That same night I went to Uncle Gordon's cache. Krauhard wasn't dark at night - chariks (the most innocuous of the otherworldly) danced above the bushes, fog shone in the lowlands, and even mountain tops exuded a distinct green halo. Naturally, for non-natives of Krauhard it looked like a nightmarish tale. The house of the alchemist that replaced Uncle Gordon was illuminated, and a dog barked in his machine-yard.
I waded by touch into the cleft, fearing nothing. Under a susurration of rain I lit a candle brought from home and prepared to delve into the ancient wisdom.
It did not happen.
Books from the cache were written relatively recently (judged by their condition), but their language was totally alien to me. Suddenly I grasped why my forefathers collected skulls. Well-decorated and inscribed bones that lay before me in the cache were a precious treasure, a real library for a necromancer. Not like the books storing words or squiggles which no one would understand centuries later, the bones preserved human experience in its purest form.
Feeling depressed that I could die before I would have a chance to convene a Circle to talk to the bones, I left them in the cache. Instead, I picked up the books, thinking that NZAMIPS could translate the texts for me. Of course, there was a significant risk that I wouldn't get them back. Could I ask Hemalis to translate them? An image of a goose feather slowly scribbling on a sheet of parchment touched my mind - Rustle knew the people who wrote these books. The monster was willing to help me.
I promised myself that I would never again harass Rustle, honestly!
I brought the folios from the cache to my room, wrapped them in newspapers, and read all day, posing them as alchemical treatises. My frugal ancestors recorded the secrets of their profession on expensive parchment, without wasting ink on names and dates. I found their methods of detection, control of the otherworldly, structures of weavings, and even white magic practices present, too. I was torn between a desire to read the whole collection successively and a need to search for a means to save my life.
I was sure that Satal's officers would sacrifice their lives for these books.
I gathered all my willpower and focused only on necromantic rituals and the restrictions associated with them. The necromantic part of reading was most poetic and metaphorical, and devoted to awakening the spirits of the deceased. Sadly, there was nothing about the involvement of Rustle in the ritual. I hadn't finish browsing through the books, when one morning I found myself fully dressed, packed and halfway to the door.
My time ran out.
Mom and my stepfather were surprised by my sudden decision to leave, but they did not argue. I gave Joe a list of my bank accounts and other assets - I did not want to leave my family with no money as had happened to me after my father's death. Anxious Joe drove me to the station. The passengers on the train looked askance at me and tried to find a seat further away.
I finally came up with an idea for how to save myself, but almost no time remained to implement it. My only hope was Larkes. I intended to ask his permission for something so unthinkable that I could be jailed for it. Would the senior coordinator of the region take such a risk? He had already lost his position once, and it took him a few years to return to power. If I were him, I probably wouldn't jeopardize my future.
At least he didn't make me wait in his office.
"In short…Do you know that a leader of the Circle is doomed if the ritual is broken?"
Larkes gave me an affirmative nod.
"Did they explain why?"
His answer was no.
"Any necromancer can raise a mindless corpse without help from other mages. But in order to restore and retain control over the consciousness of a deceased, I need a Circle of necromancers. If I worked alone, I would have to absorb the entire awakened consciousness, and could become helpless against my creation - the alien mind could oust me. The Circle assures that the raised personality will have no chance to take possession of the caster. Unfortunately, during Finkaun's ritual we managed to restore the alien psyche. And now it's here - in my mind. He does not want to die, like any living being. There is no other way to get rid of him except to provide him with a suitable alternative. I need a corpse, relatively fresh and intact, to complete the ritual. The body should belong to a dark".
I was sure I had gotten in such a mess because the bones we worked with belonged to an uninitiated dark. He clung to life too hard for an ordinary man.
"Are you asking me to help you make a zombie with the Source?!"
"We'll be able to move him only into the corpse of a dark - due to the particular configuration of the vital meridians of the dark. You'll decide what to do with him later. Or soon you'll have to take actions against me."
And I surely had an active Source.
Larkes fixed his wistful gaze on the wall behind my back, then reached for the phone. I hardly believed my ears: in a familiar, velvety, slightly bored voice the senior coordinator requested a fresh dark corpse for the forbidden ritual. It was the biggest thing that one dark could do for another. I was touched.
In just two hours, a truck with a special team of "cleaners" picked me up at the main entrance of NZAMIPS headquarters. We drove for two days with one overnight stop in an unpopulated area. We ate dry army rations while in motion. Our destination was a tiny military settlement, squeezed from all sides by lifeless hills. It was either an ancient quarry or a place for the supernatural's outburst. The settlement was covered with protective perimeters of such power that even a golem would be vaporized if it attempted to break through. Two rickety barns disguised an entrance to the underground complex – the most secure of all the magic labs I had ever seen. I was afraid to ask what the army mages did there.
We were met by a platoon of combat mages. For me alone! Not bad!
A corpse with some burns waited for me in a spacious hall with silver panels. I carefully palpated the body - previously frozen flesh was not suitable for my purposes. After the corpse, I examined steel chains, stationary accumulators, and protective and scattering signs to ensure there wouldn't be any surprises. All was ready for the ritual.
I took off everything that could hinder the flow of energy - belt, wrist chronometer, boots - and turned to the magicians, who were attentively watching my actions.
"Before you release me from here, turn off the lights for a moment. If nothing strange happens, you may let me go." If the ritual failed, Rustle would help me die decently.
What I conceived was simple: I would have to convince the alien mind to move into a new dwelling, chained to the floor. I invited my "roommate" to check the high quality of the corpse. But the raised consciousness didn't feel the need to move out. Rustle saved me by sending such abominable images that I nearly jumped out of my skin, and then a blissful feeling of spaciousness came in.
The new zombie that I created suddenly discovered that his body was experiencing pain from burns and started writhing and rattling with his chains. Rustle disappeared, being very pleased with himself. Crowds of magicians and healers bustled around me, and I looked at their fuss with the indifference of a castrated cat: no desires, no dreams, no plans. One thing I knew for sure - I was done with necromancy.
* * *
About fifteen years ago, after the death of Tangor Sr., Larkes was approached by a peppy man with piercing eyes and offered…everything for ridding Ingernika of artisans. Larkes was able to foresee the behavior of people better than any empath, and Minister Michelson chose the uncommunicative dark among hundreds of other promising officers, entrusting the Department of Theological Threats to a man, whose eagerness to exterminate the sinister cult to its last member he knew and appreciated.
The group for the functional design of object strategies now met with its permanent leader twice as frequently as before. Mr. Geniver reported their recent findings, occasionally turning to the map on the far wall, labeled with push pin flags of assorted colors.
"The artisans are ridding the area of ballast," his boss summed up.
&n
bsp; Geniver nodded, "And making a pantheon of martyrs. Obviously, they decided to sacrifice part of their sect. I am afraid they'll become stronger!"
Larkes kept silence. The presence of a seer among the artisans upset all their plans. They had a few moles in the sectarian core, but their people were dying for no apparent reason. Colonel Kilozo, who had infiltrated into the sect, hadn't contacted them yet, either.
"We'll detain their agent in the ministry and make noise," Larkes finally decided.
"What's the point?" Geniver retorted. "The guy is totally under our control!"
"The point, my dear, is to make our actions look haphazard."
The analyst grimaced, "As you wish. You are the boss."
Larkes nodded mechanically, thinking about how the blind could corner the sighted, and he couldn't come up with a solution offsetting the artisan-seer. The dark mage decided to wait for Fate to say its word, bewildering the sectarians in the meantime.
* * *
People in the courtyard of a large white mansion watched a grass frog and laughed. They were forced to live in a confined space week after week, but their relationships remained warm and friendly. All this was due to a woman over fifty, a compassionate and merciful white. From time to time, she cautiously glanced at the windows of the mansion and then smiled at her companions again.
Inside the mansion, a bearded white mage enjoyed a play of her aura: it was a rare combination of subtle shades, and even he, the acknowledged master, experienced difficulty in interpreting them.
"I miss Derik," the old mage said to a man sitting across the table from him. The chair of the Council of the Order of the Celestial Knights and his new aide met daily.
"Yeah, he was a deft liquidator," the aide nodded.
The interlocutor didn't see the face of the white patriarch - otherwise he would understand that Derik wasn't just a skillful killer for the old mage, but rather a thoughtful companion and a younger friend, whom the mage had known for over twenty years. Could that white girl in the courtyard replace Derik? The patriarch closed his eyes, trying to decipher modulations of light, not visible to a mere eye. Her aura was pierced by bizarre cascades of flashes of emotions, and none of them were primary; a purple haze near the nape of her neck indicated a sharp mind. In the deeper layers of her consciousness he found a wandering shadow of doubt or mystery, lit by a golden fire of faith. He felt the urge to win her trust!
The mage shook off his pensiveness, "The young necromancer must die."
"Is he worthy of your worry?" the interlocutor questioned his boss' order. "His injury is deadly. He won't ruin our plans anymore."
The patriarch turned away from the window and looked straight into the eyes of his aide, "This mage has accomplished the unimaginable - something that was considered theoretically impossible. We must make sure - I stress it - absolutely sure that he is dead. One Roland-destroyer was enough!"
The aide to the patriarch quickly nodded.
Haino did not like his new aide. His former assistant hadn't doubted his teacher's conclusions until the very end. Haino shouldn't have rushed to punish Derik for a couple of strange questions. Where could he find such a servant now? Verily, God sent him grievous trials to test his faith!
Chapter 9
That winter was dry and cold in Suesson. Petrified roads and black weeds sadly rustled under the wheels of my motorcycle; my breath exhaled snowflakes; I felt as if nature shared my suffering. I lived the quiet life of a provincial magician - worked as a district alchemist, slowly recovering from the incident in Finkaun. Reich made an attempt to renew our acquaintance but, having seen me, he didn't show up anymore.
NZAMIPS terminated my contract, as promised. I wasn't their employee anymore, and they severely cut my disability benefit. I didn't feel well and was in no mood to quarrel. As a result, they stripped me to the bone. Though, honestly, I was ready to give up a lot more to not see the brazen face of my favorite teacher.
NZAMIPS held out without my help for half a year. In March, two army trucks came to me through the most impassable mud. A demanding bass horn lured me out of the house - the bumper of the first truck abutted against the gate. A driver in the field military uniform stuck out his head from the cabin, looking at the unexpected obstacle.
I stood on the porch, letting them beep as long as they wanted - I wished to have nothing in common with them.
Two soldiers jumped out of the truck, leaped over the fence, and started lifting the latches of the gate. The scumbags didn't pay any attention to my presence! I became outraged, and my psyche abruptly completed its recovery.
"Hey, you, go back! Turn around! Get out!"
They didn't listen to me! The trucks were already driving into the yard. Two soldiers pulled out a long heavy box, inside which something was dully knocking. Dennis, my former Ho-Carg curator, jumped out of the cabin and started fussing around the box.
"After counting to three, I'll strike!"
"Master Tangor…"
"I don't want to talk to you!"
Dennis gestured toward the box, "He will die!"
The soldiers threw off the lid of the box. Indeed, he would die soon. A body, already familiar to me, was screwed to a solid wooden frame. The zombie looked horrible: cracked skin, sunken eyes with a blank look…In magic vision, his vital meridians looked like tattered ropes. Obviously, NZAMIPS magicians had no power or skill to maintain his meridians' integrity.
"What is it?" Johan was the last person to whom I wanted to talk at the moment.
"A zombie!" I explained with grim candor, enjoying the abashment of the visitors. "A smart one."
The white sidled up to the box and peered inside, "Is he all right?"
What a strange question! Particularly when it was asked about the corpse. "No, not quite. Step aside, please."
Johan obediently closed his eyes and clasped his head in his hands - he knew well how to protect himself from dark magic. I gritted my teeth and weaved a resuscitating spell.
"Now his body is okay."
The zombie suddenly went limp in the box. So the strange knocking was his convulsions. Wow, they managed to drive even a zombie to death!
"Get out now!" I was about to push them in the neck out of my home, but sneaky Dennis appealed to Johan.
"Maybe you don't know, but this zombie saved Master Tangor's life. Artisans inflicted deadly injury on him at the necromantic ritual, and the hostile energy had to be diverted somehow. We are unable to support this creature. We would have to burn the poor guy, if Master Tangor refuses to take him."
Johan winced, "Thomas, he is a human being!"
"How do you know?"
"I see it!"
Ugh! What on earth made our white mage get out of his lab? When Johan just came to my place, I was afraid that he would be scared of zombies. Far from it - Johan loved my dog. If I condemned the corpse to…hmm…death, he would be upset and screw up my wonderful project with ore bacteria.
"It's a zombie, a monster!" I tried to reason with Johan, but without success.
"He has a soul!" the white retorted.
I wondered how he managed to discern the soul in the rotten corpse.
"We'll pay for your work," Dennis threw in his two cents.
"How much?"
He agreed to double my previous rate. I had a feeling I would regret my kindness. From Dennis' words, the zombie remembered nothing about his past or pretended he did not remember. Rustle or my efforts must have wounded his awakened consciousness. NZAMIPS attempted to save him - to experiment with or to keep such a rarity as an exhibit.
I decided to ask the zombie himself, "Do you understand me?"
"Yes."
"Do you promise to behave decently?"
"Yes, I do."
"Unscrew him!"
And the number of dwellers in my house increased by one. Johan named him Mr. Flap.
* * *
In late spring, when Suesson's roads dried out, Johan, radiant as a brand new coin, announced that he had ma
de some progress with our biomining project. He completely reworked my idea.
Three aquariums, distinctly smelling of acid, towered on the table. One of them had pieces of ore, perforated like a rotten apple and covered with herpes-like excrescences; a neat lattice, encrusted by conches of thumb-nail size, protruded from another one. Fish were swimming in the third tank. A piece of ore broke up right in front of my eyes, revealing inside a long, pink creature, not very happy that it was found.
"What is it?" Quarters and I asked almost in unison.
"A driller!" the white replied with quiet pride.
When a moment of confusion had passed, he gave us a half-hour lecture. I knew that natural magic was an art (a separate field of knowledge, distinct from white magic in the same way that necromancy was different from dark magic), but I didn't fully appreciate how special it was. Tenderly smiling, Johan drummed his fingers on the aquarium glass, boasting about the achievements of his pets as if he personally helped every one of them. However, his success was obvious: the drillers crumbled the rocks, the bacteria digested minerals into soluble form, the mollusks precipitated the finished product, and the fish swam around eating all those who didn't work hard enough. Johan offered an elegant solution to the problem of temporary removal of the swimming "supervisors" - fish gathered in a separate pen in response to a colored light signal, giving the "workers" time for private life and reproduction.
"What is this gray stuff?" I pointed my finger to grayish-brown tumors.
"Sea urchin. The drilling species."
I couldn't imagine that the hedgehog could live in the sea and drill. But Johan's fish looked disreputable. "Why are they so small? Is this fish fry?"
"No," the white magician raised his eyebrow. "You demanded a certain level of efficiency. This size is optimal for current conditions. I'll modify the species when conditions change. The live regulator splendidly controls the work of the ensemble," he shyly glanced at his aquariums.
"We can scale this up now!" I announced solemnly. "The pilot test will be done here, in the ravines. Hey, Ron, can you rent a dredger for us?"
The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail) Page 5