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 9
The train kept accelerating then slowing down at sharp bends. Victor had dozed off sitting on the bed, leaning back against the soft wall upholstery. Once he heard a strange scraping sound, opened his eyes, and noticed Yaroslav sharpening his knife with a small block. Seeing Victor look at him, the boy went red in the face, put away the block, and sat up unnaturally straight.
Some warrior…
Victor closed his eyes, fighting the temptation to ask more questions. The boy could probably tell him a lot.
But there was still a ban in his mind. Maybe it was fear, or maybe it was the revulsion towards the possible result of such questions — the sudden visions, clear and exhausting.
What was he? Who was he? Where were these hallucinations coming from? These things hadn't happened to him, they couldn't have…
Victor didn't even notice falling asleep again.
Then he found himself on the shore, knee-deep in the anthracite black water. The surf was rumbling quietly.
Again!
Except last night—God, had it only been last night?—Victor was certain he'd been sleeping. Now he wasn't.
Anything could happen in a dream. Bright, living colors. Sounds.
But never, one almost never sensed one's own body. And one never noticed that the water was wet, the sun burned one's head, and the stones under one's feet were covered in something slippery.
"Damn it!" was all Victor could say.
There was definitely nothing similar between these dreams and the visions. In the visions, he was merely an observer. He watched the events happen, not surprised at anything and not feeling himself. To be honest, from an unbiased point of view, those random visions were actually more like normal dreams.
But now he remembered very clearly who he was, how he'd ended up in the Middle World. He also remembered Telle, the late Limiter, and the boy Yaroslav, who'd been playing around with his dagger a minute earlier.
Cupping a handful of water, Victor raised it to his face. The water looked perfectly normal. Transparent. So where was this thick black color, juicy, like ink in a pen, coming from?
A wave splashed, rolling over his waist and interrupting his further experiments. Victor hurried to the nearby shore. In the distance he could see those same odd-looking mountains and the squat structure he'd visited the last time. The caustic smell was gone, and there was no smoke billowing from the chimney.
"What's going on here?.." Victor whispered. Then he shouted, "Hey, owner! Last time was fun, so I'm back for seconds!"
No one appeared in the doorway. The fire flickering in the darkness was also gone. Victor hopped on the shore, raising his legs high in an attempt to get the water out of his shoes. It didn't work, so he had to sit down onto the pebbles remove them.
This was all wrong. Far too real for a dream. Was it possible to grab a handful of wet sand and make out individual grains in your sleep? Was it possible to feel the touch of every stone, see every bend of the purple branches on the distant trees?
If this wasn't a dream, then what was it?
Victor suddenly felt fear, still uncertain and timid. Like a cold lump in his chest. After all, he was in a world that lived by different laws. So why wouldn't dreams here be material too?
No! He couldn't give into such thoughts. If for no other reason than because he hadn't found any bruises on his body after the first dream. That strange fight with the stocky freak had to have left him with plenty of those.
"Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar." Well then, time to trust old Freud. He would try to figure out the mysteries his subconscious was throwing at him.
Victor put on the wet socks, reluctantly stuck his feet back into the shoes — he'd much rather walk barefoot, but he didn't really feel like cutting his feet on sedge.
He headed for the "lab," crushing the tall grass. Then he stopped in shock.
From the shore, a little away from where he was now, a trail stretched to the structure. Sedge that had recently been crushed. Right. That was where he'd walked the last time.
Not a dream, and not reality either. He'd left his mark on this world, but this world hadn't left any marks on him. Picking up the pace involuntarily, Victor came out to the old trail and switched to a run. Somehow, he knew that he didn't have that much time. And he wanted… no, needed to understand something.
"Owner!" Pausing at the entrance, Victor made one more attempt to call out to the fat alchemist.
Silence. Nothing but the distance sound of the waves.
"Well… it's on you then." Victor entered. His vision once again instantly adjusted to the dim room.
The fallen shelf was still on the floor. The ones still hanging seemed to have fewer unrecognizable objects. But most importantly, the cauldron was gone, and the fire was out. The soup was done… soup with a miniature Freddy Krueger…
Taking a careful look around, just in case, Victor lifted the chest's lid. He did so cautiously, in case there was some other nasty surprise in there.
The chest was empty. A thick layer of dust, cobwebs in the corners. That was interesting. How had the fat man managed to pull a tiny person out of here?
Victor suddenly realized that he was happy at this minor inconsistency between the dreams. Otherwise things would've been very difficult. A dream that was at least as clear and consistent than real life was an unpleasant thing.
Someone cleared their throat behind him.
He spun around.
The red-faced guy was standing in the doorway, wiping his hands on his sizable belly. He was throwing embarrassed and slightly cunning glances at him, as if a friend who'd played a bad joke. The smile was inept but seemed friendly enough.
"Nothing's there!" he declared. "That's the way it is… it's over…"
"What's over?"
"Everything that was is over," the chubby explained in a crystal-clear manner. He walked in, catching his shoulder on a wall. He sighed and swept the room with his gaze, "It used to be nice here…"
"Where's the cauldron?" Victor asked rudely.
The chubby grinned again, "The cauldron? Finished boiling! Thanks to you, all thanks to you… and as Your Grace wishes…"
He bowed in a mocking clownish way. The look of this buffoon with the habits of an old drunk was revolting.
"So you were doing this for me, huh?" Victor said indifferently. He grabbed a strange object—a piece of crumpled tin—from the closest shelf. He could make out some protruding planes in it, something that had once been a thin tube, crushed glass… "So why didn't you make use of this? Eh?"
The suddenly pompous tone of an auditor had an unexpected effect. The chubby ran up fussily, gave Victor a familiar embrace, and took a closer look…
"This? Oh, that…"
He grimaced dismissively.
"It was too much, just think about it! We already tossed two dozen of those…" he spun his ham-like hand overhead, "and these…" spreading his arms, the chubby took a few steps. "No, think about it! You keep throwing them… and they keep on falling…"
On now, in the middle of this sudden revelation, Victor realized what he was holding.
An airplane. A tiny model airplane, maybe a Boeing or some other foreign one. Collapsed wings, torn fuselage, chunks of fabric (from seats?), crushed windows.
