image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/donkey2.png]

Chapter 5. Red eyes effect

The last Region they had to cross on their way to the North was Shamarkash. It took them two days to reach a proper road leading there, the very road Vlada and Kan had followed since Border and then left to enter the Burnt Region. It made a long detour to keep the travellers safe from the worst anomalies of No Man’s Land; getting back to it was good news, at least Kangassk thought so.

That day they were finally not alone on their journey, the only downside of that fact being that the people they met had been terrified of them at first. To the five young traders armed with rusty swords and handmade crossbows, three strangers and two chargas looked like a mighty bandit army. The oldest of the traders was the same age as Kangassk, the other four were just kids. As to their goods, there wasn’t much in the cart pulled by a sad scrawny donkey.

“...It’s all honey, honey,” the elder trader kept babbling non-stop, still nervous after the initial shock. “It’s our first time on the road. Our land is famous for its honey, you know, yes, it is. So we decided to sell some. Who else would if not us? We’re the only youngsters in the village full of old people…” He fell silent for a few moments, then gasped as the realization struck him, “Oh, where are my manners! My name’s Astrakh. These are my friends Yles, Will, and Ergen, and this is my little sister Klarissa.”

The fifth trader turned out to be a girl dressed as a boy.

“Do you even realize what you’ve got yourself into, kids?” asked Vlada in a voice full of sincere pity.

Young, brave, stupid. Greenies. Children. It’s an adventure to them, a child’s play. Take your honey, ride to the nearest city, sell it, buy something cool, go back… What can go wrong, really?

“Is something wrong?” wondered Astrakh. He saw the warrior woman frown at his words and the tall man behind her nod in a grim and menacing manner but he still had no idea what was going on.

“It’s a miracle that you’re still alive,” explained Vlada, “that nobody has cut your throats yet.”

Astrakh turned pale and swallowed nervously…

“You’d be an easy game even for a band of maskaks,” Vlada continued. “You have to join a big caravan, with guards and all, if you want to travel by the road with a load of goods. Going like this will get you killed! You have no idea how lucky you are…”

“Fools are always lucky,” Sereg put a word in too.

Astrakh quickly bowed to Vlada and her companions and called his little team of wannabe traders aside to have a word with them. The conversation they had was short and emotional, all frantic gestures and loud whisper. Several minutes later, Astrakh approached Vlada again; her, not Sereg. She must’ve looked like the leader of the group to him or, maybe, seemed less scary that her grey-haired, tall, grim friend.

“Please,” begged the young trader, “let us come with you to the nearest city. We’ll pay, I swear! As soon as we’ve sold the honey…” his last words sounded as pitiful as a kitten’s first meow.

“We don’t want your money,” said Vlada, “but we’ll see you to the city… What was its name, Sereg?”

“Handel.”

“Exactly. Once you’re done with selling and shopping there, join a caravan. The other merchants will give you a hand, especially if you share some of your famous honey with them. They all know how hard it is in the beginning, so they help young people like you. You’ll be alright, kids.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” The poor boy looked so grateful! He was likely an inch from falling to his knees and kissing the ground Vlada stood on…

“Why?” asked Sereg later, when they were back on the road with the young traders walking a dozen steps ahead of them.

“I couldn’t just leave the kids behind,” Vlada shrugged.

“Osaro, an old Wanderer I once knew, used to say,” Kan’s shy voice joined the conversation, “that all our deeds, good or evil, return to us in the end.”

To Kangassk’s surprise, both worldholders turned their heads to him, gave him a long look, and nodded in approval without saying a single word.

Some other day, he would have been immensely proud of himself for something like this; today, he wasn’t. He barely felt anything at all. The apathy, so unusual to Kan, seemed a heavy burden pressing unseen at his shoulders and made every step harder. What was going on with him? At first, he blamed his conscience that kept picking at him for his thoughts about Vlada back in Tammar and his fight with Sereg in the Dead Region, but no, there was something else. He felt sick…

“The Region of Shamarkash!”

