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

by Alexey Glushanovsky

  ‘Very strict. If I don’t manage it within ten days, then I’ll have to give up the whole enterprise of nobility and go without it.’

  ‘I see. If we make an agreement, I will think about this. After all, I could talk to the Emperor directly. I don’t think he would deny me a small request. And there are other possibilities, too… And as for your arm… Mead-Beard, can you carry out the “great cure”?

  ‘I think I still have enough left in me,’ the magician replied. Oleg shuddered slightly. The “great cure” was a spell at the limit of even the mightiest of healers’ capacity. The person receiving the benefit of this spell was instantly cured of all his wounds and diseases, spiritual, physical and magical--even old age was included in this all. Moreover, this spell was able to revive someone who had recently died, provided not more than five minutes had passed since the moment of death and the brain was unharmed. But the price exacted for such a spell was of course no less great; it not only drained virtually all the magician’s strength, consuming a gigantic amount of energy, but also considerably aged whoever pronounced it, burning up a few years of his life in one blow. Overall, to heal a broken arm with the aid of the “great cure” was a terrible waste.

  ‘Don’t you have anything more ….suitable? After all, I’m not dying. I just need to fix my arm.’ Against his will, Oleg was drawn into the Duchess’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes of course I do. It’s just that for some reason many dream of the “great cure” and nothing else. But if it is necessary to save Kolin, then why not pull out all the stops?’ the old man answered calmly.

  ‘Kolin?’ Oleg glanced at the Duchess.

  ‘Young Duke Kolin Bel,’ his hostess explained. ‘My son and sole heir.’

  Oleg fell to thinking. Having an influential Imperial family in his debt was very attractive. This would be a great help to his plans. And what’s more, if he were completely healthy his chances of dealing with even a Supreme Vampire were not bad at all. And the salary offered by the Duchess would come in very handy. Having thought for a short while, he made up his mind.

  ‘OK, it’s like this then. You mend my arm as fast and as well as possible. Independent of the outcome of the undertaking – after all, I might lose the battle – you will provide me with the full, high quality and swift healing of all the wounds I sustain as well as horse relays until I reach Volgrad, to make up for lost time. If I succeed, you will pay me one thousand gold pieces – you can never have too much money – and use all the means at your disposal to obtain nobility for me, even a titular one (I don’t particularly need an estate) as quickly as possible, in not more than ten days. I am prepared to take this risk under such conditions.’

  ‘I accept. I give you my word on as the Duchess of Bel that I will meet all your conditions,’ the Duchess answered simply. ‘You could have asked for more. After all, I offered two and a half thousand.’

  ‘You will need to organize my nobility. That will cost money, too. So I think that one thousand will be enough.’

  ‘As you say. And now it would be wise for you to go with venerable Mead-Beard so that he can take care of your arm.’

  The healing didn’t take long and after only one hour Oleg gave a blissful sigh, limbering up his arm, now freed from the splint. Another hour and a half were spent gathering what he needed, so it was not until around midday that Oleg was able to set out for the she-vampire’s lair. He was accompanied by five horsemen “to show him the road and assist in him any possible way”, as the Duchess put it. In actual fact the Duchess, it seemed, was worried he might run off on the way.

  With these thoughts in mind, Oleg grinned. Surely Lady Bel could not be so irrational as to think that five of her blockheads would be able to stop a man supposedly capable of fighting a Supreme Vampire?

  Be that as it may, the Duchess’s guards turned out to be quite pleasant and interesting companions. In two hours of fast riding – the horses from the Bel stables were indeed above all praise – Oleg managed to find out loads of local jokes and gossip and hear a few bits of light-hearted advice as to the best way to tackle a she-vampire – mainly based on using a natural, exclusively male, weapon.

  However, the closer they got to the Black Tower, the quieter they became. A deathly silence reigned near the black building which stuck up from the fields like the shard of a rotten tooth. No birds sang, the chirruping of crickets was not to be heard.

  Oleg remembered the lively castle of the Undead, surrounded by its beautiful garden and full of mournful dignity. There was nothing like that here, nor anywhere in the vicinity. As they got closer to the stumpy building, which was badly ruined and not black but a disgusting dark-brown hue, even the lush meadow grass grew thin and dried.

