This is a fan translation of Wrong Time for Dragons (Не время для драконов) by the Russian science fiction and fantasy authors Sergei Lukyanenko and Nick Perumov.
I claim no rights to the contents herein.
Chapter 10
Loy found a particular interest in traveling incognito. No, not because she liked it, of course — who could like dirty train cars, dumb and impudent travelers, the lack of the usual respect in people's eyes. What she did enjoy, though, was knowing that it was all "pretend." Not for good. They said that one of the minor human rulers of the east, Harun Rashid, used to like engaging in such fun. He would walk his cities in simple clothing, without guards, watched how the people lived, and then amazed the court with his knowledge of the situation in the land. He stopped doing that either after catching some incurable illness in the slums or after being stabbed to death in a dark alley… here the storytellers differed in opinion, depending on their sense of humor and level of bloodthirstiness.
But Harun hadn't been a mage, had he?
In her simple dress, without any jewelry or cosmetics, Loy still stood apart in the crowd. The way a purebred pup, stolen by a careless peasant from their liege, would still be noticed among a pack of yard dogs. But Loy wasn't noticing anything besides the hungry male and the enviously dismissive female gazes. Either the spies hadn't found her, or Hor decided to accept her decision.
For six coppers Loy bought a ticket for a general seating car without the right to sleep. It was a slow train, the Pride of Olchis, but it would get her to the Watery ones in about four hours.
Her legs took her to the waiting hall for mages all on their own, and only after running into the elven guard at the door did Loy realize what she was doing. The elf, throwing the commoner a look of contempt, did deign to explain, "This place isn't for you. Only Cats gather here… you should be on your way, or else…"
He bared his teeth, doing a semi-decent job of parodying the famous Cat fighting grimace. Over the elf's shoulder, Loy saw that the hall was, fortunately, empty, so there was no one to recognize her.
"Oh… oh…" she wailed, stepping back. Maybe a little too hurriedly, as common girls wouldn't mind catching the eye of a Cat admirer, but the guard smiled in satisfaction.
Cursing her foolishness—she'd allowed herself to relax, and had the elf been a little smarter and more observant, he would've suspected something—Loy went to the general hall. It was a little stifling there, the floor hadn't been washed in several days, and it was packed…
With some difficulty, Loy found a seat, sat down on a bench, straight and proper, covering her bare knees with her hands. To the eye of an ordinary person, she was maybe seventeen or eighteen years old, a girl at the height of her beauty, and her neighbors began showing off. Two young men, looking like either artisans or students, started to loudly and smartly talk about dwarven steam magic, about how humans could master it too. An older cavalryman who might have been serving a feudal lord or was maybe in a clan militia, puffed up, stuck out his medal-covered chest, and started drilling Loy with his eyes. He wisely chose not to rely on his eloquence and bet only on his heroic appearance. Even older peasants, some with bundles and baskets, some with fat and unattractive wives, straightened a little. Those poor men… Pleased by the effect, Loy crossed her legs, demonstrating their impeccable shape.
Had this sortie been a simple adventure, maybe she'd have given tribute to the heroic warrior… or the students, both at the same time, as she doubted their stamina. But she had other things on her mind at the moment. The Water Clan awaited her… including Torn, enraged in boiling with the desire for revenge.
Loy felt a chill at that thought. The old saying was right, curiosity was going to get her killed. But there was nothing to be done about it, the primary strength of her clan wasn't in the bravery of its fighters or the coquettishness of its women. Information, gossip, rumors, delicate lies, and timely truth — those were the weapons of the Cat Clan.
The Pride of Olchis whistled, approaching the station. Loy timidly walked with the crowd, pressing against the wall and keeping her eyes carefully downcast. No need to stare at her, she was a modest and obedient girl, on her way to visit her grandmother, it was pointless to court her, better go for someone else…
And yet the cavalryman followed her. As misfortune had it, he also had a ticket to the general car, and when Loy found a seat for herself, between two thin old women dozing over their baskets, the cavalryman sat across from her. Once again, he puffed up, stuck out his chest, and jingled his medals. Loy threw a furtive glance at the bars: hmm, for defending Hundred Fields… so he'd fought for princes, that had been a purely human war… the Order of the Great Water… been a mercenary for the Watery ones… and what was this? The Order of Shmalko the Great Martyr? It had been created specifically for the garrison of the Silt Fortress, for titanic perseverance in defending it. The problem was that no one had ever attacked the fortress, so the pretty jasper trinket was basically equivalent to a badge for years of service. The poor Shmalko, after whom the order was named, a volunteer in the Fine Thunder Corps, had hidden in some ancient burial ground back during the first defense of Hundred Fields, gotten lost and spent two long years wandering the endless karst mazes, feeding on river silt and bats. But when the burial ground was finally opened, and the brave soldier came out into the light, he still had his halberd, which earned him a measure of respect among his victorious enemies.
The cavalry man blossomed, interpreting Loy's smile in his own way. He seemed to think that the presence of medals, sword, and a pair of pistols on his belt was enough to achieve victory on the love front.
So when, half an hour later, Loy rose and made her way to the bathroom, the cavalryman followed. Loy noticed that only in the vestibule, not that it was hard to miss the strong hand that had lowered itself onto her shoulder.
"Girl…" The cavalryman cleared his throat. "I'm a simple guy, not trained to speak."
Loy threw him a look of contempt, but the cavalryman had already picked up steam and couldn't stop.
"All right then, I liked you right away, your eyes have burned my soul…"
Considering the introductory phase to be over, the cavalryman grabbed Loy and pressed his hungry lips to hers. Loy waited out the kiss indifferently, then asked, "What now?"
Apparently, the cavalryman decided that the girl was fully under his sway. Looking around, he muttered, "It's not very romantic in the bathroom…"
"Let's check," Loy said. Anyone who knew her well would've immediately run away after hearing such notes in her voice. But the cavalryman wasn't among them.
…When the cavalryman returned from the lavatory half an hour later—Loy even had to take a walk to the next car—he was wet but already almost clean. The bruise near his eye and the scratches on his neck were a trifle to such a hero. Loy watched the soldier approach with curiosity. Was he asking for more?
"Do not get mad." The cavalryman gave her a short bow and went to the other end of the corridor. Loy applauded mentally. The man knew how to lose and didn't think it shameful to admit that a young girl had turned out to be stronger than him. Nice going. Fine, if they happened to run into each other again… maybe things would turn out differently.
The older women next to her were giving her approving glances. Loy closed her eyes, thinking. The funny incident had restored her confidence… even though Torn wasn't someone whose head she could dip into a toilet. Still, her mood had improved. Any man could be overcome. The important thing was to maintain the balance of strength and weakness, persistence and flexibility.
The rest of the trip went without incident. The train stopped at small stations several times, some people got off, others got on, vendors ran quickly through the car, praising their sweet water, snow-white cakes, and nut sticks. But Loy wasn't hungry or thirsty. She was thinking, trying to anticipate all of Torn's possible reactions figure out a winning mode of behavior ahead of time. More than likely, it would all turn out to be useless. And yet, such an exercise for the brain was never a bad thing.
