"Make yourself comfortable," the innkeeper looked with pity at the young man, so pleasant and yet so ill-fated: his hands trembled, and he limped like an old man. But the nobleman's face was handsome, smooth as a baby's, without a trace of age's wrinkles. He was probably ill, she decided. Often, after a serious illness, there were after-effects—shaking, pain. Her father had once suffered like that after being caught in the rain in the mountains. He had been seriously ill for a long time, and had never recovered from it for the rest of his life.
The young man nodded, waited for the innkeeper to leave, and sat down on the bed with a sigh. He lay down and gazed at the smooth wooden ceiling with its carved patterns. He had chosen a good inn, the most expensive in the capital of Zamara. His habit of getting the best would never leave him.
Rubbing his left arm, the bones aching so much he wanted to kill someone, Estrog reached for his document bag lying nearby and, pulling it toward him, pulled out a scrap of paper, once torn from a larger sheet. Written on it were two words: Issark Brogan. This man was supposed to help him in an important matter—finding his enemy.
All these months, the magician Estrog lived in hell: painful surgeries, huge sums of money spent on doctors, even magicians—the results are clear. Outwardly, he had once again become that pleasant, handsome young man. Outwardly. But something had broken, something had gone wrong in the complex structure of his body. The demons that had torn, maimed, and twisted his body had caused irreparable damage, such damage that even the best of healers couldn't restore Estrog. He was shaking, shivering, and had bouts of wild pain when he howled like a beast, restless, numbing the pain with mushroom tinctures and alcohol. And all because of that damned black magician from Zamar! The one who unleashed the demons upon him was to blame for what was happening to Estrog!
Besides his treatment, Estrog had been investigating all this time. He had the money, and finding competent people wasn't hard—within a month, he knew a lot about the man he needed. About Ned the Black. The demonologist who had dared to oppose Estrog. Now all he had to do was find him and... no, not kill him. Estrog didn't want to kill him. Not yet. He needed the knowledge the mage was going to squeeze out of the boy, and he also wanted to make sure he suffered terribly before his death. Anyone who dared stand in Estrog's way deserved their terrible fate, but Ned had... special "merits." Let him feel the pain! Let him feel the fear! He needed to find out who was dear to him, and torture them before his very eyes! One by one, little by little, and Ned would be powerless to stop it. And then—Ned would die himself.
Estrog laughed hoarsely in anticipation of revenge and thought with joy that the gods had given him a gift – Ned was "scorched"! He was safe as… as… a common soldier. As… a greengrocer run over by a drayman's cart. And this once again proved Estrog's exceptionalism – otherwise, why would the gods have given him such a gift?
The sea voyage had taken its toll on the magician—he disliked the sea, and now that he was ill, he disliked it even more. Days locked in a cabin, suffering from seasickness, over a copper basin, were not conducive to a pleasant pastime. But every second of the dreadful journey brought him closer to his cherished goal—capturing his enemy. It was so comforting to know that the enemy knew nothing of the approaching danger, had no suspicion of it, had no idea that he was already a corpse. A living corpse. Secret power was intoxicating… Estrog loved power.
Having rested, he rose with a creak and clicking of his damaged joints and walked to the door. He needed to visit the nobleman and ask for a favor he owed to the nobleman Isfir.
Estrog spent a lot of time and money trying to find someone with connections in Zamara. War is war, but trade goes on, and nobles exchange information and do favors for each other. He had to tap into all his connections, and here's the result! One of Zamara's highest nobles owed a favor to Tordag of Yustar, an advisor to the Isfirian king. This favor cost a fortune, but... what wouldn't you do for yourself, your beloved self? And Estrog had money. As much as he needed.
Estrog was received at Brogan's house almost immediately—only five minutes after the servant left to announce the arrival of a man from Thordag of Yustar. This meant that the nobles' connection was indeed strong, and Thordag meant something to Brogan.
The magician was led into the fireplace room, where the owner of the house, a tall, gray-haired man, greeted the Isfirian with a joyful smile, as if he had just met a good friend he hadn't seen in years. Even if the host concealed his true feelings, such a welcome was very pleasant, Estrog noted.
"Greetings! What should I call you?" the host asked kindly, gesturing for a seat.
"Hadar Estrog," the magician bowed slightly, watching intently, "he knows, doesn't he?"
"Oh!" Brogan's lips pursed. "The Estrogs? A very, very respectable family. What brings you to me? Don't be shy, tell me. I'll help in any way I can. Tordag is my long-time partner and friend."
