Готовый перевод Общий файл / Does Force Bind to Responsibility?: Глава 22

* * *

Dawn City
*Talik*

Talik was sitting in his "office," sorting through a pile of documentation and his notes. Unlike his last attempt, he didn't want to sweep them all off the table and fall asleep on the heavy polished desk. On the contrary, he wants to dig in, to get to the bottom of it, to consider, predict, and plan. Even though Marius's debuffs were still very noticeable, no details fell out of his head; on the contrary, the logical chains were sharper than ever. And this helped a lot because a lot of what he was doing now was alien to him in "real" life. For example, questions about logistics. It would seem that what could be easier than just delivering goods from point A to point B? But the tasks presented here had little to do with the "spherical horse in a vacuum". The cargo itself will not appear at point A, it must somehow be delivered there and have a transportable condition, format, and so on.

For example, a wood from the Tob forest - in order to be transformed from piled wood into building material, this wood had to be processed - branches, limbs, roots, and crowns had to be cut down. Already in this form, it had to be delivered to the very point A, which could be reached by a hauling transport, which would send the resource to point B. There was more than one point B.

The ravine, the road from which was already paved almost to the middle of the forest - there was a need for storage infrastructure, and, given the manners of the natives - even a fortress, and not only there. Swamps, in which it was necessary to build many dams, dikes, fortifications for crumbling banks, and other things. To an orcish camp in the valley, where serious upgrading of livestock plots was needed. To the quarries and mines founded by William. Just because it worked mostly undead didn't mean the tunnels and adits didn't need to be fortified. Wood was needed almost everywhere except, thank God, in the Dawn City itself. And then, there was no telling how long it would remain immaculate. Repair for those same carts had almost become a problem. They were beginning to break down.

And the delivery of wood from numerous points A to numerous points B had to be organized so that nobody tripped over anyone so that the work did not stall because the material was not delivered on time, and so that the material did not lie idle for weeks. And the wood is only a part and not the biggest.

Not that Talik really needed to do that. The whole thing was already very well organized, but now, looking at the reports of what was happening, he was horrified to think that if the NPCs didn't have real intelligence and experience, there would be chaos here already. Complex systems theory at its most vivid. Now, he could feel the meticulousness returning to him, the meticulousness with which he had always approached anything in the real world. And in the game for the last couple of years, too.

*****It was a great idea to sleep, after all,

This thought did not immediately occur to him yesterday, and not even on its own. During another of Talik's attempts to get his overworked brain to work and his frayed nerves, Draga began massaging his shoulders. And that massage mysteriously ended in debauchery on the big, comfortable bed. Beautiful, flexible, compliant, and resolutely ready for anything woman left nothing but the desire to possess her in his mind. And then there was sleep. And in the morning, waking up to light, freshness, and the very woman in his arms, Talik felt like a completely different person. A little later (an hour or two later), while dressing, he came to the conclusion that even though his body did not need sleep, his psyche was not adapted to its absence. In real life, he would not have lasted so long (more than two weeks) without normal sleep; he would have passed out on the third day at most. But here, his body was doing its job while his mind was giving up on him.

And now, taking advantage of the clarity of his mind, he sought to make up for lost time.

******And the lack of pressure from the outside must also be taken into account. When working with paper, everything is much easier than when you come into contact with people.

Rummaging through his notes was a separate hassle. "Got to do" "got to go" "got to see" "got to know," and so on - and there were plenty of them. Not that they were meaningless, on the contrary, they did a very good job of reminding him of critically important things. But when and what exactly to do, so as not to get lost and not to jump from one thing to another, was a big question. One of the most uncomfortable thorns in his heel was the promise he had made to Marius to teach him. What could he teach an archlich who, with his awesome personal power, knew nothing about the world order? Especially considering the fact that the laws of the universe can be very different from what we are used to. He had to make a program, preferably in such a way that the obscenely intuitive undead would not realize that Talik was not the omniscient idol they imagined him to be.

The second biggest sticking point was the inventory. It promised to be a separate task of epic proportions. Though he immediately corrected himself, it was the third biggest. The second, quite competing with the first, was the relationship with the outside world. And the second was only because Marius was much, much closer and more dangerous than everything else.

A mysterious enemy who almost killed Talik without even appearing on the scene in person. Who he was, and how dangerous he could really be, was still not clear. The "expedition" sent by Marius was only supposed to reach the edge of the Plains in three days at best. The visions of the possible future faded a little, but they were not less depressing. And Talik certainly didn't want the part about his Guild to come true.

The massacre in the local town, not so far away, might well have served as one of the stages by which this web of events could have been spun that might have led to disaster. Apart from the fact that he didn't want to sit idly by, knowing that outright genocide was going on somewhere nearby. Yesterday he'd considered that as a possibility, too, and now he wasn't prepared for such a weight on his conscience. And of course, clearing up a possible relationship with the local Adventurer's Guild was still very important.

The aggression on the part of the natives, which had enraged him to the core, also demanded more thoughtful attention than simply "go and smash" in retaliation. It would have been the same genocide, only this time through his own fault. Also, he needed to be more sensitive to his own orders. The elves, who had been sent to the scene, had quarreled with the orcs over who was in charge. It almost came to a stabbing, the end of which would have been very predictable. As opposed to the possible consequences.

Warboss, upon learning of the welcome Talik had received upon his return "home," was enraged, and he was not immediately pacified. And some of his entourage were caught in the crossfire, and now the orcs had one less Nob to deal with. And the lore, which Talik had personally prescribed for the orcish horde, said in black and green that fallen leaders could not be raised unless it was absolutely necessary. Whoever proved himself most worthy of the position would become the new Nob. That's minus one level 80 fighter. There was no certainty that the new Nob would suddenly get level 80 and not stay in his 30-40 range. And what would have started if the elves had slaughtered the band of orcs after that, with the Warboss clearly not having warm feelings for Illadria and the elves in general from the start, Talik didn't even want to think about it. Though it might have been worth pondering.

It's a good thing the stalkers were smart enough to contact their superiors and report the "green savages who think too much of themselves" before they entered the active phase of the dispute. Talik, bracing himself, told them to smooth out the conflict and get the hell out of there on recon, and sent the other two instead. With appropriate instructions. The general picture of events was already clear, orcs were flocking to the affected village, but the picture had to be restored as fully as possible. To start military action without a clear understanding of who and what they wanted to achieve, was seen as a bad idea.

He sighed, looking out the high window. The lush colors of greenery, flowers, and ornamental fauna beckoned him to drop everything and go enjoy life. Talik shoved that nasty feeling away, sucking him into a very doubtful comfort zone. He had nothing against comfort, really, and he was going to plunge into the joys of his new life a little later. Just as he had no illusions that he would be able to absorb everything that was going on in one morning. But there were things he absolutely wanted to do before he relaxed. And what he would do afterward.

There was a knock at the door. Draga, still careful not to leave Talik's side, went to the door and opened it. The temple attendant bent almost to the floor, reported:

"Your Holiness, the person you want is here."

"Let her come in."

The attendant disappeared, and a tall, unrealistically thin figure in a pale cassock appeared in the doorway. Talik did not go into detail, just subconsciously assuming that the Abbess was human or elf. And now he was slightly surprised to see a draconian woman. In these creatures, sexual dimorphism was much more pronounced than in most other intelligent races. In contrast to the massive, shoulder-length male lizards, the draconids were of a much more delicate build. The woman who entered could only be mistaken for a human from a distance. Her slender frame seemed to be hugged with just her fingers, and the only exposed parts of her body were her long scaly fingers with neat claws, and her snake head, dark gray in color with golden patterns of scales. The guest moved with the grace expected of a snake. She also bent in a bow and stood still on the threshold.

"Come in," Talik gestured for her to come in.

Draconid scooted forward without straightening up. Talik sighed.

"I don't feel comfortable talking to you when you're in that position." He made an inviting gesture toward one of the chairs nearby.

The guest hesitantly sat up and straightened, folding her hands in her lap. It was impossible to read anything on the serpent's face. Generally speaking, the fact that the enterprising Abbess turned out to be draconian was very convenient and allowed him to bring to fruition an idea he hadn't known how to approach before.

"As I understand it, you are Abbess Nitia."

"Yes, Your Holiness. I dared not hope that you would know my name."

Talik gave an inward chuckle. In fact, he was supposed to know all the church congregation personally. But there was a handicap here, too. Also, the guest, though she had a dry, raspy voice, she didn't hiss as much as Talik had expected.

"As you can see, I know very well about you. I wanted to talk to you about the stranger you took in."

The guest's scales went from dark gray to unhealthily light.

"Was... Was that a mistake?"

"No, calm down. On the contrary, it was a very good initiative. You did a very good thing, and I approve of that. Nevertheless, I have a few questions for you. First, tell me, why didn't you chase him away like the others?"

I... At first I was curious. When he showed up at my abode, he looked so lost that it didn't seem right for me to kick him out. I talked to him, and after hearing his story, I felt pity for him. He was so afraid that the Gatekeeper would take him back if he couldn't get a job, that I decided to try. There's no such thing as inhibitions, so I decided to give him a chance and explore more closely.

"Explore?"

"Yes, Your Holiness. He comes from a new world, from the outside, and he may not be the only one. I wanted to know what kind of world it was, what kind of creatures inhabited it, and what could be expected of them."

"And what is your impression?"

"He is a wild ignoramus, Your Holiness. He is shockingly ill-mannered. Perhaps it is because he is very young. And he tries to be helpful, though it sometimes makes him do foolish things."

"And what conclusions did you draw about the outside world by dealing with this man?"

"I concluded that this is a cruel, unjust world in which the suffering of the innocent and the triumph of the unrighteous are commonplace. Perhaps I am wrong..."

"No, you got it right. And I think that needs to change. I want you to be the one to help me do that."

"I shall be happy to serve your purpose, Your Holiness!"

Talik could hardly keep from wincing.

"One of the ways we will influence this world will be through our faith. And there's a bit of a catch... We have ideals, rules, and orders based on what we understand to be right and wrong. And when you interact with another citizen of the Dawn, whether draconid, orc, human, or elf, you can be sure that you will be understood correctly. It doesn't work that way with locals. They have no common understandings upon which to base what we believe. So, our words will be too vague and incomprehensible for them. So we're going to need a set of rules about why we should do things this way and that way. Simply put, we will need our own rule book so that we can share our culture with those who want it. And, warning your possible question - I don't want to do this personally. It's a big job that can't be done by anyone alone. And I want to entrust this work to those who will directly carry our word to the masses."

What I'm getting at... I plan to call all the rectors of the Dawn to a big meeting. In which to raise this, and some other questions. As well as answering questions from others. I myself have no time to run and warn and coordinate all this among 177 sentient beings, so I'll need someone to do it on my behalf. Someone proactive, curious, and able to do more than just blindly follow the usual rules.

"So..."

"Yes. I want you to do it. Do you think you can do it?"

"I will certainly live up to your trust, Your Holiness."

"I'm sure you'll do well. Come back tomorrow morning and tell me about your progress. Of course, I don't expect you to do everything in one day, so you don't have to be too hard on yourself trying to get everything done in one day. That's it for now, you're good to go."

Draconid, vowing to justify his trust, backed out of the office. Talik buried himself in his papers again, in time to absorb what he had planned before lunch. There was still much to do before he went to the "prison".

* * *
*Era*

Era stood in front of the door of the Guild's branch head and hesitated. An invitation to this branch office was not something out of the ordinary, and yet, it almost always meant that something in the adventurer's life would change.

All the more so, given the events that had preceded it. The fact that the whole group was not told to report immediately upon arrival was a good sign. Though, of course, the loss of Taler promised to be a murky and indelible stain on the group's reputation. Two healers had gone on a mission with them, and both were missing... It was practically a cross for the group. But a cross for the group in terms of reputation did not mean that they would be formally expelled.

Yesterday she and Daimon and Bryce had honestly tried to get the guys who had helped them get into town drunk. Not just as a thank you, of course. All three of them were eager to get Wall to talk. Who he was, where he came from, and what the symbols were on his armor. And as it later turned out, tattoos, too.

In a normal situation, wine at someone else's expense and a little flattery would loosen the tongue of any adventurer. Daimon and his friends, too, and there was nothing strange about it. Who would refuse to drink at someone else's expense when all you have to do is brag?

This time it didn't work out. Well, in other words, the main goal was not achieved. Daimon's resistance to alcohol was negligible before the Wall. The stern and taciturn warrior was truly indestructible. It was a matter of principle, and the wine - not the worst of the guild - flowed like a river. The enigmatic Wall drank like a champion - for five, without a snack, and don't give a damn. His group fell under the table after the seventh keg. After the ninth, Bryce joined them. The eleventh finished off Daimon, too. The emptied jar rolled off the table, and another took its place. Daimon sighed, wagged his finger at someone, and dropped his face into the plate of bread, leaving Era alone with the heavily intoxicated but still thinking Wall.

Era herself drank only symbolically, which is why she caught the finale.

"It was a good time," hiccuped Wall, cracking open the keg.

"Yeah," Era agreed, glancing skeptically at the bodies on the floor.

There was no need to worry about the "fallen"; the servants would later put them in their rooms.

"You take care of yourself, you drink carefully, don't you?" Wall sniggered as he poured the red drink into a mug. "Do you want a refill?"

"There's more," Era pointedly shook her mug, which was still half full of wine.

Wall nodded and poured one for himself with a slightly trembling hand.

"There's more for me. It's not much wine, though," he said as he took another few sips. "I'm not even drunk, and I'm tired of drinking."

"The wine is fine," Era countered. "That's you unbreakable."

"Ha, there are no others in the Dawn Guard!" Wall spread his hands smugly. "Fortitude, the first virtue... Hmm."

Wall became silent and shook his head.

"Something I... I think it got me."

"Come on," Era began to tease. "Whatever you used to be, you're an adventurer now. Did you use to be a guardian? What's so secret about that?"

"You understand a lot. I... I can't talk about it. I'm not allowed to."

Era leaned on the table, moving closer.

