The Road to Magic (Book 1 of the Way of the Demon Series) (17 page)

‘I see. OK, go and get some sleep. Now it’s my turn to keep watch,’ Oleg said, settling himself more comfortably. He was overwhelmed by the thought that apparently he’d just managed to converse with a real lich, and what’s more, he’d received an invitation to visit him. ‘So potential teachers have shown up,’ Oleg mumbled to himself. ‘After all, Heliona said I need to study necromancy. Mmm, I wonder if she meant that any of the magicians who would be happy to teach me referred to liches, too. Aha, something tells me that’s exactly what it means. But … I don’t somehow fancy the idea of studying with the dead. Who knows what might happen. Anyhow, we’ll wait and see.’

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. In the morning, finding signs of Dark Hounds on the road, everyone was alarmed. Oleg had to briefly retell the events of the past night before they set off. Clairene, who hadn’t said a word as she listened to Oleg’s story, road closer to him and asked quietly: ‘Tell me, are you a student or an apprentice? How did you manage to get out alive? Don’t worry, wizards have always kept strictly neutral, I won’t give you up to the Valensians.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘About you and your magic, and about what you’ve just told us. The Hounds, creations of the Dark Magic, thought you were one of their Masters and obeyed you. That’s only possible if you’ve mastered Dark Magic. The Hounds won’t perceive anything else. Almost all the Dark Magicians were annihilated in the last Magical War. Whoever was left is hiding in the Mountains of Darkness and isn’t in a hurry to show their nose in the world. But you showed up in Fenrian, where no magician would dare appear, otherwise he’d be discovered straight away and handed over to the priests. That means you’re not a magician. So you must either be a student or an apprentice of some dark magician. Except it’s not clear, how did you manage to survive? And you’re really young, too... although… not long ago you were saying something about a nasty tight spot, a convergence of spells and how you’d only survived by a miracle. I can suppose that, along with a hide able to withstand arbalester bolts, you also received eternal, or at least extremely long, youth, didn’t you?’ The enchantress gave a little laugh and looked Oleg right in the eyes.

He scowled, mentally: there you have it, a glaring example of how a person can come to a conclusion which corresponds to reality but is based on utterly false assumptions. And how to convince her otherwise? And, incidentally, why? Let her think what she wants. Although… Just to keep up appearances, he should protest anyway.

‘You’re mistaken, Clairene. I’m neither a student nor an apprentice of a dark magician. Admittedly, I do have a certain talent for dark magic, which allowed me to pretend to be a Master to the Dark Hounds, but I never studied at the Citadel of Darkness. And actually, I’m heading for Valensia to study in the Light Academy. Though I must admit, it’s true that I won’t age for a very, very long time.’

‘I see. I was mistaken then. It happens. Don’t pay any attention. Long hair,’ - and Clairene stroked her luxurious ginger braid – ‘Short brains, as they say! Only, when you get a place at the Light Academy, don’t forget: for ordinary people, necromancy, demonology, or the black arts, it’s all dark magic to them and they don’t know any difference between them. And of course they have no idea whatsoever about what liches are. The inner terminology of the Dark Citadel hasn’t really become common parlance.’

Oleg looked at Clairene. She gave a snide smile but it seemed to him that deep in her eyes, under the layer of mockery and snideness, pity and respect were concealed. Not for himself, but for the image she’d created of a dark magician’s apprentice who had miraculously survived that long ago war and obtained new, mysterious abilities. But incidentally, her next words quickly shattered that impression.

‘Why are you looking at me in such amazement? I had a terrible attack of insomnia last night. It happens to me, you know, when there are Dark Hounds roaming around nearby… Don’t worry, you could have heard those names anywhere, or I might have just dreamt it all… That’s probably what it was… Strange dream, though. What could it mean?’

‘A good journey,’ Oleg answered, nodding at the remains of some monster which had been ripped to shreds – apparently unwilling to bow to the Dark Hounds’ order to “get out of the way” and “convinced” by a “conversation of fangs”.

The journey was unusually calm. Without any delays, they proceeded along the Old High Road which had been cleared by the Pack, occasionally stopping for a short rest not far from the remains of yet another uncooperative monster to discuss its form and which species it might belong to. And so they reached Oner.