"He asked me to tell you..." Estrog pulled a ring from his belt pouch and handed it to Brogan. He raised an eyebrow as he accepted the silver ring with a small red stone, nodded briefly, and asked,
– Need a favor? I'm ready. Anything in my power.
- Good. I need a man. I know where he is, I know roughly where he is. I need him.
- Do you want to kill him?
- No. Kidnap. Take out of the country. And you will help me with that.
"Hmm... depends on the person... I hope not King Zamara?" Brogan laughed, revealing yellow teeth, but Estrog remained motionless and stern.
"No. He's just a cadet at the officer training school. He owes me a debt, and I'm going to collect it."
"And who is this cadet?" the nobleman asked, alarmed.
"A certain Ned the Black," Estrog explained casually.
"Who?!" Estrog could have sworn Brogan flinched at the name. "What did you say?"
"Ned the Black, Sergeant, officer cadet. Former mage. I need him, and I want you to help me kidnap him, to pay off a debt of honor."
"Hmm... I see," Brogan chuckled, then suddenly burst into giggles, louder and louder, then began laughing, leaning back in his chair until tears streamed down his face. He couldn't calm down for a minute, then looked at the bewildered and slightly angry alien and, catching his breath, blurted out:
"Forgive me, for heaven's sake! It was a bit hysterical. A lot has happened lately, unexpected and so strange that... well, most of them are directly connected to the name of the man you want to kidnap. And I can tell you with complete confidence that you're unlikely to be able to kidnap him."
– Why is that? If there's enough money and skilled people, what's to stop it?
"I expressed myself incorrectly. You won't be able to kidnap him alive. Dead, please. The fact is, there are already too many suitors after his life. You're not the only one eager to see him; the others who want to see the sergeant have a simpler goal. They simply want to kill him. Moreover, I'll tell you a secret: several months ago, I personally ordered someone to eliminate this man. And these people never cheat when they've received money. Ned the Black's death is inevitable! Believe me, I don't throw words to the wind. It's a shame I couldn't help you. Take him!"
Brogan handed the ring to Estrog, and the two men fell silent, considering the situation...
* * *
"Who are you?" The old man's voice was ringing, like the steel of a blade meeting its brother.
"I am Ned the Black, a sergeant in the Zamara army, a cadet at the officer school," Ned explained patiently, as if he were crazy, warily watching his interlocutor, who was holding two small curved blades with handles made in the form of brass knuckles.
"I know your mask. Now—who are you really? Atroc of the Northern Ispas? Who sent you?"
"Grandpa, what's wrong?!" Amela asked, confused. "That's Ned, Harald's friend! He's not an enemy!"
"Shut up!" Imar barked so loudly that the girl ducked in fear and blushed with hurt. "Get away from him! He's dangerous, more dangerous than you can even imagine! And it doesn't matter that he's 'burned out'!"
"Grandfather! Ispas, Atrok—what are you talking about?" Harald interjected. "Perhaps you could explain? I see my comrade, whom I invited into the house, and my grandfather, my wonderful, intelligent grandfather, is insulting him, insulting him! Stop it! I'm ashamed... Ned, I'm sorry, I don't understand what's going on, but there's some kind of mistake, a misunderstanding here. Grandfather, put down your weapon and explain what you want!"
Harald stepped forward and stood next to Ned:
- Kill me too! He's our guest, and you're acting like... like...
"Shut up! You don't understand!" the old man growled. "Get away from him right now! I've protected you all your lives, kept them from infiltrating our lives, and now! They sent him! Why did you come? To take my children? To lure them into your gang?! I told you – I left the Shirduan sect! Enough! I owe you for my grandson's life, so you're leaving here alive now. Don't come here again. You'll die the moment you step foot in our house!"
"Grandfather, I'm leaving too," Harald declared decisively. "You've insulted Ned, you've violated the laws of hospitality. I'm ashamed, and I ask Ned's forgiveness."
"And I'm leaving," Amela said in a ringing voice, "right now! Live here alone, with a groom and a cook! Let's go!"
"So that's how it is... I expected something like this," the old man said coldly. "Alas, you will have to die."
The old man raised his hand, and an arrow whistled through the air. However, Ned was ready and, darting to the side, avoided the shot. The arrow lodged itself in the wooden wall, trembling as if excited. Two men in dark clothing familiar to Ned leaped out from behind the training equipment and rushed toward him as fast as they could, holding matte blades with familiar runes on the blades.