"Only two people can tell you what to do now, you and the Head of the Guild. One thing I can say for the other is that he doesn't care. Come on, spill it, it's interesting. What kind of guards do they only take such impenetrable people into?"

"Impenetrable?"

Wall, with a strange expression on his face, also leaned on the table, bringing his face closer to Era.

"Just because you can't beat someone doesn't mean they're invincible." The warrior jabbed an admonishing finger at Era. "It just means you don't have the strength. That's all. It was my duty to keep my city safe from monsters you wouldn't see in any nightmare."

Wall wrinkled, hiccupped and leaned back.

"Enough about that. Now I'm just a novice adventurer. I was told I could keep my past to myself." He took a straw stare at the bodies under the table. "The booze sucks, but there's plenty more where that came from. Let's drink it."

There was nothing else she could pull from Wall. He simply brushed off questions about himself. During the two kegs, Era shared some tricks for dealing with the ghoul and told a couple of funny stories about the adventures of their group. The "fallen ones" were unobtrusively dispersed to their rooms. And then morning came.

Era drank, even if little, but she drank nonetheless. The sleepless night in addition to the wine did not add to her vigor at all. There was no way to get some sleep before the appointed time. In order not to lose face in front of the head of the branch, had to sacrifice not very cheap tonic potion.

Era exhaled, knocked on the heavy carved door, and pushed it open.

In the simply and tastefully furnished office were three men. The director of the department, a lean, elderly, unflappable man in a worn camisole and monocle, sat in a chair opposite the priest.

The priest in the white and gold cassock looked as if he'd been up all night with Era for company, only he hadn't taken any life-giving elixirs. A pale face with fine lines flashed in dark circles under his flushed eyes. There was a palpable odor of dissatisfaction and irritation about him.

And by the window stood the chief wizard of the Branch, and of the city as well. He was a short, plump, smiling good-looking man with a fleshy face and a robe that looked more like a bathrobe.

Ere was personally acquainted with him. The impression of a gentleman and sybarite was not deceptive - the mage did not limit himself to the available comforts and pleasures. And he did not take to heart other people's points of view on the matter. There was that his colleagues and clergy chided him, saying that it is not appropriate for a respectable man to behave so intemperately. To which he replied, "Why should I have wealth and power if I limit myself in the benefits they bring? Better drink with me this fine wine, taste these delicacies, and tell an interesting story!"

At the same time, he was a great specialist with an immense reservoir of knowledge about all kinds of things.

"Oh, Era, you're right on time." The mage smiled.

He moved his fingers, and the door closed softly behind Era. For a moment afterward, there was an unnatural, oppressive silence in the room.

"We've just run out of topics to discuss. Have a seat. Don't be surprised by the Prelate's presence, this worthy husband is not here by mistake."

Through the soft and friendly voice, Eira could feel the poisonous sarcasm against her skin. He didn't seem pleased by the priest's presence, though the churchman himself clearly took what he said at face value.

Era bowed briefly to the Head of the Branch and sat down on the edge of her chair.

"I am ready to answer any questions."

"Fine. Where's the gifted one you lured into your dubious gang?" The priest immediately jumped up.

Era wanted to answer, and rather sharply. However, she simply ignored the question, continuing to stare at the mage and the Head of the Branch.

"Answer me!" The priest boiled up, seeing that he was being ignored.

As he stared at Era, he wasn't even paying attention to the way the head of the branch's mask of equanimity was letting loose. Even the mage, known for his positive attitude toward everything, pursed his lips.

"Era, I apologize to you for the tone of our guest. The circumstances are rather complicated, and he can be understood... Honorable Abacus, try to control yourself. We have already discussed this."

"There's no time for flattery now, Director, you know that very well. So, where is the gifted one?"

The director rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly and turned to Era.

"This is a really important question, Era. It's obvious from your report on your return that he left you of his own accord. But there are no details. What happened?"

Era hesitated to answer.

"Returning from the Kaz Plains, we made the decision to hurry to E-Rantel, and he disagreed. He wanted to take a different route. It would have taken an unknown amount of time and was too dangerous for our group. In the end, he decided to go without us."

"You say it was too dangerous for your group, and yet you decided to split up and let him go alone? Given your very recent loss, you should know how that sounds."

Era lowered her head.

"Yes, I understand."

The priest inhaled sharply, jumping up from his seat, and, meeting the cold stare of the Head of the Branch, sat back down with a strained sniffle.

The magician, sadly pressed his lips, shook his head hopefully and asked:

"Gentlemen, perhaps we do not fully understand the circumstances. Era, the light of my day, gives us a reason to calm down. Explain why you let this young man, Taler, go alone."

Era exhaled.

"And we couldn't restrain him. No one could."

"What do you mean?" the director clarified.

"In a very direct way. I have no idea who... Ah. Taler showed himself to be an incredibly powerful wizard. He tried to appear weaker than he really was. But when the situation was really critical... I've never even heard of such spells. He... Burned six monsters, all resembling the undead, in one spell. In an instant. And when we left the plains after that, he refused to come with us. He needed to go somewhere else entirely. I don't know where exactly. And... I really can't think of any way we could have gotten him to continue with us. And we ourselves decided not to risk going into the unknown after the strongest mage who was trying to hide his capabilities. That was it."

"Shameless lie!" the priest barked, and, not paying attention to the others, jumped up from his seat. "This tale is like a child's excuse! See the holy heroes, I tried to be tolerant. You weak-minded thugs tricked a man with potentially the strongest holy gift in a generation into committing suicide! First, one promising boy goes missing, it can be written off as an accident. But you immediately ruin the second and still make up some absurd nonsense! Where is his corpse at least?! Answer me!"

At first, Era tried to ignore this tirade. She knew that the church molded its ministers into a worldview that was not entirely consistent with reality. After all, she herself had grown up in its dogmas and rules.

She believed that greed and hubris were a tolerable disadvantage compared to the benefits of the priests.

This situation was beyond all limits. Formally, the priest was nothing to her - she was not a priest, she was not part of the parish, and she always paid (sacrificed) the full price for the services of the priests. Quite a lot of money.

With an apparent effort to pull herself together and ignore the churchman again, she asked the Head:

"Mr. Director, I have been invited to you on an urgent and important matter. It involves listening to... This?"

The Head nodded unhappily.

"Yes. I'll explain later. Reverend, calm down. We'll get to the bottom of this."

A kind of interrogation went on for at least an hour, and it was quite tense. The priest quickly regained his composure and stopped overstepping his bounds, but he still made Era nervous. For what reason he was so worried about Taler, Era could still somehow understand. One way or another, the Guild was interacting with the Church. Not on the level of formal obligations - the priests didn't want to share authority with "vagrants and anarchists.

The Guild helped the Church to solve problems that the celestials did not care about. There were often situations where the landowner did not want to spend money on hiring adventurers. So something eats the peasants, so what? Five will be lost in a year and twenty will be born. Disease and starvation will kill ten more, and still be profitable. Thanks to the princess, they can't be bought or sold now anyway. Taxes are paid, and that's all right.

In such cases, the Church could not remain silent in the face of people's troubles. And to miss an opportunity, of course. The Church's coffers paid for the hiring of Guild cutthroats, who quickly and quietly solved the problems of the common people, leaving all the laurels to the priests. The Church was a pleasure to work with - the greedy priests paid little and reluctantly, but always on time and in full. Besides, they helped with preparation before and treatment after, free of charge. Often churchmen with stronger balls helped in the field as well - and such help was hard to overestimate.

The Church also willingly trained those who had at least some connection to higher forces. It did not take money for this either but did not miss a chance to lure a promising person to its side.

All in all, everyone was happy. The people got security, the priests got influence, and the guild got money. There were conflicts of interest, but they were resolved quickly and quietly.

But she could not recall a churchman being present at such a meeting and behaving as if he were owed anything. But she remembered how the theocratic priests behaved. And that made it hard.

She had prepared for such an interrogation, but, as it turned out, not thoroughly enough. Only the appearance of that creepy woman in black and the fact that Taler's "reinforcements" were undead were kept secret. The cool, assertive head and the mage's very keen eye for detail shook out literally everything else.

How they walked, what they did, what they talked about, what happened along the way, how this Taler acted.

And word by word, question by question, Era began to better understand how strange and powerful a person was traveling with them. Or if they were human at all. It was not human power to bestow such power on allies. It was not human power to break the curse of Kaz with a single spell, to dispel the worst Death's messengers that history has remembered.

Looking at everything from the sidelines, it was as if Taler was just out for a walk. It was as if there was no danger in the world for him. And what had happened on the Plains showed that he had every right to think so.

And as soon as it got really dangerous - and it was hard for Era to imagine what kind of enemy it could be - help showed up.

Elven cutthroats, skeletons, in Daimon's estimation, no weaker than the ones that had nearly minced them into a dungeon in the Forest of Tob. A meat giant, so monstrous in appearance that Era couldn't even remember him in detail.

And that creepy woman in black armor. And something told her that she was worth no less than everything else put together.

Why the undead had come to protect the light mage, Era did not even try to explain to herself.

And the fact that the whole absurd company left through the spatial gate, in the background of the rest was not even surprising.

As the interrogation progressed the priest, at first as if ready to attack Era with his fists, became more and more thoughtful and calm. By the end, he was fully in keeping with the image of a dignified servant of the higher powers.

"So, after your companion left, there was nothing more to remind you of his presence, am I to understand you correctly?" The priest clarified again.

"Yes," Era nodded. "We've never seen anything else or anyone else connected to him."

The priest squinted intently. Of course, Era lied, and of course, he knew it.

Then, I found out all that I came here for. Success to your good deeds, good gentlemen. The Heroes are with us.

The rest of those present nodded, and the priest left the office.

The Head of the Branch exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Era, I owe you an apology for meeting like that. It was humiliating, I know, and I'm sorry. It was necessary."

"Humiliating? Mr. Director, with all due respect, I remember the Guild Charter by heart. There's not a word in there about priests that shake adventurers like penitent whores. I..."

The magician intervened.

Era, sunshine, now you're no better than that venerable priest. Maybe you should listen to someone who's never let anyone down. And then we can have a little boil afterward, can't we? Better yet, you and I can go to my favorite place, and I'll buy you whatever you want. And then we can get in a good fight. Deal?

The fat do-gooder smiled and spread his palms out.

Era couldn't help but smile back.

"Okay. But still, what was it? Why was the Priest here, and why was he questioning me as if he had the right to do so?"

The director pursed his lips.

The church in E-Rantel is in trouble. A few days ago, the bishop disappeared without a trace. It's not even that he was a member of the magistrate's council. And in general, quite a lot depends on him in this city. It is precisely a matter of disappearing at a crucial moment. And in addition to him, several important persons were missing. Before the bishop's disappearance, the church had kept its problems a secret, but now it cannot.

"I see. But what does this have to do with us and Taler?"

"Somehow they had found out about Taler's talents and had far-reaching plans for him. And now, a series of mysterious disappearances and their new hope has gone somewhere, too. One to the other, and the venerable priest thought you had something to do with all these disappearances. I wanted to bring all possible clarity to the matter, so I invited him here."

Era nodded.

"I'm just a low-ranking adventurer; I can suffer humiliation just so you won't fight with the churchmen."

"I wouldn't put it that way," the older man said with a wince. "There's been some trouble, and it's going to cause a lot of trouble for everyone. For the Guild, too. Keeping order is worth a little patience... But we can talk about that later. There are more important things to do now, especially in light of what you've told us."

The director rubbed the bridge of his nose again, gathering his thoughts.

"I am sure that Taler's departure has nothing to do with the disappearances of the priests. That certainty does not cancel out the disappearances... What worries me is this. The bishop is the one who led the rituals of burying the dead and consecrating the land. E-Rantel is not so far from the damned plains that you don't have to worry about a cemetery as big as the one in this city. In itself, it is not such a big problem, for he has deputies."

"Which..." Era frowned.

"Exactly. They disappeared somewhere, too." the headmaster nodded. "The venerable Ernst, senior in rank at the moment, was not involved in these rituals. He is incapable of restoring proper care to the parsonage quickly, and he knows it. And he is very worried about the possible prospects if the city graveyard is left without proper care and protection. He makes every effort to get to the bottom of the reasons for these disappearances. His insistence and intemperance, which unfortunately hurt you so much, grow out of that concern. So I would appreciate it if you didn't take his behavior so personally."

*******Of course, asshole, I'll keep quiet. Dream on it thought Era but said something else.

"I get it. А... Is the Guild planning to do something about it?"

"Absolutely. I will not disclose the details, but I can only say that many contracts have already been drawn up, making our participation in all this quite profitable. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot to do. And you and Mr. Wizard must have something to discuss without me."

The chubby mage nodded.

"Come on, honey. We'll treat your nerves and talk about things that will make the esteemed head fall asleep before he reaches his desk."

The door behind the mage and the adventurer closed. The headmaster rubbed his eyes tiredly. It had been a difficult day. And there was a lot to think about and sort out.

Flashes in the sky over the cursed plains have greatly frightened people, and unhealthy rumors are spreading.

The Church dare much more than usual

Also, somehow information was leaving the Guild. Not important enough to make an investigation, but still, it was annoying.

The director returned to his office, sat down at his desk, and habitually pushed the bell with his finger. The secretary did not appear. This was unusual; for several years she had always responded promptly.

"I hope she's busy with something really important..." The head grimaced.

A slight chuckle was heard from outside.

The Head's hand slipped subtly under the table, to the bottle of poison stashed in a small recess of the table. He smoothed the lid with his finger; if I pressed it just a little, the poisonous fumes would kill every living thing in the room in seconds, whether it was breathing or not. Except for the Head himself, of course. Only then did he turn his head at the sound. There should have been no intruders in the room; those present at the meeting had left it. And yet there was clearly an intruder - and only the way he gave himself away kept the Head from using poison at once.

The stranger, an older man of small stature, with a neat little beard and a shabby traveling suit, was leaning relaxed against the doorjamb. The thin dagger in his hand seemed to occupy all his attention - the man was carefully wiping the blade with a soft cloth.