Then hum rose in the car, as everyone began gathering their things. The train had finally broken out of the mountain valleys, come down to the sea, and was running along the coastline. Salty air burst into the open windows, and there was a smell of iodine. Loy grimaced slightly. Opening one eye, she watched the approaching Hundred Fields.
The ancient city was beautiful, having been built on the seashore long ago, before the arrival of the clans. It had changed hands multiple times, seducing sailors with its abundance of convenient bays, villagers with the fertility of its soil that bore marvelous grape vines, princes and viceroys with the splendor of its landscape.
But over the last several centuries, when the Watery ones had taken a liking to Hundred Fields, all the attempts to fight over the city stopped. There weren't even any encroachments from the other clans. Sure they might've been able to take the city, but to live in it afterwards… Only the magic that had pulled artesian waters from the depths and turned the flow of rivers was capable of keeping Hundred Fields a true piece of paradise.
As much as Cats didn't care for water, even Loy caught her breath in amazement. It had been a long time since she'd been to Hundred Fields… Leaning forward from the hard bench, she looked out the window hungrily.
Chalk hills with snow-white palaces standing on their cut-off tops. Rainbows over fountains — it was as if the entire city was entangled in a blue web with colorful glare quivering over it. The roads were also white and clean… it was easy for the Watery ones to keep Hundred Fields clean, as a short refreshing rain happened every night, causing all the dirt to be washed away through the canals into the sea, where obedient currents drew it away from the shore.
Loy suppressed the unbidden jealousy at the sight of Hundred Fields. Fine. It wasn't her city, it wasn't her clan, and she'd have quickly gotten bored of the crystal clarity of the air and the splashing of the fountains. Now she had other things to think about: how to survive this place and do what needed to be done.
The train, releasing steam with a hiss, stopped in front of the train station building, lined with soft pink shells. A crowd of people immediately burst out from all the cars. One wondered how many people could fit into these wooden boxes. Hundred Fields was a big city. From among the Elemental Clans, only Water and Earth allowed such large settlements to grow to such an extent. Fire and Air either didn't want that, or the very nature of their magic scared away the common people. Whatever one said, Water and Earth magic might not be any less deadly or powerful than the others, but it was far simpler for the average person to understand…
Loy was the last to leave the train car. The old women next to her had already hobbled off the platform, the disgraced but not angry cavalryman had left after throwing her a single glance, while she was still gathering her courage.
"May I be of service, mistress?"
Waving off the porter—couldn't he see that she had no luggage with her?—Loy walked to the station building. There were plenty of Power manifestations here too. The Watery ones hadn't skimped on anything: a fountain at the center of the hall, whose jets rose slowly and leisurely into the air, as if they were made of a viscous adhesive solution or a thick syrup rather than water, and there was a lake underfoot, transparent, illuminated either by electrical magic or something else. When walking on the floor, it was impossible to figure out if it was glass covering the water or maybe water had taken on the hardness of a surface…
She was attracting eyes here too. But less than before, as Hundred Fields was full of human nobles, and pretty girls came here from everywhere.
Loy grabbed a bite at a restaurant near the train station. It would be folly not to take advantage of the situation. They caught such amazing fish in the generous sea depths that people came to the city just to taste it. Then she began walking down the street.
Life here was in full swing. Goods were being brought to the train station in carts, primarily that very same fish, sun-dried or protected by Water spells — it would stay alive even after a week of being kept in the air. The clan knew what it was doing, capable of both taking by force and also trade in spells… Festively dressed humans and elves were taking a walk (although there were fewer elves than humans), having probably come from afar, like the Gray Limits or the Iron Mountains, to spend their honest or ill-gotten money on the warm seashore… There were, of course, also plenty of walking girls, who kept throwing Loy cautious glances, wondering if she was competition, as well as paupers begging for alms at intersections. But even the beggars looked different here, not causing the same squeamish irritation, and the women selling themselves, which typically drove Loy to anger—love should never be sold, only given freely—seemed to be the unavoidable and cheerful element of the landscape.
Hundred Fields was an odd place. There were many things here: magic, money, fun, vice. It was all intertwined so cleverly that it was impossible to pull out just one strand — everything would collapse at once…
The palaces where the Watery ones lived lined the shore in a river loop. This river hadn't been there before the clan's mages came, having finally decided to settle down in Hundred Fields. Loy leisurely—she didn't want to hurry, maybe she really ought to take a walk and go back—walked across a laced bridge. She stood there for a moment, peering at the Power. Power that wasn't hers…
Random people didn't come here. And even if they did wander in, they'd quickly realize their mistake. At first they'd be drenched by an unexpected rain. Then they'd step into a puddle that wasn't there before. Finally, a water monster—not the most pleasant of creatures—would begin walking after them, at which point even the dumbest person would realize that it was time to leave.
But none of that awaited her. They'd sense her Power quickly… report it to Torn… and then it would all begin.
Taking a seat on a bench across from the Water mage school, Loy began to wait. She watched the playing children… Water had many students, a great many. She'd heard that the schools of Fire and Air were weaker of late. Sadly, this ruined the balance and led to such calamities as quarrels between clans. True, quantity didn't equate to quality, and an average Air student was likely stronger than an average Water student. But with such a difference in the quantity of mages, the intricacies and mastery of spellcasting were no longer as decisive.
The children were having fun, just like the kids of any clan, after getting out into fresh air after their lessons. Some were trying to form whips, while throwing glances at the windows, as officially combat magic was strictly forbidden to them. Two of them even managed to do it and were now excitedly striking one another, trying to slice through the other's weapon. Loy shook her head — someone was definitely going to get hurt; they'd be lucky not to lose a chunk of meat. An entire crowd was molding a water demon; fruitlessly, of course, that required at least the seventh rank, and on one with that ranking was still in school. Some of the older students were engaged in a deep conversation… occasionally throwing glances at Loy. Just like the students at the train station… Loy chuckled.
"Loy Iver?"
She turned.
The guards had walked up totally silently. So silently that Loy had only sensed their approach only a minute ago, causing her to stare at the school's courtyard with even greater curiosity.
Three combat mages. And a third-rank mage.
Whoa!
Loy felt cheerful enthusiasm. If such an important person had come for her, then Torn was already aware. He was furious. Throwing out orders the way a pike spawned eggs.
Well then, it was time for this kitty to play…
"Oh, guys, I'm tired of waiting…" Smiling sweetly, Loy rose from the bench. "I've been watching your future replacements. The talent is growing!"
"Not many talents there," the older mage replied without tearing his eyes from her. His face was pale, painful, as if he was suffering from something or had used up a lot of strength recently. "All the talents are already in service."
"In service?" Loy inquired in loud surprise. "Is the Water Clan at odds with someone?"
The mage chewed on his lip, then smiled, "That's what we'd like to know. Loy Iver, Master Torn is waiting for you in his chambers."
