The Birth

by Paul Kite

  “Yes? Hmm, okay,” the guy said thoughtfully to his back. “Apparently, he’s gotten up on the wrong foot today. It happens to the best of us I guess.”

  But finally the elf reached his room, found the energizing potion and drank it in one gulp. Grimacing at the filthy taste, he shrugged his shoulders—it wasn’t ale or wine, after all. But he felt better— the fatigue was almost gone. After some thought, he opened a second potion and swallowed some more of the nasty stuff.

  “Excellent,” the elf said, shaking his head. He felt a sudden surge of cheerfulness, his blood was pumping harder and his mind became clear. Of course, if you abuse such potions, then sooner or later you will fall ill or even die.

  Having removed all unnecessary things from the table, he spread a huge and very accurate map on it. Then he took out an amulet in the form of a long red crystal, put a drop of his blood on it, and, holding it by the string directly above the center of the map, closed his eyes. It was necessary to focus on the target—Livion—very precisely and the amulet itself would indicate the ravan’s location.

  Suddenly, the red crystal came to life and reached for the edge of the map. Without opening his eyes, the elf slowly moved his hand in the same direction. But then the magic of the amulet dried up, the crystal froze and began to flicker, shimmering with the whole spectrum of the color red. The rope vibrated slightly, as if signaling the end of the search.

  “Yes! There you are!” Dazrael opened his eyes. “Avsteneya?” he read the name on the map in front of the crystal with surprise.

  It was impossible for him not to be surprised. It was the capital of the Free Lands, a huge, populous city, located near the rather large lake Rilk, into which the Rathan river flows, originating from outside the barrier around the Cursed Lands, somewhere high in the mountains of the Ilian ridge. What had such an interesting person, like that damn necromancer ravan, forgotten in Avsteneya?

  The elf slung both of his favorite swords over his back, buckled a belt with daggers on, and pulled a magic bag with a whole set of very useful and interesting things in it from a nearby hook. The portal nearest to Noar-Rahor was almost in the center of the city, he had to hurry. It wasn’t clear how quickly he would be able to find Livion in the capital. Even with his sense of direction, it wouldn't be easy for Dazrael to spot the ravan in the nooks, dead ends, and underground levels of Avsteneya.

  * * *

  “The owner isn’t present,” a little goblin, trembling with fear, squeaked plaintively. “I don't know where he is! Don't kill me, please!” he huddled in a corner, putting his hands up in front of him.

  A strange creature, dressed in a spacious, black hoodie that completely covered his head, imperiously moved his hand and the living shadows that had frightened the goblin so much, moved again.

  “Who knows?” the creature asked in a raspy, dead voice.

  “I-i-ikran kn-kn-knows,” the goblin replied, his chin trembling, watching the shadows with his large, wide eyes.

  “Where's Ikran?” The shadows began to clamp down on the goblin, and he couldn’t stand it anymore; a murmuring sound rang out, and then a watery spot formed beneath him.

  “He's g-g-gone to-to-to the city; he's c-c-coming back soon!” the goblin howled. “D-d-don't k-k-kill me!” he was crying now.

  “I don't need you,” the creature rasped, lifting a hand again, and the shadows retreated and disappeared into the surrounding space, waiting for a new command from their Lord. “Well, I'll wait for Ikran,” he stepped away from the cowardly creature and sat down.

  The door opened an hour later, and a huge, tall and broad-shouldered orc entered the room with a sack on his back.

  “Sirak,” he boomed, “you damned brat, get the food, or I'll…” He noticed the creature in the black robe, sitting like an immovable statue on the chair, and the goblin who was quietly whimpering something in the far corner of the room. “Who are you?” the orc dropped the bag of groceries and flexed his powerful shoulders, then he squinted and stared at the strange guest. “What the Dalhal is going on here!”

  The orc rummaged around on his waist, searching for his sword, but then remembered that he'd left it at the entrance to the house, by the door. He’d put away his weapon and then trouble had come. The leader of his tribe hadn’t been wrong when he’d used to say to them, while teaching the younger generation: “A real warrior should sleep with a sword at his side!”

