“If you want to live, drop your weapons and raise your hands. You are surrounded.”

  The voice came from the left, but the echo answered from three directions at once. The stone walls of the basin threw the sound back, turning it into a hollow warning. Any movement here could be the last: one shot—and the bullet would ricochet like a vicious dog refusing to let go of its prey.

  “No tricks. We know who you are, Garret. And we know why you’re here.”

  Garret and Harlan turned their heads, scanning for threats from every side.

  Figures appeared from behind the rocks—one, then another, then more. Gray coats, identical caps, identical faces. All armed. From a ledge on the right, a lens flashed—a sniper. Somewhere behind them, snow creaked softly—more were circling from the rear.

  “Drop the weapons and step out from behind the rock,” the voice repeated. “Slowly. Then we talk.”

  “You want me to put a bullet in my own head too, make it easier for you bandits?” Garret shouted back.

  “Bandits?” The same voice laughed. “On the contrary—we are the law, Garret. And the law does not joke. Come out.”

  “I haven’t broken anything. Get off my mining claim,” Garret shouted back, then whispered to Harlan, “Try to count them.”

  Harlan nodded.

  The voice continued, irritated:

  "Garret, everyone knows you killed your own crew over a crystal vein. Better to settle this nicely.”

  “Killed them? What nonsense?” Garret said evenly, tired. “I walked expeditions with them for ten years. They were family. Who spun that tale—the settlement elder?” He paused. “Enough bullshit. Say what you want.”

  “It’s simple.” About fifty meters ahead, on a small rise, a man stepped into view—clearly, deliberately. A city face, foreign to these places. No hood or cap, but a strange wide-brimmed hat. “You show us the crystal vein. You sign over the claim to the settlement. You walk away alive and maybe even get a few coins. We’re not animals.”

  “And if we don’t?” Harlan asked.

  “Then you both die here. You’ve already done half the work for us and led us straight to it. Either you sell the rights—or we take them posthumously.”

  “We didn’t come for a vein,” Garret said calmly. “We’re taking what we left three years ago and leaving.”

  “Don’t make me laugh, old man. You hid like a rat. Renewed the prospecting license, lay low—and suddenly you’re ‘not here for a vein’? We weren’t born yesterday. Two options: sign the papers and live another couple of decades… or—”

  To the left of the man in the hat, another figure appeared, wrapped in a long cloak with a hood. Something about him struck Harlan as wrong.

  *Why no weapon? Could he be a mage?* Harlan wondered.

  “So?” the man in gray said. “Decide, Garret. Calmly. No tricks—and you live.”

  He raised his hand. The silhouettes shifted; more emerged. One, two, three—many. The sniper on the right adjusted, lining up on the rock behind which they hid.

  “About ten. Maybe eleven or twelve,” Harlan whispered. “Most are in front. I saw two on the left, three on the right, four on the hill. And at least two behind us. Maybe more.”

  “Ten men… We’re not walking out alive,” Garret whispered back. “Best we can do is sell our lives dearly. If it comes to it—take the sniper first.”

  “There might be a mage. The one left of the leader. No pistol.”

  “Damn. Hope not. If yes—him first. Then the sniper.”

  Without waiting, Garret rose slightly, enough to be seen.

  “We’re not here for a vein,” he said loudly. “There is no vein. Never was. We’re taking gear and a few crystals from a dead expedition. Back then, we didn’t have time. You really think anyone would go after a vein with two people?”

  The man in the hat looked at the pit, at the shovel beside it, at the bags. Doubt flickered in his eyes. From this angle, he could not see what lay inside.

  “How about this,” Garret offered. “We leave and forget this misunderstanding, and we leave you a couple of crystals. You take your people and pretend you never saw us. And forget about the vein—there is no vein.”

  The pause stretched tight as a wire.

  Harlan did not take his eyes off the silhouettes.

  “What are you dragging this out for?” someone snapped from behind a rock. “Finish the bastards and be done!”

  The hope of negotiation collapsed instantly.

  A shot thundered.

  The bullet tore off the edge of the ledge and flew straight at Garret. Too fast. He did not even flinch.

  It hit his left shoulder, spinning the old man around. He fell into the snow like a sack—and by irony, that fall saved his life. A dry, deafening crack split the air. The sniper’s bullet passed exactly where Garret’s head had been a moment before.

  Harlan reacted instantly, lunging to him.

