"What are we sitting here for?" Ugras leaned toward Arnot's ear and quietly added, "What's he even doing there? What's he whittling? Some kind of wood..."
"Do I know?" Arnot replied just as quietly. "Go and ask him yourself."
"Yeah... and get punched in the ear? He's gone completely wild lately. I've regretted going into reconnaissance a hundred times over. It's not worth the money. Talking to that beast costs ten times as much!"
"Oh, come on," Arnot shook his head, "at least he's alive. Our guys are bleeding out there right now, and we're sitting in the forest. Is that bad? You'd probably be dragging your guts through the mud right now, but instead you're lying there like you're on a feather bed, spitting at the sky! And we're sitting there—most likely because our job isn't to hang around with everyone else, but to keep an eye on the armies so they don't come in from the forest. That's all."
"Well... that's true. Alive, even well-fed." Ugras used a dirty fingernail to pull a strand of dried meat from his teeth, examined it closely, and rubbed it against his pants with a sigh. "It's just... it feels uneasy somehow. Our people are dying there, and we're hiding here. My heart's in a daze."
"And here I am," Justan grinned, "and even the sergeant doesn't seem like such a bastard... It's nice to lie like this on the grass, look at the clouds, dream... about how I'll smash Ned's head in. I can fantasize, right?"
"Quiet," Ugras warned, "he'll hear you, and you'll regret it later. Remember what he did to Dinas?"
"It's hard to forget," Yustan said darkly. "The guy got it for practically nothing. He simply asked why we were going on a raid. He knocked out four of his teeth with one blow."
"There's no need to ask too much," Arnot muttered sullenly. "If you told us to go, then go. And don't waste time on this matter."
"Tell that to Dinas," Ugras grinned wryly, "I wonder what he'll say. The guy still can't chew anything hard. One thing I don't understand—isn't Ned afraid? We're at war, after all—an arrow, or a bolt, or a knife will fly in from somewhere—and Ned's gone!"
"For some reason, you never said that about Drankon," Arnot frowned, "but he skinned himself too. So what? He's still alive. Have you ever heard of anyone attacking Drankon?"
"Drancon doesn't hold a candle to that beast. Drancon is more humane, after all, and wouldn't cripple anyone needlessly. But this one is ready to kill for anything—for a misheard word, for a glance, for any mistake! Is that even possible? I wonder where he grew up? Maybe they treated him the same way, so he takes it out on us? I wonder how his wife put up with it. His wife is such a beauty... and what did she see in that monster?"
"Should I tell you," Ugras chuckled, "what women love in men? He must have satisfied her well, since she married him. But I heard that they had some kind of falling out after he killed the assassins. Rumor had it that things weren't as clean there as he described. Everything there was steeped in magic. And the city he visited wasn't all that clean either—why did they drag him off to Security? Oh, our sergeant isn't just any old man, he's no ordinary man. He's changed a lot. It's like his attic has a leak. We had a neighbor who went to a fair in the neighboring village one day. He got drunk, and on the way back, he fell out of the van and hit his head on the wheel. His head cracked like a nut! He had a dent in his temple so big you could have drunk water from it. And after that, my neighbor became a completely different person. He didn't give up drinking, no." But when he gets drunk, he used to be so quiet and kind, but now he becomes a beast – chasing his wife and daughters with an axe. That's how it is.
"You're talking nonsense, Ugras," Yustan chuckled. "A man's head was crushed and he lived afterward? Let's put it this way: nothing was crushed, but he hit himself on a rock and got a bruise. And then he got upset and beat his wife. That would be the right thing to do, the smart thing to do. No, not chasing your wife—that's the smart thing to do, and the story about the bruise and the angry neighbor would be the smart thing to do."
"You're a fool, Justan," Ugras shrugged, "it's all true, not a word of lies. They finally hanged the neighbor after he hacked his wife and daughter to death with an axe. One, the youngest, daughter managed to escape and call the neighbors. By the time they got there and subdued the beast, it was too late. Not only had he hacked them to death, but he'd also chopped them into pieces. They said he was standing in the middle of the yard, smiling, as if he'd done something good. He said, 'I drove the demons out of them. The demons were inside them. And now—they're free!' So they hanged him. Right on the gate. Everyone got tired of him being such an idiot, they started to worry that he might kill someone else. And so..."
"I heard that story," the swordsman Harol interjected. "They say all the villagers were then dragged off to the guards for questioning. So what? They let him go. And the neighbor's body was dumped in the swamp. So he wouldn't return. It's a known fact that the dead return unless a sacrifice is made to the goddess Death. She can return a soul to the body of a dead person, so that he can take more souls. And the swamp prevents that."
