by Dmitry Bilik
“But many of them are just stupid young boys!”
“it’s a few dozen lives in exchange for millions. I’m afraid the ratio isn’t in their favor. Just try to convince Oliverio not to hinder the murderer. He shouldn’t predict anything.”
The Grand Master hung his head. “What a terrible sacrifice...”
“I’m sacrificing myself,” the Chorul replied.
He rose and walked out, considering their conversation over. Because it really was over. He knew that the Grand Master was going to make the right choice. If he didn’t, his life would lose all meaning. Who would need Seers without Players? And who would need Players without commoners?
Now the Chorul headed for the local Community, one of the oldest in Europe. Shop signs flitted before his eyes, advertising wizards, battle mages, alchemists, summoners, sorcerers, journeymen and master blacksmiths, precision jewelers and archeologists. Every nook and cranny were packed with cages containing all kinds of fantastical beasts. Flying ports circled the sky: the airfield was just down the road from the city.
But above all, the streets were crowded with every race imaginable from Noggle to Lemstein, including mechanoids from the wretched Dump and even crocodile men, the most cunning and merciless among their kind.
The Chorul walked indifferently past all this, hiding his face deeper under his hood. He wasn’t interested in the wondrous beasts nor in the powerful spells. The rare races didn’t catch his eye; the worlds they inhabited didn’t attract him. The aromas escaping the doors of the many bars and eateries didn’t tempt him, either.
The Chorul stopped by a building so wide and shapeless that it resembled a blob of dough. He checked the sign of Gatekeepers over the door: the circle lined with a fine weave of runes and crisscrossed with a complex pattern of straight lines.
The Chorul pulled the door open.
“Sorrow,” he said to the Gatekeeper as he placed some dust into the bowl.
As usual, the moment of the teleporting happened so fast that he couldn’t tell whether he was here or there. Still, he had no doubts he’d arrived. He wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and walked outside.
He could hear the clinking of bottles in the house two doors down, accompanied by a rough male voice whose owner could only have come from Noggle. The Chorul shook his head, then headed toward the Community gate.
He boarded a bus and perched himself on a seat by the window. He wasn’t afraid of arousing anybody’s curiosity. To the untrained eye, he was just a skinny college student in drab gray clothes. The conductor herself just walked past without even noticing him.
The Chorul stared out of the window at the wintry city, apprehensively huddling itself against the cold. A yet-unknown wave of peaceful sadness swept over him, so untypical for creatures whose fate had already been decided.
Consumed by it, he very nearly missed his stop. The street was almost deserted, which was probably a good thing. The Chorul walked past the car factory, studying the area. The industrial zone, then the woodland park and the faint trail that snaked through it.
The Chorul produced the bundle and laid it onto the trail. He then stepped off it and hid behind a tree.
He didn’t have long to wait. A little demon came skipping and hopping on all fours along the trail, apparently heading for his lair. Suddenly he stopped and started sniffing the air until he detected the bundle.
The demon walked over to it on his hoofed hind legs in a very human-like manner, then dropped back to all fours. He touched the bundle gingerly with a finger and promptly snatched it away, as if afraid of the object hurting him. After some deliberation, the demon scooped up the bundle and pressed it to his chest.
The Chorul emerged from behind the tree and gave a short whistle. The demon pricked up his ears and swung toward his unseen enemy, clinging to the ground as if deliberating what to do next.
The Chorul produced his moon-steel knife and gave another whistle, sharp and loud. The demon darted off with his trophy.
The Chorul walked back to the bus stop, certain that the trench coat would now end up in the demons’ lair.
After a while, a shiny brand-new bus arrived. Its doors swung open in silent welcome. Once again no one noticed him, except for an old lady who swore at him for no particular reason. Just a nasty old hag — then again, she might have indeed been a witch. There was no way of telling.
In any case, he reached his destination without any further problems. To the right of the bridge, the traffic wasn’t moving but here, the road was still more or less free. Just as he’d been told.
He got off the bus and spent some time looking around trying to find his bearings. He wasn’t sure whether this was the right place. A corner shop, a shawarma joint, then a street heading off to the dormitory highrises. He’d arrived.
The Chorul walked unhurriedly. He still had plenty of time.
