My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  "If you do not immediately explain the situation to the boy, I'll tell him everything myself!" Kevinahari threatened grimly.

  At that moment my ears started ringing. Revelations from the empath?

  "Please don't!" Satal reacted quickly. "I'll do it myself."

  The senior coordinator nodded at me to take a seat. We stared silently at each other over his desk for a while. Kevinahari took out her handkerchief and began shedding tears into it. The magician looked at her as at a dubious pentagram - activation succeeded, but what would happen next?

  "Ingernika is in danger," he said sternly. "Your country needs your special abilities. Do you understand?"

  "No," I said gloomily, "I'm kind of occupied as a university student."

  We were not called up for service, even during a war, because alchemists did much more good inside the country, and dark magicians were always plentiful at the front line.

  "Don't you want to help your own country?"

  "What is 'my country', and why is it kin to me?"

  The senior coordinator frowned. A patriotic dark magician - what a show! However, having met an otherworldly with high morals, I could believe anything.

  Kevinahari deafeningly blew her nose. Satal surrendered.

  "Well," he sighed, "listen here! The frequency of registered supernatural phenomena varies strongly with time."

  I nodded: "Yes, Uncle told me that. It was even worse previously."

  "Not exactly!" Satal brushed my reply aside. "Look broader. Before the advent of NZAMIPS, nobody kept statistics of breakthroughs, and 'worse' and 'better' were subjective concepts. When our analysts had reviewed the data accumulated over a hundred years, they found that the frequency of supernatural occurrences grew steadily across all types of phenomena. And it was the same not only here, in Ingernika, but in Kashtadar as well. About fifteen years ago an unexplained decline was noted, though now it is being rapidly compensated. The experts were tasked with developing a long-term forecast."

  Satal thoughtfully pointed his finger up, and I realized that he was about to reveal an important secret to me.

  "Our smart alecks contrived and found long term cycles of supernatural phenomena frequency. The last minimum happened four hundred years ago, just before the reign of King Girane. Have you heard of him? Everyone was happy for a while, but then Ingernika barely survived."

  I nodded; in those times Roland the Bright became a saint.

  "The next peak is expected in two hundred years. We should be ready for it: dark magicians must be supported and all known artifacts and curses retained. Two years ago people suddenly recalled necromancers. For your information: long ago dark Empowerment was a spontaneous process; then some eggheads insisted on supervision of the ritual. The idea was good: to reduce the mortality rate during the process. But under the guise of safety these wiseacres imposed restrictions on the parameters of opening power channels. Thus they suppressed the necromantic potential of mages going through the ritual. They claimed that they softened the cruelty of the process. Soon we will quietly return the ritual to its original form," Satal winced, "but the harm has already been done, the time has passed. A necromantic talent is a rare thing; old masters are passing away and leaving no disciples. Charak is one of the last grand masters, a living legend. We showed him all the records of our wards with a suitable magic profile, and he has chosen you, 'the ideal candidate'. Do you understand now?"

  "So what?"

  " 'So what?' Who will replace the old necromancer when he dies?"

  I could have answered Satal's question briefly and succinctly, if not for the presence of the lady. I couldn't care less about their problems.

  "You possess a unique talent," Kevinahari uttered quietly from the depth of her chair.

  I winced. If I agreed, all the people who needed necromantic services would trample me because I would be the youngest. And instead of being in a bright alchemical lab I would spend half of my life in morgues and cemeteries, until a new generation of necromancers would grow up to carry it on. However, Satal himself suggested a way out for me: to put in a little time, and then, hopefully, the old necromancer would kick in, and the matter would stall by itself.

  "We'll make sure your talent belongs only to you," the empath replied to my thoughts.

  "How?" Satal and I asked at the same time, I - distrustfully, he - with suspicion.

  "We'll make a one-time contract," she explained patiently. "Charak always works on a contract basis. We describe the obligations of the parties and the level of remuneration, but we don't set the dates."

  "Remuneration?" Satal frowned.

  "Oh Dan, stop it! Whose money are you trying to save? We want some service from our young man, and you have to pay for it. Why should he do unpleasant work for free?"

