Cold obsidian

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

Astrakh turned pale and swallowed nervously…

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

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

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

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

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

“Handel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Region of Shamarkash!”

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

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

‘This alien land I saw at dawn,

It was my morning dream.

Three fearsome blazing suns there shone,

Two clouds, with lights agleam…’

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

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

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

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

Vladislava touched Kangassk’s brow.

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

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

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

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

“No…” Astrakh’s head drooped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Grey Inquisitor lowered his eyes to meet hers.

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

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

“What book?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vladislava touched his brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why’s that?” sighed Kan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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