This is a fan translation of Wrong Time for Dragons (Не время для драконов) by the Russian science fiction and fantasy authors Sergei Lukyanenko and Nick Perumov.

I claim no rights to the contents herein.

Chapter 4

Ritor decided to reach his clan's lands by air. Walking just wouldn't do! The hour of Power had already passed, but there was still enough time until it fell completely to allow him to cross the distance separating the Singing Forest from the Fang of the Four Winds.

When the magic activated and the soft air streams picked up his now almost weightless body, it was time to think. Ritor was angry at himself; his suspicions about Loy hadn't panned out, and the mage really didn't like being mistaken about people, especially those he'd known for a long time. Iver hadn't been involved in the betrayal. Someone else had given up the Fiery Ones to Torn, maybe even someone from their own clan. It was also, of course, possible that one of his people was the traitor. It had happened before, especially since Ritor knew that far from everyone in his own clan shared his belief that the Dragons needed to be brought back. They could have betrayed him… for ideological reasons, as it were.

It wouldn't be easy to find the traitor. But without that there was no hope for revenge. Then again, Ritor countered to himself, this was no longer about revenge. This was a genuine war. The Air Clan and the Fire Clan had no alliances binding them, but Ritor also intended to settle the score for the killed Fiery Ones. Torn had to die. And all the others who'd been at that castle too. Every single one of them. Even though it would naturally weaken the clans of the Middle World on the eve of the Naturalborn's inevitable invasion. Sedition needed to be nipped in the bud. No one could dare think that the Air Clan would accept something like that.

But Ritor understood perfectly well that the strength of the clans was about even. Maybe he personally was slightly better than Torn, at the very least, the Air mage did not fear combat with him, but Water had a lot more second-rank mages, and they had plenty of experience. It had to do with the proximity of their flax holdings to the Gray Limits, hostilities with elves on the border, roaming undead, etc. If only he hadn't lost Taniel, the Klatt brothers, and Shetty… Then again, if it came to an all-out battle between the two clans, one, two, or even three extra fighters wouldn't play much of a role. In that case, everything would be up to chance.

Water and Air would weaken one another significantly, Fire wouldn't be able to refrain from vengeance, and instead of the four Elemental clans, only the phlegmatic Earthen Ones would meet the enemy at full strength.

This just wouldn't do. Even if the beach exploded under the feet of the Naturalborn, if the mountains moved and volcanoes appeared on their path, it would be too late. Far too late. The ships of the Naturalborn needed to be met at sea, so that only the pitiful remains of their armada reached the Middle World. Otherwise they wouldn't be able to fight them off.

Ritor gritted his teeth. He was surprised at his own unexpected bloodthirst… and suddenly recalled himself exactly like this, drunk on the anticipation of Dragon blood pouring on him like rain, when he had been preparing for his quest. Many years had passed since then, the veil of battle madness seemed to have dissipated, but no, it had simply been dormant all these years somewhere deep inside, biding its time.

Torn had calculated everything perfectly, Ritor thought suddenly. Air wouldn't avenge. Because the Water Clan would also be fighting the Naturalborn to the death… unless, of course, the insult Ritor had thrown at Torn in anger about the coin in his pocket turned out to be a terrible truth.

Then the only thing left to do would be to die in battle.

Unless the Dragon came.

But Torn had already summoned the Slayer… It was unlikely that the Water wizard had lied. A mage of his level had to know that truth was a far more terrible weapon, especially when used at the appropriate time and place…

He didn't have enough truthful information, Ritor admitted to himself in annoyance. Loy had probably been right, and he shouldn't have disregarded the Cats' services. Yes, they were cunning, treacherous, and always acted in self-interest, but if they did provide a piece of information, it never needed to be verified.

