"So you claim you found the rope by chance and climbed it up the wall? But our rangers say the rope was stained with blood, meaning it was cast down after the events in the city. Are you going to stick to your story? Or will you explain how you ended up in the city during the demons' rampage? Brantar, are you sure the spell worked?"
"Of course it worked!" the mage snorted. "How could it be otherwise? It's a seventh-level spell, not a single mage here could stand up to it, and this guy is some kind of martinet! Ask him, he can't lie. As soon as he does, he'll feel such pain in his body that he'll scream like he's being burned! He'll shit himself in pain!"
"I don't believe your tricks," Major Sert grumbled. "There's nothing better than a dagger heated in a fire! Stick it in the right place, and it'll tell you everything. Alas, the colonel has categorically forbidden anyone to touch it. Maybe he really is telling the truth?"
"I don't believe in coincidences," the black mage shook his head thoughtfully. "One moment he suddenly appears next to the colonel when the Death Messengers are unleashed on him, the next he's the first to discover a city destroyed by demons—how is that possible? Why does everything revolve around him? And these stories about his phenomenal fighting abilities... it's a shame I didn't see him fight his opponents in the camp. We, adepts of magic, are against raising mages in the spirit of soldierly behavior. A mage should think with his head, study spells, master magic, not run around the arena waving iron and shaking fists. That's a stupid thing—for the military."
"Don't you think the mages are mistaken about this?" Sert asked with interest. "Suppose a mage's tongue were cut out. And his fingers were broken. How would he perform his magic? He'd be completely defenseless!"
"Hmm... it won't," the mage remarked with a superior smile, "but that's none of your business. These are our secrets, the secrets of mages, not for public consumption. Let's get back to our... to your sergeant. So, Ned the Black, what did you see when you entered the city? Let's go through your memories again..."
"This is not the first time," the major muttered discontentedly. "How much longer can this go on? Let's come up with something new? Don't you have any other, smarter spells?"
"All our spells are clever!" the mage retorted sharply. "But your commands are mind-bogglingly stupid! I don't think mages have any business in the army! They should be engaged in scientific research into magic, serving humanity in other ways—making good things, imbuing them with various useful properties, exploring the universe, not unleashing frost and fire on the enemy!"
"So why the hell are you serving in the army?" Sert replied, just as sharply. "Well, why don't you just sit in your agar and do your science? Shut up?! But I'll tell you why you're here—you want money! Your salary is ten times higher than mine! So earn it, and don't cry about dumb soldiers and clever mages! Make sure we're sure this guy isn't lying, and everything he says is true! We're exhausted ourselves, and we've worn out the sergeant. The colonel's already dissatisfied, saying this is the last interrogation, and if anything happens to this guy, he'll rip our skins off and make boots out of them. What else do you need to know from Black? He told you everything, you checked—what else?"
"As for our pay, we get it for the abilities bestowed upon us by the gods. So don't drool over our pay! And we study our whole lives! As for this guy, I sense something's wrong with him, something's just not right, that's all! There's a spell, a ninth-level one, I don't know if I have the strength to cast it today... You warriors think it's that easy to perform magic? Casting a high-level spell is like lifting a huge boulder! Some might even strain themselves! There have been cases where mages have gone mad trying to master a spell they can't control! This isn't like waving iron or jumping around like goats on a parade ground! Anyway, sit there and don't say a word. Now I'm going to cast a memory spell. The guy will remember everything from the very beginning—how he saw the rope, if there was one, how he got into the city, and so on." After this, I'll leave him alone... for now. I need to keep an eye on him. He's a strange, very strange guy.
Ned looked closely at the dark mage's face and decided that if his defenses collapsed, he'd have to figure something out for these two people. What would he do? The obvious solution was to unleash the first-circle demons on them, plant the creatures in their brains, and let them sit there, quietly eating away at everything they could reach. He'd already had this experience—why not repeat it? But it would be better not to. Everything was going so well... simply wonderful. If only the dark mage hadn't been trying to find out something about Ned. The bastard sensed his own kind. He couldn't see him, but he sensed magic. The defenses were holding for now, but...
A strange scent filled the air, and melodic sounds began to play—for some reason, high-level spells are always accompanied by sound effects and scents. Well, almost always. Ned sat with his eyes closed—at the black mage's command—who stood before the boy, making passes, his eyes wide and chanting incomprehensible phrases. Finally, he finished. He caught his breath and looked at the major with a faint smile.
– We did it! Now he's in our pocket.
"What made you think that happened?" the major grumbled discontentedly, standing up and peering into Ned's serene face.
"And if it hadn't worked out," he chuckled, "then right now this guy would be lying on the floor in a pool of his own filth, writhing in pain."
