Time stood still. It became thick, viscous, as it always does in moments of the greatest emotional tension. The voices in the kitchen dragged on—ve-e-e-u-u… ae-z-e-u-u… ooh-ooh-ooh… A fly hovered in the air, the waitress froze in the aisle between the tables with a plastered-on, forced smile—strange, as if someone powerful and incredible in their magic had slowed everything down on a whim, a caprice.
It was hard to move: his body refused to obey, his muscles were cramped with tension, their fibers torn from the incredible strain. Tomorrow Ned would groan from the pain of his torn muscles, but that would be tomorrow. If he survived.
The crossbow, already loaded with a bolt, felt heavy, as if Ned were trying to lift a huge boulder with one hand. Slowly, slowly, the sharp end of the bolt, coated in a dark coating of instant-action poison, turned toward the crossbowman sitting at the table behind Ned.
Incredibly, the boy managed to react to the northerner's turn. The crossbowman began to rise, raising his deadly weapon, just as Ned had already pulled the trigger.
A steel bolt rushed towards the young man's chest and, floating through the air, broke through his ribcage, entering completely into his body.
Ned's bolt was still slicing through hot flesh when a return round flew toward the assassin. A thought flashed through his mind: "They know how to train fighters in Southern Ispas!" and faded; there was no time to think about other things. Action, and only action! They wouldn't let him get out and hide—they'd shoot him in the back. So—kill. Everyone!
And he killed.
The released crossbow slowly fell to the floor as Ned took a few steps, finding himself next to two beauties who unfurled their beautiful fans—sharp as a barber's razor. These fans could serve as both swords and shields—the steel plates, the core of these unknown weaponsmiths, could withstand a sword strike and, when angled, deflect a bowshot.
In the other hand, the beauties had short swords, doubles of the Left, greedily trembling in the hand of its owner - the sword dreamed of drinking human blood.
Zzang! Zzz! – a brief clash, and one of the girls' hands flew to the floor along with the fan she was holding. The girl's head followed, swatted away by the Right One like a flower head by a cruel boy's stick.
The second girl almost reached Ned's jacket before dying, cut diagonally across the collarbone. Ned blocked her sword strike.
Blood hadn't yet begun to spurt from the body, which had died but hadn't yet realized it, when Ned-Yuragor continued his deadly advance through the tavern hall. Everyone seated at the tables already stood with drawn swords, and two men, running out of the kitchen, aimed their bows at Ned, their bows curved in a steep arc.
He swatted the arrows away without looking, like a cat batting away a paper toy thrown to it by its owner—softly, lightning-fast. It was easy—the arrows flew slowly, smoothly. Ned could have caught them with his hand if he'd wanted.
The group of Shatriyas was ready to attack—as Shatriyas should be. They moved slower than Ned, but there were several of them, so they had to constantly worry about protecting their skin, and not just their skin. To no avail, though. In such close quarters and with such opponents, it was impossible to emerge unscathed—Ned's jacket and pant legs were ripped in several places, his suit drenched in blood. It wasn't just his blood, though. There was plenty of blood here. Within seconds, all five had sustained mortal wounds; one blow, one death.
The Yuragor within Ned chuckled with satisfaction and declared himself pleased. Ned had not disgraced the Northern Ispas. Let them know that the Northerners are stronger, much stronger, than the effeminate Southerners.
The archers fired their arrows with incredible speed and accuracy—two arrows pierced Ned's left shoulder during a fight with five Shatrii. At least they didn't hit his eye. Several arrows were aimed there, but were deflected.
The archers died quite quickly, falling like last year's leaves.
The shatriya who burst out of the storeroom nearly caused him to lose his life. While Ned was ripping out deeply embedded arrows, their sharp tips painfully scraping his bone, the assassins swung their swords vigorously, trying to damage his chiseled profile, which the head of the Ispas had greatly admired, as she had recently confessed to Ned. He was forced to hop around the tavern like a forest animal until the arrows left his body. At least the demons in the swords were working reliably, reviving his master and healing his wounds. Today, Ned's body bore a few more scars...
