Warlock

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Frankly speaking, it was not necessary to get into the necropolis. All that was needed was to move two minor corridors to preserve the layout.

But the risens wouldn't have lasted this long in the underworld if they'd relied on blind luck. Yes, the chamber they'd dug up was half-buried, the only way out of it permanently blocked by the collapsed ceiling. So what of it? It is possible that the rest of the duct system is still intact and is regularly used by the servants of the dynasty. It is necessary to check it, so as not to get a sudden blow in the rear.

Besides, Hustin, who knew a lot about necromancy, had a good idea of the kind of guards one might find in an ancient cemetery. And he didn't want to see them awaken on one not-so-great night. Especially since the symbols he'd unearthed reeked of a truly ancient time, from a time when the Taleyan dynasty had not yet accepted the service of Derkana and had buried the dead in the earth rather than in the sea. That's probably why the necropolis was sealed, so as not to stir up the past. Or has it not been sealed? We'll have to find out.

And, of course, Hastin was piqued with curiosity. He wanted to touch magic, long forgotten, long gone before the Plague, to try to unravel its mysteries. That's why the mage was now standing in the dug-out room, inspecting the pattern he had drawn on the floor one last time.

"I'm a little uneasy," Vador confided to his mentor. "I'm not sure if we're about to walk in and there are some dead people on the rampage."

"It's as if you were very much alive yourself," answered Hustin mockingly, not denying, however, the very possibility of the situation described.

"No, master," the apprentice even raised his finger in the air and waved, making his words meaningful. "There is a difference. I am an ordinary risen vampire, a creature not at all legendary, one might say, an everyday creature. There are plenty of them, and sometimes it seems that no matter how hard you spit, you'll end up with one of our kind. And who the craftsmen of that time could create is an open question. One must also consider one's origins. Of course, the Dark One brought me back by his own will, but let's be honest: deep down I was a peasant's son, and I still am. I've only matured a little, and I've learned a few things through your efforts. Over there," he pointed to the aisle, "are those who have been buried in full ceremony. With sacrifices and invocations and seals of name obliteration and bestowing flesh upon the elements and whatever else they had to do. They were originally stronger than I was. And whether they were weakened by the passage of time or vice versa is unknown."

Hustin could have argued about the second point because Vador had learned a lot, but he did not. The assistant was right about the main thing - it was impossible to predict what awaited them after the removal of the protection. Now, the protection created by ancient mages acted in two ways, on the one hand, deafening any magical means of research, and on the other - keeping the sleeping in some kind of energy circuits in the depths of the tombs. More precisely, magicians were able to get close to one single sarcophagus, closely "probe" it, notice the dormant spells and reasonably assume that in the other coffins as well.

The mage optimistically hoped for the best. According to his calculations, after sensing the presence of intruders, the protective spells would simply go out of hibernation and would not manifest themselves until the sarcophagi would be opened. But if the worst-case scenario happens, they'll stop the ritual and put the protection back in place. They should. As a last resort, the Mistress is here today, she's plugged up more than that.

It was because of her return that he decided to take the chance. Because he knew that if things did not go according to plan, there was someone nearby who could tame the raging dead. Or, at least, bring them back to their former sleepy state.

As a mage, Celesta was neither strong nor knowledgeable. Her advantages were her access to the energy that bound the Curse, enormous administrative resources, and caution squared away. Perhaps this caution was another reason why Hastin acted alone, without warning. If the Mistress knew of his plans, she would begin to think, calculate, consider various options, consult with the descendants of noble families, and gain access to their archives ... Sooner or later, of course, they will get inside. But how long will they have to wait? Centuries? Okay, that's a bit of a stretch. But it would still be a long time.

What's the point of delaying? All possible precautions have been taken, what can be foreseen is foreseen.

"Let's begin," the warlock commanded.

Four of the eight vampire mages participated in the ritual. The fifth was Vador, who had no proper magical powers, but who mastered the Paths, including the Path of the Blood Force, better than anyone else. The three were outside the room. They were to protect the ritualists and pull them out if necessary, while the maestro and his apprentice were in charge of the removal.

A coarse, heavy force flowed through the contours of the drawing, responding to the measured recitation of the quatrain. The energy of the elements cannot be used for seven hundred years, only a few are allowed to touch the otherworldly sources (I mean, everyone can, but most only once), and the risens have not dared to siphon power from the living through sacrifice. Who knows how the occupants of the sarcophagi would react to near death? Hustin had to act the old-fashioned way, using internal resources, shaking at every drop.

"Bingo," Vador said without opening his eyes. "You can fix it."

