The Road to Magic (Book 1 of the Way of the Demon Series) (23 page)

‘Absolutely nothing at all.’ Having got her breath back, she immediately became a fervent supporter of Oleg’s idea. ‘Stand down, guys,’ she said, addressing the others. ‘They really are unpeople. I’ve just been shown extremely convincing evidence of that. I’m sorry I doubted you,’ she said to Oleg, ‘Unfortunately, such beasts’ – She glared at the bandit chief– ‘Are sometimes all too able to disguise themselves as people.’

Another hour was spent tying up the captured bandits thoroughly and loading them onto the Dark Hounds. The latter were most displeased at such a burden but didn’t dare to protest against a direct order from their Masters. They merely glowered at the trembling and whimpering bandits, obviously regretting that they had been taken alive and probably calculating how to correct this omission as deftly as possible.

Then Viss and his students bade them a hurried farewell and set off on the return journey. As the necromancer had told them, the alarm had sounded in Irinia that the Undead had crossed the state border. It had reached the magician on watch and now the nearest large patrol was headed that way at maximum velocity.

And indeed, after only two hours on the road, Oleg’s small party ran into a large patrol of armour-clad warriors in full battle gear under the leadership of two men in mantles. A quick glance at their auras was enough to ascertain that they were magicians. The party shot past the travellers at full speed but one of the magicians stopped for a moment to throw a searching glance at them, evidently scanning for objects belonging to the Undead. Not having found anything suspicious, he spurred his horse on and raced off to catch up with the galloping patrol.

Oleg watched as they disappeared.

‘Their border security is up to scratch,’ he said. ‘Our friends from Oner only had to nip into their confines for a little while and bang, there’s already a patrol, and one bolstered with magicians at that.’

Ataletta gave a tinkling laugh.

‘How oddly you perceive it! In actual fact, everything is exactly the other way around. It’s not a patrol bolstered by magicians, but as many as two magicians who have been granted a party of guards to see to their comfort. And such haste is easily explained. If you don’t stop the rampaging Undead then they will run amok, slaughtering peasants, demolishing homes and destroying crops. Slaughtered peasants and destroyed crops means lost profits. And profits are sacred in Irinia. Irinia is a country of merchants. Do you know what the very worst local curse is?’

‘No. What is it?’ Oleg asked curiously.

‘That you may remain in the red!’

And Ataletta’s tinkling laugh filled the surroundings once more.

In general, from the moment she had left the border with Fenrian the girl had been simply radiant with joy. Even the bandits’ attack, although it had given her a scare, hadn’t spoiled the princess’s joyful mood. Oleg decided to make the most of his companion’s new talkativeness and find out the fundamental characteristics of the country they were about to journey through.

Four hours later, having listened with a show of exemplary attention to the whole genealogy of Baron Vatell, Ataletta’s godfather’s western neighbour, Oleg established certain indisputable truths for himself:

Firstly, the princess had had excellent teachers;

Secondly, the princess was endowed with a magnificent memory;

Thirdly, the princess of Fenrian was a true woman, in other words, extremely fond of chatting;

And fourthly, he, Oleg Vladimirovich Davidov, acting demon in the world of Elltyan by the will of fate and Heliona, would never again quiz the above-mentioned princess, thereby ensuring the health of his good sense and protecting his ears.

The hirelings, sniggering, watched his torment and were in no hurry to come to his rescue. No one wanted to become the next victim of Ataletta’s lectures.

Luckily, after another hour on the road, the walls of the city Oleg now knew was called Mozes came into view. He also possessed the priceless knowledge of the number of inhabitants in the city, their average annual income, the level of taxation extracted from them, the genealogy of the current burgomeister, his partialities, his official annual income (his earnings from bribes increased the official figure almost fivefold) and masses of other information which had obviously cost no little effort on the part of the Fenrian spies.

Oleg’s salvation came in the form of the city gatekeepers demanding the entry toll. To their delight Oleg paid without bargaining even though the price was obviously inflated. The salvation of his good sense, he reckoned, was worth it.

They stayed at a tavern called “The Wretched Cockerel”, where Oleg was unpleasantly impressed by the high prices. The hirelings, however, assured him everything was in order. One gold piece per person per night, full board and lodging, was a crazy sum for Fenrian, all but economically and politically isolated and with no gold mines of its own, but a normal price for a respectable hotel in a flourishing mercantile republic. Once he’d had a tasty supper and a good night’s sleep on a comfy bed with clean sheets, Oleg came to terms with the money he’d paid out for such pleasures, and the next morning the small party set out once again.

Now that there was no longer any need to hide from pursuers, they often stopped for a nap and to buy provisions in the clean and tidy towns and villages along the road. The role of leadership somehow transferred unnoticed to Kendir as he had been in Irinia more than once and knew his way around the local customs and dialects. It was he who talked with the tavern keepers and the many gate keepers always demanding tolls to walk or ride through the places they “guarded”.

Kendir was assisted by Ataletta who had a very deep, if purely theoretical, knowledge of Irinia, and passed herself off as the daughter of one of the local oligarchs, and also by Oleg, who knew practically nothing but was endowed with a magically obtained superb understanding of the language.

***

After a week of smooth travelling, they crossed the border between the commercial republic and the first of the Free Baronies. Everything changed at once. The broad highway where each stone was well-cared for disappeared. In its stead there was a narrow road full of potholes which had obviously last been repaired in the far distant past when Elves lived side by side with people and had as yet no idea of abandoning young Elltyan. Riding along, Oleg wished the ancient road was in a museum, and certainly not under the hooves of his steed. The horse was in complete agreement with his rider, preferring to proceed through the thick and silky grassy verges rather than on the crumbling mix of mud and stones which the Baronies called a road. The lively villages gave way to sullen hamlets whose inhabitants scowled, and reluctantly refused to sell provisions, citing their lord’s prohibition.

In one such hamlet, constables rode in while Oleg was trying to buy food; a mean and cowardly group, little better than ruffians, they tried to arrest Oleg’s party. Greedily eyeing Oleg’s purse and Ataletta’s rich jewellery, the local village chief—acting as head of the garrison, judge and tax collector - declared they were “under arrest for carrying weapons without the permission of our lord, his Grace Baron von Kristel.” A few moments after this blatant attempt at legalized thievery, his deputy, together with the remnants of the “garrison” who had not fled, apologised long and humbly in front of the “lord magicians” and their guards while sullen peasants swept up what was left of the previous chief--Oleg had sent a fireball at him, enraged by his impudence. The remnants of the garrison– three “warriors” who were too obese to make a quick retreat like their...less burdened…compatriots– nodded furiously, in complete agreement with their new boss.

In that hamlet, finally, the people agreed to sell them food. One of the merchants, as he nimbly measured out buckwheat grains, whispered to Oleg, ‘Thank you. That village chief was a terrible brute. You’d do better to ride around our lord’s castle. He has a penchant for gold and they say that few of the wealthy travellers who spend the night in his castle leave there in the morning.’ Thanking his informant with a slight nod, Oleg refused the change. Once they’d ridden out of the hamlet, he shared his apprehension with his fellow travellers.

Ataletta, speaking for all of them, said: ‘It’s a blatant violation of all the laws and international regulations of Oikumenas, and I hope it is not true. But my godfather said that one of the merchant caravans he’d sent completely disappeared without a trace as it passed through Kristel’s barony. The baron put it down to bandits and I sincerely want to believe that that is exactly what happened. But nevertheless, it seems to me that we could bend the rules of etiquette a little and not inform the baron of our visit to his lands.’

‘Prettily put,’ said Oleg with a smile. ‘I’ve no burning desire to see the castle of this scoundrel. In other words, we’re unanimous – we’ll give this castle a wide berth.’

Unfortunately, they were not able to realize their plan completely. Apparently the man who had suddenly come to power as deputy after Oleg had reduced the previous chief to ashes had hastened to inform the baron of the unusual travellers. Still one day’s ride from the castle, Oleg’s group ran into a unit of the baron’s guards, fifty strong, headed by a dapper lieutenant.

The lieutenant rode out to meet them, enquired as to their names and then introduced himself as Otto von Buervil. He had come, he announced most cordially, to invite them to visit the hospitable Baron von Kristel. He himself would accompany them, sheltering them from any possible bandit raids, which was why such a large unit of guards was necessary.

Using no less polite phraseology, Oleg declined such a kind offer, citing lack of time as the reason.

The lieutenant, positively dripping with apologies, informed them that the baron’s thirst for company was so great that he, Otto von Buervil, had received strict orders to bring the travellers before his Grace the baron and in order to please his baron, he would be prepared to insist, using his patrol as a persuasive argument.

Having eyed the guards and noticed neither archers nor arbalesters, Oleg courteously announced that anyone who tried to force him to do anything risked spending the rest of his days in a bog hunting flies and mosquitoes and croaking loudly on rainy days.

On hearing this, the lieutenant laughed derisively. Then he announced that turning a person into a frog, a toad or any other such small beast was not within the power of even the greatest elfin sorcerer Geduel. If the little whipper-snapper of a wizard standing in front of him considered himself to be more powerful, then let him try to turn the lieutenant of the baron’s guard, Otto von Buervil, into a frog, but should he fail, Oleg would suffer accordingly.

Oleg smiled then, and with a wave of his hand, turned him into a frog.

The response was tremendous. It was as though the fifty guards, which only a minute earlier had been standing like a threatening wall behind their commander, was scattered by the wind. The terrified soldiers took flight at such a pace that several of them left their boots standing on the road.

However, his own companions did not remain indifferent to Oleg’s deed. As soon as they had picked up their jaws, they hurled themselves at Oleg, demanding an explanation. Clairene was particularly angry, no doubt irked by the fact that “a powerful magician had been riding beside them but all the while pretended not to know anything and tried to coax a poor charm-castor’s secrets out of her.” Oleg burst out laughing, disclosing the secret of his conjuring trick. In fact all he had done was to paralyze the lieutenant with a simple little incantation which Viss had taught him, and then throw a semblance over him, using the very same spell Clairene had taught him. That is how the “incredible transformation” happened.

Having discovered his secret, Clairene shook her head for a long time, saying ‘…and that’s how legends are born…’ and then asked him to teach her the incantation of paralysis and show her the sequence of adding it to the frog semblance, if possible transforming it into that of the much less energy-consuming billy goat. Oleg shared his science with pleasure.

Clairene cast a sleep charm over the lieutenant, which should dissipate in a month’s time when the travellers would have long since left the confines of the barony. Under hypnosis, they filled the lieutenant with false memories of a life in the bog and the pleasant taste of passing mosquitoes, and also put a charm to keep predatory beasts away, thus, as the sleep she conjured up was much closer to anabiosis (i.e. suspended animation, please check your dictionary), the lieutenant was in no danger. Covering him with branches, they went on their way.

Thanks to the fame of the menacing magician and his retinue, Oleg’s small party flew along, arousing the respect of the farmers and the total absence of trouble from those in power.

Admiring the castle, to which they had been so insistently invited, from a distance, the harmonious company crossed the border of the Kristel barony and went on.

Under the horses hooves lay the small Barony of Brice, the last one before the long-awaited Barony of Maidell. Customs soon loomed into view, a log construction just off the verge and a massive plank on trestles blocking the road.

‘Looks as though it’s time for the next fair here in Brice,’ Ataletta said worriedly.

‘Could that pose a problem for us?’

‘No, it might just delay us a bit. Now hoards of people are going to be pouring in. They’ll be jams on the roads, we won’t be able to pass by nor ride through…’

It was indeed crowded in front of customs. Olaf, who tried to jump the queue, was soundly sworn at, by both the farmers queuing in front of him and by the customs official himself, a tired man of about forty in a guard’s uniform with the barony’s coat of arms.

‘Well what did you do that for,’ Oleg said unkindly. It should be said that he had consumed an exaggerated amount of the local wine the evening before and now he had a bad headache, his mood hovering between “really foul” and “better kill the lot of them”. ‘Let me handle this.’ And with these words he waved his hands a few times while muttering a spell.