"Wait... What do you mean you got caught in a brawl between a loaders' crew and a new union? Are you serious?!" Serge asked, giving Malk a strange look. "And then, you say, a gendarme showed up, stopped the fight, and... they didn't even take you to the station?"
"That's right," Malk nodded, spreading his hands.
"Three flurs down your collar, twisted over Yorrokh's knee!" Serge blurted out in one breath, using a strange phrase for a landlubber. "I got no other words."
Malk didn't really have any either. Especially to describe the situation in which he decided for some reason to share what had happened with Serge. Sure, they were pals, but not close enough to discuss serious things not meant for other ears, like clashes with thugs and the authorities. But one thing led to another, and Malk, without any magic—later he verified that—spilled all his train station adventures to Serge.
And to think the conversation had started with his classmate asking about the weird rash on Malk's face...
Though, it was really hard to avoid the topic and not get curious: the sleeping alchemy the union puppeteer used had caused Malk a full-blown allergic reaction. Even though his body had become tough as nails and he had done a cleansing right after the poisoning, some toxins still lingered, showing up overnight as a scattering of red spots on his face. And although by lunchtime the inflammation had significantly reduced, it hadn't completely gone away and was still noticeable. That's why Serge had latched onto it.
More importantly, he was so pushy and sharp that in ten minutes, he got the whole story out of Malk.
"Alright, the reasons for the tussle between the union and the crew are clear... The Guram Family bought the controlling stake in the Andalore Railway Station from House Levi and now wants to squeeze every possible juice out of the acquisition," Serge began to reason, finally calming down, but catching Malk's extremely surprised look at such knowledge, he explained, "Last sennight, I heard Shark ranting about this to the girls with my own ears."
Malk rubbed his chin thoughtfully, digesting what he heard.
"So, the Guram Family is behind the union... Then, the bold behavior of their mages is quite understandable, but what does that gendarme have to do with it... And a lieutenant at that, if I heard right what the union puppeteer was whispering to him..."
"Come on, who's the country bumpkin here, you or me?!" Serge rolled his eyes. "Boldness aside, not even the Houses from the Big Three would start a bloody massacre without serious grounds, more so involving ordinary mortals." He paused and thought for a moment before adding, "At least in the metropolis. What happens on the islands, not even the Saints or Yorrokh know."
"And that lieutenant..." Malk said thoughtfully.
"...is an observer from the Special Chancellery attached to the gendarmerie. He makes sure the family that bought the 'order-keeping' permit for their area doesn't go overboard," Serge continued. "That's why he stepped in when things started to get dicey, and the brawl between the Gifted was turning into a bloody fight... Another thing is, why didn't they take anyone to the station as a precaution and keep them in a cell for a day? After all, there weren't any aristocrats among you..."
At the mention of the cell and being held for a day, Malk grimaced like he'd swallowed quinine. He definitely didn't want to fall into the clutches of Captain Tyrhat or his colleagues again with all his heart.
"Aristocrats... What in the Yorrokh's name do gendarmes care about two dozen mortal paupers and a couple of weak mages? They wouldn't get much money out of us, just a heap of hassle. The main goal was to show who's boss at the station, and the union achieved that. Nothing else mattered," he said, offering the only explanation that came to mind.
"Maybe so," Serge sighed, chewing his lips thoughtfully. "Maybe so."
At that moment, his classmate reminded Malk a lot of Tolfan. Though Serge wasn't from a fancy background, neither was he spoiled with wealth, and had a Gift worse than the fatty's, a certain elusive commonality of souls was still felt. Moreover, it was hard to say what it was right away: maybe some slyness and understanding of the seamy side of life, maybe the obvious self-centeredness. One thing was clear, though: what definitely set Serge apart from Tolfan was his lack of cowardice.
The fatty, in general, seemed to cherish and cultivate this quality within himself on purpose. This was especially evident during his recent meeting with Malk. As soon as Tolfan learned that his friend's conflict with the loyalists was gaining more and more momentum, he practically went pale. And when he found out one of the attackers on their apartment belonged to the House of the Thunder Bird that had impressed him so much, he completely lost his speech for a couple of minutes. Only the news of Malk's move to another place calmed him down a little, but even then, not completely. In any case, he did not offer any help or support to his old friend... Though Malk didn't expect it anyway.
