My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  "You are trapped, Sorcerer," one man, who looked like their boss, shouted.

  I shrugged; I didn't mind if he wanted to deceive himself. Then I said, "Release the guy."

  "If you try to cast, he will die!"

  "If he dies, all of you will be dead." My eyes became accustomed to the dim light; now I clearly saw their leader: an elderly man, not a magician, with thick gray hair, was hung from head to toe with defensive amulets. His amulets could help against self-taught mages, but they were generally useless against professionals like me. I could have made a weaving that would have completely broken his toys, but it wouldn't go unnoticed. A lousy situation.

  The ringleader of the artisans - if they were them - grinned: "It was you who killed Master Laurent!"

  And any doubts whether they belonged to the artisans left me. I did not deny the obvious and shrugged, "He challenged a dark magician; we do not leave challenges unanswered. By the way, he had the same thing, too," I pointed to the crossbow. "But it did not help him."

  "We have a friend of yours," the blockhead objected. "We will kill him!"

  "Even if it will cost you your lives?"

  I wondered how he would get out of this stalemate. As for me, I could have waited for the crossbowmen to get tired (that weapon was heavy); I could have waited for Max, who was steadily approaching his victim. By the way, I needed to watch for my dog to stop him from tearing his enemy's throat off.

  A thought about the time must have worried the leader. "We are poised to die," he said. "But our comrades-in-arms will make you answer for your crimes. Your masters will not be able to cover you infinitely!"

  I saw what he was driving at and started worrying: I wasn't skilled enough to exterminate them without leaving traces, and revenge for Ron's death would not excuse my killing them - it wouldn't be self-defense. I doubted that Satal would understand me. Thus, indirectly, they would hurt me - simply by turning me into a criminal. The courts do not know mercy in interpretation of the law against the dark mages (true, give us a little slack, and we will turn all circumstances in our favor). Instead of a hero halo, I could receive over twenty years in prison and shackles of deliverance, the real ones this time. And how would I look in the eyes of Lyuchik? To be honest, I worried about my family's opinion of me much more than about Ron's life. That's what I am, a vile and selfish dark magician.

  "Why do you think I want to kill you? You will be arrested for murder and possession of weapons."

  Of course, many years in prison for saving Quarters' life did not sound like an equivalent exchange to me, purely for selfish reasons. It was asymmetrical. Perhaps, it was obvious to the artisans' leader, too, as he grinned and threw some object in my direction: "Drink it right away or your pal will be dead!"

  As is often the case with people not familiar with dark magicians, he misjudged my behavior, the naive fool. I guessed it was magic inhibitor in the bottle - its odor was really very special. At that moment I weighed my chances again; yes, Ron, you were dear to me, but my own life was more valuable. I mentally comforted him that I would see his murderers die in prison - I knew a couple of recipes, to which there were no antidotes. Their death would be awful, I promised him. For a moment I abandoned the idea of killing them and looked at the situation from an entirely different perspective.

  'Hey, monster! Show yourself and talk to me!' Rustle emitted a wave of suspicious attention. 'I will neutralize the one with the knife, but meanwhile the others will try to kill me. Act, if you want to see me live! There is no sunlight here.' The consent of the otherworldly came surprisingly easy; he didn't mind demonstrating his work to me, to heighten my fear of him, so to speak; and there were no warding amulets in this part of the city to stop the monster. 'Do not touch Quarters!' And Rustle promised that.

  I smiled into the eyes of the blockhead with the amulets and tossed up the bottle. It was the most difficult moment - I put my life at risk. But I'd rather die than let Rustle witness my cowardice! I took a deep breath and inflated my Source, knocking out any doubts in my soul via its fury. The knife at Quarters' throat crumbled into dust, and the asshole threatening his life, was thrown off with fractures in both arms. The arbalester on the right made a shot from his crossbow. I lunged forward, trying to move Ron from the line of fire; my spell deflected one arrow, but it would not stop another if the arbalester shot again - he had three or four charged crossbows handy.

