A holographic map showing the probable geography of Volnitsa appeared above the table as a bluish haze. A second later, a green icon representing the Shroud of Darkness lit up on it. The image split, positioning itself so that El Satanini and Szarel could conveniently observe the canals cutting through the mountainous region.

  Glory to the Planet, unlike the Ravaged Lands or the Wastes, there were no predators like sand reapers here. The cruiser was safe, but any fortress would fall under sufficiently prolonged pressure.

  "We must act decisively." Following the movements of Szarel's finger, a red line appeared on the hologram, precisely tracing the winding path leading east. The finger stopped near the valley, spreading around Rabor, the largest city in the region, guarding the sole passage to the capital. "A storm will soon descend on the road, playing into our hands. Mikhas? How stable is our cruiser's field?"

  “We can withstand the pressure of two million atmospheres per square centimeter, Magister. A million at the moment, since we are covering the damaged transport as well. The storm will not hinder us,” assured the captain of the cruiser, dressed in a dark uniform.

  The four of them were in a recess on the command bridge, surrounded by the operators working on the level above them. Szarel, an ermine robe draped over his shoulders, sat on a throne adorned with pieces of uncut onyx. In the distant past, the magisters held meetings from a single onyx slab, but after it shattered under the righteous Murad, this tradition was abandoned. Butylin stood next to the magister, respectfully holding his staff in his hands and letting its blade breathe. Despite his recent entry into the Order, the head of Szarel's personal guard displayed the zeal of the finest sariant.

  Besides him, all the officers present on the bridge were Trolls, commanding subordinates from among the Normies and Mutants. Following the end of the war, the entire Order was gutted. Many received promotions out of turn and went to serve in different parts of the country, passing on their precious experience. In their place came another innovation in the form of outsiders, bringing turmoil to the usual command structure of the landship.

  "You have chosen to ignore the advice of Chernogor," said El Satanini, wearing a snow-white doublet bearing the symbol of an eagle's head.

  "We do not have the luxury of delivering the rescued to safety and returning with a large force to carry out the operation. Our people risk not surviving slavery. Not to mention the precious opportunity to hide within the oncoming fury of nature," said Szarel.

  He kept quiet about the third, true reason for his decision, trusting his friend to figure it out for himself. The Oathtakers were going through hard times. The war had weakened their army, allowing various riffraff to raid their border towns. There was a real possibility that the president would forbid them from providing additional forces or even a new mission for the Order, which would mean a death sentence for captured fellow citizens.

  They would succeed. To the south, west, and east of Volnitsa were located impressive bastions designed to repel the raids of the khans of the Gilded Horde. When they battled their way in, they were met with clouds of cutthroats, and the mountains acquired not only eyes but also spewed deadly bombardments. Itil had let the Shroud of Darkness pass through such a defensive structure in the west.

  But where were the second and third lines of defense? Where had the raiders gone? After questioning Itil and her accomplices, Szarel had a hunch. And if he was right, now would be the easiest time to accomplish their task.

  “We depart tomorrow morning. It will take us three days to get there. Enough time to repair the raiders’ armor.” Szarel pointed to a small nook on the map near the valley. For several hours, they had been interrogating Itil’s ‘trade partners’ about the area and had bartered enough local currency. “We will hide the cruiser here. The hot steam escaping from the ground has made the place uninhabitable. Upon arrival, our squad, disguised as Latif's scum, will proceed to Rabor. There they will ransom the prisoners, and we will pick them up, heading south. Then we will cross Itil’s lands and reach home. Maintain stealth mode for the entire journey,” he ordered the captain. “If necessary, limit speed to a minimum to hide any emissions.”

  “We will be invisible to electronic detection.” El Satanini flicked his eye. “What about them?”

  “Carde and his squad will accompany us on foot. They will handle any unexpected encounters.”

  “My brother comes from a prestigious noble family,” El Satanini noted. “Without intending to belittle his skills, I worry that he may be overly cruel to a lost soul or, on the contrary, overly trusting of a villain's pleas. Let me lead half of my squad and provide him with my knowledge.”

  “Leave Ruda and Ney on board,” Szarel allowed.

  “May I know the reason for your decision?” asked the commander. “I intended to take the sariant with me to prevent any accidents.”

  Trolls could not express emotions through their faces. With ordinary people, they used gestures and sometimes words, indicating their emotional state or the tone of the question. Among themselves, they shared a kind of instinctive understanding. El Satanini was surprised.

