The Road to Magic (Book 1 of the Way of the Demon Series) (26 page)

Oleg gently moved her to one side and kissed her tearful eyes.

‘Not “farewell” but “until we meet again”,’ he corrected her firmly. ‘I’ll come back and deal with all your uncle-usurpers and anyone else who treats you badly. I’ll learn how to be a magician and I’ll return! Do you believe me, sweetie?’

‘Yes,’ Ataletta smiled through her tears. ‘Here, take this.’ She held a well-sealed envelope out to Oleg. ‘It’s the key to the code for our letters. You remember, we talked about it yesterday? You almost forgot it.’

‘Thank you, darling. Till we meet again!’

‘Till we meet again, my demon!’ Ataletta cried out, and then quietly whispered. ‘I really hope you’ll come back, Arioch. Really! At least, I have done all in my power to ensure that…’

But Oleg was already out of earshot.

Chapter Nine

Imperial Hunter

‘Phew it’s hot,’ thought Oleg lolling around on his uncomfortable saddle, and checked the reserves in his flask again. Unfortunately, there was no water there. A week had passed since he had left the Maidell barony and bid a warm farewell to Ataletta. He had crossed into the Trir Empire, leaving the Free Baronies behind him.

The road was flanked by endless fields broken occasionally by small wooded copses. The countryside was pretty enough of course, but it had begun to get on his nerves. Oleg sighed sadly and put the empty flask back in its place. There was no sign of any springs or streams crossing the road, and the nearest hamlet where he could refill the flask was at least four hour’s ride away. For the umpteenth time he began to think over a tempting thought: to abandon this lazy animal to the winds of fate – here he angrily scowled at his horse yet again, and it gave him an equally angry glare in return – and go to Valensia under his own steam, with the help of a demon’s swift wings. And for the umpteenth time he regretfully put aside the idea. Arriving in the state of light magicians in the form of a demon wasn’t the most pleasant form of suicide. Who knows what kind of protective curses guarded the border. And anyway, he had to straighten out his finances. A Hunter of the Unclean’s labour was well paid in the Trir Empire, as Oleg had already discovered, having done away with the minor vampire which had been pestering the inhabitants of one of the villages he had ridden into two days ago. There, carefully examining the decapitated head of the hapless beast, the village elder issued him a “Certificate of an Imperial Hunter”, a document Oleg was investing not a little hope in.

In general, when Oleg had first heard mention of the Hunters of the Unclean, a very precise image had appeared in his head—a warrior-warlock with a silver sword over his shoulder, free-spirited, not dependant on anyone, destroyer of monsters. In reality everything turned out to be much more interesting. Yes, a silver – or more precisely, a silvered – sword did come into it. There it was, over his shoulder. But as for witchery… The Institute for Hunters of the Unclean was founded in the Empire at the time of the last magical war. When it became clear that the armies of the Dark Empire could not hold out against the Union of the Light Forces, the magicians of the Dark Citadel had hurled a curse of filth at Trir, the most powerful and active participant in the war (not counting Valensia). As far as Oleg could tell, it was something like the magical version of a nuclear weapon. The Empire was plagued by epidemics of hitherto unknown diseases. The dead rose up out of the graveyards and fell upon innocent folk. A huge quantity of various Unclean and Undead sprung up, starting with primitive minor vampires and werewolves and ending with Supreme Vampires, fully sentient creations, the oldest of which was only slightly less powerful than the warrior magicians.

The epidemics were pacified thanks to the help of the Light Academy, although the marauding Undead continued to diminish the population in the Trir Empire. And then a solution was found. The Emperor announced that a Guild of Hunters of the Unclean would be founded. Entering the guild was easy – it was enough to show a government official the head or other vital organ of a killed Unclean. The Hunters were not subject to taxation and they enjoyed the same privileges as the courtiers – which were very high indeed in Trir. Moreover, if a sufficient number of “personal victories” was proven, the Hunter could apply for a hereditary title. These applications were almost always accepted and consequently, any Hunter could become one of the highest aristocrats of the Empire.

The drop of tar in this barrel of honey was the very high death rate among Hunters. To live out the year, killing at least one Unclean a month, was a feat achieved by only a very few. Nevertheless, the combination of a high salary with good perks was so attractive that it called forth an impressive stream of adventurers of all kinds from neighbouring lands, who quickly replenished the “natural decline” of native adventure seekers. In the period leading up to the end of the war, the Hunters managed to quite considerably deplete the ranks of the local Unclean, but it was still a very long way to their total destruction. And it was precisely into that turbid stream that Oleg had decided to jump – to get the necessary local documents and to earn the means to maintain the high standard of living he was now accustomed to. Not without reason did he think that the local Unclean would be no match for him.

