Kaisar walked ahead, his heavy tread crushing snow and ice beneath his boots. Each step echoed dully in the silence, broken only by the creak of leather straps and the quiet jingle of metal. The sabre at his waist tapped a steady rhythm—familiar from hundreds of miles marched with the Horde.

  Temyr and Tyleu flanked him—grey giants whose shadows fell across the snow in dark patches that would've made an inexperienced fighter's knees tremble and the sword slip from weakened fingers. The rest followed in a tight group, clustering towards the centre of the street, weapons ready—some gripping sabre hilts, some holding spears levelled, prepared to charge forward at any moment.

  The square before the temple flooded with the uneven light of torches, their flames trembling in the wind, casting dancing shadows on the frost-whitened stone. A palisade of sharpened logs, hastily driven into the frozen earth, encircled the temporary camp—inside showed white tents stretched over wooden frames, fires smouldered round which sentries warmed themselves, wagons of supplies and fodder stood covered with tarpaulins against the snow.

  The camp itself, it seemed, no one was preparing to defend—neither guards by the tents nor sentries amongst the wagons could be seen. Kaisar led the detachment straight through the centre, between rows of hastily pitched canvas and smouldering fires round which lay abandoned cookpots and crumpled blankets. The smell of smoke, sour porridge and horse dung struck their nostrils. Somewhere to the side a horse whinnied, jerking its tether, but not one person came to meet them.

  Temyr and Tyleu walked at the flanks, warily surveying the empty camp—their hands never left their weapons' grips. The rest moved in a tight group, not dispersing, ready at any moment to close ranks back to back. Kaisar didn't slacken his pace. He knew this tactic—pull all warriors to one point, leaving the rest without defence, showing strength where it's needed and emptiness where it's not expected.

  Only no Tork, ever, would have left his mounts unguarded. Sooner they'd have driven them into the temple than left them in the enemy's path.

  They passed through the camp without meeting a soul and emerged onto the open space before the temple.

  At the entrance, on the wide platform before the temple's massive gates, a line of spearmen had formed—a solid wall of shafts and steel points. Twenty men, no fewer, stood shoulder to shoulder without stirring. All wore identical grey-blue cloaks over quilted armour, well-worn but sturdy, proclaiming their belonging to the Order of the Twelve. Faces stern, impassive—professionals accustomed to holding formation.

  Behind them stood knights. Plate gleamed with orange reflections from the torches' fire, polished steel shimmered in the light of the flames. Swords rested on shoulders—long, heavy blades capable of cleaving mail in one blow. Shields protected chests, on them were emblazoned the order's crests—twelve stars arranged in a circle.

  These wore noticeably costlier cloaks—of thick cloth with embroidered borders, but bearing the same symbols as the spearmen's. True, there were fewer than expected—Kaisar counted only seven figures instead of ten.

  Further still, on a rise by the temple wall itself, showed archers and crossbowmen—also about twenty, perhaps slightly more. These were clearly not warriors but the rabble who served knights and soldiers, issued weapons during battle and ordered to aim where directed. Dressed in whatever they could find—some in leather jerkins, some in patched mail inherited from former owners, some simply in thick sheepskin coats, and cloaks were out of the question. But they held their bows confidently, strings already drawn, arrows ready.

  Kaisar raised his hand—a sharp, abrupt gesture that froze his people in place. Footsteps fell silent. Only the crackling of torches remained and the heavy breathing of Torks, their chests heaving after the march through the frost. They were accustomed to travelling mounted, even within the aul.

  He continued moving forward—alone, without cover. Snow crunched beneath his weight, each step resounding with a dull thud. Ten metres to the formation. Eight. Five.

  The spearmen didn't flinch, shafts remained in place—a solid wall of points angled forward, ready to rip open the belly of anyone who dared approach.

  Kaisar took two more steps.

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  A spear point pressed against his chest—cold steel touched his skin through the thick woollen shirt showing through his open sheepskin coat. The man holding the shaft tensed, knuckles whitening from strain. Eyes widened—fear flickered in them, quickly suppressed by iron discipline.

  Kaisar took another step.

  The spearman retreated. The shaft wavered, the point veered aside. The man backed away, breaking formation, shoulder knocking his neighbour.

  "Hold positions!" One of the knights in the second rank barked.

