Prologue

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Outpost number twenty-eight, known among the imperial frontier guards as Yelny, resembled an old and worn-out mercenary who had long since lost his youth, having been replaced by many scars and fractures. Might is no longer the same, hair has long grayed, badly healed bones sometimes break, and the swiftness of youth remained only in the memory of bygone days. But it would be foolish to view such a foe as weak and frail, for instead of speed came great experience, and hundreds of battles have accustomed him to facing a wide variety of foes.

This fort was just that - tattered but strong walls, outdated but still mighty and regularly updated defenses, and, most importantly, a large contingent of warriors who might not be elite but had long since reached the bar of veterans. Such has been sent to these (or other, similar) places precisely in the hope that they can cross the next bar. There was no tolerance for carelessness or sloppy service here, for there was indeed a lot of warfare.

Being on the very frontier of the Empire, right next to the wilderness, where the worst was about to break out, demanded a great deal of skill and readiness. The rest, whether they were not diligent, lucky, strong, or simply unprepared, could not survive in these conditions. The fort had been taken several times, but the last capture and burning were a long time ago. The fort was rebuilt not as a pitiful hut but as a mighty fortress able to hold a regular garrison. In general, Emperor Pavian the Fortificator liked to build forts, castles, fortifications, and who knows what else. Evil tongues even said that his mother was cheating on her husband with someone from the mountain folk, and so was the boy, showing incredible talents in engineering, similar to a half-dwarf who tried to make it look like a man through the magic of Life and Alchemicals.

The talk was whispered, but not for long, for Stefal the Radiant was not officially an Empress, but she had kept her husband under her thumb all his life. I can't say that her husband was happy about it, but that's another story and one that no seminary will ever tell. You would have to go into the archives, and that is also a risky business. To condemn a supposedly unfaithful wife (for some reason, Hrothgar of Basalt had to send his hirds to help in the final battle with Alishan Khanate) can be long, but only in mind.

But her son was beloved even now, especially by those same frontiersmen for whom normal fortifications along the usual routes of savage hordes had long been synonymous with life. The last raid - surprisingly not by orcs and goblins but by mountain giants and mountain trolls - was repelled by these walls only six years ago, so the health of one of the great Emperors of the past was never forgotten within these walls over a drink.

The location was both fortunate and unfortunate, and on all sides remained so... ambiguous. The area would have been a waste of the Empire of the Ages had it not been for a very rare find made by one of the old expeditions. The territory itself, like a long sausage crawling from the main borders of the state and creeping up into the wilderness, resembled a long corridor. On either side, this sausage - the name is firmly entrenched in folklore, and Count Vzdryzhnevsky, whose name this piece of Alurei was named after, has long been forgotten by all but gray-haired scholars - was surrounded by two mountain ranges. Uncomplicated mathematics allowed one to understand a simple truth - one could pass either from the Empire to the Wildlands, or already from the Frontier to the Empire. And if the ruler did not want to meet regular raids in his fiefdom, it was necessary to take control of either the whole place in one piece, or at least the entrances and exits of the tract.

Initially, no one was going to take over the whole sausage. There were other areas where the Emperors needed (and could!) expand their borders. Put a strong fort in the area where the sausage "enters" the home state, and forget about it. Regular problems with monsters are a trifle amidst the conflict with Alishan and Amun, really. Fortunately, or unfortunately, reasons have been found to take control of this no-man's-land in a much tighter way.

Around the center of the Vzdryžněžský Tract, there was a well-protected and even more thoroughly camouflaged base that served as a research and extraction center. It was there that one of the few Maatite Veins in the world was exposed. The ingredient of the legendary grade is useful on its own, but the phase diamond crystals found among the deposits of the blood-red metal were of a mythical grade. So they had to take it before 0thers took it away.

Very few people knew about this place, and there were only two in the entire Outpost Twenty-Eight. One of the primary resources for Summoning, the creation of legendary enhancement potions and permanent boosters, as well as a fabulously expensive and equally high-quality store of neutral magic, was mined in an atmosphere of mystery and paranoia. The lode was approached and departed by the portal, and only carefully vetted miners and jewelers were allowed to mine. The portal was used by workers and staff to leave the mine, lost deep underground, with no access to the surface at all, save for a couple of air ducts carefully disguised as natural crevices.

Protecting a stable source of legendary and mythical reagents required something far more formidable than a garrison of Yelny, but the mystery was a far greater protection. After all, the dwelling was in the direct possession of the Imperial family, and there they were careful to ensure that knowledge did not escape. Too strong, a disproportionately powerful army at the entrance to the tract would cause a lot of emotion in the Seers of a likely enemy.

The garrison had no idea why they were sitting out in the cold, risking an arrow in the ass, guarding a place where there weren't even any normal settlements. A dozen or so small villages, gathering and hunting, and one small town, with a similarly modest garrison, were all that could be found here. Most likely, a horde that broke through Yelny would have been very surprised by the lack of prey and fabulously offended. On the few times they'd managed to do so, their faces had been very colorful, according to the records of the huntsmen who had fished out the monsters that had broken through. Even the goblins were largely absent here, for the fierce beasts that plagued the tract, gobbling up low-level goblins without delay. The environment was aggressive, even for a creature as hardy as a goblin.

In general, Yelny is a place where you can easily and not very strenuously (small hordes garrison, no the enemy, and the small skirmishes are small, that their danger is small) to improve their skills, or die ignominiously, but to make a career here can only be in their dreams. No, if you have to fight off a fully-fledged horde that's powerful and all-consuming, you'll be appreciated. Except that reasonable monsters know very well that there is no reason to break through this fort - no loot, no glory, not even a normal massacre. And the feat, in which you save a rich trading city and the same feat, where you defend useless stone ruin - it's very different feats. Hint: one of them will get you a medal and gold, while the other will get you at most a pat on the back.

It's a bad place for a good career.

Trevor Maligantium, his father's second son, was a clever, ambitious, grasping, and quite ordinary lad. He did not have the adventurous streak that enables a mediocre man to rise above a sea of mediocre men like him! His good training, intelligence, and diligence, combined with his father's influence, had allowed him a lot, but there was always someone with more impressive characteristics and no less noble. A few unfortunate conflicts, combined with the shaken influence of his kin at court, had led to what one might effectively call exile - here, he became the Emperor's Eye in that godforsaken place.

