The smell of burning hung over the city thicker than fog. Not the sweetish smoke of a hearth, but the acrid, fear-and-ash-soaked stench of burnt wood, molten stone, and something else Valos did not wish to identify. «Smells like budget deficit and debts for three generations to come.»
He stood in the central square, or rather, what remained of it. The cobblestone pavement was ripped open like a fish's belly, blackened with patches of cooled lava. Townsfolk, under Sergeant Leon's supervision, hauled away debris, buried what could not be identified, and doused smoldering beams with water. Work was intense, but there were few sounds: only the scrape of stone, muffled orders, and quiet weeping. No one sobbed loudly. There was no strength left for that.
In the distance, near the shattered wall, something resembling high magic was unfolding. Balin, standing barefoot on a pile of rubble, moved his hands slowly through the air. Fragments of stone, brick, and even the molten remains of his pickaxe's mithril head rose from the ground like iron filings to a magnet and adhered to the damaged masonry. The wall grew before their eyes, not chaotically, but with some internal, inexorable geometry. The work was swift, but silent. The dwarf wasted no strength on words.
«Perfect,» Valos thought. «One dwarf replaces a crew of masons and months of work. Now I just need to convince him that we have plenty more work for him on a permanent basis. And mithril.»
***
The ceremony was short and somber. In the square, cleared by Balin in a matter of hours, rows of simple wooden coffins stood. One hundred and fifty-three. Count Eldrid, his face carved from granite, delivered a few dry, terse phrases about duty, sacrifice, and remembrance. A priest dispatched from the capital, who looked as if he had just hatched from an egg, muttered something about «eternal peace in the bosom of the Two Principles.» The minute of silence was filled not with quiet, but with hundreds of restrained sighs, stifled sobs, and the distant hammering of Balin, who had not stopped even for this. «Practical. The dead don't need silence; the living need intact walls.»
As the crowd began to disperse, Valos felt a familiar, nauseating sensation rising. Not guilt. Never guilt. Anxiety. A piece was missing from the puzzle. An enormous, sharp-edged piece, in the shape of a bone mech.
He turned silently and headed toward the castle, to his study — a former storeroom on the third floor he had commandeered under the pretext of «keeping accounts.»
«Nazrik. The bone mech. Two dragon heads, green flame, alchemical iron from undead flesh. In the original… plot… nothing like that existed. There was just a lich-necromancer with a couple of skeletal giants. At best, a controlled mind. Apoca, when creating demons, doesn't hand out assembly instructions for battle mechs made from dragon remains. That's systems engineering — a level that demons who feed on despair generally don't concern themselves with.»
«The Star Gazers. The Star Gazer program. Yumiella. The "Wanderer" in orbit. Nonsense. This is paranoia. Fatigue. Post-traumatic stress of an idiot who ended up in a book…»
But another part of his brain, cold and rational, insisted: «And what if it's not? What if this world is a laboratory and we are lab rats? Then any anomaly in the protocol is either a mistake or… someone's intervention. An external observer. A curator.»
He recalled the old legends he had read in his father's library about the «Gardeners,» the «Vagrants in the Shadow,» about how higher powers sometimes observe. He had dismissed it as superstition. Now…
Someone knocked on the door. Not the way Corvus knocked — a single precise rap with his knuckles. This was a light, almost hesitant scratching sound. Then the door opened, without waiting for a response.
In the doorway stood Lyra. She was dressed in a simple maid's dress, but she stood with the bearing of a career soldier. Her cat ears twitched nervously, picking up every sound in the corridor, and her tail was extended straight, only the very tip quivering slightly.
— My lord. The Count and Countess await you for dinner.
«Excellent. A family idyll. Just in time to take my mind off thoughts of a cosmic conspiracy,» Valos thought caustically as he rose from his desk.
— I'm coming, — he grunted, getting up.
As he drew level with her in the doorway, Lyra took a step, blocking his path not with her body, but simply with her presence. She looked up at him. Her large green eyes with vertical pupils regarded him without a trace of servility.
— One more thing, my lord, — she said even more quietly. — I am formally in service to Lord Eldrid in the capacity of… personal bodyguard.
Valos slowly raised an eyebrow. «Where is she going with this?»
