My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist

by Irina Syromyatnikova

"What happened, sir?" Baer inquired cautiously.

  The tube kept silent for a bit. "I met our godson here, do you remember him?"

  This meant that Larkes was in the capital. "Of course, I do!" Baer was certain he would never forget the restless magician.

  "Tell me how Satal copes with him," Larkes asked stressfully.

  Baer pondered for a bit - he did not want to cross Tangor, but a scandal with Larkes would hurt the boy anyway: the former chief was exceptionally rancorous, even for a dark magician.

  "Not quite well, really," the policeman answered honestly. "Satal mostly swears at him."

  "What if I need his assistance?" Larkes continued to question.

  Baer fell deeply in thought. "First of all, you'd better forget the word 'should' and do not push the kid (mind you, he pinned Satal once). Set forth your problem honestly and fully; if he requests something in return - give it to him; you can haggle. And do not lie to him."

  "Hmm. I think I got it," the man in the tube said thoughtfully. "Thank you, buddy. Do call, if you need me. Place your call to the minister's aide. Your message will be passed on to me."

  This harmless conversation drove Satal to a frenzy. Kevinahari silently refilled their cups with freshly brewed tea. The coordinator, whose "dance of rage" had become habitual in the last week, sank into his chair, and Captain Baer moved closer to him.

  "So?" Satal said to the police chief, inviting him to talk.

  "The analytical report is ready," Baer put a folder on Satal's desk. "By the way, Vosker insists that Larkes knowingly let the problem grow."

  "Excellent!" the senior coordinator mischievously grinned. "I will have something to say at the ministry's meeting. And I'll get even with him for clinging to my staff!"

  "Bad timing for the meeting," the policeman muttered discontentedly.

  "If we wait longer, the situation could become much worse," Satal roused himself. "A handful of fanatics f*ck government forces as they please. Ingernika's economy is slowing down; our citizens won't stay quiet for long. Rebels need to be exterminated right now!"

  * * *

  Dennis' guess came true: the young necromancer was escorted out of the capital in haste. Tangor tried to resist, though before he had a burning desire to leave the capital and start his student practice as soon as possible. But when dodgy Mr. Felister hinted that the next train to the poverty-stricken Arango would depart no sooner than a week, Tangor got ready to leave in two hours.

  "You'll go with the group of Captain Ridzer," the cheerful senior curator tried to hand in a folder with travel documents to their charge.

  "Along with the army echelon?" Tangor looked askance at the folder and kept his hands behind his back.

  "They are your guards. We are having civic unrest in Arango".

  The necromancer grumbled a little, sighed, and took the documents. Mr. Felister vanished in a second.

  "Your boss is a rogue!" Tangor redirected his discontent toward Dennis. The young curator totally agreed, but he could not say it aloud.

  On that day, the benefits of driving a motorcycle through the capital's traffic congestion were particularly evident: the necromancer managed to send a souvenir parcel to Krauhard, have tea, and aggravate Dennis' nerves, while a car holding his suitcase and zombie was trying to get to the train station.

  "Maybe the car has stalled in the heat," Dennis suggested.

  "Uh-huh. Or was robbed on the way," Tangor guessed grimly.

  Dennis smiled at the thought that somebody might want to rob a car with used clothes and a dead dog.

  "Come on, let's look at the train, at least," the necromancer resolutely rose from the table at the tea house. The curator reluctantly plodded behind him.

  They found the part of the station occupied by the army. Railroad security let them in, but they didn't allow them to take the motorcycle along. Tangor became gloomy, and Dennis rushed across the station in search of the commandant to get a permit for his vehicle.

  His bad luck did not end there (the day was certainly cursed). The curator realized that he would have to personally talk with a pride of lions - a dozen combat mages in army uniform - about loading Tangor's motorcycle on the platform. The support services had a special department for supervision of the army mages, and it existed for good reason: if "cleaners" could still understand appeals to logic, the army magicians had logic of their own kind and were almost unmanageable. The curator of the army group was not in sight, and Dennis chickened out: "I'd rather get a reprimand than get it in the neck. Will you be able to cope here without me? I'll go and get your luggage." And he briskly walked to the exit from the platform, making an incredible effort of the will not to break into a run.