  “Are you Ikran?” the head of the creature turned toward the warrior of the wasteland as it stared at him, with the only thing visible under the hood being a dark, foreboding void.

  “Yes!” the orc felt the danger coming off the strange creature like an aura, and took a step back.

  Two more steps, and he would be behind the door, after which there was a short hallway, and at the other end of that hallway he’d left his sheath with a blade of good Sancrisk steel.

  If only I had time to get it! a quite sensible thought, in such a situation, flitted through the orc's mind.

  But...

  The strange creature guessed his desire and held out an arm. The shadows suddenly came alive and enveloped the warrior of the wasteland from head to toe.

  “A ne...ro...ncer,” the strangled words were barely heard from under the now formed cocoon.

  “Exactly!” the hood laughed in a disgusting manner. “A necromancer!”

  The levitating cocoon approached the creature, the shadows twitched and exposed the orc's eyes and nose.

  “Ooh..rar...kr...kh...pr...cu...arg…” the warrior tried to say something, apparently, he’d tried to swear and curse, he was also trying hard to break free.

  “It's useless. But you can twitch, of course,” Livion said, tilting his hood back and revealing a completely bald head, covered with dry, cracked skin. “I have some time. I'm not in a hurry.”

  The orc looked at the necromancer with anger in his eyes and fell silent.

  “Well, you're not as stupid as some of your relatives.” Livion's praise was full of sarcasm. “I have only one very important question for you. You either answer or you die. And you know that I won’t hesitate to take your life. Blink once if you understand.”

  The orc blinked obediently.

  “Great,” the necromancer moved closer to him. “Where's your Master?”

  One of the shadows slid a little lower, opening the warrior's mouth.

  “In Tikran, he'll be back tomorrow morning.”

  “Well,” Levion wasn’t happy with the answer and mentally commanded the shadows to form a similar cocoon, with a hole for the eyes and nose around the goblin. “I will wait. I hope you're not hungry.” However, the question was rhetorical, because the orc's mouth was again closed by one of the shadows, and the necromancer hadn’t learned to read minds yet. Moreover, it was impossible for the ravan race to do so, so it’s kind of a moot point.

  A new day had come. The room where Livion and the two shadow cocoons had spent the night was filling up with light through the windows on the wall. The long-awaited Master—an aynu named Sayron—one of the managers of the slave market in Alatkhdor, had not yet appeared.

  The necromancer, having stayed awake for all of the long, seemingly endless, night, was sitting quietly in the chair.

  Suddenly, quiet steps were heard from outside in the corridor. Livion, pushing the interfering shadow cocoons to the far wall, got up and went to the entrance. If that’s really an aynu, the elf won’t be capitulating as easily as an orc, for example. Cursed angels have an innate immunity to many dark spells, but they are completely helpless against the magic of blood. The necromancer cut the palm of his left hand with a nail and quickly began to draw a small circle of runes on the floor next to the door. Drawing the last one, he whispered a spell. The runes were chained together, and for a split second, lit up with a dull, yellow light, activating the trap. Angels or demons, the principle of binding both of them was the same, only the order of the runes would be changed.

  The door opened and...

 
“Dazrael?” the very surprised and discouraged Livion watched as the light elf entered the circle of runes, and the spell, based on the magic of blood, didn’t cause him the slightest harm—the golden web just slipped off powerlessly, releasing the unintended victim.

  “Who else?” The Master of Shadows smirked, glancing around the room and noticing two cocoons. “Were you having fun, old man?”

  “Have you forgotten anything here?” the necromancer asked with displeasure.

  “I was looking for you,” the elf went to the empty, clean chair and sat on it, his legs crossed. “I want to talk to you, it’s very serious.”

  “I’m listening,” Livion activated the trap again, just in case, though he figured that he would hardly see the aynu today.

  “Why do you need Kraven?” As soon as the elf uttered the name, the necromancer twitched, as if he’d been hit, and the next second, he appeared close to Dazrael.