Maître had a sense of "bingo," too. The ritual he had devised seemed to lift the protection of the necropolis, leaving free one of the areas closest to the tunnels the vampires had dug. The one where the sarcophagus, partially free of earth and stones, stood. Now they should consolidate their condition so that they would not be distracted by the maintenance of the dome, and they could do what they liked to do.

That is, not to rob the grave, but to engage in the venerable development of magical science.

"It's done," Vador said, putting the smokestacks in their proper places. What he did now was only a temporary thing, they would set the final version of the ritual's anchor points from valuable artifacts later, after checking the scheme. "Let them go, master."

Hustin obediently stopped charging, stepping cautiously toward the exit just in case. His apprentice, characteristically, did the same. They're not fighters, but intelligent beings who don't like to be stupid and are always ready to give it a second try.

"It seems to hold."

"It's holding," Hustin confirmed. He raised his voice and called out: "Caché!"

"Yes, Maitre?!" The assistant responded from afar.

"Note: the ritual was successful, the pressure on the circuit is within the calculated limits, and the level of recharge is stable. We proceed to the second stage."

"Noted, Maitre. Good luck!"

The teacher and the apprentice looked at each other and entered the chamber. Time had not spared the ancient structure - the collapsed ceiling had destroyed most of the paintings on the walls, shattered the precious mosaics on the floor, shattered the jars, and felled the racks with expensive weapons. However, it also preserved the interior, allowing it to remain relatively intact.

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The sarcophagus looked perfectly intact. It did not show that it was even slightly damaged.

Over centuries of acquaintance, the risens had learned to understand each other without words. Vador stepped aside and watched, tracking the energy fluctuations in the sarcophagus with his long-trained instincts while his mentor and a senior colleague tried to examine the contents. To do so, Hustin simply took off his glove and placed his palm on the lid, outwardly doing nothing more than that. From the outside it looked as if he were just standing still, thinking about something of his own.

Fifteen minutes passed when Vador suddenly spoke:

"I feel a strengthening of the field. Increase in activity... I observe the emergence of structure. It is unfolding."

At the first words, Hastin withdrew his hand and stepped back, watching the process himself. He couldn't figure out what his actions had awakened the guard. He did nothing of the sort, only watched. He had to wait a little while until the complex spell noted the disappearance of the external influence and went back to sleep.

For the first time in millennia, the guardian, a cast of the soul of a servant of the family sacrificed to serve his lord in the afterlife, had an opinion about "'falling asleep".

"Master, something's wrong," Vador said tensely, finally throwing off the trance. "Let's go."

Hustin trusted his apprentice's instincts, his accuracy they had tested with practice, so both immediately left the burial chamber. Alas, too late! The guardian, fully formed, emerged from above the sarcophagus, and instantly, without giving a warning, launched himself into the attack. From the side, it looked as if a glowing black ghost, a humanoid figure with no face and blurred outlines, had silently appeared above the lid to rush toward the sacrilegious intruders who had disturbed the dead man's rest.

He paid no attention to the fact that the undead were not human beings in front of him.

The first blow was taken by the shield Vador had put up. A thin, dark plane, clearly purple, appeared in the ghost's path. It slammed into it, bounced back, let out a mental cry that made the vampires wobble, struck again, tried to go around... It failed. Vador moved his fingers slightly, forming a technique, the skin on his wrist parted, releasing a thin stream of blood that swiftly became thick and, more like dense smoke, rushed toward his attacker.

The guard didn't like the greeting, and he screamed again, dark stains rippling across his body where the blood had touched. However, the risen's attack didn't have much effect - the wounds were healing on the fly.

"Master!"

"Now..." Hustin barked. "Done! Get ready!"

The Necromancer exorcism spell was the strongest in Hustin's arsenal, and in terms of its use, it was to be feared by any undead. In other words, it worked on vampires, too. So the maitre drew back a little, giving Vador time to prepare and to shield himself additionally. The hesitation nearly took advantage of the ghost, sensing the threat and therefore changing the target of the attack. He was almost in time.

With a hand in a final ritual gesture, Hastin let the formula off its leash. In a fraction of a second, the spell, set free, scanned the invisible sphere, sensed two suitable objects, ignored its creator, clawed at them with invisible claws, and began to crush them. Screams erupted again, but while the guardian was still uttering a wordless mental groan, there was an audible swearing from the apprentice who was struggling mightily to keep up the shield. The elder vampire still had some control over his creation, so he focused his spell on the wraith, hoping in his heart that Vador would be all right.

Once again, the student lived up to the teacher's expectations, lasting as long as necessary.

Groaning one last time, the tomb guard vanished into thin air, leaving behind not a shred to examine. Hustin quickly dispelled his spell and almost without interruption created another, scanning type. Clear. Whatever the ghost was, it didn't run away, didn't hide - it lost its structure completely and died doing its duty to the end.