"That's all nonsense. How can a swamp prevent a soul from returning?" Ugras looked at Harol with superiority. "I read that the soul is chained to its body for a time and hovers nearby, and if you know what to do, you can temporarily return it to a dead body. But that's against the law. It's the darkest of magic, and you can go to the chopping block for it. If anyone finds out."
"How do you know?" the swordsman asked incredulously. "Rumors again? The neighbor woman told you?"
"For your information, I completed two years of the Creator's temple school!" Ugras looked dismissively at his comrade. "Just because you never studied anything, doesn't mean everyone else is the same! They taught us about magic, and demons, and..."
"Quiet!" Arnot interrupted. "Ned is coming! Get up!"
"Ooooh... beast," Ugras muttered quietly, but jumped up as if he had been stung in the ass by a wasp.
Yuragor approached, carefully examined his subordinates, who had cast down their eyes, and chuckled slightly: fear is good. Let them be afraid. The main thing is that they do what he wants. And he needs to win this war. Get to the capital. And that's the main goal. And for that, he will spare no one.
"I heard something," Yuragor said quietly. "Perhaps our enemies have received reinforcements. Now, everyone follow me, quietly. Keep step. If anyone makes any noise, you'd better hang yourself right away. Or I'll rip your guts out. Is that clear?"
"I see," Arnot nodded. Questions were on the tip of his tongue, but remembering Dinas's fate, he held back.
- If it's clear, let's go.
Yuragor walked along the path as softly as a forest cat. Not a twig cracked under the mage's feet. But his subordinates snorted and stamped their feet, and someone's water flask rattled in their pack, clattering against a spoon. Yuragor stopped suddenly, so abruptly that Arnot nearly bumped his nose into his back. Everyone else stopped too, looking expectantly at their commander. He looked at his subordinates and said quietly:
"We jump on the spot. One at a time." Arnot begins.
Arnot leaped forward eagerly, like a deer, looking into Ned's unmoving eyes. He nodded and stopped.
- Enough. Next.
Ugras soared upwards, after three jumps he was stopped.
The flask rattled under Harol's arm. Yuragor didn't stop him. He punched him sharply, without a swing, right in the solar plexus during his next leap, and when he fell, he kicked him several times in the side and face, cutting his lips bloody. Then he calmly offered:
"Take everything out of your duffel bag and make sure nothing rattles in it. If I hear that kind of noise again—no matter who it's from—I'll cut off your head! Everyone checked quickly! Three minutes!"
Three minutes later, everyone was ready, and Harol stood there, his cut lip jutting out, still bleeding. Yuragor approached Harol, looked him in the eye, and quietly asked:
"Are you okay? Can you continue your service? Or should I finish you off so you'll remember next time you might endanger the entire squad?"
"I'm fine," the pale swordsman squeezed out, fighting the urge to throw the entire contents of his stomach onto the grass.
"Good. Then let's keep moving. Everyone follow in my footsteps. And one more thing," Yuragor approached Ugras and punched him in the face with all his might, nearly knocking him off his feet.
"For what?!" he groaned, holding his broken nose.
"For thoughts," Yuragor chuckled, "remember, you bastards—your thoughts are written on your foreheads. If anyone thinks they can hide your lousy thoughts from me, they're sorely mistaken. I read your stupid thoughts in your eyes. That bastard thought he could easily cut me down if the opportunity arose. Well, he's wrong. I'd sooner cut off your heads than you would mine. Stay close to each other and abandon any thoughts of desertion. I'll find the deserter and rip him open. Let's go!"
The squad had been walking along a forest path for about twenty minutes when the sergeant finally raised his hand, halting their progress. He then motioned for them to lie down, and the squad lay down on the mossy forest floor, spreading out to either side of the commander.
For several minutes, nothing was visible, then the forest ahead filled with Isfra's soldiers. They kept coming, and Yuragor gave the signal to retreat! The scouts, pressing themselves into the moss and praying to all the gods not to be seen, began to slowly retreat. Damp from the effort, they crawled back about two hundred paces, hiding under the thick thorny bushes like rabbits. If they were spotted, they'd have to run as fast as they could, and there was no guarantee they'd even make it.
Yuragor watched the passing army closely, calculating—there must be at least twenty thousand of them here. How did they manage to get here? In what way? Clearly, this was the Southern Army, or rather, part of it. So what to do? What could he do alone? Well, maybe. But would he dare? Would he expose himself?
