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 6
In the light of day, the restaurant's coziness was reduced, but new details of the décor were revealed. Ancient swords and spears, hanging on the wall between the windows, several broken shields on the ceiling. Although the soot spots near the candelabras were now visible, as was the partition wall between the door and the bar covered in marks — as if someone had been throwing knives at the wall for fun.
There weren't any more people at the restaurant. The guy who'd been sleeping behind the counter the previous night was now sitting at a table in the corner and loudly consuming his breakfast. Rada sat at the door and looked at the hapless sword.
"Is it really ruined?" Victor asked, sitting down next to her. "Oh, and Dersi asked to bring him breakfast."
Rada sighed, rose, and disappeared behind the counter for a minute. Victor waited, carefully touching the gleaming blade with his fingers. From what he could tell, the sword was razor-sharp.
Speaking of razors, how did they shave here? He hadn't brought his. Wondering if they had electric shavers here, Victor giggled dumbly and removed his hands from the sword.
Rada returned with two glasses filled with a thick black liquid. The liquid was foaming and bubbling.
"Ebullient Day!" the girl said.
Victor looked at the glass suspiciously, then brought it to his face. It smelled fresh, almost like ozone.
"Rada, is this really drinkable?"
Without a word, the girl sipped from her glass.
Victor sighed and drank from his.
It tasted good. He could barely feel the alcohol. Slightly sour, and the chill on the roof of his mouth wasn't quite minty, more like ice, even though the liquid seemed to be warm.
"The sword isn't ruined," Rada admitted suddenly. "An oblique plumb is a normal, honest cut. But I asked for an elven one!"
"Is there a difference?"
"Of course! An elven cut is crueler. The blade moves easily, but shifts around the body, leaving behind torn wounds."
Victor jerked. His doctor's imagination was painting a very unpleasant picture.
"It's an elven sword," Rada went on. "So I wanted it to be cut properly."
"And here I thought that you only specialized in culinary arts."
"I have to maintain Dad's collection. Weapons shouldn't die on walls." The girl touched the hilt thoughtfully. "Dad really wanted a son. He even saved this sword for me… I mean, before I was born." She glanced at Victor and said without a segue, "You're a strange one."
Victor nodded, "I know."
"Do you want breakfast?'
"Yeah. Just one question… Rada, are you aware that Telle… the girl I was with left this morning?"
"I'm aware." Rada was silent for a moment then asked sympathetically, "Did you have a fight last night? Did you offend her?"
Victor choked on the cocktail and answered with a question of his own, "You think someone can offend her?"
Rada narrowed her eyes.
"No… I doubt it. You can sense the Power in her. Not like you."
As offensive as it sounded, Victor didn't argue.
"I want to catch up to her."
"Why?"
He wondered why himself. Would he really not find the way back? Then again… finding the way wasn't enough, he still had to walk that strange trail that would return him to the Underside.
"I need to find out something."
Rada drummed her fingers on the table, then sighed, "No, this won't do. Tell me everything. And don't worry, I can keep a secret."
Victor shook his head dubiously.
"Ignore all my chatter. I like talking about myself. About Dad. About the restaurant, about swords. But I don't reveal other people's secrets."
"I'm… not from this world. I'm from the Underside."
"Okay, I've figured that out already."
"What?"
"You were looking around a certain way. Everyone from the Underside is like that at first."
"Are there many?"
"Not many. But not few either. Someone new comes through here once or twice a month. Some leave later, others stay here."
"Rada! I need to speak with one of them!"
"No. I told you, you're not going to hear other people's secrets from me. No need to reopen old wounds."
"But I—"
"Don't understand anything? It's fine, you'll get used to it. Besides, from what I can tell, things over there aren't that different."
"Really? I wouldn't say that! We don't have walking dead!"
"Are you sure? Then again, we don't have them either, they're kept at bay by the Gray Limit."
"What about elves?"
"What about them? You don't have elves and dwarves? But they say you have black people."
Leaving Victor to draw strange parallels between elves and black people, Rada stepped away for a moment, said something into the open kitchen door, then returned, "Your breakfast will be served in a minute."
"Rada… but this isn't my world! I was a doctor there…"
"A doctor? That's excellent! You'll be greeted with open arms in any city. You can even stay here. Wil has gotten old, gets medicine mixed up, afraid to cut a volvulus, and his apprentice turned out to be useless, got involved with some young elves, left the healers guild—"
Victor shook his hands, "Wait! Wait. Rada, I have no intention of making a healing career here…"
"Then what?"
The man at the far table burped loudly, got to his feet, and went towards the exit. He was short, broad-shouldered, with a rough wrinkly face, hard black locks of hair sticking out every which way. His footsteps were heavy, as if he was pounding every step into floorboards.
"Thank you, my lovely Rada." He patted the girl on the shoulder in a friendly manner, threw a momentary glance at Victor with his dark bulging eyes, and left.
"That was—" Rada began.
"A dwarf," Victor finished.
"You've met them already?"
"No."
Victor didn't bother explaining that he'd sensed alienness in the dwarf, akin to the one he'd felt in the elf. If he continued his comparison, the humans were made of clay, elves were made of water, and dwarves were made of stone.
"They're an interesting people," Rada said. After a moment's hesitation, she added, "And dangerous. They know electricity, can work with steam…"
"You don't use electricity?"
"I do. But that doesn't mean I understand it!"
"Well, it's just…" Victor broke off, trying to fish for pieces of school knowledge. Electrons flying in wires? Or not flying? There were also positrons… no, they had nothing to do with it.
What was science to him? Maybe magic of a sort. What if an EKG was done with the spirit of Napoleon at a séance instead of a device? What if a blood test was performed by a vampire in black rags instead of a lab tech in a white coat? What if drug stores sold dried bat wings and enchanted spiderweb? Would anything change for Victor, someone who analyzed a stack of papers, examined a patient, and then relied only on his own two hands and a scalpel?
