Cold obsidian. Olga McArrow

and possible bandit raids. Unlike the rest of Kuldagan population, Borderers didn’t bother with preserving the ancestors’ purity, so there wasn’t a single pair of identical faces in the crowd. They also were diurnal people, busy during the day, sleeping at night, just like the rest of the world behind the Mountain Ring. Kangassk was shocked at the diversity of faces, at the bubbling, noisy day life, at the coolness of the air which was so different there, close to the mountains… Needless to say, he looked hilarious in his endless shocked excitement. Vlada couldn’t help smiling every time she looked at him.

      Local inns went by the word “dlar” as well, but, having many storeys connected by winding staircases, resembled little towers. Vlada rented a whole storey on top of one such tower. There were three rooms there: one for her, one for Kangassk; the third room stayed empty for the sake of the perfect peace and quiet she wanted after the journey.

      Kangassk had hoped to sleep through the day as he did most of his life, but Vlada didn’t allow it. His objections ignored, the wounded guy was dragged to the nearest healer to have his head treated properly. Since using magic is too dangerous so close to No Man’s Land, the healer treated him with some nasty smelling ointment and a decoction of burngrass root, which felt precisely like what its name implied: burning mercilessly. After Kan’s head had been treated and bandaged Vlada took him to the market to buy some armour. To his surprise, they passed by all the heavily laden stalls displaying chainmails, breastplates, helmets, and all kinds of exotic items. Vlada spoke to the local weapons dealer directly and asked him for kevlar. The old master had just snarled at first, but then changed his mind and brought her a couple of thick lined cloaks, time worn, dusty, and discoloured by the sun. The price the old man asked for them made Kangassk’s jaw drop. Vlada paid it in full, not even bothering to haggle.

      Vlada tried her luck again, asking for a gun, but no, the old man didn’t have one.

      “No one goes into the Burnt Region anymore,” he said. “Everyone goes around. It adds two weeks to the journey, but, hey, you’ll arrive in one piece, so that’s worth it.”

      The kevlar armor he sold them was some kind of family legacy from the gold rush times, hence the high price.

      “Maybe we should go around as well?” Kangassk asked Vlada that evening at dinner, meek hope in his voice.

      “No,” she replied.

      “Why? Just why!” Kan threw his hands up in indignation.

      “Because I’m in a hurry.”

      “To do what?”

      “Hmm…” Vlada hummed, contemplating. “Okay. Let’s say, I’m going to the Dead Region to redeem my good name and help an old friend… You can stay here, Kan. It’s a free town. No one will ever see you as a freak here. Live your life. Be happy.”

      “No! I’m not letting you go to the Burnt Region alone!” Kangassk crossed his hands on his chest, his lips set stubbornly, his eyes bright and angry again.

      For a few seconds the only sound breaking the awkward silence was his furious breathing.

      “You are not too bad as a fighter,” said Vlada out of nowhere.

      “Beginner’s luck…” Kan exhaled with a hissing noise and scratched his bandaged head. “It was my first real fight, actually…”

      “I’ll teach you. We’ll have time during the journey,” she promised.

      Chapter 2. I wish I had a gun

      Chargas step lightly on their soft, padded paws. Dry autumn leaves may rustle under their feet, their claws may click once in a while on a stony road, but when they walk on grass you can not hear them at all because your human hearing is not sharp enough for something so subtle.

      Two charga riders followed a well-trodden trade road up to the crossroads where they turned north. The narrow path they chose was a remnant of the gold rush times. Back then, when thousands of people travelled that way, their heavy boots had worn the ground down to the rock. Like an old scar, the forgotten, overgrown path was still visible through the young green undergrowth. It didn’t snake around the hills and trees, it boldly went straight through every obstacle in its way, be it a meadow or a forest. Close to the obscure border of the Burnt Region the path emerged from under the grassy carpet of weeds and flowers and headed up, turning into a wide two-track road littered with innumerable shell cases that still glinted in the dust. Gold rush times were rough times…

      “What’s in the Burnt Region now?” Kangassk asked Vlada. “Is it abandoned, since no one seems to go there any more?”

      “Don’t get your hopes high.” Vlada shook her head. “Yes, it’s mostly a wasteland now, but people still live there.”

      “I wouldn’t,” Kan said with a lot of confidence.

      Sasler was cleaning his rifle, carefully wiping every little lens in a clever device attached to its barrel. The very device that made him the most feared man in the Burnt Region: a scope.

      Finally, satisfied with his work, he replaced the lid of the black case protecting the delicate lenses. When fully assembled, the scope resembled a bulging, unblinking insect eye.

      As usual, before setting off for the hunt Sasler peeked into his house and waved goodbye to his wife and little son. This simple ritual was extremely important to him, for many reasons.

      In the dense pine woods these hills were covered with the sunlight reached the ground in patches. Sasler avoided stepping on them, he preferred to stay in shadows where he felt more comfortable.

      The weather was fine, not a single cloud in the sky. Sasler chose a comfy spot at the edge of the cliff in the shade between two blackberry bushes. He could see the whole meadow from there. All he needed now was to wait for some hungry animal to show up.

      His bulge-eyed rifle lay next to him, its “eye” covered with cloth. Comfortably sprawled on the grass, Sasler waited for his prey. In such beautiful weather he could see further than usual, as far as the old road.

      The old road… someone was there, heading into the heart of the Burnt Region…

      “The old road goes up into the mountains,” Vlada explained. “People used to wash gold there, in the icy-cold springs, and build houses around them. Most little villages are abandoned now, but some people have stayed. I doubt they would like to see us, though. That’s why we’d better make a little detour through the forest.”

      Kangassk sighed pensively and scratched his charga behind the ear. The mighty beast answered the stroke with a loud purr.

      Sasler didn’t care about the old road, but he did care about his forest. Those two had just left the road and entered his territory! He grabbed his rifle, ripped the cloth off the scope, and took a closer look at the intruders.

      He was glad he hadn't rushed to pull the trigger. The strangers looked very much like old Crogan's bandits, kevlar cloaks and all. It took him a whole minute to realize they weren't a part of the gang.

      These two carried no guns with them, just three swords and a short bow. Plus, their chargas were heavily laden, obviously for travelling purposes.

      Fools. Two young fools either seeking adventures or trying to make a shortcut through the Burnt Region despite all the warnings they no doubt got. Or, maybe, they are not fools at all, but in fact, someone much worse than Crogan’s thugs are…

      Sasler tarried, balancing in indecision. The riders, two tiny black specks on the yellowish-green grassy carpet of the valley, were slowly moving in his direction. He couldn’t just kill them, not while them being innocent young fools was still a possibility. He needed more info. Having noted where they had entered the forest Sasler left the cliff. He decided to follow and watch those two, closely.

      Sasler’s family was used to him being absent from home for days when he hunted, so he was in no hurry. He kept his distance, he stayed in shadows, he observed his targets from the higher ground.

      From time to time he removed the cloth from the scope and took a closer look at the strangers. The