The Road to Magic (Book 1 of the Way of the Demon Series) (28 page)

The korrigan’s arbour appeared unexpectedly. One minute, nothing, the next, there it was: a lowish, graceful construction on the bank of the stream could be seen in the moonlight. The high arrows of the rushes cast shadows of the slightly yellowed bones and, through the mesmerizing motifs of the music, Oleg understood that they were the bones of those who had come before him. But that was not important. Not at all important, for coming towards him was the most ravishing woman he had ever seen.

Like a fiery arrow the image of Heliona flashed in his mind and the bewitching charms chaining him loosened their grip slightly; he recognized the girl he had met on the way to the village. Except that now in the moon’s light, no-one would dare call her face unremarkable.

‘You came to me, knight,’ she whispered, holding her hand out to him and new strength flowed into her song.

‘I came,’ said Oleg submissively, unable to tear himself away from her bewitching gaze. The burgeoning idea to draw his sword melted under the influence of the song and the music. Here, this night, under this moonlight, the very idea of baring his coarse blade of cold iron seemed sacrilege.

‘Let’s go,’ Korrie took him by his powerless, lowered hand which could not even brush the sword’s hilt and led him into the arbour... ‘Come with me, this night we shall dance together!’

The dance was wonderful. But...something was not right. That song, it was somehow not real and the love and the passion which Oleg felt in every movement his partner made in that fairytale dance seemed ever more strange to him, a clumsy fake, a crude bait for naive simpletons. Anger burned in his soul ever more strongly, the black fire of protest – demons cannot be puppets! That is how his sensations might have been put into words had he got around to expressing himself. Nevertheless, it was too early to interrupt that song just yet....Still too early...And his sword continued to rest peacefully in its sheath.

The kiss was sweet. Then tender lips slipped lower, a light, anything but strong pain pricked his neck and suddenly there was a wild cry. Starting away from him the girl rubbed her face desperately as though trying to wipe off a burning acid. Except that there was no acid, only the thick, black, blood of a demon bubbling on whitened lips. Lips? Really? The delicate skin was changing. What had looked like a wonderful maiden only seconds earlier was transforming into something incomprehensible, and in no way attractive. Sharp pincers stuck out of the mouth which was now opening wide in a distinctly inhuman way, becoming an incredibly wide gash. Terribly long, hairy spider’s legs lifted up the body which had still not completely lost its human contours and a cold glint gleamed in the multifaceted eyes.

But the music could still be heard, only now Oleg mentally intercepted the melody, taking control of it.

And evidently there was power in that song, in that magic, as the black blood glistening on the pincers ignited with a bright fire, and with a faint little cry not at all befitting a monster, the spider recoiled. Recoiled and with an unexpected leap, suddenly threw herself at Oleg.

Dodging easily, Oleg completed an instantaneous transformation and the long claws of a demon slashed the soft belly, and the venomous pincers of his opponent merely brushed powerlessly against resilient demon scales.

But the korrigan had no intention of giving up. One low whistle – a summons – and the rustle of hordes of little feet forced Oleg to be cautious. Spiders came crawling out from everywhere. From the eye sockets of the old, bleached skulls ‘decorating’ the arbour, from the thick rushes, from the cracks between the bones...

‘Well, the evening’s full of languor no longer!’ the demon smirked, and baring his sharp fangs, he shook his head. Thin snakes, formerly his hair, fell to the ground and slithered purposefully towards the massing insects, hissing evilly and swivelling their cold eyes.

‘Snakes against spiders. Don’t you find it symbolic, my dear? I wonder who will win? I’ll bet on my snakes!’ Oleg announced to his opponent with evil glee, drawing his sword and keeping a cautious watch on the spider’s every move as she retreated. ‘So, time for the second round?’ And with a brief flap of his wings he attacked, dissolving in a whirlwind of blows.

‘Eh, people, people,’ announced Oleg thirty seconds later examining his sword, having leapt to one side to get his breath back. ‘Why do you forge such flimsy weapons?’ he sighed sadly. The robust shell which covered all the upper part of the spider’s body was more than a match for the sharpness of his sword and now the once fearsome weapon could at best serve as a cudgel.

