Его не звали, но он приперся / They never called, yet he is here: Интерлюдия шестая: "Старческие дрязги"

Interlude six: "Squabbles of Elder"

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 13:20

A night in the quiet countryside is quite different from a night in a capital city, which is immediately apparent. It is not to the eye but to the ear because the most important difference is hidden in ear perception. Stavrosk is a noisy city that does not keep quiet even at night, even though it is extremely difficult to hear these sounds if you do not suffer from insomnia. The quiet footsteps of late-night passers-by or night ruffians, the heavy ringing of guards patrolling the area, the barely audible distant shout of someone unlucky enough to go a bit wrong - the romance of the streets is very peculiar, but there is certainly something to it.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 13:51

In the countryside, preferably in some remote village, and in a house in the middle of nowhere, that is not what you hear. The noise of the wind, the rustle of the leaves, the roaring of beasts, and the howling of wolves, or even worse monsters. And, of course, one cannot forget the unique creak of floorboards and ceilings present in the walls of every old building. Sometimes the most attentive listener begins to think that the house is trying to say something, to tell its story, its mystery, which has been with it for many years and will remain longer. Will the story be terrifying, nightmarish, and frightening? Or will it be a good tale told by a mother to her child?

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 13:57

The house was old enough to have a few scary tales in stock, but, alas, the inhabitants were not too keen to hear them. And they had made sure that the walls did not tell too much to the first person they met. The large, well-built stone mansion was more the mansion of a wealthy aristocrat than that of a simple citizen's cottage. A keen eye might have noticed the traces of recent rebuilding, where the foundations of the original building had been cleaned up, and the manor house itself had been built on top of it.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 13:59

The inhabitant of the farmstead did not like excessive attention, nor did he like guests who preferred to wander under the windows instead of simply knocking on the door. In general, many people did not like such guests, but in this particular case, the master of the house had every opportunity to express his displeasure in an ultimate form. The place is remote. It is not just easy for a person to get lost once and for all, but very easy. And not even a grave will be found, for there will be none.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:15

The inhabitants of the surrounding villages feared the place to the point of trembling at the knees and attacks of bear sickness. And for good reason. At other times one might observe an attempt, if not to take the farmstead by a pitchfork, then to leave the neighborhood en masse without waiting for trouble to come. In other cases, not in this one, for it was the manor house, as well as its fearsome inhabitants, that caused said villages to flourish. Monsters were frankly wary of coming here if they were intelligent, and were quickly processed for dead meat if they weren't intelligent.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:18

So, the mansion stands in the middle of nowhere, its windows dark and only one single window emitting a barely discernible light, as if from a lit table lamp. If someone with a poetic mind had been here, he would have found many colorful expressions to describe this picture, to show it from every possible angle.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:19

But there were no such personalities here.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:19

There were others.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:28

"The amount of energy processed into the Necros is increased sixfold, comma, but the parasitic losses cause excessive wear and tear on the outer ritual circuits, comma, resulting in weakening of the overall design, full stop." The words sounded clear and well-defined, even if with barely perceptible swallowing of the last syllables as if the speaker had been painstakingly and meticulously coaxing a Western accent out of himself. "To further develop the Shal'Tor complex, there is a suggestion of increasing the trial rises in such patterns, colons, followed by numerical indices. Ahem, so... Twenty fractions forty-two, eight fractions forty-two, sixteen fractions fifty-one, and, on a separate line, sigma thirty-three, the second type of reanimation. Full stop, new page. Redraw the at'lai diagram with additions from the kan'tai thirteen report."

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:30

The lecturing tone belonged to a well-looking elderly man, of short stature, with a well-groomed beard and bushy eyebrows. The state of his hair and somewhat birdlike gait made him look like a small ruffled owl. An old and more than once patched-up coat and a lab coat over it completed the image of an elderly clerk or, perhaps, a poor scholar, one of those who earn their keep by educating the offspring of noble lords. Not too well-to-do noble lords, it should be noted, for such clothes are too shabby, and ragamuffins are not welcome in wealthy homes and three hundred times spit on scholarship.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:31

However, the attentive eye and ear will immediately find many inconsistencies with the most obvious option. And perhaps not so attentive ones either. And if you think about it, even a blind and deaf village idiot can guess the catch. It was not even the very rich and exotic setting of the huge office which the old man was pacing. And not in the somewhat unusual speeches of the lecturer dictating his science. Perhaps the most noticeable "catch" was a three-meter-long bone monster with many limbs, in each of which were clenched all sorts of writing utensils. It was this bone creature, in fact, that was writing down the words of the inspirational elder.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:33