  It was nice for a boy to become a young man in one day, but the voiced proposal was not good enough for me: "And I'll choose my thesis topic myself!"

  "What's wrong with your topic?"

  "It's all wrong. Tell me, what sort of innovations does combat magic require?"

  "Do you want to take Charak as your thesis supervisor?"

  Picturing the old necromancer at my thesis defense threw me into tremors.

  "Never!"

  "Why?" Satal cheered up. "Searching for corpses with a zombie-dog is quite an innovation!"

  "Uh-huh. Then my specialization would be the animation of biological objects, and till the end of my life I would be explaining to everybody what that means."

  "Do not disclose it then."

  "Hey, it's my degree!"

  Satal looked at me colorlessly: my enthusiasm seemed to offend him somehow. I even pitied him after all - he failed to instill patriotism in me. I felt I should cheer him up: let him teach me what he wanted. Do you think dark mages do not know how to suck up to their bosses? We do!

  "Teacher, I have great respect for you. You opened me up to a new perspective on dark magic. In Mihandrov, your instructions saved my life, no kidding," Satal noticeably mellowed. "But my university degree is sacred. To the damned piece of paper I devoted four years of my life, and everything in it should be harmonious. If my degree refers to biological objects, people will think that I am a taxidermist."

  "What field do you want to choose for your thesis?"

  "Protective magic combined with controlling magic."

  "I'm not very good at the controlling magic," Satal confessed.

  "It's not a problem, teacher, Rakshat will help if you authorize the topic."

  The senior coordinator hesitated and then waved his hand: "Okay! Blame yourself later. You could have passed all of your exams with little to no effort. But if you don't work hard on your necromantic training," the beloved teacher gave me a stern look, "you'll be in trouble."

  I fervently nodded. Yes, I was going to work hard. The fact that I pushed through my own thesis theme was already a big step forward. After all, they were not so awful, those mighty magicians.

  Satal and I made an agreement. We were both quarrelsome assholes, but if the balance of power was obvious, and both sides' interests were met, I was not against playing by the rules, at least some time. Naturally, Satal didn't believe me in the least: he suspected that I would deny my promise after pondering it. So in an hour, a local lawyer showed up with a notorious one-time contract, the strangest of all the ones that I had seen. The contract mentioned "forced animation" only once; the words "body", "zombie", or "dead" were totally absent. There were endless references on every line to private circulars, regulations, and secret lists that Satal relentlessly pulled from the safe and laid out before me. I had the silly feeling that they gave me a standard necromantic contract. Wasn't necromancy forbidden by the law? I read the text twice: to understand what it referred to was completely unrealistic for a newbie, but the sum of one thousand crowns on the last page (plus travel expenses and accommodation at the expense of the client) gladdened my heart. Perhaps, my decision was stupid, but I took the risk and signed the paper. My heart
was warmed by the thought of the look on Rakshat's face when I showed him the topic of my thesis with Satal's authorization.

  Already in the doorway I was caught up with another great idea:

  "Teacher, may I ask a question?"

  "Well?"

  "Why is Rustle capable of reasoning?"

  "Mystery of nature. Think less of such things, and you will live longer!"

  * * *

  In the senior coordinator's office, Edan Satal and Rona Kevinahari were having tea (Siamese, without milk and sugar, in small porcelain cups).

  "Look at him, a taxidermist," the dark magician muttered under his breath.

  "That incident with the necromancer was your fault," Rona said quietly; her face did not bear the slightest trace of tears or damaged makeup. "I asked you to read his profile."

  "What does his profile have to do with it?" Satal frowned.

  "I see you haven't read it," the empath sighed. "You should not communicate with Fatun so much. I understand that you have known him for years and you fit well together, but he tends to deliberately simplify the interpretation of reality to justify his use of force. It's contagious!"

  Satal grinned, "This is the first time I've heard a 'cleaner' called a belligerent idiot so politely."

  "That's exactly what I meant," the empath serenely retorted.

  "Do not cling to the words! And I've read his file; there was nothing special in it."

