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

Interlude six: "Squabbles of Elder"

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

But there were no such personalities here.

There were others.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But thoughts are as quick as the passage of time.

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.

"I want answers."

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.

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Found.

Tracked.

Lured.

Caught.

And he was caught in the net. Whoever the mysterious Dream walker was, he was strong, cunning, and dangerous, which is only natural for a Dream user of his rank. But, worst of all, he was in no hurry to fight the old master, who must have been deliberately provoked. The creature knew, sensed in its essence, that it was stronger, if not personally than by its pack, but its enemy had chosen the most appropriate tactics of battle.

Oh, now the creature had no doubt - the enemy had been preparing the blow for a very long time, planning it years, if not decades in advance. A gentle nudge, a single act of interference killed his child, made him rage and surrender to hatred. Made him search. And how precisely was the moment of disclosure - when the battle at the royal facility moved into its final phase, when the pack of sears had already found the target, and the creature itself could not, did not have time, and did not want to retreat. And the two enemies of the mysterious master collided, clawing at each other! And the enemy himself remained unrecognized, only one indistinct image, a shadow of appearance, a white face and bloody laughter, was caught by the dead bloodhound. Forever dead, without a trace.

Oh, the creature was furious!

Laughed at its own stupidity!

One admired the cunning and thoughtfulness of the unknown Weaver, who truly was worth calling an enemy rather than yet another victim. A powerful adversary worthy of taking his dreams, taking and forever re-shaping his reflection, to feel genuine pride. The creature accepted the blow. It's accepted the small defeat and acknowledged the beginning not of a hunt, but of war. A war that will end as it always has - another hunt and another devoured image of the one who proved worthy. Though the enemy had most likely been preparing for his last fight all his life, meticulously collecting the crumbs of information that passed by the creature's networks, that meant nothing. He had killed more than that, devoured and changed anyone who dared challenge him to a duel.

Perhaps looking into this fool's eyes, seeing the recognition of his superiority, seeing the humiliated plea for mercy, he deigns to tell the fool that he recognizes his strength. Acknowledges that the enemy really had a chance.

But that will come later, much later. While the wretched little man, whose requests the Weaver had so far fulfilled, was searching for the mysterious agent who had managed to destroy the group sent after the bouncy bloodhound, the creature itself was mopping up its tracks. It had already made a mistake and had already allowed its adversary to bump heads with royalty, which meant it was time to change the rules. Anyone who knew or guessed it existed, whose knowledge exceeded a certain limit, had to be silenced.

The last thread - the very bloodhound that would now have to cut off the lives of the troubled puppy and the old man who had given birth to him - is all but forgotten. But there remained those whom she had unwittingly stirred up, however inadvertently. Even such a gem as the necromancer that already perished in the creature's eyes. It seems a stupid "patron" even tried to kill him before (for the sake of gold and books) but failed. So, the creature will finish the job for him, allowing the people who came to the specified point to rob the house that had become derelict. A lot of material has been spent; he needs to stimulate an increase in the supply of fresh souls.

Mild regret for the lost puppet was all the pathetic graveworm had to offer, unable to bow his head, whether foolish or proud. No matter. The blow has already been struck, and not even Death itself can stop it. After all, the second stupidest mistake was that the necromancer got too close to the mirror that had become a portal, letting someone who stood on a very different level of power peer through it.

From the violet mist of the hole, in which the impossible forms of the creature's true appearance could be seen, a huge limb, the width of a two-meter mirror frame, burst out as if composed of fragments of mirror and shreds of fog. It burst out and, without a moment's hesitation, struck the necromancer, standing carelessly, without even having time to defend himself.

One of the many rules Caspian had learned during his career was the firm belief that talking face-to-face was certainly a very good aid to mutual understanding, but it was better not to abuse it. His reaction speed was always lame, and the multitude of protective artifacts could certainly buy time, but it was better not to bring it to the "game" itself. And so the art of creating a Doppelganger of Ashes was mastered by him to perfection.

He even learned how to place one of his trophy souls in the center of a material illusion, having first saturated it with enough Death to be mistaken for the soul of a master necromancer. A healthy precaution that had saved his life more than once when important negotiations were no longer just negotiations. Sometimes Caspian thought with mild irritation that all these overbearing idiots had gone to the same parochial school for dumb villains straight out of children's fairy tales.

First to invite to a meeting to talk, and when a mage with no patrons and no special power suddenly does not want to give for free everything he is "politely asked", sacrificing what he asked for some ephemeral promises of support... immediately try to kill on the spot the one who forgot his place. The Pillars of Infinity are his witnesses! They should at least let him leave the negotiating table before they kill him! It's not even stupid anymore. It's just dishonest!

Well, at least he's learned how to reassure himself.

Here, for example, as soon as he heard about the scale of the sweeps among all who could know at least the basics about the capabilities of dreamwalkers, as well as their most famous representatives in Melareth territory, he immediately began to prepare for the problems. The real issue was that there was no way to prepare for a battle with such an enemy - Caspian had no experience, not even a book on how the devil's dreamwalkers fought at a high level. And here, that level had clearly overstepped all sane and un-sane bounds, seriously threatening to do something unnatural to the peaceful explorer.

At the same time, his adversary was well aware of what Caspian could demonstrate - necromancers were never considered rare birds. On the contrary, every young fool who scooped a crumb of power from the verge of life imagined himself a mighty witch doctor, dreaming of hordes of the undead obediently following his bidding. How many he'd seen, how many he'd put to eternal rest...

His adversary knew him, was preparing to fight him, and therefore was in an a priori advantageous position. Though Caspian had plenty of cards up his sleeves, though he could rightly consider himself one of those who could do much with Death, it all paled before the sheer power of the attack made on him. So he didn't even try to repel the enemy's assault with almost native Death power.

He had other ways.

A huge, unnaturally shaky limb, in which shards of the broken mirror froze in glittering diamonds, swept over the motionless figure faster than a breath, faster than thought itself. Another proof of the benefit of reassurance - the doppelganger shattered into tiny particles, and the soul hidden in it was crumpled and turned into a few more fragments of the mirror, which had merged into the limb. It looked very nasty, too - from the mouth of a certified necromancer such a characterization is impressive - and in terms of energy, it was perceived as twice as nasty.

It's about time to add a little emptiness to this symphony of misery, isn't it? Actually, there are quite a lot of adepts of the Edge, so it is not surprising. Another thing is that there are very few who can not only touch this realm but also use its powers in any meaningful way. Among the elite mercenary Brethers, almost everyone tries to get a class of the same Phantom, and many even succeed - a good class, powerful, and even relatively safe. If you know the measure and do not go deeper than the existing limit.