"Are you an idiot, Brantar? Didn't you hear what the colonel said?! You'd have to be so ignorant of Hevarad to do something like that! If something nasty had happened to the guy, the colonel would have wiped us out! He's very, very vengeful and never forgets a grudge. And he won't care that you're a mage—he'll crush you!"
"Oh, come on," the mage winced, "nothing happened. He's alive and well. The spell lasts for half an hour, then he'll simply forget everything. Let's get started, enough chatter. Sergeant, can you hear me?"
"I hear you," Ned replied dispassionately, trying his best not to let out a nervous laugh.
"You're standing at the city wall. You're looking for a way to get past the wall. Describe everything you see. Go."
"A brick wall. The brick is red, the mortar is white. The wall is old, covered in moss. A moat with water. The water is green, frogs are croaking. It smells of rot. The earth…"
"No need for such details," the mage winced and sighed heavily. "That's how it happens. You first have to tell a fool what to say, and even then it doesn't always work."
"If all criminals under a spell told about their crimes, then what's the point of having security?" Sert chuckled. "What's the point of your spells? There's nothing better..."
"Yes, yes—a red-hot nail and a dagger! Shut up, will you? What are you interrupting? Time is running out! So, Sergeant, you see the rope, and from this point..."
* * *
"So what?" Major Sert grinned maliciously. "And what have we achieved? That's it, I won't be calling him in for questioning again! Enough of this nonsense. Enjoy your time in the agar, and don't waste my time here. When will he wake up?"
"In a couple of minutes," the black magician sighed dejectedly and, rising from his chair, abruptly flung open the interrogation room door and walked out, throwing out as he went: "May you all go to hell with your soldier! Ugh!"
Sert chuckled again and, leaning back in his chair, crossed his arms over his stomach, looking at Ned, who stood frozen with a relaxed, peaceful expression. The major sat silently until Ned's eyelashes fluttered, and the boy opened his eyes.
– Where am I? What's wrong with me? Oh, how my head hurts!
"That's it, Sergeant, that's it. You can go. We have no complaints against you, we've found out everything we needed to know. (Get out of here quickly – if you die somewhere under the fence from Brantar's idiotic spells, it won't be my fault. But if you die here, then I'm responsible. So get out of here...)
Ned stood up and, staggering, walked out of the interrogation room under the hostile gaze of a relieved Sert. He walked down the corridor of the ancient house, past the guard who gave him a friendly nod as he left, and stepped onto the city pavement.
It was getting dark. A lively music drifted from the neighboring establishment, occupied by a merchant couple who had taken up residence with Zhostar's army. The tavern was busy selling wine and snacks, fleecing the soldiers—there was nowhere to go for a rest in the city, so this cross between a brothel and a tavern was in full swing. Colonel Heverad... or rather, now General Heverad—had to turn a blind eye to certain things happening in the city. If he clamped down on the soldiers as tightly as he had in the Corps, a mutiny could ensue. Most of the soldiers here were militiamen, unaccustomed to strict discipline, and they had to be disciplined with extreme caution. In the month that the combined army had been in the city, they had barely managed to weld the Corps and this gang into something more or less combat-ready. The advance of the armies summoned by Herag was expected any day now – cavalry reconnaissance reported that two armies were moving towards the city from different directions, and each was equal in number to the combined army under the command of Heverad.
Ned walked past a drinking establishment from which he could hear women's squeals, laughter and drunken shouts, winced and walked further down the street, to the house where he lived with his reconnaissance group, along with Zheresar's doctors.
The house occupied by the physician was large and had previously belonged to a merchant, either killed or captured by the Isfirians. The cellars of this house contained ample provisions and wine, so the scouts lacked nothing.
Sometimes Ned wondered: what would happen if the city's inhabitants returned (if they ever returned!)? All their property had been appropriated, destroyed, and used by others. How would they live? What would become of them? When he once asked Zheresar about this, he chuckled sadly and, sighing, said:
"That's life, boy. They'll probably never come back here. And if they do, a stranger will be living in their house and will greet them with the words, 'Who are you?! Get out of here!' And that'll be the end of it. This is war. And this land is borderland. Anything can happen here. Don't overthink it. You're a conscientious guy, I know. But war is like that—you're alive today and gone tomorrow. Take life as it comes—eat, drink, and be merry. Tomorrow, it might not work out."
And Ned pushed such thoughts aside. He shoved them deep into the back of his mind. He lived as best he could. He went out on reconnaissance missions, rested, talked with Zheresar, his sons, and the other healers, who turned out to be quite pleasant, cheerful fellows. He drove his subordinates, who were always getting into trouble—either they would beat someone up or be beaten up. From time to time, he beat them himself—giving them wooden swords, which he ordered each scout to carve, and chasing them around the courtyard during training, beating them so hard that they dreaded these training sessions more than a public flogging in front of the Corps lineup.
