by Alex Sapegin
The very first night, after she had fed and given drink to all the guests, Jagirra asked them to tell her all the details. Settling down near the open fire kindled near the guest house, the dragon and the elf carefully listened to the refugees’ story. Ilnyrgu began from the beginning, holding Tyigu tightly as she did. She told the story of Master Berg and the reasons for fleeing the Steppe, then switched to all that had happened in Orten and the half-orc’s acquaintance with Kerr. The girls showed the tiny scars on her chest. Il’s story continued seamlessly on to the battle in the woods, went on swimmingly to the battle at Ortag, and then came to the events at the former monastery.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the orc said with fervor. “A simple mortal cannot overcome a spell like that. Kerr not only broke the spell, he completely destroyed it and slayed the priests. When High Prince Miduel’s entourage flew into the monastery, the mages accompanying him were in shock. The level of mana was off the charts, beyond all possible reckoning.”
“Miduel?” Karegar interrupted. The orc nodded. “That old shrimp’s still alive?”
“He’s not such a shrimp any more,” Frida spoke up for the Rauu. “The High Prince drank an elixir of dragon’s blood and looks quite well. I wouldn’t think he looks three thousand years old at all.”
“Yes,” Il confirmed the vampire’s words. “Miduel looks about as old as his grandson. But I’d like to go on. We found the helrats’ papers and Kerr used them as a bargaining chip to get the mages to build a portal. He kept a map and a couple of sheets with data on the heads of sectarian cells.”
The dragon closed his eyelids in thought, and Jagirra got out a letter. Their adopted son flew home through the nests marked on the map….
When it was Frida’s turn to speak, she was quiet for a long time at first, staring into the fire and watching the greedy flames lick at the dry logs. The Forest elves’ red fireball flashed before her eyes.
“My story is simple and straightforward,” she began. Lanirra quietly scoffed. Frida, ignoring the jealous dragoness, recounted her tale. The girl offered up dry summaries of the events that had taken place. While she was busy telling her story, she failed to notice Jagirra reposition herself next to her. The elf asked her to close her eyes and not pay attention to anything at all.
A quiet whisper enveloped Frida as if she were floating on ocean waves. She did not see what the elf was doing, but the headache that had been tormenting her for the last two weeks slowly faded until it was completely gone.
“Well, how’s that? Better?” Jagirra asked. The vampire gave her the thumbs up. She didn’t feel like speaking anymore. Lanirra’s eyes glinted meanly in annoyance, or was she just imagining things?
Not everything was peaceful in the quiet tucked-away corner of the world. On the second day, there was a conflict between Lani and Jaga. The dragoness got an earful for flirting with Karegar. Upon hearing the angry tirade, the dragoness asked the Mistress of the Valley not to interfere in the affairs of the Lords of the Sky. Jaga, enraged, removed her will shields, changed hypostasis and held her competition’s head to the ground. Shocked to the core at the appearance of a fellow clan member, Lani didn’t even resist.
“Just think about waving your tail in front of Karegar, and I’ll cut it right off to your very bottom!” Jagirra whispered, changing back. The shamed dragoness ran away.
Not counting this conversation, nothing serious happened any of the days they were there.
Frida was coming back from the mountain pass where Il had been working out a few flaws in the magical signaling systems when she came upon the two female dragons having a discussion. She dropped down behind two fallen birch trees lying the underbrush and threw all possible curtains up around herself. She masked her aura and listened. She was curious as to what these dragonesses might be talking about. They were talking about her.
“Kerr should choose for himself,” Jagirra said. “Frida is a good girl, even if she is a vampire. I won’t help you, but I won’t stand in your way.”
“It’s a dry branch,” Lanirra drawled, contempt and a note of superiority in her voice.
“You mean children?”
“I mean them. Why didn’t you tell Kerr ordinary women can’t bear him offspring?”
At these words, Frida winced. She had always dreamed of a big family with a lot of kids running around.
“Never had a reason to.”
“And now? Will you tell him now? Kerr doesn’t think of me as a wife, but he took my children under his wing. Karegar happily plays with them, brings them tasty morsels. Rary and Rury call him grandpa….”
