My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist (5 page)

Already in the doorway I was caught up with another great idea:

"Teacher, may I ask a question?"

"Well?"

"Why is
Rustle
capable of reasoning?"

"Mystery of n
ature. Think less of such things, and you will live longer!"

* * *

In the senior coordinator's office, Edan Satal and Rona Kevinahari were having tea (Siamese, without milk and sugar, in small porcelain cups).

"Look at him, a taxidermist," the dark
magician muttered under his breath.

"
That incident with the necromancer was your fault," Rona said quietly; her face did not bear the slightest trace of tears or damaged makeup. "I asked you to read his profile."

"What does his profile have to do with it?" Satal frowned.

"I see you haven't read it," the empath sighed. "You should not communicate with Fatun so much. I understand that you have known him for years and you fit well together, but he tends to deliberately simplify the interpretation of reality to justify his use of force. It's contagious!"

Satal grinned,
"This is the first time I've heard a 'cleaner' called a belligerent idiot so politely."

"That's exactly what I meant
," the empath serenely retorted.

"Do not cling to the words!
And I've read his file; there was nothing special in it."

The empath sighed
, "Dan, this promising young man grew up in the family of a white magician. He had dark teachers, but he is not used to the constant pressure and tight control. No one seriously drilled him; nevertheless, he achieved a lot as a mage, and that's why you chose him as your disciple. Hence, there is something in his character that allows him to do the right things, not out of habit and not out of pressure from his elders. A typical dark mage obeys the orders of his superiors because he knows that it is the easiest way to achieve success, stand on par with the more respected magicians, and become someone's superior himself eventually. All those rituals of suppression are needed to direct a dark mage's energy on the right track. You're habitually applying the same methods of upbringing to this one. But don't you see his resistance?"

Satal vaguely chuc
kled. The empath shook her head: "He wastes a lot of energy protecting himself from your influence. Dan, your superiority is not obvious to him! He is senior in his family! He took responsibility for his relatives too early in life. He does not want to imitate anyone - he grew out of it. If you want to retain him as your student, you have to change yourself."

"
What changes do you mean?" the coordinator turned an empty cup upside down on the saucer. "To pay him for my lessons? Or wait patiently until he becomes more mature?"

"Wa
s he a slow learner?"

"No, but
…"

Satal did not
finish his answer, and the empath continued for him, "He learned from you when he saw some benefit from your lessons. Don't position yourself as a role model. Let him see the advantages that you can provide.  He is very judicious for a dark mage, don't you see that? You need to constantly justify why you do what you do, if you want to continue mentoring him. It would be a great experience for you!"

The coordinator snorted.

"Give me a method," he suggested, resting his chin on his hands.

The empath thought for a second.
"When teaching him new curses, describe the situations which forced you to use them. Tell him your life stories, too! People learn better in the presence of some emotional connection to the content. Emotional learning is about developing motivation. Let him understand the world is too complex, and it's only to his benefit to master as many skills as he can. Lure him into learning from you."

"Such an approach will
give Fatun a stroke."

"You are not Fatun!
But do as you please."

"I'll fi
gure it out," Satal leaned back in his chair with a satisfied look. "Do you think Charak will find the right approach to the boy?"

"Are you kidding?
Charak - Ralph the Gray Weaver - has been teaching disciples his entire life. I believe every necromancer is a psychologist. You'll see for yourself: his velvet glove hides an iron fist."

Satal started laughing,
"I've seen already.  He chose to stay on the base of our 'cleaners', and he drove the local caretaker out of his room so politely that the poor fellow was happy to give in. I lack this skill."

"Practice!" the empath advised him very seriously.

I was r
eady to sacrifice my health and sleep for the sake of graduation but, fortunately, real necromancy had nothing to do with my layman assumptions about it, as Charak told me. We periodically dealt with corpses -exclusively human - but didn't drain infants of blood, didn't gut cats, or dig up graves.

"Where are you going to find a quality animal corpse, young man?" the old necromancer
shot out venomous remarks. "Unless you intend to take a knife yourself. And most importantly, why work with animals, if you are to deal with human remains anyway?"

True,
why bother with animals? The corpses were delivered to us from the morgue, already washed, quiet, and peaceful. After the completion of our rituals we sent them back, and they looked almost the same as when they arrived.

During our first lesson, w
e agreed on the schedule: Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, because on Wednesday and Friday I was taking hand-to-hand combat training. (As far as I know, I was the first dark magician to professionally learn to fist fight.) Then Charak wanted to see my zombie and, smacking his lips with delight, he palpated Max from head to toe for two full hours.

"A great job!
You know, young man, not every necromancer can stabilize a spontaneous zombie. I would not risk my life on the success of such an experiment. But it turned out great. Especially - his hair."

"Oh, I am sorry.
" (I was slightly ashamed – the "cleaners" had helped me with Max's hair). "It's just a good shampoo."

The necr
omancer pulled at his gray eyebrow: "Will you share your recipe with me?"

"No problem!"
I didn't mind sharing the cleaners' recipe; it wasn't mine anyway.

The necromancer carried a small
notebook, with a pen and a tiny blotter; it was very much like Uncle Gordon's.