  * * *

  I hate to rush! When time is limited, something always goes wrong. People become rude, things disappear, and trains depart ahead of schedule. Only due to my Herculean efforts and phenomenal self-control was I able to get to the right train, hurting no one. Then my escort vanished, and I did not know whom to contact regarding my cargo. When I really needed curators, they were gone in a second. Okay, I decided to act in the old-fashioned way.

  I mounted the saddle of my motorcycle and rode slowly along the train looking for a mage with the most brilliant stripes - a sure sign of the commander. I passed one train car after another, privates jumped down from them and followed me. It made me nervous. I managed to get almost to the steam engine when an army mage in the rank of captain appeared right before me, from behind the boxes, and blocked my way. I had to brake sharply. His face looked somewhat familiar; it was one of those morons who gathered at my porch in the ministry's hotel. Nice to meet you, man!

  I began to seethe in anger. "Are you the director of this circus?"

  The people around me instantly closed ranks. Bastards! That's why I did not like the army - they always attack en masse. It's quite unnatural behavior for the dark, and because of that, it's especially irritating.

  "Who are you talking to?" the captain asked haughtily, straightening his shoulders; from this move his multiple stripes started winking.

  "To the dolt who was trying to unscrew my bike's mirror last night," I said calmly.

  He did try, in spite of the shrill whine of my security amulet. Residents of the hotel who wanted to sleep chased the thief away by swearing and cursing (a lawn in the yard was badly scorched in the morning).

  The broad-shouldered magician effaced: "No clue what you are talking about!"

  "I need ropes and a piece of tarpaulin."

  "For what?"

  I showed him my order: I had to go to Arango with them. The prospect of such a trip seemed gloomy to me: they would wreck my motorcycle, dissect my zombie, and throw me out in the sand.

  The captain diligently examined my papers and suddenly turned into a welcoming host: "You should have said it straight, instead of muttering under your nose." He thanked Dennis, who brought my luggage, and sent him away. My vehicle was promptly secured on a guarded platform; they also found a barrel with water for Max and a vacant compartment in the staff car for me. The car didn't have a heat pump, but the army mages managed to install shields that provided enough cool air. Now the risk of freezing to death was higher than the risk of being roasted alive in the desert.

  At first, I did not understand why they took such good care of me, but as soon as the train departed, the captain revealed his true intentions: alchemical espionage. "I've never seen a motorcycle with an oil engine. Will you explain your design?"

  "This prototype is equipped with a proprietary dark-magic controlled engine. It ignites easily and works on any type of oil."

  "What was that thing that roared yesterday?"

  "It's an experimental security amulet, a reliable means of protection from crooks," the amulet that withstood the attacks of army mages could not be unreliable. "A unique design, in the stage of field trials."

  "And why did it change its color?"

  "It is a new polychromatic camouflage, integrated with the security am
ulet. Seven independent color combinations will tell the owner what happened to his vehicle while he was away!"

  The captain looked grimly at me and sighed: "Let's have a drink!"

  The next three days on the road flashed by unnoticed. The army mages drank like pigs, worked out on the train roof, and shot fireballs at ground squirrels. These deeds occupied their attention so much that they didn't have time for anything else. On the first day my presence caused some interest, but on the following days they forgot about me. What could possibly force a dark mage to go to the army? I cautiously asked the sanest man in the group (in my view): "Hey, how did you get into the army? I cannot imagine a dark mage dreaming of the discipline."

  "I had a bride," he replied as if this explained everything.

  I waited for a continuation.

  "One freak started to flirt with her."

  That was better - more detail…

  "It turned out that his uncle was a prosecutor."

  But I still did not see a connection.

  "A recruiter approached me in prison. He promised that if I passed the entrance test, I would be able to kill that asshole scot-free."

