The Road to Magic (Book 1 of the Way of the Demon Series) (12 page)

Remembering his part in role playing games, Oleg announced with aplomb that he was in fact acquainted with many: he’d had a drink with some of them, or fought with some of them, but now it was time to stop messing around and go and fetch the horses as it would soon be sunset. Having quickly thought up their cover story, they hurried to the stables. And so it was that towards evening two travellers rode up to Kreghist Tor, causing quite a stir.

***

It was the Lord Chancellor himself, the King’s brother and main pretender to the throne of Fenrian, Victor Kreghist, who came out to meet the “famous couple”. Oleg had not miscalculated; his vocal talents were only a small fraction of the reason for this grand welcome. The smiles radiating from the Grand Duke of Briion to the “wonderful elf honouring us with her visit” left no room for doubt. After Oleg had introduced his companion as “my wife, Lúthien, of the people of Eldar, known among humans as the Light Elves” the smiles faded slightly and Oleg earned himself a hostile glance. As a matter of fact, most of the men present reacted in a similar way. Nevertheless, the guests were led into the castle with extreme politeness and given rooms. By way of an odd coincidence, there were only single rooms in the palace, and the room allocated to the princess was a long way from the one allocated to Oleg, but right next to the Lord Chancellor’s. Oleg was on the point of stirring up a small scene about this when Ataletta came to his aid.

‘I thank you for your attention, my lord, though I should however prefer to be quartered with my husband. Unfortunately, on our journey we have not had the opportunity to unite and I have missed him terribly,’ she stated with a disappointed smile, embracing Oleg passionately.

There was nothing for it but to join in her game. Which he did, by the way, with great pleasure.

‘Please excuse her, my lord. The moral code of the Eldar is quite different from that usual among humans. It was only with great difficulty that I managed to persuade Lúthien to wear clothes. However, she still doesn’t feel completely at home,’ he announced with an apologetic smile.

Now in the looks the men directed at him you could clearly read: ‘What have you done, you son of a bitch?’ while the women’s looks expressed genuine gratitude.

The “elf’s” request was met at once. However, watching the Lord Chancellor carefully, Oleg noticed that he held a brief conversation with a man dressed in black, then nodded in his direction.

Catching his moment, Oleg turned to Ataletta: ‘Who’s that?’

She followed his gaze and shuddered. ‘That’s Morron, one of the court’s best swordsmen; if not
the
best. He serves Kreghist, often doing dirty deeds for him. Usually he sets it up so that the victim is forced to challenge him to a duel, or he throws down the gauntlet himself, and then he simply kills the hapless guy. Handle him with care!’

‘Mmmm,’ Oleg thought to himself, following after the Grand Duke and his retinue. ‘Looks as though I’ll soon have to meet a professional assassin. And closer than I would have like if this kind uncle takes it into his head to turn poor “Lúthien” into a widow. And not because of any dislike for me, but only to get rid of the competition. And even the regent himself is giving sidelong glances. My little prinny’s kind old man reminds me of someone…Some historical figure…’

By that time they had reached their rooms and the Lord Chancellor, turning his back to Oleg, said to Ataletta, ‘Here is your chamber, my lady. Should you have any wishes whatsoever, please come straight to me. My chamber is not far. We shall await you and your husband at a feast in your honour. I hope he won’t refuse to play for us.’

‘Without fail,’ Oleg mumbled to himself, realizing only then who Ataletta’s uncle reminded him of. If it weren’t for his fair hair, lack of moustache and correct speech without the slightest accent, there would have been cause for panic. Victor Kreghist, Lord Chancellor and Regent of Fenrian, was the spitting image of “the great leader and teacher of the soviet people” whose portrait Oleg had seen more than once in history lessons and about whose crimes he had once had to write an essay: Joseph Visarionovich Stalin. This discovery struck Oleg to such an extent that, crushed, he hurried to lock himself in his room, making the excuse of being very tired and having to rest before his performance.

Once he and the princess were alone, Oleg wanted to question her at once, but Ataletta spun around and placed a finger on his lips, clearly signalling him to keep quiet. Then, brushing his ear, she pointed to the wall.