Only two or three minutes had passed since the fight began, but Ned felt like he'd been running and jumping around for hours. In fact, for his body, that's exactly how long it had been. In those minutes, he'd burned through as much energy as a stevedore crew unloading a large merchant ship carrying sacks of grain. Such exertion takes its toll—Ned knew it, knew it for a fact. He'd be flat out for hours after the fight, that was for sure. Or at least he'd move like an old man, shaking all over, groaning feebly.
Having finished off the last of the ambushed Shatrii, Ned leaned on the hilt of the Right, resting it on the floor, and, catching his breath, paused, surveying the scene of carnage. The inn floor was soaked with blood that it was difficult to step without getting covered in thick cherry "sauce."
Corpses, body parts, the smell of iron and sewage. Not a single living thing—Ned had worked with pinpoint precision. Every blow killed. Or maimed, leaving only seconds to live. He couldn't afford to show mercy.
– Search the bodies! What are you standing there for?! There's no time to stand around, you can rest later! Search the bodies. Look for money, valuables, and most importantly – amulets. Look for amulets!
"How will I know if they're amulets or not? And it's disgusting to search dead bodies..."
"Fool! What do you care about a dead man?! He won't bite you, he won't cheat, he won't betray you—he just lies there and stinks. And he's also holding some money you'll need when you head north. Quick, search it! You have a few minutes before that whore, the comedians' knockoff version of the Great Atrok, shows up!"
- Well, it's not such a fake... why are you putting it down so much?
"Fake, fake! They're all fakes here, pretending to be genuine members of the great Shirduan system. Who cares! Just collect them, don't argue!"
Ned sighed, wiped his sword blades on the clothes of the shatriya lying on the floor in front of him, put the blade in its sheath and began looting, realizing that he would really need the money.
Five minutes later, he was already the owner of twenty gold coins, a hundred silver ones, and several copper ones. He tried not to take the copper ones—there was nowhere to put them. The copper ones weighed too much on his pockets and belt.
Amulets were found. Wooden, bone, copper, silver—all sorts. A dozen, at least. He threw them around his neck, planning to deal with them later. Each amulet vaguely resembled the medallion of Great Atroc—that's how Ned identified them as amulets. He couldn't sense their magical power. Nor could he determine what these amulets were capable of.
Having finished, he pushed open the inn door, running down the porch to the street and finding himself... in Silena's "arms." She approached the inn, frowning, biting her lip, and looking very, very worried.
Seeing Ned, she was taken aback. For a second, she took in his squalid appearance—his tattered clothes, the blood stains, the blood on his face and hands—and then she understood. Instantly raising her hands, she shouted the Word, and the first- and second-rank demons, released from their combat amulets, rushed toward Ned in a swarm. Some were blocked by the amulets, which discharged with a flash like lightning, but one, a first-rank demon, lagging behind the rest, managed to fly through the defenses destroyed by his unfortunate brethren and pierced Ned's body, piercing him like lightning, and immediately spreading throughout his body, causing terrible pain and malaise—weakness, vomiting, fever.
Ned rushed towards Silena, next to whom walked two young men who had already drawn the concealed swords that had been previously hidden in a wide sash, and, drawing his swords, he struck - one at the girl, the second - at one of her bodyguards.
The girl dodged—not without difficulty, though—and the bodyguard fell with a severed head. Now Ned was fighting two opponents. And he really, really disliked both of them for their agility, even though he was writhing in pain.
"Run!" Yuragor shouted. "Save yourself, or she'll crush you to dust right now! I hope she doesn't have a second demon-infused combat amulet!"
"It's easy to say 'run!'" Ned muttered in despair, lashing out with both swords at once, barely managing to parry the Atrocs' blows. A sick, demon-eaten boy isn't going to be able to fight that pair!
He glanced around, scanning the surroundings. All he saw was a young man riding past on a richly decorated horse, accompanied by a group of ten well-armed warriors. They watched with interest as Ned desperately fought his opponents, trying to reach them. The boy was exhausted—Silena and her companion were masters of combat, the outcome of the battle was clear.