The scouts grew in number. Ned had already recruited thirty men for his team, fortunately there was plenty to choose from – soldiers were now plentiful. They obeyed their commander unquestioningly, and not just because they were terrified of him. They respected him greatly. One could even say they practically worshipped him. The boys knew he was always on their side, that he would never betray them or pick on them without reason. And no one could match his fighting prowess, not even the strongest, fastest, and most experienced soldiers.
Among the scouts were seven soldiers from the new arrivals - Ned had no ban on recruiting scouts from other branches of the military, so he calmly took the guys to himself, based on the recommendations of his guys.
Martial arts training, scouting expeditions, relaxation, scroll reading—that's how Ned's life unfolded. Frankly, he hadn't felt this good and peaceful in a long time. He was where he belonged. He loved this life—he was respected, valued, needed, and no one, no one, dared insult him, offend him, hurt him... with impunity.
Itrok, an orphan, had settled into the reconnaissance group. He'd been accepted on rations, and was now a full-fledged soldier in the Corps. The boy had softened among the soldiers, most of whom were barely older than himself. He had a good nature, wasn't above menial labor, and wasn't offended by jokes, so he fit right in with the soldiers as if he'd been born a soldier.
If it weren't for the constant interrogations by the Security Service, Ned's life could have been called happy. These interrogations began two weeks after Ned returned from the Zhostar army's quarters. Out of the blue, Ned was summoned to Colonel Heverad, who, frowning, informed him that the Security Service and the mages had a number of questions for Ned, and that he, Colonel Heverad, his commander, was requesting his assistance in the investigation. A request, not an order. And Ned was to follow his request...
So, Ned had to drag himself to the Security building and answer stupid questions, and this time, even risk his health. At least Brantar's spell couldn't penetrate Ned's defenses. And that was the most surprising thing – a ninth-level spell couldn't defeat Ned's spell! So WHAT level of mage was Ned now?
It's funny... a dropout who can't even see auras, and suddenly—a high-level mage. However, Ned worked very diligently on his self-education. He found the magistrate's library, where in his free time he delved into books and scrolls, searching for everything he could find on magic, especially dark magic. He stole the books back to his room and read, read, read... During meals, during breaks between training sessions, wherever he could.
Ned absorbed knowledge like a sponge, and it settled firmly in his brain. He had long ago learned: knowledge is power.
Ned turned the corner – it was quiet and dark, only the distant voices of the guards chattering on the city wall could be heard. It was late evening. The streetlights weren't lit – there was no one to do it, and there was no money for it. Oil was expensive, and there was a war going on. A soldier can find his way in the dark, and if he can't, he can sleep under a fence. That's what makes him a good-for-nothing soldier, Colonel Heverad thought.
Ned walked along lost in thought, but his heightened sense of danger warned him that there was someone nearby, and that someone was hiding in the shadows of the houses.
Ned turned on his "mind-hearing", and immediately fragments of thoughts of those sneaking behind him hit his head:
"...from behind... yes, that's him. A knife? No, better... go around the right. What a dumb soldier... when he gets to the corner..."
Ned paused and pretended to adjust the belt in which his swords were tucked. As if by accident, he glanced around… and saw nothing. Nothing at all. An empty, dark street, and ahead, the city wall, where a single torch burned, piercing the night for at most ten paces. A night breeze blew, and the smell of swamp—presumably from the moat surrounding the city wall.
Ned hesitated for a moment, then burst forward with all his might, faster than he'd run in a long time. Something clanked behind him, sparks flew from the stone wall of the house, and Ned kept running until he emerged into a more or less illuminated area.
Something whistled through the air twice, and Ned felt sharp stings dig into his back. He flinched, reached out, and plucked two small, soft-feathered arrows from between his shoulder blades. Then he drew his swords from their sheaths and stood against the wall, awaiting his attackers.
They didn't keep waiting—something flew overhead, and a black-robed figure, like a giant bat, appeared on the pavement in front of Ned. The assassin appeared to have jumped from the roof of a one-story building. The second followed, and now the two were standing side by side, short swords gleaming dully in their hands. Before they attacked, Ned noticed—their blades were blazing with runes! The same runes as his!
But then he had no time for runes—a whirlwind of blows rained down on him, and despite all his skill, Ned could barely hold back the onslaught of the unknown fighters, whose faces were hidden by dark cloth up to their eyes. Their loose, dark, almost black clothing was covered in stains and sinuous lines, obscuring their movements, preventing him from seeing what their next blow would be.
Ned hadn't had time to properly prepare for battle, and for some unknown reason, his legs had weakened, and rainbow-colored circles had begun to swim before his eyes. He could barely hold his swords and couldn't attack, only defending himself, growing weaker with each passing minute. His mind had weakened, and if it weren't for the Black One, who was so fiercely determined to survive, Ned's story would have ended in that filthy alley.
