A long corridor, the walls adorned with paintings from the family's life—portraits, hunting scenes, important ladies, and haughty, gray-haired men. Statues and suits of armor hung in the niches.
"I wonder who lived here?" Ned thought, walking across the polished parquet floor, surrounded by a crowd of his guards. The hallway was wide, wide enough to drive a cart through. The house's former owner apparently disliked cramped spaces. This was further indicated by the towering stucco ceilings with chandeliers hanging on chains—they were supposed to hold countless candles in the evening. And they did—the ceiling was heavily smoky.
They had to walk quite a distance; after about five minutes, the entire procession found itself before a towering black oak door adorned with a golden coat of arms. Ned wasn't familiar with coats of arms and understood only one thing: the nobleman who owned this house was of very high rank. Tenth or eleventh. Twelfth—as he'd been told—they were relatives of the king. It was unlikely they lived here, in this backwater town. However, the town wasn't all that backwater, as it stood at the crossroads of many roads and served as a transit point for trade between the north and south.
The Isfirian mage disappeared behind the door, signaling for him to stop, then reappeared, throwing the door wide open, and Ned stepped into the room.
It was a large room, more like a hall, probably the kind a king uses to receive his subjects. However, Ned could only guess, as he'd never been inside a royal palace. He had nothing but the memories of others… except for what he'd learned in his own life.
The general sat behind his enormous desk, looking with interest at the Zamar mage. He didn't hide his curiosity—it's not every day you see someone who's to blame for your loss in a battle. Well, maybe not because of this boy personally, but certainly because of people like him.
The general left the table, approached the group of people frozen in the middle of the room, and peered into Ned's face, searching his eyes intently. Then he smiled and shrugged.
"How do you know I won't order your head chopped off right now? Or just put an arrow through it? You're a brave boy. I don't believe you're a powerful black mage. I don't remember you among the mages. It seems to me that you're a weak mage, not even accepted into the agara, and you, having learned of my offer, decided to bet everything on a single roll of the dice. Admit it, is that so? Don't insult my intelligence. Don't make a fool of me. And by the way, come on, tell me in more detail, what was that about the threat to my life?"
"You are in danger. Colonel Heverad has ordered two victims to be brought to him so that he can kill you with black magic."
"How do you know?" Herag quickly asked, exchanging glances with the mage.
"I know. And I know you tried to kill him the same way. And he barely escaped. And now the colonel is in an incredible rage, preparing to destroy you magically."
"I told you, sir," the Isfirian mage nodded. "After Estrog's attempt to kill Heverad, a similar action would follow. If I were Estrog, I wouldn't do it—it's too dangerous. And he almost died, and now you're in trouble. Now we need to guard you day and night, setting up magical defenses. I arrived just in time! Your mages wouldn't have been able to provide the necessary cover."
"What are you talking about? So now I have to look at mages' faces day and night? Even in bed? Even in the toilet?" Herog's mouth twisted in displeasure. "I've had too many of you here! And to tolerate you around me 24/7—that's completely impossible!"
"Then you'll die," the mage replied calmly. "Only mages can protect you. You shouldn't have gotten involved with black magic of the highest order. It always backfires—and God forbid you fall under its influence."
"We'll talk about this later. For now, we need to resolve the issue with this... supposed mage," Herog shrugged.
"Well... he's not supposedly a mage, he's definitely a mage. That thing above his shoulder indicates that. And if the orb is still there, then he's a truly powerful mage. A weak mage would have had the sphere extinguished in five minutes. But his has been there for at least an hour. That means he's at least level five or six. As for—and LATER, think about it—why did you decide that the mages of Heverad would wait for that 'later' to happen? Perhaps they're preparing the victims for slaughter right now and have begun casting spells? Perhaps we should begin protecting ourselves right now?"
"Go ahead!" Herag waved his hand. "And in the meantime, I'll have a little chat with this... mage. Tell me, boy, what's the name of your chief mage? What level is he? What can he do? What level are you? What were you doing in the Corps? Hey, where are you going? Look, what's he doing? Did you search him?"
"Stop! Don't move!" The security sergeant rushed toward Ned and snatched the flat box, warmed by the boy's body, from his hand. "Put your hands up!"
