Ned looked at the rushing steel giants, and his head was empty and cold, like an empty pot. There was nothing left except the desire to survive, and also - to kill! To kill the creatures that want to ruin his life! Want to take away what he accidentally, with such difficulty received from the capricious lady called Fate!
- Get ready! Hold on, boys! Stop! Put your spears on the ground! Don't let them get close! Strike, stab!
Bolts slammed into the armor, horses neighed, fighters fell. A forty-year-old spearman with a moustache fell, pierced by a spear, a guy fell next to whom Ned once stood in the ranks - perhaps he accepted the death prepared for Ned. No matter how careful you are, it still finds loopholes and seeps through all the barriers placed before Death by naive people.
Signal! Run! Run! Jump over the horse's corpse, over the wounded - sorry, guys, now is not the time for you! Now we need to run and kill! And stay alive.
Lieutenant Yustar:
- First company, give it some fire! Give it some fire, demons! We won't be able to keep up with the horses - they'll be shooting arrows at us now!
Yustar is a normal guy. An old warrior, he stayed on as a lieutenant – he likes to drink, he always gets into trouble. He's rowdy. But he knows his stuff. Ned is glad that he was appointed to replace the murdered Shusard. He treats Ned well. At first – he's wary. Like, he's a winner, a star, the colonel's favorite! Then they talked – he understood everything. Not everything, but he understood. He calmed down. He also needs to survive, just like Ned. And he's going to keep his soldiers from dying. A capable commander.
Run, run, run!
Bang! - the first row of spearmen literally plunged into the enemy ranks. The roar of clashing shields, screams, growls, the crack of breaking spears, the sound of darts piercing shields and bodies.
- Hold on, company! - the voice is hoarse and broken.
I want to drink, I want to lower my tired hand with the shield, but I can't – they'll kill me. I squeezed someone else's shield – a long thrust – the sword pierces someone else's flesh with a screech, trembling with pleasure. And immediately a surge of vigor, strength! Good! Akin to an orgasm…
The hand moves faster, stronger, you want to swing it properly and cut through the enemy's shield, get to his soft, sweet flesh! You can't. In formation, you can't swing a sword like in a duel. Economical, precise movements, verified and rehearsed hundreds, thousands of times. Blocked, stabbed, blocked, stabbed!
The demon in the sword trembles with joy - so many souls, so much power, so much blood! Drink, absorb!
Something black rises from the soul, something powerful, like a sea monster. Ned drowns in this stream of blackness, and now it is not he, but someone else who enjoys the streams of blood and death hovering over the battlefield!
Ned's body literally staggers from the energy that overflows it. His eyes are bloodshot, blackened, and turned into two dark red coals. The blows have become so powerful that he goes forward, knocking down the enemy and piercing him with the charmed sword. Behind him, his comrades rush into the breach, Ned at the tip of the breach, like the tip of a battering ram.
Stab! Hit! Stab! Hit! The hand does not feel tired. The demon feeds Ned regularly, and it seems to him that this otherworldly creature is chomping, absorbing human souls.
Ned is laughing, he is having fun! And how can such a fun activity not be fun? What could be more fun than taking the life of an enemy?!
The spearhead pierces his mail, tears his side, breaks his ribs and comes out of his back. Strike! - the shaft is severed. Thrust - the sword plunges into the chest of the unfortunate spearman Isfir, who tried to stop this demon in the flesh. In vain! Anyone who stands in Ned's way with a weapon in his hands must realize - he will die!
He thrust his sword into the ground, grabbed the piece of wood sticking out of his stomach with his right hand and tore the spear stump out of his body. Warm blood flowed down his thigh, spilled into his boot – it began to squelch unpleasantly. However, it had already been squelching before – sweat flowed down his body in drops and streams, soaking his clothes and shoes.
The sword is back in hand, looking for a target – a blow! A stab! The pain of the wound subsides, it already itches – it is healing. The body is full of strength again.
The soldiers roar, furiously, baring their teeth, rush forward, sweeping away everything in their path, and the enemy cannot stand it. Now one, now another turns their backs and tries to run away - no! No! It won't work! It's even more convenient to hit from behind! And the enemies fall dead, covering the field with their bodies.
A foreign trumpet sounds, and the entire crowd turns and runs, leaving a screen of men-at-arms in especially heavy armor in front of the Zamars – they must stop the advance, allowing the main army to retreat to the city.
Ned doesn't understand this. He only sees that the enemy is leaving, that the opportunity to feed his sword with blood is being taken away from him, and the creature formed from Ned and the Black goes berserk, mad with rage. It spews foul curses, leaps onto the line of men-at-arms and, already forgetting that it needs to stand in line, throws aside its shield, draws a second sword and begins to hack at its opponents with both swords at once.
Swords crunch into people's bodies, cutting through the strongest armor - there is no obstacle for steel soaked in blood, with a demon imprisoned inside.
The fighters fall like grass under the scythe of an experienced mower. Pieces of shields fly, those who try to reach Ned with a sword die on the spot. No one who dared to raise a weapon against him remains alive. The terrible living machine of death moves forward, thrashing the enemy and spraying blood.
The rest of the Corps fighters follow him and tear into the barrier, and the line of Isfir's heavy metal-clad men-at-arms is broken through. The men-at-arms are encircled and methodically killed, like animals on a driven hunt.