Kangassk found himself in the creaking, wobbly cart, comfortably seated among the honey pots with the Encyclopedia of No Man’s Land in his hands. He read snatches from the book outloud, raising his voice high at the end of every phrase and flinging his arms like a madman. The audience - two worldholders and five merchants - laughed wildly.

“The ancient poet named Mal...ko...nemershghan! Oh my, what a name! Well, that guy said:

‘This alien land I saw at dawn,

It was my morning dream.

Three fearsome blazing suns there shone,

Two clouds, with lights agleam…’

What kind of poem is that, I ask you?” Kan commented boldly. “Three suns! Was he drunk, that Malconemershghan, or what? He saw double… no, triple!”

The audience cheered… and there, Kangassk woke up. What seemed naturally funny while he had been dreaming turned into complete nonsense on his waking up and made him cringe, blush, and wish to disappear. Also, he still felt sick.

Kan saw a patch of the dark, starry sky above his head, then the faces of the people surrounding him came into focus: Vlada, Sereg, and the merchants; all of them looked troubled.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/sleepincart.png]

“He’s delirious now,” said Klarissa, Astrakh’s little sister.

Vladislava touched Kangassk’s brow.

“Yeah, and he’s burning up,” she said and bit her lip, thinking. “Any ideas, Sereg?”

“Well, there is not much we can do here without magic…”

“Magic!” Astrakh exclaimed. “Oh wow, you’re mages! So why don’t you just, you know, cast a healing spell or something?”

“Because,” Sereg lowered his voice, “we’re still deep in the No Man’s Land. The healing spell may work, may fail, or may explode in my hands and incinerate everything in a hundred meters radius around it, it’s all chancy here. Want to risk it?”

“No…” Astrakh’s head drooped.

“Hey,” Vlada waved her hand at them in an impatient gesture, “stop it you two!”

“Maybe, we can still help him without magic?” Klarissa spoke up, still as shy as ever. “We have a bag of medicinal herbs with us. I can make him a potion and add some honey to shake off the fever.”

“Do that,” Vlada said to the girl and then turned to Sereg. “I think he caught something in the White Region. Come, let’s talk in private.”

Sereg nodded and stood up. Before following Vlada, he stopped to cast a glance at Kangassk. The boy lay on the ground, his eyes rolled back again, and frantically chanted Malconemershghan’s poems.

Vlada and Sereg walked along the stunted, dusty trees growing at the side of the road. The worldholders wanted to put enough distance between them and the mortals before speaking freely, unheard and unseen.

“Sereg,” said Vlada as soon at they stopped, “Kangassk’s illness scares you, I can see it in your eyes. If it wasn’t for you, I’d think he’d just caught a cold or his stomach hadn’t got along with wayfarer rations and spring water; it’s his very first journey, after all… But you…”

She put her hands on his shoulders in a long-forgotten gentle gesture. Sereg made a step back, startled like a man rudely awakened from his sleep, and turned away. He stood there for a while in complete silence, watching the stars twinkle in the dark sky and the sharp horn of the moon shine through the fleeting clouds. There is no way to look a tall man into the eyes when he doesn’t want it, he just lifts his chin up and leaves you wondering below…

“Sereg,” Vlada called to him in a quiet voice and added all of a sudden, “Sergey…”

The Grey Inquisitor lowered his eyes to meet hers.

“For ages,” he spoke slowly, like in a dream, “I haven’t heard this name… It feels strangely nice to hear it again…” He sobered up. “Your Kangassk is delirious, true. But that Malconemershghan he quotes is an old acquaintance of mine. This is what troubles me.

“No, you can’t remember him. Everything about this man is within your memory gap territory. I’ve never told you about Malcon before for there had been no reason to disturb the past. Looks like I’ll have to now. Well, know this: because of that man I burned down a city once. I also burned him. And, what’s most important, his book.”