Or… maybe this wasn't a model at all.
As if in a trance, Victor slid a finger on the plane's casing. He grimaced from the sharp pain, scratching the finger on the torn metal.
"There weren't many people here anyway," the chubby added dismissively. He took the model from out of Victor's numb hands and tossed it into a corner. "Forget about it! What was needed ended up being used! Don't worry, you'll have enough!"
Then he burst into laughter, as if he'd just said a great joke. But Victor was paying no attention to him, his eyes searching the walls, the almost empty shelves, desperately trying to understand.
There was another "model." A greenish-brown tin can with gleaming blades sticking out of it — a helicopter rotor. And that… well, one could call the tiny burned cars a toy train, but children should never play with such toys. And lumps of muddy clay, a little dry, as if recently pulled out of a sea. A propeller screw was sticking out of the mud, and so was the tip of a mast with the remains of a sail, and a sharp bow with what was left of a word in English, "…ent."
What the hell was all this?!
"Did… did you do this to them?" Victor asked very calmly. He was fully certain that if he heard "Yes" in reply, he'd have to kill him. Even if this was just a dream.
"What?!" the chubby roared in genuine anger. "Me? Who do you think I am, you smart ass? We're not animals here!"
Victor stepped back to the wall, frightened by the verbal torrent and embarrassed at his own gaffe in equal measure.
"Why… why would we need to? If they plop or bam on their own…" The shorty scratched at his belly and said in a suddenly peaceable voice, "I guess we could've. But how? Who are we to do that? We're not permitted…"
He turned and, with a heavy sigh, began walking to the exit. At the threshold, he paused and added sarcastically, "Stop by again. When you have the time… Nothing to do in here anymore, so go check out the woods…"
Disappearing from sight, he spoke once again, "Watch out!"
The bewilderment had passed. Victor dashed to the exit and barely managed to step over the threshold when the roof began to give way. Some wooden billets fell, a heavy beam dropped behind him. The whole thing immediately burst into flames.
Crouching, supporting himself by his hands, Victor watched the building engulfed in rapid tongues of fire. Hot, translucent, consuming wood, stone, and metal with equal ease. The chimney collapsed, as if sucked inside. He'd heard somewhere that house fires always left behind blackened but intact stoves, but it seemed it wasn't always the case.
Without getting up, Victor began to crawl away from the fire. Faster, faster — the heat was rising. Something inside the collapsing and folding in structure popping loudly, hissing, flashing with multicolored highlights. Victor covered his face from sparks that were shooting off as if from fireworks.
And he thought he was hearing a high-pitched polyphonic choir of voices…
"Overlord! Overlord!"
Victor opened his eyes and jerked away from the frightened Yaroslav.
"You were groaning," the boy informed him timidly. "Loudly. And covering your face with your hands." He proceeded to demonstrate.
"I had a dream," Victor explained. "A scary dream. Thanks for waking me up."
And, already not trusting his own words, Victor glanced at his hands. He'd scratched himself, hadn't he? Maybe there hadn't been blood, but there had to be a trace.
But there was none. A dream. Just a dream.
But, God, it had been so real!
The losses turned out to be fairly mild for the sheer rage of the winds bursting to freedom. Sure, Roy, his brother, Solly, and the hook-nosed Boletus were out of action, for quite a while in the case of the old men — simple magic couldn't heal the broken bones and depletion at their age. Ritor could only rely on the restless Sandra. And also the boy Asmund, the only one who hadn't gotten so much as a scratch, having gotten his bearings in time to form an air lens. If only Taniel had been so quick on the uptake… Ritor forbade himself from thinking about that.
While the town was being fixed up, the Air council met once again.
Ritor glanced at Sandra. The female mage was cradling her unnaturally bent arm, her forehead was glistening from sweat, as the pain was getting through all the protective barriers. The fracture and the dislocation would be completely gone by sundown, of course, but until then she would have to bear it.
Asmund was sitting in a corner, quiet as a mouse. This was his first time at a real council meeting!
It wasn't just mages here, of course. The top Educators, warriors, healers, herbalists, masters. His brother Kahn was also here; he had a lot of work today.
The council chamber was still the same. No rage of the elements could shake the protective wards placed by the founders of the clan, the first to come to the Warm Coast from the mists of the Hot Sea. There was still not a drop of water, no speck of earth, no glint of fire here. Just the Air, motionless, frozen in concentrated calm.
Nearly forty pairs of eyes were looking at Ritor.
"Brothers and sisters," the mage rose. "First of all, let us honor and praise the venerable Roy, Guy, and Edulis. They gave everything they had to ensure our success." Ritor wasn't overly fond of such ceremonies, his eloquence sometimes failed him, but there was nothing to be done about it. "We're halfway there… more than halfway, even, probably two-thirds. We've found the Slayer."
A short, reserved sigh rustled through the hall. Ritor looked over the tense faces — no, he couldn't sense concealed joy in any of them. He wanted to believe that at least those of his own clan wouldn't fail him.
"The Slayer appeared where we should've expected him — in the far north, near the Gray Limits. Now we will be constantly pursuing him. We just need to reach him… before he undergoes initiation. Before the Water Clan finds the Slayer and puts him under guard. Otherwise, war is inevitable. And, alas, we're not in a condition to fight a war.
The council rustled quietly again. Everyone here understood what a war with the Water Clan would entail.
"We can't leave the clan entirely defenseless. I won't be able to bring many with me. Sandra, Asmund… the rest are needed here."
"You'll need more than the three of you to succeed," Jaimo, the one in charge of the Educators, said hoarsely. "Even if the Slayer isn't at full strength yet…"
"Exactly," Ritor nodded. "Give me two of your best pairs, Jaimo."
"Kevin and Eric," the old warrior replied without hesitation, and the council hummed approvingly.
"I'm going too," Kahn said quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear. "Not everyone can do wards, Ritor."
The mage gave his brother a piercing look. After Taniel's death, they hadn't had a chance to have a normal conversation. Plus his nephew's body had been left behind there, by the walls of Castle Bbhchi… maybe it had already been desecrated by Water mages…
His brother's eyes remained black and impenetrable. Far too black and impenetrable.
