by Alex Sapegin
“You’re afraid the reconnaissance will generate interest in the fact that an unknown half-orc got the right to open a fencing school?”
“I’m afraid, but not of human reconnaissance, and I’ve already taken measures in case we have to make an emergency evacuation from Orten. You’ve made a lot of dirty tracks here; you shouldn’t have drawn attention to yourself by opening the gym. Caravan riders are blabber mouths, especially the ones who lead caravans to the eastern mountains. They may already know in the steppes that you and Tyigu are here.”
“Flee? Again?”
“Be ready to flee at any moment,” the Wolf corrected him.
“Still, why should I get rid of my student?” Berg returned to the main topic.
“I’ll show you. Relax, and you’ll see an image. I’m a mage, aren’t I?”
Il stood up and walked up close to Berg. Berg leaned his head forward, and the Wolf laid her palms on the back of his head. The world turned into a kaleidoscope of rainbow colored sparks and images, which congealed into an image of the familiar training room. Then it came to life.
Kerr was standing in front of the Wolf, wielding a sword in his right hand and holding a second sword in his left hand, behind his back, with a “reverse” grip (blade sticking out of the other side of his fist, not the thumb side). Ilnyrgu attacked and her opponent withdrew with breakneck speed to the side. The sword in his right hand pushed the orc’s blade to the side. He switched to a low stance and quickly lunged left, which was executed not with the soundest technical precision, but at a speed that would make your head spin. The Wolf picked up the pace. Kerr, fighting back her next assault with a tough block, stepped back, his blue eyes with bright yellow vertical pupils shining with rage. The orc’s next attack was met with the usual look: plain blue eyes, not a trace of the yellow pupils. The vision of the training room dissolved like a house of cards. The awakening to reality made Berg feel sick to his stomach and left a strong dull ache in the back of his head.
“His eyes!” Berg croaked and coughed. “What was that?”
“That’s what I don’t get. But I can tell you one thing: nothing good! You say you have to check him, whether he can go beyond the ‘limits?’ I don’t know if you count that or not, but if someone had removed the lead bracelets from his arms and legs, he would’ve cut through me like paper! It’s hard enough to keep up with him with those things on. What would happen without them?”
“It’s a real puzzle. What now?”
“I think you should send him on his way next time he comes to your gates. Tell him you can’t teach him anything more. You won’t offend him or make enemies. You’d better not get involved in other people’s secrets. That’s the best way to be sure you can keep your own.”
*****
“Grall Dragon! Wait!” Frida and Kerr heard someone shout from a carriage standing near the front of the fencing school, out of which subsequently came a guy in crumpled clothes wearing the gown of the Free Mages’ Guild.
Kerr stopped short and got tense; Frida grabbed his elbow more firmly. What’s he worried about? The cavalier’s uncertainty pierced his defense. Kerr’s black cocoon of an aura immediately got thicker. A stone mask covered his face. All sensations were chopped off as if by an ax; only stone remained.
Wow! Grall? Seems you’ve been called that for the first time ever. Look how the vein by the corner of your left eye is twitching. The echoes of the storm raging within Kerr reached Frida through the dense cocoon of his self-control. He was trying to figure out whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. Why did someone have to search for him and stop him here? She suddenly felt a wave of unpleasant sensations around the tailbone. It was tough being an empath. Frida’s gift wasn’t that strong, but feeling someone else’s gut start convulsively signaling upcoming troubles…, well, it wasn’t very nice. Meanwhile, the cocoon hiding his aura hadn’t relaxed one bit; Kerr was controlling himself constantly. What blow would his aura take if Kerr let his shields down? Rigaud and Timur stood off to the side a bit.
“Allow me, in the name of the Free Mages’ Guild, to extend an invitation to you to the ball in honor of the arrival of the delegation from the Light Forest,” the guy said, who turned out to be an office errand boy. He exhaled in Kerr’s face. Talk about bad breath. It was obvious he’d enjoyed the bottle recently. Frida frowned. She felt a feeling of repulsion coming from Kerr at what the guy had said. So that’s why the guild member’s clothes were crumpled. He took out a cardboard rectangle and a sheet of paper from the bag on his purse. “Please sign here confirming you’ve received the invitation, and—uhhhh, would you mind putting yesterday’s date by your signature? I was really busy; I didn’t make it to you in time.”
