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 12
Ritor was paying.
There was something eerie about that. Only recently people were pulling out their own hair, screamed in desperation, cried over the bodies of their loved ones, or simply walked around with blank looks, which seemed even more frightening.
Now there was a gloomy but animatedly talking line of people leading to the stationmaster's office. Whenever someone came out, they were immediately asked about sums and conversation details. Some answered, others didn't, depending on their personal secrecy and fear of mages.
Ritor was paying.
"I've lost my breadwinner…" An elderly woman was crumpling a handkerchief and wiping her tears. "How will I live now? How will I raise my children?"
"Husband?" Ritor asked quietly.
The woman hesitated, "Father…"
"How old was he?"
The victim wanted to answer this question even less. But there was no choice, and she didn't dare lie to a mage, "Eighty… more or less."
Ritor sighed, "And he supported your family?"
"He was a good master! A cobbler!" the woman immediately went on the offense. "Always busy with work!"
"And your husband?"
"Oh, he's a filthy drunk…"
What else could he do? Ritor wordlessly counted out gold coins, also handing the woman a note for a small sum. She was silent for a moment, clearly wondering if she should ask for more, but under Sandra's icy glare she decided to leave quickly.
"Toad!" Sandra spat out as soon as the door was shut. "Barracuda… carrion-eater…"
"Don't, Sandra," Ritor asked. "Yes, they're lying. They're haggling over the blood of their loved ones. But what can we do? Refuse? So that all the clan's lands were full of rumors that Air kills its servants?"
"It's vile," as it often happened when she was feeling strong emotions, Sandra forgot all about her jargon. "Why are there two women sitting on the street and crying over their dead husbands, not even thinking about asking for money? And these… corpse eaters…"
"Go and give them compensation. A big one. Tell them that the clan is asking forgiveness from its loyal servants."
"We'll already be left without any money—"
"Sandra!"
The woman rose.
"I'll ask the dwarves for a loan. Nothing to be done. Pay those who's not asking for money. And I'll deal with the ones in the line."
"There are also children," Sandra said reluctantly. "An infant and two little girls. They have no family left."
"Take them under the clan's wing. Send them to the Fang of Winds. If they have abilities, we'll raise them as mages. If not, then we'll still find them a place under the sun."
"Maybe it would be best to send them to an orphanage."
"No. Then they'll grow up with hatred in their hearts. This way, they'll be grateful to us. Call the next one."
The next one turned out to be a strong, well-dressed bearded man. Not a peasant, probably a miller or a blacksmith. Bowing to Ritor, he sat without an invitation and said, "All right. My wife. Middle-aged but still attractive and hard-working. Naturally, she was great around the household; knew how to feed each animal, where everything is… At least a hundred coins. My daughter, I'd already been arranging a marriage… fifty. And all the trampled property — maybe thirty coins, if you please."
Ritor closed his eyes in desperation. He'd have much rather compensated that man's relatives.
But no.
So he'd have to haggle, reduce the exorbitant price. And then pay.
Naturally, they decided not to go back to Horsk. Telle thought that their pursuers, Air mages, would remain there until the arrival of reinforcements or recuperation. It was their territory, and the fact that Victor had manages to get away was a stroke of luck.
"It's a fiefdom," Telle was explaining with her typical nonchalance. "Many have fought over it, but it's currently in the possession of the Airy ones. The town is just okay, but the location is favorable. I heard they have good lobsters. They also make decent swords. And have a theater…"
They were walking across a steppe, along the edge of a forest, getting farther and farther away from the river. Telle thought it would be unwise to come out to the dwarven Way, at least for now. They'd definitely be searching for Victor along the Way, at least at first. Instead, Telle suggested they go a canal used to transport cargo south, and Victor agreed without any questions.
"It's very fortunate they didn't see me," Telle was saying. "Marvelous. I'm going to think of something that never would've entered your mind. We'll trick them all…"
This idea failed to boost Victor's optimism. He'd much rather follow his own initiative. But he didn't want to argue with Telle.
"Oh, look, how incredible!" Yelping in joy, the girl ran ahead. "Victor!"
Victor himself didn't feel any delight from the strip of pale blue flowers. He particularly had no desire to roll around in them, yelping like a puppy, spreading his hands, and kicking the ground with his feet.
"This is a solid flower," Telle explained, after calming down and watching Victor with a smile. "The symbol of the Earth Clan. It's said that if you roll around in them, they'll increase your strength and make it easier to walk."
"Really?" Victor lay down next to her readily.
"Of course not," Telle laughed. "Just a fairy tale. But it's still fun to roll around like this and relax a little… Besides, it's a sign."
"What sign?"
"You've been attacked by two Elemental clans, Water and Air, and survived. You've taken their power."
"Not really noticeable. My legs are aching. I'm totally wiped."
"Taking is not the same thing as mastering. But you've passed two of the clans…"
"And I'll have to pass through all the others?"
"That's up to you," Telle replied. "You can go home, if you want. The Trail will open to you, you'll see. But, actually, ahead of us are the lands of the Earthly ones."
"Oh great! No one's tried to kill me in a while!"
"Yeah, you're right," Telle agreed with suspicious ease. "It's the most difficult one for you. As for Fire… you can use it even without initiation."
"Of course I can." Victor felt in his pocket for the lighter, pulled it out, and flicked it on. "I'm the master of fire."
"Oros then… Oros. Except they… doesn't matter."
Tell sat up, fixed her hair, and glanced at Victor with a barely noticeable sad smile.
"I'm very glad to have met you. Even the Underside didn't manage to ruin you. We can thank your grandmother for that, but you deserve praise too."
"Listen, Telle… when Grandma Vera was making me jump… get in the water… what was that?"
"A test."
"So why didn't she tell me? If she had an idea where I might end up."
"Because your fate is your own. And you must make your own choices. Maybe she could've raised you differently. Teach you something. But why, if no one knew how life was going to turn out? You could've never ended up here. Maybe I could've been killed on the way. You could've been different… a tiny step, and the Underside would've absorbed you. All you'd need is have something in the Underside… like a string, a root, an anchor, and you wouldn't have been able to leave."
"Maybe I would've been happy," Victor whispered.
"Yes, of course."
"But I like it here. I really do. Despite everything."
The way to the canal turned out to be long. The sun was already high up in the sky by the time Victor and Telle found themselves at the confluence point.
The canal was incredible. Wide, with banks reinforced with timbered slopes in places; wide rafts and fat barges were leisurely floating along the canal — without sails or oars, carried by the current.
"Telle," Victor couldn't help but ask, "how are they doing it… going in both directions at the same time?"
The girl didn't even glance at the canal.
"It was dug jointly by the Water and Earth clans, Victor. The Watery ones set up two currents in the canal. Both forward and backward. Also made it so that a heavily laden barge is carried with the same force as an empty one. Their power is great, no doubt about it."
"So what are we going to do now?"
