Once again I thought over the chance to flee, but I would have to drag Lyuchik overcoming his resistance, and people around could misinterpret that. On the other hand, the safest place is always near a dark magician. And we will let the zombie-dog run ahead of the group; it would be a pleasant surprise for the maniac.
In the evening at the B&B, swearing softly but terribly, I tried to stuff enough grub for three people, socks, blankets, the traveling kit of an exorcist (nowhere without it!), and a canister of drinking water in the backpack. Plus a tent on top of everything... Well, I could leave it out and say that otherwise we wouldn't gain the experience of real hikers. Sleeping under the sky and stars—a hiker's dream! The idea of the trip did not seem as smart as before, but it was too late to retreat; moreover, it was vital to me to free up some time, and I did not know how to get it in any other way. I took Uncle Gordon's beads with a pair of student curses, in case the worst came to worst.
The next morning we left for the trip. I, wise and prudent, with the bamboo handle from a mop (yes – my staff), and the two white kids, hopping with excitement. Well, surely, they would not be skipping for long...
Honestly, I did not plan the route. Judging by Lieutenant Clarence's map, the area around the lake was quite the same in all directions (except for Mihandrov on the east): hills near the water surrounded by the steppe stretching for seven days of walking. We passed the territory of the school, got out through a fallen section of the fence (supposedly it was the security perimeter), and went on, maintaining a general direction towards the west, to the lake. Vegetation changed quickly and substantially: instead of lush park greenery, we now walked through gullies, dry standing grass, and weeds. It started smelling strangely; even touches of air to the skin felt differently than before. The wildness of the landscape awakened some ancient instinct that caused us to tread carefully and stay quiet; the white were silent, but their excitement sparkled around. New experiences and sensations are good stimuli for a child's mind!
I tried to keep track of time until we reached the boundary of the notorious defensive circle of the deadly spell (Clarence said it would be impossible to miss it). I wanted to get an idea of how the spell was distributed in the area. It was clear to me that its perimeters followed the signs' line, but the shields were set differently - along the axes in two directions, as far as the power would allow. In dark magic, the curses that generate shields exist for as long as the energy of the Source is pumped in; that is, only in the presence of a dark magician. In white magic, as I understand, the spells act differently: they create some distortion of the structure of reality, the longevity of which depends not so much on the input energy, but on the resistance of environment (there is not even one formula for that in the dark section of magic foundations). An experienced white magician could make his creation so natural that its influence would last for centuries. However, precisely that feature—the change in the environment—made the results of divination so ambiguous.
I was slowly losing my mind from attempts to sort out the situation. Logically thinking, if there was a shield, then the pentagram that created it should be somewhere in the centre, too. If we found at least some trails of the pentagram, the arrival of the "cleaners" to Mihandrov would be guaranteed. It remained to understand where the middle of that white spell was...
After three hours and two stops for rest, the kids turned visibly sour.
"Hold on, boys, we have just a little bit left until the lake!"
The terrain started to slope, green grass replaced dry weeds, and rabbit burrows began to tuck under the feet—all that was an indication of our proximity to the lake. Therefore, we didn't need to save water for the tea and could even wash our feet after the walk—very conducive for relaxation. By the time the surface of the lake started shining ahead (they called it a lake? To me it was more like a rain puddle!), the kids were exhausted, and I had to set up our camp alone and in silence. The white fell asleep barely touching the ground.
Well, wasn't I a genius? No bustling, fussing, or excessive energy. We were going to have dinner, overnight sleep, and slowly go back tomorrow. And I will have a day off with no threat of the jump ropes for me (knock on wood).
The next moment I learned that my attitude towards the children was outrageous. I was sent to help people, but instead I scratched my ass for a week and played the fool. Clearly, the area of distorted reality had been left behind, because Rustle was back. But my personal monster forgot that I couldn't care less for its opinion. Imagine how comic the situation was: the supernatural creature criticized the dark magician for his sloppiness. Rustle's anger would have been righteous had I intended to work on holidays. The local NZAMIPS had ten years to sort out the situation, and now what—one poor student ought to work the whole Mihandrov's division? Ha-ha!