"Shit," he said with feeling. "Shit."
"There you go!" Rada said triumphantly. "You're starting to understand! It happens to everyone!"
An old woman in a clean apron stepped out from the kitchen and wordlessly placed a tray in front of Victor.
"I'll do it…" Rada sent the woman away and started placing the dishes in front of Victor. "Try the fresh trout, it was caught this morning. And then tell me if you've eaten anything like that over there!"
"Well, I could've if I had a ten-gram chunk of gold."
"Come on… this is just a pair of silvers, no more," the girl calmed him. "The girl left you money, right?"
Victor felt his pocket, "Yeah."
"Then you're fine. You can live for half a year on the contents of the purse you used yesterday. Well, maybe not eating at my place…" Rada smiled proudly.
"I also have a pouch full of stones about the same size—"
Rada smacked him on the lips.
"What's wrong with you, healer?" Her eyes were now serious and hard. "What are you talking about? Are you trying to get killed? This is a peaceful village, not like those forest hamlets. But there are plenty of bad people everywhere!"
Ashamed, Victor fell silent.
"Fine. Get acclimated," Rada said, calming down. "Live here for a bit. Dersi may be legless, but he maintains order in the hotel. I bet you're going to like it here. If you're here… then you were pulled from the Underside to the Middle World!"
"Rada, how do I catch up to Telle?"
"Again! Why do you need that little brat?"
There was no jealousy in her words; it was unlikely that Rada felt anything for Victor but mild sympathy. It was just the typical feminine desire to be liked.
"You know the kind of girls we have here? Come down in the evening, you'll see. If you like them younger, I'm sure you can find a few. Sometimes even elven girls, the more easygoing ones, stop by from the camp. Master knows, maybe they'll find you attractive."
Rada's morality was clearly simple and plain… Certain that she was making Victor think, the girl rose and placed a protective hand on his shoulder, "And another thing… take this sword. I can't look at it now without disappointment. But for a newbie it's just right — light, almost alive in your hands. I'll take a silver, can't part with it for free."
"What am I going to do with it?"
"Find a teacher, only a good one, with a guild diploma, or someone will take your sword and kill you with it. After a few weeks' training, you'll be able to fight off a random outlaw. You don't need anything more than that, you're far too old… Take the sword, healer, before I change my mind!"
"Thanks." Victor placed three silver coins on the table. After a moment's hesitation, he added two gold coins. "How can I catch up to Telle?"
"Ugh!" Rada threw her hands up. "I'd say you love her, but you don't! I can see that. Keep your gold! If you want to catch up to the girl, get on Thunder Arrow in the afternoon, it stops at the station to fill up on water. It's an expensive but fast train. It catches up to Four Smokes either in Luga or Ryansk. If your Telle doesn't get off before that, then you'll find the girl. And if she does… it's a big world. Then it wasn't meant to be."
"What time is it?"
Rada raised her hand, revealing a tiny gold watch under her dress sleeve.
"A quarter after ten. You have two hours, healer."
"Thank you!" Victor said. His own watch was showing the same time. He threw a gloomy look at the plate where the trout was getting cold.
Did he really want to catch up to Telle? Not to get back… it was unlikely she was the only one who could help him with that. Maybe the only thing that wouldn't leave him alone was the question about himself. What was so important about him that Telle had to go get him in the Underside? Who had tried stopping them at the passage?
A group came into the restaurant, paused at the door, then quietly sat at the next table. Victor was picking at the fish with his fork, trying to either awaken his appetite or make the dish look eaten — he didn't feel right about leaving such a praised meal untouched. Then he glanced at his neighbors over his shoulder.
There were five of them.
Four of them were young men, with the youngest being a boy about thirteen and the oldest twenty-five. All were wearing travel clothes with weapons on their belts: swords and daggers. Even the boy. Their faces looked similar, so they were clearly brothers.
The fifth man was undoubtedly their father. He was wearing a short chainmail jacket and had a bandit's flail tucked under his belt instead of a sword.
In fact, he was a bandit — the same one Victor had so rashly spared the previous night in the forest.
When the council was over, Ritor felt himself utterly drained, even though he had no idea why. There didn't seem to be a reason to feel tired, as his arguments had been accepted fairly quickly, if not right away. Reason quickly won out over feelings among the experienced mages and warriors.
There would be no blood feud. The Air Clan wasn't going to fall for such a simple provocation. The scores would be settled later, much later, after the flower of vengeance grew and blossomed. But for now… For now they had to do the most important thing of all: find the Dragonslayer.
No one believed that Torn would dare lie. The leader of the Water Clan had no reason to start this whole story if he really hadn't summoned the Slayer — it was a lot easier than waiting for a Dragon to appear. Dragons appeared when it was their time; but a Slayer really could be created.
Torn had calculated right, Ritor thought. There was only one way to prevent the arrival of a Dragon: to send a Slayer against the Winged Master. It was entirely possible that one had already gone through the Trail. It was entirely possible that the Slayer was already here, in the Middle World.
It was also clear why Torn hadn't been afraid of telling Ritor that. Killing a Slayer was almost as difficult as a Dragon. Sure, it was easier, but… only until the Slayer was fully initiated. Before that they were a mere mortal. Their Power could only manifest sporadically. And Torn, naturally, understood that Ritor wasn't going to sit on his hands. The Air Clan would start the hunt. Very likely, Torn wanted to catch them on the hunt, using the Slayer as bait, catching them unawares. He'd already managed that once… leaving them with four dead, and experienced ones at that! The Water Clan had maybe one with mild wounds. This was not going well.
