A Cruel Tale

by Alex Sapegin

  “Are you coming to the dedication ceremony?” Andy heard Rur’s quiet voice from off to the side. He looked with just his right eye at the K’Rauu and the vampire, saying good-bye. At first, he had taken the K’Rauu as a representative of the purple branch of the elven tribe. The suitor gently squeezed Frida’s hand between his palms. Andy had to work hard at overcoming his jealousy. “Frai’s going to take his maturity exam. He’ll be glad to see you there for it.”

  “Targ, how could I forget? How many days are left?”

  “Two weeks.” Frida turned to the dragon. Andy nodded, saying that he saw no reason she couldn’t go home.

  “I’ll come.”

  “Great. I’ll tell Frai.”

  “Kerr.” A strong jerk to the tip of his wing made Andy turn away from the extremely interesting conversation. This Rur guy’s hiding something. Lanirra tugged a second time. “Kerr, the mages are calling you. Everything’s ready. They need you to tell them the exit point, or else you’ll be hovering in the clouds.”

  “I’m coming.”

  Andy went into the weaving of a transfer spell, placing runes one after another along with the exit point coordinates—the big boulder in the village, not far from the cave. Jagirra, back in the day, had made him learn a complex cluster, assuring him that everything you know comes in handy in life. Well, she was right. It’s going to be useful. Closing his eyes, he connected to the astral and pushed energy into the resulting bodywork structure. At the third second of this, with a quiet clap, the haze of the activated portal appeared between the framework of the arch, sparkling all over.

  The first to leave the former monastery were the she-wolves, Tyigu, and Frida. Then Rary and Rury dove through the arch, hurried along by the quiet roar of Lanirra, who was unhappy about something. The dragoness was constantly glancing at Andy and twitching the tips of her wings; she was obviously tortured by some sort of suspicions.

  “The letter to my mother is in the back pocket of your knapsack,” Andy whispered to Ilnyrgu, who tensed right up at the sound of it.

  “You’re not...”

  “Go on. Don’t make that face, everything’s fine, calm down. Get Olaf and go through the portal, quickly.”

  Andy tensed up his wings and paws. Il shoved the red-headed Viking towards the carriage on the portal platform and slapped the last hass on the hindquarters. The animal’s eyes were covered with special shields to blind it, as on horses when they pull carriages. It roared and in one leap jumped into the haze, dragging behind it the orc and the Norseman. It was time. Andy suddenly lifted off the ground, his giant wings flapping fast. A short bolt of lightning flew from the dragon’s right paw and demolished the trellises. The portal clapped shut. Now it would be impossible to determine the exit coordinates. Having made a sharp turn, the dragon, hugging the ground, disappeared behind the wall of the former monastery. A few minutes later a dark shadow crossed the ridge and disappeared behind the tops of the giant pine trees.

  ***

  “The bird flew the coup and left the Tantrian mages in the lurch. Are you certain your guys from the royal Guild wanted to follow wherever your winged protege might go?” Beriem uncorked a bottle of wine and poured the amber beverage into the crystal glasses. The grandson looked at his grandfather inquisitively, expecting him to answer and continue narrating, but the old Rauu cut his speech short. If someone had randomly walked into the tent just then, he probably would not have been able to tell the two elves apart. That elixir of dragon’s blood the High Prince had imbibed gave him a short (by elvish standards) period of rejuvenated youth, changing his hundred-year-old appearance into that of a healthy man of about sixty. Miduel could easily get along without his cane, but suddenly quitting habits formed over centuries was easier said than done. The old elf, tapping the stick against his hip, was walking in circles around the little stool. Beriem watched his grandfather and wondered what he (Beriem) was doing here. What did the old elf need of him? Miduel was so authoritative in his demands, he had had to leave his unfinished inquiries in Orten and, with a brigade of bloodhounds from Tantre’s Secret Chancellery, grabbing Drang, the head of the royal knights of the cloak, and dagger as company, build a portal to a former monastery of the One God. Grandfather had asked Drang to come because it was a matter of importance to the State. The Duke of Ruma was now, along with the Informants, investigating the cold basements and disemboweled laboratory, while the grandson was immediately brought to the High Prince’s tent.

