by Alex Sapegin
“Narfo, this is alert-dert Pront von Trand. An urgent message for command!” Rigaud activated the communicator to speak with headquarters.
“Ler, I’m listening, ler! [S12]This is mage on duty Corwin, sir.”
“Listen carefully, Corwin. The balls contain seeds…”
* * *
Miduel, leaning on the battlements, stood on the second lookout tower and stared at the flashes in the sky until his eyes stung. The griffons raised by alarm had tried to resist an attack of the “seeds of death,” as the Forest Elves called them. The mages on griffons burned the balls. The defenders choked on blood, or, more precisely—on the roots of the accursed killer vines, needle-growth, poison ivy, and needle-arrow. The transparent “soap bubbles” exploded by command of the elven mages and emitted small clouds of enchanted seeds. As soon as one of the seeds touched the ground or a person, it immediately took root, after which the victim could only explode some bomb or charge so as not to suffer or shoot himself in the head with a hand-held chucker, provided that the seed hadn’t yet reached his head, otherwise it was too late to do anything.
This was the first time the Alliance encountered this tactic. The balls were not at all as harmless as they seemed. Soon between the walls of the fortress and the elvish camp, the black earth was covered with numerous green patches. Stuffed with elven magic, the seeds that fell to the ground immediately gave rise to seedlings. Within a minute, the sprouts turned into predatory vines or bushes with long spines that could pierce a man through. On the black surface were the tentacles of poison ivy. One drop of the poison paralyzed a grown man in a couple of seconds. The filthiest were the seeds of the needle-arrow, whose name speaks for itself. It had a beautiful flower with fleshy thick leaves of a light green shade, a solid trunk, and a beautiful oblong bud of a tender pink color. That would all be fine and good, if it weren’t for the flower’s bad reputation, namely—it shot small poisonous needles from the bud. One needle was enough to put its enemy out of action—forever.
From a distance, the griffon wing looked like a swarm of small midges flying over a lighted lantern. One by one the griffons and riders fell down like moths, singing their wings. The midges, gathered in a kind of spiral, unanimously jerked towards Orten. The time had come for the activation of city shields and the setting of firewalls, otherwise the cloud of deadly bubbles could not be kept out. Miduel grit his teeth. If they had at least five hundred griffons, not a miserable one hundred and fifty, the guests from Mellorny grove could be rolled into a pancake. The first wave breaks the shields, the second sows chaos on the surface…
“We will not hold the Plain.” Governor Etran appeared on the observation deck like a golem popping up out of the ground. “I gave the order to leave the position.”
Miduel did not say anything. Etran, not waiting for an answer, walked back and forth around the site several times.
“I’m afraid your fears, Your Majesty,” she switched to an official tone. “will be realized.”
“What?” The old Rauu cast the former rector an astonished look from his faded eyes.
“I’m talking about the ‘kiss.’”
“The book wasn’t destroyed?”
“No!” The governor paused. “Grall Necros left records with the decoding of the ancient texts. They are now being studied by trusted people.”
“Will you make the call?”
“I will. I must go myself. My conscience will survive several thousand victims in exchange for the lives of other hundreds of thousands. I took on the creation of zombies so that I can die for my city and people with my head held high.”
“Etran, do you want to untie the bag that holds the wind of death?”
The Governor turned away and looked at the fortress wall of the Plain, near which everything was covered with fresh greens. The balls, bumping into the active shield, burst and released their deadly seeds. Some of them burned, and some fell to the ground. The vines wriggled like an octopus’ tentacles and tore towards human flesh on the walls of the city, but the fiery breath of the magic screen burned the hungry shoots.
“Twins almighty, so many of them.” Etran clutched the nearest wooden stake; her knuckles whitened. “How many years have the Lordships been preparing for war? It’s incomprehensible. There are hundreds of thousands of seeds in the balls, if not millions, each of which had to be enchanted for three hours!”
“The Lordships had time.”
“But we don’t! Targ!” The Governor, who was the de jure commander-in-chief, took a communicator amulet from her pocket. “Dant, immediately command a retreat. I don’t care about the General! I’ll burn you alive if you don’t follow my orders right now! Leave the walls of the Plain. Targ! You know, Your Majesty, I will conduct the ritual myself. This country still needs life mages.”
“You don’t know what you’re about to do!”
“I do know!” snapped the Governor. “Look.”
Etran pointed at the fortress wall of the Lower City. In several places on the inside, facing the city side, bright green points appeared, which were rapidly expanding. The roots of the vines did what was beyond the power of the orcs’ combat engineers—they passed under the walls, thereby breaking through the protective screen. Every minute, the vines were producing more and more shoots, which, like drills, pierced the slightest cracks and destroyed the ancient masonry. “Look, we lost the Plain without killing a single Woodie! At this rate, by midnight, they will capture the Middle. We are cut off from the world. His Majesty Gil cannot send reinforcements to the city, but do you know why? No? The Ariates crushed the dwarfs and crossed the Northern Rocky Ridge. They razed the fortresses and outposts to the ground. Last night the Ariates captured Migrast. Yes, Your Majesty, your grandson asked me not to tell you that the second largest city of the Middle Principality of the Rauu has been turned to ruins. The Ariates are rushing to Kion; the king is pulling troops to the capital. Oh, Twins let us have the strength to hold out. Even if a miracle happens, and the heavens help us, Tantre will never be the same. An hour ago, I was informed that the thirty-thousand-strong Forest army has besieged Ortag. Ha ha, besieged! There is a garrison of fifteen hundred and ten thousand militia in the city. What can a pitiful ten thousand peasants do to the elven thugs? You can still leave Orten. I’ll give you three dozen griffons, they’re of little use now. Fly away. Fly to the dragons. What’s the use of them, the miserable pack? You’re nursing the hope that those creatures will come back. They’re not coming back! You…”
“Enough!” cried Miduel, despair in his voice. The former rector swallowed the last word and, gasping for air, froze in place. “Calm down,” said Miduel, his lips curling contemptuously. “Do what has to happen, what will happen. Go, drink a soothing potion.”
The look of the ancient Rauu, like boiling water, covered the frozen guards, who all tried to become invisible. No one wanted to experience the wrath of the old elf.
With a loud crash, the site of the wall that had just been restored a day ago fell down. After five minutes, another breach was formed. Half an hour later, half of the outer wall was destroyed. The army of Forest Elves moved into action. Banners held high, they broke into several attacking columns, ten elves across, and marched towards Orten. The islands of greenery were turning black and crumbling as soon as a long-eared soldier got closer to them than a hundred yards. Half a league from the city, the ground under the invaders’ feet swelled with a multitude of hillocks.
At night, under the cover of darkness and rain, four thousand fresh zombies were buried in the malleable dirt, for the time being, turned into real corpses. There were no necromancers among the elves; dark magic infuriated their nature. Although the Forest army had first-class mages and various search amulets, the ghouls that went into the mud went unnoticed. The roots of the deadly plants did not bring the dead army substantial harm. How can a dead man die? The elves, confident of their safety, were ambushed. Three columns out of five were attacked by zombies, the main instinct of which was t
o kill and enjoy fresh flesh. The necromancer mages of Orten did not have to be particularly zealous. Zombies made from greenies turned out to be extremely bloodthirsty.
“Admire your handiwork, Governor.” Miduel deliberately did not address the former rector by name. The ‘woodies’ liked your surprise. I hope the zombies will make an equivalent exchange.”
“Your Majesty!” A Rauu messenger appeared on the observation deck. The young elf was noticeably nervous. “Your presence is required at the liaison point.”
“Required?” Miduel raised his right brow.
The messenger blushed and lowered his eyes to the floor. “Surprising, don’t you think so?” the Prince turned to those around him. The guards were silent, eyes staring faithfully ahead. “Despite my skeptical attitude towards the one who dared to demand, I think he has the right to do so. Do you think so? It’s too bad. Someone’s spending mana on establishing a communication channel, breaking the induced barrier and can afford to wait for the ruler to deign to appear at the point of contact. Well, let’s go. Who could it be, I wonder?” asked Miduel.
“Vistamel and someone named Kerrovitarr.”
“WHAT?!” Forgetting about manners, his high position, and his age, the High Prince tore from the spot, followed by Governor Etran in a hurry.
Recalling a snowy whirlwind, Miduel broke into the liaison point.
“Where?” he demanded from the messenger.
“The fifth circle of connection.”
Miduel stopped and took several deep breaths to get his breath back to normal, straightened the cuffs of his coat and, tapping his cane, headed for the fifth circle. The boy came back. Well, he must have a lot of questions, for sure, the old man thought, smirking. This will probably be a long talk. I wonder if Kerr came alone or brought dragons along? The Rauu admitted to himself that he was afraid to be disappointed. Three thousand years of waiting…
“His Majesty, High Prince of the Rauu Miduel the Great!” the herald shouted, entering first into the hall. Next, the boisterous fellow introduced Governor Etran, Orlem Countess.
A voluminous ghostly image of a tall man, located on a high catwalk in the center of the hall, swung to Miduel’s side. The ghost bowed politely and announced, “His Highness Kerrovitarr Gurd of the High Nest!”
A figure of Kerr swam into the podium. The were-dragon had changed a lot since the last meeting. He was dressed in simple but robust clothing with embroidery on his left breast, depicting the imperial coat of arms, but that was not the main thing. The main differences were in his looks. Miduel saw unyielding power and steel, seasoned with a good portion of ice. It was not a look that invited one to contradict him.
If only Miduel knew how many hours Ruigar spent teaching Kerr a proprietary “icy” look. He also suggested calling Jaga’s son “His Highness.” Andy at first became enraged, but Ruigar was unexpectedly supported by all the old men from the near circle. The dragons stood firmly behind the former governor and began to insist that this is so and such-and-such would be correct from the political point of view.
The monarchs of the north of Alatar would be better off at once getting used to a new political figure that represents the interests of two and a half thousand dragons, eighty thousand humans, and so many forest elves. Especially since this figure, with the full support of those same dragons, down to the last dragonling who had never once yet flown, could thrust any monarch into the ground by the very neck. The old dragons quickly drew conclusions from the story of Vistamel. They instantly took out their magical calculators and began to click away. Having combined the debit and the credit, the Lords of the Sky were delighted with the result. The mayhem with the Ariates and the Light Forest yielded such an amazing outlook, they were truly excited.
Andy, as much as he could, cooled his heels, realizing that to achieve the desired result and receive tidbits, he or his mother would need to take many of those in power by the testicles. They’d be better off if it were his mom; no matter how much he didn’t want to admit it, politics was not for him. There was something dirty in it. A faulty stroke of the pen or a thoughtless decision could put thousands of innocent lives on the scaffold of history. But while Jagirra was hiding goddesses-know-where, the old scheming dragons had put a feather pen in his clawed paws, while setting themselves up as the silent power behind the throne. Targ, they hadn’t yet moved to the new/old planet, and already intrigues were beginning. He refused to be a puppet, Targ take them twice! He was indulging them in these bright undertakings for the time being, while managing his own business and building his own plans on the side.
First on the list was the Master. The old Snow Elf turned out to be an interesting nut. Miduel sincerely hoped for the return of the dragons, but Andy and the dragons needed something more palpable than sincere gratitude. Miduel and Tantrians should become debtors. An additional trump card up his sleeve couldn’t hurt.
How many miur came to Ilanta—another trump card with heavy gunners behind his striped joker shirt—no one counted, but it was no less than one hundred thousand. Andy was temporarily authorized to represent the interests of this people while the Great Mother Illusht was solving problems with the legitimate Empress. Over the course of a day, the cats had managed to make several reconnaissance expeditions to the mountains of the Marble Ridge and were very pleased with the results. They could say with confidence—there would be a city!
Andy did not think for long, after which a very representative delegation departed to the Duke of Lere, who was at war with the young Queen of Rimm and her Patskoi allies. The delegation was led by the guides who survived the defeat of the expeditionary corps. The Duke was offered all-around support, up to the fire-breathing flying fanged beasts themselves, in exchange for the smallest trifle: Lere had to agree to part with a small piece of land in the north-west of the duchy and declare all no man’s land as belonging to the dragons and elves. Fifty brave fanged beasts with heavy gunners in their paws were added to the delegation to lend it solidity. Lere might hold up against the charms of the head of the envoy—the elf Elima, but his heart would definitely melt before the sight of the pretty dragons with cute toys in their muscled paws, professional mages all the more so. Say what you will, but even stronger rulers have been persuaded by such arguments. Perhaps, it was worth pitying the Queen, but the seeds of pity and compassion were crushed by the memories of the menagerie and the notrium cage. So, nothing personal. After all, a good third of the elves expressed a desire to settle under the arches of the new, rapidly expanding Mellorny forest, which, without further ado, was called “First.” About ten thousand humans joined the elves. The miur frowned mysteriously; the cunning Illusht planned to have her fish and eat it, too.
The result of a heart-to-heart conversation with Vistamel was a secret communication channel with the head of the Rauu. After the well-known events at the school, the arrogant Snow Elf was on a special account among the high-titled individuals. The Great Miduel himself trusted the youth, which certainly fanned the fire of his vanity. But no matter how the vain offspring of the snow-capped mountains squirmed, Illusht and Ruigar, who were present during the conversation, overcame all the obstacles and fished out the secret. Andy could only translate, blink, and gain experience. Yes, these comrades do not need to take candy from a baby—he would bring it himself with a thank you. Burning with impatience, Andy and his “puppet masters” rushed to the heralds.
“Your Majesty!” Kerrovitarr bowed with all politeness and dignity. “Your Excellency.” Governor Etran received a nod of his head.
“Your Highness.” Now Miduel nodded, and the former rector bowed low. As the senior, the Rauu started the conversation according to the appropriate etiquette.
The elf obviously felt uncomfortable. He did not know how to behave with the new Kerr, behind whom there was real power. The rector was silent. It was not her place to interrupt in a conversation between two monarchs. Somehow it was hard to believe that both were recently swallowing archival dust in the school li
brary, and now, changing status, they were spouting high-flown, refined phrases and deciding the outcome of the war.
“Your Majesty, Governor, I heard that you have some problems beyond the city walls,” said Kerr, turning his head to Etran, thereby giving her the right to speak.
“Yes, I won’t try to hide it. We are experiencing some difficulties, but I think it’s nothing His Majesty Gil II’s warriors cannot handle.”
“Your soldiers should be flattered by the trust they have been shown…”
“Yes, they are real heroes and spirit-strong warriors. Only such people could cleanly defeat the horde of greenies.”
After the Governor said this phrase, Kerr tilted his head to his left shoulder and smiled at the corners of his lips. “It’s nice to hear. So, you won’t need my help. Otherwise, the energy barrier around the city leads to unpleasant thoughts.”
Miduel was externally unperturbed. The former rector scrunched her face as if she’d just sucked a lemon. They both understood what the were-dragon was getting at. He needed a debt or a promise of future help. They weren’t inclined to become debtors.
“Your Highness,” Kerr went on. “While the Orlem Countess is considering the lives of money lenders and what interest rate would be reasonable, allow me to ask you a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Your Highness.” This phrase was already starting to grate on the Rauu’s nerves, coming from the little dragon’s mouth. “Where are my parents?”
The High Prince threw a quick glance at Kerrovitarr and saw silent interest, anticipation, hope, and cold, hidden at the bottom. His whole appearance said that beating about the bush was not recommended.
“In an abandoned monastery. You should remember it well.”
“Thank you. Why there?”
“It’s equally far from the elves and the Ariates. Also, the monastery’s territory has a particularly dense magical field.”