  ‘How on earth can the she-vampire and your young duke be here? This isn’t a tower, it’s just a heap of stones.’ Oleg turned to his companions. ‘It would be hard for even one person to hide here. How could a whole nest of vampires have fit in here?’

  ‘Underground,’ one of his companions answered briefly.

  ‘Dark fortresses don’t grow upwards, but down into the depths,’ another added.

  ‘With your permission, we’ll wait for you here, on the grass…’ the head of the group turned to Oleg, ingratiatingly.

  ‘Yes,’ Oleg said curtly. For some minutes now a strange warmth had been bothering him. It came from the darkh which Viss had given him. Oleg had always taken it with him when he went hunting, highly valuing its abilities in destroying various types of Undead. It was irreplaceable in battles with various zombies or minor vampires, and Oleg was hoping the dagger would prove no less effective against the Vampire.

  No sooner had Oleg entered the half-collapsed entrance, than the darkh blazed with a particularly strong heat. Oleg unsheathed the blade. Bright waves of light, a soft pastel colour, were rolling down the curved, flame-like blade.

  ‘Ah, the dagger and the tower were created by one and the same people,’ Oleg thought. Following intuition more than logical reasoning, he directed all his energy into the dagger, just as Leya had taught him. The next moment the blade of the darkh grew black, and a deep bass voice resounded in Oleg’s ears: ‘I welcome you onto the territory of the Third Outpost, O Knight! Are you ready to take leadership of the outpost? I had given up hope that one of you would show up, Sovereign,’ he added in a less formal tone.

  ‘Who are you?’ Oleg spun round, trying to locate the speaker and cautiously clasping his dagger. In the tight dimness of the corridors it was a better weapon by far than his long sword.

  ‘Forgive me, Sovereign,’ the voice of the speaker shook for a second. ‘I’m the warden-spirit of the Third Outpost, the Black Tower. I took complete control of the building entrusted to me in accordance with the last order of the military commander of the Outpost, Tara Death-Caster. In accordance with her instructions, from the moment you confirm your rank, I will deliver my complete obedience to you. What is your order, Knight of Despair? For ease of communication, I would ask you to tell me your name. When you address me, you can use my functional name, Outpost, or you may invent any other which suits you.’

  By this time Oleg had already worked out precisely who it was he was dealing with. It seemed that the Dark Magicians were masters of cybernetics or some magical equivalent of that science and had equipped their fortress with a certain variety of “artificial intelligence” which, to all appearances, was none other than Oleg’s new acquaintance. What’s more, this AI obviously counted Oleg as one of the commanders. It seemed, then, that the Dark Magician’s darkh was not simply a weapon but also something like an identity card or, more likely, a definition of rank, seeing as Outpost hadn’t called him Viss but had only used the necromancer’s title.

  ‘You can call me Arioch. What is the state of the tower? Briefly!’

  ‘Briefly? The letter “f” And don’t think that the word is “fine”.

  It looked as though this Outpost had a sense of humour. Admittedly, with a barrack-like twist. But on the other
hand, what other kind of sense of humour could an army tower have?

  Oleg couldn’t keep back his smile: ‘And in more detail?’

  ‘In more detail? With pleasure: all the above-ground construction is eighty percent in ruins. Externally active spells: zero point zero zero. Internal traps deactivated due to insufficient energy resources. Repair work impossible due to insufficient energy resources. Structural integrity of the underground structure has been breached – I don’t have enough energy to power up the strengthening spells. I am only functioning at half capacity, on emergency reserves, and am not even able to kick out the impudent Undead that has built its lair on the second storey underground because of insufficient energy resources. It would be most desirable if I could be recharged, Sovereign.’

  The information about the Undead on the second floor was of great interest to Oleg.

  ‘Do you mean that, if given energy, you’d be able to get rid of the Undead?’

  ‘Yes, no problem. Internal magical booby-traps: seventy-three percent remaining. I had to switch them off. And it wouldn’t take long to repair the other twenty-seven percent, either. If I had the strength, I’d have dealt with them easily.’

  That idea really appealed to Oleg.

  ‘Well, how can I recharge you?’

  ‘Please come into the spell room,’ Outpost livened up remarkably.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Follow the ball of light, Sovereign,’ the warden-spirit said, getting his bearings at once.

  A smallish ball of flickering ghostly glow appeared in the air. The corridor slopped gently downwards and Oleg had to climb over stony rubble which had fallen from the ruined ceiling. He occasionally came across human bones, dumb witnesses to the grim battle which had been waged here in days gone by.

  Going down a long and rather wobbly staircase, Oleg came out into a small hall. The battle which had taken place here had been particularly frenzied. The stone walls bore many traces of lightning. In some places the stone had simply been melted, it seemed, by blows from fireballs. On the wall in one corner Oleg noticed a miraculously preserved, magnificent bas-relief depicting a furious warrior brandishing his sword. The sword, placed in the stone hands of the bas-relief moulded on the wall in some unfathomable way, glowed with a bright white light.

  Oleg went cautiously closer, wanting to take a better look at such an unusual piece of artwork. ‘Well, whatever else you may say, you can’t say these dark ones have no taste,’ Oleg thought to himself, examining the pedestal of the relief. ‘You could send it off to the Hermitage Museum straight away!’ And then his glance fell on the hilt of the sword, and Oleg gasped. What he was looking at wasn’t a bas-relief at all. Piercing the heavy confinement of the stone trap, the hilt of the glowing sword was firmly grasped by the bony fingers of a human skeleton.

  As though it had noticed Oleg’s curiosity, the sphere floated closer and the now familiar bass rang in his ears: ‘The third line of the outpost’s defence passed this way. Just at the moment when the Light forces managed to break through, their strength had been sapped to such an extent that they didn’t even bother to send a unit to bury the fallen and gather military artefacts. What you are admiring is the result of a stationary booby trap, a so-called “stone quagmire” which one of the leading storm troopers fell into.’

  Oleg reached forward. The blade had taken his fancy and he intended to take it from the hand of the deceased light magician. ‘Why should such an excellent weapon go to waste? A sword like this could come in very handy. Although against vampires…’ Oleg didn’t manage to finish his thought. At the very instant his hand brushed the hilt of the sword which had taken his fancy, Outpost’s desperate cry rang out: ‘Don’t touch it!’

  But it was too late. The bony fingers of the dead magician loosened, as though tired from grasping the sword for so long, and fell to the littered floor with a booming bang, while the sword smoothly slipped into Oleg’s outstretched hand.

  The hilt was oddly warm, as though it had been grasped not by the cold bones of a skeleton but by the hand of a living person. It had a simple cross-shaped hand guard with a transparent stone similar to a diamond fixed in the centre. The blade was long, thin and straight, and blazed with a vivid white light. It didn’t seem so out of the ordinary, but Oleg suddenly felt a strange, absolutely irrational joy, as though he were meeting an old friend.

  ‘Why did you have to yell like that?’ Oleg asked, addressing the quivering sphere of light suspended nearby.

  ‘Forgive me, Sovereign.’ A guilty note could be heard in the familiar bass. ‘But I have heard that the blades of Spiritual Fire burn anyone who touches them without the permission of their owners. How were you able to take it?’ Wary admiration could be heard in the voice of the guardian-spirit.

  ‘What do you mean, how? Very simple, I got permission.’ Oleg answered jokingly, with a nod at the wall. But Outpost took his announcement seriously.

  ‘You are a great necromancer, my Sovereign. I shall be happy to serve under your leadership.’

  Meanwhile Oleg’s attention was distracted by changes taking place in the sword. The blade slowly dulled, losing its blinding white glow. Finally, it went out altogether, revealing the fine blade, which was forged from a strange white metal. However, that didn’t last for long. A stream of joyful ginger flames snaked down from the hilt along the blade alternating with stripes of primordial darkness. Soon the whole sword was covered in fire. The ginger colour of the flames, mingling with the darkness, turned blood red.

  ‘The sword has accepted you,’ the familiar bass said. ‘Curious. Judging from its reaction, you don’t have only dark magic in you…’

  ‘And what of it?’ Oleg grew wary. The last thing he needed was for this spirit to see him as an enemy. Responding to his feeling, the sword heated up slightly. The flames flickered with doubled speed. It was as though the blade were showing it was ready for the battle.

  ‘Nothing, Sovereign,’ the voice answered, somewhat perplexed. ‘It’s just that I had heard that this was impossible. It is very curious to come across such a phenomenon.’

  ‘Well, lead on.’ Oleg glanced at the sword in his hands. Having understood that fighting was not expected, it had extinguished itself, amazing him once again. The previously snow-white metal of the blade had now gone red and became covered in a very fine net of black engravings. Without thinking, Oleg thrust the sword in his belt. Just then another idea flashed through Oleg’s mind: ‘Listen,’ he said, addressing his guide. ‘You said that all internal traps are now under your command. Can you deactivate this one?’ and he pointed at the magician encased in the wall. ‘I could do with the scabbard, too, you see.’

  ‘I was able to do so; earlier, before my energy ran out. Now, alas...But once I’ve been recharged, no problem. Admittedly, that trap is badly damaged but I think I can do it. Incidentally, Sovereign, how do you intend to charge me? You don’t have any slaves with you whom you can sacrifice, and judging from the magical background, you don’t have a recharging crystal accumulator, either.’

  ‘Aren’t there other ways to recharge you?’

  ‘There are. There is a directional crystal-transformer in the spell room which enables my magical current to equalize with the energy of the commander. It was installed to ensure maximum co-ordination during battle, but it could be used to transfer energy. However, the magical strength of one person, even you, my Sovereign, despite the fact that your aura abounds with energy, would be too little for my system to function normally. Besides, I wouldn’t recommend you deplete your energy level that way.’

  ‘And what do you suggest, then?’ Oleg liked the honesty of this ancient intellect.

  ‘Shortly before the Light ones attacked, I was configured with the Dark Citadel’s latest invention, an altar of power. It allows me to draw magical energy not only from living beings sacrificed there but also from magical objects placed on it, too. During that battle many of the most varied and extremely potent artefacts were used, and af
ter the death of their owners, they were simply left here. If you have a good look around, you might be able to find something suitable.’

  The idea of rummaging around in the dust which had once been human bodies brought on a sharp bout of squeamishness. However, Oleg overcame this and set about his “archaeological dig”. The result was three poignards charged with murderous spells. The blades of two of them seemed to be made of sharpened, opaque obsidian while the third radiated with the gentle glow of amber. Oleg’s bounty also included an ebony helmet which spread an aura of hate and fear from all sides, as well as a smallish, walnut-sized sky-blue topaz attached – who knows how - to a fine silver chain; Oleg could find neither a gadget nor a little hole on the stone through which the chain could be thread. The stone gave off an amazingly kind and cosy glow and Oleg decided he would only feed it to the tower in the very worst case scenario.

  Having gathered all this up, he followed his ghostly guide along the dark, half-ruined corridor, moved a flagstone aside following the instructions of the spirit, and, going through the secret entrance, he came out into a spiral staircase leading deep into the earth.

  ‘Are you sure this is the way?’ Oleg looked into the gaping hole of the old stairwell with grave doubts.

  ‘It’s the shortest way to the fifth underground level. And besides, it is the only way to get there avoiding the second floor where the unclassified Undead, a vampire I believe, has established itself.’

  ‘Your innards have been honoured with the residence of a Supreme She-Vampire, just in case you’re interested.’

  ‘Oho. The Citadel completed that experiment, then? When they were building me it was all still at the research stage. Though it’s true that right before the war we received blueprints of it, but at the time it was considered a failed project.’

  ‘Well, they completed it, and with great success. So much success in fact that I’m now obliged to hunt down one of these “blueprints” which has run amok.’

  ‘Really? But as far as I remember, that model was designed as wrecker and hunter of magicians. You’re taking a big risk if you attack it all on your own.’