Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 5

Chapter 5
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///Straight down the road, roaring furiously was an incredible beast - huge, black, and one-eyed. Blinded by the light of the evil pupil, the child froze and did not immediately recognize that a brave knight was sitting on the monster's back, holding it tightly by the horns. The beast reared up at the sight of the boy but, tamed by a firm hand, burst into a final roar and obediently stopped.

"I am a black mage. Who called for me?" There was a resounding voice.

"There... dead..."

"Lead on!" the fearless sorcerer sternly ordered, grabbing his trusty staff with one hand and his magic bag with the other.

The boy even thought the mage was muttering something like, "And every time it's like this," but of course, it was an audible hallucination.

I couldn't read any further. Miss Fiberty was sobbing with laughter.

"To write such... such..." I had many epithets for the content of the article in the Western Herald, but they were all completely obscene.

"What did you want, Thomas? It's not every day a black mage stops a ghostly army!"

"What staff?! I had a cane, a cane!!! And I thought I was going to have to hit dogs with it."

"A cane and a staff are quite similar objects. They are oblong..."

"And the bag? Where did the bag come from?!"

"Magical" Miss Fiberty chuckled again.

"But it will be read by mages! Black ones! And I was made to look like a complete idiot!!!"

"Don't worry. Your name isn't there. And think what they'll say about the cleaning agents afterward!"

I imagined the stern battle mages in the cleaning service leadership reading this nonsense... I laughed like a horse for ten minutes, unable to stop myself.

Last week, though, the situation did not look so laughable.

It started stupidly. The route shown on the map did not correspond to what was on the ground. One of the chosen roads did not exist, the other was a ruined bridge, there were no wayfarers, and in short, all the hallmarks of a bad place. Mindful of the way too brave travelers end their lives, I did not try to cross the rotten forested valley in a straight line but took a huge detour and approached my destination from the diametrically opposite direction. Thanks to the powerful engine and new tires, I was there long before dark, and you already know why my bike's headlight is always on.

So, as I was driving towards evening (but it was still light enough) along a broken country lane, I saw the house described in the application and was glad that I would not have to spend the night in the field. Suddenly some kid jumps out onto the road. A motorbike is not a limousine, you can pass a pedestrian on a very narrow road, but the pleasure of it is below average. I stop and count to ten. What if he'd been hit by shields?! The slats protrude half a meter beyond the profile and they are not much softer than the hull. Thinking about it, I decide, that the guy was sent to meet me, so I ask:

"Did you call a black mage?"

Then I looked closely, and the boy was all white, shaking. His shirt and trousers were in shreds, with blood stains on the front and back. It looked like his clothes had been torn with the teeth. He looks at me and babbles:

"Dead, they all dead!"

Well, I think there's a problem here - a curse has hit someone. It's not the first time I've had one. I've seen dead bodies, it's a shame, but there's nothing I can do about it. I grab my valise and cane just in case - there are always dogs on the big estates. I pulled the tie that turned the jacket into a cloak, a purely military gimmick.

"Well, show me," I tell the kid quite calmly.

I remember even having time to apply a cleansing spell to myself: the owner of the manor is a man of the capital with ambition. You can't go to him in dirty rags.

Why would I be nervous? I didn't know that dead guys had been slaughtering the estate for three generations and that a cleaner had been here the day before, waking up all the undead! I was walking towards the house when three of the ghouls came out to meet me. They're normal, fully-grown monsters, oozing green sap, a head taller than any human, with claws and fangs as large as any living thing in the world. And they move very, very fast, despite the time of day, and I have neither a pentagram drawn nor a flamethrower at my fingertips.

Operational curses are only taught to students in the fifth year, at the very end of their studies. In the fourth year, we only practiced summoning and holding the base sign, but the death threat is fantastically accelerated learning. What a combat curse must look like, from an outsider's point of view, I knew from an incident in Prison Cove. Shaking with horror, I squeezed out some trembling form, crumpled it into the likeness of a Shadow Sickle, and with a shriek: "Hishu haru!" - I hurled it at the ghouls.

Naturally, my spell didn't incinerate the undead, but it delayed them. Where the wisps had touched the monsters, their bodies had been torn into long, moving, tentacle-like shreds. Not that it harmed the goons, but rather it puzzled them. While they were trying to decide whether to reassemble themself or leave it as it was, I grabbed the boy under my arm (he'd been hiding behind me the whole time) and ran off.

Good physical training is given to mages at the University of Redstone!

I ran behind some barn and remembered that ghouls only pursue a visible objects, as they are incapable of retaining an image in memory. I stopped to catch my breath and realized that I hadn't thought of everything: there were not three but four of them, and the fourth was a risen corpse of a dog.

Pretty fresh. Standing and watching.

When he was alive, he was a big, sharp-eared dog, the sort the farmers of the valley liked to keep. The invasion of the undead had already changed him: his bones and muscles stretched, his skin stretched and cracked in places, and his teeth protruded. Naturally, the otherworldly thing that brought the dog back to life had no intention of disfiguring him; it simply did not, could not know what a truly living creature must be like. But little time had passed since his death, and the abnormalities were not yet so severe. At the whim of otherworldly forces, a wave of pseudo-life touched not only the body but also the brain of the animal (and this does not always happen) - the creature retained the movements and habits of a dog, even wagging its tail slightly. This dog must not have hurt a kitten when he was alive. Now he was beginning to get hungry, to tear and devour live flesh, but he was used to taking food from people's hands and wasn't mad enough to hunt them down yet.

He was expecting me to feed him.

I had two options. I could smash his head in with my cane and move on, remembering forever the look of the deceived dog who, even dead, remained loyal to humans. Or I could complete the process, and correct the mistakes made by the otherworldly forces, turning him into a true zombie who would not need blood or flesh, only the regular renewal of reanimation spells. If anyone catches me doing something like that, I'll be burned. And well, if they hang me first.

It's bad to be a black mage who grew up among white ones.

I called to the dog with a low whistle, let him sniff my palm, and put my hand on his back. It was surprisingly easy to finish the transformation: the life meridians were still in his body, and I just had to cast a spell over them. He wagged his tail and tried to lick my face.

So there were still three ghouls on the table, but such a trick wouldn't work on them - they'd been transformed long ago and permanently. I turned to the boy, who was watching my actions with intense interest. He was so exhausted by fear that he couldn't run away from me, either.

"Pull yourself together, kid! I need to know what happened, or we're going to get eaten here."

My experience with my stepfather and my white brother helped me figure things out without descending to beating up the poor child. It was worse than that: his parents had bought the estate six months earlier, after something bad had happened to the previous owners, and had applied to the local cleaning service almost immediately, but the bastard cleaners had put them in the queue without even bothering to find out what the cause of the complaint was. A fortnight ago, a representative of Totars Energy was due to visit them to discuss the possibility of bringing electricity to the estate but never turned up, and the company reported him missing. The police did not show much enthusiasm in their search, and the new owners of the manor learned from them that people have been disappearing in this area regularly for a hundred years. The father's patience ran out, and he called me.

We agreed to meet today, and yesterday the long-awaited cleaner and his team of assistants and policemen showed up at the estate. I don't know what this travesty of a black trooper was after. Perhaps they decided that the poor traveling salesman had been killed by either an insider or a vagrant or farmer. Not bothering to evacuate the family who lived on the estate, these loonies went in droves into those woods, which I drove in a great circle. All but two of the patrolmen flatly refused to take part in the suicide mission. It was only thanks to the pair of them that there was anyone left alive on the estate at all: when the dead men, old and new, came pouring out of the woods, the brave country lads met them with a barrage of fire.

But three hundred-year-old monsters could not be stopped by bullets of any kind. Only black magic works against such creatures, and the senior cleaner had not returned from the forest. The boy should have been thrown on his motorbike and driven away, but according to the child, his family was still hiding in the house, along with those desperate policemen and the assistant cleaner who hadn't gone into the woods. When the sun goes down over the horizon, the dead men will be stronger and more determined. They are not so foolish, just a mind marked by the seal of the otherworldly manifests itself whimsically and unpredictably. People's lives depended on me being able to resolve the situation before darkness fell.

