My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist (2 page)

That'
s what the vaunted combat magic, so dearly loved by dark mages, is all about.  The dark need not the brains and skill of reasoning; they brag about a bigger power channel and a faster reaction.  And Satal was trying to bring me (me!) down to the level of an uneducated village gangbanger.  Hands off me!

Noise, bustle
, and the primitiveness of the tasks infused me with an incredible case of the blues, and the stupid simulators of the undead made me laugh.  Regrettably, ordinary people don't see the difference between dark magic and otherworldly phenomena.  They are as different as a swarm of bees and a sawmill: both buzz, yet one will split you in two neat pieces, if you are careless, but may be neutralized with an iron stick, while the other…where is the switch that disables the attacking bees?  Everything created by a man bears the imprint of his mind, and to overcome the trickiest spell is much easier than to defeat a primitive, otherworldly, alien-to-all being.  Though it would be wiser to practice on the real thing, our superiors wouldn't allow bringing a real undead to the training ground, because flirtation with supernatural powers always ends badly.  While other cadets worked hard drawing hefty pentagrams on the soil strictly by the book, I did my job carelessly, only to disable the simulator - I outgrew this simple exercise.  Suddenly I caught the glance of our attentive instructor and panicked: I had muddied something so mind bogglingly destructive that now I was too scared to look at it.  Of course, my experiment exploded so violently that trees started swaying on the mainland shore.

"Tangor!" the corporal snarled, spitting sand out.

"Sorry!"  I squeaked and ran away from the instructor, trying to stay on the other side of the hole - made by my explosion - till the end of our class.

After
four hours of having fun, the corporal dismissed us, grimly swearing that next time he would teach us some good sense.  I went to the drawbridge while the others walked to the pier, to wait for the ferry.  Naturally, I rode my motorcycle to the island; otherwise I would have to get up an hour earlier to catch the ferry.  The rain didn't stop and became heavier. Roads were barely passable: ice covered the streets at night and mud covered them in the afternoon. In such weather I dreamt about riding an airship.

I fished
goggles out of my saddlebag and cleaned them thoroughly.  Despite the shield from the dirt and insects provided by my divider amulet, I needed extra protection: once, I skidded into the bush riding my motorcycle, and the amulet "winked" and almost poked my eyes out.  I do not like surprises!

"Tangor, hold on for a moment."
The corporal was behind me, radiating kindness.  That alerted me right away.  "Come with me."

I
thought for a moment about running away, but the bascules of the bridge weren't lowered yet. We left the bridge area and went to the opposite end of the island where there were a few wooden sheds - office buildings. The corporal brought me to one of them, which sported a sign that said "Warehouse". Its rough wooden shelves housed some magic equipment: boxes with chalk markers and mirrors, bags of salt, skeins of twine, rakes and shovels. Its cold vault, which looked like a grave, stored familiar visual aids: a piece of glass eaten by the
phoma
, a net made by the
predatory echo
, a ridge of the
water twirl
.  On a separate table there was the charred head of a
ghoul
with teeth of enormous size.  In the darkness of the room I did not notice when the corporal moved closer to me; I realized my mistake too late - when my hands were already cocked behind my back and my turned-out elbows cracked plaintively.  I panicked and tried to throw the offender over my thigh; he hooked me and professionally put me face down on the floor.  This bastard even set his knee on my lower back!

I sensed I would be
beaten...

"
Your work?" The sadist growled in my ear hinting at the
ghoul
and continued twisting my elbow.

Should I
say no?

"What
were you thinking, eh?  Where was your brain?!"

At that time
I didn't think.  Only later, listening to Ms. Kevinahari's lecture, did I realize how seriously I risked my life decimating the undead without any assistance from other mages.  The problem was that if a mage did not burn the infernal part of a
ghoul
fast enough after expelling it from its material body-carrier, the undead could start duplicating, and the dark mage would end up with many monsters instead of just one - if suitable carriers were available within the
ghoul's
reach. For example, my dog Max was converted into a zombie by the former chief of Redstone's "cleaners", who exchanged one big
ghoul
for a few of a smaller size while fighting, and died, unable to cope with them.  Of course, newly created
ghuls
were weaker than the original one, but a
ghul
is still a
ghoul
, right?

Perhaps
the pause in our conversation became noticeable.  The corporal angrily jabbed my face on the floor one more time and let me go.

"
Were you crazy?! Wanted to be a hero?" he asked.

