The Road to Magic (Book 1 of the Way of the Demon Series) (22 page)

For an instant he fastened his eyes on the girl lying in Oleg’s lap.

‘But…She’s alive? How can that be possible?’

‘Well, I’m not completely sure…I sang a song. And now she’s alive…but I’m not so sure about me.’

Oleg was joking, but Viss didn’t get his joke and looked at him with the same thorough, searching gaze he had just used on Leya. He looked Oleg over carefully for ten seconds or so after which he announced with obvious amazement in his voice: ‘No. It’s amazing, but you are alive, too!’

‘Really? Thanks for the good news. I had my doubts.’ The sarcasm in Oleg’s voice was enough for three people. ‘OK then, take your sleeping beauty and help me get up. Since I’m alive, I’ll have to get up… Ah, and Viss, take your wonderful little knife. Luckily, there was no need for it.’

‘Keep it,’ Viss replied, helping him up. ‘It’s not only useless for the Undead, but dangerous, too. And what if someone else takes it into their heads to “interrupt this existence”? It might come in mighty handy for you, though.’

‘Well, thanks,’ Oleg said mockingly, hanging the darkh onto his belt.

While Oleg dragged himself back to the camp supported by Viss, he had a gay thought: Leya was really a “Sleeping Beauty” now. And what’s more, she was in an old castle, in an inaccessible place and under secure guard. Sleeping and waiting for someone to bring her kingdom back to life… ‘Seems I’ve unintentionally created a legend!’

Chapter Eight

The Road to Maidell. The End of the Journey.

The remaining three days crossing the marshes from Oner to the Irinian border passed without adventure. And where could those adventures have come from, seeing as after the memorable event in the garden, the exhausted Oleg and his associates were taken under the protection of Viss and a couple of his best students. Besides, “Oner’s guest of honour” as the necromancer called him, was accompanied by three large packs of Dark Hounds just in case, who were thoroughly clearing the road of anything which might pose a threat.

Oleg regained his strength quickly and by the second day was able to take on his demon form once again. By the end of the third day he tried to master a few simple spells under the guidance of the necromancer.

While Oleg was training in magic, Clairene and Ataletta made a concerted effort to pump information out of Viss’s students who were accompanying them, curious as to what had happened in the city. At first they weren’t particularly successful but persistence won in the end and the girls dragged everything they wanted to know out of the liches. Noticing this mess rather too late, and having overheard some of their conversation, Viss hastily rode ahead with a most gloomy expression on his face. In response to Oleg’s question about why he was down, he said: ‘I strictly forbade my students to get drawn into any conversation in general, and in particular, not to blab about us. So when I got closer, I had a strong urge to give them a good hiding. But when I’d listened for a while, I realized I was deeply mistaken. I should give the lads medals for holding out so long. Your girls are capable of drawing even the dead into conversation! And without any necromancy!’

‘I noticed,’ Oleg said, hiding a smile.

And so, exchanging jokes, they rode to the edge of the marshes. Viss halted by a stunted rowan.

‘We can’t go any further. The magical border of Irinia passes here. If the lads and I, or the dogs’ – Oleg glanced at the broad scaly “dogs” peering out of the bushes – ‘Cross it, then a terrible wailing will break out in Irinia announcing a “hoard of Undead raging from the marshes.” They’ll send armies and magicians… You don’t need that, do you?’

Oleg hurried to reassure his new friend that on no account did they need “that”, after which they said their farewells and headed leisurely towards the border.

‘We’ll wait here for a while just in case. Call us if you need us,’ Viss called after him. Oleg smiled. Such super-solicitude seemed rather funny to him. However, just thirty minutes later he fundamentally changed his opinion.

Soon after they crossed the Irinian border the Old High Road turned into a path and merged with another, far better-travelled road. And it was on this road that another unpleasant surprise was waiting for Oleg and his comrades. This time it was in the form of thirty unwashed faces, threatening the little party with a bizarre collection of implements for hacking and stabbing. The leader, stepping forward, suggested the travellers should rid themselves of all personal valuables, including their weapons, armour and horses, in exchange for the right to travel unhindered along their road. Oleg had grave doubts as to the likelihood of such an outcome: firstly, who needs live witnesses? And secondly, the leader was already eyeing Clairene and Ataletta with all-too obvious intent; clearly he had very definite plans for them. Luckily, there were no fools in Oleg’s party. No sooner had the leader uttered his speech than a blade gleamed in Olaf’s hand, Kendir took up his bow and drew his bowstring with one movement, an icy-white ball appeared in Clairene’s hands and Oleg himself hurried to create a fire shield around himself and his companions, investing all his energy in it.

