"Open your eyes, open your eyes! Come on! Hurry!" Ned began to lift his eyelids with difficulty, as if they were filled with lead, and for a moment he couldn't understand: where is he? What's wrong with him? Then he saw a bearded face and asked:
- Creator? What, have I finally been caught? Am I in heaven?
"What the hell creator? A healer, is he delirious? What did you give him?"
- Strengthening and invigorating!
"It smells like donkey urine," another voice, thinner and shriller, intervened.
"I don't know, young lady, perhaps you know the smell of donkey urine better than I do! And if you don't like it, treat it yourself! Or better yet, shut up and don't bother me!"
"Amela, don't interfere in this conversation! I've asked you so many times: the adults tell you not to interfere!"
– I'm an adult too! I can give birth now! And get married!
"See, there it is, these young people of today—first having children, then getting married! A complete moral decline. Where is the world coming to? Nowadays, a seventeen-year-old girl wouldn't even say such things, she'd be too embarrassed, but there she is—smiling! What's going on? The other day I delivered a thirteen-year-old, can you imagine? She ran off with her lover, hid somewhere with friends, the bastards! And only when they really had to—she couldn't give birth—did they crawl out of hiding? They had their fill, so to speak! We had to call the parents. At least the people were kind; they took their daughter away without any yelling or cursing. They didn't even kill the guy. Although they should have killed him! Ehhh!"
"Get to the point!" the "Creator" intervened again. "Give him something to clear his head. We don't have time. We're talking about minutes, not even hours."
"Okay. Now I'll give him one of these and boost it with magic – he'll wake up in no time. Well, hold on, boy..."
A viscous, pungent-smelling liquid flowed into Ned's mouth, and Ned reflexively swallowed to avoid choking. Then a monotonous chant began, and Ned was suddenly overcome with such heat that he groaned involuntarily and, abruptly rising from the couch, sat on the edge, dangling his legs and breathing heavily, as if he'd been running for several miles. Large beads of sweat formed on his forehead and rolled down, filling his eyes. Ned wiped them away and, blinking, stared at the people standing before him.
"Finally!" Harald sighed with relief, standing next to his friend. "We thought you'd gone crazy, turned into a vegetable!"
"Or maybe he did?" Amela asked disappointedly, watching Ned stare blankly into space. "We should stab him with a knife. If he screams, it means he's woken up."
"A 'kind' girl!" Senerad remarked sarcastically. "Whoever marries her can rest assured about their future. She won't let him die of a cold—she'll stab him to death so he won't suffer."
"Don't poke me," Ned croaked, "give me something to drink. And one more thing – we need to get out of the city, and as fast as possible. Everyone. You and I. Otherwise there will be trouble."
"And me?" Senerad asked anxiously.
- No. You don't need it. They don't know about you. But we all do.
"The reason?" Imar asked calmly.
"Silena and her mother," Ned answered shortly. "Silena orchestrated the assassination attempt on my mother and will now hunt me to keep me from telling Great Atroc of her plans. Silena will try to kill me. And I need to go north. Alone or with you. Better with you. Either way, you're in deep trouble—she'll assume you know everything, that I told you everything, so there's no way I can go home—Silena's people are already there."
"Grandpa will kill them all!" Amela declared proudly. "And those who don't make it, we'll finish off!"
"Oh, really," Ned shook his head. "Maybe he'll kill me, maybe not. There's no escape from a poisoned arrow. He's no longer an Atrok; he can be killed according to the laws of the Shirduan Brotherhood. They only spared him because he's the father of the Great Atrok. And Silena holds nothing sacred: if she's plotting an assassination attempt on her mother, she'll kill her grandfather without a care. No need to take any risks. We'll go north."
"Why? For what purpose?" the old man asked calmly, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
"To restore the Northern Ispas. I will become its Great Atroc," Ned muttered.
Contrary to his expectations, no one laughed. The young people didn't understand at all, and the old man, after thinking for a moment, nodded, as if confirming what he'd heard:
- I see. How are you planning to finance the trip?
"The ones in my pockets," Ned shrugged. "You checked them, you know."
"I checked," Imar said, unfazed. "Where did you get all these discharged amulets?"
