The morning brought neither relief nor news. The man sent to Hornet hadn't returned yet, and everyone in the camp understood that they would have to wait at least another day. The Wasps brought whores into the camp and drank heavily, turning their temporary halt into a brothel. Reed had barely finished digging the grave for the guardsman when the blinding rays of the morning sun touched his sweat-slicked face. Laughter and screams of drunken women still reached his ears, and Reed was ready to dig at least a dozen more graves just to avoid listening to the incoherent chatter while dodging stinking, toothless whores. It wasn't that Reed didn't like women. He liked them even more than most, but he didn't wish to take just anyone wearing a skirt and harboring who knows what diseases. Firstly, he didn't drink that much. Secondly, his self-hatred hadn't reached such monstrous proportions that he didn't give a damn who, where, and how.

  Reed sat on the damp earth by the pit and took a pitiful semblance of a handkerchief from his pocket. It was one of the few things he had stolen from Eliza. Reed wiped his forehead, smearing sweat, dirt, and blood across his face. Martin had rewarded him with a couple of punches, had received the same in return, and backed off. At least for a while. And now his teeth ached painfully, and his lips felt three times larger. His cheekbone was also swollen, his eye partially swollen shut. It was perfectly clear how he had earned his abrasions, but Reed didn't consider himself guilty. He would have mouthed off to Martin and killed the hostage even if it threatened him with more than just beatings. And anyway, Reed was certainly not the type to worry about the beauty of his own face. Often, he didn't even wish to look at himself in the mirror, so why should bruises and abrasions scare him?

  Spitting blood, Reed stood up, walked to the guardsman, and carelessly, almost with disgust, dumped him into the pit. He absolutely didn't give a damn that the man fell face down, or that he wouldn't have coins. He just wanted to finish with this sooner and go to his tent, "refresh" his consciousness with something strong, and fall face-first into his pillow to stop thinking for at least some time.

  It wasn't exactly pangs of conscience, but it seemed strange to him that he had left Eliza dead in her own house and hadn't found the strength to attend to her place of eternal rest, while he was burying the guardsman almost half-decently. Yes, this wasn't enough, but Eliza didn't even have that. Her body remained unburied. The Great Mother, the one who gave birth to the world, said that everything came from the earth and must return there when the journey ends. And if you don't return Her child to the Mother, their spirit will wander forever. The Mother cannot come out from underground, and the spirit cannot descend there itself. Of course, Reed didn't believe in the Mother as strongly as other elves, but he still felt a sting of superstitious guilt.

  After a few minutes dedicated to self-accusation, Reed spat angrily and grabbed the shovel, grumbling barely audibly, "Fuck you all, anyway..."

  He didn't bother too much, just threw enough dirt over the pit so that wild dogs wouldn't drag the corpse apart. Looters were not to be feared anyway. The Wasps had stolen the guardsman's armor even before he died.

  Reed, like all other representatives of their bloody trade, knew that waiting is sometimes harder than the deed itself. So the outcome of this campaign drove him into an abyss of dark thoughts, painting in his imagination the most diverse, unthinkable, and dirty acts he would have to commit. Not that Reed feared filth, but rather the path on which he would encounter this filth. Hunting mages was a dangerous business, albeit profitable. Reed understood that his life had never spiraled so far out of control as much as now. Mages, judging by the Church's words, were dangerous and unpredictable, ready for any act to preserve the shaky illusion of will, and Reed was inclined to believe this, although he couldn't say that the Church was a place that inspired trust itself. He understood that the danger was quite real, and it would be foolish to dismiss warnings if he himself had never met mages, let alone engaged them in battle.

  Playing out scenarios of his possible demise in a skirmish in his head, Reed trudged to his tent. He dropped the shovel at the entrance and crawled inside. It stank of iron, blood, and the heated leather there, but the odor inside his temporary haven worried him least of all. Before pulling a flask of swill of dubious origin from under the pillow, Reed thought about the attack. His thoughts swirled around the ambush that had been only partially successful, about the guardsman who clearly intended to kill him, and about Ermod. The latter raised the most questions, and Reed was ready to bet money that upon return he wouldn't receive a single coin. A "reward" awaited him in the city, but not at all the one he expected.

  Reed swallowed the sour liquid and thought about how to prepare for the return to Argain, but only foolish things came to his mind. Maybe it was fatigue and intoxication, or maybe the fact that it is impossible to prepare for what you don't know. His head buzzed, the cheap alcohol churned unpleasantly in his stomach, and soon Reed passed out, falling into a deep sleep that carried away all the thoughts that had been eating at his skull until then.

