* * *
In the evening the NZAMIPS’ office was empty and quiet. Mr. Satal marched proudly to the exit door, glancing disapprovingly at tubs of ficus plants and flowerpots; his empath kept an impenetrable silence. The coordinator broke their quiescence first: “What a sleazebag,” he said through his teeth. “How did he manage to become an officer with such a mug?”
Ms. Kevinahari smiled slyly, but her voice was serious and reserved: “Conrad Baer has been with NZAMIPS longer than I’ve been alive, achieved a perfect career record, liquidated an incident in Nintark, and was awarded a medal twice. A skilled and responsible manager.”
“How does his current behavior fit with the massacre in Nintark?” the coordinator snorted.
“He showed no enthusiasm today,” the empath admitted, “but I cannot say that he does not understand the problem. Rather, the captain chooses the lesser evil. Obviously, the situation with the supernatural is so serious that he is willing to pay for twenty successful expulsions with lives of the mage and those nearby.”
“What a bastard.”
“He is cynical,” the empath agreed, “tends to manipulate others, but he is dedicated to his job. He will go after our guy.”
“He wouldn’t dare not to.”
“I would like to point out to you that any reference to the ‘cleaners’ causes inadequate reaction in all respondents.”
“You bet!” Mr. Satal almost spat in a fit of temper. “I’ll be damned if any of those scams remain in the service!”
“The capitol is partially guilty,” Ms. Kevinahari recalled. “We should have foreseen that ten years of peace would badly impact the team that was made up entirely of dark magicians.”
“They had enough fun for the last three years, the frequency of manifestations has been quite high.”
The empath did not argue. Mr. Satal paused on the porch steps, intently eyeing the street, as if expecting to see the man wearing a black coat and a cane.
“I haven’t been here since the day of my graduation,” he said quietly. “Nothing has changed. The province, what else can I say?!”
“Would you like to change anything?” Ms. Kevinahari moved her head.
The senior coordinator paused before replying. A tram rolled along the neighboring street, banging and clanging; soft music was heard from the pub on the corner. Second-shift NZAMIPS’ staff was leaving the office with relief, excitedly discussing something—it was Friday.
“No, I wouldn’t,” the magician said very seriously.
They did not discuss this question further.
Chapter 11
“An incredible monster—huge, black, and one-eyed—raced down the road, frantically snarling. Blinded by the light of the evil pupil, a child stood stock-still, barely seeing a brave knight that sat on the back of the monster and firmly held the creature by the horns. Having noticed the boy, the beast reared; then, tamed by a firm hand, the beast obediently froze after roaring one last time.
‘I am a dark magician. Who called me?’ a stentorian voice resounded.
‘There are… dead… many…”
‘Show me!’ a fearless magician commanded sternly, grabbing his crosier with right hand and a magic valise with left.
The boy seemed to hear the magician mutter under his breath something like, ‘Every time in deep shit’ but, obviously, it was a sound hallucination.”
I could not read further. Ms. Fiberti was crying from laughter.
“Who wrote this… such…” I had many epithets for the content of the article in The Western Herald, but they were all quite obscene.
“What do you want, Thomas? Not every day a dark magician can stop an army of ghosts!”
“What crosier, damn it? I had a cane, a walking stick! I thought it would be handy to cope with furious dogs.”
“A cane and a crosier are similar things. Oblong…”
“How about the valise? Where did they take the valise from?”
“The magic valise,” Ms. Fiberti giggled again.
“Other magicians will be reading that! The dark ones! I look like a complete idiot in there!”
“Don’t worry; they haven’t mentioned your name. Imagine what people will say about ‘cleaners’ after that!”
I pictured how tough combat mages from the “cleaning” service would be reading that nonsense… and neighed like a horse for ten minutes, unable to stop.
Although the situation did not seem quite so funny last week.