Loy Iver furrowed her brow slightly, and the mage got the hint.
"Noble mistress, first-rank mage, leader of the Cat Clan, Loy Iver, I humbly request that you pay a visit to the noble master, first-rank mage, leader of the Water Clan, Torn Nagaev."
Loy gracefully stretched out her hand to the mage, and he was pressing his lips against it before he even realized what was happening. He pulled away… looked her in the eye… and his gaze began to cloud. Loy kept the mage on an invisible leash, woven from barely noticeable hand movements, momentary facial expressions, smooth body curves, pulsating glances, and a wave of pheromones, for another second.
No, she had no intention of placing the mage under her control. Torn would sense it, and the resulting scandal would be huge. She simply wanted him to understand whom he was dealing with and to stop thinking that a third-rank mage of an Elemental clan was higher than a first-rank mage of the Cat Clan.
"I gladly accept Master Torn's invitation."
Out of the corner of her eye, Loy saw an unambiguous glint of dew on the tree leaves. A glint that formed Torn's grotesque face.
Well then, let the mage rack his brain why Loy was coming to him of her own volition.
Even the sunsets were wrong here.
The sun, which had been lazily moving across the sky all day, suddenly rolled over the horizon so quickly that the world was suddenly gripped in darkness.
Victor though it might have something to do with the air. The air was too clean, without the soot and dust of the Underside. There was nothing to cause the long, beautiful sunsets to happen.
Then again, this explanation was also alien, taken from the regular world. It might be true here, or it might be totally meaningless.
Telle was sleeping on the bed, her face buried into the pillows, and her hands pressed against her chest. Victor felt an involuntary pang of concern mixed with alarm. He had to protect the girl…
It was nonsense! Tell was like a fish in the water and a bird in the sky here. She'd definitely find a way to get out of any trouble! If necessary, she could run off again, abandon him, only to reappear. He had to think about himself…
And yet he couldn't do anything about the dumb male instinct to protect. Especially a woman. Especially a girl. It was ridiculous when he really thought about their strengths and abilities, but such reflexes were what made people human.
Victor pulled out the sword and placed it on his lap. He sat there for a little while, imagining how he might look from the outside.
More than amusing. A compartment furnished in the best traditions of the nineteenth century. Night was falling rapidly outside. A peacefully sleeping girl. Weak rustling behind the wall where the mage killers were sitting. And there he was, with a sword in his hand and the stone face of a hero…
Victor laughed quietly. No, he hoped the river and the bridge came soon. Anything was better than waiting like this. He reached out his hand and, holding it to keep it from clicking, turned a porcelain switch. A dim lamp in a matte shade turned on over the bed.
He was starting to like this world! These was something nostalgic and attractive in this lazily, unhurriedly developing technology. If it was steam, then a locomotive was going to run at a hundred kilometers per hour. And very smoothly, so they were clearly maintaining the railway thoroughly. If it was electricity, then the light was going to be just bright enough to be pleasant to the eye. No uncomfortable brightness. Everything was going to be calm, thorough, reliable.
Now if only they also didn't have any magic… deadly magic.
There was a very quiet known on the door. Victor rose and, holding the sword in front of him, walked up to it.
"Who is it?"
"The conductor," a whisper replied.
After a moment's hesitation, Victor unlocked the door.
It really was the dwarf. There was silence in the corridor, as if everyone in the car had decided to go to bed early. Or maybe they were simply sitting in their compartments, unwilling to get caught up in someone else's fight.
"The city's in half an hour," the dwarf said quietly. "You'll be getting off there."
Victor nodded silently. For some reason, he thought that the conductor was sympathizing with him but didn't dare to offer any aid besides strict neutrality.
"All right. Should I return the bed sheets?"
The dwarf frowned, clearly confused, "Bed sheets? Why? You think I'm going to give someone dirty sheets? Keep them if you want or leave them — your choice."
Victor nodded, recalling the vigilant Underside conductors, who always meticulously counted those dirty rags they called towels and pillowcases.
"Don't really know what to wish you…" the dwarf said. He glanced at the sleeping Telle, "Huh… she slipped through anyway…" He stroked his beard, "All right… I hope it's quick…"
Turning, the dwarf walked down the corridor. Victor could only shake his head, realizing what he'd been wished.
"'If it's death, then let it be quick, if it's a wound, then let it be small…'" he hummed an optimistic line from a song. He locked the door, walked up to the bed, and bent over Telle. She kept on sleeping. Smiling involuntarily, Victor tickled a small pink foot with his finger.
Telle picked up the leg.
"It's time," Victor said quietly. "Wake up, Telle…"
No reaction.
Feeling himself like Humbert Humbert, Victor repeated the procedure. Telle muttered something sleepily, turned, and opened her eyes.
"We're getting close."
Rubbing her eyes, the girl sat up on the bed. Glancing out the window, she yawned, "You could've given me another seven minutes…"
"You've got steel wire for nerves," Victor said enviously. "Do you even understand what might happen?"
"Better than you," Telle bit back. "That's why I wanted to get some rest. I was having such a nice dream…"
"Good for you. I think I'm no longer able to have those."
Telle grimaced sympathetically. She started getting dressed.
"You poor guy… I was dreaming that I was running through a meadow covered in daisies, there was no one else there, and I didn't need to go anywhere. I started to pull petals off a daisy, and then you woke me up…"
Victor chuckled.
Telle glanced out the window and peered at it, "There's the river. I can see the bridge too."
Pressing his face against the window, Victor looked ahead, in the direction of the locomotive.
The river was wide. Not the size of Volga, of course. But…
What was that?
The bridge was bowing over the river like a steel hump. Thin supports—concrete or maybe stone—were lifting the rails about fifty meters high. In the last reflections of the departing day, the water was glinting silver, and it seemed as if it was shallow under the bridge.
"Telle…"
The girl had mentioned a bridge… But a single glance at this engineering monstrosity made Victor forget all about Gotor and his people. What was Telle planning on doing here? A river was a concentration of Water power. Did she really intend to face them?
"What are you thinking?"
Instead of answering, Telle threw a pointed look out the window.
"Jumping?" Victor caught his breath. "There?"
"Shhh!" Telle pressed a finger to her lips. Her fingernails glinted gold. "Exactly. They'll cover both exits. Probably already had. The Counterhour of their magic is starting, they won't be able to fight at full strength.
"But we'll die on impact with the water," Victor said helplessly. "What does magic have to do with it?"
"We won't," Telle stated, "if Gotor doesn't notice. You think it's so easy to turn water into ice, even for a mage like him?"
It seemed the locals tried not to think that one didn't have to fall on ice in order to die on impact with a water surface.
"Open it!" Telle ordered. Victor obeyed.
The window frame looked to be firmly secured. The dwarves did everything well. But as soon as he pulled the lever slightly, the window lowered with a surprising ease. The onrushing wind mixed with locomotive cinder burst into the compartment.