"From there too. I'll tell you everything later. I need to get to General Heverad; he'll help me escape, I'm sure. He'll give me horses and equipment. But I'll have to leave the house unguarded."
"I expected something like this," the old man sighed. "The moment you walked into our house, I knew it would turn into something unpredictable. That's the feeling I had. By the way, forgive me for thinking you were a spy from... well, from them. By the way, why did you decide that you and I would go together? I could just turn to Her, and it would all be over. For me and the boys... Why should I take on your problems, go to the ends of the earth to revive a savior that disappeared hundreds of years ago? Don't you think these are just your problems?"
"First of all, you owe me. You said so yourself. Secondly, you know She won't just let you go. Atroc is unhappy with her daughter and wants to pass power to another of her children. In the future. So she might demand one of her children from you. Or her niece. Is that what you need?"
"That's right! You didn't give away that the woman might have gotten pregnant from you! At least you've learned to lie a little. This way, you really will become a good Atroc. While things are going well, keep pushing!"
- I'm finishing pressing, leave me alone!
"I propose you become Atrocs of the Northern Ispas. We will revive it—but under new rules. It will be open. We will not hide, we will not take assassination orders. We will serve the state, the people. We will change everything. And by the way, according to the laws of the Shirduan organization, fighters from the Southern Ispas will not be able to attack us."
"Hm," the old man looked at Ned curiously, "I wonder. Yes, by law, Shirduan fighters can't take contracts for Shirduan fighters. And they can't fight among themselves—only negotiate. But I don't understand how you can revive the ispas... You know, declaring yourself Great Atroc is impossible. You need..."
"Yes, I know everything," Ned interrupted. "I need the medallion and all that. Not to mention the magical abilities of the Great Atrok. I hope my abilities will return while we travel. Yes, Lord Cenerad?"
"I refuse to be jostled in carts or on the backs of sweaty beds!" the healer muttered sullenly. "I'll prepare some potions, you can drink them and practice your magic. I'll give you the recipe—you'll make the medicine yourself. I'm too old for travel."
"Very well then," Ned shrugged and rose from the couch. "Time to go see the general. I'll ask you all to stay here. I'll talk to him myself. It's easier to get through the city alone."
"I'll go with you," Harald moved away from the wall he'd been leaning against all this time and patted the scabbard on his side, "it'll be easier with two of us."
"No. One," Ned dismissed the suggestion decisively, "you wait here. Remember, we can't go home. Silena will go there first. She'll bring her people. I'll go to Heverad, then we'll get out of the city."
"What's the point of going to Heverad?" the old man shrugged. "What do you want from him? What kind of help?"
"Well... I'll take the money, for example," Ned said, slightly flustered. "I'll report that I have to leave. I'm on duty, after all... I need to somehow explain my absence. He's done a lot for me, I can't just up and run away. Duty comes first."
"Well, if it's just a debt," Imar nodded seriously, "then yes. And don't worry about the money. There's money. There's enough for all of us. I took the money their mother gave them, and I grabbed some of my own, leaving just enough for the servants' upkeep. They'll guard the house. So come back quickly and don't ask for anything. We'll manage. But first, I'll ask you one question; it's been bothering me a long time..."
"What?" Ned asked, alarmed.
"How did you, without magic, manage to get rid of the demon Silena planted? It was at least level three or four. Maybe even higher. You should be dead now. You simply couldn't have survived and couldn't remove that demon. But it happened. How? Your explanation? Just don't lie, please. I'll still sense it, and I won't be able to trust you if you lie."
"I didn't mean to deceive you," Ned frowned, "I didn't want to tell you... until the time came. This is just my guess, of course..."
"Go on, go on," the old man nodded encouragingly, "there's a demon in you, right?"
"How do you know?!" Ned was dumbfounded.
"Exactly!" the old man closed his eyes and sighed loudly. "That's all we need!"
"Grandfather, what's wrong with him?" Amela looked at Ned curiously. "Where did the demon come from? How did this happen? And why is he alive with this demon? Why?"