‘Aha, they could be listening to us,’ Oleg guessed. With a nod, he transformed his eyes and looked the room over with demonic eyesight. And indeed, at the far end of the room the outline of a human aura could be clearly seen. Going into the second room, he discovered an eavesdropper there, too.

What could he distract them with? Oleg strained to think, making small talk to Ataletta. Suddenly he had a flash of inspiration. He took out his mobile phone and set it up (silently rejoicing that at how loud it was and how full the battery was) then pronounced loudly: ‘My beloved, why don’t you take a bath while I practise a little before tonight’s performance?’ Once he’d turned on his mobile phone, where there were luckily a few recordings of his songs, he very quietly, on tiptoe, led the princess – who was most impressed at this magic– into the bathroom where there were fortunately neither eavesdroppers nor spies. Admittedly, there was no bath there either, as it turned out. Instead there was a huge barrel filled with barely warm water. Splashing his hand around in it (just in case), Oleg began to quiz the girl.

Having quickly found out all about the customary laws governing duels in Fenrian and his likely rival, Morron’s, favourite weapon, Oleg calmed down. If there were no other arrangement, the opponents could fight with any weapon they felt at ease with. The only ban was on thrown weapons and protective devices such as shirts of mail, armour or helmets. The only such item permitted was a shield. According to Ataletta, Morron’s favourite weapon was a “long, thin Irinian sword especially suited for sharp thrusts” or sometimes a long poignard for the left hand. ‘A sword and dagger’, Oleg translated for himself. If Morron attacked, his opponent wouldn’t stand a chance.

Having thus found out what was of greatest importance to him, Oleg decided to satisfy his curiosity on another matter and asked the princess: ‘So why is Kreghist coming on to you so strongly? After all, you said he’s married and loves his wife.’

‘So what if he does love his wife? What difference does it make? According to many of the old legends, even one night of passion with a Firstborn can prolong a human’s life. And the beauty of the eternal maidens doesn’t give a person rest. I didn’t really believe in those tales before, but,’ - and she turned to the mirror and carefully examined her reflection – ‘now I have to.’

‘In other words, now I have to watch out that some guy hungry for a long life doesn’t shove you into a dark corner.’

‘Of course, I would be glad if you were always by my side, but that is not necessary. According to the legends it’s a night of love, not rape, that can prolong one’s life. And there are
very’
– she stressed the word – ‘convincing examples of the calamity which will befall anyone who confuses those two things.’

‘Well, that’s fine, then.’ Having found out all he wanted, Oleg left the bathroom and turned off his mobile. Then he played his guitar a bit for real while Ataletta changed into her evening dress. When she’d finished, Oleg put on his leather jacket again – he preferred to be in comfy, familiar clothes in case of any trouble, and to hell with all the court customs and etiquette! Grabbing his two-handed sword and his guitar, he took his “elf” by the arm and they set out to the throne room.

The “feast” – which by Oleg’s standards was merely an evening meal, and not a very lavish one at that – didn’t last long, only about an hour. Then, at a sign from the Lord Chancellor, the servants quickly moved away the tables and left-overs and all eyes turned to Oleg. He understood that the time had come for him to play. Without much ado, he picked up his guitar and began to sing.

Gradually, as he was singing, Oleg noticed something strange. While a large proportion of the audience who had at first been frozen in a deadly, disapproving silence were now listening attentively, and some – occasionally and as though in fear of something – applauded, a small group of courtiers with Morron at their head exactly mimicked the behaviour of Victor Kreghist, who was sitting at the head of the table with a gloomy and displeased expression on his face. The tension in the hall was rising perceptibly. But everything was soon explained.

No sooner had Oleg laid his guitar down for a moment to get his breath, than from the centre of the group of the displeased could be heard: ‘Finally that whining’s stopped! What does she see in him? No muscles, no strength, just howling, and he can’t even sing – he’s not sung a single ballad or ode! Donned some hunters’ clothes he pinched from somewhere and goes strutting around. He even showed up at the feast dressed like that, the uncouth lout!’

The speaker came out from the crowd and walked towards Oleg, who was not surprised to see it was Morron. He had evidently used up the store of insults which could be used in the presence of ladies, and turned to open swearing in a pretty pathetic manner. Most of his words, if translated into literary language, would have cast doubts over the minstrel’s honest and upright nature, and would also have accused Oleg of exaggerated sexual behaviour and irregular sexual relations. He ended with a passage in which he clarified his certainty that Oleg had married the elfin girl and kept hold of her thanks to some sort of unfamiliar magic.

