"Two more doves have returned, my king." Zhordar pronounced the words "my king" as if he sincerely believed this "pocket" coronation in a sewage-smelling palace was the most legitimate coronation in the world. They gathered the terrified priests from the palace chapels and forced them to place the late king's crown on Amunsky's head—that was the entire procedure.
It seems that Amunsky, or, as he was now called, Girsos the First, himself understood the stupidity of what was happening, because he quickly ended the procedure, hid the crown in the money vault where the royal treasury was kept, and never appeared wearing the crown again, explaining this by the inconvenience of the metal hoop, which was not made for his head.
"That's for sure, it's not his idea," Zhordar chuckled. However, he didn't show any outward sign of his feelings toward the "king."
– And what is written there? In the letters with the doves? Good news?
"Yes and no," the Atrok drawled thoughtfully. "Another five thousand troops from your allies, but... it'll take them at least two weeks to reach you. So they're of no use for now."
– And the others? Well, those who have already sent letters?
"They promised to arrive today. When? No one knows. Maybe by lunchtime. Maybe in the evening. But they'll arrive. And they'll lay siege to the city. Heverad's gone, so this stupid war council will fail, I'm sure."
- Are you sure? And what is your confidence based on?
- Well... you are a great strategist, how can you lose?
Gyrsos's sharp gaze seemed to pierce him right through:
- Are you flattering me? Why?
"No. I'm simply stating the truth," the atrok said calmly, with a sense of dignity. "So, Amunsky, did you take the bait? Yeah, you did..."
"Okay, I'm glad you think so highly of me. What's up with Heverad and his whore?"
- They're lying...
"So why didn't they die, damn them? You promised they would!"
"They'll die. It's only a matter of time. Let's leave the palace and chop off their heads. Someone had kaldrana, and now they're asleep. It's a potion that slows down life. They didn't have time to die. But what difference does it make to us? The main thing is that Heverad is incapacitated and can't command. And what can we say, he's a great commander, with enormous authority. The armies will follow him, because he's never lost a battle. And now he lies there like a log. Everything is fine. Well done."
- Who poisoned?
"My people. You're not interested in the details. I sent the order out in a certain way, they caught it, and... that's it. Our people are in the city. When the siege begins, the besieged will be very surprised. The appropriate orders have been given. Now we just have to wait.
"Why do you decide what's interesting to us and what's not?" said the "king," flushing with suppressed rage. "Let me decide for myself what's interesting and what..."
"Mr. Zhordar! There's movement in the square! It looks like they're preparing to storm!" The mercenary burst into the hall, interrupting the conversation, and Amunsky took a deep breath to bark and order the insolent man executed. But then the meaning of his words sank in, and Girsos seemed to deflated, instantly aging ten years.
"To storm? And reinforcements haven't arrived yet! Are they really going to lay down their soldiers here and break through?!"
"Heverad wouldn't have done it. These guys can," Zhordar said sullenly, rising from his seat, "but they won't get through. We'll pile up mountains of corpses, but they won't get through." He turned to the mercenary: "Call the commanders. Call my men—those in red. Have them gather on the palace wall, where there was activity. Who sent you?"
- Commander Nimokh.
"Tell him to withhold a week's wages from you and give you ten hot ones. And I'll check to see if he's done it."
"For what?" the mercenary was indignant.
"You can't barge in without knocking where the king is talking to his adviser. In fact, you could pay for that with your head! That's it, get out of here!"
"Yes, sir!" The mercenary turned and walked toward the door, and Zhordar watched him calmly. Perhaps he should kill him right there? His anger was searching for an outlet... No need, though. Maybe he'd kill at least one enemy, and that would be good. Why waste human material? He could be sacrificed—later. When it's all over...
The mercenary commanders and the Brotherhood of Jordar—the atrocs, the heads of the shatriy detachments—had already gathered on the wall. They silently watched as figures flickered at the edge of the square, behind the houses, and people moved about in groups and individually.
Indeed, something was brewing. And this "something" could very well displease the palace's defenders!
Finally, everything became quiet, as if nothing had happened—no one was running, no one was fussing. But Zhordar sensed something was wrong! This was the calm before the storm, and nothing more.