  What willpower it took to restrain himself and not grab his long-time acquaintance was better left unsaid.

  “Do you know him? Where is he? And how’ve you found me?” Livion hissed.

  “Calm down, immortal,” despite the possible danger, the elf smiled.

  “Calm down?!” in Livion’s eyes, darkness and death, the true power of the damned necromancer, deepened.

  “Old man, you shouldn't worry so much,” Dazrael said derisively. “Otherwise, you’ll fall apart before your time.”

  “Tell me!” the ravan demanded.

  “First answer me, why are you looking for him?”

  “That is only our business, the business of immortals,” the necromancer said.

  “Yeah,” the elf agreed. “Kraven is immortal, you’re immortal. Then why are you stuck in our world? You, ravan, are marked as cursed by the gods, but why is Kraven still here, if people like him can leave our world at any moment?”

  “Where is he and what do you want?” Calming down, the necromancer sat down on another chair. Of course, he wasn’t going to answer Dazrael’s questions.

  The light elf knows too much about players and Kraven in particular! Normally the NPCs aren’t designed to acknowledge us, let alone know about us.

  Regarding the man himself, Livion figured there were only two possible explanations—either Kraven was in the Guild of Shadows, to which Dazrael belonged, or they were only watching his every move, which meant he was still free. But Livion was more inclined to go with the first option. He wondered why they were so alarmed by him searching for the guy. What would happen if Livion found him? How could he stop such a powerful guild of NPCs? Something was wrong here…

  “Stop looking for him, okay?” the elf responded, interrupting the necromancer’s reflections. “For a while, forget about him completely.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Well, if you don’t want to live, then...” the elf spread his hands, without completing the sentence, as if hinting at the unenviable fate of the necromancer, if he continued on this path.

  “Will you kill me?” Livion was, frankly amused by this.

  To hear the NPC’s promise to kill an immortal was funny. It wasn’t quite possible. The game system would revive the player at the nearest rebirth point or where the binding had been made.

  “I'll kill you,” Dazrael nodded quite seriously.

  Livion froze in concentration. He didn’t like the elf’s seriousness. He spoke confidently, without any doubts, about the possible killing of an immortal. Being killed permanently! Without the possibility of rebirth.

  “I'll kill you,” the Master of Shadows repeated. “And you will not appear in the lands of Noria anymore.”

  That is very interesting, Livion caught the hint. What a strange caveat… Where will I appear? There are no places or dimensions in the game, except the land of Noria, including the two continents and the Collapse prison. And the possibility of more wasn’t even programmed during the development and subsequent creation of the game.

  Who else, if not Livion, would know this!

  Well, Livion had noticed long ago that the AIs had somehow learned to bypass most of the established rules. The World had been changing slowly. And, for many ordinary players, completely unnoticeably. They are glad that NPCs seem to be alive, that the system responds to their every action, even insignificant ones. The gods have begun to pay more attention to those who crawl on the ground. To get a patron has become much easier than before. So on and so forth. The creators and the administration of the game seem to change the settings and the system themselves—this is the official version.

  Probably only Livion and the true masters of what was behind the Life Corporation knew what was really going on. He’d even warned them about the instability of worlds created on the basis of quantum technologies, and about the super-intelligence of artificial intelligence grown on bio crystals, as well as the completely unknown effect of neuro interfaces on the human brain. His words hadn’t been heeded, and was banished to the virtual reality he’d developed.

  He examined the words of the NPC elf. It was something new, unless he was lying, but that was unlikely. Well, it wasn’t an actual death, which he’d first thought, it was only a transfer of the players to some area which had no exit. This news would destroy the game and ruin the owners of Life Corporation. It was a great opportunity to get revenge! Livion should take that into account, when making his plans.

  “Okay, let's say I agree. And for how long do you expect me to forget about Kraven?” Livion asked irritably.

  “For at least a month.”

  “What?!” the necromancer exclaimed angrily. “For a month?”

  “Yeah, man. We need Kraven. We need him!” the elf took a deep breath and continued. “You see, Livion… No one could get to Kraven right now. Believe me.”

