The Road to Magic (Book 1 of the Way of the Demon Series)

by Alexey Glushanovsky

  ‘Your Holiness, what are your orders? We shall keep watch here with the guard, and you could lead the people out of the building. Otherwise they will all burn…’

  The impudence of this young guard made the priest indignant.

  ‘And who might you be, and who do you think you are?’

  The guard looked around stealthily – there was no-one nearby. All the guards were piled up by the wing, eyes fixed on the fire.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone who I am?’

  Petronii was overcome by curiosity.

  ‘I won’t tell. Who are you?’

  ‘The demon,’ the guard answered briefly. Petronii glimpsed a swift flying fist, and the whole Universe fell on his head.

  The guard looked round and dragged the priest’s unresisting body into the bushes. Once there, the guard checked his pulse and muttering to himself, ‘He’s alive, the dog’, he set about pulling the gold ring-seal off his finger in a business like way. That done, he scattered branches over the unprotesting Petronii and, whistling, headed towards the house.

  A large carriage laden with the most valuable possessions and weapons from the priest’s house soon drove out of the gates. In the middle of the carriage, in the place of honour, was a chest bound with iron rods, full of two thousand new gold pieces. The carriage braked for an instant beside one of the alleyways, and another individual jumped aboard, carefully turning her face from the light. Then the carriage rumbled on, towards the nearest market square.

  Approximately an hour after the departure of cart, the priest’s house was lit up by the light of a mighty torch and filled with unprintable cries, howls and curses against Orchis, his mother and various parts of their divine bodies. Then a cavalcade of riders rushed out of the gates, whirled around for a few moments, discovered the carriage’s trail and rushed off, yelping and whooping. After approximately another hour, the riders returned, gloomily dragging the utterly empty carriage behind them. The head rider, a man of around fifty or fifty-five, was trotting in front without his helmet. A huge bulging bruise could be seen on his head and in his hand he held a note. Riding up to the house, he threw the note into the mud with an irritated gesture. It only contained a couple of lines written in Oleg’s flying hand: “Thank you for your generosity. Demon.”

  ***

  ‘Robbing that poor priest was as easy as taking candy from a child,’ said Oleg, but then, remembering his childhood and his younger sister, quickly corrected himself. ‘Easier. Much easier!’

  He and the princess were sitting in “The Green Dragon” ravenously guzzling bacon and eggs and washing them down with expensive wine from the tavern keeper’s reserves. There followed a heated discussion on the moral-ethical, juridical and financio-pragmatic side of the expropriation conducted by Oleg.

  The chest bound with iron rods was standing in their room. In order to avoid the local proletariat from possibly acting upon that well-known communist slogan, “steal the stolen”, Oleg had summoned up all his experience and knowledge in the field of magic. Now any thief who even so much as thought to move the chest stood an excellent chance of turning into a well-cooked beefsteak.

  Oleg was wearing his favourite jacket and jeans (the new tunic they had just bought was lying in the chest, as once he’d tried it on, Oleg didn’t like it and decided to keep wearing his own clothes for as long as possible), a long and heavy two-handed espadon hung on his back, and his sleeve hid a flail he had prepared himself.

  Originally Oleg had thought of getting something along the lines of a Japanese katana or a no-dachi, (similar in form to a katana. although considerably larger) but having established the quality of the local metal workers, he came to the conclusion that he’d better take something heavier and broader-- all the weapons for sale were made of iron; there was not even any simple steel to be seen, let alone damask steel. An espadon fitted these demands almost perfectly. Huge, almost six feet long, it was so heavy that when Oleg first lifted it using only his human strength, it made his eyes roll. Fortunately, his demonic muscles allowed him to wield the giant weapon quite freely, even with one hand. Oleg also bought himself a long poignard. In a situation where he might have to fight with both hands, it would make a fine daga (a long dagger for the left hand). After a short training session on the tavern courtyard, where Oleg remembered a few sword fighting tricks he’d learned at school, the princess looked at him with admiration. When Oleg, sweating, walked up onto the porch, she muttered softly, as though deep in thought, ‘Maybe he wasn’t just boasting when he said it was within his power to slay our whole army! Seems as though I might stay alive after all.’