Ritor slammed his fist on the armrest. He was sitting in his office next to the open window; his keep hearing, as it always happened when he was tense, was picking up the anxious whispering of the students in the wide school hallway on the floor below; the illegible muttering of people gathered at the square — the crowd hadn't left even after the council's decision was announced; the wind, Ritor's reliable assistant, was obediently picking up bits of words, delivering them to the master.
If only it could pick up Torn's thoughts just as easily… or those of the Slayer…
Ritor's face was gradually getting gloomier. For the first time in years, he didn't see a sensible way out. The same one that remained: to use real spells, of the sort that a spellcaster always left for emergencies. It was easy to track a mage by their spells. If only he, Ritor, had been more watchful when Torn and the Water mages were summoning the Slayer! Then everyone would be alive, and he wouldn't be racking his brain on who to send on a scouting mission instead of the dead Klatt brothers…
But there was nothing to be done about it now. Which meant that he had to engage the slightly rusty machine of watchers, observers, and just informers scattered across the plain stretching for hundreds upon hundreds of miles, across the fiefdoms and tributaries of the other clans, across his own… Someone from the Underside could have appeared anywhere. They could already be dead, if, for example, they'd somehow ended up in the Gray Limits. They could've been stabbed by bandits seeking to take their shoes or jacket. They could've been killed in a duel by a wandering elf or an arrogant Panther — it was well known that they could start a fight over anything. They could've drowned in one of the creepy bottomless swamps near the Limit — even he, Ritor, hadn't completely figured out what forces had set up their nest in those parts. Anything could've happened to them… they could've lost their guide.
No, he couldn't count on such luck. Torn had probably sent his best to meet the Slayer. He had to assume that the Slayer had already gone through the first initiations. It wouldn't help finding them (unless they foolishly made use of their new Power), but it was better to overestimate one's enemy.
And so, what should he do? Notify the scouts, send search parties all over the land, or resort to magic? Ritor liked the former option far more than the latter… but there might not be enough time for the former. When the Slayer reached his full readiness level, destroying them would cost Air so much blood that he didn't even want to think about it. All their current losses would seem miniscule in comparison.
They couldn't wait. The Dragon could come at any moment… no wonder his heart ached every night, and vague fiery images appeared before his eyes… and the past would come alive again. Ritor, the Slayer of the last Dragon, knew with his entire being that it was time for a Dragon to be reborn. They could've helped him—that was why Ritor had sought out a meeting with the Fire Clan—and then, the Air mage hoped, they might have been able to soften the Overlord's bloody temper; but fate had other plans. He would have to accept that.
What had his brother asked? "Are you certain you understand the enemy's plans, Ritor?" Oh yes, he was more than certain. The Slayer would not pass. Unfortunately, they would have to be eliminated. He felt sad for the innocent person from a completely different world, but there was nothing to be done. Once upon a time, there was an ordinary person, a human. Maybe here, maybe in the Underside, or maybe among the Naturalborn, assuming there were any humans living there at all. But something happened, a secret mechanism in their soul clicked, the lines of Power that pierced the worlds shook. A Dragon was being born somewhere, and his Slayer was appearing elsewhere. And began their path…
Again the same arithmetic. The life of one or the lives of the uncountable many, including the life of that same first victim. It was vile, but there was nothing to be done. His conscience had already gotten used to such bargains. Because there was no other way for the clans that had arrived to the Warm Coast to survive. Even here, in the Middle World.
Ritor got to his feet decisively. No matter what, he now knew what to do. The treaties had been torn, swords and sabers sharpened, recruiters were going to settlements — still generous and honest, not yet plying with alcohol and convincing but luring the young with the clinking of coins and the shine of the uniforms… There was no way back.
Ritor stepped out of his office. The hallway was empty, no one had dared to come close while Ritor was in the middle of tense reflections… wait, no, someone had. The master picked up weak fluctuations of a magical Wind right next to his temples and gave an involuntary smile. That little brat! Maybe the boy would make something of himself after all, in time…
The kid was still polishing the mirror-like floor. When Ritor came close, a pair of pointedly innocent eyes glanced at him, as if saying, "Here I am, Master, busy following your orders…"
"Are you really going to devote all the time left until the trials to this task?" Ritor asked sternly.
"By your word, Master," the boy bowed, except there was a mischievous spark glowing deep in his eyes. Despite everything. Even though the kid could expect a punishment more serious than washing the floors for listening in.
"By my word…" Ritor repeated. "On your feet… Asmund, right? Asmund, son of…"
"Claude the Cobbler, Master," the boy replied respectfully, hurriedly and fruitlessly trying to give his disobedient curls a proper appearance.
"Right, of course," Ritor nodded. "And now, Asmund, son of Claude and Brunhild, answer me and answer truthfully. What did you hear?"
Ritor's defenses were perfect. He wondered how many layers the kid had managed to break through.
Asmund's face turned a deep red color. White-skinned, he took after his northern mother. The thick Nordic blood had dissolved the southern French blood in it.
"F-forgive me, Master…" His eyes were now guilty for real. "I… I heard… that you want… to find the Dragonslayer with magic."
Ritor felt the floor drop out from under him.
"I… I'm so grateful, Master…" the kid went on in the meantime, staring at the wizard in adoration. "I understand that it was a test… I had to show that I was capable of overcoming defenses. I thought that you must have decided to bring me with you… there has to be a boy on a journey, and I'm no worse than Taniel was… and so you were testing me… I did my best, Master. I passed, didn't I?" And addressed a glowing gaze at his favorite teacher.
Of course, Ritor thought. The boy couldn't even imagine that he was capable of getting through my defenses. He had no doubt that he was being tested. This little devil really is gifted. Who knew… Ritor shook his head, angry at himself. How could he have missed talent like that? Someday, Asmund would be a great wizard. Meanwhile, he, Ritor, needed to think about his defenses…
He probed the boy quickly, with a single touch. No, he wasn't casting any spells at the moment.