Frida closed her eyes and grit her teeth until it hurt. The red dragoness was trickier than she thought. Lanirra was acting through her children. The dragonlings were spending nights in Karegar’s cave. The old dragon and the Mistress played with them at length, and Tyigu did not get any less hugs, tumbles or tickles than the winged babies. The winged live wires had somehow broken the ice between the Masters of the Valley and made them grow closer to one another. Lanirra always found time to be near Kerr’s parents. She, Frida, was dead to the world in the evenings. After a bit over one week, Jaga forgot about her enmity towards Lani, who wasn’t much younger than herself, and stopped feeling jealous of her potential advances towards her husband. Lanirra felt the change and began to carefully gain ground. Frida could only quietly freak out over her own helplessness and wait until the person responsible for her troubles appeared. Only he could make things right. The vampire could feel Kerr’s mother’s emotions towards her: warmth, well-wishing, and a slight perplexity, which told her Kerr might not choose her. Other things being equal, the elf would accept her into her family, but she would be happier to have Lanirra. As for the old dragon, nothing doing. He honestly could not comprehend what his son saw in the little humanoid, when there was such a lady dragon right here? All the stranger since she, the dragoness, had shown him that she was capable of bearing strong offspring. While the vampire girl was a “dry branch.”
“I’ll tell him, but I think he already knows. The High Prince of the elves’ interest in my son’s girlfriend didn’t go unnoticed. There are a few lines in the letter asking us to take care of the girl. Miduel ought to know about that specific quality of mixed marriages, humans and were-dragons. The High Prince was married to a Lady of the Sky. I’ll let you in on a little secret—Kerr was born a human and underwent the Ritual at sixteen years old. That’s why he might prefer Frida. By that age humans form certain sexual predilections; the boys’ blood is boiling.”
“I hope your son makes the right choice.”
“Me too. Frida is a wonderful girl, but she’s not one of us. I’m willing to accept her, but I want grandkids already.” A tear slid down the vampire’s face. So that’s what would prove her worth. “Tell me, Lani, did you know about the ‘blood cleansing ritual?’ To cure the girl’s headache?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why would I? It kept her at bay.”
The dragonesses crossed over to the other side of the field. Frida crawled deep into the forest, dropping a trail of bitter tears as she went. It’s okay. A few days’ rest in her hometown and she’d be good as new. Let other people’s secrets remain secret. Her relationship with Kerr was in danger of breaking up.
***
The next morning, Lanirra flew her to the border of the enclave. The dragoness was literally glowing with happiness at being able to get rid of her two-legged problem. Temporarily, true, but a lot could happen in a short time…. Lani gave the vampire a beacon and told her how to use it. Barely holding back her urge to spit, Frida looked at the self-satisfied beast as she flew away and started off along the well-worn path towards her town.
The girl mounted a small hill and stopped, taking in the view. What a beautiful sight! The white, clean little houses were drowned in the green of the gardens. Hundreds of rainbows were shimmering in colorful hues over a waterfall. The banners
of the clans were flapping over the house of the Council. It wasn’t long ago at all that the vampire was planning not to come back home, but the Twins had something else in store. Frida made her way down the easy slope and smiled sadly. Evidently, her father’s house did not want to let her go just like that. Literally sliding over the ground, she hadn’t noticed she upset a strange guard perimeter. There were less than two leagues left to the town. The road wound into a narrow cleft. Constantly glancing from side to side, she carefully walked between the cliffs. Something strange was happening to her. She’d walked that cleft a hundred times, but it had never before been dangerous. Or was she just being overcautious because of the events of yesterday evening? She switched to true vision and looked around—no one was there. She straightened the band across her chest which held her sword and took a step forward. Something snapped under her right foot, and Frida was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of black lotus. The world narrowed to a small bright spot, and it too soon faded. In a minute a horse-drawn cart came around the bend. Someone dressed all in black clothing picked Frida up and put her in the wagon….