‘Are you fed up with Vampires? Do the howls of werewolves stop you sleeping? Are there zombies running amok in your town? Is the ghost of your ‘beloved’ mother-in-law spitting into your porridge? Then turn to us! “Demon and Co.” will solve all your problems!’ That was more or less the light-hearted advertising slogan which flashed through Oleg’s head when the village chief stuck the heavy, enchanted seal on his “Certificate”.

Lost in his memories, Oleg didn’t notice that he was approaching the next village. His musings were interrupted by a loud cry:

‘A Hunter! A Hunter is riding to us!’

People started appearing from their huts and the joy on their faces clearly indicated that there was work for him here. Without stopping, he rode up to the elder’s little house.

The village chief, a sprightly man of fifty, walked sedately out of his porch.

‘Peace to you,’ Oleg greeted him. ‘My name is Arioch. I am a Hunter. It seems that you have work for me.’

‘We’ll find you some work all right! Come on in now, Hunter. We’ll have a bite to eat of what the gods have sent us, and then we’ll talk. They call me Nezhdan. Hey, Friska, set the table. Don’t you see, we have a guest,’ he called into the hut.

The village chief’s home turned out to be surprisingly cosy. The gods had evidently blessed his family. At least the meal “sent by them” was ample and tasty. After they had eaten, stealthily glancing at the door, the head of the house fished out a large bottle of cloudy liquid, and began to get down to business: ‘Some kind of beastie has come upon us, it has. Looks just like a wolf, it does, but it’s all white and as big as a calf. Need to deal with it, we do…’

Oleg mentally leafed through the “Imperial Classification of Unclean”. He’d studied it thoroughly over the last few days. It contained the names and descriptions of various types of Unclean and Undead residing within the confines of the Empire, the level of danger they posed as well as the best ways to destroy them and the standard price for the head of each Unclean which corresponded directly to the level of danger it posed.

There were quite a few wolf-like beasts in the Classification. Almost all of them, however, belonged to level four or five. Level five were the “virtually harmless” and included, for instance, bogies, who were fond of meeting tipsy guys on their way home from the pub and gnawing off their “superfluous” body parts. As bogie saliva has strong pain-killing and blood-clotting effects, many only discovered their “loss” once they had returned home. The brave folk generally dealt with such creations themselves without involving a hired hunter.

Level four were the “reasonably dangerous”, the group to which various types of werewolves belonged. This, too, would not be cause for such a warm welcome. So then what could this wolf be? Maybe a … It was a most unpleasant guess, but it demanded immediate verification.

While Oleg was thinking, the village chief went on describing the “deeds” of the monster terrorizing the village.

‘… and last month it took Martyanikha, it did. Swallowed her down nice and easy, it did, the skunk. Mind you, it weren’t such a terrible loss, she was a dreadfully scandalous wifey, she was. Already a-hopin’ it’d poison itself on her, we was. But no. Last week it went out a-hunting again, it did, and ripped Frol’s head right off his shoulders. A fine miller he was. So you be so kind and punish the beast! It don’t give us no peace at all. It’s gone so far that a fella can’t even go down to the tavern of an evening...’

Oleg finally broke his outpouring: ‘How much will you pay?’

The village chief squirmed, breathed heavily and began complaining about the poor harvest and greedy birds who’d pecked the grain to bits, and offered two hundred and thirty gold pieces.

Oleg feigned surprised: ‘Seems as though that werewolf has really got to you. You’re offering thirty more than the “Classification” recommends. This is the first time I’ve seen such a generous village! I’ll take it!’ With a look of complete decisiveness, Oleg stood up. ‘It’s not so difficult to slay a werewolf. You just need to find its lair. It’s not a shapeshifter after all. For one of them, yeah… There’s no point in picking a fight with a shapeshifter for less than three hundred. After all, unlike werewolves, they dwell among people, have a human’s brain. But as for a werewolf, well, I can trail one of them very quickly by its tracks. They don’t know how to conceal them.’

The village chief, who had at first smiled gleefully, grew gloomy by the end of Oleg’s monologue and, having counted out another seventy coins, added them to his fee.

‘There,’ he grunted. In reply to Oleg’s perplexed look, he muttered, trying hard to turn away, ‘Saw the tracks, we did. Led to the village, they did. It’s a shapeshifter. A big ‘un.’

Oleg swore foully. The last phrase, when used of a representative of the Unclean, meant not its age or its build, but that it had at least one Hunter under its belt. Another quizzical look, and the chief grew even gloomier and growled unwillingly: ‘We had a Hunter here already. ‘Bout two weeks ago. Arrived in the evening he did, stayed in the tavern… In the mornin’ all that was left of ‘im was his sword and his torn chainmail. An’ a bloodstain on the floor…’

‘And did the shapeshifter stay here even after that? Didn’t run away, didn’t move off? He should know that sooner or later he’ll be cleaned out!’

‘He stayed, he did. Just as though somat’s keepin’ ‘im ‘ere.’

‘Well, that’s understandable. Your shapeshifter wants to meet Hunters on his own terms. Then I’ll probably stay in the tavern, too, for now. Prepare a welcome for him… And you tell your fellow villagers that they shouldn’t go out tomorrow. I’ll search for the shapeshifter among them. Let them gather in the square at dawn. If someone doesn’t show up, then that means he’s the shapeshifter. Tell everyone that.’

Having taken a room at the tavern, the first thing Oleg did was to put protective spells on the door and window. It would have been just fine if the shapeshifter decided to repeat his trick of attacking a sleeping Hunter. In the morning he could just hand over the burnt carcass to the village chief, take his money and go calmly on his way. But alas. Having slept well all night, Oleg was woken at dawn by a polite knock at his door. It was the tavern keeper’s wife, informing him that all the villagers had gathered on the main square and were waiting for him. Oleg quickly got his things together and walked to the square which was already teaming with people, cursing the shapeshifter who’d caused all this mess, and the fool of a Hunter who couldn’t find it by himself, without gathering a crowd, and the gods, who’d sent a fine drizzle making the business in the square a non-too-pleasant undertaking.

Entering the square, Oleg ordered the village chief to get the people in line. He secretly grew his scales and increased his muscles, drew his sword preparing himself for battle and walked through the ranks, carefully examining the auras of the people standing in front of him.

Suddenly he grew wary. The young woman standing next to him had a human aura, without doubt. But there was something not right about it. He took a closer look.

So. A young woman. Twenty to twenty-three years old. Virtually healthy, only relatively recently, about a year ago, she broke her arm. Everything’s healed well, but a trace is left in her aura. What else? Pregnant. The child is about two months old. She was unhappy until recently, the aura had clear signs of frequent tears, but now she’s radiating with joy. But what was it that made him wary?

The chief, following Oleg, decided to give him an explanation.

‘That’s Mariska, Frol’s widow, that is. Don’t be lookin’ look at her, she ain’t it. If she were a shapeshifter, she’d have killed Frol long ago, she would. Though he were a good miller, he were a no good husband. Get awful drunk, he would, always beating her. Broke her arm last year, he did. She went a month and a half in a splint. But everythin’ heals straightaway with a shapeshifter now don’t it? It ain’t her, it ain’t…’

‘No, it’s not her…’ Oleg looked again at the girl’s aura very carefully and all of a sudden he realized what it was that had made him wary.

‘She’s not a shapeshifter. But her future chi…’

Oleg didn’t manage to finish his sentence. A terrible spasm rocked the body of a peasant standing not far away. In a flash, a huge white wolf threw itself at him, ripping his clothes with its claws. The strong blow from its paw ripped his jacket and the chainmail under it, tearing him away from the girl. His muscles flexed and, rejoicing in the resilience of his demonic scales, Oleg jumped back on his feet, shielding himself with his sword in case the shapeshifter pounced again. But it was in no hurry to attack. The shapeshifter was standing in front of the girl, rolling its blood-filled eyes and growling menacingly, like a real wolf, protecting its prey or its lair with pups. That did away with the last doubts.

Oleg looked around. The flying feet of the last, least fleet-footed peasant flashed into an alleyway. Only he, the shapeshifter and the woman tensed in fear were left on the square. ‘Sorry,’ Oleg said. He felt embarrassed. ‘When I agreed to this assignment I didn’t know about this. But now it’s too late. We’ll have to fight, although, you could easily run away. I don’t know how to follow tracks. At least, not when I don’t want to. In any case, I promise, she has nothing to fear from me.’

The wolf nodded, as though in agreement, and then slowly began to circle Oleg, heading towards the village. Oleg kept a watchful eye on it. Suddenly the wolf growled and leapt at him, aiming at his throat. With a short pirouette to turn away from the terrible claws, Oleg waved his sword. Plated with silver, the finely sharpened blade went deep into its chest, between the ribs. With a howl, the wolf fell to the ground. The sharp claws scrabbled on the cobbles, slowly turning into human hands. The shapeshifter was consumed in its death throes.