And his premonitions were right—people quickly came running out from behind the houses. It seemed to Atrok there were fifteen hundred or two hundred of them. They lined up, and those standing on the walls could hear a mournful chant, as if many voices were trying to merge into a single choir, but so far they weren't quite getting it right.
Zhordar's expression changed and he bit his lip painfully, grimacing as if he'd been stabbed in the ass by a Corps soldier's dart. When Amunsky asked in surprise what was going on, he barked furiously:
"They somehow made a deal with the magicians! This is the Arrow! The Magic Arrow!"
And then he shouted, his voice drowning out the distant mournful action:
– Soldiers, get back! Everyone get off the wall! Atrocs, strike the mage line! Quickly! Everyone be quiet except the Atrocs, or I'll rip your guts out!
His voice was terrible, harsh, and his face changed and became ugly, with a bestial grin, like that of a forest quarra.
Amunsky tried to say something, but Zhordar backhanded him across the face with such force that the "king" fell against the wall nearby and lost consciousness. Zhordar didn't even notice—it was as if he'd swatted away a fly buzzing above his dining room table.
The soldiers slid down the stairs, and the demonologists began casting spells, summoning demons of the highest level—as far as the Atrocs' skill allowed. Zhordar cast his spells alongside them.
Finally, the short spells were cast, and misty balls flew towards the lined-up mages, unfolding into wide "towels", looking at which you wanted to run wherever your eyes looked, just to avoid ending up where they were looking for prey.
The mages continued to wail and seemed oblivious to the demons rushing toward them. And it soon became clear why.
Strike! The demons howled in impotent rage, trying to breach the invisible defense and get to the mages' delicious souls. In vain—forty mages had cast a spell and were now maintaining the defense, surrounding their colleagues in an impenetrable bubble. They had practiced this action in advance, the previous evening, under the guidance of Zaragor, who was now clutching his neighbor's arm and maintaining the magical field.
Ahead of them all stood the most powerful black mage of the agara—a tall, gray-haired man. He concentrated on absorbing the energy of his colleagues and distributing it throughout his body. He was about to accomplish something no one had ever done before.
The mages' voices merged into a smooth hum, their words spoken as if by a single person. The unification spell they repeated incessantly finally united them into a single source of magic.
The black mage fully opened the channels of his magical body and trembled—never before had he felt such power! He reached out with his senses, amplified a thousandfold, down to where the Underworld seethed, where a terrible fire scorched stone and the souls of sinners. It seemed as if his arms lengthened, passed through the earth, and the mage felt a scorching heat. Then he found a vast lake of molten stone and pulled, pulled it toward himself—upward, toward the light, toward the sun's rays, toward life, blue sky, and green grass—to incinerate, kill, and destroy those who deserved it.
The earth shook like a fragile boat dancing on huge waves; the mages could barely stay on their feet, but they continued to chant the spell, supporting the Arrowhead.
They couldn't hold on. They fell all over themselves, landing on the hard pavement, which rippled like water. That's what saved them. If the black mage had managed to extend the lake of fire to the surface, not only the palace would have disappeared, the entire city would have vanished.
And so it turned out—pretty much exactly what the mages had hoped for—the palace, collapsing like a house of cards, began to rapidly sink underground, collapsing into the cave system that ran beneath the city. The crater grew rapidly, and the mages were forced to flee, grabbing those injured by the earthquake by the arms, dragging them away from the site of the deaths of thousands of people crushed by layers of earth, ground to pieces by giant "millstones."
Almost the entire palace square sank underground, where in a deep crater one could hear the screams and groans of people being ground into powder by huge boulders.
The screams quickly died down as jets of hot steam and clouds of superheated gases bursting from the ground dealt the final blow to those who managed to survive the terrible catastrophe.
After that terrible day, the earth did not quickly calm down. It continued to tremble and rumble for two weeks, and people feared that the earth god would become angry and destroy the entire city for disturbing the earth's surface. But all was well, and the earthquakes eventually subsided.
For a long time, people were afraid to approach the giant crater. Rumors swirled of spirits screaming and moaning within, and that many saw bright lights rising above it at midnight. But these were likely just stories.
