- So what do they have?
"Our scout got through—though with great difficulty. He's probably the last one; they won't let him through again. Incidentally, it seems they let him through on purpose, so they could give us a message," Zhordar chuckled.
"What do they want to convey?" Amunsky frowned.
"First, they crowned Sanda and her husband, Heverad. And I'll note, they crowned them completely illegally. Sanda is married to Ned the Black, a sergeant in the Corps."
"Is there any way to play around this? Anything we can do?" Girsos perked up.
"We can. But to do that, we need to get out of here. And we can't even stick our noses out of here yet. We'll conduct a reconnaissance mission later, but... I'm sure they're expecting it."
"Why didn't you get rid of this Sandu earlier? And Bordonara? By the way, where did he disappear to?"
"Where did she disappear to? Killed or captured. I'm sure of it. They had to clear the way for their bastard. Why didn't you kill Sanda? What was the need? While the 'king' was alive, she was just hanging around somewhere, what difference did it make? It was when he was gone that the problem arose. Only Sanda was no longer in sight. Those who got rid of the king hid her. And they know how to hide. So, further: I've been declared a corpse-eater, a hell-born creature who's holding the glorious nobleman Girsos of Amun hostage. And you're infected with a demon that's eating your soul. And therefore, your soul demands purification by releasing it. In other words, off with your head. They read me such a funny speech today—the scout told me from memory, and I rolled with laughter!"
"I don't see anything funny," muttered Girsos, "that means it won't be possible to come to an agreement with them."
"As if you didn't know that?" Zhordar grimaced. "Of course it won't work. And it wouldn't have worked without it. Well, what else... They saw Ned the Black, Sanda's husband—he was with them. Apparently, he sold his wife, Heverada, for positions and money."
"Ugh, how disgusting… What a decline in morals among young people," Girsos began and was unceremoniously interrupted by Zhordar:
"Oh, come on! What a clever move! You gave away a worthless creature, a woman, in exchange for power and money! Good job! It's a shame we'll have to kill him. We could somehow lure him over to our side... but I doubt it'll work."
– Why unlikely? Give a lot at once?
"He's probably already in on the conspiracy—he got a lot right away, and he'll get more later. Heverad will be richer than you."
- Oh, come on! Some colonel?! Well, even a general! It can't be.
"Maybe. I found out. He has twenty million gold in the bank, plus businesses, ships, and stores—all through front men. He's not only talented in war, he's also an excellent trader. It's a shame, a real shame..."
"What's a pity?" Girsos didn't understand.
"Oh, just like that," Zhordar chuckled, realizing with belated remorse that he'd backed the wrong horse. If he'd come to Heverad, if he'd guessed right, he'd be at the king's side now.
"Yes, the general is rich, I didn't even expect it," Amunsky drawled enviously, "I have less."
"Yes, you have ten million," Zhordar said calmly.
Amunsky choked, coughed, and stared menacingly at his subordinate:
- Are you spying on me?! You bastard! How dare you?!
"How can I provide your protection if I know nothing about you? I know everything there is to know. General Heverad wasn't in our sphere of interest, as he was on the outskirts of the empire and busy with military service—that's what everyone thought. And so was I. When he entered politics, I learned everything and was amazed by the scope of his activities. The man is a genius. A genius of entrepreneurship."
"Perhaps we should come to an agreement with him after all?" Gyrsos said thoughtfully, looking out the window at the palace garden, where twenty mercenaries lay sprawled on the grass, right on top of the precious flowers brought from the southern continent.
The palace was famous for its rare plants, which were now dying out. The entire garden was littered with soldiers defecating wherever they could. Every corner reeked of urine and excrement, and the palace was quickly turning into something resembling a dump and outhouse all at once.
"There's no way to negotiate with him, I told you!" Zhordar replied, slightly irritated, wanting to punch Amunsky in the head, his stupid and cunning. "I'm definitely dead, and you have a demon inside you, remember? It needs to be exorcised, and best of all, with a bonfire."
"What, that's what they said?" the nobleman asked, unpleasantly surprised.
