My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist (6 page)

BOOK: My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist
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"
Is that all you know?" Charak gave a sad smile. "Did you ponder over it at all? Making an imitation of a being as complex as yourself doesn't go unpunished. Initially, a necromancer recreates a human whom he is going to raise in his own mind. And the part of his brain which will be occupied by the other person's imprint will never be the same thereafter. On top of this, our spell craft requires fine-tuning to varying circumstances; hence, it is useless to memorize necromantic curses. Instead, you should learn the general principles of our art."

Charak observed how my face changed expressi
on and nodded with satisfaction: "The main occupational risks for necromancers are madness and the loss of one's own personality to an outside entity; any safety against this is fundamentally impossible. Death per se leans toward the lowest of our risks. Our professional hazards are a side effect of the reconstruction in our mind of the alien personalities that we raise."

And how wonderful it all began!
Though there clearly was a catch somewhere.

"Is it
very harmful?"

"
In most cases, not so much. The effect is observed for two to three days, usually no longer, if the ritual is performed by the book. A serious risk arises only when a necromancer tries raising a corpse alone - that is, when he attempts to retain in his mind all aspects of the alien personality. But we, as you've seen, are not engaged in this."

Yes, that was true.
Charak strongly opposed my attempts to create a more or less functional zombie to collect firewood for our bonfire. Now I knew he was not guided by ethics; the necromancer had safety in mind!

"Are you scared?"

A silly question! Dark mages are not afraid of anything, but I did start having some doubts regarding the path I chose.

Charak smiled blissfully and
a bit madly: "You are worried about what you might lose, and you don't think about what you can gain! Look at me - I haven't lost myself after raising thousands of zombies. If the integrity of your personality is not lost, you will restore yourself sooner or later and you'll likely be more perfect and complete. There is some benefit that cannot be obtained in any other way…"

"Zombies?" I ventured to suggest.

"This is secondary," the necromancer brushed me off. "A human understands another human by identifying with him, by reading the other person's mind through his gestures, looks, intonations. However, everyone remains alone in his or her own world from birth to death, as in a shell that other humans can penetrate only as a pale shadow. But a necromancer is capable of crossing the impenetrable shell - I mean an opportunity to live the lives of dead people raised by us.  A chance to acquire talents which you have not been endowed with in your own life, to try new feelings, visions, ideas that you would have never learned on your own.  You know," the necromancer's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, "it makes you quiver better than any wine. But at the same time it's the reason why you cannot raise a zombie with its memory fully intact, when you act alone. If you incorporate the entire personality of a deceased being, the latter will likely replace or change forever your self-identity."

Charak paused:
either he ran out of steam, or he was giving me time to reflect on what he said. Recent oddities acquired a frightening meaning. I might go daft, and no one would notice. No, there would be someone to notice:
Rustle
touched my mind: "I'll help you, I'm with you."

"Do not worry,
necromancers work in teams," my mentor decided to cheer me up. "For the recreation of a complete replica of a deceased being, twelve necromancers - the Magic Circle - must act together. Perhaps, necromancy is the only type of dark magic that requires teamwork."

I w
as struck by a sudden guess: "So, the government doesn't have enough mages for the Circle…"

"
Right," Charak nodded sadly, "and I am already too old for such exercises."

The magician
who had managed to stay alive for four hundred years had every right to excuse himself from the Circle.

"Who
m do they wish to raise?" I could not resist asking.

"No idea," the necromancer shrug
ged. "You will find out soon. At first, you have to learn all types of weavings and how to conjugate them. I don't know what exactly you will be doing in the Circle."