"Let's go," Ritor beckoned Asmund to follow. "You're right, you've passed the test satisfactorily… more or less."
The kid bit his lip in annoyance.
"Just do you could see," Ritor went on relentlessly, "we're going to my office. You will show me, step by step, how you broke through my defenses. And I'll explain where you could've gone simpler and faster."
Ritor genuinely hoped he would find advice and explanation for him. Talent was one thing, but experience was worth something too…
Everything else would wait. If this imp managed to succeed, then where was the guarantee that Torn wouldn't find someone like that either? Besides, he had to test the boy's strength to the end, to the very depths, as his naïve assumption might turn out to be true.
There had to be someone young in a squad, someone whose perspective wasn't clouded by skepticism.
And perspective wasn't the only thing, but it was better that the boy didn't know about it yet…
"This is madness, Ritor," old Roy said firmly.
"At the very least, it's reckless, Ritor," Roy's younger brother Guy shook his head.
"Never expected this from our careful and circumspect master," Solly spread his hands.
"A thousand devils and a port whore, I like it!" Sandra slammed her fist on the table and looked over everyone with knitted eyebrows. Rumors went—and even Ritor didn't know the truth—that Sandra had been the first mate on a pirate brig in the Underside. She was portly, loud, and very strong. Very few men could match her swordplay. There was an ugly scar on her neck, clearly from a saber, and she seemed to be very proud of it. Sandra wore a pair of gold earrings shaped like skulls with diamond eyes five carats each. "I hate being idle! Let's find that bastard and strangle him! With my own two hands. Come on, Ritor, stop sitting on your oars! Take the reefs and give them a broadside! You can count on me, even if these landlubbers wet their pants in fear."
Everyone in the clan was long used to her way of speaking. They'd even stopped getting offended over the last few centuries. Ritor occasionally thought that this abundance of nautical terms and intricate curses was little more than a mask worn by a once frightened woman who'd found herself in an alien world. His suspicion was strengthened by the little fact that the seadog Sandra never expressed a wish to climb onto a deck. Then again, it made sense, as they didn't much like women aboard ships… except in one capacity.
But she was a good mage. An excellent mage for a woman.
"Sandra! Stop your boarding party and lay adrift, please," rose a fourth mage, swarthy, hook-nosed, with the strange name Boletus Edulis. Like Sandra, he was from the Underside. "We agreed with Ritor's arguments when he suggested that we not go to war with Torn. Now we can't agree. The spell requires way too much energy. Not only might we not manage to do it in the hour of our full strength, but we'd also have to take down many of our defensive and watch spells and be out of actions ourselves for a while. I'm not afraid for me, but take a look at Roy and Guy! The clan's strength isn't limitless, Ritor. Great Wind! You know that as well as I do. The clan will be left nearly defenseless. Torn would be able to crush us without breaking a sweat…"
"That's unlikely!" Sandra barked, pulling out a scary-looking cutlass from her wide colorful sash. She never parted with the weapon even in bed, where, by some accounts, she was known for her utterly unbridled temper. Despite her venerable age, Sandra looked to be about thirty-five. "Before that bastard son of a head cleaner and syphilitic mermaid could—"
"Sandra, dear," Ritor said patiently. "Please, let the venerable Edulis come to a point—"
"He can come on top of a girl," the female wizard barked. "I already know what he's going to say! Torn isn't going to test our swords, he'll strike with magic, and we're standing here like a boarding school girl with her eyes closed and her skirt hiked up waiting for the gardener to pound her!.."
The venerable mages shifted, someone chuckled.
"Bravo, Sandra," Boletus clapped his hands, not offended in the least. "I always like how you express yourself. Basically, you're right. That's exactly what I wanted to say. Naturally, Torn isn't going to miss the opportunity to attack. I assume he's keeping an eye on the clan right now. As soon as we open up, he'll attack. Immediately. It's important for him to keep us away from the Slayer right now, while he's still weak. I'm no coward, but going with venerable Ritor's plan is suicide. It's a lot better to make use of informants. Will it take longer? Of course. Less reliable? Sure. But far safer for the clan."
Ritor raised his hand, but the hook-nosed wizard had no intention of stopping.
"I'm not deaf, Ritor, I heard what you said. We might not make it in time. That's true. But the Slayer isn't going to find themselves near the Dragon when the Overlord appears in the Middle World either. The Slayer will need time too, a lot of it."
"No way in hell will you be able to deal with them then, Boletus," Sandra snorted. "They'll tie you into a double slip knot and feed you to the crabs."
Edulis smiled slyly, "At first glance, my dear, only at first glance. The Slayer is as vulnerable to swords, arrows, and bullets as any mortal. One good ambush… Ritor! Why are you silent? Remember how it was with you."
Boletus was correct. However…
"To set a trap like that for the Slayer," Ritor said in an even tone, "we'll first have to track them down. They're going to do everything to throw us off the trail. No doubt, Torn is thinking the same thing. Therefore, it's going to be nearly impossible to set an ambush. Maybe on Dragon Island, but then we might as well just drown ourselves…"
"We can also protect the Dragon when he comes," Solly noted.
Ritor smiled bitterly.
"That's not going to help, my friend. The Slayer can sense a Dragon better than a mouse can smell cheese. They're going to reach the Overlord first, no matter how hard we try. No, there is simply no other way. I'm very anxious, and I'm used to trusting my anxiety. As for the lowered defenses… I understand your concern, but we're going to be assisted by one very gifted boy."
"Asmund," Sandra smiled suddenly.
"How do you know?" Ritor frowned.
The female mage crossed her arms on her large chest and looked down. Then she coughed in embarrassment.