Ha!
Far from it. Suspecting presence of such creatures on my clients' properties, I either drove off, advising owners to run away, or barricaded myself in their houses till the next dawn when the otherworldly were supposed to disappear or become weaker.  The situation at the farm the corporal referred to was special: I had no other choice but to fight the
ghouls
.

"
I did not expect the
ghouls
to be awake in the day time!"

"What difference
does it make?!"

"
It makes quite a difference in the consequences for people!"

At
night time
ghouls
invade human bodies much more easily, because sleepy people can't resist as strongly as when they are awake.

The corporal spat on the floor in a fit of temper.
"Indeed, a hero! Do you have any idea what a
ghoul
is capable of if it captures a magician's body?"

The undead
that obtained access to the Source of power?  I didn't want to know it!

"Do I care if I am dead?"
If my body had been invaded by the
ghoul
, the inhabitants of the farm would have been dead anyway, and the hastily-arriving "cleaners" would have disposed of my corpse along with its infernal part.

I did not feel
guilty. Looking into my shameless eyes, the corporal spat again (what a camel!) and concluded: "You'll be trained separately. And ask Satal to make a 'guardian' for you."

I nodded earnestly,
knowing for sure that I wouldn't pronounce this word in the presence of my dear mentor.  The "guardian" was an amulet given to all the "cleaners" to burn their corpses to ashes if they were killed. The amulet was specifically designed to prevent ghouls from invading bodies with the Source. No, I didn't need it.

The corporal
uttered one more curse and ordered me to get out.  He did not have to repeat.

I returned to Redstone, thinking that
only six months had passed since I signed a five-year contract with NZAMIPS, and my situation worsened by the day.  They did not pay a crown for my work, even for fussing with
witch's baldness
in Mihandrov.  It was unfair to me.  And folks wonder why dark magicians do not want to go into public service!

It was time to beat
up Quarters.  All my misfortunes befell me when I began working for him. Of course, I don't believe in all those Krauhardian stories about stolen luck, but my troubles started with my work for Biokin…Would I return to my previous luck if I get some satisfaction from him? Worth a try.

The idea of beating Quarters up stuck in my head. The next day, I went to the university wearing cheaper clothes: a sober Ron was a strong opponent, and I did not know how to darn shirts.

Bummer.  Quarters did not show up at the lectures.  Well, on M
onday it could happen to anyone, though Ron was not known as a heavy drinker.  Quarters missed Tuesday's classes, too.  Was he mocking me?  Only
Rustle
could warn him of my intentions, but to suspect
Rustle
of alerting Ron would be paranoid of me.  What should I do now: get angry with him, or sigh with relief?  At that moment something scratched at my brain -
Rustle
feared bothering me, but thought I should know that Ron was already in trouble without my part in his affairs.  I was puzzled: if the otherworldly started caring about Ron, he was in deep shit.

I called Ron's
parents' house during the next break between classes. I was aware that Quarters did not give his relatives keys to his apartment, but they ought to know what happened to him.

"I would like to speak to Ronald Rest," I
said suavely.

"Who is
looking for him?"

"This is his cla
ss monitor, from the university." They couldn't verify my status anyway.

"What do you want?"

"I want to talk to Ronald Rest."

"He is ill and
not at home now.  May I take a message for him?"

"Do not worry. 
I'll call later, at the end of the week."

I hu
ng up and thought for a moment. Last year's events really made me dislike when people talked about hospital treatments.  It reminded me of Mrs. Melons' clinic - they were engaged in illegal experiments on mages. Ron's mother probably still maintained her idiotic friendship with the artisan Melons.  She would not help me figure out what was going on. Suddenly I realized that there was someone whom the angry dark magician might ask a couple of questions.

Finding
Sam was not hard - the history club, of which the small dwarf was one of the regulars, held its meetings on Tuesday nights.  When I learned about Sam's membership, I began to regularly attend the club's seminars and relentlessly criticized his reports - he was giving really schizophrenic presentations. To make sure that the club's public would not misunderstand me, I prepared my own report about White Halak, with pictures and calculations from white (!) magic theory. For that, I deserved some respect.