Kerr signed on the line. The errand guy helpfully offered his back as a surface for the signing. It was easy to believe that yesterday’s “business” prevented him from delivering the invitation. His “business” had left bags under his eyes, the kind that can’t be covered over by any spell. The stinky breath alone made it clear; it was well past noon; evening was rapidly approaching, and he smelled like a wine cellar. Apparently, the errand guy had been actively trying to help his body recover from yesterday’s “business” since this morning.
“Hurry up!” came a voice from inside the carriage. “We’ve got a reservation for eight!”
Uh-huh. The party of life continues, huh? After eight, no one would get any more invitations. The errand guy grabbed the form and jumped into the carriage without another word.
“Let’s go! Drive to the guild, then….” Frida didn’t hear where they were headed after that because the horses’ loud whinny drowned it out. Still, it clearly wasn’t to the forest glade.
After the carriage rode away, everyone looked at the ball invitation in turns (they stopped short of biting it, as one would a coin). It was 3x4 inches of cardboard with a gold border and the guild monogram. According to the text printed on the back, each invitee could take a guest along as well.
“Lady Frida, will you be my guest at this formal occasion?” Kerr asked, falling to one knee like a prince in a fairy tale. Even before he did, Frida’s empathetic gift conveyed his feeling of warmth; a sense of something near and dear welled up in her chest, something that he wanted to nourish and protect, but on the periphery, she also sensed his fear, no idea of what. Yet again, Frida tried to understand the reason behind this fear. Kerr was afraid of something inside himself. Perhaps that’s why he was avoiding her?
“My knight, thou art so noble! I shall think on it!” she answered coyly. Kerr’s eyes twinkled with delight. She cuddled up close to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Alright, I’ll come!” she whispered in his ear. “And not only for the party.”
Rigaud smelled of black envy and jealousy. “No point in that!” Frida thought. “I never made you any promises, or even gave you any hints.”
Empathy is a great gift and also a great curse. The whole group was wondering what she saw in the mixed-race guy when there were so many worthy candidates vying for her attention. It was beauty and a beast of unclear origins. But the answer was simple: Kerr treated her like a woman deserving of love and adoration, not like a pretty doll for romantic gratification. For many of the other “candidates,” horny males, she was just an object, a body nice to the touch that could give them pleasure. Rigaud, too, looked at her like a hunter at his desired prey. A rare kind of prey; once stuffed her body would be the central trophy in his display near the fireplace. Many people couldn’t imagine that: seeing someone smiling at you and knowing that he sees you as a thing: he despises, hates, or fears you. Joy and pleasantries on his face hid deadly poison in his soul. He would say one thing while planning to do the opposite. With Kerr, it wasn’t like that. His words so far had always been true to his deeds, and what dreams he had! Frida was prepared to sacrifice much in order to plunge into the fireworks of his bright dreams and melt into the sky once again. On the night they’d spent together, Kerr fell asleep, and she hadn’t yet, wh
en at some point the sensations descended upon her; she was suddenly swept up in someone else’s dream. It was bright and colorful, full of the happiness of flight and being alone with the heights. Frida swam in the sky and quickly descended to the ground. Kerr-Frida had strong wings in the dream, which caught every gust of the headwind and oncoming air. In this strange dream, not her own, she was a Lady of the Sky. Letting him go, after that, was too much for her….
Frida walked alongside Kerr and remembered their workout. The orc’s technique astounded her. Ilnyrgu was a capable and experienced warrior. She had to write herself a reminder to let her father know that vampires had true competition. And how Kerr moved, you can bust a muscle moving like that at such speeds. People took a long time to recover afterwards, but he was fit as a fiddle. Kerr was faster than she was while in battle hypostasis. He could beat her if he had more experience sparring. Frida opened herself up to Kerr’s feelings. Nothing. The black cocoon of shields was stubbornly covering everything. That was another thing: what was he hiding under the shields? They came up to the School gates. She had a lot to do tonight: go to a tailor’s shop and a beauty salon and get jewelry for the ball.
