"Who knows?"
"Why did the thieves fail?" I took a practical approach to the matter.
"Your zombie scared them off! Max popped out of the window and started barking. Even I almost kicked the bucket when I heard his voice at night."
Luckily, Sorcar had no access to his Source at the moment; otherwise, he would not only kick the bucket. I already developed a habit of trusting my zombie's judgment: if Max found someone worth furiously barking at, the situation was really serious.
The owner of the Drunken Flounder offered beer on the house to us for this occasion: "Don't take offense at us, the bullies weren't local."
Most likely he lied. Hooligan-strangers in god-forsaken Arango? No way! However, we weren't up to catching the unlucky thieves; the next morning we left Gilead.
* * *
The great and terrible General Zertak brainwashed his subordinates. The mighty sorcerer, who was rumored to have survived the lethal curse, was quick to punish the guilty.
"Irresponsible imbeciles! You didn't follow my order!" the general ranted. "What were you told? To escort! And what did you do?"
Captain Ridzer looked down; his subordinates lowered their heads.
"How dare you leave a valuable employee alone, without a means of communication and an agreed-upon route?!"
"My fault," the captain gasped; to object to the general would be suicide. Ridzer diligently nurtured remorse in his soul, in order to stifle any opposition to his dark nature.
"What were you thinking when you let him go alone?!" The general continued to rage. Zertak knew his soldiers better than a staff empath and nipped in the bud any attempt by his subordinates to do a sloppy job. How else could he keep a gang of dark thugs from getting out of his hands?
Leaving the staff tent, Ridzer took a deep breath and stopped squeezing his high-crowned hat with coat of arms - a symbol of his captaincy. He managed to retain it today! He was spared!
"Maybe we should find him?" suggested the most conscientious of his subordinate mages.
Ridzer wiped his shaven head with a handkerchief and put the hat on. "What's the point? He went to a secret facility. While we are searching for him, he will finish his work and leave. Besides, he has a zombie, which is worth at least one and a half of you. Nothing will happen to him!"
The field camp of General Zertak's army was doing the last pre-march checkup of vehicles, ammunition, and fighters. Amulets of instrumental control gently chimed on long poles; the majority of their crystal prisms were drawn to the south, toward the border with Kashtadar. The important but incredibly tedious operation of clearing Arango from supernatural manifestations was about to begin any day now. Authorities of Ingernika were proud that they could use force where all the other countries had to meekly retreat and wait for centuries until the otherworldly on the cursed land would die from hunger. Meanwhile, one-third of the army personnel had fun, raiding the neighboring Kashtadar territories in order to prevent the organized or spontaneous attempts of southerners to profit at the expense of Arango. Zertak rightly believed that the neighbors would not dare to object to such a gang of combat mages. The Army wanted to prove its usefulness and, at the same time, teach a lesson to all sorts of different foreign bastards. General Zertak foresaw no problems with the execution of his plans.
Chapter 19
I started believing that luck had finally smiled on me: a university degree was almost in my pocket, my job was successfully finished; all that remained was to get paid. Perhaps, my working for NZAMIPS was not such a bad idea.
The road to the train junction was marked with striped columns; it was difficult to get lost. I looked as a winner at the familiar miserable landscapes (fields, barns, ranchers); the alien province was tamed and assimilated. We spent nights in the truck - no one wanted to renew acquaintance with bedbugs; the late summer heat was tolerable. In the evenings, Alex entertained us with ethnographic tales about the victories and defeats of local folk heroes - the province was a frequent target for wars and strife in Ingernika throughout known history. I rode my motorcycle, raising clouds of dust, which Sorcar and Alex, driving the truck behind me, had to breathe. The white as a driver was no good - one thought of him behind the wheel caused tremors in us. I was in a mood to drive forward as quickly as possible. My companions disapproved of my determination, especially Sorcar, who wanted to have fun at our expense. He convinced Alex - the white was simply unable to resist - and by majority vote (two against one), they decided to take a detour to have beer. I should have opposed more forcefully, but then a wave of strange kindness rolled in on me - Messina Fowler manifested herself again. Seeing tile roofs (a sure sign of prosperity and a pub nearby), the "cleaner" started honking, and we yielded to the temptation.