Tantre. Orten…
“Well! Turn around, sonny!” The old veteran from the recruiting office, where Timur had stopped along the way to the central commandant, could barely recognize that wet new recruit in this fine brave young officer. “You look good! Oh, very good! Excuse me, ler, for speaking to you that way.” Timur, a bit choked up by the encounter, waved his hand. The commandant got up from behind his desk and in a loud voice barked at the whole establishment: “Have a look, you maggots! The army makes a man!” A few new recruits who were loitering in the corner of the large room stared at the loud-mouthed pair with bulging eyes. “Ho ho! You’ve seen some action?” the commandant’s callused finger touched the ribbon sewn on Timur’s uniform. “Where’d you end up?”
“First we put down the lords, and then—at Ronmir,” Timur said.
The old veteran shook his head. “How long has it been? Just over a month? And you’ve been grounded, ler?”
“No, sent for retraining at the School of Magic.”
The commandant nodded. He was more familiar than most with the royal order. The war was only beginning; soon they would need a lot of mages. It was sad that boys like this went into battle and died. That’s why he was lucky to be alive, but, judging by the slight scars on his face which the commandant didn’t remember having seen the first time they met, the guy had seen his share of horror. The young man had really felt the effects of war, and he would again. Something terrible was coming, everyone and his brother was rowing into the army, special patrols were catching various rabble, and they were increasing recruitment from the villages. All mages were sent to retrain as combat mages….
“Good luck to you, ler!” The commandant stood bolt upright and saluted the officer. The gray-haired veteran’s eyes didn’t show a drop of humor or irony, only respect, sprinkled with a substantial portion of the sadness of someone who has seen Hel—pun intended. Timur clicked his heels at the same time.
“You too, ler,” the young man said, flinging his hand up to his forehead.
The central commandant’s office met him with much ado. Clerks of every stripe were bustling about from one floor to another, officers were swearing, and in the central gathering room, some shady individuals were hugging the walls. They looked like the types you might otherwise meet at the market with a sharpened coin in hand, cutting people’s purses in order to swipe the coins. The extra guards at the doors and gates on the windows cut off any possible escape route for the conscripts (forced “volunteers”). After training, these unfortunate soldiers were subject to wearing a bracelet on their right ankles, as an extra guarantee of loyalty. With a bracelet like that, the prisoners would stop thinking of desertion. You can’t run far on one leg—if you tried to run, the bracelet would blow up and take your leg with it. New recruits who had come voluntarily, not been brought in by force by the mage’s patrol, queued at certain windows.
Timur went up to the second floor. The clerk on duty examined his documents and led him to the right office. That clerk, who was thin as a sliver, issued him a document that said he was to go to the School of Mages and then sent him to the treasury. If one were to believe the news, he should receive a proper thousand golden pounds. That wasn’t bad at all—even quite good. The hefty treasurer at first wanted to give him banknotes only, but Timur became quite obstinate, digging his heels in like a donkey, and insisted he give him equal amounts of paper money and gold coins. After fifteen minutes of protesting vulgarly, the clerk gave in.
“Ler, allow me to speak to you!” After he left the treasury, Timur went to the assistant commandant in the rank of infantry alert.
“You may. What is it?”
“Ler, I was wondering if you could clear something up for me. Roi-dert Rigaud Pront von Trand was sent from our wing to retraining. May I be informed as to whether he showed up in the commandant’s office or not?”
The alert’s face darkened.
“He did. I worked up his documents myself.”
“Ler, is everything alright?”
“Roi-dert, you’d do better to see for yourself. Your friend is staying in the officer’s temporary quarters near the commandant. Room one-oh-five.”
“Third floor, fourth door on the right,” the officers’ quarters watch on duty informed Timur a few minutes later.
Timur went up to the third floor. Hm, nice place. Carpets, magical lanterns, stucco molding on the walls and ceilings, flowers in the reception room and sturdy curtains on the windows in the halls.
“One hundred and five…, one-oh-five…. There it is.” He knocked.
“Go to Targ!” he heard from inside the room, instead of a “come in.”
“What, is he drunk?” Timur knocked a second time.
“I SAID, go to Targ!”
“Rigaud, open up. It’s me, Timur!”
“Timur?” The door flung open. The room smelled of wine vapors and fumes. Looking at his friend, Timur shivered. The right half of Rigaud’s face was distorted with thick scars like worms, “healed,” not very well, in the field hospital by the Life mages.
“Hi Tim.”
“Hello, Rigaud.”
***
“Can I come in, or are you going to keep me at bay?” Timur asked.