The Edge is dangerous because there is nothing there. Absolute emptiness, the end of existence, the place where the universe itself ends, the very border with which the Creator encircled his creation, outlining its beginning and end. In terms of pure damage, this is one of the most powerful plans - without mastering conceptual tricks, one can repel even the simplest attacks with the power of the Edge only with sheer luck. Trying to do such a blow, however, increases the likelihood of death, and stupid death, with each attempt. The Edge always takes a toll, taking a piece of its essence from the user. Here, too, the plan stands out, for it is more difficult to repel such a grip than in the case of the use of Death. Death is part of the world, inalienable and immutable, but the Edge is beyond it. First, the memories of unnecessary little things will disappear, then emotions will fade, goals and desires will disappear, and when there is nothing to pay for the new portion of power... you'll disappear, too. You just won't come back from the next steps of the void, becoming another dry number in the statistics.

If there is an ideal opponent for the Dream, the very essence of which consists in fluidity and changeability, in the accumulation of too much existence and its merging with the echoes of ancient dreams and events, it will be the Edge. Perhaps somewhere in distant eastern cities on bamboo piles, some sages know a more suitable antipode for such a rare and little-studied realm, but they would not inform Caspian of their conclusions.

So he had to work with what he had.

He had taken this disposable amulet from one of the assassins sent to him years ago before he'd even arrived in the capital. He truly regretted that he could not interrogate the insolent baronet who had sent those assassins to him - an object of such power worth more than his entire barony combined. Alas, the wizard had to flee, and then the possessor of the necessary knowledge mysteriously disappeared, leaving not even a body. When, years later, after Caspian was firmly on his feet, the spirit of the baron did not respond to the call, the necromancer was not even surprised. Only upset.

However, he still had a trophy amulet, which made up for some of the problems he had gone through and another change of residence. For years this toy had been part of his collection. It had survived many escapes and moves, but there had never been a moment to use it - either his strength was enough, or other pieces of his collection were more useful in those situations. Now, however, he did not spare a memorable toy against a too-dangerous adversary.

Alas, though, he had hoped that a single attack would solve his problems with a long-established sleepwalker in Melareth territory. But after assessing the power of a mage who had long since lost his humanity, even if the assessment was at its most marginal, he had to admit that a dozen of them might not be enough here. He was expecting someone much smaller in caliber and with more modest demands. Well, his expectations weren't always to be met, were they?

Caspian positioned himself in the far corner of the office, behind the loyal Jaan, hiding his energy signature in the background emitted by the skeleton, but he did not lose sight of his double. The mage struck exactly when the soul bait was absorbed. If the dream walker had been a devil or some other creature, he would have caught a powerful necro-poisoning from the spirit-baited bait, but Dream, alas, did not devour souls, but re-forged them, changed them. The change wiped out all the poisons and curses he had placed on the bait.

But the Edge attack was not just great, it was even magnificent! A dry, aged palm pointed an ordinary wooden wand with a small black crystal on the end straight at a huge limb whose owner was just beginning to understand how he had been tricked, and then a dry crackle sounded, with which the crystal turned to dust. There were no other effects - not externally, not even in magical perception.

The absence of visible manifestations of the magic did not prevent him from observing its effect, expressed in the instant disappearance of two-thirds of the huge limb that had entered his house. The cut came out flat and perfectly clean, both on the limb and the surrounding furniture. It was as if someone had carved out a section of space, making it cease to be at once. A wave of air pushed lightly against his back that occupied the space that had been vacated, and then there was a howl.

If Caspian hadn't taken all his defenses, including his mental defenses, to the max beforehand, he would have been dead. Otherwise, it was nothing but an earache and a headache. Under the armor of his barriers and artifacts, he could withstand even such an attack. The only thing confusing is the realization that that scream wasn't even an attack.

It's a good thing there are no settlements nearby - Caspian didn't like having peasants around. He didn't give a damn about their lives, which the shouting guaranteed would ruin, but his adversary could use the dummies, struck down by Dream, for something dangerous. More than once, he'd witnessed it when suddenly, inferior undead in the rear of a battle tipped the scales of fate to the right side.

The remains of the limb disappeared back into the mirror, and the rarity itself crumbled to the ground in gray dust, causing his face to wrinkle in annoyance - the mirror was expensive and status, and a gift, too. Caspian didn't like to lose gifts, especially ones he'd grown accustomed to. On the other hand, the mirror would have to be destroyed anyway. He waited for the appearance of the master of dreams and mirrors, waited, and was relatively ready for him. Even if the level of the awaited guest was much higher than planned.

Now the enemy will squeal a little, and then he will return and will not underestimate poor Caspian, so the old master had better not hesitate and not stall. With a sigh, he stepped out from behind Scriptor, took a deep breath, and began to chant the ritual's prearranged activator. A ritual done beforehand, powered up beforehand, and just about off the bowstring. It was already activated, and all that was left was to remove the locks that prevented him from deploying the reality-altering field.

The last syllable of the activator sounded, and the lightest shroud of Death magic began its work. It wasn't a combat amplification, a powerful shield, or an area-enclosed field - their time hadn't come yet. This ritual was ridiculously non-threatening and low-energy, despite the subtlety of its structure. Just a layer of gray ash fell on every reflective surface in the house and the surrounding gardens and grounds. The layer of it was small, but it was more than enough to turn all the surfaces that could be the basis for a breach into completely non-threatening areas. The mirrors, however, would have to be reordered, but given his opponent, he'd at least be able to fight back today, not to mention his longer-range plans.

Another shriek, with far less pain but far more rage and promise of torment, let Caspian know that his work was appreciated. He would have been just as proud if he hadn't been so busy - along with the Scriptor, he was heading swiftly toward his lab, toward the heart of the estate, where the main ritual circuits and the control network for the individual defense elements were placed. That was where he was most effective, where he had a chance to survive the night.

The Necromancer did not indulge in idle faith - the Weaver who had come after him was much stronger. Even the scraps of information he'd managed to find on the creature were enough to appreciate, if not strength, then at least age and the experience that came with it. The brief skirmish, in turn, revealed the gulf in pure power that stood between them. The only thing that saved Caspian was the distance between their territories and the advantage of his native land, a fortified laboratory he had been enchanting for years. Attack the Weaver in the clear, and the Barglore would not even have time to squeak; there is simply nothing to repel the unstoppable power. But Caspian is not in an open field. He is still in his house. And he will have something to answer with if he wants to live through the morning.

Soft slippers fell to the floor, quickly discarded with kicks, leaving his feet, covered in strange symbols, naked - for the intended he must make contact with the floor as tightly as possible. Likewise, unnecessary artifacts and amulets, which might have interfered with the ritual or were simply useless against his opponent, were removed. The warm-up was over - it was time to show the world what all his magic was worth.

At once, a dozen phantoms, no lower than the fifteenth level, could observe the center of the dreamwalker's powers, a small lake five kilometers from the estate. The lake was completely frozen and turned into one huge mirror, through which things poured into the reality that didn't even have a name. Any undead perceives the world in a very specific way, and specifically, these ghosts have been skillfully upgraded into huge eyes that could notice even very well hidden. The fifteenth level and the central phantom with level twenty-fifth might not be much, but the modifications... Any one of these phantoms could be killed by a determined teenager with a bag of salt and a silver-plated knife, but hiding from their gaze was no easy task.