The night had descended too quickly, as always at the start of winter. Slowly the drab glow of the streetlights grew brighter. The temperature dropped. The passersby’s breath misted as they shuddered in their thin autumn jackets. Even the dog that fearlessly ran past him kept his tail firmly between his legs, focusing only on finding a nice warm shelter for the night.
The cold practically didn’t bother the Chorul: his charmed clothes, the work of a powerful wizard, did their job well. He walked confidently until he came to a five-story apartment block which loomed in front of him. He walked around it, peered in one of the windows and smiled at something known only to him.
Then he headed confidently to one of the front doors.
A frail old man in a funny knitted cap was shuffling his feet against the cold next to the entry system by the front door. He nodded to the Chorul, forcing him to nod back.
The Chorul walked over to the door and punched in the code required by its security system. He then climbed to the right floor and rang the bell by the door he needed. But first, he’d shrugged off his hood.
“Hello, Hunter,” he said when the door had opened.
“Who are you? And how do you know me?” asked the fit albeit middle-aged man who’d answered the door.
“I’m a Chorul. I need to talk to you.”
“A Chorul. I see,” the man drawled sarcastically. “Now listen to me, Chorul. If you ever as much as come here again, I’ll kick you down the stairs. If you need me, leave a note at the Community. I’ll make sure I get it. Bye now.”
The man attempted to shut the door but the Chorul jammed his foot in it. “I really need to speak to you, Kefal.”
The man’s face erupted in dark spots. “So you are a Chorul, are you? Wait a sec,” he grabbed a jacket off the coat rack and hurried to change out of his house slippers into a pair of winter boots. “I’ll just pop out to the shop,” he shouted to someone in the apartment.
They walked downstairs in silence and left the building, bypassing the funny old boy. Then they headed down into the maze of the city’s dormitory tower blocks with their worn-out roads and shattered curbstones.
Finally, Hunter spoke,
“You couldn’t find out my name from anyone. Everybody that ever knew it is already dead.”
“We Choruls have access to all kinds of strange information. If we focus and want it hard enough, we can find out everything about any Player.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Your life.”
“You gonna kill me?”
“No, no. You read too much into what I said. I don’t need your death. I need your life. What keeps you here?”
“You know everything, you tell me.”
The Chorul nodded. “Your wife. But she’s only a pale shadow of your Procris. As were all the other women before her. Nothing but failed attempts to replace Thespius’ daughter.”
“So what do you propose?”
“I’d like you to become a mentor for a very young man who’s about to face lots of tribulations.”
“I stopped doing that sort of thing a long time ago.”
<
br /> “I know. Ever since your sons died. How old were they in Earth time?”
“In Earth time? Haesper was six hundred and eighteen. Adumnis, just over a thousand. They didn’t want to become Players. They were very angry about my decision.”
“And still they lived such long lives. Not by your standards, of course, but still. Now a lot hangs on your decision. I’m not going to force you to take the right step, I’m just gonna tell you its potential consequences. Both what will happen if everything goes to plan, as well as if it doesn’t...”
The Chorul spoke for a long time. Hunter listened attentively. His wizened face frowned as he looked at the intruder who was trying to turn his well-ordered life upside down.
“So the Oracle was right,” he finally said.
“It all depends on you. Everything always depends on one’s choice.”
“But not in your case.”
“Why not?” the Chorul sounded surprised. “I too have made my choice. Which is to die today. This is the only way to save our worlds and bring about some kind of order to them instead of the all-consuming chaos.”
“How much can I tell him?”
“Everything you think necessary. I should feed him information in small doses, if I were you. That would allow Sergei to work things out in his own head. That way, he might get smarter quicker. And it’s high time he got a bit smarter.”
“You might be right. It actually might be the reason for my existence, you never know. I’ve lost all purpose a long time ago.”
“You’re no different from any other Player who’s lived to be over a thousand. Same applies to quite a few gods,” the Chorul stressed the last word but Hunter didn’t seem to notice. Or at least pretended not to.
“Very well. I agree.”
“Take this,” the Chorul offered him the small mirror and the knife. “I want you to give these to him.”
They parted company in silence. No words were necessary. They just shook hands and went their own ways. Hunter took the road back home while the Chorul headed for a small supermarket on the outskirts.
He came across little Boris just in time. Which couldn’t have been otherwise, of course. The boy was just about to head home because his time outdoors was coming to an end.
“Hi, Boris,” the Chorul said, investing every ounce of friendliness into his voice.
“Hi,” the boy said hesitatingly.