  “Garret, cover!” he shouted, dragging him deeper behind the boulder.

  The basin turned into a firing range. The sniper sat on the ridge, about eighty meters upslope, controlling the angle. From left and right, gray figures bounded from rock to rock, tightening the ring.

  “Animals…” Garret rasped, pressing his back to the stone. Blood soaked his sleeve, his face went gray with pain, but his eyes stayed clear. “I’m fine. Right arm works. I can shoot. Don’t waste rounds, kid.”

  As if to prove it, he shifted the revolver to his good hand and cocked it.

  Bullets hammered down again, biting into the top of their cover. Sharp stone fragments sprayed their faces.

  The two circling from the rear chose their moment. They burst from cover, hoping to gun the prospectors down while the sniper pinned them. One raised a revolver on the run; the other stopped to aim with a rifle.

  Harlan felt them before he saw them. He turned, lifting his left hand without thinking.

  Instead of counterattacking head-on, he resonated with the Field, abruptly shifting air pressure in front of him. The atmosphere reacted instantly: a dense vortex roared into being. Bullets entering the turbulence wobbled, lost force, and screamed off to the sides.

  Garret did not hesitate. Three shots. One attacker clutched his stomach and collapsed into the snow.

  At the same moment, Harlan fired. He did not aim with his eyes; he guided the bullet instinctively, twisting its path through the Field.

  The shot struck the second man square in the head. The skull burst open, spraying red across the white snow. Harlan doubled over, bile rising in his throat. He barely suppressed the urge to vomit. Shooting cans was one thing—watching a man’s life spill out with his brains was another.

  He did not have time to straighten up. The air thickened suddenly, rang with tension.

  The enemy mage struck.

  It was like a massive kinetic hammer. It slammed into their cover, throwing Harlan and Garret aside and even shifting the multi-ton boulder.

  His ears rang. Harlan did not hear his own voice, but he screamed, “Garret, into the pit!”

  Garret, thrown toward the excavated shaft, crawled to the edge and fell inside. Bullets whistled overhead, but he was temporarily safe—about a meter below ground level.

  “Hell…” Garret spat out dirty snow. “Didn’t expect them to send a whole unit after me. With a mage, too.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He hauled himself up, bracing the revolver on the pit’s edge.

  “Hold on,” he said, as if from far away. Harlan’s hearing was slowly returning.

  Bang. Bang. Two fast shots. A scream of pain answered.

  “One down!” Garret shouted, dropping back as return fire tore up the edge where he’d been. “Hit another!”

  Harlan pressed himself to the frozen ground, gasping. His head split from the concussion, sparks danced in his vision. His main pistol lay somewhere near the boulder.

  He crawled on his hands, keeping low. On the left, about twenty meters out, three enemies were closing into clear firing range.

  “Garret, cover me! On three!” Harlan shouted through the ringing. “One… Two…”

  Garret, forcing through the pain, popped up and fired toward the ridge, forcing the sniper to hug the snow.

  “Three!”

  Harlan rolled out from cover. The three enemies were exposed. He thrust out his hand and poured every scrap of will into the thought, like back then against the wild beast.

  A powerful kinetic impulse slammed into them. It was not a clean strike. One mercenary smashed into a rock with a sickening crack—he did not move again. The other two were knocked off their feet and dragged across the crusted snow. They were alive, disoriented, already scrambling for weapons.

  “No,” Harlan hissed.

  He sent another command through the Field. Moisture froze instantly, forming two crooked spears of ice. A sharp gesture—and they flew. Dull, wet impacts. Both mercenaries lay still.

  But the focus cost him awareness. A lone shooter on the right flanked the boulder. A shot rang out—searing pain ripped through Harlan’s calf. He cried out and dropped to one knee. The bullet grazed him, tearing muscle, setting his leg on fire.

  “Harlan!” Garret fired blindly, forcing the shooter back.

  “I’m alive!” Harlan clutched his leg. Blood ran through his fingers, but the bone was intact.

  Ahead, on the hill, the man in the hat assessed the situation.

  “A mage! There’s a mage behind the rock!” he shouted. “Don’t rush him! Davis, finish him!”

  The worst was coming. Harlan felt it in his skin. The Field around the boulder began to condense. The enemy mage—Davis—had recovered. He was not going to strike directly. He planned to roll the massive rock straight over Harlan, to crush him like an insect.

