by Alex Sapegin
It seemed the Imperialists knew what kind of cloud hung over them. The defending mages tried to summon a wind or rain to neutralize the threat, but in vain. The attackers had greater numbers and therefore the advantage in all directions. They covered the artificial cloud with powerful shields. The slurry slowly sank down until it reached the central magic dome of the imperial troops. The mages then quickly removed their shields and activated the detonator spell in the center of the cloud.
“Targ take us all in a bucket!” Andy gasped, thrown back twenty yards by the burst of air, which had become unbearably hot and heavy. He had seen something like this in his previous life on TV, and somewhere he’d read about volume-detonating aircraft bombs, but the reality eclipsed all imagination. The fiery element of the alloy of magic and alchemy covered the hill of the interplanetary portal from top to bottom.
Sh-sha-rah, sh-sha-rah, came from below. Andy looked around. The cat people were dexterously installing strange tubes resembling mortars on tripods, and maintaining a bombardment at the foot of the hill. Hundreds of mages sent combat interweaves at the imperial troops. It was hell. The defenders did not have a single chance…
“Follow me,” Andy ordered to his detachment, and, heading for the portal, began to gain altitude. Mages from the cover formations immediately rushed to fill the empty space. The fourth wave of dragons appeared from the portals. Herds of humpbacked bulls and the first carts of immigrants followed. It was time…
Andy rose higher and higher. He abstracted from the outside world and plunged into himself. His body lived independently of his mind. The stone of the portal key, extracted into God’s light, flashed blood red.
* * *
Darigar, observing the son of the Empress hovering in place, ordered the dragons to build a cover around him.
“Dar, please, there is no need,” Milirra’s anxious voice came through the communicator amulet. She was the commander of one of the detachments. “It seems we had better stay far from him.”
Darigar roared.
“Dar, he… Dar, look at him with true vision! He is not even flapping his wings! Help us, Manyfaces!”
It suddenly grew cold. The air, a warm couple of minutes ago, was replaced by a thorny frost, picked up by airborne whirlwinds. The whirlwinds reached out to the dragon hovering in place. Something was amiss. Darigar switched to the magical vision and quietly gasped—a giant funnel was spinning over Kerrovitarr. The Empress’ son was brighter than a thousand suns and continued to pull mana in, capturing it not only from the astral but also from the surrounding space. Darigar’s scales stood on end, scraping at his breastplates inside his armor. And he was not alone. He had never seen a true blood, although he’d heard of their power. But what was now before his eyes went beyond the scope of his ideas. There was a heavy smell of ozone in the air. Kerrovitarr was enveloped in thousands of small electrical discharges.
“To the sides!” trying to cry louder than the wind, Darigar shouted into the communicator amulet. “Everyone get as far away as possible!” The dragons fluttered away from the sparkling sphere spitting lightning that arose in the place of Kerr.
When the ball of lightning reached a diameter of five adult dragon lengths around, it blazed red inside. The outer surface of the sphere started rippling and began to emanate blood-red runes and ghostly threads, then formed into a giant pentagram, exactly like the one that, several years ago, nailed a human boy to the floor in the upper hall of the cargo portal hidden in the north of Rimm. The floating symbol quickly became saturated with might and grew brighter and bolder. At some point, the pentagram seemed to sink under its own weight and sharply rushed to the ground, turning into ashes all those who did not get out of its way. The ball of energy where Kerr used to be hung in place for a few moments and rushed after the pentagram. It continued to grow and suck mana out from the surrounding world.
The battle stopped; the warriors all looked with fear and trembling at the unreal picture. The pentagram, after stirring up huge columns of dust and stones high in the air, collided with the hill and plunged under the surface of the ground. From the impact, like a stone falling into water, a concentric ripple went along the soil. People on the ground felt a small tremor under their feet. The portal hill, throwing off thousands of tons of rock and earth, resembling a volcano, began to rise rapidly above the surface. The imperial soldiers, throwing their weapons and abandoning their positions, rushed to flee the ancients’ raging creation. When it reached a height of three hundred yards, the stone dome suddenly split into two halves that were moving apart. Between the halves, electrical discharges occasionally jolted. The phenomenon formed into a giant arc. A sharp deafening whistle overpowered the guttural rumbling from the depths of the hill. The arc of lightning fired thousands of sparks that merged with the sphere inside which Kerr was. The whistle turned ultrasonic, forcing dragons and miur to clutch their heads.
“Manyfaces!” Darigar prayed. In the next moment, the whistle broke off, and the inner space of the gigantic three-hundred-yard arc sparkled with the silvery haze of the interplanetary portal that had opened.
Thousands of bulls and cows, guided by the mages, to the crashing of their huge horns and their mooing, trampling on the last defenders of the portal, rushed towards the arc.
Ilanta. North-western kingdom of Rimm. Duke Lere’s lands
“Mark, is there long left?” the commander of the cavalry regiment addressed the commander of the second northern imperial expeditionary corps. “I’ve had it up to the One God’s backside with these Rimm marshes and these endless winter rains. What demon sent us into a sul’s bowels? It couldn’t have waited until spring? That Tantrian henchman’s not going anywhere.”
“Datry, you’ve always been talented in attacking and stupid in politics,” General Mark Domez said while stroking his hass. He was also the commander of the second northern expeditionary corps of the Patskoi Empire. He was bound to the cavalryman by an old friendship, and when they were alone, they addressed one another without titles and formalities. “By now, the idea should have gotten into that pumpkin you call a head that we’re here for a reason. Have you ever listened to palace gossip?”
“I do not care about the palace.”
“You should. I understand you. Your cavalrymen are more important to you, and for that they love you, but you can’t be so limited and one-sided. You could stand to devote a little time to higher society.”
“Why the hell would I?”
“Datry, you’re incorrigible. Rumors have been circulating in high society for a long time that the emperor has long dreamed of marrying Prince Guy off to Queen Taliza.”
“The emperor wants the heir to marry an easy woman?”
“I may be dumb, but rumors about the male harem of ‘guards’ guarding her bedroom haven’t passed me by.”
“I see envy in your eyes. You probably stay awake at night imagining yourself as one of the royal stallions, eh?”
“I gallop across the country, Mark. I get enough from the traveling carts.”
“The girl may be easy, but the crown hasn’t squished her brains out. Taliza understands that the crown of a future Empress is much better than the worm-eaten throne of her moss-covered kingdom.”
“And that’s why we’ve been sent to this garbage dump? To help her troops crush the rebellious duke?” It seemed that Datry enjoyed teasing Mark with his ostentatious stupidity, although he was by no means a fool. Verbal jabs such as “smart-fool” had long since become the friends’ choice of entertainment during long marches that covered several leagues. Today Datry was playing the role of fool; the next day, he was preparing to be silly Mark’s teacher.
“Taliza will become Empress. It’s been decided at the top and approved by the church. Her dowry will peacefully enter the empire. The King of Tantre will be in a pickle. Gil started baiting Lere long ago. The duke has a claim to the royal crown. In fact, he’s second in line after the girl. Now, do you understand the alignment? Soon nothing will be le
ft of Tantre but bones and ashes. The Ariates and orcs will rake the kingdom over the coals, and we should be in the most favorable position to grab the sweetest piece of the pie. All the more so since the Emperor of Pat will never forgive and forget the shame of the bombing of the northern legions. Shall I explain further?”
“Can you explain when it’s time to halt? I want to eat. I want to go see the merchant ladies.”
“You old dog.”
“Stallion, old stallion!”
For several minutes, the general and the Colonel rode in silence; the retinue and the commissioners kept behind.
“A couple of leagues left. We’ll reach the hill at the bend of the river, there. According to the guides and intelligence, there are decent places for camp,” said the general.
“Hurry.” Datry stretched out in the saddle. “Targ, what’s that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The ground is shaking; can’t you feel it? Look, the birds have left their nests. I don’t like this!”
The general threw a strained glance at the flocks of screaming birds and stopped his hass. Obeying an unobtrusive gesture, his companion jumped to him.
“Prepare for defense!”
The trembling of the earth intensified.
“Your Excellency!” A messenger came panting towards the general from the head of the column. “The mages register incredible mana splashes in the area of the ancient burial ground.” The guard waved his hand towards the side of the hill.
“What else?” asked the general.
The messenger did not have time to reply. The ancient burial ground was covered with lightning. With a loud crack, the turf flew off the bald hill and boulders fell from it. The crackle was heard all over Rimm. With difficulty restraining his frightened hass, the general looked at the hill. It was growing like a mushroom after the rain. Breaking the surface at the foot of the hill, two portal steles appeared from under the ground, sparkling with thousands of magical lights. A bright flash between the stele blinded all observers.
Before Mark could blink, he again felt an earthquake and heard the restrained cries of the retinue and Datry’s gurgling exclamation, “My One God!”
Hundreds, thousands of huge bulls jumped out of the huge portal and rushed to the marching corps. After the bulls, dozens of dragons began to fly out of the portal. The combat mages from the head guard didn’t think of anything better than randomly bombarding the creatures flying out of the giant portal. This was a fatal mistake for the second northern expeditionary corps of the Patskoi Empire. The dragons immediately gathered in a compact heavenly dance and brought down a series of spells on the Imperials. The fighting mages died first, almost without realizing that the border between life and death had been crossed. The rest were less fortunate—the flames from the open mouths turned trees, people, and animals into torrid torches. Six dozen dragons, sowing death and destruction, flew low over the column. Within a few minutes, the corps ceased to exist…
The Marble Mountains. Former lands of the green orcs. The White Pass…
The oncoming wind caused tears to well up in the eyes. The myriad of dry, tattered snowflakes it raised cut painfully at any patches of bare skin. The cold of the peaks burned his face. Vistamel, holding his fur-lined hood as it flapped in his face in the wind, stared down with a confused look. It was a white field of Hel, who gathered a rich harvest on the pass…
“I can’t look at it. I know they’re our enemies, but I can’t…” Lolima touched him on the shoulder. “How many are there?”
“I don’t know, Lo, I do not know.” Thousands of bodies of green orcs, frozen in the icy wilderness, covered with frost and sprinkled with a white blanket dotted the road to the pass.
“What were they hoping for? Going to the White Pass in winter, without equipment, clothes, and supplies? Look, there are only women and children here—and there, and there…” Lolima’s griffon pounded a huge snowdrift with its foot, exposing the stiffened bodies. The elf looked at the “greenies” buried beneath the thick snow.
“I think they had little choice. Either go to the pass or die by the swords of the Ariates. They were simply abandoned, or they did not want to go with the horde to the south. The retreating grays didn’t touch them and left for Taiir, but the Ariates did not want to leave uncleaned lands behind them.
Far below black dots appeared, creeping out from behind the mountain ridge. They kept arriving and arriving, flooding the flat surface before the next rise.
“What is it?” Vistamel asked Lolima, worried. The elf shrugged. “Lo, release an owl.”
The woman beckoned her griffon with a thin whistle, removed one of the large saddlebags from the beast’s back, and withdrew a cage with a disheveled white bird. The owl, taken into the light, fluttered and loudly sniffed. Lolima threw back her hood, put a wide hoop on her head and, leaning her forehead forward, touched it to the bird’s foot.
“I’m ready!”
“Go ahead.”
The owl, guided by Lolima’s will through a ring around its foot, flew toward the black dots that were getting closer. The elf’s eyes glazed over; her mind merged with the owl. Vistamel sat down in the snow, leaning against Swift’s fuzzy side. The griffon turned his head towards him and banged his beak, begging for a treat.
“Here, you glutton.” The Rauu took a piece of jerky from the bag hanging beside him and tossed it to the pet.
Lolima, who was standing motionless, suddenly uttered a cry and collapsed to the snow.
“Ariates,” she whispered, clutching at her partner. Bright red blood dripped from the elf’s nose. The death of a creature controlled through a magical artifact always resulted in pain and a blow to the psyche for the operator. “A whole army. They’re heading with the convoy on carts drawn by musk oxen and long-haired wargs. All in winter gear. The mages noticed Snowflake…”
Vistamel’s griffon raised his head and screamed, warning his owner of danger.
“Targ!” he swore, noticing a dozen quickly approaching combat griffins in the sky. “Can you fly?”
“I can.”
A loud hiss came from the enemy detachment. In the next second, just below the scouts, tossing up a whole fountain of snow, a fireball cut into the slope.
“They have chuckers! Quickly!” Vistamel shouted and, picking Lolima up under the armpits, helped her into the saddle. “Fly!”
The second explosion tore to pieces the bodies of the orcs from the excavated snowdrift. In three jumps, the Rauu reached his winged transport and slapped Swift on the feathered neck.
“My friend, do not let me down!” The griffon pulled away from the ground and slipped between two huge vertical columns of snow. The enemy was not afraid of avalanches; they knew their combat mages would stop it at the bottom. They came off the chase with difficulty, rescued by the fact that the Rauu’s half-birds were accustomed to the mountains, which could not be said about the Ariates’ griffons. But the short way home was blocked.
“What do we do?” Lolima lay wearily on the green grass. The fugitives left the mountain tops and descended into a wide, forested valley between the mountains. They had to give the griffons a snack and have a snack themselves. The Ariates weren’t orcs; they would traverse the pass. They would take Rimm’s outposts on the Small Ridge by storm and remove the screens that interfered with the coordinate binding. And then their mages would build a portal and transfer the rest of the army to this side of the ridge. On this side of the mountains, the Ariates did not have any real adversaries; they could calmly march to the convenient southern passages and lean on Tantre from Rimm.
“We’ll have to try to prevent that from happening. We can fly that way, too, now. Nothing’s stopping us. It would be real suicide to go into the mountains. I had to cut off two bags with provisions, and in the mountains, there will be no time to hunt and smoke meat.”
Resting, the elves hastily snacked and fed the griffons.
“We have enough provisions left for two meals
,” Lolima summed up. “We’ll have to be stingy with the rest. I hope we can shoot a deer or goat on the road. Vist, we need to fly.”
The griffons reluctantly obeyed the riders. They were tired and did not understand why they were being disturbed. After they crossed the Small Ridge, the pair of winged riders headed south.
“Vist, have you ever flown through no man’s land?”[S3]
“No, have you?”
“I haven’t either, but don’t worry. I’m guided by the sun and the stars.”
There was a sudden clap and a dark cocoon enveloped the Rauu. It was a total surprise. A numbness descended on both Snow Elves and their animals. Frozen in an uncomfortable position, Vistamel felt disgusted. How did they manage to get caught in a power trap? At some point, he felt the cocoon that captivated them was moving somewhere rapidly.
The flight under foreign control lasted several hours. The numbness that had overtaken them at the beginning of the captivity disappeared after fifteen minutes. The flight eventually came to an end and the dome restraining the Rauu disappeared. Vistamel felt firm ground under his feet. Overhead, the flapping of wings was heard. On the ground before the elves, with dozens of rainbows playing on his scales, a dragon descended and turned into a human. In shock, Lolima whistled and recalled the Twins, and Vistamel felt an unbearable itch in his left arm, the one that had been restored from the stump.
“Well, hello, Vistamel!” Long time no see,” the were-dragon greeted him, blue eyes sparkling with vertical yellow pupils.