…The Fang of the Four Winds, or just the Fang, as it was known to pretty much every inhabitant of the Middle World, rose far above the green river bend. Right next to its mouth, the Blue River punched through the mountain walls and made a wide bend here, rounding the stone cliff piercing the ground. This was the meeting spot of the mountain forests and seaside dunes, this was the southern border of the clans, beyond which was the Hot Sea. To the north lay mountains, beyond which were the lands of the other clans. Feros, the Earth Clan's main city. Warm steppes, intermixed with forests, plowed lands, towns, villages, farms, and steadings. Farther yet, beyond the steppes, past the Zivash Swamps, was the land of the humans, dwarves, elves, and also those, listing whose names would take too long. These were also cities there, the clans' flax holdings, and the castles of vassal princes. The dwarven Way stretched there. Farther to the north, beyond the ring of the Gray Limits, were the unsettled, unknowable lands, empty and uninhabited. None of the clans had wanted to live there, everyone chose the warm, gentle seashore, which reminded them so much of their lost homeland. The far north remained unsettled, and even those who came from the Underside preferred to settle down in the south.

The forests served as the homes of the elves, while the mountains, as expected, belonged to the dwarves. The Way crossed the land like a metal line; narrow highways wove like yellow snakes. The mages of the clans, especially Elemental ones, rarely ventured there. Only to collect tribute from all those working the land, practicing a craft, or owning a business.

The Air Clan hadn't settled around this rock by accident. The Fang was the concentration of the furious and ever-changing Air magic, this was where the winds crashed into one another, after picking up speed over the vast sea glade, and met those that had gathered strength high up in the mountains; the stone blade seemed to attract them, this was where they easily gave their power, this was where one could take off even in the transparent element's weakest hour.

This was where Taniel had learned to fly…

Ritor felt a prickle of pain in his heart and immediately forbade himself from thinking about the boy. He couldn't bring him back. He could only avenge him. And even though Ritor had laughed about foolish superstitions plenty of times, believing that an unavenged soul couldn't find rest to be ludicrous, he suddenly realized that he did believe that after all. Or maybe he just really wanted to believe it in order to justify what he was planning…

The Blue River was a natural border. Having settled at the very edge of the forest, Ritor's people hadn't even built a single barn on the eastern bank, to say nothing of a ferry. They also hadn't plowed any fields there. And over these many years no one had thought to cancel the endless watch at the top of the stone Fang, to remove the sentinels monitoring the eastern bank. No enemy had ever come from the east. Then again, the same could be said of a friend, which was enough to keep the watch.

Buildings clustered at the foot of the cliff. Ritor's predecessor had insisted on surrounding the settlement with a stone wall; few in the Middle World had fortifications made of something other than wood. Once, before the great war, which had, among others, crushed Bbhchi, the castle where Ritor had set a meeting with the Fiery ones, the quarries on the Blue River's left bank had supplied building materials far to the west and north, allowing mighty fortresses to be erected. Then people realized that peace was better than any fortress, plus working the depleted quarries had become unprofitable, so they were abandoned. They did, however, manage to find enough stone for the Air Clan's walls and towers.

The settlement was actually fairly large, maybe even a small city between the mountains and the sea. It was clean and green, as there was plenty of water. Single-story homes, drowning in tree canopies, gave way to two- or three-story buildings made of stone closer to the square. The market square was also home to the Air Temple, the school, the arsenal, the town hall, and the church.

Long ago, a fanatical Franciscan monk found his way to this world; back home he'd nearly been burned at the stake, but here he turned out to be a powerful mage. Since those days the church of Our Lady of the Unknown Lands remained, personally painted by that very same Franciscan. Heэв given his entire life to it; the Air Clan knew how to value loyalty. The monk had found acolytes; the tradition still remained to this day, although no one, of course, believed seriously. But the "small temple", as the church was known, was still there.

Beyond the walls were fields, irrigations canals, farms, and hamlets, some of them an entire day's journey from the town's stone roundels. There was also the last station of the Way. It had been built by the dwarves when it became clear who the master of the Middle World was.

They quickly left the lake behind them. The slope was gradually rising, the forest was becoming thicker. They had to get through real deadfall all the time.

There simply were no such forests near Moscow. But he'd already stopped feeling surprised by that.

"We're almost at Crooked Hill, then we'll get to White Hill," Telle said with the tone of a stern teacher. "Once we get past them, we'll have to come down into Stormbreak Gully. That's the closest place to the Gray Limits. We'll have to keep our eyes peeled. But it's an easier walk. First hills, then cliffs. We'll get there by evening… as long as we make it by sundown.

Victor decided not to ask why they had to make it by sundown. He already knew they had to, it really didn't matter why.