Ned seemed to switch off, his body acting on its own. The words of the Summoning flashed in his head, and without thinking, Black cast the spell at his opponents.
As expected, they were covered with protective amulets and charms. However, the blow from the demons of the first circle staggered the Shatriyas, and they recoiled, wincing as if they'd been lashed with a whip. One of them groaned softly and said to the other:
- Atrok! It's Atrok! Run!
The assassins rushed into the darkness, but before they could reach it, a spell cast after them unleashed several third-circle demons, which latched onto the fighters' bodies and dispelled all the protective spells cast by the less-than-skillful mage. To protect themselves from third-circle demons, a defense of at least the ninth level was required—or perhaps even special spells that seemed long forgotten in this world. The demons paralyzed the assassins' muscles, and they lay frozen on the pavement, twitching in small spasms and rolling their wide eyes. Black, overcoming his weakness, approached the fallen men and bent over the first, a short, sturdy man breathing hoarsely and laboredly through his open mouth. Tearing the bandage from the man's face, the mage peered into his simple, unremarkable features and asked in the Language:
– Хес туар ни гнок исисадру? ( Who sent you, you vile nit?)
The killer tried to say something, but couldn't get a word out, and only croaked something like:
- Brah istr!
"Can't speak?" Black chuckled. "Yeah, you can't. My friends paralyzed you. Now we'll make it so you can speak. But you won't like it."
Black leaned over the prostrate man, grabbed his leg, and with one skillful movement severed the tendon. There was little blood, but the leg immediately hung limp. He did the same with the other leg, then moved on to the arms. The second killer did not escape the first's fate. Then Black cast the Release spell, and the demons he released flew off to the underworld, before they could do much harm to the bodies they occupied. However, those bodies no longer cared...
"Don't kill, Atrok! Forgive us! We didn't know!"
"And if you'd known, it would have been the masters who came instead of the shatriyas, right? Shut up and tell me—who sent you? Who gave you the order to kill me?"
"Atrok, you know—they don't tell the Chatrii who's taking the order!" The Chatrii's pale face was calm. He knew he was going to die, but the order ingrained in him prevented him from saying what he knew. The Black One listened to the killer's thoughts. They clattered like a saucepan on a cobblestone street:
– Where from?! Where did this Atroc come from? Betrayal! We were set up! Someone else's salvation? Where did he come from? Damn Silena! She set us up!
"Who is Silena? Where can I find her?" Black's voice was cold and dispassionate. "Tell me, and you'll die easily."
- How does he know about Silena?! I don't know what you're talking about... Aaaah!
"It's enough to make you scream. No one comes here at this hour. It's a dead end," Black chuckled and twisted the Left Sword in the assassin's thigh. Shatriy groaned and twitched, and Black felt the life force flowing into his body with pleasure. His head immediately cleared, and his hands regained their strength. The demon in the sword worked faithfully, feeding its master.
"Red Street, the baker's house?" the magician chuckled. "What are you staring at? Better tell me—are the arrows laced with ssful poison? Where's the antidote? I see, I see, you don't have to answer."
The black man ripped the shatri's robe open at the chest and pulled out a small bottle hanging on a cord. He uncorked the bottle, sniffed it, nodded with satisfaction, and took a sip, wincing slightly at the bitterness. The antidote was quite nasty, tangling in the mouth, but it was sure to work. Without it, a person would turn into a cold corpse within an hour. Every shatri was required to carry an antidote—in case they accidentally pricked themselves with their own arrow, and where would they seek help? Both the ssful poison, extracted from toads living in the far south, and its antidote were secret knowledge, possessed only by those who belonged to the Shirduan sect. Anyone who revealed even the slightest secret of the sect, even if it was just the ingredients of the antidote or the composition of a strengthening drink, was considered a traitor and subject to immediate punishment. And there was only one punishment: death!
Within half an hour, Black knew everything the two assassins knew. And they knew both a lot and a little. A lot for someone who knew nothing about the sect, the last remaining branch of the Shiduan, degenerate but surviving and gradually gaining a foothold in this world. Little for a mage of Black's stature, who had little interest in the details of the Shatriyas' activities—he already knew what they were doing. But they had very little information about the sect's leadership.
Alas, there were no Black-level mages in the current sect. Or did the assassins not know about such mages? Perhaps they didn't. After all, who were they, these Chatriyas? Ordinary assassins, trained in specialized techniques for eliminating their victims. Well-trained, yes. But... not enough to deal with a Black-level mage.
If he'd wanted, he could have destroyed them at the very beginning of the battle. But who would then give him the information he needed? He'd known from the start that these killers were anything but ordinary. Their mannerisms, their tactics, even their conversations stirred layers of memories of his past in the mage's mind, of how he, an orphan, had risen from the very bottom—through humiliation, pain, and death.