— And, as Lord Eldrid's personal bodyguard, I must note that over the past two weeks, you have put the Count's life in direct danger or caused him grave concern on three occasions. Yesterday's… sortie was the culmination.
Valos nearly choked. «Put him in danger? He, Valos, who had dragged his father out of a pit of debt and saved the city?»
— I must respectfully disagree, — he began in an icy tone, but Lyra cut him off.
— I am not asking for your agreement, my lord. I am informing you. If in the future your… tactical explorations again require the Count's personal presence on the front lines, I will have to devise a way to punish you.
Valos's mind went completely silent. Even his paranoid thoughts about the Star Gazers evaporated.
— What? — he managed.
— For example, — Lyra continued with an absolutely serious expression, — I could hang you by your leg from the balcony of your bedroom, head down. And leave you hanging there until you apologize to Lord Eldrid for your recklessness. Coherently. With examples.
She looked at him, as if assessing whether the balcony was suitable for such purposes. Then, without adding another word, she turned and walked ahead down the corridor, her tail swaying smoothly in rhythm with her steps.
Valos stood with his mouth open. He had seen, the day before the invasion, Lyra spending two hours chasing a single mouse around the kitchen — catching it, then thoughtfully letting it go, as if forgetting why she had caught it. He had thought her sweet, a bit scatterbrained, a sort of «stray cat.» And she… she had just threatened him with execution by humiliation. With perfect diction. «I was wrong. She's not a cat. She's a mongoose.»
***
The dining hall smelled of roasted meat, smoke, and incense — an attempt to ward off the stench of death. At the long table sat Count Eldrid and Countess Ealda. Ealda, a woman with kind, weary eyes the color of forest shadow and dark hair braided simply, looked at her husband with boundless anxiety. Eldrid ate in silence; his movements were mechanical. Two steps behind his chair stood Lyra. She was not looking at Valos. She stared into space, but her ears were turned toward him.
— Sit, son, — Eldrid said without looking. — Eat. You look like you've been put through a meat grinder.
— Thank you, Father. I've… already had a small snack of anxiety and paranoia, — Valos muttered, lowering himself onto a chair.
Ealda sighed.
— We saw how you led the defense, Valos. And how you returned with your father. That was… — she searched for the word — …reckless. But also courageous.
— Courage is when there's no other choice, — Eldrid interjected. — He had no choice. And he chose the worst one. But… — he finally looked up at his son, and in his steel-grey eyes was something new. Not approval. Recognition. — …he won. The city stands. The people are alive. The dwarves are our allies. Vigar is in our pocket. That counts as victory.
— Precisely why we decided you need… additional oversight. Corvus is loyal and strong, but he follows you. We need someone who can… stop you.
Valos felt a chill run down his spine.
— Lyra. She proved herself in battle. Not just strength. She has a good head on her shoulders. She sees what others miss. Starting tomorrow, she will be attached to you.
— What? — Valos blurted out. He looked at the cat-girl. She met his gaze and slowly, almost imperceptibly, narrowed her eyes. *She knew.* — Father, this… I appreciate her service, but I already have Corvus! I don't need a babysitter! Especially one who… — he nearly said «chases mice like a mental patient» but caught himself in time.
— Objection overruled, — Eldrid set his goblet down with a thud. — The decision is made. Lyra will accompany you everywhere. She will be your… liaison with the house. And a guarantee that you won't charge into the next slaughter barehanded with a bad idea.
— But…
— Valos, — his mother's voice was soft. — We almost lost you. And your father. Once. Don't make us live through that again. Lyra stays. And that is not up for discussion.
Valos fell silent. He could see arguing was useless. He looked at Lyra. She stood with her eyes modestly lowered, but the corner of her mouth twitched in a barely perceptible, feline smirk.
«Perfect,» flashed through his mind, already filled with conspiracy theories about the Star Gazers. «Now I have a personal bodyguard who dreams of hanging me upside down. And a father who would support her. And a city to rebuild. And demons who are probably already plotting something. And refugees to put to work. And somewhere, up in orbit, possibly a black-haired girl on a spaceship, recording all of this into her damned protocol.»
He took the goblet and drained the wine in one gulp. It was sour and astringent.
«Well then. Challenge accepted.»