Ned howled internally – without magic, against three Shatrii or Atrocs, his chances were practically nil. One was an Atroc – that was definitely Imar. The highest level of skill, the highest perfection. Why he doesn't cast spells, that's what's incomprehensible! He had to run into such a mess!
All this passed in literally a second - there was no time to think any longer.
Ned leaped up the wooden wall like a spider and raced along it toward the house, where his swords lay. Ymar must have realized this, because he rushed in the same direction, ten steps ahead of Ned. With his swords, Ned's chances were even, so he ran like never before. Probably like never before. Or so it seemed to him...
Suddenly, three figures appeared before the old man, dressed in the same attire as his two pursuers. The old man charged head-on, and one of the Shatrii fell, bleeding profusely. The blades began to sing their funeral dirge.
One of the old man's aides staggered and fell, but his opponent also lost his footing and landed softly on the ground, his short sword beneath his heart. More fighters poured out from somewhere, and more… There were so many of them that Ned was at a loss—where had they come from? From the roof, or from the house—that's how a horde of ants appears, ready to crush everything in its path with its jaws. And then—weep, people, flee, beasts!—nothing living can remain after the invasion.
The old man and his men stood back to back, their blades bristling. The wounded man limped, but his sword was held steady. They retreated toward Amel and Harald, who stood frozen in shock. Imar shouted to them:
– Guys, get ready for battle! Be careful!
Then Harald rushed to his grandfather and stood beside him. Amela was half a second late, and now the group of five stood like a rock, ready to fight off the world.
But the strangers didn't attack. They stopped—Ned noticed, at a signal from an inconspicuous figure behind them, near the doorway. A small figure walked forward slowly, flowing smoothly, like an animal out hunting on the prairie.
A few steps away from the house's frozen hosts, the leader of the attackers stopped and, raising his hand, pulled off his cloth helmet-headband, leaving only his eyes exposed. Ned sighed in surprise – a woman! Quite beautiful, with a narrow face, resembling a predatory beast.
"Hello, Father!" The woman's voice was quiet, rustling like a breath of wind, but it carried across the entire landing, as if carried by a cold wind from the mountains. "I'm glad to see you. And you, children. And where's Isa?"
"How dare you come here?!" the old man replied coldly. "We had an agreement: you don't bother us, I won't bother you! You've broken that agreement!"
"Times are changing. A situation has arisen where it's impossible not to break the agreement," the woman shrugged. "I hope you weren't hurt?"
- Go away! And don't come back again! I don't have a daughter anymore!
"Son, you're doing well," the woman smiled, turning to Harald, and added, "I've been watching you for a long time. Grandfather trained you well. Almost like me. And you, niece, are doing well. You remind me of me in my youth. You lack a little refinement of movement and strength, but... everything is ahead. Train. Father, you didn't tell them about me, did you? I see you haven't. Harald, you've forgotten me, haven't you? And you weren't that young when I left..."
"You betrayed us! You abandoned us!" the boy screamed furiously, biting his lip until it hurt.
"No. I didn't betray you. I was watching you. I was always ready to help. And I did. Where do you think your grandfather got the money for his schooling? Did he sell the estate? Which estate? Our estates were sold long ago... And what about the upkeep of the house? Does your grandfather provide for it?"
"I didn't touch your money!" Imar retorted coldly. "I earned my own money! You can take your dirty money back! Every last coin! My grandchildren won't..."
"They won't?" the woman interrupted contemptuously. "Why did you turn them into shatriyas? Do you know your grandson moonlights as a contract killer? Yes, yes! But what do you call fighting duels for money? He's already killed nine people! And after that, you're telling me what will and won't happen? And your niece? It's time for her to join us. With her abilities, she'll take a worthy place in the brotherhood. Especially since she has the talent of an atroc. What, didn't you know, girl? You're a mage! Your grandfather is deliberately reducing your magical ability, adding some kind of mixture, suppressing your skill instead of developing it! Just like you, Harald! You're mages!"
"Is she telling the truth, Grandfather?" Amela pulled away from Imar slightly, her eyes wide. "Why?"
"To prevent your detection, I'm dampening your magical aura. I wanted to reveal this to you, but later, when you're ready. I'm a mage too. This is a family curse of the Shorokans; we've been hiding it for hundreds of years. Mages have been born in our family for a long time."
"It seems you have a lot to tell us, Grandfather." Harald looked closely into Imar's eyes, and he lowered his gaze, nodding briefly. "But what does Ned have to do with this? We somehow forgot about him... What does he have to do with it?"