In this sense, Serge was way better. He showed no fear of Malk's enemies, nor did he rush to distance himself. Quite the opposite, his eagerness to "buddy up" bordered on outright pushiness.
"Alright, let's forget the gendarmes. Better tell me, what are you planning to do next? Your crew's definitely gonna fall apart now, and those who don't switch jobs will be the first to run under the union's wing. You going with them?" Serge asked with unconcealed curiosity, snapping Malk out of his gloomy thoughts.
"Why the Yorrokh would I stick with the crew?!" Malk snapped. "Fighting for them was enough. There are no more obligations between us. And since they can no longer help with finding work, our cooperation is over."
"Whew! I thought you, buddy, might want to play noble..." Serge exhaled with almost genuine relief. "This little war isn't yours, and it's not for you to fight on its fronts."
Malk was itching to ask if he really looked like an idiot for Serge to think that, but he held back. After all, in Serge's place, he might have said the same thing.
But the conversation didn't end there.
"Listen, there's one thing I don't get. How'd you end up at the station?" Serge suddenly asked. "Unloading cars isn't the most obvious job for an Adept in your field. You're not a telekinetic, not a puppeteer... Why would a mage studying a 'Healer' unload cars?"
Not wanting to reveal the details of his winding path into magic, Malk shrugged with feigned indifference:
"Money?"
"Oh, come on! You earn way more with your 'Healer.' If it was just about drachmas and obols, there'd be no point hanging around with the crew," Serge dismissed, staring at Malk.
He got no answer: Malk diligently pretended not to get the hints. But Serge wasn't so easy to shut up.
"Fine, let's say so. But I still don't get why the railway station. Isn't there other work in the city?" he asked, waving his hands emotionally.
Malk, getting annoyed by the questions, snapped back gloomily:
"What work? I don't recall anyone at the labor exchange being thrilled about an Adept without experience. And if a miracle happens and an interesting job pops up, a whole line immediately forms from those wanting it."
"Wait, what labor exchange? You're a member of the Andalore Society of Mages, so look for work there," Serge protested. "At least it's one of the few perks these courses give us!"
Malk didn't reply right away. If one were to forget about his station adventures and go back to when he was searching for any way to make money, he hadn't even thought about the Society back then. He studied newspapers, read street ads, went to the labor exchange, but didn't use the most obvious option. No, much later, in the courses' building, he did come across the local bulletin board, but there was no merit of his in that—it happened by chance. And he didn't want to admit that.
"Like the Society would offer anything interesting. I've seen their listings: city cemetery guard, street cleaner, city watchman... Loader looks pretty good in comparison," Malk finally said. He didn't add that the jobs offered were also useless for his path as a mage.
"Well, those are municipal jobs. They're rarely picked. But if you check occasionally, you can find more interesting private offers," Serge said with a clear hint, emphasizing "private."
And Malk finally got why the whole conversation was needed. Serge wanted something from him, but for some reason, he didn't say it outright and preferred to beat around the bush.
"Serge, do you have something specific to suggest?" Malk asked directly, tired of all the hints.
"Exactly, buddy, exactly! And it's right up your alley..." Serge grinned and gave Malk a friendly pat on the shoulder.
"Details?" Malk pressed.
"I'll tell you the details in the evening. I need to check something, and if everything works out, then... a long and fruitful collaboration awaits us!" Serge declared with some pomposity. "The main thing is that you're interested; you'll see the rest for yourself."
Beyond that, Malk couldn't get anything else out of Serge. He just brushed it off and told Malk to wait until evening, which, fortunately, wasn't too far since they were on a break between seminar classes and the academic day was almost over. Malk didn't push either; he was curious to hear Serge's offer but not more than that. He had no serious expectations.
Serge picked a small park near the Society's building as their meeting spot. When Malk got there, his classmate was already waiting on a bench, kicking a heavy-looking stepladder at his feet with a bored look.
"What's that for?" Malk couldn't help but ask.
He didn't even bother asking where the slippery Serge had gotten the ladder. He suspected he wouldn't like the answer.
"You'll see," his classmate grinned. Then, with a grunt, he hoisted the ladder onto his shoulder, wobbled a bit, but quickly steadied himself and slowly headed out of the park. "We'll have to walk a bit..."