The Eye is a man whom no one likes but everyone respects and fears, for he has only a little less power than the commandant of an outpost or, say, the garrison commander, but surprisingly few restrictions. He is a kind of all-seeing observer, ensuring that the warriors of the Ages remain faithful forever and that no unnecessary thoughts wander into the minds of the commanding staff. They are trained to search for information, work with people and unravel intrigues, level thirtieth or higher, and have excellent artifacts, which allows them to survive an elimination attempt if they work too well.

This is if one is talking about the position of Eye in some very large garrison close to the Capital, occupying a strategic position, or simply being on the list of elite units in the Empire of the Ages. Such a position is very prestigious, and there are hardly a dozen, if not hundreds at once, of applicants for each place.

Speaking of Yelny, as well as its Eye... His level was exactly twentieth. His class was unsuitable (magical swordsman, rare grade), he lacked the necessary skills, and of the mighty artifacts he had only the family blade and the medallion of the Hearing Ear - the shop rattle of all the Eyes who were on active duty. Even the mere presence of such a medallion opened many doors and made him feel great in any city... if only they were here! No dinner parties, no expensive noble clubs, not even, pardon me, normal brothels! Had he known, he would have begged his father to take one of his maids along. Though he probably wouldn't have let him, his reputation at home was already shattered and he didn't need a scandal. To think such insolence as a personal heater could be tolerated by the straight-as-blade soldiers was naive. As inappropriate as he was for his position, he could understand such little things.

He was lucky in general - he might be freezing his bones off in Yelny, climbing the walls with boredom, but his seniority was dripping. In a couple of years, he'd move to a place closer to the capital, and he'd still own the medallion by right. And so will the Eye's position, just not in such a remote place anymore. In short, the father had managed to turn his son's troubles into a future dividend for all the men of his clan. It's a nuisance to endure adversity, of course, but he does carry the Maligantum' name! If only it weren't for that damned boredom! He'd be glad of an orcs horde - a small one - or a tribe of trolls coming in from the mountains - a small one - or even a giant coming down from the mountains - preferably alone - he was so sick of everything.

Winter in these parts, thanks to some weather anomaly, was always very snowy, cold, and windy. The only spells that got regular updates were the defensive and attacking ones, while the interior temperature control seemed to have been often neglected. That is if such charms were even in the original design of this ludicrous ruin!

He had to wrap himself in two warm blankets and curse himself for not thinking to take a warming amulet from home. He had a personal one, and there were plenty of them in the warehouses, but he couldn't carry one on him for long, and he hadn't thought of taking a stationary one that could insulate an entire room. The stockpiles no longer had any, - there wasn't much there at all, - but warm blankets were plentiful. He had ordered the private rooms to be heated as soon as the first snow arrived, but his study, which could also serve as a small conference room, had no fireplace as the fire would damage important papers.

Only the blankets remained.

In places so far removed from major cities and high command, many rules and seemingly immutable traditions are regarded as recommendations at best. For example, hardly anyone would risk breaking into the Eye's office practically without knocking, without comparable titles, backgrounds, and powers. Here at Yeln, discipline was somewhat lax... as far as respect for the worthy was concerned, or the former villeins' ability to keep their mouths shut in a subservient silence.

"Lord Maligantium, there was a prisoner brought in by Faram's boys on patrol." Though outwardly Martin, the senior officer in charge of the outpost's internal patrols, was relaxed, Trevor was well aware that he enjoyed pestering the young nobleman with such a demonstrative attitude.

Fortunately, the second heir, despite a healthy dose of ancestral pride was perfectly capable of holding his temper and not rushing into provocation. The time for revenge would come later, along with the same characteristic, which would then be sewn into the file of a twenty-second-level swordsman. Trevor's actions might not be enough to execute the Captain for treason - the Commandant could stand up for his subordinate - but just a pay cut and a mark of insubordination would be a nasty surprise. Martin could not fail to understand that, but, apparently, he bit his teeth, not wanting to admit that he could not provoke the "self-confident scoundrel". You've got someone to provoke, you redneck! Trevor may not have been born in a palace, but he knew his way around the capital and had not fallen for such simple tricks in a long time.

"Lead the way." The imperial interrogator, dryly and carefully concealing his anger at the whole fortress, said as he rose from his desk and put on his family and staff amulets.

The place was so dangerous that it was better not to walk even a few extra steps without protection-if not an arrow from an enemy infiltrator, then some evil bird mutated from the planarian scourge would try to pry your eyes out. The first week Trevor nearly went stark raving mad because of a couple of savage wolves who were tempted by the lone human figure. Since that adventure, he'd remembered to wear protection even when drinking tea at dawn in his room. He was never alone if he was any closer to the outside world.

Faram Zaldin, a high-ranking Jaeger for this place, was in charge of all the outer patrols of Yelny, acting not only as a scout but also as the head of the food gatherers. Though the food in the Empire of Ages was substantial, not forgetting to bring the caravans even to such remote places as the Vzdyrzhnevsky tract, nobody liked to eat crackers and corned meat all year round. Especially when there were so many all kinds of fowl and other running meat around.

Despite Trevor's overzealous, in the opinion of the officer-fed Trevor, focus on finding prey, the Jaeger squads were engaged in very important work. Shooting the occasional greenhorn that ventured beyond the patrol routes, hunting for creatures, and tracking monsters, of which there were even more than intelligent monsters in the forests, regularly setting traps, alarms, and other important things. In the past, according to the records in the local archives (out of boredom you read even such kind of papers), patrols had gone much deeper into the forests, sometimes even into the foothills of both ranges, but that practice had been abandoned nearly fifty years ago because of the loss of life and the lack of usefulness of the patrols.

The prisoners of green were rarely taken, only for the sake of checking the situation in the tribal structure of the wilderness; they could not be sure what plans they had. They took tongues strictly according to schedule, not at every opportunity, as bringing a prisoner to the fort is a whole epic, especially if the prisoner does not want to be taken. Now there was no scheduled capture, which means either the Forest Brothers' patrols were very lucky and could not refuse to carry out the plan "up front", or the reason was something else. If the huntsmen had only taken advantage of a chance like an orc getting too close to the fort (there is almost no need to drag him anywhere), there would have been less noise and whispering.

So it's about something else.