"I've had an opportunity… to test him," she explained vaguely. "The little imp is a nimble one!"
Everyone began speaking at once, "A new mage?.. Is he strong?.. What style does he use?.."
Only Boletus frowned, and it made sense. Asmund was one of his students, which meant that a talent needed by the clan had managed to slip by him.
"We'll talk about Asmund later," Ritor said decisively. "Let's come to a decision, people."
"I'm against it," Roy said stubbornly.
"So am I," Guy supported his brother.
"I say, 'Aye'!" Sandra barked. "You're all stinkers, may you all grow weak!"
"Too late for that," Roy said calmly. "Let's not talk about that, Sandra."
"Sorry," she turned away gloomily. "But I'm still for this."
"Me too," Solly said suddenly. "You've convinced me, Ritor."
"All right, that's two 'for' and two 'against'," the mage said. "What about you, Boletus?"
"I abstain," he answered with some gloating. "I'm not going to say that your last argument has made me reconsider, Ritor… but I can't say that it left me completely unmoved either."
"Three 'for,' two 'against,' and one 'abstain.' The decision is made. Roy and Guy! Are you going to help?"
The displeased old men paused at the door. Guy looked at Ritor with genuine confusion.
"I can't do this without you," the mage said firmly. "Who else can distribute power the way you can, Roy? And who stretches better than you, Guy?"
"That's better," Roy grumbled. He was obviously pleased. It wasn't often that the mighty Ritor admitted that he needed someone's help… "Finally realized that old horses won't spoil the furrow…"
"I did," Ritor said without a shade of a smile. "Rest until tonight, friends, then come to my office at sundown. We'll discuss the plan. We're going to start tomorrow morning, everything should be ready by the hour of Power."
"Come here, Asmund. And please don't shake. You weren't that scared when you were breaking through my defenses. Forgive us, your initiation isn't ceremonial, I know you were dreaming of something different: the entire clan gathered on the square, you're reciting the oath… And here it's just a dim chamber with six mages. But it's fine. It's time for you to grow up, Asmund. Sometimes you have to do it very fast, or else you might not get the chance to grow up at all. War is coming, my Asmund. Time for fathers to bury their sons. We're moving out at dawn, as soon as we're done with the rite. You will be helping us. You've proven that you can. I don't have time to look for others that could replace the Klatts, Shetty, and Taniel. Boys will have to finish their education in battle, Asmund. You too, despite your talent. Do you understand?.. Endure it, I know it hurts. The Mage Seal is not that simple to get, my boy. What, you're sweating? Is it stinging your eyes? Keep looking, no squinting. You mustn't squint. Yes, yes, Sandra, I'm shutting up, you're right, we can't give the boy any hints…"
"…And there it is. Get dressed, Asmund. Come on, I'll help you wipe off the blood. Lean on my arm. Let's go, we don't have any time to waste. The sun is already high up. Let's go, let's go. We still need to get up to the Fang of the Winds. Keep up, Guy. Sandra, help Roy. Hurry, friends, hurry. The wind is gathering strength. It's time to get to work..."
The seven were standing at the very top of the Fang in a circle, holding hands. The hour of their full Power was still some time away, but they had delicate work to do: weaving the lace of the Wind; this could only be done here, on the Fang.
Ritor was holding Asmund's hand. Just in case, if the boy ended up losing self-control. It was time to make use of the long-accumulated power of the clan, to remember the old battle magic.
The boy's hand was quivering slightly, and Ritor felt sympathy for him, despite his own words. He also felt shame. Yes, talent was talent. And the clear view of the young were not empty words.
But the truth was also that the strongest blow always struck the youngest when working in a group. Just like water flowed into the lowlands, so did power went through the one that was least experienced and most full of energy. It was just, for something that would kill Roy and turn into a lengthy recovery for Ritor would only result in deep sleep and weariness for the boy. He would recover faster and easier than any of them…
Except it was best for Asmund not to know that yet. Until an even younger mage entered their circle. It was very difficult to realize that the teachers you adored and your comrades in arms had been using you primarily as a living shield for years.
Ritor knew that first-hand…
The fish was probably very delicious. Most likely, if even Victor, who was cutting off tiny pieces and very slowly consuming the meal, just to delay the inevitable, could taste it. But now the breakfast was merely a brief respite before the fight. Before death. The family of bandits had clearly decided to let him eat, but Victor had no chance of fighting off five people.
He'd been so stupid!
"Spare me, Overlord…" had that been what the bandit muttered? And he gave in, to the plaintive voice, the commoner appearance, his own unwillingness to kill… He'd let him go. Instead, he ought to have sliced the knife across the man's throat. The way Grandma Vera had taught him…
Victor gritted his teeth. There was the sharpened sword lying on front of him, and he might be able to grab it. But how would it help him in a fight? Maybe if he had an automatic rifle… maybe then he'd remember something from his brief military training.
"Oh, guards of the Gray Limit!" Rada walked up to the family. Her tone was mockingly condescending. "Rare guests! Welcome!"
"Beer, mistress," the bandit said hoarsely, and Victor shuddered upon hearing his voice. It was strangled, holding back emotions.
"What beer?" Rada was the embodiment of hospitality, but something had changed in her tone. She'd sensed that something was wrong… maybe she was going to call Dersi.
Victor cursed himself profusely for nearly putting his hopes onto a legless cripple. No, the elf would be of no help to him.
"Any… the cheapest… no!" The bandit quickly changed his mind, "The best you got! Versk beer, golden Versk!"
Rada snorted and left.
Victor suddenly realized why the bandit had decided to treat his sons to an expensive and rare beverage. So they'd remember this moment. It was unlikely that the young men would be impressed by murder. But they would definitely remember the taste of beer and would brag to their friends.