  However, the artisans' arrows did not pierce my ribs, their boss did not block my way, and the one who was hiding on the left did not attack me from behind with a sharp object in his hands. I managed to grab Quarters before he slammed his head against the floor; meanwhile something hellish developed around us. Dim light trembled and faded. No, not the light - it was the air, filled with black ripples, like billions of falling leaves, that was shaking. I felt as if my head was stuffed with cotton wool, and I heard the rustling of wind getting lost in the trees. I risked throwing a look at my enemies through the orgy of shadows - they froze where they stood, eyes wide open and faces distorted with terror. Black flakes whirled and flew INTO THEM, continuously pouring into their bodies. The victims of Rustle sensed something - their eyes darted back and forth, their muscles twitched; but what exactly they saw was impossible to guess. Given my own experience, I pitied them: they were taken alive into hell.

  I needed to get out of there. Not that I was scared, but it would be better not to tease Rustle at this moment.

  I hoisted Ron onto my shoulder - what a heavy hog he was - and walked to the door. It was already dark outside. I activated the NZAMIPS "whistle" in my pocket. Max slid through the door after me; the poor dog had no time to maul anybody. The streets around the warehouse were still quiet and deserted. Obviously, the artisans knew well the art of covert operations.

  Ron moaned, being poisoned and tied up. I seated him on the boxes and began unraveling his ropes; my zombie-dog was on his way back to the garage - I did not want him to flash before strangers. I wondered how soon NZAMIPS would arrive.

  "What was that?" Quarters muttered after a partial recovery.

  "It was dark magic," I tried to calm him.

  "Will they die?"

  "How do I know?"

  Another question bothered me: "Did they capture you to make a trap for me?"

  "No," Quarters smiled bitterly. "They kidnapped me because of my dad's wealth. They needed dad's money."

  Oh, yes, of course! That was a more rational reason. I cheered up: not everything in the world was about revenge! He pulled himself together, and I started questioning him: "Why did I see you at the police headquarters with Sam?"

  "Sam said you were a salaried NZAMIPS squealer."

  I could not resist and snorted: yeah, salaried! To get any money from those misers was simply not realistic.

  "What do you have in common with Sam?"

  "Nothing!" Quarters attempted to jump to his feet, but he clearly overestimated his strength and fell back, blinking torpidly. "He fawned on me, invited me to visit his friends. It took me some time to realize what kind of people they were."

  "I told you he stank as an artisan. You should have listened to the smart man!"

  Ron lacked the strength to quarrel; I even thought that he lost his consciousness again. Suddenly Quarters tugged my sleeve: "Will you kill them?"

  "Do you want me to be tried by a tribunal? Let your daddy deal with them when they are jailed."

  If memory served me well, the penalty for kidnapping was very severe in Ingernika. Plus the charge of organized crime and possession of weapons. Enough for them, if they remained sane after meeting Rustle.

  "Sorry."

  Quarters' apology testified that he was very ill.

  "Forget it." To be angry with a cripple would be a sin.

  A rapid response team came in about ten minutes, in a squat paramilitary van that desperately sneezed and stank of alcohol. Their senior rushed up to me: "Sergeant Quinto. What's happening?"

  I pointed to the door: "There are six a
rtisans and Rustle. This is Ronald Rest, he was kidnapped by them."

  "Get a healer here!"

  The "cleaners", in the blue radiance of their protective amulets, broke into the warehouse door. Naturally, Rustle had already gone. Soon arrived a van harnessed by horses; it was the healers' coach. They lit up charmed light fixtures and started carrying the artisans on stretchers out of the warehouse. The gray-haired boss of the artisans squealed high-pitchedly.

  "There are only five, where is one more?"

  "Have you looked in the attic?" I asked the squad's team lead.

  "He will need a tighter container."