The zombie dog whimpered and rubbed against my knee.

"Now, kid, I need your help. Do you know the area well?"

He is noded.

"Is there a flat spot nearby, roughly like a croquet ground?"

The boy thought a moment and shook his head in the negative.

Well, at least something flat? I need to draw a pentagram.

The boy nodded and led me around the house. The zombie dog disappeared into the bushes, but I wasn't worried about him. The flat spot was the weedy cattle yard. I could only use a three-by-three-meter patch without elaborate preparations; I could forget about sealing all three ghouls at once.

"Tell me, is there spirit in here?"

Fuel oil was not good for cremation, but spirit was. The boy pointed towards the house.

"That's good. Now climb the tree and keep your eyes open! If anything moves, knock, whistle, shout."

I planted him on the bottom bough. At least one of us was safe now.

The pentagram was easy to draw, but I did not light the black candle. I should have had two or three different weapons before I started. In the driveway outside the house, there was a horseless cart and an army truck with a canvas top, which must have carried a cleaning crew to the manor. One of the fresh ghouls sat motionless in the cab of the truck. I cautiously climbed into the back. It couldn't be that they didn't have any weapons with them at all! I managed to find a flare gun, an exotic and comical device designed just in case the escort mage was punched in the head, and a pack of flares to go with it.

There was also a spare canister of oil; the police had taken everything else with them. I took the flare gun and spilled the oil slowly all over the car - the fuel-soaked fabric made an excellent fuse. I had to walk around the perimeter of the house, hoping to find something else. Luckily, a barrel of spirit, bought by the owners, was slightly leaking, and I managed to find it in the barn by smell - it was getting dark outside, and there was only time before sunset. I made three trips, filling large buckets with alcohol and placing them along the path leading to the barn. Then I loaded the flare gun, said a prayer, and fired it at the truck.

The fresh ghoul, still not quite settled into the undead role, panicked and forgot how to open the cabin door. He burned for a long time and screamed almost like a human.

Three of the mature ghouls appeared swiftly. If I hadn't strained my senses, I wouldn't have been able to escape. It was only on the second try that I managed to douse the fastest dead man with alcohol. Already running into the barnyard, I managed to set him on fire with a flare gun. It caught fire surprisingly well, burning brightly and with fountains of sparks, which was very handy because, in the darkness, I could miss my pentagram. The next step was very clear: the third ghoul was not far behind the second. I lit a black candle and stood so the pentagram was between me and the monsters, and the ghoul went straight through the sign.

"Dangemakharus!"

The trap slammed shut. A dense column of fire filled the pentagram. As the flames fell, the monster vanished without a trace. And so was the black candle. It burned out at once, rendering the pentagram completely useless. The last of the gull remained untouched: it was too far away to be touched by the flames. I turned and sprinted toward the tree (there was nothing else I could do against the undead), knowing beforehand that I wouldn't make it.

The situation was saved by the zombie dog, who snatched at the dead man's hindquarters with a wretched snarl. We sat in the tree, the two of us, with the boy, watching the dog groping the dead man; the two were worth each other. The sun was almost down, and I didn't want to find out what the undead was capable of at night.

"You will save Mummy, won't you?" cautiously asked the boy.

"Of course!" I habitually lied. "Just let Max wear him down a bit."

The zombie dog jumped on the ghoul with gusto.

"Max?" the boy repeated doubtfully. "Actually, his name is Archie."

"I hate to tell you this, kid, but your Archie is dead. He's Max now. And if anyone sees Max, the cleaners will kill me."

"Why?!" The boy. didn't understand.

"Why did they let all these people die?" I asked a reasonable question. "Because they can't control otherworldly power! They can destroy it, but they can't control it."

"And you?"

Should I tell him I'm doing this for the first time in my life?

"Indeed! You're looking at the most powerful necromancer in Ingernika! The secret knowledge has been passed down in our family from father to son for a thousand years. Naturally, we only use it to protect humans from the undead."

I wondered. It was vital to get the zombie dog out of here - he was proof of my crime, and no one should see him. It was also desirable to persuade the boy to keep quiet.

