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.
Note: Footnotes can be found at the end of the chapter.
Chapter 5
The gully was growing shallower, until it simply disappeared. Even the forest was calmer, the deadfall was almost entirely gone. Under the starless, overcast sky, Victor and Telle finally reached something that looked like a road in complete darkness. The ground here had been trampled so nothing was growing on it, even though it seemed as if the road had been abandoned long ago. In contrast with the dark grass and the bushes, it was almost glowing in the darkness.
"It's an old trade trail," the girl informed him. "Caravans used to take it to the southern ports. Then the Limits broke the road, and the trail went around it. But here… if anyone walks, they do it through the forest and the gully."
Victor tried to mentally picture the map. The forest. The gully. The Limits. The road leading into them.
"Where are we going?"
"To the Way. There's a small village here, like I said. Almost all the cities in the area are abandoned, no one wants to live by the Limits. But the Way isn't as easy to move as a caravan trail."
That was some trail. A pair of haul trucks could easily drive here side-by-side…
It was easy to walk her after the forest and the gully. And that tiny flatbread he took from the half-elf had unexpectedly filled and given him energy, like a cup of strong coffee.
The road meandered through the hills, the forest was growing thinner and opening up. Maybe it was just an illusion, but it felt as if the sky was growing brighter. Victor looked at his watch; the fluorescent dots at the ends of the hands insisted that it wasn't even 1 am yet.
"Is it far?"
"No. Another half an hour," Telle replied in a carefree way. Based on her voice, she didn't see anything special in such nocturnal walks and didn't expect any further danger. "Hold on."
Victor grunted in annoyance but said nothing.
"I definitely overestimated our abilities," Tell said self-critically. "I didn't think that it would be difficult for you to walk in the dark."
"And you can see in the darkness?"
"Yes, of course."
"Are you sure you're not a half-elf too?" Victor asked in an almost serious tone.
"No, of course not. There are no half-elven women. Ever."
Victor was about to note that, apparently, all the phenotypic manifestations of "elfism" were tightly connected to sex, with the "male" chromosome or, say, because of that all female half-elves carried a lethal mutation that manifested at the embryonic stage, but found it difficult to discuss genetics as it applied to elves.
"Then where did your gifts come from? It looked like I was on equal terms with those bandits — the darkness was also not their friend."
"Victor, can't I have some secrets?"
There was no sense arguing that.
"Then tell me where you live."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, why? I did promise to bring you home."
It seemed he'd managed to confuse Telle.
"All right, you'll bring me there, and then what?"
"I'll go home."
Telle was silent for a while, then asked, "You'll go back, just like that? You already believe, right? Convinced it's all true? You know the world can be seen differently than the way you're used to. And you still want to go back? To the city, to your stupid apartment, to breathe all that stink and do some nonsense—"
"Telle!" he cut the girl off. "I live there. Understand? My friends and loved ones are there. And I'm sorry, but my job is far more pleasant than… cutting people's throats."
"But you're…" she broke off. "Victor…"
"Well?"
"Could I have been mistaken?" she asked thoughtfully.
"About what?"
"About you! Victor, you have to live here! Understand? When a person stops fitting in with their world, it rejects them. Throws them out. You think it's a coincidence that everything at your place was breaking down?"
"All right." Victor stopped, caught Telle's shoulder in the darkness, and turned her to face him, "Talk. Enough hints."
Telle sniffed, like a perfectly ordinary girl who wasn't being allowed to play a game of mystery.
"I think my patience is it its limit," Victor went on. "First, I pick up a crazy girl who can see in the dark, heals her wounds in a single night, has no sense of shame, and doesn't exhibit any emotions. Then I take her to the woods, run away from some idiots, and end up God knows where. I jump into ice-cold water, run naked around a fire, listen to stories about different worlds, take a cross-country walk at night, get scared by the living dead, kill bandits! And now it turns out that I'm supposed to like all that?"
"What do you want, Victor?"
"An explanation."
"You don't belong to the Underside."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course. Otherwise you wouldn't have ended up here. But that's not the point. This world needs you. A lot."
"So you came to get me in order to take me on the Trail from one world to another?"
"Yes. You could've come on your own. That's what usually happens to people that start to look at the world differently. Sooner or later they find the Trail and end up here. But you're far too important. I couldn't wait or leave it up to chance. Remember those that met us at the transition? If you'd been alone, they would have killed you."
"And if I'd stayed in my world?"
"They would still have killed you. Just in case. But you wouldn't have stayed. People like you don't."
Victor laughed, "Thanks, girl. So that's how it is. You were helping me all this time. Thanks for that."
His irritation was growing. He was probably just tired. Or maybe it was the half-elf's delicate white face that had appeared in his mind.
"It's my duty to help those who come from the Underside," Telle said. He hadn't sensed the change in Victor's mood. "Let's go. We just need to get to the bend, and the village is there."
The road turned, rounding a hill. Or maybe it was a burial mound. Its features seemed to be far too smooth in the night. It didn't matter… Victor had had his fill of adventure. His mundane concerns and problems seemed to have been pushed aside, he wasn't bothered by the thought that he wasn't going to go to work tomorrow. But his home — the small apartment with peeling wallpaper, broken TV, and sagging couch — still held a grip on him. He wanted to go there. Let the fuses come out of their sockets and phones blow up. At least it would be his home. His castle. And he wouldn't have to grip the silk-like hair of the half-elven bastard and break his neck…
"Damn…" Victor whispered. "Damn…"
So that was how it happened. Not right away, not at the moment when blood was burning from adrenaline and a bestial roar was coming from his throat. At that moment, he could do anything: kill, rifle through the pockets of the dead, eat someone else's supplies while smelling burned human meat. It would only be later, in the darkness and silence, that the millennia of civilization, which had jerked away in fright, patted him on the shoulder and give him a reproachful look.
Telle was silent, even if she did understand what was happening to him. He was grateful for that, at least. They slowed their pace slightly, crossing the hill — the road was tired of meandering and this time was going straight across.
"There's the village," Telle said.
A dim scattering of lights could be seen very close, maybe a hundred meters away. Victor hesitated, feeling a brief, unexpected disappointment. They only had a few minutes of walking left.
"I thought we'd have to jump somewhere… climb…" he admitted.
"Why?"
"I don't know…
Subconsciously, Victor had been expecting to hear a dog barking, but they were walking up to the village in complete silence. Maybe there were no dogs in this world. Just like there were no elves in the normal world…
"Wait…" Tell stopped suddenly, grabbing Victor by the hand. Someone was walking towards them.
Victor placed a hand on the knife handle. The midnight passerby was approaching. They heard loud breathing and slightly stumbling footsteps. Victor relaxed.
At least there was alcohol in this world.
"No… I'm not taking the short road…" came from the darkness. Either the drunk man had noticed them, or he was talking to himself. "No… I'll go through the gully. It's dark, damp, and scary there… There are steep, slippery slopes… It's windy there!"
The man was clearly mistaken about the wind, but Victor was in agreement about the rest.
"I'll go through the gully…" the man was laying out his plans in a sing-song voice. "And I'll feel good… umm… I'll sob… sober… sober up!"
Clearly not noticing anyone, he walked past. Victor couldn't make out his face, only realizing that the man was very large, with a sizable belly and fairly tall. Already past them, the drunk paused for a moment and said randomly with a dreary bewilderment, "Lead beads! Whoa!"
Victor bent down to Telle and whispered, "Should we stop him? In his condition…"
"In his condition, he'll make it just fine," Telle answered in a carefree manner. "Drunks are lucky. And the dead can't stand the smell of alcohol, by the way."
Victor didn't ask why the dead were teetotalers. He was afraid that Telle would have an explanation, and he'd have to believe something else that was crazy…
Then again, compared to the very fact of the existence of the walking dead, their dislike for alcohol fumes was a minor thing.
The road gradually turned into a street. They were no longer walking on compressed soil but on neatly fitted cobblestones. It was brighter here, as many houses had glowing windows despite the late hour, and some had lit lanterns in front of them. Victor peered hungrily, trying to find something different about this world. Something mystical, unreal, or at least medieval.
Nope!
Neat, clean houses two or three stories tall. Most first stories were made of stone, while the upper ones were wooden. The windows were glazed. The lanterns… latticed metal lampshades with matte glass, although the light was far too even.
Victor was finally knocked for a loop when he saw a button next to the door to one building. A button! A metal button placed exactly where a doorbell should be!
"There's electricity here?!" he shouted in accusation.
Telle looked at him in confusion, and Victor lowered the volume of his voice. In this light, he saw that the girl's face was tired, almost gray.
"So?"
"Why?"
"Why wouldn't there be? I never told you that they lit the streets with seal blubber and birch torches."
"No, but… If they…" Victor broke off, desperately looking for words. "Telle, I can believe in another world or another side of reality. God knows why, but I can! Yes, elvish women, of which there are never enough, sleep with human men here! And the dead walk beyond the Gray Limit built by sorcerers!"
Telle gave him a condescending smile.
"But then there can't be any technology here! Electricity, lamps, doorbells, machines!"
A window opened overhead, and an angry voice cut through the night, "They always get wasted like pigs… Hey, you, get out of here!"
In anger, Victor nearly bit something back but changed his mind. First of all, it wasn't the best position for an argument, and, second, he really wasn't in the right here.
"Victor, you're tired…" Telle said gently. "Let's go…"
Obediently, as if he really was a man who'd drunk too much being led home by a respectful daughter, Victor followed the girl.
"Everything is possible," Telle was persuading him. "This is the Middle World, you see? Anything is possible here…"
They stopped in front of a long two-story building. Unlike all the others, this one was entirely made of stone.
"A hotel," Telle explained.
Victor wanted to sneer and call it an inn, but he held back. Telle confidently opened the unlocked door, and they entered.
A small hall, walls made of baked red bricks, with simple but bright embroidery hanging on them. There was a row of hard massive chairs lined up against one wall. There was a large table with two people sitting at it next to another. Several doors, a spiral staircase leading to the second floor. Nothing unusual, this might be a small family-run hotel somewhere in Western Europe. There was a crystal chandelier on the ceiling. Victor produced a doomed sigh, looking away from the electric light bulbs.
"Good evening!" Telle said loudly.
A thin red-haired young man in a wrinkled suit of a forgettable cut and a gray wrinkled beret rose from the table. He looked funny but no more than that.
"Good night, girl," the young man said in an unexpectedly deep voice. He gave Telle only a single glance, one that was intent but generally indifferent. Victor was the one he looked over far more poignantly.
Meanwhile, Victor couldn't tear his gaze away from the man still sitting at the table.
It was an elf.
Victor didn't need any commentaries to see the differences between an elf, a half-elf, and a human. It was probably a good thing that he'd already seen a half-elf, which reduced the shock from the contrast.
The elf's hair looked like golden foam, a gold leaf shaving carelessly put together into an updo. His face didn't produce the impression of the same kind of consumptive beauty as the half-elf — it was simply inhuman, unearthly, living by its own laws of beauty. His body was thin, exquisite, but it was difficult to call it fragile either.
The elf was something else, immeasurably far from human. If God had sculpted humans out of clay, then he'd probably used spring water as the foundation for elves.
But the elf's thin fingers were gripping the fletching of an arrow that had already been placed onto the string of a thin bow with careless grace. The fact that the bow was lying on the table was somehow not calming. Victor was certain that the arrow could pierce his chest in half a second.
"Where have you come from, travelers?" the red-haired man inquired.
"From the south, past the Gray Limit," Telle replied. It seemed the question didn't require an exact answer.
"At night, past the Limit?" the young man asked with some respect. "Brave people…"
He looked at Telle again, this time more closely, and his face twitched slightly. As if he'd recognized the girl with some surprise.
"How may I be of assistance?" now the young man was politeness itself. The elf turned his head slightly, looked at his friend curiously, and took his hands off the weapon.
"We would like a room."
"One or two?"
"One."
"With one bed or two?"
"Two."
"With light, water?"
"Your best room."
"Of course. Room 8, Dersi!"
It wasn't the fear that had gripped the bandit Victor nearly killed. More like bewilderment, when someone wasn't certain of their guess but thought it was best to play it safe.
"Here are the keys…" The young man accepted two rings with massive keys from the hands of the sitting elf and handed them to Telle with a slight bow. "What else can we do for you?"
"We'd like to eat…" Telle said plaintively.
"The restaurant is still working," the young man nodded at one of the doors. "Would you like the meal brought to your room?"
"No, thank you, we'll go ourselves." Telle nodded at Victor. "Pay him."
Victor wordlessly pulled out the wallet he'd taken from the half-elf and looked at the young man in askance.
"One gold."
The elf snorted quietly.
Victor wordlessly handed the young man a coin that looked like it was made of gold. There was nothing written on the coin, only the scary head of a dragon was minted on both sides. The young man accepted the coin with obvious confusion, looked away, and quickly put the coin in his pocket.
"You don't take old money?" Telle inquired.
"Of course we do." The young man glanced at the elf and grimaced, clearly telling him to be silent.
Victor really didn't like what was going on, but it wasn't smart to intervene.
"Let's go, I'm hungry…" Telle pulled Victor after her. The elf hadn't said a word and hadn't risen. He and the red-haired man were clearly about to have a serious conversation…
It was quiet and unexpectedly cool through the door of the "restaurant". Victor froze in the doorway, realizing in amazement that he recent stupid dream was now a reality.
There were half a dozen tables, covered in white tablecloths, with dishware made of crystal and white porcelain. All the tables were unoccupied. No electrical lighting — just candles in massive sconces along the walls. There was the teasing scent of food, probably coming from the open door to the kitchen. A small bar counter, covered in unfamiliar-looking bottles the contents of which were obvious. A stocky man wearing something that looked like a paramilitary uniform was sleeping on a high stool with his face lying on the counter.
"Whoa…" was all Victor could say. He wanted to rub his eyes. "Telle, if told me… about this place… I'd have walked twice as fast."
"How was I supposed to know we'd have money?" the girl answered with a question. "Keeper!"
A small door opened behind the counter, and a girl dove out from it. She was a little older than Telle, maybe sixteen or seventeen, pretty, bright — and not due to any makeup. Telle was a little confused.
"Where is Konam the Silent?" she asked. "Already asleep?"
There was tension between the girls.
"My father has been asleep for three years now," the girl said dryly. "I'm not as silent as he was, but I hope that's my only flaw."
"I'm sorry." Telle really did look embarrassed. "Konam's restaurant was famous across the entire Way…"
"It still is. And it still retains the name."
"We're very tired and hungry." Victor realized he had to get involved. "If you're still open…"
The girl furrowed her brow, "Who closes when there are customers? Food, wine? What would you like?"
"What should travelers who have just walked past the Gray Limit in the middle of the night order?" Victor answered with a question.
The girl nodded in approval.
"We'll bring it right out…"
She disappeared through the door for a second, while Telle sighed and looked at Victor sadly, "He was a cool guy…"
"Konam?"
"Yeah. An excellent fighter. An adventurer! Then again… there are plenty of those. When he got old, he bought this restaurant, called it The Kingdom of Konam the Silent, and became famous throughout the Middle World."
"An interesting career."
"The sword is not the only way to earn fame…" the girl sighed. "But I barely remember his daughter."
"You've been here?"
"Yeah, a long time ago."
"That guy seemed to have recognized you."
Tell jerked her shoulders, "Maybe. Oh, well."
Konam's daughter came back. She wordlessly took two tall wine glasses from behind the counter, first poured red liquid into them from a glass pitcher, then added the contents of three bottles to them. She did it so quickly and so deftly that the cocktail in the glasses wasn't mixed, suspended as four layers.
"First drink this," the girl offered.
Victor sat at the counter, and Telle sat next to him. She took her glass and looked through it while holding it to a candle.
The four layers were quivering, slowly mixing together. Victor was amazed to see that the liquid was turning into seven stripes that made up the full spectrum.
"You can make Rainbow Dreams!" Telle exclaimed in excitement.
It seemed the praise flattered the girl.
"My name is Rada."
"Rada, I've heard that Konam swore he would never reveal this secret to anyone!"
"He didn't. Not even to me. I recreated the recipe myself."
Victor took a careful sip. The beverage was clearly alcoholic but with a very unusual taste. It was slightly invigorating, from the first sip, and simultaneously relaxed the body.
"There's nothing better for a weary traveler at a late hour than a glass of Rainbow Dreams!" Telle said. "Too bad Konam found his calling so late in his life. He came up with such wondrous drinks!"
Victor was scared that Rada would be offended, but the girl nodded in agreement, "Yes. But I have no intention of doing nonsense. Come by in the morning, I'll make you Ebullient Day, on the house. This is my recipe. Even Master Andrzej approved of it."
"The Earth mage?" Telle inquired.
Rada nodded, "Yes, the clan leader. He stopped here on the way to the Snowy Steppes. Such a frail man, bald…" Rada switched to a whisper, "Looks completely ordinary. One of our hunters or carpenters would look more distinguished. It's odd what the soul can hold on to… But you should've seen him drink!"
Either she now liked her nocturnal customers, or the girl had decided that business came first, but her initial coldness was gone.
"Your food is almost ready," she informed them. "A slice of stewed fish, some greens, juice, and a clam pâté. Trust me, it's the most appropriate dinner. Are you here long?"
"No," Telle said with regret. "We're leaving tomorrow."
"At least stay for lunch. Elvish soup, partridge in dough, infusions from the Bear Clan. You won't regret it."
She smiled at Victor and once again disappeared through the door.
"Yeah, silence is certainly not one of her flaws," Victor said.
"Definitely," Telle agreed, finishing her glass. "Oh, by the way… you're going home tomorrow, right? When are you going: in the morning or afternoon?"
Victor didn't know what to say.
His homeland. This was where Ritor had been born and raised. He'd learned here. This was the place he'd left on his now-famous—to those in the know—quest, and this was where he'd returned… having no idea that one day he would have to correct his own greatest achievement with his own two hands.
Naturally, he was spotted from afar. He wasn't hiding, the flaming aura of Power around him could be seen by the clan mages for miles. And when he extinguished his wings and landed next to the porch of the mage school, which doubled as his home, a crowd had already gathered. Everyone was silent. They all knew that something bad had happened.
Ritor's gaze found Taniel's mother in the crowd. And, unable to bear the mournful reproach, the wizard lowered his head. He'd failed to protect him. And now words were useless.
Despite this, Ritor began speaking. There shouldn't be any secrets among their own people. Water was skilled in the magic of deception (then again, so was Air), and anything he didn't say would be told and twisted by their enemies.
Briefly but without omitting anything, Ritor told them of the fight with Torn and his people at the abandoned castle, of the betrayal that doomed the Fiery Ones, of how the Watery Ones had tried to kill him at Loy Iver's ball against all custom…
"So what do we do, brothers and sisters? Shall we be silent, endure, submit?" he finished.
The crowd, which had been listening to him in deathly silence, instantly exploded in furious shouting. Ritor saw raised fists, faced warped in hatred, mouths twisted in anger and thirst for vengeance. The shout "Death to them!" flew out of a hundred throats, was picked up by the wind, and spread far. Ritor knew that even the people living in the distant farms were now pausing their work and listening to the gusts filled with hatred in alarm.
"War," the soundless shout of the buildings carried over the square. "War and death to them all," the mountains echoed. "Fire and destruction on their heads," the forests rustled.
And only the wise, lazy river remained silent this time.
As for the sea, it never said anything.
Finally, when the raging hurricane of the shouts died down, Ritor raised his hand.
"In accordance with the law, we will be talking about everything at the clan council meeting today," he addressed the people. "I will think. And you think too. We will compare our decisions tomorrow at dawn."
I have no doubt they're going to choose war, he thought. They know about my feud with Torn. The clans themselves haven't clashed in a long time… but an attack is an attack, and a feud with the clan leader is a feud with everyone. The clan will rise. Which means there's no avoiding war. We're going to pave the way for the Naturalborn ourselves…
At the same time, Ritor would never even consider concealing the truth from his brethren. Maybe when the initial anger burned away he'd be able to hold the others back.
Because they needed to use their strength not in a pointless strife with the powerful Water Clan (the vast majority of which was, of course, innocent), but to destroy the Dragonslayer Torn had summoned before it was too late. Ritor didn't doubt those words of his enemy. Words like that couldn't be empty.
And it didn't matter that the slayer was most likely also innocent. It was a simple calculation: thousands of lives or just one.
Another solution? To keep everyone from dying? Unfortunately, this wasn't an ethics class.
He thought he wouldn't be able to fall asleep. When one was tired, the body refused to sleep, almost as if trying to harm itself. Or as a way to say, "Go ahead, suffer, maybe now you'll stop tormenting your own body." Victor knew that it was just an excessive level of adrenaline and endorphins, the raised current of the ion channels, and far too active pumping of synaptic vesicles, but that was his reasoning side. Meanwhile, the other half of his mind kept insisting that it was a warning from destiny not to sleep that night.
Before, he'd only read about elves, dwarves, and the like in cheap fantasy novels. And only occasionally, when he couldn't find anything else to bring on a trip. And now he was lying in bed in a hotel being guarded by an actual elf! Hmm, if that was how male elves looked, what about the elven women? Elf-ladies, she-elves, elvesses? He wondered what the female half-elves were like. Or did they really not exist? He was beginning to understand why elven men didn't care for human women, while human men…
He rose on an elbow. Telle was sleeping peacefully, snoring quietly like a mouse. Victor lay on his back again. He involuntarily recalled the bandits… and that one begging for his life… What had he said? "I'm your slave, Overlord."
Overlord…
That was definitely a pleasant thing to hear. Every person secretly thought that others were undervaluing or misunderstanding them, that they were far greater and better everyone else, they just couldn't show it because of others' tricks. No wonder flattery was one of the most powerful tools in existence.
Victor didn't catch the moment sleep arrived. His mind became bright, his thoughts were clear and defined. He thought he was reflecting silently… and because of that was a little surprised to see himself standing on an unfamiliar shore. The sand was completely, unbearably white like snow. It wasn't the incredible part, even though finding such whiteness on Earth… or rather in the Underside… would be impossible even at the North Pole.
Yes, the sand was white, but the water was, on the contrary, pitch black. As if it was made of crude oil. Victor was about to rub his eyes but then realized that it was dumb to feel surprised. All was exactly the way it was supposed to be. Dreams were a special land. His gaze slid along the shore — half a kilometer away, the water became crimson-red, like the sun at dusk; even farther, near the horizon, he saw shining, bright green — or maybe it was the trick of atmospheric refraction. The sun had probably already set, it was the sky that was glowing on its own, brighter on the horizon, while timid stars were beginning to shine overhead.
Mountains were pushing up right against the shore. Not the ones he was used to, but a long row of mathematically correct fractals, as Victor realized when he looked closer. Each "mountain" was somewhat reminiscent of a giant tree: a gleaming translucent "trunk" a kilometer high, perfectly straight sides, each separated into three parts, the middle section was the base of another, smaller triangle, and so on…
These strange formations were turned with their smooth sections towards the sea, as if they were bases.
Between these either structures or natural formations stretched long tongues of grass of the familiar green color, tall and sharp, like sedge.
Farther away, he could see a forest. Although it was purple and even blue in some places, as if the laws of photosynthesis didn't exist in this world.
Over the very edge of the forest, Victor spotted rising smoke.
So he went to it — what else was there to do?
All this time he kept listening to himself. It was a strange dream. Far too bright and realistic. Even the purple leaves and black waves seemed appropriate. Well, fine… everything seemed proper in dreams. But then why was he feeling the alienness of his surroundings?
That wouldn't do. He ought to be able to relax at least while asleep!
He took a step, then another… and suddenly realized that he liked it here. His body was filled with intoxicating lightness, as if there was an excess of oxygen in the air. It also reminded him slightly of nitrogen narcosis, except Victor wasn't deep underwater at the moment!
He barely restrained himself from running.
The broadleaf "sedge" stretched along the shore. Not a single trail through the thick growth. After making sure that the sharp blades couldn't pierces his jeans, Victor went straight through them.
Some time later, he saw that the smoke was rising over the low and wide roof of a large squat single-story house made of pink stone slabs, which were now spoiled with greasy soot. Smoke was billowing out of a wide stone chimney, which was also low and a little flattened (which ought to affect the draft). As expected of smoke, it was thick, cloudy, and black. There was a strong smell of something vile and sour near the house, as if there was an entire battery of open tanks inside filled with smoking hydrochloric or even sulfuric acid. The caustic smell entered his nostrils, Victor began coughing… actually, it was his memory was about to cough. He simply exhaled forcefully, pushing the muck, which, of course, had nothing in common with the familiar acids, out of his lungs.
It was poison, he realized suddenly. Poison, also filled with magic. Although, for some reason, it couldn't harm Victor.
There were no doors in the house. Just a dark wide opening, where something was flashing dimly and evenly in the darkness.
"Hey, is there anybody here?" Victor asked in a low voice.
The fire deep in the house blinked in fright and disappeared. An angry snarl came from within, a long furious roulade that composed into something akin to "Who dares?!", only far more inventive, with multiple references to all the relatives of the guilty party up to the twelfth generation.
A short, very fat, broad-shouldered, red-faced man with a vast belly and sagging bushy eyebrows rolled out from the darkness. The owner's nose was decorated by multiple crimson and blue veins. The smell of poisonous acidity was immediately replaced by the painfully familiar alcohol fumes, like from a drunken plumber.
"Who are you?" the shorty growled. The canvas shirt and pants on him were covered in spots and burn marks. His hands were covered by thin surgical gloves, and Victor nearly lost the ability to speak when he saw them. "Did you swallow your tongue, ignoramus?" the owner pushed.
"Silence," Victor suddenly blurted out. "How dare you keep me at the threshold?!"
The fat man was immediately covered in sweat. He took a step back but didn't lower his gaze.
"Whoa, I've got an important guest here," he spoke slowly through gritted teeth, pulling off the gloves. "Important and rare… well then, might as well come in since you're here, not going to send you away. I doubt you're going to like the smell here, though… but it's not like you were invited."
If the fat man was afraid, he was doing a great job hiding it. And, based on the way he behaved, he was a decent combatant. Despite offering his invitation, he was standing so as to block most of the wide passage.
"You're not being very welcoming," Victor said boldly, himself surprised at the boldness.
Then again, this was a dream… just a dream.
"I'm doing what I can," the shorty snapped. Finally pulling off the gloves, he squeamishly tossed them into a barrel, causing something in there to hiss and steam to come out. "What is it that you people say? We didn't attend classical gymnasiums…"
Yeah, this has to be a dream, Victor thought. How would a local know The Little Golden Calf? [Footnote 1]
Grinning, the fat man was staring at Victor. His eyes were restlessly drilling the uninvited guest that had appeared from God knows where. The shorty was openly and unambiguously asking for trouble.
The people of this world respected only strength, Victor thought. Tact, politeness, and peacefulness were perceived as weaknesses.
Then again, was it that way just here? The dream world was just a weak reflection of the real world. If here and now, in this chaotic but clear dream he was expected to act aggressively, then the same thing was happening in reality. When had rudeness and arrogance turned from vices into virtues? Probably recently, but at times it seemed that they would stay that way for good…
Still, he'd probably not dared to do this in Moscow. To reach out a hand and push the owner from the threshold of his own home.
Remembering the Gray Limit and the neck of the poor half-elf that had broken with a dry crack, Victor shoved the shorty at half-strength. But the man just grinned obscenely, "The Middlers seem to be weak these days! Well, you shoved me, so now it's my turn…
This was, of course, not a push on the shoulder. The shorty slammed him with a proper uppercut without swinging. He'd done it so quickly and professionally that Victor, being unskilled, didn't even move his head out of the way. To be honest, he only realized that the blow was called an uppercut after finding himself on the ground.
Fury got him back on his feet in a moment. This had to be a dream, Victor thought again. It was only in cheap kung fu movies people managed to get up after blows like that. He was actually supposed to be suffering from broken cervical vertebrae, a dislocated jaw, and half of his teeth knocked out, and yet he was hopping around as if nothing had happened…
Now there was fire around him. His arms, spread out like wings, were cutting through the wrathful ocean of sizzling flame. How dare this… this worm… how dare he raise a hand on him? On him, the Overlord?!
Victor struck the offender in his cheekbone. Despite his sizable weight (at least a hundred and fifty kilos), the man rolled over the threshold and into the house. Some shelves collapsed with a loud rumble, someone either bleated or meowed plaintively, and then everything went quiet.
The fire was gone. The stifling fury too. His fist ached, as if Victor had slammed it against a stone wall. The skin on his knuckles had been scraped off. Victor grimaced and shook his hand.
"Whoa, so you're like that, huh…" there was a whining mutter from the darkness. "You have to warn people…"
"Are we going to keep fighting?"
"No reason to… before it's time," grunted the darkness. "Come on in, no need to stand there. Help me up, there's a shelf on me. If I move, I'll break everything on it…"
Victor nimbly stepped over the threshold. His eyes got used to the darkness suspiciously quickly — far too quickly even for a dream. In dreams, people sometimes had wings, even bullets flew very slowly, and in an arch, but they still had trouble seeing in the darkness even there.
Without a doubt, this was a lab. Not at all like the ones he was used to in the Underside, as the people of the Middle World would put it. There was no equipment or devices here. Just huge shelves on the walls. But the shelves didn't hold any bottles, boxes, jars, or any other container. Some strange objects were lying in piles, following some incomprehensible internal logic. The fire in the hearth was burning on its own, without any wood or coals; for a moment, Victor wondered whether this place had a natural gas line.
But, of course, there was no gas here. Just a fire that burned on its own. And a cauldron over it, black, sooty, with jagged edges. Victor felt a little ill at ease, as the jagged edges looked far too much like bite marks. Right there was a very well preserved full-size relief imprint of a human jaw. The upper jaw, with slanted incisors that hadn't been corrected by an orthodontist.
Victor lifted the extremely heavy shelf (was it made of stone or something?), and the shorty climbed out from under it.
"Thanks," this almost sounded genuine. "You're no weakling. I know you people are used to being fed by a host, but I don't have anything, so don't blame me. Everything went into the task."
"What task?" Victor inquired seemingly offhandedly. The cauldron was hanging over the fire without any support, the smell coming from it was revolting, and the idea of eating felt ridiculous.
"Eh, it's nothing…" the shorty replied without much enthusiasm. He scratched his head. Coughed. Then scratched his head again.
At that moment, something began scratching and rustling in a giant chest, the only chest in the entire house. Is it a rat? Victor thought.
The shorty grimaced as if from a toothache. He ran to the chest and opened the lid forcefully. He put his arm inside up to the elbow, yelped, and stood straight a moment later.
Victor froze.
The shorty's fist was gripping a tiny person, barely larger than a pocketknife, wiggling his thin arms and legs. He was wearing a ridiculous-looking brown brim hat, a red shirt, and pants that were also brown. His face looked burned, covered in scabs and scars. On the right hand was something like a glove with five long (by his standards, of course) claws.
"Sorry," the shorty mumbled before tossing the squeaking creature right into the cauldron.
There was a splash, the scalding hot liquid flew right into Victor's face; he threw up a hand to protect himself… and woke up.
Silence. Everything was calm. He was in the room of the hotel, or inn, whatever you called it. Strangely enough, it was still dark. Telle was quietly snoring on the other bed. Everything was fine. Everything was all right.
Only his heart was pounding, and his palms wear sweaty. Even now, despite how these things usually went, the dream didn't seem ungainly. That world was ridiculous, unreal, but still as convincing as this hotel.
No, Rada's cocktail hadn't helped. No Rainbow Dreams here!
After ending up in another world, seeing beings that only existed in fairy tales, killing… it was hard to expect other sort of dreams. Only fighting with some dumb freak who was boiling a miniature Freddy Krueger in a cauldron…
Victor tossed and turned in bed a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. He really didn't want to go back to sleep after a nightmare like that.
But sleep came anyway; he was probably way too tired. He saw no dreams, either pleasant or frightening.
And that was good.
Not much time was left until the council meeting. Ritor was sitting on the third floor of the school, in his modestly furnished but spacious room: a hard, narrow bed in the corner, a wash basin, a small wardrobe — that was all he really needed. The rest of the space was filled with books on shelves that stretched along the walls and going up to the ceiling and a huge desk.
The door had just shut behind Taniel's mother.
Ritor forcefully pressed his hand to his forehead and dragged it down his face. What could he tell the poor woman? What could he reply to the feverish torrent of accusations? Absolutely nothing.
So he didn't. At least his brother hadn't come. This meant he didn't blame him. This meant he'd forgiven him. Or maybe he was afraid of unleashing his fury. It was better not to think about that…
The council was about to meet. To vote for war. To display Torn's head on a pike. To erase the very memory of the Water Clan off the face of the earth. Oh, they were strong? That was fine, we were in the right, the enemy would be crushed, victory would be ours!
There was no way to talk them out of it. Even the best of them. This meant he had to look for a way to direct their wrath elsewhere. At the Dragonslayer. And then think about how to make the war a "strange" one… up until the moment the eagle-headed fleet of the Naturalborn dove out of the stifling haze of the southern sea.
Well then, a small lie was acceptable in a case like that. I need to save the Water Clan to repel the enemy, Ritor thought. Torn might… hmm… suddenly disappear. And then will come the time of the Dragon. He shuddered.
A bell rang close by. It was very quiet, but an obliging gust of wind brought the sound. Ritor rose decisively.
The council was meeting.
He left the room without bothering to look the door — no one would dare sneak in. He walked along a wide gallery that connected the entire school. Naturally, there were no classes today, but the students hadn't left. They wouldn't come close to the main hall where the council was meeting, unwilling to risk a stern rebuke or even a slap made by an unseen aery hand — the mages were currently quick to anger. And yet a bunch of kids, barely able to sense the air, were still hanging around in the courtyard, seemingly playing but occasionally glancing at the dome of the main hall. While in classrooms with windows that were never shut, spacious and windy, sat older students… supposedly buried in books. Closer to the hall, Ritor ran into one of the most talented graduates of the school, who was about to undergo the trials and receive his Air cloak, polishing the floor that was already clean with incredible zeal. The boy's aura was nearly impenetrable… but not for Ritor. Despite the seriousness of what was coming, the mage smiled.
Let it be. It had always been this way: students trying to sneak a peak and listen in, overestimating their abilities. He'd been like that too. If the boy actually succeeded, then he was strong enough to have the right to know the mages' decisions.
"Strange," Ritor said kindly, "I've never seen students over ten years old with a rag in their hand…"
The young man raise his naïve—far too naïve—eyes at him and stated innocently, "I thought it wasn't good to always send the younger ones to do the cleaning."
"A wise thought," Ritor nodded. "You have my permission to clean every day until your trials."
The boy stared at the rag sadly, while the mage kept on walking.
They'd already put up the defenses, and Ritor saw no reason to enhance them. The round hall where nearly thirty people had gathered was surrounded by a cocoon of winds. There was nothing extra, just light wicker chairs and a wicker table at the center, with a pair of old books in case someone's memory was faulty, and they needed to dig through the ancient admonitions, the useless but honored wisdom of the centuries. The air in the hall was unpleasantly dry, but, considering the circumstances, it was necessary. Naturally, there was no fire here, not that there was any need, as the dome was open, and the room was flooded by sunlight. Of course, the place was sterile, not a single speck of dust, not a single crumb of soil on the floor.
Secrecy. Maybe it was exaggerated, or maybe it was insufficient. But it was better to have it.
All gazes paused to Ritor, and the mage raised a hand in greeting. A fight was coming. A good-natured fight between friends who wanted the same thing but different in tactics. The hardest fight of all.
"Does anyone here consider me a coward?" Ritor asked. He let the silence linger and walked unhurriedly to the center of the hall. His gaze swept the clan's mages, once again trying to guess which of them would agree right away, which he'd be able to convince, and which would refuse to budge. "Then I will tell you something not everyone is going to like. An enemy can be defeated in various ways. You can kill him. If you have the strength…" There was a slight disapproving noise. But no objections came, as there were no fools and madmen among those present here. "Or you can understand the enemy's plans… and then kill him."
"Are you certain you understand them?" came a quiet voice that made Ritor shudder. Kahn the Loser, who hadn't become a good mage but was known as the best herbalist of the Air Clan, was staring into his eyes.
"I am, brother," Ritor said quietly. "I am."
"Then my son will not remain unavenged?"
Ritor could only nod.
He didn't have the heart to promise it out loud since he didn't know whether his words would turn out to be true.
Victor opened his eyes when the morning silence was broken by someone's angry shout. The noise was coming from the courtyard.
"May your hands rot away! May you be struck by electricity! May a crazy mage turn you into a stinking toad!"
The intricacy of the curses prevented Victor from pretending to be home even for a few minutes after waking up and keeping his eyes closed. No. He was still here, in the crazy Middle World, where the dead walked around for centuries, the streets were lit with electricity, and elves worked as hotel security guards. In a world where even dreams were either a fairy tale or a real nightmare…
The room was cozy but small. It was probably not the hotel's best room, as the red-haired guy had claimed the previous night. Victor glanced at the other bed and saw no one. The cover was neatly tucked in, and there was silence through the door to the bathroom. Victor was actually glad that Telle had gone somewhere. He got up and looked out the window before getting dressed.
"Who sharpens swords this way? Who, I'm asking you?"
In the hotel's courtyard, where a small garden had been set up, the young restaurant owner was scolding a man old enough to be either her father or grandfather. The man wasn't even trying to defend himself, as if admitting his fault.
"You call this a sword? It's a table knife!" Rada easily lifted a sizable blade over her head and brought it right under the man's nose. "Look…"
Without much effort, the girl spun the sword and lopped off the branch of a completely innocent tree. The branch was as thick as her arm…
"Well?" Sticking the blade into the ground, Rada lifted the bough and demonstrated the cut to the man. "Is this an elven cut?"
"No…" the man admitted suddenly, nervously wiping his hands on his leather pants. "Your Grace—"
"I'm not your grace!"
"Forgive me, Mistress… I'll fix it…"
"How are you going to fix it? Do you want to ruin the blade completely? Is your memory so poor that you can't tell an elven cut from an oblique plumb? May you get hit by a train!"
Victor jerked. And then, as if in confirmation of Rada's words, a long, drawn-out whistle came from a distance.
Utterly dumbfounded, Victor lifted his gaze. Beyond the fenced-in garden, the houses, the low elongated structure that looked like a… train station, he saw the gleaming steel strands of rails.
"God…" Victor exhaled, filling the word, in lieu of faith, with all his supply of surprise for the day.
A train was moving on the rails. In front of an enormous, monstrously ridiculous steam locomotive with a giant boiler made of polished copper that reflected the rising sun, with clouds of black smoke rising from four stacks positioned behind the boiler, with three open platforms loaded with black hills of coal, with five or six cars that were long, wooden, and each painted a different color.
The train produced another whistle and began to gradually slow down. The smoke from the stacks grew even thicker.
"The Way," Victor said. "The Way? Telle!"
He turned, but, of course, Telle wasn't in the room.
"Good morning!" Rada called from below.
Victor leaned out the window up to the waist.
"Good morning! Rada, what is that?"
Left along, the man pulled the accursed sword from the ground and stared at the blade with a stricken expression.
"That?"
"I mean…" he hesitated. "The train…"
"A train. It's a train." Rada laughed. "Come down, I promised to make you an Ebullient Day."
"Thanks."
Victor felt it necessary to get back to the room before the girl thought he was a complete idiot. Or was it too late for that?
"No, Telle, that's enough," he muttered, getting dressed.
He entered the bathroom, which was fairly decent and had a toilet, a bathtub, and even hot water. Although the water was slightly rusty, but the same thing sometimes happened at home to. In the Underside.
Determined, Victor went to the door. Enough was enough. Fine, he believed everything, he accepted it all as a given, he wasn't even angry. But it was time to leave. This place was fairly quiet and peaceful, the girl would be fine… hah, a girl like that would be fine everywhere. On the night streets of Moscow and beyond the Gray Limit.
He locked the door and came down the stairs. The red-haired man wasn't at the table, only the elf was sitting there.
"Goodman!" Victor exclaimed, switching to an unbearably false "medieval" tone but unable to help himself. "Would you mind showing me where my young companion has gone? Or, perhaps, you might call her here?"
The elf looked at him with transparent, copper-yellow eyes and replied, "Of course not… goodman."
"Why not?"
"Come here."
Without looking away from the bow on the table, Victor walked up to the guard. Then he froze, feeling his cheeks flush in embarrassment.
The elf had no legs. His green silk pants ended just below the knees.
"It would be difficult for me to call your young companion," the elf went on. "She left the hotel twenty minutes ago."
"I'm sorry…" Victor whispered.
"Before leaving, the girl returned her key," the elf went on, ignoring the apology. "She said she was planning leaving on the morning train. I doubt I'll be able to catch up to her."
Two whistles cut through the silence. The elf grimaced, as if the sound was incredibly disgusting to him even dampened by the walls, "And now I doubt you'll be able to catch up to her either."
A few seconds have passed before Victor processed what he'd heard.
"Telle left?"
"If your companion's name is Telle, then yes. Of course, she could've changed her mind…" The elf placed his chin on his thin fingers. "But I have a feeling that her words are never empty."
As if stunned, Victor stepped to the door.
"I would have breakfast, if I were you," the elf called after him. "Sit with a mug of ale for ten minutes. And only then get moving. And if you do end up taking my advice, please ask Rada to serve me breakfast as well."
"I… I'll ask." Victor looked at the elf's face. It wasn't contemptuous, it wasn't mocking — just alien. "What's your name? Dersi?"
"It is for humans."
"Dersi, last night I thought that your friend recognized the girl…"
"You can ask him yourself."
"He didn't share his thoughts with you?" Victor asked carefully.
The elf's face changed slightly, and he realized he'd hit the bullseye.
"Ask him. Ginger will be here at noon. I don't want to get involved in human affairs."
"Thank you," Victor said after a pause. "I'm going to take your advice."
Footnotes
1) The Little Golden Calf is a 1931 satirical Russian novel by Ilya Ilf and Yevgeny Petrov.