"You got me out..." Ned awkwardly patted Arnot, who stood frozen like a statue, on the shoulder, "thank you."
"You're welcome, Sergeant," he replied coldly, and Ned looked up at his friend.
"What's wrong, Arnie? Ah! Got it. Come with me." Ned grabbed his comrade by the sleeve and dragged him off to the side, toward where the trunks of felled trees were piled near the palisade of the temporary camp.
The army had to remain here for at least a week—to collect trophies, bury the dead—both their own and those of the enemy, decide on their plans, and only then return to the city. Especially since such a colossus as the United Army was not so easy to move. This was not a Corps, which could move in two hours and march forty li in a day, immediately entering battle. So they had to build a solid camp. As usual, though.
– Sit down. Come on, stop sulking – sit down, I'll explain everything to you now.
"Try it," Arnot glanced warily.
"Arnie, all these days, all these weeks, it wasn't me in my body. Do you understand? I can't explain everything to you—it's dangerous for both you and me. But believe me—it wasn't me. I remember everything up until the moment I lost consciousness. After that, I don't remember anything. Until I woke up in the medical tent. And I'm very, very sorry that it happened this way, that I hurt you and the guys. Although—they often deserved it. Although the punishment was too cruel.
"They took revenge on you," Arnot chuckled, softening slightly. "Do you think you got bruises, broken ribs, and other injuries from? They kicked you, and if I hadn't taken them away, they would have beaten you to death. Just like that..."
"And how did you win me back?" Ned chuckled. "Did you really go against everyone? By the way, how did they find me?"
"Well, how did they find you... we walked and walked and found you. We came out along the path—and there you were, lying there. By the time I got to you, they'd managed to give your unconscious body a good kick. I drew my sword and told them that either they kill me and then get to you, or..."
"What—or?" Ned chuckled.
"Or Itrok will put an arrow between the eyes of the first person who takes a step toward you. That's all. Itrok was with me. And you know how he shoots a bow."
"I know," Ned smiled sadly, "so you haven't abandoned me. Thank you. I won't forget that."
"I hope so," Arnot said grumpily, turning to Ned and looking inquisitively into his eyes, "are you back, friend?"
"He's back," Ned nodded, grabbing Arnot by the shoulders and resting his forehead against his. They sat like that for about three minutes, silently, without saying a word, then Ned let go of his friend and sat down, his hands at his sides, staring at the ground.
"You see, Arnie, how strange it all turned out," Ned said hoarsely, smoothing his overgrown hair. "Now you're a sergeant, and I... I'm a complete nobody. I'm not a soldier, I'm not a magician, and..."
"Yeah, everything worked out fine," Arnot replied, his voice slightly cracked, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, "really great! Just tell me, is that you, just me? You know... with the monster."
"No," my friend smiled, "it wasn't me. It was the one who was in my body. He did it. I remember everything. But I can't repeat it. I've lost everything, everything. Well, and for the best. This magic is nothing but trouble! I didn't ask to be made a mage. It got into my head itself, itself! Curious, huh? No, forgive me, I can't tell you. I can't anyway. They'll get their hands on you – they'll start poisoning you with spells, feeding you interrogation potions. You won't be able to stand it and you'll spill everything to them. And I'll be in trouble. Better not. Someday I'll tell you everything myself. By the way," Ned changed the subject, "where's our shooter? Where's Ithrok?"
"Where... he's probably sleeping in the tent. After hunting and eating, that's his main entertainment, you know," Arnot laughed. "He was so worried about you. He said there was something wrong with you, something wrong with your head. He'll be glad you're back. Don't forget him. You'll probably go up there, to the very top—I can feel it. Look at the people standing up for you! Heverad is a mountain! Hold on to it. But don't forget your friends. By the way, aren't those people hurrying to you? Look, there are two mages practically running."
"Exactly, as if it weren't for my soul... it's... Arnie, will you help? Pack my things, okay? I don't really care about junk - everything I need is already with me," Ned patted the two swords at his belt, "but still. There are scrolls in there, and I really need them."
"I'll get it together... no problem. Don't you want to hang out with your former colleagues?" Arnot asked shrewdly.
