Viggo, thanks to his beastly endurance, fought while moving along with the shifting hotspots of the battle across the entire field and ended up near the gates. Here, the pirates were advancing in a dense formation, there were at least five hundred of them by the most modest estimate, and while twenty in the very center dragged the battering ram, the others fiercely protected it, fending off the pressing Aktida army.

  It was impossible to approach the section of the wall above the gate due to the barrage of cannon fire. Gaping holes had formed in the parapet, part of the stone floor had collapsed, and the remains of two ballistae lay scattered, along with the torn-apart remnants of four gunners shredded by cannonballs. Archers could only attempt to shoot at the pirates from the flanks, while the battering ram, covered by the thinning platoon of pirates through which Aktida’s soldiers were breaking, had already struck the wooden gates three times. With each impact, the gates groaned and cracked, and plaster fell from the ceilings of nearby houses.

  Viggo fought furiously; his strength lay in the agility with which he wielded his heavy axe, and not only pirates but even the Alven warriors struggled to avoid his sweeping blade. He didn’t even notice the Mainor cuts, only snorted when a saber bit deep into his flesh. He spun like a top, causing pirates to stumble just from his towering presence. They tried to attack him in groups, tried to reach him with long spears and pikes, but he flung them away in a blind berserker rage, sweat streaming into his eyes. He tossed unruly hair from his forehead, glanced around. His armor was bent and mangled from the blows, already reduced to a shredded, formless mass; his helmet was cracked, and his face and hands were covered in crimson streaks. Yet no one dared approach him closely. He was absurdly lucky. Barely seeing anything, with no clear understanding of the battlefield, he somehow managed to evade the shells bursting nearby that were taking out dozens of soldiers at a time.

  Remiz fought side by side with him. Unlike Viggo, he was surprisingly calm, or so it would seem to an outsider. He didn’t rush in trying to hack down as many enemies as possible; he moved across the field at a walk, spinning his katanas with incredible dexterity. Fatal wounds appeared on the bodies of pirates who targeted the Nocturn before they could even get close. The pirates had gained hand-to-hand combat experience during their raids, where worthy opponents were rare, but even with all their strength, they were no match for Remiz.

  The battlefield trembled, thundered, and shook, the earth blasted apart by cannonballs, bodies piling up, the ranks of both sides slowly but steadily thinning in equal numbers. The sun rolled somewhere behind the curtain of heavy, choking smoke and soot, behind scattered patches of dark clouds across the sky. The gates cracked, their hinges and bolts ready to fly loose with each strike of the ram, and only a miracle had kept them intact so far. The walls crumbled, gaping holes opening up, and arrows from the battlements were growing scarce, as the cannons never ceased, their ammunition seemingly endless, a fiery whirlwind raging above the walls. Pirates entrenched themselves in new positions again and again, many cannonballs flew beyond the walls into the city, and when Ringus Felm caught the scent of approaching fire and turned, the nearest houses were already ablaze. The flames leaped further and further, threatening to consume all of Nalvin’s wooden structures.

  Then, the general managed to glimpse, just barely poking above the parapet, through columns of smoke and crowds of fighting men awash in blood. He saw a small tent set up not far from the city, behind the nearest lines of trenches and barricades. Standing near it was a man Felm recognized even from that distance, though he had never seen his face, recognized him from the stories told by the few who survived his raids. He recognized the man, and slumped helplessly onto the cold stone. The wall shuddered, and with a crash that drowned out even the terrible sounds of battle, several crenellations flew from the wall, smashing the floor. A shockwave of air hit the general, throwing him sideways. He nearly rolled off the edge and struck his head against the parapet. His mind reeled, his arm was in agony, and one desperate thought pulsed in his brain:

  "Cassander…" he muttered, clumsily trying to stand with the help of some archers who had run up. "Orwell Cassander is here… He’s leading the army… Aktos save us… we’re doomed."

  ***

  Viggo was surrounded, fiercely fending off sabers from all sides, when he suddenly realized he had been cut off from his allies and was now encircled by pirates. Pressed against the wall among dozens of dead, he roared like a beast, chopping at the spears reaching for him… and then looked up, and barely had time to step aside. A spear, hurled with force enough to kill a wild boar, flew too low and pierced his leg. He howled, choking and gasping from the pain, bent over, and dropped to one knee. He raised his axe, unable to stand or move.