  ***

  They were hiding in a small village, in the deepest woods, which Reed would never have learned about if not for the clear objective that brought him to this shithole. Reed knew little about hunting mages, and he always explained his ignorance by the years spent across the ocean. When the persecutions began, he was a slave. He was too young and shackled to know about events unfolding outside the colony, and later he left the continent altogether. Reed hadn't had the opportunity to learn about the dark pages of Emeron's history, as he said, though in reality, he simply didn't care. This problem didn't stir anything in him. It had not the slightest influence on his life. So, Reed had never delved into the issue of mass repressions of mages and their families. Therefore, he perceived the siege of the village as an ordinary job that would end soon and bring him money.

  First, Martin ordered the archers to surround the abandoned village near the closed mines from the south and east; the west was cut off by mountains, and trying to flee through them would mean suicide. The remaining Wasps entered from the north. The inhabitants of neighboring villages mostly hid from the mercenaries, but some even gave up the place where the refugees were for a couple of jingling coins. There wasn’t even a hint of the slightest pang of conscience, as no one wanted trouble with the Church. Some poked their heads out of hovels to watch, and some shamelessly stood by their flimsy shacks and openly gawked at the armed Wasps marching along the dusty roads.

  The Wasps were cunning, mean, and for the most part stupid, but among the general stupidity, more or less bright minds stood out. Such as Gray. He was the one who came up with the capture plan. His main point was surprise. They simply didn't have time to surround the mages for too long. Sooner or later the Wasps would be noticed, so it was decided to send the archers immediately, in a wide circle, so they wouldn't be spotted in the village while taking positions. This way, the assault group had a chance to move more quietly and attack immediately upon arrival.

  Reed rode out with the archers at night to scout the situation and by dawn was already waiting for the Wasps on the outskirts of the village. Exchanging a couple of words with Martin, Reed led them to the almost rotted houses of the abandoned village. No one wanted to rent normal houses in inhabited settlements to runaway mages. And what’s more, they were sold out so cheaply that Reed wouldn't even have gotten out of his seat for such money.

  Gray didn't choose the time for the attack by accident. Even Reed knew that at dawn the effect of surprise is stronger, because at this time sleep overcomes even the most resilient. Therefore, the Wasps would attack at the moment when the mages were least vigilant.

  As soon as the sun rose just above the horizon, Martin gave the command to advance. Reed had checked out the houses where the fugitives were hiding during the night. So, the Wasps didn't have to fumble blindly, wasting time and giving the mages opportunities to flee. The Wasps broke into pairs, although Reed thought this was not enough. He didn't know exactly who they were hunting and how many of them there were. Reed would have preferred to secure himself with more company. But Martin didn't have such a luxury at his disposal, and Reed had to rely on himself.

  The first house was taken easily. There were two old women and a young girl. They didn't even try to fight, but Reed's partner still gave each one a kick. Reed grimaced when he saw how the mercenary looked at the girl. He felt a pang of fury at the mere thought of what that look meant. Reed was ready to bet money that the girl wouldn't live to see the return to Argain. All three were brought out without a fight, but the sounds of battle filled the streets even before Reed saw the women. It would have been flagrant carelessness to hope they’d meet only old women.

  Reed dodged the bursts of sparks quite briskly and deftly, but he couldn't hide that magic scared him. He was seeing mages in battle for the first time and didn't even understand how to fight them. The only logical conclusion was to kill or neutralize the opponent before the open fight. Reed ran past Martin, who was hiding behind an old, rotten cart. The cart flared up as soon as Martin stuck his head out. A tall, skinny man sent another burst of burning sparks straight at Martin, and his clothes caught fire.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Distract him!" Reed shouted. "I'll come from behind!"

  Martin gave a short nod, rushing in the opposite direction from Reed while simultaneously throwing a short knife at the mage. The man briskly deflected the knife, and then, as expected, got distracted by Martin. Reed ran past the houses, maneuvering between the fighting Wasps and getting involved in clashes along the way. He waved his daggers, slashing legs and arms, cutting faces, and he didn't even give a damn if he accidentally grazed one of the Wasps. Reed simply aimed at those who didn't have yellow inserts on their clothes, and if someone hadn't bothered to pin a distinguishing mark on themselves before the battle, that was no longer his problem. Everyone who fought was part of the chaos, and Reed became part of it too, gripped by frenzy, excitement, and a common bloodlust.

  He almost caught up with the mage, almost grazed him, almost felt the man's life on his hands, watching it leave his body as blood, but only "almost." He had barely managed to get close to the future victim, drawing his bow and a poisoned arrow on the run, when he felt a strong shove that practically knocked him off his feet. Reed stumbled but didn't fall, looking around wildly. There was no one nearby who could have pushed him, and Reed had already thought he had stumbled himself when he saw him. A young man in worn clothes stood not so far away, but he couldn't have pushed Reed without even touching him, right?

  But he did push. His magic affected Reed physically. There was no fire and flashes, no beautiful, spectacular gestures and glow. The man’s magic simply destroyed. As soon as their eyes met, the man put his hands together, then interlaced his fingers, and Reed began to choke. The bow and arrow fell to the ground, never having performed their deadly dance. An invisible vise squeezed his throat, his body went weak, and circles swam before Reed’s eyes. The mage was strangling him without even touching him. And Reed could no longer fight. His eyes rolled back and he fell, convulsively gasping for air that he now so desperately lacked.

  Reed had almost fallen into darkness when death let him go. The mage got distracted. Raising himself on his elbows, gasping and wheezing, Reed saw Gray trying to attack. He wanted to shout for Gray not to even try to go head-on, but only a couple of hoarse moans escaped his mouth. Gray flew into the gloom, smashing his head against the ground. Reed saw a dark spot spreading beneath Gray’s head where he fell. Fear seized Reed. It was a primal, paralyzing fear, bordering on horror.

  And then anger returned to the game. How could one person possess such power that they hadn't even earned? The Mother gifted them spontaneously, not choosing the worthy, and they turned the gift into an instrument of power. It was not for nothing that the Church considered them a curse. If one such person walked out into the city, even the Guard wouldn't stop them. And who knows what would be on their minds tomorrow? Mages are indeed dangerous, Reed thought, but not omnipotent. Rising, he already understood that in such a skirmish there is no place for bravado, demonstration of strength, or intimidation. Physically, Reed was stronger than the mage, but that made absolutely no difference, since the fight was unequal from the start. So why should he play fair?

  Reed snatched up his bow and rose with difficulty to attack from behind. The fight had grown to terrifying proportions, and it was already hard to understand who was friend and who was foe. Martin was still trying to outflank the skinny man who was showering the surrounding space with fire; Gray remained lying where he fell; the others had scattered to the sides. Overcoming weakness in his body and dizziness, Reed stood on his own two feet; he felt nauseous, his throat raw. He didn't manage to take even a step before seeing the smiling mage a couple of meters away. His palm folded into a strange gesture in an instant, and he waved it toward Reed. A sharp jolt to the chest knocked the remaining air from his lungs, and then his back slammed into something hard. Something cracked, and Reed finally fell, letting out a dull moan. Debris of wood rained down from above, forcing him instinctively to cover his head with his arms.

  His back shot through with sharp pain, his eyes were dusted with rot and dirt, and his lungs refused to expand to let him inhale. He coughed, opening his mouth like a fish on land, and tried to roll over, but curled up in pain. Every breath was an effort for which he had to pay with pain. With difficulty rolling onto his side, Reed fell into darkness, blessed and soft—without pain and blood streaming over his lips—but it was only for a moment.

  Waking up, Reed plunged once again into the cacophony of sounds mixing with the stench of burning and blood. A deep, guttural moan tore from his chest when he finally managed to lift himself on his arms, tossing aside the pieces of wood that had buried him. His legs still didn't obey; pain rolled in waves, forcing him to take small breaths and bite his lips. He raised his head and looked around. As it turned out, the "something hard" was the rotten wall of a house, and he had punched through it with his back.

  The bow had vanished into the surrounding mess; the arrows had broken right in the quiver, miraculously not wounding Reed himself with their poisoned tips. Throwing off the now useless quiver, he reached for the daggers on his belt in panic, and exhaled with relief. He got on all fours, coughed, and only then cast a glance at the house itself, the wall of which had brought him so much suffering. The house was old but lived-in. By mages, one had to assume. On a decrepit table stood a candle stub; some papers and children's toys were scattered about. A clay vase lay in shards on the floor, and that was probable Reed’s fault.

  Everything swam before his eyes, but he still managed to stand up and look outside. The battle wasn't over yet, and the one who had pushed Reed through the wall was still covering the skinny mage who was burning everything in front of him just so no one could get to him. Reed's partner was missing, and presumably already dead. To stay and wait until everything resolved itself would be a foolish decision, because nothing ever resolves itself. Reed grabbed a broken beam from the floor with rusty nails sticking out of it and walked out of the house, squinting against the bright light of burning houses. The fight seemed to be happening far away from him as Reed staggered toward the mage. He was busy with one of the Wasps, but who exactly it was remained unclear. The morning twilight and, obviously, Reed's head trauma blurred faces. Nevertheless, he assumed his strength would be enough to finish what he started before he collapsed.

  Carelessness is the worst thing one can afford in battle. Reed knew this, but the mage, apparently, did not. It is not enough to possess power when entering a fight. Reed walked with difficulty, and the beam fragment in his hands seemed too heavy, but he still found the strength to take another step. When the distance between them shortened, the mage folded his hands in the same gesture that had thrown Reed back, only now it was directed at someone else. One of the Wasps was thrown back, but he was less lucky. The Wasp fell onto a broken cart, the wreckage of which pierced his chest, protruding from his body like bloody, darkened fangs. The mage managed to notice Reed, but didn't manage to react. Reed brought the broken beam down on his head; blood sprayed into Reed’s face, and his hands trembled. Overcoming this trembling, he struck again and beat until nothing remained of mage’s head.

  Reed stepped back and wiped his bloodied face with his sleeve, as if in a trance. He nearly fell when he saw the body before him. He wasn't a fan of particularly bloody reprisals, nor did they frighten him, but this time was different. Reed could have left the mage immediately after he died, but he still kept hitting until there was nothing left to hit.

  He swore dirtily and looked away. Martin, meanwhile, had suffered defeat. The mage he was fighting literally exploded with fire, knocking Martin off his feet. When the glow faded, only a smoldering body remained. Martin turned into a pulp, curled up, charred, lifeless. Nausea rose to Reed’s throat when he inhaled the stench of burning flesh; the wind seemed to be purposefully pushing him toward weakness. Catching his breath, Reed fell to his knees. It seemed this was the end; they had lost. This mage had killed Martin as easily as if he had sneezed. What could one even oppose against such power? Killing one is luck; two is already a miracle. And capturing them could be considered a tall tale altogether.

  Nevertheless, Reed didn't want to give up. Trying to ignore the stench of burning bodies, Reed stood up, drawing his blades. The skinny one didn't see him, which meant there remained a chance for success.

  His steps were quiet, and accidental rustles were lost in the agony of battle that claimed lives and stoked the fire of malice smoldering for years. The smell of burning hung around; the wave of fire that had taken Martin's life jumped to the decrepit house, and this was the skinny mage's only mistake. He himself, with his own hands, drove the people straight into the Wasps' trap. The kreyghars ran out of the houses, abandoning their already futile attempts to hide. Some surrendered immediately, while others entered their final battle. Those who tried to run fell victim to the archers surrounding the village. Reed saw a woman who almost ran to the edge of the forest, and then collapsed. First, she to her knees, and then face down. An arrow shaft with yellow fletching stuck out of her back.

  The situation was nearing its denouement. The archers began to advance, closing the circle. Everything was going relatively according to plan, which had nearly failed with Martin's death. This meant that a new fight awaited the Wasps, only now for the advantages of temporary power.

  Arrows whistled in the air; the restless morning twilight was torn apart by a cacophony of pain, now joined by the trample of hooves. The marksmen surrounded the village, helping to finish off the remaining mages, including the skinny one who had burned Martin. Reed had already raised his blade over the man's back when the skinny one stumbled, falling onto his back, nearly knocking Reed over with him. An arrow stuck out of his left eye. Somewhere to the right, a woman howled, and it became clear: today the losses were greater than the eyes could see.

  On weak legs, Reed stepped away, exposing his bloodied, tired face to the streams of the morning wind. It cooled not only his heated body but also his soul, which had submitted to this collective bloodlust. Fog swam before his eyes, and then a sharp pain suddenly pierced his shoulder. The blade slipped from his weakened fingers, and Reed toppled to the ground, as if sinking into sleep. The sounds of the subsiding fight, the moans and weeping had ceased to worry his soul, they became his lullaby. Falling, he felt neither his own nor others' pain; the blood slowly spreading over his clothes in a crimson stain didn't disturb him. Unconsciousness became his salvation.

  When Reed's back touched the cold, damp earth, his eyes were already closed, and he himself was in darkness, while on the horizon, the dawn was spreading in bloody, ragged streaks.