"I don't want to," Ned nodded, looking at the two young mages—one white, one black—rushing toward them like charging horsemen. "I'm guilty before them, and they are guilty before me... let everything remain as it is. He's gone and gone. Just tell Itrok that I won't forget him, and tell him a little, just a little, about how it wasn't me."
"Ned the Black!" cried a breathless young man in the light robes of a mage. "You must report to the agara now for a council meeting. Urgently!"
"Urgent," the black mage confirmed, and, looking closer, Ned realized with surprise—brothers! Twins! And one black, the other white—mages! He hesitated slightly in surprise, and the mages, exchanging glances, said with annoyance, simultaneously, as one man:
"Well, yes, yes, we're brothers, one a black mage, the other a white mage! Are you coming, may the demon take you? We ran like horses! Hurry!"
"Okay, bye, Arnie, see you around!" Ned clapped his friend on the shoulder and rushed after the mages, who strode as if the underworld were chasing them in the form of a twelfth-circle demon. He was easily able to keep up with the boys, though—they barely reached Ned's shoulder. They were thin, fragile, and it was unclear what they were doing in the war at all; couldn't they find better uses for their magical powers?
The trio ran halfway through the camp, which stretched for a li, or most likely more, and found themselves at a large tent, or rather, a marquee, decorated with signs of magic.
By the way, Ned always thought it was stupid to so obviously show where the entire Agara was gathered. What if the enemy broke through? The command and the mages would be the first to be eliminated. Why risk it? Besides, reaching that tent wasn't easy—it was in the very center of the camp, surrounded by thousands of soldiers. But still—why the posturing?
"Come in!" the black mage commanded, pushing Ned toward the entrance. Then he suddenly grabbed him by the sleeve and ordered, "Hand over your swords! You're not allowed with swords! Agara is a place where weapons are not allowed."
"I won't give up," Ned shrugged and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, "either I go like this, armed, or I don't go at all. Any questions?"
"Fuck you!" the black one growled. "Go however you want. Even on your hands, with your ass bare. I don't care. Deal with the archmages yourself. I'm just an adept—I was ordered, so I brought you. And you can drown in shit—I don't care!"
"You're a dear," Ned grinned, throwing back the tent flap and stepping inside with a three-syllable curse. He stepped inside and froze, stunned by what he saw...
The floor is covered with clean, spotless linen (even though the grounds are muddy from a light rain!), there are benches, a table where Zaragor sits, flags with magical symbols on the walls, and, most importantly, it's as bright as a sunny day! Above each mage hangs a globe-shaped lantern, emitting a bright light. It's as if a multitude of miniature suns are suspended in the air, emitting a strange scent, the kind that usually follows a thunderstorm, after lightning strikes cut through the dark sky.
Ned immediately pulled himself together—if they were trying to impress a common soldier, they were mistaken. He'd seen worse than their pathetic lanterns. However, Ned learned much later that they had no time to impress some sergeant. The rules were: when you enter an agara's tent, light your lantern. As a courtesy to your fellow soldiers.
When Ned entered, a hubbub of voices rushed into his ears, which also surprised him, though not particularly. He knew of the existence of spells that created an impenetrable barrier to sound in any room. Surely mages could afford such an expenditure of energy, especially with their obsessive desire to preserve the secret of their craft at all costs.
Dozens of eyes immediately turned to Ned, and the hubbub died down, giving way to a resounding silence. It was so thick it felt like it could be sliced like bread.
One of the brothers who had brought him to the council leaned over Ned's shoulder and spoke quickly, as if he were afraid of being interrupted:
- NedCherny, at your command, Lord Archmage Zaragor has arrived!
The boy disappeared somewhere among the other mages, and Ned stood in the middle of the room, his left foot slightly apart and his thumbs tucked into his sword belt. He suddenly felt completely calm; no fear or worry remained in his head, only a reckless desire to give these arrogant mages, ready to tear him to pieces, a run for their money—look at that someone glaring angrily at Zaragor. Aaah... it's "friend" Brantar! Of course he was glaring—the colonel gave him not just a flick on the nose, but a sharp one!