“On your way home?”
“Yeah.”
“For sure you don’t know where I know you from?”
Uncertain, the boy shook his head.
“I’m your guardian wizard. I’ve been watching you for a long time. I know that you go to that school over there. You Mom’s called Lydia, and your Dad’s name is Victor. You’ve got a little brother but he’s still very young. He’s only just been born. And I also know,” the Chorul dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “last winter you and other boys went rafting. And you fell in the water. The other boys started a bonfire to warm you up and dry your stuff out. Your Mom never even found out.”
The boy’s eyes opened wide. “How do you know?”
“I already told you I’m your guardian wizard. I know everything about you.”
“Wizard, yeah right! Pull the other one!”
The Chorul raised his hand by way of reply. His fingers sparkled as if ablaze. This was only a cheap trick in his vast arsenal of spells but it worked wonders with the boy.
“Would you like to become a wizard?” the Chorul asked.
The boy nodded vigorously. “You bet!”
“Come with me, then.”
“My Mom’s waiting for me,” the boy said uncertainly.
“It’s all right. Your neighbor will come and get you in a moment. Uncle Sergei.”
He tugged the boy’s hand. Obediently Boris trotted along.
The Chorul had no idea what was on the boy’s mind. He wasn’t a mind reader, after all. But everything went according to plan. The Chorul knew exactly what to say because he knew it all. He'd already said all this before. It felt now as if he’d just remembered it. Easy.
They crossed the road and walked over to the foundation pit. The boy cast a scared look behind him as if doubting his decision. Once again the Chorul had to resort to magic and show him another trick in order to distract him from his current train of thought.
“There down below is a great place for magic,” the Chorul lied. “Come on, let’s go. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
They climbed down into the foundations. The boy kept looking back. You didn't have to be a Seer to feel his fear. To a certain extent, the Chorul couldn’t help blaming himself for inflicting such an unpleasant feeling onto such a tiny defenseless creature. But there was nothing he could do about it. He'd made his choice.
Until Sergei’s arrival, the Chorul whiled away the time casting spells for the boy: from the simplest ones that any newbie wizard could do to some quite serious Destruction magic, as effective as it was spectacular. The boy had almost lost his nervousness when the Chorul froze.
The time had come.
“Whatever happens, don’t be afraid. Take this,” he shoved something into the boy’s pocket.
“Boris! Boris!” a voice came from above.
“That’s Uncle Sergei,” the Chorul whispered. “Answer him.”
“I’m down here!”
“Boris, where are you?”
The Chorul heard the sound of falling clumps of frozen earth. The winter had only just begun so there wasn't much snow around.
Finally he could make out the approaching figure: a stocky half-blood Korl in an unbuttoned jacket, holding a flimsy plastic shopping bag. Although the Chorul had “seen” the man before, he couldn’t suppress a smile.
“Hey, what’s going on, dude?” the Korl paused, then headed toward them. “Don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”
The half-Korl laid his shopping bag on the ground, still reluctant to attack him. The Chorul already knew that the man wasn’t the bravest of souls and he would need some encouragement.
“Man, get away from the kid.”
Now was really the time. The Chorul reached out his hand, casting Telekinesis.
His opponent flew several yards away and landed on his shopping bag and its meager food supply. Or rather, his alcohol supply, judging by all the clinking.
Grunting, the Korl was struggling on the ground, trying to get back to his feet. For a moment, the Chorul thought it had been a bad idea. Still, he immediately shook off every doubt. This half-blood Player was capable of making his journey. He had to. The weight of responsibility was entirely on his shoulders.
The hardest thing was to offer himself to the blow. The Chorul closed his eyes the second before the fiery jet from the aerosol can burned his face. The edges of his cloak caught fire, singing his skin. He had to use his hands to smother the flames a little.
That’s when he felt the blow.
It was actually very weak — a joke really. Still, the Chorul had taken up exactly the right position. The one he was meant to do. There was a large rock right under his feet, over which he was supposed to stumble. And a bit further on lay a sharp stone which his head was meant to hit.
The Chorul knew. He'd already seen it.
Everything happened quickly. His skull cracked against the rock’s sharp edge. The Chorul was still alive but his mind was gradually fading, merging with the black sky.
It was a good day to die. A good day to fulfil a plan. A good day to make your own choice.
The Chorul closed his eyes and died.
End of Book One
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