After a short time, only corpses and wounded remained in the place of the covering regiment, groaning under the enemy's feet. They are mercilessly finished off, ignoring their pleas and curses, and after an hour, silence reigns on the battlefield, only the wind, rushing over the terrible place, is carried away in fear to the sea - there is no smell of blood and filth, there is freedom and freedom...
- Stop, Ned! Stop! - he hears a voice, but does not understand that they are calling him. Turning around, he bares his teeth and jumps, raising his sword, and only at the last moment the sword stops at the neck of Arnot, whose eyes widen in fear:
- What's wrong? Ned, what's wrong with you?
Ned lowers his hands - he is shaking violently, his vision darkens, he seems to emerge from the water, then sink again to the very bottom - where the pearl mussel shells lie, where it is quiet, dark and the fish calmly swim past about their fishy business.
- Are you wounded? Look, your chainmail is pierced and cut in several places! And your helmet is dented! You need to see a doctor, you're covered in blood!
"No need," Ned pushed out hoarsely, "I'm fine. How are we? Is Oydar alive? Guys?"
- Oydar is alive. Guys... there are dead and wounded, - Arnot said in a strange voice, looking away from Ned's face. - Ned, what's wrong with your face? Or rather, with your eyes?
- What's wrong with my eyes?
- They are strange... black. You used to have blue eyes. And now they are black, like holes...
"I don't know what you're talking about," Ned said coldly, "is the lieutenant alive?"
"He's alive," Arnot answered sullenly, "he's running around. The signal to form up is coming soon, it looks like it."
And indeed. A few seconds later, the trumpets began to blare, demanding that the soldiers fall into line. Those who remained on their feet began to fill the gaps created by the deaths of their comrades.
Ned walked along the line and counted – out of one hundred and fifty, one hundred and twenty remained. Some were wounded, some were killed. He was slightly surprised – in such a mess, the losses were not too great. Less than he thought. No one is immune to accidents – a stray arrow, a sword that accidentally hits, a spear that accidentally strikes – but for such a battle, this was just a little bloodshed. For every fighter in the corps, four Isfirians! And not some militia – regular cavalry, men-at-arms – the backbone of the Isfirian army! And where are they? Sitting behind the city gates and hiding like rats…
- Sergeant, report losses! - Lieutenant Yustar announced.
- Thirty people. How many are alive, I don't know yet.
"Big losses," Yustar frowned, "spearmen always suffer bigger losses than others. We're taking the first hit. By the way, thank you."
- For what?
- You broke through the lines of the screen. Three swordsmen infiltrated behind you and cut everyone down. The colonel is very pleased with you. He told me himself. Maybe they'll give you another star, eh, Ned? - Yustar grinned and immediately became serious. - Are you not wounded? Everything is alright?
"Not wounded. The scratches will heal," Ned shrugged and pulled at his torn chainmail. "What losses did the other companies suffer?"
- About the same as us. The swordsmen have fewer, the crossbowmen even fewer. That's it, let's line up! Now they'll tell us what to do next.
The trumpets blared and the soldiers formed into a square again. Heverad, gloomy, focused and serious, rode around the tattered line of soldiers and shouted loudly:
- Thank you! We won! But now we have to smoke these creatures out of our city and finish the rout of the invaders! Don't relax! Everything is still ahead!
The colonel jumped off his horse and, calling the senior commanders, gave orders. The orderlies ran to the battalion commanders, who handed them over to the full company commanders, the company commanders to the sergeants, and the work began to boil. The soldiers first of all collected their wounded. The mages-healers immediately took care of them. The mages took care of the most seriously ill, getting them back on their feet in a matter of minutes. Alas, they could not heal everyone - the mages-healers' reserves of strength are too limited. Those who could walk - wandered to the abandoned camp to the ordinary doctors, who would provide the necessary assistance.
Trophy teams, composed of sergeants, undressed the corpses of the Isfirians, removing their armor, collected the scattered weapons - all this would come in handy, everything cost money, and quite a lot. The Isfirians who pretended to be dead and were exposed during undressing were killed. There was nowhere to put the prisoners. And there was no point. The corps did not take prisoners.
The dead soldiers of the Corps were gathered in one place, laid out in neat rows. They counted them - about fifteen percent of the personnel, seven hundred people, were killed. The colonel was very angry - at this rate, the Corps could be lost. These were too many losses. However - the army they came across was not at all simple - heavy infantry and foot soldiers - the backbone of the Isfirian army. Unlike other occupation forces of Isfirian - they were simple infantrymen, mostly from among the mobilized.
Finally, the soldiers, having collected the trophies, taking their wounded – those that the magicians could not heal – slowly walked to the camp. There was no joy of victory. There was only devastation, pain and mortal fatigue. I wanted to fall down and not move, and for there to be no one around – absolutely no one. No commanders, no fellow soldiers, but only the sky, the sun and the clouds… for the bees to buzz, the birds to chirp, and for there to be no smell of blood, sweat, unwashed bodies and corpses.
Upon entering the camp, the soldiers immediately began to prepare food, and the guards, leaving the guards on duty, went to bury the dead. They were usually buried in one grave, laid in rows, one on top of the other. No monuments were erected, the graves were not marked in any way... from dust he came, to dust he went. Most of those who served in the Corps were orphans, loners, about whom no one would remember or cry.