There were ten of them—ten orphans taken from all corners of the kingdom, and only one survived. He, who became the Head of the Shirduans, the Great and Terrible Yuragor, the Great Atrok.
Yuragor cast aside the unnecessary memories and looked into the eyes of his "interlocutors." He felt no pity for them. He didn't see them as his comrades. Ordinary rabble, murderers, expendable material, orphans taken from the streets, kidnapped, or bought—what did he find in them?
Yuragor leaned over the Shatriy, the leader of the pair, lying on the ground, pulled his chin back, and slashed his left hand across the man's throat. Hot blood spurted, and the atrok pressed his hand to the wound and began drinking the salty, thick liquid, feeling the strength and power lost to his poison-infested body return with each sip.
This was one of the features of the Atrocs - he could restore strength and energy through the blood of living beings, and human blood was best suited for this.
The second Shatriya watched the stranger's manipulations in horror, but he refused to drink his blood. Sated and restored to his strength, Yuragor plunged both his blades into the killer's chest and stood for a moment, watching the demons writhe, absorbing the man's life energy, enjoying the fresh nourishment. Then the demons fell silent, sated and content, and the runes on the swords faded.
Yuragor wiped his blades on the killer's body, put them back in their sheaths, knelt down next to the corpses, and began to search their clothes.
As befits a proper assassin, the shatri's attire concealed a multitude of devices for the efficient and swift execution of the target. Nooses, throwing knives, knives with poison-stained blades, tubes for firing light wooden arrows dipped in ssful poison, poisons for poisoning, paralyzing poisons, sleeping poisons—all so familiar, so... reminiscent, one might even say, native.
The blades are short, slightly longer than the Left Blade but shorter than the Right Blade—easy to carry concealed under clothing. No chainmail, no armor—the shatrii must quickly reach the target to deliver the killing blow and disappear just as quickly. And if there's no way to disappear, if caught at the scene of the murder, he must kill himself.
In fact, the abilities of these two Shatriyas didn't impress Yuragor. Weak, very weak, in his opinion. There was no perfection, none of the polished technique that had characterized the Shatriyas when Yuragor lived. However, much had changed since then, whatever one might say. Ordinary mages had degenerated, lost some of their knowledge, transformed from battle mages who could move mountains into mere healers, fairground magicians who would amuse a drunken crowd with their silly feats. THESE mages would never have been able to defeat Shirduan. And this fact greatly pleased Yuragor.
The last thing the mage remembered was flames devouring all life. The walls were burning, the floors were burning, people were burning—a sticky, liquid fire that neither water nor spells could extinguish engulfed the underground temple of Shirduan, and Yuragor remained the last one to retain his sanity in this burning abyss. With his charred hands, he placed the Helmet of Memory, containing the demon of the twelfth circle, on his head, and it drank, absorbing all that constituted the essence of the Great Atrok. The mage's lifeless body fell to the burning floor, and the golden helmet rolled across the stone slabs, struck the altar where sacrifices were made to the goddess Death, and crumpled, becoming like an ordinary copper pot stepped on by a clumsy horse.
What happened next, Yuragor didn't know. He had only recently become self-aware, slowly, bit by bit, piecing together his essence, scattered throughout his host body.
Alas, this shepherd boy possessed a surprisingly strong will; he practically overpowered the mage, shattering his personality into pieces once again and scattering them to the corners of his brain. And if not for chance, if not for those two less-than-skillful shatriyas, if not for the injection of arrows laced with ssful poison that paralyzed Ned's will, Yuragor might never have succeeded in seizing control of his body.
The mage looked at the dead shatriya and decided—no, the dead man's clothes wouldn't suit him. A pity, really—it would have been nice to have a spare set of the assassin's work clothes. However, the only valuable thing about these clothes was their numerous pockets for storing weapons and technical equipment. Such clothing could be custom-made; there was nothing particularly complicated about it. However, the mage took a jacket-cape from the corpse; it was tailored for a broad-shouldered man and suited Ned perfectly. It was just a bit short—the shepherd was at least a head taller than the killer. Yuragor stuffed the equipment he'd found on the shatriyas into their pockets and pockets, collected their swords, two of which were charged with demons—though weak ones, incomparable to the mage's demon. He attached two pouches of money, also found on the dead men, to his belt, and strode down the street, leaving the scene of the battle.
Yuragor walked and breathed in the evening air with pleasure, in which the scents of herbs brought by the light-footed wind mingled with the smell of decay, reminiscent of sacrifices, of the great past, of what he was destined to revive.
