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

by Alexey Glushanovsky

  Finally they found a place to camp for the night. It was a low, rounded hillock, rising slightly above the marshes surrounding it. They set up camp and began cooking supper.

  ‘I don’t like all this.’ Olaf muttered unhappily.

  ‘You don’t like porridge? Then don’t eat it – we’ll manage fine by ourselves.’ Kendir couldn’t stop himself from teasing.

  ‘Yeah, and I don’t like that either! Your porridge should be fed to prisoners sentenced to a particularly severe form of punishment. Can’t you tell it’s burning? Here, give me the spoon. You need to stir it, see?’

  Judging from how willingly Kendir handed over his chef’s duties, the porridge hadn’t burnt by chance. The brave archer couldn’t bear a chef’s duty and when it was his turn to cook, he tried any trick to get out of this honourable obligation. But this time he was unlucky. After giving the porridge a good stir, Olaf licked the spoon with pleasure and then handed it back to Kendir.

  ‘Apart from your cooking, I don’t like the fact that we’re proceeding along the Old High Road with such ease. Think about it: the road through Oner is the shortest route between Fenrian and Irinia. But despite that, since the curse of Oner, people have stopped riding along it, not even the merchant caravans use it any more. And they’d ride right into the devil’s lap for profit! And? We’ve covered a quarter of the way now, and tomorrow we’ll come out near Oner, and - nothing! No hoards of Unclean, no crowds of resurrected dead, no dark hounds. Just one crazy karong which we put an end to easily. None of the horrors of Oner we’ve heard so much about. I suspect some sort of huge foul play.’

  Olaf’s fiery speech was certainly a cause for concern. It was Clairene who answered him: ‘Well, in one way, of course, you’re right. But you’re forgetting something. First of all, two none-too-weak wizards are travelling with you, and they kept up an active spell all day long. The Unclean are capable of sensing magic and try to keep as far away from it as possible, unless, of course, they’re sent. And what’s more, the curse of Oner was directed at the servants of Orchis. The curse-maker had nothing against other magicians or wizards, quite the opposite, in fact; he considered them allies. Does anyone here have an amulet of Orchis the Light Bearer? No? So there you are, you see. The local Unclean simply don’t count us as enemies of their creator. And what’s more, we’ve only covered a quarter of the way, and that was during the daytime when the Unclean and the Undead are pretty inactive. We still have to put three quarters of the road behind us, so it’s all still to come – maybe the dead, maybe dark hounds.’

  ‘Well, thanks! You didn’t need to have added that last part. I was beginning to cheer up. They think we’re one of them, we can pass peacefully and quietly, without fights or adventures. What would it have cost you to keep your mouth shut about the nasty part?’ Olaf grumbled jokingly.

  ‘I was doing it for you. After all, it’s you who’s been missing the Unclean,’ the conjuress countered just as jokingly.

  And it was just then that, as if to give weight to her words, a terrible howling rang out over the marshes, full of longing and powerless hatred.

  ‘Dark Hounds!’

  Clairene paled noticeably. Olaf reached for the hilt of his sword. Ataletta moved closer to Oleg, and only Kendir kept his cool. Carefully tasting the porridge, he announced loudly: ‘It’s ready. Get out your bowls.’ And then began calmly eating his share of porridge.

  Oleg was the first to hold out his bowl. The others followed suit. Once they’d finished supper, and without bothering to wash the dishes so as not to leave the fire, they allocated the watches and went to sleep. Ataletta was absolved from watch duty that night because of the great danger and her obvious inability to fight if there were an attack. This was met with stormy protests on her part. Besides that, Clairene took her own measures of precaution, drawing a circle with a charred log from the fire and then busying herself for a long time with a spell. When she was through, the circle blazed with a bright white light and the sorceress returned to the fire completely wiped out.

  ‘That’s the most I’m capable of. It won’t stop a pack of Dark Hounds, of course, but it will delay them and raise the alarm. And it shouldn’t let any weaker Unclean or Undead through.’

  With that, they all went to sleep.

  ***

  Oleg dreamt of all kinds of nonsense. It was the same night time marsh, but somehow not quite the same, more like a marshy sedge. And the twisted stunted birches and aspens were larger. Or maybe he himself had grown shorter. But such abstract thoughts weren’t of much interest to him at that moment. In fact, there weren’t really any rational thoughts. It was thought-commands, thought-orders and indicators of danger, not reasoning, which arose in his brain.