"All right," Ritor said despite himself. "Bring an assistant, Kahn, but make sure they can do more than just boil water. We're leaving immediately. The Wind's Chariot will be passing through here in two hours."
The train station near the Elemental clan's town was far more luxurious than most. The white marble structure had probably cost the dwarves an entire fortune, but they couldn't have failed to show respect for the Air Clan. The fountains in front of the station and in the waiting room were powered by special pumps; the green, despite the fall, lawns pleased the eye with their untreaded state. The columns and the portico made the entire building look like the Greek Parthenon, assuming Boletus's words could be trusted, of course.
There were a lot of people near the station. Most of them were people from the nearby villages, but there were also plenty of dwarves — their mines to the east, in the old mountains, hadn't yet been depleted, unlike many others on the Warm Coast.
At the sight of Ritor and his retinue, the crowd began to disperse quietly. Vendors, loitering elves, concerned dwarves, humans — everyone was leaving the square without a particular hurry but somehow quickly anyway. It never paid to stand in the way of an Elemental clan's mages. Especially in Ritor's way — many of those present knew him by sight, especially locals.
Without looking at anyone, Ritor entered the hall — not the general one, of course. The sign on the door clearly stated, "Only for mages and their escort." The dwarves had done their best even in here. Ritor had no idea what they'd been trying to imitate, but the luxury around him was far too loud. Fluffy rugs (the mage figured they'd probably been placed just before his arrival), rare flowers in tubs, crystal, gold leaf, redwood… Everything here was being maintained in perfect condition.
But even mages had to buy tickets. Even Elementals.
A sign was hanging over the ticketing booth window, black wood encrusted with gold, "Discounted tickets for children and mages."
"So I get double the discount!" Asmund exclaimed. "I'm not sixteen yet…"
The dwarven ticketing lady was doing her best to hide her irritation.
"Not possible, young master. Only one discount per person."
"And who gets more?" the boy kept pestering.
Ritor wasn't pulling him back — the kid was very, very scared, having already figured out that the time for games was over, and was using bravado to trick both everyone around him and himself.
"Children," the ticketing lady grinned. Her hairy chin twitched. "But only during summer vacation…"
Even mages did their best to avoid quarreling with the dwarves, who were virtually the masters of the Way. Knowing the secrets of steam and electricity, the dwarves were known for their resistance to elemental magic. Of course, even if someone as young as Asmund decided to seriously go after them, things wouldn't go well, but… Ritor had a strong suspicion that some of the older mages were genuinely afraid of steam engines, believing technology to be an unknown form of sorcery.
"We need nine," Ritor said into the window. "And nine separate compartments. A car. On the Wind's Chariot. As soon as possible. The final stop is… the Limits."
"Of course," the dwarven woman smiled obligingly. Her smile nearly caused Ritor to twitch. "We'll couple it right away."
She accepted the money with her hairy palm and issued Ritor nine pieces of cardboard with gold trim and curly cutouts along the edges, the so-called "lettered" tickets.
"Let's take a seat and wait," Ritor commanded.
There was no need to set out under the cover of night or hiding some other way. Torn and his bloodhounds were incapable of tracking Ritor, just like Ritor was incapable of tracking Torn. And everyone knew that dwarves kept their mouths shut and never traded in other people's secrets. That was why they'd been around for so long instead of disappearing like those who'd refused to accept the new order.
The train appeared from around the bend at exactly the scheduled time. Dwarves didn't know the concept of "being late." The car prepared for Ritor's squad had already been rolled out to the platform. Right now, the mage knew, a backup locomotive was going to be coupled to the train in order to avoid slowing it down even by one iota. It was good that there was always one around, or they'd have to decouple one of the cars without assigned seats, kicking out everyone in it. Even such cars weren't full of the lowest sort of people on the Wind's Chariot: trusted merchant clerks, or even the merchants themselves (to save some money).
…Finally, the landscape outside the window jerked and began to move. Ritor sighed, leaning back on the plush back of the couch. They were about to serve tea, then he'd be able to get some rest. It was unlikely that Torn knew where to look for him…
"You're going to get off at the next station," Victor repeated sternly to the kid. The Limiter's son was nodding earnestly, as if learning some great truth every time. "And do everything I told you."
"Yes, Overlord… I'm happy that… we have served you…"
"Come on, enough of that," Victor said. And, instinctively, added, like Mom would tell him as a child when they would go to Grandma Vera, "Check to make sure you got everything. You're getting off soon…"
The station turned out to be small, shabby, drowning in fallen yellow leaves. Only poplars were still stubbornly resisting the fall. A squat yellow structure with flaky walls and a leaning roof; the windows were covered in impressive-looking bars.
Yaroslav lifted his eyes, full of genuine torment, at Victor, "Farewell, Overlord…"
"What are you talking about?" Victor said in mock surprise. "We'll see each other again… most definitely. We'll raise a toast to your father and brothers."
"Really?!" the boy nearly choked from the joy.
"Really, really," Victor hurried to calm him. "Now go. Don't dawdle."
He left the compartment with Yaroslav.
"Getting off?" the dwarven conductor inquired indifferently, busy working some sort of levers sticking out of the wall of the vestibule.
"He is," Victor indicated the Limiter's son. "I'm staying."
"Oh… Just remember, you can only buy tickets at a station, we're pretty strict about it. If you get to your destination and decide to stay on, you'll have to first get off. I don't sell tickets," the dwarf informed him with the same indifference.
"Thank you, I'll keep it mind," Victor said. Remaining standing at the top step, he watched the boy slowly plod to the train station. It was good that he was getting off. There'd been enough innocent victims. It seemed that being next to Victor wasn't very safe at the moment.
…They dove out from behind the poplars, two on each side, quick and silent; as a rumbling waterfall, Victor's mind was filled with all the accumulated anger and thirst for vengeance. They'd suffered losses, only four of them were left — and now they were here to kill. Victor had no idea how they'd managed to catch up to the train, maybe the mages of this world had their own secret paths. But that wasn't important at the moment.
Four Punishers of the Water Clan. Led by the mage Gotor.
"Run!" Victor shouted at Yaroslav.
"Are you getting off now?" the dwarf inquired suavely behind him.
Victor didn't answer. He dashed to his compartment to get the sword… well, he should've done so, and his foot had already lifted off the iron floor when he realized that it was pointless. A sword wouldn't help him here. Something else would… inside him.
"Stop, all of you!" he barked before even figuring out what he should do. "Leave… my faithful servant alone!"
The boy didn't even think about running away. Pulling out his dagger, he crouched and bared his teeth. He knew he was doomed. The Overlord had to survive, nothing else mattered.
Three of them continued to leisurely approach Yaroslav; Gotor paused and glanced at Victor with a challenge.
"Why are you standing there?! Come out here!"
There was fear hiding behind the challenge.
"You're in my way once again, Gotor," Victor said. A tight lump of cold fury was already unfolding inside him. "Now you won't leave. What did I promise you?.."
Once more, he had no idea what he was going to do. Strike?.. With what? He didn't have his sword.
Gotor didn't stop. His short blue cloak had lost its pristine cleanliness, there were now tears in it — it seemed that walking the secret paths wasn't simple either. But there was something new in his face now — almost like resignation.
Meanwhile, the other three were moving towards Yaroslav.
Gotor raised his hand.
A giant wave rose beyond the station, uprooting the poplars and defying gravity; the foam at its crest was roiling — the only white flourish on the pitch-black background. All the sounds were drowned out by the roar of the breaking trees. The wave was huge, a real tsunami that had somehow found its way to a plain. And yet Victor knew that the entire blow of the multi-ton wave was aiming straight at him. The world was growing dark; the wave was about to fall upon Victor, crushing him and turning him into nothingness.
Gotor had decided not to summon the goofed-up water spirit, or demon, or whatever that creature was called. Victor rushed forward. Remember what you were taught.
The Water mage made a gesture that looked like he was wringing a goose's neck.
Victor leapt.
Any sensei would've forced him to do fifty pushups on his fists for a mae geri like this one. But it worked on Gotor, as the mage hadn't even thought to defend himself. The extremely sneaky and dirty kick with the toe of a boot to the groin forced him to double over; the forces holding the rising wave together fell apart. The avalanche dissipated, as if it had never even been there.
He heard a short yell.
Victor looked up.
Blood. And Yaroslav's body, spreading its limp hands in a dark crimson puddle. And lumps of dirty white poplar fluff that had somehow appeared in the fall, hungrily drinking in the boy's blood.
Two of them were standing over the corpse, holding swords, having realized that guards of the Gray Limits had to be fought with regular weapons. The third man was sitting and holding on to his cut shoulder, with red streams flowing between his fingers.
The killers, whose hands were already holding twisting water whips, slowly turned to Victor.
Gotor began to move behind him. Then he heard the departure whistle. If these guys didn't have tickets like the last time…
Victor turned and ran, expecting to feel mind-tearing pain at any moment. That was probably what getting caught by a circular saw felt like.
Just in time, he remembered some action movie he'd seen once. Victor bent low as nimbly as he could and tried to leap to the side at the same time. It looked terrible, but a flexible water whip passed right over his head — he felt its icy spray.
The steps were very close.
He leapt up and looked back with a strange sense of death-defying mischief.
Two of them were helping Gotor up. The third man, getting up with some difficulty, was dragging himself after them.
He had several cardboard squares in his hand, they were fanned out like playing cards. It seemed that Gotor had taken care to buy tickets this time.
Victor felt a chill.
Now nothing would save him.
The train began moving. Just barely, still slow. Two members of the Water Clan were very close. The third one, grimacing in pain, was handing the dwarf their tickets without a word.
"But no fighting in my car, sirs," the dwarf said squeamishly, and Victor, already preparing to kick the first one to come at him, took an involuntary step back. But, fortunately, the dwarf's confident tone had the same effect on the others.
"We… know, subterranean one," Gotor hissed furiously. He was drilling Victor with his eyes but didn't dare to do anything else. "We have… tickets. Show us… our compartment."
"Follow me," the dwarf said indifferently. Victor was backing up along the narrow hallway — he couldn't force himself to turn his back on the Watery ones.
But neither Gotor nor his companions tried to attack. All they did was drill him with their gazes.
"Your compartment," the dwarf said gratingly.
It was right next to Victor's.
"I strongly urge the passengers to refrain from settling any scores here," the dwarf repeated.
Gotor replied with a disdainful glare. His henchmen shut the door.
"Will you be standing in the hallway? Or go to your compartment?"
Victor tumbled into the compartment in a daze. He closed the door and slid the flimsy bolt shut. His hands were shaking as if he was an alcoholic.
It was over. They'd tracked him down. They had him. There was nowhere to run, even if he leapt out the window.
The train was picking up speed suspiciously quickly.
Victor sat, staring at a spot on the wall. He felt it was about to be cut through by jets of water that could cut as good as a laser. The fall landscape was rolling backwards through the window; Victor felt himself caged.
Would the Punishers really not dare attack here? Did the words of some dwarven conductor really mean so much them with all their power? Or maybe they were waiting for something. But what?..
Yeah. Everything had started with a faulty fuse. And it had ended with his escape from unpleasantly real evil wizards.
And Tell had disappeared somewhere too…
What now? Sit here and wait for Gotor to get tired of doing the same and decide to finish Victor off?
"Why couldn't you protect your faithful servant?" came the water mage's mocking voice from beyond the partition. He doubted the luxurious compartments had such thin walls, this was probably sorcery. "A single pitiful kick — is that all you're capable of? Why hadn't you incinerated us on the spot, as you'd threatened to do so recently?.. Why won't you answer me?.."
Cheap teasing. He couldn't give in. For some reason, this Gotor really needed to throw him off balance, Victor thought while wiping his treacherously sweaty palms. But why? They couldn't take him on when he was in full control, when he was calm?.. Damn, he should've gotten all the truth from the boy, came a sudden thought, cold and cruel. The kid was dead either way, dying senselessly and pointlessly, not even seriously hurting the enemy. It was unlikely that these mages were significantly weaker than Telle was. In a few hours, there'd be nothing left of the shoulder wound. This way, he'd know a lot more about himself. It seemed that he was himself a weapon, all he had to do was understand how to make use of it. And he couldn't show weakness. If he hesitated, felt mercy towards someone, then he'd start to lose.