  The empath sighed, "Dan, this promising young man grew up in the family of a white magician. He had dark teachers, but he is not used to the constant pressure and tight control. No one seriously drilled him; nevertheless, he achieved a lot as a mage, and that's why you chose him as your disciple. Hence, there is something in his character that allows him to do the right things, not out of habit and not out of pressure from his elders. A typical dark mage obeys the orders of his superiors because he knows that it is the easiest way to achieve success, stand on par with the more respected magicians, and become someone's superior himself eventually. All those rituals of suppression are needed to direct a dark mage's energy on the right track. You're habitually applying the same methods of upbringing to this one. But don't you see his resistance?"

  Satal vaguely chuckled. The empath shook her head: "He wastes a lot of energy protecting himself from your influence. Dan, your superiority is not obvious to him! He is senior in his family! He took responsibility for his relatives too early in life. He does not want to imitate anyone - he grew out of it. If you want to retain him as your student, you have to change yourself."

  "What changes do you mean?" the coordinator turned an empty cup upside down on the saucer. "To pay him for my lessons? Or wait patiently until he becomes more mature?"

  "Was he a slow learner?"

  "No, but…"

  Satal did not finish his answer, and the empath continued for him, "He learned from you when he saw some benefit from your lessons. Don't position yourself as a role model. Let him see the advantages that you can provide. He is very judicious for a dark mage, don't you see that? You need to constantly justify why you do what you do, if you want to continue mentoring him. It would be a great experience for you!"

  The coordinator snorted.

  "Give me a method," he suggested, resting his chin on his hands.

  The empath thought for a second. "When teaching him new curses, describe the situations which forced you to use them. Tell him your life stories, too! People learn better in the presence of some emotional connection to the content. Emotional learning is about developing motivation. Let him understand the world is too complex, and it's only to his benefit to master as many skills as he can. Lure him into learning from you."

  "Such an approach will give Fatun a stroke."

  "You are not Fatun! But do as you please."

  "I'll figure it out," Satal leaned back in his chair with a satisfied look. "Do you think Charak will find the right approach to the boy?"

  "Are you kidding? Charak - Ralph the Gray Weaver - has been teaching disciples his entire life. I believe every necromancer is a psychologist. You'll see for yourself: his velvet glove hides an iron fist."

  Satal started laughing, "I've seen already. He chose to stay on the base of our 'cleaners', and he drove the local caretaker out of his room so politely that the poor fellow was happy to give in. I lack this skill."

  "Practice!" the empath advised him very seriously.

  Chapter 5

  I was ready to sacrifice my health and sleep for the sake of graduation but, fortunately, real necromancy had nothing to do with my layman assumptions about it, as Charak told me. We periodically dealt with corpses -exclusively human - but didn't drain infants of blood, didn't gut cats, or dig up graves.

  "Where are you going to find a quality animal corpse, young man?" the old necromancer shot out venomous remarks. "Unless you intend to take a knife yourself. And most importantly, why work with animals, if you are to deal with human remains anyway?"

  True, why bother with animals? The corpses were delivered to us from the morgue, already washed, quiet, and peaceful. After the completion of our rituals we sent them back, and they looked almost the same as when they arrived.

  During our first lesson, we agreed on the schedule: Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, because on Wednesday and Friday I was taking hand-to-hand combat training. (As far as I know, I was the first dark magician to professionally learn to fist fight.) Then Charak wanted to see my zombie and, smacking his lips with delight, he palpated Max from head to toe for two full hours.

  "A great job! You know, young man, not every necromancer can stabilize a spontaneous zombie. I would not risk my life on the success of such an experiment. But it turned out great. Especially - his hair."

  "Oh, I am sorry." (I was slightly ashamed – the "cleaners" had helped me with Max's hair). "It's just a good shampoo."

  The necromancer pulled at his gray eyebrow: "Will you share your recipe with me?"

  "No problem!" I didn't mind sharing the cleaners' recipe; it wasn't mine anyway.

  The necromancer carried a small notebook, with a pen and a tiny blotter; it was very much like Uncle Gordon's.

  "So, young man," the old magician said satisfactorily upon finishing his writing, "what do you know about necromancy?"

  "It's a magical action on a human body to simulate life," I reported dutifully.