  "And?"

  "I killed him, of course," he shrugged.

  "Hmm. How about your bride?"

  "What do I need this whore for?"

  I tried to imagine a situation which would force me to sacrifice the rest of my life to achieve such a simple goal. No, I had too many interests. I could not give up the rest of them for the sake of just one. To hell with the army!

  On the fourth day of our journey the train went through the tunnel (it was a cool two-hour ride in darkness), and when we left the mountains behind, the lifeless sands of the Inner Desert gave way to the feather steppe. Captain Ridzer called me into his staff compartment to discuss our future plans.

  "We're here now," he pointed his finger at the edge of a large, sandy-yellow spot, "and are heading there," his finger slipped far south. "When we get to the army camp, we'll wait for a few more units to arrive, and then we'll start our march to the coast. It'll take about a month."

  "Shit! That's not good for me." A month?! In a month I would have to report back to Redstone!

  "I can offer you another option. Tomorrow we will make a stop to fill the tanks. Arango's NZAMIPS is here," his fingernail moved aside. "We barely communicate with them, but they promised to find a cicerone who would take you to the coast, where we will meet."

  "I agree!"

  The station's platform did not have a ramp, so my motorcycle had to come down by hand. As a payoff for his help, I showed the captain my muffler and camouflage in action.

  "So, it is based on the principle of a shield…"

  "Exactly."

  "What you said sounded logical, but I didn't grasp the idea."

  "Do not worry. They say it was a work of a genius."

  I left the captain scratching his shaved head; meanwhile, his men fitted me for the trip.

  "What do you have there? Iron?" a young magician panted, helping me mount my suitcase on the motorcycle's luggage rack.

  "How did you guess?" I answered cheerfully. For a trip I took a canister of oil and water; and after honking to the gang of thugs (these assholes began to shout and toot), I decisively turned to a country road that led roughly in the direction I needed.

  'Get ready, Arango, Tangor is coming!'

  Chapter 14

  The further the road progressed from the railroad station, the stronger was my feeling that Captain Ridzer deceived me – that he dropped me off in the wrong place.

  After all the rumors about Arango, I expected to see a naked landscape, rocks gnawed by the otherworldly, bones and skulls everywhere. Instead, a sea of grass with mockingly chattering grasshoppers (I heard them despite the engine's noise) rippled before me from horizon to horizon. There were neither misty hollows, nor black whirlpools, nor impenetrable thickets, nor bottomless bogs. Any semblance of forest was wiped from this place a long time ago. Only landmark oaks grew along the boundary paths; depressions and ravines, almost imperceptible to the eye, were filled with shrubs trimmed by cattle. Full of suspicion, I tried to find anything that secretly carried a threat, but in vain. Where could the otherworldly appear from in such a place? Arango was perfectly safe, in my opinion.

  A cloud of midges hung over the grass in the warm air; birds scurried in the sky, busy with the midges, towers of windmills pleasantly broke the monotony of the horizon. The blades of my motorcycle easily coped with the midges and grass, though at the expense of burning more oil than usual. The country road looked well-beaten but overgrown over the last season. I was tempted to stretch the trip for an additional day or two, buy a local beer, and arrange a day off for myself. Only two things stopped me: the fast approaching exam date, and the fact that I hadn't started my practice yet, in Satal's apt words.

  Loneliness in the fields affects you stronger than any kind of magic. All of the thoughts and worries in my mind quietly faded away; my consciousness seemed frozen in anticipation of either the end of the trip or some unarranged meeting. To feel this magic, you need to experience solitude in Arango. Its spaciousness was endless. It seemed possible to take in the entire eastern province of Ingernika at a glance - the land was so even, the air was so clear. Clouds bent in the sky, forming white arches; grass wasn't withered even in the middle of summer, and a cool breeze gently blew from the mountains. It was hard to believe that the Inner Desert was just a hundred kilometers away.