"That's what they said: 'Burn this creature, this traitor, over a slow fire!'" Zhordar informed with pleasure, watching as the nobleman's face turned pale and his left hand trembled slightly.
"What, you bastard, did you think intrigues and conspiracies were fun? You put everything you have on the line—your life itself, my life—and now you want to run away? No way—I'll cut you down myself if I have to. But for now, I need you…" Zhordar angrily monologued to himself.
"Well, then, we'll fight. Any news from the allies?" Gyrsos asked in a surprisingly firm voice, and Zhordar was slightly disappointed. He hadn't thought the nobleman would calm down so easily. Atrok didn't like to be disappointed in his expectations.
"Yes. Your brother's force is five thousand strong, and his wife's father's force is six thousand strong. But that's not enough. At Heverad..."
"Yes, yes, I know!" Amunsky interrupted.
"Don't forget, they still have to enter the city," Zhordar shrugged, "and that's oh so difficult! Do you think Heverad will watch them enter the streets of the capital? And they won't be able to take the city with such a force."
"What are you suggesting? There are no others!" Amunsky's mouth twisted in pain. "Has anyone else responded?"
"Not yet," the advisor, also the head of security, also the head of the new ispas, the Great Atrok Zhordar, answered sullenly.
* * *
"What do you think they're doing now? Those ones in the palace?" Harald asked suddenly, melancholically polishing his already shiny sword. He sat by the library window, watching Ned rummage through scrolls and books.
"What are they doing?" Ned asked absentmindedly. "What are they doing, what are they doing... What kind of nonsense is this! So many books, and no classification. Where are the ones on magic, where are the laws? You won't find anything!"
"Bookworm!" Harald said accusingly, swinging his legs over the windowsill and sheathing his sword. "Come on, the feast's starting, I'm hungry. I know you don't like seeing your wife with Heverad, but you're hungry! Or are you staying here?"
"I'll stay," Ned said briefly and sullenly, "I'll eat later. I'm not very hungry."
- As you wish. Just answer the question...
"What am I to you, a seer?! Do I see through walls at a distance of two li? What am I to you…"
"Okay, okay, I see you're not in the mood, so I'm leaving." Harald raised his hands placatingly and practically galloped out the door, while Ned remained standing there, catching his breath. Blood pounded in his temples, and his mouth tasted of iron—he'd bitten his lip.
Having locked the door, he sat down on the sofa. He spread his arms wide and closed his eyes, trying to shut out reality and calm himself. His attempt was successful, and he fell into a deep sleep—he and Sanda had barely slept that night. Ned collapsed onto the sofa and began to snore, twitching in his sleep like a dog.
He didn't remember what he'd dreamed. He woke only to a hand caress his cheek, then lips pressed against his. Ned started and jumped up… but the room was empty, and only a draft wafted through the half-open door.
Ned shook his head in displeasure. Sanda ran away from the banquet table?! A scandal! But what scandal? She needed to go to the bathroom. She must have run in on him and then bolted, thinking he'd try to keep her there as long as possible. Silly girl!
Ned smiled, walked to the door, and bolted it. He returned to the sofa, kicked off his boots, and, flopping back down, fell asleep again.
Bang! Bang! Bang! – a knock came through his sleep, it was annoying, loud, hitting him right in the head, and Ned rose to his feet in displeasure, realizing this wasn't a dream. Some idiot was knocking the door off its hinges!
"You won't let me sleep, you bastards!" he shouted with hatred, pulled on his boots and pulled back the bolt.
Imar and her grandchildren burst into the room, scattering into the corners, looking around, and Ned, his eyes wide, watched as the brave team behaved as if they were surrounded by the enemy.
Imar muttered some kind of spell, something clicked in the air, and the pies that were sitting on the table—and how did they get there?!—turned blue, as if painted by the hand of a mad artist.
"There!" Imar pointed. "Who brought them here?! Whose handiwork is this?"