Ned raised his hands above his head and looked at the general in bewilderment, as if to say, "What's the matter?" The dark mage excitedly picked up the box and began turning it over, examining it from all angles. Then he looked at Ned and asked:
"What is this? Why did you hide this thing? I sense some kind of magic here, but I can't figure out what it is."
"It's an amulet. As you can see, it's not a combat one. I wanted to present it to the General. I hid it because I was afraid your soldiers might take it away before I got to Lord Herag. That's all. Open it and see what's inside. It's as easy as pie.
"No way," the mage chuckled. "Open it, and we'll see what's inside. And to prevent you from attacking the general, we'll first create a protective sphere. General, we'll enclose you in a protective sphere now; it will protect you from both Heverad's machinations and this strange amulet. Don't worry, nothing in this world can penetrate this protection. Come here, to the center of the room. Sergeant, when we create the sphere, hand the Zamarian his amulet, and have him open the box and show us the contents. But not before we create the sphere. Is that clear?"
"I see," the sergeant frowned, "but perhaps you could give him the amulet yourself? This is the mages' business; why should we interfere in your affairs? So, you'll hide behind the sphere, and we're going to risk it here with the amulet? You mages have always been clever, haven't you? By the way, I don't answer to you. My commander is General Herag. So you can't give me orders."
"Well, yes," the general interjected, "why are you bossing my subordinates around, Mister Mage? Aren't you taking on too much? You were sent to assist me, not to replace me in command of the army!"
"Do as you please," the black mage bit his lip in frustration, "but don't say later that I didn't warn you. I sense this guy is a difficult man. I wanted to do what was best, but if you decided you didn't care about your safety, what can I do? The king's advisor will be informed that you rejected my advice, and I disclaim responsibility for what's happening. When the Death Messengers begin to strangle you, you won't have time to send for me to protect you."
"Hmm... let's do it this way," the slightly confused general suggested. "We'll place the box on the floor, everyone except me and our mages will leave the room, and the Zamar will open the box and show us what he wanted to show us. If it's truly a protective amulet, I'll believe he was genuinely concerned for my well-being. If it's a combat amulet, it won't be able to harm us, but our soldiers won't be harmed either. That's right. Okay?"
"Okay, no problem," the Isfirian mage readily agreed. "Sergeant, lead your men out of the hall. Zamarets, I'm placing your box on the floor. You can pick it up and open it once we're protected by the protective sphere."
"Fine. Close your doors," Ned shrugged, hiding his disappointment. Was it all for nothing? Could they really survive, protected by a shield? Well, so what if they survived? A general and five mages—what could they do against the Corps, without their own army? But what would happen to him personally? There were five of them, not counting the general, and he, Ned, was alone?
For a moment, Ned watched as the mages, linking arms, surrounded their general, placing him in the center. It reminded him of a children's circle dance, with a "leader" in the center, and Ned couldn't help but grin – how many times had he peeked from behind the bushes at the children of his fellow villagers playing, and envied them terribly. And now he was watching as other mages "played" their own circle dance.
The black mage began casting a spell—it was different from what Ned knew, but the result was roughly the same—a huge dome, shimmering with iridescent reflections, as if someone enormous had covered the people with half a soap bubble. Finally, the "bubble" was cast, and the mage waved his hand at Ned:
– Lift it! It's ready to open! Bring the box closer so I can get a good look at the contents.
Ned picked up his box, walked over to the sphere, and, before unlocking the latches, touched the magical sphere with interest. It felt like a rock clad in something resilient, like thick leather. It seemed to give slightly, but then became as hard as steel. Ned pounded it with his fist; the sphere echoed with a ringing sound, as if he were striking a glass surface, and the Isfirian mage frowned in surprise.
- Have you never seen a protective magic sphere?
"Not from the outside!" Ned admitted, and then, mentally bracing himself for the launch, he unfastened the clasps. Those sitting behind the sphere's wall involuntarily sighed in admiration. The necklace was truly beautiful, and in the rays of the setting sun it sparkled, shimmering with every color. Ned paused for three seconds, gathering his courage, and then decisively picked up the jewel.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the necklace glowed, like the dagger artifact once had, and, unfurling as if around the neck of a beautiful woman, rose into the air to a height of about two meters above the room's floor.