Caspian did not doubt that the enemy could have hidden much from him, but he apparently didn't see fit to hide his actions. Or concealed it by exposing the lake - until the enemy approached the main layer of signal screens, he simply wouldn't know about it. But he knew of many other unpleasant things.

The area was cut off from the outside world, and all the signaling or linking amulets simply gave no sign of activity. Whether it was the effect of the Dream or someone was now helping the Weaver. It was only an idle question. Even if the communications had worked, no one would have rushed to the old necromancer's aid, and even if they had tried, they simply wouldn't have had time. The pros and cons of the profession, and the reclusive way of life.

Meanwhile, the phantoms watched as a fast-running column of peasants approached from the nearest village to the estate. All the inhabitants of Little Lyubinskie, from small to large. Children and the elderly were dragged in their arms, running without sparing their bodies and ligaments, not paying attention to the pain. They run with their eyes closed, not waking up from the last nightmare of their lives.

Deep within Caspian's chest was a pervasive resentment. The deaths of the peasant would be pinned on him, even if he survived. Not that the necromancer hadn't slaughtered a lot of people before, but he was sincerely trying not to poop where he lived! While the mage was indignant at such an impudent theft of human resources the people who had reached the lake slowed down and began to jump into the lilac abyss one after another, disappearing without a trace. Somehow the old man did not doubt that they would come back out, only no longer as peasants.

Work on the living material continued while Caspian, meanwhile, tested the barrier that surrounded his estate, at the same time laying and deploying his protection in full force. With the dome against the communication, it was pure academic interest to know if it was the effect of the Dream, or still of some artifact. There was, alas, no way to find out. No, he would have managed, but the other tasks were more important, and such a small thing seemed unworthy of much effort in the face of what was happening.

Meanwhile, there was another shriek, only a chorus of shrieks - the shrieks of what appeared to be peasants, bursting out of the mirror-like surface and rushing straight toward the necromancer's mansion. At the same time, a stream of gray mist erupted from the lake, trying to dislodge and disembowel every single one of the fragile ghosts. Half of them died at once, but the rest managed to spread out in a wide front.

The surface of the lake, transformed into some kind of stationary attacking artifact, began to hurl lumps of hostile energy at them, and with surprising accuracy. He confirmed that Dream stimulate the development of foresight skills, in all their modifications. Without such skills, it would be impossible to target the nimble and small phantom with such accuracy.

A minute later the last phantom watching the lake was extinguished forever, but one of his many colleagues, hovering over the area, spotted something interesting. Not a group coming to Caspian's rear, but the traces of a group, as if something had touched the leaves of a bush, fusing them together. If this phantom hadn't been a tracker in the past, and if Caspian hadn't retained most of his skills, he wouldn't have been able to distinguish such trivialities.

Having sent the dead spy on his trail, he suddenly ran into his own raised barriers. So much for the suspicion that he was simply being distracted by the lake. A multitude of tracking charms showed nothing that could be near the mansion, but the suspicion only grew stronger. The activation of several disposable artifacts was instantaneous - no time to save today.

The eyes of the many sensors that had become the material for the necromancer were scattered all over the surrounding ground, serving as a kind of camera. It was harder to look through them than the actual undead, and their resource was rapidly wearing out. He had to divert his attention from strengthening the barriers, glancing through them all.

He found.

They were right in front of him and his undead, hovering literally in front of the gate, but until that moment, neither the undead nor the tracking spells were willing to see them. They watched, but did not understand, did not notice, as if stupefied. And this is even though fooling the undead is no easy task, not to mention the necromancer looking through their eyes! The Weaver truly knew where he was going and had time to prepare.

Well, bad luck, I guess.

Four maidens, beautiful and as if blooming with their beauty, were circling the fifth, the most beautiful of all. They had no clear shape, but each eye of the dead man saw its ideal of beauty and sensuality. Apparently, the posthumous imprint of the personality of those who went for the material for the eyes was having an effect. They whirled quietly and barely audibly hummed some lullaby. Building up their power, merging it with Caspian's barriers. If he'd waited another hour, the singing might have reached his ears. Quietly and imperceptibly, but it would reach, and it would dull the mage's will. Or at least disrupt his concentration- there was too much Death in him now for him to be subdued so easily.

Instead of admiring the soaring maidens, Caspian attacked with a prearranged ritual strike. A very strong blow, comparable to a tactical fortress artifact of very high caliber. It wasn't very broad, but it was strong! It's a single point of impact for the most powerful and armored attacking formation - it's the kind of blow that takes out full-fledged mage circles. The five creatures, clearly higher in rank than the rare and at least thirty in level, were not much inferior, if not superior, in lethality to the circle.

But the choice of time and place decides a lot.

The chanting was interrupted by a postmortem scream and howl, a wail and lament for a lost destiny when the Geyser of Ashes said its weighty word. The stream of gray grave ash that fell from the ground was so densely saturated with cold, decay, and various types of necroenergy that four of the five dissolved at once - without the slightest residue of material or spiritual substance. The fifth, too, was destroyed, but the creature's base managed to return to where it had been sent from.

There was no new howl, but the silence was so eloquent that if Caspian had been younger, he wouldn't have been able to suppress the shudder. Instead of the puppeteer, his pack roared, waiting at the edge of the sensory fields. Judging by the number of lights, about three dozen, judging by the intuitive sense of affinity with his native workshop, twice as many. Every last one of them had a material base made of peasants. Every last one of them was full of power and the desire to rip. Each of the creatures could be equated to epic rank, if only at the lower end of it.

Caspian, standing deep in his basement, right in the center of an incredibly complex multi-dimensional ritual figure, became somehow very sad and lonely. It was about time to add some cheerful company to this boring soiree!

The undead rose.

The undead rose from graves, disguised crypts, what seemed to be garden-room interiors, from open stairways that led deep into the underground vaults. There were many, very many of the undead - fools were those who thought that Caspian must be killed by an Army Corps. At least three, and preferably with the support of elite units, or even some of the summoned with an entourage. In fact, that was exactly the outcome Caspian was preparing for, preparing and raising his minions.

Mostly orcs and other humanoid and not-so-humanoid monsters, which were the easiest to obtain - just equip expeditions to the forests and wait for their return. And no financial costs if all the expeditioners were dead beforehand! Even from the corpse of a low-level goblin, with skill, reagents, a ritual hall, and time, you can raise a Draugr of level twenty-five.

Caspian had all of that except an inexhaustible source of reagents and consumables. So from low-level meat, he raised just quality dead up to level fifteen. Draughrs, creeps, hounds, clawed creatures, necrogolems, and other rarer varieties were made from higher-level, higher-quality material. And there was plenty of that too, albeit in lesser quantities. His undead may not have been the strongest in the region, but they were plentiful. What Caspian was good at was his brilliance in controlling large masses of the undead, his ability to prescribe the necessary algorithms of interaction between units, and his extremely strong mass control circuits. He really could control huge crowds of undead - a sweet dream of all those who set foot on the trail of a necromancer. The possibility of becoming one man army man and another Lord of Death... as if such idiocy were of interest to a true explorer!