  “I do not need an obedient pack of dogs as subordinates.”

  “Magister, such a statement about our sister is insulting.” El Satanini stood up. “Sariant is making progress…”

  “I noticed,” said Szarel. “Ruda has taken charge of the children. Let us allow her care to serve as a balm that heals the soul. Especially since she corrected my mistake.”

  “Mistake?” asked Mikhas.

  Szarel's will touched the captain and the commander, revealing to their gaze the trembling auras of everyone present on the bridge. Barely visible, multicolored smoke enveloped everyone, from the last patrolman to the navigator himself. The uninitiated could not notice it, neither with their normal eyes nor with the most advanced equipment. Only those who had voluntarily shared part of themselves for the greater good knew that they were never alone.

  The Oath. The greatest gift—and no less a temptation—left to them by the founder. After a couple months of coexisting with it, the believers learned to ignore the auras.

  "I should have personally ordered the uninitiated to be instructed," Szarel complained. "But I forgot."

  "You were very busy, Magister," Mikhas said.

  "Will you accept such an excuse from a subordinate?" Szarel asked. The captain shook his head. “Ruda has shown intelligence and initiative, El Satanini. The influence she exerts on children does not go in one direction. Let her continue. The ship's priests will explain the situation to the adults.”

  “About that,” Butylin spoke up. “Many passengers have expressed their willingness to join our ranks. We have a shortage of both workers and soldiers. With your permission, we will begin recruiting.”

  “Go ahead. Gratitude.” Szarel waved his hand. “Mikhas, review all the camera footage taken from Latif's garbage heap. I regret placing such a disgusting burden on the shoulders of my subordinates, but we must know whether any of those rescued were present at the sale. The meeting is over. Butylin, call your shift.”

  He accepted an apologetic nod from El Satanini and left the bridge, heading for his private chambers. The golden Oath Disc that sat at the center of the doors leading to the ancient magisters' chambers bore the marks of the newly added accepted faiths. Fresh symbols covered its surface, and the circle turned, splitting in two as the doors slid into the wall, admitting Szarel inside.

  Cabinets filled with heavy volumes on tactics, history, and geography filled the entire left side, obscuring the luxurious banners of former magisters and awards bestowed by grateful citizens. On the far side of the chambers was his bed, covered with a canopy and rarely used. Beside it stood a mahogany desk, with an empty goblet next to his personal terminal. Busts and statues of the greatest leaders lined the right side, and in the shadows created by the dim light, their grey faces cast disapproving glances at the addition he had brought to the place.

  No one really felt at home here. He remembered the words his mentor had spoken. Home is where the family is. We are men of action, more accustomed to the din of the battlefield or listening to the reports of subordinates. But solitude has its value. It calms the mind.

  The servants immediately rushed to him, led by Butylin, who passed the staff to another soldier. Respectfully and quietly, they stripped the magister of his clothes and freed him of his armor, piece by piece. Almost half his size, Szarel stepped onto the carpeted floor, turning his gaze to the mirrored vambraces. Not so long ago, he had removed this same armor from the previous leader, too afraid to meet this determined man's gaze. Where had the years gone? Where did his friends and comrades go, more worthy of the honor passed on to him?

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  The corner of my mouth twitched. Don't be silly; your memory has already played a trick on you today. You're getting old. That's all. But I saw it. Impossible. The potion has worn off already. Still. I need to tell Cenfus. Later.

  Butylin's shift released the servants and locked the chambers, standing guard. Not judging, not speaking, just keeping an eye on him and holding the staff in her hands. No soul was immune to corruption; thus, no man in power could be above responsibility or enjoy secrecy. Szarel ignored the bed and went to the table, on either side of which stood tanks full of nutrient solution. He sat down and read the data on the display, confirming the completion of the process of making the potion. Only he, Cenfus, and a dozen biochemists knew the formula for his dangerous invention.

  Prior to his ascension, Szarel served as the chief physician of the Onyx Order. From his secluded laboratory, now occupied by Cenfus, came dozens of poisons capable of overcoming regeneration; his hand perfected the veil, removing the gag reflex from its side effects; his skills saved hundreds of brothers and sisters. But one aspiration remained elusive. They, his dear Mayali and precious Fahim, had begun their research together, wishing to bestow a gift upon their kind.