"Are you sure you're warmed up?" Telle asked while they were walking up Crooked Hill. To Victor's eye, it was no more crooked than White Hill, just like White Hill was no brighter than Crooked Hill, but names had their own oddities. "If you get sick… we can't delay."

"I won't get sick. It's nothing. When I was little, I got… dirty from head to toe just like that, my grandmother made me get into a lake."

Telle snorted.

"The water was even colder then." The conversation helped to ignore the cold and the unpleasant squishing in his shoes. "Afterwards, we warmed up… the same way, by the fire. On the way home, we got lost and came out to the village from the ravine… we didn't have the strength to go around it. Grandma got down somehow, told me to jump. I did, she caught me, but it was scary."

"That's one fighting grandma," Telle said. Either with approval or sarcasm.

"You're a little like her," Victor said unexpectedly. "Maybe in half a century…"

"Thanks," the girl snorted.

They spent the next several minutes walking in silence. Meanwhile, Victor was rifling through that long-forgotten memory with renewed interest. Had he burned himself on the fire? No, it was too long ago to remember. But he thought he had. True, coincidences did happen. But not to such an extent!

"Telle, are we going to have to jump down those cliffs?" he asked, trying to make the question sound like a joke.

"No one is making you do anything," she replied.

"Then what am I doing here?" Victor inquired gloomily.

"Whatever you want yourself."

"I would want to eat," he said honestly. "I'd even finish off the remains of those scrambled eggs. Along with the shell."

"Victor, I wouldn't mind eating too."

He suddenly felt shame. After all, he was a strong, healthy man. Walking next to a teenage girl, and he was the one whining…

"We'll have to look for a restaurant then," Victor said. "White tablecloth, silverware, a lit candle, warm plates…"

"What's on the plates?" Telle asked curiously.

For some reason, the only things that were on his mind were meat patties and dumplings. A bachelor's dinner. He hadn't been to a restaurant in a long time… with warmed dishes, dim lighting, a bottle of wine in wicker basket. And a young beautiful girl in an evening dress next to him.

He threw a sideways glance at Telle. No, she didn't fit that role: not by her age and not by her behavior. And, to be honest, he wasn't exactly high society.

"Oatmeal," Victor informed her gloomily. "Cold and lumpy."

"That won't do," Telle decided. "If you insist on oatmeal, then we'll be spending the night in the forest, hungry."

He was at a loss.

"And if I don't?"

"Then under a roof. And with dinner."

The forest around them was just as primal and deserted. But Telle's words came off as completely serious.

"You're not kidding?" Victor asked, just in case.

"There's a village beyond the Foothills. A small one. But the Way passes through it, so there's a place to spend the night."

Victor decided not to ask what the Way was. The last time he'd decided not to ask questions just for fun was probably when he was a child. The Way was the Way. The Foothills were the Foothills. He couldn't shake the feeling that he already knew all that deep inside. What the Limits, the Way, and the Foothills were.

They walked in silence for a while. Telle had turned out not to be a chatty one in general.

They'd left White Hill far behind them. The girl kept throwing concerned glances at the sun, clearly nervous. That wasn't like her either. Victor had already gotten used to thinking that if a rabid Siberian tiger or a mammoth attacked them, then Telle wouldn't have even raised an eyebrow, instead just…

There was darkness hiding in that "just". The darkness that, like a cloak, was hiding Power.

"We're walking too slowly," Telle said with concern. "We still have to get through Stormbreak Gully, but the sun is already low!"

As far as Victor was concerned, they'd already demonstrated incredible endurance worthy of an experienced hiker. Walking through an old forest covered in brushwood, and uphill to boot, wasn't easy. It was easier to walk without knowing how far to go, but still…

"Can you go faster?" Telle asked.

"Will you keep up?"

"Yeah."

He had no choice after that. Victor picked up the pace, trying not to think about how much his legs were going to ache the next day.

"When it gets dark," Telle urged him on a little later, "there will be trouble."

And again he decided not to ask for clarification, avoiding giving into the innate human weakness of worrying about future problems. The sun was already crawling over the horizon when they climbed down yet another White—or whatever it was called—Hill and finally came out to a gully. It was shallow, narrow, and gloomy. The steep slopes were overgrown with unfamiliar shrubs, and a rocky trail ran along the bottom — probably a dried riverbed.