But now he had to try on the role of general of the army of the dead, saving his own old skin. All the undead did not fit in the area, covered by barriers and reinforcing auras, and it was a stupid waste of resources to take his forces beyond their borders. He limited himself to using the maximum possible number, increasing the number of elites and removing some of the expendable undead. Now they would not interfere with each other, they would move more freely, and the burden on Caspian would be lower.

Before the Weaver's horde stood a true army.

Coherent.

Ready.

Motionless.

Dead.

With wild howls, cries, and laughter, the creatures broke through the outer protective barrier, receiving only faint burns, bursting into the necromancer's territory and throwing themselves into battle. The nameless battle of which no one would ever tell a legend or story had begun.

The most disgusting detail in this situation was that the enemy was putting the undead to rest with a guarantee that what was left of the dead bodies after Dream touched them was impossible to raise again. They were no longer dead bodies; they were something else entirely different. At the same time, the creatures themselves didn't want to die - they simply retreated after receiving enough wounds to let them heal, and then they were ready to fight again. A direct feeding from the native realm carried out at the will of their creator and master, who never gave any sign of his presence, which unnerved Caspian.

The old man was sweating, the old man was breathing hoarsely and frequently, but he was still standing strong, and the ritual lines glowed with a grave light, testifying to his high concentration and ultimate control of the battle. If he had a limit beyond which mistakes would begin to fall one by one, that limit was still very far away. Worse situations than this had probably never happened in the necromancer's life, but he really wanted to be able to say something like "I've been in worse situations" in the future, remembering this particular night. And for that, all he had to do was survive, and repel the attack. No matter how strong the Weaver was, he too wasted his power, and far more abundantly than the necromancer.

Weaver not only had to maintain and infuse his minions with power, but he also had to press the barriers, feed the blocking, and carefully control his pack. Weaver seemed to be doing fine, even playfully, but there are limits to everything. If Caspian could not repel this onslaught on his ground, on prepared ground, and with a whole undead army at his side, he could not repel it anywhere, ever. So clench your teeth, necromancer, clench and cast your spell, rule and die, as you have always done.

The undead fell one by one, but it was mostly the lower undead, immediately replenished. As soon as the next undead were no longer there, new ones climbed the ladders that led underground, and the remaining combat-ready groups rearranged themselves, incorporating the new arrivals into their circle. The air was filled with hordes of ghosts, spirits, and specters, but they were wary of climbing too high. Near the Necros-soaked ground, they could still support the material undead, but in the air, the creatures created by the Dream reigned supreme.

The outer barriers didn't even have a second to breathe, either. The mirror lake kept spitting out lumps of energy structured into something very unpleasant, crushing and squeezing the defenses on the mansion itself. And this from a distance of five kilometers! These spits looked like lumps of threads, and they sought to encircle the dome of the barrier, to penetrate under it, to sew it to itself, giving control over it to the owner of the threads. The barrier snapped back with streams of necros, simply burning out all extraneous elements, but it required a new batch of power. The estate had long ago turned into a burial ground that was a pleasure to draw strength from, but even such a source of power had a bottom. Sooner or later, the stores would run out, the earth would become mere earth, and the Weaver's blows would reach their destination.

There were casualties among the creatures as well - at least a dozen screaming and sobbing entities were disembodied, even if their basics had managed to escape somewhere through the link created by their overlord. Numerous ritual complexes and magical mines were activated regularly, wounding and driving away the enemy... and sometimes destroying them with a guarantee. But the exchange still came out too unpleasant, even among the real elite of his troops' losses were tolerable, even if not all the elite had time to join the battle.

The battle continued.

Caspian did not allow himself the luxury of underestimating his opponent. He may have taken full advantage of his superior brute strength, but he was no less cunning or skillful than Caspian himself. Probably more so. It was just that right now, it was to his advantage not to cunningly risk revealing his cunning but to the point of pressing on with force, defeating a weaker, cornered foe.

He couldn't blame himself for relaxing because he hadn't relaxed either. He could not reproach himself for not paying enough attention simply because it was beyond his power and ability to notice something. But even if he had known of Weaver's plan, he could not have prevented it, for to attempt to prevent it would have cost even more than to do nothing.

The five singing maidens who were destroyed at the beginning of the battle were not only saboteurs, or rather, they were not only singing. They also left something behind that could be used later. Most of the damage was concentrated on the area leading up to the gate, and that's why the area was filled with fallen undead. There was no time to drag the corpses away, though they got in the way at times, slowing the still-functioning dead. The corpses were not corpses but mines. Left behind by the singing maidens, whatever it was, it served as a mine activator.

In an instant, it was as if a huge rift and fracture appeared in the fabric of space. It was like a crack in a giant mirror, like a window into someone's nightmare. All the undead that had been hit went in, along with the stationary defenses and general barrier anchors. Of course, a good dome wouldn't collapse if one or two anchors were taken out, but that's not very nice either. And troubles multiplied and multiplied, as mushrooms after a warm rain.

The creatures all dived to the farthest edge of the rift, immediately surfacing again near the gates, which were beginning to glow from the hostile environment. They emerged fully recovered and increased in numbers - if at first there were about six dozen of them, and minus those who were still caught by the undead, their number was now approaching eighty. There was no way he could stop such a crowd with mere undead, and he had too few creatures that could fight on an equal footing with the epic creature.

As if all this were not enough, the ceaseless fire from the lake had its say. Another lump of energy scattered into a dozen separate clumps of threads, which immediately intertwined into one network, which had its own power, making it refuse to be burned out by the Necros. Two of the three protective domes began to fuse rapidly, threatening to lay down and detonate. And it is unlikely that the third and last dome can withstand the synchronous detonation of the latter, and even under continued fire.

The undead left behind are powerless to stop the enemy - they are too scattered, and the proximity to the rift weakens necromancy and strengthens the creatures from the dreams. In fact, the Death Force is a very uncomfortable opponent for Dream because the very concept of dying is very static, inexorable... immutable. The essence of Dream magic is to distort, and change anything and everything, imperceptibly and inevitably. The undead is a priori much easier to break by dreams than to melt into something else.

It's a pity they forgot to tell Weaver about this - what a trap he prepared. Now the defense of the outer perimeter will not last more than a few minutes. They will break it and push through it, taking advantage of the disappearance of the pressure of the dead earth and the proximity to the tear of reality. But if the defense is destined to fall, why not arrange this fall on its own terms?

Caspian dropped to his knees and pressed his palms into the glowing lines of the ritual. The glow was constantly changing in intensity, and the lines themselves danced as if they were changing, shifting, distorting. He had managed to do a lot, he had accumulated and prepared a lot, a lot. In addition, the mage had originally prepared this place to repel an assault, even if he counted on other stormtroopers. Of all the trump cards he had saved, there were too few to seriously harm the creatures raging beneath the walls.

But still they were.

All of the undead on the outer perimeter, even the elite ones, ceased their postmortem existence in one fell swoop, turning into a cloud of ash and necros. Dozens of geysers erupted from the ground, encasing the entire area in one huge dome. Into the cauldron, where all the necessary ingredients had already been carefully placed. The soup would be a sight to behold.