  And so now here they were, celebrating their first victory and their improved financial situation. Or rather, Oleg was celebrating, but the princess was trying with all her might to reach his conscience with philosophical arguments. This undertaking was very much to Oleg’s liking, even though it was doomed to failure from the start (as a first year student suffering from a cruel hangover, Oleg discovered in himself an absolutely worthless thing, (i.e. his conscience) and without thinking for long he tossed it away and bought a beer. He never regretted this barter, bragging about it to his friends on many an occasion); he was a great fan of debating lofty matters over a few drinks. The amount of wine on the table gradually diminished and the debate was becoming very heated. Unnoticeably, the tavern-keeper and his guests at the nearby tables became involved, but luckily the debate was purely theoretical and it never even entered anyone’s head to accuse Oleg of robbing the High Priest (conflicting rumours about this event had already begun circulating through the city).

  To his surprise, Oleg discovered he was gradually losing the debate. The side of the law-abiding princess - who maintained that stealing was bad, and no matter what sort of a bastard the High Priest of Orchis was, whoever burgled him had acted unfairly - was supported by most of the tavern’s visitors. On Oleg’s side - who maintained that they’d robbed him, and thank god, he’d soon rob some more for himself anyway - were only a few individuals shrouded in dark cloaks, carefully hiding their faces in their hoods, and a small group of hirelings standing together. The debate spread and gradually caught the whole hall, taking on an existence quite apart from the couple, genuinely amazed at the outcome of their little debate.

  Here and there fists had begun waving. The shady individuals had pulled out little bags stuffed with sand, the kind so convenient for stunning passersby in winding city streets. The hirelings were weighing heavy chairs in their hands, working out how best to pull the legs off. Ataletta, frightened by such a reaction to her words, was getting ready to dive under the table and Oleg, in case things got bad, got ready to use his fists to shelter her (growing scales on his body under his clothes where no-one could see them, just in case). But just then an interesting idea suddenly wandered into his drunken head.

  It roamed around for a while in the primordial emptiness filled with alcoholic mist, finally bumped into the convolutions of his brains and immediately – apparently out of sheer joy that it had at least found something to latch onto – became fatally lost in them. As a result there was nothing for Oleg to do but try to carry the thought out, and he set about with far from sober enthusiasm.

  Oleg had remembered Heliona’s casual phrase about the amazing capabilities of a demon’s vocal chords. In other words, demons can convince people just by their voice. “What an interesting concept,’ he thought. ‘I should try it!’ Not fond of losing a debate, Oleg decided to influence his opponents with the joint forces of art and his demonic voice to prove he was in the right. Quickly nipping up to the room to get his guitar, he tuned the instrument. Up until then, Oleg had completely forgotten about the snapped string and now he repaired the damage, thankful that he’d grabbed a couple of spares as he was leaving for Denis’s party.

  The brawling ceased instantly. Minstrels played very rarely in Fenrian and no-one was about to let such an opportunity slip just because of some banal fisticuffs. After all, you could clean up your ne
ighbour’s physiognomy any day, but travelling musicians hardly ever played in taverns, being more accustomed to royal courts. In short, no-one wanted to miss this chance.

  Once he’d finished tuning the guitar, Oleg eyed the crowd around him, glanced at Ataletta who was crawling out from under the table, intrigued, and began to sing.

  When Oleg fell silent an impressed silence reigned in the “concert hall” for a time. Then the audience erupted. A wave of applause broke over Oleg. One of the shady individuals, pulling his hood lower, came up to Oleg and quietly whispered: ‘You’ve cheered us up. If anything happens, go to Slanting Alley, the lads of Phil Tattered will stick up for you.’ Oleg gave a little laugh, but didn’t refuse, he might need them in the future. ‘Play more, won’t you?’

  Oleg looked over the tavern, which was pretty full. He looked over the shady individuals who were starting to whisper, flattered; at Ataletta, rapture rising out of her indignation drawing an indescribable expression on her face, and he answered decisively: ‘Well why not? I’ll play!’

  A satisfied whisper ran through the tavern.

  He began singing Vysotsky’s “Pirate Song”.

  The tavern fell silent. Velmint wasn’t only the capital, it was also a port after all, and quite a large portion of those present worked the sea. Many of the merchants had seen similar scenes in their nightmares. And judging from the all but toothless grin which appeared on the face of one of the “dark hoodies,” he had himself taken part in similar events.

  Oleg’s unfocused gaze – he was now beginning to sober up – only picked out a few tiny details of the crowd, individual tiles of the mosaic, creating a canvas of reality.

  Here, Ataletta sat amazed, listening to the song with rapture, but unable to fathom how you could praise – and with such talent –a cursed thing like piracy…

  There, some young lad in a black leather overcoat—a sailor, judging from the short blade at his belt and his swaying gait--listening with such terse attention it seemed it was not the song he were listening to but the voice of fate itself…

  Over there, a merchant, listening despite himself, ensnared by the romantic image of his eternal enemy…

  And here, an aristocrat getting on in years, with a girl by his side. His daughter, judging from the coat of arms embroidered on both their garments and the age difference. How had they ended up here in this tavern which, although respectable enough, was certainly not fitting for high society? The lady was holding a fan up to her face, and the gentleman, narrowing his eyes, was obviously scornful of the unskilled minstrel playing in the tavern instead of presenting himself in the royal court as befits a respected minstrel. And thus they were frozen, immobile, blinded and deafened by the waves of sea wind, by the freedom to live and perish, straining at every line.

  Bravado and wine had already carried Oleg away and he paid no attention to the audience. He finished his song, stood up and looked the hall over with his still drunken gaze.

  ‘Well? Did you get it? Have I proved my point?’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ the audience replied, a cacophony of tuneless cries. And even those who had just walked into the tavern, attracted by the music, and had no idea just what the singer had proved, joined in their cries. ‘Sing something else!’

  Oleg glanced victoriously over at Ataletta and drawled out another tune by Vysotsky, “Of Love in the Middle Ages”, a ballad that tells of a brave warrior who has won a fair maiden’s heart but the jealous king calls him to a tournament. Although the braveheart wins, the king sends him off for one hundred days…and his beloved doesn’t wait for him.

  Had Oleg been more sober, he might not have struck up such a provocative song in the capital of an absolute monarchy, with the heir to the throne just across the table. But he got away with it. The people greeted this narrative about the misadventures of the valiant knight with gasps and asked the aristocrat in a whisper in which country and when that treacherous Sire had ruled who had so terribly wronged his braveheart, and whether a rebellion had been sparked? The aristocrat whispered back that he did not know exactly, but judging from the king’s name, it was somewhere in the east, possibly beyond the Seli Khaliphate, and most likely a long time ago.

  All the while the young aristocrat who had come with her father was throwing Oleg significant glances. This did not escape Ataletta’s attention and, hesitating a little, she moved her chair closer to Oleg in order to show her: “this place is taken”. The aristocrat girl wilted. Guessing the meaning behind these manoeuvres, Oleg smiled broadly at the princess while simultaneously winking at her “competition”. Both girls broke into smiles.

  ‘There it is, the magical power of art,’ Oleg thought to himself. ‘Just this morning one of these girls was mortally afraid of me and didn’t consider me human, and I don’t even know the other at all. And there they go, competing!’

  Wondering at the female mind, Oleg continued his performance. Finally, after over an hour of uninterrupted singing and fully sobered up, he realized he might lose his voice, so he put down his guitar. It was a full house. People were sitting on benches, tables, chairs, stools, on upturned pans brought in from the kitchen, and on the bar, too, headed by the tavern keeper himself, wiping tears from his unshaven cheeks. The final touch was the three sailors and a ginger-haired girl who had clambered up onto one of the beams on the ceiling. Oleg felt like a star.

  Once it was clear that the concert was over for the day, the crowd gradually began to disperse.

  The aristocrat came up to Oleg.

  ‘Greetings to you, lir. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Noir, Count de Vinei. This is my daughter, Lermetta.’

  ‘Arioch. A minstrel,’ Oleg answered.