“What book?”

“Heh, the book...” Sereg craned his head with a sad half-smile. “It was full of stupid little poems similar to those your little fool is reciting now.”

“I don’t understand…” Vlada looked at Sereg in helpless bewilderment, her eyes wide open. The huge age gap between those two was evident now, only there was no one nearby to notice that.

“These poems are a code. He wrote his book with the code. A book about non-magical interference. Malconemershghan was a genius, I give him that, one of my best apprentices ever and… my favourite student. And I killed him, burned him down to ashes, along with his followers, his city, and the very memory of his existence. I had to. Otherwise, Omnis would have been a dead world now. You remember the Stygian spiders, don’t you, Vlada?”

Vladislava covered her face with her hands and slowly sank upon the ground. The silence around them was so heavy and deep Sereg could hear her heartbeat.

Not a long time ago, just about two thousand years, in the North, between the Sumo Mountains and the place where Fervida meets Gileda there was a great city. It had a name back then: Erhaben. Now, that name is long forgotten and the remains of Erhaben are marked as “The City of Tricksters” on the maps. No one goes there for there is nothing to see among the overgrown ruins and ancient dust.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/ruins2.png]

Malconemershghan was a genius and a dreamer. The citizens of Erhaben loved him so much they chose him to rule over them. He promised to lead his people into a great future, and he kept his word, working day and night to make his great dream come true.

He discovered the primal force with which Omnis had been created by the worldholders, the force that, unlike magic, needed no stabilizers, the force undisturbed by the anomalies of No Man’s Land. If anyone succeeded in mastering it, they would be able to move mountains with their will alone.

Malconemershghan dug deeper into that matter. He spoke of the primal world where the worldholders had come from, the world where every single person was their equal and the primal force of creation ran freely. That’s how his great dream was born, a dream of sharing the power of worldholders with the people of Omnis, a dream of the Golden Age.

The shining dream had blinded him. He could not even conceive the non-magical force to be dangerous but dangerous it was; so dangerous, in fact, that the worldholders themselves refused to use it. What used to be harmless in a newborn world full of primal chaos became deadly and destructive as the world matured and entered the realm of order and balance.

Malconemershghan refused to hear of it; his apprentices, inspired by their master’s dream, would not hear of the possible danger as well. Crazy poems were being chanted on every corner of the great city, disrupting the balance.

Sereg had come in time, almost in time to save the day… Omnis had survived, the order prevailed, but the balance remained unstable even five years after the fall of Erhaben. And when the charred ruins of the Tricksters’ city had been already overgrown with grass and the world seemed safe again, hordes of unimaginable, alien creatures flooded Omnis: the Stygian spiders, as people would call them later. It was no war, it was slaughter, a bloodbath. Who were these creatures? Where had they come from? Were they indeed alien invaders that came to prey on the weakened world? Were they the last creation of Malcon and his followers, blinded by hatred and revenge just as much as they used to be blinded by the golden dream? There is no answer still…

“Vlada, he’s crying!” the traders complained to her when she returned to them with Sereg in tow.

And yes, Kangassk was crying his eyes out. He lay on the ground, covering his face with one hand and grasping his soothstone with the other.

Vladislava touched his brow.

“No more fever,” she said, reassuringly. “Just tears… Hey, Kangassk, speak to me. Tell me what you saw.”

When Kangassk found out that the nightmare was over, he sighed with relief. The moment of joy was very brief, though, for as soon as he opened his eyes he became aware of his tears and saw the pity on the faces of the traders around him.

They - and not just they, the worldholders too! - had been watching him cry like a baby for who knows how long! It was a disgrace poor Kan had no idea how to ever wipe out. He was so ashamed with himself he wished the earth would just swallow him up.