"There was a demon, yes," Ned explained reluctantly. "I activated a magical artifact and transferred the essence of an ancient mage, the Great Atrok of the Northern Ispas, dissolved in a demon of the highest circle. Now all his memory is in me. Atrok's memory. That is, I am half him, half Ned. There was a moment when he completely took over me, but then I defeated him and dissolved him into my body. I thought the demon had disappeared. But he hasn't disappeared, yes. He sits within me. And how to get rid of him—I don't know."
"How did you know it was still inside you?" the old man asked curiously. "When you woke up here? Or earlier?"
"Well... I knew it was inside me. Once, when I activated a powerful artifact and summoned twelfth-level demons..."
Amela gasped softly, looking at Ned with admiring eyes.
"They didn't touch me, they spoke to me. And I understood them. They sensed a demon in me, a fellow demon. A fellow demon of the highest order. And today, I felt my demon driving out a stray demon—while I was unconscious on the couch in your house. I had a dream, but now I understand—it wasn't a dream, but a mental vision: a huge black dragon chasing a small bird, like a carrion vulture. And somehow I knew the dragon was my demon. You know that demons of the highest order were used to transfer a person's consciousness from their own body to another, right? And how did you know?"
"Yes, from books; we have a large library. To summon this demon, the death of hundreds of people is required," the old man explained grimly. "Yuragor?"
"Yes, him," Ned nodded dejectedly. "Hundreds, yes. The bastard. His memory is in me, and even if I wanted to erase it, I can't. He's forever in me. But the demon... you can get rid of the demon, but..."
"But I can't do that," the old man interrupted. "I'm weak. I'm level ten, by our standards. And by ancient standards, eighth. We've become weaker than our ancestors. Yuragor, according to descriptions, wasn't even level twelve, but fifteen, no less."
"He's right. Shirduan's fighters have degenerated. I could have knocked them all down like children. That's what I was counting on. Too bad it didn't work out. Whether you'll ever gain that kind of strength is questionable. I wish I could. By the way, don't mess around with the demon."
"It's a good thing I didn't have time to finish the demon exorcism spell," the old man chuckled, "or my guts would have flown everywhere! I could have helped the sick man..."
"Why, Grandpa?" Amela blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"Using a fifth-level banishment spell on a high-level demon is like stabbing them in the ass with an awl. They'll get upset and decide to punish the offender. Remember that kid at school who poked you in the ass with a pin, just a little? You know, when you got expelled, and then I had to bribe you twenty gold pieces to get you back?"
"Are you always going to remind me, Grandpa?" Amela snorted, making an offended face. "When I earn enough, I'll pay you back! He's been remembering for three years! And all I did was break the idiot's nose and give him a little thrashing!"
"Two ribs, an arm, a nose, and a knocked-out tooth. At least the boy wasn't from the most noble family, and I managed to make up for it with money. Everything I saved up over six months went down the drain. Because you couldn't stop in time," the old man said mercilessly. "But that's not the point. Basically, there's some kind of high-ranking demon inside him, whose job it is to help its master: for example, to keep other demons who have entered the body alive. It just worked a bit slowly. Apparently, Ned pinned it down hard, putting it to sleep. In theory, it should have devoured its fellow demon the moment it entered the body. But it only kicked it out, didn't have time to eat it. And when it kicked it out, Ned was terribly contorted. After absorbing its small, mindless fellow, it should have transferred some of the demon's life energy it had consumed to Ned, and he would have been cured. That didn't happen.
"And what else, what else can he do?" Amela jumped up and, approaching Ned, began to examine him as if he were a strange little animal. "Tell me, Grandpa!"
"Let him tell," Imar chuckled, nodding at Ned. "His demon."
"It can heal. It can prolong life... I don't know how much, but for a long time. The host doesn't get sick, they're stronger, faster than other people. Smarter. Their magic is stronger than others. Well, what else... the demon carries a copy of my essence, and it can transfer to another body—at my will. That's all, I think," Ned shrugged.
"That's it!" Amela breathed out. "Forever young! Forever healthy! Grandpa, I want a demon like that too!"
"To do that, you'd have to kill several hundred people, sacrifice them," the old man explained dryly. "Even the warriors of Shirduan forbade this spell. And only Yuragor, as you see, dared to use it. What kind of person would you have to be to do that? It's mind-boggling. So..."
"But he's not Yuragor, grandpa!" Isa intervened. "He didn't kill Harald! He's a good man, I know he is! He's a fine fellow!"