Oleg glanced at the Lord Chancellor’s smug face which clearly showed that all was going according to plan, and at the now silent hall, waiting impatiently for him to give the challenge, and realized that a duel was unavoidable.

‘Well, I wasn’t really trying to get out of it. His death will be his own fault,’ Oleg thought to himself and was just about to demand satisfaction when he suddenly remembered that in Fenrian a challenge to a duel was a highly ritualized phrase which he didn’t know.

But Oleg quickly found a way out.

‘Well, well. Looks as though there’s nothing for it but to make sure he challenges me. And in the process, I’ll teach the locals how to curse, otherwise their expressions are too monotonous.’

‘…you and ...your… up your…’ As bait, Oleg let rip the phrase which Elisey had once uttered, suffering from a bad hangover, when Oleg had tried to wake him up. Oleg had memorized that phrase, and now he’d found an opportunity to use his knowledge.

A reverent silence reigned in the hall. A notepad and pencil flashed in the hands of one young hussar. Ataletta was listening attentively. Realizing that a kind of truce had ensued, looking at Morron’s face, red with rage, Oleg delivered his coup de grace using a refined turn of phrase which sounded particularly odd against the background of such foul language.

‘As for your announcement regarding my behaviour in connection with ladies, I must admit, that prior to making the acquaintance of Lúthien, I did indeed indulge in certain frivolities in relation to beautiful ladies. However, there were neither protests nor complaints. I have always been able to win over maidens who pleased me. Quite contrary to you, lir, as the passion and quantity of your accusations bear witness to the fact that, should you be able to attract the attention of even one of the not-so-sought-after ladies, it would most certainly not be in your powers to furnish her with satisfaction,’ Oleg smirked snidely.

That was the last straw. In a rage, the livid dueller threw himself at Oleg, grabbing his sword and yelling: ‘Fight to the death! You have insulted me, and I demand a fight to the death. Here and now!’

Oleg shrugged his shoulders, drawing his espadon.

‘As you wish, lir, as you wish.’

The spectators parted, making room for the fight and the Lord Chancellor gave an approving nod, consenting to the duel.

The duel itself was over very fast. Having decided not to demonstrate his inhuman (in the most literal sense) strength, Oleg took up the classic pose for a fight with a two-handed sword. Let his abilities be a “pleasant” surprise for his opponent! Moreover, the skin under his clothes was transformed and had become the robust scales of a demon. Oleg was not about to take needless risks, though he was sure of his victory.

His opponent was equally sure that Oleg didn’t stand a chance. In single combat, one to one, with no armour, a heavy espadon intended for straight and uningenious thrusts to smash the opponent’s armour was a poor match for his own light court sword which allowed him to move much more quickly, to dodge and deflect blows and then to pierce the unprotected body.

The match didn’t even last a few minutes. Holding his sword above his head, Oleg hacked a mighty blow which was absolutely foolish in such a match. Smirking condescendingly, Morron smoothly deflected it to one side and made his move, accurate and fatal. And that is precisely what Oleg had been expecting. Letting go of the sword handle with his left hand, which enabled him to turn sideways to his opponent and let the blade of the court sword slide along his chest, still holding his espadon in his right hand only, he made a cutting thrust from top to bottom. Not expecting anything of the sort – such a blow is theoretically impossible for a human, due to the weight of the heavy sword and its colossal inertia – Morron was unable to defend himself. The sharpened tip of the espadon went into the depths of his stomach and pushed out his ribs. He stood for a few seconds longer, looking around with disbelieving eyes and pressing his hands to his horrific wound, and then collapsed in his death throes.

With a glum face, Oleg carefully wiped his sword and went to his seat. He was feeling nauseous but he couldn’t show his weakness. Duels and murder were common occurrences in that society and to turn your back on a dangerous enemy was fraught with peril. The Boar’s knife had taught him a good lesson.

‘I thank you for your attention,’ Oleg’s voice reached zero degrees as he addressed the courtiers. ‘My wife and I are very tired and wish to rest. I hope no one has any objections,’ and he looked the audience over darkly.