The Road to Magic (Book 1 of the Way of the Demon Series) (9 page)

Unaware of these subtleties, Oleg, who had been ignored, repeated his call to the guard and gave him a nice little kick. In reply he got a tuneless snore accompanied by a strong stench of alcohol.

Oleg thought for a moment and decided to alter his plan somewhat. It would be cruel to wake this poor fellow now. He knocked the guard out with a well-aimed punch and rummaged around in the guard’s inside pockets. Oleg unearthed a bottle of “sleep-inducing liquor” and a bunch of keys. Then he hauled him out of his chlamys and put it on. Oleg dragged the guard to a ditch and, covering him with rags, gave the “sleep inducing liquor” a sniff and took a couple of good gulps.

‘A drunkard, too! What have I done to deserve him, O Immaculate Orchis?’ the princess piped up bitterly.

And as if in reply, a booming burp rang out. Then Oleg opened the gate and boldly went into the courtyard of the Great Pontiff and High Priest of Orchis the Light Bearer, Petronii.

***

The first week of June had been very stressful for Petronii Krozeltz. The old king was living out his last days, his already close and inevitable death causing the strongest shockwaves on the political horizon. The High Priest had to constantly tack between carrying out the wishes of the old king - who was dying yet still powerful enough to bring down all sorts of trouble on a fool who might cease to do his bidding - and expressions of devotion to the future ruler, the mighty Lord Chancellor. And amongst it all he had to remember to keep an eye on the pack of senior priests under him. They were straining at the leash to take his place and he constantly had to rein in the most zealous, showing that their leader hadn’t lost his grip yet. And now his son had gone and got into trouble.

That blockhead had somehow managed to fall in love with the crown princess. As if there weren’t enough tempting servant girls slipping around the house! Choose any one of them, and if that’s not enough, take two or three! Distracted for a second, the middle-aged priest smacked his lips, but his thoughts soon returned to his son.

When Albert had first come to him to confess his inappropriate love and even ask for help and advice, he had simply rejoiced in his son’s passion. The King was healthy, he had only just brought another magician as a sacrifice, what was his name…? forgotten, well, never mind.

And there it was. His son had fallen in love with the only daughter of this wise governor. And she, too, it would appear, did not find him repulsive. And no wonder, they had been friends from early childhood. So Albert was in with a chance and Petronii had been inclined to help him in any way he could.

Yes, he had been. And that inclination lasted precisely up until the royal medic gave his report on the magical nature of the King’s illness, saying that without the help of a highly qualified magician the King would not live to see the next summer. There were no magicians. Neither highly qualified nor poorly qualified. None at all. They had learnt well the lesson of Valdes, who had trusted the promises of an old friend and had been brought to the altar of state necessity. Or rather, to the altar of Orchis, to be precise, though state necessity was still present. And neither money nor honour could persuade them to set foot on Fenrian soil. And the powers of those medicine women, witches and conjurers who were not afraid to enter the kingdom because their powers were too insignificant to be of interest to Orchis were completely insufficient to cure the King.

The King had resigned himself to his fate. It had been harder to come to terms with the inevitability of his daughter’s death, but he had to. Even during her life Ataletta had been a princess sacrificed to that same state necessity. She would live just as long as her father. Everyone understood that, and came to terms with it.

Everyone but one young idiot! And he had to go and invoke a demon, trying to save the princess! Well, all’s well that ends well. And this story, would end not merely well but splendidly. Fortune favours fools. His son had managed to drag some teleporting magician into his circle, evidently first and foremost a Sovereign of Beasts and an Illusionist as his additional speciality. But anyhow, what difference did it make? Any powerful magician would make a suitable sacrifice for Orchis. The main thing was to convince him to take the snake from his son’s neck – the priest glanced at the weighty little chest with the ransom at his feet--and then the guards will overpower him. And just in case of emergency, he had another surprise: arbalesters were hiding behind the wall, ready to shoot anywhere in the room, aiming through specially made slits. No, the magician wouldn’t be able to get away.

Petronii gave a satisfied sigh. Not for a second did he entertain the thought that the “demon” his son had invoked might be a real one. He knew only too well what it cost a magician - a true, powerful magician, well-versed in demonology – to invoke and tame even a rather shabby, weak demon. His childhood friendship with Valdes had left its mark, and now Petronii possessed certain knowledge not exactly typical for a devout priest.

