- Lie still... come on! What the hell! It's not working... Why?
"He's got a shield. Hey, whoever you are, take it off, or we won't be able to treat you!"
"Brantar, can't you remove the protection yourself? You're a black mage, just like him."
"I'm black, but he... the demon knows what he is. If his aura substitution hadn't worn off, we never would have guessed what he was! And he's been hiding for so long... Demon, take your protection down, otherwise we won't be able to cure you!"
- Uh-huh. And then you're going to turn me inside out? I'd rather die...
"Well, then you'll die. By the way—you'll die anyway—demonology is forbidden! Better answer the questions, and then maybe your fate will be mitigated."
"Brantar, what are you talking about?" Zaragor pulled the mage aside. "How can his fate be mitigated? What, should they sharpen the axe more sharply? Or soap the rope more heavily? Why are you lying to the boy?"
"How else are you going to get the information? Aren't you interested in who he is, where he's from, what he can do, and what connection he has to the strange events in the city and around the Corps?"
"Interesting. But I'm not going to lie for that. I consider it unethical to do that to a fellow mage."
"That's why you're white mages, and we're black. The main thing is achieving the goal. For us. For you, it's just silly conventions. When the High Mage asks you what you accomplished in interrogating the criminal, what will you answer?"
"The same as you—it's unethical to deceive your colleague to obtain information. He's not our enemy, I'm sure of it. Moreover, I believe he protected General Heverad from death. I don't know if he was involved in the events in the city and the battle, but if so, that further demonstrates his loyalty to Zamar and the Corps. I'll report to General Heverad, and let him decide..."
"I'm here." Heverad approached from behind, so quietly, so stealthily, that the mages, in the heat of their argument, didn't notice him and flinched when the commander's massive figure loomed over Brantar's shoulder. "What do you wish to report to me, Lord Zaragor?"
"This is about Sergeant Ned the Black…" Zaragor began, and the general interrupted him:
"What about the sergeant? Is he alive? I heard you took him from the medic's tent. Is he seriously injured? Can he be cured? He's a good boy, it would be a shame..."
"This 'good boy' of yours is a black magician!" Brantar growled angrily. "And a demonologist at that! And who knows what to expect from him! Demonology is banned throughout the empire! And anyone who practices demonology is subject to immediate execution, after a verdict from the Agar court! That's the law!"
The general looked at the mages in shock, then gritted his teeth and turned to the mat where Ned lay a few steps away, pale as a sheet. His eyes were closed, and his chest heaved and heaved, forcing as much air as possible through it. By all indications, Ned was so ill… in short, he was dying.
"Well, well..." the general drawled. Then he turned away from Ned, stood silently for a moment, and said again, "Well, well... and what, you proved he harmed the Corps? Us?"
"No, but…" Brantar began, but the general interrupted:
- If he didn't bring it, then what charges do you bring against him?
"He's a demonologist," Brantar repeated sullenly. "I can see it in his aura. And Zaragor can see it. And Irga saw it. And all mages who are trained to see auras can see it. That's enough. According to the decree of the year 7,320 from the creation of the world by the Creator, anyone who practices demonology is subject to execution, regardless of their purpose. The decree has been signed by the king. That's all. Since ancient times, all Agars have been engaged in identifying and destroying demonologists. It's one of the fundamental occupations of mages."
"This code of yours is hundreds of years old. It's long outdated!" the general persisted. "How can you, based on some musty, ancient code, make a decision that will cost a young man his life? How? And by the way, why are you making any decision without informing me? Why did you decide that I would allow you to kill a young man? I am the commander of the kingdom's armed forces, you are in my service, so without me, you can't sneeze! I forbid you to make any decisions regarding my subordinate without my knowledge. Is everything clear?"
"You can't," stammered Brantar, red as a lobster, and the general immediately interrupted him:
"Wha-aat? I can't? Have you forgotten yourself, mage! Guards, come to me! Arrest this man and expel him from this tent. Escort him to his residence and ensure he doesn't approach this tent until I give him permission! Lord Zaragor—you've disbanded your subordinates; the mages are simply insolent! Perhaps it's time to introduce corporal punishment for mages? Like for soldiers?"