And when he saw the prisoner, Trevor immediately knew exactly what it was. Or rather, when he saw her looking around hysterically, trying to gnaw at the gag in her mouth and not expecting anything good from her captors. Among the orcs, there were more women with weapons in their hands than humans and fewer beautiful ones. Trevor considered himself a very experienced connoisseur of female beauty. And he'd also seen ordinary orc females, who were at least simply pretty seemed very rare. Here, however, it was either an abnormally beautiful individual or, far more likely, a despicable half-breed. Her features were too correct and pleasing to the human eye.

Trevor couldn't figure out what it was that excited him. It caused an underlying sense of mystery. If he hadn't been a nobleman with an excellent education, he would never have understood it, but he was. She was an orc, which was obvious, but an orc pleasing to the human eye. Her face bore all the characteristic features of an orc: the distinctive bite and shape of her jaw, the peculiar structure of her skull, and the different facial expressions, but somehow the spectacle was presented in a way that was not at all repulsive.

Not a half-breed, no, for there is too much of the human in them. They're more like green-teeth and green-haired freaks, even if they are quite lush. Here, however, the beauty is not human at all, which means there is less than half the human blood in her. Likely, a roll of the dice has so successfully chosen the gifts of her ancestral blood that the result is surprising - even Trevor himself was frankly interested in the possessor of an unconventional appearance... purely for naturalistic purposes, of course, like the butterfly collectors who shudder at every rare insect.

"I can guess what you're thinking, lad." His thoughts were interrupted by the only man in the place whose commoner origins he could tolerate without unnecessary anger. "But look not at the girl's face, but at the things that have been taken off her."

Commandant Reim's finger pointed precisely at the equipment on the table in the corner, and Trevor immediately went into work mode. The commandant evoked a certain respect from the Eye both for his professionalism and his very impressive level. He was also the one who had saved Trevor, who had been struck by the enemy, if not with his life, then with his eyesight. The thirty-third is already too much for Yelny, but the commandant did not want to leave here, preferring the stability of the outland to any adventures in the Capital, even if these adventures may lead to career advancement.

The experienced warrior and commander were quick to point out the main thing without being distracted by complicated theories about the amount of human blood in her veins. All he had to do was to examine her gear, clearly uncharacteristic of an ordinary orc. The elaborate camouflage made of bits of hare skin, twigs, and pebbles, with which she can disguise herself masterfully in the winter woods, was not too surprising. Such camouflage is used by both human and orc jagers, whom some fools say humans got the idea from. Even though the cloak was of high quality, made with the love and professionalism of a skilled craftsman, there was nothing unusual about it.

More surprising were the orcish weapons: two iron daggers, a set of iron and bone arrows, some suspiciously glinting with venom, a blowpipe, five knives, and a thin thread probably made from the vein of some monster. A rather extensive arsenal, analogs of which he had seen more than once among the trophies brought back by patrols. Except that they were analogs.

He moved a little closer and put on his gloves, just in case. Trevor examined the trophies more closely. The more details he noticed, the more alarming it became for the officer representing the Emperor's interests. Most of the greenhorns' weapons were of a strikingly low quality, made of poor iron, produced by artisan smiths who had barely developed their skills. Occasionally, of course, there were the more potent artifacts, enchanted by barbarian shamans until they cracked, but they were just as badly made pieces of bone, wood, and iron, now merely magical.

Here... all weapons, be they iron daggers, throwing needles, or bone projectiles for the blowpipe were of very, let us stress this detail, very high quality. Indeed they were! Trevor would not hesitate to take these blades to the family treasury and boast about them afterward in front of anyone willing to listen. No, not legendary artifacts, but at least a rare grade they deserved, and much closer to the epic than common.

Incredible strength, a sharpening that could cut a soaring hair lengthwise, the ability to partially ignore protective barriers as if due to the negation of magic, an unnatural lightness, and, of course, the appearance. Trashy iron or bone, but these implements of death were beautiful and even somewhere graceful - streamlined angles, excellent balance, fine workmanship. It was beyond the power of the tribal smiths known to Yelny to create such a thing. Perhaps somewhere deep in the wilderness, there are entities powerful enough to be considered quasi-states. Trevor refused to believe such nonsense, demeaning to the pride of a citizen of the Empire of the Ages, not considering the greenlings civilized enough for such complicated things. But anything was possible.

But there are no such craftsmen around because they would have been found out a long time ago.

And an ordinary... Okay, unusually beautiful, an orc scout of not too high level, armed with the kind of gizmos that, in another tribe, not every chief would be able to get, is still here in front of them. So she got it from somewhere, and someone gave it to her. And since an ordinary scout got such a treasure, the chiefs and shamans must be even better armed.

Who could give such an expensive and extremely poorly disguised orcish outfit to an ordinary tribe of green-skinned freaks? A lot of people, really. Not even worth speculating about, at least not until a full interrogation has taken place. But why would this someone commit such foolishness? There was only one answer, so Trevor, who had a hunch, dragged the commandant out of his office, away from prying ears, and began to explain his position to him.

"Too complicated to be true, and more importantly, practically useless." Reim gave his verdict, listening carefully and without interrupting the wearer of the medallion. "Just use your head, and you'll see where you're wrong."

Trevor thought honestly but found no answer as he silently reported with a glance alone. In his opinion, the version was turning out to be, though not very solid but the only one possible.

"The items taken from this orc could be sold for a good hundred gold coins of imperial coinage." He reasonably states. "It's beyond the power of the nearby tribes to make them themselves. And the only purpose for which anyone could arm and motivate the Greenskins is known to both of us. And it's not our outpost at all. Apparently, someone managed to get information about the location of the vein and decided to..."

"Youth, youth." Just said Reim, interrupting the speech of the slowly getting more and more excited special agent. "Believe me, Trevor, all concerned have known about the vein and its supposed location for a long time. Maybe not the exact coordinates, but the approximate location of the lode is known to many. No one has launched an attack on the place solely because it is very difficult, would require enormous effort, would not bring any benefit to the attackers, and would result in losses greater than those suffered by the Empire."

A pause, after which the commandant also activated his amulet and proceeded to inform the over-zealous and restless boy of the information he had in his possession.