"Stand like that for a little bit…" Telle asked.

Victor nodded without turning. She probably needed to do something in private. A minute later, Telle walked up to him and stopped, looking forward tensely.

It was just a gully. Nothing scary about it. And the promised Limits weren't noticeable in any way.

"We have to go," Telle decided with a sigh. "Do you want to look for a weapon?"

"What weapon?" Victor asked without much inspiration. "A stick?"

"At the very least."

After a brief search, Victor tore a short dried bough from an ash-like tree felled by either a storm or… no, it was better to believe it to be a storm. The only thing it was good for was fighting off an aggressive poodle, but Telle said nothing. She just shrugged and walked ahead.

"Let me go first…" Victor began, but there was no reply.

There it was. His function as a protector was to follow the girl while gripping a ridiculous-looking rotten stick. The ease with which Victor had torn it off didn't instill trust in him. But, finding himself in this unfamiliar place through unknown means, he couldn't think of anything better to do but obey without question…

"Do you know how to fight?"

"Yes," Victor decided to bend the truth a little. To be honest, all his martial arts classes had been nothing more than the self-affirmation of a peaceful intellectual. Well, he could do a few things physically… but he'd asked himself whether he would be able to fight for real. He typically answered "yes", but who knew for sure?

"That's good. You have to know how to fight here," the girl said.

"Where is here?" Victor barked in annoyance. Probably loudly, as Telle turned and grimaced, "In the Middle World."

"This is the Middle World?"

"Yes."

"Thanks." Victor hadn't even realized how frustrated he was. "It's all finally clear now. There's the Medial World, the Lateral World, and now the Middle World…"

The medical terms used in this setting made his words sound even more sarcastic.

"No."

He fell silent.

"There's the Middle World, the World of the Naturalborn, and the Underside. You used to live in the Underside."

It sounded less offensive and more boring and routine.

"So how did we get here? Are there… umm… gates between the worlds?"

"Trails," Telle replied indifferently. "Did you see any gates?"

Victor didn't answer. Had the girl's voice been a little more emotional, he would've started arguing, against all facts, that they were in some forest outside Moscow. Or tried to ask for details.

"Telle, I understand that now is not the time, but I have a right to know…"

"Yes," the girl agreed easily. "But speak quietly. And don't interrupt. This is a dangerous place. There are three worlds…"

"Just three?" Victor had immediately forgotten her request not to interrupt.

"They're the only ones I know…" Telle suddenly broke off, and Victor looked around in alarm. But he didn't see anyone up ahead, behind, or on the slopes. "I'm lying," Telle said unexpectedly. "It's difficult to explain what everyone knows… There's only one world."

"Thanks," Victor agreed honestly. "I was starting to worry I was going insane."

"We're not talking about a shirt, after all, that it consists of the inner side, the outer side, and the middle…"

Victor didn't know what to say to that.

"There's only one world. But it depends on how you look at it. From which side. You lived on the inner side. It's very different there than here or in the World of the Naturalborn."

"The World of the Naturalborn must be where mages and dragons live, right?" Victor asked tartly.

"Who cares? It's just a shape. There's only one world, but it can be viewed from different sides. And live… on different sides."

"And walk between the sides?"

"Sometimes. But not everyone can do that."

"Why not?"

"Because no one chooses which side to be born on. If you get used to it, you'll be looking at the world the way you're supposed to. You'll see only what is commonly seen."

"Which way are you looking at it, Telle?"

The girl laughed quietly, "Good question. From every side."

"So you can walk between the worlds?"

"I can. Does that mean you believe me?"

Victor didn't answer right away, "It's a strange forest. The way we got here was strange. And you too are…"

Telle laughed again, "Strange?"

"To put it mildly." In a burst of candor, Victor couldn't hold back from adding, "I was absolutely certain that you were crazy. All those sword wounds, transitions, mysteries…"

"That's true," Telle smiled maliciously. Her eyes glinted mysteriously in the gloom. "Even here they think I'm crazy. All those subway bruises, transitions, mysteries…"

"What bruises?"

"I didn't know at first that you have to go through the turnstile quickly so it doesn't lock…"

Victor chuckled, picturing Telle trying to sneak through a turnstile.