‘What are you doing, you bitch?’ Having given the korrigan a reproachful look, Oleg tossed the weapon which had failed him down the bank and ducked abruptly, avoiding the sticky threads which had been spun out in his direction. ‘Can you even imagine how much the sharpener will overcharge me for getting such a ruined blade back into shape?’ A short wave of his activated darkh and his opponent was left without half her left foot-finger. Judging from the furious hiss which rang out, the aforementioned loss was most grievous for the korrigan.

‘Well, what’s to be done?’ Oleg queried in a deliberately melancholy tone, tossing the magic dagger bathed in dark fire from hand to hand and carefully following the spider’s every move as she pulled back once more. ‘There, there, don’t get huffy now, my dear. C’est la vie.’

A sharp movement of his left hand and the creature, mesmerized by the constantly gleaming dagger, was unable to turn aside from a smallish but extremely hot fireball which burnt a hole of considerable dimensions in the shell on her chest.

A sharp pain in his left leg suddenly reminded Oleg that he had more than one opponent. A huge spider the size of a soup bowl had latched onto his left leg a little higher than his Achilles tendon and inserted its pincers between the scales protecting his skin.

The demon’s claw terminated the life of that spider swiftly, but the korrigan noticed his distraction and made the very most of the chance given her. No, she did not attack Oleg. Evidently she had soberly weighed up the balance of power: she fled.

Eight legs flashed, merging in movement and a gigantic living torpedo hurtled to the exit, covering Oleg in a wave of musky scent and mercilessly trampling her own servants, desperately battling with the demonic little snakes.

‘Hey, where are you off to?’ was all Oleg managed to say, watching as a yellowish slime oozed out from the four deep wounds his claws had left in her belly. He spread out his broad wings and threw himself into the chase.

In general spiders run fast, and when they are afraid of something they can even run
very
fast. However, even the swiftest overland race cannot compare to the speed of even a relatively slow flight. And Oleg was flying anything but slowly. What’s more, making the most of his elevated position he was actively hurling tiny fireballs at the fleeing korrigan, literally showering the poor spider with fire.

Oleg, on high, could calmly finish off his opponent without any danger of receiving reciprocal blows himself. Victory was in his grasp. However, it only seemed like that. The korrigan, now convinced that there was no chance of outrunning Oleg in the open, decided upon a counter attack.

A long, whitish thread hit the demon in his chest and stuck there. Before Oleg could wipe it off with his dagger, a strong tug literally jerked him ‘back to earth’. No sooner had he straightened up than the spider’s long leg straightened out and struck him in the stomach. The long talon at the end of the spider’s paw couldn’t penetrate his protective scales, but nevertheless the force of the blow was such that Oleg rolled in somersaults on the grass, crumpling his half-spread wings.

Without hesitating for a second the korrigan attacked again. The venomous pincers opened wide, the multifaceted eyes gleamed grandly – gleamed and dulled. The long blade of the activated darkh, blazing with darkness, penetrated the head-heart of the gigantic insect, wounding her fatally. Picking himself up with a sigh, Oleg shook his wings, checking whether they were fit for duty, after which he turned his gaze on his dying enemy. The form of the gigantic spider paled and melted away and under his very gaze, dimly at first, but then ever more clearly, the contours of a beautiful young girl with a horrendous wound in her chest began to emerge. The blackened, burnt off lips moved with great effort and a quiet whisper reached Oleg: ‘It was a good dance, demon... What a pity that we were dancing against one another and not together... Perchance, if it had not been for our curse, ours might have been a different fate.’ She fell silent. The magical spells laid on the dagger at its creation were doing their job but the mighty body of the unclean was fighting even now. She was still breathing.

‘How did your song end?’ Oleg asked unexpectedly, surprising even himself.

‘Oh, that means you did fall under its spell after all. Well then, listen! And try to understand. I really did love...’

‘I understand,’ Oleg answered gravely. ‘Loved. And killed. A spider.’

‘Yes...’ Korrie tried to smile but quickly aborted the attempt. ‘It hurts.’

A solemn smile flickered over the burnt off lips of the dying korrigan and the next instant the blade of the magical dagger gleamed in the moonlight, ending her suffering.

‘Mmm... So ends the fairytale,’ Oleg murmured softly, taking on his human form again and looking around for the sword he had tossed away at the beginning of the battle.