"Anything the vein gives away is immediately sent by portal to a warehouse in the Palace Treasury. Any attempt to break through to the mine will end with it being evacuated and liquidators sent in. There's simply nothing to take there - the loot isn't stored there, and the passive defenses will hold anyone back long enough to allow the staff to escape by the portal. But even if someone manages to capture it and cut out the workers and guards. It's of little use. We're sandwiched between a hammer and anvil, with the Empire on one side and the Frontier on the other. The invaders will not be able to hold the vein, and the only thing they will be able to do is interrupt the delivery of the material for a short time because any destruction we will restore with less effort than the enemies will spend on sabotage. And the group that does this is doomed - they will not be allowed out of here. The exchange is disadvantageous for everyone who could try to carry out such a diversion. That is why no one tried - for a really large-scale campaign just one vein is not enough, and the tract itself is not needed even for free."

The nobleman could only wince in annoyance. Now that it had been explained to him, it really did seem almost obvious. He seemed too embarrassed by the very fact that he was entrusted with such a secret. Apart from that secret, there is nothing... nothing at all! And noticing the first unusualness, Trevor immediately linked it with a known secret, convincing himself that large-scale sabotage against the Empire was being prepared here.

"But then where did our guest get all her possessions?" He asked, already calmer and no longer looking for un existed conspiracies.

"First of all, it's not her, it's ours... A hundred imperials between the two of us, after all." The Commandant chuckled, hinting at the possibility that the loot might be passed down his line and pocketed. "Second, you can interrogate her. But my money's on the Orcess being from some distant tribe that decided in the course of some war of their own to relocate away from their conquering adversaries. Soon there will be a new player in that place, who will first crush the weaker neighbors, either by annexing or destroying them, and then try us for a taste of their own. So do your questioning carefully, without delay - if there really are such powerful monsters here, you'd better send a report early. Maybe they'll even send help... ...or a pay raise.

"What do we know about her yet?" Trevor went into business mode, vowing to think about the option of making a small fortune from the spoils. "She was being inspected, wasn't she?"

The interrogator checked, yes. A level between the fifteenth and twentieth, but closer to the first. Serious for the local orcs, especially when you remember that we're not talking about a Boyz, but a Scout, who rarely gains high levels. It's only a miracle she didn't kill anyone - lucky to catch her on a stun arrow, and after that, the flimsy scout is no longer a fighter. She would have bled to death if not for that, and they wouldn't have taken her alive. The rest was standard procedure - tie her up, strip her down, gag her. The boys were so frightened no one even tried to undress her; three of them died in a heartbeat. No other way Fortune had kissed it.

"Is there anything else?" The aristocrat clarified, figuring out the interrogation process in his mind.

"She had several clay vials of potions, good ones at a high level." After thinking for a moment, Raimus replied, clearly having just come to some conclusion himself. "And her weapon... I've seen similar ones. It's an alchemical forging, a very rare and intricate type of enchantment. It was a mixture of alchemy and transmutation, and there weren't a lot of people who were good at both. We seem to be aware of the kind of powers their chief shaman has developed. And if the alchemist isn't in charge there, then I'm a theatrical dancer."

The interrogation of the green-skinned prisoners was supposed to be carried out in the presence of a full three guards, not including the interrogator. This is not to say that it is all that necessary, but there have been occasions when captured monsters have pulled nasty tricks, and they have done so with enviable regularity. Not to mention the story when the Hudzor fortress spanning the pass of the same name was completely cleaned out by a breach of the planar creatures. All they had to do was to turn a prisoner into a bomb and a decoy for evil spirits at the same time and then rub their hands together in anticipation. The Alishans are like that; they love, know-how, and practice tactical sorcery.

No danger was anticipated from the tied-up scout, especially after she had been securely fastened to a special chair, unable to move at all. Still, Trevor remembered the commandant's caveat that the lady had nearly stabbed three of the full squad of five huntsmen, a feat not many could accomplish. And the quality of her weapons was also a cause for caution.

Anyway, this time, Trevor didn't limit himself to the company of one guard (someone had to do the grunt work of the interrogation), leaving two guards around at once. Call him an overreactor, but the situation really is too unusual, and anything unusual in this godforsaken place is apriori considered dangerous.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He was not going to mutilate his prisoner, though. Not out of humanity (to an orc!), but out of a reluctance to spoil the beautiful face - after all, he had obtained a unique specimen and, with the proper skill, he could even sell her to some exoticism lover. Seriously, a very beautiful creature, despite its pedigree... Or in spite of it.

A silent sign to one of the guards and the gag - almost chewed, by the way - leaves the mouth of the orc woman gloomily glaring at him while the interrogator himself assesses the reaction of the prisoner. And he does not like the reaction - no growls, cries, or threats so characteristic of a captive green-skinned creature. He was not even going to expect a plea for mercy, having studied the psychology of this species of monster to the letter, but the calm and collected manner was alarming. If she wasn't threatening, she was either clever enough to know that threats were useless... or she was still confident that she has a chance.

It's a good time to suspect a raid by her tribesmen, but that's highly unlikely - all the far approaches to Yelny are covered by spells and solitary observation nests. Watching them is one of the least favorite tasks of the Yelnii garrison, and the death rate is high, but it's hard to pass up such an observation. Notice anything? Signal through the amulet! You die, and the amulet registers your death? A signal! One captured and missed a regular call? Signal again!

It was almost impossible to believe anyone would be able to sneak an entire army into the fort without disturbing a single trap. But remembering the quality of this cutthroat's weaponry made him uncomfortable, and all sorts of thoughts crept into my head. Apparently, he would still have to force the interrogation and conduct it as quickly as possible. For every special potion that costs incomparably more than the simple tongue-stretching concoctions, he would have to write a separate report, verifying it with his medallion. However, better paperwork than a perpetual bore or, worse, a full-blown surprise assault on Yelny.

"Will I have to force potions into you, or will you be a good bitch and open your mouth?" The question is also a test question (the potions will be poured by force anyway, so she won't spit them out), where the answer is not the words but the reaction to the question.

Instead of an answer, only an incomprehensible - anticipatory? - a chuckle and an indistinguishable movement of the lips, as if she wanted to curse him, or at least swear at him, but she held back.

...it's not worth wasting potions just yet...

"I'll answer without the booze." Her speech was coarse and curt, typical of the orcs, but her voice was surprisingly melodic, pleasant even, especially against the husky, drunken baritones of the soldiers. "Ask, human."

If to think about it, he doesn't have to spend the potions right away either - even if the rush is justified, a direct interrogation would not be out of place either. He thought he would have to interrogate her again later and then use the drugs... It wasn't worth the expense of the potions just yet. For now, he could listen to what the cornered rat had to say.

