I didn’t return to the farm; my suspicions were correct and freedom was more important than money. It seemed unwise to allow the “cleaners” to see my face: they could quickly take me to NZAMIPS. I explained to the boy that all the zombies were gone from the farm, and the police would investigate the case. I reminded him not to tell anyone about the dog.
“…Unless asked directly with no other option; outright lying is not good.”
He nodded in accord.
The owners of the neighboring farm, alarmed by news of the ghouls’ attack and reassured that everything would be fine from now on, agreed to take care of the kid and let the police know about the incident. Halfway to the highway, I saw from a distance a column of military trucks with the NZAMIPS logo, stirring dust from the opposite direction. I cheerfully turned into the bushes—did not want to renew acquaintance with my “beloved captain.”
A day later, back at home, browsing through the headlines of the morning papers, I realized what had happened. It turned out that one of the policemen did break alive through that same cursed forest and managed to call for backup. A regiment of NZAMIPS’ troopers drove there all night because the three active ghouls were horribly dangerous (originally there were four, but one of the killed “cleaners” managed to sell his life dear). The military convoy was pursued by a pack of journalists, willing to risk their lives for an opportunity to observe the fight. I saw a few of them thumbing a lift on the roadside, but intuition prompted me not to stop. Well, they were in the right place, and no ghouls—not even a poor ghul—were there. All were decimated.
It was then that the folktale of the “dark knight on a horned monster” was born.
Mass media went on and on, relishing the story of a private magician that successfully replaced a battalion of “cleaners”. More sensible people questioned how the ghouls could hide for so many years in the heart of a densely populated land, repeatedly attacking unsuspecting villagers. Casualties of “cleaners” and policemen (the ghouls had eaten the big boss) added savor to the story. The chief of the regional NZAMIPS’ office gave an interview, in which he regretted what had happened and remorsed, regretted and remorsed, and swore on his life that everything would be fine in the county from now on.
It was then that I became a wanted criminal. Initially, NZAMIPS’ officials hinted at a reward for the “knight” for saving people, and then they publicly offered me to come and get it (did they think I was an idiot?). Finally, a reward was promised for information about me (well, go interrogate the ghouls!). Ms. Fiberti, my “answering service”, was visited by some guests, but she was a willful woman and chased them all out. Emotions gradually quieted, but it was clear even to journalists that the dark magician, practicing for almost a year in the county, was from Redstone.
The day after the incident, I left the university after the second lecture reporting myself sick, and went to my “answering service”. There I was handed a new issue of The Western Herald.
“Ms. Fiberti, we need to talk seriously.”
She knowingly nodded: “Do you want to shut down the business?”
“After what happened, NZAMIPS will comb the entire county. I do not want trouble.”
She sighed, “I’m sorry that it’s over; I liked working with you. May I,” she adjusted her glasses in embarrassment, “write a book about you?”
“A book?”
“A novel. Naturally, I’ll change your name.”
“Do you think it would be interesting to anybody?”
“I believe so.”
“Fine!” I generously agreed. “Just let me browse through it when you finish. I don’t want to look like a complete idiot.”
Ms. Fiberti made me tea; I packed up the filing cabinet and neatly folded my business suit.
“Will you have problems because of me?”
She grinned: “If anything, I will say that I rented out a room with the phone and did not know who lived there.”
So we parted.
I wrapped my black gripsack in a white towel and went to the junkyard, where my horned monster slept peacefully under the protection of the zombie-dog. If someone stumbled into those two, the gripsack would be my smallest concern. How could I manage to get into such a mess? I thought I didn’t do really bad things… at least I did not plan… most importantly, everyone was happy, and then suddenly—hop—I was a danger to society (according to NZAMIPS). It was time to stop illegal activity. I vowed to myself to find Captain Baer’s business card in the pockets of my old pants, frame it, and hang over my desk as a constant reminder to stay away from adventures.
Part 3. INTERNSHIP IN ALCHEMY
Chapter 12
“I’m a good-hearted dark mage, I’m a very modest dark mage, I am very, very…”
Should I stay quiet after what happened at the farm, or behave like everyone else? Don’t get me wrong—I am, of course, very intelligent—but acting is not my element. I could convincingly simulate simple and natural reactions, but a sophisticated reconstruction of behavior was not my milieu. That was more up the white magicians’ alley. How could I behave myself if I didn’t know what would be best in my situation?
The question was relevant, because Redstone buzzed like a disturbed beehive. I did not think that a couple episodes of my half-illegal business would make so much noise. Interestingly enough, the townsfolk’s reaction to that matter was diametrically opposed to the official view. Apparently, people did not support the authorities. I could imagine how irritated NZAMIPS’ officials were! I was praised, I was recommended as a role model, I was admired and, you know, the dark are suckers for flattery. For obvious reasons, the mage remained anonymous, but I knew whom they were talking about. The only thing that kept me from running through the streets shouting, “That knight is me! Me!” was the zombie-dog. Such a trick no one would forgive.
University classes turned into a real test for my nerves: Quarters looked at me with a sly eye (what on earth made me show him my motorcycle?), and whenever at least three dark got together, they immediately began discussing “that same incident”. Nothing agitates the dark as much as another’s glory! All of my fellow students were confident that they would have done “the same”, but better. One twit even tried to move from word to deed, and Mr. Rakshat beat him so seriously that the guy had to go to the hospital. Any other measures wouldn’t discourage the dark; therefore, the teacher’s over-reaction was considered adequate. It was clear even to the white.
Due to such cases the university offered a lecture - a review of supernatural phenomena, mandatory for all dark mages. The ones who did not attend would not be allowed to take final exams. The lecturer, sent by NZAMIPS, was a lady of colorless appearance, shy and embarrassed, who told us about the history of the scientific study of otherworldly powers, uttering phrases like “lethal” and “witnesses did not survive” with a slight stammer. The officer vitalized only when she started a demonstration of heinous exhibits, spreading the disgusting stink of formalin throughout the entire room.
And I saw some of these exhibits without any formalin…
After the lecture it became clear to everyone—even to me—that the accomplishment of the feats, overblown by the media, could only be done by a well-trained otherworldly liquidator, a retired “cleaner”, or an aged master looking for a meaningful death. I didn’t understand why I was still alive. Logic dictated that either I embodied the Spirit of Holy Salem or the lady-lecturer slightly distorted the truth.