Just then a desperate knocking was heard at the door. At the High Priest’s disgruntled ‘Come in!’ an agitated guard flew into the room. His dishevelled fair hair fell into his eyes and his tunic was too short for him, yet too wide for this tall but thin lad. Petronii frowned: Father Kelarii the Guest Master was skimping again, giving the new recruits second-hand garments. He’d have to give him a good talking to. Ten lashes would probably do the trick… no, better twenty – it would help him remember.

‘What is wrong, my child?’

‘There’s … a fire…your son…the whole wing where he’s housed!’ The last words were pronounced as the guard hurried after the priest who was rushing off to his son’s wing.

Happily, everything turned out alright. Albert was alive and well. And most importantly – that horrid collar had disappeared from around his neck! Evidently the snake had been unable to bear the heat and had slithered off. It looked as though Orchis was well disposed to his priest. Now there was no need to fear for his son’s life and he could catch the “demon” at once, as soon as he poked his sly nose into the courtyard. And the money could be returned to the treasury immediately. It was a shame, though, that because of his fright Albert had taken on a terrible stutter; it was impossible to understand a single phrase. It would have been interesting to know what had caused the fire in that wing. Like all the buildings in Petronii’s courtyard, it was made of wood soaked in a cunning solution which was highly non-flammable… But he could deal with his son’s stuttering and the mysterious fire later.

It didn’t take him long to get an explanation from the guards. The wing had caught fire quickly and completely—he would have to look into this… Just then, that very same new guard came up to him.

‘Your Holiness,’ he addressed Petronii. ‘The wind is blowing towards your house! Will you give the order to evacuate your things? What if it catches fire?’

Petronii gave the new guard a searching look.

‘Evacuate my things? What for?’

‘Why, what if your house catches fire? Then everything will be burnt! The gold and silver will melt in the heat, then boil and evaporate, all the fabrics with be burnt, the weapons ruined.’

‘And how do you know all that?’ asked the priest.

‘From my brother,’ the young guard looked at him with simple, honest eyes. ‘He’s a smith in our village. And he told me that…’

And at that moment he dashed nimbly to the house and began beating the flames on the burning walls. Without thinking, the priest ordered the guards to help him.

In five minutes the heart of the fire was extinguished and the new lad came up to him, panting heavily.

‘Your Holiness, what are your orders? We shall keep watch here with the guard, and you could lead the people out of the building. Otherwise they will all burn…’

The impudence of this young guard made the priest indignant.

‘And who might you be, and who do you think you are?’

The guard looked around stealthily – there was no-one nearby. All the guards were piled up by the wing, eyes fixed on the fire.

‘You won’t tell anyone who I am?’

Petronii was overcome by curiosity.

‘I won’t tell. Who are you?’

‘The demon,’ the guard answered briefly. Petronii glimpsed a swift flying fist, and the whole Universe fell on his head.

The guard looked round and dragged the priest’s unresisting body into the bushes. Once there, the guard checked his pulse and muttering to himself, ‘He’s alive, the dog’, he set about pulling the gold ring-seal off his finger in a business like way. That done, he scattered branches over the unprotesting Petronii and, whistling, headed towards the house.

A large carriage laden with the most valuable possessions and weapons from the priest’s house soon drove out of the gates. In the middle of the carriage, in the place of honour, was a chest bound with iron rods, full of two thousand new gold pieces. The carriage braked for an instant beside one of the alleyways, and another individual jumped aboard, carefully turning her face from the light. Then the carriage rumbled on, towards the nearest market square.

Approximately an hour after the departure of cart, the priest’s house was lit up by the light of a mighty torch and filled with unprintable cries, howls and curses against Orchis, his mother and various parts of their divine bodies. Then a cavalcade of riders rushed out of the gates, whirled around for a few moments, discovered the carriage’s trail and rushed off, yelping and whooping. After approximately another hour, the riders returned, gloomily dragging the utterly empty carriage behind them. The head rider, a man of around fifty or fifty-five, was trotting in front without his helmet. A huge bulging bruise could be seen on his head and in his hand he held a note. Riding up to the house, he threw the note into the mud with an irritated gesture. It only contained a couple of lines written in Oleg’s flying hand: “Thank you for your generosity. Demon.”