"You'd better have answers that I find interesting, you bitch." Without changing his expression, Trevor said, setting the vial of lie-killer aside and preparing to take notes in his notebook.

The orc woman's smile became even more eager and satisfied, which made the aristocrat realize at once that interrogation with normal potions was indeed necessary - a satisfied orc automatically means unhappy people. But there was no point in wasting any of the potions just yet.

The night was gradually taking hold, and Mtran's tired eyes welcomed the appearance of familiar darkness. A good orc sleeps during the day, so the orc's eyes ached and watered during the day, waiting for the soft darkness of night. Mtran, like any scout, could look and see even on the sunniest of days, but her eyes ached mercilessly. The only thing that hurt more was her throat. Or rather, her voice was working fine. She didn't have to shout or scream from the boiling iron, but her voice, a gift from the misty bitch who served the new Chief, had to be strained beyond repair.

Mtran is clever. She knows that if you work too hard with a spear when you're not used to it, your whole body hurts, or you get so sick you have to run or crawl to a shaman. Mtran liked her new voice even better than her first dagger, given to her gang's leader in recognition of the new scout especially since her daggers were already new, personally made by the Pale Chieftain! And let everyone suck it in, even Grtlashra, even though she is now the right hand of the new chieftain.

She, Mtran, was sent to do the job, not that arrogant, worthless bitch who couldn't even be a warrior! Mtran had only managed to tease her about it once, only once. Mtran, unlike Grtlashra, had not lain as a doormat in someone else's tent but remained a warrior. In response, the elder of the tribe smiled strangely, shifted, said something, waved her hands, and spoke again, and Mtran herself was no longer able to keep up with her...

She came to her senses after licking the slits of a dozen goblin wimps, convincing everyone that this was where she belonged and what kind of warrior was she, Mtran, anyway? A fucking slit licker trying to occupy her mouth and tongue with something useful rather than idle talk.

The memory of the shame was lighting a small signal fire in her crotch, and she felt a pleasant faintness in her body. Now if she could put something in her mouth to work on her lips and tongue, she would be fine. It wasn't her pride that saved her from shamefully sucking on the puppy she'd handled. What's there to dust in front of? Grtlashra had shoehorned her nicely, and even the thought of resisting her words could not arise. Every time Mtran tried to remember what the bitch had told her, or even resist. She found herself at best desperately shoving her fingers through her juicing hole. At worst, giving herself over to the same gobblers as a free mouth for their pussholes. At the very worst, if she was particularly foul-mouthed by Grtlashra in her thoughts, as a plaything for the dumbfounded and unable-to-speak males. She had suddenly decided to help calm their boners.

But she was led by the orders of the Сhief. And the Сhief's orders trumped Grtlashra's and always did. So, wiping away her drool and biting her lip, Mtran got to work. The two lookouts had already passed out. She limited herself to the smallest thing so they wouldn't stick their knives in her. Normal, iron knives, she mean, who'd let them stick other knives in her?

But the puppy who had been asking her was still staring at her with the same puppyish stare, like a baby warg torn from a tit. The last time he could still speak, he gave her his i-di-nthi-fi-ca-ti-on amulet, which protected her from the evil shamanism of the creators of this whole stone hulk. In exchange, she honored the deal by sitting her ass on the puppy's face and even waited until he had ruined his pants with human seed for the fourth time. She didn't like humans and didn't want to fuck them, but she liked the power she had over an important and strong (and she smelled a lot of power in the puppy) man. He was something of a small chief here, taller than the Nob, but lower than the first shaman.

She did not ask particularly, for she knew that clever things had to be done by the Chief and his fellows and that she had to do as she was told. The order was simple - get captured, preferably so as not to be cut in the heat of the moment, wait for the moment and, after calming the guards with her voice, give the shamanic signal to the Chief himself. At the thought that she had coped with this order (almost, almost coped and not going to relax!) Mtran couldn't help herself and, with two fingers, brought herself to a rapid climax, throwing off some of the feelings that were overwhelming her.

A cool head is more important.

The pup watching her seemed to cum for the fifth time, finally ruining the strange and thin skins he was wearing, but Mtran was no longer paying attention. Several times this stone sack in which she was about to be tortured was checked, but then her 'captors' still maintained the appearance that they were warriors here and not her personal bitches. Mtran may have gone overboard with her voice, but she was not ordered to do things discreetly - only quickly and without raising alarms.

Nodding her thoughts and hoping that the Chief - or at least one of his human brethren - would reward her, Mtran proceeded with the last part of the order. The guard didn't even move when the orc woman (who'd untied her in exchange for her tits) drew his dagger. I would have swung it across his throat, but the charms of human shamans could smell the death of a tribesman, especially so deep in the heart of a stone fortress.

Instead of a stranger's throat, Mtran sliced open her shoulder, wincing in pain - her body was faster, stronger, and much easier to bear the wounds after the misty wench's work, but there was no pleasure in cutting herself. She applied pressure to the wound, and a small black seed poured out of the skin into her palm along with the blood. It looked like a small fingernail-sized nut, but the Pale Chief said to guard her shoulder the hardest and not to let the nut get lost.

She could hardly keep her hands from running her hands between her legs, but she remembered everything the Chief had said. She remembered everything, including how to use the grain either by throwing it into any puddle or can of water or putting it against ref-lec-ti-ve su-r-fa-ce Mtran had seen a mirror, so she knew what it looked like. From her voice, the pup ordered her to bring a jug of water, just in case this mirror didn't fit.

What's the big deal? The Pale Chieftain talked about a ref-lec-ti-ve su-r-fa-ce. What if this mirror doesn't fit? It's the chief who's smart, knows a lot of words, and Mtran... she's smart, too, but not that smart. Better to have two hunting spears at once than to rely on one and be left meatless, hungry, and ridiculed. Grtlashra will surely laugh at her all winter if she doesn't do the chief's bidding... if she is left alive at all. Or maybe they'll just take her mind out of her head and make her stupid and brainless like all the men before her.

Mtran somehow couldn't tell whether the latter option frightened her or beckoned her. But she knew for certain that the chief's orders were obeyed in any case, and so she silenced her foolish thoughts.