" Gentlemen! Help me apprehend the robber!" Silena made a sweet face and smiled at the young rider. "He tried to take my wallet!"
" Gentlemen! Arrest the criminal!" the young nobleman frowned as he gave the order, and two mounted men emerged from the crowd—one holding a metal-bound club, the other brandishing a short spear.
Two blows, and the horse, dragging its rider along the pavement, galloped down the street toward the port. Another horse danced over its master's body and, if not for the dead hand reflexively clutching the reins, would have galloped after the first—the scent of fresh blood rushed into the horse's flaring nostrils, terrifying the animal and triggering its instinct to run, run wherever its eyes lead, away from possible danger!
Ned snatched the reins from the dead man's hand, oblivious to the entire troop rushing toward him, frozen for a few seconds in shock at the massacre of their comrades. He leaped into the saddle and, kicking his horse with his heels, raced down the street, trying to avoid the passersby. There were many of them on the pavement, hurrying about their business like ants in a sunny meadow.
Most of the passers-by, accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the city, managed to dart out from under the hooves of a wheezing, wildly rolling horse; sometimes a careless citizen would fly head over heels along the pavement, spewing furious curses at the shameless rider, but Ned raced on, concentrating on his thoughts.
Where to run? To Heverad? No. First, I need to remove this creature from my body that's gnawing at my insides, making me double over in pain.
So that's what the kitchen servant felt when Ned-Yuragor implanted a first-rank demon into the unfortunate worker's body. It hurt, it really hurt! And if it weren't for the demons in the swords, which Ned had fed so much today that they would have enough to last a month, he would have collapsed from the injuries inflicted by the entity implanted in him by Silena.
Ned's body, spurred on by the energy transmitted by the demons, instantly healed his wounds, but that wouldn't last forever! Eventually, the life force absorbed by the sword demons would run out, and... then everything would be sad. Very sad.
A few blocks later, Ned spotted the pursuit: the entire detachment, two of whose fighters Ned had killed, was racing after him, mowed down hapless passersby. While Ned alone could somehow maneuver among the passersby and the occasional cart, several horsemen galloping through the city streets resembled a hurricane bursting into a previously quiet sea bay.
Those who protested against such an outrage were lashed with whips and struck with the flat side of swords by the horsemen, which added to the hustle and bustle and shouting in the noisy life of the city streets.
Suddenly, a patrol of twenty Corps soldiers appeared ahead, wearing polished cuirasses and carrying two-meter-long spears, held at the ready by the warriors in the front rank. Seeing the horseman galloping toward them, they stopped, shields behind them, and bristled with spears. Ned barely managed to rein in his rearing horse, whose twitching, wet lips sprayed flakes of foam onto the soldiers.
"Halt!" the patrol leader shouted menacingly, peering out from under his helmet pulled down over his eyes. "Why are you causing a disturbance? Galloping through city streets is prohibited by law!"
"Guys, it's Ned!" a cheerful voice rang out, and Arnot pushed through the ranks of fighters, lifting his helmet onto the back of his head. "Ned, where have you disappeared to? Rumors are swirling around town that you've been kidnapped! We've beefed up patrols, everyone's looking for you, and we've been told to deliver you to General Heverad when we find you! Report to him!"
"Arnie, I can't go to the general now," Ned shouted hoarsely, wincing in pain. "They're chasing me! Guys, let me through! And cover me – if you can! Help!"
"Who's chasing us, or what?" a familiar voice called out, and the patrol leader pushed back his helmet. Beneath it, Sergeant Drankon's face was revealed, grinning as if he'd seen something funny and indecent. "You sure know how to get yourself into trouble out of the blue, Black! Lads, let them pass! Close ranks!"
The soldiers parted to the sides, clearing a path, and Ned galloped past them, spurring his stallion. The patrol closed ranks again, meeting the pursuing squad with the bristles of their spears, and Ned galloped on, the clank of his steel hooves ringing against the walls of the houses.
"What about the general's orders?" one of the soldiers asked in confusion, watching Ned disappear around the bend in the street.