The city was in ruins. The gates were ripped off and the strange black-white walls had glaring holes in them. Traces of fire could be seen on the walls of the ruined buildings. Everything was thickly overgrown with the bright green marsh grass, and the castle towered over it all. Here was the Citadel of Oner, which had been neither taken nor surrendered, the residence of magicians, who - if the legends were to be believed - were still waging their war on the new god of Fenrian and his devotees even after their death.

They decided to set up camp for the night right on the collapsed city wall. There was plenty of room, the walls of Oner were thick enough. And moreover, as Clairene pointed out, it was the only place, apart from the high road, which wasn’t a swamp – the streets and squares of the city had all transformed into bog after the magicians had cast their curse. As the spell-maker well versed in history said, four fifths of the besieging army had died in those swamps.

Once they had set up camp and finished cutting wood for the fire, Oleg volunteered to go out on a scout. He justified his wish with the necessity of checking the road, to see whether it had become a swamp, and whether there were any strange monsters. In fact, though, Oleg really wanted to get away as soon as possible and see what was going on in the abandoned buildings standing in the middle of the swamp and to visit the liches residing in the citadel. After the short message he’d heard following his “conversation” with the leader of the Dark Hounds, for some reason, he was sure that no danger threatened him there.

His proposition aroused a heated argument. Olaf was definitely against the idea and thought it would be stupid to separate in such a dangerous place. Kendir supported his companion, but not quite so categorically, hinting that if Oleg discovered some way of looting the abandoned city then he, Kendir of Shem, would be at his service and always ready to be at his side. Completely confident in Oleg’s capabilities, Ataletta took the position “do as you please”. It was Clairene who pondered his suggestion longer than anyone else, but when the flow of arguments for and against scouting had been exhausted, with a sly wink at Oleg, she whispered in his ear: ‘Say “hello” to those who didn’t capitulate’ and supported his suggestion.

Having received the approval of the majority, it didn’t take Oleg long to get ready. Grabbing his sword, he stepped lightly on his way. Oleg had decided to go on foot so that he would have the possibility of returning to the camp quickly with the help of his wings in case of emergency.

The sun was beginning to set as he walked up to the citadel. Its crimson disk was all but hidden behind the collapsed black-white walls surrounding the dead city and only its very tip could still be seen behind them. The cobbled high road led to the moat near the citadel gates and turned into a large square where, apparently, fairs had once been held. The road then continued on the other side of the citadel. Rotten and broken remains of battering rams reminiscent of trebuchets were standing in the square. Opposite the spot where Oleg was standing he could see the gates into the citadel walls, now closed as the drawbridge was up. Some kind of suspiciously black slush was floating in the moat.

Oleg wondered what he should do. Putting together everything he’d heard about the Masters of Oner in the past and in the present, he was sure that they were in the castle. And it seemed as though they’d invited him to visit. However, the drawbridge was raised and the gates closed. Of course, it would have been no trouble for Oleg, in demon form, to simply fly over the wall, but he was far from certain that the dead magicians would take kindly to such an impudent guest. Frankly speaking, he wasn’t even really sure that it was worth his while popping in. After all, who knows what was festering in the heads of the Undead. What if they suddenly decided they could make a good lichlet out of him, or worse? So Oleg decided to behave as politely as possible, to knock, introduce himself and ask permission to travel to the border with Irinia. He planned to put particular emphasis on the fact that he was dragging with him the heir to the throne, who would become queen any moment, and that if he managed to deliver her safe and sound, then that would gravely harm Fenrian; this should please the dark magicians.

Once he’d come up with this plan of action, he picked up a smallish cobble stone and threw it at the gates, yelling at the top of his voice:

‘Hey! Masters! If I’m invited, then open up! And if I’m not invited, then I’m losing my marbles,’ he added under his breath.

But someone, it seemed, had heard him. Behind the wall of black-white stones a chortling laugh broke out. Whoever it was obviously tried to maintain an evil, gloomy tone but when Oleg, somewhat offended by such a welcome, turned round and went away, muttering to himself under his breath: ‘Humph! Malicious phantoms, mighty liches, terrifying masters of Dead Oner! Found yourselves a clown, have you? Guffawing like you’re at your mother-in-law’s funeral. And what would’ve happened if I’d told a joke? You’d have died, my dears, of laughter!’