The place was a twin brother of Tyukon Town, except that it had no pavement. The unusually high residential density for a rural area indicated that the land around the town belonged to a greedy latifundist, who charged high rent. Approaching the pub, I noticed unusually many people on the street, though it wasn't a holiday or weekend. To hell with beer, I didn't want it anyway! I started looking for a spot to make a U-turn and leave. Alas, Sorcar didn't follow me: seeing an old, chipped signboard with a mug, he immediately shut off the engine. I mentally cursed him. My intuition screamed: forget the beer, run, run away…Too late.
We entered into a squalid pub that looked more like a shed; inside there were rough wooden tables; the aisles between them weresprinkled with slicedstraw. The pub was alarmingly empty.
"Did you see the folks in the back yard? They are from Kashtadar!" Sorcar authoritatively said while we were waiting for dinner. We planned to spend the night in town - I wouldn't let a drunk behind the wheel.
A fancy horse-drawn wagon was parked in the backyard. I had never seen anything funnier: curtains with woven bright patterns, carved poles, tassels, and fringe, wheel spokes painted in three colors - it was a jewelry box, not a wagon. Elegant piebald horses with braided manes appetizingly chewed grain and curious children's faces peeped out of the canopy, but the adult inhabitants of the wagon hid inside.
"W-where? Here?" Alex noticed them just now.
"Of course! As Zertak approached the border, they started fleeing Kashtadar," Sorcar, as usual, didn't miss a chance to talk.
"Why are they fleeing their country?" I did not like foreigners, though I had no chance to meet them yet.
"In Kashtadar the dark are treated as if they are leprous: deprived of civic rights, they are not permitted to live outside of reservations. In the past, Arango's authorities quietly sent Kashtadarian refugees back. But now the army mages at the border let people of their own kind freely go to Ingernika."
I felt pride for my country. Yes, Ingernika is the most progressive state in the world! A dream of all mankind! Though I'd prefer the guests not be too many. "Who were these Arango authorities - the police?" I asked.
Sorcar grinned indulgently - his dark Source was definitely coming back. "No, I implied the old families, the latifundists. They own everything here: the land, the money, the police, the courts, the judges. They chased NZAMIPS out of here and now nip at their heels," he explained further. "I was born in Arango, but I ran away from here in fear that my dad would sell me to Kashtadar."
I had no more questions about Arango. While we ate, the villagers began to gather behind the pub's fence. They stood still and watched us through the windows. Then, three men dressed pretentiously - in squeaky patent leather boots, jackets, and caps - squeezed through the door. They were dressed too warm for the summer heat; it was probably a delegation!
The most representative of them gave us a truly deep bow. I even forgot about my beer for a minute.
"How do you do, gentlemen? Accept our apology," he said.
"For what? Please be seated, dear. Who are you? What business do you have with us?" I replied.
The pub owner pulled up three chairs to our table, without saying a word.
"The warden I am; a local; Agape is my name."
"Glad to meet you. Tangor."
"Please, have mercy, do us a divine favor! Relieve our town from foreign evildoers."
Obviously, in the eyes of the villagers, everyone traveling in the car was at least a member of the government. When they looked at my motorcycle, they probably could not find a suitably high rank for me - their fantasy didn't go that far. They were appealing to the authorities, and two of us were NZAMIPS officers, government employees, so we couldn't even send them to hell!
I scratched my nose - my skin peeled off after sunbathing on the beach of Bird Island. "Are you talking about people in the wagon? What is wrong with them?"
"Our people disappeared after their arrival!"
"Were they dark?" I asked, for the sake of appearances.
The warden and his cronies shook their heads, in denial. "Our miller, Pafnutsy, went missing!"
No, none of the dark could have such a name. "How many people disappeared?"
"We've already said: Pafnutsy!"
"One man, therefore!"