- You're alive! - Zheresar and his sons surrounded Ned, hugging and patting him on the shoulders. The doctor immediately noticed the holes in the chain mail and asked anxiously:
- What?! Wounded? Let's go. Undress, I'll examine you. Let's go, let's go!
- No need... I'm fine! - Ned tried to resist, but Zheresar forcibly dragged him into the tent and began to pull off his armor. A minute later, Ned stood naked to the waist, and the healer looked closely at his side, his shoulders, his back... his eyebrows rose higher and higher, as if he saw something incredible, amazing - a sea serpent or a flying man.
- What is this? - he asked, shocked. - How is this? Hagen, Nascar - look! You don't see anything?
- What, Dad? Well, scars, yes. Real scars. Where did you get them, master? - Hagen asked with interest. - This one looks like it was from a spear, and this one is from a sword, cut. And here... and here... the whole body is covered in scars. Old.
"He didn't have these scars when he joined the Corps," Zheresar said grimly. "They're recent. But that can't be right. I saw him a few weeks ago without these scars. They look like they're many, many years old. And they're resolving. The scar tissue is disappearing almost before your eyes. Ned, maybe you could explain how that happens?"
"You, a physician, cannot explain," Ned smiled, "but should a simple sergeant know? No, I cannot say."
- Can't or don't want to? - asked the doctor, looking Ned in the eyes, then sighed and shook his head. - Okay, rest. We still need to take care of the wounded. We'll talk later.
"Okay," Ned shrugged, and began to pull on his blood-soaked shirt. It scratched his body unpleasantly, and Ned thought that he should wash his junk. He headed for the exit under the gaze of his friends, then turned around and asked with a smile:
- Do you regret that you listened to your father and became his assistants?
- No, we don't regret it, - snorted Hagen, - running around with a shaft and then lying on the operating table - that's not for us. Exactly. It turns out that war is not such a funny thing. We realized that back on the parade ground. Dad was right.
- That's right! - Zheresar gave his son a light slap on the back of the head and smiled at Ned. - Thanks to Ned, you've brought the blockheads to their senses. Okay, guys, let's go - we have a lot of work, and Ned needs to rest. But I'll still talk to you about your wounds later - when I'm free, do you hear?
"I hear," Ned chuckled and thought that no matter what he said, what's the point. He wouldn't tell anything anyway. Not even to Zheresar. Apparently, his fate now was to keep secrets and be alone.
Ned left the doctor's tent and wandered to the sergeant's. There, one of the soldiers was already cooking, skimming off the foam from the thick brew, people were running around everywhere, and dozens of soldiers were washing themselves in a freshly dug pit by the stream.
Ned decided to take his bath later – he really didn't want to push his way through a crowd of soldiers near the water. Making his way between the soldiers scurrying like ants, he almost crashed into the colonel's adjutant, who was rushing past with a worried look. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Ned and immediately yelled, his eyes wide:
- Demons take you, Black! Where are you hiding?! I'm running around looking for you! Quickly to the colonel, he's looking for you! Everyone's hiding somewhere like rats - where can I find you all?!
Following the adjutant, Ned walked quickly towards the colonel's tent, joining the general "ant" run. A minute later they were already standing near a large tent, guarded by two guards with drawn swords. The lieutenant ordered Ned to stand at the entrance, went inside himself, then appeared about twenty seconds later and ordered:
- Come in. What do you look like? Like a tramp, some kind of robber! - The lieutenant shook his head reproachfully, and Ned stepped over the canvas threshold of the tent.
It was clean, strict and quite cozy. In the middle stood a folding table and chairs. On the table were maps and papers. At the table were Colonel Heverad and two regimental commanders. In front of them were mugs with some kind of drink, from which the officers sipped a pink liquid from time to time – diluted wine by the smell. When Ned entered, Heverad tore himself away from contemplating the map and looked up at the guy:
- Finally! I thought we wouldn't find you until tomorrow! Sit down at the table. Hess, pour him some wine... stop! I forgot. He doesn't drink. Pour him some water. How are you feeling, Ned?
"I feel fine," Ned answered cautiously. He had already realized that his superiors wouldn't just ask about his health, and if they were asking, it meant they were preparing some kind of dirty trick for their subordinates. A dirty trick that would dramatically affect the well-being and health of the person they asked. At least, that's how it is in military service.
- It's good that you're feeling okay. You distinguished yourself today, you went for a breakthrough. You performed miracles of bravery... - the colonel's voice was neutral, but Ned heard a certain shade of mockery in his words.
- You're expecting me to start praising you, right? What a great guy you are? - the colonel continued. - Honestly, you need to get your face punched. Do you know why?
"For what?" Ned frowned.
- You are a sergeant. What are you supposed to do? Command the company. Make sure that the company, as a single organism, moves where you send it, where the senior commanders send it. And what did you do? Jump forward and start performing miracles of heroism? By the way, it is unclear how you even survived. It is a pure miracle. And the miracle is that the formation did not fall apart and entered the breach in an organized manner. Yes, thanks to you, we lost fewer fighters than we could have. But all this could have ended badly. I praised you in front of your commander, although I should have flogged you.
- Come on, Nulan, why are you attacking the guy like that? - Zaid intervened. - If there were more fighters like him, the Corps would be invincible!
