My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  "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.

  "Don'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.

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

  "Oh-ho-ho!" Kevinahari stretched 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 charge 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 sc
hool "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 speaking, 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, stand 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.

  But then I decided to stay a little longer to check that I hadn't hurt innocent people. The captives began to appear from the building, a bit recovered from my curse, injected with inhibitors of magic up to their ears, and masterfully apprehended. Five of them were quiet and looked a little surprised, but the sixth - a skinny girl with make-up a la forest diva - swore so artfully that the seasoned police officers blushed and turned away. Then she noticed me and quickly figured out who was the cause of her failure (a clever girl!): "Go to hell, you damn bastard! Let the ground burn under your feet! Let the rats eat your children! Let you drown in your stinking shit, and the shitty wave cover you up to your head!"

  How lovely, and with so much expression! I imagined Satal in the situation she described and sighed regretfully. What could sweeten my dark mage ear better than the impotent curses of my enemies? While I enjoyed her swearing, a cop hit the girl in her ribs a couple of times.

  "Don't be hard on her," I chided him, "she is a white, after all."

  My words shocked both of them, for some reason, and further on they walked in wondrous harmony, without screaming and resistance. And my superiors still did not show up at the school!

  * * *

  "Are you deliberately getting into critical situations?" Satal kept asking me.

  I shook my head, denying his outrageous accusation. Low afternoon sun penetrated the office's curtains, and a breeze from the open window fiddled the fabric, clinking the rings of the fixtures. My superiors fed me with tea from Kevinahari's stock in the office of the senior coordinator. Captain Baer looked exhausted, Curator Kevinahari - extremely pleased with herself, Colonel Fatun - as if he just stole a cup of tea and was enjoying the misappropriated thing now. Satal finished his drink in one gulp and walked back and forth across the room, resembling a big weighty raven. Perhaps it was his way to cope with stress.

  "What did they want to accomplish?" I was curious. "There wasn't a single child with the Source - neither dark nor white - among the hostages."

  "It was the ritual of the cleansing fire," the captain muttered, looking at Satal almost with hatred.

  "I needed all my people to capture the murderers of the cadets!" the coordinator bristled. "The artisans would have broken through if I had loosened up the cordon. And we would have had even more victims!"

  "Do not quarrel, let's celebrate success!" Kevinahari, as usual, tried to suppress the conflict.

  The captain buried his look in the cup. I was glad that I didn't come to see my bosses in the morning. They would have let off their steam on me! I recalled that I hadn't asked them yet what happened to Charak. "My teacher of necromancy has disappeared," I said offensively.

  "I know," Satal murmured, "the scum we have just apprehended was about to kill him. The manqué killer is one of the leaders of artisans, a white mage!" the coordinator's eyes shone feverishly. "He was taken red-handed and resisted NZAMIPS officers. I will untie his tongue!"

  Uh-huh. I didn't doubt it for a second!

  "What about my university practice in combat magic? Will you give me credit for helping to free the hostages?"

  Satal instantly came to his senses: "You want me to give you credits, when you have not started your practice yet?"

  Ugh, what a bore! "When should I start, sir? I don't have much time left till graduation."

  "Your semester will end in two weeks. I will think of something when the time comes."

  I was not aware that he knew my university timetable so well.

  "I have received the last credits for classes this morning. And my thesis is finished, you only need to sign it," I hinted cautiously.

  The senior coordinator derisively snorted: "Leave it on my desk, I will have a look. Get yourself ready, you'll go on Sunday."

  "Where to?"

  "Where will your superiors send you? To the capital, for now. You wanted to start faster? You will get it faster."

  What an outrage! I finished my tea in one gulp and left the room, slamming the door. It's unbelievable what a dark magician has to go through to achieve his goal!

  Chapter 7

  The heart of Ingernika pumped to the beat of unbearable heat. Sunlight refracted in the flickering haze of air, and the capital city sank into the dazzling radiance of noon. White domes of buildings and nar
row slits of streets mingled with the land. The transcontinental express arrived at the central station of Ho-Carg on schedule, and the suffocating heat of the desert penetrated the deep shadow of the platform with a long line of cars. The train seemed to be freshly taken out of a blacksmith's forge; it was scary even to approach it.

  A senior curator from NZAMIPS wiped his instantly perspiring face with a handkerchief; in his other hand he held a pointed felt hat. Next to him there was a young man.

  "Be patient. We'll see him soon. Are you excited?"

  The young man shook his head in denial.

  "That’s the right attitude, Dennis," the old clerk smiled reassuringly. "Perhaps your acquaintanceship will last your lifetime, but I can't exclude that you won't get along well. I would have preferred to bring a more experienced curator to this case - do not take it personally - but the youthfulness of our new charge dictates some age limitations. Dark magicians are very sensitive to issues of hierarchy…"

  Arriving passengers left the train without haste. The express had to stay in the capital for three hours, getting ready to leap through the hot sands of the desert - this part of the ancient caravan route was completely lifeless, and the train usually crossed it at night.

  The curators recognized their guest at once; a young dark appeared on the platform in the company of a shaggy dog. A porter rolling a wheeled suitcase of monstrous size followed after them. The young man's face bore the stamp of a brutal undeserved insult. Both curators sighed heavily; they knew firsthand what a dark magician in a bad mood was capable of. Dennis made the particular facial expression that trainees of the support services learned from the start: a mix of distraction and friendship with a slight touch of moronity; such a grimace was guaranteed to cause minimal aggression in the dark mages.

  When the mage reached the end of the platform, he slowed down and instantly singled them out of the crowd of greeters. The senior colleague of Dennis blossomed with an ingenuous smile and began to bow like a wind-up toy: "Mr. Tangor? Good day, sir! We welcome you in Ho-Carg, the capital of Ingernika! I am Aren Felister, and this is my assistant, Dennis Rockem."