That same night, a familiar trio sat on one of the hills outside the village.
This trio—made up of Yalaz, Togan, and Garrun—was in the middle of an argument.
"Why not, master? How many more people are we going to bury to escape this damned place? Is a punishment handed down years ago by some whore worth more than our lives?"
Togan cried out. Yalaz didn't answer.
"Togan's right, master." Garrun's voice wasn't angry like his; it was low, on the verge of cracking.
"My sister…" He said a few words, then stopped. Something seemed caught in his throat. "My sister may not even see next month."
Yalaz didn't raise his head. His eyes weren't on the village lights but far, far beyond them—on that black mountain range that drew the boundary of the Ruined Lands.
"We won't make it," he said at last. "We have neither enough supplies nor enough weapons. None of us will make it; some of us will fall."
He paused a moment. "And even if we cross… that woman is still waiting for me."
"If the End is waiting for us either way, why don't we try? I'd rather die trying than sit here waiting for my own death."
Togan's voice was cracking, but he went on.
"And besides, now we have those children with us. More people, more chances."
Both of them looked at Yalaz, waiting for an answer.
"They'll be good for nothing but bait."
After that hard truth, Togan was forced to fall silent; in his place, Garrun continued.
"They learn fast. Maybe in one—no, two months, they could be enough. At least enough to defend themselves. You saw it too."
"Two months." Yalaz turned for the first time and looked into Garrun's eyes. "Does your sister have two months, Garrun?"
Garrun couldn't answer. He opened his mouth, closed it. His palms slowly clenched into fists.
For a while no one spoke. As Iskar's two stars and countless moons bathed the hilltop in their cold light, only the sound of the crickets remained.
At last it was Yalaz who spoke again; but this time his voice was a little lower.
"Taking her will kill her, and leaving her here will kill her. You know both. I won't lie to you and say we'll make it in time." He didn't take his eyes off Garrun.
"Next week…" He stopped, weighing his words. "Next week I'll take the ones who prove useful in training and go to the Hanging City."
"The children you just called 'bait'?" Togan asked.
Yalaz started walking. After a few steps, instead of answering Togan's question, he said something else.
"Then two more expeditions, two weeks apart."
He melted into the darkness. Togan and Garrun stayed there a while longer. One with disappointment, the other with a question he'd never asked.
When morning came, Poyraz opened his eyes to that familiar, warm light seeping through the window. The same sun, the same two stars, and the same foul smell. He chatted with Hak and Tunay for a while, then they headed for the square.
He thought he'd carry on with his usual routine, but when Yalaz gathered the thirteen of them—and all the villagers too—in the square, he understood something was different.
The square was packed. Not just the thirteen of them; the smith Feron, who'd put out his forge and come, Selis with her baby in her arms, the musician girl who'd left her instrument half-played—whoever was in the village was there.
Since the grove attack, since Miren had been left drenched in blood, something in the village had changed: Garrun had told everyone never to let their weapons out of reach. So most of those gathered in the square had come with a sword at their waist or a spear in hand.
Poyraz immediately sensed something was wrong. Every morning at this hour the village split into three training groups; yet now no one was going anywhere, everyone had been drawn to the same spot.
The villagers whispered under their breath; some exchanged looks as if they knew something, some scanned the surroundings as bewildered as the rest.
"Listen to me carefully!" the old man roared. "Because I will not repeat this a second time."
Just then a heavy, dull scraping sound came from the back of the crowd. Garrun, gripping his spear tightly with one hand, was dragging something across the dust and dirt toward the middle of the square with the other.
'What is that? A corpse?'
As Poyraz tried to make out what Garrun was dragging, the familiar filthy smell in the air gave way to the unfamiliar, muffled stench of burnt flesh and blood.
From one end of the crowd a muffled retching rose. Then feet drawing back, hands covering mouths… What startled people was less the sight of the corpse than that smell; the sharpness filling their lungs reminded them all once again of where they were.
Yalaz went on with his speech.
"I didn't gather you here on a whim." His voice cut through the murmur of the square like a knife. "Our time is running out."
He paused a moment, his eyes sliding to the mountains in the west.
"For a week now the creatures of the west have stirred. Not one, not five—all of them. Even things that never leave their dens have come out, flowing east, toward us. I don't know why they've stirred."
His voice dropped. "But once a horde starts moving, it moves crushing everything in its path."
He pointed to the corpse Garrun had brought.
"This is one of the first outriders. And more will come. Maybe in a month, maybe two, maybe tomorrow."
Poyraz felt a deep cold spread through his body. He knew the village wasn't a safe place, but he hadn't imagined the danger could be this close.
Hazar, Yavuz, and Sevda involuntarily gripped their weapons mercilessly, all at the same moment. So much so that Poyraz thought for an instant they'd break them.
Esen had bent her neck and was looking at the ground. With one hand she held Sedef's. They were trying to calm each other, but both were trembling.
Tunay and Hak, meanwhile, had fixed their eyes on the corpse and on Yalaz, not moving a single inch.
"Next week we'll begin expeditions with those I choose from the thirteen of you."
Poyraz's eyes went wide, and he made to open his mouth, but he paused when Yalaz went on.
"These expeditions have three aims."
He held up the sword in his hand.
"First, to obtain equipment and supplies. What we have won't be enough to keep us alive."
This time he pointed at them.
"Second, for you to gain experience. You have to learn how to survive, how to fight."
Lastly, he pointed into the distance.
"Third, and most important, to chart a route."
Poyraz raised an eyebrow. 'Meaning?'
"Once the expeditions are complete, we'll set out on one final journey to escape the Ruined Lands."
Color returned to the faces of some of the thirteen. Their eyes began to shine, their hearts to beat with excitement. And not only them. Even the exiles, who had spent their whole lives in this village, could barely stay still.
For a moment Poyraz felt sorry for them. None of them but Yalaz had ever set foot outside the Ruined Lands; all their lives they'd seen this soil, breathed this air.
The exiles were as much strangers to the world beyond the Ruined Lands as the thirteen were to this world.
Neither group knew anything about those glorious kingdoms, houses, and cities.
Yalaz coughed.
"That's all I had to say. Start preparing for next week now."
And then, as if he didn't want to be there, he vanished from the spot in the blink of an eye. Poyraz couldn't even tell what had happened.
After Yalaz left, the silence around them broke. Noise and murmurs filled the square.
The villagers laughed with joy, shouted, some even danced where they stood.
Poyraz couldn't laugh.
The joy around him was real; he could see it. The exiles were speaking, for the first time in their lives, of what lay beyond those black mountains as a possibility. But what had settled inside Poyraz wasn't hope.
He thought about the way Yalaz had left. Why had a man delivering the good news of deliverance walked off without looking anyone in the face, as if fleeing? The one who brings good news rejoices; he doesn't flee.
"With those I choose," he'd said. Some of the thirteen would go, some would stay. But no one had asked, "What if I'm not chosen?" Nor, "What if I am?"
He looked at Hak. Hak was looking at him too—that old, wordless look. For years the two of them had learned the same thing: joy, more often than not, was the herald of a price.
Sedef, holding Esen's hand, had grabbed Yavuz's arm with her other hand and was gripping it as if she'd never let go.
On the lips of Sevda, Hazar, Aylin, and Tekin a faint smirk had appeared, defying the danger.
Devran had moved over beside his sister Veda and Duru and was excitedly telling them something.
Poyraz and Hak looked at each other.
Tunay… Tunay was watching them all.