  Remiz appeared from nowhere, swinging his katanas like in a frenzied dance. Someone tried to block his strikes; he moved with the agility of a wild cat, and before Viggo could lunge forward, breaking the spear shaft at its base, two pirates collapsed with their guts spilling out. Another managed to parry both strikes with his spear and grazed Remiz’s arm, tearing a strip of skin with it. The Nocturn hissed. Two more swings, and his opponent fell, while the next one threw away his spear and grabbed a saber. Viggo finished him with a sweep of his axe. The pain blurred his vision, clouded his mind. Remiz moved closer, supported him, helped him to his feet. Pressing against the wall, they made their way toward the gate.

  "Hold on," Viggo heard a whisper in his ear. "It’s been worse. To hell with everything. We made it through the shrine—we’ll make it through this."

  "Kairu…" Viggo groaned. "We have to find Kairu…"

  "If he’s still alive, he’ll find us," Remiz replied. "And if we die now, we won’t be able to help him at all."

  ***

  The southern part of the city was burning. All who remained behind the walls were now frantically carrying water, trying to extinguish the flames. A few stone buildings, standing apart, were still intact—for now. Among them was a chapel, turned into the military headquarters, and the houses belonging to the Guilds. People ran through the streets in terror, trying to escape the raging inferno. But Ringus Felm cared less about the fire than the dreadful storm raging outside. Splinters were flying from the gates. The sky was slashed by black trails left by flying cannonballs. The crashing of collapsing buildings was drowned out by inhuman shrieks, howls, screams, and the ceaseless clang of blades outside.

  Ringus Felm, a bloodied bandage around his head, watched the battle from the bell tower windows, and saw only half-ruined walls. He had to make a difficult decision. A tunnel had already been prepared from the chapel’s basement, leading deep into the forest—for retreat, if it came to that. The general had delayed that choice as long as possible. He had not yet retreated. He was merely moving the battle into the city limits.

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  That was all he had left.

  "We must give the order," he croaked. "Open the gates. Retreat into the city."

  "I’ll tell them," offered one of the medics still in the chapel. "You can’t go back there now, not to the gates. You might have a concussion. Do you even remember how they carried you out?"

  "Barely… How long has the battle been going?"

  "They’ve been pounding the gates for a good hour and a half. So it’s been no more than two hours in total."

  "All right. Go. Tell them. I… don’t know what else to do."

  The medic ran out of the chapel. The general crossed his arms and looked out the window. A long, wide street, lined with half-burned houses, led down to the shuddering gates. The battle outside could be recognized by the hundreds of sounds that reached even this place. But Ringus didn’t hear the shout of the man in a soiled robe and cloak who had run up the stairs to the parapet. He only saw how several people on the wall rushed toward the gates, trying to lift the bars, and at that moment the gates collapsed, and a frenzied, screaming crowd surged into the city, scattering through the fire-engulfed streets. In the front ranks were Nalvin's warriors, now reduced to no more than a thousand men, and not a single horseman among them, followed by pirates. The citizens' retreat appeared from the outside like a panicked flight. But soldiers leaped over barricades bristling with spears, grabbed bows and crossbows, and the battle flared up again, this time among walls of fire, under showers of ash and cannonballs. The pirates were entering the city, though not triumphantly, suffering losses no less than Nalvin’s.

  With a malicious grin, looking down on Nalvin from the heights of his command post, now moved into the center of the battlefield, Orwell Cassander roared, shouting a battle cry that was immediately picked up by his officers. He drew from his back a massive cutlass with a black blade that gleamed in the rare shafts of sunlight, and rushed forward, ready by his own example to rally the army at the moment they were poised to turn Nalvin into ashes.

  ***

  The icy autumn wind that raged that day, tearing off thin, helplessly dangling tree branches, brushed Kairu’s face with its cold touch. He opened his eyes slightly, feeling terrible pain throughout his body. He vaguely understood that while he lay here, he had been trampled, kicked by feet and horse hooves, and only one thing had saved him—the heaps of corpses lying everywhere, partially covering him. He still lay on his back, staring at the same dark sky, but something had changed. An eerie, unnatural silence surrounded him. As if all the people in the world had died in the battle, and the world had plunged into eternal emptiness, filled with autumn chill and the dead.

  Then, as he merely rested from the blackout and pain shock, it dawned on him that the sounds had not disappeared. They now came from beyond the city walls, and after hours of hellish battle, he had grown unused to silence. He turned his head. The field, covered with carpets and mounds of corpses, was deserted. The shattered gates lay in a passage torn by cannonballs. A black cloud hovered over Nalvin, darker than the night, resembling a storm—but it was only the shadow of a storm long passed, the smoke of terrible fires engulfing the entire city.