"Maybe we should get a carriage?" Malk suggested, surprised at his own extravagance, but met a firm refusal.
Serge turned out to be even more stingy, preferring to suffer a bit and save the fifteen obols. His ordeal didn't last long: after a couple hundred fathoms, Malk took pity on the noticeably weaker student and grabbed the ladder himself. For him, after constant nourishment with Life energy and workout at the station, such weight was nothing, and walking with a stepladder on his shoulder felt like just another opportunity to work his muscles. As for Serge... Serge, not at all ashamed, with apparent relief accepted the offer and dumped the ladder hassle on Malk.
They had to walk for about an hour. During this time, they crossed several avenues, passed through a couple of courtyards and alleys, until they reached the start of Two Temples Street. To his shame, after all the wandering, Malk didn't recognize the place where Serge had taken him, and when he did, he was surprised: in his view, two broke Adepts, especially carrying along the Yorrokh's ladder, had no business being on one of the poshest streets in Andalor.
"We've arrived," Serge announced, looking as if he was the one who'd been doing all the heavy lifting and had finally reached a much-needed break. "Lean this crap against the wall. We'll take a breather and..."
"And what?" Malk asked, putting down the ladder and rubbing his stiff shoulder.
At the same time, he kept glancing around, trying to figure out what had caught Serge's interest in this place. No matter how hard he tried, nothing came to mind. Everywhere he looked, there were houses with mezzanines, typical of the area, with shops on the first floor and living quarters on the second. The building where the Adepts had stopped housed a tobacconist's. Judging by the prices displayed in the window, the customers it was catering to were clearly quite well-off.
The only thing that bothered Malk a bit was the feeling he had recently heard or read about some problems on Two Temples Street. However, he couldn't remember what exactly they were.
"You could've figured it out yourself, buddy!" Serge sighed and, taking the ladder, set it against the wall beside the shop window.
Notably, the surly clerk in a double-breasted frock coat who peeked out didn't faze him at all. On the contrary, after giving him a friendly nod, Serge immediately forgot about him and turned to Malk.
"See that drawing on the wall? Go up with this scraper and try to get rid of it," he suggested, squinting slyly. In his outstretched hand, he held a well-used painter's tool.
Malk absently grabbed the scraper and, somewhat confused, first stared at the rowdy-looking graffiti scrawled with fluorescent paint right beneath the roof's edge, then glanced over at the neighboring buildings, which had likewise suffered from vandals. After which, he swore under his breath. Damn it, he didn't even notice "the battleship in the lagoon"![1] After all, he had read in the papers that the facades of the buildings on Two Temples Street and Victors Avenue had been seriously marred by all sorts of offensive scrawls and sketches, yet he still couldn't recall it when he needed to.
Now roughly guessing why Serge had dragged him there, he climbed the ladder slowly, aimed at the edge of the drawing—which, according to the accompanying text, depicted the shop owner in a passionate love affair with a goat—and started scraping vigorously. In theory, the plaster should have easily yielded to his efforts, but against all odds, the daubing of the unknown artist still glowed orange in the approaching twilight.
"Not working?" Serge asked with fake sympathy from below.
"Yeah, it's stuck good," Malk admitted. "They enchanted it well. Sure, I'd get it off eventually, but..."
"But it'd take ages. And even then, after such a cleaning, the wall might need replastering," Serge finished his thought and added, "Now you get why I brought you here?"
"Yeah, I'm not an idiot, I got it," Malk snorted and, tossing the scraper back to his classmate, placed his freed hands on the center of the drawing.
Explaining why Serge had dragged to the magically protected daubing the only one in their class who knew Dispersion wasn't necessary. Breaking someone else's magic was a rather non-trivial task for an ordinary Adept to handle. The same Serge... Even if he had acquired this spell in the Society, without long study and practical mastery against someone else's magic, it would hardly be effective. And considering Malk's Authority was strong—if not the strongest among the students in their course—there was no alternative to him.
