The order immediately understood that, firstly, the people standing opposite them were entirely unimpressed by their affiliation with the Order of the Twelve. Kaisar saw how several knights exchanged glances, how their commander clenched his jaw, watching the dense Tork ranks that hadn't wavered a single step even at the sight of battle banners bearing twelve stars, fluttering on their staffs. He saw how hands in plate gauntlets gripped the reins tighter, how horses beneath their riders grew restless, sensing their masters' tension.

  Secondly, should open battle commence, they wouldn't even manage to die with honour—they'd simply be swept away, trampled, crushed like grass beneath the hooves of an enraged herd. Three hundred seasoned cavalry under Zhanbolat, accustomed to swift raids and brutal clashes with ogre marauders, plus six hundred militiamen ready to stand to the death for their homes, against a hundred knights, even with the support of four hundred infantry—the outcome of such an encounter was clear even to a child. Blood would have stained the white foam of the Aksu River crimson, but victory would belong to only one side.

  Thirdly, the order had no need whatsoever for acute confrontation with the Torks who'd inhabited these lands since time immemorial. Here they were far from their fortresses, from their supply bases, from their allies and reinforcements. This was the land of free people, land where every stone knew them, not newcomers in gleaming plate, where every trail led to their own, not to strangers. Supply lines would stretch through mountain passes, where ogre bandits simply waited for rich prey.

  Moreover, the local priest who'd sent the message to the bishop had vanished somewhere. Disappeared like smoke on the wind, leaving no trace, as though he'd never existed. The dispatched messengers had searched all the surrounding auls, questioned the elders, looked into every yurt—they'd found no ends, heard not a word about where he might have gone or what could have happened to him.

  Besides, Zhanbolat also had no desire to conflict with the order, which enjoyed the favour of all priests. After all, the city temple parishes provided substantial assistance in his struggle against the ogres—they supplied provisions, healed the wounded and simply gave money with which he could acquire equipment and weapons for his warriors.

  Back then, six months ago, they'd gathered in Kaisar's campaign yurt—the master himself, Zhanbolat and the order's banneret, a grey-bearded veteran named Hendrick, whose face was scored with scars and whose eyes looked heavily, without a shadow of respect for foreign land. The mynbasy sat between them, silent and motionless as a stone idol. Smoke from the hearth spread beneath the felt ceiling, not managing to escape through the open shanyrak, an oil lamp smoked, casting crooked shadows on the walls.

  The conversation went on for a long time. Hendrick pressed his point—the order had the right to a presence until the circumstances of the priest who'd served in the district were clarified. Kaisar cut back—priestly affairs were none of their concern. The order must leave the foothills; they'd no business here as an entire Lance.

  Zhanbolat listened to them both long and silently, only occasionally bringing to his lips a wooden cup of koumiss. He drank in small sips, slowly, as though giving himself time to weigh every word, every argument. The oil lamp smoked, casting shadows on his face—broad, scarred, with narrow eyes in which could be read neither anger nor sympathy. Only calm, almost icy calculation of a man accustomed to making decisions on which hundreds of lives depended.

  When both fell silent—Hendrick because he'd exhausted himself, Kaisar because he'd understood the futility of further words—the mynbasy set down his cup on the low table, wiped his lips with the back of his palm and pronounced his word.

  His verdict was brief, without embellishment, without attempts to please anyone present: fifty would enter the aul. No more. Under a decarch's command. This meant that into Aksu wouldn't enter fifty knights of the order with all their arrogance and heavy tread—but only ten mounted warriors in armour and some forty of their attendants: squires, infantry, supply troops.

  Until the circumstances of the priest's disappearance were clarified. Or until the bishop sent a replacement and approved it for service in the aul. Or until he confirmed the company priest who'd arrived with the Lance as permanently serving here.

  In any case—no longer than six months. Not a day more. Upon expiry of the term, the fifty would leave Aksu, regardless of what they found or didn't find, what the bishop decided or didn't decide. This wasn't discussion, not a request, not a proposal for negotiation—but a final word, behind which stood the khan's will and the mynbasy's authority, whose right to command here no one had contested for twenty years.

  Hendrick grimaced—the corners of his mouth twitched downward, wrinkles on the bridge of his nose deepened, and the scar crossing his cheek whitened for a moment. Displeasure could be read in every line of his face, in his clenched jaw, in how he tilted his head slightly to one side, as though swallowing bitter medicine. But he nodded—sharply, curtly, in military fashion. A decarch with fifty fighters, albeit temporarily, was better than nothing. Better than returning to the bishop empty-handed, with a report of complete defeat in negotiations.

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  Zhanbolat rose—slowly, unhurriedly, straightening his back and setting aside his cup. The movement was unhurried but final. It spoke louder than any words: the conversation was finished. The decision made. It wouldn't be contested here, now or later.

  Kaisar didn't like this decision. Not at all. Fury churned inside like a smith's inferno fanned by bellows, but he managed to contain it. To contradict Zhanbolat meant contradicting the man in whose company he'd begun his service as a green recruit barely able to hold a sabre. Back then the zhuzbashy had taught him much—not only combat, but how to keep one's word, how to lead men, how not to bend one's spine before anyone except one's khan.