"Well done," Imar chuckled and turned to Ned. "Okay, well done, go see your general. Just be careful, don't run into your 'friends.' I'll give you Harald's clothes—they'll fit, you're almost the same height. You still need to change your uniform—it's all cut up and bloody. Amela, go out and let the boy change."
"I'll turn away," the girl protested, but was immediately grabbed by the waist and thrown out the door. Harald didn't even lose his breath.
Five minutes later, Ned was already standing in Harald's clean clothes, prepared in advance by the old man, and was tucking his swords into his belt.
A minute later, he stepped over the threshold of the healer's house, breathing in the fresh mountain breeze. It smelled of flowers—the healer loved flowers, and no fewer than twenty different varieties grew in his front garden. Some were used for medicines, but others simply delighted the eyes and noses of the owner and his patients.
Senerad was very proud of these flowers and claimed that some varieties couldn't be found in any flowerbed in the city. Ned believed him.
* * *
– General! Please excuse me… they're asking for you. They say you were looking for him.
Heverad put down his crystal glass of unfinished red wine with displeasure and tore himself away from contemplating the flames engulfing the logs in the fireplace.
He didn't want to see anyone right now. His mood had sunk to the ground since yesterday, and today the general decided to simply get drunk—no frills, no drinking company, just get drunk on wine until he passed out, and that was that.
In fairness, however, it should be added that this had been happening to him every day since the day Sandu was kidnapped. During the day, Heverad drove around the city, contacting various, sometimes downright unworldly, people, sending agents to search for his wife—to no avail. It was as if she had vanished into thin air. No one had heard anything, no one knew anything... and the general sensed that this wasn't quite true—they knew something, they had heard something, but they were keeping quiet. They were afraid. And what's most interesting—they feared those unknown people more than they feared him, the general, the commander of the country's armed forces. It was offensive. It was frustrating. And... it was scary.
It's really scary - who are those who dared to challenge the most powerful people in the kingdom, those from whom neither walls, nor guards, nor a high fence decorated on top with a ligature of the sharpest pins can protect?
A couple of days after the kidnapping, an exhausted and disillusioned Heverad fell into a despair uncharacteristic of him, a strong man who had seen it all. He had been unable to do anything to find Sanda. And the worst part was—he had done so senselessly, so uselessly! He had kept a friend in prison, taken the wife of one of the most dangerous men in the kingdom, killed his own wife, and made an enemy of a powerful aristocrat. For what? For the sake of sitting by the fireplace, drinking wine, and watching the flames flicker across the dry logs… Total failure!
"Who did the demon bring?" Heverad asked dimly, looking at the servant with bloodshot eyes.
The servant bent down even lower, almost doubling over, afraid to meet the gaze of his hungover master, and, speaking slightly nasal, said in a hoarse voice:
- Sergeant Ned the Black. He's waiting for permission to enter. He's standing by the gate.
"Sergeant Ned the Black?!" the general asked, confused, and jumped up, accidentally knocking over his wine glass. It fell onto the rug, woven in the far south, and a red stain, reminiscent of blood, spread across the creamy, fluffy fabric.
The general shuddered and made a gesture to ward off evil. The stain was symbolic—a hint of fear stirred in Heverad's alcohol-suppressed soul: Why had Ned come? For what purpose?! Had he learned that Heverad had taken his wife? Was he planning revenge? He was a demonologist! What if he cast a spell on him, Heverad?
Then he calmed down a bit—the guy had lost his mage powers, that much was known. Which meant he only had physical abilities at his disposal, nothing more. He could be stopped!
"Tell the sergeant to wait. I'll see him. And call the head of security here. Quickly! Get moving!"
About fifteen minutes later, the large fireplace room, where Heverad liked to dine and receive guests, was filled with armed men—the most experienced and powerful fighters stood in niches, behind curtains, wherever possible. Two archers with crossbows took up positions by the window, behind the statues of men-at-arms. An archer hid in the opposite corner.
The hall was controlled in such a way that anyone who entered, if given a signal by the owner, would die within a second.
