Thorgrim rose in silence. He turned to the ginger-haired orc, seized him by the hair, wrenched his head back. The dagger settled on his throat, slid down to his chest, stopped above his heart.

  "Last chance."

  The blade pressed harder. Skin dimpled beneath the point, went white round the contact. A red bead welled on Yernazar's ashen chest, trickled slowly down the muscle.

  "Stop! Stop, I'll tell you!"

  Ainur's voice broke into a shriek, shifted to a desperate cry. Thorgrim froze without easing the pressure. He turned to her over his shoulder. Waited, not removing the dagger from the lad's heart.

  "They... they went north. To the mountains. The baksy wanted to conduct some rite. The lad went with him. We wanted to go all together, but..."

  She swallowed, drew a shuddering breath.

  "Why were you sent back?"

  "The baksy said we should return. That our services were no longer required. That we needed to... needed to return to the aul."

  "Where were you all this time?"

  "I don't know! Everything's like fog! I only remember a cave, cold, darkness! Nothing more!"

  Her voice trembled, broke into sobs.

  "Where exactly north did they go?"

  "I don't know! The baksy didn't say! Just... just north! To the mountains!"

  Thorgrim removed the dagger from Yernazar's chest, wiped the blade on the orc's sleeve. He straightened, rolled his shoulders.

  "We'll continue."

  He crouched by the girl again, drew the knife across her stomach. Slowly, with pressure. Not deep, a stripe from ribs to navel. Skin parted beneath the blade, muscles were exposed, blood flowed in thin trickles. Ainur groaned, arched, shook with her whole body.

  "The baksy's called Zhalgaztur?" He asked as though casually, studying his work.

  "Yes... yes..."

  "The lad's name?"

  A pause. Heavy, ragged breathing. The knife settled on her stomach again, slightly above the previous cut. The point sank deeper, caught muscle.

  "What?"

  Thorgrim twisted the blade slightly.

  "Bakhtiyar!" She cried out through tears, choking on her scream. "His name is Bakhtiyar!"

  Thorgrim nodded to the healer. Warm, golden light saturated with ether covered the girl in a soft blanket and sealed all wounds. Skin knitted, muscles restored, blood stopped flowing. But the pain remained. Moreover—it intensified. The spell didn't simply heal flesh, it fixed the sensation of trauma inside the body, as though the skin were being burnt from within by red-hot iron, searing every vein, every nerve. Ainur groaned through clenched teeth, arched, tried to break free from her bonds—to no avail.

  The knight rose. He unhurriedly dusted off his knees, straightened his back. He approached the table prepared by his efficient subordinates, who knew their commander's tastes and anticipated his needs. On the rough wooden surface lay instruments—neatly arranged, wiped clean, ready for use. Thorgrim took the pincers—long, iron, with serrated edges and wide jaws. He tested their weight, checked the closure. He grunted with satisfaction.

  He turned and approached the ginger-haired orc. With one hand he seized him by the hair, wrenched his head back. He forced open his mouth—hard, until his jaw cracked. Yernazar tried to resist even in sleep. Thorgrim clamped the pincers on his tongue, squeezed until the metal screeched.

  "What... what are you doing?!"

  Ainur jerked with her whole body, tensed so hard it seemed her bones would crack. Ropes bit into her shoulders, cut through skin, blood sprayed from beneath them in thin jets. She lunged again, harder, more desperately.

  The pincers closed. The tongue crackled between the teeth, flesh began to tear. Yernazar wheezed, thrashed in convulsions.

  "No! No, please!"

  Ainur's voice broke into a scream, hysterical, full of despair.

  Thorgrim jerked the instrument towards himself. Sharply, in one movement. Flesh stretched, elongated, tore at the base with a vile wet sound. Blood gushed from the lad's mouth in a thick stream, flooded his chin, spilled onto his chest, dripped to the floor. Yernazar wheezed, choked on his own blood, jerked. His body beat against the ropes, legs scraped the stone floor.

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  The healer lunged towards him, extended his hands. Light struck the orc's mouth, stopped the bleeding, sealed the vessels. The tongue didn't regrow—the spell wasn't designed to restore lost organs—but Yernazar stopped dying. His breathing evened, the wheezing subsided. His eyes remained closed, but tears ran down his cheeks.

  Ainur screamed. She tore her throat with howling, beat against the ropes with such force that skin tore to the flesh, exposing scarlet stripes of living tissue on her wrists and ankles.

  "You... you bastard! Monster! I'll kill you! Do you hear me?! I'll kill you!"

  Thorgrim threw the bloody piece of flesh at her feet. The tongue slapped onto the stone, leaving a wet trail. The knight crouched beside the girl, unhurriedly, as though settling down to rest after a long day. He took her by the chin—firmly, hard enough to bruise—turned her face towards himself. He looked into eyes full of tears and hatred.

  "Do you take me for an idiot?"

  He released her chin, fingers sliding across skin wet with tears. He rose, unhurriedly straightened to his full height. He looked at his palm—on it remained drops of Yernazar's blood, mixed with the salt of Ainur's tears. Thorgrim slowly wiped his hand on the edge of her torn shirt—the fabric had been ripped by the warriors when they'd tied the girl in haste, roughly, with no care for preserving her clothing. The material was dirty, crumpled, torn in places from rough handling.

