Azamat stood on his own roof. Bow in hands, string drawn to its limit. His fingers cramped from the strain, but he couldn't release them. Below, before the temple, Kaisar stepped towards Thorgrim. The basy gripped his dagger's hilt.

  Azamat took aim. He chose the knight to the right of the decarch—broad chest, exposed neck between helm and pauldron. One shot. Just one. And it would begin, what should have begun.

  His heart pounded so hard his chest ached—dull, heavy beats echoing in his temples, his throat, the very tips of his fingers. Breath caught somewhere deep within, as though air had become too thick, too heavy for his lungs. His fingers trembled—barely noticeable at first, then stronger, making the arrow shaft shake between his knuckles. Release the string? Now? Right now, whilst the decarch stood exposed, whilst the knights hadn't yet raised their shields?

  Below, the basy stopped. Froze for a moment—broad back, braids touched with grey and forge soot. Then slowly turned. The dagger slid back behind his belt. Kaisar walked back to his own—unhurried, heavy, as always.

  Azamat exhaled—long, convulsively, as though surfacing after a prolonged dive. He unclenched his fingers. The arrow remained on the string, unreleased, useless. He lowered his bow, then lowered his head. His whole body shook—from relief or disappointment, he couldn't tell. Perhaps from both feelings at once.

  The night passed sleepless. He tossed on his bed, listening to his father snore behind the thin felt partition—he had to rise early to check the other villagers' preparations. His mother breathed evenly, calmly, steadily. Both slept. As though nothing had happened, since his father always kept his campaign gear in full readiness. But he couldn't fall asleep. At all.

  One thought circled in his head: they were leaving. Kaisar would lead the detachment escorting the order. Fifty of the best warriors. And he'd remain. Here. In the aul. Like a boy.

  He rose before dawn, went to the window. Saw them saddling horses, preparing equipment. Heard the basy's commands. Wanted to run out, leap into the saddle, ride. But didn't dare. Kaisar had ordered able-bodied adults to go. Not snotty youths.

  He clenched his fists till his nails bit into his palms.

  Morning found him at the stable with his horse. He saddled hastily, hands trembling. He heard voices—familiar, young. Turned round. Kairat was leading a group of lads, about ten. All armed. All with identical expressions—determination mixed with apprehension.

  "Coming?" The basy's eldest son tossed out.

  Azamat nodded. Words weren't needed.

  They rode out quietly, staying well away from the aul's edge. They moved following Kaisar's detachment, but at a distance. Thought themselves unnoticed. Cunning as they could manage.

  They approached the place where the road crossed the Aksu—the river had frozen, ice gleaming in the morning sun. The adults had already crossed; hoof prints were deeply stamped in the snow on the opposite bank.

  From round the river's bend burst riders. A dozen. All human. At the fore Ybrai, Azamat's father. Face like stone, eyes hard.

  "Back! Where do you think you're going, you snot-noses?" He roared.

  No one moved. Kairat rode forward, opened his mouth.

  "I said—back! At the gallop! Now!"

  Ybrai rode right up to his son, forced the horse to back away. The other aul dwellers surrounded the lads, drove them back. The animals bolted; snow flew from beneath their hooves. Azamat looked back—his father rode behind, not falling back. Face stern, unyielding.

  Ybrai escorted them all the way to the aul, keeping behind, silent and implacable. At the first houses he sharply hauled on the reins, wheeled his horse. His gaze slid across his son—heavy, appraising. Wanted to say something, but remained silent. He kicked his horse's flanks. Tore off at a gallop back—to catch up with Kaisar's detachment.

  Snow rose in a cloud. Azamat watched after him until his father's figure dissolved beyond the river's bend.

  The elders gave them a dressing-down in the spacious aksakals' house—a long stone building with low beams and walls cracked with time. They shouted, jabbed fingers into chests, invoked ancestors, swore by the mountain spirits. Threatened floggings, punishments, disgrace before the aul.

  But their eyes—their eyes laughed. Sparks of mirth hid in the wrinkles. They'd been the same once. Young blood demands action; it can't be calmed with words and prohibitions. It bursts out like a river in spring breaking ice.