Picking it up, he sighed once more and slowly set off in the direction of the village. His bruised stomach was hurting badly, his neck was aching where he’d first been bitten, the leg the small spider had bitten was aching badly and had swollen up, and Oleg was glad that the venom had a much weaker effect on demons than on humans. Moreover, he was nagged by the thought of what the korrigan must have been before the curse falling on Trir had warped them. How beautiful and clever must they have been if even traces of this were still noticeable after their transformation into evil unclean?

Oleg walked into the inn dragging his feet, throwing a tired: ‘Your job’s been done’ to the village chief anxiously awaiting his return. With heavy, slightly limping steps, he went up to his room.

Time was getting tight. The exams were due to start in ten days and Oleg urged his horse on. Although the entrance exams to check the candidate’s capacities should last around fifteen days, Oleg wanted to be there at the beginning – just in case.

He had completed his task; soon he should receive the nobility he desired. His “personal account” commanded respect. It was mainly made up of zombies, werewolves and minor vampires, although there were also kikimora (a class of female Unclean), a couple of fog-beasts and, of course, the Korrigan. He had earned over two thousand imperial gold coins killing monsters, and if he watched his purse that should be ample for his first year of study. But now time was short and so he had turned down very profitable offers on several occasions.

However, after his meeting with the Korrigan, Oleg accepted a job hunting a werewolf. Used to easy victory, he underestimated his opponent and the werewolf got his jaws on his left arm. Oleg managed to strike it with his sword and kill it but the scales on his arms were much thinner than on the rest of his body and could not offer him complete protection. The monster’s jaws had broken his arm, and the scales stabbed by its fangs left deep wounds.

Fortunately this took place not far from a town where there was a magician-healer, and Oleg had enough money to make use of his help. Admittedly, after thoroughly cleaning his wounds and applying a magical bandage, the magician quizzed him for a long time about the chainmail able to withstand the bite of a werewolf, for that is how Oleg had described the somewhat unorthodox nature of his wound. Thus apart from lack of time, Oleg had another very good reason to avoid meeting the Undead. The magical splint fixed his arm pretty well, enabling him to use it almost as a healthy one, but it was extremely painful. And if in battle his opponent managed to land a blow on his damaged arm… No, it was better to avoid battles for now. And anyhow, he didn’t have much time…

It was with precisely these thoughts that Oleg, having stopped for the night at a village bar, noticed a sign: “Hunter urgently required. Preferably with magical talents. Object: an unclassified Undead. Salary for removing it: very high. Apply at the Bel Castle. For further information, enquire at the inn-keeper.”

With a snort, Oleg turned away from the wall and enquired of the inn-keeper:

‘A mug of your best beer and something to eat. Do you have a room?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ The inn-keeper quickly eyed up Oleg’s garments, sword and the fat purse on his belt and decided to suck up to a wealthy client. ‘I’ll send the maid. She’ll tidy upstairs. Today’s menu is roast ram ribs, a hot roast, pork chops, pea soup or cabbage ragu.’

‘Give me the chops. A double portion. I’m starving.’

‘I’m on my way.’ And the inn-keeper did indeed scurry off at top speed. Soon Oleg’s meal was on the table. Once he’d had a bite, Oleg noticed that the inn-keeper was not serving his other guests - of which by the way, there were none too many – but was still standing by his table.

‘What do you want?’ Oleg asked rather rudely. His arm was hurting again, the chops were slightly overdone and his mood, which had dropped to ground level, quickly picked up a spade and began to dig itself deeper. Oleg had no desire whatsoever to hear the local gossip. The inn-keeper, however, in contrast to his custom, was in no hurry to move from his position and enquired politely, if rather insistently: ‘Was your interest aroused by the advertisement? Would you like me to send someone to the castle to inform them of your arrival?’

Oleg shook his head. ‘No. I won’t be doing any hunting here.’

‘Pray why not? The Duchess is offering a tidy sum.’

‘How much?’ Curiosity had always been one of Oleg’s weak points.

‘Two and a half thousand gold pieces.’

Oleg whistled in amazement, interested despite himself. Greed and caution were locked in a deadly battle in his soul.