The army that had come to Amunsky's aid arrived the next day. Scouts reported that Amunsky was no longer alive—he had been destroyed. So, really, there was no point in fighting. Revenge? That's stupid. All wars are fought for money, for power. That's why such romantic amusements as revenge are not considered by practical people.
And the commanders of the combined army appeared before the war council of Zamara, their heads bowed. They had heard the horrors of the terrible death of Gyrsos of Amun and did not want to end up in the Underworld like Amun and his minions, especially alive. They were forgiven, swore allegiance to the King of Zamara, and… sent home.
The civil war ended before it even began. In fact, it almost started – because of mercenaries whose employers refused to pay them. And what were they supposed to pay them for? There was no war. And the fact that they had to get to their homelands and find something to eat while they were there didn't matter.
Mercenaries roamed the outskirts of the capital and further along the roads, harassing merchants, robbing peasants, and asking for trouble, which soon followed. The Council assigned two regiments of guards, two cavalry regiments of men-at-arms, and a regiment of Corps infantry to apprehend the bandits. In a short time, about a hundred bandits were hanged, the rest fled. And the roads became quiet.
Ned set out on his march early in the morning, when the city was asleep. He had to stay another two days, constantly afraid that the Great Atroc would find him and try to kill him. But he couldn't leave so quickly; he had to settle his affairs and prepare for the journey. He bought provisions, selected good horses—riding and pack—and negotiated with the council to bring his trusted companions—Arnot and Itrok. They were on duty, so they had to be formally invited. Besides them, Ned was accompanied by Amela, Harald, Isa, and... Gerlath. The mage had asked to go himself: he said he wanted to see the world—he'd been stuck in one place for too long and had grown dull. Especially since the help of a mage-healer would certainly be useful on the road.
Senerad stayed home, a decision he didn't regret at all. The old man hated sea voyages, and Ned and his company would have to sail the seas on a ship, otherwise they wouldn't reach the land of the Ards.
It was decided to hire or buy a ship in the city where Ned was recruited as a soldier, a major northern port.
The council allocated sufficient funds so that the travelers could buy a ship, equipment, and a crew, since they were not setting out on a simple journey, but on a matter of state, to rescue the queen and the king.
Imar and Geresar were assigned to watch over the royals. Ned knew that as long as they were alive, no one would disturb the "sleeping ones," and he remained calm at the farewell ceremony, unlike Geresar, who shed tears at parting with his friend.
Geresar's sons, on the other hand, were cheerful and said they envied Ned, who was heading off to distant lands. They were planning to join the sergeant's troop, but their father objected, reared up, and promised to beat the crap out of them, no matter the cost. Because, he insisted, their place was here, with the king and queen.
That's how Ned found himself early in the morning on the road heading north. Alone. His companions had set out earlier and waited for him while Ned executed complex feints to throw off any possible pursuit. He had to leave through the southern gate, announce he was heading south, and then circle the entire city.
"Stop! Hands behind your back!" he heard a voice and grinned:
"Stop messing around, Harald. I've been hearing you for half an hour, like a herd, breaking through the thicket by the road!"
"You're lying! That can't be true!" the boy said, upset. "And I thought I was as quiet as a mouse..."
"Quiet, quiet," Ned reassured. "And I'm not as simple as you think. Okay, where are ours?"
– Everyone is here, everyone is waiting.
- Is the prince okay?
"You didn't ask if I was okay! Or a bug! But you asked about the prince! He's a pompous idiot! I just want to punch him. I have a feeling he'll drink our blood..."
"If we have to, we'll hit him," Ned smiled, "but we'll stick to the plan. Remember, he's a prince, a scholar, who travels the world on his own whim. He's going to establish contacts with the Ards. We're his retinue, his guard. And nothing else! Be careful not to screw this up!"
"What, don't I understand?" Harald sighed. "Just warn him too: if he bothers me, I'll beat his face in tonight!"
"No!" the sergeant stopped him sharply. "The prince's bruised face is unnecessary questions. No bruises. And I'll talk to him about not overdoing it. Is that clear?"
"I see," Harald said sadly.
– Well, since it's clear, let's go! We still have a long way to go… And the sun is already rising. It's time.
The riders nudged their horses, which perked up, ears twitching, and carried the men on to new adventures. What kind? The ones the playful gods had in store for them.