  A shadow of satisfaction reached my mind; the monster had both fun and a dinner. What kind of a creature was he? I never thought that the otherworldly were able to behave sensibly, and no books ever talked about it. In theory, Rustle's response to the incident should be just situational; with age and experience the behavioral patterns of the otherworldly were becoming more complex, but they were incapable of analysis and planning. If not for that, killing them would be virtually impossible. I needed to re-examine this issue in more detail, since Rustle and I were destined to stay together till the end of my life. I deserved to obtain at least some perks from my work at NZAMIPS!

  A wave of quite unexpected images rolled over me - Rustle complained about his life. It turned out that the creature faced increasing difficulty in finding the right magicians to be in contact with because of all the secrecy and precaution. He did not like rapidly decaying corpses: the images in their minds were not so clear to him. He was sad and lonely, and I did not treat him nicely: I frightened and swore at him.

  I wasn't going to pity the creature! After all, if he had had a chance, he would have eaten me in a bit. And I was supposed to be polite and understanding?! Like hell I would be!

  The monster became offended and disappeared. What a joke: the otherworldly with morality and a subtle spiritual body!

  I kept the word I had given to Shorty Sam - to bring Ron back tonight - though I delivered him to a hospital, not to his home. Well, this was minor detail. The result of my venture was the direct opposite of what I had in mind: I would not beat up Quarters in the near future. Logically reasoning, I failed to jostle away the bad luck, and my life was supposed to nosedive now…

  Chapter 3

  Nothing bad happened next week, letting me think that my deeds at the warehouse would bear no punishment, and I amused myself by reading Redstone's newspapers. What magical herb inspired scribblers to write such texts? It seemed that the articles were authored by artisans, because these crazy writings had as much common with reality as the artisans' teachings. My self-esteem grew after realizing the depth of other people's.

  On Wednesday morning nearly all tabloids published editorials about "another failure of NZAMIPS", printed in yardstick letters (perhaps, to balance paucity of the content). All the articles had one thing in common - apparently, no one had read them before they were sent to the printing press; otherwise, the river would have overflown its banks due to the number of editors drown of unbearable shame. Where the authors obtained their information was an absolute mystery to me. "The night raid had casualties. The hospital admitted dozens of wounded." The scribblers did not bother to explain why so many people were at the warehouse at night; pure logic suggested that they were there not by accident. Or the next gem: "The NZAMIPS team met fierce resistance and had to apply force." What else was NZAMIPS supposed to do if its people were attacked? Dance with a tambourine? And almost every newspaper mentioned that "Richard Rest's son was among the victims." If not for me, he would have stayed among them forever! I came, saw, and conquered - virtually without fight, to my surprise. Journalists feared to touch Rest's family, but they stamped with enthusiasm on NZAMIPS. They pulled out to light all conceivable and inconceivable allegations, ranging from NZAMIPS' censorship of public events to the sins of the Inquisition (the fathers of Inquisition, by the way, did not chase the white mages at all). And that was just their first volley!

  I gleefully rubbed my hands in anticipation of repressions - I had a grudge against journalists. To kick NZAMIPS was not the same as to kick a lone private person; the NZAMIPS head was a dark magician, fearsome and formidable, capable of fighting back. In my opinion, the harassment by media could only end in mass slaughter, and if Satal missed somebody, I would treat survivors with a special poisonous powder. For the fair cause I would spare no stocks! The main thing was to stay away from my favorite teacher, so that he couldn't nail me along with the guilty.

  Against my expectations, the second volley didn't happen - an inexplicable burst of sanity spread among the Redstone's scribblers (later Quarters told me that his dad informed the editors that he would not cover their lawsuit costs). Since Thursday, the articles became more objective: obscure allegations almost disappeared, "unexpected failure" was replaced by "unexpected success of NZAMIPS", and "fresh blood that the new regional coordinator brought" sounded almost like praise. The Urban Messenger issued a huge, double-size front page with information about the "victims"; their gray-haired leader was wanted by the police of Ingernika for five years; he served as a financial adviser to the artisans, specializing in young heirs of large fortunes. They wheedled the future victims or, if this did not work, simply abducted them, after which the heirs promptly became fanatical supporters of the artisans. The sectarians did not wait for inheritances for long: rich relatives of the neophytes usually died within a month, and all their assets suitable for conversion into cash were quickly sold. The timing was important: the sectarians' rough methods of "wheedling" didn't produce long-term results; so the artisans quickly disappeared with the money, and the neophytes were sent to the loony bin with incurable mental disorders.