By evening, the kids perked up just enough to eat cereal, watch the sunset, say "Ah!" and get into their sleeping bags. Nice. As a final touch, I put an amulet on Petros' neck, warding off mosquitoes (otherwise, my white kids would look like leopards by the end of the trip), and crawled under the blanket. Coals smoldered in the neat fire hole, insects avoided flying around me (wise choice on their part), and the zombie-dog guarded us at a distance. I had rarely felt this good.
For the first time I realized that I did not regret becoming a magician. Magic abilities give me certain freedom, confidence in the future. It would be stupid to have Power and deny it, right? Now I could wander the expanses of Ingernika, not fearing loneliness and darkness, and lack of means...
The dissatisfied Rustle cut in again—I was bored without it—and said that all my thoughts were complete crap. In its view, it was time for me to make kids, not to entertain them, and, if I wanted to sleep outside, I should have a cool chick by my side, together in one sleeping bag.
With a surprise, I realized that the otherworldly wight was interested in sex. It missed that feeling, imagine that! Shit! Get out of my mind, you filthy animal!
Rustle maliciously hinted that at such a time and place (at night, at the campfire) I had no reason to show off.
I promised myself that when I came back, I would confess in necromancy and finish my life in the electric chair!
Rustle retreated, hiding in the inaccessible depths of my consciousness and indignantly broadcasting obscene pornographic pictures. Oh my God, where did it pick them up? Quarters was a fan of that stuff, but even he didn't see such perversion... So many people deathly fear that beast, but all it has on its mind is obscenities! And what shall I do when I really get a girlfriend, have a threesome?
That night in my dream I saw Rustle in the jar. What was interesting: the jar I remembered clearly, but how I put the monster in there I could not recall.
Needless to say that my white kids came back as heroes, tired and happy. They stuffed pockets with all sorts of rubbish (stones, dead beetles, last year's snake skins), managed to see a real fox and find an eagle feather (I declared it was an eagle). Walking at a slower pace but not stopping for rest, we reached the school before lunch. On the way back I lied with great inspiration about the King's Island, my work in NZAMIPS, my evil boss—a genuine dark magician (finally I had somebody to complain to!), about my student life in Redstone, and the kids compassionately sighed and asked hundreds of meaningless questions. We made a detour to enter through the main gates; I delivered the children to Mr. Fox and sighed with relief. Now they had a week worth topics for discussion!
"You turned our entire school upside down," Mrs. Hemul noticed, but she did not look unhappy at that.
More to come!
"You'd better repair the fence at the rear; a few sections were overturned," I suggested heartily. "You won't close the perimeter without them."
She thanked me very seriously. Lyuchik arranged for sort of a meeting at the square (even senior students came for it); Fox dragged Petros off to take a bath; I flirted with the idea of going to bed, but reluctantly went to town—it was time to get down to business that the kids didn't need to
know about. I was going to please Rustle!
Clarence was in the office: the enterprising white magician drew propaganda posters, focusing on illustrations from the Krauhardian brochures. His pictures looked even more fearsome than the originals. I guessed that a man like him wasn't susceptible to any "rollback".
"Office, to arms!" I announced from the doorway. "Let's go gather evidence."
He began rushing around the office like a frightened rabbit.
"Freeze! Do you have a cart in your possession? We cannot take your vehicle—it would unmask us."
"My nephew has a two-wheeled gig."
"It will work! Take it and let's go."
The horse is not a car; it takes half an hour to harness it. By the time unhappy Alfred returned with the cart, Clarence had stuffed a whole field lab into his suitcase—from a magnifier to a spirit lamp. The purpose of half the objects in the suitcase remained a mystery to me. We climbed into the seats and pretended that it was casual: I, dirty like a pig after two days of camping, and the distinguished representative of the town's authorities were going somewhere on business together.
"We need to approach the school from behind, from the direction of the park. Can we?"
"There is no road in that area, but I'll try."
A curved dirt walkway barely conquered the hills surrounding the lake, made a steep turn, and disappeared in the middle of the clear steppe; from that point onward our hope was on the strength of the cart axis. The gig jumped on hummocks and wriggled between thickets of thorns, blindly hitting some holes and rocks hidden in the grass. I kept the suitcase on my knees, trying to quench the jolts and shocks—it wasn't altruism on my side; if not for that job, I would have to handle the horse.
"How far?" Clarence asked, his teeth clattering.
"My mate will meet us."
"What?"
"Come on, drive!"
The horse sensed the zombie first; it began to snort and jump anxiously from side to side.
"That's it, we have arrived! Tie up the horse—we'll walk from here."
"What's the matter; can you explain?" the white mage muttered discontentedly after I had returned his suitcase.
I sighed and tried to convey all the brilliant simplicity of my plan to the provincial policeman.
"I will explain it one time only: from the side of the lake, the transition to the 'rollback' zone is very sharp; we reached the place of 'normal appearance' in three hours. Under the 'normal appearance' I mean presence of animals, predatory birds, and blood-sucking insects. From the side of the railroad lane, the transition is almost imperceptible. Believe me. I conclude that a pentagram that generates the shield is somewhere around here."
"I should have taken more people for the search." When a white mage starts to snap that means he is extremely irritated.
"Don't fret, chief! My mate had already looked around."
Clarence wasn't convinced.
Max silently came out of the bushes; from the lingering grace of its movements one wanted to turn around and run away. You cannot hide the otherworldly nature! The monster that hid under the disheveled brown hair could not be seen but was felt quite clearly. Dear God, where could it pick so many thorns and spines in its fur? The white squinted warily and started unconsciously rubbing his hands against the jacket's pocket (perhaps he kept some amulet there). There was no sense in hiding my dog any further. We were in the same boat.
I called Max and presented it to the lieutenant: "Meet my mate." Clarence leaned over to stroke the dog. "It's a zombie," I finished, grabbing the shattered lieutenant by the elbow. "Quiet, quiet! Max is tame."
Max brushed its bangs to the side and squinted whitish, lifeless eye at Clarence with interest; the head of Mihandrov's NZAMIPS unsuccessfully tried to calm his heavy breathing. And this man was a salaried "cleaner"?!
"I was aware that all darks were crazy, but not to such a degree!"
"Well," I was sincerely offended, "my superiors are okay with it."
"But that creature is a zombie!"
"A silly superstition. A zombie is just a reanimated body, not a genuine supernatural phenomenon. Max is stable, that's the main thing, and extremely helpful! You will see."
"You should have warned me," the gallant officer muttered angrily and pretended that he could walk by himself now.
I shrugged and followed Max; now both of them—the suitcase and the white—were hanging on me.
By the way, Clarence was fundamentally wrong about "taking more people"—the problem was not in the scale of the search. Our enemy was a magician; hence, he was able to hide traces of his activity much more reliably than ordinary people. But not from the zombie—the reanimated corpse always finds another corpse, no matter if it's enchanted, or sprinkled with an odor-killing potion, or buried masterfully. Where hundreds of chartered detectives would have worked for a month, Max just ran around for half an hour. Now the dog trampled merrily on an unremarkable piece of grass, in the middle of a clear field, where there was absolutely nothing eye-catching.
"We will be digging here," I concluded with a straight face.
We marked up the plot according to archaeological science and began removing sod gently. The grave was shallow; just twenty inches under the surface my shovel groped a skeleton's hand.
"There it is..."
I heard only rustling of grass in response —Clarence rushed into the nearest bush, to vomit. The chief of NZAMIPS! What a joke! A quarter of an hour I spent bringing the white to senses, and then he lasted long enough only to make a formal report of the findings and test a couple of standard police spells on it.
"A young man, died three years ago, hard to say any more with certainty. There are traces of some magic; I'll take its imprint. I need to bring experts to find out more."
"Too early. For one corpse they will send ordinary criminal experts, but we need "cleaners". I do not think that the maniac dragged the corpse on his back, and the gig won't get here. We will search for the pentagram."
"It's getting dark," the lieutenant objected weakly.
"I don't care! Darkness sharpens the senses."
We split up and went along an expanding spiral; Max was helping us as well, but I did not rely on it, and this proved to be right. Clarence found the oddity, not by the magic trails, but for a completely idiotic reason; he did not like the bush.
"Mr. Tangor!"
I tried to remember the place where I stopped, gave up, and went to the call.
"Well?"
"Don't you think they are sort of... wrong?"
"Wrong" was an evergreen shrub with spikes of such size that I got sick from just looking at them.
"What's wrong with it?"
"Too straight. Too dense."
And that was true—the wild bush looked more like a cropped hedge. It was a typical look for a garden, but completely unnatural in the wilderness. I carefully pulled apart the branches.
"Are we going inside?"
The white looked doubtfully at the prickly hedge.
"You'd better take the suitcase, or we will have to come back for it."
The bamboo stick I left in the police office would have come in very handy! The combat magicians of the past were experts at this. To say that we got scratched by the spikes was to say nothing: one spike cut through my arm almost to the bone, and I was struck with pure and sincere hatred for the villain who set that all up. Let me get to him: he will be mutilated!
Behind the dense ring of branches the bush sharply cut off, opening up nearly empty space thirteen feet in diameter, without a hint of vegetation. The magic background intensified, and I squatted, studying the dirt.
You would guess that such an impermanent thing as chalk lines would disappear without a trace after the first rain. Perhaps, this is true for the regular chalk, but if magic energy went through the contours of the signs, the traces of whitening would be stronger than after kindling a fire. Nothing would grow in their for a long time. Even if someone put sod on top of a pentagram, it
would not change anything; the grass would wither and crumble into fine dust or would be strongly inhibited. In that place the grass dried out, but slowly and in patches, circles and triangles; using a pen knife, I was able to find traces of chalk on the ground. I stood up, looking at the drawing vaguely showing through the turf.
Excellent! It did not matter whether the pentagram was related to the disappearance of people or to a weather spell; we discovered the traces of a ritual, the corpse, and now we could call the combat mages.
"Make a record of it!" I ordered Clarence, smiling predatorily.
The poor lieutenant, looking very much like a ghoul, took the necessary tools out of the suitcase.
On the way back to town I rode the gig myself. The white could not pull himself together. Of course, I was no good as a cart driver, but the horse was eager to reach its home stall, and even if I wanted to I wouldn't be able to slow it down.
"Call Alfred now; do not wait until morning. Put evidence in the sealed envelope and send it by courier with the highest degree of urgency. I will write a cover letter to scare them. They will be forced to rush here!"
"And then what?"
"Let's make them search for the remaining eight bodies; it will take no less than a month without Max. During this time we will make noise, find journalists among the tourists or students' parents, and publish an article in the regional press with 'artisans' in every line. The scribblers are so sensitive to that word! We must turn things in such a way that for your 'cleaners' catching the perpetrator will be a personal challenge. And let the experts estimate for how long the shield will maintain the created effect. If we are fortunate, you will lose one of your jobs."
"I do not mind."
"And if we aren't, you will have to hire a private combat mage. It's not cheap, but you cannot leave town without the protection of a dark magician; this is not the case when you can count on luck."
Chapter 32
The next day I intended to rest and slept until 11 a.m. without any remorse. I deserved it! My vacation turned out to be a real business trip; I worked seven days a week, knocking myself out. Good that at least my hostess was compassionate: if yesterday night, after three hours of combing my zombie's hair, I couldn't take a bath (it was after one a.m.), I would have burned all of Mihandrov today. A nervous breakdown wasn't the exclusive privilege of the white mages!
My Path to Magic Page 30