Zaragor remained silent, watching as the black mage, striding unnaturally straight, was led out of the tent. The guards were afraid to touch him, for fear he might curse them. But they watched the mage's movements closely, their hands on their sword hilts—it was clear they would certainly use them if necessary. The general had given an unambiguous order, and no one would dare disobey the harsh Heverad—he might execute in the heat of the moment, and then you'd never be able to put your head back in place.
When the enraged Brantar disappeared beyond the threshold of the tent and the footsteps of the guards-escorts died away, Zaragor turned to the general and asked with a slight grin:
"Funny. You gave Brantar such a flick on the head… he won't forget it. It's high time he took some of his arrogance down a peg. Black mages are always a bit quarrelsome and malicious, but that's their nature. They're black, after all. Do you really think you can break centuries-old traditions so easily? Aren't you afraid?"
"I've already had my fill," Heverad chuckled, "you magicians need to be put in your place from time to time, otherwise you start to think of yourselves as the center of the universe."
"Aha. So you thought a good opportunity had presented itself," Zaragor smiled, "isn't that right?"
"So," Heverad smiled again, "but that's not the whole truth. The truth is, I like this guy, and I don't believe he could have brought harm to any of us. I saw him develop, how he grew from a village bumpkin into a warrior. Well, yes, lately, as I've been told, he's become a bit harsh, even cruel... but that's what war is for. He's done more for the Corps than your vaunted mages, and at the very least, he deserves respect. And are we supposed to kill him because you saw something in his aura? By the way, are you sure he's really a demonologist? He doesn't look like a demon carrier, like someone who intends to harm people. He's done me invaluable service, and I'm grateful. And I want to repay him with kindness. I've never been an ungrateful bastard, you understand? Politics is politics, laws are laws, but people should always remain people, even in war."
"I understand," Zaragor nodded sympathetically, "but... Brantar was absolutely right. According to the ancient code, this guy is a criminal by the very fact of his existence. And there's nothing to be done about it."
"It can be done," the general shrugged. "Here, I am king. In the armed forces entrusted to me. During military operations, I am legally entitled to suspend any laws that are appropriate to the military situation. And when I reach the capital, I'm sure the king will meet me halfway and repeal this regulation. Will you argue?"
"Arguing with you is a waste of time," Zaragor said sarcastically. "I don't really feel like marching back to my tent under guard. Oh, General, you've made a very powerful and very unpleasant enemy. Whether this boy was worth it or not—it's up to you to decide."
"It was worth it," the general nodded confidently. "I'm not a mage, not a seer, but I feel it was worth it. To hell with your Brantar. I know about his connections in the capital, but I don't care. We can even have a test of strength about connections. Let him try to utter a word, I'll crush him like a soldier crushes a louse. Who is he—and who am I, the commander of the Zamara armed forces? Forget about him. Report how the sergeant is doing."
"Things are bad for the sergeant," Zaragor replied sullenly, "and they're getting worse. I don't understand what's going on, but it looks like he's dying. And there's nothing we can do."
"Can't or won't?" the general frowned menacingly. "What's the matter?"
"Well, how can I explain this to you more simply?" the mage hesitated. "Hmm... I've always been irritated by this separation between the military and the mages. The military believes magic is unclean, unworthy of officers, while the mages think of officers as pompous fools, incapable of intellectual effort. The result is that you know nothing about magic, and we... we can't understand military tactics and strategy, which means we can't properly fulfill our military duties. So. To the point. This man is a high-level black mage. How high, I don't know. But Brantar and I together couldn't break his defenses. And we're tenth-level mages! While the defenses are up, we can't affect him with magic. Neither to kill him nor to heal him. Further. He has a very deep stab wound to his shoulder, cuts to his forearm, numerous bruises, and what appears to be fractures." Where they came from, no one knows. Perhaps his friend, the corporal who brought him to the army base, knows, but he's keeping quiet. There may be internal injuries we don't know about, but we can't detect them either—it's healing magic, and as you remember, we can't affect him with magic. There's only one way—to persuade him to remove the protective obcast and then heal him. But he refuses to cooperate, not trusting us. However, as you know, he has reasons for this. What else? The guy is dying. That's all I can tell you.