Weaver reacted instantly, which once again confirmed the presence of visionary skills, as well as his centuries of experience. But sometimes, even an instantaneous reaction is not enough - it is difficult to foresee Death itself. He would have had time... he really did have time, for that matter! All the creatures gathered in some complex geometric figure, enclosed by an incomprehensible barrier like a liquid mirror. The raging Necros seemed to go somewhere aside, unwilling to approach the gradually thinning rift in Dream.

He would have let his pack hold out without any casualties at all. He certainly would have! Sure, he had prepared for such a blow beforehand. It was too predictable. No doubt he could have been proud of himself and thought he had beaten the young (for him) corpse master. He could have if the corpse driver had not prepared an argument for this case as well.

It was the same preparedness to work with a necromancer that let him pull off the successful combination. He'd expected only a Death flow in response. Yes, some of the traps were of a different nature, attacking with the elements, Astral, and even a couple of times with Shadow, but those were trifles. It was just that the corpse-bearer had gotten a few toys from someone else somewhere, that's all. He remembered the Edge energy trick, but he also guessed that the necromancer had no more of those charges. He guessed correctly - there were none, but there were others.

In his wanderings, the necromancer visited many places to which he would not return for any promises or treasure. He even ruined the Cult of the Deep, which left him not only a mountain of gold and stones but also some of their artifacts. He melted down the altars and torture tools without much thought. He kept only a portion of the arsenal for himself, giving weapons to the strongest undead (if they were not cursed) or storing them for emergencies.

The Kiss of Madness was an artifact prohibited in Melareth... because the Crown was unwilling to put such a weapon in the hands of anyone but itself. Not a full-blown disintegration of the Edge, but something very similar. The purest Darkness, devouring everything in its path. A power dangerous and, let's note, quite unlike Death, from which Weaver defended himself on all fronts.

In the far corner of the basement, in a separate room that no one but the cheapest undead had entered since it had been built, eight glass spheres were scattered in ashes, inside each of them swirling like a black mist. If you looked closely, its movements were like the swarming of a ball of worms. The spheres burst and the worms found their food.

The attack of an ordinary Kiss looks like a swarm of thin flying worms, gnawing into the protective barriers and the bodies hidden beneath them and beginning to multiply rapidly. Magic and life force served them as material for the renewal of numbers, and the souls of any creatures as the most exquisite delicacy. Darkness is characterized by the fact that its energy is the best of all others recycling extraneous power in its likeness. This is why its adepts' blood sacrifices became so popular - to take someone else's power and sew it onto themselves, becoming stronger and more dangerous. Insanity and a gradual loss of humanity go with it. Enjoy, gentlemen. Without the madness Caspian himself would have joined the ranks of the Darkness instead of the Death, but he valued his brains and knowledge over his power, which he has nowhere to put it: most users of the Darkness eventually stop wanting anything but the next dose of power. I mean, more often than not, users of other plans don't.

The Dream is far from the usual Neutral Magic to devour it as easily, but the effect of surprise works wonders. He didn't manage to knock out too many of the creatures - about a dozen - before Weaver intervened again, hurriedly burning the black worms out of the bodies of his toys. No more was needed, even less - the held mirror dome fell, opening the way to a storm of glowing green and gray ash. It finished the job to the howl of the rapidly thinning creatures.

Caspian watched with pleasure as the pathetic half dozen or so creatures soared upward, still out of the trap. Even with their pumping and rapid regeneration, he was already able to work with that many - he still had the undead, including the knights and the most advanced of the undead, saved up for the occasion. Fifteen in all...

Oops.

The phantoms returned to their observation of the lake that had ceased firing, revealing new cohorts of creatures spilling out into reality in a steady stream. And there were only a little less than the last number - six, or even six and a half dozen. If the undead's eyes didn't deceive him, and there weren't twice as many of the enemy hiding there.

"I'm too old for all this..." The tired necromancer could only utter.

Caspian Barglore had lived a long, full life of which he could be justly proud. And so, realizing that its end was near, he met the Eternal One as befitted a necromancer - calmly and with a slight ironic smile. Well, and a swear word, though the cursing was directed in the opposite direction. Here's the problem - the resources to continue the battle still remain, and quite a lot, but the resource of the worn-out body did not allow further effective work with the remaining undead and the rituals.

It took him less than a second to decide. It took a little longer to fully express the first eight strings of the famous Vandir Swear, which belonged to the mouth of the first of the Pirate Kings of Ramadon, Vandir the Great (who still comes in history not by his selfinvented nickname, but by the well-known Vandir the Swearer). Everything ends, even Vandir's Swear, the more incomplete.

The next steps were dry and unemotional. He had performed this ritual more than once before, even if not on himself. The will stopped the heart and ended the life, the necromancer's will kept the soul in the body, his will sewed the aura into a dead soul before it could begin to decay, and the powerful and continuous flow of Necros, deadening still living tissue, spurred the transformation.

A few seconds later, a two-meter-tall humanoid stood in the middle of the lab, dressed in the armor of pure ash and so densely stuffed with killing magic that other legendary monsters would be afraid to chew on it. The creature had no mouth, but the undead didn't need it - all of the new undead's new body's functions were focused on a brief battle with a single enemy.

All six Death Knights, three Weeping Heralds, and a giant Bone Terror dug out from under the orchard of already withered cherries were coming out of the holding cells. They are all from level forty to forty-eight. They are all powered and amplified by a multitude of auras that complement each other. They are all ready to fight at his will.

The corridors of the house were filled with Wrauths and Draughrs, as were all the surrounding areas where the protective spells were still unaffected by the rampage of battle. That is to say, only the small garden near the manor and its interior. The many traps and enchantments, too, had gone into paranoia mode. Every brick of this house was a separate amulet, albeit not the strongest, but working in conjunction with each other. This place could only be taken with great blood, and he, Caspian Barglore, was going to take that blood in full.

Behind the newly minted Ashes Spawn stood the loyal Jaan, and all around him the auras of reinforcement flickered and shimmered with grave green. He was ready to take this fight and win it, just as he had been ready for it every second of his life. Such is the fate of everyone who has walked his path this far.

Fate cannot be cancelled.

After another hour or so, the last of the undead in the place fell, and the desperately fighting necromancer prevented Dream from taking himself, literally detonating his own soul and sacrificing it to Death's realm. The blow of the postmortem charms scattered the nearest creatures, but there was no permanent destruction of their essences. There were very few of the latter-less than two and a half dozen, and half of that was due to an attack with Darkness artifacts.

In other cases, only the material bodies of the hosts were destroyed, causing the creature called the Weaver to calm down a bit. Even though the enemy was stronger than originally expected, most of his blows were nonlethal, and of the remaining ones, many of them were wasted. What did his children's tattered bodies matter if their essence returned to his net? He will sew them back together again, endow them with new bodies, better than the old ones, and they will continue to sing his and their song. Forever and ever.

