Azamat sat on the rooftop, legs tucked beneath him, watching the temple. The choice of vantage point had nothing to do with him living here—simply, this place was closest to the foreign camp. When his relief came, they'd take the same position, whoever they were and wherever they lived.

  Wind tore at the hem of his sheepskin coat, lifted the edges of his felt cap. His fingers had gone numb with cold despite the gloves. Azamat shifted from spot to spot, occasionally removing his gloves to rub his palms together, breathing on them, but never left his post. Below, by the house wall, a horse stamped its hooves—tethered to an iron hook driven into the mud-brick wall specifically for such watches.

  With nightfall his shift would end: Azamat possessed neither developed night vision nor any special abilities that might replace it. Watching the foreign camp in pitch darkness would be pointless—at best he might make out campfires and the odd silhouette by the flames. For now, though, the sun declined towards the horizon slowly, almost reluctantly, as though deliberately drawing out the final hours of the short winter's day, stretching them like a smith drawing out heated metal.

  Azamat continued sitting, straining to peer into the distance. His eyes watered from wind and fatigue—he blinked less frequently, fearing to miss anything important.

  In the pre-sunset rays that painted the steppe golden-red, Kairat climbed onto the roof. The wooden rungs of the ladder creaked plaintively under his weight; from the edge of the flat roof clay crumbled in fine grey dust, leaving a thin powdery trail on the trampled snow below. Having clambered up and breathing slightly hard from the climb, Kaisar's eldest son settled beside the youth, making himself comfortable. He enquired:

  "Well then, noticed any oddities?" Kairat's voice sounded quiet, almost casual, as though they were discussing not espionage on an enemy camp but simple patrol duty by the herds.

  Azamat shook his head without taking his eyes from the temple. His eyes watered from long scrutiny of the monotonous landscape.

  "Nothing's happened, really," he said, finally turning to his companion. "The camp's been going about its business—guards changing at their posts, someone hauling firewood to the fires, saw a cart with barrels rolled inside. Everything's been quiet, no fuss."

  "Well, excellent." Kairat nodded approvingly, evidently satisfied with the report. He shifted more comfortably, settling at the roof's edge, and held out a woven basket tied with coarse rope. "Here, Mother prepared this and asked me to bring you supper. Said a lad can't sit all day without hot food or he'll catch his death."

  White vapour rose from beneath the edge of the basket, covered with a woollen blanket, in thin wisps that dissolved in the frosty air. Despite the winter cold and wind roaming the rooftops, the contents clearly hadn't cooled during the time Kairat had carried it from his house—he must have walked quickly, pressing the basket to his chest beneath the fold of his tanned kaftan.

  Opening the basket, Azamat discovered inside a clay bowl covered with a hot flatbread. Beneath it proved a dish of fluffy rice with pieces of vegetables and fried meat. Noticing raisins, the youth couldn't help thinking that Kairat's family was fortunate: not every father was thrifty enough to allow treats added to food even on an ordinary, non-festive day. Kaisar kept household order tight—like a workpiece clamped in the forge's vice.

  Unwilling to leave his observation post, Azamat dealt with his hunger right there. Rice scalded his tongue, meat melted in his mouth, leaving an aftertaste of spices and fat. Having gathered the last grains with the edge of the flatbread, he washed it all down with fresh milk from his flask and, belching contentedly, leant back on one elbow. Then he held the basket back out to Kairat.

  "Thanks. Tell Mother she cooks the best in the aul."

  "Don't mention it." Kairat waved it away, continuing to watch the temple without tearing his gaze away.

  The sun touched the edge of the steppe, staining the sky blood-red. Shadows stretched in long fingers across the snow-covered earth. In the camp they lit torches—lights flickered along the palisade, reflecting in the metal of the guards' plate armour.

  Suddenly the clash of weapons from the temple disturbed Azamat's relaxed contentment. Sharp, staccato—metal on metal, cries, the thunder of feet. Leaping up, he peered towards the sound but couldn't make out what was happening: the torchlight clearly wasn't enough. Kairat, however, seeing far more thanks to his developed skill of nose-sight, sharply grabbed him by the shoulder.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Run to Father." His voice became hard, commanding. "Tell him there's fighting in the temple and Thorgrim's posting a cordon."

  Wasting no time, Azamat ran to the roof's edge and leapt onto the horse's croup. It jerked with surprise, but gripped tight by the powerful legs of a rider who'd sat a saddle before he could walk, it quickly calmed. Azamat, already reaching for the tether mid-leap, slipped the loop from the hook in the wall and immediately sent the horse galloping—towards the basy's house.

  Azamat burst into Kaisar's yard, nearly knocking over a chicken scuttling hastily from beneath the hooves. One gate leaf they always kept open for precisely such occasions. The horse skidded on the trampled snow, and the youth jumped down before it had fully stopped. The smithy door flew open under the blow of his palm.