"But you were behaving as if there was no reason to be surprised…" He recalled Telle's behavior and mentally shook his head. On the subway train, she'd even started reading a romance novel over the shoulder of a sitting woman…

"You're also behaving as if there's no reason to be surprised."

She was right about that.

"There hasn't been any reason yet."

"You should be glad!"

Telle's voice immediately grew serious, and Victor looked around. No, there was nothing… Or was there? No, he was just seeing things. Just a gully, the dried bed of a stream, woven and entangled tree canopies on slopes. It was clear why Telle had chosen to go through the gully — there was simply no way to get across above. Up ahead, the top of the gully was covered by the thick trunk of a fallen tree like a natural bridge. The foliage on the branches of the fallen giant was still holding on, slightly withered but green. The tree was a tough one, and it wasn't old age that had pulled it out of the ground.

"There are storms like this here?" he asked.

"Where is here?"

Telle's tone was a little sarcastic.

"In the Middle World," Victor clarified.

"It wasn't a storm that felled the trees. It's the Gray Limit. There was a war here."

"Recently, I assume?"

"Hundreds of years ago. But it didn't end for everyone, Victor."

"Guerillas are still cutting down trees?" He tried to smile.

"There was a great battle. Two armies… humans in one and non-humans in the other. The human army was swept away, almost entirely. Swords lost out to arrows and axes… The girl fell silent, stopped, and also peered at the felled trunk. Then she said decisively, "Let's stand here, Victor. There's something here I don't like, not at all."

There was silence around them, deathly silence. Not a sound could be heard. And it was dark, he couldn't make anything out, except the hazy shadows of trees against the backdrop of the dark sky.

"Then mages entered the fray…" Telle went on suddenly. "And the dead army rose and attacked the enemy, and they fell… because it's not easy to kill the dead a second time. But the mages used too much power. Their fear was too great. The words that should never be spoken were still being said… and rest didn't come to the dead. The dead enemy army also rose from the ground. It could all have ended once and for all, for the living. The former enemies stood together, shoulder to shoulder, against their fallen comrades. But they wouldn't have succeeded… as every casualty in their ranks would immediately turn against them."

Victor grimaced and took a step towards the girl, chasing away the vision. As a kid, he'd hated the ghost stories told in summer camps at campfire, then he never read Stephen King's books and never watched any of those Nightmares on Elm Street. Just then, he thought that telling such stories in a dark forest was not a good idea. A chill ran down his body, but it wasn't fear, it was something else. Like a warning. Don't listen… don't listen to it. Or else…

Telle didn't seem to feel when he put a hand on her shoulder.

"And then came the only one who could stop it all. He stood between the army of the dead and the army of the living and marked the Gray Limit."

"And here I thought that he would, you know…"

"No. There wasn't anything to punish, either the living or the dead. The living weren't at fault, and neither were the dead. But ever since then there was the Limit, which the dead never cross and which the living shouldn't either."

"And we did?"

Telle shrugged.

"Everything changes. Rivers change their course, mountains rise from the ground. The path used to run along the Limit. Now I don't know. They might think differently. They say that traveling here is now dangerous."

"Telle, let's not frighten one another."

"Are you scared?" there was surprise in her voice.

"Let's just say it's unpleasant to me. I don't believe in walking skeletons…"

Telle laughed.

"Skeletons don't walk! How can they walk if their bones aren't connected?"

"Can we walk? Then let's go!"

Nodding, Telle started moving. They managed to take five steps and enter under the felled tree when they heard a noise, and tree rot fell under Victor's collar.

He turned.

Figured had jumped down from the tree. There were four of them: two blocking their way forward and two behind.

Telle pressed herself against Victor. No, she didn't scream, but she was clearly frightened.

"This is our land…" one of the strangers said, stretching the words in a strange way. "The land of the dead… You're on our side of the Limit…"

"We're just passing through!" Telle shouted.

"You'll pass… if we allow it…"

Victor tried to track the movements of all four, stepping to a slope and dragging the girl with him. The four shadows silently surrounded them in a semicircle. For some reason, Victor felt no fear. As if he really was watching some cheap horror movie, where actors in makeup were doing their best to portray the walking dead. But the hand gripping the bough was now unpleasantly sweaty. He couldn't disbelieve the danger! He couldn't! Anything was possible in this world… even the living dead.