"What do you mean? We'll get onto a bank and hitch a ride. They eagerly take passengers."
The girl headed decisively for the edge of the cliff. It was reinforced with a low wooden embankment. She stopped and stretched out her hand in a gesture familiar in the Underside: a closed fist with a thumb sticking up.
"Someone will stop," Telle said.
They didn't have to wait too long. A long raft crawled by—it looked like it was carrying timber to the south—and the first barge following it turned to the bank. It was smaller than most, well-made, freshly painted red, with its name written in crimson letters on the bow: Elbereth.
Elbereth, Elbereth… it was familiar somehow…
"Hey!" someone from the barge shouted. "Jump in! There's nowhere to dock here!"
Telle gracefully leapt on board. Victor jumped after her and was shocked when the air carefully held him up by his armpits, as if afraid that the man was going to fall, even though there was no more than a meter and a half of water between the embankment and the barge.
A man was walking from a low wooden deckhouse on the stern. Tall, narrow-shouldered, slightly stooping when walking, with long hair that was wrapped with a thin beaded bandage on his forehead. His face was tanned, weathered, and there was a long black cloak that didn't seem to have a purpose on his shoulders.
"Hey!" He proffered his hand. "Where to?"
"To the very edge, Captain," Telle smiled charmingly. "Will you take us?"
"No problem. Got your own grub? I'll find something for you to sleep on…"
"We don't have any food…" Telle sighed.
"Three coins per day each," the Captain resolved the problem. "Time for introductions? Eleneldil."
"What race are you, dear Eleneldil?" Telle asked in surprise. "That's not a human name."
Captain's strange name was associated in Victor's mind with some respected Siberian reindeer handler, and he chuckled quietly.
"Well… until I came here, I was known as Nikolai," the Captain laughed.
"Hold on," Victor put in. "Came 'here'?"
"Well, yeah. I'm from the Underside. Heard of it? Then again…" Nikolai/Eleneldil squinted, "looks like you're from there too… Right?"
"Right." Victor proffered his hand and introduced himself.
"Where are you from?"
"Moscow."
"Moscow?" the Captain livened. "Me too! Where did you live?"
"On Elektrozavodskaya."
"I lived on VDNKh [Footnote 1]. Listen, Victor, your face looks familiar somehow. Have you been to our place?"
"Where?" Victor asked in confusion.
"What do you mean where? Neskuchny Garden. We hung out there every Thursday."
Victor shook his head, still confused.
"Eh, it's all in the past now." The Captain looked a little embarrassed. "Since we're both from the same city… today's on me. Let's go!"
It looked like there was no one else aboard the barge except Eleneldil. Then again, the movement in the canal was far too even and unhurried for there to be a need for that. The barge turned away from the bank and came out to the main the current on its own.
"It's a little boring here," Eleneldil admitted honestly. "But the work is easy, I want for nothing… and if I bring along something forbidden…" He winked at Victor and whispered, "I've got an entire bale of dry weed in the hold! You like to puff?"
Feeling that he was watching an absurd play of some kind, Victor shook his head.
"Damn, why are you so proper? And you, girlie, what's your name?"
"Telle."
"Are you local?"
"Definitely."
"That's right. Don't leave the guy, help him get used to the place…"
They followed the Captain into the deckhouse. It was obvious that only a single person was living here, and that person was a man, who was also slovenly.
The table held a mix of apple cores, some grease-stained maps, empty plates, tools, cigarette buts, clumps of cotton, and oddly-shaped pieces of wood, remains of a dried fish, and sticky glasses with the muddy remains of beer on the bottom.
A small wheel was sticking out from the floor in front of the bow-facing window. Currently it was slowly and creakily turning, marking the swaying of the barge's bow. The wheel's handles, once lacquered, now looked as if they'd been used to put out cigarette butts more than once.
A pile of clothes was lying in a corner — some items seemed to be clean, while others were dirty and crumpled. A single bra was lying atop the shirts and socks.
"I was giving a ride to a group of people yesterday," Eleneldil said without a hint of embarrassment. "Met such a girl you wouldn't believe…" He winked at Victor. "I even regretted being married!"
While telling about his love affairs, he wasn't embarrassed by Telle's presence in the least.
"Not like yesterday… Gave a girl a ride, thought it would be a fun evening. But that Rada… Didn't like the beer, that expert in a skirt… Didn't want to listen to my saga of ancient battles… some warrior lady!" Eleneldil scratched his head gloomily and grimaced.
"Rada?" Victor exclaimed.
"Yeah, said her name was Rada… Why can't pretty girls stay at home? No, they get a sword somewhere… a huge one!.. and go around looking for adventure!"
It seemed Konam's daughter couldn't sit idly by in her cozy restaurant! Maybe it had been Victor's fault for riling up her spirit.
"Let me clean up here," Telle offered. It seemed she wasn't a big fan of the talk about Rada.
"You've got my respect!" The Captain blossomed in a smile. "That's the right way! Telle, you're a dearie! If Victor hurts you, come to me! We're going to go to the deck, so we don't get in your way…"
Picking up a small wooden cask from the floor, the Captain tried leaving the cabin.
"First bring me two buckets of water, a broom, and some rags," Telle ordered.
"Water… all right… but rags…"
Telle bent over the pile of clothes.
"Are you going to wear this?"
The Captain scratched his chin, studying the shirt that was burned in multiple places, stained with oily paint, and torn on the bottom.
"Probably not… eh, take it! That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for cleanliness!"
Only ten minutes later—they'd had to bring water, move the table to the middle of the floor, and pull a narrow cot from the wall—did Telle allow them to come out onto the deck. Looking around hesitantly, the Captain shook his head, "Well, I'm all for hygiene… but this was a little too much… Shall we drink?"
They set up closer to the bow. Loud noises and disapproving grumbling were coming from the wheelhouse, as if it wasn't a fragile girl cleaning up, but a platoon of drunken soldiers was having a party after storming a convent.
Victor nodded. He wanted to wash his glass, but he wasn't going to do it in the canal water after seeing a cultured-looking elderly dwarf take a leak into it from a barge going the opposite way.
Fortunately, the beer turned out to be strong, rich, and delicious, even though it was way too warm for his liking. They clinked their glasses and drank.
"Can I call you Nikolai?" Victor asked.
"Sure," Eleneldil agreed easily. "Just don't call me Nick… I hate it…"
He quickly refilled the glasses, "It's great here. Isn't it?"
"Yeah, it's nice," Victor agreed carefully.
"How long since you've left the Underside?"
"Three days."
"Oh! That deserves a drink."
For some reason, Victor had a feeling that a week or a month would've caused the same reaction. They drank again.
"What about you?"
"Almost three years now…" Nikolai unbuttoned the cloak, and Victor finally realized why he was wearing it — there was nothing but wide boxer shorts underneath. "I just can't seem to find the time to sunbathe. I keep having to go into the cabin. Want one?"