  “We wanted to, don’t doubt it,” Miduel said, picking up his glass of the fizzy beverage. He sat down in the wicker chair. The wine, surrounded by the shining crystal, emitted gas in little bubbles like champagne and a tempting sweet scent. One bottle of the “Snow bubbly” cost ten golden pounds beyond the borders of the kingdom of the Rauu. Only the Tiron red was more expensive. The elves kept the recipes for preparing the sparkling wines a strictly guarded secret. The winery that produced the effervescent treasury income source was guarded no better or worse than the vault of gold. “Do you think your...” the High Prince accented the word your, “friend Drang, the Duke of Ruma, left the royal mages clear instructions? I didn’t stop them…. One of the weaknesses of an alliance like that is the need to share information. But that’s a strength too. What were they able to discover from the corpses of the ‘knives’ in the woods?”

  “Didn’t your friend tell you that?” the grandson quipped back.

  “Knowing much leads to much anguish. The boy would rather stay silent regarding his adventures.” Beriem snorted. “I think you can shed some light on certain circumstances that made him take the orcs in.”

  “You’re going to be extremely surprised at these circumstances.”

  “I’m afraid I no longer can be surprised by anything. Pour me some more,” Miduel held out his glass.

  “How can I put this...” Beriem stood up. “How can I put this,” he repeated, pouring the wine.

  “Spit it out!” the grandfather hurried him along. He was dying of anticipation.

  “The royal killers of the Steppe were hunting a certain half-orc and his daughter….” Beriem began and took a sip. The High Prince cleared his throat demandingly. His grandson looked at him and decided not to test fate by keeping silent any longer. A storm was raging inside the old elf underneath his imperturbable appearance, the echoes of which were reflected in the colorful flashes in his aura and the play of the fingers on the knob of the carved cane. Any minute now he might throw the cane aside and tear into his grandson with a good tongue-lashing… when was this? Two thousand years ago, or a bit longer? No, more recently, but it definitely happened. Beriem had had the carelessness of getting caught riding a griffon. Everything would have been fine if it weren’t for the fact that there were no seatbelts on the saddle or anywhere. His grandfather unexpectedly gently chided his grandson, and then, taking him into the stables asked him to choose a whip made of a birch branch. The young elf did not suspect his grandfather’s intentions and chose the strongest. How badly his rear end hurt afterward! The human method of discipline was now in the reckless rider’s head for future use. He never again forgot to strap in, and he looked at the birch branch with fear for a long time afterward. Now his grandfather’s aura was sparkling with the same colors in the same way as it had two thousand years ago. “Little Beri’s” rear end began to ache, asking him to forgo dredging up those… um, vivid memories and not to call new problems down upon it. What if grandfather suddenly decided to repeat the lesson and go after his backside with the cane? As luck would have it, there’s no birch branch handy in the tent!

  “What is it? Are you recalling the episode with the birch branch?” Miduel creaked. “I have one, under the makeshift bed.” He laughed a loud, rolling laugh, and in a couple of seconds, Beriem joined him. “There. We’ve had a good laugh,” the granddad said, wiping a tear away from one eye. “Don’t take it too far, or I’ll order the guard to pick the leaves off the branch, and I’ll remember my youth.”

