Готовый перевод Общий файл / Does Force Bind to Responsibility?: Глава 16

Chapter 16

The rider in black disappeared around the corner of one of the houses. Meanwhile, Gazef's men put on their helmets and climbed on their horses. They looked rather grim. A frantic gallop, hard, dirty work, and instead of rest, another battle lay ahead. No one complained. They all knew what war was all about.

Gazef, looking at the rapid preparations, gave instructions to the wounded. They would be of little use in a mounted battle now. A wounded fighter is a liability to a mobile group. Their reaction time is slow, their attention is distracted, and their body is less effective.

"You four stay in the village as cover. This is our rear, you'll cover it in case of an enemy attack. You sit here, on the second floor, and keep your eyes open."

"Yes, Commander," grinned one of the remaining fighters merrily, as he readjusted his shoulder-high cuirass. "You'll get all the glory again."

"And you've got all the booze and girls hungry for wounded heroes, so it's all fair."

With approving chuckles, the remaining men took their pouches of bolts, crossbows, and other weapons and went into the house. The rest of the men lined up behind Gazef and trotted toward the gate. He habitually glanced around, noting the tightly locked shutters and the deserted streets. While there was no sign of the enemy, he was, as always, shaken by anticipatory trepidation.

Talent is talent, but death is only one and can come from anywhere. No talent can save you from an unexpected blow. A sword strike from the dark, a crossbow bolt from a window, poison dust from a trap, a tricky spell. There are many ways to die when you cannot see your enemy.

They stopped briefly at the gate. The two at the head of the column dismounted and unlocked the gate, opening it inward. Through the passage, they could see the same spellcasters in helmets and staffs. He could see them bustling about as the gates began to open. They were making some sort of hand gesture that left a blurry, smoky trail in the air.

Gazef waved his hand and spurred his horse. The chain of riders behind him, one by one, also galloped forward. Those who opened the gate were the last to jump out.

Distance is always a decisive factor in any skirmish. The longer the distance, the better for all sides of the skirmish. The longer the approach time, the better one can assess the situation and prepare for it.

The riders at full gallop rearranged themselves into a wedge. It was a formation Gazef usually used in mounted engagements, a sure method of crushing cavalry ranks and engaging the enemy. Against the enemy on foot, he always drew a line to strike with as many men as possible at the same time.

Spellcasters have always been the most problematic enemy. Against such a thin formation, one man at twenty or twenty-five feet, it is generally undesirable to march in tight formation, regardless of formation. Any spellcaster, without thinking twice, would launch something massive at the crowd, and he'd be completely right. This is the most rational approach. And even if the attack is successful, a tight formation will knock over two or three people at most.

The spellcasters seemed to see the situation that way. While the Gazef riders covered a quarter of the distance and regrouped, the sorcerers had finished summoning the new phantoms. The new phantoms also resembled angels, but not in armor, but robes. Only the one standing directly in the path of the cavalry summoned a warrior phantom.

/It's good when the enemy is predictable, / Gazef noted as he saw the phantoms fold their arms and flame apeared between them. Moments later, the angel-like figures sent fireballs at the warriors. One of the most popular spells among wizards of any skill. Six buzzing clots of flame, leaving a blurred trail in the air, rushed toward the riders.

Gazef quickly assessed the trajectory. It was a preemptive shot. This was both bad and good. The bad thing was that the speed and the endpoint had been calculated very well, and without a major dump, it would not have been possible to stop and avoid the impact. Nor would it have been possible to accelerate sufficiently. The good thing... The good thing was that everything went like clockwork.

"Split!" Gazef shouted, unhooking his bow from his saddle and pulling a few arrows from his pouch without looking.

The warriors behind him immediately split into two lines, each riding in a different direction, at an angle from their previous course. Gazef turned the horse sharply to the side a moment later. The horse roared, nearly falling over on its side, lumps of earth flying from under his hooves. Gazeа raised on his stirrups, drew his bow, and fired an arrow. Without looking at the result, he fired another. Barely had the arrow fallen from its bowstring, the fireballs ahead finally collided. There was a cascade of powerful pops, and a wave of heat pummeled the warrior.

/Gazef, grow a beard, they said. Your usual stubble doesn't look decent, they said. Fucking bastards! Gazef swore to himself, brushing his burnt hair off his face.

A glance at the battlefield showed that everything was going as planned. The left and right wings were almost on target. A volley of crossbows didn't seem to find their targets, which was no surprise. It's hard to hit a target at full gallop. That was to be expected. But the spellcasters, who hadn't expected such a maneuver, were baffled. Which in combat almost always means death.

The left wing's fighters buried the faltering caster under their hooves, and his phantom melted into thin air. It was a little worse on the right side. A fighter who'd almost struck with his spear was thrown back by a brutal blow from some cunning spell. The other two crashed into the phantom, which had started a new fireball moments before.

The caster distracted himself by turning to his phantom, and immediately a well-aimed spear was plunged into his back. The air around the warlock shimmered, and the spear slowed sensibly at the last moment. The armor was not pierced, but the caster lost his balance. A moment more, and the other rider was beside him. The warrior stood for a moment on the stirrups and brought his sword down powerfully on the sorcerer's neck. The head did not roll away, magic weakened this blow as well, but even so, the damage to the neck was fatal. Another phantom fluttered away.

Everything happened in a few moments. After taking out two opponents, the fighters dived at full gallop into the woods. Gazef stayed alone in the enemy's field of vision.

The other spellcasters had refocused. More fireballs flew toward Gazef, but the phantoms that had launched them were already dispersing. The melee fighters began to appear in their place.

/Just what I need.

Gazef was not very fond of ranged weapons, preferring good old-fashioned hand-to-hand combat. He especially disliked crossbows. It wasn't even that these weapons were slightly dishonorable. Death in combat is always fair. The problem with the crossbow is that while it has excellent piercing power, it is a very inaccurate weapon. It's impossible to understand, impossible to feel the weapon when you're operating it just by pulling the trigger. What to say about range - a crossbow arrow, while penetrating a warrior in armor in ten paces, will get stuck in a sheaf of wheat in forty.