They'd also make a note that their father never forgave an offense and always looked for his enemies!
Fury washed over him like a heavy boiling wave. Like after the passage, when he'd been struck by short-term madness while taking the icy lake bath.
They wanted to turn him into a performance?
A lesson to growing bandits?
He didn't even feel the sword slide into his hand, his fingers grip the hilt — easily, habitually, as if it was something familiar. The table shook from the push of his body, Victor turned, throwing his chair back. The unfinished glass of Ebullient Day burst into pieces on the floor with a sad tinkle.
"You!" Victor shouted, stretching his blade towards the outlaw. It was neither a threat nor an address — merely a statement that promised much… far more than he was capable of doing.
"Overlord…" The outlaw leapt up from the table and prostrated himself on the floor. "Overlord, I have come… I brought my sons…"
Still in the grip of his unspent fury, Victor watched the young men drop to the floor next to their father, stretching out, prepared to accept the blow of the sword. Only the youngest dared to slightly turn his head and watch him, and not even with hatred or fear, but with admiring curiosity.
It was the look Moses might have given to the burning bush or the apostles to the angry Christ.
"Overlord, thy will be done…"
He was silent, not knowing what to do with these people and what was happening. Was a spared life really required such doglike devotion in the Middle World?
"Do you still want beer?" Rada asked from behind the counter.
Victor noticed the girl hiding something under the counter.
Maybe Konam had no sons, but his daughter could handle herself.
"Give them the beer, Rada…"
Victor stepped to the outlaw, "What's your name?"
The man raised his head, look at him, as if disbelieving that Victor had deigned to speak to him.
"Forgive us for interrupting your rest—"
"What's your name?"
"The Limiter, Overlord…"
Maybe the outlaw had a normal name, not just a moniker, but Victor didn't care at the moment.
"All right, Limiter… why did you come here?"
"To serve you, Overlord."
"I don't need anyone's service!"
"Yes, Overlord… then kill us, Overlord…"
This was just getting better and better!
"Get up. Get your children up. Take the beer. Step out into the lobby. Wait for me there," Victor ordered, clearly breaking the actions down into separate steps.
The sequence turned out to be the right move, as the Limiter leapt to his feet, got his sons off the floor with simple kicks, and a few seconds later they'd grabbed their mugs of beer and run out of the restaurant.
"Who's going to pay for that?" Rada asked. But only after the family was gone — she had no intention of asking for trouble.
"I am." Victor wordlessly took out a gold coin and accepted the change of a pair of coppers. "Rada, who are they?"
"That's some question! You should know better, healer!"
"Believe me, Rada, I have no idea what's going on."
"Yeah… that's not easy to believe." The girl was glancing at him with far greater interest than before. "I don't know much. There are hamlets along the Gray Limit of two-three houses each. They say that the people living there are descendants of soldiers of the ancient armies whose dead still could find no rest beyond the Limit. There are human, elven, and dwarven hamlets. They don't interact with anyone but their own. Only occasionally going into towns. There are rumors…" Rada broke off for a moment, looking over Victor, "that the hamleters rob people on trails near the Limit. They have their own customs, beliefs, and laws. They call themselves the guards of the Limit. Strange people."
"And?"
"What do you mean, 'and'? That's all I know."
"Is there another exit from here, Rada?"
"From the restaurant? You want to run away from them?"
"Yeah."
Rada shook her head, "There is an exit. But it's not going to help. Did you see their eyes?"
Victor gave a reluctant nod.
"Fanatics. You either kill them… they'll let you do it willingly. Or accept it. They'll find you wherever you go… just like you with Telle," she couldn't hold back from making a jab.
"I could use a beer too, Rada," he asked with a sigh.
With a glass in one hand and the sword in the other, Victor stepped out into the lobby. The Limiter and his sons were crowded by the door and stood straighter when he appeared, like well-trained recruits when they saw their drill sergeant… or more like their favorite commanding officer.
The elf gave him a thoughtful and detached look.
"Dersi…" Victor hesitated, not sure how to put it. "Your partner… Ginger?.. Where can I find him?"
"He'll be here soon." The elf picked up a piece of lettuce from his place and placed it into his mouth with the grace of an aristocrat at a queen's reception or a thoroughbred horse given a sugar cube. "I assume Ginger went to satisfy his craving for the fairer sex. As for where he is precisely…"
"I don't have much time, Dersi. I need to get on Thunder Arrow."
The elf shook his head.
"Then I doubt you're going to see him."
No luck here either… Nodding, Victor placed his keys on the table.
"Too bad. I'm leaving."
"Good luck," the elf said indifferently.
Trying to get through his armor of detachedness somehow, Victor asked sharply, "Dersi, a personal question… this bow…"
The elf shifted his yes to look at his weapon.
"It's very thin. I doubt it can be a good weapon…"
"The arrows are poisoned," the elf replied calmly. "We've always had good poisons. For birds, animals, and people."
Choking, Victor turned and left the hotel.
So that was how the elves had earned their fame as great archers!
The hamleters followed him out. Victor stopped and turned — they froze too.
"Limiter!"
The outlaw with the sad face ran up to him. His expression was blossoming, expressing the desire to serve and obey.
"You were the ones who attacked us…" Victor began.
Terror appeared in the Limiter's eyes, "Overlord!"
"Hold on! I'm not angry. I let you go…"
"Yes, Overlord…"
"But you don't owe me anything. Understand? Go live. Rob no more, do honest work…" Victor was amazed at his own lofty phrase. As if he was a cardinal forgiving sins. "I don't need your service!"
The outlaw was silent. Victor turned and began walking down the deserted street, then he heard footsteps behind him.
"Why are you following me?" Victor waved his hand, forgetting he was still gripping the sword. The Limiter blinked. He clearly didn't want to die, but he was ready to receive the blow.