  The boulder—three tons at least—began to tilt, grinding.

  “Run!” Garret screamed hysterically.

  *I can’t,* Harlan thought. *No cover—the sniper will take me.*

  He looked at the stone.

  *Stop it. Just stop it.*

  Harlan locked his mind onto the boulder. He did not know how to attack the mage. He only tried to hold the rock in place, to push against the enemy’s force vector.

  Resonance. Two wills collided over the same object. The boulder froze for a second, vibrating. Veins bulged at Harlan’s temples. Blood streamed from his nose.

  Then the Field collapsed—like a giant spring snapping.

  For Harlan, the world went dark instantly. He fell face-first into the snow, blood leaking from his ears. On the hill, the mage let out a choked scream and tumbled down the slope. The grays shouted in fury.

  “Bastards! Harlan! Harlan!” Garret emptied the rest of the cylinder toward the hill in desperation. “Kid?”

  Harlan did not move.

  Only the man in the hat, a couple of fighters, and the sniper remained. Seeing no more magic, the leader and his aide advanced cautiously.

  Garret tried to buy time. He staggered up to fire—but his reaction failed him. Blood loss took its toll. Something smashed into the revolver like a hammer. A sniper’s round? Or a lucky shot from the advancing gunman?

  Garret’s index finger was blown off, along with part of the trigger guard.

  “Ahh! Son of a bitch!” the old man screamed, dropping the twisted scrap of metal.

  He clutched his hand, blood gushing. His legs buckled, and he sank back into the pit.

  The grays were close now.

  “Listen, you piece of shit. Stop twitching and come out with your hands up,” the leader sneered. His tone had changed.

  “And why?” Garret wheezed, slumped against the pit wall, vision swimming. “Might as well finish me here. Saves you digging.”

  “No grave for you, dog shit. You’ll sign the papers, then I’ll bury you in the pit. If you don’t come out now, I’ll leave you here—let the beasts enjoy it. Five seconds.”

  “Let the kid go. He had nothing to do with this…”

  “Are you insane? He wiped half the unit and Davis. And he’s dead anyway, looks like.” The man spat. “Sign, and I’ll bury you both. Final offer.”

  Garret fell silent. He glanced over the pit’s edge. Harlan lay unnaturally still, face buried in snow.

  *Sorry, kid. I failed you.*

  “Go on, John. Finish the old man,” the leader said casually.

  “Alright,” came the muffled voice from the pit. “I’ll sign.”

  “What was that? Say it clearly.”

  “I’ll sign,” Garret said loudly. “But you promised.”

  “Then come out before I change my mind.”

  Garret climbed out slowly. Every step hurt. He was soaked in blood, swaying in the wind.

  “If you don’t want your papers soaked in blood, you’ll need to deal with this,” he gestured at his ruined hand.

  “Damn you. John, wrap his hand.”

  John—a tall, broad gray with a red beard—stepped up and kicked Garret hard in the stomach. The old man folded, gasping, dropping to his knees.

  “Take that, bastard,” John added a knee to his face.

  “That’s enough!” the man in the hat barked. “Don’t knock him out. He needs to write.”

  “Fine, Smith,” John stepped back.

  Garret spat blood. Pain came in waves, but stubborn consciousness held on. He looked again at Harlan. The boy’s body had not moved.

  On the hill, the sniper stood, stretching stiff limbs.

  John roughly wrapped the stump with a filthy rag, cinching it so tight Garret’s vision went black.

  “Creatures like you shouldn’t live,” John hissed. “Killed your own—and ours.”

  “You believe everything you hear?” Garret smirked crookedly through broken lips.

  “Shut up.”

  The “bandaging” ended.

  “Alright, John, make a table,” the leader ordered, pulling out parchment. “Bend over. You—sign. Here. And here.”

  Reluctantly, John offered his broad back. Garret, trembling, wedged the pen between thumb, middle finger, and pinky and scratched a crooked mark. Letters danced.

  “Good. Now—into the pit.”

  Garret staggered to the edge. He stood tall, turning his back on them. Fear was gone—there was no strength left for it.

  *Idiots. Didn’t even notice the crystals under their feet. And I’m the bigger fool—dying at the hands of morons.*

  “That’s it, John. Finish him.”

  “This is for Matthias and Davis,” John raised the revolver, aiming at the back of Garret’s head.

  Garret closed his eyes.

  Two shots rang out almost together. Then a third.