"So, young man," the old magician said satisfacto
rily upon finishing his writing, "what do you know about necromancy?"

"It's a magical
action on a human body to simulate life," I reported dutifully.

He win
ced, "That's a superficial definition. And in reality?"

I sigh
ed heavily.  What did he want from me?

Charak thoughtfully
pointed his finger up, "First, let's agree: if you want to resurrect your dead relatives, or talk with the spirits of your forefathers, or travel to the other world, do not ask me for help; it is mysticism. Necromancy does not deal with this stuff."

Well, he
did intrigue me.

"
We don't know if a human has a soul and where it goes after death. One thing we do know is that a human death (especially a violent death) leaves the imprint of the deceased's essence on the surroundings, and magic (either white or dark!) can read that imprint. Such imprints can be found on every object that was near a person at the moment of his or her death. Both the white and the dark mages, and even the otherworldly," he nodded in Max's direction, "can fill these imprints with their vital energy; but only a properly trained necromancer can perform this manipulation with a stable and predictable outcome. Remember young man, necromancers do not rescue dying people; that's the healers' job. A dead man raised by you will never be the same person he was before his death; he'll be more or less an accurate copy of himself. And this copy will exist by different rules than its live original - that's what all half-baked necromancers usually fail to remember."

I immediately
recalled a few stories regarding this matter. Perhaps, Charak knew plenty of them.

"The
basic rule is simple: 'a raised dead - a zombie - is nowhere near alive'. It is a copy, an imitation developed by magic, which exists beyond the laws of nature and requires harmonizing spells for its stabilization, like the ones you regularly apply to your creation. Therefore, the goal of your training is to develop the ability to sense the essence imprint of a dead human and to master the skills to create and retain its imitation."

And he taught
me how to create these trembling, unstable weaves, so weightless that the energy I spent on their development was not enough even to light a candle. They tickled my nerves, fogged my consciousness, and instantly vanished, as soon as I was distracted. Later, Charak started adding to my weaving some of his own, and our ethereal creations danced in the space, penetrating each other, coexisting, but not mixing. This magic overpowered me more than strong moonshine!

Th
e lessons were not tiresome at all, though they led me to a scattered state of mind, and I ought to devote the last fifteen minutes of every class to meditation.  Otherwise, I couldn't get back home. This strange after-effect of absentmindedness lasted for a couple of days: that's for how long after Charak's lessons I retained a good-natured mood, atypical for the dark. Nobody and nothing could get me out of balance at that time; absolutely everything seemed right and appropriate. From early morning to late night I was on the move: the university, Biokin, all kinds of consultations, endless training, but it wasn't annoying or boring. In the evening, I fell asleep instantly, as soon as my head touched the pillow. Rakshat muttered something about my questionable training, but I did not want to look into his allusions. Mr. Darkon invited me to talk, looked at my serene face for a while, and let me go without saying a word. My professors of alchemy reservedly asked about my readiness of my thesis defense, and in reply I was giving them a lecture on the prospects of modified micro-organisms (Polak would have hung himself from envy to hear my rhetoric), until they would shut me down and send me off - it was the only thing that made me a little disappointed. In other words, I felt and behaved like a typical white mage nearly all the time - I practiced necromancy three times a week.

Rare moments of awakening wer
e painful, like an icy shower. Every Sunday, I went to a meeting with the senior coordinator, overcoming with valiant effort my reluctance to get up at 6 a.m. The same training ground that served me for my necromantic lessons transformed into a branch of the Inquisition. Let's face it, I had too many overqualified teachers. Starting with the "corporal" in the rank of colonel, who was Satal's first instructor in combat magic (that's why their combat styles looked similar) and the head of the local "cleaners" - the Regional Division of Supernatural Phenomena Liquidation. Fatun loved to personally greet and teach young recruits, perhaps, because his more senior subordinates did not hesitate to whack him in the face for his roughness. Two kindred souls - Satal's and the corporal-colonel's - merged in ecstasy when they trained me; they chased me on par around the polygon, following their own "special program". I sweated and jumped, thinking that I would never need their program to fight zombies. They coached me for confrontation with other mages, forcing me to instantly pull out shields, throw nets of weavings, and deflect the Elements. Did Satal want to raise his own army in Redstone? I even pondered reporting on the senior coordinator to his superiors in the capital!

After
Satal and Fatun's training, all the blissful contemplation induced by Charak's lessons was vanishing without a trace.

I stared grimly
at my pants, burnt in two spots; soon I would have to buy a new pair of pants for my classes with the necromancer: the old man, pedantic in the extreme, would say nothing, but look askance at me if I wore torn clothes.

"You must be prepared for anything!" Satal noticed didactically.  He was fresh and vigorous, as if he had not hurled spells
at me for two full hours without a break. This scumbag always gets off scot-free!

"We are done with studying classic attack
s," the senior coordinator elaborated his thought. "At the next lesson, we'll learn the nuances that amulets bring to combat magic."

I sighed,
"Sir, tell me honestly, are we going to war with Kashtadar?"