“Goodbye boys,” Frida cooed at Rigaud and Timur. She kissed Kerr and darted into the women’s dorm.
*****
Andy put a bone guard on his left wrist and lifted his bow. The ring on his pointer finger was reliably holding the string and safeguarding his finger.
He dubbed his bow, a handsome composite M-shaped gem of the Rold tradition, “Hole Puncher.” Those masters from abroad sure know the art of bow-making! He’d paid ten golden scales for it. It cost more than his sword from haralug, and he hadn’t once regretted his purchase. Glued together with different types of lumber, reinforced with sinews and bone plates, the bow was tremendous. On top, it was pasted with boiled birch bark, planted with fish glue, and wrapped with an extra sinew thread. The bowstring was made from the dorsal skin of a rrurg, carefully polished and imbued with fat and wax. The string was attached to removable bony plates. The lethal force of the bow was simply monstrous!
Elven bows might be fine, but not for him. Andy frowned—sticks with strings. They looked nice, that’s for sure; elves were great at that. The Woodies and the Icicles made their bows of yew and adorned them with a variety of floral ornaments. An average elven bow was about five feet long. Despite all the protective magic they put on the bows, they were still susceptible to water. They lost their lethal power in heat. And don’t even try it when it gets cold. A silk bow string was great on a sunny day. It wasn’t comfortable to carry a bow constantly holding it in your hands. His bow was so much smaller and just as much more lethal. Neither the bow nor the bowstring could be harmed by moisture. Heat and cold were okay too!
Screenwriters who wrote scenes for historical films on Earth must’ve been off their rockers: they showed skinny heroines using bows. Yeah, right. A simple woman not only couldn’t shoot an arrow from a real bow, she wouldn’t even be able to pull back the string. Elven bows required ninety pounds of pressure to fully retract. His “Hole Puncher”—one hundred.
The long, hard day was coming to an end. The School firing range was empty in the evenings. He could practice shooting his bow in peace and think things over. The target was a hundred paces away. The worker there left the shooting zone, and in one smooth movement Andy grabbed an arrow from his quiver, laid it on the bowstring, retracted it to his ear, and fired. …. The low hum rang out followed by the loud click of the bowstring against the bone wrist guard on his left hand. If it weren’t for the guard, it would have cut his hand off. The arrow hit the target two stripes above the red bullseye and a palm’s length to the left of it. He had to correct for the wind factor.
Thwish. The rector had driven him into a trap, levied veiled threats of reprisal, but wasn’t taking any action. She was waiting for a convenient moment to take him by the throat. His feathered arrow decorated the center of the target.
Thwish. A click against the wrist guard. Once she took him by the throat, she would try to change the mix into “her” man, or she would think of something else. But she would definitely use him to pursue her goals. Earlier Andy had decided to take a trip to the archives and drop off the kran for which he had bought a little decorative box for storing small artifacts. It was a special box—it came with a surprise. Without knowing the password, you couldn’t open it. Any unauthorized attempt to get in would result in its contents being destroyed. He spent exactly five minutes in the archive: the punishing mages rushed in and threw him out. He’d been forbidden to do this work for two weeks by order of the rector. Once he was forbidden, that meant doing anything here at all was absolutely out of the question. They didn’t even let him get his gown from the closet. “You can take it in two weeks! No one steals here; nothing will happen to it until then.” The nerve! Two vials of dragon’s blood were left in the jacket pocket. His habit of carrying all his stuff with him all the time turned out to be not always justified. Let’s just hope no one bumps the jacket. One thing I’m glad about—they didn’t notice the box for Miduel. It’s lying on the table, tiny, and nondescript. The apprentice isn’t making any claims to it; it’s not catching anyone’s eye. Well, let it just sit there then. The rector, of course, doesn’t have loose lips. She planted spies here. All day my back’s been burning with the feeling someone’s looking at me. The third arrow struck the target in exactly the same spot as the second one.
