"But little he knows that already the Gate of Hades Gapes; 

and above him, stands the last sun he sees" 

Euripides, Hippolytus (translation by E.P. Coleridge) 

The sun rose from the sea, its first rays seemingly by design setting the wave crests ablaze with a blood-red glow. The ship entered the strait. The sails fell and the anchor chain ran with a crash. A boat, departing from the starboard side, approached the shore, manoeuvring between other vessels, large and small.

Curious onlookers crowded the piers and viewing platforms. For the residents of the port city, going to sea was routine. Fishermen, merchants and sailors – all lived by its bounty. Yet each return was considered a stroke of fortune, so a few souls would always set aside their worries behind to greet an arriving ship. However, the ship, its sail emblazoned with the image of a bull’s head crowned with a flower, was not welcome in the port of the Southern Gates.

Its arrival was met – an unheard-of event! – with curses and abuse. The dread sparked by the accursed vessel did not subside but rather slithered through the port and into the city, like a creeping contagion brought from distant, foreign shores.

Three men stepped out from the boat, their gazes as heavy and arrogant as their stride. Their cloaks beat against the wind like the wings of dragons - scarlet, white and gold. Their hands rested on the double-edged axes hanging at their belts, flaunted as both a warning and a challenge. This could be seen as unnecessary arrogance, or a necessary caution. The Order of Bull and the Chalice instilled as much fear as they did unrest.

Spittle and curses trailed the knights, but they walked on, unbothered, heading straight for the Wind Petal Tavern. A swordsman in a scarlet cloak led the way. Tall and blond, he moved with calm determination, the kind ingrained in those accustomed since childhood to facing both danger and fear. Two scars crossed his young, handsome face almost negating its beauty. To the uninformed, he might have seemed the leader of this small detachment, but those in the know would explain otherwise. In battle, it was always the lowest-ranking knights – the youngest and most worthless – who took the first blow. It was only logical: the reckless bravery of the young, if not crushed, then intimidated the enemy and the worthless had a chance to outplay fate or at least die with honour.

Halting by the tavern, the Scarlet listened. From the open window, tangled with nasturtiums, came a deep voice, at times dropping into a resonant bass - a hymn to some unknown god, or perhaps a spell:

Terehoyno

Géreyhoyno

Haragaluun

Holuyraba

Hori Garan

Hongorhaltargaluunuud…[i]

The Scarlet stepped back with feline grace and glanced at his companions.

‘It’s definitely him,’ murmured the White.

‘But what is he…?’

The White merely shrugged.

‘Shall I go in and take a look?’

‘No. We’ll go in together,’ said the Golden, adjusting his glasses.

‘Even all three of us together, we stand little chance. One by one, he’d squash us like pups.’

The Scarlet gave a fleeting smile and glanced up at the sky — clear and dazzlingly blue. Would this day be his last? With a slight bow of his head, he stepped into the tavern.

Inside, a welcome coolness greeted him, carrying the scent of fresh sawdust, sage, and damp wood. But after the bright morning sun, the dim interior momentarily felt like an abyss.

The spacious hall, with its vaulted stone ceilings, reminded him of the half-buried temples of the Order. Tables fashioned from old doors, set upon logs, had been scrubbed to a shine. Strange curiosities from distant lands adorned the walls. The Scarlet curled his lips in contempt. The meaning of life for people here, apparently, was just to come to places like this and drink and talk and drink and talk.

Two adolescent boys, who had been scattering sawdust on the floor, seized their baskets and darted through a side door at the sight of the knights. But he — he remained behind the counter, whistling and humming his peculiar song polishing tin mugs. He barely glanced at the newcomers.

The White was familiar with him from times past and the Golden had chanced meeting him before, but it was Scarlet’s first time.

He was like a rock against which the waves of the sea, time, and death crashed, only to scatter, powerless. But more than his formidable stature, it was the unshakable calm that clung to him—heavy, unyielding, absolute. His short leather vest, common in the East, did not conceal his scars and tattoos. His face had something beastly about it — a heavy jaw, a steep, like a cliff, forehead, broad straight nose bridge, wide nostrils, almond-shaped eyes, large and black, with a golden glint. Yet, for all its raw power, there was a strange harmony in his features — harsh, unfamiliar, but flawless.

Now the Scarlet could easily believe what he had heard about his martial valour, fearlessness and strength of spirit. He would readily accept such a man as a comrade. The trouble was, he was not exactly a man.

Scrutinising him in such a flustered manner any longer was inexcusable, thought the Scarlett and, following the protocol, he asked:

‘Are you Asterius? The one called Born of the wrath of the gods in the labyrinths of terror?’

‘Those who call me that don't live long,’ replied the tauran. His voice was soft and mocking as if these words were merely a joke. Yet the Scarlet, albeit from hearsay, knew the weight of these words. He stepped forward, unsheathing his sword to four-finger length.

‘The god you abandoned calls upon you, Asterius. If you do not come willingly, we'll have to…’

Asterius snorted, put down the mug, picked up the next one and, leaning over the counter, looked at the sword with undisguised pleasure.

‘Oh, an Ulfberht? A fine sword, truly. Pity you’ll have to flatten yourself on the floor just to unsheathe it, little calf,’ and, smiling, he pointed upwards with his thumb. The Scarlet didn’t look up but blushed with vexation. How childish it was to reach for a sword — though the hall was spacious, a hand-and-a-half sword left little room to manoeuvre.

‘You won't even scare off the flies,’ Asterius nodded as if hearing his thoughts, ‘Go for a labrys, that's my advice and if you don't want to disgrace it foolishly — use a club.’

Why not follow good advice? Flushed, the Scarlet pulled a short Turkish club from his belt, made a feint downwards and sideways and rushed at Asterius.

Anticipating his manoeuvre, the tauran threw his mug, hitting the Scarlet square in the forehead. The knight fell flat on his face with a thud as if an iron-bound chest had crashed to the floor. Sawdust flew up, golden specks danced in the sunbeams.

With a surprising agility for such a massive creature, Asterius vaulted over the counter, fisted the White on the head and wrenched the Golden’s arm, driving his own club hard against his ear.

He looked over the fallen knights and shook his head. Pulled off a cloth from his shoulder, wiped his hands. Bellowed gruffly:

‘Edmond! Fernan! Crawl out, you rats! Told you to hold off on cleaning, but no! Now, please, start over.’

‘You're quick this time, Meister Styler,’ one of the teenagers cheekily declared, peeping out from behind the door, ‘they wouldn't even pay a penny for such a show in the circus, they'd probably pelt you with rotten stuff.’

‘Keep talking, scoundrel, and I'll put on a real show,’ grumbled the tauran. The boy only snickered into his palm, clearly unafraid.

*****

[i] Somewhere out there,

On the north side of the house,

Wandered far away

Twenty-plus

Black and brown geese.

These charming

Twenty-plus geese.

 (Buryat folk nursery rhyme)