Ned, expecting something like this, rushed as fast as he could into the empty part of the room and began frantically casting the sphere spell. He created it just as the first demons crawled through the hole made by the artifact.
At first, the demons of the first and second circles, practically invisible, the size of a pea or smaller, rained down as if a huge bowl of grain had been overturned in another dimension. Dark and light clots, nebulae, they scattered across the hall, and then descended en masse upon the spheres, sensing the sweet souls of the mages behind them.
When the hole in space widened, larger demons began to emerge from it – the third, fourth, fifth circle – the size of a human head and larger.
The hall darkened, a swirling maelstrom of demons turning the bright evening into a dark night. But the Mirror continued to tear at the fabric of the universe, and then the kings of terror, the emperors of fear—demons of the highest order—appeared. Large, the size of horses or bulls, they were pitch-black, and lightning flashed across their "bodies." Such a wave of hatred, malice, and hunger emanated from these demons that Ned's skin crawled with fear—what if his sphere gave way? What if they breached this illusory, rainbow-colored barrier?
But it was too late to think about that. What's done is done.
The sphere rang, swarming with demons, then suddenly all the demons retreated, and Ned saw demons of the higher orders approaching his defenses. They hovered nearby, flashing lightning bolts—as if conversing—then drifted away, ignoring the mage. And this despite the fact that the sphere, installed by the Isfirian mages, was covered with demons like flies on carrion.
In the brief moments when the alien sphere was revealed to the eye, it was clear that the magicians, holding hands, continued to read some spells, apparently strengthening and maintaining their defense.
Wild screams were heard from behind the doors of the hall, which died down after a few moments, and Ned realized that now there was not a single living person in the corridor behind the door.
Ned sat cross-legged on the floor in a meditative pose and closed his eyes, trying to find peace. But he couldn't. Before his eyes stood the torn corpses of the archers he'd killed in the forest on the way to the corps camp. The same thing was happening here, in the house, and throughout the city.
Yes, it was war, yes, he was saving himself and his comrades, with whom, one could say, he had become close over these months. For the first time, he felt a sense of belonging to a community. After all, before, he had always been alone.
Did he feel guilty for what he'd done? For the thousands of people he'd killed? Not really. They'd come here to enslave, to kill, so why should he feel guilty? For ending their lives? For giving them over to the demons? And if he'd killed them with his sword, would it have been better? Perhaps it would have been better. Where do the souls go when they're devoured by demons? Wouldn't they become demons themselves?
The treatises taught that in their world, demons feed on demons if there is no other food. The strong devour the weak, the fortunate the unfortunate. Demons of the highest order are those who have managed to devour the weaker and ascend to the highest levels of the underworld.
But then, how are they different from humans? Is it that they lack arms and legs? Malice and hatred... But don't humans have them? Perhaps demons, unknown creatures from another world, embody precisely human malice and hatred... Humans are very good at hating.
Demons kept pouring out of the hole in space, which had widened to the ceiling. Their stream was endless, they no longer attacked Ned's sphere, and it seemed as if someone was directing the invasion, and that "someone" had given the order not to touch the demonologist, who had invited the entire company to a wonderful celebratory dinner.
Moreover, Ned felt a surge of strength and vigor; he was stronger and fresher than ever. It was reminiscent of how the blade demons bestowed upon their master a portion of the soul of a slain enemy, healing wounds, renewing their bodies, and recharging them with power.
Ned wasn't happy about this, though. Firstly, he felt like some kind of bloodsucker, an energy bloodsucker, akin to demons.
And secondly, why did they avoid him? Why didn't they pounce? No – the first demons, the little ones, pounced... until someone "barked" at them. Who? The adult demons? And why did they order the "kids" not to bother Ned? Was it because they sensed the Black One in him? That was what was upsetting. So the Black One hadn't gone anywhere. So it was still inside Ned. So, the worst was yet to come...
After a couple of hours, the sphere became stuffy, and Ned began to suffocate slightly - the dome did not let in fresh air.
After a brief moment of thought, Ned cast the spell, and the sphere collapsed with a ringing sound. Relishing his breath, Ned walked toward the enemy mages' sphere, still swarming with demons, and stood a step away from the transparent wall. As if on cue, the demons retreated, and a "window" opened before the mage, revealing the distorted faces of the Isfirians. They were gasping for breath, but were afraid to remove the sphere—for obvious reasons. Two of them—including Herag—were already unconscious; the rest sat on the floor, wiping their sweat and staring doomedly ahead.
The chief mage of the Isfirians rose to his feet, approached the wall of the sphere, and said with hatred:
- You! Creature! You did this on purpose! Why?
"To kill our enemies," Ned explained indifferently, feeling the familiar darkness rising in his soul. "Why did you come here? To kill us? And I killed you. And now you will die."
The Isfirian mage began cursing furiously, cursing Ned—because of the sphere's wall, he couldn't cast any combat spells at the Zamar. Nor could he cast any non-combat spells, for that matter. Ned then began casting a spell to destroy the sphere.
A second after he finished reading, the sphere vanished, and the entire demon horde collapsed upon the Isfirians. Another second, and the bloody rags of those who had once been mighty men splashed across the walls of the hall, spread across the floor, and splattered the one who had perpetrated it all—the demonologist Ned.
Ned stood silently, watching the black clouds spread out to the sides, and absentmindedly thought about how much time would still be needed for everyone in the city to be destroyed, and whether it was time to close the portal, otherwise only he would be left to live in this world.
He thought about it and decided – enough! It's time to close it. And he began to cast the spell.
The mirror closed slowly. First, a disembodied whirlwind appeared, a funnel into which nearby demons began to be drawn. Then, demons were drawn out, flying far away.
This went on for at least an hour. The last to be drawn into the portal were the enormous black demons of the highest order.
In the end, only one remained, floating into the hall like a flying van—it was so huge. The demon didn't immediately fly into the portal—it floated toward Ned, hovering before him, flashing with lightning, and, strangely enough, Ned understood what the demon was trying to convey with its flashes of lightning—the demon was expressing satisfaction and submitting to its demonologist. Then, ever faster, it floated toward the Mirror, vanished into it, and the Mirror collapsed with the loud sound of a snapping string.
Ned stood there, looking out at the dimly lit room, lit by a few dying candles, leaving only the melted bottoms of the candlesticks and chandelier. He thoughtfully touched his cheek with his index finger, where something was stuck. He rubbed the dark, slippery substance between his fingers and, unexpectedly, stuck it in his mouth, tasting iron and salt. This sobered him up, and Ned perked up, as if only now realizing what he'd done. And then he began to vomit...
After his body "sobered up," Ned's nostrils were assaulted by smells—the heavy, sweet stench of blood, torn flesh, and filth. With nothing left to vomit, Ned, trying not to breathe, quickly made his way out of the hall.
As he passed the torn-apart Isfirian mages, a shiny object—a necklace—lying in a pool of blood caught his eye. Ned automatically picked it up from the floor as he walked, wiped it on his trouser leg, and put it in his pocket. He couldn't see the box anywhere—it was apparently littered with pieces of torn flesh.
He longed to leave the house that reeked of blood and death. The fresh night air, the wind that would carry away the memories of what had just happened in this house—that was what Ned craved most. To forget, to forget the horror he had brought into the world. But was that possible? No, and Ned soon saw that firsthand.
The City of the Dead. The City of Slaughter. That's what those who saw these streets, littered with body parts and covered in dark, thickening blood, would later call it. Not a sound, not a movement—the demons had killed every living thing within a radius of several li. Birds, animals, even the rats that inhabited the sewers. The city was dead, deader than the deadest.
The night breeze ruffled the hair on the severed head of a young Isfirian, staring at the mage with eyes wide in horror, and Ned tried to forget the image as quickly as possible. Later he would suffer, later he would remember these horrors. But for now, his soul had hardened, calloused like an old boot, and only one thought occupied him: how to escape the city and how to inform the Corps command of the garrison's destruction.
But getting out won't be so easy—the gates are closed, the bars are down. How to get out? And in the dark, if you don't count the red moon that occasionally emerges from behind the clouds, illuminating the streets covered in the results of demons' "work."