- Shut up, Zaid! - Heverad growled furiously. - The Corps is already invincible! And do you know why? Because of cohesion, because of training, because of discipline! So don't tell me here - did he attack or didn't attack! The guy made a serious mistake. And he must answer for it.
- Are you going to whip him or something? - Evore asked, puzzled. - The guy showed miracles of bravery and skill - how will his punishment be perceived by the soldiers? What lesson will we teach them?
- I won't cut. It's enough that he knows how dissatisfied I am with him. And I'll remove him from command of the company.
- As a soldier? - Zaid asked. - But that's tantamount to a flogging. Can you imagine what it'll be like for him now?
- You should have thought about it earlier - what is it like! - Heverad grinned angrily, then leaned back in his chair and, closing his eyes, sat for a couple of minutes. - The art of an officer, a commander, is not in rushing at the enemy with a sword in his hands. This is not a duel. Not a duel between two fools. This is a war. And here tactics win. Today you could have put the entire company at risk. Anyway, here's how it is - I am removing you from command of the company and transferring you to another unit. You are too much of an individualist to command a corps unit. You need another service.
"You want to put him in place of Hassel?" Zaid guessed.
- Exactly. Hassel and his men died today - they ran into an ambush, - the colonel said sullenly, - only one survived. Out of thirty people. Too bad. The sergeant was a capable scout and a desperate, fearless man. That's what we need here - a dashing swordsman, not afraid to sneak into the enemy's lair alone. So, from now on, you are the commander of the reconnaissance group. You need to select from your company, from other companies, those who would like and who can engage in reconnaissance activities. From my own experience, I know that these are usually the most hopeless people - former robbers, thieves. And also hunters, trackers. Private scouts receive a sergeant's salary, a sergeant - a captain's. The service is dangerous, and if you die, it will not be heroically, in public, like today, but somewhere on the enemy gallows, as a spy. That's it. I'm not asking if you agree. Signed the contract - serve. Got it?
"I understand everything," Ned nodded, "may I go and carry it out? How many people should I pick for the reconnaissance group?"
- Thirty. That's the usual number. A maneuverable unit that won't attract much attention, but will fight back if necessary. Go. You're free. By the way, you can take the reconnaissance group's tent - they lived separately from everyone else.
- Can I ask a question?
- Speak, but faster. We still have a lot of work to do here.
- How did the reconnaissance group die? Why?
- The task was to find a weak spot in the city's defense. They tried to bypass the city, once again. And ran into an ambush of archers. They were simply riddled with arrows. An accident. It happens. One got two arrows in the back, but ran. He died here, having managed to tell the story. Is that all? Any more questions?
- No questions.
- Then get out of here. - The colonel grinned and winked. - Well, of course, a hero. I hope you survive. Move on, you bastard!
* * *
- What, what happened?! - Kheragh was furious, he was simply seething with indignation, and he wanted to kill someone. - Why did this happen? Why are you such idiots?!
- General, - one of the colonels, the one who commanded the cavalry, stepped forward, - we followed all your instructions. You ordered a frontal attack on the Corps. We did it. You ordered a flanking attack - and we did it. So... what does this have to do with us? - The colonel shrugged and looked down at the floor.
- Are you implying that I am an idiot? No - you are simply claiming that I am an idiot?! Are you taking advantage of your closeness to the royal house, Erdan? Do you think that because your wife is on friendly terms with the queen, you are allowed more than others? You will be brought to trial. And then we will see if the queen will save you. First I will hang you, and then let them try to resurrect you! I wonder if they will succeed or not!
- Forgive me, Mr. General, - Colonel Erdan squeezed out, pale, - I did not mean to doubt your abilities as a commander! No one expected such resilience from the Zamars, because until now we had only encountered light infantry, which was dispersed by one regiment of my cavalrymen. Apparently, however, this is only my fault - I did not think about the fact that heavy infantry is trained to fight cavalry. We have not had serious combat with Zamar for a long time, and we did not know what this Marine Corps is worth. I admit my guilt - I should have thought about it and warned you about the possible consequences.
- Okay, - muttered the cooled down Herag, - all good. Stupidly went after the professionals, thinking that they would run away at the first onslaught of the cavalry. No wonder Heverad was so calm! Why, why doesn't he fight on our side? No amount of money would be spared to buy him off... or kill him. By the way, where is our chief mage? What the hell have you been hanging around in the army's rear all this time? What, couldn't you have sent something nasty to the Zamarians? Bring down a vile curse on them! What the hell do you need you for then, idlers, earning three times more than an officer of equal status? Sholokan, what's the matter? Did you see how the Zamar mages worked? Why are you showing off your sour faces with an eternal expression of boredom? What, couldn't you have bewitched those creatures?
- Mister General! I would not like to tell you the basics of magic here, especially combat magic, - the chief magician began coldly and extremely sarcastically, - everything is set out in many manuals on military affairs, why should I repeat myself? However - apparently, I will have to repeat myself anyway. - The magician smiled slightly, twisting the corner of his mouth and looking at the general's face, reddened with indignation. (In fact, he had just been accused of stupidity and ignorance of military affairs.) Kheragh was ready to explode with a stream of abuse addressed to the magician, and only fear held him back - what if he cast a spell, send some curse. Then you will not cleanse yourself, you will die in agony. In general - these magicians think too much of themselves. Insolent!