Brantar sat next to Zaragor, but... slightly off to the side. And around him were about ten mages—mostly black. They looked at Ned disapprovingly, chattering quietly among themselves, as if waiting for something. It turned out they were waiting for the council to begin. And it didn't keep them waiting.
"So, Ned the Black is here. Gentlemen! The Council is declared open. The matters we must consider are the admission of a new mage to the Agara. And all matters related to it. Let me clarify right away – this is a complex matter. Our Agara is divided in its opinions, and now we must resolve all questions, all doubts, otherwise… otherwise nothing good will come of this. By tradition, a candidate for admission to the Agara must tell us about themselves – where they came from, who their parents are, when and how their magical abilities manifested – everything the Agara needs to know. And everyone present has the right to ask any questions. That's the way it should be. But! This is a special case. Ned the Black is a contract soldier in the Corps. He is a junior officer and reports to General Heverad, who demanded that he be admitted to the Agara and trained as we train other mages. Moreover, Ned the Black is a black mage, and… I can hardly even pronounce the word – a demonologist!"
The agara burst into a commotion. Brantar jumped up from his seat and, pointing at Ned, yelled something like, "Shame! Out! Out with him! Hang him! Burn him!" His henchmen yelled even louder, drowning out their leader, while the rest of the agara muttered among themselves—some laughed, glancing at Ned and the archmages, some frowned in confusion, raising their eyebrows, some looked downright bored at the outrage—in short, there was no uniformity among the mages.
Ned surreptitiously counted them – there were forty-three of them, ranging in age from sixteen – like the two boys who had brought Ned to the council – to quite grown-up, gray-haired ones like Zaragor and Brantar, and five more mages, or rather archmages, the highest mages of the agara.
Zaragor tried unsuccessfully to calm his enraged colleagues, then made passes, and his voice increased twentyfold, roaring like ten bulls at once:
– Shut up! This isn't advice, it's a bazaar! Take your seats!
The mages began to calm down and take their seats, and Ned, oblivious to their staring, walked over to an empty chair near the wall, picked it up, walked back to where it had been, and sat down, as if it were his proper place—the mages staring at Ned, Ned staring at the mages. Why should he stick out like a lonely pine tree on a knoll? He hadn't exactly begged for their company. He preferred to rest in comfort. Especially after being wounded.
"So, now we can finally move on to a more reasonable dialogue, can't we, colleagues?" Zaragor said, his voice now normal. "I've always suspected that there's a savage hidden within every person, one that bursts forth in moments of great excitement. But I didn't know that this savage also lurks within my colleagues, who have suddenly forgotten the rules of conduct in a council meeting. Let's be civilized and discuss this problem like intelligent people!"
"Problem? Burn him, and that's it," Brantar muttered from his place. "No man, no problem!"
"Lord Archmage Brantar! You are not chairing this council, I am!" Zaragor said sharply. "And although you rudely interrupted the head of the Agar, I will nevertheless explain the 'burn' part. General Heverad clearly told me: if we harm this mage, our heads will roll. And yours first and foremost, Brantar. Weren't you the one who walked to your tent under escort today, sending threats and curses in all directions? Why didn't you give General Heverad a dressing down in the tent? I'll tell you why. Because he'll cut you down himself in no time! You'll be a head shorter. And all of us! Who here doesn't know General Heverad? Who thinks he doesn't keep his promises? I don't think so. It's been stated clearly and unambiguously—we are obligated to accept this man into the Agara, train him as long as necessary, until he's sent to the capital to attend officer school. The general's thinking is this: we need to train officer mages, combining the skills of an officer with the abilities and skills of a mage. And I'm with the general on this—he's absolutely right. The time has come for us to stop adhering to outdated, archaic rules. Enough. We need to become civilized! So, Ned will be accepted into the Agara; all that remains is to choose a mentor to teach him. Or mentors. He's our colleague now, whether we like it or not.
"That's all well and good," said a heavyset man of about forty, a white mage with a smooth, serene face, sitting by the wall. "I just don't understand one thing: there's a law that says all demonologists are criminals and subject to execution. What's to be done about that? Has General Heverad already taken the throne? How is he getting around that law?"