  The knight was about to continue, but was interrupted.

  "Stop this outrage!"

  The voice rang from the temple doors, echoed off the vaulted ceiling, filled the sacred hall's space. Father Werden strode inside, wide cassock billowing behind him like the wings of an enraged raven. Bare feet struck the stone floor, steps rapid, determined. The priest's face had flushed with anger, eyes burning with righteous indignation.

  "What are you doing?! This is the house of the Twelve, a sacred sanctuary, not an executioner's chamber or torturer's dungeon!"

  Thorgrim turned. Slowly, without the slightest haste, as though he had time to spare and no outraged shouts could disturb his peace of mind. He met the priest's blazing gaze with his own cold, dispassionate eyes—in them was neither repentance nor malice, only the calm certainty of a man who knew the rightness of his actions.

  "Carrying out orders, Father."

  "What orders?! To torture defenceless prisoners?! To cut out their tongues on the sacred temple floor?!"

  "To obtain information. By any means necessary." The knight stepped towards the priest, plate clinking quietly with movement. "Your own oath words, Father Werden. Or have you already forgotten them?"

  Werden went pale, the flush of anger vanishing from his cheeks at once, leaving skin waxy, almost translucent.

  "I didn't mean this when I gave consent..."

  "And what did you mean when you knelt before the bishop?" Thorgrim stopped a pace from him, looming with his massive figure over the priest. "To ask politely? To request kindly, with a smile on your face? Perhaps offer hot tea and biscuits to the table?"

  "There are boundaries that cannot be crossed even in the name of faith!"

  "Boundaries?" The half-centurion smirked—briefly, without a shadow of mirth. "You swore to achieve results whatever the cost. Here's the result—before you."

  The priest remained silent, lips moving soundlessly, as though searching for words that wouldn't come. Fingers clenched until knuckles whitened, pale crescents of nails digging into palms.

  "In any case you've desecrated a holy place!" Werden straightened, drew himself up, trying to compensate for the difference in height with righteous anger. "Blood on the temple floor! The torment of innocent people!"

  "Innocent?" Thorgrim wheeled, waved his hand towards the orcs. "These bastards are partly why this whole affair began! Why should I even know the degree of their guilt when the bishop gave us a direct order? You and I are both duty-bound to carry it out!"

  "But we could have acted differently! We could have avoided desecrating the temple! We might have found another approach to them!"

  "We might have." The knight nodded, stepped closer. "Except their guilt before the Church of the Twelve is proven, which means they're heretics and we can and must treat them accordingly, especially in the temple!"

  "You have no proof!"

  "I have duty." Thorgrim straightened, plate clinking quietly. "Duty before the Twelve. Before those who died at the hands of such godless ones. Before those who may yet die if I miss even one chance to root out the corruption."

  Werden retreated a step, then another. His back met the stone pillar of the temple. Fingers clenched convulsively into fists, unclenched, clenched again.

  "You've turned a sacred place into a slaughterhouse." He repeated, hoping to reach the Thorgrim he remembered from childhood.

  "I'm doing what's necessary." The knight turned, strode back to Ainur. "And you can look away if your stomach's weak. Or leave entirely. No one's stopping you."

  "I won't let you continue!"

  The priest lunged forward, seized Thorgrim by the cloak, jerked it towards himself. The knight didn't even sway—his massive body remained motionless, as though rooted to the stone floor.

  "Remove your hands, Father."

  "No! I won't let you desecrate the temple further!"

  Thorgrim slowly turned. His gaze became heavy, cold, like an executioner's before the axe falls. Fingers settled on his sword hilt, clenched on the worn leather grip.

  "Final warning."

  "Will you kill me?" Werden laughed—hysterically, harshly. "Right here, in the temple? A priest of the Twelve? A friend? Your wife's brother?"

  "Perhaps." Thorgrim nodded, fingers unclenching, sliding from the hilt. "Or perhaps I'll simply order you bound and leave you lying in a corner until the business is finished. Decide yourself which you'd prefer."

  Werden opened his mouth to answer but froze. A spasm crossed his face, eyes widened. Lips moved soundlessly, trying to form words that stuck somewhere in his throat.

  "You... You..."

  "What?"

  "You've lost your humanity." The priest exhaled, his voice wavering, breaking. "You've become a monster. The same as those you fight!"

  "Possibly." Thorgrim turned to the prisoners, stepped towards them. "But a monster will achieve results where a man will lower his hands and start praying."

  "I curse you! Here and now! I curse our friendship, I curse everything that binds us!"

  "Try it—start with Hilda and our children." He smirked crudely and cynically in response.

  "May you be damned!" The knight wasn't listening; instead he took the pincers from the table, turned them in his hand, studying the serrated edges.

  Werden tore from his place, lunged forward.

  The temple door burst open with a crash. In the opening appeared a silhouette—plate, crimson cloak, a decurion's mark on the shoulder.

  "Sir Thorgrim."

  The half-centurion turned.

  "Kaisar has come to the camp. He demands negotiations with you."

  Thorgrim cast aside the instrument.

  "Father Werden, watch over them. I'll return shortly." With this he looked at the decurion in such a way that the latter understood—he was to watch over the priest.