Kangassk wiped the tears from his face with a dirty hand and struggled to his feet. First of all, he glanced around the assembled company to make sure no one was going to crack a joke. No one was. Good! Slightly encouraged by the polite silence, Kan decided to answer Vlada’s question.

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“I saw Malconemershghah,” he said, the ridiculously long name sounding easy and natural for him now. “I saw a burning city… I saw monsters. Some were a dark horde, fast and blurry, crushing everything on their path like a black tide. Some looked human from afar and resembled a bad joke up close: sharp-toothed, long-clawed creatures dressed like jesters. Yes, I was scared!” The last phrase sounded like a challenge, a test whether the listeners would take him seriously. They did; everyone, even Sereg.

“I know what’s wrong with him,” said the Grey Inquisitor, addressing his words to Vlada alone and ignoring everyone else. “He carried a magical object into the White Region, his soothstone. Looks like it didn’t go well with the local anomaly and triggered something. The boy saw the past or maybe a glimpse of the future. That’s what those stones are for, after all. Only it’s not that simple. You know, he wouldn’t be raving over an ordinary vision…”

That said, he walked away and sat where the light of the fire couldn’t reach him, a dark, ominous silhouette against the moonlit road. Vlada understood him; as for the puny mortals, he rarely bothered with explaining things to them.

“I’m sorry, Kan. I should’ve told you to get rid of the stone,” said Vlada, compassion and sadness in her voice. “It seemed harmless. I’ve never thought that the White Region could even notice a thing with such a weak magical potential.”

“I wouldn’t have left it anyway,” said Kangassk firmly as he unclenched his fist and let the warmed up pebble fall on his shirt. The black soothstone glinted in the moonlight and sparkled reflecting the distant stars. Why was it so important now? Kangassk didn’t understand himself. “Vlada, I think I have a right to know… Who was this Malconemershghan? Why did Sereg burn the city because of him?”

“He made a very dangerous discovery, Kan,” the answer was vague, unwilling, and not to the point.

“What discovery?!!” Kan exploded all of a sudden. “He wrote poems! Silly, childish poems!”

Vlada ignored his rage, again, just like she did back in Tammar. She walked away from the group of mortals and joined Sereg. They talked and talked to no end, like ancient mages often do. As to the common folk, they wanted their rest and food. Kan had little choice here; he joined Astrakh’s traders for supper.

Soon, they were sitting around the cauldron full of hot porridge sweetened with honey, scooping the delicious meal with their spoons. They talked little and in a cautious whisper.

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“Those two are great mages!” whispered Astrakh. “You have no idea how lucky you are to travel with them, Kangassk!”

“Why’s that?” sighed Kan.

“Becoming a mage’s apprentice is what I’ve been dreaming of my whole life. I’ve never cared whether my teacher would be a kind mage like Vlada or an evil mage like Sereg… He’s evil, right? You said he burned down a city!”

“I’ve seen it in my vision. I have no other proof.” Kan turned away.

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’re teaching you!” exclaimed Will in a loud whisper. “That’s awesome!”

“Actually, no one has taught me anything so far,” retorted Kan in a gruffy tone; thinking of Sereg tended to trigger the worst in him. But thinking of the other worldholder… “Wait, no, Vlada did,“ he admitted, softening his voice, “She told me stories and taught me some fencing tricks.”

“See? What did I tell you!” Will grinned.

“That’s just the beginning!” Klarissa patted Kan on the back. “And how did you think they were going to teach you magic here, in No Man’s Land, huh? I’m sure you’ll get all the training you wished for once you’re back on the stable lands! You have a great future. Trust me, I know!”

“How?” Kan sniffed at her; he was in no mood for jokes and sappy encouragements.

Klarissa tugged at the thin string on her neck and revealed a small soothstone, just like his own. Kangassk’s eyes became very round; he gasped…

“Hide it, you silly girl!” he hissed at her under his breath. “If Sereg sees it, you’ll go to prison for five, no, ten years! And will spend them felling trees in a bitter cold!”