Feeling himself a unique and valuable specialist, Malk closed his eyes and tried to grasp the entire surface of the drawing with his spiritual attention. It worked right away, and the clearly perceptible boundaries of the foreign protective spell helped a lot. Yorrokh knows what kind of enchantment those vandals used, but to Malk's inner sight, it appeared as an ugly blotch emitting crude Earth emanations. No way he would've missed that, even if he wanted! All he had to do now was limit the area for his magic to affect and overlay a Dispersion.
Thanks to constant use for cleansing the body from the remnants of Life energy, this spell could already be considered half-mastered, and activation no longer required strict adherence to the rules and canons. Gradually becoming a part of Malk's Spirit, like an extra organ, the chain of Runeglyph symbols awakened after a series of mental efforts, magical circles lit up around his palms pressed against the wall, only to splash a prickly stream of sorcery onto the protective spell of the hooligans a moment later. Moreover, to boost the effect, Malk gave it a good "push" with Authority and... seemed to overdo it.
The foreign spell responded with a jerky tremor, a crackle, and a smell of ozone, then literally shattered into bits of magic "dust" dissolving in the air. And along with it, not only the paint but also some plaster fell off the wall with an annoying rustle.
"Hey, easy there, don't bring the whole house down! We're paid to clean the walls, not destroy them," Serge got worried. But judging by his expression, the damage Malk caused didn't bother him much. What really got to him was the fact that the protective spell was successfully destroyed. "You gonna last much longer?" he asked in a different tone.
Malk scanned the remaining part of the facade, messed up with drawings and the inscription, looked at the neighboring houses, and said:
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"This building and the next one, that's all I can handle."
"What if you use Force more sparingly?" Serge clarified.
"Have to try," Malk shrugged. "Though honestly, to handle this matter properly, we shouldn't be using individual spells, even if mastered at my level, and instead pick a suitable ritual..." he said, but catching his buddy's eager gaze, quickly explained, "But that's beyond me yet."
"Then we'll work with what we have," Serge said agreeably and, after Malk came down, added with a pompous air, "Anyway, consider yourself hired!"
Saints know what Serge was thinking or hoping for when he made that announcement, but Malk's response clearly wasn't what he expected. Because instead of agreeing right away, Malk first asked what exactly he was hired for and then why he needed to join anything at all. Their chat quickly turned into bargaining.
As it turned out, Serge decided to form something like a team of freelance painters. But not in the style of those gangs that went around defacing shopfronts in the most unlawful ways—rather in the spirit of their rivals. They were to take the opposite side of the conflict, cleaning up after the vandals. Moreover, the pay was quite decent—Serge immediately offered Malk, who was to handle a hefty share of the work, fifty obols, and after a tense round of haggling, he raised the cut to ninety obols for the evening. Which was pretty good money. And if one factored in the extra opportunity to practice Dispersion, the new job looked really tempting.
"Main thing, get yourself a mask. You know how it is—messing with someone else's work is asking for trouble, so if we don't want to be tracked down one by one and roughed up, we gotta take care of disguise in advance," Serge warned, considering it the biggest downside of the new 'profession.'
But Malk had his own take on things. He already had one decent job, so his priority was not magic practice or earning money, but training his body. That's why he couldn't help but ask a question that was bound to stump Serge.
"Tell me, will there be any heavy work involved—like carrying a ladder, as I had to today?" Malk asked with a straight face.
He knew how dumb it sounded after Serge's talk about the dangers of clashing with other "crews," but... he really needed to know.
"Sadly, yeah," Serge admitted, spreading his hands. Then he started mumbling muddled excuses, "Besides us, there'll be other folks, but... you know how it goes. We'll need paint, brushes, ladders, plus other tools... Renting a cart every time would cost a fortune, so we'll have to haul everything on our own backs..."
He probably would've kept explaining for a while, but Malk decisively interrupted:
"Great, I'm in!"
He'd heard the most important thing. If everything really went as Serge said, by joining this venture, he'd be able to take down several demons with one shot. So, why waste words?
Alas, reality turned out far less smooth than he initially thought, and in the next two sennights they didn't even start working. For some reason, Serge couldn't find anyone willing to join their team, and handling the job as a two-man team was too hard and dangerous. As a result, with his evenings freed up after quitting the loaders' crew, Malk found himself with nothing to do, and—probably for the first time since moving to Andalore—he devoted this time entirely to leisure. He wandered the city again, exploring its old streets, once more browsed ready-to-wear shops, finally updating his wardrobe that had worn out too quickly, visited decent cafes twice, and once, when he miraculously caught Helavia returning home to Holy Protectors Street, even took her to the local Music Hall.