In his hands were clutched various types of fountain pens, lecterns, ink-drying rags, drafting instruments, and demon-knows-what else. The total number of unnaturally long arms exceeded two dozen, and the constant motion in which the limbs were kept in the course of their work interfered with an accurate count. A normal person, scientist or not, would have spoiled his pants at the sight of such a behemoth and promptly fled in terror, if not go to his ancestors at once because of a weak heart. And certainly not to dictate an obediently working undead scholarly work on higher ritual necromancy.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:34

An unusual old man for an unusual house, that's for sure. And all those who had had a good fortune (or misfortune) to know the old man was well aware of how contrived his complacency, how deceptive his appearance was, and how thin a shell hid the lurking bony body of a master of one of the most fearsome schools of magic. How little of the ordinary man was left in him.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:35

Nobody wouldn't reach its heights, despite all attempts to hinder, intimidate, buy or simply steal the designs. Nobody will haven't the honor of receiving an official order of repose from one of the most famous interstate orders of Alurei. And those whom these militant fanatics prefer not to touch, despite having such a warrant, even knowing the exact location of his residence, can be counted on the fingers. Because it is now he who sits quietly in the middle of nowhere, dictating yet another monograph to a tame monster. Many remember the massacre that the seemingly peaceful and non-threatening (but with a lavish library and plenty of valuables, for which new owners have already been found) Caspian Barglor led those who came for his head.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:38

So he lives here, in the wilderness, quite peacefully, buying up the corpses of peasants and taking up the organs of accidentally wandering thugs or monsters. This is why neither the zealots of the Order of Sky, nor the King's Chancellery, nor the slimmed-down "planned owners" of his fortune can't find him, very diligently. That is why the old man dictates his research to his personal scribe, albeit a long-dead one, not thinking of the distant capital.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:40

"The eighteenth subtype of the branched hexagram Aantali, comma, used in the duplicate outline, full stop, is taken as the basis for further advancement of the ritual scheme. Redraw the ritual diagram from the appropriate folder. Complete with the notes from the previous article. Boldface the provisional amendments to the main ritual."

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:41

It seemed as if the old man would tread a trench at this rate, but he continued stubbornly to pace the study without distracting himself from his musings. The study was quite remarkable, at least because of its size - a huge room, over ten meters long and wide, littered with shelves and desks on which all sorts of things, sinister and not so sinister, lay in seeming disorder. Ironically, the only island of order in this raging sea of creative chaos was the corner reserved for the multi-armed skeleton, for he had remembered to clean up after himself, following the directives imposed.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:42

The main load, comma, as stated in the fourth footnote, comma, will be put on the secondary circuit, comma, which must be created using special Group 8 reagents. Full stop. From here on on a new page... Oh, and finish that rubbish off, Jaan.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:43

Jaan is a transliteration of the lizardman's name, which translates as 'many-armed serpent'. Caspian had found the name poetic, even if his creation did not have a single serpentine feature. Well, there was no shortage of arm strength and no shortage of fighting efficiency.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:44

When talking about how his Dead Scriptor had once destroyed three assassins who had infiltrated his room, he neglected to specify that the trio were equipped with very expensive amulets and soaked unique potions they had been given straight from the Crown's treasury. Nor did he mention that Jaan's opponents were of the thirty-eighth and thirty-ninth levels, members of the same Royal Secret Guard. There was even talk that after the Marked, previously regarded as the best blade of the king's assassins, left the religion, it was the trio who had predicted his position and status.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:46

Anyway, he was once again underestimated - Caspian Barglor was a very non-confrontational man, preferring to wait and seek compromise where even the weaker masters began to grow arrogant. Not because of spinelessness, no, but simply because it was the way to test new developments and collect the best bodies of idiots who came after him. After the mysterious disappearance of the Three Whips, who had never returned from his mansion in the capital, they had already come to storm the place officially, with an order from the Order, confirmed by royal edict. They'd fallen on the same rake again, as they say in the Syktyvkar halfling community, and they're not the dumbest of people at the top. Was it so difficult to suppress one's greed?

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:49

The cutthroats who had come for his head, whose life signatures the signal spells had picked up twelve hours earlier, were far more modest in their classes, equipment, and levels. They were the usual, if somewhat elite blades of one of the underground guilds, judging by the way they opened their defensive circuits from Carnholm. But in the name of the Calling Finger, isn't it obvious that if the first layer of defense is too easy to penetrate, it only means that the second, far more reliable layer is hidden beneath it?