"Commendable reflex, Director."

The man held the blade up to his eyes and examined it meticulously from all sides. Satisfied with what he saw, with a deft movement of his hand he sent the weapon into his sleeve. The Headmaster removed his hand from under the table, stood up and bowed courteously.

"Your visit is a great honor, Sir Head. What have I done to deserve it?"

The visitor smiled easily, heading toward the table.

"You have been inattentive and forgetful, my friend."

On the table was a sheet of cheap paper, written in small handwriting. The Head knew the handwriting - it belonged to his secretary. He took the paper and read the text - it didn't make sense at first glance. It was alarming - the woman who wrote in this handwriting was characterized by a completely different way of writing.

"It looks like some kind of code..." the Director stretched out and looked up at his guest. "Since you brought it, I suppose I'll never see her again?"

"Right," the guest nodded. "It's a little strange, doing your job, Director. Was it really that hard to figure out what the person running your business was doing?"

Seeing that the Director was about to say something, the guest raised his hand.

"No need for excuses. Now, about forgetfulness."

The guest went to the window and peered out into the bustling life behind it.

"I've been here since this morning. Actually, I came for some other reason, but I got curious and decided to listen to what was going on on the ground here. Well..."

"I suppose you didn't like what you heard?" the Director hesitantly inquired.

"To put it mildly."

The guest elusively turned around and fixed an indifferent, icy gaze on the headmaster. The headmaster was visibly taller, almost half a head taller - even taking a half bow.

"We've had this conversation before, about thirty years ago, no more." His voice became harsh. "But you seem to have forgotten about it, so I'll refresh your memory. MY Guild works on one principle that hasn't changed. When someone has a problem they can't handle, they come begging for our help. We set the conditions. The client accepts them - or leaves with nothing."

The guest paused and continued.

"In the hangouts, I've been observing here since this morning, I didn't see that. I saw some piece of meat DEMANDING. And he didn't get his tongue cut off or even kicked out. Somehow he was allowed to act like the Guild owed him something."

"But after all... " The director tried to object and didn't have time to continue.

The guest's tenacious hand grabbed him by the hair and pushed his face into the wall.

"It's rude to interrupt. You've led me astray... I did. I was deeply outraged at the fact that an outsider wouldn't show proper respect to a member of the Guild. I was even more outraged by the fact that you think such a thing is acceptable. And I find it absurd that all this should have taken place here in the guild. Do you see what I mean?"

The guest turned the director's head toward him and shook it. He wiped the blood dripping from his nose with his palm and tried to nod.

"But it seems to me that you don't. Or you do, but not completely. In fact, you're not the first to make my Guild into this mess."

The guest squeamishly tossed the director aside and shook off his hand.

"That's pretty much how it starts. It's always the same. Long-term agreements, mutual assistance, concessions. And little by little the Guild ends up owing something to someone, obligated to someone. The interests of third parties become at first equal to, and then higher than, the interests of the Guild's rank-and-file members. Then the Guild begins to take orders from the others. Tell me, why did that fool's interests take precedence over the girl's?"

The director stood up, leaning on his desk.

"This priest is likely to become the head of the Church of that city. Maintaining a good relationship with the Church greatly empowers the Guild and makes it easier to work as a whole. We can protect more people and make more money. Effectiveness requires some sacrifices, and they seemed justified to me."

The guest nodded thoughtfully.

"It's the same with politics. And with any structure that has some kind of power." The guest turned back to the window. "I let the case go on its own once. I wondered how it would end. I had certain assumptions. I believed that a force like the Guild would not be allowed to remain neutral, and would try to take control, fragment, and turn it into its own instrument of influence. And you know, I turned out to be completely right. It took fifty years, a measly two generations, for the Guild to go from being the organization I created it to being something like the personal guard of the next crowned sucker. External control at all levels, repression, corruption.

My brainchild was stolen, broken, and remade to suit their needs. Importantly, this did not happen all of a sudden. Year after year, this filth seeped deeper and deeper. One non-lethal change, another. First the treaties of mutual aid. After that, lands and riches were for the eminent domain. Then, with their connivance, secular law for the Guild as a whole. Then personal oaths to the sovereign, the registry, the treasury decree, and other nonsense. My patience and curiosity have cost me dearly, I'll tell you that. And I have no further intention of showing either."

The director asked quietly:

"But there has to be a way around it, right? We can't just ignore the world around us, we have to take care of people..."

"We can do anything, and we don't owe anyone anything." the guest interrupted him coldly. "You don't seem to want to understand that. I thought the main problem was your secretary peddling guild secrets. That's enough. You can no longer hold the position of branch leader. Send word of your resignation to all the branches. Don't forget to apologize to that girl, and get the same from the jerk you've been bending over all morning."

"I understand, Head. Only I'm not sure that the bishop..."

At the next moment, the Head of the Guild was so close to the Director that he almost touched him.

"He behaved inappropriately and insulted one of us. This is unacceptable. He must make it up to us - or die, as painfully and as long as it takes for him to realize his mistake. The corpses of vagrants and emperors stink the same. Do you understand me?"

The director, covered in sweat, nodded silently.

"Good. Now to my business. I need "message" scrolls, the old ones, not the ones bought in the Empire."

* * *
*Draga*

It was late afternoon when Draga reached the city of E-Rantel. The splendor of the Dawn and the events associated with it were dozens of miles behind her.

As well as the barely tasted equilibrium of the soul.

So much powerless envy was in Malikriss's eyes. So sweet was her jealousy and anger.

And how bitter their own. The contemptuous sneer in the witch's parting gaze burned.

The city of the natives to which the Prophet had sent Draga, she greeted in her usual frame of mind - hatred of all living things. The beast, bound by chains of will and duty, stirred inside, searching for the slightest weakness. The sight that greeted her on the outskirts of the town made that weakness dangerously reachable.

A huge mass of people clung shyly and resentfully to the low, crooked walls. There were thousands of them - smelly, filthy, sickly ragamuffins of all genders and ages. The mass of people was a muddy puddle from the moat itself, which smelled scarcely worse than the peasants' clothes, to the distance an arrow could have flown from the wall.

The crowd was not even - the closer to the road, the denser and farther away it was. In the twilight, even denser because of the deceptively bright sky, were the lights of the fires. The surrounding countryside looked as if everything that could grow for miles around the city had been ripped out for the sake of those fires.

The gathering of thousands not only shat and stank but also made the appropriate noise. It was easy to detect infant squeals, women's and men's cries, painful groans, scolding, and laughter in the general commotion.

And on top of it all reigned fear. The smell of fear, of uncertainty, of vain hope, was so thick that it seemed to be touchable.

Thousands of souls begging to be ripped from their bodies and devoured.

Seeing this forbidden feast, Draga closed her eyes and could barely catch her breath.

The road leading to E-Rantel was understandably empty. There was no one willing to pass on the road with so many frightened beggars settled on it. Draga found it strange that the local law enforcement did not disperse the hordes.

Of course, she was noticed. A splendid black aspic stallion with a rider equipped in very expensive, by local standards, armor.

The crowd's first impulse was to encircle her. Draga didn't care what the motive was-she just wanted an excuse to massacre her. The nightmare moved its hooves unhurriedly, not slowing its trot for an instant.

No one, unfortunately for Draga, risked trying to harm or stop her. On the contrary, in an attempt to clear her way, they caused a real jam.

And at the same time, an avalanche of tearful requests came upon her.

"Please, good Mistress."

She was about to let her feelings run wild, and then another idea occurred to her. She smiled coldly, reached into her purse, and pull out a handful of silver pennies. And with a lazy, sowing motion, she tossed it aside. The most enterprising, expectedly children immediately darted under the feet of the adults, searching for coins.

The rest of the crowd had barely had time to start moving when another handful flew in the other direction. And another.

Draga had quite a lot of silver coins with her. She was paid handsomely by local standards to kill monsters, and most of it was silver. The Prophet took only a few coins to study, and she kept the rest.

And now the seemingly useless metal offered unexpected entertainment. The people around her were pushing each other, shouting, and fighting over the ridiculous rounds. Some were even pushed to death - Draga could feel it, and again she could barely stop herself from adding to the deaths with her sword. Anyway, the path to the gate was cleared - the formidable appearance of the horsewoman drove them off the road, and the chance to get some coin beckoned them away.

Draga liked it. The heat of passion - fear, greed, hope - that simmered in the surrounding human mass was diluted a couple of times by flashes of disbelief and resentment from the lucky ones who'd been stabbed in the back. She reached the drawbridge smiling.

And just when the mood had improved, it began to deteriorate again. There was no way through the moat. The bridge was up, and between it and the entrance to the city was a good twenty paces of a ditch filled with rotten water and sewage. Not far from E-Rantel, there was a river, and from it, a deep, wide ditch was dug to the moat. And it was only enough to keep the water in the ditch, not to keep it fresh.

There were people on the gate towers. Draga could both see and sense them. The guards looked down with a mixture of indifference and gloating, and clearly had no intention of interfering with what was going on.

And lowering the bridge was clearly not part of their plan either.

It would have been no problem for Draga to enter the city by force. Two strokes of black flame where the chains were attached to the corners of the drawbridge, and the bridge would be in its proper place. Or she could use the impact right from the spot and with one dash to cross the moat and drop the flimsy wooden structure. If the Prophet had not wished her to avoid unnecessary destruction, she would have chosen one of these options without hesitation. Under the circumstances, however, the demon restrained herself, condescending to say the least.

"Hey, you on the walls! Lower the bridge. I need to get through."

She was not answered. The bridge remained in place, and several crossbows were pointed in her direction. The beast inside twitched, an icy frenzy hitting her head with such force that it made her eyes dizzy for a second.

"I'll say it once more. Lower the bridge."

This time there was an answer. A badly shaven head in a helmet without a visor peeked out from behind the loophole.

"Not allowed, Mistress. By order of the Mayor, there is no passage into the city after sunset."

"I don't care about the Mayor or the regulations. I'll give you one minute to open the gate," Draga growled.

"What happens after a minute, ma'am?" With some skepticism, the guard asked.

"After a minute, I will enter that gate. Over the bridge or over its wreckage. The clock is ticking."

* * *

The sergeant only hummed, pulling away from the loophole. The old soldier wasn't particularly worried. Orders from above gave him the right to disobey even the king, though, of course, if his majesty were here, no one would even think of not letting him in.

So the pouting woman downstairs could keep her threats to herself. She was not fired upon only because she looked like someone of nobility. This was not the first year the watchman had been on guard. He could feel the situation. If the stung woman came in looking for trouble in the morning, it wouldn't be him who would get in trouble. He was a mere sergeant, doing his duty as instructed.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a strange rustling in the watchtower. His intuition, nurtured by service in not the calmest city in the kingdom, howled. He took a quick look around the wall - his ten men stuck out from above the gate, torches were near bowls of oiled logs, crossbows drawn. On the city's side came the usual noise - the barking of dogs, the hubbub of a nearby tavern, cats screeching on the sharp roofs in the glow of the moon's peeking out.

But something was definitely wrong.

The officer waved to the nearest subordinate to be on the lookout and strode quickly into the tower. The thick, low door opened without the usual creaky note, which convinced him that something was amiss.

It was bright in the guardhouse, with both torches burning steady on the walls. And what he saw in that light caused him to interject his halberd into the fighting position before his brain could catch up.

The shift, six men, lay on the floor in uncomfortable positions. Right in their armor, their weapons in their sheaths. The deputy glimpsed that there was no blood.

There was a stranger near the hoisting mechanism. He was dressed gray and discreetly, the kind of man you couldn't pick out in a crowd. He was elderly, with a short beard that was thickly streaked with handsome gray hair. And the man was clearly about to pull out a stop wedge when the sergeant looked in.

The situation was impossible and, therefore, eerie. No one, not even the lauded adventurers, could get into this guardhouse unnoticed. Neither could any other place that was off-limits to outsiders. The magic that was applied to such rooms cost enormous sums of money and had never failed before.

These thoughts, in simple images, flashed through the sergeant's mind in a split second. The halberd had no sooner been in the horizontal position from which it is so convenient to poke his guts out with a single poke when the intruder glanced at the guard and raised his finger eloquently to his lips. And at that moment, silence struck his ears - all sounds from outside were cut off.

The sergeant was not particularly clever, but he was neither an idiot nor a coward. Whoever this old man was, the bodies on the floor told him he was extremely dangerous, and he did not want to rush at him. But it was necessary to raise the alarm. And something told him that not a sound would be heard now, so there was no use in yelling.

The sergeant backed up, trying to take the narrow passage and move beyond the ringing silence.

"What are you doing here, huh?" the soldier asked, just in case.

"I'm saving your life," the stranger said dryly and kicked the locking lever out of the bridge's lifting mechanism.

The chain rumbled merrily and flowed downward. The next moment, dozens of colored lights exploded in the eyes of the officer.

* * *

The natives were prudent enough. Within a minute the bridge was down. Draga waited for the planking to settle in front of her, and at a leisurely trot, she approached the gate.

There we had to dismount, for it was impossible to get through the gate when it opened. It was opened by a rather surprised guard, but to his credit, he did not utter a word. Draga lazily tossed another handful of silver in front of him and continued on her way.

Though the contrast between here and Dawn was striking, it wasn't as dirty and filthy as E-Arsenal. Outside the gate was no mere marketplace, with narrow, crooked streets leading out into it. There was a real main street, crooked though it was, almost three carts wide and paved with cobblestones. The houses on the sides of the street had painted fronts, and there were hardly any clean wooden houses.

Although, of course, the reek of open gutters was just as bad, if not worse.

In general, the atmosphere in the city was very much like a state of siege. The shutters were tightly closed, and the streets were empty except for the nervous patrols of guards. Though, Draga sensed that there were more people in the shadows of the back alleys.

As she moved farther away from the gate, down the main street, she heard a surprised scolding at the gate, but she paid it no mind. She met the nearest patrol just around the corner - and from the guards, she asked where the Guild Office was located. Here she was treated with a little more respect than she got at the gate once she'd shown her adventurer's badge.