Unlike the Regions Kangassk passed through before, Shamarkash had a very distinctive border, a beautiful one at that: flowers, a whole “river” of flowers, so wide it was hard to tell where it ended.

“The border! We made it!” cried Iles and Ergen, the youngest of the five traders, and dived into the flowery river. The marvelous plants were so tall they closed in above their heads like sea waves.

The flowers cheered up everyone: the traders who ventured beyond the No Man’s Land for the first time, Kangassk who had been especially unfriendly and sulky for the last few days, and even the mages who had obviously missed their magic a lot during the journey. The older traders picked flowers to make themselves wreaths, the kids played tag with the chargas among the tall plants, Kan smiled for the first time in days, and the ancient mages threw sparkling spells at each other, happy to be themselves again. The traders’ old donkey remained a sole island of tranquillity among the madness: to such a simple beast, the blue river of flowers meant only food, a lot of food that no one was going to take away.

Vlada beckoned Kan to come closer and showed him a small plant she pulled up by the roots, the plant with blue flowers everyone liked so much.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/karlaman.png]

“This is karlaman,” she said and made a pause to see whether Kangassk was interested; he was, so she went on, “or, scientifically speaking, tall karlaman - Karlamanus altus. It’s extremely sensitive to the strength of magical background in the area and grows only at the borders of No Man’s Land where the tension of magical forces is the strongest. You see a river of karlaman - that’s the border for you, unless you’re in Kuldagan, of course…” She returned to the previous thought: “So, No Man’s Land is wrapped in flowers on both sides: Karlamanus altus grows on the northern border; Karlamanus lineatus, or striped karlaman, on the southern. It looks similar to his plant, only its leaves have stripes.”

“Got it,” Kangassk nodded, “It’s a natural indicator of antipodal magic.”

“Wow, you even know the proper scientific term! Attaboy!” she praised him.

“Well, I like to read…” said Kan, humble, confused, and a bit blushing.

“When karlaman starts spreading or gets sick and dies out on vast spaces, that means something’s gone wrong with one of the stabilizers. We used that a lot before we framed the stabilizers about eleven thousand years ago. The borders used to dance a lot back then and tuning the Horas manually was such a chore… Well, lesson’s over. Remember the karlamans!”

Vladislava handed the flower to Kangassk and ran away to catch up with Sereg. The small caravan slowly moved forward, further and further away, but Kangassk still stood where he was with the blue flower in his hands…

He thought of the mangled silver frame of Hora Lunaris, imagined the worldholders working on the miracle device someone had so ruthlessly destroyed to get to the precious stone; and kept trying to get over one eerie phrase pounding in his head: “about eleven thousand years ago”...

She’d just stood there, Vladislava the Warrior, all sweet and down to earth, speaking of an unimaginably long number of years as if it were nothing special… Also, she explained the sacred inner workings of the world to him, a provincial boy, like he was five…

What should he do? What should mortals do in such a moment? Drop to their knees in awe? Kangassk didn’t feel like it. Also, he felt no awe in his heart. He felt something else; connection, responsibility… as if he were no longer a usual guy thrown into a fairy tale but an important part of the story.

He spent way too much time lost in thought. The little caravan, swallowed up by the karlaman river, was nowhere to be seen. Lucky for Kan, his faithful charga returned for him to carry him to the others.

He was no longer lost, in more ways than one…

Kangassk leapt into the saddle and hurried to catch up with his companions. The blue “river” of Karlamanus altus looked more and more like a real river and less than a thick twisty bed of flowers as the distance between it and the little group of travellers grew. One last sprint up the hill, one last glance back - and Kangassk was back with his group again, on the road through the forest.

After the vast open space they had just left, the new scenery seemed claustrophobic. Rows of tall, broad elms with bushy, spiky undergrowth between them stood like two solid walls by the sides of the road; their long branches intertwined above, blocked half the light, and made even a sunny day look gloomy.