The Thunder Arrow was approaching the bridge at full speed. Something flashed past — a guard post: a small stone tower and two grim-faced dwarves with huge arquebuses. A third one, with a crossbow, was, for some reason, sitting atop a short thick horse. It seemed the bridges in this world were guarded the same way as some Mstinsky Bridge in his own Underside.
The living silver of the water surface glinted far below. With some relief, Victor noted the lack of any enclosure or trusses on the bridge. Just the two strands of the rails. At least there was no risk of hitting the bridge.
Then the door began to jerk. They could hear dulled angry voices in the corridor.
"Jump, Victor!" Telle's voice rang out. "We have to jump now! Quickly, or we die!"
In a single fluid motion, she was on the table next to the open window.
"Don't leave your sword!" she noted sternly. "I'm going first!"
Then she leapt down. Victor thought the wind had picked up her thin body and jerked it to the side…
The door began to crack. Dark streams began to flow under it.
Victor shut his eyes. The important thing was to enter the water vertically. And, preferably, not feet first, Literally speaking. Otherwise, the literal was quickly going to turn figurative.
Victor swore and threw his body down.
He had maybe five seconds. An experienced mage could probably do a lot in that time. Especially a Water mage.
Telle had said something about jumping off cliffs…
He was falling with the sword in his hand. Falling like a sack, also jerking his feet, for some reason.
Below, the surface of the river suddenly started to rise towards him as a monstrous hump. The silver was puffing up like a monstrous abscess; Victor managed to look up and saw the silhouettes of four pursuers against the backdrop of the darkening sky.
Why am I still alive? And why am I falling for so long, like Alice down a rabbit hole?
The water hump below was starting to open up, forming a monstrous figure that consisted of a giant maw.
Victor turned in the air convulsively… and the air suddenly held him up. His body was still falling, but slowly, very slowly; his arms seemed to be white-hot, while the sword was a furiously glowing strip of green fire.
Or maybe he was just seeing things…
A splash. The ice-cold water of a fall river received Victor. And immediately he felt twisting, tearing pain, as if he'd just found himself in a monstrous vise.
He waved his arms — up, up, up, towards light and air!
The heavy paw of a water monster pressed him back down. From below, through the gray haze, he saw four silhouettes frozen motionless right over the water surface — Gotor and his men.
Choking, scratching his sides on the suddenly hard and prickly water, Victor continued to pull himself up.
Then, suddenly, it came: how dare they? How dare these puny little wizards stand in the way of him, the Slayer? He hadn't managed to use his Power during the battle at the train station, when the Limiter's sons were dying one after the other while protecting him, but maybe now…
The water was squeezing him, pressing, as if doing its best to break inside, tear apart the muscles and the skin stretched over the ribs, crush the lungs, turning Victor into something like a gutted fish. Above him, the water was taking on the density of drying glue. They intended to seal Victor in condensed water, like a fly in amber, and then likely present him this way to… what was his name… Torn.
That was never going to happen! The Watery ones' anger was his weapon! The fire in his hands, the wind at his back, the earth under his feet! And the water didn't dare harm him, or he would dry all its ways with his fiery breath, and everything in it would die, and anything feeding on it would die, and it would also die!
A wave of heat rolled over Victor. The water around his hands immediately began to boil, turning to steam; his sword easily cut through the lid of the trap that was about to close, and Victor was thrown up.
It wasn't very pleasant when one's hands were causing clouds of steam to rush to the surface. It felt like he was in a boiler room with a burst main pipe. Surrounded by a white cloud, Victor found himself on the surface. His right temple was immediately struck by a water whip.
Well, it was supposed to. But the jet of water, capable of cutting through metal, turned into a shapeless cloud of steam as soon as it touched its intended victim's head. A strangled scream came from somewhere to the right.
Victor dashed to the riverbank, like a white-hot ingot on a rope, leaving a smoky trail behind him. He didn't see his opponents.
…The fire inside Victor was probably feeding on his own fury. Gradually, the heat was beginning to fall off, the steam stopped coming from under his hands. Now he was just swimming, not very quickly and not very skillfully, being pulled by the strong current under the bridge. Victor turned.
Gotor and two of the combat mages were sliding on the water surface after Victor. They were sliding and easily balancing on the surface, as if they were on water skis. There was overt triumph on their faces. Now, now, now…
But where was the third warrior?
Of course they hadn't allowed him to get to the riverbank.
"This is the end for you, impostor!" Gotor howled in anticipation.
Victor felt the bottom under him when the mage finally managed to recreate the water monster.
Painted in crimson hues by the sunset, the giant figure's top reached to the stone bend of the bridge far above. A hundred jet-arms reached for Victor, who was standing neck-deep in water, with the useless elven sword in his lowered hand…
It was well known that waves drowned the wind. But the reverse was also true.
An invisible air fist, having gotten a running start over the low coastal plain, passed over Victor's head.
Kill. Kill! KILL! rang out and burned a thousand voices in his mind.
The whistling stream that was capable of felling thick trees and tearing off the roofs offs stone castles fed on living fire by passing over Victor's head. Then the stream of howling in fury burning air struck the water monster that had almost reached Victor.
That was probably how the steam boilers in ancient steamships used to explode, except they'd have to be very large boilers, the size of a fortress tower. A monstrous cloud of steam, white smoky jets flying in all directions, as if arms flapping about in agony.
The flaming blade moved up, it was cutting through the water giant, but every inch was taking a huge toll. The cold of the water was oncoming too, trying to push down and extinguish the flame, force the burning wind to slide along the side that was clad in the armor of rapidly-hardening ice; Gotor's spells sending more and more water, pulling it out of the river; his two goons were trying to flank him, but they were clearly being cautious. The water whip had turned out to be not that good a weapon. Even killing its own master after striking a veil of hot air.
Wings that embraced the world, legs that supported the world, flame that burned the world, mind… were these puny freaks would once again win out after grabbing up scraps of magic off their master's table?
A cry left Victor's throat. Well, not quite a cry, a scream, a roar, or a howl — all of it at once, a crack of doom that was letting everything living in the area know that it was time to flee, that wrath could no longer be held back by anything, and let all save themselves.
The steam cloud had already risen far above the bridge. The water demon was steadily retreating, pushed by the fiery wind; Gotor dove out from somewhere on the right, his face twisted, a water whip reaching out from his hand, as if its extension; the two last fighters on his flanks, advancing with the bravery of desperation; while Victor had been fighting the monster, the mages had cut off his way to the bank. He would have to continue the fight while neck-deep in water.
Victor lifted his sword over his head.
"You're still going to die," Gotor wheezed. "We won't back down…"
He probably could've come up with something else, this mage; but, for some reason, he was trying to crush Victor with strength alone.
Three whips sliced through the air right near Victor's head. Merging with the surrounding water, they were exploding in splashes that cut like a razor. Blood was flowing on his cheeks, forehead, and temples, covering his eyes. But Victor didn't feel any pain, only getting enraged even more, tasting the salty substance in his mouth.