"That's enough. The situation is clear. I may be a thick-headed officer, but I understand everything," the general chuckled. "Well, let's talk to Ned. We'll see what he has to say. Is he even capable of saying anything?"
"Well... he said something else half an hour ago. Before you arrived. We offered to remove the protection. But he practically sent us packing. And no wonder—Brantar was incredibly clumsy and only made matters worse."
The general nodded his head, walked over to Ned's bed, leaned over him and asked in a low voice:
- Ned, can you hear me? Ned! Ned, wake up!
Ned opened his drooping eyes and looked up. He'd just been floating in a blissful timelessness, a pink haze from which he didn't want to return, and only Heverad's voice, like a trumpet, had stirred his dying brain to activity and command his ocular muscles. Focusing, Ned peered into Heverad's face. He was upset and frowning. Ned tried to read his thoughts, but he couldn't—he heard something, some noise, some fragments of words. But he wasn't strong enough to understand them.
"Can you speak?" Heverad asked, looking back at Zaragor. "Can you give him something tonic? From the usual medicinal supply?"
"He doesn't drink," Zaragor shrugged, "we tried to give him some, but… we didn't force it on him."
"Ned, drink this. I promise you won't be harmed. You know I always keep my word," the general said, looking back at Zaragor and extending his hand. He took the narrow-necked vessel handed to him and added:
- Drink. We'll talk later.
Ned parted his dry, matted lips, and Heverad poured the contents of the jug into him. The dark liquid gurgled, disappearing down the sick man's throat. Ned twitched, coughed, and tears rolled from his eyes. He slowly, with difficulty, raised his right hand, wiped his eyes, dropped his hand to his chest, and froze again, staring at the ceiling.
Five minutes later, the drink's effects began to take effect. Ned's eyes cleared, sparkled, and he took a deep breath, wincing in pain. Zaragor approached, pulled back his eyelid, looked into his eye, and, nodding, invited the general, who was sitting near the table with a cup of hot herbal infusion, to join him.
- Mister General! You can talk to him.
Heverad stood up, walked over to Ned's "bed," skirting the pile of bloody bandages thrown right on the floor, and, pulling a stool over with his shiny, polished boot, sat down next to the sick man, looking into his face.
Ned turned his head and said with a slight smile:
"Greetings, Mr. General. It is a great honor that such a great man has come to the bedside of a dying soldier. A simple soldier. Thank you."
"Hmm…" The General looked suspiciously at Ned, who was innocently observing his commander, and, raising his eyebrows, said sarcastically, "Are you kidding? It turns out you're not quite so simple after all. Will you tell me who you are and how you ended up in the Corps? It's not really Corps policy to ask about the origins of each of its fighters—life before the Corps—it's as if it doesn't exist. Only time served is taken into account. But your case is unusual. Try not to lie to me, okay? It's better when you can't answer, to say, 'I can't answer.' But I'm counting on your discretion and your honesty. Your life depends on it. I can't fight for a man who doesn't trust me, who lies to me. Agreed? Aha. So, let's begin. That incident when I was almost killed by magical means—were you involved in that? And right away—in what way?"
"Yes. It was I who saved you. I sent the demons along the path left by the Heralds. What happened next, I can't say. I simply don't know. It seems whoever attacked you either died or was no longer able to attack."
"There!" the general grunted and looked triumphantly at Zaragor. "For that alone, he can be forgiven a lot, if not everything. Very well, son. Was it you who killed the entire city garrison? Kherag?"
- No.
- But are you involved in this?
- Yes.
- And were you involved in yesterday's event - the monster that trampled Isfir's army?
"No. I, Ned the Black, had nothing to do with yesterday's events," Ned said honestly (and he had nothing to do with it. Yuragor did – he was the one who cast the spell. So, not a word of lies).
"It's a shame," the general said sincerely. "I would have loved to have had a mage in the army like the one who created that monster. What opportunities that would have opened up for him, for all of us! Are you sure it wasn't you?"
"Not me," Ned smiled slightly, and images of five headless corpses, bleeding, swam before his eyes, "I could never do such a thing."
"It's a shame, a great shame. And now—the main question—who are you?"
"A foundling. An orphan. If you're talking about my abilities, I don't know where they came from. And I didn't want them. And I don't want them. But what can I do if it turned out this way? If someone's arm is too strong, do they just chop it off? It's the same with me—I can't get rid of my abilities."
"What happened to you? How did you end up in this state? Who hurt you, who beat you?"
"I don't remember," Ned said honestly again, "I don't remember anything at all. I don't know who beat me. I woke up here, in the camp."
"So be it," the general said vaguely. "Can you remove your protection so Zaragor can heal you?"
"I'll try," Ned sighed. He spoke a few words, ignoring Zaragor's raised eyebrows, and sighed again.
"No, it's not working. My magical powers are depleted. Something's gone wrong in my body. I must have lost my ability to cast spells."
"It happens," the white mage nodded, "if the mage has taken on a burden beyond their capabilities. More specifically, if they've attempted to cast a spell so far above their level that their body can't handle it. No one understands this system, including mages—sometimes it wears off after a while, sometimes it lasts for life. But what's left behind is an empty vessel—that's for sure."
"Then why is he still under magical protection?" the general couldn't resist. "You're contradicting yourself! If he can't cast spells, how can he maintain the protection?"
"Again, you're intruding on a subject you don't understand, Mr. General. Why, why aren't officers trained in the basics of magic? That's simply not true! Okay, okay—I'll keep quiet! Or rather, I'll explain: a protective spell cast on an object is self-sustaining, supported by natural forces. What forces? Ask something easier. Basically, the spell will last for an indefinite period of time, depending on the strength of the mage who cast it and on unspecified factors, such as the influence of those same natural forces or some external force. For example, the influence of other mages casting their own spells. A mage can be completely burned out by an inadvertent attack, but simultaneously completely protected by magical protection. That's how it is."
"Aha. I see. But tell me now—if the guy is burned out, as you said, what demon are you claiming he should be executed for being an adept at forbidden magic?! He's empty, like any other person, like me, without a drop of magic! WHY should he be punished? He's not a mage!"
Zaragor smiled sheepishly and shook his head:
"Alas, sir... he's a mage. And he'll remain one forever. And one fine day... or an unpleasant moment? It's up to you to interpret it. Basically, a mage's powers can return to him now, or in a year, or in twenty years. Unexpectedly, unpredictably, and, strangest of all, in even greater quantities. Yes, yes, it's happened, and often. He was a fourth-level mage, and after burning himself out, ten years later he suddenly becomes a ninth-level mage! Out of the blue. We've discussed this problem many times, and there were voices that we should try burning ourselves out on purpose to rise a few levels higher, that we should take risks... and... no one ever took the plunge. Every second one "returns." And it's not a given that it happens with a higher level. Why risk it when, through special exercises, hard work, and diligence, you can also rise to the highest levels. Well, not in five years, but in twenty, so what? At least there's no risk. That's the long-winded explanation." By the way, this is purely our own, something we never talk about outside of Agar. I'll just add: I'm against separating officers and mages. Why shouldn't there be a mage-officer? Why not? A man who combines the talents of an officer and the abilities of a mage—who can compete with him? How can he be defeated? A commander who understands the intricacies of mages' abilities, capable of utilizing them to their full potential—that's... that's...
"I understand," Heverad interrupted. "But let's move on to our patient. I see his eyes are closing again. So, the tincture's wearing off, right? Maybe I should add some more?"
"Unfortunately, the tincture's effect is wearing off," Zaragor nodded. "We can't add more. Otherwise, he'll die. However, he'll most likely die anyway. Much as we regret it."
"Listen, let's ask him himself – is there a way to help? Is there any way to cure him? We've been gossiping about the officers and the mages, and yet this guy's lying there dying! Ned, how can I help you? Don't be shy, just tell me! I need you! We need you! What can we do?"
Ned turned his head towards the general with difficulty, blinked and said very quietly:
"I need a sword. My sword. One of my swords. And a man to kill with it. And then I'll get back on my feet. But I don't want to kill. So – farewell, General. See you in heaven." Ned grinned wryly, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Heverad jumped up from his stool and glared at Zaragor:
- Where?! Where are his swords?! Quickly!
"Hmm... his friend, probably," Zaragor shrugged his shoulders in confusion, "I'll order them to find the corporal now."
"I'll do it myself," Heverad snapped, stepping over the threshold, and immediately his abrupt, sharp voice could be heard barking orders. Then the general reappeared in the tent, puffing, sat down in a chair, and waved his hand. "Pour me something, my throat's dry. Wine! No wine? The devil take you—a decoction then. You'll dry up with assistants like that."
"You... he won't forgive you," Zaragor said sullenly, pouring steaming dark liquid from a large copper teapot. "First of all, whether he lives or dies is his decision. It's his right. And secondly, did you even understand what he said? And what does he want to do?"
"What does he want to do? I don't care what he wants to do, or what he desires. I need this soldier. I need him. And he must live. By any means necessary. Whether he forgives or not... why are you so sentimental? You and I aren't women; we shouldn't shed tears. There's a certain expediency to life. So, according to it, I must save him. By the way, what does he want to do anyway? What swords was he talking about?"
"You'll see. If it's what I think it is, you'll be very surprised," Zaragor said mysteriously. "We're waiting."
- Will we make it in time? Will he die while we're here trying to save him?
"I doubt it. Demonologists don't just die. They have to be burned, and then covered with salt so nothing can grow in their place, and even then there's no guarantee they won't come back—like grass or mushrooms. They were evil creatures. Well, as we can see, they still are."
"May I?" Arnot peered into the tent, holding two packages under his arm, followed by the guard. "General! They're delivered! Should I bring them in?"
"Bring him in," Heverad nodded, rising to his feet to watch as a feverishly thrashing man in an Isfirian uniform was carried into the tent. "Put him over there, with the sergeant. Aha. That's it. You're dismissed. Corporal, come to me. Are these the sergeant's swords? Give them to me. Stay. I'll need you. Here, Zaragor, look—what's wrong with these swords? Take them."
"Oh, no. I won't take it!" The mage jerked his hand away from the blade the general had pulled from its sheath with disbelief and slight disgust. "Exactly. It's him! I wonder where he got it?"
"What did you get? What's so special about this sword? Excellent balance, the blade has an old, almost ancient, quality. The design is archaic, the handle is comfortable, nothing superfluous. Sharp…"
"Quiet! Be careful!" Zaragor jerked, grabbing the surprised general's hand and pulling it away. "Don't even think about testing the blade's sharpness! Better put it down and don't touch it! It's loaded!"
"Who loaded it with? What did it have?!" Heverad barked, annoyed, and, freeing his hand with displeasure, placed the sword in his palms and began examining its blade. "Some runes... so what? What kind of runes?"
"Now!" Zaragor stepped forward, made a pass, and shouted a few strange words. The blade suddenly glowed with a dark blue light, and the runes seemed to separate from the steel and hang in the air, shimmering like distant stars.
"So that's it!" the magician grinned contentedly. "That's what magic is! Beautiful, huh? What runes are those? You can tell by them—this is a vessel that can contain, or already contains, a demon. Who imprisoned him? And there he is, lying there, snoring through two holes. A demonologist. Hey, kid, aren't you surprised? Did you see that? What a bastard! And he knew about his friend! He knew, right? A long time ago? A long time ago. That's it. And those who need to know will be the last to know. If you kill a person with this sword, the sword will take, absorb the soul of the dead man. And share the life force with its owner. And heal him. Fill him with strength. Life for life. Or rather, for death. Now—do you understand what a demonologist is? It's scary. It's amazing. Come on… and who says that, right? A magician! A magician says that a demonologist is amazing! But that's exactly it. A miracle. A miracle!" These creatures, these crossbreeds of otherworldly creatures and humans, these... these...
"Enough. Enough words," the general said harshly. "That's all secondary. His life is primary. I need this man. I suspected something like this—you were too agitated, like chickens in a henhouse when a fox got in. So, you mages can be dealt with too. And I won't hand him over to you—even if it means ripping your heads off! What must be done for the demon to cure him?"
"The sergeant needs to kill someone with this sword. You know that perfectly well. You ordered the Isfirian prisoner brought in," Zaragor shrugged.
"He can't hold a sword. What would happen if I put a sword in his hand and someone helped him kill him?"
"Not me," Zaragor shook his head. "You need a man, so you do it. I don't know what will happen..."
Heverad turned his gaze to Arnot, who nodded his head:
- I will do it.
- Good. Take the sword. Go to Ned. Put the sword in his hand.
"Try not to touch the hilt when you kill!" Zaragor belatedly shouted, watching as a pale Arnot approached the two wounded men lying nearby. "Don't touch the hilt, or else..."
"Tell me," Arnot suddenly interrupted the magician, "could this Isfirian live?"
"Hmm... what difference does it make?" Zaragor asked, surprised. "He's a prisoner, an enemy! But if you want, I'll take a look..."
The magician approached the captive, touched his swollen, red face, pulled back his eyelid, looked, lifted his shirt, without wincing from the heavy smell, and shook his head:
"He probably wouldn't have survived. Even with magic. His blood is infected, his insides are rotten. So he's going to die anyway."
Arnot nodded, and the general and the mage exchanged an involuntary glance. The young man unclenched Ned's fist, placed the sword in it, and took aim... taking Ned's other hand, placed it on the hilt as well, and pointed the sword at the Isfirian's side, aiming the tip straight for his heart. Then he paused, as if gathering his strength, and abruptly thrust the blade forward. The wounded Isfirian didn't even notice the blade piercing his heart. He was already beyond good and evil; it seemed the white mage hadn't been lying.
The blade hissed, and everyone in the tent thought they saw a demon's fanged head emerge from it. However, perhaps it was merely a trick of the shadows cast by the people illuminated by candles and oil lanterns. Ned, lying with his eyes closed, twitched, groaning something like, "Don't! Stop! Stop!"—then opened his eyes and turned his head, looking at Arnot in bewilderment. Ned's face flushed, turning pink, and Zaragor sighed in shock:
"That's it! That's what demonology is! Do you understand now, General? He was dying, and now, look! Okay, he's not in the best shape yet, but... he's almost healthy!"
Ned released the sword, which remained lodged in the unfortunate Isfirian's body, sat down on the mat, and, clasping his hands, stared silently at the general, as if awaiting his decision. He remained silent, and a half-smile played across Heverad's carved face. Then he chuckled and said:
"Well then, demonologist Ned... we'll live! Come on, show us some magic! Can you? Well... a lamp, for example. Any magician can do that."
Ned made some passes, which the white mage watched with interest, cast a spell – no effect, and Zaragor nodded his head in satisfaction:
"You burned yourself out, you idiot! What did you do to burn yourself out, and at the very least at level ten?! Confess! What kind of magic did you perform?"
"I don't remember," Ned said coldly. "Leave me alone! I don't have magic, you saw that! And thank the gods I don't. I'm so sick of your magic, who would have known!"
"Hmm... so you're tired of her, then?" Heverad grinned. "If only you knew how tired I am of her. Anyway, here's my decision: everything stays as it was. You return to your reconnaissance group. And you all keep quiet about what happened..."
"That won't work!" Zaragor interrupted rudely. "All the mages know about what happened now, as do everyone who was nearby, right down to the guards. You can't hide needles in a bag. Don't even think about it."
"That's bad," Heverad said, slightly disappointed. "However, a good harvest can be made from this filth. Let's do it this way: Ned will be assigned to the agara. He'll become a mage. You'll train him like a regular mage. Is that possible, given that he currently lacks magical aptitude?"
"Why not? It's possible. He can study theory, learn exercises to develop magic. Read books. But again—it's all illegal, Mr. General! It's impossible! The mages will revolt! They won't accept a demonologist into their ranks!"
"Will there be a riot? I know how to suppress riots. Hang the rioters. Or just chop off their heads. And all riots will end immediately. Do you want that?"
"Are you serious?" the mage asked, confused. "Are you really executing a mage?"
"And how are you any different from ordinary soldiers, other than your excessive arrogance?" the general chuckled. "The same legs, arms, neck... and if you have a neck, you can hang by it, why not? I'll hang you, of course I will. So, Master Zaragor, head of the Agara, if you don't accept Ned as a full member of society and don't train him, I'll deal with you just like any other rebel. You're under my command and will do as I tell you. And one more thing—he won't stay with you long. Once the war is over—and I think we'll be over it soon, in two or three months—I'll take Ned away from you and send him to officer school. You said, right? That officers need to be trained in the basics of magic? So they know everything there is to know about it. He'll be the pioneer." And the fact that his magic was burned out—that's even better. It was and it's gone. Now he's just a fighter. By the way, he can teach you martial arts. Ned is a master at it. A great master, I assure you.
"He's a demonologist! How can I explain it to you? They'll treat him like a jackal in a pack of dogs. Don't you understand that, Mr. General? Every single one of them will be dreaming of tearing their teeth into him! And what about officer training school? Do you think it'll be any different? A mage among officers! It's simply horrifying! Ned, do you even realize what they're planning to do to you? We've been discussing his fate, Mr. General, but we've never once asked the guy himself—why does he want this?"
Silence fell over the tent. Ned looked at the two men expectantly examining his body, now greatly emaciated after its wounds had healed, and thought about how strangely fate could change. And also about how, for some reason, he regretted losing his magic. It seemed he'd already gotten used to it...
Ned felt naked now. Sure, the remnants of other people's thoughts would occasionally buzz in his head—he certainly hadn't completely lost his magic, but he didn't have the same power he once had. He probably wouldn't be able to summon even the puniest first-circle demon now.
Ned quickly rummaged through his brain and discovered that, strangely enough, the knowledge was still there. He remembered everything the Black, Yuragor, had remembered, but... he couldn't use it. Absolutely nothing. Except for his physical abilities, of course. Those were still there. But Ned knew and had tested it just minutes ago—the magic was gone. At least, for now.
Ned sighed and said quietly:
"I'll do whatever my commander orders. I'm on duty, after all. I couldn't care less about the mages. They should watch their teeth if they try to mistreat me. I'm not the gentle country boy I used to be. Colonel, who's going to take over the reconnaissance team?"
"And he will," Heverad nodded toward Arnot, "Sergeant Arnot will. Yes, yes, Sergeant. I promote you to officer rank for saving your commander and... for your courage. Take charge of the reconnaissance team. And you, Ned the Black, are now a Corps mage. Your immediate superior is tenth-level mage Zaragor; he will explain to you what you must do and what you are expected to do. Any questions?"
- Can I keep my swords?
"Of course. I even insist on it," Heverad chuckled. "Other mages go unarmed. But you're not just any mage, and you're not really a mage. Their rule about not carrying weapons doesn't apply to you. Like many other rules. If you find an order from your immediate commander strange or unacceptable, or if there's anything that goes beyond your understanding of military service among the mages, come to me, we'll discuss it. Maybe I can correct a few things." The general narrowed his eyes hopefully, looking at the white mage, who was looking down. "Well, that's it, you're free to go. Go, pack your things, and then come back here—Zaragor will deal with you. Get going, get going! I need to talk to your commander, not for you to hear!"