"Did you send this guy?" the old man asked sullenly, looking suspiciously at the shatriys who had surrounded him from all sides.
"This guy?" the woman smirked. "No. You thought he was my messenger? Why would I send him? Huh? To persuade children to join the Brotherhood? Funny… very funny. You almost got him killed, I had to intervene. He's mine. I need the boy alive. And I'll take him. Ned the Black, come here. You're coming with me."
"For what reason?" Ned asked sullenly, considering his escape routes. Apparently, there weren't any.
"Why?" the woman asked in surprise. "Because I command you. I, the Great Atroc of the Southern Ispas."
- Oh! Great Atroc! My aunt is Great Atroc?! Grandpa, what's going on?! Then who are you, Grandpa?!
The girl watched the scene with wide eyes and was practically bouncing with excitement. She seemed incredibly amused by the whole situation, unlike Harald, who was focused and sullen. Clenching his fists, he, too, was glancing around, likely calculating how to repel a possible attack.
"Children, your grandfather, Imar Shorokan, was the former Great Atrok of the Southern Ispas, who betrayed his Brotherhood. He once decided the Brotherhood was unworthy of him, Shorokan. And so he left, abandoning it to its fate. I was forced to take up the banner—but what can you do if your father betrayed you?"
The woman looked coldly at the old man, and Ned saw how similar they were. However, he had no time to examine the newly reunited father and daughter—he wanted to escape!
"Don't even think about it," the woman cut off his thoughts, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You'll leave with us, even if you don't walk, but ride on our shoulders as an unconscious body. I need you, and what I need, I'll take."
The woman waved her hand, and dozens of small darts whizzed through the air. The old man and his men managed to deflect some with their swords, but several pierced their necks and the backs of their heads, and the owner of the house and his support group staggered and began to fall to the ground.
"Don't move! They'll sleep for a while, then they'll get up calmly. They'll be given the antidote. Do you need a headache, or are you going to go on your own?"
"I'll go," Ned nodded, seeing no other way out. "Are they just going to stay there?"
"What's going to happen to them? It's warm now, they'll be up in an hour. Okay, let's go! Pick up the bodies! Check on the wounded man, bandage him. I don't want to upset my father," the woman chuckled. "He's used to that groom. He's also a renegade, by the way. He should have been beheaded, but... let him live."
One by one, the shatriyas disappeared into the house. A dark chasm, a hatch open in the wall. Red brick steps leading down into darkness.
"They took your swords and clothes, go ahead as you are, in your training clothes," the woman said and dived into the underground passage.
Armed sergeants marched ahead and behind Ned. Oil lanterns lit, and the hatch above closed, cutting the squad off from the outside world.
It was a long walk. No matter how hard Ned tried to remember the route and pinpoint where he was, he couldn't. There were tunnels, passages... Sometimes he heard the murmur of water beneath long, swaying bridges, sometimes a wind blew from somewhere, bringing the smell of sewage or rotting seaweed, as if the sea were somewhere nearby.
Ned was stunned—beneath the upper, outer city lay an inner, underground city. The extensive system of underground passages brought to mind a wheel of cheese—the voids in the rock resembled holes in the cheese. The top of the passages was solid rock, while below, the voids connected by the passages seemed to have been gnawed by an insect.
Whether these passages were man-made or nature's handiwork, the countless underground caverns were constructed by nature, was unclear. Some passages showed signs of cultivation, others connected to the city sewers and were lined with red brick, baked black, and still others were clearly natural, worn by water, leaving traces of dried foam and algae on their walls. "It looks like some of the passages flood at certain times," Ned thought.
Soon they began to move upward, and the detachment entered a tunnel similar to the passage under the Shorokans' house.
An ordinary house—nothing unusual or outlandish. Only the windows facing the street were covered with shutters—metal ones, Ned thought. This was visible from inside, when the lantern light fell on the shutters through the windowpane. The Shatrii had vanished somewhere, leaving Ned and the woman alone… But no, it turned out one Shatrii remained, and Ned realized who it was. Yes, she, Silena.
The girl pulled her helmet off her head and sat down in the chair next to the woman, looking at Ned with a frowning gaze.
"Well, here we are," the hostess smiled and said quietly, "Bring something to drink and something to eat. Ned, have you realized you shouldn't make any unnecessary movements? You're being watched. I know how nimble you are, but I don't yet know why you're so nimble. And I intend to find out. As well as how you know the Northern Ispas fighting style. And where is this Ispas anyway? Where did it go? That's all you know."