***

‘Robbing that poor priest was as easy as taking candy from a child,’ said Oleg, but then, remembering his childhood and his younger sister, quickly corrected himself. ‘Easier. Much easier!’

He and the princess were sitting in “The Green Dragon” ravenously guzzling bacon and eggs and washing them down with expensive wine from the tavern keeper’s reserves. There followed a heated discussion on the moral-ethical, juridical and financio-pragmatic side of the expropriation conducted by Oleg.

The chest bound with iron rods was standing in their room. In order to avoid the local proletariat from possibly acting upon that well-known communist slogan, “steal the stolen”, Oleg had summoned up all his experience and knowledge in the field of magic. Now any thief who even so much as thought to move the chest stood an excellent chance of turning into a well-cooked beefsteak.

Oleg was wearing his favourite jacket and jeans (the new tunic they had just bought was lying in the chest, as once he’d tried it on, Oleg didn’t like it and decided to keep wearing his own clothes for as long as possible), a long and heavy two-handed espadon hung on his back, and his sleeve hid a flail he had prepared himself.

Originally Oleg had thought of getting something along the lines of a Japanese katana or a no-dachi, (similar in form to a katana. although considerably larger) but having established the quality of the local metal workers, he came to the conclusion that he’d better take something heavier and broader-- all the weapons for sale were made of iron; there was not even any simple steel to be seen, let alone damask steel. An espadon fitted these demands almost perfectly. Huge, almost six feet long, it was so heavy that when Oleg first lifted it using only his human strength, it made his eyes roll. Fortunately, his demonic muscles allowed him to wield the giant weapon quite freely, even with one hand. Oleg also bought himself a long poignard. In a situation where he might have to fight with both hands, it would make a fine daga (a long dagger for the left hand). After a short training session on the tavern courtyard, where Oleg remembered a few sword fighting tricks he’d learned at school, the princess looked at him with admiration. When Oleg, sweating, walked up onto the porch, she muttered softly, as though deep in thought, ‘Maybe he wasn’t just boasting when he said it was within his power to slay our whole army! Seems as though I might stay alive after all.’

And so now here they were, celebrating their first victory and their improved financial situation. Or rather, Oleg was celebrating, but the princess was trying with all her might to reach his conscience with philosophical arguments. This undertaking was very much to Oleg’s liking, even though it was doomed to failure from the start (as a first year student suffering from a cruel hangover, Oleg discovered in himself an absolutely worthless thing, (i.e. his conscience) and without thinking for long he tossed it away and bought a beer. He never regretted this barter, bragging about it to his friends on many an occasion); he was a great fan of debating lofty matters over a few drinks. The amount of wine on the table gradually diminished and the debate was becoming very heated. Unnoticeably, the tavern-keeper and his guests at the nearby tables became involved, but luckily the debate was purely theoretical and it never even entered anyone’s head to accuse Oleg of robbing the High Priest (conflicting rumours about this event had already begun circulating through the city).

To his surprise, Oleg discovered he was gradually losing the debate. The side of the law-abiding princess - who maintained that stealing was bad, and no matter what sort of a bastard the High Priest of Orchis was, whoever burgled him had acted unfairly - was supported by most of the tavern’s visitors. On Oleg’s side - who maintained that they’d robbed him, and thank god, he’d soon rob some more for himself anyway - were only a few individuals shrouded in dark cloaks, carefully hiding their faces in their hoods, and a small group of hirelings standing together. The debate spread and gradually caught the whole hall, taking on an existence quite apart from the couple, genuinely amazed at the outcome of their little debate.

Here and there fists had begun waving. The shady individuals had pulled out little bags stuffed with sand, the kind so convenient for stunning passersby in winding city streets. The hirelings were weighing heavy chairs in their hands, working out how best to pull the legs off. Ataletta, frightened by such a reaction to her words, was getting ready to dive under the table and Oleg, in case things got bad, got ready to use his fists to shelter her (growing scales on his body under his clothes where no-one could see them, just in case). But just then an interesting idea suddenly wandered into his drunken head.