“Come on in,” Rigaud stared dumbly at the floor. “Close the door. Want some wine?” He turned away from the door jamb and, dragging his right leg, walked to the table. “Too bad there’s no grub left. I’ve got wine, but no food.”
Timur carefully closed the door, moved aside the boot Rigaud used to kick out uninvited guests, and leaned his back against the door jamb. The person standing in front of him now did not at all resemble indefatigable smart-alec he’d said good-bye to less than a week ago. The word “grub” sounded unpleasant and unusual to his ears; the old Rigaud would not have used it. He would have said something like “something to eat,” “have a bite,” maybe even “grab a mouthful,” but not “no grub left.” It was painful to look at him: he wore a dead, lost expression on his disfigured face and carried a sense of burden. Timur realized why the commandant’s assistant hadn’t wanted to discuss it with him. His wounds had broken the young man, who was frightfully embarrassed by the disfigurement he’d earned in battle. For now, they had broken him, but if he continued in this same vein, it wouldn’t be long until he became a bum. Timur slid his hand into the inner pocket of his service jacket and felt the vials, which were worth ten times more than the salary they’d paid him in the commandant’s office.
Timur fondled the vials and remembered how Lanirra had made Kerr destroy the laboratory, incinerate the crushed scales and the potion the helrats had made from her blood. After thinking for a minute, his friend Kerr had agreed to the red dragoness’ requirements but asked if he could leave a few vials for his friends. Lani looked at Timur for a long time, gazed intently at the female warriors and the elf who’d been released from prison, caught
the scent of the orcs, mixed with the smelly vinegar odor of the red-headed Norseman’s boots, and allowed Kerr to give one vial to each of them. Timur, apparently for his intercession and handsome eyes, was allowed four.
“Don’t worry, it won’t fall,” a wheezy voice interrupted Timur’s memories.
“What won’t?”
“‘What won’t?’! The wall! Go to the table, no sense holding the wall up.” Rigaud set about a little unpretentious tidying up, wiping empty bottles from the flat surface standing on four legs, and placing a few full ones on it. “Take the cup.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t...”
“Take the cup!!”
Timur decided not to argue with his friend, who had just about gone wild, and obediently took the glass full of amber liquid he handed to him. Rigaud, just like Lanirra, looked at the wine, constantly and unblinking, immersed in his own thoughts. The tangles of scars on his face twitched unpleasantly in time with the twitch of his right cheek. The young man’s expression gradually lost meaning and fell into nothingness.
“To the ones whom Hel took under her roof, may they have a light afterlife,” Rigaud said flatly, snapping out of the vortex of his thoughts and gulping the glass’s contents down in one gulp.
Taking a tiny sip, Timur set the cup down. The wine didn’t hit the spot. Targ, what was Rigaud turning into?! Chugging at least a half a bottle of wine in one fell swoop, he got drunk right in front of Timur’s eyes.
“Rigaud, what happened to you?” Timur asked in perplexity.
“What happened to me? What happened to me?!” His friend’s eyes flashed with madness. “I’ve been grounded! No more flying! I’m no use to anyone.” Rigaud tore off his shirt. “Look, what are you turning away for?!” he cried when Timur closed his eyes at the sight. The entire right half of his friend’s body was covered in thick, rough scars from burns. “It’s called ‘the wax flame’ because whoever falls under the spell burns and melts like wax. They burned like moths in a flame. I can still hear their screams and the griffons’ wails as they burned alive. Intelligence let us down—like lambs to the slaughter, Tim. Lambs to the slaughter,” Rigaud’s forehead hit the table and an angry tear slid down his nose onto the polished surface of the table. “Units of battle mages guarded the Imperial mana accumulators for ‘puncturing.’ If it hadn’t been for our tubes of landmines, no one would have made it out of there. The commander and a quarter of the wing burnt up in the first instant. Alert-dert Nois took command upon himself. We took out the guard with grenades and let the landing party down. So many great guys never made it back. Tim, they told us Imperialists are cowards: it’s not true, Tim, not true! They fought like lions and suls. They threw themselves at the sword in just their underwear. By the time I made it to the accumulators—oh Twins—only half the wing was left.”
