pirate’s cry as he shielded himself from the fountain of blood, avoiding the sight of the severed arm. The pirate turned, his face twisted in inhuman pain. Kairu hesitated for just a moment before he had the strength to raise his sword and meet those eyes, glowing like coals… then fading, as the blade drove through yielding flesh.

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  He wrenched his sword free. His heart hadn’t even beaten three times during that brief duel that ended in his victory. All around him was the ring of steel, blood spraying like pomegranate juice, drenching his armor, shield, face, and hands. And already, others were closing in, those still seeking a partner in death. He raised his sword and faced the next pirate one-on-one.

  It was all happening too fast. And too easily.

  And that, too, was terrifying.

  On the small battlefield, there was no room to maneuver—everyone fought for themselves, without a single thought, moving on pure reflex, slashing at anything that moved and might belong to the enemy. The sounds merged into a single barrage that threatened to rupture eardrums. Faces of pirates and Nalvinians flashed before him, and he, no longer thinking, entered skirmishes again and again, helped allies when they were being pushed back, defended himself, and received aid from others who happened to be nearby. Then he began to stumble over corpses, which kept piling up, new bodies laying the path before him. The sky darkened moment by moment under the volleys of hundreds of archers shooting into the rear ranks of the advancing pirates. The ground shook and groaned, and then fiery projectiles began to explode nearby. In the heat of battle, he didn’t immediately notice the grimy sweat trickling down his face and neck, the dull pain from deep scratches left by shrapnel. He wheezed and trembled, incapable of thinking clearly. He could no longer catch his breath for each new clash.

  A blade whistled past his ear. He barely managed to fend off the blows of a pirate who had lunged at him and had no idea what to do when attacked from multiple sides. He tried to dodge both attackers and nearly ended up under a comrade’s sword. A pirate’s blade grazed his shoulder, crushing the armor, and his bones groaned, bursting in dull, aching pain. Another blow skimmed his cheek, slicing the skin. He counterattacked, exhaling a rasp with every strike, parried the powerful blows of a tall opponent, and finally managed to land a hit, slashing the pirate's thigh. The pirate stumbled, and Kairu, seizing the moment of confusion, killed him. No longer reliving each moment as he dealt the final blow. Almost cold-bloodedly, with an empty head. Without remorse. Just killed.

  He turned instantly. Nalvin’s forces had already taken this patch of ground, and only one pirate was still pursuing him. Which one now? The tenth? The twentieth? No more... He swung his sword powerlessly, emptily, raised his shield, and felt his bones crack under a powerful strike. He was thrown back, and the next instant a blow passed just an inch from his face. He looked up and saw a blade protruding from his enemy’s chest. From behind the pirate, a Nalvinian soldier smiled at him, his helmet knocked to the side, his bloodied arm dangling uselessly.

  Kairu turned. In the distance, he saw the gates. Here, on the battlefield’s edge, the last pirates were falling under the strikes of allies. The main clash had moved toward the gates, where Nalvin was fiercely defending against the terrifying army. He rushed there, approaching a group of pirates from behind, who were fighting off the city’s defenders. Horns were blowing somewhere, and riders were already charging in to cut them off. He stopped, catching his breath, wiped the sweat from his forehead and temples, touched the wounds on his cheek and forehead. He was desperately thirsty, ready to drink from the nearest puddle, but on the battlefield there was only stench, smoke, thunder, and the specter of death looming over all. The Great Drought. Only blood was still liquid.

  Kairu ran to his comrades, feeling his heart beat more slowly. He turned, trying once more to spot Viggo and Remiz. Fear for them gripped him and gave him strength. He stabbed a pirate from behind, missed another. One more, who had just slain a Nalvin soldier, turned to him, swung his cutlass, skillfully blocked one of Kairu’s blows, then another, and tried to cut his legs. Kairu jumped back and staggered, his legs hurt terribly and felt like stone, immobile. Jumping in armor was infinitely harder than in light boots on the training field. The pirate attacked sharply, grinning, thrusting and nearly piercing the armor. Kairu gasped for air; the enemy struck him with a fist and knocked him to the ground. Horses neighed, a sword flashed, and the pirate’s head rolled across the ground, and in the next moment a hoof struck Kairu in the head. Darkness flooded his vision, and he suddenly felt the world rushing away, the sounds fading, and he was falling into nothingness… The last thing he saw was a dark, cloud-covered sky, with black smoke from fires rising toward it.

  He didn’t feel the next hoof strike.

  ***

  From the city walls, it was perfectly visible how, at first, the field filled with a mixed, furious throng, then common epicenters of battle emerged, where piles of corpses began to form, and where both armies surged, trying to tip the balance in their favor. From beyond the trees, new troops kept appearing, entering the fray from all sides, and noise of battle was also heard at the northern gates: the pirates had enough strength to attack from two directions simultaneously. If at first the crowd of cavalry and infantry in Nalvin’s red and silver colors was too vast to take in at a glance, now massive losses were clearly visible on both sides. Yet it was easier for the pirates to lose a thousand warriors than for Nalvin to lose a hundred. The defenders were being pushed toward the gates, attacked from the flanks and driven to the walls, unable to counterattack. Pirate battalions advanced in waves, striking suddenly, then just as suddenly easing off, regrouping and renewing their assault on the walls. In the center, the fiercest fighting took place. No one could tell friend from foe, and the pirates scattered the defenders, pushed them to the flanks, clearing the way for a reserve regiment now emerging from the forest, dragging a massive battering ram.

  The main advantage of the Alvens was, it seemed, their armored cavalry, and it was they who bore the brunt of the assault, for the pirates did not attack like a wild, scattered mob. Their movements were coordinated, it was as if some terrible mechanism was directing their squads, compelling them to strike using tactics and tricks, at times retreating to let their fire engines advance, then charging again. The walls shook; archers fired without pause, mowing down the distant pirate ranks in crowds, but the pirates had deciphered this tactic and charged into battle behind iron shields, dug trenches in the far approaches to the field, where they hid their most terrifying and destructive weapons. Huge iron machines that belched fire, smoke, and molten projectiles over great distances.

  Ballistae and catapults, hidden behind crenellations, fired regularly and were not yet short on ammunition. Everything was used: burning oil, iron projectiles launched at both distant and nearby enemy clusters. But the machines the pirates had brought… Standing on the fortress wall, squinting against the wind and flinching from nearby explosions, Ringus Felm pondered the situation with horror. He knew he could have handled a crowd of scattered pirates. But this was a well-drilled army, trained to fight and follow orders, gripped in an iron fist. And they possessed horrifying weapons that could destroy walls and kill dozens at once. There was no escape from the cannonballs launched from those precisely aimed guns, and the distance between their artillery and the city kept shrinking. The defenders struggled in vain to change the situation, to drive the pirates from the gates, while from the wall, battered by long-range fire, stones fell one by one, and a breach was about to appear.

  Ringus Felm could only bite his lips in helplessness and hope for a miracle.

  No miracle came.