The Nameless Slave 2

by Vitaly Zykov

  – Yeah, I do not remember such time! Whatever period in the history of my country you take, since the beginning, we are always at war with somebody. – Oleg was even a little embarrassed.

  – Yeah, well, of course, it's too much already. – Irung calmed down a little. – But here we are flabby, obdurate in our superiority. Yes, of course, we have the most powerful magic, the advanced science, the strongest Navy, we get into every brawl on the planet, and everybody flees to their corners. And we are happy, relaxed and satisfied. But this cannot last forever. Let's take an example – our journey from the Forbidden Land back to Nold. Do you remember the hfurrg's[5] ships which attacked us in the sea?!

  Oleg thought and shuddered. The first naval battle in his life had made quite a striking impression, and not exactly too pleasant.

  – Yeah! An impressive spectacle!

  – The question is not about that! – Irung snapped irritably. – For the first time somebody opposed us with a weapon which very existence we had pegged as impossible. Do you understand what that means?! Controlling everything, we had missed a colossal invention that had required serious study and no less serious investment! Especially in the military sphere. And since we had missed one invention, there could be other omissions. The construction of such a ship does not merely need one or two inventions. This is a major breakthrough in the military sphere. Of course, those who should, are working at full tilt now, the best minds are involved… But we are in catch-up cohort now. Catch-up, you know!

  Oleg shocked with the stream of information decided to interrupt this verbal pressure:

  – But we won! The ships were sunk!

  Irung laughed:

  – Me, the magician of the fourth rank, the best graduate of the Academy for the last fifty years, could do nothing to stop those ships. Nothing! We were saved only by the interference of a third force, the Dark Elves, apparently. Their magician out-done those ships at one bout, and even without especial strain. Do you realize what that means?!

  Only now, understanding dawned upon Oleg. If even the best graduate could do nothing, what can we expect from the rest? Let Irung not be a magician of a high rank, but then again: the higher the rank the fewer experienced magicians. So, most of magicians are weak. So it turns out that the basis of Nold, those on whom rests its power – are powerless? And as Oleg remembered it well, Dark Elves were not on the side of the United Protectorate during the Wars of the Fall. Even though they have withdrawn from politics and are stewing in their own juice, everything could change at any moment! Elves are long-livers, and their memory is better that human's…

  – So, Nold is a colossus on feet of clay? – Oleg mused, slightly regretting his choice of the country of his residence at this moment.

  – What? An interesting phrase. I'll remember it… Of course not! We are strong and if necessary can crush anyone separately. Let it be with a lot of blood, but we still can. Of course, if they unite… but even then we will probably fight… The status of a great state has a certain basis, all the same! – Irung was as if thinking aloud. – Only in case of a large-scale disaster we will disappear. Like Dusk Empire did. Our people are not ready for hardships. Our magicians are researchers, healers, analysts, but very few of them are practitioners. Heroes of the Wars of the Fall sank into oblivion. Those sorcerers were primarily hardened warriors and owned such knowledge that it's scary even to remember… So much is forgotten now, but if you read chronicles between lines, then comparing yourself and those magicians you begin to despise yourself. Two thousand years ago a senior student could defeat at least a couple of today's magicians of second rank. Can you imagine that?

  Oleg who had already realized the local situation pretty well, whistled. Wow! But he decided to argue:

  – But what for is it necessary now? As I understand, if every citizen is a professional killer, it would be not too quiet a country. A small, highly professional army, and the rest of citizens distant from military service, that is an ideal for a developed state…

  – Yeah, but in time of peace, only. When you're on the podium and others idolize you. But when surrounding nations dream only to trample you into the mud, it's not the best option. And if a cataclysm happens survival chances will tend to zero for such a spineless nation.

  – But we don't expect any catastrophe? – Oleg, embarrassed by the confidence in the voice of his partner, tried to smile.

  – You're wrong here! Very much wrong! – Irung was almost shouting. But then, as if coming to his senses, he muttered: – It's too early to talk about that… So, are you with me?

  – What exactly do you want?

  – I want to become the best magician practitioner, so that my life will no longer depend on someone's favor! I recommend the same thing to you. So what do you say?

  Oleg, who loved the process of studying the magic itself, especially the combat magic, nodded.

  – But will we learn the combat spells at the Academy? Or not? – He asked.

  Irung laughed:

  – Yes, you will. And for higher ranks spells will be more powerful. But all that is rubbish. They never reveal really powerful tricks to you. Even if we don't mention the Forbidden area… You need to look for that yourself. Remember, yourself! Mages, like other people drown each other, climb on another's shoulders, go over the heads! Therefore, a single never reaches the true peaks of the Art, you need a team. So, are you with me?! – Irung said and held his hand to Oleg.

  Oleg looked into the magician's eyes and squeezed his hand in a firm handshake, fastening their union.

  Two men were sitting before a flaming fireplace, admiring the play of flames. The people who literally determined the political climate of Toarn, almost celestials, were quietly talking and drinking wine, sitting in the deep armchairs. They almost did not feel the heat of the fire, sitting in this room it was impossible to say that it was hot summer in the street.

  – How is the boy? – Lir Vittor asked leisurely.

  – Irung, you mean? Oh, you would not recognize him now! He has come to his senses and does not get out of the library. He rummaged the all old chronicles, became pensive. You imagine, he entangled his desk drawers with such spells, that even my agents had to spend half an hour to crack them! – The magister's voice was sparkling with fun. – The idea to give him the Chronicles was very lucky!

  Lir Vittor nodded.

  – Well, and what's he hiding?

  – Never mind. Summaries of old chronicles!

  – Just nothing? – Vittor was really surprised. – He disappoints me.

  Bryms laughed:

  – The boy was not used to losing, and he became interested in magic of the Wars of the Fall.

  – Has he found something? – Archimagus wondered.

  – Of course not. Some hints and descriptions. Nothing serious… It will be good for him. – Bryms was very permissive.

  – Nothing forbidden? – Archimagus raised his eyebrows. – Why is he hiding them then?

  – It does not even smell of forbidden magic. He just decided to play intelligence service, though it's a little late at his age. It is much more interesting that he has obtained permission to be the tutor of Oleg, one of the offworlders!

  – For what? Yes, of course, this stranger is more than gifted, but Irung was always a loner… – Archimagus shrugged.

  – That's a surprise, and… Well, okay. Those are all trifles. Maybe, their co-operative work will be fruitful.

  Archimagus and his Master of Punishers went silenced. There was only crackle of burning wood in the fireplace for a while.

  – What about the search of the Enemy? – Archimagus broke the silence again.

  – Why are you so drastic? It is rather a probable Enemy. – Bryms grinned sarcastically. – We should not be so trusting the old prophecies of Wartags, especially their translation from Old-Elvish. Wartags were talking about their Enemy.

  Lir Vittor grimaced in annoyance:

  – You are playing with words! You know very wel
l – if the prophecy comes true with such precision, it's worth taking it seriously! Though reputed to be brutal rulers, wartags were local, while the prophecy clearly tells about the arrival from outside. And now who has come from the outside?

  – A wetnosed boy – lir Bryms said shortly.

  – The boy who destroyed one of the Great Arcanes and had survived! And in addition, we have Loggs[6] in this story… have you forgotten, whose vassals they were?

  – Wartags', if you believe rumors, – Bryms replied lazily. – But I'm not sure that it is all so clear. Prophecies are never clear. If you understand a prophecy right away, it means that there is a mistake somewhere. – Bryms flicked a speck of dust from his white trousers. – Time will show if he is the Enemy or not. – The Master of Punishers chuckled briefly. – That would be a joke if he had vanished in the Forbidden Land, while this mess was happening around him.

  – Everybody began to stir. – Archimagus nodded.

  – Stir is the wrong word. There are stacks of corpses already. We should think fast, and saddle this wave…

  – Maybe someone has saddled it before us? – Archimagus asked looking at Bryms searchingly.

  – You mean Polot? Hardly. It was rather an unfortunate accident. The only thing which bothers me, is dragons. We rummaged all the records of their mythology…

  – And what? – The eyes of Archimagus expressed the extreme interest.

  – We found only a rough translation. It is a very old word, almost from the age of In-between-world dragons. Either a killer, or an enemy. Whose enemy or a killer, I do not understand. Although it can be assumed that it is a dragon killer.

  – Our guest from the outside fits this description perfectly, – nodded Vittor.

  – Yes, we have to admit that, breaking the Great Arcane, the boy did kill that dragon. So he can be fully considered a killer – said Bryms judiciously. – So he could be in Polot.

  – Well let's assume that it was him there. Maybe the boy was lost in the fire – Vittor grinned. – Although I would not hope for that. With his luck…

  Bryms nodded and continued:

  – The main thing that confuses me now is the increased activity in Guurr'o'demy area. Some strange magic, our analysts have never met with suchlike before. Four weeks ago there was a strong flash, but then attenuation. Although, maybe it's a residual trace of the breakthrough.

  – Of course, it would be interesting to research this phenomenon, but if you remember, Irung met that marhuz as soon as he landed there. If it had turned out to be older and more experienced, we would have lost the whole expedition. It's not worth taking a risk, you know.

  The Master of Punishers nodded:

  – Master Grach said exactly the same. We should be able to solve most of the problems when they arise, but now we have to deal with those who took our bait. I even did not expect that so many would swallow the bait. We will show them who's the boss, so they will never interfere with our business again…

  Vittor laughed:

  – Of course, a protégé of the Archimagus, almost his son, had been sent into the Forbidden Land with a particularly important task and had brought the offworlders from there, and even the prophecy started to come true… Who can miss that? You fed them censored records of the interrogations with our guests?

  – Lir Vittor, you are offending me!

  – I'm just joking!

  – By the way, how did they react to Polot burning?

  – Oh, it was predictable! Our colleagues from the United Protectorate supported this good initiative in unison. This Parsan with his monopoly for garlun became a bone in the throat for everybody. Tlantos proclaimed something unintelligible: saying that it was wrong, but we were in our right. In general, everything was as usual. All the kings in Sarduor became quiet and kept their tails between their legs. This lesson will be useful for them!

