Two orcs pressed the knights hard. A youth and a girl, both young, nimble as steppe wolves. The ginger-haired lad wielded an axe—massive, with a broad blade that gleamed in the torchlight. Each blow fell true, sweeping, breaking his opponent's stance, giving him no chance to recover.

  Plate armour cracked beneath the blade; the plates on Sir Volmar's arm parted, exposing bloodied flesh. The knight retreated, trying to parry the strikes with his sword, but the axe came down again and again, metal shrieking beneath its edge.

  The girl moved differently—light, fluid, the spear in her hands flashing silver. But she clearly lacked experience fighting such heavily armoured opponents.

  Sir Theodric caught her out and lunged, reached her shoulder with his sword's point. The pauldron of the girl's leather armour parted; blood sprayed.

  A green mass immediately shot from the ginger-haired orc. There was no light, only viscous radiance that wrapped round the girl's wound, soaked into her skin. Flesh sealed instantly, as though the injury had never been.

  The girl spun. The spear flashed in an arc; the point slid into the gap between plates, entered precisely at the elbow joint. Theodric roared; the sword fell from his fingers, his arm hanging limp. The orc woman was clearly adapting to the rhythm of battle instantly.

  Fury struck Thorgrim in the head like a hammer.

  Not because his men were losing—defeat happens, that was normal. Emotions flooded him from how and to whom they were losing. Village Torks, two upstarts without proper armour, without powerful abilities, were cutting down knights of the Order of the Twelve like children. Breaking them like boys.

  "Stand down!"

  His voice thundered through the temple, cutting the fight short. Thorgrim moved forward with his sword levelled, plate clanging, his visor snapping into place with one practised movement of his head. One step, a second. The ginger-haired orc spun round, swung his axe, but the half-centurion's sword went lower, cleaving the air, aimed at the unprotected knee.

  The youth darted back. The axe crashed down on the blade; sparks flew, the clang deafening. The knight didn't even notice and continued his swing. The force of the blow shoved the orc even further back, broke his balance. Thorgrim stepped towards him, made a second lunge, this time at the torso.

  The girl lunged forward; the spear became a shield between them. And this saved the youth, also brought Thorgrim to his senses—killing the youngsters wasn't yet necessary. Not yet.

  The ginger-haired orc hissed something in Tork, short, vicious. The girl swayed right, but the half-centurion had already wheeled, his shoulder sweeping aside the shaft, and kicked the ginger-haired youth, putting all his weight and the heft of his armour into the blow.

  The lad's head jerked and he clearly didn't understand where he was. The second blow, with the sword's hilt, landed on his temple—dull, heavy. "This one's done," Thorgrim thought.

  The girl barked something, lunged towards him, but met only a flat-bladed sword strike to the head. The orc woman went limp and fell at the knight's feet.

  Through the temple doors warriors were already rushing in; a dozen suits of plate clanged in unison. Swords surrounded them from all sides, cut off escape routes, but potential fugitives capable of breaking through no longer remained.

  "Bind them," Thorgrim nodded at his feet. "Prepare this one for questioning. Put the second to sleep; he's not needed yet."

  The prisoners' hands were twisted behind their backs; ropes wound round wrists—tight, until bones cracked. The girl was bound round the Stele; the lad was simply wrapped in rope from head to shoulders.

  A healer, a ginger-bearded man with a satchel across his shoulder, who'd run in after the warriors, crouched by the orc's head and poured some potion into him. Finishing, he approached the wounded, hands reaching for Volmar, who stood clutching his torn arm.

  "Stop."

  The word fell heavily. The healer froze, turned round.

  "Sir Thorgrim, but..."

  "Don't heal these ones." The half-centurion looked at his knights—at the torn armour, at the twisted metal, at the blood. "Even healing must be earned. These clearly haven't earned it."

  Volmar went pale. Theodric pressed his useless arm to his chest, breathed through his teeth. Both looked at their commander with hatred. They all knew why today had happened precisely as it had, but no one voiced it aloud. What use were unnecessary words that would change nothing?

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  "I'll petition the Commander." Thorgrim's voice didn't waver, only grew harder. And in his listeners' eyes flickered only contempt. "To have your golden spurs removed. You're a disgrace not only to our Order, but to knighthood itself!"

  Looking into the eyes of the disgraced, Thorgrim saw his own death in them. Let one of them meet him at a tournament or on a dark road, only one would leave alive.

  Thorgrim slowly turned to the girl, whom they'd already managed to bring round with cold water from a waterskin. Drops still ran down her face, mixing with blood.

  Amber eyes looked straight at him—without fear, without pleading, without attempt to avert her gaze. Blood slowly ran from her split brow, trickled down her cheekbone, dripped onto her shoulder. But the orc woman didn't blink, didn't lower her gaze, didn't look away. The ropes had bitten cruelly into her skin, dug into her wrists and shoulders, but she didn't jerk, didn't try to free herself. She froze motionless, like a statue hewn from mountain stone—hard, cold, unbending.

  He'd seen many like her, but they all broke under his skilled hands.

  "Name."

  The pause dragged, hung in the air with heavy silence. Thorgrim slowly crouched before her face, lowered himself to one knee so their eyes were level. He studied her gaze, sought a crack in it.