The head of the guard, a man in his early forties, a professional bodyguard who had been in the business since his youth, positioned himself next to his master, a step away, as did two other fighters—the best of those in Heverad's house. This gave the general a modicum of peace, even though he knew how dangerous the sergeant could be.
"Call Ned the Black," Heverad said hoarsely, pouring himself a full glass of wine and drinking it down in one gulp, not tasting or smelling it, like water.
He suddenly sobered up after Ned's appearance; his thoughts became clear and transparent, like Sanda's tear. He had to decide: kill Ned here, this moment, before he disappeared, or the general could negotiate with him, promising money for Sanda, a title—anything that came to mind, so long as Ned believed. In his hands, the general held a small paper knife, decorated with gold leaf and small red stones. If Heverad put the knife down on the table or dropped it—that is, let it go—the entire guard, on command from their superior, would attack the sergeant.
The order is not to take them alive.
* * *
Ned tore himself away from the brick wall at the entrance, where he'd been standing for at least twenty minutes, propping himself up against the rough stonework. The general was certainly an important man, so holding a mere sergeant for twenty minutes was nothing unusual. Who was Ned, and who was Heverad?! Maybe he was busy with important matters of state…
But for some reason, Ned's heart was pierced by this attitude. He'd thought the general would receive him quite differently, not formally, but as an old comrade.
Yuragor responded sarcastically that Ned was still a shepherd if he thought an aristocrat would treat him as if he had fifty generations of eleventh-rank nobles behind him. People should get used to the fact that people like Ned earned their positions exclusively with sword in hand. And don't think that all these high-born nobles are somehow special, descendants of gods. Among their ancestors, there was only one who took what he needed—by fire and sword. So they really have nothing to boast about.
"Come on!" the guard nodded and walked ahead of Ned. Two more followed behind, their hands on the hilts of their swords.
"Be careful. I don't like this convoy. And the courtyard seems deserted—do you see any guards wandering around? Servants running about minding their own business? Everyone seems to be hiding. And up there, I see archers. Something fishy here."
"Expecting an attack? Don't forget, the city is constantly plagued by squabbles, conflicts between nobles, and rampant street gangs—that's why he's hedging his bets."
"Maybe so, but it's best to be on guard. Keep your hands close to your swords. Don't relax."
- I'm not relaxing!
"This way. The General is waiting for you!" The guard swung open the tall, white-painted door, and Ned stepped onto the polished parquet floor.
In the center of the room stood a huge table of polished wood, adorned with gilded carvings. On either side of the table stood chairs, also works of art, resembling oversized armchairs.
The tall windows, common in noble homes, were adorned with multicolored mosaics, interwoven into patterns of whimsical figures resembling either exotic animals or birds, or perhaps both. The stained glass windows cast reflections on the statues depicting men-at-arms.
The sculptures looked so lifelike that at first Ned mistook them for real soldiers, but upon closer inspection, he realized they were statues after all. The figures were too still, frozen in motion: one seemed poised to strike an invisible adversary, another stood still, sword raised above his head, ready to strike his foe down with a mighty blow.
Ned noticed living fighters skillfully concealed behind the statues. They were almost invisible behind the broad figures, but unlike their undead "colleagues," the guards moved slightly, and Ned's eye caught the movement.
Ned glanced around the room and, in a matter of seconds while walking towards the fireplace, found and identified everyone who was hiding in the room.
"See? Two crossbowmen, and an archer up there. Beware of them. Especially the crossbowmen. So, ten men, plus the two following you... three more coming. And three more next to the general. Sixteen in total. This could be a struggle, if anything."
"What are you talking about?! The General always treated me like family, I owe him a lot! Why on earth would I fight him?"
"Why did they bring so many guards here? Do you really think the general spends his days by the fireplace, watched over by fifteen guards? No wonder they kept you out of the house for so long! They were preparing for a meeting."
- So what's the conclusion?
"The conclusion is that something happened that's completely out of the ordinary. Something we don't know about, something that's made the general reconsider his attitude toward you. It's as if they're afraid of you and want to kill you."
- I can't believe it... Heverad is a completely decent person.
- Well, now I have the legal right to say: "I told you so!"
With firm marching steps, Ned approached the general sitting in the chair and reported:
- Sergeant Ned the Black! I was told you were looking for me, General. Here I am.