Satal laughed contentedly,
"Your thinking, kid, is on the wrong track." He was in a good mood. "If Ingernika had had an external enemy, you wouldn't have needed these skills: in war, the winner is defined by blunt power. But in peacetime, as an employee of NZAMIPS you will likely face a treacherous attack of some outcasts, and I do not mean crazy white idiots. Why do you think no one dares to resist NZAMIPS? Because of our reputation! And this reputation must be retained."

"Are you alluding
to a duel?"

The sham
"corporal" guffawed abominably. Satal glanced at him and shook his head disapprovingly: "They will call it a duel, if you win. In reality, you can be assaulted suddenly, unexpectedly, and without any special reason, because dark mages do not hesitate to attack. There are plenty of psychos, and we need to tame them. Do you think mage-perpetrators agree to wear
the shackles of deliverance
? Ha-ha!"

The
newly revealed prospect did not please me: "Do you mean I will be arresting mages?" Indeed, it was my lifelong dream to tinker with unruly mages!

"Who knows?
I participated in an arrest for the first time while still being an intern - when I dropped by the guardhouse to have tea," he smiled again; these memories seemed to amuse him. "Local detectives besieged a smuggler, he was a half-pint and a weak, self-taught mage, but he fought us tooth and nail so that we barely managed to apprehend him. By the way, only a single combat with a licensed mage will be considered a duel - the winner of which takes the magic seal of the loser."

Yeah, l
ike a souvenir from the grave. For twenty years they taught me that use of dark magic tricks in fighting was not good, that NZAMIPS would come and punish you; and now I heard another tune: I was NZAMIPS myself, and that would be me handing out that same punishment. No, I was not frightened, but the whole thing sounded so primitive! Where was the triumph of the spirit, the intellect, the moral superiority in all that, after all? Throw a weaving in the face and a curse in the ass of a criminal - that's all combat magic is!

Satal noticed my hesitation and squinted:

"Or you'll wait till an uncle "cleaner" will come and do the dirty job for you?!"

I shook my head.
Surely, I would prefer to fight people with my brains than with my fists, but learning a couple of tricks wouldn't hurt me. How could I explain my doubts so that he would understand?

"Sir, are you sure that I will
ever meet an enemy worth my current efforts?"

That was it, exactly!
Most offensive of all would be to learn all this combat magic crap and find out that I could not apply it.

The senior coordinator took a deep breath
: "Kid, believe me, you will find enough foes among dark mages. There will always be a fool willing to test the hardness of the gates with his own forehead.  Fatun, what's your score?"

"Three," the
"corporal" grinned.

Hmm.
Three duels weren't that many, considering his wicked character.

"
Mine is five!" Satal announced proudly. "You will meet enough of them too, kid. It'll be a pity if the government heavily invests in your education, and then some snotty dropout crushes you for your arrogance."

Excellent,
I had to work hard in order to save money for the government! In short, Satal did not convince me of the usefulness of his lessons, because the only magician against whom I wished to apply the combat magic art was he himself.

Finally,
it came to my mind to ask Charak whether such multidiscipline training was a usual thing. With his four hundred years of experience in dark magic, he had certainly come across similar situations! Yeah, four hundred years of service, it was an incredible record. Magicians live long, and necromancers - even longer. Charak remembered the Inquisition epoch and even the reign of King Girane (though he was a five-year-old kid at the time); naturally, with such life experience he looked at things from a special perspective and was willing to share it with his student. By the way, Charak finally satisfied my long-standing curiosity: why dark magician Saint Roland was called "the Bright". "It was a compromise," Charak smiled conspiratorially. "Because he used to hit in the face those who called him Roland the White."

To
clarify why my training was so many-sided, I needed to turn the conversation with Charak in the right direction. This task was not simple, because when the old necromancer began talking, I became so thrilled that I easily forgot with what I intended to start our talk. To make sure that I would get the answer I was interested in I wrote myself a note and kept it in front of me, greatly amusing the necromancer with that.

Meanwhile Charak started his lecture with a smile
: "You're practically a degreed magician. Can you formulate the basic principles of necromancy?"

Oops.
I was hoping that he would put the material in my beak already chewed!

"Well," my brains
almost perceptibly creaked, "the basis of necromancy is weavings; in other words, dynamic curses. The dynamic curses are based on equating a flow of thoughts to a flow of ethereal energy." In the senior year of our university program, we just touched lightly on the relevant sections of magic: their mastering required a certain talent, bore deadly risk, the result was unpredictable, and the university did not want casualties among students, especially shortly before their graduation. What I was practicing with Charak was, a priori, very dangerous. Dark students were taught professional safety for many more hours than the secrets of magic, so my memory obligingly gave out dribs and drabs of relevant material. Some spells (so-called "dynamic curses") were especially dangerous due to the relatively high likelihood of backfire - energy poured into a spell could hit the mage casting the spell. It is common knowledge that combat mages often kill themselves, so no wonder that magicians tried to avoid the dynamic curses wherever possible.  Recalling how my necromantic amulets heated up after a spell casting, I could imagine what happened to the brains of mages under a backfire - if they made a mistake. But I knew nothing of the risks a successful spell could generate.