The seed had just touched the mirror when it disappeared as if it had been sucked into the damned glass. Mtran could barely keep from crying out in despair as she was told to guard the seed with her life. Or rather, that wasn't what the chief had said, but Misty bitch and Grtlashra had explained. And she fucked it up like a goblin!

Before the orchid tried to break the mirror in a panic to get the black seed, waves came over the mirror, and then she heard the familiar and so pleasant (wet between the legs!) voice of the human leader. And straight from the mirror, which meant that she was about to be either told off for her failure or praised for her success.

"Communication is stable, and the fortress defenses are no hindrance to me." The chieftain spoke indistinctly but impressively. "Come on, green one, step away from the mirror."

She obeyed the order faster than thought, and the order was followed by another wave through the mirror, and from there as if from a small window, a thin and swift figure of a leader wrapped in his strange rags slipped out like a fish.

However, very strong sorcery!

There was no scary white face on his face, and it hung on his belt next to his weapon. While Mtran quietly devoured the Chief with her eyes, trying discreetly to tense and relax her hips so that the bump felt pleasant, the Chief looked around, wrinkling his nose at the grinning pup (she didn't like him either, she should have cut him down!), and then pulled another mirror from under his cloak.

"All right, time to get back to work." A glance towards the scout, who immediately made the most subservient face (in case he believed her and decided to reward her, or at least slap her on the ass and thighs). "You did it, Mtran. Congratulations."

From the praise and the realization that the Chief had noticed her and even remembered her name, Mtran squeezed her legs particularly hard, cumming on the spot and barely containing her moans and convulsions. Now she would definitely have something to say back to all the insolent bitches who tried to yap against her! Meaning a proper response, not an answer.

"Now, I will cover the fortress with my own field and rebuild the defenses, so we are not perceived as enemies. "The chief, meanwhile, continued. - The outer fields will have to be intercepted and reconstructed in the right configuration after we take control of the fort. Then I blablablabla blabla blabla blabla blabla blabla blabla and blabla blabla blabla. Then blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah. And blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. How about that, Mtran?"

When she realized that the chief was talking to her again, the orcish woman, who had already managed to cum in the same way once more, gave her face a most intelligent expression and nodded confidently.

"Uhu. Yeah, Chief! That's right!"

The chief looked at her oddly - better he'd have fucked her - but she must have answered correctly, for they did not punish her, even letting her continue her business. She was so excited as she said in her voice that she had time to cum five more times that night before she got even a little tired. And since the chief didn't need her, and he didn't demand that she be ready for battle, she could relax.

Just a little bit.

By morning the delicate curls of Dream would have pierced Fort Yelnyj from the top of its towers to the deepest stones of the foundations. In truth, the mysterious chieftain could well have done the job himself without even approaching the fort, but he saw fit to put his tribe to the test while showing the utmost secrecy at the same time. Especially since, of late, this chief had sensed a strange premonition of danger, asserting that it would be better for him to keep himself hidden in Dream for the time being without acting too brazenly. For some months now, he had felt it.

Now, even if the mighty Seer had tried to see what was going on in Fort Yelnyj, he would have seen nothing out of the ordinary. At most, if he were really powerful, he would catch sporadic swirls of strange interference, which he would mistake for trashy visions, not paying any attention to them. The presumed visionary would never have guessed what was going to happen next in this place.

Even if there really was one.

* * *

In a world far away, where Alurei and his problems were not even heard of, there was a very famous phrase that went something like this: "Don't underestimate the unpredictability of stupidity". The creature that was now thinking about the same thing had never been in that world, nor had it ever heard the phrase itself, but if it had, it would have agreed with the full understanding of its author's correctness.

Sometimes, very rarely, people's stupidity mixed with arrogance could be a stumbling block. And if that stupidity and insolence were surprisingly complemented by cunning and subterfuge, the result could be truly depressing. During its long, long life, the creature has faced many attempts to be bought, persuaded, begged, or intimidated. Regularly there have even been those who have dared to threaten him or thought they could speak to him on an equal footing.

But for the first time in centuries, the creature found itself in a situation where it was being blackmailed. And, perhaps for the first time at all, he was forced to admit that this particular blackmail had a real chance of success. Just a day of unimaginable discovery, embodying the adage: "Everything is possible under heaven".

Sitting in the real world, the boy who had summoned him (who had brazenly summoned him!) to talk to him was a very uncomfortable interlocutor. Perhaps he encountered them even less often than he encountered dangerous opponents. Even in his most unrealistic dreams, the Lanorsk scum was not an adversary - now or at any other time, the old Weaver could kill the boy in a matter of hours, if not seconds. At the very least, if he could hide very far and well, behind powerful and specialized defenses, for a few days.

Except he can't kill. And to break and suppress is not an option!

Ironically, the creature was so focused on the war with an as-yet-unknown colleague that it simply did not pay attention to the little splinter, who suddenly managed to realize the scale of the problem and pick up surprisingly effective countermeasures. The Lanorsk, having survived yet another assassination attempt and had killed another of his children (now personally murdered by a young brat, of that there is no doubt), became acutely aware of how dangerous their lives had become.

And they came up with it. Weaver acknowledged that, very cleverly, they came up with the answer.

They have gathered all possible and impossible information about him, his activities, and the sweep he has carried out. They'd even found out, albeit indirectly, exactly who in the Melareth aristocracy was giving the creature 'patronage'. And they didn't threaten him with that data - what good would it do if the creature could cut off virtually unlimited tongues? It has the power to see through the mists of the Dreams, to see in mirrors the reflections of events to come. Any "dead hands" that blackmailers are so fond of using against their victims are useless against him - he will know about the "bomb" being prepared before it has even been prepared.

He did not know what it had cost the Lanorsk, but he had to show them a certain respect. It was not often that he could be outmaneuvered in this field, and never before had someone so weak in comparison to him done so. The important thing is that they succeeded in a matter of days, placing the collected documents and their speculations into boxes of highly inert material.

Not a problem because someone has touched these documents, boxes, and compromising material. This means finding all the information mines will only take a little longer. Yes, they managed to finish the first phase before he reacted, preventing Weaver from killing the plot before it had even begun, but that was all. All this he had already seen, all this he had already done...

But what is it? The delivery and handling of the caskets had been entrusted to the most unreliable, delinquent, or simply double agents, whose sins the Lanorsk knew about. And, knowing this, reliably murdered everyone, generally, everyone who could be implicated, whose existence could only give the Weaver a clue. There was not a living soul left who knew exactly where the caches of information were now located.