His chest breaking through the water that was trying to harden in a myriad of cutting icicles, Victor leapt forward. The still closing ice shattered, like a huge windows pane in some Hollywood action film. Victor found himself next to Gotor, the enemy's whip punched through the layer of water, painfully burned his shoulder, and Victor stabbed the sword somewhere to the side without looking.
The river in that place exploded, as if a crate of dynamite had been thrown there. A column of water, mixed with steam and fire, rose almost as high as the bridge. Where one of the combat mages had just been standing, there was now just a pitch-black spot, thick like spilled oil.
Everyone froze in shock. Even Victor and Gotor.
Then the mage turned and ran.
Victor didn't pursue him.
Utterly soaked and swaying, Victor finally got to the riverbank, dragging the sword behind him. Blood was flowing on his face, countless cuts and wounds were burning like a fire, on his right shoulder was a deep bleeding gash from a water whip. Victor threw a quick glance at the sword and saw that the blade was corroded, as if it had been dunked in acid. Now it was only good for cutting splinters, until it was sharpened again.
Wet, shaking, he stopped near some bushes. He needed fire, immediately. Telle… where was Telle? She'd slipped away again, leaving him along against Gotor's men, probably once again following some higher considerations.
His teeth were chattering. His sliced up forehead was burning in pain. Victor took an awkward swing with the sword and cut down several branches. They were damp and wouldn't burn well, but there was nothing to be done about that…
He searched his pockets. What? A lighter?
A gray metal cylinder, like a Zippo with a strange emblem on the side: two human hands were covering a dry black rose from the top and sides.
The crest of the Gray Limit guards.
After several failed attempts, he managed to light a fire.
Victor managed to somehow wring his clothes and, shivering from the cold, hanged it up to dry. He just had to run around the fire, just like he and Telle had after first ending up in this world.
He ran over to the river, then came back. For some reason, he was certain that the Watery ones weren't going to return. At least not now.
The river was empty and majestic in this emptiness. The darkness was condensing quickly, and fires appeared on both banks near the dwarven watchtowers. No signs of life. No trace of Telle.
And then, it struck him all at once: how had he done this? How had he survived? What had happened to him? How had he managed to do it all? The fire, the steam, the explosions…
And also the hatred. His head still felt as if he was drunk. Everything was swaying slightly in front of him. His hands were shaking as if after a drinking bout.
He'd killed again, with pleasure too. For the Limiter. For his sons. For the boy Yaroslav, left behind at the unnamed station somewhere north of here. If Victor could have, he would've uprooted all the poplars in the area, for their fluff that had come to feed on the boy's hot blood…
Still, I did exact revenge, Victor said. Maybe Gotor was able to leave… but two of his hitmen are never going to kill anyone else again.
Also, everything that had happened meant that this world really was his. What had been there? Fire coming from his hands?.. No, it couldn't have, as someone from the Underside would say, and they'd be right. Over there, in that calm and boring world, where people went mad from that same boredom, covered the planet with pollution, and started ridiculous wars — things like that couldn't happen there.
"Hey, you!" he heard someone call out in a hoarse voice.
Victor turned sharply, but it turned out to be just two dwarves. Likely the bridge guards: both with crossbows, one carrying a small lantern that looked like it was filled with kerosene.
"You okay there?" one of them, a stocky bearded man, asked in a friendly voice. His crossbow was resting on his shoulder, demonstrating his peaceful intentions as much as possible, despite his fierce-looking face. "We saw you jumping from the window… And what happened after… We thought you were done for, the Watery ones were going to end you. But no, then we see someone start a fire. Looked through a spyglass, and you didn't look like a Watery one in the least. Decided to come and take a look."
"Did you see… a girl?"
"A girl?" the dwarf looked genuinely surprised. "Didn't see any girl. What girl? You were jumping alone. Dart here," he nodded at his companion, "was standing guard from the beginning, saw the whole thing! Saw the train move, the window open. Saw you jump, the Watery ones following. Didn't see anyone else."
That was something, Victor thought. Telle had disappeared once again, even managing to keep these dupes from noticing her. There was no point in questioning them or even thinking about it. What did he need now? To warm up, dry up, and spend the night. And then… tomorrow was a new day.
"Why are you sitting there? Come with us. We'll find you a place at the guardhouse," Dart said.
"But you're on duty," Victor said in surprise. "Is that allowed?"
"Ah, you must be from the Underside," the first dwarf guessed.
Victor nodded.
"Come on. We don't work for the Watery ones. We don't work for anyone, actually. We're on our own. We just guard the Way and don't get involved in mage business. Looks like you got burned a little too… How did you manage to cross them, eh?" the dwarf grinned.
"I guess I did," Victor involuntarily matched the other man's tone. "Had a bit of a fight…"
"You look like a tough guy," the dwarf noted approvingly. "No wonder the Underside pushed you out… saw how you fried those guys! So you can control fire? My advice: go to the Fire Clan… it's a long way, but we'll help you out with a train. Our friends will get you there."
"You're not afraid of Water mages?" Victor asked.
Dart opened the door of a guardhouse that was attached to a hillside.
"We try to be at peace with everyone," he answered seriously. "We can't be without Water, Fire, or Earth — how else can we get those steam engines going? We just don't like Punishers. And if someone is running from them, we always try to help. So if you do end up becoming a mage, remember that Punishers are not a nice thing. It's unbecoming of a mage to do this sort of task…"
It was warm and very cozy in the guardhouse. It smelled of gun grease, gunpowder, and warm bread. A clay pot with milk stood on a sizable, think table.
"Get undressed," Dart said. "Grab that pelt over there, wrap yourself up, you humans are pretty fragile…"
Victor wasn't offended.
"Get some sleep," was the last thing he heard. "The White Eagle won't be here until morning. We'll get you aboard, it'll get you straight to Oros. They say it's a nice place… right on the Warm Coast…"
The night went by without dreams or incidents.
They woke Victor up at dawn. The familiar dwarves were gone, but the ones remaining were "in the know," as it were.
His clothes had dried, the well-wishing guards had stuffed a sack full of food, the train White Eagle rolled up to the bridge right on schedule, pausing near the watchtower for a moment, a dwarven conductor opened the door, and Victor found himself inside.
No one asked for money, the conductor seemed to be already aware of everything. He found Victor a spot — an entire shelf "for sleeping."
Strangely enough, after the previous night's fight, he felt surprisingly calm. He had command of magic? Very well! He would accept it as a given, as otherwise he might easily lose his mind. The fight with the Watery ones, the people he'd killed—among which might have been those like him, from the Underside—he was calm and reserved.
Could it be any different for him? He was the Dragonslayer, after all.
And now he was lying on fairly clean bedsheets, going somewhere to the Warm Coast, to the mysterious Oros, where the Fiery ones lived…
Still, something had changed inside him. The fear had probably moved away a little. As if a part of the Power dormant within him had awakened, as if he hadn't just been fighting the Watery ones, but also… absorbing some of the flowing might of the water element.