The local branch of the Guild was also different from the Arsenal branch. In E-Arsenal, it was a small fortress within the city limits. Here, though the building stood apart, it was not like a fortress, with large, almost half-height windows and as many as three stories in height. On the whole, the house looked more like a mansion squeezed into the street.

Without so much as a glance at the brutes at the entrance, she stepped inside.

Inside it was... Noisy. The pub hall, which traditionally occupied almost the entire first floor, was not that crowded but close to it. Nearly a hundred people in all sorts of gear were drinking, eating, whispering, and thoughtfully studying the order board on the wall full of forms. It was as if an exhibition of weapons, armor, and magical gadgets had gathered here. Steel and leather armor, in varying degrees of shabbiness, stood beside camp clothes and colorful robes. Swords for every hand, from heavy broadswords and gladiuses to wave-bladed two-handed swords, were interspersed with simple, intricately carved staffs.

Too small and disorganized for a regular army, it could easily pass for a mercenary army. But it was a far more formidable force than the armies of any of the individual feudal lords. At least from the local point of view.

Draga was immediately noticed. There were whispers, and more and more people looked at her on the way to the reception desk.

And, of course, she was blocked in her way.

The man, broad-boned, wiry, shaggy, with bad teeth, stepped carelessly into her path. He wore no armor, and the only weapon he wore was a gnarled steel cleaver on his belt, with another hilt of something shorter peeping out of his boot. It was noticeably more worn than the cleavers.

The big guy, taller than Draga by almost a head, wearing only a gray shirt of coarse cloth and the same pants, stood relaxed in front of her with his hands at his waist and grinned.

"What a pretty new face in our pit. Who gave you that steel medal?"

This ritual Draga had already undergone at the E-Arsenal. In fact, it was the only reason the insolent was not severely mutilated. She kicked the man in the groin without stopping, and as he bent over, she met his face with a knee shackled in black metal. And she straightened her leg, sending the body kicking away.

The big guy squawked funny and flew away, shriveled up like a crushed worm. Instead of screams, there was only a short whistling whine. There was a silence - a silence that didn't happen often in a guild. Draga ignored the change of scenery and strode to the counter as if nothing had happened.

"I have business with the Director," she threw coldly in the face of the involuntarily shrunken girl on the other side.

"He's... He's busy right now, I can sign you up..." She murmured.

"Ask him to make time today. It's urgent, and I have no interest in paperwork or anything else."

"I-I-I got it, how do I introduce you?"

"Draga, Dark Maiden. I should be known in E-Arsenal. Tia, of those, what's their name, Blue Rose, invited me here."

"I-I got it, I'll be right back..."

"Is there a backyard here?"

"Аh... Ah, there's a door over there, it's free..."

"Yeah. Go ahead."

The pale girl picked up her notebook and ran off into the back of the building. Draga, on the other hand, glanced around at everyone present.

She was definitely the center of attention. A hundred pairs of eyes studied her, and apart from the whimpering of the big guy on the floor, over whom a couple of people were already leaning, not a sound could be heard. She hummed and walked to the backyard.

Draga remembered that it was something of a tradition here to test the strength of strangers and newcomers. She was frankly too lazy to do all that dancing in the part where she had to blow off the most insolent one.

The backyard was quite tidy. The ground was tilled, and there was even a boardwalk here and a tall stone fence. The wall of the building opposite was blank, without a single window. Near the wall of the guild, there were rough but sturdy dummies for practicing blows and shooting targets.

She went out and stopped right in the center. The wait wasn't long, and in less than half a minute the rest of the adventurers began to come out of the doors one by one.

As they surrounded her in a very wide ring, she noticed familiar faces. That trio the Prophet had babysat the other day. She smelled them as soon as she entered the building, but she saw them only now.

A medium-sized guy with a wide scar across his face came out of the row. If it weren't for that scar, he might have looked like a sleek, blond, good-looking guy. Unlike the man who'd been left lying in the canteen, he wore armor, lightweight armor with numerous nicks and dents on it. On his belt hung a broad straight sword in a scabbard.

"I haven't seen you here before. That's the kind of girl I'd remember. My name is Jerrick." He pulled the chain around his neck, pulling out a dark gray plate from beneath his breastplate. "Silver rank."

Draga nodded and also showed her badge.

"Drag. In E-Arsenal they called me the Dark Maiden. Steel."

"The Dark Maiden? I've heard it in passing. Did the E- Arsenal teach you how to cripple your comrades in cause?"

Draga raised an eyebrow.

"Comrades? Are you referring to the trash that blocked my way?"

Jerrick pursed his lips.

"You're asking for trouble."

"Shut up, you worm. I'm bored with all this talk. Go on, take your weapon, and beat your righteousness into me."

Jerrick scowled, stepped back, and unhooked his sword from his belt without removing it from its sheath.

Whatever you say. I respect your wish.

The sword, not light and still in its scabbard, fluttered as butterflies in Jerrick's relaxed fingers. It seemed to be in more than one position at a time. And then Jerrick struck a powerful blow to Draga's face.

Despite his impeccable eyesight and perfect reflexes, the strike missed the target. It just didn't reach her. Jerrick jumped back to square one, trying to figure out why he missed. It was obvious from the position of Draga's legs that she simply recoiled from the blow. Except at what point it happened, he didn't catch it.

Jerrick got up, realizing in all seriousness that instead of an instructive beating of a rookie, he got a real test for himself.

"You move pretty well," he said dryly.

"And you're awful. I expected more."

"Anything more will end in injury or death for you."

"I'll tell you how your silly talk ends. You'll be lying here in the dust, choking on your vomit."

Jerrick tried to look for possible gaps in the defense. Besides the obvious one, the head, there were underarms in the armor, but it would clearly be impossible to reach there. Not with that kind of reaction from the enemy. He wasn't about to stab her in the head with a naked blade - the healers could deal with most of the damage, but not with a corpse. And something told him that he had only one chance of a successful attack.

Draga, still not pulling her sword from behind, beckoned Jerrick with a finger, and he made up his mind. He came in a flurry, intending to injure her hands with the sword - armor is armor, but a sword is not a twig - and then continue with a knife throw from his left hand after the blow. It always worked. If the sword hit the target, there was no need to throw. If it didn't - the flying knife would at least distract from the instant sword strike from below upwards.

Draga pursed her lips contemptuously, and the next moment Jerrick realized that the inner voice had lied about one chance.

She stepped toward him in a relaxed, but incredibly quick movement, grabbed his wrist, and jerked it aside with such force that every joint from hand to shoulder popped out. Jerrick lost his balance from the jerk, and would have flown far forward had he let go of his arm. But as it was, he just hit the ground with his whole weight. The next thing he knew, he was kicked brutally in the torso. The plate of his bib held, but the body itself did not.

Jerrick flew a good ten steps away. His numb insides were spasming with cheap wine and bread.

Draga snorted contemptuously.

"I'm not even disappointed. I hope it wasn't the toughest fighter?"

Several men rushed to the lying man. As they carefully picked up the twitching body and carried it into the building, a short, wiry, black-haired big man in a riveted leather jacket appeared before Draga. One of the Prophet's pets. He spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture.

"Hey, good mistress, stop being angry! We have all realized our mistake, and I apologize on behalf of everyone here for the rude manner."

"What's your name, clown?"

"I'm Bryce. The clown offends me a little, but at least it's not a worm, so I'll take that as a compliment! I have a favor to ask of you."

"Yes?" Draga arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Ha. Well, come on."

Bryce bowed respectfully.

"We all realized that you're a lot stronger than you look. Would you mind being a little gentler? You can't hide your skill behind your rudeness, but it's like a rat's tail in a sausage, it's no big deal, but it spoils the whole impression."

Draga chuckled.

"You're funny. Okay, I'll pretend I care. Did you just want to talk, or did you want something else?"

"Oh, I'd like a lot from such a pretty girl... Oh, wait, that's not what I meant..."

Draga took her hand away from his throat, and he continued.

"And about that too, but no, not now!"

"You are testing my patience."

I ask you to show us your swordsmanship. None of us can compare to you. That's obvious. Can you show it less brutally?

"What do you mean?"

Duels from which the participants don't have to be carried away. Well, you with a weapon, and I with a weapon, just without all that mutilation.

Draga, on the one hand, was annoyed by this chatterbox. On the other, he was no more annoying than anything else around her. And he suggested something no more pointless than what she was supposed to do. Though, it was more complicated.

"Whatever you like."

She drew her sword from behind with a rustle. It was a fake, and so was the armor - her best gear was waiting in her inventory, and she wore outright junk for show.

Bryce stared mesmerized at the matte-silver blade. It seemed as if you could cut your eyes on it.

* * *

There was a pounding, nervous knock on the door of the office director's office. The director frowned, regretting again the loss of his secretary.

"Come in."

A pale, shaking receptionist girl rushed into the room.

"What happened?"

"Mr. Director, there's a de-de-demon in there!"

"What?" The Director rose smoothly from his chair. "Focus. Where's the demon? What's going on downstairs?"

A trembling girl walked up to the table.

"Downstairs. The demon is downstairs. She beat Knorrig and demanded to see you. And then she left for the backyard. Everyone in the hall followed her."

Director went pale and rushed to the window. He didn't think he had the right to doubt the registrar's words. They were very carefully trained to recognize all sorts of creatures. As well as the illusions favored by sentient undead, demons, and criminals of every sort. On top of that, any e-Rantel registrar had amulets chained to their souls to enhance perception. And since the girl was so frightened, the situation was out of the ordinary.

Outside the window, there was fighting. Director extinguished the first impulse to rush into the fight. Fighting demons required a clear head and a clear understanding of who you were dealing with. Any mistake led not just to a painful death but often to an extremely bad death. Director had personal experience of encounters with the forces of evil in his youth, and from that time had scars, not only bodily. So, inwardly regretful, he wrote off the people below in advance. Either they could handle it, which was quite likely, given their average rank, or they could not be saved. And by what was going on below, one could understand the enemy.

But the next few seconds of observation revealed a strange thing.

Immediately the figure in the center of the courtyard caught his eye. The completely black outfit made it impossible to see the details, but the steel flashes of a two-handed sword were clearly visible. It fluttered intricately in its owner's hands as if it were a feather, rising and falling, parrying and braiding the attackers' blows in precise semicircles and vortexes.

There were many attackers, five of them attacked the swordsman at once - and it had absolutely no effect on their success. Director had a trained eye to recognize some of the techniques and their execution - the attackers were adventurers, most of whom he knew personally.

And the strange thing was that when the sword struck another target, it nailed it to the ground or threw it away - but it didn't cut into bodies, didn't cut off limbs. Though, seeing the movements, the headmaster was sure that if the swordsman had intended murder, the courtyard would have turned into a butcher's vat of goulash in a matter of moments.

The swordsman struck very carefully. Flat out. And everyone who got hit quietly crawled away, giving way to another.

"The demon you're talking about is dressed all in black and with a two-handed sword?" Director kept watching and asked.

"Yes, Mr. Director, in female form!"

"Calm down, Arri. Nothing terrible is happening yet. You say the demon wanted to see me. Did he introduce himself?"

"Yes, Mr. Director. She said her name was Draga, her nickname from E-Arsenal, the Dark Maiden, and showed her badge, a real one."

"I heard about a new adventurer with that name. Either a changeling or someone at E-Arsenal has gone blind... Go downstairs and tell her I'm ready for her. Don't worry. She won't hurt you."

The girl clearly did not share the director's confidence, but she listened.

* * *

It wasn't as much fun as Draga thought it would be. And yet, it wasn't as boring as it seemed at first. It had been more fun in the E-Arsenal, but it was harder to hold back. There, the beast inside was frantically beating in chains from the smell of blood and the cracking of bones. Here, however, it only howled wistfully from the fighting, comparable in vigor to a run of drunken snails.

It cost Draga a great deal of effort to adjust her speed to the adventurers. Giving up the initiative, responding to slow, unskillful attacks not with crushing blows or knocking weapons out of hands but with techniques discernible to their blinded eyes. Deliberately slow and correct retraction of attacks and slamming the flat part of the blade to mark the fatal blow.

But that was enough for them.

Only the men with weapons participated in this sleep-dancing contest. The few people in whom the spark of magic could be guessed stayed away. It was a bit of a shame; Draga wouldn't have minded a lightning bolt or two to the pile - it might have added some pep to the proceedings.

One way or another, they didn't last long. After a few minutes, only one fighter remained on his feet in front of her. Not by accident and not because of her skills. She'd just left him for last - one of that trio near the plains. Not the chatterbox, who got his share almost immediately, but the other, the tougher one.

With him, Draga wanted to play longer and harder. Not for any particular reason. He was saved from an unenviable ending by an accident in the form of a frightened receptionist who looked out into the courtyard.

"Mistress Dark Maiden, the director is ready to receive you, please, I'll guide you. Let's go!" She slurred.

Draga gritted her teeth in regret. After a moment's hesitation, she kicked the lad right in the shield he had set up. She didn't glare at the body that had flown off toward the fence.

The girl leading her through the corridors and stairs was so piercingly frightened that it was hard not to eat her on the spot. It was only now that Draga noticed, with some surprise, that she was almost the only one in the whole building who felt fear.

"What is your name?"

"Arri, Mistress."

"Your heart is going to burst. I don't mind, though... Tell me, Arri. Why are you the only one who's afraid of me?"

"I-I please don't hurt me, please!"

The shaking girl, flooded with tears, pressed herself against the wall. Draga made a "boo!" and the girl howled thinly. Draga grinned contentedly.

"Okay. But still, answer the question."

"I-I don't know, I'm sorry!"

Draga saw that the girl was lying saying I don't know. But there was no time or need to torture. She just inwardly licked her lips and left the shaking girl alone. The office was on the third floor. The escort, clearly trying not to turn her back on Draga, knocked on the door and opened it after a muffled "come in," ran downstairs.

Draga entered, assessing the situation. There wasn't much to see. It was poor but clean, as Lord Cassius would have put it. A couple of couches, heavy shelving, a shabby rug, and a table by the big window.

