Yuragor lowered his horned head and rushed forward. The dense formation of Isfirians didn't have time to scatter, letting the heavy machine through, and the Beast, like a massive battering ram, slammed into the soft mass of people.
No armor could protect against this embodiment of death—its razor-sharp horns, as tall as a man, pierced the fighters, impaling them like an innkeeper skewering meat on a spit. Every now and then, the Beast would toss its head upward, sending dozens of people, just dangling like lumps of meat from its horns, flying into the air, raining down on the survivors, causing even greater terror. Its thick legs crushed the fighters into pulp, and its tail, like a threshing flail, swept away several at a time.
Having trodden a long, bloody path through the ranks of the infantry, the Beast reached the heavy cavalry - surprisingly, among the horsemen there were those who tried to kill the Beast, striking him at full speed with their funny spears.
It was as if a mounted warrior had run into a windmill with his spear. The spearhead remained in the compacted earth, and the rider was left on the ground, transformed into a salad-like mixture of crushed human flesh, metal, and horse entrails.
Yuragor trampled the cavalry in mere minutes—the horses neighed, bolted, the riders unable to control them, and the beast's speed was such that escaping was utterly impossible. So, whether the fighter was brave or cowardly, the result was the same—death.
Yuragor's human body sat beneath a tall pine tree at the edge of the forest. He was breathing heavily, his heart beating several times faster than usual. If it weren't for Ned's superb physical fitness, his stamina, and his youth, which allowed him to endure such physical abuse, he would have died right here, at the edge of a field reeking of blood and death. But this couldn't continue for long. No human strength would be sufficient to control the magical Beast for long.
Yuragor, convinced that the Zamarians were gaining the upper hand and the enemy's defeat was inevitable, led the Beast away, driving it into the forest and drowning it in the swamp. Only then did he allow the monster he had created to disintegrate into its constituent parts—bloody mud and earth. The small wooden figurine of the unknown beast fell into the mud and was safely buried under piles of earth, which sank into the liquid swamp.
Yuragor himself, having slightly overestimated his own strength, or rather Ned's, lost consciousness, collapsing next to a wounded Isfirian lying in the Beast's path—the Beast had trampled his lower body, and the young man, a footsoldier, was living out his final moments. Yuragor wanted to kill him with his sword, so that the demons could imbue him with life energy, but he didn't have time—the mage was overcome by incredible fatigue, nausea, and... he fainted.
* * *
"Stop! We can't go any further!" A man stepped out onto the road from the side, shorter than Ned, black-haired, thin, moving like a cat—softly, ingratiatingly, looking half-turned at the trio—the boy, the beauty in the translucent robe, and the dog, baring its teeth angrily at the stranger.
"Who are you?" Ned asked in surprise, already realizing who stood before him and preparing for battle.
"As if you don't know who I am!" the man grinned, flashing white, strong teeth like a young man's. He looked to be around fifty years old—his dark hair was streaked with gray—but the way he moved made one think he was twenty.
"What do you want?" Ned asked warily. "Go away! This is my body! I didn't mean to let you in!"
"What do you mean, I didn't plan to? Shepherd, you're talking nonsense!" laughed the Black One. "This body is mine now. You were weak and gave it to me. And it's time for you to leave it. See, your girlfriends have already come for you. Go after them and let me live in peace. Your time is up."
"No, his time hasn't run out," Zadara stated calmly, a small, sharp dagger appearing in her hand. Ned wondered—where had she kept it? She was naked except for a light piece of cloth. Then he chuckled, remembering—he wasn't real, he was somewhere... in Nowhere. In his mind, probably. And Zadara, like Narda, was a figment of his imagination, images he'd created himself.
"You're a real looker!" the beauty turned to Ned. "Get ready, we're about to gut this idiot! Narda, my dear, bite him off! We're attacking!"
Zadara rushed forward, drawing intricate figures with her razor-sharp dagger, Narda wheezed, angrily clinging to the Black, and Ned pulled out two swords - Right and Left, which somehow ended up on his belt.
Steel clanged, the wounded Narda screamed, the thin muslin of Zadara's dress was stained with blood, and a second later only Ned and the Black were left on the battlefield, moving swiftly and showering each other with lightning-fast blows.
Ned recoiled, looking at his fallen friends with pain and anger—Narda had given her life again for her friend, just like Zadar. Black smiled cheerfully—he wasn't even scratched.
- Well, Ned, isn't it time to go? Isn't that enough?