That day started badly: the route I planned out on the map did not match what was in the area. One of the selected roads simply didn’t exist; the other one ended in a ruined bridge. There were no people coming from the opposite direction; in short, all of the attributes of a “bad place” were present. Mindful of how bold travelers end their life, I did not try to go straight through the low ground, overgrown with rotten wood and, making a huge roundabout, approached the target of my trip from the diametrically opposite side. With a powerful engine and new tires, I reached the place long before the onset of darkness. And why my motorcycle always has a headlight on, you already know.
I drove along a broken dirt road in the late afternoon, seeing the property on the hill exactly as described by the caller, and I was happy that I didn’t have to spend the night in the field. Suddenly, a kid jumped on the road out of nowhere. A motorcycle is not a limousine; I could pass a pedestrian even on a very narrow road, but it was a risky move on the boy’s part, anyway. I stopped and counted to ten. What would have happened if I had touched the kid with the shields? They stuck out for half a meter from the base and could hit hard. After some thought, I decided that the boy was sent to meet me and asked him: “Have you called a dark mage?”
The boy was pale, shaking; his shirt and pants were ripped with blood spots in front and on the back. Furthermore, one was struck with the impression that his clothes were torn with teeth. This misfortune looked at me and murmured: “Dead, dead, they’re all dead!”
I thought some kids had been hit by a spell while playing. Familiar story - pitiful, but nothing could be done. I grabbed my gripsack and cane (the latter because there were always dogs on bigger farms) and pulled the string, converting my jacket into the coat—a typical military clothes’ modification.
“Well, show the way,” I told the kid calmly.
As far as I remember, I even took the time to apply the cleansing spell to my clothes. The owner of the estate was an ambitious man from a big city; you could not come in dirty shoes to a guy like that!
Why should I be nervous? I did not know at that time that zombies had been slaughtering the inhabitants of the estate for three generations in a row, and the day before a “cleaner” came in and awakened all the nonlife around. I walked to the house and suddenly noticed three ghouls, approaching me from the opposite direction. They were typical fully matured undead, dripping with green juice, a head taller than any man, with claws and fangs of the size that no living being could possess in principle. Moreover, they were moving despite the day time, very quickly, and I had neither a drafted pentagram ready, nor a flame-thrower in hand.
Students learned combat curses only in their senior year, at the very end of their studies, as juniors, we practiced how to call and hold basic spells, but the deadly threat fantastically sped up my learning process. Since the case with Rustle in the Prison Bay I knew how the combat curse should look (from the view of an objective observer). Terrified, I squeezed out of myself some quivering form, crumpled it into a sort of Shadow Sickle, and crying: “Hishu hara!” tossed it into the ghouls.
Naturally, my curse did not incinerate them, but I managed to delay the zombies; in some places, where my weaving touched the monsters, their bodies were severed into long, stirring rag-like tentacles. Not that it hurt them; rather, they were puzzled. While they were deciding whether to fix themselves or stay cut up as they were, I grabbed the kid under my arm (all this time he was hiding behind my back) and ran away.
Students of Redstone Univers
ity maintain good physiques!
I hid behind a shed and recalled that ghouls only pursued objects visible to them (they were unable to keep images in their memory long enough). I paused to take a breath and realized that I missed something: there were four ghouls, not three—the fourth being a dog, raised from the dead.
A quite fresh corpse. It stood and watched.
When the creature was alive, it was a big, prick-eared dog of the kind farmers of the valley liked to keep. The invasion of the supernatural had already changed the dog: its bones and muscles stretched, its skin burst in some places, and teeth protruded from its mouth. Naturally, the otherworldly that had animated the dog did not want to cripple it; the supernatural just did not know—could not know—how to create a truly living thing. The deviations were not strong yet—little time had passed since the death of the dog. At the whim of the supernatural, a wave of pseudo-life touched not only the body, but also the brain of the animal (it doesn’t happen often). The animal even slightly wagged its tail. While alive, the creature must have been very kind. Now, it probably started feeling urge to tear and gulp living flesh to satisfy its hunger. The dog used to take food from people’s hands, and it wasn’t so crazy yet as to hunt them down.