"We didn't see anyone!" Drancon snarled angrily. "Our job is to maintain order. We are. Besides, now he knows about the order, which means he'll report to the general. Ned is a disciplined guy. Everyone, get ready! Get ready! Don't hit without orders! Who are you? Why are you disturbing the peace in the city?!"
* * *
The house hadn't changed a bit—beautiful yet dilapidated, like an old warrior whose muscles are full of vigor, but wrinkles already furrow his tired skin, having seen heat, cold, and the dry winds from the dead deserts. No life was visible through the windows. Covered with thick curtains, they kept out any prying eyes, and not a single draft, capable of fluttering the heavy drapes, disturbed the grandeur of the ancient structure.
Ned dismounted, slammed his hand into the stallion's croup, which snorted and raced across the pavement like a hare across an open field, then banged his fist firmly on the gate. The resounding knock echoed throughout the neighborhood, and Ned froze, afraid to attract the attention of prying eyes. Although the alley where Imar's house stood was secluded and far from the city's main thoroughfares, he shouldn't attract the attention of anyone who had no need to know about the Shorokans' visitor.
The gate suddenly swung open, and Ned nearly fell—he was bracing himself with his hand on it. He regained his balance and looked into Amela's angry face. A second later, her scowl gave way to a mask of surprise—highly raised eyebrows, wide eyes—then she leaned out and whispered softly, tugging at Ned's sleeve:
- Quickly! Crawl in! What are you standing there for?!
Ned stepped heavily across the threshold and nearly fell again, stumbling like an ancient man. Pain gnawed at his insides, and his vision blurred, as if he'd drunk a jug of strong wine. He felt nauseous, and his mouth tasted foul, like bile and blood. It seemed the demon had reached his stomach…
"What's wrong with you?" the girl was shocked, then silently offered Ned her shoulder, taking him by the arm, and dragged him into the house, forcing him to move his legs, which were about to buckle.
"What's this? Where's he from?" a familiar, low voice was heard, and then the same voice ordered, "Get him to the medical room. Where is he wounded? Can't you see?"
"I'm not injured," Ned managed to say, foam bubbling up like pink bubbles on his lips, a white crust drying at the corners of his mouth. "There's a first-level demon inside me. Or second. Silena implanted it. Can you help?"
"Long ago? How much time has passed?" the old man frowned.
"About an hour ago," Ned breathed, falling onto the white-sheeted couch.
"Then there's a chance. The demons were supporting us, weren't they? Of course, otherwise you wouldn't be able to speak now. Move aside! Step aside!"
The old man threw Amela aside, shoved Harald in the chest as he tried to bend over his friend, punched Isu in the shoulder, sending him flying toward the door with a pitiful cry. He then began chanting a demon banishment spell, first throwing both demon swords out the door, just in case. The spell was different for humans than the Object Release spell, but it was still better not to take any chances. You never know... And the demon swords might still come in handy. Furthermore, banishing a demon with someone else's weapon was unpredictable—the banished demons could attack the banisher; such cases are well known in the history of magic. However, when targeting demons, there was always a chance of unpredictability.
The old man was still chanting when Ned suddenly jerked, and a fountain of blood spurted from his mouth. Imar stumbled, and a "Trink!" rang through the air, like a broken string, and the old man waved his hand in frustration.
"He's lost his way! I'm afraid we can't save him! The demon has already reached his lungs and possibly his heart! It's most likely not the first level, but higher."
"Grandpa, look!" Amela said excitedly. "What is this?"
A small column of something like steam or smoke began to rise from Ned's body... the column coalesced into a cloud the size of a child's fist. The cloud hung there and vanished into the air like smoke from a firebrand.
Imar shook his head in disbelief, looking at Ned, whose bluish pallor had given way to his usual pallor, as if he hadn't eaten or slept for a month or so, and then, with a slight tremor in his voice, he said:
"This? It was a second-tier demon... or third... that couldn't come out on its own. I couldn't exorcise it—I just didn't have time. So someone exorcised it. Or something. What? That's the question..."