"I didn't bring it," Ned said, dumbfounded, smoothing down his hair, which was sticking up in all directions. It looked like the servants had applied some kind of fixative when they'd done his hair, and when he'd fallen asleep, the abomination had held it in place just the way it pleased—in all directions, like straw.
- And who brought it?! You should have seen it!
"I didn't see it," Ned admitted, "I was sleeping. I was kind of tired today... that's why I collapsed."
"What! You'll probably never get any sleep with such a beauty!" Harald chuckled, but was stopped by his grandfather's cold gaze.
"What, the door was open?" Imar asked harshly. "Are you an idiot? The city is overrun with agents of Amunsky and his allies! How can you be so careless?!"
"I think I locked it," Ned stammered, trying hard to remember whether he had locked it or not.
"I think... But where did the pies come from?" Imar persisted.
"I brought it," Amela suddenly interjected, blushing to the roots of her hair. "I took it from the banquet table and brought it here. He didn't go to the feast, he's sitting here, miserable. So I brought it. And a jug of juice. And I opened the door with an unlocking spell. You know, I've started to get the hang of it..."
Ned looked at the girl incredulously, his eyes widening in surprise. Amela hid her eyes, and Ned turned away too—so that's who kissed him! And he'd thought it was Sanda...
"Heh-heh! The toad's fallen for a guy!" Harald laughed happily. "Finally, for her, 'boyfriend' and 'toad' were synonymous. At least someone stole her heart!"
"Fool!" Amela snorted. "Shut up and get to work!"
"What happened?" Ned asked, filled with the most terrible foreboding. "Why did they turn blue?"
"And you don't know?" Imar asked, surprised. "Don't you know this spell?! Oh, my gods! At least we know something you don't. It's a poison detection spell. It's unknown when it was invented, but it was clearly later than your Yuragor died, otherwise you would have known about it. The pies are poisoned. And another thing—Heverad and Sanda are poisoned."
"What?! Where?! Where are they? Alive?" Ned went pale, and it was as if blacksmiths' hammers were working in his head. The people recoiled from him—the boy's eyes glowed red, flickering, and a black haze formed around his body, streaming in dark tongues.
"Take me to her! Quickly!" Ned's voice was commanding, harsh, and ringing, like the steel of a demonic blade.
Imar recoiled in fear, but pulled himself together and, beckoning to the sergeant, ran out into the corridor. A short run, the banquet hall—huge, lined with tables—appeared, people huddled against the wall, chatting and glancing back at the fleeing soldiers.
"They're gone, they were taken away," Imar said and rushed to one of the entrance doors.
A long corridor, polished parquet floors, the smell of death hanging over the headboards of two people lying side by side in bed, as if they had actually been husband and wife in life.
Ned rushed to Sanda, pressing his ear to her chest… There was no heartbeat, no movement of her chest as it drew in air. He was about to remove his ear when he suddenly detected a single heartbeat. Ned paused and continued listening. A minute passed, at least, and… another beat!
"Alive?!" Ned sighed with relief.
"Not quite," Imar said sullenly, "caldran."
"What?! How dare you?!" he barked furiously, looming over the old man. He looked into Ned's red eyes without moving a muscle and calmly replied:
"What else could I do? I needed to slow down their life processes. There was nothing else at hand. You should be grateful I had this in reserve."
"There's no antidote for it! Are you crazy? Magic doesn't work on it!" Ned shouted, grabbing the old man by the shoulders and shaking him like a pear. "What were you thinking when you did that?! Where am I going to find the ingredients for the antidote for you? Where from? The last dragon was killed hundreds of years ago! Where did you even get it? What do you need it for?! You old idiot!"
"Don't touch Grandpa, you bastard!" Someone grabbed Ned from behind, but he, maddened, threw his arm, and they flew toward the opposite wall like a ball. They piled on Ned, hanging on his shoulders. He roared, foam appearing at the corners of his mouth, and the huge, armored soldiers flew away from him like hounds under the blows of bears.
A few seconds later he was free, and around him, groaning soldiers were lying on the floor in various positions.