  But Kaisar already stood flush with the line. Spears jutted round him from all sides like a bristling palisade, but not one point touched his body any longer. The spearmen froze, not knowing what to do—thrust into the enemy's chest or retreat. Their faces were level with his shoulders. Sweat gleamed on temples, lips trembled, but should the order come, they'd strike without hesitation.

  Kaisar raised his gaze higher—to where the knights stood.

  Seven. Plate gleamed in the torchlight, helms shone with polished steel, but visors were raised—faces open. He knew each of them.

  Kaisar met the gaze of each—slowly, methodically, giving them time to recognise him. Green eyes burnt with a dull flame in which was neither fury nor hatred—only cold, measured resolve.

  He remembered that day. Six months ago. When they'd arrived in Aksu under the order's banners. Then he'd given his oath, looking into their eyes just like this.

  "I will kill every one of you, and you know this." The thought crossed Kaisar's mind as he watched the knights avert their gazes.

  No sooner had they seen the baksy and Orgatai off to the cave with the youngsters and returned home than a week later a full Lance of the Order of the Twelve arrived in their aul—those hounds of the priesthood, those self-appointed guardians of faith who considered themselves entitled to dictate their will anywhere.

  They weren't admitted to the aul. Fortunately, their approach had been known in advance—no one caught Aksu off guard.

  Moving as a detachment of a hundred knights and four hundred infantry through lands accustomed to constant ogre raids, where every aul kept its eyes open, was impossible unnoticed. Their movement had been tracked from the very first day the banners with twelve stars appeared on the horizon. And messengers had always accompanied the uninvited guests—galloping ahead of them, parallel, along mountain trails and steppe paths, warning all settlements in the area of their approach, every aul, every nomadic camp. News flew faster than marching boots, faster than the clang of armour and the tread of horses.

  Three days before the first knight in gleaming plate appeared on the horizon, a breathless rider from a neighbouring aul galloped to Kaisar. The animal beneath him was lathered, flanks heaving convulsively, trembling from exhaustion—it had been driven mercilessly, the gait changed only to avoid foundering it completely.

  The rider dismounted right by the smithy, barely staying on his feet, and his words were short, chopped, like axe blows on an anvil: a Lance approaches, full, with all equipment and train. Banners of the Twelve. Straight for Aksu, not deviating.

  Kaisar wasted no time deliberating. That very hour he roused everyone in the aul who could hold a weapon—from barely-fledged youths for whom a blade was still unfamiliarly heavy in the palm, to grey-bearded elders whose gnarled fingers still remembered a sabre's hilt and the weight of a battle-axe. He gathered six hundred souls—not an army, but nor a mob. People ready to stand to the death for their home, for their land, for the right to live as their grandfathers had lived.

  He went to meet the order, intercepting the Lance whilst still approaching, a good four kilometres from the white, foaming waters of the Aksu River.

  They formed up on opposite banks—the order on one, in a tight, precise line, the aul dwellers on the other, more bunched, more motley, but no less resolute. Water between them flowed turbulent, icy, with white foam on sharp stones, roared and beat against the banks, as though nature itself was drawing a boundary between two forces.

  No one crossed the only ford in the area—the narrow strip of relative shallows where one could cross without soaking the saddle. No one shouted threats, waved weapons, hurled challenges across the stream. They only stood, looking at each other through the cold water and mist that rose from the river, and this silence was heavier than any words, any curses.

  The knights gleamed with armour, shields shone in the sun, spears protruded in an even palisade—beautiful, menacing, impressive. But the Torks weren't impressed. They stood in a solid mass, in worn mail and plate scavenged from fallen foes, with curved sabres and crudely forged axes—but in their eyes burnt a fire that spoke clearer than any banners: here you are strangers.

  And it was unknown how their silent stand-off on the riverbanks would have ended, had Zhanbolat not arrived at the scene with three hundred of his thousand.

  The earth trembled beneath hooves before the first riders appeared—the tremor passed through stones on the bank, resonated in the water, made several horses in the order's ranks whinny nervously. Then—thunder, building in strength, a column of dust that rose above the distant hill, and now three hundred warriors stretched along the bank, blocking approaches to the aul dwellers in a wide crescent. Zhanbolat rode at the fore, towering in his saddle like a statue of bronze and steel. His armour was sturdier than any knight's standing in proper formation, his sabre longer and heavier, his gaze harder and colder than the river water that flowed between the two forces.

  It became clear to all there'd be no battle, but the risen tension would still have to be resolved.