The Road to Magic (Book 1 of the Way of the Demon Series) (31 page)

Oleg reached forward. The blade had taken his fancy and he intended to take it from the hand of the deceased light magician. ‘Why should such an excellent weapon go to waste? A sword like this could come in very handy. Although against vampires…’ Oleg didn’t manage to finish his thought. At the very instant his hand brushed the hilt of the sword which had taken his fancy, Outpost’s desperate cry rang out: ‘Don’t touch it!’

But it was too late. The bony fingers of the dead magician loosened, as though tired from grasping the sword for so long, and fell to the littered floor with a booming bang, while the sword smoothly slipped into Oleg’s outstretched hand.

The hilt was oddly warm, as though it had been grasped not by the cold bones of a skeleton but by the hand of a living person. It had a simple cross-shaped hand guard with a transparent stone similar to a diamond fixed in the centre. The blade was long, thin and straight, and blazed with a vivid white light. It didn’t seem so out of the ordinary, but Oleg suddenly felt a strange, absolutely irrational joy, as though he were meeting an old friend.

‘Why did you have to yell like that?’ Oleg asked, addressing the quivering sphere of light suspended nearby.

‘Forgive me, Sovereign.’ A guilty note could be heard in the familiar bass. ‘But I have heard that the blades of Spiritual Fire burn anyone who touches them without the permission of their owners. How were you able to take it?’ Wary admiration could be heard in the voice of the guardian-spirit.

‘What do you mean, how? Very simple, I got permission.’ Oleg answered jokingly, with a nod at the wall. But Outpost took his announcement seriously.

‘You are a great necromancer, my Sovereign. I shall be happy to serve under your leadership.’

Meanwhile Oleg’s attention was distracted by changes taking place in the sword. The blade slowly dulled, losing its blinding white glow. Finally, it went out altogether, revealing the fine blade, which was forged from a strange white metal. However, that didn’t last for long. A stream of joyful ginger flames snaked down from the hilt along the blade alternating with stripes of primordial darkness. Soon the whole sword was covered in fire. The ginger colour of the flames, mingling with the darkness, turned blood red.

‘The sword has accepted you,’ the familiar bass said. ‘Curious. Judging from its reaction, you don’t have only dark magic in you…’

‘And what of it?’ Oleg grew wary. The last thing he needed was for this spirit to see him as an enemy. Responding to his feeling, the sword heated up slightly. The flames flickered with doubled speed. It was as though the blade were showing it was ready for the battle.

‘Nothing, Sovereign,’ the voice answered, somewhat perplexed. ‘It’s just that I had heard that this was impossible. It is very curious to come across such a phenomenon.’

‘Well, lead on.’ Oleg glanced at the sword in his hands. Having understood that fighting was not expected, it had extinguished itself, amazing him once again. The previously snow-white metal of the blade had now gone red and became covered in a very fine net of black engravings. Without thinking, Oleg thrust the sword in his belt. Just then another idea flashed through Oleg’s mind: ‘Listen,’ he said, addressing his guide. ‘You said that all internal traps are now under your command. Can you deactivate this one?’ and he pointed at the magician encased in the wall. ‘I could do with the scabbard, too, you see.’

‘I was able to do so; earlier, before my energy ran out. Now, alas...But once I’ve been recharged, no problem. Admittedly, that trap is badly damaged but I think I can do it. Incidentally, Sovereign, how do you intend to charge me? You don’t have any slaves with you whom you can sacrifice, and judging from the magical background, you don’t have a recharging crystal accumulator, either.’

‘Aren’t there other ways to recharge you?’

‘There are. There is a directional crystal-transformer in the spell room which enables my magical current to equalize with the energy of the commander. It was installed to ensure maximum co-ordination during battle, but it could be used to transfer energy. However, the magical strength of one person, even you, my Sovereign, despite the fact that your aura abounds with energy, would be too little for my system to function normally. Besides, I wouldn’t recommend you deplete your energy level that way.’

‘And what do you suggest, then?’ Oleg liked the honesty of this ancient intellect.