Ned turned back to the old man, but… a familiar face appeared before him, a snub nose, a firm gaze – blue eyes looking straight ahead, point-blank, and there was not a shadow of fear in them:
"Well, hit him, if it makes you feel better! Don't touch Grandpa! He meant well. I don't know what happened, but if they're both alive, that means there's hope. Calm down, Ned!"
"You don't know... you don't understand! It's as if he killed them!" Ned croaked, lowering his hand. It was as if a steel rod had been pulled out of him, and his powerful body went limp.
Ned sat down next to Sanda and, oblivious to everyone around him, took her hand in his. He stood there, gently rocking his body back and forth, back and forth...
The people he had knocked down rose from the floor with a groan, looking with respect and irritation at the guy who had so easily taken out a dozen soldiers.
Thankfully, there were no serious injuries—just bruises and bumps. The armor he was wearing saved him. Ise, who had rushed Ned first, suffered more severely—his eye was closed under a magnificent bruise that covered almost half his face. The boy vomited in the corner—the aftermath of a blow to the head.
Imar was pale and silent. He stood next to Ned, lost in thought, saying nothing. Then he sat down on a chair near the table and froze, staring into space.
Amela looked from one to the other, threw up her hands in despair and screamed:
"Damn you, explain what happened?! The healers from Agar will be here soon, we'll cure everyone. What the hell are you doing causing this tragedy? We'll wake everyone up in a minute! Relax! You're acting like children!"
"Quiet, my dear," Imar said wearily. "When everyone else here has left, I'll tell you. Gentlemen! Please leave the room and close the door. It's a state secret!"
The guards, glancing back at the old man, began to file out into the corridor one by one. Finally, the only ones left in the room were Ned, Harald, Imar, Amela, and the pale, distorted-faced Isa, glaring furiously at Ned with his good eye. And then there were the two poisoned men, who looked like marble statues. Their skin was as white as the robe of precious royal fabric.
- Tell me, grandpa!
"Let him tell me what he knows," Imar said quietly, "and I'll add to it. It seems he knows quite a lot."
"He gave them kaldrana," Ned said devastatedly. "It's a poison, or not quite a poison. Basically, it slows down life by tens, even hundreds of times—it all depends on the dose. It's made from herbs, minerals, and another ingredient that's now unavailable. And it's unclear where he got it from! The antidote that reverses the effects of kaldrana is made from almost the same ingredients, only the spell that binds them is slightly different. That's all."
"That's it?! And all that screaming?!" Amela sighed with relief. "I really thought it was something serious! Make an antidote, inject it into them, and bam!" Our beauties stood up.
"You don't understand," Ned sighed. "The antidote can't be made. The stuff it was made from no longer exists. They're gone."
"Who's missing?" Amela asked angrily. "What's missing?! Speak more clearly, I'm fed up with your secrets!"
"There are no dragons," Ned explained, and Amela gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "They had a special gland, adult dragons. The fluid from this gland was used as an ingredient in both the caldrana and its antidote."
"Wow! I always thought dragons were mythical creatures, the invention of idle storytellers, but they actually existed?! Wow! But what's the point of this demonic kaldran?! Who invented this abomination? And where did you get it from, grandpa? I don't get it!"
"Kaldran was used by warriors on long journeys. It's very, very expensive, but it's effective. Imagine you've been wounded, you're dying, dying. A crystal of kaldran—and you fall asleep. Your dying process lasted for years. Meanwhile, your body was brought to a healer, he cured it, all that was left was to throw a crystal of antidote, and you rise alive, healthy, if only slightly weakened. You can lie like that for a hundred, two hundred, or more years. True, hardly anyone has ever lain like that for more than two hundred years. In a thousand years, the body will still die—from hunger and thirst, for example. It will dry out. When I saw Heverad and Sanda wheezing, clutching their throats, I understood everything and... threw a grain into their mouths. Or more—I don't remember, I had other things to do. The rest of those who ate the pies died. Among the dead were the heads of large noble houses. Well, that's all...
"No, not all of them," Ned said harshly. "Why do you need kaldran? Where did you get it? Why did you carry it with you?"