  �
�Yes, even now I remember it.” Beriem rubbed his bottom. “Ok, now to business. In Orten, my agents uncovered an interesting fact. It turns out our hero used to attend the school of Berg the half-orc under supremely interesting circumstances. The half-orc’s former governess told us that Berg met a certain young man when he saved his daughter’s life. During a walk, the girl became the victim of an accident. A carriage went running wild, and it hit the corner of the building. A piece of the spring mechanism flew out and pierced the girl’s chest and lung. The young man in a student’s jacket made her drink a strange elixir—and in an hour, there were no traces of her wounds. The girl ate fried beef liver like a horse after that. The strange elixir seems to have the effect of a potion with dragon’s blood. The half-orc, grateful for having saved his daughter’s life, invited the bookworm to study at his fencing school. I became very interested in the fact that an unknown mix got permission to open a business. Drang’s bloodhounds turned the magistrate upside-down and interrogated all the clerks who were still alive after the revolt was put down. The civil servants did not hide the fact that the permission was bought for a bribe of three thousand golden pounds, which were brought to the magistrate’s cash register. The half-orc was obligated to provide a month-long course every six months to the city guards for free and to make a voluntary contribution of two thousand coins under the table. In five years of doing business in the city, Berg only got good reviews, a good reputation, and a huge success. But what was a master orc swordsman doing in Orten? Our agents in the Steppe got their hands on a portrait of the swordsman and set out to learn something about the master named Berg. How surprised I was when the answer came the next day. My agent informed me that yes—there was a combat master by that name, and not only was he there, but he was very well known in Queen Lagira’s court. True, she was a princess at that time. Nobles in the know whispered that Lagira had a good time in the arms of the middle son of the Primary “knee” Prince-Khan. Then the princess suddenly grew cold towards her suitor and isolated herself in a country palace. Eight months later, a wave of inexplicable murders swept through the country. The Uragar clan was practically cut off at the root, and the Primary “knee” Khan fell out of grace with Lagira, who would sit on the throne after the death of her father, Hadar the Third. A week later, the Prince-Khan died. They say it was his heart, but I find that hard to believe. What does the Uragar clan have to do with it? Berg took a wife from that clan. The half-orc himself disappeared soon after.”

  “And in a year, he turned up on the other end of the continent with a little daughter in his arms. Go on.”

  Beriem coughed into his fist, took a sip of wine, and went on with his story:

  “After that just details. The agent, through a whole regiment of our puppets, gave us a portrait of the young princess of the white orcs.” A thin tablet made of yew lay on the table. It displayed a portrait of a very young girl dressed in a beautiful white dress and elegant slippers with little pearls on them. Little Tyigu bore a strong resemblance to her royal mother.

  “Does Drang know?”

  “No, our official task was to find Kerr. My subordinates have worked very well. Haven’t left a trace.”

  “Good. Take it away, or better yet...” Miduel threw the tablet with the portrait into the brazier. “Burn it. The girl is actually the person with the most right to the Steppe throne, which I’m sure bothers the Queen. The illegitimate daughter could become the center of a plot against her rule or demand the right to the throne after her mother dies. This is veeery interesting,” the High Prince grew pensive.

  “Does the dragon know about this?”

  “Most likely. But what a bugger, huh?” The grandfather snapped out of his thoughts and looked happily at his grandson.

  “Who?”

  “Kerr. There’s a play actor who’s even worse than the two of us put together. He bought me off with the priests’ papers, while he hid the little princess from curious eyes. Do you know how to hide something like that? In plain sight. The girl was right in front of us the whole time, went gallivanting about the camp with the little dragons, and no one even thought that the tomboy with scraped knees and callused hands from her wooden sword was the offspring of a royal. Wait!” Miduel suddenly fell silent, stopped by some idea which he was now examining from all sides. “Did your rangers manage to remove the information prints in the forest?”

  “A small portion of them. It’s not possible to reconstruct the entire picture of the battle using just them. It’s fortunate they managed to do even that. One more day and the energy would have dissipated entirely, and we could not have gotten any information from the scene or the ground after a heavy rain.”

  “I don’t need the whole picture. Tell me, did the dragon attack the ‘knives’ right away?”

  “No, we know that for sure. There were about ten or fifteen minutes between the time the knives attacked the caravan and the time the dragon got involved. Why are you so interested in the details?”

  “Because the girl is a universal mage of all elements! The pause between the time the ‘knives’ attacked Berg’s people and the moment the dragon showed up can be explained by the fact that Kerr was far away. But he could feel the mental call and flew to her aid!”