How to do this? Where to begin? So, what he has: the body of a shepherd, fully developed, strong, and skilled—it wasn't for nothing that he'd spent all this time training and developing it—and not just physically. The shepherd was far from stupid, and after absorbing the vast amount of knowledge possessed by the Atrok, he could be called one of the most enlightened people of his time. Did Yuragor feel sorry for him? Perhaps... but—people eat animals, they can't live without meat. So what? Pity all these pigs, squealing wildly when they're dragged off to be slaughtered? The pigs understand perfectly well that the people who raised them, fed them, and watered them are now leading them off to be slaughtered—so what? There are those who are eaten, and those who eat. Yuragor is one of those who eat. And Ned is an animal, destined for food. And that's fine, that's what the gods want, that's what the goddess Death wants.
Yuragor grinned – how well it all worked out! How magnificently! He had gained integrity, freedom, learned of the existence of the remnants of his secret empire – wasn't that wonderful? Well, yes – there was much work ahead, intrigue, conspiracies, but who said that power came without effort? He had installed kings, removed those who stood in his way, secretly ruled the entire kingdom, and with just a little more, he would have become more powerful than the king himself, or… the king himself. Or the emperor! And why not? It was a shame it all ended this way. And he still didn't know how it had happened that they – he – had been discovered. How those pathetic, insignificant people had managed to uncover his secret and take Yuragor by surprise.
The thought that he had proven more stupid than them, that these creatures had managed to outplay him, drove the mage into a frenzy! Who were they, compared to his power?! No matter, everything was ahead. In the hundreds of years since Yuragor had been absent from this world, they had degenerated, weakened—the lawful prey of a powerful predator.
The magician walked about five hundred paces, spotted a bench near one of the houses, and sat down in the shade, stretching out his legs and spreading his arms over the back of the bench. He wanted to sit for a while, think, and formulate a plan of action. At the healer's house, those incompetent people would pester him, start asking him questions, inviting him to join in the conversation, pestering him with their nonsense—and they wouldn't give him time to think properly. But here it was quiet, dark, and cool.
Yuragor loved the cool—the cool of the temple, the cool of the underground galleries, the cool of the caves and sewer tunnels—through which he often had to move, getting close to his prey. Yuragor began as a shatriya, killing his first victim when he was ten years old. He forever remembered the old man's dim eyes, forever reflecting the question: Why? How could you?
Many, many years later, Yuragor accidentally discovered that it was his own grandfather. What had he done to the man who ordered it? Why had they decided to eliminate him? The Shatrii don't ask such questions. And the one who sent Yuragor on the mission was already dead by then.
However, Shirduan has no family, no kin—except her brothers and sisters, who serve one goddess—Death. Only she, Death, is their mother, and she gives Shirduan powers that no one else in this world possesses. And such authority. After all, what could be more powerful than the power to take a person's life? He who takes life takes everything. After all, a dead man needs neither wealth nor women—he needs nothing. A coffin has no purse.
So, what must he do? How will he climb to the top, to the very top? How will he seize power in the kingdom, how will he restore Shirduan to its former might?
There are three paths. The first is to follow the path he set Ned on. That is, to prove himself a capable commander, a hero, a great fighter, to get Sergeant Black sent to officer school, to graduate as a lieutenant, and then somehow establish himself in the capital, near Heverad. This man, General Heverad, could help Yuragor rise higher. And then he could be eliminated—Heverad is too smart and independent. Such people are dangerous.
The second path is to demonstrate his magical abilities and pursue a career among the mages. Out of the question! To present himself as an adept of forbidden magic? To mages who, unlike ordinary people, remember well what demonologists are, and Shirduan in particular? That would be suicide. No matter how strong Yuragor is, he cannot stand against ALL mages. And there's already been a precedent. If not for the helmet he prepared in advance, not for the high-ranking demon sealed with a complex spell that cost the blood of hundreds of people, and not for the foolish shepherd who pulled a "bowler hat" onto his boyish head – would Yuragor be sitting here now, pondering his future? A chain of coincidences, and here he is – sitting and making plans in a time many, many decades or hundreds of years removed from his own. Could Yuragor have ever imagined this would happen? Actually, he could have. It wasn't for nothing that he created a helmet that could transfer a mage's essence, after all? He knew it... However, anyone who does what Yuragor did must understand that ultimately, it could all end this way. And it did.
The mage took a deep breath and smoothed his blond hair—he couldn't get used to the fact that Ned was a tall, blond man. Yuragor was shorter and as black as the demon currently inhabiting Ned's body.
Speaking of the demon. Eventually, this "rider" will need to be disposed of. The day will come when the demon demands payment. And payment is always life—the life of the host. But Yuragor had no intention of dying, at least not for the next hundred years. And then he could find a new host... And freeing himself from the demon would require much, much effort. However, for now, the demon is well bound and firmly lodged within the body, making no attempt to escape or kill the host. And let it sit. Yuragor's knowledge is dissolved within the demon, a part of his essence that hasn't yet fully settled in Ned's brain. When it does settle completely, when the demon is no longer needed, then... then we'll see.