The army marched past for several hours. And all this time, the scouts lay on their stomachs, afraid to raise their heads. When this grim march ended and the last soldier disappeared behind the trees, his mess tin rattling in his bulging duffel bag, Yuragor gave the order:
"Everyone stay here. No one is to follow me. Don't go more than a hundred steps from this place without my knowledge. If I find out you've left, I'll punish you. Wait for me."
"What if you don't come back?" Arnot asked tensely. "What should we do?"
"If I'm gone for a day, you'll return to the Zamar army's location," Yuragor answered absentmindedly, "but don't count on me coming back."
The magician rose from the ground, shook off the needles that had stuck to himself, and silently disappeared behind the trees, as if dissolving into the green shadows.
"Don't get your hopes up!" Ugras growled darkly. "The bastard! He looks like he broke my nose! Someone take a look, maybe he needs to set it back? What a bastard!"
"Have you really thought about how to trim it?" Yustan asked with interest.
– As if you hadn't thought about it! I bet everyone dreams of skewering him on an iron spit!
"Well, why… I don't dream," Arnot said thoughtfully, chewing on a dry blade of grass.
"You're his friend, of course!" Ugras drawled venomously. "He doesn't even hit you! But he whips us like cattle! He almost crippled Harol!"
"You were all told to make sure nothing rattled. Did you do it? If the flask in Harol's mess tin had rattled when the troops passed by, what would have happened? Did you see the guard patrols walking nearby? Were they looking around? That would have been the end for everyone."
"So, did you have to kick him? What are you saying?" Ugras persisted. "You're just as much of a monster as he is! Maybe he's not just your... friend, huh, Corporal?"
Arnot stood up, walked up to the swordsman, and kicked him in the groin without a swing, causing the boy to double over. Then he followed up with a punch from above, catching him in the ear, and Ugras fell to the ground. Everyone froze—they hadn't expected such abrupt action from the gentle, usually good-natured Arnot.
Arnot looked at his comrades - pale, tense, and asked defiantly:
"Does anyone else think Ned and I have some kind of... special relationship? No? Fine. Let me clarify – we were friends, yes. But now he treats me the same way he treats you. But I try to be fair. None of those who were punished were punished unfairly. Cruelly, yes, but for good reason. Harol almost let everyone down, the entire reconnaissance group. And Ugras... Ugras, as always, suffers for his words. Or thoughts. Attacking a Corps officer is one of the most heinous crimes, punishable by death according to the Charter. Remember that. And also – I don't advise you to even think about the possibility of killing Ned – none of you are capable of it. And you know it. Throw those bad thoughts out of your head, if they managed to creep in.
- Corporal, tell me, HOW did he manage to find out what Ugras was thinking?
The question hung in the air. Arnot shrugged and sat back down with his back to the pine tree, watching sideways as the pale Ugras slowly rose from the ground and trudged toward the stream babbling behind the hill. What could Arnot say? Even if he knew the answer to the question, he couldn't. He couldn't say anything.
* * *
Yuragor glided between the trees, exploiting every shadow, every cover, every bush. He followed closely behind the advancing army, right to the edge of the forest, to the edge of the battlefield. And he saw the newly arrived reinforcements quickly and quickly forming up, preparing for the attack.
The decision came immediately, Yuragor cast aside all doubts – if he didn't help Heverad defeat the enemy now, then everything would get complicated. Very, very complicated. He needed a kingdom that was whole, peaceful, relaxed, and enjoying a comfortable, peaceful life. Only then would he be able to live the way he wanted, the way he was accustomed to. Building his secret empire on the ruins of his kingdom was somehow undesirable. Especially since finding Silena in the plundered, destroyed capital would be difficult. If not impossible.
Yuragor turned back, ran with light leaps into the depths of the forest and five minutes later was already running up to the place where he had left his victims.
There were five of them—Isfirian combat guards, who flanked the advancing army, ensuring no one attacked from the flank. When the mage appeared before them, they were very, very surprised and delighted—there's nothing better than a talkative prisoner, especially an officer. He came of his own accord!
But their joy was short-lived. Within seconds, all five lay unconscious on the ground, and fifteen minutes later, their hands and feet were bound. Now they lay on the ground behind a pine tree, writhing, twitching, trying to throw off the bonds made from their own shirts. Gags were stuck in their mouths, so the soldiers couldn't scream, only moaning and rolling their eyes furiously.
Upon seeing Yuragor, they stopped twitching, and one of them, apparently the eldest, tried to say something, again producing nothing but a moan. The mage ignored his victims' attempts to attract his attention, grabbed one of them by the legs, and dragged him toward the hole he'd noticed earlier—a depression in the ground in the center of the clearing.