Though, he didn't like recalling that last outing at all. Everything had somehow gone awry. A downpour had foiled any chance of a proper city stroll, the musical performance almost got canceled due to a sudden organ breakdown, and the romantic dinner at a restaurant, while not ending in a scandal, still left an unpleasant aftertaste. Helavia was quiet herself and didn't really want to listen to Malk, her mind seemed to wander elsewhere, only coming back occasionally. In the end, she even asked him to walk her home without inviting him in... Overall, it was a lousy meeting. Not a date, but Yorrokh knows what!
It was the bitter "aftertaste" of that encounter that pushed Malk to visit the Andalore Museum of Painting and Sculpture. He wasn't really into that kind of art, but lost in gloomy thoughts, he didn't even realize how he gave in to the impulse and headed straight to the museum after another exhausting day of classes. Of course, Shark's stories, where he rambled to the whole lecture hall about the fantastic impact of new works by painters from the Guild of Dreamers, played a part, but they hardly were decisive. If not from that bragging noble, Malk would've heard about Andalore's major cultural event from someone else, and once he did, he definitely wouldn't have missed it. At least not in a state where all his thoughts were about finding a way to escape his heavy mood. The possibility that this event would become nearly as significant and foundational in his life as his decision to defy fate and break free from the shackles of being a "dud" never even crossed his mind…
Malk showed up at the museum just before closing and headed straight to the Dreamers' exhibit. According to the brochure he bought, the guild's works filled eleven halls, united by the theme of heroes from other worlds and universes battling supernatural monstrosities. The booklet strongly recommended admiring the paintings in order, starting from the first hall. But Malk wasn't in the mood to follow anyone's advice today and went straight to the largest hall of the exhibit, where a single painting was displayed. The most grand, thrilling... and impressive!
"Unknown World. Archmage and Lord of the Fire Palace," Malk read aloud the inscription under the ornate frame and, stepping back about ten paces until his back hit the wall, began studying the painting.
An artist unknown to Malk, with broad, energetic strokes, depicted a huge knight in bone armor with two ghostly faces floating above his shoulders. Due to the technique employed, it was impossible to discern any finer details, but the very image of the knight and the aura surrounding him evoked a sense of unimaginable power, authority, and… depravity. Perhaps this was how the incarnation of some ancient evil might appear—one that had successfully masqueraded in noble garments for centuries and, for a moment, suddenly lost its respectable facade.
Who knows what the villain on the painting was in his world, what title he held, but the Dreamer's designation as the Lord of the Fire Palace suited him perfectly. A true master of hell!
Against the backdrop of the overwhelming unholy might embodied by the demonic knight, the human opposing him seemed much smaller and feebler. Certainly no match for the Lord of the Fire Palace. Looking closer, you could even see that he was missing his right arm up to the shoulder, and his right leg was noticeably shorter than the left. A cripple, a tiny bug, a mortal worm—that's who dared to stand in the path of the demonic knight... And who not only held off his attacks but was delivering a deadly blow with awe-inspiring power.
Yorrokh knows how the artist pulled it off, but the confrontation scene literally riveted attention, affected the mind, and struck the emotions. The painting ceased to be a mere artifice and began to be perceived as a window into the real world, where right then, at that very moment, a god-like demon was locked in battle with a man who had matched him in power.
Man and demonic god... just the thought of putting those two on the same level made Malk's chest swell with pride and awe. And it didn't even matter whether that scene had appeared to the Dreamer in a drug-induced vision or if he had truly managed to glimpse through the borders of worlds and universes—it was far more important what effect it had on the viewer, what message it carried, what intention it conveyed.
Perhaps the painting affected others differently, but for Malk, it was a true revelation. It gave him a vivid image of what a person should strive for—Gifted or ungifted, it didn't matter—what heights to reach and paths to take. After all, you could be an Archmage, an aristocrat, and a wealthy man, yet live a life as dull and gray as swamp muck, or, while remaining mortal, you could set off to storm the insurmountable heights of the unknown... and even if you perish on the way, at least you tried. At least tried to reach the goal. Because there's nothing wrong with failing. What's horrible and disgusting is not trying at all!