So, the path of the mage is out of the question for Yuragor. So what's the third path?
The third option is to simply leave, disappear, start a new life—find this Silena, the head of the capital's ispas, force her to submit, and then create a new Shirduan structure—restore everything to the way it should be. But this path isn't particularly acceptable either. The question immediately arises: where to live? What to live on? And besides, the accusation of desertion hangs over my head. What if I get caught? That damned Oydar—he left with the treasure! If it had remained, I could have risked it. Money always helps. But then again, there's the necklace!
The mage pulled a beautiful jewel from his pocket and thoughtfully rattled the stones in his hand, glistening in the moonlight, which had just emerged from behind the clouds. No, not enough. What would money give for this necklace? For a peasant or a shepherd, it would give a lot. But for a mage, nothing. You can't buy status with this money. There's not enough of it. So, there's only one path left—climb the career ladder slowly but surely. Well, no matter—he has time. He has the body, he has the ability, he has a certain position within the Corps, he has General Heverad, who favors Ned—so everything is ahead of him. And who said Silena would so easily allow herself to be subjugated? Judging by the thoughts of the Shatrii, she is the Great Atroc, as ridiculous as it is to admit. And since she has climbed to the highest rung of power, this woman is far from simple. Oh, how simple.
Yuragor walked further and around the corner came across a couple huddled under a bush of some thorny plant, blooming with flowers that smelled pungent, sweet, intoxicating, reminiscent of feminine charms and the fact that Yuragor, or rather his body, hadn't been with a woman in a long time. The couple fussed, oblivious to the mage standing behind them, until the woman, or rather the girl, cried out and muttered hoarsely, adjusting her skirts, which had been hiked up to her waist:
- Oh! He's looking! I can't do this, Hasun!
"Who?" the man didn't understand, turned around, and saw a man standing motionless behind him, against the backdrop of the city wall. "Hey, what are you staring at, pervert? Get out of here! Get out, I said! That's my whore! Find yourself a friend…"
The man didn't finish. With a rustle, the Right Sword leaped from its sheath, and the man's head flew off, his body falling on the woman, twitching and drenching her with blood from severed veins. The girl fainted, and Yuragor laid the swords on the ground, grabbed the girl by the collar to protect himself from getting dirty, and yanked her out from under the hapless Hasun's body. Then, in several moves, he tore off her clothes, and...
A few minutes later he stood up from the motionless whore, pleased and displeased at the same time.
He was pleased because he had satisfied his flesh and now felt pleasant relaxation, slight fatigue and drowsiness.
And he was dissatisfied because he was forced to satisfy himself with some filthy, onion-smelling whore. And this was he, the Great Atroc, who had every woman in the kingdom at his disposal, from greengrocers to the highest-ranking aristocrats. He only had to wish for it. Furthermore, he always had at his disposal the Chatrii and Atroc women, who considered it an honor to satisfy their master. And look how low he had fallen!
Yuragor casually plunged his sword into the woman's chest, waited a few seconds, savoring the new surge of strength and freshness that immediately dispelled drowsiness. He pulled his pants higher, picked up the bundle of trophies from the ground, and continued on. He was grateful to the woman for allowing his desire to be sated through her flesh. But the whore had to be killed—she had seen Yuragor at the moment of the murder, and therefore she must die. That was the law.
By the time the mage reached the house where the scouts lived, night had already fallen. Everyone was asleep, and only the guard at the entrance halfheartedly greeted the commander with a military salute.
Yuragor nodded and went to his room, where he lived alone. There, he hid the trophies in the closet, undressed, and stretched out on the bed with pleasure, feeling the smooth silk of the sheets against his skin. Yuragor always slept naked—unlike the rustic Ned. The mage enjoyed the touch of the blanket, the sheets, the night air. He saw nothing shameful in the complete nudity of men and women—he had been taught as a child not to be shy. They had simply beaten the nonsense out of him. The fighters of Shirduan are above convention, above disgust, above the laws that ordinary people have established for themselves. Above everything—except service to the goddess Death and her deputy in this world—Great Atrok. Everything Great Atrok desires is the desire of the goddess, and therefore law.
Yuragor closed his eyes and dissolved into a sweet slumber, washing over his mind like a warm sea current lapping at a tropical island. He dreamed of the past and the future, where he stood again at the goddess's altar, and before him were rows of people in black, their heads bowed at the feet of their deity.
* * *
Silence and darkness. Ned seemed deafened, blinded, and for a long time couldn't understand what had happened to him. One moment he was fighting unknown enemies, then... darkness. What had happened to him? Was he dead? And where was he—in the underworld or in heaven, in the halls of the gods?
There is no trace of the gods... no beautiful chambers with feasting warriors, no beautiful gardens in which men lie with beautiful girls.