  I imagined Quarters drooling and realized that I did the right thing helping him, despite some unforeseen consequences. I could not picture insane Ron, dead - maybe, but cripple - certainly not. It remained to see how my help to Ron would turn for me. Of all the possible threatening consequences, only Satal came to my mind. Artisans seemed to be set to earn a reputation of clowns, Rustle behaved modestly, I managed to keep Uncle Gordon's book secret, and I wasn't followed by any stranger out of the back streets. Could the senior coordinator take offence at me for the turbulence in mass media that I caused? Surely, but if the Rest family had lost Ron, this noise would have been much louder. Could he be unhappy with me because of Rustle's involvement? But none of the journalists knew about Rustle's partaking; it was generally believed that one of the artisans was killed during the attack by some sort of dark magic. Upon careful consideration of all dangers, I decided that Kevinahari's suspicion about my shattered nerves was correct. I needed to stop worrying. On Saturday I visited Ron in the hospital; I always wanted to see how rich people were treated when they were ill. Yeah, his hospital room was impressive: majestic carpets, awesome crystal chandeliers, and special medical personnel. The nurse who came to measure Quarters' temperature was so sexy in shape that we couldn't keep our conversation in her presence. Emboldened Ron asked me to pass a message that he wouldn't be back to the university any time soon. To be honest, I would have stayed forever in such a place, too.

  Upon my return home, the concierge handed me a note from Captain Baer saying that Satal wanted to see me at the training ground by five p.m.

  Well, a piece of cake, nothing to worry about. The news was rather positive, wasn't it?

  I started suspecting something only when I nearly reached the training ground: a large military horse pulled ambulance was parked at the end of the dirt road that rested against the bascule bridge to the island, over a narrow river arm. A bored driver with roguish face caught my eye, embarrassed, and turned his head away from my motorcycle (a smart decision on his side). From my previous bitter experience I decided not to roll my vehicle to the island - it could come handy in the near future, if I would have to flee through the river. It remained to figure out what the Satal's surprise was about.

  There were no no
vice cadets-"cleaners" anywhere near. Instead, I noticed a few strangers at the training ground. One of the guests lay on the sand under the green army tarp and seemed to be dead. My mentors - Satal and Fatun (it was the corporal's name, as I learned recently) - nicely conversed over the corpse together with two well dressed gentlemen - a middle-aged man in an official frock-coat with a folder under his arm and an elderly magician in a foppish plaid suit, with a cane. Correction: the elderly mage was not just old; he looked relic, moth-eaten. For the first time in my life I saw a dark mage that was totally gray-haired. Usually, our brothers-in-arms remained bright hair-colored to their very end, but that man was rinsed clean, up to white, by the River of Time. Shorter than Uncle Gordon (generation of undernourished forefathers), lean, but with no signs of weakness, the old man stared at me for some time, and I recalled the legend of the Bone Dragon capable of transforming himself into a man.

  "There he is, our young talent," Satal announced, gesturing for me to come closer.

  I came. What choice did I have?

  "Let me introduce Thomas Tangor, a very well-educated young magician, a graduate of Redstone University, a combat mage. These are our guests from the capital: Mr. Pearson, a curator at the Department of Forensic Magic, and Sir Charak, our leading expert."

  The word "curator" in my mind rhymed with the word "inquisitor", especially because they performed similar functions, but Satal's "sir" slip of the tongue meant that the leading expert Charak could well remember that same inquisition. What made the old fogey drag so far? And with an escort? Despite Satal's attempt to draw attention to the functionary, I knew that the magician was the principal of the pair. I wondered whether they brought the corpse with them or made one on the spot.