Gotor continued to mumble something from beyond the partition. Victor wasn't listening. Remain calm, his sensei had told him… too bad the activity hadn't become anything more for Victor than a popular pastime. He could just barely recall, Adrenalin is a powerful weapon, use it no sooner and no later than you have to.
Keep calm. He was still alive, wasn't he? He should feel happy about that. And, if the Water mage really wanted to kill him, he'd have already tried to. They had no reason to wait for nightfall or deserted areas. There was no police here, no detectives, no prosecutors or lawyers. But there were clan Punishers — they were the investigators, the judges, and the executioners. And their sentence wasn't subject to appeal.
And yet they were waiting. He doubted they were afraid of dwarves that much. Then they wouldn't have needed to get on the train in the first place. If they were capable of heading it off, then it would've been simpler to watch Victor from a distance and to calmly complete the task when he found himself no longer under "the Way's protection."
Were they afraid? Or… maybe they needed something from him. Like maybe attack them himself, forgetting himself in fury. That was stupid, he was no Schwarzenegger or Van Damme. And most definitely no Mike Tyson. Did they want something else? But what?..
He had no answers.
It took him a long time to risk stepping out into the hallway. Until he really had to go and couldn't hold it in any longer.
In the hallway, he ran into one of Gotor's men, nearly leaping back, but the guy merely glanced at Victor indifferently. It seemed he was coming back from the same place where Victor was going. Such touching coincidence…
And then more waiting.
Victor wasn't thinking about food. His mind was fruitlessly trying to find a way out, but how could he find it, how could he beat the likes of Garry Kasparov if he'd just recently learned to tell a bishop apart from a pawn? So he continued to sit, staring straight ahead, expecting something.
He suddenly wondered: if the Word was a lot more than a simple perturbation of the air in this world, then was there a real God here too? A higher authority, before which all the local quarrels and marvels were laughable… Or was Telle right, and there weren't any parallel worlds, the world created by the Big Bang was unified, and everything depended on the people's point of view?
Exactly the right time for distracted musings, Victor chuckled silently. There were four merciless killers sitting near him, behind a partition a single wooden board thick. He had to think about survival!
But why bother? As soon as he got off the train, they'd kill him. And there wouldn't be any fanatical boys ready to die at the wave of his hand. It really was nice when someone else died in his stead, wasn't it? It was pleasant, right? To command and rule, to feel another person's obedience and blind fear — it was so sweet… But the freebie was over. There was nowhere to retreat to. It was time to accept battle and die like a man.
Such empty and incoherent words. It was nice to hear them coming from a TV screen, read them in books, to admire and tremble someone else's bravery; but when it all was aimed straight at him… Victor's sweaty palm was gripping the useless sword. What was the point of this elven piece of metal? It couldn't cut through a water whip anyway.
Gotor fell silent on the other side of the partition, probably exhausted. Silence had fallen. Only the clatter of wheels and the occasional mournful whistles of the locomotive. Victor's compartment turned out to be on the windward side, disheveled clouds of smoke were floating past him; the Thunder Arrow had turned out to be something akin to the Russian Red Arrow, moving almost nonstop and fairly quickly, only occasionally changing locomotives at junction stations without bothering to take on water and coal.
Time was passing. It was almost evening, and Victor was still sitting in a strange stupor, unable to make a decision. His initial plan to try to catch up to Telle seemed like utter madness now. Where and how would he be able to find her? He was going to give himself up to the killer mages, and everything would be over. What had Rada said? He'd be able to catch up to the Four Smokes either in Luga or Ryansk. The names sounded so familiar…
Victor had to gather his courage for a long time before he risked sticking his nose out of the compartment. Fortunately, the dwarven conductor was loitering in the hallway.
"Excuse me, goodman…" Victor began, unable to rid himself of that stupid word. "When are we going to be in Luga?"
"We're almost there," the dwarf grunted. "Half an hour at most. We'll be standing there for ten minutes."
"And the Four Smokes?.."
"Four Smokes? We'll pass them right at Luga. And then go straight to Ryansk, the Way ahead is already clear. No wonder we caught up to them, the Smokes stop at every pole. Anything else you'd like to ask?"
Victor returned to his compartment and locked the door thoroughly. Luga was a chance. A small one, but a chance nonetheless. As the poor Yaroslav had said, the clans lived in the south, on the Warm Coast — was that where the girl had been heading? Maybe she hadn't gotten off… But how would he find her, and how would he trick the Watery ones?
Maybe some Conan the Barbarian would've been able to find the solution easily. Unfortunately, Victor wasn't suited for the role of a fairytale hero. As luck would have it, he couldn't think of anything useful. All he had left was to trust in the most reliable method of all — the great and powerful "what if."
Meanwhile, the Arrow whistled as loudly as it could and started to decelerate. Outskirts appeared in the window, not much different from some 1970s Moscow suburb. Single-story wooden homes among flowing gardens, log cabins, covered in wall paneling in various stages of flakiness and painted in cheerful colors. Victor was surprised: it seemed that it was fall here, and yet it was still warm. At the very least, he didn't feel any discomfort in a light jacket.
A stone pump station slid past, followed by wayside booths, then the train rumbled on clumsy switches.
"Luga… Luga…" came from the hallway. "We'll be stopping for ten minutes."
Victor noticed the Four Smokes right away. A monstrous steamer with four stacks like an old cruiser, and the cars stretching behind it with peeling paint. It seemed the Thunder Arrow wasn't known as an expensive train for nothing.
Holding his sword under his armpit and sweating buckets, Victor came out into the vestibule. None of the Watery ones was there.
The two trains were standing close-by; a thick crowd of passengers and small vendors was roiling between them; some old woman was advertising her incomparable short-term love and keep-away potions that lasted for half a day, just for the Way; with some surprise, Victor noticed that it was primarily men who were buying the keep-away potions, while women, especially older ones dressed in finery, were getting the love potions…
Standing on the high step, Victor looked around. He was afraid to leave the entrance to the hallway out of sight, his unprotected back screamed of fear more than anything; but he knew that he had virtually no hope of seeing Telle just like this, from above.