The fourth ghoul waited for me to feed it.
I had two options. I could smash its skull with my cane and move on, forever remembering the glance of the deceived dog that remained so faithful to people, even while dead. Or I could complete the process, correct the errors committed by the supernatural, and turn it into a genuine zombie that would not eat flesh and blood, but would require revivifying spells regularly. Had anyone found me doing something like that, I would have been burned alive.
Not good to be a dark magician that grew up among the white.
I called the dog by quietly whistling, let it sniff my palm, and put my hand on its back. Completion of the transformation was surprisingly easy: the life meridians had not cooled down in the body yet. I passed the spell over them. The dog liked the actions that I made; it wagged its tail and tried to lick my face.
So, the three ghouls left on the agenda, but I couldn’t perform the same trick with them—they were transformed long ago and irreversibly. I turned to the kid, who watched my actions with intense interest. The boy was so exhausted by fear that he wouldn’t run from me, even if he wanted to.
“Pull yourself together, man! I need to know what happened, or they will eat us here.”
Experience with my stepfather and younger white brother helped me to get out all the details I needed without beating the unfortunate kid. Things couldn’t be worse: his parents bought the estate six months ago, after something bad had happened to the former owners. Almost immediately they applied to the local “cleaning” service, but the bastard cleaners put them on a waitlist, not even bothering to find out the reason for the complaint. Two weeks ago, a representative of “Totars Energy” was supposed to pay them a visit to give a quote for hook-up to the power supply network, but the guy didn’t show up; later the company declared his disappearance. The police didn’t demonstrate any enthusiasm in searching for him; the new owners of the estate learned from the officers that people disappeared from that place regularly throughout the past one hundred years. The kid’s father’s patience had exhausted, he called me, and we agreed to meet.
But yesterday the long-awaited “cleaner” with a team of assistants and police officers finally visited the farm. I did not know what this parody on the dark troopers was trying to accomplish; they decided that the poor tradesman was killed either by one of his own, or by a tramp, or by the farmer. These psychos didn’t bother to evacuate the family; instead, they rushed to the woods that I had bypassed. Two local policemen flatly refused to participate in the suicidal event. Thanks to those two, there were still people alive at the estate: when ghuls and ghouls, new and old, came to the front from the forest, the brave rural boys met them with heavy fire. Alas, bullets (any bullets) could not stop three ghouls, each a century old. Only dark magic was effective against such creatures, and the senior “cleaner” returned from the forest as one of the zombies.
It would be best to pick up the boy and run away, but, according to the kid, his family was still hiding in the house, along with the two courageous policemen and an assistant to the “cleaner”, who had not gone to the woods. As soon as the sun dropped behind the horizon, the zombies would become stronger and more resolute; they were not stupid, just their mind, affected by the supernatural, manifested itself erratically and unpredictably. People’s lives depended on whether I could resolve the situation before the nightfall.
The zombie-dog whined and rubbed my knee.
“Now, kid, I need your help. Do you know your neighborhood well?”
He nodded.
“Is there flat ground, roughly the size of a croquet field, nearby?”
He thought and shook his head.
“Any spot, more or less level? I need to draw a pentagram.”
He nodded and walked me around the house. The zombie-dog disappeared in the bushes, but I didn’t worry about it. The level ground was a barnyard, overgrown with weeds. Without complex preparation I could only use a patch of a hundred square feet in size. There was no way that I could seal all three ghouls at the same time.
“Listen, does your father keep spirits here?”
Oil was not well suited for cremation, but the spirit would do the job just fine. The boy pointed toward the house.
“Excellent. Now climb the tree and look sharp! If anything moves, knock, whistle, or shout to me.”