"No, it won't!" Zadar answered for Ned, emerging from somewhere in the darkness. "We will fight for his soul forever! Go away, demon spawn!"
"Are you alive?!" Ned was confused, looking at the corpses of his friends… but there were no corpses.
"Of course we're alive. He can't kill us. But he can kill you. Hold on, Ned! Forward, attack! Girls, hit him!"
Ned suddenly noticed two young girls standing next to Zadara: one—tall, thin, and pretty—was firing bolts from a crossbow at the Black Man so that they flew in a continuous stream, as if they didn't even need to be mounted on a stock or drawn. The Black Man deftly deflected them with his swift sword. The second—a tall, dark-skinned beauty, taller than Ned—was holding a massive axe, like a strange steel butterfly. The dark-skinned woman swung it as if it weren't a deadly steel contraption, but a light ball of thread with needles stuck into it.
A tall, dark-haired man appeared next to the women, sword in hand. He winked at Ned and put his arm around Zadara, playfully patting her on the bottom. Zadara glanced at her husband's hand and pointed at the Black One:
- Kill him, Cedar!
"I'll try, my love!" the colonel chuckled and shouted into the darkness: "Soldiers, stand up!"
Soldiers in Corps uniform emerged from the darkness onto the road. Spearmen, swordsmen, crossbowmen. Their faces were focused, but they nodded kindly at Ned. Ned swallowed the lump in his throat—the fallen Corps soldiers had risen from their graves to fight for him! Did Ned deserve such an honor?
"That's not fair," Black smiled slyly and waved his hand invitingly. Hundreds, thousands of people in strange black clothing emerged from the darkness. They held short swords, and the eyes of the killers glowed with the devilish fire of hell, promising torment to all sinners.
"Now we'll fight," Black narrowed his eyes and ordered: "Shatrii, kill them!"
The two armies clashed. The Shatrii spun through the air, skillfully cutting down their opponents with glittering swords, while the black woman felled her enemies so that their halves flew across the road like severed fruits of the furkh tree.
The colonel wielded his sword expertly and managed to cut down five Shatrii before he himself was killed, struck in the eye by a throwing knife. But a few seconds later, he was back at Ned's side, cutting down the Shatrii who had descended on them like cockroaches.
Ned fought both the Black One and repelled his minions. Ned somehow knew that while his army's soldiers would return from death, he would not. Neither would the Black One. Some of them would die today. But for now, they were unscathed, and the battle continued, hot, arduous, and deadly.
Ned knew something was wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. But he didn't know how, and he kept trying to reach the Black One with a jab, a blow, a complex feint, and a skillful lunge.
After a while, he succeeded – he plunged the tip of the sword into the enemy's shoulder, and… felt a sharp pain – the Left fell out of his hand, blood began to flow.
Ned stepped back and suddenly heard some voices - someone was talking far, far away, and these voices were recognizable:
"Let me through! Let me through, I'll cut his throat!"
- I won't allow it! ( Arnot? Where is he?!) Don't go near him!
"Who are you protecting, fool?" (Ugras's voice ) "We'll just slit his throat and that's it! No one will even know! A fight is a fight – one more dead, one less – they'll write us off! You understand – he'll kill us in the end!"
"No. Either you step back or you fight me, one at a time or all at once. I won't let him be killed. Something happened to him, he's sick. I'll take him to the mages and healers, and he'll be fine. You once worshipped him, after all. What happened now?"
"Are you stupid? That's what happened. Fuck you. You want to drag him? Go ahead. We won't lift a finger to help. Fuck him... By the way, if you tell him or anyone else that we were going to kill him, you won't live either."
The voices died down, and Black looked at Ned, smiled slyly and asked:
"Have you heard? These are your friends. Former friends. Only Arnot is protecting you, and I don't know why. By the way, you know he wants to fuck your wife, right? He just dreams about her. And also – he's dangerous, and he needs to be eliminated, otherwise he'll tell on me. I won't kill him painfully, I'll kill him easily, don't worry. He deserves an easy death. Well then – time to die! Are you ready?"
Ned stood motionless for a second, then shouted loudly:
– Stop it, everyone! Stop it! You see, this is getting nowhere, it's all pointless! This isn't how it should be!
"How?" Yuragor grinned. "You know how? And I know how. Cut your throat, and be done with it."
"A sip, you say?" Ned chuckled. "Well, try it!"