A bow is another matter. It takes a long time to learn, but a good archer will give any head start to a good crossbowman. Faced with this fact, Gazef took a very thorough approach to the gap in his skills. Several dozen elves were bought through an intermediary. Among them was a seasoned hunter, skilled even by the standards of his people. Gazef promised to grant him and the rest of his compatriots their freedom, in exchange for training in the art of archery.

The old elf really wanted freedom. And he knew his craft very well.

Gazef habitually yanked the horse by the bridle, putting down the animal that had begun to frighten. He took up his bow again. The closest opponent, unfortunately, no longer exposed himself to the arrows, trying to keep the phantom on the line of fire. But he slightly overestimated the reliability of his protector. One by one, three arrows shot into the summoned creature's belly, piercing the joints of its armor. As the phantom began to melt, a fourth ricocheted off the warlock's helmet. He, realizing it was no good, tried to get down on the ground, and didn't have time. The fifth arrow pierced his chain mail and sank into his belly. The sorcerer howled thinly and curled up on the ground.

The rate of fire, the second arrow coming off the bowstring as soon as the first one had traveled thirty paces, was making the arms very tired. When he had put the warlock down, Gazeph threw the bow aside - far away, so as not to break it under his hooves in the fight - and took the sword from its back sheath.

It was a mistake to think that the phantoms moved slowly. In fact, they weren't. While Gazef was busy firing, he was already surrounded by winged lancers. It was hard to count how many.

Gazef swung his two-handed blade.

"Are you after me? What are you waiting for?!"

The phantoms seemed to be waiting for it - they swooped down from all sides.

Gazef smiled grimly - close combat was his true element. The deceptively slow swing of the sword culminated in his famous move - [quadruple strike]. The sword instantly drew four figure-eights around him. The pinnacle of his skill, a move that another man would have torn every tendon in the arm.

The spears that rushed toward his body shattered, and the two phantoms lost their arms. Without distracting himself with an assessment of the results, Gazef spun on his stirrups and stabbed the nearest phantom in the shoulder. The winged creature lost its balance and swam sideways, knocking its comrade off course. Turned, jerked, hit again, and then another. The next phantom lost a wing, and then its head.

My muscles hummed pleasantly, the handle of the two-handed weapon was as obedient as a woman in love.

Strike at the tip, parry, turn in the saddle, strike from above, dodge, strike from below. The phantoms weren't that good, especially in such a heap. They fell and melted down one by one.

But more came to replace the fallen. One, at last, guessed to kill a horse - the faithful horse wheezed with a spear pierced his neck and, twitching, began to fall. Gazef deftly stepped out of the saddle, preventing himself from being crushed by the carcass.

/Oh, there are so many of them, where are my assholes?

The armor was already damaged in many places, and slowly but steadily, the weary Gazef stopped parrying the least dangerous attacks to conserve his strength. The long-worn armor was sticking to his body from sweat and biting unpleasantly.

Another [quadruple strike] gave a moment's respite - the phantoms recoiled.

/'Got it quick, too bad,' Gazef thought, and made a deterrent feint, winning a few more seconds of rest. " Hard... But not quite what I was expecting. Where's their trump card, they couldn't be relying on that scum alone, could they? Or did that lady in black really get them?"

As soon as he thought about it, he was blinded by an incredibly bright flash. Although there was a fenced-off village between the source of the light and Gazef, he was unable to see for a few moments.

/What was that...?" - Gazef missed a nasty blow to the side. The phantom who delivered it immediately received an answer.

The next moment there was a terrifying roar from the side of the flash.

A couple of years ago, foreign artists came to the royal capital to perform. They put on amazing shows, and also exhibited strange things and unseen animals. Gazef remembers very well one animal, the "desert lion". It looked something like a short-haired yellow cat, but it was monstrous in size, the size of a bull, perhaps. Calm, relaxed, and frightening at the same time. Once this beast growled at the food handler. His ears rang for the rest of the evening.

The roar he heard could have been that of the beast. If you make it angry.

/What kind of monster did they bring? It was foolish to agree and send her there.

The phantoms came at him with renewed vigor, and Gazef quickly became unconcerned with the events. The battle dragged on, becoming more and more exhausting. One or two blows were no longer always enough to defeat the enemy. More and more dents appeared on the armor, and a couple of deep scratches appeared on his head. His eyes, still reeling from the flash, were drenched with blood from his forehead; he was fighting almost blindly. His body ached more and more, no longer an obedient instrument. At the last [quadruple strike], the sword almost flew out of his numb hands.

/What an irony. With this balance of power, they have all the chances.

A circular swing of the sword, the blade gnawed into the armor and stuck. Sharp pain in the thigh, something hot ran down the leg. Gazef jerked the blade free, and in the same motion shook whoever had wounded him. A lucky blow - the winged foe's arm, up to his elbow, detached from his body. He swung again in a circular motion, and the phantoms recoiled.

/It's a lot of circles. It takes more energy than usual, but it gives rest for a few seconds. Which isn't enough. Where are you guys stuck in there?!

The situation was indeed disturbing. The number of phantoms showed that the warlocks who had summoned them were alive and could use magic. So his fighters hadn't gotten to them. To assume that they had abandoned him, after all these years shoulder to shoulder. So something prevented them from following orders. Most likely, enemy reinforcements.

/And these theocrats were better prepared than one might have thought...

There was no point in wasting energy on destroying an opponent with no finite number. Gasef went completely on the defensive. It was a losing move; one who defends himself would never win. But there was nowhere to go. The simplest miscalculation of strength showed that he would last longer than he would by fighting fully.

* * *

To say that Draga was furious would be to remain silent. This insolent worm had abused everything that was the raison d'être of her existence with just a few words. At the service of her lord. The dignity of a warrior. Her unquestioned superiority.

What is this shield that inexplicably always appears in the path of her sword? The wretched man's reaction speed was as fast as that of the Lords. What is the vile quality of returning blows to whoever inflicts them? She broke the weapon she'd been given, it seemed, against herself.

The minion he summoned hurt Draga terribly. To break through that barrier, she had to pour out all her accumulated souls at once. She had to use a REAL attack, which HE told her not to do in front of witnesses without a serious need. What was the result?

After all, instead of payback, he ran away. Draga realized this too late, and in her momentarily clenched fingers, there was only a piece of skin torn from his face.

She stared unblinkingly at the bloody flap in her hand. What would Prophet say when he learned of her failure? That an enemy who had seen her real power had walked away alive.

The thought made her howl with anger and despair.

Would he let her die so she wouldn't have to suffer this shame? Or will he imprison her alone with mad grief, like Malikriss?

The thought of concealing this failure flashed in the flaming mind. To summon the watcher, before he could report to the golden-haired bitch, and kill him. Blame it on the defeated minion. Kill ALL the witnesses.

No. It is heretical and unforgivable to even think that anything could be withheld from Him, much less deceive Him.

She was roused from her feverish stupor by a movement nearby. She turned around, a phantom hovering beside her, striking.

A slow, worthless, not even a living truly summoned minion. Draga studied the spearhead approaching her face. When it became obscenely close, she recoiled and swung it into oblivion. The sight of it melting into thin air brought her back to reality. Her instincts kicked in. "Combat algorithms," as the Lords called them.

Instantly, a chain of reactions and interactions flashed by.

Received significant damage, the stock of souls spent. Number of hostiles more than three, threat level does not exceed 10% of defense potential.

Engage defensive skills with a gradual expenditure of rage.

Attack hostile targets, with equal reach preference for weak ones.

The priority type of attack is not AOE, not consuming rage.

The primary priority for targets with the highest HP rate is to inflict wounds.

The primary priority for targets with less vitality is killing and soul absorption.

/Targets without life reserves - to ignore in the presence of the previously mentioned.

Draga closed her eyes and concentrated on finding her targets. The medium-order souls - sentient, mortal beings - felt quite clear. Twenty scattered, converging at one point not far from the village. The distance between them is still long - the nightmare can handle it. Thirty-two more hostile and twenty-two more neutral are in the woods, fairly clustered.

Instincts demanded simple actions, all thoughts and worries lost importance, for a while. Something of the order she could still carry out. It got a little easier.

Draga growled muffled. Draga went out on a killing spree.

* * *

Gasef's men, having slipped through the thin cordon almost without loss, entered the woods. Here, out of direct view of the enemy, they could regroup and strike again while the commander diverted attention to himself. The usual tactic.

They were ambushed.

A few dozen paces deeper into the woods, barely united, they came upon camouflaged stakes. The stakes were long, under two meters, firmly embedded. There weren't many of them, spaced apart. But it was enough to lose three horses and one rider all at once.

/Such a ridiculous end for a warrior, the lieutenant thought in a glimpse.

The decision on what to do came quickly. Fighting in the woods on horseback, not knowing which bush had another sharpened stake hidden behind it, was not a good idea.

"Into the circle and dismount! Shield and sword, claws at hand!"

The fighters were not used to thinking during a fight - they quickly and silently obeyed the order. Shoulder to shoulder they formed a ring of shields.

The moments stretched like gooey treacle. The tired, dirty warriors were angry. Somewhere out there in the field, their legendary commander was fighting, waiting for them to reappear. And here they were, waiting for who knows what.

After waiting a minute, the lieutenant commanded:

"Hold the line, let's go to the field!"

And then the enemy made himself known. One fighter reacted to the movement in the thicket, and shielded himself. At eye level, a crossbow arrow struck a padded iron tree, and a second ricocheted off. The lieutenant instantly aimed his crossbow and pulled the trigger. There was a muffled curse. His first impulse was to point the men in that direction, but it made no sense. There was no telling where the enemy was, and chasing them in a forest full of traps was foolish. As he wound the roll of his crossbow, he commanded:

"Watch the sides and keep going!"

The enemies were the first to lose their nerve. Or maybe their reinforcements had only now reached the place - it was unclear. Three dozen warriors in chain mail and helmets, also with swords and shields at the ready, appeared from behind the trees on both sides. The circle split into two lines. The boys were not anxious to fight without orders, and the newcomers did not seem bold enough to attack the well-coordinated ranks. The lieutenant loaded his crossbow and defused the situation by shooting at the tallest enemy. He managed to shield himself, but the bolt pierced through his arm, a furious shout that signaled the attack.

A fight ensued.

Gazef's men were experienced in formation combat, and the enemy's first onslaught shattered the two rows of shields. One of the attackers shrieked as he was struck in the face with the edge of his sword. The other sighed and sank to the ground. A peck protruded through his helmet to the hilt.

The enemies became more cautious. It was obvious that although they were not as experienced in the formation, their training was not inferior. The second onslaught was more of a close encounter; they fought cautiously, catching Gazef's men on the counterattack, trying to disperse the formation. They wore down the king's more heavily equipped warriors, stalling for time.

Lieutenant discarded the crossbow, which had become useless, and stood in line.

Within a few minutes of the fight, the Gazef's fighters began to run out of breath. The casualties were uneven - only two of the attackers were wounded. One was clawed through the shield, into the bone, and the other had his shoulder smashed through his chainmail with a sword. Otherwise, the wounds were minor. Gazef's squad lost six men.

The situation was frankly losing. The enemy was gaining an increasing advantage in numbers.

As he shielded himself from another blow, the lieutenant noticed a black silhouette behind his opponent's back that flashed in his field of vision for a moment. The next moment a splash of blood made him squeeze his eyes shut. Something heavy came over his shield, and without thinking, he stabbed his sword in the groin area. The sword came up against a soft but strong resistance - the assholes had great chainmail. Shrugging the body off with his shield, he shook his head, trying to figure out what had happened.

A blurred movement to the left, accompanied by a soft pop of air, and a head flew from the shoulders of the enemy who had ventured to look back. Another clap - another enemy fell.

It was impossible to keep track of what was happening. A blurred shadow, which the eye could not catch, killed all the enemies on that side in a few moments. When the last one fell, the men behind the lieutenant's back didn't even know what was happening yet.

The shadow stopped. It was a lady knight, with her face covered in stale blood. There wasn't a single drop on her armor. Or maybe he just didn't see any blood on the blackness. The sword in her hand was frankly frightening, the gray steel with its bloody pattern reeking of pain and a grave cold.

The woman's eyes swept over the warriors, only her eyes clear of blood. Her gaze, with a smoldering rage beneath it, was piercing to the bone. After assessing something for herself, she barked loudly:

"Get out of my way."

Lieutenant instantly knew what to do. Judging by the way she'd dealt with her enemies, there was no chance of confronting her. She would kill if she wanted to, and quickly. If she wants to kill him, she'll do it, and quickly. And if she hasn't killed him, she's obviously not an enemy. He shook his head:

"Let her go."

The shields parted, and the woman ducked through the ranks. The lieutenant turned around and saw her snarl and snarl as she grabbed the warrior behind her, lightly tossing him aside like a puppy and clearing the way. No one on the other side had time to understand what was happening. As she burst into the line of enemies, she finished off the rest just as quickly.

Lieutenant saw pieces of bodies in the village. He saw chopped-up armor. He thought he had an idea of how things were going.

Now he realized he hadn't imagined it. It was the first time he'd seen how quickly, how easily people were cut to pieces, along with their chain mail, shields, and helmets. Without the slightest chance to resist. It was over in a matter of moments. Silence reigned.

The woman, standing with her back to the dazed soldiers, noisily sucked in air. The sword had disappeared from her hand, where would such a large two-handed arm could go. There was and no more. She slowly turned her head toward the fighters.

"That's it now. Pity."

The gaze of the eerie, deceptively calm eyes seemed to be searching for a reason to continue the carnage. Estimating.

Lieutenant commanded:

"Soldiers, at ease!"

The men, keeping their eyes on the woman, lowered their shields a little. Lieutenant turned to her:

"I thank you for your intervention, mistress."

She, as if coming to her senses, brushed it off.

"Nevermind."

* * *

At some point, Gazef realized that the phantoms were ending. He could see almost nothing by this point, but he could hear the rustle of armor, the flapping of wings. It was by these that he oriented himself, determining the next attack. And those sounds told him that there were fewer and fewer enemies.

A fierce roar was heard in the distance, and the last two phantoms seemed to turn toward their masters. With their backs to Gazef.

He was tired as hell, but not so tired that he would miss such an opportunity. A swift onslaught of the last of his strength, and one phantom fell under the blows of his sword. Gazef didn't wait for it to dissipate, nor did he waste time and energy on ripping the sword from its body. He went for the other with his bare hands. The phantom wasn't trained to act in such a situation and lost a few precious seconds. Gazef had just enough time to catch his neck in a wrestling grip. The steel of the ghostly armor cooled his tired fingers pleasantly. The phantom scrambled to free himself, but it was too late. The spine crunched, and the flesh that had just seemed so alive became as soft as melting snow and turned to nothing.

Gazef finally rubbed his eyes. His left eye was still flickering with flare, but overall it was better than he'd expected.

/Damn phantoms. Fought an entire regiment and got nothing but scars. That's not fair.

The sword lay were the penultimate enemy had fallen. Gazef quickly picked it up and looked around. There was not a single person in sight. But someone had slaughtered the summoning sorcerers, hadn't they? He glanced toward the village - the headman's balcony was visible from here - and there was no one there either.

He shook off the nonexistent blood from his sword and put it into its scabbard. He looked regretfully at the cracked signal horn on his neck. It was small but very loud, indispensable for signaling. Picked up the bow he had discarded earlier, removed the quiver of arrows from his fallen horse, and headed for the village. There were no men on patrol, which meant the enemy had decided to go on a raid. He must make sure everything is all right, or help if it is not.

* * *

With a touch of indifference, Draga remembered the broken sword that she had thrown away. It was no longer good for business, but was it worth looking for, as one of the evidence of how the battle had been fought?

She decided to delay the moment when she would tell the Prophet what had happened until the customary evening 'prayer'. And now she simply did not know what to do with that time. To rush to E-Rantel? In principle, she could get there in time, but there was no point in rushing anymore. If she got the order to go back to the City of Dawn, it would be nearer. And it would be easier to disappear unnoticed if she used the portals of Illadria or Marius.

Draga glanced again at the wary warriors. They reeked of apprehension, but not terror. The apprehension didn't stir her nerves as much, and it was easier to keep her temper in check. It was a bit unfortunate that they were "neutral" according to her instincts. On the other hand, there was no particular need to kill - she'd already replenished her reserve of life force from the ones she'd killed.

In fact, it was very easy and comfortable to be guided by instincts without a clear order. Aggression, hostility, negativity, neutrality, positivity, friendliness, and alliance. Seven states in all, each with its place in priorities and behaviors. Too bad you can't rely on your instincts for everything.

She sighed, called out to Nightmare, and strode through the forest to meet him. It was worth it, after all, to find the sword's shards.

A dozen and a half pairs of eyes followed the silent departure of the woman in black. Then exhales were heard.

"I don't know about you guys, but I have a brick stuck in my pants"

The tension was defused by unexpected laughter.

"I understand you, brother."

"Let's go shake it out, I have a couple too."

"Who knows where this beauty lives? Which city to avoid?"

The soldiers joked, calming their nerves. The lieutenant let them relax for a minute before he told them to get busy. The wounded needed help, they needed to get their horses back - there was always something urgent to do after a battle. Unfortunately, there was no time to search the bodies. It was urgent to return to the commander since the maneuver had failed.

The lieutenant split up the squad, put some of the men to work, and with the rest headed out of the woods.

* * *

All was quiet in the village. A few phantoms did sneak in, but the boys treated them well. The two dead sorcerers confirmed the veracity of what the rest of the sentries had said. They seemed to have taken advantage of the situation and tried to ambush them.

Kicking the dead body with two bolts in its chest, Gazeph grumbled grudgingly:

"What was it he said, swears by his faith? Son of a bitch, your faith isn't worth much."

While he and the others were checking all the yards for lurking foes, the rest of his men returned. Not all of them.

"Lieutenant, what happened out there? Where are the others?" Gazeph looked intently into his eyes, squeezing the warrior's shoulder tightly.

"We were ambushed. The bastards were well prepared, better than expected. Five of us are dead. The rest are rounding up the horses, helping the wounded, and picking up the fallen. I took those able to fight and rushed to you as soon as it was over."

Gazef frowned. It's a good thing those ten men aren't all that's left alive. The bad thing is that they lost people altogether. That hadn't happened in a long time, a couple of years for sure. There was a heavy stone on his heart. Sure, he'd make sure their families were well compensated. But that didn't make the loss any less bitter.

"It's over, you say. Did you win? Or did the enemy retreat?"

"No and no, commander. We were pinned down very competently, if not for the unexpected backup, no one would have got away."

"What's the backup?"

"The adventuress you hired. She showed up, rabid, covered in blood, and killed them all. Then she gave us this look that made me think we were next. I thanked her, she just brushed it off."

"Where is she now?"

"I can't know. She said something about a broken sword and left."

"Okay, we'll clear that up later. Put people in an empty house and rest until the others arrive. Stay awake - who knows what else the Theocrats might do."

"Yes, Captain!"

The lieutenant waved to the men and all went to the headman's house. Gazef was left alone with his thoughts. He had no reason to doubt the words of his old comrade-in-arms, but it all looked strange. Sudden appearances of heroes are a matter of songs and tales. What of the broken sword, how did it go with Nigan? How strong is this adventurer? He'd seen the bodies, and now he compared it to what he'd heard. It appeared that she was not particularly inferior to him if she was inferior at all.

A fighter with these skills that no one had heard of before that day? That's amazing. And beautiful. The kingdom could use strong friends.

As someone who was constantly present at private meetings with the king, he knew a great deal about what was going on at home and abroad. The annual "war" with the empire was only one of the problems threatening the country. The eldest and youngest princes were already clearly not going to resolve the issue of the crown's inheritance in peace. The only one who cared about possible turmoil and civil war was Renner. There was considerable power behind the princess, too, and she was loved by the people. But it was not the kind of power that could solve anything quickly.

The theocrats steadily increased their influence through the Church, pouring into the ears of the commoners the tales the people were so eager to hear. There had not yet been mutinies and riots, but it was only a matter of time, and that time would surely come in the fall. When the sons of peasants will once again be taken from the fields to raise an army against the empire. When another poor harvest because of this will produce another famine. When the nobles, wishing to secure their wealth, raise taxes to maintain more guards.

There was no unified idea, no consolidated, reliable ruler, no confidence in the future, and no good neighbors. The fragile balance of power promised to break in the very near future, and the country would plunge into discord and chaos.

A hero is needed. Someone who will be feared by the enemies of the state. On whose strength the shaken crown can lean. Someone in whom the good citizens and loyal soldiers will believe.

Gazef himself could hardly cope with this role. Yes, he was a household name among the people. He was feared - and hated - by the nobility, and perhaps that was the only reason the king hadn't gotten poison in his glass yet.

But he is only a warrior. He is alone, he is mortal, and he is getting old. He doesn't have the intelligence, the strength, nor the influence to do anything to save the country. He tried to share his idea with Lucky and her crew. The Blue Rose, the adamantine team, some of the most skilled thugs in the world, could have strengthened the crown considerably. But Lucky politely hinted every time that she didn't care. She was only interested in money, personal power, and independence. Money could still be an issue, though Lucky had some serious demands. But the rest Gazef could not give. Nobles would never accept a title for a commoner, much less an adventurer. And a king would never give complete freedom. Reasoning soberly, it was obvious that joining the Bloody Emperor would have been more profitable had she been interested in serving the rulers. The good thing was at least that Lucky's personal friendship with Princess Renner and some personal animosity toward the Baharut Emperor allowed Blue Rose not to become enemies of the kingdom.

And now, having met an unknown adventuress, young, enormously talented, greedy only for money and personal fame, he felt hope. Maybe she could be attracted to his side. Maybe she would become a second shoulder, on which the slowly dying country could lean, and survive. Maybe...

* * *

Talik and the adventurers were, after all, forced to enter the plains of Kaz.

The adventurers crossed the rocky hills that served as the natural boundary of the plains. The view was bleak. The lowlands were covered in gray mist, from which bare cliffs occasionally emerged. Not a sign of life, not a single blade of grass. The soil was only gravelly sand and ash. The fog made it impossible to see how far the dead earth stretched.

They went down to the lowlands early in the morning. Daimon didn't want to waste a single hour of daylight. Talik noticed that the fog slowly swirled and moved, confusingly, when there was no wind at all. Keeping direction in such conditions was becoming a great challenge.

Bryce claimed this was the most convenient place to descend into the plains for miles around. If the necromancer had fled into the plains, it was somewhere in this area. Now that the troop had reached the relatively soft ground, he surveyed the surroundings for any sign of him. The others waited at the ready. Daimon told me that even on the very fringes of the plains there was a good chance of running into the undead. Rising human and animal skeletons wouldn't be much of a problem, though.

Talik squatted down and sifted the soil through his fingers. Something here felt familiar, he just had to remember what it was. The dry mist seemed to penetrate his clothes as if they were sticking to his skin and soaking into it. There was no noticeable harm from it, just a nasty feeling. It was impossible to wash properly during the trek, and it hadn't bothered Talik much before. His embodied avatar's body didn't sweat or get a bad odor. It was impossible to say that about the others; they had begun to stink a lot these days.

Now, as he descended into the plains, he could literally feel the decay and filth with all his skin.

Sand and ash, disorienting fog, spontaneously rising weak undead, ghosts. Yes, this is definitely it.