  He sat up, pushed one corpse off himself, then another. His armor and body were covered in someone else's blood, his face smeared with something sticky, foul-smelling, and salty to the taste. The battlefield stank worse than an outhouse, it reeked of sweat, blood, rotting flesh, and human waste all at once. The smell made his head spin, and Kairu vomited several times as he knelt in the mud and corpses. Every bruise from hooves and boots on his chest and shoulders, the large bump on his head, were clearly felt. Then a familiar clang of blades and crude cursing reached his ears—very close.

  A young man, fending off two pirate looters with a short sword about thirty feet away from Kairu, could hardly be older than him. The first thing that caught the eye was the filthy, slashed rags on him and the horrific scars across his chest and back. He screamed and spun, barely dodging opponents attacking from different sides. He managed to wound one, slashing upward under the chin, causing the pirate to gurgle and squeal, drop his sword, and collapse in convulsions. The second pirate screamed in fury, lunging at the boy. At that moment, Kairu pushed himself up from the ground, stood, grabbed his sword lying nearby, and threw it in a practiced motion. The blade whistled through the air and pierced the chainmail just below the ribcage. The pirate didn’t even scream, he just fell. The boy jumped back, looking around in terror.

  Kairu moved toward him, limping. The ache in his legs, against all odds, lessened with every step, and he walked more steadily, feeling strength returning and the pure joy of regaining control over his muscles.

  "Who are you?" The boy Kairu had saved still seemed confused and pointed his blade shakily at him.

  "Don’t worry, I won’t bite," Kairu croaked, pulling the sword from the enemy he had killed. "Soldier of Aktida. Where the hell you came from? Without armor or weapons, alone on the field while everyone else is fighting inside… And what the hell happened?"

  The boy lowered his sword.

  "A soldier," he said mockingly. "Imagine that. Sorry, I’m out of the loop. I was a slave to those bastards. During the battle, I managed to fool the guards and escape. And the devil made me join the fight! Patriotism hit me in the head, can you believe it? Me, a man who’s never gotten a single good thing from this country..."

  "I get it," Kairu muttered. "So, we lost, huh?"

  "Most likely... The city’s completely burned down. I don’t know what they’re still trying to defend."

  Kairu stared at him for a long time. His heart was pounding. The boy spoke calmly, but his face was so pale it was clear he was scared to death, still in shock from even this brief fight. And suddenly Kairu clearly felt his head splitting with pain, his whole body aching, and all he wanted was to get far away from here, far from this nightmare of corpses and the burning city, to lie down and sleep... Fear choked him, filled his mind, and along with it came a shameful weakness. So when Kairu spoke, he was surprised himself at the words that escaped his mouth against his will.

  "I... I’m going back there. I have to find my friends."

  Aktos, what am I doing!..

  The boy looked at him hopelessly.

  "Your friends are dead. Most likely," he said, gesturing to the battlefield.

  "Then at least I can avenge them," Kairu replied firmly. In that moment, all of Petros’ advice, all his reminders ("You must stay alive!") vanished from his mind.

  Kairu put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly, then stood still, waiting. Only a few seconds passed before a neigh answered from beyond the forest, and the snow-white Hellsteed burst into the clearing, galloping toward him. The boy, trying to pull on the first chainmail he could find, froze in astonishment.

  "Are you coming with me?" Kairu asked him.

  "I..." The boy shook his head in horror. "Honestly, right now I don’t feel nearly crazy enough to walk into that hell voluntarily. The city has fallen, you have to understand. We can’t help them anymore. We’ve got a much better chance running to the woods and surviving than charging after the pirates' army and dying a minute later. No chance at all. We need to get out of here. Fast."

  "Then take this horse," Kairu said quietly. "And head to Mainor. Find Yuffilis Lainter. There might be a girl with him named Rita. Tell them we’ve probably died. What’s your name?"

  "Woody Miles..." The boy stared at him in astonishment.

  "I’m Kairu Kenai," Kairu said, shaking his hand firmly. "Go, run!"

  Woody jumped on the horse and kicked it. He looked down at Kairu one last time, with a mixture of admiration and pity, as if at a madman.

  Kicking up the ground, the white horse galloped away from the city gates. Kairu looked back. Then, staggering, he walked forward—toward the place where the true inferno was now unfolding.