"That's it," Hustin informed his apprentice. "You can take it off now."

With undisguised relief, Vador removed the shield. He took the stimulant vial out of his belt pocket, hooked the cork with his fingernail, and tipped the contents into his mouth. He stood there, waiting for the elixir to be digested before he spoke up:

"Strong creature. I don't understand what we did wrong."

The elder mage did not have time to answer.

"Maître! Vador! How are you?"

"We're done here!" shouted Hastin. "Come here!"

Turning toward the entrance to the burial chamber, he confessed:

"Neither did I. I'm sure we did everything right, the guard shouldn't have woken up."

"But something provoked it, didn't it?"

"Let's explore the sarcophagus, maybe we'll find some clues inside. By the way, did you notice how well the Blood Shield performed?"

"The exorcism worked better, the ghost seems to be more sensitive to this type of the influence."

Shoving and elbowing each other, three vampires burst from the corridor into the room, and there was no room at all. Maître began to give out instructions:

"We'll block the entrance to the burial chamber until we get some ideas about the ghost. It's something new, and it's going to take a long time to deal with it. Kynalan, the ritual of deposition of protection showed itself well, so start making artifacts for a stable structure. The others are getting ready, tomorrow we will finally dig up the sarcophagus and rewrite the external patterns from its surface."

"We can do it today, there's nothing to do!"

"Caché, your old master would like to think about what he's seen today. And he can't leave you alone for fear that you'll climb inside and wake someone else up!"

Those present had the decency to act embarrassed. They knew their sin, they knew it. The vampire mages who were curious about the necropolis were the ones who explored it; the rest preferred to do other tasks for the community.

After loading his students with work, Hustin headed back to his quarters. He had to walk for a long time, he once again thought about the possibility of instant travel through space, which existed before the Plague, then his thoughts jumped to the rapid return of Celesta, involuntarily remembered Zervan... Mages always stood apart, in any society, and Hastin was no exception. While keeping a distance, willingly and unwillingly, from the daily life of the community, he was nevertheless aware of its affairs, and as an elder, he was privy to secrets the rank and file could not know. He communicated with all the upper echelons and understood better than they did the motives behind their actions.

Zerwan's betrayal did not surprise him at all. Rather, he was amazed at how long he had lasted.

A person either has a backbone or does not have one at all; in the second case, the person will inevitably bend. It will fall. That was what his father had taught him as a child, and time had proved the long-gone blacksmith right. Zervan, for all his strength and fury, had no backbone. Hustin did not feel a strong will in him, that was why the animal elder had obeyed his Mistress once because he could rely on her, could take shelter behind her decisions. True loyalty to the chief had never been felt in him. Celesta felt the same way, but she sometimes treated those around her too well and saw the good even in those in whom it made no sense to look for it. She once quoted some forgotten philosopher as saying "there are no bad people". There may be no bad people, but there are plenty of weak ones.

In short, Maitre had no regrets about Zervan, and, in a sense, he was glad he wasn't and wouldn't be around. He was tired of giving the fool a hard time without his mistress knowing. He did not like to disturb her.

Hastin's attitude toward the petty Mistress was a mix of many things. Respect for the Mentor who initiated him into the basics of the second life; reverence for the Head of the family, into which he was reborn through death; admiration for the ability to speak as equals to the powers that be, even on her knees; slight awe at the widest outlook and constant willingness to self-improvement. The misunderstanding of certain decisions-sometimes Celesta thought in unfamiliar categories that smacked of foreignness, and at such moments it seemed to him that the rumors among the cultists about her unearthly origins had a rational basis in them.

He knew for a fact that no one else could rule vampire society. For the simple reason that no society would exist. At best, in some places, there were small communities, struggling to make ends meet, avoiding the slightest attention from the authorities. No army of mortal servants, no underground shelters as lavishly decorated as palaces, no scholarly activities, no students... Medea, his irritatingly irritating lover, rightly argued that they owed Celesta everything.

Though they did not consider the little mistress sinless, unlike the slightly crazy Merc. Because they stood by her when she made mistakes.

As far as he understood from the communication through the mirror, the mistress was up to something big again. And unusual, it seemed. A good sign - lately it was as if she had been in a half-sleep, forcing herself to work. The question was, shouldn't he be frightened of Celesta's ideas beforehand, like in the old days? But they did work, almost always.

Of course, Hustin trusted her; in fact, he trusted the leader more than anyone else. He just did not always understand her logic, and it was terribly annoying.

Whatever adventure she has in mind, there will be a place for him, Hustin. As it happens, he was involved in all the serious projects of the community, and this one will be no exception. So, he should collect the accumulated debts beforehand, so that he would not be distracted by secondary tasks. That's what he and his students are doing right now.

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