This place, so unlike the spacious oak forest near the White Region, gave Kangassk creeps. He had no idea plants could do this to people. That forest stirred some primeval fear even in the desert native. Kan felt watched, hunted, and he wished to get out of here as soon as possible.

In a couple of hours, as the sun went down, it became worse, way worse. It was the horror of Kuldaganian night outside the city walls, all over again. The traders felt it too; all five became skittish, grabbed their weapons at the slightest noise. The worldholders… well, those two were their usual selves: not the slightest sign of being nervous at all.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/forest.png]

Time passed, as painfully slow as dripping resin. Stars twinkled through the intertwined branches above. And something… someone, Kangassk could swear, was watching their every step.

“Maskak!” Kangassk shouted, instinctively reaching for the bow he no longer had. “Damn! Someone shoot this thing!”

Astrakh had his crossbow ready and was in a position to shoot the non-human scout but, taken aback, he just stood there, gaping. Kangassk grabbed his weapon and aimed but he was too late.

“I lost him… Now he’ll bring friends,” he said, angry and bitter.

“No worries,” Vlada reassured him and cast a glance at Sereg. The Grey Inquisitor nodded and removed a fat purse from his belt. Vlada continued, “We’ll keep walking. Most likely, they will attack us in where the road goes around the hill.”

“See?” she addressed the traders now. “What did I tell you? Remember joining a caravan next time and be generous when it comes to hiring guards!” and then turned to Sereg again, “Do you know that your maskaks are now wreaking havoc in the South as well?”

“No,” he grunted, untying the purse. The clever knot opened easily when he tugged at the proper string.

“Okay, kids,” Vlada glanced around the group of the frightened mortals, “you too, Kan, listen up! When it gets hot, you are to stand behind us. You can shoot if you want, but no getting into close combat and no heroics. Understood?”

They heard the bandits’ cries as soon as they reached the hill. Just like back there, in Kuldagan, small maskaks stood on top with their slingshots. The bigger non-humans, along with their human brethren, ran downhill swinging torches, clubs, and all kinds of rusty cold weapons.

There weren’t many, no more than a dozen. They wouldn’t dare to attack a group bigger than Astrakh’s trading party. Even now, the odds two to one were too much for bandits of their league. They must’ve been desperate, or counted on taking the travellers by surprise and looking way more terrifying in the dark where it’s hard to count. Indeed, their fanatical banzai charge with the slingers’ support from above and the blood-curdling battle cries was rather impressive

Yet the ambushed group that by all accounts should’ve ran away in panic, stood their ground. Astrakh and Klarissa even made a good use of their crossbows and sent a couple of bolts into the charging crowd. Then came the mages’ turn…

Kangassk was restless and angry with himself. He thought of his bow on its journey from Fervida to Gileda and desperately wished to have it back. The traders had no spare crossbow for him and Vlada’s orders about standing his ground were clear, so he had nothing to do but to wait, sword in hand, for the bandits to come closer. Only Vlada never let them do that.

Kangassk noticed her cloak move in the absence of wind; he had no time to ponder on that, though. An invisible wave struck the attacking group, flung them in the air like a heap of toy soldiers and rolled them on the ground when they fell. That demonstration of power should’ve been enough to make any bandit group to signal for the end of the raid. But no, those bandits didn’t even think of retreat; they stood up, cursing and limping, and charged again. This time, the slingers tried to cover them but no stone reached its target, thrown aside by Vlada’s wind.

So, hand-to-hand battle it was? All right, Kan was ready. The fact that those bandits hadn’t retreated after learning they were dealing with a mage here bothered him, though. Were they stupid or crazy? Or worse: did they have some ace up their sleeve that made them so bold?

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/shards.png]

Vlada went easy on them but, since they didn’t take their chance to flee the battlefield in one piece, it was now Sereg’s turn. He turned the fat purse upside down.