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:51

It's almost insulting! He wasn't even a trapper, Caspian, to understand traps, but he could have killed those half-wits forty times before they even got close to the mansion walls! If he hadn't been too lazy to follow the bodies outside, he would have done so. Instead, he had to open the door for them, let them enter his study, and then hand them over to Jaan. He chose a good name for it, and he doesn't care that almost no one gives names to the constructs except him! For one thing, it increased the likelihood of losing control, and for another, it was sort of not the necromancer's style. As if he didn't spit on these stale customs from the top of the pyramid from his own scholarly writings.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:56

Scriptor did not fail, quickly turning his opponents into corpses - level forty-six after all. The first assassin, entrenched on the ceiling, died from having his skull punctured by a heavy gold feather launched by a marked hand. The second, closest positioned (literally under the wall) was struck in the face by a spat-out inkwell. Why did he give golden pens to his scribe? Because the ink, loaded with Necros, corrodes steel, even enchanted steel, faster than hot tea melts sugar. He had to enchant gold, even though it was expensive. But the enemy was a desiccated mummy before it had time to rust - the ink was wonderfully concentrated.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 16:58

The third, realizing he was exposed, managed to dodge the second quill, stepping into the path of the blow and hurling a pair of skill-loaded daggers straight into the face of the mage who hadn't even changed posture. The top button of the old coat turned to ashes, and in front of each of the daggers emerged the thinnest screen of said bone ashes. Despite their negligible mass, these shields not only repelled the blood-red glowing blades but also gathered themselves back into the button, going into standby mode once more.

Camrad_RIP 29.01.23 в 17:00

The killer did not strike again, for Scriptor, who had placed the contents of all his palms on the table, had reached his limit of speed, swooping down on the uninvited guest. Caspian had only to reach forward with a demanding hand, and the undead tore his victim's head off, throwing the body into a corner so it wouldn't stain the carpets with blood. The carpets were already worn out, so they had no reason to suffer unnecessary cleaning.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 16:39

"Well, well, well..." The necromancer grasped the pretty-looking lady's hair tightly. "What are you going to tell me, dearie?"

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 16:40

Only total ignoramuses and profane people suffer from having to actually listen to the answers of an animated corpse. For professionals of his level and rank, such tinsel has long been unnecessary. You don't need a whole body or a full-blown raising - the presence of at least a piece of flesh is enough for a proper interrogation, and without any words. All they need is the mage's pure will, which allows them to literally tear knowledge from a dead body - a very peculiar form of clairvoyance, which necromancers have a traditionally good relationship with. From sacrificial divinations on the entrails of thirty-year-old virgins - a hassle to find, for the commodity is expensive and rare - to visions of the torn threads of life. Many of the visionaries draw their strength from the Death Realm, not from the popular and less dangerous Astral. They don't live long, but they don't die very often either - they just move on to a new form of existence.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 16:48

The killer's still warm head said nothing to him.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 16:49

But at the same time, this silence was a treasure trove of answers, revealing all the necessary information, and with a great margin. Well, there was no soul as such in this body for at least a week, and the dead flesh was unwilling to give answers, despite all of Barglore's prowess. Probably because it wasn't fully dead, and not fully flesh.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 16:50

And yet he got the answers. He couldn't not! A quick scan and analysis of the body, and here he already knew. That, despite the average twentieth level of this trio, their characteristics corresponded to at least thirty-ninth. The price of reinforcement was terrible mutation on the physical and energy levels - as if someone had somehow fused muscles, blood vessels, and bones, and poured some strange and poisonous stuff in place of blood. They were also red, but otherwise, they were a kind of liquefied mirror. And the energy itself in the bodies of the dead was eloquently recognizable, especially after the recent visit of the young serpent serving Duke Lanorsk as his personal master of silence.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 16:52

The head tried to open like a bud, releasing the trap laid in it, but it turned to ashes much faster than it had time to be fully saturated with the deceptively soft power of the dream. Meanwhile, blood from the bodies of the dead (not counting the completely desiccated by Necros) began to slowly trickle down to the tall mirror standing in the far corner.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 16:53

An invitation to talk? Well, Caspian was always for intelligent conversation. The only pity was that not many people could talk to him intelligently, and even fewer wanted to.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 16:53

The figure of the old necromancer calmly approached the mirror, stopping six paces away from the mirror's altered surface. From it, something that was no mere reflection began to peek out. The thoughts in the necromancer's head were rather scattered, most of them appreciative of the amusing idea of turning the blood in still-living bodies into a full-fledged anchor for the window of communication.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 16:54

But thoughts are as quick as the passage of time.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 16:54

A few seconds later, a shapeless thing emerged from the mirror, a vibrant cloud of violet mist in which molten shards of mirrors hung melted. Something that had gone as far away from the human as possible. And the thing spoke, and with its words whispered every reflective surface in the seemingly impregnable house. Along with the words came the whispering and rustling of thousands of leaves, thousands of nets swaying in the wind to trap sleeping souls.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:03

"I want answers."