That unfortunate blow by the Edge was sudden and hurtful, insulting even, rather than really dangerous. In order to damage Weaver's main body seriously, you don't have to hit his limbs, no. You have to dive into Dream itself, find the core of his body, and strike at it. A task he believed only a handful could accomplish. There were none in Melareth.

The swiftly flying creatures quickly and decisively erased all traces of their presence in reality. To any but the most legendary of investigators, the battle that took place here would not bear a single trace of the Weaver's presence. Otherwise, nothing unusual - another corpse-master bit off more than he could chew. He sacrificed the peasants from nearby villages, performed some rituals, and it just exploded into Hells. How many times has this happened, and how many times will it happen again?

By morning it was over, and the Weaver returned to his lair, to heal his injured children and create new ones to replace those who had fallen in battle. Each of these losses was more painful to him than a knife blade to the heart, but revenge for their suffering had already been taken. Traces have been cleared, torn and wiped away-now he must wait for the enemy to reassert himself.

And this time, Weaver won't let himself be deceived.

This time he will unleash all his pain on the culprit.

He'll wait.

He'll win.

As it always has been before.

* * *

The city called Ostmark is famous for... for nothing. Literally nothing, except for the fact that it was once an outpost before entering the wilderness. Those days, however, are long gone, leaving behind... the same nothing. There were no particular characteristics of this city except perhaps the absence of a large number of royal officials. There were never many of them at all, trivially for lack of any significant interest to the Crown.

It was run by the Merchant's Guild and the Noble Houses that covered their activities. There has been even less of anything noteworthy since the recent scandal and a series of brutal purges, contract assassinations, and drownings of competitors. The daily routine of an ordinary town too far from the capital.

However, the thing of interest to the possible seeker of strangeness was delivered here fifteen years ago. An ordinary wooden container shaped like some furniture set, like massive sideboards, so beloved by the capital's dandies. However, if someone decided to open this container, then... he would have found a cheap and clearly defective sideboard. And then he would have died of a contact curse, but that's not what we're talking about now.

Inside this cupboard was another container made of a material that was extremely rare and prohibited by Melaret law from distribution and sale. This material created a kind of blind spot for clairvoyants, and if one did not look for a specifically known item or person, even a powerful clairvoyant risked missing it in his search.

Inside the container, which resembled a banal coffin, was the body of an ordinary-looking teenager - moderately noble features would suit a poor nobleman and a clerk of the city administration or even the usual son of a well-to-do merchant. The blessings and charms placed on the "coffin" prevented the teenager's body from dying, despite the lack of a soul.

Or rather, the temporary absence of it.

The teenager's eyes opened, and a whisper escaped his lips, ending the remaining twenty-three cycles of the Vandir Swear. The soul of an experienced mage was rapidly reviving a body that had been in clinical death for too long. Yes, necromancy wasn't really suited to such things, but good control and affinity with Death allowed him to heal even with such an aggressive power.

Caspian Barglore had lived a long, full life that he could be justly proud of... just like the last one. Now, he could begin to work on his third life as well. Despite his first level, all of his skills and titles remained intact. It's huge progress since Death had taken half of his possessions away after his first change of body.

"And these fools dare to tell me that my research is useless?" The old man whispered sarcastically. "They want to develop their fighting power, to plunge deeper into the realm, to increase affinity, to build up an army of the undead! Ugh, it makes me sick! Oh, no, it's the digestive system that's kicking in."

It wasn't that hard to substitute a few dozen captive souls for yourself, similar to deceiving a doppelganger. The main thing was to detonate them before the Weaver or his creatures had a chance to taste the deception. It was much harder to tune into a distant beacon in such a short time, the only remaining beacon that had such reliable protection against clairvoyance. It's a funny thing, though - the beacons with ready-made bodies that had been scattered among the distant caves and wild corners had collapsed despite all his best efforts. And the one left at random and disguised as furniture, without much hope of success, not only survived but was able to attract the soul that had lost its body back to itself.

Such a happiness.

If it weren't for his stomach, it would have been great - he needed to lie here for at least a few more days, so that he wouldn't be found by ill-wishers, who would check the place of his last battle with their clairvoyance. Never mind, he was already "dying" so he could get revenge on his killers. It's true that the enemy was much weaker back then, but he's gotten pretty mature since then, too.

The main thing now is to survive the first few months, until the body finally settles in with the soul. He would have to get a job so as not to arouse suspicion and make himself known. He could write and read as well as calculate. Some small merchant would easily hire him for a minimum wage, and he wouldn't need more than that. As a last resort, he has some cash stashed in his present hideout. A couple more months, and he'll be out of town, joining some caravan headed for the wilderness. That's where he rebuilt levels last time... and found new enemies there.

He only regretted the library and the testing grounds. On the other hand, he has a near-perfect memory, which would allow him to restore the library and continue the interrupted experiments. That's what he did last time.

"And I'm just a little short of the fiftieth level!" Again in a whisper but with mild disappointment, said the would-be adventurer. "Maybe the title of Hero could also be carried with me after death."

The teenager lay in a coffin, hidden in some muddy warehouse, and long ago piled high with many other goods. Somewhere in there were cloths, spices, boxes of iron nails, tanned hides, and even someone's alchemical supplies, and not the bad kind. And the teenager was just beginning to feel his toes. He had a whole life ahead, undoubtedly a life as long and fulfilling as the two previous ones, and he would be justly proud of it. Just let him wait a while, and read the description of his last title, entitled You Only Live Thrice.

"Well, to hell with the capital." He continued to grumble his thoughts. "I'll get my first class and become a farmer. Anyway, I had a monograph on the Decontamination of water and perishable products by the method of the weakened necrotic closed field. I'll be canning corned beef, damn it! I will begin to build a full-fledged necropolis under the farm because the past fortifications, as the practice has shown, were not enough. Only the farm will have to be founded closer to the wilderness so there will be enough material."

The mage kept talking and talking, shunning the thought that in his elaborate plan, he had forgotten such a small thing as putting toilet paper in a container. Not that it was much help to him in such a confined space.

* * *

"What's that supposed to mean?" Frederick could only wince unhappily at the mess the room was in. "You, if my memory serves me correctly, seem to have resolved all your disagreements last time. Care to explain your actions, son?"

The son waved his hand silently, not even attempting to remove his butt from the expensive mahogany parquet. Just breathed heavily, leaning against the wall right next to the equally heavily breathing Shaal and Lacianna.

"I got level seventeen." He answered instead of excusing himself, which immediately changed his father's mood from grumpy to businesslike.

His gaze was immediately drawn to some things that were not at all characteristic of a normal scuffle instigated by an overly proud young man. He could have erupted and attacked Lacianna, seeking revenge for the humiliation he'd suffered... he could. Sigismund might have wised up, but his son was still capable of pulling such a circus act that Frederick could only sigh and count the new gray hairs in his already silver hair.

But where did the melted and completely scorched mirror in Sigismund's office come from? Why did Shaal, despite her level and strength, put her hand to her ribs, and under her camisole could be seen a slowly spreading red stain? Why did not a single servant or guard react to the noise that must have come from the room while it was being trashed? Why is it that Lacianna, always collected and undaunted, can only hug herself with her arms and shiver?

It was as if a veil had fallen from his eyes and mind, making him realize at once the gravity of the situation, and blood immediately began to run faster in his veins - the old predator sensed the danger and instantly switched to fighting mode.

"Tell me."

Lassianna's report ended with nothing, as Frederick had expected. He did not believe that his son's strange and illogical assignment would end with anything but a dry "no trace found". Though the former tavern wench had behaved too stiffly for fear of a possible reprimand, Frederick saw no reason to arrange it. He should have noticed something else, though, a lot of other things.

The irregular plastique and motor skills, the too-stiff movements, the long pauses before answering questions, and, of course, the strange tingling sense of danger, as if trying to shout to a suddenly deafened mind. If it hadn't been for the meeting with the captains of the retinue that was going on at the same time, which caused his office to be crowded with combat-ready guards, he would have died there.

Lucky.

But Sigismund, whom the changeling had chosen as his second priority target, was not at all lucky - in his office, there was only he and Schaal massaging his shoulders, who could not save him. Schaal didn't react either, suddenly any longer thinking about anything but the need to continue the massage, as if her thoughts were locked on one goal. They were supposed to die this way, carefree and suddenly, but the unexpected happened for the changeling.

As soon as the assassin entered the door, the young man, reading some documentation, struck. He struck without thinking, without reflection, without hesitation, struck in such a way that even Maitre Rossi would have raised an eyebrow in surprise at such speed. And his blow, in some incomprehensible way, dissected not Lacianna but what was hiding in her body, shoving the spy herself into the depths of her own mind.

Shaal, who had awakened from her obsession, supported her ward more by reflex than consciously, but she was able to fend off the deadly retaliatory blow. The creature, stripped of its disguise, should have torn the two of them apart in quicker than a couple of breaths, but it couldn't. A single touch from Sigismund to Lacianna's exposed neck literally paralyzed the monster. And then the young man did exactly the same thing he had once already been able to do, albeit with the help of a mysterious mercenary.

"You did what?" Frederick interjected.

"I killed the nightmare that consumed her." Answered his heir.

The creature tried to escape through the reflection while simultaneously attacking through it but ran into its own cunning. Had it been stripped of its disguise or had it killed Lacianna in the first place, Sigismund and Shaal would have been done - its skills were so peculiar. But thanks to the fact that the creature had taken over someone else's body, lived in it, feeding off the desperation and fear of a spy who could not free herself...

"In short, it is dead." Just summed up the tired and barely conscious young Lanorsk.

Frederick had vowed to press his son to talk in detail about his class, not just a few platitudes. Yes, he was in no hurry to share a detailed Status with his father, but Frederick's classes themselves were much more ordinary and clear. What his son did was as unintelligible as it was ordinary.

"I'll call security." His hand has already reached for the amulet of alarm. "The matter would be resolved before morning."

Lacianna only flinched but did not attempt to defend herself, no attempt to justify herself, not even to run away. Her failure was complete and utter; there was no forgiving after that - even if the attempt had failed. At least because it is unclear whether it is her or something else. Interrogation, a court-martial, and at best just oblivion, unless the process of interrogation reveals other secrets of hers that would be harmful to the House. She has been in office too long anyway, and her loyalty has never been absolute.

"No." Only the composure of the court schemer prevented Frederick from showing surprise. "She's clean."

"Protecting her? Are you?" The scepticism in the old lord's voice could be spread on bread and poured into glasses. "Shall I order you to test you for influence on her part?"

The latter was more of a joke, but only in part - the father did not understand his son's train of thought. Only yesterday, he would have welcomed such an opportunity to kill the spy he despised, the vile and low two-faced creature, and now, lo and behold, he was defending her in front of his father. I can't help but think bad thoughts.

"I already said." Sigismund brushed him off, slowly getting to his feet. "She's clean now. She's also a target for the man who once tried to take me."

"There's no trace of what you asked for information about..." He said, and stopped in mid-sentence, barely restraining himself from cursing at his own stupidity.

After all, who exactly was making this report? Who or what was speaking the necessary truth through the mouth of the Seductress, convincing her of its veracity, correctness, and credibility through some form of suggestion?

"Lacianna." Such a tone made the trembling spy manage to pull herself together, straighten her back and put a neutral expression on her face. "And now I'd like to hear a real progress report."

And she told.

* * *

The right to wear the Solar Crown is not only a multitude of rights and privileges, not only the fear and respect of others and almost unlimited power within one's own country but also the need to make difficult decisions. At times you have had to choose between bad and even worse choices, while a very bad choice props you up in the back.

He knew far more about tough moral dilemmas than he wanted to and, in truth, believed that there were many more such choices to come. The Silk Cage debacle was not just a failure - it was a disaster. It wasn't even that the slippery eared snakes were once again able to wriggle out of a seemingly hopeless situation for them. Nor was it the fact that these cowardly snobs had contacts and contracts with a very strong realm creature, which the report was afraid to call Legend directly, but the hints were in every line.

The capture of the Prince of the First Blood was just that - a collapse. It was it, not the escape of a single prisoner or the deaths of dozens of palace attendants, was the nastiest news of the day. That escape - the elves had lost almost their entire network of agents, literally left bare-assed! Such an exchange would not even be considered an attempt to draw the game. Neither is the problem with the Realm creatures - the Sun is still with them, and they possess enough firepower to repel even the most terrifying creatures from the other dimensions. Such contracts are far more likely to bite the elves themselves than his home state. Losses of humans are quick to cure, while elves deprived of the Sun's blessings shake and weep over each corpse like a hen over chickens.

But Ansarg...

He was returned literally three days later, demanding in return not the broken and reshaped bitches that were their kin but quite specific material goods - a few artifacts gathering dust in the treasury and a fabulous amount of gold. An insultingly small ransom on the one hand, but low enough that it could actually be paid.

The king was no fool, perfectly aware of the reason (at least the most obvious, for it is difficult to judge the elves' true plans) for such "generosity". Ansarg was trained to the best of his ability and to break his will in three days so that the court mind masters and clairvoyants would not notice the enemy's plots... could, as far as elves were concerned. Though he didn't know exactly how such a thing could be conjured, he did not doubt that the elves would not simply hand over such an enemy back. Too much blood had been drained from them by his kind, his country, and him personally. Too much.

But still, but still... Only three days, and yet Ansarg was always the most talented of his offspring. It was he who was to take the Crown in his hands when the time came. Only three days...

That was their plan, after all! To make him hesitate, to make him decide, to choose between bad and even worse, to make him cut off his own blood, even without the certainty that such a decision was necessary. And the boy himself could not fail to realize that - he had always been clever. He could not fail to realize that he would immediately be tried to be pushed aside and eliminated. He was also a proud and ambitious boy, and so he would never give up the race for power, never give up the coveted crown to someone else.

The result will be, if not civil war, then a schism in the Solar Palace. The first since the founding of Sorz. And if elves manage to shake the crack in time to provoke an avalanche of events, it will be the last. And they will, for sure they will, for this plan could have begun before Ansarg himself was even born, if not earlier.