The club's meeting
s were taking place in one of the main lecture halls; I was recognized by its members and even welcomed.  The topic of today's debate was the reign of King Girane - a brief heyday of the Inquisition period, which cost Ingernika dearly.  A freshman from the pharmacy faculty expounded on a highly simplified version of events and had no clue as to how an idea of goodness and purity had quickly turned evil (the girl-speaker belonged to the white mages).  I watched Sam out of the corner of my eye: the small dwarf was stressed out more than usual and almost did not listen to the presentation.  Why did he come then? It turned out to be for no apparent reason, because as soon as the discussion started, Sam stood up and walked to the door.  I needed to make a quick decision on where to intercept him.  There were two options: the men's washroom at the right end of the hallway, or a storage room to the left (I unlocked its door in advance).  If there were people in the hallway, I would have to capture him on the street, and there would be even more witnesses…

Sam turned to the left.  Once he came abreast
of the indiscernible door, I caught up with him in a jump and grabbed his shoulders. Out of fear, he did not resist. He was stunned.

"Hi!
I want to know what happened to our mutual friend. Right now." I pushed him into the storage room and shut the door.  "I do not know who you're talking about!" the stifled dwarf squeaked.

H
is eyes darted around. I smiled at him tenderly and affectionately. The dimness of the light bulb did not allow me to see the color of his face. I believed it was pale green.

"Have
n't I warned you that you cannot lie to a dark magician? I mean, to a real dark magician." My purring, trust-inspiring intonation was the best technique for interrogation. Well, I would not give him a chance to lie to me once again.

Sam tried to hide from me behind
the mops. That was just the beginning.  I was about to make him run away, shitting his pants, from any dark mage he would ever see in his life.

"Where is he?"

"I do not know anything!"

Perhaps
he really did not know; no one would involve a small shot in serious business.  Though I had some thoughts on that account...

I smiled
nastily, "Do you think I need your revelations? You will see that the ideas impressed onto you are far from reality.  I will return Ron home by midnight. Pray to God that he won't tell on you."

I left him
alone in storage, wondering if he wet his pants.

No, t
he corporal didn’t mop the floor with my face in vain: definitely, one of my forefathers was a half-baked hero.  Where did my rage stem from otherwise? Yes, Ron seemed to land in trouble because of his own stupidity.  But I did not have to interfere in his tussle with artisans. Their involvement was a matter of fact - no need to go to a fortune-teller.  I could whisper to the right people and let NZAMIPS deal with the artisans.  On the other hand, I didn't want to miss the "Quarters has been beaten" show. All the more so because finding Ron was really easy for me: I just had to step over my pride and ask the otherworldly. Good thing there was no one around to witness it.

I threw
bait to
Rustle
: 'Where are you, monster?' He didn't manifest himself, taking offense.  'I promise not to scare you; I'm in a good mood today.' The creature seemed to be figuring out what he could pull out of me in exchange for his service. 'Okay, my first and last suggestion: help me find Ron, and I'll forgive and won't scold you anymore. The rest will depend on your behavior. If you refuse, blame yourself, and you better forget about me.' I did not know how well
Rustle
understood my speech; I tried to articulate his choices clearly. An almost indiscernible picture appeared in my mind in response.  Of course, the monster lacked eyes and therefore "saw" things differently; the image he showed to me was sketchy; the real place could look quite dissimilar.  But the benchmarks were the river and a warehouse.  'This bank or the other?' - 'The other.' - 'Up or down current?' - 'Down.'  I tried to revive in my mind a map of the city and its suburbs.  'Before the garbage dock or after?' - 'Before.'

Excellent!
With
Rustle's
help, finding Ron was as simple as making a victory sign with my two fingers.

I rolled
around in my mind the image presented by
Rustle
and resolutely set off to the tram stop; on the move, I searched my pockets for the NZAMIPS "whistle" and called Max - I needed to be prepared for anything.  I did not want to use Satal's help, unless I absolutely had to; if the coordinator knew I overcame my aversion to the monster, he would take advantage of it.  The thought that it could be dangerous on the docks at night did not enter my mind.

I
immediately garnered plenty of occasions for heroism.

First
, it turned out that the last tram stop was quite a few blocks away from the warehouse. If I had known that, I would never have started this venture!  Secondly, the road had as many potholes as an abandoned mountain track in Krauhard: its cheap paving stone was smashed and sagged by horse hoofs, in some places up to three inches down; luckily, there was no slurping mud under my feet. It stopped raining for a change, but the weather was wet and cold.  I breathed the specific odor of an urban spring - the smell of melted snow and waste below it, accumulated over the winter.