- So - no spells directed at warriors fighting on the battlefield guarantee success. These spells will simply disintegrate in the air, like an empty sound. As if someone had spoiled the air. Why? Every student of the magic school and some students of the officer school - those who were successful in their classes - know this. Too powerful passions hover over the battlefield, such forces roll over that magic breaks into pieces, spells stop working, the most cunning and powerful spells crumble, even if their owner is a strong and skilled magician.
- Then why did the Zamar spell work?! Why were my men whipped with an ice whip? If your stupid spells break? - the general almost lost his voice, shouting these words with such force that he deafened those standing nearby, and the adjutant backed away just in case. It is not worth catching the eye of the authorities who are so irritated. Something nasty might happen... like being sent to the front lines.
– The Zamars did not influence people. They influenced nature. They know very well that our archers will not be able to shoot if the bowstring is wet. By the way – I learned that the Zamars have steel bowstrings made of twisted wire on their crossbows. They are not afraid of rain. They do not have archers. They do not have outdated slingers. And here's another thing – haven't you, Mr. General, always said that magic is a stupid, secondary matter, and that victories are won by soldiers? And haven't you ordered us not to interfere in the outcome of the battle until you give the order? So what? Is it our fault that you were unable to use our skills?
"It seems to me that you have no skills whatsoever." The general spat on the stone floor slab and rubbed the spittle with the sole of his boot.
- Well... that's not for you to judge, sir general. The Supreme Mage has a different opinion, - Sholokan answered, his lips curling in disdain. - We were assigned to your army so that we could provide you with any assistance we could. However, we were pushed into the background and were not even invited to a single meeting of the military council discussing the invasion plan. You crossed us out of the means of providing support - and now you blame us for the fact that we were unable to win the battle instead of the soldiers? I do not agree with such an accusation.
- First of all, not "your" army, but OUR army. Why are you suddenly separating yourself from your king's army? Or do you think that this is not your king? Who thinks so - your Supreme Mage?
- OUR Supreme Mage is absolutely loyal to the king and the kingdom. And by the way - he is highly respected by the king and is his first adviser, if you have forgotten, - Sholokan grinned. - Mister General, let's not look for someone to blame - we all, frankly, screwed up completely. Let's just analyze our mistakes and think - how can we defeat Heverad. Isn't that why we gathered here? Or to look for someone to blame? Do you want the mages to take the blame for losing the battle? Okay, let's do it - we, the mages, were unable to defeat the Heverad Corps! We take the blame for the defeat and, as a sign of grief, sprinkle our heads with earth, according to ancient custom. Will that be enough?
- Enough, - Herag grinned. - Okay, gentlemen, enough of the noise. Let's really get down to examining our mistakes and think about what to do next. Let's start with you, mister magician. Tell me, why did your spells dissipate on the battlefield, while the spells of the Heverad magicians worked? Explain it for us, the uneducated!
- Exactly unlearned, - the magician nodded his head calmly, - because the military initially treats magicians with disdain and considers them parasites, second-class. But it seems that this does not happen in Heverad. You would all know a lot about magic, necessary for using it in battle, if you were not so disdainful of us, magicians. In the present time, we cannot do without magic, we need to develop magic! It is good that our king understands this perfectly.
"He understands, especially when someone whispers this understanding to him!" someone to the right of Sholokan said quietly.
The magician ignored the attack and continued:
- So, why were the Heverad mages on top of the situation today? Because they have a strong black mage. And we don't have one here. Who said that we don't need black mages, that ordinary mages-healers and white mages are enough? Do you remember, Mr. General, who it was?
"I don't like black magicians. They're always up to some kind of mischief. And it's almost impossible to catch them red-handed," Heragh darkened. "An honest blade and a good spear are better than any sorcery."
– No wonder your blades today... but that's not the point. In general, the Zamar magicians created the "Arrow of Magic", transferring their power to their black magician. He cast the spell, calling down freezing rain and hail. Note that he also did not risk using magic directly against the army – most likely, it would have dissipated from the powerful pressure of human passions, spilled out at the moment of the highest tension of mental and physical strength. It would have broken against the streams of spiritual strength flowing from the soldiers – ours and others. And even worse – it could have given a "ricochet" – hitting the one who released this spell. The only one who could work "directly", destroying the army, is a demonologist. But I have only read about such magicians in old books. We don't have a single demonologist now. By the way, the black magician I called, whom you so rashly refused, will arrive tonight. We will try to cast a spell on Heverad. If he is not protected by amulets or there is no magician on duty nearby, we will destroy him.
"Disgusting!" said one of the colonels with feeling, a tall, grey-haired man with a dashing bearing and strong shoulders hidden under a shiny chainmail. "Colonel Heverad is a real warrior, and to poison him like some kind of rat? Disgusting! That's why people don't like you, mages! You strike vile blows in the back!"
- Do you want to win the war or do you want to portray yourself as a legendary warrior from a song for virgins dreaming of their first wedding night? - the magician inquired coldly. - In war, all means are good, and it is not for me to teach you! Colonel Heverad is the head of this corps, and by removing him, we will gain an advantage - the enemy will be scared, perhaps panic will begin, and then ... then "your good blade" and what else is there? Some kind of shitty spear. By the way, the king can ask you why you did not use all possible means to fight the Zamars? And what will you answer him?