Now he wasn't going to turn back until he figured everything out. It didn't matter that he didn't need any of this, that he'd only recently been dreaming of coming home, to the familiar world of the Underside. Now he was going to get to the Warm Coast… and see everything for himself.
Ritor was looking wistfully at the slowly darkening sky. The Wind's Chariot was puffing smoke, going up a long gentle rise. It wasn't easy to hold on to the search spell. Sandra and Asmund were helping out as much as they could; there was silence in the train car. Kahn and his apprentice were in a compartment, having requested boiled water from the dwarven conductor and now busy putting together some kind of infusions. Kevin and Eric, the Elders of their pairs, were arm-wrestling, ordering their underling boys to do some dart training.
"He's also on a train," Sandra noted, forgetting her nautical mannerisms in all the excitement.
Ritor nodded.
"He'd being dragged south. I think it's Torn's doing. There's nowhere else for him to undergo initiation," Asmund butted in, growing bold.
"If Torn has a head on his shoulders, he'll try to set it all up as soon as possible," the old mage countered.
"Are we going to be able to notice it?" Asmund asked hungrily.
"We will, you dried flounder," Sandra said in an almost tender voice. "If we try harder."
"I think we will," Ritor smiled. "I wouldn't want to run into the Slayer, if he has already gone through all four initiations."
"Would he be able to go through the Air initiation if we don't want that?" Asmund kept pressing.
"Unfortunately, he would," Ritor sighed. "We don't control all the Air, otherwise our enemies would've simply stopped breathing."
Asmund went red in the face.
"Don't feel bad," Sandra placed a hand on Asmund's shoulder in a not-at-all maternal gesture. "You haven't been taught about Slayer initiation… and you won't be any time soon."
Asmund's face got even redder, and he lowered his eyes.
Ritor furrowed his brow slightly. Sandra was capable of having fun anywhere, even on a battlefield. The female mage got the hint and shifted her eyebrows guiltily. But she didn't step away from Asmund.
The incantations of Slayer Creation had been treated as extremely secret and forbidden since time immemorial. Students were never taught that; hell, not just students! Only third-rank mages and above.
Wind magic required only mental concentration, but it had to be complete and perfect. Ritor took Asmund by the hand and reached his other hand to Sandra. And oldest of all the old tricks, the "ring," when the strengths of those doing magic pooled together.
It wasn't necessary to resort to such a dangerous spell as the Wings that were capable of wiping an entire city off the face of the earth. Ritor was highly skilled at using workarounds. He had the Slayer on the hook, and now he could attach an invisible spy to him, who would find out what this uninvited guest from the Underside was currently capable of.
The tightly bound spell echoed in all of them with the agonizing prickle of pain. Easily speeding past the train, the aerial messenger dashed forward, to the clear target only it could see. It wasn't capable of killing or harming anyone. Only inform, after which it would fall apart and cease to exist. The ability to keep such a messenger for a long enough time was one of a mage's greatest skills.
Ritor and his two companions ended up having to wait for quite a white. Finally…
The compartment was filled by an unseen but clearly felt power of Water. And not just Water, but Water that was angry, Water that was enraged, Water driven into a frenzy. A blue glow, crisscrossed with red and white scratches — a battle was underway.
Sandra and Ritor froze, staring in surprise at what they were being shown. The utterly confused Asmund was looking wide-eyed, unwilling to ask any questions.
"Their counterhour…" Ritor noted. "Interesting…"
"Why would those rotten sperm whales attack the Slayer?" Sandra asked in surprise.
"I doubt they were attacking him for real," Ritor shook his head. "First of all, it's their counterhour. Second, I don't think that Torn is blissfully unaware of our Wings. This is a deception, Sandra. I think they just disguised the initiation as an attack."
"I still don't get it! Why imitate the attack? Who are they trying to deceive? Us?"
"I imagine Torn has decided that the best way to make us believe that this guy isn't the Slayer is to attack him. That's all. Simple but effective. Torn doesn't know what the Wings have really shown us. He doesn't know that we've seen the true essence of the arrival from the Underside. He's the Slayer. No doubt about it. And, if we destroy him, a new one isn't going to appear for a long time."
"But what about that damn cuttlefish, the Dragon of the Naturalborn?" Sandra asked pointedly. "If we kill the Slayer?"
"That's when we're going to need all the strength of the Elemental Clans. Our combined strength to aid the Dragon. His time is coming, but the Naturalborn might be able to head him off," Ritor explained.
The female mage nodded.
"There, look," Ritor nodded at the lowered blue glow. The crimson and white strands crossing it were gone. "The initiation is complete. The fight is over. And the Watery ones have retreated immediately. Just as I predicted. You wanted to ask something, Asmund?"
"Yes, mentor. Does this mean we're going to have to fight Torn's people? Are they with the Slayer now? Protecting him?"
"Excellent question," Ritor answered in a lecturing tone. "No, Asmund. Torn needs that poor man to become aware that he's the Slayer, preferably as soon as possible. I think they might even kill someone near him… act as a kindle for his fury… Torn is merciless, he'd easily sacrifice a lower-ranking Punisher to achieve his goals. The Watery ones have retreated. Torn realizes that we aren't going to sit on our hands. Why waste an experienced mage, probably someone of at least the third rank? Let the flunkies die, but Torn will keep a truly valuable warriors."
"I understand, mentor," Asmund said reverently.
"That's it, let's extinguish the spell," Ritor commanded. "I figure we'll meet him in… yes, yes, you're right, Sandra. Our domain. At least we won't have to fear the Watery ones too much there… until recently."
"You think Torn hasn't accounted for that?"
"He probably has," Ritor answered. "But the young man has already been initiated by Water. Plus there's a river there too, and not a small one either…"
"An ambush?" Sandra realized.
Asmund twitched, but the boy's eyes flared with irrepressible excitement.
Ritor nodded.
"Torn knows we're not expecting an attack there. So he'll definitely attack. If I'd have taken three times as many people with me, then Torn would know that his plan has been figured out. He would've thought of something else. But I prefer to predict an enemy's actions." Ritor smiled slightly at the sight of unabashed admiration in Asmund's eyes. "Let Torn think that we're not suspecting anything. Let him… until the time is right. And now everyone needs to get some rest! I'm going to hold the spell on my own for now."
Night fell over the entire plain through which rivers flowed to the close-by Hot Sea. Sandra and Asmund left; the old mage didn't spare the power to cast a spell of total silence — he really didn't need to hear their lovemaking on the other side of the partition. Ritor thought were drawn to that unknown man, whom malicious fate had turned, or rather was turning, into the Dragonslayer. What did he know already? What was he capable of now? After just one initiation, probably not much. But he couldn't afford any random chance. Ritor couldn't afford any losses. Every more or less powerful mage was worth their weight in gold. And the Air mage was already trying to estimate this way and that, planning a swift and crushing blow. A single strike that would sweep away any defense and not cause its target undue suffering.