Thus,
my tranquilized mood after necromantic classes was indeed a sort of insanity, as Rakshat suggested. I pondered for a while how to mitigate the mental side effects of necromancy. I could double my time of meditation and workout after the classes, as my martial arts instructor taught me long ago, and chat more with my acquaintances. All of these things were easy to accomplish: less than a month remained till the end of my university classes; I had earned almost all my required credits and sent off my thesis on alchemy for review. Now I had more spare time, and Quarters was already out of the hospital. Doctors advised him to spend more time with his friends, but Sam disappeared, and the other acquaintances passed him by as if he were a leper - they feared that Ron's company could attract the attention of artisans to them.

"To
m, you have no idea how cool it is to have a dark mage as your friend!" Quarters was genuinely moved by my visit. "The dark are absolutely unyielding people. I am glad there is something unshakable in life, after all!"

"I
am more or less familiar with the tactics of white psychopaths." I was flattered by Ron's compliment. "The artisans can't get close to me other than by sudden attack. I almost quit drinking - I am not going to give them this chance."

Quarters grimly nodded,
"They screwed up my life too, these scumbags!  My mother forced me to sign up with Alcoholics Anonymous."

I
snorted mockingly - Ron certainly wasn't the right candidate for such "treatment".

"I am lost;
I do not know whom to believe any more," with a tragic look Quarters emptied his glass of beer. "Now I understand the expression 'dark times!' "

"Th
is time is quite ordinary," I did not agree with him.

"
Indeed?" he moved closer conspiratorially. "We enjoy peace here, but in the eastern provinces there is unrest, quite frankly. My uncle said that the government found out some crying abuses of power there: one local top official managed to cut the number of 'cleaners' to zero. Now residents are fleeing from there, and Kashtadar threatens to invade our country if we do not calm the unrest."

"Let official
s from the capital sort it out; they are paid to do just that. A face-off war with Kashtadar won't happen, as knowledgeable people told me."

"I
sort of envy you," Ron grinned. "You firmly stand on your feet: a combat mage and alchemist, plus the support of NZAMIPS. Good for you!"

"
I would not say so. I owe two years to the Roland Fund."

And this
circumstance was greatly spoiling my mood. Typically, the Fund's fellows had to pay the money back by their work at assigned places; sometimes the Fund did not mind getting their loan repaid in cash, but I couldn't count on that. By the way, as soon as I began pondering on that matter, the placidity caused by my necromantic practice vanished immediately. The closer I was to graduation, the more often it was happening. Thus, one Sunday morning I got up for my combat training in my normal spirited mood.

The sun shone, b
irds sang on the island. Lacking my necromantic numbness, I finally realized that I felt profound abomination toward the situation: two seasoned combat mages kicked poor me like a ball and called it "training", and I had nothing to fend off my teachers. I felt like they humiliated me. Enough of this mockery! I pondered what could be done against them. In the presence of two strong opponents, I did not experience any combat ardor and had no desire to commit a painful suicide.

I
worked on defense from an attack with amulets during that class. My task was to determine when my opponent was switching from an assault with a weaving to an amulet-enhanced attack and set up a special screen against it. In case of a breach, which was quite likely as I just learned how to shield myself from a combined blow, I expected a very unpleasant effect: Satal aimed below my waist. What a vindictive bastard!

If
he knew how it would end…

Seeing
how he was about to punish me, I became angry and decided to use one trick: I formed a two-fold shield.  Its first, weaker layer was supposed to passively accept a blow of the hostile magic and dissipate, convincing my opponent of the success of his attack. But then its second layer came into play, strengthening and deflecting the hostile energy after a second delay - when my opponent was not expecting anything more. I confess, at the time I did not think how my trickery could hurt Satal and honestly did not realize the might of the curse I produced. My sophisticated shield, worthy of a master of magic, enhanced and reflected back the energy of Satal's blow, hitting the most vulnerable spot on my teacher's body. Poisonous-green sparks danced with purple flashes, and a beautiful branching lightning discharged below Satal's waist. As the final chord, the river around the island became covered in mist.