- Enough! Gentlemen, let's get down to business. We will accept Mr. Sholokan's proposal. And I admit that we have not used our mages effectively enough. And Colonel Heverad has clearly shown us this. Thank him for the lesson. It's a pity that he will have to die. To defeat such an enemy is a great honor for us. As soon as your black mage appears, bring him to me immediately.
"It will be done, Mr. General," Sholokan nodded contentedly, "can I go?"
- No. Stay. You are also part of the military council and should know what awaits us. So, we have slightly less than ten thousand soldiers left. There is practically no cavalry, a pitiful thousand or even less. And - archers, men-at-arms - two thousand, and light infantry. I consider it inappropriate to march on Kheverada with such forces. I sent messengers to Yudajar and Itran, help will arrive in about two weeks, not earlier. We will sit in the city and make sorties, disturbing the enemy. Fortunately, we have many archers - let them get out of the city and fire on the Corps camp. After a week of such a life, the Zamarians will howl. And their fighters will decrease. When the men-at-arms arrive, we will strike with all our force. Until we destroy the Kheverada Corps, we cannot move further. Alas, I must admit that I did not expect the Corps to be so combat-ready. In the future, we should take their experience into service and create a similar unit here, and perhaps even more than one...
* * *
- Guys, I'm not your sergeant anymore! - The conversations around the tent died down, the soldiers began to push each other and listen.
"Who's our sergeant now?" someone asked from the fire.
- Don't know.
- Where are you going now?
- I'm transferring to the reconnaissance detachment. And by the way, I need to recruit thirty people. The previous group of reconnaissance men died. I need the most desperate guys we have. But - their brains must work. Each one is paid a sergeant's salary.
"And whether it's a sergeant's or a soldier's grave, they're all the same!" someone from the fire remarked melancholically.
- What, is it sweet in the front row of spearmen? Graves, graves... at least they won't make you march in formation there. Ned, will you take me? - Oydar rose from the stump and approached the standing Ned, who had already changed into clean clothes. The sergeant was wearing another chainmail to replace the torn and chopped one, and two swords were tucked into his belt, which he was constantly stroking, completely unconsciously. It seemed to give him strength and self-confidence. Ned threw the bloody clothes into a sack for now - he would wash them later. The lieutenants had soldier-servants for this, but the sergeants did everything themselves, although they were called officers. They were not supposed to have servants.
"I'll go too, may I, Ned?" Arnot stood up.
"There are two," Ned nodded. "So, here's the deal: I'll go to the scouts' tent, and now I'll live there, like everyone else who joins the scouts. Anyone who wants to join my squad, come to me and sign up. I don't care what company you're from. The main thing is that the guys are really smart and smart. If you don't like me, I'll kick you out or… or chop off your head."
- He can, - someone from the crowd of soldiers listening to the sergeant drawled vaguely, - I saw him dance with swords! A terrible sight. No, I won't go to him. He's crazy. You'll die with him, and we'd like to last until the end of the contract.
- Speak for yourself! - shouted one of the swordsmen who had come up to listen to the conversation. - I'd rather run around the bushes with him, spying and eavesdropping, than go up against a wall of men-at-arms! You're a fool. You don't understand anything. Scouts go wherever they want, and no one tells them what to do! They obey Colonel Heverad, and no one else. And there's a crowd of commanders above us. And scouts don't have such drill. I'm going! Write this down, Sergeant! - A strong guy a little older than Ned came out of the crowd and stood next to Oydar and Arnot.
"Okay," Ned nodded, "follow me. The rest of you, think."
He turned and, walking heavily with tired feet on the trampled ground, went to the gray tent standing in the first row from the palisade, closer to the exit from the perimeter. This is where the scouts once lived.
The large tent, designed for about fifty men lying side by side on mats, was now empty. Ned stood in the middle of the room, shaking in the gusts of wind, looking at the things left behind by the fallen soldiers and thinking about how fragile everything was in this world. There were people, and now they were gone. Only things remained that bore the imprint of their souls. Here, it seemed, the sergeant had slept - a larger, plumper mattress, newer and more solid kit bags nearby, and here - probably his first deputy - maybe the one who managed to run to the camp with arrows in his back? If he hadn't made it, they would never have known what happened to the scout detachment.
How did they die so ingloriously? Relaxed, forgot about caution? Who cares… war is war. But Ned wasn't going to let himself be killed, that's for sure.
* * *
- Mister General? May I? - Sholokan knocked and cautiously entered Kheragh's chambers without waiting for an answer.
The general sat by the fireplace and looked at the flames. There is something fascinating about fire. It can be scary, cruel, all-consuming. Or it can be gentle, smelling of bread, pies and delicious stews. In the castle where Herag grew up, it was always cold, drafts walked, touching the body with the cold hands of the winds, and he loved to sit by such a fireplace, stretching his legs towards it. The wood crackled, the flames, like little people, danced in front of him, as if performing an actor's pantomime. It always seemed to him that the fire was alive...
Kheragh tore himself away from his thoughts and looked at the people who had entered – the magician and an unfamiliar guy of about thirty, maybe a little younger, with a rather pleasant face, similar to a bookish student studying science and dreaming of the unknown. For example, wanting to know what the stars are, where the wind comes from and why water flows. The guy's eyes were thoughtful, it seemed that he was not of this world – relaxed, withdrawn into himself.