"There's another regulation," Zaragor nodded, "according to which, during combat operations, the commander of the unit where we're stationed has the right to suspend or revoke any laws affecting his subordinates. All of us—both formally and practically—are his subordinates. Therefore, he issued an order revoking the well-known regulation until the king's decision. So, the matter is settled."
"If only all the problems in life were solved so easily," the white man grumbled, "Issue an order and you can have five wives! Magnificent."
"You're thinking about the wrong things at the council, Gerlat," Zaragor grinned into his beard. "Your love affairs are of the least interest to us. Speak to the point."
"I'm being matter-of-fact," the white man grinned. "There's nothing better than this! Okay, okay—the question is—what level is this guy? And what does he need to be taught? Maybe he'll tell us himself what he wants from us, the Agara mages? He's been keeping quiet... though the kid's a quick one, I can already tell."
"That's an interesting question," Zaragor chuckled. "Ned was about level ten..."
"What?! How?! How can this be?!" The mages jumped up, their eyes wide-eyed at Ned. "This soldier is an archmage?!"
"Quiet!" Gerlat suddenly barked. "Shut up, everyone! You should have spoken up earlier! Hmm... very interesting, and it keeps getting more interesting. But why was it? Did I get that right?"
- That's right. Scorched. This guy burned himself out.
The mages began making noise again, and only through the combined efforts of Zaragor and Gerlat were order restored. Gerlat continued:
"So, to summarize. We've accepted a young man into the Agar, around eighteen or twenty years old... or younger? It doesn't matter. And this man is a tenth-level demonologist, a burned-out one, and he needs to be trained in magic. Am I forgetting anything, Zaragor?"
"Nothing," the magician nodded, "everything is exactly as you said."
"Okay. So, the question is, first, how did they decide this boy is level ten? Second, how are we supposed to teach him magic if he's burned out and can't do a single exercise? And third... two is enough. In my opinion, the tenth-level thing is complete nonsense. And the training thing is just as much nonsense. All we can offer him is a basic understanding of magic, forcing him to memorize some spells or mantras. And why should he learn them if he's ALREADY a tenth-level mage? Doesn't the absurdity of this strike you? I personally don't understand a thing. Who can explain it? The new Agarian mage or the esteemed Zaragor?"
"We determined Ned's level based on his defenses. Incidentally, he might not be level ten, but eleven, or even twelfth..." Zaragor fell silent, and the mages exhaled, as if they'd just heard the gods come to this world. "Brantar and I couldn't break the defenses he put up himself. Between the two of us, we couldn't. And they're still there, as anyone can see for themselves. And how long they'll last is unknown. As for training, let him speak for himself. I don't know what he knows or doesn't. The general ordered him to be trained, and we will. That's all."
"Wait, Zaragor," Gerlat persisted. "So you determined his level based on the fact that he's equipped with a defense of that very level? But has it ever occurred to you that someone else could have equipped him?"
"It did," Zaragor nodded, "but from the data we received and some other indirect information, which I will remain silent about, since it is a military secret, we are sure that yes, he is at least level ten."
"Okay. Let's leave it at that. So what can we teach him? What can an archmage learn from ordinary mages?"
"I told you, ask him!" Zaragor replied irritably, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his stomach. "I've told you everything I know. I won't say more."
"Excellent," Gerlat chuckled, "well, let's begin interrogating our demonologist. Oh, my! How terrifying that sounds—'our demonologist'! All our lives, they've been drummed into us that demonologists are evil and must be destroyed. But I've never even seen a single demonologist. I thought they were just the stuff of legends. And there he is—smiling, swinging his leg, and frankly looking bored, as if he weren't in a meeting of mages deciding his fate, but at an officers' meeting. Hey, boy, don't you mind our company? Does it bother you that we're gathered here?"
"No, nothing," Ned answered phlegmatically, examining the hangnail on the index finger of his right hand, "nothing, nothing, you're not bothering me!"
"Ha-ha-ha... What an impudent fellow!" Gerlat thundered. "We're not bothering him, you see! And I like him, this criminal! It'd be a shame if they finally burn him. Although, I somehow doubt he'd let them do that. Look at those swords on his belt! By the way, who let him into the Agara with swords? Have the laws of the Agara been abolished?"