  I felt I could drive and drive nonstop, but in the late morning the sun began to bake, and I decided to take a break, wash my hands, have a bite, maybe take a nap, and check if I was moving in the right direction. Even Max became tired of playing in the grass and ran on par with my motorcycle. Now we both vigilantly looked around, searching for a shelter.

  The universal grandeur of the steppe awoke the farmer in me, and I spotted grass that wasn't mowed. The strong backs of grazing cattle were nowhere in sight. Then I spied a turn to an unnamed village. I could have noticed that the path to the village was too overgrown, but what dark mage would draw his attention to the degree of grass trampling? The farm gates were welcomingly wide open; only silence, impossible in a normal rural yard, alerted me; there was neither humming, nor barking, nor human voices. I stood in the middle of the overgrown yard and stared dully at the boarded-up windows and abandoned barns.

  There were some unpardonable things for which we literally killed in Krauhard, and even the police didn't punish us for that. The Law of Abandoned Buildings was created specifically for such cases. Clearly, residents left this place more than a year ago, but the house wasn't burnt, and its roof wasn't taken off. The deserted building became a perfect nest for the phoma, as if somebody specifically left this place as a breeding ground for the otherworldly. I did not set the house on fire right away, afraid of spreading it beyond the farm's borders - I did not want to compete for the speed record with the wildfires. I walked round all of the outbuildings, tore off the window shutters to let light inside, opened the barn door, and took off a cap from the well. Ehh! I wouldn't advise anyone to drink from that well in the near future - of course, the place was too small for the twisted, but quite okay for the black strand, which obviously already dwelled in the water. I went inside in search of salt to pour into the well; my Krauhardian pride didn't allow me to leave the place as is for the otherworldly to feed. I found an ax to make alerting signs. It took me a little over one hour to secure the farm from the supernatural. Why didn't the owner do the same before leaving?

  I waited under the roomy wooden awning of a drying shed till daytime heat was gone, thinking that the place didn't need tough "cleaners", but rather a pair of policemen with cudgels to teach farmers some good sense. There were some problems in Arango, but not of the supernatural character: just the human folly that could be beaten out of the brain without any magic, by brute force. I drove further and saw over and over again abandoned houses, tightly closed barns, capped wells, and other misd
emeanors that were punishable by jail. These idiots deserved to die of plague - stupidity should not be encouraged.

  By evening I noticed the roof of a large village on the horizon. One of them presumably belonged to the office of Arango's NZAMIPS. Four dark magicians lined up across the road; their arrangement suspiciously reminded me a cordon. I was being welcomed, but somewhat unkindly, with rods. Their stern look didn't bother me - my victory in Ho-Carg made me unreasonably bold.

  "Your password!"

  "Shit! I came from Ho-Carg. You should have known about my arrival."

  "Prove it!"

  Max walked closer and showed his teeth to them. I had never met people before who rejoiced at seeing my zombie. It was the proof they wanted - that I belonged to their kind.

  What I took for a village was a small town with the inimitable name Tyukon Town, for some strange reason built in the middle of the steppe. In the twilight I discerned neat two-story houses with no gardens, a church, a town hall, as well as a lack of people on the streets. I saw black windows and boarded-up doors. Dim oily lights illuminated only one - main - street; the place promised to become as ghostly as the farm where I was a few hours before.

  The office of Arango's NZAMIPS occupied a single building in town with an illuminated facade and aversive signs around its foundation. Behind the door displaying the plate "Chief," I met an elderly dark magician of moderate maliciousness who was in charge of the office. Along with him, there were also five middle-aged "cleaners", obviously his subordinates, who were unusually quiet and tense (dark mages don't twitch like that). I needed their help in finding a way through the steppe to the coastal city.

  After introducing myself, I immediately inquired, "What happened, sir? May I assist you with anything?" It was surely an inappropriate time to request their help.

  "Have you met anybody on your way?" the chief narrowed his eyes.

  "No one. No one at all."

  "We have lost an officer," he said without a transition. "My people have been searching for him for the third day in a row."

  "How come?"