Satal blundered:
my trick fooled him, and he was late with his shield. I did not envy my teacher - he had no time to diminish the energy of the kickback. To be fair, he would never hit me if I was not prepared to respond - he was afraid of seriously injuring me. So my counterattack was dishonest. Satal, alive, slowly wiped his face, brilliant from sweat. I really felt guilty, but at the same time I thought I missed a good chance to rid myself of all my problems at once.

"Hey!
What are you doing?" the "corporal" asked us suspiciously, shaking off his own weavings (but without such a dramatic effect).

Satal
could not talk: a senior coordinator with a trembling voice would be a shame for the entire profession.

"I think we're done for today," I dared to suggest.

Satal managed to approach me, shook my hand in silence, patted me on the shoulder, and walked toward the pier.

"You know," Fatun summed up,
looking down and digging in the sand with a toe of his boot, "you'd better stay away from duels. Except for a fist fight, maybe."

I sighed and
told the colonel everything that I thought of him in the most simple and easy to understand words. This scoundrel's muzzle became as radiant as a copper basin, and he hastened after his boss.

Well, they
were driving me nuts, they were!

Chapter 6

"Brilliant
…" the senior coordinator moaned, staring at the ceiling with eyes drunk from adrenaline shock.  "Brilliant…And he tinkers with stupid alchemy!"

A fo
rgotten cup of tea cooled on his desk. The dark magician sat in his chair transversely, with his feet almost over the chair's back. He was recalling his last combat lesson. Kevinahari wondered whether she needed something stronger than tea to bring him out of the trance.

"
You've been a good teacher, I see," she said.

"Rona,
there is nothing left I can teach him. And it's getting dangerous: he juggles assaulting curses like balls! I didn't know it was possible."

"Perhaps
he applied some necromantic tricks," the empath suggested.

"I
thought necromancers were non-aggressive people."

"Well, you
've learned something new today."

"
The first part, with the shield, I figured out," Satal could not calm down. "But what happened next is not that easy to grasp by a simple mind.  If Charak knows such tricks, he is a smart ass, son of a dragon!  I am not surprised then why he has lasted for so many years."

"I
suggest moving your relationship with Tangor to the next level."

"What?" Satal did not understand.

"Put your student on the payroll," the empath explained.

"Do
n't you think this will embolden him?"

"
He won't be disappointed!"

"
Fine. Of course, as an employee without the magic seal…"

"Dan!"

"Okay, forget the seal! I want to retain such a combat mage for myself, and the hell with formalities. If Axel learns what a talent I have here, he will instantly outbid me. There are others as well…They watch like vultures: all yours is mine!"

The curator
sighed quietly. Now she would have to fight the possessive instincts of the senior coordinator. A new challenge every day.

Somebody
gently knocked on the door.

"Who the hell is there?" Satal responded without changing his posture.

A communications officer came in and, after salutation, placed a sealed packet on Satal's desk.

"Dismissed!"

The officer disappeared. Satal lowered his feet to the floor and opened the envelope. As soon as he began reading, all traces of blissful ecstasy vanished from his face.

H
e pushed the letter to the empath: "I expected something like that lately."

"Oh-ho-ho!" Kevinahari stretch
ed anxiously, eyeing the text. "The artisans again. Have they not understood they are not welcome in Redstone?"

"We'll find them and ask," the senior coordinator promised grimly.

* * *

On Monday, our
concierge gave me a note again; Charak bowed and bid farewell. Unexpectedly - hop! - "his circumstances changed". At parting, he advised me to study literature and in no case practice alone.

It was strange.
The necromancer seemed to be a serious gentleman, not inclined to dart off without a good reason. His letter was too short for me - I wanted to know the mysterious "circumstances". I went to Satal for explanations, but he was not in his office. Neither he, nor Captain Baer, nor - most surprisingly - Curator Kevinahari, nor any other officer whom I knew was there. Everybody disappeared without saying a word to me!

