A man in loose dark clothing approached Ned's bed quietly, cautiously extending his hand and reaching for the swords lying beside the sleeping man. Ned watched the assassin through half-closed eyelids, smelling the stranger's breath—for some reason, it smelled of vanilla and something rich. Shatriy took the sword in his hand… and then Ned struck him in the chest with an open palm, stopping his heartbeat. He leaped up from the bed, snatching up the sword, drawing it from its sheath, and crouched in a fighting stance.
And then Ned finally woke up. Magar lay on the floor before him, trying to speak with blue lips. Next to him stood a frightened, wide-eyed Igar, clutching his head. Gerlath stood frozen in the doorway, his jaw hanging almost to his chin, his eyes wide, as if he'd seen a demon of the highest order.
To Gerlat's credit, he immediately realized what was happening, ignored Ned, who was frozen in his stance, rushed to the unconscious boy, and immediately began treating him.
The first thing he did was smash his mighty fist into Magar's chest, leaving a blue, yellow, and green bruise the size of a plate for days afterward. His heart restarted instantly, spurred on by the archmage's mighty hand and a short healing spell that had spurred the boy's healing processes. Then Gerlat walked to a chair next to a small camp table and sat down, his hands resting limply on his thick knees. After a moment's silence, he surveyed everyone involved with a careful gaze and commanded in a quiet, commanding voice:
- Magar, come to me.
The boy reluctantly rose from the floor and trudged toward the archmage, still clutching the Left, which he'd picked up from Ned's bed. Gerlat waited for Magar to approach, then stood up and slapped the boy hard on the back of the head, sending him flying back to his bed with a short gasp and nearly knocking over his brother, who was eyeing his teacher warily. After the punitive action, Gerlat sat back down with a serene, calm expression on his face.
Magar was fussing around somewhere under his bed, gathering up the things that had been knocked off it and muttering unintelligible curses and vague threats, while the teacher's attention turned to the second brother, who was thoughtfully picking his nostril, as if nothing had happened and there was nothing more important in the world than this vile activity.
"Why didn't you stop him?" the archmage asked calmly.
"What am I, his guard or something?" Igar chuckled, and immediately received a blow to the thigh from an old boot thrown by the archmage with the precision and force worthy of an experienced ball player.
"Ouch! What for?" the boy rubbed his bruised hip and immediately received an answer:
"Idiots! Do you see this guy? No, you don't see him at all! You don't know how to look deep, and you're venturing into places where any archmage would be afraid to go! This guy is a murderer, the most terrifying murderer I've ever known! And your stupid brother miraculously survived! If it weren't for me restarting his heart, Magar would have been dead in a few minutes! And that's the least this sleepy guy could do! What the hell did you grab his sword for? Who gave you permission?"
"I just wanted to have a look, so what?" Magar sniffled, rubbing his reddened ear. "So what, should I kill you for this?"
"He's a warrior. He's always on guard. And you grabbed his weapon. His brain never sleeps, it's always on guard. And Ned's skills are aimed at killing first, and then figuring out who started the aggression and why. And whoever encroaches on his weapon is the aggressor. That's drilled into the brain of every fighter! Do you understand, you thick-headed ass? Do you understand that it's a miracle you survived?! And stop caressing your leg, this isn't the girl you caught last week, after which I had to treat you for a ridiculous illness, like a simple spearman! Idiot! You definitely had something to do with it! That idiot wouldn't have realized he needed to steal a sleeping soldier's weapon! Admit it—didn't you send him to steal the sword?"
"We just wanted to have a look! What, were we going to steal it or something?" the brothers screamed in unison. "Are we thieves or something? Does he feel sorry for us or something?! He's going to start a fight right away!"
"Sorry," Ned shrugged, "I dreamed I was attacked by an assassin. I simply did my job... as best I could. You don't need to take my swords without asking. And you don't need to ask. These swords are not for you."
"Especially since these are Demonic Swords," Gerlat continued, "don't even think about touching them! Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, if the demon contained within the sword doesn't recognize you as its owner, it will begin to drain your life force, your health, until it kills you completely! Do you understand that, blockheads? To wield these swords, or even just hold one, you have to be a demonologist! And who are you? You're juvenile blockheads who need to be spanked every day just to knock some sense into your asses! Give me the sword! Are you smart enough not to draw it?"
"That's enough..." Magar muttered. "Why didn't you warn me? How should I know? It's just iron! I wanted to see it! You don't let us have swords. We were curious..."
"Have swords?! You can't even find a decent girl to have sex with! Give you a sword! You'll chop off each other's fingers, you idiots! Who, brother, gave you the clever idea to steal a sword?" Gerlat chuckled. "Now you've run into trouble. Does your chest hurt?"
"It hurts. And my ear too," Magar said discontentedly, handing the sword to Ned.
"Nothing. That's good. It means you'll remember. Until it passes," Gerlat smiled again. "And you, Ned, keep it down with your teeth-grinding ways. This isn't the Corps. The people here are gentle, quiet, and the mages—they'll crumble at any moment, just nudge them."
The twins snorted and began to laugh, pointing at the massive, rock-like archmage:
- With your finger! Push! You can't smash it with a battering ram!
"I'm not talking about myself, you idiots. They hit you, and you're already dead. If it weren't for me... What did you hit him with, your fist? Or kick him? It looks like you kicked him. But no bones were broken. With that force, you would have crushed his sternum..."
"That's the Palm of Death," Ned explained calmly, "using the power of tsu. I can break his spine by striking him in the chest, and the sternum will remain intact. And his internal organs, too. You have to ignore obstacles and strike where you want. Just now, I struck at the heart. I thought assassins were sneaking up on me, but I didn't want to kill right away; I needed to interrogate the enemy. That's why I didn't kill him right away. I beg you, boys, don't touch me or my things while I'm sleeping. I simply won't be able to control myself and might kill. However, the mentor has already told you everything.
"So that's it," Gerlat said respectfully. "Have you heard, bludgeons? That's also a form of magic. By the way, if you're not in the know, let me introduce you to your colleague, Adept Ned the Black. A former Corps sergeant, a former scout, a specialist in combat with and without weapons. Now he'll be learning the basics of magic. He's a demonologist, about level ten. Scorched."
"Oh, come on! You're pulling the wool over our eyes, uncle!" Magar whistled. "How can he be level ten and suddenly in training? Are you kidding me?!"
"First of all, not my uncle, but my Mentor! Secondly, if the Mentor speaks, all those ass-heads must keep quiet! Do you see what's happening? These asses are my nephews! The gods have punished me with two asses who are always getting into trouble! Look here, Ned. As a new adept, you must receive some kind of assignment, that is, you must bear some kind of responsibility towards your teacher, your mentor. Well, like payment for your training. So, you are given the task of keeping an eye on these two asses, making sure they don't do anything harmful, don't misbehave, don't cause mischief, don't get into trouble, and do what is necessary. You are allowed to beat them as much as you like, but no harm. You are allowed to force them to do whatever you command, as long as those orders don't conflict with my orders and the orders of the command. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Ned nodded seriously, looking with a hidden grin at the boys, who were scowling and gloomy as clouds. "But I'm not a former sergeant, I'm an active sergeant. And no one stripped me of my rank. And since I have to put my knowledge to work, I'll do it. Can I beat them with a sword?"
"You can. With the flat side and not with a demonic sword," Gerlat nodded seriously.
- And with a belt?
- Yes, you can. But not with a heavy buckle. And be careful not to poke your eye out.
- Can I hit with a stick?
"It's possible, but not to death," the archmage nodded.
"Oh, come on! You're such beasts!" Igar couldn't help but say. "Just tie us to a horse and drag us through the whole camp!"
"Is that possible?" Ned asked seriously, and Gerlat confirmed:
- Yes, you can. Just tie your hands too, otherwise they'll steal something along the way!
The boys started giggling, Gerlat smiled, followed by Ned, who became serious again and added:
"Ned Senior, listen to him as you would to me. He's your mentor now, my second-in-command when I'm not around. Oh, how good you are here. It would have been better, of course, to assign each of you a dedicated demonologist and tie them to him with a rope, but maybe you can handle it, since you handled an entire reconnaissance team."
"I can handle it," Ned grinned, winking promisingly at the guys who were watching the dialogue between their mentor and Ned with interest, "can I ask you a question?"
"You mean to ask how these idiots ended up in a military unit, on duty? Why didn't I leave them at home?" Gerlat asked shrewdly.
"Well… basically, yes," Ned chuckled sheepishly, "maybe it's none of my business, but boys like that…"
"What about the boys?" the archmage shrugged. "They're sixteen, almost seventeen. Their peers are already laying down their lives on the battlefield—as spearmen, swordsmen, crossbowmen. And no one wonders why. They're mages. And even though they're still in training, they have plenty of power. They're perfectly capable of gathering a magic arrow and transferring their power to whoever stands at its tip. And they're not bad mages either. Igar is a pretty good healer. By the way, don't touch your brother when I'm gone! Let him walk around with a bruise! So he'll remember how to do stupid things. Their father died—he was an experimental mage, inventing new war spells. One of them killed him. He was a risk-taker, so nimble, so energetic… it's a shame, a great shame. And the boys take after him—they're so restless they won't sit still!" They're always up to some kind of mischief. It's better to keep them under my supervision. Besides, the law states that all mages must study in the agar, be supervised by the agar. Where else would they be? Stay with the little riffraff, in the city, in the mage town? They'd run away, I'd bet a hundred gold to a copper! Or maybe I don't know my demon-possessed nephews! Hmm... yeah. I was just saying that about the possession," Gerlat glanced sideways at Ned. "Okay, that's not the point. We need to start training. Let's find out what you know, what you can do, what spells you remember, and what meditation, concentration, and magical energy-gathering exercises you know. Hey, you bastards, sit on the bed and don't bother us, be quiet! Your turn will come.
"Can we go to the kitchen?" Magar asked hopefully. "Breakfast is ready, I can tell with all my heart!"
"Go ahead," Gerlat waved his hand, "and bring some food for Ned and me. But if you disappear for half a day again..."
"No, no, what are you saying!" With an expression of offended dignity, the boys slipped out of the tent and, giggling, rushed toward the smoking field kitchen, a sort of wagon with a huge iron stove. Gerlat watched them go and asked:
"Take care of them. They're precious to me. And by the way, they're very powerful mages. I just didn't want to talk about it in front of them. They'll outshine me, Zaragor, and Brantar. They'll go far if they're not executed for the nasty things they've done. When their father died, they completely lost control. That's when my sister turned to me for help. But it was too late. Now the only way to beat the nonsense out of their heads is with a stick. Oh well. We've digressed. So, here we go..."