Ned slashed his arm with the blade of his sword, cutting the skin of his wrist. A sharp pain seared him, but Yuragor also grabbed his wrist, looking in bewilderment at the trickle of blood trickling down onto the brick road. Ned slashed his arm again, higher this time, and a red streak appeared on Yuragor's forearm, swelling with fresh blood. Ned nodded with satisfaction—he understood. Zadara, standing nearby, winked.
"You're not a fool, kid! We're leaving. Say goodbye to your furry little sister. You won't be seeing her again for a while now..."
Ned dropped to his knees, pressed his forehead to the shaggy head, was licked with a hot tongue, and… everything around him became quiet, dark, and deserted. Only he and Yuragor remained, standing five steps away.
Ned threw down his sword and strode forward resolutely. Yuragor seemed frozen, watching his lighter half approach him, and when Ned grabbed him with both arms, he only cried out piteously:
"No! I don't want to! No, no!" And a second later, only Ned was left on the road. His eyes had darkened; they weren't black, but they weren't blue either. They were green, bright, like a cat's illuminated by moonlight.
Everything around him became shaky, foggy, began to melt, and pain came… He didn't know how much time had passed. Maybe a minute, maybe a month… where he was, there was no time.
Ned opened his eyes and for a moment couldn't figure out where he was or what was happening to him. People were moaning all around him, and the smell of blood and sewage hung heavy—the heavy air of war.
Ned turned his head with difficulty and saw Zheresar, Arnot, and a man in a light-colored mage's robe, stained with blood and dirt, approaching him. Arnot pointed at Ned, and the healers approached the prone mage and bent over him, peering and feeling for any wounds.
"What's wrong with him?" Zheresar asked sullenly. "I don't see any wounds... though there's a clear bruise on his temple, and there's a stab wound to his shoulder."
"Wounded?" Arnot was surprised. "I don't think there was a wound. Actually, maybe there was. I dragged him from the battlefield, he was unconscious. We searched for him for several hours. He was lying at the edge of the forest. Treat him."
"Him?" the mage chuckled incomprehensibly and looked up at Arnot, then turned his gaze to Zheresar and, stuttering slightly, asked: "Who is this? Where did you get him?"
"What's wrong?" the medic raised his eyebrows in surprise. "That's Sergeant Ned the Black. Everyone knows him!"
"This is no ordinary sergeant," the mage declared confidently, peering into Ned's aura. "This is a mage, and not just any mage, this is a dark mage! Corporal, immediately!" Run to the mages' tent, call Zaragor and Brantar. Tell them—Irga sent word—a dark mage has been detected. And not just any dark mage.
"Why do you keep saying this—it's so complicated! Tell me what's going on here!" Zheresar said furiously. "Why are you asking such riddles?!"
"Corporal, run!" Irga barked. "Zheresar, this is Agara's business. You're not supposed to know about it. Corporal, are you still here?! Come on, quickly, or you'll get a reprimand!"
Arnot reluctantly moved away from Ned and walked toward where he'd seen the mages' tents. He felt empty and afraid—was Ned really going to get into trouble? How had this mage figured out Ned was a dark mage? Ned never mentioned it… well, he didn't say a lot of things.
The White Mage looked into Ned's eyes and asked quietly:
- Do you understand me? Can you speak?
"I can," Ned answered quietly.
- Who are you?
- Sergeant Ned Black.
"I know you call yourself Sergeant Ned the Black... hmmm... interesting. What a name! And we, we! And Brantar interrogated him! And he couldn't figure it out! Why? How were you able to hide your aura?"
"I didn't hide it," Ned lied.
"I hid it, I hid it, otherwise Brantar would have seen through you at first glance. It looks like you got hit on the head, that's why all your settings went off. You probably overcast it, that's why your aura wasn't visible. You swapped it out. By the way, mages consider that inappropriate. It's like a man dressing up as a woman."
"I don't remember anything," Ned continued stubbornly, "I must have been hit on the head, and how, what happened to me – I don't know. And how I ended up here – I don't know."
"Arnot brought you," Zheresar muttered, looking from Ned to the mage and back again in surprise, "along with Itrok. They saved you. Are you sure you don't remember anything?"
"I don't remember," Ned answered quietly, closing his eyes, feigning loss of consciousness.
He wasn't allowed to lie there "unconscious" for long. After a couple of minutes, he heard excited voices, smelled of incense and herbs, and then a familiar voice said:
"I knew there was something fishy about this guy! I knew it! Well, now I'll pick his brain! Quick—get the stretcher loaded up and hauled to our tent. We'll sort this out..."