From behind the table came a rather elderly, gaunt man in an obviously enchanted leather camisole.

"Draga, I presume? I'm flattered by the visit. Have a seat. The time is late, and the secretary is absent, but I can make tea personally for such a guest."

He was clearly wary, and there was a tightrope underneath his friendly tone.

There was clearly a trap in the room, and the man was ready to unleash it - and doubted whether he should. Draga grinned.

"At E-Arsenal, the director was not immediately ripe for such a reception. Do you have any milk?"

"Milk?" Director asked the question in amazement.

"Milk. Hot. With honey."

"What we don't have, we don't have. There's only wine and tea. But if it's a matter of principle, I'll figure something out..."

Draga brushed it off.

"You don't have to. I wanted a business meeting."

"I'm listening."

Draga went to the table and placed a sealed scroll on it.

"I want you to give this to the Head of the Guild."

"What is it?" Director asked politely, looking closely but not stretching out his hand to the object.

"This is a scroll, with a letter from... A certain sir. This sir wants to talk to the Head, and the scroll gives reasons why it might be of interest to both."

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but the Head is an extremely busy person, and a lot of people are looking for a meeting with him. Tell me, why is this case of this... Sir is more important than all the others?"

"Because this Sir's decisions will affect the whole world. You may not understand the depth of what I am saying. But your Head does. If he doesn't either... Then there's really no point in this meeting."

She moved the scroll closer to the Director.

"We need an answer within a week of tomorrow. If it is not there, then any interests of your Head will not be taken into account in the future."

* * *

The demon-it was a demon, and many things about it showed it off - was standing in front of the Director, grinning slightly and exuding disdain. The Director was tensely considering his options.

For a demon, the guest's behavior was highly atypical. They were notoriously cruel and assertive and never sacrificed their interests, not even in the slightest. They never counted for anything or anyone. If a demon wanted something, he took it right away. This demon was different from the image known to the director. He acted like a man endowed with tremendous power. And he came with an offer that technically included a refusal. Of course, who knows what's in that scroll, but he didn't really think the Head would personally unseal and study it.

And at the same time, there was such power behind this demon that the Director had no words to describe it. His perception whimpered, unable to find the limits of his guest's capabilities. It was a sensation that had previously arisen only in the presence of the Head. Could it mean that the demon was comparable in danger to the Head himself? Had the Director not been in the same room with the creature, he would have found the very thought of it absurd.

There were traps and cunning devices of a magical and mechanical nature in the room. The reputation of the Guild stood not only on riches and feats. And now, for some reason, the Director was sure that the infernal visitor would not even scratch if he were to unleash his entire arsenal on her right now.

The director took one more look into the dark eyes and humbled himself.

"I will do everything in my power to make sure that your words reach the ears of the Head of the Guild. Unfortunately, I can't promise more than that. If I have to give you an answer. Where can I find you?"

The demon thought for a while.

"Well, either here somewhere or at Stronoff's house, you know where that is?"

"Of course I know."

"So fine, show me. He invited me to his place and said his house was easy to find. I'm too lazy to search."

In the absence of the knight-captain himself, I'm afraid you might be misunderstood. I think it would be better if you stayed in the guild rooms, the best ones are empty right now.

Offering the demon shelter was no less absurd than anything else that had happened that evening. And yet, looking at the situation soberly, the Director preferred to keep the demon at least under observation.

"Okay. Lead the way."

* * *
*Era*

Usually, at this late hour Era would sit in her room and read. Or doing something else, but always alone and quiet. It had been that way until the last time she'd returned to E-Rantel. Now every night was the events in which she was forced to take part, instead of resting.

It was one of the reasons she was going to have a serious talk with her companions about moving to another city. Such thoughts had been on her mind for a long time, but they had never really lingered in her mind. Only after that meeting in the Director's office did the desire to leave this place to grow stronger and stronger. In everything that had caused only passing irritation before, she now saw something that was impossible to put up with. And even talking to the head wizard hadn't turned her away from that decision, only smoothed the urge to abandon everything immediately, set fire to the building, and flee.

Crowds of people who, even in normal times, were difficult to remember, and now even more so. The common room was too large and therefore uncomfortable. Brothers in business who could spend days here aimlessly instead of doing their work. And if only it had been for those who had been wounded, but it wasn't.

And the inability to spend time in the usual way, shutting off from the world in an illusory shell of loneliness.

She and her friends sat in the common room. There was room at the small, time-darkened table for a couple or three more people, and yet no one sat near them. There was still plenty of room in the hall. Nearby, Bryce sat. He was sluggishly picking at the coarse millet porridge and meat, moving his right hand very gingerly. He had hardly taken off his leather armor before, so he looked about the same as always. His friends had inspected him, though, just in case, back yesterday. He had the usual ugly scars all over his body, but now he was densely adorned with huge bruises and bruise bumps.

Across from him sat Daimon. He was without armor; even with his stamina, it was impossible to carry nearly a hundred pounds of weight on him all the time. Besides, the armor was long and badly in need of repair and had only been returned from the guild's blacksmith an hour ago. The group leader's eye was adorned by a huge, half-face black and yellow bruise. Until the swelling was removed, it was also swollen halfway up his head, and there were great fears about whether the eye would be lost. It didn't.

In fact, few in the audience could boast of the absence of such injuries.

When that creepy woman showed up at the guild late that night, Era felt uneasy. She hoped she would never see her again. There was something creepy about that woman, like a crazy person who acted normal on the surface. And that wasn't even taking into account the circumstances of the previous encounter.

The "traditional" meeting of the low-ranking rookie went off script. Era saw nothing wrong with giving the jerks who thought it up a lesson. The first time their group had met like this, she'd been pretty freaked out, especially when faced with the effects of the negator amulet. And yet, that cruelty, the disregard embodied in the blurred blow, made Era remember more vividly the brief dialogue and the expression on her face. Handsome, incredibly handsome - and with obvious fires of madness in her eyes.

///It wasn't a figure of speech. It's really what she would do. Era shuddered.

Of course, such a show could not go unnoticed. Especially since the "newcomer" actually invited everyone to try their strength. And it was really impressive. The brutal, aggressive, arrogant woman was more than entitled to think everyone else was crap.

Bryce. with his usual pissed-off charisma, inserted his copper there as well, and he was blown away, as usual - at first, in a good way. That Draga didn't kill him. Well, and then in a bad way, when he caught a kick in the gut.

"I'm telling you, Wall knows her for sure. And she knows him. Era, you saw it, didn't you? He didn't even try to attack. He knew it was useless. And she went easy on him."

Daimon grimaced and reflexively touched his bruise.

"Yeah, it's weird though, the guy's holding an ogre's club, and he gets kicked away... And sure enough, they have something in common. This engraving, like the skeletons. And Maiden was there as their own."

They were silent for a while.

"Bryce, didn't you assess that dagger?" Era asked.

"Nope. I looked at it more closely afterward and tried it in my hand but didn't show it to anyone. And I won't show it to anyone. Only if I kill with it."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Everything. Remember when I brought the Akuro stump and told you what I thought of it?"

"And?"

"Well, it's not just bones that can be chopped as cleanly with a knife like this. I don't know what kind of steel it is, it's obviously magic. Yesterday, I used it to shred a tin plate into a thin ribbon, with almost no effort. And then I took a chip off my dagger, off the blade. It's not blunt, not at all. I don't even know how anyone could sharpen it with such durability."

"Wasn't it a pity to spoil the blade?"

"Of course, but that's the thrill of the moment. And in general, the main thing is not even that it is so sharp."

"Am?"

It's. What should I say? As if it were personally made for me. It fits perfectly in my hand. It feels like me. And when I hold it, I don't know, it's like... Do you remember that Taler magic? When did that undead got smashed in front of the plains? Well, it's almost the same with me if I have that dagger in my hand. So I'd feel a lot better if no one knew about it.

They were silent for a while longer. Then Bryce cast a glance toward the exit to the courtyard. There was a pitying clang of metal and a thud.

"Not bad," Bryce grinned crookedly. "Daimon, are you coming?"

"Are you kidding me? Of course, I am," Daimon stood up and stretched his neck. "I wonder why she only has a steel badge. She should be wearing at least an orichalc."

"Oh, come on," Bryce smirked. "Somehow, I'm sure she'd humiliate the Orichal team just as easily as she humiliated us. If not harsher."

Era only shook her head. She tried to avoid meeting the "adventurer" in black. It wasn't difficult. Draga spent most of her time either in her room or the courtyard. After her first performance, she was literally the star of the guild, and there was no shortage of people eager to spar with her.

Despite all her boorishness and barely concealed contempt for those around her, the Dark Maiden never refused a request to "teach". Apparently, she was simply bored here. She was waiting for someone to arrive in E-Rantel and had no friends (which is not surprising at all), acquaintances, or connections. She had no opportunities to entertain herself in the city. Or rather, she didn't. So, she entertained herself with all the "sparring".

Because of the magistrate's temporary decree, it was impossible to simply enter the city, and it was also difficult to get out. Era assumed that if this woman wanted to go in or out, no walls would stop her. The rest of the adventurers, on the other hand, had a lot of problems. From the magistrate's officials trying to force the director to house some of the arrivals in the guild building to the inability to do the work.

Daimon and Bryce, too, in less than two days, never missed an opportunity to face the Dark Maiden in a practice fight. Era was well aware of their motives, though it was sad to see how battered they were when they returned.

///Well, at least it's without really serious injuries, Era thought aloof, pushing other thoughts away. About the Dark One's connection to Taler and the real reason, she was here.

She wasn't alone for long - her friends returned rather quickly. Daimon was the first one back. With his back to the front, the guy flew through the door (it hadn't been closed since last night's show). Bryce was held up for a few seconds, and Era even got worried. Everything turned out all right, and the dodger, flying through the door with much more speed than Daimon, knocked the rising leader down with his body.

"You're taking a long time," Era raised an eyebrow. "A sudden increase in skill?"

"Nope," Daimon grunted. "That's a brave cunning maneuver."

"A brave honest maneuver!" resented the shaking off Bryce. "What if I really am in love?"

Era was taken aback.

"What?"

Daimon didn't answer right away, looking doubtfully out the door. Then, apparently, he decided not to go back into the courtyard and, grumbling sat down at the table.

"Our dear friend got tired of living and invited Dark Maiden to take a walk around the city. He promised to show her some interesting places."

"Yes, I'm in my right mind," Bryce interrupted Era, cautiously probing his tailbone. "Why wouldn't she be? She's good-looking and badass. Do you know how hard it is for women like that to find someone to get laid with? Everybody's afraid of them. I'm kind of doing her a favor."

Era silently covered her face with her palms.

///Bryce is Bryce.

"And that's how you told her. Let's get laid?" Just in case, Era clarified.

"You shameless. Do you have any female in you at all?" Bryce was indignant. "I guess you could have tried, though. I offered to show her around the city sometime, and I told her I knew a lot of interesting places she'd probably like."

"What about her?"

"She said, "Really?" - and raised an eyebrow as if a cockroach had promised her heaven on earth and kicked him," Daimon answered in Bryce's place.

"You didn't hear the main thing, Daim. I managed to answer that it was true, and before she kicked me in the ass, she said, We'll see."

"Yes," Era shook her head. "Heroic lover, aren't you afraid she'll just mince you when she finds out what kind of fruit you are?"

"Well, what if she likes it?" Bryce grinned.

"What if it isn't?"

Bryce brushed it off. Era only sighed heavily. Their trickster, if he got something into his head, always did it his way, without regard for anything.

* * *

Draga whipped her blade at the adventurer's sinking sword, knocking it aside, stepped up, and lightly slammed her fist into her adversary's face. The frail body tumbled funny, flying backward.

"The hand was too tense. You ducked to the side. Do you seriously think that would have kept you from getting hit? After the first miss, you had two choices, run or shorten the distance to the knife. Neither would help against me, but against a seal like you, it might."

It was the last one left standing. It was beginning to get boring again. She'd been entertained by this game for a while, but now it was boring. Adjusting for speed, responding with an attack only to the most obvious mistakes. Block and parry so that the adventurers would at least know what was going on.

She looked around the "battlefield" with a sigh. There was no one left on their feet. Five men were sitting against the wall, catching their breath, two more limping toward them. A little farther away, one of the "heroes" was getting his arm fixed by his comrades. Draga stowed her sword in its scabbard and headed inside.

The trio of misfits who had rejected the Prophet's invitation was in the same place. The redhead shrank back at her approach. Their leader rose from the bench, standing between Draga and the redhead.

"Thanks for the lesson," he nodded. "What can we do for you?"

"You are nothing. Chatterbox, I'm bored. You promised to show me the city."

The chatterbox peeked out from behind his comrade and grinned.

"Of course! What do you want to see? Or will you trust a professional?"

I want to see the Square and the Cemetery.

"Oh, that's not exactly what I wanted to show, and the prices there are..."

"Shut up and go," the demon interrupted him.

* * *

Era glanced at the receding figures. She sighed.

"I'm worried."

"So do I," Daimon said grimly. "Everything is upside down."

"I'd like to stay away from her, but Bryce is so drawn to the fire."

After she stated this fact, Era finally dared to start a conversation about what was troubling her.

I don't want to work at E-Rantel anymore.

"Is that a completely settled opinion, or are you just sick of the situation?" Daimon clarified. "Things really haven't been going our way lately, but I didn't think it was that bad."

Era could barely resist the urge to complain about the interrogation she had been given. Director apologized so much to her the next day that she was even embarrassed.

"Both. I don't like it here, and then there's that Draga. She's connected to Taler, which means that this nonsense with the undead and the elves might come up again. And she's promised to kill me, too."

"Is this a critical issue for you? We will have to change a lot of things, and there will be less money."

"Yes, it is."

"Okay. Let's come back to this when the city opens."

"Thanks."

* * *

Draga wasn't particularly amused by the walk through the city. The chatterer kept on babbling, flooding her perception with an endless stream of noise. Draga tried to get anything useful out of it at first, but she couldn't.