  Now he was alone. Mayali had died thirty years ago, and his son, poor, impatient Fahim, languished in captivity in a military hospital, slowly putting himself back together. Szarel had lost the possibility of knowing another woman physically or having offspring, resigning himself to this peculiar vow of celibacy. Such was one of the side effects of their nameless potion.

  You are too dangerous to release to the masses. Szarel looked at the liquid filling the empty canister. He had wanted to create joy but had created aid in destruction for his gift. No matter, there was no limit to starting over. Placing the observation log in front of him, he stubbornly made a note about the trembling lips and picked up a syringe, filling it with a weaker version of the potion. The needle pierced his taut skin, releasing euphoria into a vein.

  His lips moved, spreading into a smile. The magister leaned back in his chair, sniffing, eyes wide open, watching himself in the mirror. Fear. Joy. Surprise. It works. His pulse quickened, then calmed as natural regeneration erased the drug component from his blood, dissipating the unnatural pleasure. The needle wound healed, sucking in a second drop of blood.

  But the ability to move his facial features remained! He had managed to deceive physiology! Then a jolt ran through his body, his hands clenched, and the corners of his lips cracked, reaching his ears and giving him a bestial grin as his teeth clenched so hard they almost bit off the tip of his tongue. Crimson rivulets ran down his neck. Too high of a dose. He doubled over in his chair, grabbed a pen, and wrote down his observations, measuring his pulse and vital signs. I merely want to give us the opportunity to smile. Is that really so much? Szarel thought, wiping the blood with a handkerchief.

  Mayali loved his smile so much…

  The door opened, letting Jake in. Out of his armor, he had lost none of his height. A golden serpent encircled the collar of his blue uniform, the polished silver buttons gleamed, and a wide sash held his dark trousers in perfect position, not allowing a single crease to disappear. Through the slit in his clothes on his back, two armor-like bulges protruded, covered by a cape thrown back.

  "Father," he said. "Is everything all right? You look a little carnivorous. Should I call Cenfus?"

  "Thank you, but I've already dined on virgins today," Szarel joked, and pulled his adopted son into an embrace. Behind him, the pen, controlled by his mind, continued to record his sensations. "An unsuccessful experiment, nothing more. I'll be back to normal in half an hour."

  "Back to normal." Jake studied his face, his antennae picking up Szarel’s heart rate. “Okay. Let’s assume I believe you. Has Fahim contacted you?”

  “I haven’t checked my mail yet,” Szarel admitted.

  Jake clicked his mandibles in disapproval. “If he wrote, and it’s not personal, forward it to me later. Father, put off your research until we return. Don’t let that crap take more than my brother from me.” He glanced over the magister’s shoulder at the tanks. The objects looked out of place next to the statues of heroes and the elaborate paintings. “We need you. I need you.”

  “I promise,” Szarel agreed, smiling. The pen fell onto the table. The damaged skin itched, healing. “What’s on your front? Noticed anything unusual?”

  “No.” Jake shook his head. He straightened his shoulders, opened his wing cases, and two pairs of pale yellow wings spotted with brown spread out. Their membranes reflected the light of the lamps in the room. “I didn't go far from the little guy. He reminds me of my brother in his exploration of the world. The kids around him seem cool. No feeling of surveillance.”

  “Maybe I’m getting old and imagining things.”

  “Or maybe you noticed something that eluded me.” Two short limbs under Jake's clothes hit the shell with a loud thud. “No need for unfounded self-doubt.”

  “Proper security won't hurt,” Szarel agreed. “Guard Grisha, Eloise will take care of training your knights.” Jake bowed his head, preparing to leave. “Wait. Maybe we can check for news from Fahim together?”

  "You're dragging me right back to my childhood," Jake laughed. "Before I know it, I'll be sitting on your lap again. Let's do it. Not the lap part, I mean. And if there's nothing else, we'll write to him."

  ****

  The round disk of the moon climbed to the center of the sky, visible even through the heavy, dark clouds driven by the accelerating wind flow. The celebration ceased, the drunken songs were no longer heard, and the circle of fires surrounding the site of the recent battle began to die out as the scavengers took refuge from the approaching storm in the crevices of the rocks, intending to wait there until their unusual allies left and then toil in the comparative safety of the lowlands.