"Look, let's make a deal. Give Max to me! I'll take very good care of him. He's got a real talent for ghoul chasing. It's a shame to bury it in the ground!"

The boy hesitated.

"In order to live, he needs to be constantly fuelled by black magic, which is almost non-existent in your area. Without the necrotic ritual, he will only live until the full moon."

The position of the stars didn't matter here, but the phrase sounded good.

"All right," the boy decided, "I'll tell him to come with you."

"Thank you, boy! You'll see, he'll be a hero."

That's if we survive till dawn. So far, the prospects were vague.

The undead fought at the far end of the yard, by the dilapidated stable. The dog was successfully limiting the ghoul's mobility, and that gave me room to maneuver. I still had one bucket of spirit and a flare gun lying somewhere among the weeds. I waited until the ghoul's back was turned to the tree and smiled at the boy:

"I'm off! Good luck to me."

The rocket launcher was quickly found, but the ammunition was slipping somewhere, leaving only the one I'd managed to put in the barrel. The bucket was leaking, with just over half the alcohol left in it. Maybe that would be enough! Approaching the struggling monsters, I ducked and poured the spirit on the ghoul. The dead man sprang at me briskly, but the dog hung on him like a wobbling, snarling anchor. I retreated to the tree, commanding:

"Max, foo!" And shot the ghoul with a rocket launcher almost at point-blank range.

He didn't burn right away, and he chased me around the yard for a few more minutes, but it was already agony. When it was over, I rubbed the dog's ears gratefully.

"Well done, dog! We got him. Don't get down!" I told the boy. "I have to check to see if anyone else is here. Don't come down until I get back."

The boy nodded. It is only in silly fairy tales that people always do the opposite, but in reality, when faced with death, they become quiet and docile.

We scouted together the creature and the black mage. The zombie dog trudged briskly ahead, sniffing carefully. I was sure he would spot the ghoul before I did. The truck was burning out, and dusk had turned to night, but it was quiet and peaceful-usually a sign that danger was over. I twisted a torch from what I could find, for I had no idea where to look for lamps. The owners were well-to-do and had the generator (not spirit-fuelled, oil-fuelled), which they either forgot or did not have time to start. I checked the contacts and flipped the switch - everything worked. The lights were on in the yard, but it was dark in the house. It was not good.

I told the dog:

"Go and get my valise!" And I started cautiously around the building, looking in the windows. My cane was found. I had almost forgotten about it.

A minute later, there was a puffing sound - a zombie dog carrying a bag. I was beginning to like this beast.

"Hide!" I told him. "People mustn't see you. I'll meet you at the motorbike."

He vanished into the darkness.

At first, I lit a candle, but no one appeared at the smell of it, only the dog rustling and sniffling in the bushes. Then I started walking around the house and calling out:

"Is there anyone here alive?"

After about a quarter of an hour, a pale blur flashed through the second-floor window:

"Who's there?"

"Did you call for a black mage?"

"Watch out for the dead!"

"They are in the past. Don't you remember how many there were?"

There was a movement in the window, and another voice answered me:

"Twelve men went into the forest. Then I saw seven, but we managed to eliminate one or two."

"How many old ones were there?"

"Three."

"Then all we're in danger of is a couple of fresh dead men hiding in corners! We can look for them in the morning. How are the lights in the house?"

"You took out three Ghouls?!"

Judging by the familiarity of the terminology, it was one of the cleaners. A ghoul is related to a Ghoul as a Bolon is to a Wolfhound. Ghouls are ancient, and therefore strong, ghouls. I held back a contemptuous smirk; the cleaner wouldn't have seen it anyway.

"Yes! And without too much strain. And one of the new ones. But I have a problem with reagents - I didn't count on an army of dead ones. What idiot brought them all up?"

The answer was silence: the cleaner was reluctant to admit his stupidity and could not refute my words.

"All right, forget it. Stay where you are. I'll take the boy to the nearest farm and be back in the morning. We'll discuss payment arrangements."

"Is Michas all right?!" A worried woman's voice rang out.