I wal
ked through the labyrinth of dark alleys, carefully maneuvering between puddles and reflecting on what I was doing and why (timely, right?).  The dark mages don't have friends, only acquaintances, but Ron and I knew each other for a long time - since our first day at the university. We got used to each other and were able to forgive one another's lesser sins.  Then suddenly Shorty Sam appeared, and Ron became a close friend of his. If this dwarf had been worth something, it would not have been so hurtful…Why did Ron decide to spy on me and then lurk?  He was lurking for me, wasn't he? Perhaps he had a reason for his strange behavior, but I wasn't able to guess it. I ought to talk seriously with Quarters, and I intended to do it right away, regardless of his wish.

T
he image passed on by
Rustle
was quite different from what I saw with my own eyes; the monster "painted" things depending on the degree of his interest.  Buildings, for example, all looked almost the same to him, differing only by the character of their security magic; people he discerned by the extent of their magic abilities; he did not see their other traits.  To the images created by his own perception, the monster added pictures he borrowed from other people's brains. I recognized the needed warehouse by its security - a successful imitation of the warding perimeter, a sketch of which
Rustle
showed to me earlier. The imitation was indistinguishable from the real perimeter to a non-mage’s eye.

The light was on in the porter's booth, but the guard himself was not present, to my luck.

I looked at my pants, soiled with dung, and, seeing that Max was already waiting for me on the other side, dirty from ear to ear and happy, climbed over the gate.  (I would have to bathe my zombie-dog again. My landlady already looked at me askance - she didn't agree with having pets in her house.)  The main gate of the warehouse was locked with a large arch-lock, but the side door was ajar.  A trap or an oversight? In case of a trap, I would enter, say "Hi!", and get hit on the dome, hopefully not with a hammer.  I seriously pondered:  should I blow the "whistle" and bring the vaunted team of Captain Baer here? What if Quarters became friends with some company (unlikely, but not impossible), and they drank together? And the artisans existed only in my fevered imagination? I would look like an idiot! On the other hand, if my foreboding was correct and the artisans did exist…Cowardice is not typical for dark magicians, and even cautious ones are rare in people of my kin; but this time I felt my zombie-dog should go first.

Max entered the building through
a ventilation window under the roof - he just jumped through it into the room. A huge open space inside was cluttered with stacks of crates and barrels. It was dark, there were neither lights, nor candles, nor windows; even if there were, the sun was already below the roof, and the day was on the wane.  My dog, lurking in the twilight, smelled at least six people, nervously waiting for something, and one more body, obviously unhealthy, as the sour-tart odor of its injuries literally permeated the room.  Max could not identify the injured; my dog had not met Quarters before.

These must have been
Sam's friends, I thought, and they set an ambush for me.  What a sleazebag! I regretted that I did not beat him up in the storage room to instill some common sense.  Who could that injured person be? I did not care if it was a warehouse watchman, but what if Ron was the victim?
Rustle
wouldn't rustle in vain.

Well, I
was going to act unceremoniously, as always.

I
stepped in, tightly shut the door behind me, and moved to where Max spotted the ambush. As soon as I passed some invisible line, the lights came on. Three enemies were in front of me: one held a knife at Quarters' throat, another poked a crossbow in my direction, and the third was their boss. One more arbalester stood at the end of the passage on the right, and another one hid behind the boxes on the left - he probably thought I did not know about him. The last one who lit the light was not visible. My doubt that Ron was there of his own free will disappeared: the poor fellow was semiconscious and saw nothing.

Y
eah, he was beaten quite heavily…I stood still for some time, waiting for them to speak.  The crossbows were no danger to me; I long ago learned methods of defense against such weapons.  But the guy to the right aimed his knife at Quarters.  I would have defended myself, no matter how many attackers I had faced; but to protect Ron from the two arbalesters was beyond my power.  It didn't make sense to come here just to watch how Ron would be killed. Max's intervention would not change anything - the enemies were spread too far from each other. Besides, my zombie-dog had to take care of the sixth artisan who worked the light and was cautiously climbing to the upper floor. I did not understand his maneuver: he was either planning something or was about to flee.

"
You are trapped, Sorcerer," one man, who looked like their boss, shouted.

I shrugged;
I didn't mind if he wanted to deceive himself. Then I said, "Release the guy."

"If you try to cast,
he will die!"

"If he dies,
all of you will be dead." My eyes became accustomed to the dim light; now I clearly saw their leader: an elderly man, not a magician, with thick gray hair, was hung from head to toe with defensive amulets.  His amulets could help against self-taught mages, but they were generally useless against professionals like me.  I could have made a weaving that would have completely broken his toys, but it wouldn't go unnoticed. A lousy situation.