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:04

Any man, whether he was a master necromancer or a simple plowman, if he heard the power behind those words, would start feverishly giving away everything he knew. He would talk and talk, hoping, if not to cheat imminent doom, at least to postpone the nightmarish end just a little longer. Caspian was anything but, or he would have died a long time ago - with his temper. But he wasn't looking for a quarrel just yet either, especially not with a person of such caliber as the relic of ancient times who decided to talk to him.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:05

"Greetings, Weaver." He answered dryly, without any attempt to imbue his words with Death. "You don't have to make a farce out of it to give me a list of questions. Ask. I'm listening carefully."

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:06

Hidden behind the facade of reflection, the interlocutor was clearly slightly discouraged. No, he had met those with enough willpower not to be broken by the mere reflection of his true appearance, by his mere word. He had met and killed them, proving their delusions, proving that their courage and bravado were empty. But seldom has he been met with such... indifference. The necromancer managed to keep his face at the bad edges of fallen dice even too easily, though it made no difference. Neither his fate nor his mistakes - the ends must always be cut off, and this man knew too much.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:10

"The names of everyone who has asked about me. Everyone who knows about me. Everyone still remembers me. All the books and scrolls. If you wish to be."

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:10

Many on this list he already knows but does not touch. Some are not a threat. They know too little, or their knowledge is faulty and only serves as an extra advantage. Some may be useful to him. And some he would not touch without a good reason - he is not the only one who remembers ancient knowledge. He is not the only one who has lived to his age.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:12

Perhaps if the corpse master proves to be truly useful, he will not kill him, simply replacing him by settling his child in him. Quietly and inconspicuously. He will believe that fate has passed him by. Quietly and inconspicuously. One morning he will not wake up. Or, will wake up not him. He does not have many such toys, but they are useful and interesting. He would not lend his children to dull lowlifes for whom it was a pity to spend a spit. But this one was worth the time, as it were.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:15

"So, if I am not mistaken, you are ordering me - ordering me, not asking me - to give you all my contacts and part of my library, offering nothing but outright threats in return? And visiting me uninvited and using a hired puppet instead of a knock at the gate?" A short pause, seeming less threatening than bewildered. "I am certainly no expert in such cultural matters, but in the poorer districts of Stavrosk, it is customary to get kicked in the face for such accusations."

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:17

The rudeness from the lips of the would-be dead man did not anger or even upset him. He had come here to kill, and just now his victim had accepted his fate. He could have been saved. He could have become something more than a mere captive and absorbed the soul of a powerful mage, but he chose his fate. They all choose it for themselves, and all he has to do is to lead their choices to the only right outcome.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:18

"Then you will perish." Only the creature from the looking glass responded as it struck.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:18

The Necromancer had made many mistakes, of which only a few were the silliest and scariest. The stupidest of them all was that he had taken the trouble to investigate the guiding thread he had been given. The creature had cleared up all traces of its existence diligently, time after time. He'd seen worse failures than the one about the lost fortress in the Mist. And always, he had time to erase, to take with him everything and everyone who could expose him to the attentive eyes of enemies and foes.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:20

The same bloodhound sent by the Duke of Lanorsk survived only because her elimination was taken over by the creature's current "patron". The creature pretending to be an old man did not argue, reasonably believing that the skill and expertise of one of the kingdom's most influential aristocrats would suffice for the clean-up. But it wasn't, forcing the master of dreams to intervene himself.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:21

He didn't give a damn about the bloodhound, especially since he had already found her himself, having attached a watcher and executioner to her. She would enter the stronghold of the Lanorsk and cut off the thread of a lineage of too-audacious upstarts. It should have been done long ago, back when his child had fallen... but he was too focused on finding the killer to expose himself to his enemy. That's why he'd left the puppy alive, why he'd limited himself to simple observation and the bloodhounds he'd created.

Camrad_RIP 30.01.23 в 17:23