The position of the celestial bodies had no significance whatsoever, but the phrase sounded meaningful.
“Okay,” the kid decided, “I’ll tell Max to go with you.”
“Thanks, man! You’ll see, your dog will become a hero.”
That was dependent on the condition that we stay alive until the dawn. Meanwhile, the prospects of that were dim.
The zombies fought at the far end of the barnyard in the dilapidated stables. The dog successfully limited the mobility of the ghoul, and that gave me some room for maneuver. I had one more bucket of spirit and the flare pistol that was buried somewhere in the weeds. I waited until the ghoul turned its back to the tree and smiled at the boy: “Well, I am going! Wish me luck.”
Now the flare-gun was within my reach, but the bullets got lost somewhere; just one remained that I managed to drive into the trunk. The bucket leaked, a little more than half left inside. I hoped that would be enough. Having approached the fighting zombies, I managed to pour the spirit over the ghoul. The monster attacked me, but the dog hung on it as a wriggling and snarling anchor. I retreated to the tree and ordered: “Max, to me!” and fired a flare point-blank at the ghoul.
It burned to death, but not instantaneously. For a couple more minutes the zombie was running after me in the yard in the agony of death. When it was all over, I gratefully patted the dog’s ears.
“Good for you, doggie! We made it.”
“Do not come down!” I told the boy. “I need to check if there are some other zombies here. Until I get back, do not dare go down to the ground.”
The boy nodded. It is in silly fairy tales that people do everything the wrong way round, but in reality, when they find themselves face-to-face with death, they become placid and obedient.
We reconnoitered together, the beast and the dark mage. The zombie-dog trotted briskly ahead, carefully sniffing. I was sure that it would notice a ghoul before me. The truck had already burned down, twilight passed into the night, but it was quiet and calm—the kind of silence that suggested the danger had passed. I made a torch out of the materials at hand because I had no idea where to look for the lamp. The owners were quite wealthy; they even had their own electric generator (fueled by oil, not by alcohol). It wasn’t running—they forgot or hadn’t wanted to turn it on. I checked the contacts and pushed the switch—it worked. The yard became lit with light bulbs, but the house was dark. It was not a good sign.
I told the dog: “Bring me my gripsack!” and cautiously came closer to the house to peer through the windows. I found the cane under my feet—I had almost forgotten about it.
A minute later I heard panting—the zombie-dog brought me my bag. I began to like the beast.
“Hide!” I ordered. “People should not see you. Meet me at the motorcycle.”
It disappeared into the darkness.
First, I lit a candle, but it attracted no zombies; only the dog rustled and breathed noisily in the bushes. Then I walked around the house calling: “Is anybody alive?”
About fifteen minutes later a pale spot flashed in the second floor’s window.
“Who’s there?” a voice shuddered.
“Have you called a dark mage?”
“Beware of the zombies!”
“They are in the past. Do you remember how many of them were there?”
A movement in the window, and another voice answered me.
“Twelve men had gone into the forest. Then I saw seven zombies come back, but we were able to decimate one or two of them.”
“How many were the old ones?”
“Three.”
“Then the worst that is left is a couple of zombies straight from the tin, lurking in the corners. We can look for them in the morning. Is there light in the house?”
“Have you indeed killed three ghouls?”
Judging by his knowledge of terminology, it was one of the “cleaners”. The ghul relates to the ghoul as a lap-dog to a wolfhound. The ghuls that are many years old are called ghouls; years of being undead give them strength. I restrained myself from displaying a contemptuous smirk; the “cleaner” would not see it anyway.
“Yes! And without much effort. Plus one of the young zombies in the truck. But I had a problem with reagents—I did not expect to meet an army of zombies. Who was the idiot that raised them?”
He stayed silent in response; the “cleaner” did not want to acknowledge his folly but could not refute my words.
“Okay, never mind. Stay where you are now. I’ll take the boy to the nearest farm and come back in the morning. We will talk about my fee.”
“Is Mihas alive?” it was a troubled woman’s voice.
“Yes. Are you his mother?”
“Mihas! I must see him!”
I heard a noise that sounded like strife. Oh-ho… I’d better run from here and let them sow their wild oats by the morning.
“In short, we’ll take the road to the east.”
“Mihas!”
I had to take the kid to the house and let her cry it out. The boy was surprisingly quiet and very seriously tried to persuade his mother to wait until the morning. When we left, she was still sobbing.
“Is she from the white?” I asked, turning my motorcycle around.
“No. My grandfather is a white.”
“I see. A family trait!”
“What is the family trait?” the boy felt hurt.
“Weak nerves.”
Receiving my command, the motorcycle’s magic breathed fire into the cylinders and spun the shaft; the engine roared, and a dazzling cone from the headlight punctured the darkness.
“Hold on tight!” I ordered pulling the strings of the coat, and we moved east, followed by the quick shadow of the zombie-dog.
I didn’t return to the farm; my suspicions were correct and freedom was more important than money. It seemed unwise to allow the “cleaners” to see my face: they could quickly take me to NZAMIPS. I explained to the boy that all the zombies were gone from the farm, and the police would investigate the case. I reminded him not to tell anyone about the dog.
“…Unless asked directly with no other option; outright lying is not good.”
He nodded in accord.
The owners of the neighboring farm, alarmed by news of the ghouls’ attack and reassured that everything would be fine from now on, agreed to take care of the kid and let the police know about the incident. Halfway to the highway, I saw from a distance a column of military trucks with the NZAMIPS logo, stirring dust from the opposite direction. I cheerfully turned into the bushes—did not want to renew acquaintance with my “beloved captain.”
A day later, back at home, browsing through the headlines of the morning papers, I realized what had happened. It turned out that one of the policemen did break alive through that same cursed forest and managed to call for backup. A regiment of NZAMIPS’ troopers drove there all night because the three active ghouls were horribly dangerous (originally there were four, but one of the killed “cleaners” managed to sell his life dear). The military convoy was pursued by a pack of journalists, willing to risk their lives for an opportunity to observe the fight. I saw a few of them thumbing a lift on the roadside, but intuition prompted me not to stop. Well, they were in the right place, and no ghouls—not even a poor ghul—were there. All were decimated.
It was then that the folktale of the “dark knight on a horned monster” was born.
Mass media went on and on, relishing the story of a private magician that successfully replaced a battalion of “cleaners”. More sensible people questioned how the ghouls could hide for so many years in the heart of a densely populated land, repeatedly attacking unsuspecting villagers. Casualties of “cleaners” and policemen (the ghouls had eaten the big boss) added savor to the story. The chief of the regional NZAMIPS’ office gave an interview, in which he regretted what had happened and remorsed, regretted and remorsed, and swore on his life that everything would be fine in the county from now on.
&
nbsp; It was then that I became a wanted criminal. Initially, NZAMIPS’ officials hinted at a reward for the “knight” for saving people, and then they publicly offered me to come and get it (did they think I was an idiot?). Finally, a reward was promised for information about me (well, go interrogate the ghouls!). Ms. Fiberti, my “answering service”, was visited by some guests, but she was a willful woman and chased them all out. Emotions gradually quieted, but it was clear even to journalists that the dark magician, practicing for almost a year in the county, was from Redstone.
The day after the incident, I left the university after the second lecture reporting myself sick, and went to my “answering service”. There I was handed a new issue of The Western Herald.
“Ms. Fiberti, we need to talk seriously.”
She knowingly nodded: “Do you want to shut down the business?”
“After what happened, NZAMIPS will comb the entire county. I do not want trouble.”
She sighed, “I’m sorry that it’s over; I liked working with you. May I,” she adjusted her glasses in embarrassment, “write a book about you?”
“A book?”
“A novel. Naturally, I’ll change your name.”
“Do you think it would be interesting to anybody?”
“I believe so.”
“Fine!” I generously agreed. “Just let me browse through it when you finish. I don’t want to look like a complete idiot.”
Ms. Fiberti made me tea; I packed up the filing cabinet and neatly folded my business suit.
“Will you have problems because of me?”
She grinned: “If anything, I will say that I rented out a room with the phone and did not know who lived there.”
So we parted.
I wrapped my black gripsack in a white towel and went to the junkyard, where my horned monster slept peacefully under the protection of the zombie-dog. If someone stumbled into those two, the gripsack would be my smallest concern. How could I manage to get into such a mess? I thought I didn’t do really bad things… at least I did not plan… most importantly, everyone was happy, and then suddenly—hop—I was a danger to society (according to NZAMIPS). It was time to stop illegal activity. I vowed to myself to find Captain Baer’s business card in the pockets of my old pants, frame it, and hang over my desk as a constant reminder to stay away from adventures.
Part 3. INTERNSHIP IN ALCHEMY
Chapter 12
“I’m a good-hearted dark mage, I’m a very modest dark mage, I am very, very…”
Should I stay quiet after what happened at the farm, or behave like everyone else? Don’t get me wrong—I am, of course, very intelligent—but acting is not my element. I could convincingly simulate simple and natural reactions, but a sophisticated reconstruction of behavior was not my milieu. That was more up the white magicians’ alley. How could I behave myself if I didn’t know what would be best in my situation?
The question was relevant, because Redstone buzzed like a disturbed beehive. I did not think that a couple episodes of my half-illegal business would make so much noise. Interestingly enough, the townsfolk’s reaction to that matter was diametrically opposed to the official view. Apparently, people did not support the authorities. I could imagine how irritated NZAMIPS’ officials were! I was praised, I was recommended as a role model, I was admired and, you know, the dark are suckers for flattery. For obvious reasons, the mage remained anonymous, but I knew whom they were talking about. The only thing that kept me from running through the streets shouting, “That knight is me! Me!” was the zombie-dog. Such a trick no one would forgive.
University classes turned into a real test for my nerves: Quarters looked at me with a sly eye (what on earth made me show him my motorcycle?), and whenever at least three dark got together, they immediately began discussing “that same incident”. Nothing agitates the dark as much as another’s glory! All of my fellow students were confident that they would have done “the same”, but better. One twit even tried to move from word to deed, and Mr. Rakshat beat him so seriously that the guy had to go to the hospital. Any other measures wouldn’t discourage the dark; therefore, the teacher’s over-reaction was considered adequate. It was clear even to the white.
Due to such cases the university offered a lecture - a review of supernatural phenomena, mandatory for all dark mages. The ones who did not attend would not be allowed to take final exams. The lecturer, sent by NZAMIPS, was a lady of colorless appearance, shy and embarrassed, who told us about the history of the scientific study of otherworldly powers, uttering phrases like “lethal” and “witnesses did not survive” with a slight stammer. The officer vitalized only when she started a demonstration of heinous exhibits, spreading the disgusting stink of formalin throughout the entire room.
And I saw some of these exhibits without any formalin…
After the lecture it became clear to everyone—even to me—that the accomplishment of the feats, overblown by the media, could only be done by a well-trained otherworldly liquidator, a retired “cleaner”, or an aged master looking for a meaningful death. I didn’t understand why I was still alive. Logic dictated that either I embodied the Spirit of Holy Salem or the lady-lecturer slightly distorted the truth.
Since childhood I have been catching hints well, but my case did not require special subtleties: I ought to put a big, bold cross on my underground business. That was, perhaps, for the better: how much longer could I risk my life? Yes, I still owed money for the motorcycle (five hundred crowns) and needed to help my family. I could not leave them without money—Lyuchik was going to a new school. In a pinch, I could sell some stuff; the business suit was worth no less than a hundred crowns.
It was time to get more serious about my life—in the next month I would be twenty-one. No more allowances for non-age. At this stage, good students looked to make contacts with future employers and earn work experience instead of riding a motorcycle around the county with a magic gripsack at the ready. It was time to decide which was closer to my soul: magic or alchemy. Mr. Darkon was right: the majority of initiated dark mages chose the career of a combat mage (it was always easier to earn a living with one’s hands, not one’s brains), but I tested it and discovered that the job of a “cleaner” was rather monotonous. To my chagrin, I did not have any employer in sight for a career in alchemy.
What about Quarters?
“Hey Ron, how is our patent doing?” I asked my friend.
“Excellent! If Dad doesn’t show a bit of generosity, I’ll sell your invention to Domgari Motors. Old hags still think that a student is a sort of free slave. Don’t piss! You will be rich.”
“What do you think: can I mention the patent in my resume?”
“You aren’t going to be an alchemist, are you?”
“I have always been planning to become an alchemist.”
“Weren’t you going to learn magic?”
“So what?”
Quarters shrugged and immediately perked up: “How about making some money?”
“Don’t even ask!”
“I’ve got some friends,” Quarters hesitated. “In short, they started a business…”
“Do they need a draftsman?”
“They need brains! Oh, and a draftsman too. They’ve signed a big contract: the optimization of gas generators.”
“Shit tanks, you mean?”
Ron chuckled: “Tom, you have no idea what dough swirls in this business! Do you know how much shit this town produces a day?”
I snorted. Wow, what a start to my life! Though, why not?
“What are the terms?”
“You’ll like them.”
Of course, compared to the income of a dark magician, it was no money at all, but I certainly couldn’t become too choosy. From a student’s perspective, everything looked damn attractive, and from the point of view of a wanted criminal, the job was excellent camouflage. Ron shared a common belief that alchemy was not the place for an initiated dark mage.
* * *
&
nbsp; Edan Satal’s career as the senior coordinator of the Northwestern Region began with resounding failure and public humiliation. The excuse that it took some time to gain full control of the situation was poor consolation. Had Satal caught the ill-starred mage in the heat of the moment, tortures and a murder would have been added to the other sins of the coordinator. But the hero of Satal’s humiliation was wisely hiding somewhere.
Care for the mental health of decision makers was the direct responsibility of empaths in the public service. Ms. Kevinahari was confident that, whatever passions boiled in the soul of the dark magician, two or three weeks of hard work would melt them in dry pragmatism. If nothing else happened. So far, the only side effect of the scandal was the transfer of the regional NZAMIPS’ office from Gerdana to Redstone.
Ms. Kevinahari presented an investigatory report on the Fitsroten Estate to the coordinator personally: “In some sense, we have been lucky this time—he drew a pentagram on the ground. But some… dog… dug all around and even peed all over. Having examined… this, our best expert… I don’t even know such words! In short, he came to a conclusion: the power channel of our mage is nonstandard. That’s it.”
“Perhaps, I’d better speak to the expert myself?”
“No, no! You would kill each other. Seriously.”
Mr. Satal kept silence, and even the empath could not say whether the coordinator thought of the emerging issue or cherished his annoyance.
“Would you like me to communicate the results to Captain Baer?” Ms. Kevinahari disturbed the quiescence.
“No!” the coordinator startled.
The empath refrained from commenting, but Mr. Satal sensed some disagreement (or his teamwork skills improved) and found it necessary to explain: “Weren’t you surprised that he switched transportation methods at exactly the time that we set up the ambush at the railroad station?”
“Yes, I was,” Ms. Kevinahari admitted. “Prior to that, he used trains so often that conductors thought up a nickname for him. But Captain Baer is not a traitor, that’s for sure!”
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