  Garret flinched, expecting the blow—but darkness did not come. Instead, bodies fell behind him.

  “Garret, fuck—get down!” a hoarse, weak voice cut through the frost.

  “What?.. Harlan?”

  Garret turned. Harlan was alive. He lay on his side, propped on an elbow, face white as chalk, blood streaming from his nose. A smoking revolver trembled in his hand. John and the man in the hat lay dead in the snow.

  The sniper snapped out of his shock and raised his rifle.

  “Into the pit!” Harlan screamed.

  Garret dropped like a sack of flour. The sniper’s bullet blasted a fountain of dirt.

  "Kid! You're alive! You're like a damn tick!" Garret laughed and coughed blood at once.

  “Shut up… my head’s splitting…” Harlan’s voice shook. “Not over yet.”

  Silence hung over the basin again. The sniper on the slope took his time, lining up on the two half-corpses below.

  “Garret,” Harlan whispered. “I need a second. Distract him. Make him shoot.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Garret sucked in air through broken ribs and yelled without exposing himself, “Hey! Your boss is dead! No money! Surrender while you can!”

  A shot slammed into the pit’s edge, showering him with dirt.

  “Good,” Harlan’s voice was weaker still. “Again.”

  “Damn you…” Garret rasped and shouted again. “Wasting ammo! You’re still this close to dying! Last chance—run!”

  The sniper fired at the sound, trying to rake the pit.

  In that pause, while the bolt cycled, Harlan rolled out from behind the boulder. He could not aim steadily—his hands shook from exhaustion. He fired toward the ridge.

  The bullet should have gone wide. But at the last instant, Harlan jerked his head, steering the Field with the last scraps of will.

  The bullet traced an impossible arc, curved around the rock, and entered the sniper’s head.

  Everything fell silent. This time—finally.

  Harlan lowered the revolver and collapsed into the snow. His body seized, and he vomited again.

  Garret clawed out of the pit and came to him, cradling his ruined hand.

  “You alright, kid?”

  “I’ll live…” Harlan wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Blood from his ear smeared his cheek. “Leg’s on fire. Head… like a bell.”

  He looked over the battlefield. A dozen corpses. Broken bodies. Red on white. No romance of northern prospecting he'd heard so much about—only dirt, pain, and death. Nausea rose again; he swallowed it down. He didn't want to look at the dead, but his gaze kept returning to where Red John lay, neck twisted at an impossible angle, the snow beneath him no longer melting.

  “It’s over,” Garret said, sliding down beside him and closing his eyes.

  “What about your finger?” Harlan stared at the bloody rag in horror.

  “Shot off. Small thing.”

  “Give it here.”

  Harlan forced himself up. He had almost no strength left, but he would not let the old man bleed out.

  “Hold on.”

  He unwrapped the cloth. Blood surged. He clamped the stump with his hand to slow it and focused. The Field sank into flesh, finding torn vessels. Garret growled through clenched teeth but did not pull away. Harlan felt another's pain as his own—sharp, pulsing. He did not truly heal; he crudely fused vessels with the Field, forcing tissue to seal.

  “You’ll live,” he breathed after a minute, slumping back. “Shoulder next.”

  “Shoulder can wait—”

  “Now. While I’m still conscious.”

  Garret turned obediently.

  “Lucky,” Harlan whispered, examining the wound. “Through and through. If the bullet were still inside, I couldn’t get it. This—I can close.”

  A few more minutes of brutal concentration. Harlan finished and nearly blacked out.

  “Do your leg,” Garret ordered, seeing the boy pale. “No point bleeding out saving me.”

  Harlan nodded. He touched his thigh. The bullet had only torn muscle. He went silent. Minutes passed. The wound sealed into a rough scar.

  “I thought you were dead,” Garret said quietly. “Really thought so.”

  “And I thought you decided to have coffee with them. Even had a table,” Harlan gave a weak smile, nodding at John’s corpse.

  Garret snorted, but no laugh came.

  He looked at the pit of crystals. Their glow now felt cold, ominous.

  “We take only what we can carry unnoticed,” Harlan said firmly. “The rest we bury again. And the bodies—we dump them in the crevasse now. Scavengers will scatter them otherwise. No strength for graves.”

  Garret nodded, scanning the area.

  “Yes. No traces. Or they’ll come again.” Then he glanced at the hill and flinched. “By the way… where’s the mage?”