  He was hungry. His flock was hungry too. The Owners/Masters had been gone for too long. Sad.

  A scent in the wind revealed that someone had crossed the border Violators are food. There is food - there is no hunger. Kill the violators - to please the Owners. Hurry to the violators! And his four long legs carried him quickly through the swamp to the source of the border violators’ scent.

  His pack rushed in behind him, joyfully howling. Soon they ran onto the path of the violators. Inexplicably, all the violators preferred this path. He only rarely came across other violators off the path—they were usually small and hairy, or covered with feathers--but the Owners weren’t as pleased by their deaths as they were for the deaths of those two-legged, cloth-covered ones. Therefore, the two-legged soon became the main prey of his flock.

  Emerging onto the path, he again sniffed it carefully, and happily howled.

  Violators were everywhere! Absolutely everywhere! And it was good. Food. A lot of food! His obedient flock rushed to his call. Soon they could see the light from a campfire. Without hesitation, he threw himself into the attack. His powerful, flexible body easily avoided the awkward defenses of the enemy. Oleg, through the hound’s eyes, was amazed to identify a Fenrian soldier. The poison sting from the end of his tail lashed the solider across the chest, easily puncturing his body armor. The solder lay in excruciating agony, and Oleg moved on, attacking the next violator.

  It was ... weird. Oleg was increasingly amazed, watching the fine, strong bodies of the flock—he hadn’t realized how beautiful these monsters were before now--as they tore the Fenrian detachment to pieces. Oleg realized the Fenrians were on the very path which they had traveled this morning. This must be the same unit that had been dogging their trail all along.

  Amazed by these strange ideas—Fenrians? Unit?--the flock leader, just for a moment, hesitated. In that instant, a spear bounced off his body, unable to penetrate the solid scales. He tried to ignore these stupid, unnecessary thoughts—Detachment? Oleg?--on the hunt, and his paw swatted the violator to the ground.

  He glimpsed the powerful, glossy black bodies next to him. Strong scales, a long tail with a deadly sting, burning eyes of crimson fire ... My flock! The hunter thought with satisfaction, soundlessly jumping over a blazing fire and bursting into a strange, large den of soft tissue, which, as he knew, was where the violators always slept.

  He couldn’t resist. They didn’t even have their usual metal shells, which always stuck in his teeth during a meal.

  Good catch, he thought, and with a few strokes, he moved the bodies into a more convenient position for his delicious meal. It was difficult trying to enjoy a meal that was trying to run away. Actually, decided the hunter, running out of the bloodstained tent, it would be better to take the bodies for the pups in the den ... let them play, practice catching them when they run... they are still too young to bite through iron. When their teeth get more mature, they can have normal violators ...

  Like this one. With a rough jump, he sent his body into flight, and then with all his weight, he fell onto a heavily armored knight, who was bravely brandishing a battle-ax in front of a pair of young females with impacted stingers. Oleg’s powerful teeth closed on the knight’s neck, easily puncturing the veil under the steel h
elmet and the knight went limp.

  The flock was feasting, but the feast would not last long. Oleg sent a group of the youngest females to carry their catch to the pups. The leader sniffed the air and again howled, but stopped, puzzled and pleased. Somewhere ahead in the middle of the hunting territory were more violators! And once again flock was rushing through the swamp.

  But now he was confused. The smell of these violators was comprised of two distinct odors. One of them was familiar to him. It was the smell of Stinging Pain, or as he considered it, a “Stingy.” Again, he carefully sniffed the trail. Undoubtedly, this was a female. Masters were not pleased by the death of a Stingy; moreover, whenever the flock fought the owners of this smell, it had lost many of its members. That’s how he became leader. Therefore, he preferred not to touch the Stinging Pain. But there was another smell. Most of it smelled like that of the Owners, but much fainter. This one had none of the Owner’s usual smell of death. Instead, the smell had the same Stinging flavors.

  For a few seconds he wondered what a being with the smell of his Masters could be doing among trespassers/violators. Maybe he was weakened? Wounded? Maybe he couldn’t kill them himself? But then where did the taste of a Stinger come from, why had it replaced the scent of death? Maybe it’s a pup? Yes, it’s probably the Masters’ pup, captured by trespassers. Odd, but he’d never seen the Masters with pups. No matter. They should hurry to help the puppy before the violators killed it. And the stone path flew up to meet him…

  Oleg was rudely awakened from his dream. Kendir, who had taken the second watch, was shaking him. It was Oleg’s watch next, though it was too early. The archer was very frightened. Pressing a finger to his lips, he signalled Oleg to come away from the tent so as not to wake the others, and then whispered: ‘Dark Hounds.’

  ‘What?’ Oleg really wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the hero of his dream – he’d already stopped identifying with him – was not far away, and he really wanted to know how this hunt ended.

  ‘Dark Hounds. I heard the howl of a hound following the trail on the side of the High Road. They’ll be here soon. We should keep watch in pairs so we’ll have time to wake the others when the beasts get nearer.’

  ‘On the High Road, you say?’ Oleg remembered some details of his dream. Well, it seems his dream was not a simple one. And the sense of somehow identifying with the leader was still there. Just then a howl sounded from the high road and Oleg, familiar with it from his dream and if he remembered rightly, recognized the command: “faster!”

  ‘It’s them!’ A note of panic appeared in Kendir’s voice. ‘They move quickly. Another ten or twenty minutes and they’ll be here! Let’s wake the others!’

  ‘Hold on. I think I can influence them with magic. Maybe we can avoid a fight. There’s no need to wake anyone, let them get a good night’s sleep. If it doesn’t work, then we can wake them and arm ourselves.’

  With these words Oleg leaned against a small pine nearby and closed his eyes. He was trying to activate the strange connection between himself and the leader of the Dark Hounds. To his amazement, he did it quite easily.

  ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry…’ the Pack was closing on the violators. ‘Soon, soon, soon...’ the patter of soft paws on the cobblestones of the road. A small pause – a dead karong… no need to waste good meat. And again – onwards. Suddenly the soft smell of the Masters/Owners came with the sound of the wind, so close. ‘Wait,’ he whispered. An instant, and the Pack stood stock still. But why is there no death in this smell? After all, it is always with the Masters, it always accompanies them, mingling with the smell of their power.

  ‘Because I’m still young,’ the marsh grass whispers. ‘I haven’t died yet, like they have,’ drip the drops of light rain.

  ‘But you are a Master?’

  ‘Yes!’ came with the crackling of fire with the fingers of a Pain-Stinger.

  ‘Are you the one whom the violators/trespassers have captured? We’ll tear them to shreds!’

  ‘I am the one who is leading the Invited to the Masters,’ came the strange reply.

  ‘Who are they, the Invited?’

  ‘The ones you thought were trespassers and the female Stinger. If the Masters wish to see anyone, it is neither trespassers nor the Stingers, but the Invited. Their death saddens the Masters who have invited them.’

  ‘So it is forbidden to kill them?’

  ‘Forbidden!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure, otherwise we would not be here.’

  ‘Should we leave?’

  ‘No. You should run ahead and clear our way to the City where the Masters are. Let everyone know: it is forbidden to attack us!’

  ‘There are those who do not listen to us. May we convince them with the conversation of fangs?’

  ‘Yes, you may. Now go.’

  With a solemn howl, the Pack, rejoicing in the Master’s direct order, raced off to obey.

  Staggering away from the welcoming pine, Oleg wiped the sweat running off him. It had been unbelievably difficult to communicate with the leader of the Pack and sense its reaction to his words at the same time. It turned out that the Dark Hounds had a very odd perception of conversation. Moreover, when he’d finished the conversation, he’d heard someone give a satisfied sniff and a cold voice uttered: ‘Not bad at all, young fellow, you dealt with the guards splendidly. We’ll be waiting for you.’ In some surprising way, that voice gave off a strong smell. The voice which had praised him smelt of death.

  Coming to his senses slightly, he turned to Kendir, who was standing still, warily.

  ‘Everything’s OK. I managed it. The Hounds won’t touch us, and they’re even going to clear our road for us. They took me for one of the Masters.’

  The archer tensed up again at those words. He looked Oleg over carefully, felt his pulse and only then did he calm down again. More at ease, he decided to enlighten Oleg right away about the mysterious Masters.

  ‘When Oner fell, all the magicians who remained there - and there weren’t that many of them left – barricaded themselves into the citadel and melded their forces to cast a curse. Their joint strength was insufficient and the curse took their lives. The priests’ army had to flee from under the citadel walls. Hardly any got out. The curse of the Dark ones reaped a rich harvest. That is what is known for sure, from the chronicles. But there are legends, too. According to the most common one, there was a necromancer among the defenders of Oner. Necromancy is a very rare and powerful type of dark magic. It enables you to raise the dead and…’

  ‘Don’t bother, I know what necromancy is.’ But the tale caught Oleg’s interest. ‘Then what?’

  ‘You know what it is? Where from, I wonder?’ Kendir didn’t wait for a reply and went on. ‘Fine. Anyway, as I said, there was a practitioner of necromancy there. It isn’t really that difficult to kill a necromancer, in fact it’s rather easier than killing a regular magician, but it’s incredibly difficult to destroy one. This one died with the other magicians, but then he managed to rise, to raise himself from the dead. After that, he set about raising his friends and brothers-in-arms. Now undead magicians reside in Oner harbouring hatred for Orchis and his followers.’

  ‘Undead magicians, you say? In other words, liches?’

  ‘Yes, the bard who told me the story mentioned that word. He said that now Oner is the city of liches. But how do you know that word?’

  ‘Like I said, I know a bit about necromancy. But go on.’

  Oleg tried to get Kendir off the subject because he didn’t want to explain that his favourite game was “Heroes of Might and Magic” and that often as not he’d played the necromancer, whose ability to increase his army using skeletons had particularly impressed Oleg. It’s unlikely the archer would have understood if he’d told him.

  ‘Well, there’s not really much else to say. From time to time new death-dealing beasts, like the Dark Hounds, appear on the marshes. Sometimes they burst out beyond the boundaries
of the Dark Marshes and sow death and destruction all around them. Rumour has it that such things are the work of the Oner magicians, still dreaming of taking revenge on the whole of Fenrian for their death. It is also said that something has slowed the necromancer in his work of raising his brothers-in-arms and that as soon as he has succeeded in raising them all, he’ll attack Fenrian and kill everyone. But I don’t think that’s the case. If no-one has attacked for all these years, they’ve only sent out some beasts – and not far or for long – then that means something is holding them in check.’

  ‘I see. OK, go and get some sleep. Now it’s my turn to keep watch,’ Oleg said, settling himself more comfortably. He was overwhelmed by the thought that apparently he’d just managed to converse with a real lich, and what’s more, he’d received an invitation to visit him. ‘So potential teachers have shown up,’ Oleg mumbled to himself. ‘After all, Heliona said I need to study necromancy. Mmm, I wonder if she meant that any of the magicians who would be happy to teach me referred to liches, too. Aha, something tells me that’s exactly what it means. But … I don’t somehow fancy the idea of studying with the dead. Who knows what might happen. Anyhow, we’ll wait and see.’

  The rest of the night passed uneventfully. In the morning, finding signs of Dark Hounds on the road, everyone was alarmed. Oleg had to briefly retell the events of the past night before they set off. Clairene, who hadn’t said a word as she listened to Oleg’s story, road closer to him and asked quietly: ‘Tell me, are you a student or an apprentice? How did you manage to get out alive? Don’t worry, wizards have always kept strictly neutral, I won’t give you up to the Valensians.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘About you and your magic, and about what you’ve just told us. The Hounds, creations of the Dark Magic, thought you were one of their Masters and obeyed you. That’s only possible if you’ve mastered Dark Magic. The Hounds won’t perceive anything else. Almost all the Dark Magicians were annihilated in the last Magical War. Whoever was left is hiding in the Mountains of Darkness and isn’t in a hurry to show their nose in the world. But you showed up in Fenrian, where no magician would dare appear, otherwise he’d be discovered straight away and handed over to the priests. That means you’re not a magician. So you must either be a student or an apprentice of some dark magician. Except it’s not clear, how did you manage to survive? And you’re really young, too... although… not long ago you were saying something about a nasty tight spot, a convergence of spells and how you’d only survived by a miracle. I can suppose that, along with a hide able to withstand arbalester bolts, you also received eternal, or at least extremely long, youth, didn’t you?’ The enchantress gave a little laugh and looked Oleg right in the eyes.