It is more complicated, but the Lanorsk were not the only ones to sweep away the loose ends and throw them into the Abyss of the Sea. They may be dead now, but they lived, dreamed, and saw dreams and their reflections in mirrors. And if they did, the old Weaver would be able to find these traces, the lost images, joining them back into the mosaic of other people's plans and designs. Such efforts he had not often had to make, and for such weaklings, perhaps never.

And... Nothing? Weaver knew the Lanorsk possessed a vast amount of very rare artifacts, potions, and amulets, but he had not expected that these treasures would be spent so desperately and so quickly. The essence of all those killed was scorched away. As an option: dissolved, lost, shattered into rubble, thrown beyond the Edge, and a few more exotic options. The death of a soul in the embrace of another realm is very, even too "very" interfering with clairvoyance if it is trying to tune into the secondary traces of another's existence.

Weaver had seen the all-consuming Flame and Frost, the hungry grip of Shadows and the madness of Darkness, the radiance of the Sun and the blueness of the Sky - behind such a barrier there was little to see, and even less to understand. If the subject were more tangible or if he had the original information, he would have broken through the barrier, but there was no point in weeping about it.

The boxes themselves were in the hands of automatons, golems, undead, or anything else that had no life, could not sleep and was not reflected in mirrors. Now the search was turning into a truly difficult task. And if only one of the Lanorsk or their people died mysteriously, the collected data would be sent to anyone who could be powerful enough to receive it. The King, the Orders, the Guilds, the Secret Guards, the noble families... everyone.

Weaver didn't give a damn about that.

The leak was not dangerous to him - even if the King found out about his 'patron', it would be the aristocrat's problems, not Weaver's. He would be in trouble after his scheming was brought to light, yes, but Weaver would not be harmed. There are simply none in all of Melareth right now who could be a danger to him purely physically, and he will easily get away from the mob, even if not without loss. He could, if he so wished, put the whole kingdom to death. And had every chance of success, or more likely partial success, as long as the gods, unhappy with the mass death of their flock, did not intervene.

The reason he stopped in his confusion was not because of people but because of his Enemy, who was just waiting for the moment to attack again. He wasn't hiding for anything, trying to find another Weaver at the same time, trying to cover his tracks for nothing. And once he was back in front of people, pathetic and powerless to harm him, he would let himself be seen by him as well, seen by their eyes, heard by their ears, touched by their dreams.

Weaver strained to think his way out of an unpleasant situation that he had failed to foresee. His mistake, his stupidity, and his payback. Weaver was not angry or giving vent to his emotions, for a very recent bitter experience had reminded him of the usefulness of a cool mind. The time for sweet retribution would come inevitably, but not now.

For starters, he would agree to leave the puppy alone, which right now was clutching a battle artifact ready to incinerate its owner's body the moment the boy loosened his grip. A reasonable precaution - the old man could try to replace Lanorsk with a puppet, but that is pointless right now. The boy himself does not know the location of the caches of information, and any attempt by him (or anyone pretending to be him) to find out about it will automatically lead to the information going to the recipients. There was no mechanism at all in the design of the trap to allow the papers to be retrieved.

Next, preparations must begin for the transfer of his Workshop. The shell, the outer manifestation, and the material walls will remain in the same place, along with the prepared deception and trap, while the core itself, which, like an iceberg, is mostly hidden in the Dream, will be relocated. Melareth has become too cramped and uncomfortable, which means it is time for a change of venue. Find new 'patrons', mop up the old ones beforehand, build a new home, and turn the Workshop back. In the same Sorz, for example! The sunlight is painfully bright, but in its rays, it is so easy to hide the invisible haze of mirages...

It is only when the last pieces of his stronghold, which has long been part of his body, have been moved and installed in their new location that he will cover both the boy and his "employer", and anyone else he sees fit. Then the dirt he has collected will cease to be dangerous to him personally, becoming mere obsolete information. And the one person he was unwilling to give this knowledge to would no longer be able to use it to his advantage. Or even deceive himself, thinking the discarded shell to be the truth and attempting to strike in return.

"The one who helped you kill my child." He murmured in his real voice. "Tell me everything, and I'll leave you and your..."

The word "for now" was not spoken, but everyone presents understood the unspoken word without the slightest mistake. Weaver did agree to temporarily follow the spirit of the deal in return for the information he received. Having outplayed his would-be assassin, Sigismund Lanorsk has also outplayed the assassin's enemy. Be that as it may, the puppy must know at least something about the mysterious Weaver, and that knowledge can be bought fair and square. Especially when you consider the strange protection on the puppy's mind.

There was an underlying hatred in the creature's heart and the merest shred not of fear but of apprehension; it had been too long since he had faced anyone who was even remotely worthy of facing him. And what the puppy had said only served to fuel that apprehension. The boy's hand gripped the suicidal artifact tightly, not allowing it to simply break into his mind and take the essence of it along with the answers. All that remained was to watch the boy's words, looking for even a shadow of a lie in them...

There were no lies.

There was only the story of a strange stranger in the right place at the right time, playfully defeating a manhunt and assassins sent after the Lanors. The story of a stranger with no face was invisibly there, guiding the puppy's hands against his defenseless Child. A stranger who took no reward and gave no real name.

Weaver was aware that the boy was at least silent about his class, which allowed him to destroy his messenger, sent after the Seeker Temptress to kill the whole family of pathetic noblemen who thought they were clever enough to actually seek him out. Perhaps the Mirror Warrior or even the Blade of Dreams. Or maybe just some artifact dug up in the family vault. Weaver sensed a vaguely related power in the boy, but barely discernible, not dangerous to him personally. He did not care much for the slain messenger, a one-time mutt, even if it was infused with the power to the very edges. Not worth the fallen child's weight in tears and weeping. The boy would die, answerable only for the very first murder, however indirectly, but not now.

Not now.

Weaver left, left silently, leaving the puppy to his fate. One can always return if one remembers to return. And Weaver has a good memory. He has yet to forget anyone in his vengeance.

* * *

Sigismund exhaled the air that had been held in his chest for some time and then inhaled a full breath. The meditative practice was a good way to calm down in such cases, but he was already as calm as a dead man - having sunk to the edge and a little higher into his native class, he had become a cold and calm monster, just waiting for his naked mind and logic to give the command to attack. Only such a monster could negotiate with a far scarier monster, for it would not even listen to a human.