"Allow us to pass," he asked, trying to keep his voice firm.

"Gold…" one of the four hissed. "Payment…"

Telle looked up at Victor in surprise.

Indeed. Why did the dead want money?

"Would silver do?" he asked.

The shadows laughed as one. Then one of them drawled, "Anything will do…"

"Too bad, I don't have either gold or silver. What about rubles?" Victor spoke with candor, he was prepared to give up all the cash on him. After all, the dead really had no need for money!

"You want rubble? We can turn you to rubble… but where's your sword?" A dark figure shifted, and there was a metallic glint.

"Something's wrong, Victor…" Telle whispered.

"Or leave the girl… go by yourself…" the one who'd been silent, tall and thin, offered suddenly.

"All right, agreed." Victor quickly stepped away from Telle, shifted his gaze to avoid looking at her face, and moved ahead. The figured stepped away slowly, in confusion. He passed between them, then hit the closest dead figure with the stick without swinging. The blow struck somewhere in the vicinity of the neck.

The dry bough broke, of course. But, strangely enough, this was enough for the dead man, who slumped to the ground with a broken wheeze.

"Why you…" the tall one who'd offered to leave Telle behind shouted. He threw his hands behind his head, and there was something in that quick gesture that promised big trouble.

Victor spun and kicked him in the chest. It was a simple blow, and from an awkward position. Any newbie in his class would've easily deflected it.

But, again, the dead man turned out to be a surprisingly unskilled warrior. Maybe, back in the day, he'd been a cook or a sutler and couldn't learn anything new after dead.

"Oooh…" came from the darkness when the blow knocked all the air out of his lungs. The next moment, Victor was near him and, already prepared for the vile sensation of rotting flesh on his hands, grabbed the tall one's throat.

The throat was fairly normal. And the dead man smelled pleasantly and calmingly of flowers.

The enemy didn't resist for a few moments, then he rapidly elbowed him in the face. Fortunately, the glancing blow slid off his cheek. Then he began pulling something out of his waist.

Then Victor, without thinking, grabbed his opponent's throat with his elbow, pulled down, and pressed a knee against his back. The unskilled opponent turned out to be surprisingly light and fragile. His cervical vertebrae crunched almost immediately, sending him into the land of the dead for good. The knife that had already touched Victor's body shook and fell from the man's fingers.

Something strange was happening near them. The two remaining opponents, which were supposed to attack Victor, were slowly retreating. Not from him, from Telle. The girl was stepping towards them, speaking something quietly in an unfamiliar language. There was a strange light — a weak orange glow illuminated their faces. Ordinary human faces, poorly shaven, middle-aged.

"Don't!" the man that had spoken to them first squealed suddenly. He turned, intent on running, then pale petals of flames suddenly ran all over his body. A moment later, he flared, the fire roared, consuming the body as easily as if the poor man had been covered in kerosene. There was a brief, almost inhuman screech, and the burning body fell down.

The last enemy was running away. He was climbing up the slope, howling, shouting something in mortal terror, breaking through the bushes. Telle watched him go with a long glance, then looked at Victor.

"You could've handled them yourself," he said.

"No. Not with all at once."

Victor bent over the one whose neck he'd broken. In the light of the monstrous torch burning close by, he could make out the man's face. Pale skin, delicate features. The eyes were very large, the hair was blond and flowing. There was dreary wistful about him, as if he was suffering from tuberculosis, but nothing otherworldly.

"I don't think he was dead until just now," Victor said. He glanced at the victim of his single-use club. There was definitely nothing unusual about this man. Average height, dark clothes, somewhat dirty. He reminded Victor of a plumber or an electrician from a local utility company, and the association somehow made the pity he felt for the stunned man disappear. "This one doesn't look like a zombie either…"

"They're not undead," Telle replied calmly, "they're just bandits."

"So all your stories are just fairy tales…"

A desperate cry suddenly came from the forest, from the direction where the last of the bandits had fled. It was a choking cry that cut off on a high note. Victor shivered. Then silence fell, and it was far more frightening than the dying scream.

"No." Telle turned to the sound — a thin figure, almost weightless shadow against the backdrop of the funeral pyre. "They're true. I just didn't know that the dead still honor the Gray Limits. Strange… the dead remember the oath better than the living." She was silent for a moment, then added thoughtfully, "Or they fear the master, more than the living."