The chatterbox talked about the history of the town, the layout, why this alleyway looked the way it did, how that tavern appeared. About some "influential" people and groups of people, about guards.

For a while she thought he was bugging her on purpose, to see when her head would explode. Then, bored out of her mind, she thought he was trying to put her on her guard and fish out something important.

And a couple more hours later, when she said she'd seen everything she was interested in, she caught the change in his heartbeat and the smell. And then, for the first time in quite some time, she felt like laughing.

It turned out to be much simpler than that. This chatterbox wanted her. All those endless stories about useless things must have piqued her interest. The chatterbox went through the topics of his stories, trying to guess what she might like. History, legends, power struggles, jewelry, weapons, battles, religion.

That she was wanted was something Draga took for granted. It was only from the inhabitants of the Dawn that she did not feel this craving. And in the outside world, both old and new, she was almost always aware of the lust directed in her direction. What was unusual was something different.

Chatterbox felt sympathy, affection. It was something new to Draga. She knew what it was, and at the same time she had never felt anything like it. Hatred, envy, fear, excitement, a desire to possess-she was used to it. But sympathy was new, and she had no way of knowing how to relate to that emotion.

Her plan was simply to see where the battle was to be fought. Prophet had said that she would fight an undead dragon here, and Draga decided to combine business with pleasure. The Bone Dragon was not something that would cause Draga any problems anyway. On the other hand, she hadn't forgotten how the lowly human had humiliated her, not just by inflicting damage but by running away at the end of the fight. Therefore, she decided to approach the matter more thoroughly by studying the location of buildings and other obstacles to the enemy's escape. And at the same time, maybe reduce the possible number of corpses among the natives. She didn't feel sorry for them, but for the role she was fulfilling, reducing the number of dead was welcome.

The square was even smaller than Draga had expected. A square of fifty paces on each side. It faced the local government building (just imagine, four stories!), the local church, and a couple of long three-story buildings. Everything was brick, and that was a good thing. Plain brick walls didn't hold up so well to impact, but they were still much better than the wood and clay that made up the houses on the outskirts.

The cemetery was very close. It was separated from the square by the church. The topography made it impossible to see it fully, even from a horse. Chatterton had discouraged her from scrutinizing the cemetery, and she'd decided not to bother with it. Not because of the discouragement but because whoever was planning to stir up a fuss here could somehow smell the demon's true power. That could cause future enemies to tuck their tails and lay low. That was a development Drega disagreed with.

And now, seeing her "guide's" feelings, she hesitated. New sensations dispelled boredom and irritation. It was wonderful - but the risk of losing her head was too high. She feared that she would let her guard down and not be able to resist. She couldn't resist the temptation to tear off his arms and legs, take out his giblets and eat him in front of his eyes to see how long he could feel this sympathy. And when he finally starts to feel what a human should feel in the presence of a demon - Terror.

Draga overcame the temptation to give in to her feelings.

"We're done. I saw everything I was interested in."

"Hey, I haven't even shown you half of it yet."

"Your yammering gives me a headache. Maybe some other time."

"Oh, so I'll get a second chance. Trust me, I won't disappoint you!"

Your best chance is to run away from here, fast and far. Now leave me, I want to make my way back in silence.

She flicked the chatterbox a gold coin. He deftly grasped the yellow round and twirled it in his fingers doubtfully.

"Oh, beauty, you're hurting my heart..."

"If you don't disappear right now, I'll hurt your head. Get out," Draga growled.

The chatterbox, who knew when the moment was right, figured out to leave her alone after all.

//A couple more days in this stinking soup, and I'll go crazy. At least I didn't have to be stuck in E-Arsenal all the time.

* * *

Crypts, especially ancestral ones, have always been built with scope and zest. A truly poor family would not build a family tomb. And a family that can afford it would never skimp on building the last resting place of its members. After all, a family's plans for the inevitable future are one of the criteria by which to gauge the family's well-being and reliability. And so, in every more or less significant city, there was necessarily a clan alley.

Many crypts have long outlived the families that built them. They were abandoned, inherited through third blood, repaired, and rebuilt. Often the secret rooms in the tombs were forgotten for good. Of course, such buildings have always been a desirable target of robbers, treasure hunters, and other hunters for good luck. For such an audience, finding an abandoned crypt - or stumbling upon a secret tomb not yet found by others - was literally a dream come true. Ancient riches, gold, jewelry, weapons, art objects - could at once eliminate the need to think about the future for two generations ahead. And the tales and tall tales that abounded around the gloomy old tombs only fueled the interest.

But fairy tales and tall tales were much closer to the truth than they might seem. In truth, the restless undead that dwelled in such dungeons were usually much smarter and more dangerous than the tales of successful adventurers made them out to be. And enchanted weapons were in the crypts for a reason. Dale Kedgie could tell us a lot about the crypts and their inhabitants. About himself, for instance. And why he'd chosen one of E-Rantel's oldest family crypts as his home. But usually, such things never occurred to him. They were obvious to him, and if an outsider had come here, Dale would certainly not have made it clear. And on that cloudy, cold evening, he wouldn't even be distracted by the visitors - all his attention was focused on the Sovereign.

The small, damp room with its cracked marble ceiling reeked of decay, blood, and excrement. The source of the odors, a man mutilated beyond recognition, his stomach ripped open but still alive, was bleeding on the floor. He was going to suffer for a long time - the main blood vessels were thoroughly clamped with clothespins. He couldn't move either - his mangled hands and feet were held firmly by stakes driven through the flesh into the joints between the mosaic floor. There was no way to scream, either; his mouth was firmly sewn shut.

In the agonizing body, few would have recognized the Archbishop of the Cathedral of E-Rantel. Though, those present in the room knew exactly who it was. Six senior novices were involved in the machinations of cheapened burial rituals. They had no way of influencing what was going on, though. They awaited their time, stacked like sacks against one of the walls. Their limbs had been broken in the same way, and their mouths sewn shut just as well.

Dale Cagey knew it too. It was his purposeful actions that caused such a dire situation for the lordly top of the cathedral.

The Sovereign, whose projection was absorbing light in the absolute blackness of half the room, didn't care. But somehow, he knew, too.

"We're almost ready, Sovereign," Dale squeaked obsequiously, prostrating before the blackness. Dale's ragged, burnt robe rustled quietly, gathering dust. "We await only your orders... And what you promised."

The darkness rippled, engulfing the crypt, and receded. A few objects remained on the floor in front of Dale's face. An anthracite-black, glossy orb with faintly flickering purple lights inside, an engraved tube sealed in green sealing wax with a rune seal, and a thin, wavy dagger without a hilt.

At the sight of the orb, a growing whisper sounded in Dale's head, literally hypnotizing him. The whisper begged, commanded, demanded, seduced.

// Look at me, touch me, I'll give you anything you want, just touch me.

It cost Dale no small effort to look away - and the whispers subsided, remaining only in the back of his mind.

"Thank you, Sovereign! On behalf of all of Zuranon and myself!"

"Give thanks in deed, Dale. Succeed. Keep your end of the bargain, and you won't need Zuranon anymore. You're more talented than this whole bunch of misfits put together. You've never seen the real reward."

"I swear on all that's left of me. I won't let you down. And if I may, one detail, Sovereign."

"Talk."

"I am sorry to vex you with such trivialities..... the mercenary you've assigned to assist me. Do you care about her fate? You know, after all this?"

"She's a tool I put in your hand. Use it as you see fit."

"Thank you, Sovereign. Thank you," Dale sank to the floor even harder.

The overwhelming presence of the Sovereign melted away. The necromancer took the dagger with greedy hands.

"Oh-ho. Ho-ho-ho..."

The faintly sparkling blade caused pain at the mere sight of it. Dale admired it, drowning in admiration. Finally, he found the willpower to tear his gaze away and tuck the sacrificer into a wide, greasy sleeve. The shimmering orb, taken with all possible care - with the obligatory conspired kidskin gloves - went into his belt pouch. The tube was hooked to his belt in the manner of a sword.

Dale left the room and went to the next one, the one where the next stage was planned. It was a large room where he could not only stand up to his full height but even jump up. It had once been a room of mourning, a place where the living came to honor their memories and feelings for the dead. Even the marble benches, polished by hundreds of sitters, remained from that time.

This part of the crypt didn't look dirty or neglected. There wasn't a single speck of dust. Dale had personally cleaned it as soon as he'd decided on the place where the ritual would take place. Even a single speck of dust could play a fatal role if it was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The chalk can shake a little bit, hitting an imperceptible obstacle, and the drawing will cease to be perfect. Or an impurity could be added to the spilled sacrificial blood, and it would lose its purity. Dale also knew of a case when a magister simply sneezed while reciting a spell.

Dale had done his best to prepare the room for the ritual. And now, looking at the runes covering the walls and ceiling, and the etched power circle on the floor, he was even a little proud of his work.

He spent several minutes in that rare feeling until he heard the rustle of a body tearing through the narrow gap in the ground. The rustle ended with a shrill, coarse profanity in the room to which the gap led, and finally, his "sidekick" appeared in the ritual room.

A short, disheveled woman of indeterminate age was covered in mud, dried clay, and root debris. The mud made her famous armor, made from the medallions of the adventurers she had killed, seem like ordinary lamellar armor.

She dragged a lad of about fifteen behind her, straight up by his hair. Once in Dale's field of vision, she grabbed her burden by the neck and lifted it higher, turning his head sideways.

"Here we are, kid. Make yourself comfortable. You're going to love it here!"

Ignoring the wheezing from his smashed mouth, she kicked the guy into one of the corners.

Dale became indignant.

"Clementine, control yourself! If you break the boy now, the whole plan might be in jeopardy!"

"Come on," Clementine raised her eyebrows with sweet innocence. "sooner or later, he'll die anyway."

"The boy must remain alive at the moment the ritual begins and for the duration of the ritual!"

"Come on. You're some kind of badass sorcerer. You'll think of something," Clementine brushed it off, heading toward the moaning body, taking her stiletto out of its inconspicuous sheath as she went.

"Get off!" growled Dale.

"Or what?" Clementine asked cheekily, squatting beside the victim.

The stiletto, lying loosely in the palm of her hand, was near the victim's face. The boy wheezing indistinctly tried to pull away from the blade. Clementine foiled the attempt with a ringing giggle, jabbing him on the cheek. "Dale, what's going to happen?"

"There will be a corpse instead of a living source of power. The ritual will fail. Sovereign will be enraged."

"Oh, not the wrath of the Sovereign!"

She turned toward Dale, her eyes wide with horror. And at the same time, the stiletto in her hand plunged into her victim's eye. The boy cried out hoarsely, trying to pull his head away, and it only made it worse - the steel lodged in his eye only widened the wound.

"An idiot!"

"But I didn't kill him, so it's all right, isn't it?" Clementine said thoughtfully, ignoring the screams, stroking her chin with her other hand. "Maybe I'll kill him, though, won't I? I just don't give a shit about your Sovereign, Dale! I'm bored! The whole week I've been here, all I've heard is your whining, Don't kill those, Don't kill that. I was promised a hunt. I was promised lots and lots of new badges. And what do I do? I'd like some fucking rat crawling around dungeons and alleys at night! I'm sick of it!"

The necromancer clenched and relaxed his fists in impotent anger. Clementine hadn't listened much to the threats before, but this time things had gone dangerously far.

"Clementine, we agreed that you help me start the ritual and then freely hunt adventurers who come after it starts. And generally do everything you want to do."

"Everything I want? For real? Promise?"

Clementine appeared beside Dale in one motion, practically embracing him. Her frozen, unnaturally dilated pupils darted into the necromancer's indifferent eyes.

"I feel like gutting you, Dale. From the first moment we meet. Do it slowly, so you can feel it with every fucking nerve. That would be okay too, wouldn't it?"

"You can try," the necromancer grinned crookedly, clawing discreetly at the edge of the hilt of the Sovereign's sacrificial weapon in his sleeve with his long fingernail.

"I'll try, Dale. For sure," Clementine said with a broad smile, looking up into his eyes faithfully.

"Until then, do as you're told. Otherwise, you won't have any fun."

" Why are you all so boring!" Clementine snapped. "Okay, okay, I get it. Oh, can I take out the other eye on this lumpy guy? He squeaks so funnily."

"No."

"Oh, please."

* * *

An honor guard among the guards of E-Ranthel was considered a kind of vacation. The guard of honor among the guards of E-Ranthel was considered a sort of vacation. Guarding judges, bureaucrats' houses and the magistrate's office also required impeccable uniforms. But there was a difference. Judges were occasionally assassinated, and estates were robbed. And it was seldom done on the spur of the moment, by small forces. It could be hot at times, especially here in E-Rantel, one of the most crowded cities in the kingdom.

The honor guard guarded the things that could not be left unattended but could not be stolen or destroyed. For example, the city cemetery. Of course, there was something to steal or loot there, too, many rich people, when burying their loved ones there, followed the traditions, leaving something from the dead people's property in their tombs. Often they were quite expensive things. Weapons, trinkets, amulets, books, and so on.

And according to the same tradition, the safety of buried goods was the concern of those who buried them. This tradition goes back to the old days when the guards themselves used to rob graves. So, the "cemetery guard" only had to look formidable and make sure that no one would get impudent enough to climb the fence. And the pay is triple.

Of course, the traditional tranquility of the service had been shaken in recent days. After those bright, otherworldly blazes in the sky, the city as a whole had become uneasy. The inhabitants of the neighborhood, familiar with the threat of the damned plains firsthand, moved to the protection of the city walls. And those who doubted but saw their neighbors hurriedly packing up their belongings and leaving their houses.

So the not-inconsiderable city quickly began to burst. And the spreading panic drove more and more people to the walls, which could no longer accommodate all comers. The burgomaster even ordered to close the city for a while and not to let in anyone except traders. Only those who carried food.