Dragging the man toward him, Yuragor grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head back, pulled a small, razor-sharp knife from his sling, and slashed the blade across the Isfirian's throat. He twitched, wheezed, and gurgled through his severed trachea, but the mage relentlessly sawed and sawed at his neck until he severed the head from the body. He casually tossed the head aside and carefully positioned the body so the blood would drain into the hollow. It no longer spurted like a fountain, drenching the executioner's hands, but it still flowed steadily—the fluid flowed freely from the body.
The remaining prisoners, wet themselves with terror, repeated the terrible fate of their comrade.
Leaving the corpses near a depression filled with a thick, iron-smelling liquid, Yuragor went to a nearby tree, pulled out the Right One, and with one blow swept away a long branch that had drooped toward the ground. He then cleared it of its flexible young shoots, trimmed it, leaving a twig the thickness of a thumb and twice the length of an arm, and returned to the "cup" filled with blood. Some of the liquid had sunk into the ground, but most of it, having thickened in the air, remained on the surface, resembling berry jam.
The magician approached the "bowl," dipped a stick into it, and began stirring the "brew," creating a sort of porridge of earth, grass, and blood. Finally, it formed a kind of dough, reddish-black, looking unpleasant and smelling even worse.
Well, it depends on the individual. Yuragor saw nothing wrong with this "test"—an ordinary magical material, based on blood—the most magical liquid in the world. Blood formed the basis of almost all the magical rites of the warlocks. For this particular act, the blood of at least three or four victims was needed. The mage decided to use all five—it couldn't hurt.
But that wasn't even half the battle. Killing five people and mixing their blood with dirt—what's so difficult about that? The hardest part was yet to come. A twelfth-level spell. A spell that could cause an unprepared mage, even a trained one, to die of exhaustion—physical and mental. If the mage overestimated their powers, the spell could burn out their brain, turning them into mindless, insane puppets, shitting themselves and devoid of even a shred of reason. It was dangerous, but Yuragor had no choice—he needed to end this war as quickly as possible and begin his own—a war of intrigue, a war of poison and backstabbing.
The mage pulled a small wooden figurine from his pocket—he'd carved it during a rest stop, while he sat and listened to the thoughts of his subordinates. He was amused by their thoughts—the naive ones hated their sergeant so much that they sincerely dreamed of his death, and some even planned to kill him. Using Ugras as an example, he showed everyone that their plans would be exposed and no one would escape retribution.
Yuragor knew the only one he could rely on was Arnot. And that was only because they had once been friends. Although Yuragor sometimes wondered if it was time to slit his throat. Arnot knew too much about the mage and posed a real threat to Yuragor's plans. The mage had already weighed the benefits and disadvantages of dealing with Arnot more than once, and for now he had come to the conclusion that it was better to wait—it was more profitable to keep Arnot alive. For now, alive.
The figurine was a crude likeness of some animal Yuragor had once seen depicted in an ancient scroll—animals supposedly living in the far south, on another continent, in impenetrable jungles. A massive figure, resembling an overweight lizard, stood on massive, columnar legs. Its thick muzzle was adorned with three horns—one on the nose and two on the sides, like a wild bull. A crest-like collar "adorned" this monster, and a long tail, tipped with a huge bone mace, was the final touch, making the beast utterly strange, alien, a product of another world... or another time. The treatises claimed that there were places in the world where the remains of ancient animals and plants had been preserved, living when humans were not yet the people we know today, but rather dwelling in caves like wild beasts.
Yuragor examined the figurine critically and chuckled with satisfaction—despite its conventionality, the figure was quite recognizable. He hadn't lost his carving skills. He used to enjoy carving figurines from wood or soft stone in his spare time…
The magician sighed regretfully - if he had been able to prepare back then, many years ago, if he had been able to make sacrifices when they stormed his shelter - the result would have been completely different.
The mage plunged the beast figurine into the center of the blood-mud mixture and stepped back, twenty paces. Then he closed his eyes and began to chant the spell. It wasn't particularly complex, but few in his time could have mastered it. And now, at this time, probably no one. At least, no one on this continent. Yuragor was certain of it.
As the mage recited the spell, everything around him changed—the air seemed to darken, becoming thick and viscous, barely passing into his throat as he screamed the words of the spell. Lightning snaked across the grass, cracking like a whip at the surrounding trees, and a dark vortex swirled above the bloody "dough," stretching upward, above the trees, to the very clouds.
The whirlwind swirled faster and faster, and when Yuragor finished casting the spell, the tornado's trunk began sucking in the earth mixed with blood, then moved on to stones, grass, sand, and sucked in the corpses of the Isfirians lying near the depression.
The vortex widened, growing larger and larger, almost reaching the feet of the mage, who was moving further and further away from the center of the cataclysm. Then the vortex moved aside and spat out something enormous, five times the height of a man—an exact replica of the figurine Yuragor had plunged into the bloody mess.
This mud beast was initially loose, with waves running across its body. Then it hardened, its horns sharpening to a point where you could prick yourself with their tips, like a sewing needle. A few more minutes passed, and the fully formed beast towered in the forest like a rock.
Yuragor cast another spell, and the world before him burst into vivid colors—the mage could now see with his eyes closed, seeing through the eyes of the monster he had created. Now he was simultaneously Yuragor, the great black mage-demonologist, and the Beast, a work of magical art.
After standing still, the beast moved forward, leaving deep, round tracks in the soft earth. The beast's weight was simply incredible—the pit whose contents were used to create it was so deep that several houses could fit inside it.
Yuragor followed his monster. He was forced to control both his own body and the monster's, and it wasn't easy. It was as if the mage had split into two, and he had to be careful that his human body didn't hit a sharp branch or break a leg sliding into one of the many deep ruts here.
Finally, he reached the edge of the forest and began to observe the battlefield. From here, it was difficult to discern who was winning, but it was clear that the arrival of twenty thousand reinforcements for the enemy army had not pleased Heverad. Most likely, the Zamarians were either retreating or holding their ground.
* * *
"Give the signal to retreat!" Heverad shouted furiously, watching with pain as his entire well-organized battle plan crumbled, as the fresh forces arrived and crushed Zamar's weary fighters. If it weren't for the Corps, which had just been brought into the battle and halted the enemy's advance, Zamar's army would have fled, and then—complete collapse. So far, they were retreating in an orderly fashion, preventing escape and snapping at the advancing infantry. The cavalry stood its ground, fighting, but if they were outflanked… well, things would be bad. Very bad.
Suddenly the general noticed how the treetops in the forest at the edge of the field began to sway, and an unprecedented beast emerged into the open space – huge, grey-black, glinting in the rays of the sun as it sank towards the horizon.
"Look, look!" people shouted from all sides, and the battle gradually died down. Everyone, Isfirians and Zamarans, watched the monster approach. The fighters were simply petrified, unable to move – so great was the shock of what they saw. Where in these parts could such a creature have appeared? What was it? No one knew. And only when the creature took off running, its column-like legs tearing up the earth, and crashed into the Isfirian ranks – a terrible howl and roar arose, and people screamed in fear and pain. Everyone fled – Isfirians, Zamarans – no one could resist the horror that gripped the thousands of people.
The beast burst into the rear of the Isfirian army and began trampling, lashing out with its horns and tail, crushing, tearing, and destroying the people gathered on this field to take each other's lives. The battle ceased, turning into a slaughterhouse, with an unknown monster serving as the slaughterer and the people as the cattle. The monster ravaged the battlefield, and only after a few minutes did anyone notice that it was killing only Isfirians.
The Zamars halted their retreat and began to shout joyfully, watching their enemy turn into bloody wrecks under the monster's feet. The Zamars' commanders came to their senses, signaled for formation, and then began what historians would later call the "Miruga Massacre," named after the Miruga River that skirted the battlefield.
The horsemen pursued the fleeing Isfirians, who were mercilessly destroyed by the terrifying monster—stabbing, hacking, and trampling the maddened enemy soldiers with their horses. The Isfirians lost their minds in terror and were unable to resist.
Many drowned in the river while trying to cross it in steel armor, and soon it overflowed its banks - a dam of dead bodies completely blocked the flow of the river.
The battlefield was strewn with tens of thousands of corpses, and the horses' hooves, even those shod with spiked horseshoes, slipped on the carpet of dead bodies.
The slaughter lasted for several hours, and approximately seventy thousand Isfiri fell on this field, while the Zamari lost approximately five thousand fighters. Some of the Isfiri managed to escape across the river, climbing over the rubble of corpses, but they were not pursued, leaving that task for the following days—both horses and men were too tired to continue the slaughter.
Hundreds of vultures were already circling the battlefield, cawing, squawking, and searching for the tastiest prey. They'll have a hearty dinner today, thought Heverad, sitting on his horse and watching the goddess Death's triumph.
No one noticed where the monster that had been destroying the Isfirians had gone. It had entered the forest and seemed to vanish. A search yielded nothing—the tracks ended in the thicket, in a swamp, and the rangers didn't bother to investigate. Everyone discussed this event at length, but they couldn't reach any conclusion. The only thing they all agreed on was that this creature was the product of powerful dark magic.