"Why should I tell you?" Ned chuckled, looking defiantly into his hostess's eyes. Those eyes were cold as a snake's, and Ned couldn't help but feel a chill—Death incarnate stood before him. This was probably what she would look like if she took human form—a thin, beautiful woman of indeterminate age, for whom taking a human life was as easy as spitting on the pavement.
"You will tell me what I ask. Otherwise, you will die, and not just die, but die in agony! And your magical protection will not save you, rest assured! And anyway, you are alive as long as I allow it! I advise you not to anger me. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Ned nodded, feeling a little melancholy, if that's what you could call a state close to panic. The day had started so well, continued so well, and now it's ending so horribly! What a terrible day!
"Let me reassure you," the woman continued, "I need you. And so, for now, you will live. And the length of this 'for now' depends on you. If you prove to me that you are needed, that you are necessary, you will live on. If you prove to be an idiot, you will die. Understand?"
"A lot of words," Ned grimaced, "too many words. Say what you need. By the way, I wouldn't mind a drink and something to eat, if you'll excuse me. I was jumping around with your relatives, and then I got so worried that they would kill me, and then – that you would kill them. Such worries give rise to a ravenous appetite! By the way, Silena, it's good to see you. Our last meeting ended somehow… quickly. Too quickly. I wanted to see you.
"He's a fool," the girl snorted. "Mom, maybe he's an idiot? He doesn't think with his head, but..."
"Mom?" Ned asked, surprised. "What's this?! Wherever I turn, there are Shorokans! You're her daughter, Harald and Isa's sister?"
"Well, yes," the girl smiled, "we have different fathers. My mother gave birth to me outside the home."
– Do the guys know that they have a sister?
"No. Why should we? They have their own lives, we have ours. By agreement with Grandpa. He doesn't know about me either, by the way. Traitor..."
The door opened, and a girl entered with a tray laden with sliced meat and pies, a large teapot, and three silver mugs. Ned smelled something edible, and his stomach rumbled. The girl set the cutlery and left without a word. "Maybe she's mute?" Ned thought.
Without asking permission, he sat down at the table, poured himself a mug of herbal infusion, and began greedily sipping it, looking at the calm women. After a long pause, the eldest asked:
– Do you even understand why you were invited?
"Invited?" Ned choked and cleared his throat for a long time, then repeated in a voice cracked from the coughing: "Invited? That's not an invitation! That's a kidnapping!"
"What difference does it make what it's called?" Silena couldn't resist. "Be glad you haven't been killed yet. You were a hair's breadth from death."
"But it's not your fault I wasn't killed," Ned shrugged. "You could have killed me. The only thing I don't understand is why."
"Are you stupid? You've got orders. And the most interesting thing is, they're from different people." Mom was so intrigued by this fact that she decided to put the deal on hold and ask: who exactly are they trying to kill?! And how did this man manage to kill our Shatrii, and then almost kill the Atrok? How could that be? We start making inquiries, keeping an eye on you, and we find you, an Atrok presumably from the Northern Ispas, destroyed hundreds of years ago! No wonder we have questions. That's why you were invited. Now is everything clear? This is our territory, and if the Northern Ispas decided they can rule our territory without our knowledge..."
"Now it's clear," Ned replied, thinking about how some people were once again deciding his fate, ordering him around, threatening him... would that be enough? What if he pounced on the women now, knocked them out, tied them up, and then...
"See the vents?" asked Great Atroc. "A sudden movement, the slightest threat—and you're on the floor. Yes, a dart doesn't kill instantly, but it paralyzes fairly quickly. Besides, we're armed, and you're not. And we're no worse prepared than you are. So no nonsense, okay?"
"Are you reading minds?" Ned asked cautiously, but Silena laughed cheerfully:
"Your intentions are written all over your forehead! You need to learn to control your face! Besides, anyone in your situation would have tried to run away!"
"Or maybe I do," Great Atrok chuckled. "What business is it of yours? That means you can't lie to me, keep that in mind. So, begin your story, and tell it to the last word, to the last drop of information—without concealment!"
"It's a long story," Ned tried to resist. "It would take hours to tell!"
"A few hours? Then a few hours," the woman ordered firmly. "Get started! Have you had a drink? Have you eaten? Do you want to go to the toilet? No? If you do, it's behind that door. Get started! So, who are you? Where did you come from and how did you become who you are?"