Hundreds of little blades, glistened by moonlight, fell down on his open palm. Kangassk shivered at the sight. The blades didn’t hurt their master, though, they stopped in their fall, caught in the invisible magic field and floated there, a glittering, deadly sharp suspension of forged steel.

The Grey Inquisitor waved his hand in a wide gesture as if he was sowing wheat in the field and sent the blades fly toward the advancing crowd; cries of pain and agony followed right away. Kan didn’t expect the “evil mage” to show mercy but Sereg did, in his own way: the blades killed maskaks but spared people.

Silence fell on the battlefield. Human bandits struggled to their feet, battered by Vlada’s wave, wounded by Sereg’s blades but alive. Now they looked properly scared; at least they weren’t eager to charge for the third time. If they really had an ace up their sleeve, it was the right time to use it now. It seemed that they were going to do exactly that. They waited for something.

“I know them,” Sereg sighed, “a troublesome village. They used to go rogue every time they had a poor harvest. They kept quiet for the last century, though… I’d like to know who had ‘inspired’ them again.”

“Why did you kill only maskaks but not people?” asked Kangassk. His heart was racing; the wave, the flying blades, the cries… he kept reliving all that over and over again in his mind.

“Because they’re people,” replied Sereg in a quiet and confident tone that made Kangassk feel ashamed of himself for thinking ill of the mage and for being such a bloodthirsty fool.

“But how…” he started.

“A simple directional spell,” answered Sereg in advance and turned to Vlada, “Just look at them! They’re still here, huh? Usually, their kind takes off like rabbits at the first sight of a mage. Those are stubborn.”

“They’re waiting for someone,” said Vlada, peering into the darkness. “Someone they think can deal with us...”

Their saviour had come soon, indeed. The bandits greeted him with loud, rousing whisper and stepped aside to let him pass. The dark figure moved slowly and graciously like a prowling predator. His eyes glowed with red fire, his face was a black mask. When the strange creature came close enough, Kangassk heard its breath, wheezy one moment, growling the next, and that sound made his hair rise on his head. The terror the bandit’s mage spread was paralyzing. Like a rabbit before a snake, Kangassk just stood there, petrified, unable to run away, no, not even thinking of running away!

The non-human raised his thin hand, snapped his fingers with a loud, sharp sound of a broken dry branch, and summoned a green light. Now everyone could see his face, too perfect and beautiful to be human.

Kangassk had read a lot about mysterious creatures similar to humans yet so perfect and ideal in every aspect that looking at them produced an “uncanny valley” effect in human mind resulting in a feeling of blood-curdling terror and a strong desire to run away. All the books advised to follow that desire if possible…

“Silly mortals!” spoke the solemn, unearthly voice. The mage looked around, probably picking a victim. For some unknown reason, he stopped his gaze on Kan and addressed him next, “Beg for mercy while you still can and I might let you live and serve me, Nemaan the Great, Nemaan the Wise.”

Kan stared at the mage, hypnotized, unblinking, charmed. The non-human, terrible and beautiful at the same time, spoke so profoundly, with such pride! Every word he uttered seemed to make him taller. Every word was like a charm.

The true mage, just like in the books: one of those who pay a great price for their power and cease being human as the result! Vladislava and Sereg looked plain and boring before him.

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/mage.png]

Kangassk felt his admiration of the stranger grow by the minute. He already imagined himself starting a new life as his servant, then being noticed by the master (for his talent, of course!) and promoted to apprentice. Kan saw himself learning the dark arts and paying the price: becoming non-human, just like Nemaan the Great…

The mage’s speech flowed like a river, strong and confident, slow and unstoppable…

“And you, Kangassk Del-Emer,” Kan trembled as he heard his name. The true mage! Even Vlada had to ask what his name was! “You I would gladly take in as an apprentice for I see your potential…”

“Etcetera, etcetera…” that was Vlada, rudely interrupting the Wise One.