Malk didn't see the rest of the exhibit. Until the very closing, he stood like a pillar of salt in front of that painting and left the museum only at the request of the guards. Becoming a mage, getting a decent job, earning money, and settling down—how petty all his past thoughts and aspirations seemed to him now. How fun it used to be laughing with friends at philistines mired in everyday life, and how awful it was to realize now that the person obsessed with possessions and comfort had become Malk himself. After all, despite the loyalists, the dwarf, troubles with his Gift, and other "charms" of city life, he hadn't changed much. If peace and safety returned to his personal world, Malk would immediately sink into the swamp of personal comfort and self-justifying compromise. But was that what he aimed for, was that what he dreamed of?!
"Something's gotta change," Malk murmured slowly, pausing on the steps before the museum entrance and staring blankly over the rooftops. "But what and how?"
He didn't know the answer, but he was determined to find it...
In the end, Malk left the museum grounds in a somewhat dazed state—his own thoughts and feelings weighed on him far more than anything around. And that's why he was utterly unprepared for the encounter that happened just beyond the museum fence.
"Wow, the rabble's into high art?" A cold voice, suddenly heard from behind Malk, interrupted his thoughts and brought him back to reality. "And here I thought you lot spent your time guzzling in beer joints and picking up culture in cheap bars. You sure surprised me."
The cocky tone and blatant rudeness stunned Malk for a moment. Switching from the elevated artistic experience to responding adequately to some jerk's insolence wasn't easy. But he quickly snapped out of it. So before the troublemaking stranger could say another word in that same vein, Malk had already turned to him and snapped:
"We know each other?"
And only then did he realize that two young guys with Apprentice medallions were standing in front of him, one of whom he actually knew. What did Helavia call him? Her mentor's senior student? Well, it turned out that bastard was the mouthy jerk.
"By hearsay, Colhaunian, by hearsay!" The way this student of the School of the Three Saints spat "Colhaunian" sounded like a curse, but otherwise, he didn't drop to swearing or direct insults. "And I can't say it makes me happy."
"Oh, the noble Apprentice graces a lowly Adept? I'm flattered!" Malk replied sarcastically, running the situation through his mind.
What he wanted most was to teach these punks a lesson. To call them both into the dueling ring, straighten their stuck-up aristocratic mugs with his fists, or crack their ribs in a nearby back alley—it didn't matter what exactly, as long as he could let the burning rage in his veins out. But reason wouldn't let him give in to the madness of emotions. Past fights certainly had taught him a lot, but... taking on an Apprentice wasn't something he could manage at his level, more so two at once.
However, even putting aside a realistic assessment of his abilities, there was another important factor—his opponents' background. If Helavia's "just a friend's" companion didn't have any signs of belonging to a Family or House, the main rival had on the left side of his shirt a distinctive lightning-wreathed "birdie." House Leinir again, damn it! And recalling Tolfan's story, Malk even guessed which member of that illustrious noble family this was. Another matter was why the fatty hadn't mentioned that Helavia was being courted by this Master of Lightning who poorly understood jokes, but he could ponder that later.
"Listen to some good advice, leave Helavia alone," the mage from House Leinir began, suddenly changing his tone. "Not for your own sake, but for hers! You are a failed mage, a former 'dud' with no prospects. She's a rare genius who can reach the heights of magic. You have nothing in common, and you're doomed to be a lifelong shackle on her path to power."
"And you, I suppose, are a perfect match for her?" Malk asked, barely holding himself together.
"Maybe not," the Apprentice unexpectedly agreed, "but at least I can support Helavia with the resources she needs, give her access to the most suitable Arcane Art, and lift restrictions on studying a lot of knowledge. What can you do? Think about it, think carefully."
Perhaps, if his opponent had uttered even a single word of falsehood, Malk would have found something to say in response, but everything said was absolutely true. There was simply nothing to object to.
Malk was generally at a disadvantage here, if only because that Yorrokh's aristocrat was almost the embodiment of his dream for the future. Lean, fit, with a determined face and the sharp gaze of someone who knew how to get what he wanted, this member of House Leinir had not only good looks but also a powerful Lineage, great talent, and a solid foundation for a leap to the heights of power. Malk lagged behind in almost everything, except... maybe in will and the desire to become more than he was now.