"For the sake of my grandchildren," Imar shrugged. "I knew you'd have to leave. And a lot can happen on the road. And I wanted to make you promise: if there's no way to cure any of my grandchildren, you'll give them the kaldranas and bring the body back. And I… I would have done everything, I'd have spent all my resources on finding an antidote and… I would have found it. I still will. I don't believe that dragon venom alone can serve as an antidote. There will definitely be something else. We just have to put in the effort. The kaldranas have been in our family's keeping for hundreds of years. If I'd known I was dying, I would have passed the kaldranas on to Isa. It's customary to pass them on to the youngest in the family. Or… at the eldest's discretion, if the youngest is unworthy…"
"Back in my time, the last dragons were wiped out—for the sake of this very kaldrana," Ned said sullenly, unaware that he was speaking as Yuragor. "People thought it was the key to immortality. But it turned out to be just a long, very long sleep. I know of cases where people took kaldrana and woke up a hundred, two hundred years in the future. I know of three such cases. And all of those people committed suicide."
"Why?" Amela asked, stunned. "What's wrong? You're in the future—how interesting! You wake up—and then... You could put the money in the bank, and while you were sleeping, the interest would accumulate—you'd be rich!"
"It's a curse, not a blessing. Imagine waking up and seeing strangers all around, different customs, different mores, a different country, maybe. Grandfather, Harald, Isa... me... no more. People don't know you, they don't need you. You're repulsive to them—an artifact from antiquity. Money? That bank was looted long ago. There was a war. And even if there was any left, who remembers you? Everyone's eyes widen and they say, 'Who are you? Have you lived for two hundred years? Are you crazy? Get out of here, or we'll call the guards!' And you wander out to the square by the city gates, where all the poor gather. And then... then you decide you can't live like this. Better to die. Do you like it?"
"It's a terrible picture," Amela shuddered. "I didn't think it was that bad. But let's get back to our sleeping ones—what are we going to do with them?"
"Make him more comfortable," Imar intervened. "The doctors will be here soon, they'll remove all the nastiness that got into your system, wash it out, and then... we'll look for a way to stop the effects of the caldrana. Look for an antidote. If we found the poison, there's bound to be an antidote somewhere, for sure. Maybe someone's keeping it as a family heirloom..."
"I doubt it," Ned sighed. "Okay, I'm sorry I snapped at you. I was beside myself with rage. I'm sorry, Isa, I didn't mean to. Guys, I'm sorry!"
"Oh, come on, whatever," Isa chuckled, "the doctors will fix me. But here's the thing... who planted the poison? Did you find out?"
"No," Imar frowned. "I ordered the entire house to be surrounded and no one to be allowed out. Neither nobles nor servants. Everyone to be searched. The ladies too."
"There'll be a scandal," Amela drawled. "What's there to look for if we're just going to search?"
"Poison, of course. The poison of the yangor tree. It turns so blue. They've probably already thrown out the vial of poison, but... what's wrong with demons?"
"Why did you put it in pies?" Ned asked, puzzled.
"These are wedding cakes. According to a time-honored custom, all the important people are given one, take a bite, and feel like they're bonding with the newlyweds. Didn't they do that at your wedding?"
"Yes, there was something like that," Ned admitted reluctantly after a moment's thought. "But I didn't pay attention. What kind of pies, why pies... Did you bring a whole plate of wedding pies?" Ned chuckled, looking at Amela.
"What? There were so many of them!" the girl admitted sheepishly. "They make pies with different fillings and notes. And then everyone reads what each person got. It's fun!"
"Fun," Ned repeated flatly. "The fun's just beginning. Who could have brought poison and dropped it into the filling? Why didn't the poison-recognition amulets work? If it was one of the staff, that's one thing. If it was one of the guests, they must have been seen entering the kitchen. All this needs to be sorted out. And the main question now, since Heverad is asleep, is who leads the armed forces if the commander is ill, or absent, or killed? He still holds the position of commander-in-chief of the armed forces! Who's in charge now?"