THWISH! Berg doesn’t trust me. Clearly! An ordinary student can’t advance two levels in three months. I’ve been waiting for the time he finally decides to test me. And the time’s come. Judging by everything, I’d guess Ilnyrgu was hired just for me. She’s no ordinary warrior-orc. She’s a shaman and a mage. She’s extremely experienced. She purposely took me to the limit, to the point where I almost changed form. How much strength it took, just to push myself into that cocoon of alienation and stop the transformation. Apparently, Rigaud and Timur saw my aura. There was a second when the shields almost went down. I have no idea how else to explain the strangeness that’s come between me and Rigaud. Timur’s acting pretty calm about everything, as if nothing happened, but Slim…. Guess I’ve lost a friend. The fourth arrow, vibrating slightly, dug into the red circle.
Donnnn. Click. Bleeding scars on his back and a sense of danger screaming at the top of its lungs. Where would the blow come from? Expecting a booby trap to spring at any moment, he awaited the start of the trouble.
That ancient collection of runic interweave schemes gave him a lot. Just take that “spatial pocket” interweave, for instance. The world, as it turns out, was made up of several parts, one of which was “the reverse side.” You could move clothes, objects and magical artifacts to the “reverse side,” if beforehand you fitted each item with a rune-beacon. Let’s say you need a thing: just imbue the beacon with energy and get what you want anywhere in the world. You don’t have to carry it with you all the time. With the reverse procedure, you put it in your “pocket.” They built teleports by making a puncture in the “reverse side,” taking out the space. One of the main conditions of storing something in the “pocket” or the “reverse side” was that its weight not be greater than the weight of the owner himself. In the worst case scenario, he might get pulled into the “inside out void.” In that sense, Andy had a dilemma: which hypostasis should he consider when storing things in the “reverse side?” Without trying to be too smart for his own good, Andy decided to count on the weight of his humanoid form. Last night he hid all his valuables in his “pocket.” The first thing he “tucked away” was the collection of spell interweaves; his sword, bow, some of his personal items, and a couple of sacks of gold and precious stones got connected with their magical beacons. Splitting the second arrow, the fifth went right through the two-inch thick target.
He straightened the quiver and laid a new arrow on the bowstring.
. Another arrow, another. The invitation to the ball. Who would need to invite him? There w
as a sea of possibilities. Certainly not the Guild. It would be a cold day in hell when they would remember to invite their esteemed archivist. By way of a series of logical conclusions, he realized it must be the rector. But why would Rector Etran organize his being invited to the ball? It was a question with no answer. What could this mean? Yeah, that’s right—expect trouble. One after another, the arrows entered the target until it broke in two. The worker was flipping out he was so impressed. Come on, man. Close your mouth and bring me another one.
It wasn’t a good hand. This wasn’t poker—bluffing wouldn’t work. What would? It was like a labyrinth with a minotaur in it—all paths lead to a pot of soup; Ariadne and her thread were still in Greece. The Englishmen have a saying—of two evils, choose neither. They must’ve never been in situations like this. If he chose his studies, he would have to “lay down” under the rector… unless. Unless he could take cover under Miduel. It seemed the old elf held some definitive sway. Even the rector pretty much hung on his every word. What did that mean? It meant that Andy would have to build bridges with the Rauu. Miduel wouldn’t be happy if he ran one of the Icicles through. Andy wasn’t planning on getting a blade through the gut either. Should he pave the path to peace? How? He wasn’t the one planning dirty tricks behind someone’s back. They had it in for him, not the other way around. It would be tough building bridges, which meant he would have to get a pontoon ferry somewhere else. The worker changed the target—and replaced it with a three-inch board? Great job. Andy threw the boy a small silver coin. The coin disappeared into thin air. The boy smiled a satisfied smile. Huh, tricksters at every turn. No matter where you fart, someone’s standing just behind you.
Andy stepped back fifty paces. The worker shook his head in disbelief. You’re wrong, man, you’ll see. In Russia, we used to shoot arrows, and that was about two hundred or two twenty-five paces. There was a unit of measure called an arrow’s flight.