  He winced, "That's a superficial definition. And in reality?"

  I sighed heavily. What did he want from me?

  Charak thoughtfully pointed his finger up, "First, let's agree: if you want to resurrect your dead relatives, or talk with the spirits of your forefathers, or travel to the other world, do not ask me for help; it is mysticism. Necromancy does not deal with this stuff."

  Well, he did intrigue me.

  "We don't know if a human has a soul and where it goes after death. One thing we do know is that a human death (especially a violent death) leaves the imprint of the deceased's essence on the surroundings, and magic (either white or dark!) can read that imprint. Such imprints can be found on every object that was near a person at the moment of his or her death. Both the white and the dark mages, and even the otherworldly," he nodded in Max's direction, "can fill these imprints with their vital energy; but only a properly trained necromancer can perform this manipulation with a stable and predictable outcome. Remember young man, necromancers do not rescue dying people; that's the healers' job. A dead man raised by you will never be the same person he was before his death; he'll be more or less an accurate copy of himself. And this copy will exist by different rules than its live original - that's what all half-baked necromancers usually fail to remember."

  I immediately recalled a few stories regarding this matter. Perhaps, Charak knew plenty of them.

  "The basic rule is simple: 'a raised dead - a zombie - is nowhere near alive'. It is a copy, an imitation developed by magic, which exists beyond the laws of nature and requires harmonizing spells for its stabilization, like the ones you regu
larly apply to your creation. Therefore, the goal of your training is to develop the ability to sense the essence imprint of a dead human and to master the skills to create and retain its imitation."

  And he taught me how to create these trembling, unstable weaves, so weightless that the energy I spent on their development was not enough even to light a candle. They tickled my nerves, fogged my consciousness, and instantly vanished, as soon as I was distracted. Later, Charak started adding to my weaving some of his own, and our ethereal creations danced in the space, penetrating each other, coexisting, but not mixing. This magic overpowered me more than strong moonshine!

  The lessons were not tiresome at all, though they led me to a scattered state of mind, and I ought to devote the last fifteen minutes of every class to meditation. Otherwise, I couldn't get back home. This strange after-effect of absentmindedness lasted for a couple of days: that's for how long after Charak's lessons I retained a good-natured mood, atypical for the dark. Nobody and nothing could get me out of balance at that time; absolutely everything seemed right and appropriate. From early morning to late night I was on the move: the university, Biokin, all kinds of consultations, endless training, but it wasn't annoying or boring. In the evening, I fell asleep instantly, as soon as my head touched the pillow. Rakshat muttered something about my questionable training, but I did not want to look into his allusions. Mr. Darkon invited me to talk, looked at my serene face for a while, and let me go without saying a word. My professors of alchemy reservedly asked about my readiness of my thesis defense, and in reply I was giving them a lecture on the prospects of modified micro-organisms (Polak would have hung himself from envy to hear my rhetoric), until they would shut me down and send me off - it was the only thing that made me a little disappointed. In other words, I felt and behaved like a typical white mage nearly all the time - I practiced necromancy three times a week.

  Rare moments of awakening were painful, like an icy shower. Every Sunday, I went to a meeting with the senior coordinator, overcoming with valiant effort my reluctance to get up at 6 a.m. The same training ground that served me for my necromantic lessons transformed into a branch of the Inquisition. Let's face it, I had too many overqualified teachers. Starting with the "corporal" in the rank of colonel, who was Satal's first instructor in combat magic (that's why their combat styles looked similar) and the head of the local "cleaners" - the Regional Division of Supernatural Phenomena Liquidation. Fatun loved to personally greet and teach young recruits, perhaps, because his more senior subordinates did not hesitate to whack him in the face for his roughness. Two kindred souls - Satal's and the corporal-colonel's - merged in ecstasy when they trained me; they chased me on par around the polygon, following their own "special program". I sweated and jumped, thinking that I would never need their program to fight zombies. They coached me for confrontation with other mages, forcing me to instantly pull out shields, throw nets of weavings, and deflect the Elements. Did Satal want to raise his own army in Redstone? I even pondered reporting on the senior coordinator to his superiors in the capital!