Choose, O Solar King!

Choose, one marked by Its rays!

Choose and we'll see.

Choose and we win anyway.

A heavy, burning hatred, like red-hot steel, filled his entire being, but he did not allow himself even a single emotion, not even a single moment of weakness. A king is always blameless, like the Sun itself. A King cannot be weak, or he is no longer a King. His hatred has just grown stronger, the fuel for it has become even greater, and his punishment has remained just as inescapable. The day would come, the hour would come, and he would repay the big-eared bastards in full.

They will pay back for everything.

His eldest heir, the one who should have been first in line for the crown if not for the more talented third son, who had won the hearts of the court with his intelligence and will, offered to make a beautiful gesture. Get the prisoner back and immediately execute him as if he had lost the trust. He was almost salivating to finally see the death of his hated rival, even asking permission to carry out the execution himself.

If Ansarg resembled a poisonous viper in character, Barmey was no better than a jackal of the steppe. In his heart, the man, who was not the dumbest of men, knew that even if Ansarg died, he would not get the Crown, but his hatred for those who had preceded him only grew stronger. In truth, it was exactly what he would have done if Ansarg had been less valuable.

But, the heir, almost ready to receive the crown...

But it's only been three days...

The prisoner himself did not hesitate for a second, clearly anticipating his elder brother's desires, as well as appreciating the patience of those around him and his own usefulness. His first words were a demand to test him in the Temple of the Sun, may its rays illuminate the worthy and burn the despicable. It would have been foolish to refuse such a demand, even if the possibility of cheating the temple inspection remained.

Barmey was indeed no fool and had prepared his speech in advance. If you wish to be judged by the Sun himself, you should not disturb him over anything. The offer to enter the Heart of the First Temple was unspoken but clear to all. Anyone unworthy of it simply won't get out, and it doesn't matter if there are any bookmarks there or not. There certainly won't be any on the way out if at least you yourself stay.

In all of Sorz's existence, only the First of Kings has managed to go in and come back out. To come back new, stronger, and more skilled, to come back as the greatest figure in the history of Sorz. Many have tried to repeat it, only none have succeeded. And Ansarg, who was in a position to lose, could not refuse the greatest honor of dying with dignity.

The King could have saved him.

But he didn't.

A choice between bad and even worse, an eternal and inescapable choice. He could not take the risk, which meant he had to send his blood to an almost guaranteed death. Or kill him himself by his command. The king did not love any of his offspring with his customary fatherly love, but he was truly proud of their achievements. And the more achievements, the more meaningful they were, the greater was his pride.

Was...

Now, standing with his retinue at the massive gate at the centre of the palace, the gate leading to the Heart, the mighty King felt incredibly old and tired. Along with the main claimant to the throne a part of him, a part of his own ambitions and decisions had died. Too much had been invested in nurturing Ansarg into a future King.

Now to start all over again.

The King was still thinking about who he would have to approach and what challenges he would have to create for his heirs when the locked gates creaked softly and began to open. At that moment, everyone froze, and for some reason, the King felt a strange amusement at the sight of his eldest son - Barmey's face was simply priceless. His own, he suppose, too.

The King's Gaze, and even within his palace, allowed much, so he had no difficulty in seeing the new class in place of the old, which vanished and dissolved in the rays of the Sun itself.

Herald of the Solar Blood

Mythical rank.

The thoughts of those around him, among whom there were also plenty who possessed Status scanning skills (and who did not, would be told) were so eloquent that one did not need to be a mentalist to read them. Ansarg's response to the unspoken questions was even more disconcerting than his very appearance and mythical class as a base class.

"Wrong." There is no power of the Sun in his words, just a tired and kind of gloating amusement. "I will not take the Crown in my hands. The sun has shown me another way, so I'll confine myself to the first... no, the second... better the third guards' hundred and a better jaeger corps. After that, I'm going to look for trouble in the wilderness. To find my way, so to speak."

This time the face was not held by everyone decisively, so the King's loss went unnoticed by the general public. Pulling himself together, the King began to speak, choosing his words carefully. To question the firmness and rightness of a decision from someone who had been so marked by the patronage of his clan... He was no fool, nor were most of the people here a fool.

"Have you been given a revelation?" Unlike his son, he was not ashamed to let true power into his voice, however minimal.

"You could say that." The prince's amusement seemed angry and bitter at the same time. "I just urgently needed to prove to myself that I was worthy, that I hadn't lost, that someone was strictly wrong. And then to ram that proof down someone's throat."

Barmaid suddenly began to have a very pale look, almost fainting. It was an understandable reaction - having completed his Sun-given quest, accomplished and completed the revelation, Ansarg would return home and remember who had sent him to his certain doom. And an heir blessed by the Sun himself would be forgiven even for committing fratricide, especially given the prehistory. He would never know what task awaits the Herald in the Wildlands, but he would do well to remain unaffected by the mercilessness of the powers that be. The Sun isn't even a deity who draws strength from it, like Nareus or Sarialla. The Sun is a concept itself, standing above the ordinary deities. It has no will, but sometimes in its rays Alurei receives such revelations, a form of higher clairvoyance tied to many conditions and factors.

It is no lie to suggest that Ansarg was Chosen, and today they have all witnessed the formation of someone who, in the future, has a chance of becoming not even a Hero but a true Chosen One of Destiny. To be the father of one is a great source of pride... if he survives and doesn't ruin himself and his kingdom in the pursuit of power and glory. So we'll have to be on the safe side for that... After all, he himself is in no hurry to remove the crown yet and is happy to wear it for another twenty years or so.

True, a highly developed intuition somehow told the King that it was not his dim-witted brother his son wished to ram the words back down the throat.

Somewhere far away, an Elven Hypnotist sneezed.

Authors note:

So that's the end of this torment for me.

The prize to whoever guesses which Kostić phrase (two, three, or even four words) will cause the most epic butthurt of the Weaver that is possible. The prize is plus ten bonus points.

I won't write the dice because I'm exhausted and sleepy. The battle between Necros and Weaver was particularly epic, as you can guess. Two very strong characters, but Weaver is still much stronger, and pulled it off. The Necromancer, on the other hand, managed to resurrect himself on the last of his five attempts.

Well, all of a sudden, one prince has crite like God himself, and the elves may now be in trouble. But that's not for sure!

The Sorz, by the way, made a very good move for themselves with the Heart. It would have been a shame for the Elves if the Prince had died... but his survival isn't exactly good news either. And for all parties. It's complicated there, and I'd have to throw dice for a whole branch of events.

Lacie was saved on nerves too, but there the odds were better than those of the prince. Sigismund pumped up and got a cool title, and strictly by the profile. But his class is what it should be.

The way Sigi and Co. get out and shoo every mirror is a separate topic for the next book.

From here on, only the epilogue and one can start a new work. Will it be a new book, a second L&M or a third volume of Uninvited... not sure yet myself.

And don't wait for the story to come out soon - it's so busy until the New Year and beyond that it's easier to cry, honestly.

And yes - this chapter goes for two.

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