The villagers smiled, seeing the quick-wittedness of the authorities.
"How did it happen? Explain."
In about fifteen minutes we figured out that the miller drove a horse cart to a nearby town for a new millstone. A couple of days later, when the villagers began to worry that he hadn't returned, a motley Kashtadarian wagon arrived from the same direction. I didn't catch why they blamed the Kashtadarians - neither their wagon nor their horses belonged to the miller. In my opinion, the disappearance of the man was due to a girlfriend or an otherworldly.
"Does your miller have a girlfriend somewhere?"
"Not possible, sir. Pafnutsy is a family man, and his dog howled badly."
"Wait here. I'm going to investigate this!"
The "cleaner" tagged after me.
I needed to talk to the Kashtadarians. I didn't believe that they killed the miller, hid his horse and cart somewhere, and came to the village of their victim.
As I approached the wagon, its occupants took on a fighting stance: the children disappeared inside and the adults went out to meet us. A woman with combed back hair (a dark mage, by all indications) stood up ahead of everyone; an ugly, broad-shouldered man took the place behind her right shoulder. The man was probably her bodyguard - though he was too short for that: half a head shorter than me - or her husband or son. Who knew how old this broad was.
"What a chick!" Sorcar muttered admiringly, and I concluded that he inherited his dark Source from the paternal side. I had seen enough of those black-eyed beauties in Krauhard - the warden of our village was a quiet man but quarreled with his "dark" wife so badly that they were heard miles off. No, not for me! The ideal woman should be like a hamster - small, fluffy, and silent.
I stopped three meters away from them - it's common knowledge that a correctly chosen distance prevents many conflicts. I made no bows, but didn't stare at them, just closed my eyelids a bit, hiding my glance. "Good afternoon, madam," I appealed to the senior. "Do you speak Ingernik?"
"We do," said the man behind her back.
"These good people," I nodded in the direction of the gloomy crowd that gradually filled the pub's yard, "are worried about their fellow villager. Did his three-axle cart with two large bay horses come across your path in the last few days?"
Kashtadarians exchanged a few words in their tweeting dialect. "What if it didn't?"
"Then I will go away and leave you alone to deal with these good people."
Our conversation was being watched by nearly forty people now. The Kashtadarians talked with each other again, this time a little longer. "Who are you to ask?" the man said to me.
It sounded like an insult. "I am a NZAMIPS officer!" I straightened my shoulders and demonstrated my interim certificate, which Captain Baer didn't take away, luckily enough.
The black-eyed witch showed signs of agitation and an unhealthy interest. "A 'cleaner', eh?" she asked with a heavy accent, flirting with me.
"He is a 'cleaner', only wounded," I hastened to shift her attention to Sorcar. "I am investigating the case of a missing man."
"We do not want trouble, sir!" the big guy shouted. "We did not pay attention to the passersby, but our son caught sight of a bright flash near a large cart; he got scared and ran away."
"What color was the flash?" I asked.
"Is it important?"
"Yes, it is." If it was magic, then by the color of the flash I could determine the type of Source used. White spells were never blue or violet, the dark ones - yellow or orange.
The man returned to the wagon and spoke to the children; the Kashtadarian woman winked at Sorcar, flirting. Probably, he did the same (what a bonehead!).
"He said it was as if the sun lit up. Our boy is too young," the man shrugged apologetically.
"Wait here. Do not go anywhere until I am back!" I wanted to discuss the new information privately. Telling villagers to go away and not irritate the authorities (me), I returned to the pub and gathered my own council of war.
"That was white magic."
"W-white mages c-can't…"
"They can, if they belong to the artisans' sect. What did they need the miller for? He wasn't even dark!"
"His horse-drawn cart," Sorcar spoke up. "They could be the same people who tried to steal our truck in Gilead."
"Gilead is far from here," I disagreed.
"A five-day walk. If they had to travel on foot, then they were just in time."