After some deliberation, Ned decided to wait out the night in the city. He'd decide what to do in the morning. The first thing he needed to do was find food and drink. Soul energy alone wouldn't suffice; the body stubbornly demanded more tangible nourishment.
Ned found the army's food depot after about an hour of wandering the streets. He fell twice while climbing over piles of corpses, and his body was covered in blood and filth, greatly diminishing his appetite. But he didn't lose it. His young body, no matter what was going on around him, was eager for food.
People get used to a lot of things. If they don't know any other way of life, or if circumstances have forced them to live the way they do, even if they've lived much better before. And now, Ned had already gotten used to the smells and the corpses, and his nose barely noticed the scent of decay and blood, searching for food.
And it was found - the stoves on which stood large cauldrons of soup were smoking, the burnt porridge stank, and there was no one left to look after it - the cooks lay like torn corpses right there, nearby.
After rummaging around, he found an oil lantern, pulled out a still-lit ember from the hearth, and a few minutes later the kitchen was illuminated by a dim light.
Ned looked into one of the cauldrons to make sure there were no foreign objects in it, such as someone's severed arm or leg, stirred the cooled concoction with a huge ladle, after first wiping off drops of dried blood, and began to eat straight from the ladle, greedily shoving pieces of boiled meat and warm, thick liquid that smelled of spices down his throat.
Having eaten his fill, he went into the pantry, where he found piles of wine bottles lying on the shelves. There was no juice or plain water. Or rather, there was water, in tanks and buckets, but it was a murky brown, unpleasant color, and it smelled foul.
Not risking drinking the liquid, Ned reluctantly picked up the clay wine bottle, found a knife, and scraped off the resinous cork. After eating, he was thirsty, and wine was better than this bloody mess in the buckets.
The wine tasted unpleasant—Ned never liked the taste of wine—but the sour, tart liquid was drinkable, so Ned, parched from the day, quietly coaxed half the bottle. Then he sat down in the pantry, leaning his back against the wall, set the bottle on the floor, and began to ponder how he could orchestrate the whole thing so that no one would suspect he was behind this mass murder.
After all, if someone finds out, the consequences are completely unpredictable. On the one hand, he's a fine fellow. A hero! But on the other? On the other, he's a suspicious character, who's infiltrated the Corps' ranks with some demon, hiding his abilities as a demonologist (Why? For what purpose?), the last adept of forbidden magic. And then—what will happen? Either they'll elevate him, or... kill him. Just in case, they'll kill him. What if he's a danger to the state? Ned would definitely have killed such a suspicious character in their place. No man, no problem.
After ten minutes of contemplation, Ned felt as if someone had hit him on the head with a huge, heavy, soft fist—he felt slightly dizzy, and then sleep fell upon him—a deep, dead sleep, almost like that of those lying on the city streets. Ned had never drunk alcohol in his life, and so his body reacted to the wine quite adequately…
Waking up was terrible, difficult—no one ever enjoys a hangover. My head was pounding, my back was aching, stiff from sitting in an awkward position.
Ned braced his hands on the floor, rose to his hands and knees, then pushed himself to his feet, holding onto the wall until he was standing. His eyes finally focused, and Ned saw morning light filtering through the half-open pantry door. Pushing the creaking door open, Ned stepped into the kitchen—a large room containing a dozen stoves, now extinguished, surrounded by corpses. Ned winced as he looked at his handiwork in the daylight—it all looked even more horrific now than in the darkness, which obscured the details—and then walked to the window overlooking the street.
The sun was already rising above the horizon, and the first rays gilded the walls of houses, roofs, and the town hall with its bell, which once announced the gathering of citizens to read an important royal decree or to attend the public execution of criminals.
Ned was located in the very center of the city, on the edge of the town square, and the building in which it stood had previously been a large tavern. The conquerors had converted it into an army supply depot—a logical and convenient move.
Once outside, Ned headed back toward the gates, looking for a way out of the sealed-off city. The only thing that came to mind was finding ropes and climbing down to the other side. Ned wouldn't be able to use the gate's lifting mechanism—even as he was entering the city, he'd noticed four soldiers lifting the portcullis, turning a special pulley, while one stood by the brake, ensuring their safety.