  – What about Steward's neighbor lands? Do they aspire to get a free tidbit? – Inquired Archimagus.

  – Not likely! They all believe that Parsan is alive. And he managed to frighten them with his assassins.

  – And he's really alive? – Vittor raised his eyebrows.

  – Abyss knows! – Bryms said with an unexpected annoyance. – We are powerless in this question. Parsan has always wriggled out of any mess. He survived seventeen assassinations at least, five of them were made by my people. Four of them have been certainly successful. So I'm not sure that that fatman was really our beloved Parsan.

  – This is really interesting… – mused Vittor. – Our people in the embassy did not suffer?

  – No! They all had gone through a small stationary portal. Few slaves remained, but who even cares about them? There were casualties among the embassies of other countries, but they all have got our sincere condolences already.

  – Were there any complications? – asked Archimagus.

  – Well, no. Khan Emperor immediately announced a general mobilization, and we had to make more florid apologies and send gifts… thus the conflict was settled. – The voice of Bryms was full of disregard to the representatives of other countries. – Nothing important, Khan Empire is full of people, a dozen more or a dozen less…

  The magicians laughed. Archimagus passed his hand over his face, and said:

  – We laugh, but in a hundred years Khan Empire would become a problem!

  Bryms nodded, and the two great magicians fell silent again. To play with fate of the world was very interesting, but extremely difficult. The main thing was to make no mistakes…

  CHAPTER 27

  Yarik collapsed inside a covered wagon with great pleasure. The bales were stacked along each side of the wagon up to the canvas ceiling. It was a bit stuffy, but it was much better than moving on foot, of course. The back of his master was looming ahead. He was discussing something with the driver in a low voice. Yarik remembered Dukan, that he would have already managed to scold the lying slave a hundred times or even to hit him with the damned goad.

  Yarik stretched with his whole body for the umpteenth time. He had not been lying for so long in about two years already. His right hand touched some jut and a light stab of pain reminded of the wounds. Yarik stretched out his hand and tried to examine the wound. A slight gloom of the wagon did not obstruct his eyes. Only inflamed scars on both sides of his forearm reminded of the through-and-through wound. Knowing his own regenerative possibilities, Yarik estimated that in three or four days it will be okay.

  – I'm a mutant all the same! – He whispered with fun. His heart was light and happy.

  At this time Darg looked back, still having heard what his slave had said, despite his own conversation with the driver and Yarik's barely audible whisper. Incomprehensibility of the phrases interested him, but he did not ask any question. A second later Darg resumed the interrupted conversation.

  Yarik's thoughts returned to their hospitable host, the merchant Turan. Yesterday, Turan came up to Darg again and carefully tried to figure out who they were. It was no difficulty to identify a nomad in Darg. With black hair, dark eye and dark skin, he was a typical representative of local nomadic tribes. Yarik was also not too far from Darg. The hair of the former Earthman was bleached by the sun, but his dark eyes acquired even more black color and depth. So he could be recognized as a nomad too, especially against the background of the blond companions of Turan.

  That's why this rich fatman wriggled like a snake looking for the truth. Rumors about the destruction of Polot had swept through all the neighboring towns and villages. They were talking about the change of power in the largest nomadic tribe. So the merchant was interested why this nomad and his servant had moved away from their kinsfolk. Information could also be sold, and the fresher information is more expensive. The merchant realized it well and was looking for a way to get his piece of the pie. He saw the highest level of military skill of Darg, and it also added questions. And the fact that this mysterious warrior stripped the robbers to underclothes was alarming too.

  Yarik g
rinned. Darg willingly answered all the questions, but he made such a haze that Yarik himself listened with his mouth opened. In Darg's stories black soldiers were falling from the sky, swords were ringing, the fire was pouring from heaven, and the gates to the Abyss itself were opened in the ground. The gods themselves were putting off their affairs in order to take in the sight of the fighting and dying mortals. Blood was gushing like a river and demons fought with each other for the souls of men. They asked Yarik's master to repeat the story several times. Each time the story acquired more colorful details. The audience groaned, gasped and clapped their hands on their sides in admiration, mentioning demons, gods and their relationships.

  They did not forget about the slave either. During the journey they repeatedly took Yarik aside and with arrogant tone demanded to tell them about what had happened with him and his master. Yarik rolled his eyes and started to whine about loyalty to his master, his imminent death in case of disobedience, and his boundless respect to the questioner. It finished only after a small donation magically migrated from the questioner's hand, into Yarik's pants pocket, and then the hour of his triumph followed. The number of his master's enemies doubled, or even tripled, the mad heaven lashed with lightnings, and the three-legged giants blew into the trumpets proclaiming the end of the world. The courageous warrior Darg walked knee-deep in liquid fire, fighting against all demons of the Abyss with his left hand, and knocking dragons down from heaven with his right hand. When they asked what Yarik was doing then, he always answered that he, as it befits a faithful servant, was carrying his master's weapon. Every time when the sword turned out to be broken against a head of an especially stupid dragon Yarik instantly ran up and put a fresh sword in the hand of his militant master. They gave Yarik a clout and advised to lie less, but came to him again at the next stop.