He'd always wondered where those girls in heaven who pleasured the warriors came from. Perhaps they were women guilty in their own worlds? Then why weren't they in the underworld? Why were they in heaven with men? As punishment? So maybe they enjoyed the punishment itself? Theological books didn't clarify this question. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he thought, and therefore existed. Where he existed, that was the question...
Ned tried to listen – no, not a sound could be heard. It was a strange sensation… he'd long since lost the habit of silence. There was always someone nearby, always someone else's thoughts pushing and shoving into his skull, even if he blocked the access. And now – complete silence. Forever or not?
So, what happened? Apparently, arrows laced with some kind of poison were stuck in his back. He was poisoned. What does that mean? Maybe he was buried alive? Maybe he's in a grave? Oh gods! Maybe enough of these trials? Why do other people live quietly, calmly, peacefully, while he, Ned, was given THIS fate? Why?
"Because you are the Chosen One," a powerful voice rang out in the silence like a bell, and a shining ball hung in the darkness, in which one could discern someone's face, unimaginably beautiful, inspiring both fear and delight at the same time.
"Who?! Who are you?!" Ned looked into the wise eyes with horror, drowning in them, his thoughts mixed up, and nothing remained but awe and fear.
– Me? It's you. It's us. It's everything that exists. Everything, and no one.
- I don't understand! Tell me, where am I?
– You are nowhere. And everywhere. You are he. He is you.
"Are you kidding me?" Ned said, slightly annoyed. "Go away! If you can't help, get out of here, otherwise..."
"Otherwise – what?" the entity laughed loudly. "Yes, you have changed. I would never have said that before. And I never did. I doubted whether I should help you. Now I see – it is. You deserve your destiny. You are destined for ascension, but never forget who you were and who you have become. Okay – enough words. Wait for the Guides. Farewell. Actually – goodbye!" The voice laughed again, the glow faded, and Ned was once again left in the darkness – alone, stunned, confused and perplexed. What guides? Where to wait for them?
Suddenly, he noticed it wasn't quite dark anymore. A bright spot appeared ahead, as if someone were carrying an oil lantern dangling at chest level. The lantern was getting closer, and now Ned saw that it was carried by an incredibly beautiful young woman of about twenty-five, wearing a translucent dress with slits on the sides, resembling not even a dress, but some kind of lace nightgown.
Ned thought he'd seen this beauty somewhere, but before he could finish the thought, something licked his hand, and a furry head nuzzled his knee. Ned flinched in surprise, lowering his eyes... Narda!
"My dear... my little dog, there you are! Come to me!" He dropped to his knees, hugged the dog, and rested his forehead on her cold, wet nose. A hot tongue licked his chin, then Narda jumped back and began jumping up and down, as if inviting him to run, then ran to the woman with the lantern, nuzzled her, returned, and gave Ned another friendly nudge with her forehead.
"She loves you. She remembers," the woman said, and Ned looked up at the beauty with disbelief, not allowing himself to believe it.
"Well, what are you looking at... well, yes, it's me," the woman laughed cheerfully, and her laughter, so familiar, immediately put everything in its place:
- You?! You...
"Old lady? Yeah. There was an old lady. And here I am, as I saw myself. I was always young. Even when I got old. But when I look in the mirror, at my gray hair, at my wrinkled skin... no, I won't remember. What's past is past. Well then, come with us, Foundling. We'll lead you out of the Darkness.
"And you…" Ned began.
"No. I won't tell you about the afterlife, about where I ended up and what I'm doing," Zadara smiled. "I'm serving a sentence for what I foolishly did in my world. And now—here you are, messenger of the gods. I'm glad to see you, boy. It's good that you're being released. They told you to tell me—don't expect any more gifts. Fight—as you're accustomed to doing. Act according to your conscience and accept everything that comes your way. And then—you will be rewarded. But remember—there will be no second rebirth. Either you succeed, or you die."
"Where did Narda come from?" Ned asked, pressing his cheek to the happy dog.
"She wanted to see you, she loves you very much, and she asked me to tell you that she'll never forget her little brother and will always be with him. And someday you'll run through the hills with her again. But don't rush—you still have a long, long life ahead of you, and she can wait—after all, she has an eternity ahead of her. Okay, get up, and let's go. It's time."
Ned glanced around and noticed a long road paved with smooth bricks lay before him. Around the road lay darkness, a void in which nothing could be seen. What supported the road was also unclear. But it led somewhere upward, toward the light, toward a small white spot—an exit? An exit—to where?
Narda ran up behind him and, as if playfully, nudged Ned with her shaggy, broad-browed head. He staggered and took a step down the road. The dog hopped around him, as if pleased that Ned had made the right move, and ran up the hill, stopping next to the woman, smiling as she watched the hesitant boy.
Ned approached the couple, Zadara took his arm, Narda stood on his right side, and they walked forward...