“Yeah, kid, stop it, you’re not in a circus!” Sereg joined her too.

The charm was broken, shattered even. Kangassk turned back and saw the worldholders sit cross-legged on the traders’ cart among the honey pots. Both looked deeply bored. To kill time, Vlada was scratching chargas behind their ears.

Sereg stifled a yawn, stood up, and approached Kangassk. Then, with his elbow comfy leaned against Kangassk shoulder (the difference in height allowed that), he asked the Wise One a question:

“Well, my dear skiver, life’s tough after you’ve been kicked from Uni, huh? At least you learned something before dropping out. Two spells… no, three! Eye-colour-changer, Licht, and Charm. Just enough to impress some peasants.”

“You’re pretty good at Charm, actually! You look smashing, hands down!” said Vlada with a smile. She now stood beside Kangassk as well but, since she was too short to put her elbow on his shoulder, she just took him by the arm.

The traders on one side, the bandits on the other, all eyes were looking at the mage now. He no longer resembled a terribly beautiful non-human creature and no illusion could have hidden his anxiety.

“You must’ve missed a lot of classes, kid,” Sereg scolded him,” or you wouldn’t even think of trying such simple illusions on the founder of your Uni…” He looked at the bandits, “Get away from here! I want you all back in your village tomorrow, working! I’ll be watching you. Disobey and I promise: heads will roll!” The bandits ran helter-skelter; eager to get away before the mage, real mage changed his mind. “No, you stay here,” he addressed his young rogue colleague who tried to quietly creep away during the commotion, “And take all that trumpery off.”

Nemaan obeyed. He removed the spells, one by one, with obvious shame and regret. Soon, the Wise and Great One had been no more; a sad, round-shouldered boy stood at the foot of the hill. He was dressed in a robe that looked like it used to be a girl’s dress in its past life and had been patched so many times its texture resembled a quilt. There were tears in his eyes, no longer fiery-red.

“Come here,” said Sereg sternly. The mage obeyed again. “Raise your hands.”

Two silvery bracelets locked upon the thin wrists with a loud click and dissolved in the air.

“I deprive you of magic sine die. You may come to me after a decade or so and I may change my mind, or not. It depends on whether you behave. Be glad that your bandits didn’t get you, kid. They wouldn’t go easy on you. As far as I remember, the mob law for such case is to cut a mage’s arms at the elbow.”

Nemaan hunched, terrified at the idea, and looked at Sereg with wide, haunting eyes. He tried to plead or to thank his saviour, or something else, yet nothing but sobs came out of his mouth. Kangassk stared at him, close to sobbing himself, so strong was his shame. The stupid dream about becoming a servant of this guy… Oh, the guilt, oh, the cringe...

“You’re coming with us,” said Vlada. “Tomorrow, we will enter Handel. There, we will let you go. If we do this now, your former friends will chop you into pieces this very night.”

“You are very kind,” Nemaan replied in a dead, hopeless voice, “but why…”

“You are a human being, not some wild maskak. I think you can learn your lesson and change.”

“Heh, I thought of sending him into the mines or something…” said Sereg dreamily. “But all right, let it be as you wish.” He waved his hand; the matter was settled.

*

Sleeping Handel’s night lights twinkled in the distance.

Kangassk thought of mages, the real mages, and of the mages from the fantasy tales he read back home. Truth is rarely spectacular, maybe that’s why people write fiction. More often, the truth is ugly, like it was that day when he, Kangassk Del-Emer, betrayed Vladislava and Sereg just because they didn’t look impressive enough.

Nemaan walked beside Kan, the former mage’s head bowed, his shoulders drooped. Kan tried not to look at him because looking at him hurt like no blade ever did.

“I swear,” Kangassk thought, “that never again, neither in thoughts nor in deeds, will I betray them, or my name is not Kangassk Del-Emer!”

image [https://mildegard.ru/otimg/png/RoyalRoad.jpg]