Perhaps
Satal was offended by my trick yesterday and Kevinahari consoled him somewhere…And Captain Baer was on the lookout…Ugh, what crap came to my mind! I decided to pretend that their attitude did not hurt me. I had a lot to do without them! And I went home.

Three days later
I understood what happened to Satal and Baer: rumors leaked into newspapers about another demarche of artisans in our region, far away from Redstone, but with a less favorable outcome than in Mihandrov. Two sectarians, disguised as the kitchen helpers of one college for "cleaners", poisoned the food: twelve students died, three of whom were dark magicians. Apparently, Mr. Fox was not the only artisan who knew the properties of herbs! A sense of self-preservation made all journalists unite in resentment of this act: Ingernika experienced a shortage of dark magicians willing to serve, and even the most savage chauvinists knew that the "cleaners", despite all their flaws, were vital to the survival of our country.

"How
could such horrible murders happen?" a white student sobbed, stubbornly choosing my table in the student cafe for her suffering. "The innocent cadets just learned how to protect people!"

I shrugged.
How did I know what the psychopaths' motivation was? My own future concerned me more. All the required signatures for my alchemical thesis were collected; the last credits I would obtain on Thursday; my new security amulet with controlling magic was successfully tested on my motorcycle. The only problem left unsettled was my combat magic practice. Did they forget about me or what?

On Thursday I went to
the police headquarters again. I intended to sit next to the officer on duty as long as it would take - until any of my superiors would show up! The building was nearly empty. I wasn't aware that Satal caught by the tail an insanely important artisan, and the entirety of Redstone's NZAMIPS combed the southeastern suburbs for the last three days. I thought I confused weekdays or forgot about some police holiday. Suddenly a noisy company in variegated uniforms showed up on the stairs: policemen, NZAMIPS staff, and even an army officer. They frantically swung their arms and swore. Then one of the policemen spotted me and yelled: "Here he is!"

I pressed against the wall and prepared to throw a combat weaving
at them. They would not catch me alive!

"He is a
Satal's student!" the policeman explained.

Everybody knew
what kind of magic the senior coordinator taught. People abruptly stopped talking and stared at me from a safe distance.

"
Ehh…Is it true?" the army officer asked me.

"What
are you asking about?"

"
Are you a magician?"

"Yes!" I did not deny
the obvious. Perhaps, it would help them to come to their senses sooner.

They stirred in excitement.
"Come with us quickly! We need your help."

"Where to?"  I
was suspicious.

"
They took hostages at Finkler Elementary School," the policeman shouted. "We can't find any magicians in here!  Where are they when we need them most?!"

Clearly
, I was not the only one asking the same question!

I let them seat me
in a car with an impatiently whining engine. I hoped that at least one of my superiors would show up at the place where the hostages were kept. And when all the mess was over, Satal would find a minute to talk to me!

Finkler
Elementary School, located in a poor neighborhood of Redstone, was a plain four-story building, squeezed in between unpretentious low-rise brick houses. It had no yard - the police cordon was set right on the sidewalk. Idle spectators watched the show right from the windows of their apartments across from the school: I saw their curious faces among pots of early-blooming flowers occupying their windowsills.

Luckily
, there were no journalists yet. I grasped right away why the police needed NZAMIPS: a reddish-yellow haze of averting spells hung on the doors and windows of the school's ground floor.

"
Are these our spells? Or the terrorists'?"

"Theirs!" the policeman in ch
arge of the siege spat out. "And the school's security guard is one of them!"

Nice.
I thought for a moment whether the hostage-taking was a long-term plan or impromptu. "Do something!" the policeman growled.

Law
enforcement reacts very nervously when their foes use magic against them.

I listened
to the noise in the school: people rhythmically chanted inside. Yes, something must be done quickly: it looked like the terrorists were in the middle of some ritual. I suspected that the school watchman enforced the protective perimeter - I couldn't quickly find a breach in it. I decided to improvise.