  "Aga!" He shouted into the half-light where forge coals smouldered. "The temple! Something's started!"

  Kaisar turned from the anvil. The hammer in his hand froze above the heated workpiece. A second—and he hurled the tool aside, tore off his leather apron over his head.

  "What exactly?"

  "Fighting. Thorgrim's posting a cordon."

  The basy swore briefly and filthily. He approached the house and flung the door open so hard the leaf struck the wall with a crack.

  "Everyone here!"

  His voice thundered through the rooms, making the walls shudder. Children, junior wives, senior wife—all spilled into the hallway like a disturbed hive. Kaisar didn't explain twice.

  "Bekzat—to Temyr's house. Daniyar—to Tyleu's. The rest—to the neighbours. Tell them to gather at our house. Armed and mounted!" Seeing his words hadn't yet reached his household, he barked, "Now!"

  The children scattered. The baibyshe grabbed a shawl, threw it over her shoulders and ran to the stables. Azamat caught sight of Kaisar darting to the chest in the corner, hauling out a sabre in its scabbard and slinging it over his shoulder.

  In the yard the first were already gathering. Berik the neighbour, a mason with hands like shovels. Young Askhat, a shepherd, clutching a long spear. Talgat, the tanner, armed with an axe. Men arrived in twos, in threes—some with sabres, some with spears, some with maces, but all with bows. Heavy clothing, lined with felt, sat on them bulkily but reliably. Most had left their armour at home—there'd been no time to rummage in chests.

  Kaisar leapt from the house, vaulted into the saddle of the mount the baibyshe had brought; his youngest wife caught up and handed him his bow. He surveyed the assembled—twenty, thirty men, all mounted.

  "Zhaksybek, take ten. To the southern edge. Tight cordon. Baidos—to the northern. Foot patrol every hundred paces. Not even a mouse gets through."

  The men nodded curtly—without words, without hesitation—and immediately tore off in the indicated directions, spreading in wide streams, each pulling along the assigned fighters. Someone grabbed a neighbour by the sleeve, someone called out a name, but the movement was swift and coordinated, as though honed by years of service. Kaisar watched them go with a gaze—brief, heavy, appraising—and only afterwards wheeled towards those who remained before him in the yard, awaiting the next order.

  "Kenzhebek! You with four—to the east. Serik—to the west. The rest—with me."

  The aul stirred like a disturbed anthill. From alleyways rode out fresh groups. The basy dispatched them one after another, not letting them bunch into a mob. Some received orders to strengthen patrols, others to circle the temple from the flanks along parallel streets. Azamat saw how Kaisar plucked familiar faces from the flow—those who'd served in the Horde—and kept them with him.

  Amongst these, Temyr and Tyleu stood out especially. Both were enormous even by orc standards and, most importantly, both were battlemages. Like Kaisar himself.

  Women and youths arrived too. Wives, mothers, children—with bows and quivers on their shoulders. Kaisar organised them into detachments and directed them to the houses closest to the temple square. A separate group, comprised exclusively of female warriors, he sent up the slope to occupy a position advantageous for shooting.

  They dispersed without unnecessary words. Azamat saw how one of them, elderly, with grey strands showing beneath her headscarf, scrambled up a ladder more nimbly than many a lad and straight from the saddle. Who she was, he couldn't make out, but evidently there were no small children in her family, otherwise she'd have remained to guard them.

  Within ten minutes the cordon had closed. There were no towers round the temple, no fortifications either, but a living ring of armed riders and foot soldiers encircled the centre of Aksu so tightly that not even a fox could slip through unnoticed.

  Kaisar exhaled, surveyed those who'd gathered beside him on this side of the cordon. Fifty men—all handpicked veterans, the very ones who knew how to hold formation under a hail of arrows and a forest of spears or how to break it in the enemy with one decisive blow. Men with whom he'd served in the Horde, with whom he'd shared both campaign bread and enemy blood.

  "Let's go," he tossed out to them curtly, then turned to Azamat. "You get yourself home, join the archers on the roof and tell Kairat to stay with you and not poke his nose anywhere."

  Azamat was incredibly disappointed by this assignment. He'd hoped to remain at the very centre of unfolding events until the very end, to witness how this anxious night would resolve itself. But there was no choice. The order of an elder, moreover the aul's basy, and in such a tense situation at that, wasn't subject to discussion or argument. To dispute it would mean showing disrespect not only to Kaisar personally but to the entire order on which the aul stood.

  The detachment moved forward on foot—they left the animals behind, tethered to posts at the edge of the square. Heavy boots drummed dully on the frozen earth, beating out a single rhythm. The street led straight to the temple square, narrowing between low houses. Ahead, beyond the last row of buildings, already loomed the silhouette of the temple itself—dark, massive, bristling round its perimeter with burning torches whose flames trembled in the wind.