  “What advantage does knowing that give us?”

  “It tells me not to recommend making any plans for the girl, or we’ll lose all support from the dragons, and maybe make enemies of them, which is extremely undesirable.” Beriem carefully listened to his grandfather and said nothing. A mysterious smile on the old elf’s lips told him that he still had a few aces up his sleeve. “Come on, tell me what you’re not saying.”

  “It’s about Drang and his daughter-in-law—Irma Lei von Bokk. Duke Ruma will be a grandfather six months from now….”

  “And what does the duke’s family life have to do with our boy?”

  “He and the current bride were once close. We were able to obtain that juicy little bit of information from a classmate and former friend of Irma’s.”

  “Of course. Wonders never cease regarding that boy. We’re not going to trail the wife of the son of the fourth most important person in the kingdom. But, as soon as the child is born, we must test him for the ability to wield all the elements.”

  “Should we tell Drang?”

  Miduel choked on his wine.

  “How hot is it in Orten? Perhaps your brains have been boiled?” he asked his grandson, coughing.

  “I just had to ask, that’s all. Did you say something about some papers? These ones?” Beriem pointed to the pile of papers lying on a second little table. “Can I take a look?”

  The papers, however, remained untouched for a few more minutes. They heard Drang’s voice from outside, chastising the blazes out of someone, obviously one of his subordinates. The elves’ discussion took place under a double-solid curtain of silence, which had one unique feature—it allowed sound in from the outside. The grandfather and his grandson sat in silence and listened to the foul language. Miduel shook his head judgmentally. In his opinion, a government employee of such a high rank had no right to lower himself to the level of vulgar swearing in front of his subordinates. Beriem had no problem with strong words—he knew Duke Ruma much better, which meant something very serious must have happened to send the usually calm and phlegmatic Drang flying off the handle.

  Soon the curtain covering the entrance was moved to the side, revealing before the elves’ eyes the enraged head of the Tantrian Chancellery. Drang’s face was as red as a beet. His eyes flashed like lightning; his clothes smelled like a hint of yellow lotus pollen. Tantre’s leading nark stopped at the entrance, tore his cloak off and threw it on the ground.

  “The dolt!” his exclamation flew down after the cloak.

  Beriem retrieved a third wine glass from his trunk and gave the angry man some wine. Drang took the cup from the elf’s hand, poured the beverage down his throat in one gulp, asked for more, and only then did he make a slight bow in Miduel’s direct
ion.

  “Please forgive me, Your Highness!”

  “What happened? The High Prince creaked.

  Drang waved gestured helplessly.

  “That… that…” the representative of King Gil just couldn’t find the right word. “That snufl[14] spawn was careless enough to drop the suitcase!”

  “What suitcase?”

  “The one with the drugs made from lotus pollen, confiscated from the helrats’ laboratory. A cloud of narcotic dust hung over the entire squadron that was climbing the stairs. Uf.” Drang plopped down in a third seat and stretched out his legs with much relish. “I never would have thought I was capable of running like that. True, that brute who dropped the suitcase can run even faster. Now fifteen people are good for absolutely nothing until tomorrow. Four of them are knocked out completely. Three have become grown-up babies. They’re saying goo-goo ga-ga and blowing bubbles. Five of the guards are running around after butterflies, and three more had to be immobilized by magic to prevent them from mauling anyone. They flew into a rage and began attacking anyone in sight.” The Rauu glanced at one another. Their faces remained masks of indifference, but their auras were glowing with all colors of the rainbow. “Now imagine what would have happened had I been delayed just one minute. Have you imagined? The head of the Secret Chancellery would be blowing bubbles or picking flowers with a look of euphoria on his face!” Beriem turned around. His shoulders trembled slightly. The High Prince continued listening to the interesting story in his imperturbable mask, and the vein twitching under his right eye was the only clue to contradict his complete indifference. “I almost turned into a baby, without any magic at all….”