The huge crowd of newcomers did not consist entirely of well-to-do and respectable people. And the locals were not exactly happy about the influx. The guards had a lot more to worry about. Robbery, theft, muggings, extortion, brawls, and stabbings - there was more work for the guardians of order than ever. The city jail was packed to the brim, and the burgomaster had tightened his orders. The guards were now allowed to beat unarmed men with the shaft, not with the shaft, but "according to the situation".

And the "cemetery guards" felt the change, too. Fools who thought this was their chance to get rich had been around before, but now they were being caught several times a day. It wasn't as bad as the streets closer to the walls, though.

At night, that's for sure. Even the desperate were held back by a combination of darkness, graves, and stern guards. And so, at the locked wrought iron gates, the four guards were alert but not nervous.

It was very quiet here. The buildings nearby were mostly government buildings, not residential, so they were almost empty at this time of day. And the servants were not in the habit of making noise.

The cloudy sky promised rain. The guards languidly exchanged ideas about where to go after their shift. There were pros and cons to all the options. A brothel was a good idea for only three of them. The fourth was married. The familiar tavern began to dilute the beer. In the other taverns, it was impossible to have a normal rest because of the newcomers.

"Let's..." One of them made a suggestion and stopped talking.

"Let's what," inquired the other, intrigued by the pause. But not a sound was heard. The first speaker turned to the others, and his lips moved in the same dense silence.

And the next moment, the cemetery gate fell, right on top of the one who was married. The others recoiled in angry fear, halberds out in front of them.

Still, in the same silence, an irregular blue mist crept from the passage formed by the fallen gate. It flowed lazily through the passage and over the walls of the cemetery. Sand and individual bricks began to crumble from the walls themselves.

The eldest of the guards, struggling with an acute sense of unreality, shoved first one and then the other with the shaft of his halberd and gestured for them to run toward the barracks. He was quickly understood, and no repetition was necessary. He remained where he was. He was scared out of his wits, but he had no right to run away from his post. And that meant that he was guaranteed to be hanged later - the kingdom was very strict about that. At the same time, if he stayed at his post, he had a chance to survive and to serve.

He used the shaft of the gate as a lever and lifted it to see what had become of his subordinate. He moved sluggishly, which meant it was not so bad. With a jerk, the sergeant pulled back the heavy sash and reached out a hand to his comrade-in-arms.

He staggered as if drunk, accepted the help, and stood up. The sergeant picked him up and missed the moment when his colleague clung to his arm with his teeth. The sergeant picked him up and missed the moment when his colleague clamped his teeth into his arm. He couldn't pull away - the private's hands were locked around his neck.

The guard's eyes were blackened, and his bloody mouth was open wide and crooked. The sergeant realized what was wrong, but it was too late. The grip on his neck was literally steel.

The slowly melting canopy of silence began to let sounds through, and they weren't screams. Only hoarse groans, the shuffling of feet, and the clinking of metal.

E-Rantel's cemetery was very old. Older than the current city walls. There were four gates leading to it, and something similar was happening at all of them. Only at one of the gates did one of the guards escape before the blue mist covered him.

The rest of them, awkwardly but firmly holding our weapons, moved to where the remnants of a fading memory promised to find warmth.

* * *

Draga met the evening the same way as the previous ones - in the backyard of the Guild, beating up adventurers. The difference was that this time it wasn't only the adventurers who were suffering - someone had told the guild guards that a completely invincible fighter had appeared in the Guild. And since there was no formal ban on such things, the ranks of grateful connoisseurs of humiliation were joined by three more people who had nothing to do with the Guild.

Draga amused herself by playing with one of them. The old man was sniffing funny, not wanting to admit defeat, and so he suffered more than the others, receiving painful slaps on his joints with the scabbard. And at some point, she smiled - finally, something interesting was beginning. The old man received a fist under his ribs and flew away to count crows, and Drega took quick steps towards the guild building.

In the drinking hall, the bouncers who adorned the main entrance held a gasping man in tattered clothes under their arms.

"Undead!... undead..." he shouted, breaking into a coughing fit of red sputtering.

A receptionist quickly ran up to him.

"Where is the undead? Where have you seen it?"

"Look." Interrupted her demon.

"A cemetery. So predictable."

The adventurers rushed out quickly and without fuss. The Director gestured for the Scarlet Drop to wait, and walked closer to Draga, and spoke softly.

"I have a question, respected Draga. Does this badge you have on you still mean something to you?"

"So far, yes."

"In that case, I ask you. I'm not ordering you, but I insist that you participate as much as you can in the elimination of the threat. The balance of power is unknown, and any help would be appreciated."

"I know. I'll take a shortcut to the cemetery and find out who set it all up."

"I'm sure you can handle it."

When everyone else left the building, the silence that followed rang in their ears.

* * *

"I'm sorry, bro."

"What do you mean?"

"I waved at them, and they almost shot me!"

"Heroes see, I tried to do nice with you," said the quartermaster unkindly. "And it cost the lives of five worthy men. I..."

He didn't get a chance to finish. Bryce drew the dagger Taler had given him and stepped outside silently. It wasn't his style; he always tried to attack stealthily, carefully calibrating the moment. Sometimes it might even seem as if he were doing nothing during a fight. Now he was being extremely rash. Ere had no idea how to stop him, and she didn't want to. Her hands were shaking, and she was dizzy with rage.

They tried to string Bryce on the tips of the halberds. But apparently, he wasn't exaggerating the properties of his new blade - the sharp steel only pierced the air. As he passed through them, he made two well-aimed lunges, and the two men staggered back, blood gushing from beneath their helmets. And the next instant, he was already half-embracing the officer, thrusting his blade into his groin and between the joints of his cuirass in quick motions. It didn't last long, just a few seconds, and then it was over - Bryce was slaughtered from behind.

Era had practically no mana left. But that was a fairly common problem for any wizard. And for bad situations, there was a bad way out. She used an effort of will to channel her very life force into the spell she was casting. This technique was rarely used, its health consequences were dire, and the results were not guaranteed. But in a battle she didn't want, over a city she didn't like, she had just lost the only people who meant anything to her. Her friends' deaths were like her own, and just now, she had died twice. The third no longer frightened her.

Magic, powered directly from the soul without calculation or economy of energy, literally burned the staff in a single burst. A tight knot of multiple bolts of lightning crashed into the ranks of the hated soldiers, twisting them into convulsions and burning their bones. With a single strike, she killed nearly a third of the soldiers and paralyzed the rest.

Era to her regret did not die, though she sincerely hoped so. Feeling completely weightless, empty, and deadly tired, she could not keep her feet and flopped to the floor. Dizzy, some sounds were coming from outside, and she, realizing that she couldn't get back at all of "them," simply waited to die.

Death did not come. Era didn't know how much time she'd spent in a devastated half-forgetfulness. It was just that, at some point, she woke up, and the effects of the last spell came over her at once. The throbbing pain in her head and joints, the numbness in her fingers, and her heart threatening to burst at the slightest exertion. She didn't want to move, and even when the heavy, smeared face of one of the undead appeared in the doorway, she just waited to be finished.

To her surprise, the undead saw nothing of interest in her and, upon entering the house, simply walked past her.

"Hey, you... I'm here..." Era called hoarsely to him.

The undead didn't react. And another, who had also stumbled into the dead house, ignored her, too. Era laughed and coughed out loud. Could it be that she had become undead? And if so, why did she feel so lousy - it was common knowledge that the undead didn't feel pain. Behind the coughing that came instead of laughter, she hid a nascent panic. Becoming undead was the worst ending an adventurer could imagine. With great effort, she rose to her feet and waddled outward.

It was still night, lit by the glow of the fires nearby. The street was densely littered with corpses, over which other corpses swarmed. Some of the soldiers screamed hoarsely; they were still alive, but they were unable to fight off the dead who were eating them alive.

Era was burned by resentment and hatred.

"That's it, you scum."

This outburst of emotion drained her completely, and Era sat against the wall. The screams of the dying, the grunts of the walking dead, and the crackling and squelching of torn flesh persisted in her ears. And she remembered the night before, full of problems that now seemed so insignificant. She remembered the faces and voices of her dead friends and wept.

* * *

Draga figured out the shortest route, saddled up the nightmare, and raced toward the cemetery. The recent walk with Bryce had allowed her to map the city more or less in her head, which made things easier.

The city was immersed in an unnatural silence that was alarming. Her senses told her that there were many living beings around, behind the walls and the tightly closed shutters. Disturbed, frightened, asleep, in all sorts of states. She sensed the patrol she encountered in passing before she heard it. She skipped past them, deciding not to bother explaining anything.

As she approached the square, she encountered several people clearly subject to some kind of necromancer curse. A couple of mutilated guards, a dozen men dressed as servants, and one whore were walking somewhere toward the residential part of town. Draga saw them before she heard them. Surprised by this, she suppressed the impulse to destroy them immediately and simply watched. The undead spotted Draga and headed in her direction. There was absolutely nothing to be heard until the undead were fifty paces away - and only then, shroud of silence fall.

"Smart," Draga said with a smirk. "Very smart. Who are you, smarty-pants? Where are you hiding?"

The undead did not respond, as expected, and tried to pounce on the demon. She was even a bit taken aback by it. She finished off the undead with a few lazy strokes of her blade and moved on.

In the darkness and silence of the night, lit only by the light of the stars and the young moon, the almost completely empty city pleased Draga far more than usual. She reached the square, almost admiring the scenery. Aesthetically, the square itself was even better - covered by a dense, layered, slightly glowing bluish mist, slowly creeping up the streets around it. It came into the square from the cemetery, where it was quite thick.

Draga sniffed, picking up familiar notes. Marius greeted the uninvited guests with something similar to this fog. Harmless on its own, it struck an intricate curse on anyone who inhaled it. The curse did nothing as long as the one who breathed it in was alive. But when he died, it came back as undead, controlled by the Archlich. This was true of all living things, including rats and mice. Draga figured if this mist reached the densely populated quarters, the inhabitants would be in big trouble. Not that she cared, but her role obliged her to prevent it.

A few minutes later, when she reached the cemetery at a leisurely trot, something strange reached her senses. It was painfully familiar, exhilaratingly pleasant, and a very fleeting sensation that she wanted to experience again and again. She paused, listening to the sensation, and realized what it was.

Souls were rushing toward the cemetery. Suffering, unable to understand what was happening, unable to think clearly, and so delightfully defenseless. Draga grinned predatorily. What was happening was becoming more and more intriguing.

As she moved deeper into the impenetrable shroud of mist, she encountered a great number of the usual, weak undead. Hundreds of dead men of varying degrees of preservation were emerging from the ground, and strangely enough, they have headed not away from the cemetery, but toward the center of it, toward where the souls had gone. And they didn't pay any attention to her. Even more intrigued, Draga moved in that direction, calling back the nightmare, who was finding it difficult to wade through the torn cemetery ground. She didn't want to turn into fog or gallop toward the epicenter of events. Once she'd paid the price for her arrogance, she preferred not to rush into the middle of nowhere.

As she emerged into a sort of street of half-destroyed crypts and statues, she was surprised by the presence of something alive. It was something trying to conceal its presence, so it was doubtful that it was the necromancer who had put on the show.

"Hey, you," Draga commanded, not stopping to move. "Stop hiding. I can feel you."

From behind one of the monuments, a female figure appeared, dressed in rather strange clothes - tight leather pants and leather armor, with small plates fitted tightly as armor. She looked more closely, and Drega realized that these were tokens issued by the Guild. And stitched onto the armor were of all sorts - copper, gold, and silver Draga recognized at once. And there were some other metals she didn't know about. The impression was completed by the ridiculous haircut of a bob and eyes of different colors, one bright orange and the other green.

"Oh, I thought I would never see anyone, and I was about to give someone a scolding for disappointing expectations." The voice was like everything else, soft but with a kind of poisonous huskiness to it. "You're an adventurer, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Draga immediately lost interest in the strange "colleague". It was the first time she'd ever seen an adventurer with so many badges. Although she was curious, she didn't want to waste her time talking to another native. Seeing that she was ignored, the unknown adventurer erupted and snatched two long stilettos from her belt.

"Hey, hey! I'm actually talking to you, huh?!"

Draga spat in anger. She still couldn't understand what made her "colleagues," ask for a beating, and she thought it was some kind of mental disorder typical of this profession. But so far, everything has been within the bounds of common sense. It was absurd to ask for a duel like that near the supposed "lair of evil". But, since the guild's decency demanded it, the demon decided to do the madwoman a favor. She drew her sword and made an inviting swing.

"Don't waste my time. You have a lot of badges, and I really hope that shows some skill. I'm tired of wimps."

The woman laughed happily.

"I know what you mean! It's so annoying when petty lowlifes give you hope for something interesting and then just die when you're not even warmed up, right?"

"Dying?" Draga wondered. She'd had a hard time keeping herself from killing her "opponents," and now she felt indignant at the thought that someone else wasn't restricting herself.

"Exactly!" the stranger chanted and took up a position for the dash. "We've had a nice chat, but it's time to get to the main thing. I hope others come after you!"

The woman rushed swiftly into the attack. The move was of interest to Draga, though it didn't suit her style at all. In one fluid motion, the woman ducked almost to the demon's feet and straightened up sharply, literally ducking her and aiming both stiletto knives at her chin. Draga didn't move to get a better look at the technique and only at the end diverted her head out of the way of the blades.

Realizing that the blades had pierced the void, the woman bounced back through the backflip with unnatural grace. Her face became completely serious.

"What a surprise. I expected less."

"Less than what?" Draga raised an eyebrow. "Less than a fixed target?"

"Modesty does not adorn you at all. You managed to get your neck out of the way. I'll remember you as the best thing that's happened to me in the last couple of years! On the other side, tell that Clementine of the Black Scriptures praised your reflexes."

Draga dropped her face into her free palm. Clementine, having quickly cast some weak spells on herself, lunged again. Now not wasting microseconds ducking, but simply with a lunge in her eyes. Draga peeled her palm back and punched the idiot in the face. She yanked her palm away from her face, slamming it back into the idiot's face harder than she'd wanted to, tearing her bones apart. The body, receiving a reverse momentum, flew back toward the monument. Draga couldn't help but lick the blood off her gauntlet before it soaked into the insatiable metal. It took a lot of willpower to keep herself from going and eating this Clementine whole. But, the pleasure now wasn't worth the possible hassle of dealing with it later. And the Prophet told him to avoid unnecessary killings. What exactly he saw as necessary, Draga wasn't sure, and she didn't want to risk it.