"One of his deputies, probably," Imar shrugged. "Colonels, who else? You know best."
"Okay, we'll figure it out. But why didn't the poison protection amulets work?"
"It's a rare poison," Imar explained. "The poison of the yangor tree is incredibly rare and costs a fortune. Amulets aren't designed to protect against it—it's very rare, even on the southern continent. When an amulet is made to protect against poison, a pinch of the poison is sprinkled on it, along with any incantations. If a certain poison wasn't present at the time, how will the amulet be able to detect it later? Witchcraft is witchcraft, but… not everything can be foreseen."
"It's Amunsky, for sure," Ned jumped up. "He was avenging his daughter, and then he killed two deer with one shot! Or rather, he tried to do it. No matter, I just need to get to him... and I'll find the culprit in the house. We need to start with the kitchen staff."
There was a knock on the door, and a man's voice, muffled by the thick door plate, shouted:
– The doctors have arrived! Gentlemen! The doctors!
Ned nodded to Harald, who stood by the door, and he unbolted it. The door swung open, and a mountain of a man tumbled in, sweaty, red, and very upset. He strode toward Ned, crossing the room in barely two strides, grabbed the boy by the shoulders, lifting him like a feather, pressed him to his chest, and boomed, "You're a fool!"
- I'm so sorry, so sorry, my boy! I'm so sorry! My condolences!
"There's nothing to commiserate about yet," Ned struggled free of Zheresar's clutches and, looking at his friend with moist eyes, added, "She's alive. And Heverad is alive. They're asleep. Does the word 'kaldrana' mean anything to you?"
"He talks. And how he talks!" the doctor muttered. "He talks a lot. And he talks very badly."
- Imar gave them kaldrana, he saved them, they were poisoned with the poison of the yangor tree.
"Oh... that's disgusting! A lot of work! I brought all the medicine I had with me, we'll whip up an antidote now. Yangar is from the python venom group. If we administer the antidote in time, we can save him. And my colleague will finish the rest—the poison has already been absorbed into the tissue, so we'll have to use magic to remove it."
"Hey, kid," the balding mage hugged Ned, "we'll fix them. But Kaldran! Something unheard of always happens around you. I've only read about this stuff in ancient treatises! Where did you dig it up?"
"There are such places," Ned chuckled, not looking at Imar. "Are you the only one here? Or are there other healers?"
"I'm enough," Gerlat chuckled. "There were two guys who were trying to get me, but I didn't take them. God forbid they do something nasty..."
"And we're not doing anything!" a voice said, and a white-haired head poked out from behind the door. "We're helping! When else will there be a chance to treat the king?"
"Scoundrels! How did you get here?" Gerlat seethed.
"They didn't dare stop us," Magar leaned out. "I said I'd curse them if they didn't let the royal physicians through! They said we were with you, Uncle!"
"Who are these?" Amela asked with interest. "What kind of stuffed animals are these?"
"Now, now! Be quiet around the great mages!" Magar snapped. "Just because you're a girl doesn't mean..."
"Shut up, now!" Ned barked. "There are people dying here, and you're babbling! Zheresar, Gerlat, we're leaving you with the sick. Everyone out!"
Guardsmen stood in the corridor—the same ones Ned had crushed. He found the platoon commander with his eyes, gestured for him to come over, and ordered:
"Post a guard. Don't let anyone into the king and queen's room! And keep your mouth shut. The queen is alive, and so is the king—that's all we can tell the curious. No details."
"Yes! We'll do it!" the corporal saluted and commanded, "Get ready! Draw your weapons! Don't let anyone in the room except the medics, keep your eyes peeled—I'll skin you alive! If I can't skin you alive—he will," the corporal nodded at Ned, who looked as gloomy as a cloud.
"I forgot... Isa, go to the healer, let him fix your face. Then come to the fireplace room. And tell Gerlat to come there too when he's finished. And have Zheresar keep watch over the sick. Or send someone—have his men come, both guards and watchmen. Come on! You bastards are with us too."