But alas, just aiming high wasn't enough to reach the sky.
"Well, I've said what I wanted," Malk's rival spoke again, having failed to get any reaction. Then he gave a cold smile and added, "I've been meaning to talk to you for a while, but it never worked out. And now we just happened to cross paths... A sign of fate!"
And, with an arrogant nod, the mage from House Leinir leisurely walked away. The conversation had clearly lost its appeal for him. Unexpectedly so, as at one point, Malk thought that the damn Apprentice's hands were itching for a duel just like his. Especially since the Master of Lightning already had successful experience in "punishing" offenders. But for some reason, it didn't work out.
Was he waiting for the right moment or hoping Malk would back off on his own?
Earlier, Malk would have scoffed at such a thought, but their last date with Helavia made him see things differently. Their relationship was clearly going downhill, and if he couldn't bring back its former thrill and vibrancy soon, a breakup was inevitable. But... Nine Saints! If it was meant to happen, they'd split on their own. And it definitely wouldn't be a concession to that highborn jerk!
Emotions quickened his pace, and Malk didn't even notice how he reached the city's landmark - a stone bridge across the local river. To calm down somehow, he stopped, leaned on the railing, and started thoughtfully studying the water flowing below.
And that's where the companion of Helavia's noble admirer caught up with him.
"You walk fast, loser!" shouted the mage, out of breath, apparently after running the whole way.
"What do you want now?" Malk asked grimly, ready to toss caution aside and teach this cocky Apprentice a lesson.
Or at least try. Besides, even though the jerk was friends with the aristocrat, he definitely couldn't count on House Leinir's protection. He wasn't in that league!
"Nothing much. Trevor doesn't want to dirty his hands with you, but I'm not that picky. Always ready to put upstart rabble in their place!" A nasty sneer flashed on the face of the eager-to-suck-up Apprentice, who—Malk was absolutely sure of it—didn't have a line of Gifted ancestors backing him.
However, instead of the expected attempt to create a spell or grab his weapon—a coiled whip was fastened on his belt—the mage suddenly pressed his folded fist to his lips and sharply exhaled towards Malk.
A cloud of ridiculously colorful sparkling flakes instantly burst into the air. But the mage's eyes were too serious, he recoiled too sharply, and held his breath too convincingly for what was happening to be considered a prank. However, Malk also did not stand still under the rain of shimmering flakes and scales of who-knows-what; instead, he quickly stepped back, ready to meet the enemy's sorcery with his Authority at any moment.
Unfortunately, his opponent's skills were obviously better, and Malk's reactions lagged a bit. First, he let several sparkles stick to his knee. Then, he misjudged the Apprentice's intentions and allowed him to create a Water Hands spell. But the main mistake was that he was somehow expecting a head-on attack, while the enemy attacked from the rear: the hands woven of Water energy suddenly appeared behind Malk, grabbed his shoulders, and shoved him off the bridge into the river. Moreover, when Malk went underwater, the magical paws even tried to dunk him a bit, but this time he didn't mess up. Four ergs of Pneuma, compressed with his Authority to the limit and then released in a single burst, literally tore apart the enemy spell's structure. And as soon as he surfaced and took a breath, Malk "shot" at the opponent, who was sticking out too much from behind the railing.
Even though he missed—the magical projectile chipped the bridge's stone slightly to the left of the jerk—he achieved his main goal. The enemy flinched back in fright and disappeared from view, which meant there wouldn't be another attack. At least for now.
Not wanting to risk prolonging the conflict, Malk swam with a vigorous breaststroke downstream, away from the bridge. When several dozen fathoms separated him from the Apprentice, he heard the underhanded noble's voice:
"I'm Gverd! Remember this name, churl, or better yet, burn it into your heart. Next time, you'll greet me on your knees!"
As much as Malk wanted to give a worthy retort, he didn't dare shout insults and risk swallowing more of the murky river water. Breathing out a quick "Plague on your family!" he focused on swimming. A small boat dock appeared ahead, which meant that the sooner he got to it, the sooner he would be on land.
However, towards the end, when it was only a few fathoms to swim to the rope dropped for such cases, Malk was overtaken by another misfortune. Some creature of unknown origin, looking like a mass of tentacles with a needle-filled maw in the center, attacked from behind. Of course, he learned these details later; at first, the hose-like limbs wrapped around his torso, shoulders, and legs, pulling him down, and... couldn't overpower him. Either the monster was too weak, or Malk was stronger and tougher than a regular person, but in just a few heartbeats, he was crawling onto the shore, where he first sent a Spark into the monster's gaping maw, and then, without much effort, tore off the limp tentacles from his body.
"At least some good from this damn strength," Malk muttered, shoving the monster back into the water and breaking the only vessel with a Healer he had.
Even though he didn't have serious wounds, even minor scratches needed attention. Especially after a dip in dirty water. The thought immediately made him remember the strange attack with sparkles, which looked completely harmless and left no traces. Considering the vile nature of this Gverd, Malk resolutely refused to believe that there was no dirty trick here. Without delay, he sat down on a bollard and immediately began to check his body for invisible damage.
Less than a minute later, to Malk's disgust, he found three incorporeal parasites busily boring their needle-like bodies into his aura near his left ankle. His intuition hadn't failed him—the festive-looking flakes had an addition distinctly harmful to health.
"Yorrokh and his flur!" Malk cursed, studying the creatures.
He focused, covered the affected area with his hands, then squeezed the worms with Authority and slowly pulled them out. He got lucky: the parasites hadn't taken root, so removing them was easy. Soon, all three nasty things writhed in a sphere of Authority between Malk's hands.
"So, what did I do to you that made you plant this crap, huh, Gverd? Steal your wife or feed your pet to demons? Or was it really just to put a 'churl' in his place?!" Malk began to reason, wrinkling his nose in aversion as he was examining the captured parasites. "Though, why do I feel like there's some demonic magic involved?.. Ah, Yorrokh take it all!"
Anger flared in his heart, and Malk forcefully squeezed the sphere between his palms, covering it with a cloud of Dispersion. Despite having no bodies, the worms crunched wetly, and a rapidly fading, multi-voiced squeal echoed at the edge of hearing. Done!
The feeling of the escaping streams of the Death energy between his fingers appeared at the limit of his spiritual sensitivity, and almost immediately, a burst of foreign attention emerged on his right. Malk quickly turned and... let out a short laugh, seeing a crudely drawn stick figure. Lines for arms and legs, a round body, but the face was depicted with a bit more effort—at least the eyes, nose, and mouth turned out to be quite recognizable. And now, this caricatured freak seemed to have come to life, and through the holes of his eyes, the dwarf was looking at Malk with a heavy gaze.
"Long time no see, Grandfather Boniface!" Malk mockingly greeted him.
And suddenly, he realized how fed up he was with everything. Loyalists, demons, snobbish aristocrats, and corrupt gendarmes, the ever-multiplying intrigues and mysteries, the manipulation attempts and constant humiliation... Where in this whirlwind was there room for him, for his hopes and goals? The picture with the confrontation between a man and a demonic god had given him a lot, opened his eyes to many things, but… understanding wasn't enough; he had to act. And now, at this very moment, Malk understood what he truly wanted. What his soul craved, what he would strive for. And that goal was—to become someone who could one day say a resounding "no" to the world, say in such a way that it would have no choice but to heed him!
Yeah, exactly. But starting... starting the path to the top had to be with small steps.
Malk looked again at the dwarf, who kept glaring with his drawn little eyes, and promised:
"Don't worry, you bastard, I'll deal with you too. Or how will that be in the Styxon dialect of the common language, huh?"
He slapped his hand on the drawing and, with Authority alone, expelled all the magic from the caricatured figure. The dwarf's presence vanished instantly, and Malk smiled. Attitude really did change everything. Spells formed easier, Authority became more pliable, and even his Gift acted like a loyal dog.
After all, it's one thing when you have no goal, and quite another when you have found it!..
[1] Translator's note: from the structure of the phrase alone, it's clear that it's a reference to a quote from a well-known rhymed fable about a person who admitted that he failed to notice an elephant while visiting the local nature museum, despite it being the biggest thing there. The battleship here plays the same role.