One could barely feel any clatter on the "velvety" Way that was maintained by the dwarves so thoroughly. The train was speeding through the night. The fight would happen the following day, at the height of Air Power.
The Wind's Chariot arrived to Horsk right on schedule. The locomotive puffed wearily one last time before stopping. Ritor's team was already on their feet. Eric was the first to softly leap down to the platform, without even waiting for the dwarven conductor to flip open the ramp. The crowd around the train immediately began to disperse. Eric was known far beyond the Warm Coast. A round-faced fair-haired man, tall and muscular, with a luxurious wheat mustache on a tanned face, eyes that were always squinting, and scars decorating him that made more than one girl's heart flutter. Eric was holding his hands in front of his chest, as if pressing an invisible sphere to them. He didn't seem to have any weapons on him, and what was hiding under his inconspicuous jacket had nothing in common with traditional swords, axes, and daggers.
His tenacious gaze quickly swept the railways, the small local train standing not far away, a crowd of vendors, slid farther along the platform, all the way to the door to the mages' hall; few knew that his young squire was covering his Elder by lying flat on top of the train car with a light crossbow in his hands.
Naturally, Eric's appearance did not go unnoticed. All the station's top brass was already hurrying to the car, making their way through those who hadn't yet gotten out of the way. A pair of dwarves were trotting over with a carpet runner, followed by an entire team of sweepers.
Not looking at anyone, Eric started walking softly forward. He didn't care about the carpet runner or any of the other attributes of the ceremonial greeting. His task was to ensure security. And so he was. The way he knew how.
His underling boy was quickly following him. He was piercing through the crows like a needle. He'd just turned twelve, he was thin-legged and light as a foal. Few knew that this "foal" was capable of single-handedly dealing with a gang of two dozen armed thugs. When the boy grew up, he'd go from an underling to an Elder of a pair. Probably one of the best. Because Eric would never go on a mission with a bad underling.
The dwarf in charge of the station gave a low and slavish bow to Ritor.
"It is such an honor to us, respected, honorable, and highly esteemed—"
"Stop it, Kirby," Ritor waved him off. "We're fully satisfied with you and the regular payments. Our visit here is unofficial. We're not here on an inspection. I give you my word. We won't burden you with our presence… we're just here to meet the White Eagle."
The dwarf Kirby, wearing a rich ceremonial doublet (probably put on as soon as he'd been informed of the important guests' arrival), sighed in obvious relief.
"Do you wish to rest from the road? We will serve breakfast immediately. It's still an hour to the White Eagle, plenty of time…"
"Then serve the breakfast," Ritor commanded.
Behind him, with a crossbow at the ready, walked Kevin. The other underling boy was covering the tail of the column, the two healers: Kahn and his apprentice.
The commotion caused by the arrival of important guests was gradually lessening.
A row of volunteers appeared from out of nowhere; the Fine Thunder Corps that was quartered in the city knew its business. The curious immediately felt it better to go elsewhere.
The breakfast served in the "mages only" hall turned out to be beyond reproach. Wine-braised hare, potato croquettes, shrimp with chopped eggs, and carp baked with sauerkraut. Modest but delicious.
"He's riding in the first car," Ritor said quietly after everyone was full and impenetrable defensed had been placed around the hall. "Kevin, Eric, you have to scare him away. Get him to come out. That's all that's required of you. Then immediately retreat and keep an eye out for the Watery ones. If you spot them, attack first with deadly force. The primary blow will come from me, Sandra, and Asmund. If, for some reason, we miss, then do everything you can to put that guy down. Even if we all die."
"We understand, Ritor," Kevin said reservedly. Before the fight, he was as usual dressed in his colors: black and silver. "Our boys won't miss."
Eric nodded in agreement.
"But, honorable Victor, why can't Kevin and I just finish it ourselves? This isn't the Olympics. We'll come in from both sides—"
"And so you will," Ritor said calmly. "Guys, this is a Dragonslayer. One who has already gone through one full initiation. Trust me, I know what he's capable of. I'm not Torn. I don't send my people to die. What?"
Eric's underling wordlessly stroked his left sleeve. Ritor immediately felt the tension of a weapon ready to fire.
"Don't even think about it," the mage said sternly. "He'll sense it. And then you'll know it too. Stick to your orders. Just scare him out. I need him to step out of the car."
"Maybe I should do it," Sandra said. "Or he might go for the boys…"
Kevin and Eric raised their chins offendedly, with their underlings repeating the gesture half a second later.
"No, no," Ritor shook his head in annoyance. "I wouldn't, Sandra. You're no Loy Iver. A Slayer's strength is in his anger. He's not yet capable of controlling himself. This is what we need to do…"
…The sun was coming up higher. Trains were coming and going, the platforms were packed full of people. The vendors stopped paying attention to the standing still Kevin and Eric (naturally, they didn't see the underlings).
The White Eagle was crawling up heavily. Despite the impressive-sounding name, it was a run-of-the-mill train. Sloppy cars, old steam-leaking boilers, shabby footboards. Even the dwarves didn't have enough money for everything.
Sighing wearily, the locomotive stopped, and Ritor sighed with relief — their target was still there.
Eric and Kevin slowly walked to the opened wooden doors of the first car. The people hurried to give way. The underling boys dashed inside after their Elders.
Now they just had to wait.
Ritor threw a brief glance at Sandra, who was biting her lips, then at the pale Asmund — they were currently holding the monstrous power of the Wind on a leash, squeezing it into a single incredibly thin and long spear the stretched to the horizon. It wouldn't just punch through the target's chest, it wouldn't just tear out his heart and innards, it would shatter the very essence of the Slayer into tiny pieces, so that he couldn't return to the Middle World for a long time.
For a short while, everything was quiet. Ritor knew that Eric and Kevin were currently walking through the narrow passage with as impudent faces as they could muster, kicking and shoving anything underfoot while loudly proclaiming, "Inspection! General inspection! Everyone show their travel letters! What? Don't have one?! I guess we'll see how forgetful you really are on the rack!.." If Ritor was right in his estimation of psychology of the people of the Underside… especially from that particular country of the Underside… the Slayer wouldn't be able to remain calm. He would definitely get moving. The windows were open, and the platform was full of people, easy to disappear…
And that's when we will act, Ritor thought.
Someone in the car squealed suddenly. Immediately Ritor felt a wave of hatred wash over him. It was burning and intolerable, it could only be extinguished with the blood of an enemy. No single person, not even the Slayer, could hate this much.
The female squeal was joined by a choir of enraged male voices. There was the ringing of broken glass, and then something unimaginable started in the train car. As if dozens of mad cats were joined in a furious fight; a strange creature was moving in the dark windows — the multiarmed, multilegged, single creature called a "mob"; the second wave of hatred was almost scorching, as if someone had thrown a burning torch into a barrel of crude oil. Ritor knew that Eric and Kevin were now stepping on dead bodies in the cramped and stifling hell of the wooden car, killing everyone just to avoid being killed themselves; and their boys, clean, neat, silent boys were carefully finishing off those who had been knocked down or wounded — because even the mortally wounded people were trying to reach for those killing them, ignoring their broken limbs…
The windows were shattering one after the other; something that looked like shovel shafts or axe handles could be seen; a bloodied human body leaned over the edge of a window and dropped right next to the shocked vendors, someone tossed a shrieking infant wrapped in a blanket right into a stall selling apples; everyone in the car was now howling and screaming, causing the entire station to freeze in horror; Ritor noticed Kirby running across the platform, accompanied by three dwarven guards, the stationmaster's doublet was open and his face was twisted in genuine terror.
A man flew out of a window, probably an ordinary villager. There was a short spade in his hand; the left half of his face was covered in blood.
The man was dead.
Ritor grabbed his head despite his endurance. He'd already figured out what was happening but was afraid to believe it.
People were falling out of the windows like raindrops. Men, women, children. Some were leaping to their feet, while others were lying motionless, some groaned, and others were already dead or dying; children were crying loudly. The broken windows periodically expelled a fountain of someone's blood; someone's life was being cut short. Ritor saw a girl's thin back in a fur coat jerk and bend; her body fell over. A very young girl with a short thin dart sticking out of her temple.
The underlings were now fully engaged. It was a fight to the death. The Air mage had run into this type of battle madness before. But only because he'd been a Dragonslayer himself was Ritor able to understand what was happening. It was an incredibly rare event.
And the Slayer was yet to show himself.
"Asmund, Sandra!" Ritor ordered tersely. "Change of plans. The roof is the new target. Tear it the hell off. Both of you. Now!"
…The old harlot Sandra hadn't been screwing the boy for nothing. They knew how to work together. They struck as one, as if they'd been training to do it for months.
Gusts of wind fell upon the crazed train car with a howl. The wooden boards of the roof crackled plaintively, the tin sheets began to bend up, while the high-quality dwarven bolts were snapping like rotten strings. It was as if the roof had been pried open by a giant knife; crushing and breaking, the wind was raising up the resisting roof the way a pervert might raise the skirt of a stubborn girl; a wild, inhuman howl made their ears hurt.
Finally he jumped out the window.
He looked exactly the way the Wings had shown him. A tall man in the black jacket of a Gray Limit guard. Confused, stunned, shocked by other people's hatred and pain that had fallen upon him.
I had to go through that too, Ritor told his enemy mentally. I know this. How many people did you force to die today, Slayer?
The man was holding his left forearm with his right hand. He wasn't feeling the pain yet, it would come later, right now it was just a sensation that someone had pulled on his hand too hard.
Swaying, he ran across the rails. Away, away, farther away from here… but he was choosing the most rational escape route — towards the river.
That's right, Slayer. But you don't know that you're dealing with Ritor himself. And you won't.
"Enough!" the mage told Sandra.
The Slayer turned out to be very agile. As if understanding everything, he was staying in the thick of the crowd; the people were running away from him with screams, caused by the wave of hatred and terror coming from the man.
Ritor lowered his aim. He thought that the spell was in some ways similar to an arquebus and pulled the invisible trigger.
The carefully accumulated and tightly wound coils of the wind straightened, as if a viper attacking its prey. There was a piercing screech, as if someone was very quickly sliding a piece of iron over glass; the fleeing man turned and threw up his hands in a subconscious effort to protect his face.
He was immediately wrapped in a cloud of water fountains that had sprung up from the ground.
Water and Air collided. The Slayer was thrown off his feet and slid along the smooth platform; his water defenses sprayed everywhere in a myriad of angry sprays.
The people were scattering, and the train station was quickly growing empty.
"You're going to fail, Ritor!" someone shouted.
Uh-huh. That's what I was waiting for, the Air mage thought. Gotor, the Water mage. And one Punisher with him. Right. They were here to take the blow.
"Allow me, Ritor!" Sandra howled. She had old scores to settle with Torn's mages. Before Ritor could agree or disagree, she attacked.
She was very good on the attack. Probably as good as in bed. The Punisher didn't even have time to raise his water whip. A raging wind struck him in the chest, knocked him over, twisting in one spot, furiously pressing its victim into the hard, trampled ground. The poor man's now-crimson face appeared for a moment, showing eyes that were bulging in agony; a moment later, his throat burst, unable to handle the torrent. Blood scattered in a fan of drops that dried in an instant.
The Hour of the Gray Dog had long passed, and so had the Hour of the Waking Water. There was a reason why Ritor had chosen this particular place and time. Gotor had no chance.
But the Water mage was far from a coward. He counterattacked, and the sharp blade of a water sickle slashed right next to Asmund's throat — Gotor had accurately determined the weak point in the combat trio facing him.
Indeed, Asmund had to break the chain to deflect the sudden attack; then Ritor struck himself. With all the unspent anger, with all the strength he'd saved up for the Slayer that would now undoubtedly slip away.
Gotor tried to defend himself, but his water vortex flew apart like a cloud of poplar fluff in the wind. Ritor's invisible spear punched through the Water mage's defenses, impaled him, lifted him almost to the roof, and tossed him onto the ground.
The mage's chest was torn apart — tattered meat mixed with the sharp white shards of bones.
He'd died before he even felt any pain.
Kevin and Eric, followed by their boys, were already running from the mangled train car. Kevin was pressing a hand against one eye, while Eric was holding a bleeding palm. But they were too late.
Ritor ran too, in his madness still hoping to catch up.
But the Slayer clearly knew what to do. He was dashing straight for the river. The spell sent after him managed to knock him off his feet, but it merely dragged him down the cobblestone street towards the river cliff.
He had colossal resistance. The Slayer fought like a lion. His defenses turned out to be nearly perfect; maybe that was where Eric and Kevin would be of use…
"We need the entire power of the Clan," Ritor whispered, watching the man rolling over the railing and dropping like a stone towards the calm river water. "Or some other Elemental. You really can't deal with him on your own, Ritor?"
"Looks like that rotten jellyfish has fled," Sandra sighed after catching up to him.
"He has," Ritor agreed sadly. The Slayer's head couldn't be seen on the surface, but Ritor knew full well that he wouldn't drown. At least not for hours."
"So what do we do, Mentor?" Asmund's voice shook from the tears he was holding back. Ritor turned and saw that Kahn and his apprentice were already busy near the mangled train car, where the dwarves were carrying out the dead and the wounded.
"Don't worry, Asmund," the mage replied quietly. "This wasn't our fault. It's the Slayer… he was the one whose fury turned the crowd into a mob… otherwise none of them would've dared to attack Eric and Kevin in our own lands… No one would've dared. It's the Slayer… I know. I remember."
"Looks like the dwarves are coming," Sandra grimaced.
"All right. We'll reimburse the losses. Not many, just an old train car!"
"What about the families of the deceased?" Sandra reminded him quietly.
Ritor grimaced. Yeah, there was nothing to be done about that. The Air Clan was known as a kind master. Maintaining that image cost a lot of money, but it also protected them from rebellions.