  Here and there, boulders rolled down the mountain slopes, painted a bluish tint by the night. Rare predators rushed down the ravines, saving themselves from the increasing pressure of the air, capable of grinding the stones to a smooth state. Streams of dust, sand, and dried debris of trees fell, shattering upon or bending around the protective field created by the Shroud of Darkness.

  Within this dome of calm, bright floodlights burned, casting white rays of light on the scurrying fools as they carried the last of their valuable materials back to their mobile coffin. A single gunshot, barely audible amid the howling wind, cut through the night to the east, and a body wrapped in blue rags fell with a loud thud onto the road, lying in a heap of broken bones.

  An armored giant approached the corpse, turning it onto its back with a kick. The large-caliber shell shattered the stranger's throat, leaving his head dangling by a few strips of muscle. A scavenger ran up to the soldier, unceremoniously tearing the cloth from the dead man's face and pointing to the night vision goggles and simple communication device dangling next to his ear. The heretic nodded, intending to dig a hole for burial; however, his assistant stopped him, advising him to let the local beasts take care of the corpse. Neither was at all worried that the disappearance of the murdered man might alert their enemies.

  They were right. Soon the storm would descend upon the region in an avalanche, tearing away and driving entire houses into the hills and dumping the resulting pile of debris onto the road, burying known routes. In this wrath of nature, capable of accelerating the trunk of a young tree to the speed of a metal-bending collision, the death of the hapless scum assigned to reconnaissance was a common and expected occurrence. Even in calm periods lasting from six to eight months, travelers often perished, stepping on flimsy stone and falling off the cliffs.

  Above the peak of the pyramid and the cliffs, a stream of particles whiter than snow coalesced into a single whole, almost touching the running clouds. First, perfect, almost transparent feet touched invisible platforms, moving toes with nails covered with noble gold. Then the particles formed a torso, thin and delicate. Soon his hands folded on his flat chest, unmarked by a single scar. Lightning pierced him without causing even a moment's discomfort, and his wings, framed in golden light, opened in unison with the thunderclap. The hair fell to the middle of the back, lying calmly despite the raging wind. And finally, his blood-red eyes opened, looking down with disdain.

  So many emotions, desires, and fears. The seventy-year-old man clutched a battered rifle to his chest, certain that his leader intended to get rid of him. The servant, pulsating with hatred, stared at the back of the dog calling herself Itil, despising her for her betrayal and not believing in her intention to atone for her guilt. In her fist, the servant held a dagger, ready to sacrifice her life this time.

  Another vulture nervously tapped his boot, burning with the desire to get at least a crumb of Latif's treasure. The villager checked his revolver, not understanding why the elder had decided to join the bandits who collected tribute from their village and rarely came to their defense.

  So many opportunities to strengthen vices, to take advantage of doubts and prejudices, and to gift a chosen one... but alas. The Presence sensed life for hundreds of kilometers around, realizing their worthlessness. Barely a handful here had the strength sufficient to achieve his goal, and all of them would refuse him.

  These pagans were too stubborn in their madness, as he had learned from his encounter with that cockroach. And he was not going to waste his strength on several gifts. The Chosen Prince had inflicted tangible pain on him, forcing him to spend precious reserves. His true body groaned, recovering from such a significant manifestation of effort. The little chimps were becoming too capable, and it was best to end their funny circus run sooner than later. Better to act more subtly, more carefully.

  His will penetrated into the pyramid, and the sleeping piggy groaned, meeting the sow, that had given birth to it, in a dream. Tears streamed down her face, her hands clutching the sheets as she repeated the name, enjoying the illusory reunion. A useless weakling. Even if he granted her a blessing, she would be of no use. However, she might serve as a tool when the time was right, and he had memorized a hook that would make her dance for his pleasure.

  If it were not for the risk of detection, he would personally squeeze the prize he so desired out of the dungeons of this pathetic toy. Alas, his failed escapade attracted the attention of his brother, and their confrontation at the current juncture had to be avoided at all costs. He was not ready; he did not yet have sufficiently capable servants to resolve the ancient conflict. And the precious primate, who had so suddenly caught his attention, would ensure the speedy onset of his inevitable triumph.

  Never fear. There were plenty of capable slugs in Volnitsa. He will choose the best of the worst. Invisible to ordinary eyes and unnoticeable to the banal devices of simian savages, he wrapped his wings around his body and disappeared, intending to comb the entire Volnitsa in search of a sufficiently pliable and suitable candidate.