"Excuse me, sir…" came from somewhere to his side, and the dwarf dove out from a wall alcove. His hairy palm was holding a huge tea kettle. Moving Victor aside, the dwarf climbed down and, pushing the crowd apart importantly, hobbled over to the station.
It was the perfect time for the Watery ones to strike. He gripped the sword. And… continued to watch, unable to decide anything else. He could spend a very long time looking for Telle in this crowd.
Bare black branches were hanging over the car. A huge spreading oak, still standing despite the genuine ecological catastrophe around it.
Victor didn't know what had made him look up. A moment later, something hit the roof slightly, no stronger than a piece of fallen tree bark or a broken bough. He froze, instinctively stepping back into the vestibule with the tip of his sword aimed up. If they were trying to break through the roof, he'd have time to react…
Iron squeaked quietly. The ceiling sheet slid aside, and a pair of small boots appeared in the dark hole, followed by wide blue harem pants, tightened at the bottom, a white shirt, and, finally, short red hair. He saw the glint of nail polish.
A moment later, Telle hopped softly down to the floor. She was holding a closed woven basket.
"Close it," she whispered in a barely audible voice, as if she and Victor had parted only a minute earlier or maybe even not at all. "The dwarf is coming back… let's not let the old man down…"
Victor mentally slid the gaping (although also mentally) jaw shut and did as asked. The iron sheet turned surprisingly easily and silently, as if on well-oiled hinges. When Victor entered the compartment, Telle was already there. She was sitting with her legs up on the plush couch, nimbly placing various snacks on the table. It all looked so appetizing that Victor began to salivate. And the desire to spank this little brat, unworthy of a real man, had disappeared.
"We'll have to get off at Ryansk," she said in a half-whisper, biting her snow-white teeth into the green pulp of some fruit. "Too many eyes are watching the Thunder Arrow."
"Um… eh…" was all Victor could say.
Telle placed a huge sandwich with a thick slice of ham and greens in his hand, which he'd stretched out in a desire to speak.
"It was necessary," she said. "Don't be mad, Victor. Well, all right… you can spank me if you want. Do you want me to remove my pants?"
Victor choked on his sandwich. He'd never thought of himself as someone who enjoyed pedophilia or flagellation.
"If I stayed, Gotor would've killed me," Telle answered simply, keeping her piercing gaze on Victor. "I had to give him the outlaws."
"Give him? You let them die? Even the child?"
Telle grimaced, as if listening to something inaudible.
"The boy is still alive, Victor. Don't worry about him."
"How do you know?!"
"I can feel it," Telle said with unshakable certainty. "He's wounded, lost a lot of blood, but it's fine. They'll get him healing. The dwarves really don't like Punishers… Then again, who does like those monsters?"
"So you knew that the Punishers would catch up to us?!"
"Of course. From the beginning. It was necessary, Victor. I had no doubt at all… but I needed a little test. Just one thing is left. On the bridge."
"What bridge?" Victor asked helplessly. His anger was gone without a trace.
"There's a bridge in Ryansk," the girl explained eagerly. "That's where everything will be decided."
"What do you mean?" For some reason, Victor felt a chill. There was something dark in Telle's words… something that smelled of blood.
"Gotor has orders to kill you no matter what. But he doesn't have orders to fight dwarves. The Way is untouchable. Basically, Gotor will go after you as soon as you get off the train."
"I already know that," Victor blurted out.
"Gotor placed a tracking spell on you. It's not very powerful, but it lets him keep you on a constant leash. So he can afford not to take any chances. He left the Punishers inside, to avoid any quarrels. Gotor will attack the moment you get down the steps. You acted very sensibly by not running off to search for me in Luga. You had to understand that I'd find you myself. We need to trick Gotor. And the bridge is our best chance to do that. A Water mage would never think that you might try to get away on a river, where Gotor's magic is especially powerful. And that's exactly what we're going to do."
"Yeah, but how?.."
"Very simply. Listen and don't interrupt," Telle frowned, playing the part of a stern teacher. "When we go across the bridge… No. I'm not going to say it, or the Watery one might hear. When I tell you, just do as I do. I'm asking for your forgiveness ahead of time, I'll have to give orders… But, I hope, it's going to be for the last time. And now let's eat," she finished.
"Let's," Victor said, dumbfounded.
They spent some time chewing.
"Don't regret what happened the Limiter and his sons," Telle said without pausing her chewing. "They died happy that they were defending what was most dear to them."
"But Telle… why did they call me 'Overlord'? Why did they give me this amulet? What does it mean anyway?"
The girl furrowed her brow, examining the medallion.
"It really does look like you," she said in concern. "Who knew?.. No one had suspected that the guards are so loyal to ancient oaths…"
"What oaths?" Victor asked hungrily. Of course, he remembered the ban on particularly meticulous questions all the time, but for now he felt fine.
Telle gave him a piercing look, as if in surprise.
"Let's not talk about this yet. Let the sleeping dogs lie. As for what it means… Listen to yourself, Victor, can you really ask me that? The medallion means that we're on the right path. That you're a man of the Middle World, not of the poisoned Underside. Do you remember what I told you about our forebears?"
"That they fought together…"
"Exactly. This is the proof."
"But you said it yourself, it only 'looks' like me! There can be lots of people who look like one another!" Victor shouted. His mind was swimming from all these spiritual matters. "There are lots of doppelgangers in the world!"
"Right," Telle nodded. "It could just be a coincidence. Or maybe it's a portrait of your ancestor. Maybe your grandfather or great-grandfather."
"Fine," Victor couldn't bear it any longer. "But why do the Watery ones want to kill me?"
"Why? Because they know who your grandpa was," Telle replied decisively. "Or they think they know… which is enough for them."
"Did they see the medallion?" Victor asked dully.
Telle threw her thin hands up.
"It's definitely true what they say: if a man suppresses his anger, the venom poisons his thoughts… I probably should've taken off my pants after all for you to whip me. Maybe then you'd be thinking straight. Of course they didn't see any medallion. They were watching me… tried to attack at the passage… and when they saw you, they were fully certain. And so the hunt began. That's all there is to it. But, Victor, you should know that Gotor can't be beaten so easily. He's a powerful mage…"
"Then what do I do?"
"What do you think? Fight!.." She suddenly tensed, threw her chin up, making her look like a warbler, and listened to something. "Let's stop talking," Telle said with just her lips. "Gotor is starting to listen in. He hasn't reached here yet, but… I'm going to moan, and you make the couch squeak. The Watery one doesn't know me. Let him think that you picked up a young whore at the station. A lot of people in separate compartments do that…"
Victor felt beads of cold sweat appear on his brow. All this was starting to look like some kind of perversion.
"Come on!" Telle ordered in a whisper.
He had to obey. The girl began to "moan," doing it so realistically that Victor's cheeks instantly turned red.
"All right, that's enough," Telle commanded. "This'll last them for a while. We can speak normally. But it's better to just say nothing at all. We still have a long way to go to Ryansk. It could be hot there. Get some rest."
"Telle… Tell me, who are you? Yaroslav… the Limiter's dead son… told me that there are four Elemental clans and a great many animal clans. What about you? Who are you?"
Telle gave Victor a stern look.
Now she's going to say something like, "You shouldn't know about that," he thought sadly. But it turned out to be different. Telle sighed quietly and placed her chin on her intertwined fingers. Almost as if hoping he was going to take the question back.
But Victor wasn't feeling any alarm. Yet.
"Who am I… I'm not from one of the four Elemental clans, Victor. And not from any of the Totem, or 'animal' clans, as the people call them."
Telle's words didn't sound like they were coming from a fourteen-year-old girl. It was the way a woman might speak, wizened by years and troubles. One who'd seen and lived through a lot.
"You really are going to learn everything for yourself soon. I'm very afraid of warping… pushing you in the wrong direction… Right now… you're almost like on a hill. You could roll to the right or left. Forward or backward. Few people know what depends on where you're going to roll. Maybe Ritor does. Probably Torn too. Maybe two or three other mages…"
"Who's Ritor?" Victor felt ill at ease. There was something frightening in that name, like the whistle of the wind over a scorched desert. "And who's Torn?"
"Ritor is the most powerful mage of the Air Clan. And probably the strongest mage in the entire Middle World, except, of course, the Keeper. Torn is his eternal rival, the best spellcaster of the Water Clan…" She looked piercingly into Victor's face, as if waiting to see how he'd react to her words.
Ritor… Ritor… no, there was something more than just simple sounds in this name. Ritor, Ritor, Rito-or, the whistle of the combat wind, the rustling of open wings, merciless fury, the rapidly moving armor-clad body punching through the clouds. You have come, Slayer, came a thundering voice through the clouds. All right, let's fight. The time has come, and I am not going to run from my fate. Let it decide which of us lives and which of us doesn't…
…Two exhausted people, a man and a woman, a black sword in the man's hand, a helmet on his head. The irresistible hardness in the woman's gaze, ready to die but never submit. They wouldn't run. They would fight him, Victor the Slayer, fight to the end, because the simple word "Honor" was something more than just five letters to them. He, Victor… or maybe not Victor… would never understand that fully. One could live through anything, if one wasn't a soft lady. One could get up after any humiliation. Do everything to achieve victory. He had already done… much. But they hadn't. They couldn't run away, couldn't show their backs to the enemy. They'd retreated to the last threshold, to the edge of the world, but they couldn't retreat any more. Now all that was left for them was to die.
The man raised his black sword and got into a stance. Behind the Slayer's back, a fire-filled deadly wind was gathering strength, prepared to crush any barrier and defense. How much blood and tears had to have been shed to fill the wind to such an extent? To let the Slayer control such powers, capable of obliterating the stone fortresses of the Sovereigns, to put an end to their entire filthy brood?! And now it was time for the final payment.
His legs gently stepped onto the wet ground. A fiery apple was growing rapidly over his right hand. All four elements were now under the Slayer's command, he couldn't let the opportunity pass him by! The two standing before him were the last of the once-great line. If he finished what he'd started, the Middle World would forever be free.
And the price paid would be extremely small.
These two would get what they deserved. They'd been tried and sentenced long ago. The fact that the verdict was "guilty" was confirmed by him, the Slayer, going through and overcoming everything, hungrily rushing towards this final fight.
"Let's get started," the Slayer said, and Victor's entire being echoed with the quiver of sweet anticipation. The deepest, most hidden essence; maybe it really was his purpose: to slay Dragons in fairytale worlds.
"Let's," the Dragon in the helmet agreed.
"Let's," his companion nodded.
And, strangely enough, he, Victor, either a participant or an unseen observer of this long-ago fight, felt something like a pang of conscience. They could've dealt with him when he was younger and weaker. But not anymore. This wasn't a battle, it was an execution. The rendering of a sentence. And he, the Slayer, was an executioner, not a warrior. Well then. It was a Slayer's duty to put an end to his victims. He didn't have the right to let compassion overtake him. The Middle World had to be free. The frightening, cursed castles atop the tall barren mountains along the Warm Coast would never come alive again.
"Let's," the Slayer repeated. In his hand was a tightly-bound lump of Fire. Behind him were the unfolded wings of the Wind. His feet were standing on the waiting maw of the Earth.
Against all that was just one black sword. A simple burnished blade. And a helmet.
The woman slowly took out a long, graceful rapier. Her left hand held a parrying dagger. She stood next to her husband.
Two against one, but they knew just how unequal their strength was.
The Dragons waited calmly. They'd already lived through everything. The defeat, the collapse, the escape. They'd seen their kin burn in their own flames, the walls of their family castles fall down, the ancient libraries that supposedly held the wisdom of the three worlds fall apart into ash.
But they would never hurry him along.
The Slayer carefully pulled a curved saber of pure white iron from his belt as if it was the greatest treasure of all. Without any paint, the blade was as white as the snow near the Gray Limits.
The Slayer also didn't want to be dishonored by killing those who were nearly helpless against his might. And Victor could sense his chest fill with joy — he, the Slayer, was both noble and honorable. He was genuinely trying to equalize their odds.
He was also getting into a stance…
"Victor!" he was doused in ice-cold water.
He opened his eyes.
The clatter of wheels, the smoothly rocking train car. The compartment door shut with a chain. And a frightened Telle with a pitcher in her hands.
"You just… slumped all of a sudden," she said guiltily. "And didn't respond to anything. You got lucky, didn't you? You saw something?"
"Telle, I—"
"No, don't tell me!" she hurriedly covered her pink ears with her hands, looking like a scared girl about to have a "serious talk" with her parents. "I don't want to hear it! Remember, you have to choose on your own! Otherwise… otherwise…" her voice fell, "otherwise you shouldn't have even come here. It's scary to think what you might do if… if you become not yourself."
"Not myself?" Victor asked in surprise.
"Well, yeah. Because it's martyrdom, the greatest torment of all, and no being is capable of bearing it. That's why I'm afraid… to push you by accident. Because the strength in a pain-riddled heart is more frightening than—"
"A free madman," Victor finished gloomily. There was something childish, frivolous in all these words and rituals. Something artificial, fake. Like in a role-playing game.
"Don't laugh," Telle looked offended. She pouted her lips and turned away to look out the window for a while. "Don't laugh. Because it's the truth, and you shouldn't laugh at it. It'll pay you back for that."
"All right, I won't," Victor agreed obediently. "Then tell me, how far away is that Ryansk of yours?"
"We should get there about an hour before sundown."
"Telle… are your parents alive?" Victor asked suddenly.
The girl's eyes closed for a moment.
"My mom," she answered calmly, "was executed by the Last Dragon. My dad… also died."
"God…" was all Victor could say.
"It happened when I was very little. Mom was involved in a rebellion. The rebellion was crushed. The ringleaders were executed. The Dragon turned out to be merciful and killed them all immediately and quickly. No one suffered, afterwards he even sent the bodies to their relatives for burial. That didn't happen often."
"Dragon…" Victor said slowly. Wrath that was not his own was starting to boil inside him. His hands wanted to grab a weapon.
"I could only hide it. But not lie if you asked directly." It seemed as if Telle was about to cry. "Just don't ask me who the Dragons were."
"I think I already know…" Victor muttered.
Dragons. The greatest curse of the world. Evil that had been exterminated by the Dragonslayer. Nearly invulnerable, undefeatable, barely aging — until the Dragonslayer appeared, judging by the latest… dream? vision? hallucination?
But why is all this appearing to me? Victor thought.
"Because it's destiny, Victor," Telle said quietly and in a very grownup manner. "Don't run from it, look it in the face… and let whatever happens happen."
Hor was furious, "Can you at least explain where you're going? Now, when we're about to be at war with Water."
Loy was gathering her things silently. A short dress made of rough cotton, a knitting of wooden beads, soft leather sandals. It was the way a woman of a high standing might dress after losing taste for precious trinkets and luxurious fabrics, or a common peasant who was afraid to even approach a clan's lands.
At the moment, both reasons were equally important to Loy.
"If you die…" Hor suddenly broke off and, lowering his voice, asked, "Loy, let me come with you."
Mentally, Loy smiled triumphantly. He loved her. Very much. He was jealous, afraid, worried…
"Honey…" She approached Hor and pressed against him gently. The warrior smelled of wine, sweat, and someone's perfume. She'd have to remember the scent… He'd clearly run here from some party, abandoning both his young girlfriends and trusted drinking buddies. He'd run over as soon as Loy ordered her servant/spy to leave; she'd clearly been either paid off or seduced by Hor.
It really was simple to control men…
"I can't tell you anything. Now right now… honey…"
Hor tensed, reached out to grab Loy roughly and passionately, but she twisted nimbly out of the way.
"You'll learn everything in time," Loy went on calmingly. "But for now, I'm going. Alone. And don't send your spies to follow me, okay? I'll seduce the men, and the girls I might scratch…"
Hor uttered an ornate curse. Giving Loy a careful once-over, he asked, "What, did you find a boyfriend among the villagers?"
Loy shook her head with a most serious expression. She even permitted a small tear to glint in her eyes from the undeserved insult.
After all, she hadn't had a single affair outside the clans for two years!
"Don't be angry," Loy said, opening an inconspicuous door to her "magic room." Hor took a step after her but stopped in time. To intrude in a mage's inner sanctum was liable to result in a complete breakup.
"Cat!" he spat with such fury, as if he actually belonged to a different clan.
Loy shut the door. She stood there for a few moments, immediately losing all her showy confidence.
What was she doing?
No, the fact that Hor was about to go back to the party didn't bother her in the least. She'd realized long ago that the strongest leash was the one that was occasionally allowed to go slack.
It was Loy's own plan that worried her. It was one thing to snub Ota and underscore her own exceptionality once again. It was quite different to attempt a sortie on her own.
Torn wouldn't forgive his humiliation. No man could forgive what she'd done…
She'd only be able to obtain all the information at the Water Clan. Air didn't count — since Ritor hadn't started the conflict, then he didn't possess all the intelligence.
What should she do?
"Come on. Think, you fool, think…" Loy asked herself gently. "You can reach the Watery ones, and then what?"
She didn't want to drown, or exsiccate, or even be flogged with water whips. Torn had a lively imagination, who knew what he might think up as punishment?..
A lively imagination…
"Shall we try, pussy cat?" Loy mused. "Shall we risk it?"
After all, what was life without risk? Sex could get old, food could cause nothing but revulsion, power games could become monotonous and boring. But when life and death were on the line, when one's heart began to pound out of fright, then all the colors of the world took on a primal freshness.
Opening a secret door, Loy walked along a narrow corridor that led deeper and deeper underground. The passage ran under the roots of the giant oak that served as the roof and walls of the ballroom, under the dwarven Way (occasionally she could even hear the clattering of wheels of their disgusting locomotives), under a river (it was very damp here and droplets of water rang on the stone floor)… Loy didn't like using this exit. Two hours in an underground passage would be tiresome and unpleasant to anyone.
But she'd come out near a small vassal village populated by humans and dwarves. Next to a Way station, within a three hour ride from the Watery ones' habitats.