The laughter did indeed turn into hysterical guffawing.

The drawbridge wasn’t so much let down as came crashing down. Two sinister figures in black capes appeared on it. The figures were clutching their stomachs and obviously trying to contain their fits of laughter.

‘You’re invited, don’t worry. You’re not losing your marbles. Come on in!’ one of them said to him, holding back the next fit of laughter.

The second, finally controlling his guffaws, added, ‘By the way, we can’t die. Not from laughter nor anything else. We’re dead already. So you can tell us your joke after all.’

As he walked across the drawbridge, Oleg tried to get a good look at these gatekeepers, who turned out to be those same liches who were so frightening and terrifying, and so on and so forth. But as it happened, they were nothing special. Rather pale faces half-hidden by the hoods of their black mantles; the hands holding staffs were rather too white, but within the limits of what was acceptable. No bared bones, no traces of mummification or decay so often depicted by makers of horror movies or computer games. Had Oleg met them earlier or somewhere else, he would probably not have paid any attention to them. Well, maybe he’d have given them a quick glance but would have just decided the guys had a bad hangover or had had a rough night. What’s more, their appearance, and their behaviour, too, clearly showed that at the moment when Oner came under fire from the fanatics under the governance of His Highness Villam the Second, Ataletta’s dear great-grandfather who avidly supported the new religion, they could have been no more than twenty to twenty-two.

Oleg was surprised when he walked into the grounds of the citadel. What he saw in no way corresponded to his expectations of the abode of magicians raised from the dead. There were no gloomy, half-ruined towers, no cold, mouldy tombstones. Instead, a beautiful, well-tended garden spread out in front of Oleg and took up most of the internal part of the citadel.

Little paths wound capriciously between apple trees of various varieties which, despite the fact that it was still only early summer, were dripping with ripe fruit, and a few more figures wrapped in black mantles appeared from around the corner. Coming closer to Oleg, one of them threw back his hood. Concealed beneath it was the face of a tired man of about thirty-seven to forty with sagging black eyes. Like all the other residents here, he was rather pale.

‘I’m Viss, third level master in necromancy, graduate of the Dark Citadel. Now acting head and sole mentor of these ruffians.’ And so saying, the “terrifying necromancer gathering forces to destroy the whole of Fenrian” affectionately ruffled the hair of the teenager standing next to him. He looked no more than twelve to Oleg. The lad slipped out from under the hand on his head in a practised fashion and introduced himself: ‘Ratek, student of the Dark Citadel, fifth grade.’

The others present also threw back their hoods.

‘Moshek, graduate of the fifth course of the Faculty of the Science of the Unliving of the Dark Citadel,’ a dark-skinned lad introduced himself. He had an earring in his left ear and looked something like a gypsy.

‘Tobi, graduate of the fifth course of the Faculty of General Magic of the Dark Citadel,’ said a chestnut-haired youth, bowing. His face was somehow reminiscent of Oleg’s.

Oleg nodded mechanically, memorizing their names.

‘Leya, graduate of the third course of the Faculty of Earth, Department of Druids, of the Light Academy.’ This last figure accompanying the necromancer threw back her hood revealing a rather attractive, delicate girl of eighteen or nineteen, just as pale as the other lords of this strange fortress.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Oleg tried to pull himself together and not show his amazement too openly. ‘My name is Arioch’ – he remembered his decision not to reveal his true name to anyone just in time. ‘Minstrel and traveller.’

‘We are pleased to have you as our visitor, lir Arioch,’ Viss bowed courteously. ‘It’s been a very long time since any minstrels looked in on us. May we count on hearing you play?’

‘Why not? I’ll be happy to play. Only, I left my guitar in the camp. We’ll need to send someone for it, and at the same time alert my companions to the fact that I’ll be delayed. However, how did you manage to sense me, and even more so, to honour me with an invitation? As far as I know, you are not fond of visitors.’

‘We noticed you intercepted control of the Guards and I plucked up the courage to invite you to visit us, especially seeing as you had yourself expressed such a desire while talking with the Guards. Would you care to follow me?’ The necromancer turned around and walked off. There was nothing for Oleg to do but follow him.