Crown of Horns

by Alex Sapegin

  “I do not…,” the old man stumbled.

  “My dear sir, we have absolutely no time to bicker with you,” Andy said in a voice full of doom. “In a minute, the prince’s guard will fly here and kill us all, but if you do not activate the portal now, then you will feel terribly sorry that you lived this minute. Irran!” The cat stretched out her arm, grabbed one of the portal mages without looking and tore off his head. “Riur!| A second clerk was in an iron grip. “I am going to count to three. On ‘three,’ she will tear your colleague’s head off. Two. Riur!” The man’s head remained in place; he never said “three.” A siren howled over the fortress; powerful magic lamps lit up the sky.

  “Curse you! I will open the portal!” squealed the goat-bearded man.

  “Hold your tongue; otherwise, we will cut it off. Well, quickly!

  The old man tore a chain from his neck with a key-portal plate, inserted it into the groove on the right stela, and began to drum out short spells that were also passwords. A few winged shadows flew into the sky with the huge flap of wings. The dragons were too late by just a little bit. The portal opened up and absorbed the detachments of Miur and four people. The cutting stone attached to the left stela left Prince Ora without a fixed teleport for five hours. There were spare blocks in the warehouse, but they had to be installed and adjusted. Illusht received an official note of protest but managed to get out of it, saying that Andy had ceased to be the Voice, since the prince himself stopped negotiations, and that she would pay decent compensation to the families of the victims.

  “Welcome to Raygor! Where to now?” Andy asked Ruigar.

  “To the main city square. I would advise the ladies to use mimicry.”

  “Lead the way….”

  Ruigar waved for them to follow him and stepped off the teleport site. Andy took Ania by the elbow and followed. The Miur lined up in two ranks, but they did not hurry to activate their mimicry armor. Instead, the cat women took colored scarves out of their pouches and tied them around their necks. The sida scoffed knowingly. Andy glanced at the elf, then at the cats. Something clicked in his brain. Indeed, that would be better—the handkerchiefs of mercenaries would divert attention more reliably than unseen armor. Detachments of Miur often moonlighted as mercenaries in the far south. The warriors needed combat practice, and where could they get it if not in a war zone? The appearance in the city of mercenaries guarding an important gentleman would attract interest, but not enough to attract the close attention of law enforcement agencies. War was going on; many aristocrats had ceased to appear in public without protection, especially aristocrats such as the governor of the northern lands. No wonder he invited the best soldiers into his service.

  “My friends,” the former governor stopped at the gate, Andy turned to the sound, “we need to hurry.”

  Surprisingly, the dragon held up well. No one, even the most attentive and searching glance, could determine that under the charms of the city dandy’s magically induced image lay scraps of once elegant clothes and numerous wounds.

  “We are ready,” Irran reported.

  On Andy’s command, the kitties hung their gunners behind their backs and drew their swords.

  “Let us go,” the Great Mother’s Voice said, the voice of reason the prince refused to listen to. He could only hope that he would be luckier at the conclave. Prince Ora left him no choice. He would have to fight dirty; there was no time left for politesse. “Ania, I hope you will not do anything stupid.”

  The girl silently shook her head. What could she do? The greatest folly had already been committed. The master would never believe that the kidnapping was not partially her fault. It was an accident, an incredible combination of circumstances, fate, karma, anything, but not her will. Ilirra told her father about the sida’s escapade during the virk and the flower she had accepted. She herself had undermined the princess’ confidence in her by succumbing to her feelings. Rulers like Ilirra do not forgive mistakes. The closer you are to the throne, the colder the stone in your chest. No feelings, no attachments that interfere with the fulfillment of the master’s will, NOTHING. Ania had spent more than two centuries already behind the prince, like ice, an impregnable fortress, a secret weapon that reads strangers’ faces and thoughts like an open book. She had never complained to anyone, ever, preferring to keep everything to herself. But life in the palace was killing her slowly and surely. True, she survived the Ritual at ten years old. But had she known then what she would have to face, Ania might have preferred death. When she was a child, she had been exploring a tunnel when she became the victim of an avalanche. The mages threw up their hands, but her father knew there was another way to possibly save her—the Ritual. Persuading the dragons who lived nearby to try was not difficult. He believed she could endure the pain of the incarnation. That was the last day she saw her father. The prince flew in from the capital and took her to live with him. He did not give blood and had no right to do with her life as he would, but he was the ruler, and he took their daughter from two old dragons and one elf. Ora was interested in the rare phenomenon. Usually ritual children over five or six years do not tolerate the pain. They perish. She was raised in the palace, inspiring loyalty to the ruling clan. They gave her the best education, but could not give her a family or a home. For two hundred years there was an emptiness around her. Ania secretly dreamed of a house—a small cozy cave far away in the mountains, the strong wings of her beloved dragon, under which it was so warm on cold nights, and of children. Palace life, with all its vices, passed by her. Ora kept a close eye on his “ice” and held her on a short leash, like a rix. The prince was well aware that if the young dragoness formed any attachment, it would instantly affect the quality of her work, and did not allow her unnecessary contacts. Outwardly, Ania resigned herself, hiding a rebellion in her soul, subconsciously wishing to escape from the vicious circle and finally live her life. The sida did not like the prince’s court, where lies and hypocrisy were ubiquitous. It corroded the very essence of human nature. The woman was afraid of eventually turning into one of the poisonous creatures at the master’s throne. Maybe that’s why she so recklessly rushed into the abyss of passion for Andy? On the other hand, that action was not so reckless in the light of the desires deep in her soul. The blue-eyed man, enveloped in a halo of mystery, nevertheless seemed an island of reliability amid the raging sea of empty passions and politics around her. He did not care about the dragons, the virk, or lofty goals. He lived and let others live. He was the first to pay attention to her as a woman and was not afraid to reveal his feelings. “What will be, will be!” she said to herself, succumbing to an internal rebellion and the heat of passion. She made up her mind right then and had never regretted what she did. She decided she did not give a crap about all the gossip and obstruction. She did not betray the master. Although Andy did not confess to his second hypostasis, she did not need him to. She would have to be blind not to see the wings on his back. She did not need the strange eyes to alert her to what he really was.