"It's best not to touch these swords," Zaragor frowned, "they're Demon Swords. And they're charged. Both of them."
"Wow!" Gerlat was genuinely surprised. "A demonologist, indeed! My goodness... Brantar, how did you even notice that guy among the soldiers? With your instinct for magicians!"
"Try spotting one among five thousand soldiers!" the black mage snapped. "If there's one thing I agree with, it's that we need to get out into the soldiery more often. And also, we need to start screening the soldiers for mages. I sense we'll have more surprises. I think Zaragor overlooked this, which is unbecoming of the head of the Agar. If he'd established control over the soldiery earlier, we would have identified this demonologist much sooner!"
"Where were you? Why didn't you come to the council with your proposal?" Zaragor's expression darkened. "These days, everyone's just too free to talk about whatever they want. Why didn't you take care of this? You're my deputy, so don't talk about who's to blame. Everyone's to blame."
"You two will decide among yourselves who is more guilty of overlooking the demonologist," Gerlat chuckled. "And at the next election for the head of the agara, we'll use our voting stones to express our opinion—whether we believed you or not. Right now, we're talking about something else. I want to find out everything about this guy, since he came to us and wants to be considered our colleague. You want that, right, kid?"
"Honestly? I don't want to," Ned smiled, looking at the grinning faces of his new comrades, "but what can I do? The General ordered it, I carry it out like a normal military man. That's all. Ask questions, and I'll answer them if I can. But I'll tell you right away – I don't remember a lot. I have gaps in my memory. I remember some things, I don't remember others. And speaking of education – I only learned to read and write six months ago. And I was completely illiterate. How do I know demonology? I don't know either. I just know a few things, bits and pieces, that's all. I don't know the basics of magic. Especially not the magic you practice. How did I become a mage? One day I suddenly woke up and felt like one. How that happened – I don't know. I'm an orphan, a foundling. I don't know my parents. I'm from the Ards. That's all I could tell you."
"I knew he was an Ard," Gerlat chuckled. "A huge hunk of a man, blond hair, a face so... like stone. The women probably love you, huh? Such a handsome man!"
"Why are you always blaming women, Gerlat?" Zaragor grimaced. "We're talking about the wrong thing. If you've learned everything you wanted, let's move on to choosing a mentor for the new mage. Does anyone want to train this adept? Who will have the courage to train him? Of course, this applies to mages and archmages. Adepts are not involved."
Everyone fell silent, and for a moment the only sound was the raspy breathing of the corpulent mage sitting near the door. Then Gerlat spoke again:
"I'll be his mentor. Since you're still hesitant, I'll teach him as best I can."
"Teach him to drink wine? To chase women?" Brantar grimaced contemptuously. "He should have had a black magician as a teacher!"
"Watch your tongue, Brantar!" Gerlat stood up menacingly. "Then screw yourself! I spoke up first, so I'll be his mentor! It's decided, I'll take him on as an apprentice on principle! You're getting a little stuck-up, Brantar, don't you think? Come to think of it, I'm no lower than you! Maybe even a little higher. So don't get too cocky. Your position as deputy head of the agara doesn't make you untouchable or immortal."
"Is this a threat?" the black magician asked contemptuously.
"Why threaten?" the white mage shrugged. "If I wanted to, I'd just walk up to you and punch you in the face. So you don't insult me again! You think too much of yourself, Brantar! I remember you as a whelp, standing before the assembly with trembling knees, and now you dare tell me what to do and what not to do!"
"Enough, gentlemen archmages, stop!" Zaragor raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture. "There's no need to quarrel, and especially not in public. What kind of example are you setting for the adepts? What will they say, watching the squabbles between the most respected mages of the Agara? This is not good. But what is truly good is that we have found a mentor for Neda. Ned, your mentor is now Archmage Gerlat. You are attached to him until the need for it no longer exists. And when it does, your mentor will tell you. I can't even remember how many times I've said these words before the council," Zaragor muttered, sitting back in his chair, and added louder: "With that, I consider all matters settled. Ned will follow his mentor, and the rest of you can go wherever you please, according to your duty schedule. The council is closed!"