  The Count was obviously taken aback, but gave a well-mannered nod.

  His daughter, however, was not so restrained.

  ‘Arioch. And what more?’

  ‘And what more?’ Oleg realized he’d unwittingly broken some custom.

  ‘Well, your surname, senyal, (warrior nickname) your lands... In your empire, I believe, the customs are not so far removed from ours.’

  While Oleg desperately thought how to satisfy the girl’s curiosity but not be trapped in a blatant lie, the old Count himself came to his aid.

  ‘Why, Meta, can’t you see that the lir hunter doesn’t wish to boast of his accomplishments?’ And turning to Oleg he added, ‘I would ask you to forgive her, Lir Arioch. Here, unlike in the Empire, not much is heard of the Hunters’ Code. And if you wish to remain incognito, you would do well to change your clothes. In a jacket and the colours of the Imperial Hunter of the Unclean, you will always find yourself under attack from girls eager to ask all about your victories. After all, is that not why you avoid the royal court? Anyhow, that is your business. However, would you be so kind as to introduce me to your companion?’

  Oleg looked at the princess. She nodded and sighed: de Vinei had obviously recognized her and was now simply following protocol. For a few seconds Oleg thought through the possibility of killing him; it wouldn’t have been difficult for Oleg to unleash a snake from his head, and an elderly aristocrat with a heart attack wouldn’t arouse suspicion. No one, including his daughter standing next to him, would notice anything. Nevertheless, that thought vanished as soon as he looked into the wise eyes of the old Count.

  Oleg had never killed anyone in his life, and even though he realized that in this new, raw world - and all the more so as a demon - he was unlikely to get by without doing so, he was nevertheless trying to delay that unpleasant moment for as long as possible. And to begin with the treacherous murder of the clever old man sitting next to him… well to hell with the need to keep secrets – f... it all, he decided.

  Glancing around and not noticing any unwanted ears, Oleg announced: ‘Allow me to introduce Her Highness Ataletta. Your Highness, this is Count Noir de Vinei.’

  The Count bowed politely. The princess flashed her eyes at Oleg; it seems he had made some slip in the etiquette somewhere, but she didn
’t say anything. Smiling sweetly, she nodded to the aristocrat.

  ‘Judging from the glances you threw in my direction, you recognized me. As you approached me and did not rush straightaway to call the Lord Chancellor’s guards, I conclude you wish to tell me something.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness. Unfortunately, I must inform you of bitter tidings. Yesterday evening Lord Chancellor announced the beginning of King Friedrich the Fourth’s death throes.’

  The princess shuddered and turned pale. Then she smiled sadly at Oleg and began to get up from the table.

  ‘Well, that’s it then. Thank you. It was a nice evening. You know, I even thought for a while I would be able to escape,’ she said quietly, with sorrow.

  Oleg, amazed by this, sobered up instantly.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going? What’s with the funeral mood? OK, so your father’s dying, but that’s no reason to climb into the tomb yourself! I’ll see you safely out of the country, you’ll gather your strength and take your throne back. I might even help you with that!’

  Ataletta shook her head sadly.

  ‘That’s not the point, Arioch. Why wasn’t anyone guarding me? Why was I able to walk the streets so freely? Why, even after we’d run away, weren’t the guards sent out into the city? No one followed me, no one looked for me, not counting that fool Ermini.’

  Oleg kept quiet, beginning to understand that in fact it was all rather strange. It seemed that no one could care less whether the heir to the throne was in the castle, where they were about to murder her, or not. Instead, she was allowed to wander the city, or anywhere else she pleased, on her own, without any kind of guard or chaperone, as if no one was afraid she might run away.

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ the princess replied to his silent question. ‘Uncle knows that no matter how much I might want to run away, I have to be in the castle when my father dies. The family curse won’t permit me to be anywhere else.’ And seeing the look of utter incomprehension still in Oleg’s eyes, she asked the old Count: ‘Explain to him, would you? He’s from far away and doesn’t know about the subtleties of Fenrian’s royal succession. Meanwhile, I’ll go and get changed. It seems I still have time.’ And she ran upstairs.