  Each day Azamat came to that very place—the gentle slope at the aul's edge, where Orgatai and Ainur's yurt had once stood. From there all of Aksu spread out as on a palm: house roofs, hearth smoke, livestock pens. And the road—that very one leading to the mountains.

  He'd settle on a smooth stone, polished by wind over long years—its surface was cold even through thick woollen clothing. He'd make himself comfortable, tucking his legs beneath him, and gaze into the distance. Waited, though even he couldn't have explained for what exactly. The detachment's return? Some news? He simply wanted to be here, at this place from where the road was visible.

  The seventh day since their departure. The risen blizzard had long since moved towards the mountains. Evening descended slowly, as though reluctantly; the sun touched the peaks of distant mountains with its edge. The sky took on a dark crimson hue, as though someone had spilt blood there and smeared it across the clouds. Shadows fell long, cold, stretching from every stone, every tree. Azamat squinted, peering into the road's distance, there where it vanished between cliffs.

  Two silhouettes. Walking from the direction of the mountains, barely distinguishable in the gathering dusk. Leading a horse—one, between them. Moving slowly, with visible difficulty, as though each step came with agonising effort. One supported the other by the elbow, helping him not to fall.

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  Orcs.

  He couldn't make out faces—too far, light had nearly faded. But inside something clicked, lurched in his chest. Premonition—sharp, alarming, not letting him sit still.

  He leapt to his feet, ran down the slope to his horse waiting patiently at the foot. Jumped onto the croup in one movement. Set the horse galloping.

  The horse flew through the aul's streets; hooves beat a tattoo on the packed earth. Azamat bent to the animal's neck, drove it flat out. Flew past pens where sheep huddled for the night. Past houses from whose windows hearth fires already gleamed.

  Kaisar's house stood in the aul's centre—a sturdy stone structure with a wide yard. Azamat jumped down whilst still moving; the horse barely managed to stop. He burst into the yard. The smithy door stood open.

  "Kairat!"

  A figure appeared in the opening. The basy's eldest son emerged—broad-shouldered, with the same ginger braids as his father's, only without grey. Gaze hard, wary.

  "What's happened?" Kairat's voice sounded sharp, demanding.

  "On the road! Two are coming! From the mountains! Barely standing!"

  Kairat didn't ask further; no time to waste. He ran to the door and, throwing it open, shouted inside—his voice rolled through the rooms like thunder. From the inner chambers spilled his household—mothers, younger brothers and sisters. Faces instantly tensed; alarm flickered in eyes.

  He explained to the mothers what was happening already on the move, simultaneously saddling his mount at the stable in the yard. His hands moved quickly, practised—he tightened the girth, threw a blanket across the horse's back. One of the younger brothers dashed back into the house and a moment later brought out his bow and quiver—Kairat caught the weapon without looking. The elder household members already ran to neighbouring yards—to warn, to raise the alarm, to gather those who could help.

  Within a minute two riders were racing towards the mountain road, raising snow with their hooves. Azamat galloped ahead, showing the way. Kairat drove after, slightly behind; the bow on his back swayed in time with the gallop. Azamat's heart beat somewhere in his throat; thoughts tangled, crowded over each other, refusing to let him focus. Two. Only two were returning. But more than fifty men had left. And why were they coming not by the city road, but from the direction of the mountains? What, in the spirits' name, had happened there?

  They rode onto the road just as the silhouettes drew close enough to make out. They dismounted together, abandoned their horses.

  Orgatai. Azamat recognised him first—tore forward without thinking, barely having dismounted. He caught the old man by the arm, felt beneath the thin clothing trembling from cold and tension in muscles taut as strings. The old orc barely stood on his feet; his entire massive body seemed to buckle beneath an invisible weight—face grey from exhaustion and the draining journey, deep wrinkles carved even deeper into skin than usual. His lips had cracked from cold and wind, dried so badly the skin on them had split in several places, leaving thin red fissures.

  The second companion needed no help, though he looked scarcely better—clothing soaked through, hair dishevelled by the wind, but he held himself straight, not bending under fatigue.

  "Ata! What happened?" Azamat gripped the old man's shoulder tighter, almost desperately. "Where's Ainur?"