‘Shortly before the Light ones attacked, I was configured with the Dark Citadel’s latest invention, an altar of power. It allows me to draw magical energy not only from living beings sacrificed there but also from magical objects placed on it, too. During that battle many of the most varied and extremely potent artefacts were used, and after the death of their owners, they were simply left here. If you have a good look around, you might be able to find something suitable.’

The idea of rummaging around in the dust which had once been human bodies brought on a sharp bout of squeamishness. However, Oleg overcame this and set about his “archaeological dig”. The result was three poignards charged with murderous spells. The blades of two of them seemed to be made of sharpened, opaque obsidian while the third radiated with the gentle glow of amber. Oleg’s bounty also included an ebony helmet which spread an aura of hate and fear from all sides, as well as a smallish, walnut-sized sky-blue topaz attached – who knows how - to a fine silver chain; Oleg could find neither a gadget nor a little hole on the stone through which the chain could be thread. The stone gave off an amazingly kind and cosy glow and Oleg decided he would only feed it to the tower in the very worst case scenario.

Having gathered all this up, he followed his ghostly guide along the dark, half-ruined corridor, moved a flagstone aside following the instructions of the spirit, and, going through the secret entrance, he came out into a spiral staircase leading deep into the earth.

‘Are you sure this is the way?’ Oleg looked into the gaping hole of the old stairwell with grave doubts.

‘It’s the shortest way to the fifth underground level. And besides, it is the only way to get there avoiding the second floor where the unclassified Undead, a vampire I believe, has established itself.’

‘Your innards have been honoured with the residence of a Supreme She-Vampire, just in case you’re interested.’

‘Oho. The Citadel completed that experiment, then? When they were building me it was all still at the research stage. Though it’s true that right before the war we received blueprints of it, but at the time it was considered a failed project.’

‘Well, they completed it, and with great success. So much success in fact that I’m now obliged to hunt down one of these “blueprints” which has run amok.’

‘Really? But as far as I remember, that model was designed as wrecker and hunter of magicians. You’re taking a big risk if you attack it all on your own.’

‘Well, it’s necessary. Besides, someone said that after he’d been recharged, he would be capable of dealing with any Undead.’

‘I didn’t know it was a Supreme. Although… I can probably still deal with it.’ Outpost’s uncertainty was somehow not at all to Oleg’s liking.

‘Well, can you deal with it or not?’

‘I don’t know,’ the warden-spirit admitted dolefully. ‘My documentation doesn’t provide me with a detailed description of their fighting and defence characteristics – it was top secret information. But what information I have is rather striking. There are a lot of traps on the second floor although they are not activated due to lack of energy resources. But they are all aimed at people and magicians. There wasn’t anything that targeted the Undead – why should we protect ourselves against our own slaves and set traps for them?’

‘OK. Well, we’ll get ourselves to the spell room, charge you up a bit and then we’ll see how you can help,’ Oleg said, going down the stairs as fast as he could.

‘Oh, I can help in many ways. Even if I can’t bring it down independently, then together we’ll be able to deal with it relatively easily. It just so happens that I have quite a few powerful “decelerators” on the second tier. While it’s caught in the time webs you’ll be able to take it with your bare hands. There used to be a special trap there intended not to kill but to capture magicians.’

‘Take it as a prisoner? What for? And anyhow, is it even possible? After all, you’d only need to weaken your control for a second and it’d turn into fog and disappear. And you’d be lucky if it didn’t strike you in the back while it was about it. No, I intend to destroy it!’

‘As you wish, Sovereign. Only, you are probably not aware that every Undead of the Dark Citadel was fitted with absolute loyalty to one whom they gave the Oath of Blazing Blood.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Another idea from our black sorcerers. It’s odd you haven’t heard of it. The oath utterly chains any Undead. If there is any attempt at treachery, the Vampire who gave the oath will burn up. And it seems to me that a servant like a Supreme Vampire could be very useful to you. And if you don’t need it, maybe you could leave it here with me,’ Outpost drawled dreamily. ‘It could feed me with energy, hasten my recovery, clear the rubble...’

‘That’s enough of dreaming. We’ll divide unhatched chickens – or rather, the uncaptured she-vampire – later. Now our task is to recharge a certain warden-spirit. Where is your spell room?’ While they were talking Oleg had gone down the seemingly never-ending staircase and was now in a smallish round room with many corridors leading off it.

‘Take the one furthest to the left, right to the end.’ The sphere of transparent light acting as Oleg’s guide shuddered and bristled, as though from cold, and after diminishing its glow a bit, darted into the dark passageway hung with the remains of rotting curtains.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

Outpost kept silent for a while, and then announced reluctantly: ‘Energy. There’s hardly any left. Before you came I slept, but now I am working at full output, I’ve switched on the vocal interface, the scanners, the guide … The reserves are running low…’

‘I see. I hadn’t realized you were in such bad shape. Enough chatting, then, lead on while your crystals still have not run down completely.’

The guide was flickering unevenly and Oleg strode after it quickly, sometimes breaking into a run. He certainly didn’t want to lose such a useful assistant just because of his own slowness. Soon he reached metal doors, the whole surface of which was covered in runes. Looking at them, Oleg was amazed to recognize a few familiar signs signalling protection from magical forces. But the majority of signs were completely unfamiliar to him.

‘And now what? By the way, I can’t squeeze through a key hole. And there isn’t a keyhole here anyway,’ he added giving the heavy door a gentle kick.

‘Hold on…’ Outpost’s voice was fraught with tension.

The little fire which had until now served as the guide flickered and went out. The creak of opening doors rang out loudly in the deep darkness.

Oleg lit a small but bright fireball above his shoulder and stepped into the passage opening up before him.

The spell chamber of the Black Tower was a long, narrow hall and the whole floor was engraved with geometric figures. At one end of the hall, on a fragile metal stand was a greenish, round stone about the size of a baby’s head. Fragments of armour were lying beneath it, together with an evilly-grinning skull. At the other end hung a huge slab of black granite, to all appearances the experimental altar he sought.

‘Go up to the lead stone and put your hands around it.’ The warden-spirit’s voice grew slow and drawn out. ‘It’s the big green stone on the left hand side of the hall.’

Oleg quickly strode over to the stone and put his hands on it. The next instant, his consciousness merged with the Tower. He became a military construction of the Empire of Dark, the Third Outpost, the Black Tower. The knowledge of all its nooks and crannies, the complete information regarding its condition, its weapons, the damage it had sustained, its capabilities and problems poured into him.

The latter had the upper hand. The victors had not bothered to waste their time and strength on destroying the outpost for good reasons. Having demolished the above-ground energy receptors, they hadn’t bothered to destroy the underground levels, condemning the tower and its spirit to a slow and tortuously long demolition at the hands of time and insufficient energy resources. At the moment when Oleg arrived, the tower was on its last legs.

Now aware of this sad story, Oleg wasted no time. He thrust some of his own energy into the tower’s accumulators. It was but a drop in the ocean, but it was enough for the warden-spirit’s artificial intelligence to function and to activate the sacrificial altar, after which Oleg ‘switched himself off’.

The lighting in the hall clearly improved. A whitish sphere bobbed in front of Oleg, a larger and brighter version of his previous guide.

‘Go on, show me how to use your sacrificial altar,’ Oleg muttered watching the contortions of the small ball of fire.

‘Please step this way, my lord,’ and the sphere shot off to the stone block.

Oleg walked over to the broad slab of black marble with a pentagram etched onto its surface.

‘Place the artefacts on the slab one by one in the centre of the pentagram.’

Oleg used one of the black poignards for the first experiment. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then the lines of the pentagram began to glow dimly and the poignard was enveloped in an opaque bluish haze. Three minutes went by, then the haze dissipated. All that was left where the menacing, enchanted weapon had been was a little heap of fine dust, its form mimicking that of the poignard.

Light appeared in the room. The ceiling glowed softly.

‘More,’ Outpost asked.

Over the next ten minutes Oleg fed the helmet and all the remaining poignards to the sacrificial altar. The length of time the magic haze held them varied and seemed to depend on the amount of magic contained in each object. After the last dagger had scattered into dust, and the sacramental cry of “More!” had run out once more, Oleg asked: ‘What’s the condition of your energy reserves now?’