He pulled out a pair of rolled up joints from a cloak pocket and handed one to Victor.
"No, thanks."
"Too bad…" Nikolai lit up a joint and took a drag. The sweet smell of pot wafted through the air.
"How are you… here?" Victor asked.
"What do you mean?"
"How's life? Do you miss home?"
"Yeah, right," Nikolai snorted. "If you want to know, I've been dreaming of this all my life! I've been sick to death of that… Underside! Believe me, I was prepared to give my life to end up in a world like this!"
"Seriously?"
"Yeah! What did I have there? Worked as a programmer, ruining my eyes in front of a screen. Spent my free time reading fantasy novels or LARPing with friends in the woods… And you know what… I had zero doubts that a world like that existed! A real one! With elves, dwarves, mages!"
"I guess you got lucky…"
Nikolai poured them more beer, "Definitely! What, are you going to tell me that you didn't dream of ending up here?"
"No. I only occasionally read fantasy books. Never believed in elves either."
"Strange," Nikolai shook his head. "Usually only those who really don't like the Underside end up here! You know, you probably did want to come here. You just didn't know it yet!"
Victor shrugged. Telle came out of the wheelhouse, looked at them disapprovingly, and emptied a bucket full of nearly black water overboard.
"No, I'm glad, very glad," Nikolai went on. "A buddy of mine, Stepan, and I bought some nice weed…" He once again winked at Victor, as if giving him a chance to change his mind and join in. "Rolled up some joints… Stepan knew how to make them well, even made up an entire philosophy about it. It was good shit… I remember Stepan singing eso… exo… exoteric songs… I seem to be forgetting big words without practice… Then we rolled up some more joints. Somehow I started speaking honestly and remember telling him about wanting to end up in the Real World! Then I went home, barely managed to get away from some cops… fell into a ditch… well, you know how it can be from too much of this shit… you're looking at a lamppost and smiling at it because it's your best friend! Then I got lost. Think about it, how can there be a village in the middle of Moscow? And then a dwarf came out to greet me…"
He fell silent, sucking on the joint, then finished, "I definitely got lucky! No other way to put it! For the first couple of days, I kept thinking that I was ODing. I kept expecting the dwarf to turn into a doctor holding a syringe and explain how they'd been pulling me back from the brink. But I still tried to get into the role. Then I realized that it was all true. The happiest day of my life!"
"So what did you do?" Victor inquired.
"Well, first I joined an elven camp. They don't really like taking humans, but I begged them… explained that I'd been dreaming of just one thing my entire life… Spent two months with them…" There was no irritation in Nikolai's voice. "Those firstborn bastards threw all the dirty work my way! Chopping wood, cleaning tents, sorting their herbs, washing clothes… I bore it for a while. A nightfall, when the elves grab their lutes and start singing of the mountains, seas, the ringing of the wind and the whispering of the stars… And you're lying nearby—they wouldn't let me come close to the campfire, telling me I stunk—and dreaming. And then… well, I started hitting on one elven chick… they ended up kicking me out. Those bastards!"
Victor nodded, doing his best to show sympathy.
"So I started thinking what I wanted to do next. Wanted to be a soldier, or a mage, or something else like it, but then this barge turned up… I had some money… You sure you don't want a joint?"
"No, thanks."
"All right, then I'm going to puff on it too… So I had some money saved up… those elven bastards ended up paying for their arrogance. Split the barge with someone, then ended up buying it outright. Nothing complicated, I'd served in the navy back home, and you don't even need to do any work here. A year ago I finally settled down. Built a house! An iron-covered roof, a dwarven stove. Got a nice cow! Half a dozen pigs, chickens, a goat. Got married. A decent wife, although she was a widow with a little boy, but it's fine, I like kids. But the household is always in order. She even brewed this beer. Nice, right?"
"Nice," Victor agreed. The beer, coupled with the wine he'd drunk earlier, was letting itself know with a rumble in his head and in other ways too. He walked up to the edge and followed the example of the cultured-looking dwarf.
"So it's a fine life!" Nikolai summarized. "Already thinking about buying a second barge. If you want, I can hire you as her captain. As a fellow Muscovite, under patronage. Have you decided what you're going to do?"
"I think for me it's already determined," Victor replied, not getting into the details.
"Well, if the girl is protecting you…" Nikolai squinted in satisfaction. "It's fine, it's good. But keep in mind, I'm always happy to help my own."
The barge was slowly approaching a bridge. Either it was the Way or just a road, he couldn't see it from the water. As expected, gatehouses were standing on the banks, with a dwarven guard holding a crossbow on his shoulder sitting atop a melancholic horse visible near one of them. Victor gave him a wave. But Nikolai didn't share his attitude towards the dwarf, for some reason. He watched the dwarf move away with a gloomy expression, then angrily slammed his fist on the deck. He howled in pain and hissed, "Go to hell…"
Victor had no idea what the dwarven guards had done to earn the ire of the successful barge owner, and he decided not to ask. Maybe they were collecting fees. An entire chain of small vessels, filled with white marble blocks and lumber, was moving in the opposite direction. Life was in full swing, palaces and sheds were being erected, life had no concern for the relationship between Nikolai and the dwarves.
"There's no perfection in the world…" The second joint had turned the barge's captain onto philosophy. "Pretty fairies are groaning under the yoke of iron flowers…"
Victor tensed. If the beer-filled Nikolai was about to start reciting poetry, he might consider leaping into the water… Fortunately, Telle came out of the deckhouse at that particular moment, "Hey, you drunks! Let's go! The barn has been cleaned out!"
"She's a good one," Nikolai said approvingly. "Thin, still young, but already hard-working. I approve!"
The deckhouse really was clean. Telle had even wiped the windows, and the horizon-approaching sun was illuminating the cleanly-scrubbed floor. A solid flower was standing on the clean table in a washed jar. When had Telle managed to grab it?
"Whoa…" Nikolai spread his hands. He seemed to actually love cleanliness, even if it was the timid platonic love of a lazy bum. "Let me give you a kiss, girl!"
To Victor's amazement, Telle readily turned her cheek to receive the barge captain's not particularly paternal kiss. She threw a sly glance at Victor, who turned away in irritation.
"Now I owe you one!" Nikolai declared. He opened the cabinet and gave a low whistle, seeing that it was in order too. He started pulling out bundles, "Bacon… from my own boar, by the way! Cucumbers, tomatoes… chicken… bought it in Horsk yesterday, still looks fresh but needs to be eaten… No wine, sorry, but got plenty of beer and vodka…"
He and Telle set the table, and soon all three were eating dinner. Victor allowed himself one more glass of beer, although, to be honest, even that one was already too much. He was already feeling the heat and the alcohol.
"You must be curious to know what's happening at home, right?" he asked Nikolai.
"Home? Why, everything's fine there. The wife is watching over the household, the kid is probably feeding the pigs right now…"
"I mean the Underside."
"Oh… the Underside…" Nikolai downed another glass of beer. "I don't know. Why, though? I have no intention of going back, even if I could. You won't know anything about my loved ones anyway. I guess… there's no war, right?"
"Right."
"What about…" the Captain thought about it, "I mean… has anything interesting happened? Did they captured a flying saucer, or found a cure for AIDS, or…" He thought some more, then waved his hand dismissively, "I don't want to know anything, Victor. I don't even want to remember the Underside! That's my advice to you: forget it! This is our life! Ferry wheat and meat to the Warm Coast and bring fish and wine back. The nature here is amazing! The girls…" he gave Telle a wink, and she smiled in return, "are playful and pretty! The beer is cheap! If you get sick, just pay a mage, who'll help you better than any doctor! If you want civilization, settle down closer to the railroad, you can get a hot water hookup and even electricity from the dwarves. I'm planning on adding a warm outhouse to my place. It's paradise, isn't it?"
"From what I've learned, they have wars here sometimes," Victor noted.
"Hah! Wars! A lot fewer than back home! Even taxes here are reasonable. And no cops with rubber truncheons…" Nikolai sighed. "Even the elves… okay, maybe they're assholes. Still. I often hire them now that I have the coin. They come with their lutes and reeds, sit in the garden, and sing! And I'm chilling on my veranda, eating bacon, drinking beer, and enjoying it all!"
They sat there for another half-hour. Nikolay kept refilling his beer glass, describing all the advantages of the Middle World to Victor. Telle was smiling mockingly. Victor spent much of the time silent.
There was something sad in this guy from his hometown.
Maybe if he'd really had joined the elves, or started working on the railroad with the dwarves, or tried to become a mage… Maybe then Victor would've been able to feel happy for the man. But this fulfilment of a dream, hiring a bunch of elves and listening to them while drinking beer… Did everyone who came to the Middle World from the Underside turn out to be not nearly as great a fan of magic than they thought? It was one thing to imagine a world of magic and quite another to try living in it.
"All right, I think it's time for us to rest," Victor said. "Do you need a night shift? Or what?"
"Or what." Nikolai patted the cask of beer. "You just secure the wheel, and the water will carry you on its own… all the work is to make sure there are no leaks. Another round?"
Victor shook his head.
"Then go rest. I'll give you some bedding…" Standing unsteadily, Nikolai pulled a tightly-rolled straw mat from the cabinet, then, after a moment's hesitation, also added a dirty wool blanket. "Make yourself at home on the deck…"
"Thanks." To be honest, Victor had been afraid that Nikolai was going to start offering Telle to share his cabin. "We'll be somewhere on the bow, all right?"
"Just don't fall into the water. I'm going to sit her for a little while."
At the door, Nikolai called after them, "If you're having trouble sleeping, stop by…"
Victor had no idea to which of them this offer was addressed more.
In the growing twilight, he unrolled the mat on the deck. The mat didn't promise a soft sleep, but still… He removed his jacket and sweater, rolled them up, and placed them onto the mat, "In lieu of pillows."
"Uh-huh." Telle sat down on the edge of the mat and stretched out her legs. She sighed. "I really am tired. Thanks. I was afraid you were going to sit with that… Nikolai until morning."
Victor chuckled, "What, you don't like him?"
"He's a slob," Telle said contemptuously. "And a drunk."
"Then why did you kiss him?" Victor couldn't help but ask.
Telle chuckled and asked spitefully, "Jealous?"
Victor nearly choked in indignation.
"What? Telle, you're… not my type, that's one, and still too young… that's two…"
"Why am I not your type?"
"I prefer blondes!"
"Ugh…" Telle shook her head. "How trivial. I thought you had better taste than that."
"That's not for you to judge…"
Victor fell silent, looking at Telle in confusion, then he laughed.
"Fine, I give up. Telle, I really didn't like how that captain was glancing at you."
"Jealous," the girl sighed. "Does that mean I have a chance? When I grow up and dye my hair?"
"We'll see by your behavior."
"I'm going to try hard," Telle said in a tone that didn't sound very promising. She lay down on the mat, placing the rolled-up sweater and her own hands under her head.
Another barge was coming in the opposite direction; it was wide, with a short superstructure on the bow. Next to it stood two people, a guy and a girl, maybe a little older than Telle. Seeing them, the guy waved his hand.
Victor snorted and waved hesitantly in reply. He watched the barge leave. It was incredible how clearly the currents were separated in such a narrow canal, as they'd only been a meter apart, but the guy didn't look concerned at all. He just took the girl by the shoulders and pointed up into the sky, indicating something.
Victor also looked up. The first stars could already be seen, large and bright. There was a shooting star…
"Actually, I don't think you need to dye your hair…" Victor said. "Do you hear me, Telle?"
Telle was snoring peacefully, her face stuck into the improvised pillow. Victor sighed, covered her with the blanket, and stood next to her for a short while. The girl really had been wiped out if she fell asleep so quickly. And he, arrogant ass, hadn't even asked her how she got out and found him…
He lay next to her on the edge of the mat. He spent a long time with his eyes open, staring at the sky, that was blossoming with the stars, at the splashing waves, at the trees that were growing along the canal, at the occasional lights in the distance. What was pulling him forward? Why did he need Oros, why did he need the clans and the mages? Was he really not going to find a place in this life? After all, what was bad about the path chosen by Nikolai? In the morning, he would tell Telle that he had no intention of going anywhere. He'd get off at the next town. If he had some power, then he'd be able to fight off the next bunch of crazy mages who desired his blood…
Victor fell asleep with these calming thoughts.
…The funny thing was that he was no longer surprised. Translucent mountains, purple forest, charred remains of the "lab."
"I'm sick of this," Victor said. "Hey, you freak, I'm sick of you…"
It was dumb to blame the stocky guy in his dreams repeating themselves, of course. At the very least, he'd had nothing to do with that very first time, having himself been surprised at Victor's appearance. But now Victor couldn't shake the feeling that all his actions would only serve to amuse Glutton.
"Hey!" he shouted. Freak! I don't have time for this right now!"
The forest was silent, and the graying ruins of the structure—had it rained here or something?—were silent too, only the waves responded with a rumble of agreement, and the wind picked up Victor's words, carrying them into the distance.
"Good night!" Victor wished to his unseen observers. He stepped a little farther away from the shore where it was dry, lay down, and fell asleep.
It was the second time he'd done it. Not even feeling surprise at the possibility of sleeping in a dream.
Ritor cast the spell himself. It didn't require a lot of power, as the Slayer couldn't have gone far. Climbing up onto the train station's flat roof, the mage was sitting with his eyes closed and feeling the unseen spiral of winds untwist. It was weak, light, barely noticeable to other mages. First and foremost, he was interested in the river, the riverside, and only then the Way and the steppes.