  "Drag that one here." A short nod towards the ginger-haired orc, who still lay unconscious.

  Subordinates instantly obeyed the order—two grabbed the limp body by the shoulders and dragged it across the floor, threw it down beside the commander. The body landed heavily on stone with a dull thud.

  Thorgrim unhurriedly drew from the sheath at his belt a long dagger—narrow, with a sharp point—and laid the edge directly against the prisoner's throat. Metal touched skin, pressed in slightly, left a white dent.

  "Name."

  "Ainur."

  The voice came out low, hissing, as though speaking not a girl but a wounded snake cornered. The Tork accent grated on the ear, mangled familiar pronunciation, but the words formed clearly, without hesitation.

  "Who's your commander? Who gives you orders?"

  "What commander?" Ainur bared her teeth, clenched tight. "It's bastards like you who have commanders and masters! I'm a free Tork!"

  The blow with the dagger's hilt landed precisely on her lips—heavy, short, calculated. Skin split; blood sprayed onto her chin. The girl's head jerked back, struck the Stele behind.

  "The bastard was your father, who got a child on his own goat." Thorgrim spoke this calmly, almost indifferently, as though discussing the weather.

  "I'm the daughter of Zhangir!" Ainur spat blood straight at his feet, spattering drops across the stone floor. "And were he alive, you'd already be choking on your own tongue, you cock-sucker!"

  "But he's no longer with us, is he?" Thorgrim tilted his head slightly, as though thinking aloud. "So think carefully about your answers, girl. If, of course, you don't want to meet him before your time."

  "Go to hell, you bastard!"

  A fresh blow crashed down on her face with doubled force—the dagger's hilt slammed into her jaw, knocked out three teeth at once. Fragments flew from her mouth along with blood and saliva, clattered to the floor. Ainur groaned—drawn-out, through clenched teeth, but made no cry.

  "Heal her." The ginger-bearded healer immediately directed his hands at the girl; from them burst cone-shaped light. When it reached the prisoner, her wounds sealed, but new teeth didn't grow in place of the knocked-out ones.

  "We can continue all night, so you'd better start answering." Thorgrim paternally smoothed a stray lock of hair. "Just tell me where the baksy is, and the lad you left Aksu with half a year ago."

  "Piss off, you bastard!" Ainur lisped.

  The knight drew his dagger across her face. Skin split beneath the blade. Blood ran down her shoulder, dripped onto the stone floor, pooled by the Stele. The girl jerked, tore a cry from her throat, choked it back to a rasp.

  Thorgrim drew the knife again. Slowly. A stripe from collarbone to elbow bloomed scarlet; skin parted, exposing flesh.

  "Where are they?"

  The girl shook her head. Remained silent. Only breathed hoarsely, raggedly, with sobs.

  "I see you're enjoying this; let's continue then."

  The blade settled on her other shoulder.

  "The baksy and the lad. Where."

  Amber eyes burnt with hatred, but her lips stayed clenched. Ainur snarled, but there were no words.

  The knife went down. This time deeper. Muscle jerked beneath the metal; blood sprayed onto Thorgrim's plate. The girl screamed—drawn-out, piercing, like a wounded beast.

  "Scream louder; maybe your comrades will hear and come to save you." He said this, though he knew her cry wouldn't carry beyond the temple walls. He was using one of his abilities, and now, for at least half an hour, no one would disturb them.

  The scream broke off. Ainur choked on air, breathed through her teeth in quick, short gasps.

  Thorgrim rose, wiped the blade on her hair. He turned to the ginger-haired orc lying bound at his feet.

  "Your friend?" Smirking, Thorgrim crouched beside the lad, drew the knife across his chest—not deep, slitting the shirt, scratching skin. She watched Yernazar's face, saw how it twisted in a painful spasm, though he remained unconscious.

  "Where's the baksy?"

  She remained silent. The knight looked at her, trying to understand what caused her greater pain.

  The knife entered the lad's thigh. Not deep, but precise, beneath the kneecap, there where nerves wove into a knot. The lad groaned in his sleep, jerked with his whole body, went still.

  "Stop! Stop, you bastard! I'll kill you! You son of a bitch!"

  Ainur thrashed against the ropes, arched, tried to reach the knight. But the Stele held firm.

  "Where are the baksy and the lad?"

  In answer came only incoherent hissing and fury.

  The knife entered Yernazar's other thigh. The same spot, the same pain. The ginger-haired orc didn't even cry out—only groaned hoarsely, his body beginning to shake with fine tremors.

  "Don't! Please, don't!"

  Ainur sobbed; words came with weeping, her voice breaking. But she was in no hurry to answer questions.

  Thorgrim straightened. He looked at her with a long gaze. Turned to the healer.

  "Heal him. Intensify her sensations."

  Light covered the orc, washed blood from his skin, removed traces of torture. But the tears in his closed eyes remained.

  The half-centurion stepped close to Ainur, crouched. His face was calm, without anger, without emotion.

  "We can continue all night. I won't tire. Neither will he." A nod at the healer. "But you'll tire. He'll tire." A nod at the ginger-haired lad. "And then neither healing nor potions will help."

  "Go to hell! You and your lapdog!" Ainur's eyes flashed and she spat towards the healer.