Spitting on the street, Victor continued walking, trying to ignore the silent escort. They'd leave him alone. They'd have to. As soon as he got on the train… they weren't going to leave their home, rushing off into the unknown, after all!
He ran into a few people on the way; there was nothing special about their appearance, and they ignored Victor. Maybe their clothes were a little unusual, but even then it wasn't due to the roughness of the fabric or some foreign cut. There simply was no standard color scheme or style. As if each of them had been given sewn by a pretty good tailor…
Maybe there really was no industrialization here. But why? There was a railroad, which meant there were at least steam engines. This was more than enough to build textile factories…
Catching himself getting interested, Victor laughed. Yeah, right. Some Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's court he was! He wasn't the first Undersider to come here. If there was no industry here despite all the conditions, then there had to be good reasons for that. He wouldn't want to end up in the hands of the local inquisition or get in the way of some tailors' guild… they'd stab him with poisoned sewing needles in a dark alley.
For the first time since this had all begun, he was touched by the breath of Adventure, with a capital A.
If the previous day he'd been merely a walking load, a mattress with legs plodding along after Telle, having zero understanding or acceptance, then today something was different. Maybe it had been the strange dream or the glass of invigorating beverage or that unnecessary but still pleasant escort behind him, but Victor felt himself an explorer, an enthusiastic visitor to a museum.
After all, his belly was full, he was healthy and clothed. His pockets held a decent sum of money and valuables that seemed to be worth even more. Ahead of him was a strange pastoral world that had both the comforts of civilization (only the ones that were appropriate) and plenty of unknown. Elves, dwarves, undead—locked by the Gray Limit—what else?
He was ready for anything!
The street ended, turning into a small square in front of the train station. All the streets in this village probably led to the station; that seemed to be the way it was in all worlds. In the middle of the square stood the bowl of a fountain — it was currently dried up and filled with trash, but even the trash was nice: branches, leaves, clumps of dry grass. The fountain looked more like the temple of a forest spirit than an improvised trash can. In front of the station—and this was also probably common in all worlds—stretched wooden stalls in which stood elderly women, awaiting customers.
Curious, Victor walked along the stalls, examining the merchandise. The lack of candy bars, diapers, and feminine products pleased him.
The saleswomen didn't try to call him over. They were a serious bunch, knew their own worth, and seemed to have gathered here just to pass the day rather than to sell.
At first, he only saw foodstuffs. Milk, sour cream, heavy cream in wet clay pitchers, farmer's cheese wrapped in cloth and baskets, ceramic jugs with honey — and the honey varied in color from milky-white, as if the local bees knew how to milk cows, to pitch black. And the smell coming from the honey made the fully sated Victor salivate. For variety's sake, an old man was selling the honey. Colorful, with a huge beard, a bald pate, and small cunning eyes. He clearly picked up on Victor's reaction and chuckled in satisfaction. Without haggling, Victor bought a large chunk of honeycomb for two coppers and moved along, sucking on the fresh translucent honey and chewing the elastic wax.
His silent escort also paused at the beekeeper's stall, and the Limiter bought a piece of honeycomb for each of his sons. Victor could barely restrain his laughter. Then again, it was a good thing, as the fellas were munching on the honeycomb with clear joy, especially the younger ones.
Next there were two old women, who looked so alike they could be sisters, were selling various clothing. Victor first walked past them, then came back. If he was going into the unknown, then he'd need to get some gear. He bought spare underwear, amazed that the clearly handmade underpants were briefs and not boxers.
"It's as if I sewed it just for you, dear," the old woman said, looking at Victor approvingly.
The mores here were simple…
Victor's current outfit was suitable to the weather. But he ought to think of the future too. Like rain. Clouds were slowly moving in from the east…
There were two black leather jackets at the stall, but both turned out to be small for Victor. Besides, the abundance of copper buttons, lacing, and pieces of metal made them look more like something a metalhead might wear, not a grown man.
"I made this for elves," the woman spoke sadly. "They like this kind of thing… A girl came by earlier, tried it on several times, but didn't buy…"
Victor didn't bother asking about the girl's appearance. He could sense she was talking about Telle.
"Buy the cloak!" the other woman suggested. It seemed that Victor was rapidly attaining the status of a real customer in their eyes. "It's nice, made of beaver pelts."
But Victor wasn't crazy enough to wear a luxurious cloak made of finely crafted shiny fur on the road. It made him look far too provocative.
"At least get a scabbard, walking around town, scaring the folks!" the woman wouldn't let up.
Now that really was good advice. From out of a linen bag under the table, the woman nimbly produced several scabbards. Victor looked them over curiously — wood, lined with rough leather. He tried the sword, and it entered the first scabbard, easily and firmly, as if made to order. Strange. Even the old woman was at a loss and shook her head, "Look at that… found his clothing."
The price asked for the scabbard seemed to be twice what it was worth. But Victor paid without a word and moved on. The scabbard, strapped to his belt, started to get in the way of his legs, so he shifted them without even thinking, and the weapon seemed to remember its place.
The bandits also paused at the clothing saleswomen's stall, and Victor glanced at them curiously. Would they also buy a pair of underwear for each? But their blind worship didn't go that far. The Limiter simply felt the leather of the jackets, grimaced, beckoned for his youngest son to come closer, told him something, and gave him a slight push. The boy dashed off the square.
Victor continued his tour of the local assortment of products.
A woman in her early forties, in a colorful sundress and with a brightly painted face was selling alcohol. Most of them were jugs with tightly closed lids, but there were also a dozen or so bottles. The glass was rough, uneven, as if blown by hand… which was probably the case. Instead of labels, the glass had pieces of light suede glued to it with the names of the drinks written on them: Elven Strong, Ursine, Mountain Balm.
Victor didn't want to experiment, so he quickly walked away. Maybe on the way back… That would be quite a surprise for his friends!
In the last stall Victor saw something he hadn't even dreamt of finding. In front of a stocky, squat old woman that stood apart from the others lay a thin stack of newspapers.
Actual printed newspapers! Victor reached out a hand, but the old woman nimbly slapped his fingers away with a surprising strength, "Pay first… plenty of you literates these days…"
The woman's voice was rough, guttural. The Limiter produced a slight growl behind him and moved closer. Victor turned, his glare alone making the man go back, then looked at the woman.
A hard, wrinkly face. A small thin mustache. A flat nose and a hard tow of hair.
A dwarf!
"How much!"
"One gold," the dwarven woman replied in a tone that clearly indicated "Get lost!"
Victor cursed his intellectual tendencies, the universal primary education, and his thirst for the printed word that hadn't gone away over thirty years. But he might be able to glean a lot of information about the Middle World, right? As for the high price… well, paper was a rarity here…
He placed a gold coin next to the newspapers, deliberately choosing the smallest one. Without hesitation, the woman bit down on the coin, then handed him a paper. Victor looked at the text hungrily.
Wayfarer.
At this point, Victor was prepared to read anything, from the Elven Herald to the Evening Vampire. His gaze slid down.
While all the articles featured familiar letters, they refused to come together into comprehensible text. "Karataro pochesun" was one of the least odd things in there. Then there were also gems like "hhrrtyh goochek", "guu tru", "sef", and "ll!" with three exclamation points!
Dwarven language?
The only things he recognized were prepositions… then again, what did "of", "on", and "at" really mean to a dwarf?
Wait. Each article had a tiny footnote in a language he could read, surrounded by a black frame. "The history of the 1054 kilometers of the Way." "Comparative analysis of the profitability of freight and passenger transportation." "Seventy years in a hirde — memoirs. Continuation." "Clan news (unconfirmed)."
Victor quickly flipped through the paper, all six pages of it. Naturally, there weren't any pictures or photos. Based on the typeface, the newspaper had been printed on something very primitive… And no articles he could actually read, except for these mocking summaries.
He looked at the dwarven woman, who was awaiting his reaction excitedly.
"Thanks a lot," Victor said. "I'll find a use for this… paper."
He folded up the newspaper and stuffed into his jean pocket.
The woman turned purple, opened her mouth, but said nothing. The nearest saleswomen, watching them, giggled. Proud of his small victory, Victor went to the train station.
"Overlord…"
He turned. The boy the Limiter had sent somewhere was standing next to Victor and handing him a tightly wrapped bundle.
"Take this, Overlord…"
"I don't need your gifts," Victor replied wearily. "Take it to your father. Understand?"
"Overlord, take it, or he's going to kill me."
This didn't sound like a mere figure of speech. There was genuine fear in the boy's eyes.
"What is it?" Victor gave up.
"A jacket, Overlord. You were looking for a jacket."
Victor wordlessly unwrapped the bundle, and a black fabric unfurled in his hands.
Was it fabric, though?
The jacket's material looked more like fish skin. Black fish skin, where every scale was the size of a child's hand. The inner lining was made of short fur, also black. No matter how Victor treated the hamleters' sudden and passionate love for him, the jacket was magnificent. It seemed to promise comfort, protection from the wind, the rain, and even from a treacherous blow.
"Thanks," he said finally, fighting the temptation to put on the jacket right away. "How much do I owe you?"
The boy shook his head in fright.
"Fine. Thanks again. And now leave, all right? Tell your father that we're even, that I'm deeply grateful and all that…"
Not waiting for an answer, Victor almost ran into the train station, finding himself in a small "ticket office." There were two windows with two bored women of indeterminate age behind them, strange people sleeping on wooden benches—maybe humans that looked like dwarves, or dwarves that looked like humans—and a dusty chandelier was swaying slightly on the ceiling.
Stepping decisively to one of the windows, Victor said, "I need a ticket on the Thunder Arrow."
"Where to?"
That was a good question.
"To… What's farther: Luga or Ryansk?"
"Ryansk," the woman snorted.
"To Ryansk then."
"Class?"
"What classes are there?"
"Passenger, sleeping, separate place, and separate compartment."
If the passenger class didn't imply the possibility of sleeping, and the sleeping class didn't guarantee a separate place…
"Separate compartment."
The woman rifled through a stack of papers on her desk, then nodded, "There's one. Twelve gold."
Victor gulped and opened the pouch.
There were eleven gold coins inside. That damned dwarven woman!
"Can I pay with silver?"
"Three to one."
Victor had a suspicion that the exchange rate between gold and silver was different in this world. But… again, how could he argue if he didn't know anything?
He paid. He only had a few silvers left and barely any coppers, which the half-elf hadn't seemed to consider to be money at all.
"Your ticket."
Victor accepted a piece of cardboard with a few numbers and incomprehensible dwarven writing on it.
"And… what do I do with it?"
"It says it right there!" The ticket clerk was indignant, as if there was a big line behind Victor. "Car number 2. To Ryansk. Separate compartment. What else?"
Victor put the ticket into his pocket.
"And don't go far, the train leaves in half an hour!" the clerk advised.
Walking to the far corner of the hall, where the benches were empty, Victor sat and stretched out his legs. He tried to relax, examining the dull mosaic panel on the wall. The panel portrayed something like a battle scene: humans, dwarves, and elves, all armed to the teeth and with fierce expressions, were sitting on an open platform right behind a locomotive. Smoke billowed from the stack, bare swords and sabers, carefully put together from mirror shards, were gleaming.
"Healer…"
He turned. Rada was standing behind him. She looked serious and collected.
"We need to talk. You've got trouble, healer. Big trouble!"