The revolting smell of burning flesh was spreading through the air. Victor picked the knife up from the ground, was about to stuff it under his belt, but then stopped, realizing the sharpness of the blade. He began to remove the belt with the scabbard and flask from the dead man. The man's weapons also included a large bow made of polished wood and a quiver with arrows — all that was secured on his back, but such a weapon was useless to Victor.

"How do you feel?" Telle asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You've just taken a life for the first time."

Victor tried to feel at least something… but there were no emotions. Only his heart was pounding from the adrenaline in his blood. And everything around him was suddenly clear, bold, bright. Like he was slightly intoxicated.

"I was protecting you."

"And yourself. Do you really think they'd have let you go?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter, I don't abandon my… friends."

Telle didn't answer. She walked up to the archer's body, kicked his head gently, turning his face. Then she snorted, "Of course. A half-elf."

"Who?"

"A bastard of a human and an elf."

The insult came off as a dry academic term coming from her.

"So you're saying…" Victor stared at the pale, delicate face. "He was born from a human woman and an elvish man?"

"Of course not! Elvish men aren't attracted to human women. This is a product of a human man and an elvish woman. Most likely, resulting from rape, although there are other possibilities."

"If elvish men don't like human women, then why…

"He's not quite an elf, and I'm… not quite yet a woman. Half-elves don't mind teenage girls."

After these words, Telle lost all interest towards the half-elf. She walked away, sat on a boulder, and stretched out her legs.

"Victor, search him, he should have a wallet. Half-elves carry all their valuables with them, they don't trust anyone."

The act was unpleasant but, apparently, necessary. Victor searched the half-elf's pockets — there turned out to be surprisingly many of them in the thin clothes made of green silk. He pulled out two thin pita-like flatbreads rolled into tubes from one of the pockets.

"Give me one," Telle asked.

He was far too hungry not to follow her example. Even the heavy smell of burned meat didn't keep Victor from immediately eating the flatbread, which was surprisingly delicious, with the sharp scent of unfamiliar spices.

He finally found a wallet, a heavy leather pouch with a handful of small silver and gold coins.

"There should be another one," Telle said.

The second pouch turned out to be smaller and lighter and was filled with gleaming stones.

"Looks like this isn't their first time at the Limits," Telle noted.

With relief, Victor ceased searching the body and walked away from the half-elf. The dead man's pale face now seemed peaceful and gentle.

"Are elvish women beautiful?"

"They are. Especially by human standards."

Telle didn't address the fact that he'd given up and was believing her words. Victor was grateful for that.

"I guess such… half-breeds… are common."

"Not really, it seems they really do need mutual desire." After a moment's thought, she added, "By the way, there are never enough elvish women for everyone."

"Should I search this one too?" Victor nodded at the stunned man that was still lying unconscious. Telle threw a fastidious glance at the bandit.

"Poor-quality sword… people like that don't carry money. Finish him off, and let's go."

She rose and, ignoring the enemies, began to walk. Victor stood there for a moment, then bent over the body and pulled out the knife.

The bandit's eyes opened. He'd probably been conscious for a while, just pretending to be stunned.

"Have mercy, Overlord…" he whispered. "Have mercy…"

Victor froze. The bandit had no intention of resisting or fleeing. He lay there like a sheep at the slaughter and stared up at him with doomed obedience.

"We didn't know, Overlord…"

Victor glanced at the darkness, but Telle was already far away.

He pressed the sharpened blade to the bandit's throat. Blood appeared. Victor had to, needed to kill him… he felt that. Or was there another way?

"You're my slave," he said.

"Yes, Overlord…"

"Your life is worthless."

The man clearly agreed.

"Go," Victor said, putting away the knife. "And tell everyone what you're supposed to."

He wasn't even afraid of turning his back to the bandit. There was something in the man's behavior that was more than just fear before a stronger warrior.

"I'm your slave…" came from behind him.

Telle wasn't far ahead. She was standing about twenty meters away, where she couldn't feel the stink.

"Maybe you're right," the girl said. Her voice was strangely embarrassed and guilty. She took Victor by the hand, and they walked together for a minute. "Victor… I'm sorry that I started to give you advice."