Sigismund marveled at how lucky they all were. It was worth thanking his father, who, after hearing Lacianna's report and learning of Caspian Barglor's death, accepted his venture without question. Very expensive in terms of finances and influence but much needed for survival. It was not Frederick's crowning achievement, a multi-stage intrigue that had been cooked up months, if not years, before the moment of attack. The plan belonged entirely to Sigismund and was created in a single evening and a night filled with feverish haste. It took only three days and a whole lot of gold coins to execute the plan. For teleporters, for amulets of communication, for buying service golems, for creating undead couriers, for bribing agents, and for eliminating all those involved.

Lacianna was almost on her knees, begging him to stop being a fool and let those closer and faster go under the knife, but Sigismund abhorred such indiscretions. They were, for the most part, his men, and no amount of haste could force the greedy boy in his soul to break his toys. But all who had only the nerve to spy against them, who 'leaked' - as Lacianna put it - the family secrets... all of them have paid, all of them have redeemed themselves. The Master of Silence herself had not slept a single hour in all three days, still managing to organize first the task itself and then the elimination of all the perpetrators without a single misfire. She had taken two levels at the expense of her profile work and was now, she said, thinking about choosing a second class.

Maitre Kogban, the Chief Treasurer, was nearly gray and a bit bald but still managed to buy a huge amount of the expensive and rare - and also forbidden to be sold officially - tree of the Black Heel to hide the hastily constructed intrigue from others' scrutiny. The manuscripts Lacianna had read indicated that users of the power of mirrors and dreams could see into the future. The beast that had taken the spy's body had burned the scrolls, but she had managed to recover much of them. Shaal, not listening at all to the barely audible objections, poured some potions down Lacianna's throat and put her in a trance, forcing her to remember.

In the end, when everything was ready, Sigismund had only the simplest thing to do - to summon the one whom the dead master of necromancy had already called the Weaver and then survive the conversation. It was even too easy: just sit down in front of a specially purchased mirror, and begin to imagine the consequences of his actions. It might not have been enough, but a small violet crystal, giving a glow to all the prophets, amplifying his own "echo of intentions", as written in his great-grandfather's diaries, guaranteed success.

The creature has come.

The creature heard his words.

The creature was forced to listen.

Sigismund, even through all the armor of his class skills, could sense how close he was to his death. One careless word, one glance, one nervous movement, and his family, his home, would be over. Something far scarier than death, scarier than anything he had encountered to date, scarier than anything he had used to consider scarier.

He looked there into the depths of the mirror that had become a failure in the land of nightmares.

He looked up, never taking his eyes off him.

And then, when he was almost broken by the mere presence, by the mere words of a Creature stronger than the gods themselves (he hoped that at least they would be), when the question, the demand almost gutted his soul, he saw fear in the depths of the alien essence. Barely discernible, carefully concealed, and shackled in unbreakable chains of non-human will, but it was there that fear. The creature could be afraid too, which meant that he could become that fear himself.

He sensed the creature's fear, even if he could barely distinguish it from the ocean of terror of the creature's captive souls. That ocean, those captives, almost drove him mad, deafening him with their howls and cries, but they could not shake him. Any Sensor, once near the creature, was doomed to perish in that wailing. Any visionary would lose himself in endless visions of stolen reflections, in a flood of other people's nightmares.

Sigismund clung to the barely discernible embers of someone else's fear, the only real fear that existed in this gigantic monster, in a huge intangible kraken whose size staggered the imagination. It clung and never let go again until the very end of their conversation, thus escaping oblivion.

The creature certainly appreciated it.

Did it think his resilience was the action of a class skill or an artifact hidden on his body? Or maybe it simply did not notice the pressure itself, unaware of the fragility of human consciousness? The young boy, who was ceasing to be human before his very eyes, did not care in the slightest.

He knew that he was doomed, if not to go mad, then to lose something far more important than just his mind. And so he spent the last seconds of his existence trying to answer exactly what the creature wanted and feared to hear. Somewhere deep inside stirred and vanished the guilt that he could say he was betraying that strange mercenary.

Who, come to think of it, was no mercenary and probably not a human either. Whoever he was, Sigismund himself knew that this mysterious stranger had a far better chance against the creature than all the Lanorsk combined. At the very least, he could run away and hide... probably. He told everything he remembered without hiding, but along with the words, he nurtured that grain of fear that had already settled deep within the essence of the creature. It had saved Sigismund, saved his clan and home, but somehow he felt sickened by such an act, even in the unhuman state he was in at the moment.

One more second in the company of the nightmare from over the edge and he would have fallen without a return. But the creature was gone. Gone silently and without warning, leaving its victim's life and soul. Sigismund sensed that there were no seeds of evil in his soul, no one who could replace him, drowning the present in eternal fear. Nor could the creature do that, it simply could not. To kill, to devour, to destroy is easy, but not to re-forge... frighten him again.

The suicide artifact finally shut down, allowing the hand that was clutching it to relax.

The negotiations took place in the middle of the wilderness, on the very border of the ancestral lands, in some natural cave where a mirror brought on a cart had been stuffed. A mirror that had fallen to the ground in blackened shards.

The short report took only a few minutes, during which time the boy began to thaw. His feelings and desires returned, his emotions were awakened, and his ice-cold heart thawed. He was pleased to see the sincere joy in Shaal's eyes, the worry and relief in his father's eyes, and even the genuine happiness of the hangman's parting from death that Lacianna was displaying. And this time, he was sure that her feelings were undoubtedly real.

"I told him about that mercenary." He repeated the already obvious from his report. "He's going to eat him up."

"No one deserves that." Lacianna didn't even object just stated the fact.

No one denied that the fate of their "savior" would not be enviable, not even Shaal, who would have cut open his belly herself. There was no denying that the one who had saved them did not deserve such treatment. Even if no one but Sigismund himself knew that it was the stranger's help that had helped him conquer the fear that devoured him. And there was no need for them to know the secret. Instead of another hypocritical regret phrase, the young boy smiled boyishly, giving the answer that was not what he had intended at first:

"Who says I meant the creature and not the other way round?"

He really did not rule out the possibility that the stranger might emerge victorious from the battle. If Sigismund himself did not get this abomination at the throat even sooner.

* * *