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 15

Stretching out on the stones that were pleasantly cooling her weary body, Loy Iver was lapping water from the stream. It would've looked ridiculous to any passerby. A beautiful woman in torn clothing was lying in a strange position uncomfortable to a human, her chin was swaying over the fast streams of water, her pink tongue kept darting in and out of her mouth, then she'd throw quick glances to the sides before leaning back down…

But there were no passersby. No one cared about the overgrown hollow she'd stopped to rest after fleeing Ritor and his squad. Only a curious titmouse was hopping on the branches, looking at the unexpected guest. Loy squinted, glanced at it, and said quietly, "Meow!"

The titmouse didn't react.

Loy laughed, shaking off the tension that was still in her blood. Clever, noble Ritor! Oh how she'd tricked him! He was probably furious! But he'd eventually understand that she was right. She only hoped he wasn't going to vent his anger on the poor peasant… But no, Ritor wasn't like that. He would first make sure before killing. And he wasn't going to touch an innocent man. He might even pay him generously from the treasury of the Air Clan. It was so beautiful! The way the wind had howled, summoned by the will of the mage, twisted into a tight noose! The way Kevin… such a fine-looking man… had pulled out his silver sword! The flared power of the Fiery girl! She was going to have to remember her. Who knew, maybe she might one day lead her clan…

"Resting, Loy?"

The water in the stream began to seethe and rose like a hill. White foam marked Torn's hair and thick eyebrows, while two tiny eddies formed the eyes. The caricature, glassy, flowing face of the Water mage was looking at Loy Iver from the surface of the stream.

"Jerk!" Loy barely managed to suppress a yelp. "You… you frightened me!"

The transparent mask laughed and bubbled. Two tiny waves—the mage's lips—rolled apart, and Torn spat a thin jet of water right into Loy's face.

"Asshole!" She was already in full control of herself but remained indignant. Let Torn indulge in his vanity. Then again, the Water mage had something to be proud of, having managed to find her and reach to the weak strand of Power that was feeding the stream.

"All right, don't be upset," Torn said peaceably. "You should've seen your face… About time you got some payback for laughing at a poor, old mage…"

"When did I ever laugh at you?" Loy asked indignantly. She sat near the stream and stirred the water with a casual gesture, causing a ripple of wrinkles to run across Torn's face. "It's not nice to hurt a weak woman…"

"Uh-huh, as if anyone could hurt you…" Torn's face spun around and floated on the surface. A long thin tongue stuck out, quickly licked Loy's ankle, and fell apart in a crystal spray. "You should think about Ritor instead. Our dear friend is beside himself and is threatening to skin you alive…"

So Torn was watching what was happening!

Frightened, Loy nearly jerked away from the stream.

"What's wrong?" Torn asked spitefully. "You've managed to trick the Airy one so well… I'm impressed! Seriously, thank you! Ritor nearly ruined all my plans."

He sounded sincere, and Loy nodded, accepting his gratitude. After a moment's hesitation, she asked, "Torn, why did your Punishers pursue Victor? They tried to kill him in Luga…"

"Ah, so you already know everything," Torn bubbled in satisfaction. "I've always been amazed how the Cat Clan manages to be aware of all that is happening…"

"Was it just a diversion?" Loy wouldn't let him dodge the question. "To confuse Ritor?"

"Not only that, Loy…" Torn fell into thought, the transparent mask kept submerging to the bottom and then surfacing. More water was clearly appearing in the stream, as magic was sucking up all the juices from the spring. "All right. I can tell you something. The Slayer gets Power from combat. The hatred of battle is what feeds him, what gives him power over the elements. Poor Gotor… he volunteered to do it. He teased the Slayer. Wound him up. Destroyed those near him. Until the Slayer accepted the Power of Water."

"So then Ritor got in his own way?" Loy exclaimed. "He struck Victor and helped him realized the Power of Air?"

Torn's lips spread in a smile.

"You play carefully, Torn." Loy shook her head. "You look far ahead…"

She wanted to say that, with such abilities, sometimes it would be good to look back too, but the Cat prudently held her tongue. She'd learned much of what she wanted to know. And she'd managed to say nothing to the Water mage.

"Now you're going to try to figure out what the other details of Slayer initiation are…" Torn furrowed his brow. "Don't waste your time, Loy. You're not an Elemental, so that knowledge is useless to you."

"Really? So what do you suggest I do?" Loy asked sarcastically.

"Make love, for example." Torn laughed.