  But fury demanded an outlet. It burnt from within, like a red-hot coal gripped in his chest. Kaisar couldn't simply forget. Couldn't accept that the strangers who'd come to his native land would leave without experiencing his wrath.

  And so on that day, when the Order of the Twelve's Lance set off on its return journey—in a long column, with fluttering banners bearing twelve stars—whilst the ten knights of Decarch Thorgrim hadn't yet left the camp, still stood by the fires checking equipment and saddling horses, Kaisar rode out to intercept them.

  He rode alone.

  He didn't shout grandiose words. Didn't summon witnesses. Didn't wave his weapon overhead, as young fools thirsting for glory do. He simply stood in the middle of the road—there, where the trail narrowed between two stone ridges—dismounted, waited until they noticed him, until the knights' gazes turned towards him, and drew his dagger. Short, with a bone hilt yellowed by time and sweat, forged by him in the night after his father's death—that night when he hadn't slept till dawn, when the hammer struck the anvil and tears dried on his cheeks from the heat of the coals.

  The blade flashed in the sun—with cold, pure light, polished to a mirror finish.

  Kaisar drew it across his palm—deeply, decisively, without hesitation, not averting his gaze from the knights. Skin parted like silk beneath a razor. Blood gushed in a thick dark stream, running between his fingers, dripping onto the earth, leaving scarlet stains on grey stones. He raised his hand—high, so that every knight would see, so that no doubt remained—and clenched his fist. Muscles tensed, tendons stood out beneath his skin. Drops fell one after another, slowly, heavily, like heartbeats.

  Between them, blood had been spilt. Now there was no path to reconciliation. Now—only vengeance or death.

  Kaisar shook his head—sharply, as though casting off a stupor—and looked Ulrik straight in the eye. Eye to eye, without blinking, without concession. A heavy gaze, direct as a punch between the eyes.

  Ulrik stood slightly apart from the other knights, shoulder to shoulder with two squires holding levelled spears. Tall, sinewy, with a face scarred by battle and narrow grey eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Thorgrim's deputy. Second-in-command of the order's decarch. The one who made decisions when the commander was absent.

  "What's happening here?" Kaisar's voice cut through the silence like a blade through canvas. "What was that noise inside the temple?"

  Ulrik didn't avert his gaze. Didn't flinch, didn't retreat, didn't lower his eyes, as many would have done seeing the burning fury in the orc's eyes. He stood like a wall—motionless, unbending, chin jutting slightly forward.

  "We've already sent for Thorgrim." His voice was level, emotionless, as though reading out an order. "He'll be here shortly. He'll explain everything himself."

  Kaisar clenched his jaw, felt muscles tighten beneath his skin, felt his neck tense. Ulrik nodded to the youngest-looking knight—barely more than a boy, with scarcely sprouted moustache above his upper lip, in a helm clearly too large for his head. The latter reacted instantly—like a spring compressed to its limit and released all at once. He tore from his position, wheeled on his heels and dived inside the temple, nearly bowling over one of the archers standing at the entrance.

  Kaisar waited. Counted his heartbeats. Listened to how the wind rustled snow on the slopes, how the aul dwellers gathered at the square's edge whispered amongst themselves, how the rings on the knights' sword hilts jingled.

  Two minutes. Perhaps slightly more.

  Then the door flew open—loudly, with a wooden creak that echoed off the walls. From the temple emerged Thorgrim.

  He walked alone. Slowly but confidently, as though the street belonged to him. He carelessly shoved aside the archers—with his shoulder, elbow, a wave of his hand—not even looking at them, as though they were not men but stones in the road. One of the archers hissed under his breath, another spat to the side.

  Thorgrim approached close—so close that Kaisar caught the smell of leather, oil, metal, sweat and blood. Fresh blood. The decarch stopped a pace from him, no less. He glared malevolently, looking up—his height didn't allow him to look otherwise—with challenge in every line of his face.

  "What do you want, basy?"

  His voice was hoarse, with notes of contempt poorly hidden behind feigned courtesy.

  Kaisar smirked. Crookedly, without a hint of mirth. The corners of his mouth crawled upward, baring his fangs.

  "I want your life." The words came out quietly, almost tenderly, like a promise that would certainly be fulfilled. "But for now I've come only for explanations. What happened in the temple?"

  Thorgrim prudently ignored the orc's first phrase. His eyelid twitched—barely noticeably—but no other reaction. He answered only the second.

  "Two of my knights had a brawl." A pause. "You can see for yourself, my men are tired of idleness and no longer know how to occupy themselves."

  "Don't know how to occupy themselves, you say?" Kaisar smirked again. Wider. His teeth flashed in the torchlight like a predator's grin. "Well then, I can suggest entertainment. Only I fear afterwards, nothing will remain of your men."

  He stepped forward—one step, heavy, deliberate. The frozen earth beneath his sole gave way slightly.

  "Where are these knights? I want to see them."