He found the trace about twenty kilometers from the city. Ritor even gritted his teeth in annoyance after realizing how close the Slayer had been. So arrogant! Hadn't even bothered to go far… just climbed out onto the riverbank and went to sleep.
Probing the earth, water, and sky with the unseen tourniquet of the obedient wind, Ritor waited. The Slayer had to have sensed it… unfortunately, having survived the fight with the Air mages, this initiation was also complete. He was at exactly the halfway point. Only Earth and Fire remained. Well, he doubted that there would be any particular difficulty with Earth, but the Slayer would have to try hard. It was unlikely that the Fiery ones were going to let him go so easily. As soon as they sensed Water magic in him… they'd do their damndest to try and kill him. Then again, the sea was also pretty close to Oros. So maybe he'd be able to get away too.
Great powers, I really need the Fire Clan right now, Ritor thought. If there were two of us… if even a single Fire mage had been here to deal with the water defenses… I'd have gotten the bastard.
Ritor no longer had any doubt that the Slayer wasn't simply a poor man who'd found himself in the fate's millstone but a real bastard. The maddened train car… the poor villagers rushing the best fighters of the Air Clan with their bare hands — only a true Slayer was capable of that, a natural-born Slayer, who was maybe already a criminal back in the Underside…
But belated regrets wouldn't help matters. The Slayer's plan was simple and effective: go through the initiation in two more clans, Earth and Fire, far to the south, on the Warm Coast. Getting there by Way would've taken the Slayer a day or two, no more. Now he was likely going to take the canal; traffic there was lively, and raftmen and cargo barge captains eagerly took on passeners. Three days, and the Slayer would be there.
Should he send a message to the Earth Clan? It probably wouldn't work, as they'd hated the Winged Masters. The Fiery ones had been weakened by the recent massacre. That left one thing: continuing the chase, following in his tracks, hoping to catch up to the Slayer before he reached lands of the Earth Clan.
Should he take off, sparing no power? It was possible… he could wait until their Hour of Power and, together with Sandra and Asmund, strike with all their might. But then the Slayer would simply dive into the canal, and Ritor's power would end at the threshold separating Air and Water. No, that wasn't the solution. He would have to get ahead of his enemy. Catch him unawares, already on the approach to the Earth Clan. At the same time, he might be able to call for reinforcements from his own clan and—who knew?—maybe even get some of the Fiery ones involved.
He had time. Thunder Arrow would reach the Warm Coast in a day. That would leave them at least two days to prepare. More than enough.
Ritor forced himself cast any doubts aside. His path was the only correct one. Now he had experience, which was the most important thing. He was several moves ahead of the Slayer. He couldn't fail again. The way an apple would never fly up without magic.
It was time to head back, and he'd have to tell Sandra to bring along those poor kids who'd lost their parents thanks to the Slayer. The push of horror and hatred might be able to change the children… especially the infant, they were more susceptible. They might be able to get a powerful mage out of it; after all, the child had been conceived and born in Air lands.
Ritor climbed down from the roof.
The train station had been hastily put back in order. The mangled car was now on a dead-end track, the dead had been removed, the wounded were in clinics, the blood on the platform was covered up by fresh sand. Ritor's squad, as gloomy as mourners at a funeral, were sitting in the restricted "mages-only" hall.
Sandra was holding the infant who was smacking his lips in his sleep. Asmund had already managed to cheer up the girls, probably by showing them tricks. Kahn, deathly pale, was sitting back, constantly rubbing his thin hands. They'd had plenty to do today.
Even Eric and Kevin weren't wearing their usual masks of cool indifference and contempt for the world around them. Their boys were holding up better, as the sense of death wasn't yet felt as sharply at the age of twelve. Especially if that death was someone else's. Especially in battle.
"We're going back," Ritor said without a preamble. "The Slayer is leaving via the canal. We can't get him there. He has just one path now: south, to the Earth Clan, and from them to the Fiery ones. We have to head him off. We don't have another choice. Just an ambush. And… where there aren't any people."
Everyone was silent, awaiting his words.
"I'm going to call for help. Both from our clan and the Fiery ones. It's our last chance, we're not going to get another. After three initiations… there will be very little left for the Slayer to do. This means that we can't fail, does everyone understand? Kevin, Eric! Nothing should distract you this time. We'll handle his defenses. You are going to have to kill the Slayer."
Kevin's cheek twitched. His eye was already fine.
"It's going to be hard to get the bastard. Eric and I can't do it."
How many more pairs do you need?" Ritor asked calmly, even though he felt ill at ease. If even Kevin was saying that they couldn't do it…
"At least four. Five would be better," Eric piped up unexpectedly.
"Then we'll send for seven," Ritor summed up imperturbably.
"Jonathan, Randor, Ben, Jerome, Bert, Abel, Blyde," Eric listed in an even voice.
Yep, all the best one.
"Then who's going to be left in the clan?"
"The two young ones who've recently joined: Danny and his Junior [Footnote 2]. They're worth four fighters, but it's a little too early for them to get involved in magical affairs…" Kevin explained.
"All right," Ritor nodded.
It would be a bloody affair. Not many were going to come back. But that was no longer important. The Elder ones knew their duty, and they knew how to explain it to their partners.
Loy Iver was thinking while sitting with her chin resting on her intertwined fingers; a pile of round multicolored wooden chips was lying on the table in front of her.
So. Ritor was awaiting a Dragon. Torn wanted to destroy it… and not even "it", but "them": both the Dragon and Ritor. In addition, the brewing invasion of the Naturalborn.
All right, everything was clear. And if she added what her agents had found out…
Loy learned about the fight at the Horsk train station only twelve hours after it had happened. And now she was sitting sleepless, trying to interpret what she'd heard.
Before that, she learned of the clash in Luga. And of what had happened at a bridge near Ryansk. Her intelligence network was doing its job well…
But she should keep everything in order. All right then, Horsk. She grabbed a handful of chips to mark it. Ritor, Sandra, and a new young mage (she wondered what happened to the old guard: Solly, Edulis, the brothers Guy and Roy) tried to kill a man who seemed to have only recently come from the Underside. When he intervened, a Water mage named Gotor was killed along with a Punisher.
Not many details there. But Loy had squeezed as much out of this intel as she could.
The man from the Underside, for whom Ritor had gathered an entire death squad, abandoning his clan at a time like this, could only be the potential Dragonslayer, who hadn't yet gone through all the initiations. It was clear why the poor Gotor had intervened — he was trying to prevent the murder.
But then why had those same Watery ones attacked the man in Ryansk and tried to kill him in Luga? If he was the Slayer, then that same Gotor ought to have been protecting him… which he had done, by the way… but only in front of Ritor. Before that, he seemed to have been seriously trying to kill him.
Loy couldn't help but leap to her feet. Something important was hiding there… something incredibly important…
The simplest explanation was that Gotor had attacked to divert Ritor's attention. It was entirely possible, especially since killing that guy would have been a lot easier than now, after he seemed to have already gone through two of the four initiations. Yes, that was a strong possibility. Ritor learned of these attacks, became convinced that Torn was trying to trick the Airy ones, laughed at the obvious deception, and rushed into battle himself.
It all fit. And yet… something gave Loy pause because it all seemed way too logical.
Of course, even she, the head of the Cat Clan, did not know the secrets of initiation. It angered, irritated her, as Loy wasn't used to working blind. But it seemed that she didn't have a choice at the moment. She'd have to risk it. On her own, she had no intention of getting the clan involved.
The gray chip of the Cat Clan was placed away from the pile of the Airy ones. That was the deal…
Torn had turned out to be an easy prey. Iver thought of Ritor as much more difficult. Such primitive tricks would be unlikely to work on him. To be honest, Loy had yet to decide who to support in this war. It seemed that remaining neutral wouldn't work — whatever she thought of Torn, he was a very powerful mage. And if he'd spoken of the imminent Naturalborn invasion, then it was true.
And if the Naturalborn were led by a Created Dragon…
Loy shivered. She didn't even want to think about that. Especially if Ritor succeeded in eliminating the Slayer. Then the clans of the Warm Coast would have no chance at all. All that would be left for them to do was to die in a heroic last stand or flee north. In the vain hope of surviving for a few more years…
No, the Naturalborn weren't going to afford them such a luxury. They wouldn't stop on the Warm Coast, the Singing Forest, the steppes, the northern woods, or the Gray Limits, not until the entire world was theirs, down to the tiniest grain of sand. There was no point in indulging in vague hope.
Had she, Loy Iver, made a mistake when she prevented Torn from killing Ritor at her ball? Had she personally opened the way for a frightening undefeatable monster from beyond the Fault of the Worlds to the Warm Coast?
No, she told herself. Her intuition had never failed her before. When she lacked precise information, she had to rely on it. If it hadn't failed her yet, then why would it start now? Ritor wasn't suicidal. He wasn't going to destroy the only hope for victory.
Then again, he did have another…
The returning Dragon.
Placing a blue chip in the corner of the table—let Torn be marked by the color of water—Loy tossed another one between the chips of the Airy ones. A large golden chip. The wooden circle rolled and stopped on its side.
Loy bit her lip. She couldn't afford to be superstitious! She wasn't there to tell fortune using the colorful chips used by Hor and his tomcats to mark bets when playing cards.
No way! Let the golden chip stand on its side and sway from side to side. What did she care?
Ritor had no doubt that the invasion couldn't be stopped without that Dragon. Ritor had a lot of experience; he was probably the most experienced combat mage on the entire Coast. And he was prepared to risk his entire clan, risk hundreds and thousands of lives to ensure the return of the Dragon.
And to make sure that it wasn't being awaited by a battle-ready initiated Slayer.
But what would they do with the Dragon after the invasion was repelled? Ritor couldn't fail to think about that. What, there would be Winged Masters again? Restrictions on magic, draconian laws, large tributes?
No. They'd had enough of that. No wonder all the clans had helped Ritor back then… the only one who'd turned out to be able to bear the heavy burden of a Dragonslayer.
Unable to hold back any longer, Loy hissed, just like an angry cat. There was no good outcome! Both ways were bad.
This was probably the first time she'd ever been in a situation where there was no unambiguous solution. Before, Loy could only think about preserving her clan. To avoid a feud. Now, it seemed, she would be the one to decide who would win the day: Ritor or Torn. The scales were swaying in an unsteady equilibrium, a tiny addition to either side would tilt the balance. Would Loy Iver join the fight, or would she allow the two opponents settle their scores without her?
Without a doubt, not too long ago she'd have done exactly that, avoid any involvement. But not now. She couldn't ignore Ritor's fears.
But she also couldn't ignore Torn's conviction that the clans would survive on their own, without any Dragons. They just needed to kill the enemy Dragon… and also the other one, if it actually decided to appear in the Middle World…
Loy felt that she was getting totally confused. Before, an easy solution would've been some casual sex. But now even thinking about it disgusted her.
The Slayer… too bad she knew so little about him. The Elementals were guarding their secrets jealously.
The conclusion was simple. She, Loy Iver, would have to find the Slayer and talk to him. Probe him, after all, she was a first-rank mage, even if it was from a Totem Clan. Maybe then she'd be able to make a decision.
After all, the Slayer didn't actually have to slay all the Dragons. Or slay them right away. Later was fine too.
Hor would be displeased, but there was nothing to be done about that.
It didn't take long for Loy to get ready.
Finding the Slayer shouldn't be difficult. He was probably being monitored going south down the canal. Then she would intercept him a little earlier. Ritor wouldn't dare fight on the canal itself, as the canal was Water territory. But Water wasn't hostile to the Cat Clan at the moment.
Coming out, Loy slammed the door with such irritation that the golden chip shook on the table. It rolled and, quivering, fell on one side… but there was no one to see which side.
"You're staying here," Ritor ordered. "I'm going to the Fiery ones. There's no time for trains, I'll fly. Sandra, Asmund, the most important thing is not to let the Slayer slip by. Don't attack, don't do anything without me, do you hear? Nothing! Just watch, understood? Wait for Jonathan and the team, and I'll bring the Fiery ones. Am I clear?" He looked over his quiet squad. "Sandra! You're in charge. I'll hold you responsible."
"Don't worry, Ritor, none of the small fry will even peep," the female mage promised gloomily.
The Hour of Power was near. The wind obediently filled the unseen wings. Ritor lifted up from the ground.
The lands of the Fire Clan were located at the southern edge of the Warm Coast. Oros was a small town squeezed between the mountains and the sea, where even the hard-working dwarves hadn't been able to reach with their Way, which ended at the border of the Air Clan. Just in case, Ritor took a little detour, avoiding Hundred Fields.
The gentle sea was washing lazily over the sloping pebble shore. The ever-green cypress trees, the bare branches — the Fiery ones loved greenery, their town was drowning in flowers, and even in wintertime, the miracle plants, brought over from their distant homeland and cared for since then, blossomed in greenhouses.
The Fire Clan possessed the most powerful combat magic. Therefore, they proudly neglected any fortifications. No walls around the town, no moats or bastions. But over the years, over many wars, no one had been able to take their stronghold. On occasion, they'd lost some battles, but the defense of their own lands had never once failed. Sometimes Ritor even felt a little jealous, as Air couldn't afford such openness.
From up in the sky, the mage looked at the clean white buildings with tiled roofs and neat streets; everything magical of the Fiery ones was hidden deep underground. Only what they could afford to lose remained on the surface.
The Fiery ones didn't even have a marketplace. The surrounding lands, hard-won from the mountains, had been given over to beautiful trees, gardens, and impassable thickets; all life necessities were being brought in by sea or through a narrow mountain pass. The Fiery ones were very wealthy, their fiefdom stretched far to the north, their clan wanted for nothing. Then again, after the recent losses…
The only tall structure remaining of the Fiery ones was a watchtower; everything else, even the mage school, squatted low to the ground, hiding among the trees that were generously watered by the aqueducts that ran from the mountains.
Ritor wasn't hiding, and the Fiery ones naturally picked him up from a distance. A signaler appeared on the tall spire of the lighthouse, where the Unquenchable Flame burned eternally. The long tongue of green fire shot high up into the sky, almost to the clouds, indicating that the way was open. Even Ritor wouldn't try messing with the defensive spells of the Fire Clan without a good reason.
Now the mage was reproaching himself for not paying a visit to the Fire Clan before due to the constant lack of time. The relationship between Fire and Air was far from idyllic, the most loyal followers of the Winged Masters hadn't forgiven Ritor for the extermination of that great line, which was why they'd needed long negotiations and a meeting on neutral ground, by the old castle — allowing Torn to take advantage of that…
That damned distrust. So many lives had been lost because of it, and so many more would be lost still!
The green fire indicated a command to descend immediately. And no magic as soon as his feet touched the ground. Otherwise, he'd be considered an enemy with everything that entailed.
Naturally, Ritor obeyed.
The neat houses of the Fiery ones were all adorned with the black flags of mourning. The clan was weeping for those of their kind killed by Torn.
The Air mage felt at least fifty spells aimed at him. The Fiery ones were ready to throw everything they had into battle.
The small square at the edge of the town, surrounded by cypress trees, looked deserted. Ritor stood there calmly, not making any attempts to even take a step. The Fiery ones had a right to be suspicious of him. Of course, typically such matters were resolved through long negotiations with the aid of intermediaries, maybe those same Cats, but there was no time for such luxuries at the moment.
"Stand there and don't move, Ritor," a voice from behind one of the cypresses ordered.
"Haven't you figured it out yet, Siward?" Ritor replied to the unseen mage.
"Some of it, Ritor," the Fire mage answered. "Torn is already counting his losses and, by the Eternal Flame, he'll be doing that for a long time. We found the bodies. Both ours and yours. But there's still too much unclear in that matter. You could've been in league with Torn… and then he decided to betray you. I don't know."
"Maybe we shouldn't discuss this out in the open, Siward."
"Navajo also wasn't in a hurry to break bread with you, Dragonslayer."
"That was a long time ago, Siward. Times have changed. Navajo and I wanted to discuss something else. But those words would be better spoken under a roof."
Those hiding behind the cypresses were silent for a time. Ritor could've easily made them visible but deliberately avoided using magic.
"All right. Navajo and the eldest ones are dead. We have to decide for them, and, of course, no one had bothered to tell us all the details," the young mage decided finally.
"Tell me where to go, honored Siward," Ritor said politely.
Yeah, things weren't easy for the Fiery ones at the moment, if the one remaining in charge was Siward, a good mage but still only second rank. This meant that only third- and fourth-rank mages were left for combat… not very promising. Navajo, Augustus, Ripley — all were dead… all the first-rank mages the clan could've counted on during this war with Torn. Without them, Water would grind Fire into dust. Of course, the Watery ones would have to work for it, even if Torn got personally involved.
"Have you forgotten the way, Ritor?" Siward couldn't help but ask.
"No, Siward. I just didn't want to give you yet another reason to be annoyed."
"Forget your manners," the Fiery one bit off angrily. "Let's go. Tell me what you want from us. I'm going to assume that you're not here to talk about the past."
"You're right, Siward."
Ritor refused the offers of rest and a meal. He had to resolve this urgent matter as soon as possible.
The council of the Fire Clan had clearly thinned out. The older mages had been killed, along with quite a few of the younger ones from their retinue. Both the commander of the Punishers and the clan's best herbalist had had fallen into the Watery ones' ambush.
It was obvious that Siward—a tall black-eyed and dark-haired good-looking man—was plenty confused, even though he was trying to hide it under dashing bravado. He'd had to take all the responsibility upon himself.
The Fiery ones' council hall looked nothing like the modest chamber in Ritor's own clan. The Fiery ones hadn't spared any power, punching with their flaming blades deep underground, reaching the fiery veins; even Ritor couldn't imagine how they'd managed to split up these lands with the Earth Clan. But they had.
Naturally, the caves were only illuminated by the dark underground flames. The crimson stone of the walls that were only touched by tongues of flame. The stone seats. This was the pure power of the flame; and, of course, not a drop of water, earth only in the form of melted stone that had gone through the underground crucible. Even the Air was calcined, dead, and refusing to obey Ritor. It had taken a lot of power to burn everything out of the third element except for the dead atoms that dissolved in blood and allowed people to breathe. Ritor took an involuntary deep breath — it was unnatural to feel the Air that he had no mastery over.
"Sit, honored Ritor, first-rank mage, head of the Air Clan, Dragonslayer," Siward spoke formally. In his pure crimson cape and red headband, the mage was supposed to take up the empty seat of the head of the council, but, after a moment's hesitation, Siward sat down next to it. The black and scarlet throne of Navajo, an old first-rank mage, third most powerful in the Middle World after Ritor and Torn, remained empty. Mentally Ritor approved of the young man. He was smart, diplomatic, and clearly understanding that if he took the empty seat, it would've displeased the older mages, even if they were below the third rank.
Ritor looked over the council. It was the first time he was seeing many of them, and that wasn't good. The decision they would have to make was far too important.
"What has brought our venerable guest to us?" Siward asked politely.
Ritor placed his hands in front of his face in a gesture of request.
"Honored Siward and you, honored councilmembers! I daresay that I know what you're thinking. You've just lost Navajo… and many others, ones just as worthy. I and the entire Air Clan mourn their deaths alongside you. All of us are facing the threat of both an internecine war and the invasion of the Naturalborn."
The council said nothing, as none of that was news to anyone.
"Moreover… maybe this will bring joy to your hearts. Fiery ones… I wanted to discuss this with Navajo but didn't get to. That which has made us enemies in the past is coming back, and that is as true as the fact that my name is Ritor."
The council said nothing, but the Air mage saw beads of sweat appear on Siward's temples.
"You're trying to say, honored Ritor, that…" The young mage couldn't finish the sentence.
"The time of the Dragon is coming," Ritor nodded. Such bitter irony — he'd spoken the same exact words to Torn, who was hiding under the face of another. Those words had been meant for Fire! "The Winged Master must return. That was why I'd called Navajo. We hadn't trusted one another for far too long, and this is the result. Navajo is dead, and we're at the threshold of probably the most violent war since the time of the Exodus. Moreover, the Naturalborn are preparing their own Dragon, a Created Dragon…"
Ritor had to repeat what he'd already said before.
The council of the Fiery ones listened attentively, respectfully, without interruption, as was expected when receiving such an important guest. But it seemed that only one thing remained in each of their heads: the Dragon was returning!
No wonder. The Fire Clan had remained loyal to the Winged Masters longer than everyone else. Ritor had gone through the Fire initiation in secret, supported only by a small group of dissenters. Unfortunately, Siward hadn't been one of them.
Of course, no one here asked if he was certain. If a first-rank mage, especially Ritor, said that the Dragon was returning, then it was true.
"Then you've changed your mind, Ritor?" Siward couldn't hold back. He was still the only one to speak with the Air mage. Everyone else was silent, only the Fire in their huge black hearth kept growing hotter and hotter. "Now you support the Master? You've realized that your act was that of heinous treason, Ritor?"
It was wrong to speak this way to a mage, especially a first-rank mage, particularly Ritor. The Air mage didn't let his anger show; his mission was far too important to allow him the luxury of annoyance.
"I don't understand how this has anything to do with our conversation, honored Siward," Ritor said coolly. "Have we gathered here to discuss the past or talk about the future? The past is dead and can't be changed. But the future can sweep all of us aside. Do you understand that, honored Siward?"
"If not for what you've done, honored Ritor, this wouldn't even be a choice now," Siward countered in the same tone. "The Winged Master would still be a reliable defense against the Naturalborn, they never would've dared to come here again. The current feud wouldn't be happening, we wouldn't be at odds with Torn, Navajo would still be alive. Do you understand that, Ritor? Do you understand that you and only you are at fault for our problems?"
It was impolite to interrupt a mage, especially the head of an Elemental Clan, especially during a council meeting. Ritor held back.
"Are you expecting excuses from me, honored Siward?" Ritor asked. "Your questions are not addressed to me. What do you want from me? Repentance, crawling on my knees, covering my head with ash? I don't understand, forgive me, please."
Siward hadn't been expecting such a pushback.
"Do you believe that you have the right to ask us for help without repentance?"
"If the Fire Clan's council refuses my request for help, then I will leave," now there was genuine cold in Ritor's voice. "If the Fire Clan's council decides to exact revenge for… the Winged Master, I'm prepared. But I would demand that all the articles of the dueling code be obeyed. You will either have to perform a dirty kill or put up your champion. But then," Ritor grinned, "I have to warn you that they will fail. I will definitely be able to deal with you, Siward. That is, if you fight fair."
"Did you fight fair when you were killing the Last Dragon?" Siward shouted.
"Are you challenging me, second-rank mage Siward?" Ritor boomed, getting to his feet.
Siward was embarrassed. He'd forgotten himself, allowed himself to get angry, and was now pushing himself into a situation that only had one outcome.
A duel with Ritor, which was basically suicide. And that was with a war with the Watery ones that was about to start.
Ritor knew that the young mage couldn't back down without losing face.
"If the Fire Clan's council insists, I am prepared to apologize," Ritor said. "I regret our quarrel. I'm not going to recite inspirational odes to freedom—"
"Which turned to blood and wars!" someone's young voice shouted. Ritor glanced and saw a very young girl, maybe eighteen years old. Third rank — not bad at all for someone so young.
"I give you my word as Ritor that after… after everything is over, I will come to you and will be prepared to offer satisfaction to anyone who is willing. But now I need you help to stop the Slayer. Is the Fire Clan not interested in the same?"
Siward said nothing. Suddenly a senior Punisher, a strong-looking man about forty years of age with a shaved head, said, "We were loyal to the Winged Masters, that is true. Because we believe that you either give you word and keep it, or you don't give it at all. Besides… Ritor, we're not convinced that the man you want to go after is the Slayer."
"I am prepared to offer all the proof—" Ritor began.
"Hold on, honored sir. I'm not doubting your words. I will not argue that you believe him to be the Slayer… Or that, which is also possible, that you are very skilled at pretense. Who knows, maybe the Winger Master really is returning, you're not strong enough to stop him, and now you're trying to get us to join your side through deception. Never trust a liar. Remember, Ritor, you've already lied to us once. When dissenters among us were helping you go through the Fire initiation…"
Ritor didn't twitch, didn't lower his head, didn't look away, even though the warrior's words were true.
"I am prepared to open my memories to you," he said. The only way to turn the tide of the argument was with powerful methods. "Then you can see for yourselves what the wings have shown us. And if you say that the wings are also lying… Then I will challenge you to a duel myself, honored Siward."
The young mage rose.
"Looks like you really are prepared to do that, Ritor," he said in surprise. "Even though you know how that will turn out for you. Ladies and gentlemen of the council, I don't think that our honored guest is lying."
"Besides, Ritor was prepared to give his life for the principles he'd considered worthy of such a high price," another girl with loose hair the color of dancing flames that went down to the floor said suddenly. "He became the Dragonslayer because his conscience had demanded it. Just like ours had demanded us to remain loyal to the Winged Masters. There's no point in arguing whose principles are better, there's even less point in spilling blood or challenging our guest to a duel over that, which would violate the laws of hospitality. I believe Ritor and volunteer to go with him. There is no place for the Slayer in our world… especially if the Master is to return."
"That was a good speech, Liz," Siward's cheek twitched nervously. "Are you really prepared to go? But what if the honored Clearchus is right and… and the Slayer isn't the Slayer at all?"
Ritor chuckled to himself. Some of the Fiery ones really wanted for the Master to return. So much that they were prepared to declare anyone arriving from the Underside to be the Dragon reborn.
It happened occasionally.
Ritor shook his head and told them of the maddened train car.
Deathly silence was the response. There was no counter to such an argument. Dragons weren't capable of anything like that. They'd never lowered themselves to manipulating the minds of their subjects. They'd preferred to be hated than to maintain love for themselves with magic.
He saw the faces of the Fiery ones tense. What were they going to say now?
"I think we need to allow Liz to go," Siward said, not quite confidently.
So the flaming-haired girl was named Liz… Liz? Elizabeth? Was she from the Underside?
"But why not raise the entire clan if this really is the Slayer?" the girl replied immediately.
"Because we're at war with Torn!" Siward barked, compensating for the recent confusion and the ridiculous verbal clash with Ritor. "We've burned down three of his fortresses, so we can expect a retaliation! I can't abandon the clan. In order to let you go and close the gap in the ranks, we'll have to put up all the boys and girls from the senior grades!"
The corners of Ritor's mouth twitched. Even a dozen fifth- or sixth-rank mages wouldn't replace a second-rank mage. It was bad if Siward didn't understand that…
"I will try to get Liz back as soon as possible," the Air mage promised. "I also guarantee her safety."
"Are we going to fly?" the girl asked suddenly. It sounded like a purely operational interest, but Ritor also sensed hidden childlike expectation of enjoyment of foreign, untamed magic.
Ritor smiled, "Of course. As soon as the Hour of Power comes."
Footnotes
1) Elektrozavodskaya and VDNKh are stations of the Moscow Metro.
2) This is a subtle reference to one of Sergei Lukyanenko's novels, The Boy and the Darkness.