I hoisted him onto the lower branch. At least, one of us would stay safe now.
Drawing a pentagram proved easy, but the next step—lighting a black candle—I postponed: before commencing, I had to find some weapon. In the driveway, I stumbled upon a phaeton without horses and an army truck with a canvas top; the team of the “cleaner” must have arrived in them at the manor. A fresh ghul was sitting motionlessly in the cab of the truck. I carefully climbed into the truck’s body. They ought to bring some weapons with them! I managed to find a flare-gun (an exotic and funny device) and a pack of flares. There was also a spare canister of oil; all the rest the policemen had carried away. I took the flare-gun and slowly spilled oil all over the truck, then soaked a piece of cloth in the fuel, turning it into a great wick. To attack the three mature ghouls with one flare-gun would be stupid, so I had to go around the perimeter of the house in hopes of finding something else. Fortunately for me, the owner kept a barrel of spirits that leaked slightly, and I managed to find it by smell in the barn. It was getting dark outside with almost no time left until sunset. I made three trips, filling large buckets with alcohol and placing them along the path to the barnyard. Then I loaded the pistol, said a prayer, and hit the truck with a flare.
The fresh ghul, not quite used to the role of a zombie, panicked and forgot how to open the cabin door. It cried almost like a man and burned for a long time.
The three mature ghouls emerged rapidly. Had I not strained all my senses, I wouldn’t have gotten away from them. Only on the second attempt did I manage to pour over the most active zombie with spirit. Rushing into the barnyard, I set fire to it with the pistol. The zombie caught fire unexpectedly well and burned brightly, with fountains of sparks (which was very handy, because in the darkness I could miss my own pentagram). There was no time left for any mistakes: the other two zombies attacked me practically together. I lit a black candle and stood behind the pentagram so that the drawing separated me from the undead. The second one was moving directly over the pentacle.
“Dangemaharus!”
And I shut the trap. A dense column of fire filled the pentagram. When the flame had subsided, the zombie disappeared without a trace. And the black candle went with it. It burned down at once, and the pentagram became useless. The last ghoul was safe and sound: it was too far away, and the flame did not touch it. I turned around and ran to the tree, knowing that I wouldn’t get there in time
.
The situation was saved by the zombie-dog, clinging to the loins of the undead with a belly growl. How could I not believe in good deeds?! I climbed to the tree and together with the kid watched as the dog tore the ghoul; the two deserved each other. I thought hard what to do next: the sun was about to set, and I did not want to find out what that third ghoul was capable of at night.
“Will you save my mother?” the boy asked cautiously.
“Of course!” I habitually lied. “Let Max wear the ghoul down a bit.”
The zombie-dog excitedly attacked the ghoul.
“Max?” the boy repeated doubtfully. “Actually, its name is Archie.”
“I hate to tell you, kid, but your Archie has died. It’s Max now. And if anyone notices Max, the ‘cleaners’ will kill me.”
“Why?” he did not understand.
“Why did they let all these people die?” I asked reasonably. “Because they are not capable of controlling the supernatural creatures! They can decimate them one way or another, but to control—no chance.”
“What about you?”
Should I tell him that I was doing this for the first time in my life?
“Sure, I can. I am the most powerful necromancer in Ingernika! Secret knowledge is transferred in our family from father to son for a thousand years. Naturally, we use it solely to protect people from the supernatural.”
I thought for a while. It was vital to take Max away from that place: the zombie-dog served as proof of my crime; no one should see it. Also, I needed to convince the boy to keep silence.
“Listen, let’s make a deal. Give Max to me! I’m going to take good care of the dog. It has a real talent for hunting ghouls; it would be shameful to bury Max in the ground!”
The boy hesitated.
“In order to ‘live’, it must be constantly fed with dark magic, and you are short of it in this place. Without a necromantic ritual it would stay ‘alive’ only until the next full moon.”
My Path to Magic mptm-1 Page 12