"
I warn you that I haven't received the magician's seal yet. Are you okay with this?" I said to win a moment to think.

"
F*ck you! Shit! F*ck!"

What a lexicon
cops use!

"Same to you," I replied calmly and
turned my back to him to examine the perimeter. Initially it was designed only to inform the guard of any intrusions, but then someone (a white mage, who else?) twisted the structure of the spells, so that now the barrier would provoke a horrible pain in any living creature which dared to touch it.

Clearly, the school administration
used a "transmaster" to control the perimeter, trying to save money on its maintenance, and each and every transmaster, by its definition, can be operated by any mage. That's why some mage disguised as a school "security guard" was able to modify the perimeter.

"We need to get in!" the policeman persisted.

"Then go get in or shut up, if you want my help!"

Strictly sp
eaking, I would have easily turned the perimeter off, if not for its huge size and indoor location. To surround it with an anti-averting curse, I would need to work through the walls of the neighboring houses populated with people. They would have to be evacuated for that, but time was running out. I thought of covering the school with a strong suppressive curse that could knock out everybody inside, but then I would put the health of the young hostages inside at risk. No, I had to find a simpler and more elegant solution; for example, I could send a zombie inside and turn the perimeter off. But where to find a corpse? I doubted the policemen loved their work so selflessly as to provide me with one of their own bodies.

However,
an elementary school was not Gugentsolger's bank, and the Key Sign, surely, was located in the standard place: not far from the entrance door, in the room of the security personnel or near the desk of the guard on duty. Within arm's reach!

I needed a mouse.
I knew a spell which scared rodents, and it wasn't difficult to modify it to beckon them. I moved aside from the noisy and bustling crowd (I had to show a fist to the policeman who wanted to follow me), found an air vent leading to the basement of a nearby building, and a moment later caught a required mouse. To strangle the animal was trivial. It remained to find a carrier for my disintegrating spell.

I twisted off a brass button from the uniform of the nearest cop, stuffed
it into the mouth of the animal, and then raised the tiny corpse with the simplest revivifying spell (the one that ensured its basic moves and primitive eyesight were under my control). The police did not catch me red-handed; the zombie-mouse was almost indistinguishable from a live animal, and there were no magicians among the witnesses.

The
zombie-mouse passed the barrier without any problem and leaked through the gap under the door. The protective perimeter barely noticed my necromantic creation - it was too subtle; the only oddity was its strange way of moving. After a few unsuccessful attempts, the mouse climbed up the table with keys; its little eyes hadn't dried out yet, and the zombie easily discerned a bulging disk of the Key Sign. One touch - and the Sign was dispersed as a powder - simply and effectively.

The reddish-yellow haze of the
averting perimeter died out.

"Follow me!"
I created a sound-absorbing shield in front of myself, not believing that the cops could move noiselessly; the disadvantage was that I heard nothing, too. Our appearance became a surprise for the singers. Without delay, I applied a paralyzing curse, which I had prepared in advance, to all the people standing upright; it didn't touch children, who sat on the floor. Thus, I quickly and efficiently knocked out the terrorists without hurting hostages. That's how a real combat mage operates!  The school was immediately filled with angry cops. I turned around trying to figure out what ritual the terrorists intended to inflict - to no effect. Anyway, we didn't give them enough time for that.

"Children, st
and up, make pairs, and - out! Corporal, help them!"

The policemen diverted from the
stunned terrorists and started helping children.  The kids were mostly boys of ten to twelve years old, members of the school chorus. Suddenly I was frightened by the thought that they just did rehearsals there, and I paralyzed their favorite teacher of music. And now, because of me, these kids would suffer from shuttered nerves for the rest of their lives. Likely, there were no whites among them.

While the
policemen were taking the children outside, journalists began to gather at the school. Still, there was nobody from Redstone's NZAMIPS. It was time for me to flee to escape publicity and finger pointing.

BOOK: My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist
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