- I'm listening, Holokan. As I understand it, this is your black magician? - The general raised his eyebrows in surprise. - Isn't he too young to be a black magician?
- In our world, nothing is "too much," the magician grinned, - this is a very strong black magician. A real talent. Let me introduce you - black magician of the tenth category Hadar Estrog.
- You are not one of those Estrogs who...
- Yes, Mr. General! One of those, - the guy interrupted, wincing as if he had taken a sip of vinegar, - but I don't communicate with them. After they found out that I was a black magician and decided to devote myself to magic, they broke off relations with me. I with them, too. So…
- I understand, - the general chuckled, - I once knew your father. An excellent military man, a real soldier. If you don't want to talk about your relatives, then let's get down to business. I need to cast a spell, to destroy Colonel Heverad. Can you do it?
"It depends on many circumstances," the magician shrugged, "I can try. I can't guarantee the result. I'll do my best."
- What do you need for the spell?
- Two slaves. A room with a lit fire or brazier. And peace. I need to be undisturbed.
- Aaa... how will you cast the spell? You won't miss the target? - the general asked with interest. - I mean - you've never seen Heverad. What if the spell gets out of control and turns on someone around, those who are here in the castle? And by the way - why do you need slaves?
- I need blood for the spell - that's what slaves are for. As for the goal - Mr. Sholokan gave me a picture, an image of Colonel Heverad. I remembered it. And don't worry - the spell is aimed precisely at the address, so there can be no mistake. There is no threat to those around.
The black mage smiled slightly, lowering the corners of his mouth, and Herag realized with displeasure - Estrog knew that the general was afraid of sorcery. A demon mage! The damned mages thought too much of themselves. This bastard mage was the king's advisor, whispering the advice he needed... the advice the mages needed.
Kheragh cast aside his extraneous thoughts, pulled the bell rope, and a servant immediately entered the room. After listening to the orders, he bowed and left together with the two mages, who did not even ask permission to leave the room.
The general got angry again – no sense of politeness! It seemed as if they weren't in his service, but he was the mages' henchman! If Herag were the king, he would have reined in these snooty chimney sweeps in their black robes. Scoundrels!
* * *
- Should I stay?
- Of course, stay. It is possible that I will need your strength. Or just help with the procedures.
The door swung open and two young men from the townspeople, about twenty to twenty-five years old each, literally flew into the room; they were pushed in by soldiers.
These were ordinary guys, not from the nobility, who were caught somewhere on the street. Alas, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The guys goggled at the two people in black, at the men-at-arms in the doorway of the room, and breathed heavily, rubbing their hands from which the bonds had just been cut. The magicians had to wait for two hours until the necessary slaves were brought - not all were suitable for the job. Old people, children and women could not be used. Strong men from seventeen or eighteen to forty-five years old were best suited. And brunettes were better. Why? Who knows why a spell works better with one object than with another. This should be asked of the gods - why they established such a system of magic and not another. If the gods answer, of course.
– Put them against the wall. Yes, yes – where the hooks are driven in. Tie them. And undress them. They must be completely naked.
- Please, no! - One of the guys broke free from the soldiers who had grabbed him, rushed to the magician and fell to his knees in front of him, kissing his feet. - No! Don't kill me! Have pity! I have a family! I have a little daughter!
- Shut him up, you idiots! - the black magician roared, leaving his image of a thoughtful student. - Why are you standing there like donkeys? I'll cast a spell on you now, idiots! You'll always shit in your pants! Put them up against the wall, quickly!
- Don't humiliate yourself, Nikol! - the second guy hissed through his teeth with hatred. - May you die, creatures! May you be damned!
- For now you are cursed, - the black magician grinned, showing his white, impeccably clean teeth. - Shut his mouth, too. I don't need talkative slaves. Tie your legs too - yeah, like that. Tighter! Why are you barely moving? Do you want to take their place? I can arrange it!
The soldiers, looking back at the magician in fear, tore off the clothes of the unfortunates, shoved gags into their mouths and tied the Zamars tightly to the wall so that their arms were above their heads, tied to a hook at the top, and their legs were tied to a hook at the bottom.
The room had been prepared for the magical act in advance. It had previously been one of the guest rooms. The fireplace was already burning, spreading warmth and the smell of resinous trees, and the items necessary for the ritual were on the table. And dinner – which Estrog had demanded to fortify his strength after the spell.
- Everybody get out! And put a guard outside - don't let anyone in until I come out myself! Get out!
The soldiers tumbled out of the room with a crash, stomped down the corridor, muttering something about damned magicians, and there was silence, interrupted only by the crackling of logs and the snorting of victims breathing through their noses.
- Well then, shall we begin? - the black magician grinned contentedly and, going up to the table, took a small curved dagger with a black handle from it. - Will you help me? I need to hold the vessel, otherwise it's inconvenient for me alone. The creature will spin, I'll have to hold it.
Sholokan, with a stony face, took a large vessel with two handles on the sides from the table. He did not like doing this, but what can you do? Work is work. Everyone has their own work. But what Sholokan definitely did not want was to become a black magician. Disgusting.
Estrog approached the first guy – the one who had begged for mercy. The guy was twitching, his eyes wide as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. The magician had to grab him by the hair to bend his head back. He took aim, swung the dagger… and lowered it, wincing and muttering under his breath:
- I forgot. It's too early for you to die...