What happened next confirmed the wisdom and foresight of this move.

‘Magicians! Run!’ yelped the bandits.

At first Oleg was glad. He still hadn’t fully recovered and a skirmish with thirty not so badly armed bandits was definitely undesirable right now. Or more precisely, he would probably come out of it alive and may even have been able to slay the attackers – it’s unlikely they would have been able to do anything to counter the capacities of his demonic body. But to simultaneously defend his companions from the many arrows and other projectiles most of the bandits were armed with - that, alas, was not within his powers. And so the panic which began to spread among them was definitely to Oleg’s liking. It would be much better for everyone if the bandits just ran off allowing them to continue on their way.

‘Stand your ground!’ The leader’s cry stopped the bandits in their tracks as they were preparing to run. It seemed that despite their fear of magicians, the bandits were much more afraid of their chieftain. ‘These are no magicians! If they were, they’d have turned us to ash ages ago!’ The leader roared, agily using the body of a big bandit in a tattered tunic to shield himself from the ball of light Clairene threw at him. The latter screamed in agony after which an unpleasant smelling brown substance plopped to the ground. The leader hurried to hide himself in the crowd, continuing his performance from there.

‘Charge! Let fly the arrows! The main thing is to break through the shield and then they won’t be able to do anything. Wizards are usually wealthy and they’ll pay handsomely at the slave market for a maid with magical powers. Fire!’

The leader’s rhetoric hit the mark. A volley of arrows rained down on Oleg’s shield, instantly sucking out a third of his weakened energy reserves. With an evil grin, Oleg was on the point of completely dropping his shield and transforming into a demon, when an idea came to him—an idea that would allow him not only to kill the bandits but also to save the lives of his companions. Still maintaining the shield, he mentally sent out a call, accompanied by a mental image of what was going on.

‘We’re on our way.’ Notes of cold fury could be heard in Viss’s reply. ‘Hold on for five minutes. I’m sending the Hounds.’

Within three minutes, sixty running torpedoes showed up on the road. The crowd of brigands was hit heavily by the armored bodies of the hounds, sweeping them off their feet and onto the ground. A pathetic attempt at resistance was immediately suppressed. Apparently Viss had given an order to take the bandits alive, because the hounds didn’t use their terrible fangs.

Then one of the bandits, miraculously still on his feet, brandished a sword at one of the hounds. The hound, with a surprisingly quick move for such a massive beast, dodged the blade, and closed its sharp fangs on the bandit’s arm. One could hear the quiet crunch of bone; slowly, with obvious reluctance, the creature released the bloody stump from its jaws.

Suddenly, one of the robbers, with the courage of despair, brandished a spit, fitted on the spear shaft—the usual tool of peasants. But his clumsy flapping was useless against a combat beast specially bred for fighting and destruction. With the wave of a paw, fragments of the spit flew in one direction, and the unconscious “pike man” in another.

Within minutes the battle was finished.

All members of the gang, most of them whole and intact, lay on the ground and did not dare to move.

A Hound towered over each and every one of them. The remaining “guards of Oner” surrounded the ex-battlefield, carefully examining the situation with a view to discovering whether there were any more enemies. Many of the Hounds were giving the bandits entrusted to them a good sniff. Some of them were even licking the people lying in front of them, curious as to their taste. Ataletta was squeamishly wrinkling up her little nose. The strong fragrance of a public toilet hung in the air. But that was just the beginning.

The icing on the cake came five minutes later when Viss rode out onto the clearing in the full vestments of a warrior necromancer of the Dark Citadel, clad in the armour and regalia of a Knight of Despair. There were more than a few terrifying legends in the lands of the local Oikumena about this elite guard of the Empire of the Dragon. And many of them were true.

The necromancer and two of his students were riding tusked black monsters which very vaguely resembled ordinary horses. (As the necromancer explained later, ordinary horses can’t even bear the sight of the Undead, let alone carry them on their backs.) In short, it was a most horrifying little picture and the acrid smell of urine wafted over the road again.

‘And what do we have here?’ Viss had obviously decided to go the whole hog in showing off his “horrifickness”. ‘Some pesky little bandits have decided to rob my friends...and what shall we do with them?’ Though the question was rhetorical, Viss surveyed the field as though expecting an answer.

Oleg supposed that Viss was merely planning to give them all a good old fright, so he joined in the show with pleasure.