  Their fleeting connection left an indelible mark. The prince understood her motivations, both lying on the surface and hidden. The result of an unpleasant conversation was a promise to let her go her own way after the end of the negotiations. Negotiations ended; the master did not keep his word. She left of her own accord, albeit with someone’s help.

  Ania looked at Andy. Her beloved was leaning on the parapet and seemed to be examining the city, but the look in his eyes told her that he was hovering somewhere else. There was a deep fold between his eyebrows, which testified to the weightiness of his thoughts. The elf was not mistaken. Andy was going over options for what he would say at the conclave and trying to systematize information about the principality and the war.

  Something strange was happening in the country. The war, which began according to the classical canons, had flowed into some other phase. Illusht, who managed to visit the capital, shared news and observations. According to the feline princess, it
appeared that the emperor deliberately held the army led by his son back from the lightning strike deep inside the country. Hazgar gave the spring of popular discontent time to unwind, reasonably hoping that the pro-imperial forces would begin subversive work and would face opposition from the Prince’s loyal subjects and numerous refugees from recently captured princedoms in the east of the continent. Civil unrest was useful to the invaders: the weaker the stubborn elderly emerald dragon’s power, the easier it would be to remove the pieces of pie that fell from his claws. The union of the Great Mother and the prince to the emperor and his hangers-on was like a bone in the throat.

  The Miur watched and waited; the Miur feared. His “older sister” once said she had something with which to meet the hordes of her northern neighbor. The feline race far outdid their likely associates and opponents in the fields of tech and armaments—that was no secret. But not one crowned neighbor suspected the giant megalith-accumulators resting in the lower caves and deep-sea underground lakes, the bottom of which were lined with tiles made of rock crystal and malachite. It wasn’t out of the goodness of their hearts that the cats did not touch the Mellorny forests and allowed the elves to live on the surface. Thousands of special lenses buried near the surface collected the mana produced by the “trees of life” and transferred it to distribution centers, where real magician dispatchers decided where to direct the energy flow—to put it into action or disperse over Mount Lidar. The Great Mother had her reasons for masking certain areas of the brain before the confluence. Had Andy seen the main underground storehouse of mana, he could have become ill. During the virk he learned that every self-respecting monarch has mobile sources of mana. Ten-ton blocks were used for this purpose, consisting entirely of artificially grown crystals or rock crystal. The prince had fifteen or twenty such megaliths; the emperor owned two hundred. Ilirra did not say anything about the military “treasury” to the Great Mother; the dragon simply did not know that the white-haired cat had about two thousand “batteries” on hand. A large lake located at a depth of one mile from the surface served as the main “battery.” Hundreds of rectangular megaliths stood in slender rows on its leveled bottom. The tension of the magic field made one’s hair literally stand on end, one’s clothes light up and the water boil. It was hotter in the giant cave than in a Russian banya. Dozens of pipes led steam and water to the surface; an equal amount of pipes were used to supply cold water. Most of the springs that gave hot healing water and originated on the slopes and ravines of the great mountain were of artificial origin. Outsiders and the curious were told a fairy tale about volcanic activity. Their neighbors did not know about yet another mystery that Andy had to face, that is, to encounter: he spent several days in this “mystery’s” shoes. Thousands of puppet cocoons were awaiting their time. Evael, in conversation with him, left aside an important detail in failing to mention that right before the evacuation, the miur ruler’s volunteers went through the human and elven settlements on the surface of the mountain with a fine-tooth comb. The warriors were interested in recruiting tall young men and women as “puppeteers.” The Great Mother announced the mandatory mobilization…

  “Raygor!” Ruigar said breathlessly, leaping across the parapet and stopping at the edge of the observation platform. “The pearl of the Black Cliffs!” A wide wave of his hand outlined the white stone city lying below.

  Raygor was somewhat like Orten: wide streets and avenues, numerous islands of greenery, sparkling ponds, bright illumination. Complementing the street lighting, three powerful magical lights hung over the city. From the few small suns or moons, all buildings and people cast three or four dull shadows.

  An unaided look could distinguish the areas where dragons lived from human quarters. Hundreds of different palaces had one thing in common: broad landing areas. The higher the dragon was on the social hierarchy, the higher his or her house was. Many buildings seemed to float out of the thick forests of the mountains surrounding the city and hung on steep slopes hundreds of feet above the ground. Only having wings could allow you to reach those dwellings. Despite the war, the city continued to live a bustling, unbridled life. From the height of the portal site, it was clear that the streets were full of idle public. Dozens of dragons constantly flew up and down on wide takeoff patches among the streets. “Please, follow me,” Ruigar’s voice forced him to look away from the beautiful landscape. “In order to get to the square where the conclave is meeting,….”

  “Wait,” Andy interrupted him. He scratched his right leg and side. “First, we need to find some sort of merchant selling ready-made clothing and change. I do not deny you are wearing exquisite garb, but any mediocre mage could see through the illusion and your cheeks will become a spectacle for all to see… not those ones,” he said, pointing to his face. “And I could use some floral oils.”

  Ania stepped away from him a couple of steps, sniffed and, recognizing the scent as that of a dragon, tilted her head to one side, saying:

  “Are you molting? Since when?”

  “It is the second day.”

  “For some reason, when I am standing next to you, my mood falls, and I feel like, well, killing someone. How are you holding it in? You did not look flustered at all during negotiations with the prince.”

  “Well, yes. Not at all?” Andy roared. He shouldn’t have scratched himself. Now he was itching all over, especially his rear end. The tail that did not exist at the time reminded him of itself with thousands of light jabs. He immediately wanted to smash his head against a wall.

  “It is strange. Molting season is over,” Ruigar interjected into the conversation. He could not smell odors yet; it took several hours for the tortured nose to recover.

  “For some reason, my molt does not fit in with the spring cycles of Nelita. I hold it in using willpower and a cocoon of impenetrability.”

  “The key,” Ania said softly. “You showed the key to the prince….”

  “I should not have done that. He should not have found out about my little secret.”

  “You cannot change the past.”

  “Exactly! It can be repeated, though. Human stupidity is inexhaustible. I will repeat the trick with the key at the conclave, but I will put it number one during that circus performance. I do not need everyone, but I need some volunteers. They will consciously take risks in order to get out of sight of the emperor’s servants.”

  Andy caught himself in a strange pathetic gesture, pointing to the horizon and trying to capture the uncapturable. “Seems molting is ticking me off. You guys, please, just in case, be ready to remind me that today is not the most suitable day for verbal battles. The main thing is not to overexert myself. I will kill someone, and then I will be upset.”

  * * *

  They made it to the store and the conclave on time. The meeting, or “flying” of the representatives of the dragon families, had not yet begun when Ruigar, taking advantage of the fact that news of his duplicity had not yet reached the capital, pressed on the authorities and made sure that they were first in line to speak. A wide platform was erected in the center of the square for the dragons who would be speaking.

  Andy stood at the entrance and looked at the arriving dragons. Yep: the first rows were for the rich and famous, the second for those who supported the first, and the rest were for the crowd. At last, wings stopped flapping in the sky; a tense silence settled on the crowd. Everyone had arrived, they could start. Andy felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around:

  “Ania?”

  “Give it to them good.” The sida glanced towards the square full of dragons. “It is a shame I do not know what your real name is.”

  “I came, I saw, I conquered!” Andy smiled. “It is time. You will hear my real name in a few minutes.”

  Ania followed him with her gaze and returned to the detachment.

  “I am curious: why did you follow him?” Ruigar asked quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the Miur.

  “Why did you
?”

  “I did not have any other choices.”

  “I understand. It was either the executioner’s ax or life and an uncertain future which might end with that very executioner’s ax. Did you give an immutable pledge?”

  “Yes, and a blood oath. We are now connected.”

  Ania glanced at the platform and shook her head. She was making up her mind about something. She then stared at the former governor and said:

  “If you even think of double-crossing him, I will kill you myself.”

  “To what do I owe the honor? Do you know who he is? No?”

  Ania said nothing. It was enough for her that he was Andy, the future father of her children. The rest didn’t matter.

  “Most honored guests,” a loud voice said from the platform. “I would like to inform you of the true reasons for the war and make you an offer. Unfortunately, Prince Ora refused to listen to me and said “no” to what I am about to suggest.”

  A quiet concerned hum of voices rang out among the crowd.

  “Quiet!” the chosen administrator of the conclave barked. “Go on.”

  “Thank you,” Andy ceremoniously bowed to the old dragon. “The emperor is trying to take control of the interplanetary portals and seize the key. I am the guardian of the key.”

  “Liar!” One of the scaly beasts couldn’t hold back. Andy closed his eyes.

  “I suggest relocating to Ilanta.”

  “The boy is lying and wasting our time. In whose name can he suggest relocation? Where is the key? Let him show us, or stop this nonsense!” the same doubter went on.

  His itch had become unbearable; he so wanted to kill the loud-mouth. The flower oil was not as effective as expected. Some dragons supported the loud-mouth and joined him in demanding that Andy show them the key. Like wolves at their counsel in Kipling, only instead of Shere Khan, they were pulling Hazgar by the tail.