He was so confident at a distance! Loy smiled, "Honey! You have no idea how much I want you! The memories are all that's keeping me warm."

"Well, I'm not promising any warmth. As for the rest…"

The water in the stream swelled up, exposing the bottom. Tiny fishes flapped about on the sand in fright. A water statue, a carbon copy of Torn, was standing before Loy. Fast eddies were spinning in the transparent body, tight streams of currents were flowing. A fish that had accidentally ended up in the living water was making frightened circles in his chest, as if parodying a beating heart.

Torn—well, his double—was naked. An excellent copy! Although there was one thing the mage had decided not to copy exactly…

"Whoa…" was all Loy could say when looking at Torn.

"Yep," Torn confirmed smugly. He reached out and started to roughly pull the tatters of the dress off Loy.

"Listen, I value you greatly, but as for hydrophilia…" the Cat tried to protest. But the aroused mage wasn't listening to any objections, tearing off her clothes with the excitement of a teenager finding himself with a woman for the first time.

Then again, maybe it would be fun.

Loy forced herself to respond to the kiss of those cold and wet lips and lay down on the grass. The transparent statue with impressively-sized "equipment" hovered over her.

"I am mighty!" the mage exclaimed.

Oh…

Shocked, Loy was desperately trying to figure out if she liked this. Maybe if the water was warmer… otherwise, it was like using a garden hose…

"Harlot…" the mage exhaled sweetly. "Oh, Loy!"

The water inside him seethed, and the fish was carried away by a stream.

"Loy…" the mage moaned.

The transparent face smiled dumbly, the eye eddies narrowed. Torn realized too late that he couldn't control the Power anymore.

"Sor—" he gurgled when the water, no longer bound by magic, flowed over Loy.

Utterly soaked, her skin covered in goosebumps from the cold, Loy Iver was rolling around on the grass in a fit of hysterical laughter.

Oh Torn…

It wasn't the size that mattered! No, she couldn't say that it had been entirely unpleasant. If the water was in a warm bath and after a hard day's work… It was nice to combine the pleasant and the useful: sex and shower.

But now wasn't the time for laughter. She had to save the poor fish.

Victor would've happily given in to sleep. The cart was rolling, the horse's hooves were clopping, the wooden wheels were squeaking, Telle was whispering with the driver, occasionally laughing with him quietly. Sometimes other carts would come from the opposite direction; Basil would exchange reserved but polite greeting with their drivers. One time, a carriage with four horses sped past them. The carriage was being escorted by four soldiers in uniforms that was oddly reminiscent of one worn by French musketeers. Plus, there were armed not only with long rapiers but also massive heavy muskets.

"Look at those Earthen ones go!" Basil said after them in admiration. "Once you're a mage, you'll be riding like this, with guards and ceremony."

Victor crouched while staring at the carriage. Nothing special. The windows were firmly shut, and the guards didn't look like mages.

"Want some milk?" the driver asked. "Got to finish it before it goes bad."

After drinking some warm fatty milk without much enjoyment, Victor lay down again. It really would be nice to get some sleep…

And wake up on the shore, under the sunless sky? To Glutton's joy?

He was already thinking about that constant participant of his dreams as a living person. Unpleasant, spiteful, cynical, but still worthy of some respect. The damned cook… what did all his hints mean? Should he go to sleep and finally get some answers? No, it wouldn't work, in Glutton's world, everything obeyed his laws…

Glutton's world — the World of the Naturalborn?

There was nothing unusual in that thought. If the visions weren't a coincidence—and Victor didn't believe in such coincidences—then he had to look for the source of the dreams among the Naturalborn. Among those even the powerful mages feared…

"They're bastards!" Basil suddenly exclaimed. It seemed he and Telle had been arguing for some time now.

"Have you actually seen the Dragons for yourself?" Victor sat up at Telle's words, but the girl didn't turn to look at him. Her voice was ringing with fury, "You're just a boy!"

Basil jerked from that, "What's wrong with you? Are you not well in the head? As if you've seen them!"

"I know!"

"How?" The driver laughed nervously. "How should you know? Hey, Victor, why is your sister—"

"I know!" Telle's voice rose to a screech. "The Earth still remembers the footsteps that could crush mountains! It was hard for it to support the Dragons, even mountains were lighter than their hearts! The Air howled in pain when the Dragons spread their wings! Hurricanes would change their path just to avoid running into them! Seas boiled from their breath! Rivers dried up if the Dragons sated their thirst from them! They kept themselves warm inside volcanoes! Their scales burned brighter than the sun!"

Silence fell. The horse neighed and switched to a trot. Basil was staring at Telle in shock, slowly moving away from her along the seat. Then he exclaimed, "That's what I'm saying, they were all bastards! Thankfully, the mages rid us from the Masters!"

Telle laughed unkindly.

"Oh, boy," her voice was gentle, but it cut like a razor. "Did you think that I was cursing at the Dragons? Oh, you are so wrong. They were the flesh of the earth and the breath of the sky. Their soul flowed through every spring, and their light pushed away the night. The enemy couldn't get close to the Middle World while it was under the protection of the Dragons. If you'd seen the flight of a Dragon in the night sky, boy… you'd have dropped to your knees, frozen, unable to look away! And when the Dragon disappeared in the sky, you'd no longer be the same. And if you'd had the strength… if you'd had the spirit…"

She laughed.

If he'd had the strength?

Victor felt a crimson fog fall over his eyes. Telle and the driver were disappearing in it, as were the road and the cart coming towards them.

"Yes, their fury was terrible, boy! But their love was brighter than lightning too! It was love that destroyed them. The Dragons couldn't be stronger than the Slayer… whose strength was just one thing: hatred!"

The crimson fog…

Your power was over the world. Cities burned after forgetting their fear over the Winged Masters. They burned with crimson flame… Your power was over people. And those who stood against you with a sword fell, covered in blood. Crimson blood.

It's time for a reckoning.

It's not the blood or fire, my eyes are getting dark. From the gleam of black armor, from the glint of a sword. He's strong, the last Dragon. The one who truly will be the last. Very strong: each blow is death itself. But a Slayer doesn't feel any wounds — what are wounds to one whose flesh is stone, whose soul is an ice blizzard, whose movements are faster than flowing water, whose strength is a burning flame.

Who managed to sneak up behind me? Your woman, Last Dragon? How ridiculous, she's risking joining our fight! A blow with the flat edge to keep her away, and the girl falls, stunned. The man in black armor screams in fury, but he doesn't have any strength left, too much is boiling in his soul: love, fear, desperation, and only then hatred. The man screams and looks away for a moment, staring at the fallen woman…

You're done walking the Earth, Dragon!

A blow, and the white metal saber cuts through the legs of the knight in black.

You're not going to spread your wings, Dragon!

A blow, and blood boils on the blade, and a thin sword falls into the sticky mud.

I take away your life, Dragon!

A blow, and the black armor cracks, peeling off his body.

The light has faded for you, Dragon!

A blow, and the blond hair darkens, and I see the Dragon's eyes.

Very young eyes.

I lower the blade. The last of the Dragons stands in front of me on his knees, no longer having the strength to stand. Life is leaving him, with each heartbeat, with each breath.

And yet he can still speak.

"Are you happy, Slayer? Does my death warm your soul?"

I stand still. Dragons are treacherous.

"Do you really think that… a Dragon can be slain? For good?"

He's taking a long time to die. So much strength in his body, even as a man.

"Time will come, Ritor. Time will come, Dragonslayer!"

Flame in his eyes — golden flashes, the glowing way into nothingness, a tunnel through which the Dragon's soul is speeding away. Speeding far away, and that flight can't be interrupted. Not even the sword or the Power of the four elements can help here.

"Time will come, and you will curse this moment. You're going to look for a Dragon to defend you. You're going to kill yourself, Ritor. Kill without understanding what you're doing. You will once again do evil in the name of good, Ritor…"

I swing my blade—the silvery steel slices through the air—how dare he prophesy, that pathetic dying creature. I mustn't listen to the words of the slain Dragon!

But the Air, the obedient Air, betrays me. And the Dragon manages to smile through the blood.

The crimson blood…

The Last Dragon is gone from the Middle World.

Having gone through the initiation, absorbing the four elements, I lower the blade. The white steel crumbles to dust after drinking in the life of the Winged Masters.

As it was decided.

The Slayer loses Power when the last of the prey is dead.

Leaving only hatred.

The woman who was with the Dragon rises from the ground. She takes a step, falls, then crawls to the last of the defeated Masters. She's still alive, as she is not a Dragon.

There are no female Dragons!

I scream, realizing my mistake. I should've killed her first! What can I do now: unarmed, losing Power, once again feeling the cold rain and the burning flame. What can I do to the woman sitting next to the body of the Dragon I've slain?

I squeeze my fingers over her thin neck. Push the woman down with my whole body. She's not even resisting. Shuddering from the sobbing, suffocating, gulping down air while staring in to the eyes of the former Slayer.

I have no idea how it happens then.

The hatred boiling in my blood is at fault. I take the woman right next to the Master's corpse.

The rain slashes at our bodies, clumps of white smoke reach out from the burned forest, when I finally find the strength to look into her eyes. Into the even yellow flame that looks so much like dragon fire.

"Kill me!" she asks silently.

"Leave…"

"I have nowhere to go anymore. And no reason to live, Ritor, Dragonslayer."

We don't need words, the hatred has joined us in a bond stronger than love.

"I can't now. Leave. I'm letting you go. You're not a threat to the Middle World. It doesn't need you. Leave. The Underside will accept you and finish what I started."

The flame in her eyes burns brighter.

"Is that right, Ritor? Are you sure about that, Slayer?"

"Our quarrels echo in the world of those that lack Power. Fire and death will meet you at the end of the trail. You're not going to survive anyway. Leave."

"I don't know if you're doing good or evil. But, in either case, you're making a mistake, Slayer…"

The woman rises, and the Trail opens at her feet. I rise from the ground that has been desecrated with violence and death, and the Middle World that no longer has the Winged Masters lies before me.

The Power has left me first. Now it is time for the hatred to go.

I turn around, trying to make out the woman of the last Dragon through the rain. But only see the golden gleam of her red hair through the darkness.

Crimson darkness…

It's going to live in my eyes now…

"Hit him over the head!" Basil's voice was anxious and scared. "Hit him with a stick to get all the foolishness out! He'll thank you later!"

"Just try it…" Victor forced his eyes to open. The bloody haze was still there, but the hatred burning the Slayer's soul was gone. The frightened faces of Telle and the driver were swaying over him.

"What?" Basil asked in surprise. "I've been hit with a stick plenty of times to stop saying nonsense! Nothing wrong with that… Come to your senses? Not going to scream or fight now?"

His hands were still shaking from the weight of the white metal saber, from the fear and the revulsion, from the fight at the edge of the world. Pushing Telle away, Victor crawled to the edge of the cart, bent over, and vomited onto the dusty road.

"The milk's gone bad," Basil decided. "That has to be it. Heat exhaustion. And then those fairy tales of yours!"

Telle didn't answer. She waited for Victor to wipe his lips with some hay and lie down again.

"People told me not to speak of the Dragons too much!" Basil exclaimed. "I didn't believe them! Maybe I should kick you off the cart, don't need any trouble here!"

Getting no reaction in reply, Basil, still grumbling, climbed onto the driver seat. He shook the reins, urging the horse on.

"What did you see?" Telle asked in a whisper. "What?"

Victor lay there, covered in sticky sweat. His body was still recovering, refusing to believe that it was a sunny day, not a gray haze, in which he was the Dragonslayer, who had ended the rulers of the Middle World.

"I was the Slayer…"

"Again?"

"I… I slew the last Dragon. It was so easy. He wasn't himself… torn between the thirst for battle, the fear for his woman, the desire to avenge, and the hope to survive. Too many emotions, too many desires. And I wanted just one thing: to destroy."

"And you succeeded."

There was no mockery in Telle's voice, just a dry statement of fact.

"Yeah," Victor replied, matching her tone. "Almost…"

"Why almost?"

"I let the woman who was with him go. She wasn't a Dragon… so I could do it. But first…"

Victor grimaced from the memory.

"Tell me!" Telle demanded.

"I raped her. Without… without any lust. It was the hatred seeking a way out."

Their eyes met. Telle shook her head, "Don't blame yourself. It wasn't you."

"Yeah. It was Ritor, The Air mage, chosen and initiated. Ritor the Dragonslayer. But…" Victor took a breath, "I'm the same. My soul is also the soul of a Slayer."

Telle said nothing.

"You… you were praising Dragons…"

"No! I was only saying what they were like."

"Still. A man has no right to slay a Dragon."

"He does when he's equal to one. Ritor was. He challenged him and won. It would be a lie to accuse him of treachery. He was wrong about something else: letting the woman go."

"Why? I remember… I remember his thoughts. She wasn't a Dragon."

"She was the Dragon's woman. And could… could have become a mother to a Dragon."

Victor closed his eyes, "No, Telle… No. She couldn't have. She never had a chance to do that… you see? She'd never been with anyone before Ritor."