‘According to the customs of my homeland, bandits are customarily hung,’ he said, eyeing the prisoners attentively. A unanimous sigh of relief came from their side. Among other things, the Knights of Despair were renowned for their art of torture and excruciatingly painful punishments. On Viss’s placid face a smile appeared, no, it was more a hint at a disdainful smile, and the necromancer’s mindspeak rang in Oleg’s head: “You won’t get through to them with that, try and think up something more horrendous. I wonder what your imagination’s like.”

‘Ah, more horrendous…’ Oleg thought. ‘Be my guest!’

‘But on the other hand, criminals are often given to scientific circles for various experiments. You were, I believe, recently expressing an interest in the degree of pain necessary to drive out the soul while retaining the physical shell’s capacity to support life?’ Oleg assiduously put on the air of a dry scholar. He wasn’t too successful, but it certainly had an effect on the bandits.

‘In my opinion, you now have enough biomass for your experiments.’ He waved his hand over the gang.

At this point a desperate whisper could be heard from one of the bandits: ‘What’s going to happen to us?’ Others prayed. Others begged for mercy.

The gang leader joined in the discussion.

‘And I thought you were human …’ He didn’t manage to finish what he was saying. One of the necromancer’s students, having heard his voice, gave a quiet cry and threw himself at the prisoner. For a moment he stood before him, examining his face, and then sent a mental image to Viss. Oleg was only able to snatch part of it; he was after all still a new boy in such matters. “It is him… They were the ones who …” and there was a visual image which Oleg didn’t manage to intercept. But he didn’t need to, anyway. The necromancer’s eyes filled with fury. He measured the cowering, foul-smelling leader with a look and then with marked politeness and respect turned to Oleg: ‘So you want to torment them until we drag the soul out? Yes, I think that would be suitable. I promise I will invest all my skill to ensure he doesn’t die too soon. But even should he die, I think my craftsmanship should be sufficient to furnish him with considerable discomfort in his dying moments.’

All this was said in such a tone that there could be no doubt that this was his deadly serious intent.

‘Hey, Viss, I was just joking,’ Oleg’s mindspeak was underlined with a greenish flare of surprise.

‘But I wasn’t. For some time now, our patrols have been coming across unexpected surprises near the border with Irinia.’ A series of torn bodies which had once belonged to women and children floated before Oleg’s mind’s eye. ‘We knew it wasn’t the work of claws; no monster can tear so specifically and in such a targeted manner, or so cruelly. None except humans! At last, one of the patrols, headed by Vashek’ - a nod to the student standing beside the gang leader – ‘Managed to come across a victim who was still alive.’ A new image: the figure of a young girl, doubled up on a stake, moaning quietly from unbearable pain, all covered in wounds and burns. ‘It wasn’t possible to save her, and to be honest, it wasn’t clear how she’d managed to live until our patrol came, but at least we were able to read her consciousness. And this guy here was the main butcher.’ The next image was so awful that Oleg threw up. It was impossible to lie or even somehow distort information while in mindspeak, so Oleg was sure that he was seeing exactly what and how that poor girl had seen. For as long as she could still see…

‘Okay. I understand perfectly. But are you sure you have the expertise to deal with a situation like this? Otherwise I once read a book…’ Oleg remembered a few snatches of “
Witch’s Hammer
“, a medieval publication about the underlying causes for the appearance of witches, with recommendations regarding the most effective forms of torture.

It seemed this was one of those rare of cases when the cruel knowledge of ancient butchers could prove useful in re-establishing justice.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Don’t forget what sort of a reputation we have. In some things it’s only slightly exaggerated. By the way, talking of reputations, I’d advise you to explain the reason for your behaviour to your companions without delay. Otherwise they might stop being your friends.”

Oleg turned around. It was true. Ataletta was looking at him with a frightened expression which reminded Oleg of the first few hours of their acquaintance. Clairene’s livid gaze and the sideways glances of the hirelings, who were even putting their hands on their weapons, spoke volumes.

‘What’s wrong?’ Oleg genuinely didn’t understand such a change in their attitude to him.

‘You’re handing humans over to be dealt with by the Undead,’ Clairene explained in a tense voice, not taking her eyes off him, ‘Not even the cruellest of the Dark Ones behaved like that.’

‘Humans? I haven’t handed any humans over. And if you’re talking about these,’ – Oleg waved his hand at the bandits – ‘Well, these aren’t humans. They’re “unpeople”. Take a look for yourself.’ And with those words he sent her the information he’d received from Viss. Mindspeak with Clairene didn’t work nearly so well as it did with the necromancer and his students, belying the conjuress’s magical weakness, but Oleg was able to transmit the main content nevertheless.

‘I have handed “unpeople” over to the Undead. I hope you have nothing against that?’ he said again, while the conjuress poured the remains of her half-digested breakfast out onto the road.