I pondered for a while. Recalling the story about the explosives on the steamboat, I decided that artisans came to Gilead to hamper the archeological study of the City of Nabla. They failed to blow us up and sought to leave the province by truck. They reached this place on foot – timewise, worked. Only the murdered "cleaner" from Tyukon Town and an uninitiated dark, burned along with his farm, didn't fit into the picture. Could parallel sectarian groups operate in Arango? "Let's find the place the boy talked about and check if the traces are similar to the ones near Tyukon Town" I suggested to Sorcar.
He agreed at once; he was a little drunk. I tasked my dog with looking after Alex and the truck (I relied on Max more than on the white mage), and we headed in the direction pointed out by the Kashtadarians. I drove motorcycle in a zigzag - the beer in the pub was really good!
My intuition foresaw no danger from our dubious investigation: the artisans had already run away in the stolen miller's cart. In short, I did not take into account the artisans' unfathomable logic. Perhaps, they also saw no reason to fear, and when they spotted us going to the village, these morons decided to make another attempt to take possession of our truck. We drank beer for two hours; they had enough time to plan the truck's capture.
Finding a place on a country road you have never been on before, based on its description only, was a challenging task. We trudged on like turtles for fifteen minutes, stopping every hundred feet and trying to correlate the terrain with the landmarks given by the Kashtadarians. I spat out midges - at such a slow speed my dividers did not work properly - and looked for bald spots in the grass or patches of unusually fresh greenery.
"Here, or a little further?"
"Right here," Sorcar said behind my back.
I looked around - a disheveled young man - a white mage - strode resolutely in our direction. "Freeze!" I shouted at him.
He stopped and pulled out of his pocket a hand gripping a large silver amulet, full of colored rhinestones. What a vulgarity! I prepared my shields. Not so many lethal spells existed in white magic, but the shield against them had to be incredibly dense. And dark anti-spells could not reflect or neutralize hostile white magic, so we protected ourselves by changing the medium through which the white spells spread. It was like thickening a gel around ourselves, sort of, although eerily inefficiently.
Golden flashes struck my eyes over and over again. They did not cause any harm or pain. I sensed that this boy was not a serious threat to me. "Tell me what you want to accomplish; maybe I will help?"
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The brash young man turned pale, threw his amulet in my direction, turned around, and ran away.
"Capture him!" I ordered. My zombie-dog stayed at the pub, but there was Sorcar, and the reflexes of both to fleeing prey were absolutely the same. The "cleaner" quickly caught the hapless villain and started beating him with his feet. I picked up the amulet and slowly approached the fighting mages. It wasn't easy to pull Sorcar away from the enemy; however, I had to talk to the captive. I slapped my hands twice before Sorcar's face, and he leaned back, instinctively avoiding contact. "Enough! Let's take him and go back."
"Why?" the "cleaner" frowned.
"We need to interrogate him."
"I'll kill him, you'll raise him, and we will find out everything!"
"I'm not going to mix my memories with the shit this moron has in his head! My intellect may be adversely affected. If you don't agree, I'll help you forget about your Source for another six months!"
This threat had a better effect - Sorcar stopped beating the white. And we drove back to the village, three of us on one motorcycle. The artisan constantly slipped off the bike, striking his feet against the stones on the road or smashing his nose into the red-hot cylinder. Sorcar raged and offered to tie him to a rope and drag. I weakly opposed, not willing to terrify the locals with our atrocities.
The village met us with dead silence; even the "cleaner" started worrying. There were no angrily grumbling men or anxious women in sight; dogs didn't bark, chickens didn't run! Finally we spotted a group near the pub. The Kashtadarian guy stood in the middle of the street with a hefty ax in one hand and a familiar crossbow in another. Alex sat on the footboard of the truck, leaning against the door. Judging by his blood-stained face, he was knocked on the head. The black-eyed witch bandaged his wound. She worked very professionally, in my opinion; they seemed to stock bandages in abundance. Peaceful settlers, indeed!
The Kashtadarian man expressed incredible relief when he noticed us. Max already hurried toward me, wagging his tail and looking like a tangle of knitting - three crossbow bolts protruded from his body at different angles.
My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist Page 18