"Yes. Are you his mother?"

"Michas! I must see him!"

There was the sound of a struggle. Here we go... We've got to get out of here so they can calm down before morning.

"In short, we're off on the road to the east."

"Michas!"

I had to bring the child to the house and let the woman cry. The boy was surprisingly calm and very earnestly persuaded his mother to wait until morning. When we left, the woman was still sobbing.

"Is she is white one?" I asked, turning the carcass of the bike around.

"No. My grandfather is a white mage."

"Oh, I see. Family!"

"What - a family thing?" the boy took offense.

"The weak nerves."

Receiving the command, the magic of the bike breathed heat into the cylinders, spun the shaft, the engine roared, and a blinding cone of light struck from the headlight.

Hold on tight! - I commanded, pulling up the ties of my cloak, and we rolled forward, accompanied by the swift shadow of a zombie dog.

I did not go back to the estate, and I was absolutely right - whatever the money, freedom is more important! In the morning, I didn't think it would be wise to let the cleaner see my face; it would not be long before the NZAMIPS proceedings were underway. I explained to the boy that there were no more undead on the estate and that the police would deal with the rest, and I told him not to tell anyone about the dog.

"Unless asked directly - it's not good to lie."

He nodded understandingly.

The farm owners, alarmed by the news of the ghouls' attack and reassured by my assurance that all would now be well, agreed to look after the child and report the matter to the police. Halfway down the track, I could see a convoy of military trucks with NZAMIPS logos, and I turned briskly into the bushes; I did not want to reacquaint myself with my "favorite" agency.

It was only twenty-four hours later, reaching Redstone and seeing the morning headlines, I realized what had happened. It turned out that one of the policemen had broken through the cursed woods the day before and managed to call for backup. The NZAMIPS regiment had been put on alert. They chased there all night because three active goals are a fearsome force. Originally there were four, but the late cleaner had sold his life dearly. On the heels of the military column was a horde of journalists ready to pay with their lives for a chance to witness such an event. A few of them I saw voting at the side of the road, but my intuition told me not to stop.

This is where the story of the black knight on the horned monster was born.

The press was on fire, savoring the story of the private mage successfully replacing one battalion. The more sensible ones wondered how the Ghouls could have hidden for so many years in the middle of the densely populated lands, attacking unsuspecting villagers time after time. The story was made all the more poignant by the casualties among the cleaners and the police - the Ghouls had eaten some big fish. The NZAMIPS regional chief gave an interview in which he regretted what had happened and repented, regretted and repented, and swore by life that all would now be well in the district.

The day after the incident, I called in sick and left the university after the second class and immediately went to my "chatterbox", where I was delighted with an issue of the Western Herald.

"Ms. Fiberty, we need to have a serious talk."

She nodded understandingly:

"Do you want to close the business?"

"After what happened, Watchdog will sweep the whole county with a frequent comb. I don't want any trouble."

She sighed:

"Too bad, it was interesting working with you. Can I," she said embarrassedly, fixing her glasses, "write a book about you?"

"A book?"

"A novel. Of course, the name will be changed."

"Do you think someone would be interested in this?"

"I think so."

"Write!" I generously agreed. "Just let me have a look at the manuscript when you're done. I don't want to look like a total idiot."

Miss Fiberty gave me tea, I packed up my rolodex and neatly folded my strict business suit.

"You won't get in trouble because of me?"

The woman grinned:

"If there are any questions, I will say that I rented out a room with a phone and I don't know who lived in it."

That was the end of the story.

I wrapped the black bag in a white towel and headed to the junkyard, where my horned beast was snoozing peacefully, guarded by a zombie dog. If anyone bumped into the pair of them, the valise would be the least of my problems... How did I get so knocked up? It's not like I did anything wrong. At least, I didn't plan to. The main thing was that everyone was happy, and suddenly in one fell swoop - boom! - and almost an enemy of society. At least according to NZAMIPS. I've got to lay off the criminal stuff! I made a vow to myself to find Captain Ber's card in my old trousers, frame it and hang it above my desk: if I was ever tempted to venture out again, I would bang my head against it.

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