But the fact that several dead men noticed the smell of blood, and headed toward the source of the smell, from Draga's point of view, was entirely Clementine's problem.

"Bon appetit," she waved her hand to the undead with mild envy.

The place to which the souls were drawn was very close, just a couple of hundred steps away. The four crypts, with their facades, formed a sort of tiny square. It was the only place where there was no fog at all, and the air was crystal clear. In the middle of the place, in a drawing of blood and lined with pieces of flesh, stood a tall, completely bald man in a dirty, poorly darned robe. With his hands in the air, he was muttering something untranslatable. A black sphere the size of a fist pulsed in the air in front of him. Souls flocked to it as if they were drowning when they touched the surface.

Draga didn't see anything like Marius' rituals. No finesse, no meticulousness - an archlich would surely have had a heart attack from what was going on here. But there was some use for it, evidenced by the occasional trembling of the ground beneath his feet. Down there, it was as if something big was stirring. The warlock was obviously not paying attention to anything around him. Draga stepped into his field of vision and coughed. The necromancer, clearly not expecting such a thing, quickened his mournful recitation and touched the orb with his hand. The ground shook more violently.

"As I understand it, Clementine screwed up," the sorcerer squeaked.

"Is she with you? Oh, I'm sorry I left her for the undead. Did you do all this?"

"Ha-ha, what about the pompous speech and attempts to kill the villain?"

"You were told to be killed only as a last resort. Answer the question."

The Necromancer put both hands on the Orb and gave a sharp look behind his eyes.

"Right. This is entirely my project. And before we continue this useless conversation with a predictable ending, I want to offer you a deal. Apparently, Clementine, for all her virtues, hasn't lived up to expectations. And your way of speaking suggests you're much saner. Join me. Whatever your employer pays you, I'm sure I'll offer more. In which case, you will not share the fate of this city."

"Are you trying to hire me?" Draga grinned.

"Exactly. And like I said, it would be a very good deal for you."

"And what happens if I don't agree? Do you really think you can hurt me?"

"Maybe I can't do it myself. But even if you succeed in killing me now, you won't stop the main process. Watch and stay on your feet."

His last words were drowned in a great rumble. The ground shook with such force that the tombs began to crumble, and the paving stones beneath his feet began to fly apart. Behind the necromancer's back, the thick fog swelled and shattered, revealing a frayed dragon skeleton the height of a three-story building. Inside the skull and bones, dark green lights flickered unevenly. The dead thing opened its jaws and roared with a deafening roar, shaking its head and spreading the bits of its wings. The Necromancer, meanwhile, continued to speak.

"Impressive, isn't it? This monster you see is controlled by me, but it doesn't depend on me. And if I'm destroyed, it will wipe everything it can reach off the face of the world. It's immune to magic, and you could try to crush it with your sword until eternity. You won't have eternity, though."

The fog filled with rustling and crackling all around. The cemetery undead, which had been hanging around aimlessly, began to crumble into individual bones. Those bones rushed toward the dragon's skeleton like leaves in the breeze. They clung to the dragon's remains and grew into them, making the dragon's skeleton dense and massive.

Draga smirked.

I'm guessing this black orb serves as a receptacle for the souls you use instead of mana? It doesn't look like your reserves are enough to raise that shit.

"You're pretty smart. What surprises me is that you are stalling for time, which you certainly don't have now. I'll repeat my offer for the last time. Join me."

"You have no idea how ridiculous you are."

Draga stepped forward lazily. The Necromancer grinned and stretched out a clenched palm toward her, and a silent black lightning bolt flew from it. Draga simply brushed it like a spider's web. Surprise and annoyance flashed in the necromancer's eyes. He snapped his fingers and disappeared.

Appearing a hundred paces away, behind the back of an almost formed dragon skeleton, he gave a silent order to his brainchild to destroy the visitor.

Draga roared with rage in such a way that the ground shook not much fainter than the dragon. The manner of her foes disappearing from sight exceeded all possible limits of her patience. That said, the necromancer was clearly out of range of fifty paces - not a sound could be heard. Nevertheless, the black orb that the demon had already laid eyes on remained with him - and Draga could feel it perfectly well. The bone dragon turned its attention to her and tried to nail her with its paw. Draga swung her blade, and the claws left only stumps. The beast roared, showing that the undead was learning nothing. A second paw struck, and it did the same. Meanwhile, Draga determined the exact direction and distance to the black orb.

[rush impact]

In a jerk, she covered a hundred paces of distance. Everything in its path was smashed to pieces with a clattering noise - the fragments of shrines and statues scattered in different directions. The dragon, too, which had been in the path of destruction, had not escaped its fate. He survived the ramming blow, but it flew away, and its chest was cracked.

"What are you?" The necromancer asked in confusion, staring at the demon before him with wide, muddy eyes.

Draga snatched the orb from his hands. The touch alone was so satisfying that she couldn't hold back a moan and put the thing in her inventory just in case.

"What am I?" the demon murmured. "You'll find out soon enough."

With an elusive movement of the blade, she severed both of the necromancer's arms and then grabbed her tightly by the throat. She jammed the sword into the ground, removed the scroll from her belt, and broke the seal.

[message]

"Marius?"

"Oh, Draga, it's good to hear you. How's your heroic career going?"

"It's in full bloom. I caught the necromancer, and it was suspiciously easy. But I can't figure out how to deal with the aftermath."

"Thinking is not your thing at all. State your problem, and I will help you."

"This necromancer has unleashed some kind of plague on the city, turning its inhabitants into the undead. I have to stop it somehow. Otherwise, everyone will die, and all my efforts will be in vain. I'm not good at magic, and I'm not sure I can stop this plague just by killing all the converts."

"There is a lack of detail, but I get the gist. I assume that the author of this idea made plans to make it impossible to undo the process. His Holiness could easily eliminate problems of this nature, but he is unlikely to experience interest in a portal to the epicenter of a hostile spell right now... Let us do otherwise."

The air around Draga crackled and shimmered, and a moment later, the funnels of portals began to open. From there, one by one, skinny figures in black robes began to emerge. The bones protruding from under their gauntlets and the dried skin on their chins, visible from behind their hoods, made it clear who they were.

"I have sent five Lichs to you. They can handle the role of shepherds. They are tasked with taking control of all the undead they can reach and overriding the order to attack the living. They are at your disposal. I suppose you'll need to destroy them to make your image more convincing, and you can do whatever you want."

"Thank you, Marius. Here's a reverse courtesy," she tossed the maimed necromancer into one of the portals. "This is that necromancer."

"How nice of you. Does anyone else know about him?"

"Yes, Prophet told me to capture him alive if possible."

Archlich could not breathe, and still, there seemed to be a sad sigh.

"It's frustrating. Well, feats await you."

The connection was broken, and the gaps in the portals went out. The five lichs silently formed a circle and spread their arms. The whispered chanting resounded, and the air trembled. The fog swirled, letting the invisible tentacles of "shepherds' wills" flow through it. A few seconds later, there was a hoarse ringing as if the world itself had cracked. Immediately after that, a cascade of sounds burst into Draga's ears from all directions. The absurd silence that had been confusing disappeared. There was the sound of dragon bones clattering together, the rustle of bushes, the crunch of stone chips under the dead men's feet, and their hoarse moans. The screams of men, the screeching and barking of dogs, the clang of metal, the dry crackle of flames somewhere far away, beyond the cemetery. And not far away, the creak of armor, the thud of blows, and the crack of bones being broken. Someone was breaking through the undead.

"Hurry up, you boneheads!" Draga growled, hurrying the lichs. "All the trash that wanders around set it on the idiots that are coming this way."

Whoever had made their way in, Draga would have been in trouble if she had been caught in such company. Either there would have been an unnecessary ruckus that could have seriously damaged the image of the "heroine," or they would have had to remove witnesses, which didn't fit the intended scenario either. Besides, the dragon's backbone was already almost fully recovered, and Drega did not want to leave out the main course.

Nothing could be seen through the fog, but the chaotic disintegration and aimless flailing of the undead ceased literally for a moment. And then, all the surviving undead headed in the direction of the sounds of battle. A moment later, the lichs broke the circle, and one of them bowed to Draga.

"The lord's order has been carried out. The undead is deprived of all aspirations."

"At last. I thought it would take you till tomorrow. How is it... DIE, DAMNED NECROMANCER!"

She was about to unleash a hail of blows on Marius's servants, and she was surprised to realize that she simply couldn't get her hand up. She didn't want to hurt them. As she pointed her sword at the lich speaking to her, she just couldn't bring herself to finish what she'd started.

Lich took a few steps toward her, pressing straight onto the blade. Steam and chilblains rose from where his cloak was pierced. Draga, feeling confused, tried to put the weapon away, but the lich gripped it tightly with his fingers, preventing her from wrenching it from him. Not that he could really interfere with the demon, but she made no effort to do so either.

"As you command."

With those words, he collapsed and hung on the blade. The others scattered in shapeless piles of bones and ashes. Draga was at a loss to move, trying to understand why she felt more disgusted than ever, having only done what she had to do. She was brought out of her stupor by the sound of footsteps nearby. The guild strike team, led by the Director, appeared out of the thinning fog. With an unkind glance at him, she shook the remains of her ally from her blade.

"You showed up. Very timely."

"This...?" Director pointed to the remains.

"Yes. The first problem is solved."

There was a roar, and the Bone Dragon finally rose to its feet. There was a screech among the adventurers, and they began to disperse in a sparse formation.

"I assume that's the second problem?"

"Yes," Draga said. "But I'll take care of it. If you want to be useful, search these ruins. There must be a lair around here somewhere."

"Can you handle it?" the director clarified.

The demon glared at him silently, and, gaining speed, she ran toward the dragon. She wanted to take out her anger, her resentment, and her nasty sense of betrayal on someone. The bone dragon was more than she could say for a whipping boy. She didn't try to take it out on the poor creature in a big way-she didn't want to end it too quickly.

The dragon tried to swat her with its paw again, but this time Draga did not cut off its limbs but put her elbow up. The terrifying force of the blow didn't even move her. The bone paw crunched.

"Come on, you're defective. Give it your best shot. Entertain the mommy."

The dragon skull opened its foul-smelling mouth and spewed a stream of acrid, stinking smoke. Draga, not wishing to stink at the filth, leaped to her side and jumped to her feet, striking the bone tail that had rushed toward her with her sword. It, for some reason, far tougher than the paw - a notch in it was almost half as deep-but she could not hack it off. The dragon grinned in satisfaction, but it appeared to have some inkling of reason. The dead carcass turned briskly and sprinted toward the city.

"Run, run, defective. Run to the audience."

In passing, the dragon winged its way into one of the church towers, tearing off the pointed roof and causing one of the towers to fall into complete disrepair. Draga waited for the creature to fall into the town square.

[rush impact]

In shortening the distance to the necromancer, Draga aimed carefully so as not to smear him with a ramming blow. Here there was no reason to bother. With a monstrous onslaught, she slammed into the giant boulder, sending it into full inertia. Rumble and dust fell across the square. The dragon, losing one of its legs and part of its ribcage at once, slammed into the magistrate's palace, partially shattering the wall. After pulling itself away from the damaged building, it took the fight after all.

Draga mocked him for about ten minutes. The dragon wasn't about to let itself be destroyed without resistance. With the backdrop provided, flailing all over the square and the surrounding buildings, he was able to last long enough to quell the demon's frenzy. Still, it did not escape its fate.

Climbing onto the still lifelike head, Draga thrust her two-armed sword into the parietal bone, finally destroying the necroconstruct. The quest was generally accomplished. There were no humans around, and even if there had been, there was no way they would have survived the fight between the two monsters. But there were definitely witnesses - there were a lot of people hiding in the houses around, and Draga could feel them. After a fight, albeit with a giveaway, with an opponent who wasn't blown to bloody dust by a simple forceful blow, the mood was great. So much so, in fact, that she didn't even think about digging the men out of their hiding places and adding blood to the overall picture.

Though it still required some sword waving. The undead, having lost their will to do anything, was being actively slaughtered all over the city, from the sounds of it. But there was plenty of work to be done. With a quick countdown, Draga decided where to go and took one of the streets. Chopping up a few dozen aimlessly staggering dead men along the way, she came upon what appeared to be a pretty brutal slaughter. The turn of the street was literally littered with corpses. Some of them were burned, some were shredded, and some were not even fully dead yet. And amidst the smell of filth, blood, and burning flesh, she caught a familiar note. Draga looked closely, and only by the smell and the fiery red hair could she recognize the girl from the trio who had accompanied the Prophet. She was sitting against the wall, sobbing softly. Draga grinned maliciously and walked past her, but the girl seemed to recognize her, too. She tried to get up and wheezed:

"Stop. Please..."

Draga paused, watching the redhead limp toward her.

"What's the matter, you lame?"

The redhead fell to her knees.

"You know Taler. Do you know him?"

"Don't you dare to twist His Holiness' name."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. That's what he said... Do you know him? I have to meet him!"

Draga almost choked and laughed, not knowing how to respond to such insolence. The redhead didn't let up, clutching the demon's sabaton with her weak fingers.

"Please..."

The picture of this humiliation pleased Draga more and more. She squatted in front of the redhead and took her by the hair.

"You've been invited twice by someone whose word alone would make them glad to give their soul. You turned your insolent snout aside. And now you're snotting my boots, asking me to give you a third chance?"

"This is where my friends died. My family. He can give them back, can't he? I'll give. My soul, anything you ask. I'll give you everything. Please..."

"A soul? That's interesting," Draga pressed her nose against the redhead's top and sniffed at the scent. "There really is something that can be done."

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
Его статус: идёт перевод

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/82326/542427

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP