Home at Last

by Alex Sapegin

  “Open your eyes,” said the voice.

  Timur opened his eyes and found himself lying on some couch. Turning his head, he met eyes with a big white dragoness, who was holding the impromptu bed in her front paws. The dragon said something in Younger Edda and shot a glance toward a house. He turned his head with difficulty. Lubayel fled from the threshold to him. Behind her, a man stepped with a broad, haughty step.

  A dragon…? Where did the dragon come from? thought Timur, with some delay. His head was completely unwilling to work. Thoughts flowed like a lazy, flat river, a duck-covered pond.

  “Timur! What’s wrong with him? Is he awake?” The dragoness put the couch on the ground; the elf immediately fell to her knees next to her husband and embraced him convulsively. And where was the Rauu’s famous equanimity?

  “Hey,” the word barely crawled out of his throat. Timur had a feeling his larynx had turned into a kind of mechanism, rusted from a long period of disuse. He wanted to say so much, but his throat did not obey.

  “Hey there,” said a painfully familiar voice. “Welcome to the world of the living, hero.”

  “Kerr?”

  Ilanta. Orten. Three days ago…

  “A desert,” the old elf said in a raspy voice, looking around. “Help…”

  A fellow tribesman, armed to the teeth and wearing many artifacts around his neck, immediately rushed to the elderly elf and helped him descend from his hass. The old elf, raising dark clouds with his feet, took a few steps, squatted cautiously, and scooped up a handful of ash with his hand. Rubbing the fatty ash between his fingers, he threw the leftovers on the ground and turned to his companions.

  “A desert. That’s all that remained of the Great Forest. For hundreds of leagues in all directions, wherever you look, black scorched earth. The wind lifted the ashes high into the sky and covered the sun. There were so many ashes that for a whole month there were dirty rains. The dragons burned the forest in one hour. One hour—and the whole country for thousands of years turned into a wasteland. I never thought that someday I would see something like that again. Etran,” metal broke through in the old Snow Elf’s voice. “we must burn the book. This should not happen again. There is knowledge, dangerous by its very existence. The ‘Kiss of the Goddesses’ and such, spells from that category. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand,” the former rector of the school of magic nodded. “I’m afraid to imagine what could have happened to Orten if the orcs knew about the kiss.”

  “The same thing that happened to them. What about the boy?”

  “Unconscious.”

  “How bad are things?” The Rauu made a subtle gesture. The long-legged bodyguards jumped to him instantly and helped him climb back into the saddle.

  “The life mages who surveyed Count Soto unanimously announced the inevitable lethal outcome. The Count was too deeply immersed in the element of fire and merged with someone else’s death magic.”

  “Is he burning himself out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best. We won’t have to erase his memory.”

  “And what about the thousands of observers?”

  “Etran,” the elf silenced her with a wave of his hand. “It’s unlikely that philistines and ritualists who witnessed the ritual will ever be able to repeat the experience of three thousand years ago without having a book and clear instructions in their hands.”

  “You know better.”

  “It would be easier if it were that way. I’m not immune to mistakes; no one is. Yesterday I made another one.” Miduel stroked his neck and pulled the reins. A roar of domestic animals was heard from the direction of the river. The whole day thousands of defenders on horseback and hassback, who before that were constantly sitting under the protection of city walls, were finishing off the surviving greenies and driving the loose cattle into the herd. The governor and the High Prince refused to inspect the former main camp of the orcs, confining themselves to inspecting the ruined suburb.

  Things were still restless outside the walls. Although the “kiss” destroyed most of the orcs, there was still a chance of catching a crazy spell or arrow from a still twitching shaman or archer. Those who avoided death by being far from the main camp at the time of the blow came under the attack of the thousands, thirsty for revenge and chopping everyone up. The humans, elves, and gray ones were so blinded by hate that they killed every last greenie, from small to large. Separate detachments were sent to grazing, where the orcs held cattle driven from the north.

  In the city, there was a shortage of food; the governor rightly decided that beef broth or even a full piece of meat would be preferable to fresh porridge. The orcs no longer had any use for the bulls, sheep, goats, and other animals, and they would do well for the city inhabitants. Therefore, the equestrian and griffon quartermasters engaged in a kind of “hunting.” Some green owners were against it, trying to hide, chasing the herds to the north or west, but a full quiver of ammunition was quickly found for them. They were assaulted and bombarded without mercy; Twins forbid one of them should turn out to be a shaman…

  After that, horsemen[S11] on the hasses or horses arrived, who ended the route. Shepherds dispatched with the military gathered the scattered animals into herds and drove them into the city. By order of Governor Etran, the cattle were to be brought to the upper plateau, where beyond the borders of Lailat stretched a valley with large silage pits. The war was not over; they didn’t know what surprises awaited the country and the city, and the meat stock would be larger than ever. Some of the animals would be cut up quickly, the carcasses sent to be stored in grocery caves, and some would be left for reserves—war is not eternal.

  The governor and the high-ranking guest, following the next mooing line, were about to descend to the river, when something gleamed brightly over the city. In a few moments, the ripple of a spatial shield ran through the sky.

  “Targ!” swore Etran. “dwarf rumps, what the shushug?” The governor snatched a communicator amulet from the pocket of the cloak she wore over light armor. “Dant!” she growled, trying to keep calm. “Immediately report what’s going on!”

  “Ma’am, Orten’s been covered with a remote screen. According to the visual signs, the source is thirty leagues from the city.”

  “All the clearing commands retreat. Quartermasters located more than twenty leagues from the city, return immediately. Determine the direction of the shield; send air reconnaissance.”

  “Ler, yes, ler! Dant out.”

  Miduel craned his neck and looked at the gray sky. If it weren’t for the thick ashes hanging in the air, they would never have seen any ripples, but the magic field of the screen caused the particles raised upwards to glow with a pale blue color.

  “The Forest,” he gasped suddenly. “The Lordships decided to join the game.”

  “Or maybe the Ariates?”

  “The Forest, dear Etran. Believe my intuition, logic, and common sense. The Ariates are not interested in the south, the west, or the center of Tantre; their interests are concentrated in the east. Here there are no burial grounds, more precisely, no interplanetary portals, so they will not come here. Spreading their forces and spending their energy all over the place is completely unprofitable for the Ariates, but the Elven lords may not get a second chance.”

  “Why do you think the Forest scum have put their hands to the screen? Surely, there are spies in the city who promptly reported the situation. Didn’t they learn anything from what just happened to the horde?”

  “On the contrary,” the old elf said, and narrowed his eyes. He felt sick from one crazy thought. To confirm the conjecture, he turned his hass toward the governor. “They learned quite a lot. The villains… Etran, order someone to measure the magical field over the city.”

  “But…”

  “RIGHT NOW!”

  The governor, looking sideways at the flushed Rauu, took out the communicator and ordered that the necessary measurements be made.

&n
bsp; “We’re returning,” she ordered the security chief, spurring her stallion. The cavalcade of horsemen, their horses’ hooves and hasses’ claws kicking up small clouds of ash, headed for the city gates. Three hundred yards from the gate, the squeak of the communicator was heard from Etran’s pocket. She held the artifact up to her ear.

  Miduel sighed heavily and closed his eyes for a couple of moments. Seeing how the blood ran away from her face and that it not only turned pale, but acquired a milky tone, the Rauu concluded that the matter was grave. “Dant, squish yourself into a pancake for all I care, but get me with a connection with his Majesty! I don’t know how!”

  “Etran?”

  “Four bell. The magical field over Orten is exhausted to its foundations. We have no mana left. We won’t last very long on artifacts alone, and we don’t even have many of them left,” the governor whispered with her white lips. “Is it the kiss?”

  “Yes, now I remember that three thousand years ago, the magic field was also weakened over the wastelands. During the ritual, not only the victims’ mana is concentrated; the fiery whirlwind sucked out all the available energy around. Conducting a ritual in the center of the city was a mistake. We were left without magical support. To restore the normal level of mana it takes about a week, but... I don’t think the Forest Lordships will give it to us. The Forest’s spies and their masters were much faster than us.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Fight!”

  The city met the cavalcade with an orderly bustle. The inhabitants of the Plain, who managed to return home, loaded their belongings on carts. Long lines of refugees who had rejoiced in the victory a few hours ago once again headed towards the bridges connecting the Middle and the Lower city. Special teams hurried to restore the fortress walls and barricades in the streets; the military mined the roofs of houses and the avenues with cutting stones. The head of the guild of necromancers approached the governor and held out a parchment folded into a tube. As the meaning of the writing reached Etran, the fold between her brows grew deeper and deeper.

  “What is it?” asked Miduel. The former rector silently extended the petition to him. The Rauu read the parchment with the request from the necromancers and frowned. “You must make your own decision.”

  “Alright.” She nodded after some thought, and attached her ring to the parchment, sealing the document. The main necromancer took the scroll and bowed low. If anyone were to glance at Governor Etran at that moment, he would not have doubted for a second that she was not feeling anything good. On the contrary, the decision weighed heavily on her shoulders.

  * * *

  An hour later, when the streets of the Plain were empty, the few townspeople there heard the sound of shackles. The guards were moving prisoners, some of which were wearing striped prison robes. Murderers, thieves, and rapists also had to serve the cause of defense. The grayed-out faces of the greenies and deathly pale humans were reflected in the windows of abandoned houses, the few that remained intact after the kiss. They somehow already knew that they were being driven to slaughter. Voluntary victims were not expected. The bang, of course, would not be the same, but without them, the necromancers, who themselves were not thrilled about what they had to do, could prepare many deadly magical traps and charge hundreds of martial artifacts. Through the rituals, the former orcs and criminals would replenish the army of defenders of the city. One good thing about zombies: they never ask any questions.

  At night it began to rain. Dirty water drained from the roofs of the houses; drainage pipes built by dwarfs spewed torrents of gray turbidity into the Ort. The city was preparing for defense. In streams flowing from the Plain, one could see reddish stripes flowing. By the time the heavens were opened, the people in black robes were finishing their bloody work. Special teams of magicians added invisible magical traps to the cutting stones, and commissariat carts carried boxes of charges and defensive amulets to the positions of the fortress chuckers. The city did not sleep.

  A few dozen people, heartily calling to mind Targ and bald shushugs, mined the bridges between the Middle and the Plain. People were in a hurry. At ten o’clock in the evening, five leagues from the city, a large portal opened. The Forest army was delayed somewhat; the weakened magic field gave the defenders a little time, as the “woody” mages had to spend more time and mana on building a portal crossing to the walls of the enemy city. Throughout the night, despite the rain, the Forest elves received troops, siege equipment, and ammunition.

  By the morning, the rain stopped. The water chased all the ashes from the sky, but Rigaud did not rejoice at all. He walked between the griffin pens, checking the feather entrusted to him. The last siege cost the fighting wing dear. Orcs were able to shoot down a good third of the air riders from the main line. The training wing, thrown into battle two weeks from the beginning of the siege, lost half its people and griffins. The novices, what can you do? Boys.

  Ignoring orders, they climbed into the very thick of things and burned up first, not even realizing that their heroic death would be detrimental to the defense of the city. The green orcs had almost no air cover. Unlike their gray fellows, the greenies were not puzzled by the breeding of flying half-birds and lizards. They were able to fight the heavenly menace. The shamans displayed numerous shields over the camp and suspended deadly traps in the sky. After the first, most destructive raid on the orcs, the commanders of the greenies formed anti-aircraft commands, and as soon as a battle griffin appeared in the sky over the tents, dozens of curses and incantations immediately rushed to it. During a raid of more numerous forces, the shamans killed the captive prisoners, and then the heavenly riders were greeted with fiery walls, black arrows of necromantic curses, and the most destructive magic that the orcs and sorcerers from Meriya (who had switched to their side) could do to them.

  Rigaud neatly jumped over a pile of excrement and stopped at the last paddocks. These ones would not fly today. The smell from the fragrant heap left behind spoke for itself—the griffins had diarrhea. The whole combat five was withdrawn for several days due to the fact that some jerks sold the fresh meat ration that was meant for the griffons and fed them slop. The guilty parties had already received two dozen lashes, but they still couldn’t fly on the griffons. He so didn’t want to accept slippery cadets from his training wing into his feather, but the commander insisted. Rigaud swung from his heel to his toe, turned abruptly and went to the staff tent. In fifteen minutes, the pre-flight briefing would take place, although it was clear that there would be zero profit from the departure. Elves are not orcs; experience is the mother of wisdom. Nothing good would come of their attempt, but you had to feel them out. Reconnaissance-in-force, Targ take them!

  The alarm signal caught him halfway to the commander’s tent…

  Ten minutes later, Rigaud was pressing his whole body against Blackie’s warm neck. The wing sent up by the alarm was sent to fight the woodies new weapon…

  * * *

  No sooner had the first rays of sun pierced the veil of cloud and touched the mountain peaks in the west, than thousands of balls sprang up above the Forest elves’ camp and flew toward the city, driven by the wind conjured by the woody sorcerers. Observers on the fortress towers and the command were alarmed. It was the first time Tantrians had faced such tactics. People looked up at the sky and wondered what kind of trick the Forest visitors had come up with.

  Headquarters couldn’t think of anything better than sending the remaining griffons to meet the strange, unknown threat.

  “We’ll build a ‘sphere’ and shoot these bubbles to smithereens!” ordered the gross-dert. Rigaud looked at the Colonel, nodded in comprehension and repeated the order to his subordinates.

  The griffons quickly sorted out the prescribed positions. Numerous exercises brought fruit; even the beginners from the former training regimen acted clearly and harmoniously.

  “Prepare hand-held chuckers!” Rigaud took out a chucker from the holster tied to his saddle. “Fire on my co
mmand! Beat the stuffing out of those bubbles!” the gross dert strained. “Fire!”

  Well-trained Blackie, obeying a slight tap with Rigaud’s heels, almost hanging in one place, started flapping his wings faster. A shot, a hit. The sphere he had aimed at burst, releasing a grayish cloud.

  “Got it!”

  The shooting continued. For a couple of minutes, the sky-high riders, without taking any damage, shot down more than two hundred “soap bubbles.”

  “Forward!” the gross-dert commanded, successfully firing into a bubble close to him. The ball burst; a gray cloud covered the commander. “Aah!” the Colonel screeched in an inhuman voice. The griffin beneath him wheezed. Obeying intuition, Rigaud sharply bent to the right, forcing Blackie to fold his wings and fall down.

  What used to be the roi-dert, a Colonel of the griffon wing, who now looked like a bunch of killer vines, flew past them, somersaulting. A little behind the rider, the griffon dove to the ground, its feathers lost and covered with foliage.

  “Twins almighty!” Rigaud whispered in shock. “Everyone retreat!” he ordered into the communicator, but it was too late. The heavenly horsemen managed to miss a few dozen bubbles, diving and letting them fly over their heads, which the elf magicians used to their advantage, blowing up the deadly gifts at that moment, so their contents sprinkled the griffins and their riders. The gray mass covered three dozen half-birds. Screaming lumps fell to the ground. “Evasion maneuver! All at once! We’re out of here!” Rigaud screamed at the top of his lungs, who was now the senior officer after the death of the Colonel.

  The balls continued to explode, sending another ten of alert-dert Rigaud Pront von Trand’s colleagues on their last flight.

  “Do not approach the bubbles!” But the riders had already sorted out the source of danger. Deprived of forty griffons, the wing urgently got back into formation, leaving between itself and the thousands of spheres enough space for an evasion maneuver.