  “Damn it! What the hell does your guild need from him?” the necromancer had barely restrained himself from shouting. “He is a simple man, the most ordinary of immortals!”

  “He's unusual, Livion, he's unique,” Dazrael shook his head. “Please, my old friend, stay out of this. Derolighler and Zorkhan will kill anyone who tries to stop them, even if he’s an immortal, even if he's a God himself. They have enough strength and are capable of that.”

  “Your old friend?” the necromancer chuckled, calming down. “I'm glad to hear that. But why am I still alive, if the head of the Guild and your master are so concerned about Kraven?”

  “Because Master Zorkhan knows that you are looking for Kraven, not someone else. He remembers our long-time and quite positive acquaintance. So, he sent me to talk to you. He doesn't want unnecessary deaths.”

  “What a good teacher you have,” Livion grimaced. “I'm positively amused. The Master of Shadows, the best killer in Noria, doesn't want unnecessary deaths. No, Dazrael, you're wrong about your master. He doesn't care about me, and I don’t think he cares about you, either. If, as you say, they could kill any of us, Zorkhan wouldn't just ask you to talk to me. Who am I to him, to keep me alive? Correct, I'm no one!”

  “If not for our long history, I would’ve killed you on the spot for such insolence!” the light elf angrily clenched his fists.

  “Do you hate hearing it?” a wry smile stretched the skin on the necromancer's skull even more. “You've always obeyed your master's orders without a murmur of protest. You’ve killed anyone who Zorkhan pointed out. You've done all those difficult tasks of his. How many deaths do you have on your hands? Hundreds? Thousands? What has the light elf turned into?”

  “Into a killer without a conscience,” Dazrael whispered quietly.

  “I see you understand that. What do they call you, your drow? Harvin Elghinn—Death's Spouse—, if my memory serves me,” the necromancer said, as if determined to undermine the elf’s entire outlook on life.

  “Yes,” the elf answered briefly.

  “Well, you were perfectly comfortable with that name. As if it was always meant to be. And tell me…” he paused for a moment, “...my friend. How much does your teacher t
ell you about his plans?”

  “All I know is what Kraven's needed for. And the Master promised to let him go then. He asked me to tell you this,” the elf looked at the necromancer. “If you so desperately need this immortal, Zorkhan is ready to bring him to you personally.”

  “Really? The right hand of the Head of the Guild of Shadows will leave a witness? Especially since it’s one he knows how to kill? I don't believe that!”

  “But why?” the elf was surprised. “Why don't you trust my master?”

  “What do you know about the so-called Ancient War?”

  “The War of the Ancients…” the elf began to speak.

  The necromancer listened closely to the elf's story, and from time to time, added some facts that he knew.

  “Well,” Livion said thoughtfully. “I'm sorry, but I'm going to upset you right now. The war wasn’t initiated by the dawn elves. Derolighler of the Guild ‘Elghinn Dal Veldrin’ and his right-hand man, your master Zorkhan, were quite interested in starting off that bloody massacre.

  “That can't be true!” the elf jumped up. “You're lying! My master's parents died in that war!”

  “You don't believe me? Then maybe you have a few hours to spare. I have some papers in my house, and a couple of interesting artifacts that you can't possibly disbelieve!”

  “OK,” the light elf agreed instantly.

  “Then let's not waste time,” the necromancer rose from his chair. “Come on. And then you can tell me all you know about Kraven and Zorkhan's plans for him.”

  * * *

  Dazrael didn’t hurry to get back to Noar-Rahor. He’d entered the first tavern in the vicinity of the portal in Alatkhdor and ordered a large bottle of ale, which was brought to him personally by the owner of the pub, a strong, burly dwarf of advanced age. He’d tried to offer Dazrael some food or a snack, but the elf only viciously shrugged it off. He’d wanted to get so drunk that he’d completely lose consciousness.

  Everything that Levin had told him was true! Master Zorkhan had been lying to him for so many years! Dazrael had been used as a marionette wolf—a cruel, ruthless killer.