He took a small package from the table and returned to the victim. He grabbed the guy by the hair again, bent him back and made a neat cut on his neck. Blood immediately spurted out of the cut, its drops sprayed the floor, the wall, got on Estrog's face, and Holokan watched with disgust as his colleague licked the red liquid from his lips with visible pleasure.
Holokan remembered why the Estrog family had abandoned their offspring. He was caught drinking blood from passersby, attacking them on dark evenings when he supposedly went for an evening walk to get some fresh air. After this sweet young man got drunk on the intoxicating red drink, he had a nice time raping women and torturing men. However, he did not leave women without his "mercy" either. He tortured them properly. When all this was discovered, there was a trial, but they were unable to prove anything. Or they did not want to.
The Estrog family, an ancient noble family with a lineage going back thousands of years, put all the brakes on, and the guy was acquitted. But he was kicked out of the family. Not because he was a sadist and a murderer, no. He told his father that he was practicing black magic in this way and was ready to devote his entire life to it, instead of going into military service and becoming an officer.
The last thing his father did for him was to put him in the service of the king. Here, as a black magician, Hadar was able to fully develop, without being embarrassed by his sadistic inclinations. For black magicians, cruelty and indifference to the suffering of others were the order of the day. Otherwise, they simply would not have been able to perform their most powerful magic – for example, the one that Estrog was about to perform now.
"Put it in!" Estrog demanded, and Holokan held the golden vessel under the stream gushing from the man's neck. He stood there, watching in horror as his blood filled the cup, then his eyes rolled back in his head and the boy lost consciousness.
- Enough. Hold the vessel. Now for the next one.
Estrog took out a small packet - it turned out to be a cloth bandage, he tied the cut artery, and the blood stopped spraying, and a red spot spread across the fabric.
"Let him live for now," the magician nodded with satisfaction, "next!"
This guy was a real pain. He was twisting, wriggling, shaking his head, not letting the magician bring the dagger to the right spot, trying to hit the sorcerer with his forehead. Then Estrog stepped to the fireplace, took a log from the small stack at the mouth of the hearth, swung it and hit the victim hard in the forehead with a loud thud. The guy went limp and hung on the bonds.
"That's better," the magician chuckled cheerfully and, bending his head back, slapped her across the neck. The process was repeated, and soon the cup was full to the brim.
- Put it on the table. And stand aside. Don't disturb me. I need to concentrate...
The magician poured the powder from the silver container into the blood, which began to bubble like soup on the fire, waited and began to read the spell - long, complex, with rising and falling intonation, made passes with his hands, and Holokan literally felt how dark forces began to thicken in the room.
Estrog addressed the goddess Death and the god of fire Zhadar, offering to accept his gift. When the spell was over, the magician took the cup and poured the blackened contents into the hearth. The flames blazed so hard that they almost singed Holokan's eyebrows, enveloping Estrog in a dense, harmless cocoon - the god of fire accepted the sacrifice!
The black magician approached the unconscious victims and began a new spell, just as long and unusual to hear. He did not make passes, and when he finished reading, he plunged the dagger into the heart of the first victim, then quickly into the heart of the second. There was almost no blood, and where would it come from, when most of it was poured into the sacrificial bowl or spilled around the room. Or maybe Estrog simply knew his business well and did not consider it possible to spill blood in vain.
The room smelled of decay and carrion – the goddess Death had accepted the sacrifice.
The words of the spell were heard again, and the bodies of the dead seemed to glow - some kind of shimmering clots rose from them and, after hesitating for a second, rushed forward, disappearing into the wall.
Estrog nodded his head contentedly:
- Yes. It worked! If the colonel doesn't have good protection - VERY good protection - he's finished. I duplicated the attack - the first soul activates the protective amulets, and while they hold back the attack, the second will strangle the owner of the amulets. That is, Heverad.
- Then why not three slaves? Why two? - Holokan raised his eyebrows in surprise. - Three would be more correct.
- I can't handle three souls, - the magician admitted sheepishly, - only two. But in my defense, I can say that not every black magician can even take one soul in magical shackles and force it to fulfill his demands! And two souls - only a few. I know only one magician who can do something like that, and at such a distance!
"Yes, you are a powerful mage," admitted Holokan. "And at what range can you act? It would be nice to strangle King Zamar, wouldn't it?"
- Alas... - the magician smiled, - I will hardly be able to get within ten li of the king. They have good magicians. And no one will be able to send their messengers of death further than ten li. That's it. Well, let's wait for the result. As soon as my messengers finish, they will return, and I will know that the deed is done. Would you like some wine? They make good red Gereiskoye here. Of course, my dad's estate has better wine, but this is also not bad.
- A little. Indeed, I need to wet my throat - it's dry... - said Holokan, looking at the naked, bloody corpses hanging on the wall... - Tell me, why did they have to be undressed? What, would it have worked less well with clothes on?
- Hmm... no, - the black magician smiled broadly and cheerfully, - it's just more fun this way! More beautiful, isn't it? Look how the bodies are decorated with whimsically flowing streams of blood! They somehow resemble huge red flowers, don't you think?
"No, I don't think so," Holokan squeezed out, and to the happy laughter of Estrog he thought: "He's definitely crazy! Oh gods, what kind of people do I have to work with! I wonder if there's even one healthy black magician? Or are they all like that?"