  The first thoughts of a lad in love with the girl immediately spun round his single object of adoration. Dozens of images flashed through his head—Ainur wounded, bloodied, dead. His heart clenched, fluttered, beat somewhere in his chest so hard it became painful to breathe.

  "Where's Yernazar?" Kairat asked about his brother, dismounting after Azamat. His voice was firmer, but the same alarm flickered in his eyes.

  "What? Why are you asking about them?" Orgatai raised his head, breathing heavily, and fury mixed with incomprehension blazed in his brown eyes. "They should have appeared at the stele! In the temple!"

  Azamat froze. Kairat also stilled for a moment, not understanding.

  Orgatai, despite his exhaustion, seemed to shake off the road's weight—he straightened, squaring his shoulders, and seized both approaching lads by the shoulders at once, simultaneously. He squeezed so hard his fingers dug into flesh through layers of clothing, like a predator's claws. Azamat cried out from pain, jerked, but couldn't break free—the grip was iron.

  "What temple, ata? What stele?" Kairat tried to wrench himself free, but unsuccessfully. His thoughts raced, tangled into a knot. "They're... initiated? When? Were they—killed?"

  Azamat merely blinked, still recovering from the pain in his shoulder. But the next moment it hit him. Horror rolled in a cold wave down his spine, constricted his throat.

  "The order," he whispered.

  The word escaped before thought could form in his head—as though someone else spoke with his lips. He swallowed, struggling to unstick his dried lips, and continued louder, faster:

  "Kairat! Thorgrim grabbed them in the temple and took them to the city!" He turned to Orgatai, all but shaking the old man by the shoulders. "Ata, when were they supposed to appear at the stele?"

  Orgatai looked at Ayan—a heavy gaze, full of mute question. The latter answered calmly, voice without emotion:

  "Seven days ago."

  "Everything fits!" Azamat shouted, wheeling to Kairat and shaking him by the arm so hard, as though trying to shake some reaction into him. "It fits, don't you see? That's why there was noise in the temple!"

  Silence spread around. Only wind whistled in their ears, drove dry snow in thin serpents across the vicinity. Suddenly Zhuldyz whinnied—long, anxious, as though she'd realised something bad had happened to her mistress. Azamat felt the ground leave from beneath his feet—not literally, but the sensation was such, as though the entire world had tilted and lost its balance.

  "What happened?" Orgatai's voice resembled the growl of a wild beast, wounded, cornered. His brown eyes darkened; fury blazed in them, barely restrained by iron will.

  Kairat shook his head. Slowly, as though in a daze, as though not believing what was happening. His lips moved, but there were no words—only heavy breathing tearing from his chest.

  But still he found within himself the strength to order the jumble in his head—and briefly, haltingly, but clearly explained what had occurred. About the order's knights, about their appearance in Aksu. About Thorgrim, about Zhanbolat, about his father. And finally, about the events of a week ago.

  The old warrior groaned—dully, drawn-out, like a wounded beast. He doubled over; his massive body swayed forward. Ayan barely managed to leap forward and catch him, placing his shoulder beneath Orgatai's arm.

  "Do you know which road they'll take to the city?" The lad barked at the old orc, not the least embarrassed by his grey hairs and age. His voice sounded sharp, demanding and completely unexpected from the outwardly calm lad. "How many days will their journey take?"

  "Yes," Orgatai rasped, straightening with effort and shaking off Ayan's support. "In winter there's only one road. I reckon... we have eight to ten days in reserve. But we can't catch them! We won't make it in time!"

  "What about sending a pigeon?" Azamat immediately suggested, seizing the first thought that came to mind. "There are pigeons in the aul!"

  "In winter?" Orgatai shook his head, spat into the snow. "When there are hordes of hungry hawks about? And to whom would we send a message? Who'd agree to oppose the order openly?"

  His voice became quieter, almost a whisper—bitter, hopeless. Azamat clenched his fists but said nothing in reply. There was nothing to argue with.

  Ayan instantly calmed when he heard Orgatai's answer and spoke quietly, slowly, as though thinking aloud. "We don't need to catch them."

  He raised his head and met gazes with all three—caught three pairs of bewildered, questioning eyes.

  "We'll have to wait for them."