[Desolation]. Spell of the 8th rank of Death magic. One of the most ambiguous in its class. For example, to Marius, he didn't add this spell.

AOE spell that draws health and mana from everything living within its range and transfers it to the caster. Inflicts a fixed amount of damage, divided between all targets hit by it. If one target is in the area of effect, it takes 100% damage. If a hundred targets, each gets one percent. Any creature that died in the area of effect became undead and went under the caster's control. Also, the activation speed and effectiveness of all Death magic increased under the influence of [Desolation].

However, the mana cost, both when activated and when supported, is enormous. Only the player could improve the spell, making it more profitable. No matter how cleverly Marius was made, he was still only an NPC, and would "dry up" in less than a minute if supported the Desolation. Not to mention that the eighth-rank spellbook upgrade for him cost nearly half a billion gold.

And the fucking Friendly Fire, of course. It couldn't be avoided at all. Deathwonkers poured petitions to the developers, flooded the forums with tears, begging to remove this point. But the developers, as usual, when it came to their principled position, politely sent everyone fuck out with politely copy past. Of course, Death Magic is already considered one of the two most imbalanced, along with the Mind Magic.

Although some particularly clever guilds have learned to use even the FF to their advantage.

Talik squatted down and ran his hand thoughtfully over the dry ground. The spell was more or less clear. Most likely, closer to the center of the area under the influence of some others as well. How to fight [devastation], even locally, he knew. He had countermeasures. But there wasn't much point - there was virtually no damage. Given the area of the Plains, and the fact that even in their territory some peoples manage to live, the damage is divided to the homeopathic minimum.

He was more worried about something else. The area of this spell in the game had a theoretical maximum, above which it was impossible to jump at will. A hundred paces in diameter. The Plains of Kaz is not a hundred paces; it's not like it's a hundred kilometers. Even assuming it's the aggregate of several affected areas, it's still kind of... It's frankly too much. Especially considering that this land has been cursed for centuries. An inconceivably long time.

If you analyze from the point of view of game mechanics - the only way to cheat the game was Worlds Artifacts. And assuming that whoever triggered this cast was doing it through this thing, anything is indeed possible. So there's either a Worlds Artifact that exists here, and it has to be found. Or, someone was able to overcome the game restriction by applying the laws of the magic of this world.

And one last thing - where, in fact, does the stolen life force and mana go? The question is not urgent (it's been dangling for centuries), but it's critical. Eighth-rank spells are no joke. The presence of such spells indicates a caster of at least level 80 who was able to modify a standard spell.

Is it possible that he is still alive (or un-alive)? There is no reason to reject that possibility. Can we be sure that we will be able to find common ground with him? That's not a fact.

It was a good idea for Talik to get out of here, and he was well aware of that. And he would have done so already, right now. But using teleportation is always a risk. Especially in potential enemy territory. You can never be sure your portal data isn't available to the enemy.

The only thing left to do was to leave on foot. But it would be quite difficult to explain it to the guys. Leaving them alone would be a bit of a jerk move. It's one thing to play a game where death is just an unpleasant circumstance. It's another thing is the real world.

What can one do to make them leave on their own without arousing unnecessary suspicion?

Talik looked around. Daimon and Era were squatting by a rock, talking about something. It was clear from the half-whispered conversations that they didn't like it here, either, though it wasn't the first time they'd been to the Plains. Bryce was nowhere to be seen.

Talik withdrew behind a rock. As he left the line of sight, he whispered:

"Spy."

A cloak of camouflage appeared near the stone. The elf beneath it silently knelt.

"You're aware of everything. Can you figure out where our target is?"

"I'll do my best, you..."

"Shh. Find and evaluate the possibilities. The sooner the better. And report back at once."

"I'll do it."

"Do it."

The elf vanished into the mist. Talik was uncomfortably aware that Spy, the only one he could rely on right now, wouldn't have his back for a while. Without his usual equipment, in foreign territory.

/I really hope I don't have to regret it.

A little later Bryce returned. He found some indication that someone had passed through here recently, and figured out the general direction. Daimon looked in the direction indicated.

"If I'm not wrong, there are old ruins near that rock over there. I was there a few years ago. There's not much left, just the remains of the walls sticking out of the ground. Only the chapel was relatively intact, but I don't know how it is now. There's nowhere else to look in that direction. We'll decide what to do on the spot."

Bryce and Era nodded silently, and Talik, after some hesitation, agreed as well. He didn't like the idea of going without real reconnaissance. Going in the wrong direction was the least of his problems.

/On the other hand, these are outskirts that are more years old than it has been since the Euro-Asian war. If there was something really dangerous here, people wouldn't live nearby

The path was unrememberable. Step by step through the dead, smoky desert, with nothing to catch the eye. He couldn't even see the sky. Talik was at the head of the column of four. The others turned to him periodically to make sure everything was all right.

Era looked back, too. Simply, without any subtext.

Talik began to understand why he was so "crushed" on her at first, and now he cooled down. There was something unknown about her. She was good-looking, a lot, but that came second. First was the intriguing abilities. Like, real magic. Who would have thought she could exist outside of the game. A supernatural mystery beckoned.

Then, he saw her using this magic. The usual newbie spells. The activation time, the effects - all familiar and boring. The mystery had evaporated somewhere, all that was left was a serious, pretty, and fairly predictable girl. And why was he worried, why was he trying to pick her up, what was he thinking? Especially knowing what she had been going through recently. It was awkward.

Spy still wasn't coming back, and Talik was getting more and more worried. The uncomfortable feeling of "naked ass" was becoming more and more intrusive.

After another turn among the lifeless hills, the ruins we were looking for appeared.

That's not what Talik had expected from the word "ruins". Some ominous, massive ruin that was easy to get lost in, or a temple with broken windows and swirling shadows. Something along those lines.

But here - the bases of the walls protruded from the ash-brown soil in several places, knee-deep, waist-deep at most. It was hard to guess what those walls had been before. Just beyond them was what Daimon probably called a "chapel". Six splintered columns rose from a mound of earth, four meters high. They were crowned by a sagging hemispherical roof.

"Here we are," said Dimon.

"Yeah. Where are the ruins?" Bryce asked skeptically.

"Everything was stolen long before us. Go looking for the sorcerer."

Bryce grunted in frustration and went around the ruins. Inwardly Talik was glad that he wasn't the only one who thought the ruins were so miserable.

"I will not deviate from the principles of the genre. I'll go see what's in the chapel."

"Don't disappear and scream at the slightest sign of trouble, Thaler," Daimon replied seriously. "The easiest places to die are in such ''non-threatening'' places."

"You can escort me if you're so worried."

"That's a good idea. Era, come with us."

On the way to the chapel, Talik asked Daimon:

"How long ago have people lived here?"

"It's hard to say," Daimon said thoughtfully. "There are many such abandoned settlements on the plains, and some in much better condition. It depends on how it's built... Old fortresses and there's even a legend that somewhere in the plains there's a lost city, inhabited by the undead. Tales, of course, but there's some good sense in it. Kaz wasn't always this big. A hundred years ago, it was even possible to live here."

"So these plains expand over time? Doesn't it bother anyone?"

"There are some who are concerned. Well, they don't run through the streets and yell about the end of the world. You'd be better off talking to older people, from science. Academics somewhere in the capital. These guys know a lot of stories from the past, even though they have no idea what really happened."

"Do you?"

" How could I? I wasn't living at the time. Era, by the way," Daimon turned to the Sorceress. "What do you know about it? You like useless books, so tell me something."

"You yourself are useless. If there is no history, there is no future, I have told you many times."

"Don't be mad."

"Fool. Okay. What do I know about the plains... Not much. They're supposed to date back to the time of the Kings of Greed, but I don't think that's true. Those mythical kings are blamed for all sorts of nonsense. This and that because of them. There are a lot of completely ridiculous stories about their evil deeds, but very few of them have anything to back them up. For instance, Kaz," Era said as she carried on with her story, gesturing to the rest of her speech.

"Everywhere people say that the Kings cursed this land in retaliation for the fact that its ruler refused to sacrifice his child. This is utter nonsense. First of all, there's no evidence that there ever was a state here. Independent cities were, and constantly at war with each other. Secondly, the rebellion against the Kings was raised under the banners of a belief in the god of justice, Sagator. And Sagator, whose sects are now being exterminated wherever they are found, is the alias of the word Saador. And Saador is the Book of Life, the basic religious teaching of those times. The Church of Saador was persecuted by the Kings and their supporters. And just so you understand, it was according to the dogma of Saador that the first baby born in the year was sacrificed to the heavens to send a warm spring. And if no warmth came within ten days, the next one was sacrificed, and so on. It was an immutable law, for "every city that has a wall."

I don't see the logic in Kings eradicating religion to execute someone for not wanting to follow its rules. Especially in such a way as to massively destroy everything and everyone. But that's not even the point. According to the memoirs of Edmund Baharoth, the distant forefather of the founder of the present-day Baharut Empire, he vacationed twice in the outskirts of Atamarr, quote, "which is southeast of Azerlis". Azerlis - need I clarify, what do the Azerlisian mountains have in common? Edmund Bacharot is a descendant of the Bacharot surname, leading from one of the leaders of the rebellion that overthrew the Kings. That is to say, a man born much later than those events was squandering his ancestor's inheritance in what is now the cursed land. The Plains of Kaz did not exist in his time-and still less in the time of the Kings.

She raised her hand and exhaled.

"It was my second-year seminary graduation presentation. I never got to read it out to the professors."

Talik nodded thoughtfully.

"Thank you very much. This is very... Unexpected and helpful. Seriously. Thank you for the story."

"You're welcome. At least someone is interested in how our world developed. With the way history is written, finding any truth is very hard and ungrateful work."

"I'm sure there will be people who will be able to fully appreciate this work. I will take care of it."

"Sounds daring for an adventurer."

"Maybe. But I'm... Quite the influencer where I come from. We'll come back to that later."

" It's a deal," Era finally smiled for real.

They approached the chapel, and Daimon made an inviting gesture. Talik walked between the pillars, looking around.

The crumbled trim, on which faded patterns could hardly be made out through a network of cracks. Light poured reluctantly through the gap in the roof. The circular floor, which barely protruded above the ground, was a little better preserved. Talik squatted down to examine the pattern. Unbelieving his eyes, he began to sweep the floor with his sleeve.

"Hey, what happened?" Daimon's voice sounded wary.

"Nothing. It's okay. I... I just had a thought."

In fact, it didn't seem so. In the patterns decorating the floor, the Latin alphabet was visible in some places. He was unable to connect the individual letters, intertwined with the local alphabet, in any way.

/That doesn't make sense. Or did the locals think the Latin is a pattern or something?/

He thought of calling on Era to see if her erudition might yield a few more surprises. But then an idea occurred to him. He tried to read the Latin symbols in the order they were written, in a whisper. The meaningless set of sounds came off his lips, turning into meaningful speech.

/Blessed is the way of the power-givers, those who have passed through hell and oblivion, men and beasts who have fallen in the name and for the good of the present world, may the gods be satiated with their souls./

/Local religious propaganda. Expected for a chapel. But where did the Latin alphabet come from?/

Era approached.

"Can you read these symbols?" She seemed surprised.

"Ah... It's not that I know it," Talik began to explain. "I just saw something like that once. On an expedition."

"I would also like to go on such an expedition..."

"Do you know what this is?"

"This is the language of the Heroes. It appears to be a copy of the lines of the Legacy, the holy book of the Church of Heroes. It is one of the most common elements, almost always inscribed on the stone at the prayer altar. This language is used exclusively in the upper circles of the church. If a commoner desecrates it by attempting to learn it, much less speak it, he faces a rather painful execution. For commoners there are writings in a common language, here they are."

"Ahem... Could you read it?"

Era looked at him oddly but complied with the request.

"The gaze of the immortal is eternally directed to the righteous. Can't you read?"

"I... I haven't learned the language well enough yet. Only speaking."

"Don't take me for a fool, please."

"Sorry. Let's talk about it when we get back, okay?"

"Okay. I'm sorry to bother you, but you're very strange. It's hard to trust someone who's constantly understating and lying ineptly, you know?"

"I understand. I'm sorry again. I'll tell you all about it later."

"Era looked at him unhappily, but left him alone."

Talik found himself too lazy to get up. For once he was tired. He just wanted to sit and do nothing. Or better yet, lie down.

He only realized that something was wrong when, lying there, his eyes closing, he saw Daimon looking worriedly at him, moving his lips silently. But there was neither the strength nor the will to do anything.

The body didn't obey and felt almost nothing, and it was hard to breathe, not enough air. There was an intrusive noise that prevented him from falling asleep. He listened discontentedly.

"Overlord, hear me. I need your help. I underestimated their cunning, I... Disappear."

Marius, it seems.

/What do you want, back off.../

"Overlord, don't leave me. Please. I still do not comprehend your plan ... Overlord, please let me understand."

The lich's voice grew quieter and weaker, and Talik was relieved by this.

"Malikriss was right. Such a beautiful tragedy..."

The lich's voice became barely audible, and he muttered and muttered, and finally fell silent. And Talik had a majestic, incredibly detailed dream. It consisted of separate, unconnected fragments.

The square of E-Rantel, surrounded by crumbling houses. On it, Draga is fighting a huge bone dragon. Crowds of dead spread out through the streets of the city.

Burning villages.

Fortresses were full of murdered men. Stars are reflected in puddles of blood.

A rapidly decaying woods, a dragon pouring flames on a mountain peak.

A huge army with lion flags moves through the desolate necropolis. Ladders, trebuchets, brutal chopping on the walls. Talik recognized the distinctive outline of his guild's wall with withering surprise.

Draga, like a helicopter, crashes into the ranks of the city guards, wreaking havoc and death everywhere. Why? Why are you doing this?

Instead of an answer - the reproachful look of a stern old lady nearby. The lady is protected by a ring of heavily armored knights. The flames of the nearby rooftops play whimsically on her white dress.

Illadria, with her throat slit, is stuck in the rocks of the mountain river. There was surprise and resentment in her wide-open eyes.

Wilhelm, smashing the altar in the center of the temple with a war hammer. Here he overturned a heavy pedestal, opening a portal. Here he is in the treasury, crying out to the motionless Titan.

A ball of unbearably bright blue flame strokes a glowing furrow through the buildings, turning both stone and living creatures to ash with equal ease. Wilhelm's head in the treasury smiles victoriously.

Men in white robes broadcast to the raging crowd, while behind them unrecognizable silhouettes squirm in flames.

These and similar images were succeeding one another. The only things that didn't change were death and the blackened sky.

What is this? What's going on?

There was no answer, only a black veil in the sky as if it were drying him up, draining his strength and memory. Talik felt himself becoming smaller and smaller, and at the same time, the black veil completely engulfed the sky. He stopped recognizing those he saw. He didn't care, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

Sharp pain in his momentarily numb cheek brought him out of his delirium. He jerked to consciousness. What he saw seemed to burst a dam in his soul, filling his mind with horror and disgust.

What the hell was that?!

His head was dizzy and his lungs were bursting from lack of air. He inhaled with a whistling breath. A hand was jerked onto his shoulder, and Talik, without hesitation, lunged forward, grabbed the cloudy silhouette by the scruff of the neck and smacked his forehead. There was a resounding slap, and Talik tossed the body aside, shaking his head.

The pinched, dry eyes cleared.

He was still in the same chapel. Not far away, Daimon and Era were lying on the ground. Right in front of him was Spy on one knee. The rag mask was rapidly soaking in blood.

"Are you all right, Your Holiness?"

Talik took a breath, looking apprehensively at the elf.

"What happened?"

"I was watching you, waiting for the right moment to report. You went into the place, talked to the woman, and lay down on the floor. Then you began to convulse. I stunned your companions and tried to revive you. When the potions I had didn't work, I slapped you on the cheek. When you woke up, you punched me in the face. There is no excuse for my disrespect."

"Forget it. It's okay. You did the right thing. You did well. What the fuck was that?"

"I would dare to suggest that you have comprehended visions of futures."

"It's not a good fucking future," Talik almost yelled. "Fuck such a future. Fuck. No, no, no, no."

"I can't know what you've seen."

"That's fucked up. It's a good thing he missed it. Okay..." He tried to pull himself together. It was better than half a minute ago. "Okay. Now."

[message]

The magic didn't work. Talik was about to have another panic attack-all spells had worked flawlessly up to that moment. He listened to what he felt inside.

/Aha. That's how an empty tank feels./

[flesh to mind]

I felt an unpleasant sensation of weakness, and my nose dripped blood. At the same time, there was a clear certainty that the mana was there now.

[message]

The magic worked, but it didn't reach its destination. Talik's hands shook. Marius didn't answer.

[message]

Illadria didn't answer.

[message] came one after another, but there was no response. Talik, holding back cold fear, sent a spell to Spy.

It didn't work either. The hope remained that the cursed earth was to blame. It didn't have that feature in the game, but that was the game.

The sixth sense picked up some strange echo. Not a sound, but something else. Anxiety began to grow in my soul.

/With what I have on me, I'm not really ready for a fight./

"Spy, hide but be extra vigilant. That's it, all right? We're leaving this place."

The elf nodded and merged into his surroundings. Talik emerged from the chapel and approached his unconscious comrades. Bryce also was, it seemed, the elf had brought him here.

/stun, huh?/

[vigorous call]

The guys opened their eyes. Bryce instantly darted off somewhere behind the rubble of the wall, and Daimon sprang to his feet with a menacing scream. Era hid behind him in confusion.

Talik said in an intransigent tone:

"Let's get out of here, quick! Questions later!"

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/82326/516648

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP