Legend of the Inferno Scythe. Part One. The Academy

      The face of my father, when I told him all this, is simply impossible to forget. It turns out that my pupils were stretched vertically, and the iris glowed yellow. And willy-nilly, I had to take a thread with a needle and sew a hood onto the kimono, even though I did it reluctantly, because Zaren-sensei gave me the kimono before leaving the Dragon Mountains. I will most likely look ominous, but I will hide from unwanted attention.       Genuine fear was read in the eyes of my father. If it were possible, his lush beard would straighten out completely and the pigtails on it would unravel. And I understood him perfectly, because the last Guardian of the Inferno Scythe was Hetloriel, the Darkest of the Fallen. This angel, under the pretext of cleansing the world from mortal races, unleashed three world wars, in the last of which my grandfather, Lorkhan Irvingson, died, before his death, instructing my father to hand over the sword and dagger from his battle armor to me. After Hetloriel was finally destroyed, the dragons hid the Scythe somewhere in the mountains, under reliable protection. But if a fundamental artifact has chosen a Guardian, nothing will hold it back. He will strive with all his might to fall into the hands of his new master. Suddenly it dawned on me: Hetloriel had not yet been completely destroyed — it was his voice that sounded in my head.

***

      Since there was no one in the Dragon Mountains who could teach me Inferno Magic, I decided to leave my native Clan and go to the Viragota Academy of Magic. If I don’t start learning to control this power, it could consume me and I’ll become a monster like Hetloriel.       The path ahead was not easy for me. Zaren-sensei is of course a firebender, but he left the mountains a year before the start of the War of the Last Unicorn, believing that I surpassed him, although I still reach his level from the top of the Two-Headed Peak, the highest mountain in the world, to the Chol’Kagrom, the underground capital of the Twilight Elves. On foot.

***

      I left the Mountains for a long time, so I, as the eldest son of the jarl, arranged a chic farewell with a feast and dancers. But at the feast, I didn’t pour liters of ale and mead into myself and didn’t put much pressure on the boar. Not only because I still had to ride. I just had something to think about.       Having satiated themselves with roast boar and other game, and having drunk a lot of ale, the feasters began to retell dizzying stories. Realizing that there was nothing more for me to do here, I quietly left the feast. I had already packed my things, and my faithful mountain ram, Hammerhorn, had only to be saddled and untied. When I put on a light jacket and prepared to meet the dawn in the saddle, I felt the weight of a hand in a plate glove on my shoulder.       - Harold, I can’t let you go without saying goodbye, — father said with unusual gentleness.       - Father, don’t, — I objected, brushing his hand gently away and turning around. — I already have taken all the weapons I need. I didn’t forget the poison detection amulet either.       - Son, that’s not what I’m talking about, — he said, opening his fist. — Your mother took an oath from me that if you ever learn magic, this ring should fall into your hands.       I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat. I still remember that battle when my mother covered me from an enemy spear with her body.       - How did she know? — I asked in a choked voice.       - She was a Farseer, — Jarl of Dragon-Eye Clan replied.       - But only Twilight Elves can be Farseeers, — I objected.       - How do you explain your own spontaneous visions? — Father raised an eyebrow.       - You yourself said that the mountains, along with dragons, send them exactly to those whom they consider necessary, — I answered automatically.       - And you still believe in this nonsense that I drunk told you to get rid of when you just tortured me with your questions? — Father crossed his arms over his chest. — And that is the brilliant commander I’ve heard about? In fact, your mother was a descendant of the ancient Twilight who adored human concubines. The distant descendants of these slaves are still being sought for subjugation or destruction. And although literally one or two drops of elven blood flowed in your mother, it was precisely because of this that her parents had to flee to the mountains from their home port.       Thoughtfully, I scratched my chin and said:       - I think I’m finally beginning to understand her last words.       - Which ones? — Father asked.       - “The Mission,” “the nightmares,” “they are finally… over,” — I recalled with sorrow. — Now it’s clear what kind of nightmares she was talking about, but what kind of mission, I don’t understand.       - She had many secrets, — father sighed. -This ring, according to her, is supposed to hide your elven blood from the middle hand of sorcerers.       - Not bad, — I admired, — How old is it?       - Elf knows, — father shrugged — at least forty years. And the artifactor was not some petty witch doctor from the wilderness, but a real expert in the field of enchantment.       - Indeed, — I said, and put on the ring.       It looked like the simplest copper ring with a garnet inlaid, but as soon as I put it on, my head was spinning, and my eyes were slightly clouded. I drew my sword and looked at my reflection. Eye color was back to emerald green.       - It looks like it basically blocks my magical aura, — I concluded, — I hope I can cast spells while wearing it.       - You can, my father answered with conviction, — Lydia, when she wore it, continued to see the future, albeit a little less clearly.       After a moment of awkward silence, my father removed the silver circlet from his head, took me by the shoulders and said:       - Break a leg!       - An elvish one, — I replied, grabbing his shoulders too.       We hit each other head on and laughed. I met the dawn, as planned, on the way along the snow-covered ridges of the Graybeard Fox Pass.

***

      A week later I got to Ironhill, where I replenished my provisions and at the same time bought a fishing tackle. This city used to be an ordinary provincial village, but now it has become a major trading center, where mountain blacksmiths sell the best weapons and armor in the world.       After paying the customs duty, I moved to the southwest. After a few days of travel, an obsessive desire to kill suddenly woke up in me. A wild thirst for blood, in comparison with which the fury of a berserker is simply nothing, literally tore me apart. And every day this desire, despite all my attempts to suppress it, became stronger and more distinct.       And when a bandit once stopped me on the road, I, driven by an instinct beyond my control, immediately jumped out of the saddle, drawing my sword. I cut all from the unlucky robber limb by limb, savoring his cries and inhaling the smell of his fear, and not letting him fall into oblivion. The poor fellow was hoarse, begging for mercy, but I, flashing at him with the gold of eyes that changed color again, continued to butcher his body, wielding alternately with a sword and a dagger.       And the scariest thing about it all was that I loved it so much. I’ve killed in cold blood before, but I never got from it such pleasure. When the last wheeze escaped from the throat of the poor fellow, and the last drop flowed out of the body, his soul rushed into my heart, again causing me wild pain mixed with euphoria.       I wiped my sword and dagger and put them away. And now I woke up from this indoctrination and looked at the work of mine. The corpse of the bandit I killed was not yet cold, and I drove and drove the faithful Hammerhorn along the road, as if you could run away from yourself.       Decided: now daily instead of forty minutes of meditation — two hours. All the same, early spring is not the best time of the year to move around the plains on horseback: the snow is just turning into slush, the rain is coming more often. I hoped that harder training would allow me to take my mind off this Hunger. Perhaps this was too naive a thought, and yes, it will slow my progress, but when I arrive in some city, I will not rush at people with a sword at the ready.       In the first days after the murder, the Famine, as I called it, did not arise. And when he returned, intensive training and meditation seemed to help, but not that much. It was more like self-deception, but I couldn’t think of any other way. It’s good that bandits, thieves, werewolves and other scum sometimes met on the highway, and I, subordinate to Hunger, had no choice but to put them to death, and their souls fed me.

***

      Three weeks after killing the first bandit, I arrived in the city of Valdaran, where there was a statue of a Meditating Fallen Angel. According to an urban legend, if you rub the horns of this statue, you will be lucky in your studies. She probably wouldn’t bother me either.       After having a snack in a tavern, I headed to the city sights. On a low stone pedestal in the lotus position, a strange type with horns was depicted. In general, it would be a statue as a statue — what, I haven’t seen statues or something: all green, covered with the patina of past centuries, only the horns are rubbed to a mirror shine by the hands of numerous students. But the depicted creature, in addition to the horns, had skeletal wings spread out in different directions, as if the ancient sculptor forgot to pull the skin over them, sticking out of the shoulders. And on these bone wings sat jackdaws and crows, cawing and relish dropping caustic white drops on the pavement. Between some of the bones, spiders twisted huge cobwebs, and a local savvy hostess tied a rope to the largest bone, on which the washed clothes dried.       I went up to the statue, looked at her calm face, at his eyes, hidden by a bandage, and stretched out my hand to the horns. As soon as I touched them, cracks ran along them. I jerked my hand away in fright, and cracks snaked first along the head, and then along the body of the bronze image. Soon the whole figure was covered with a network of cracks and suddenly shattered into hundreds of fragments, which only miraculously did not hurt me or other civilians. In place of the statue sat a fallen angel. His lush black hair flowed as if he were swimming underwater; where his eyes were under a black bandage, two violet clots glowed; dragon wings, devoid of skin, straightened.       - Finally! — he exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. — My eight thousand years of meditation are over. The Overlord hast come!       Laughing furiously, he rose and soared into the air. The sky turned black, and a whirlwind of mysterious purple energies began to form above the Angel, from where lightning of the same color struck. Then he landed in front of me, got down on one knee and bowed his head like a slave before his master.              - Who are you, for a dragon’s sake? — was all I could squeeze out of myself.       - Daniel, Keeper of Eca, Scythe of Arcana, — he replied humbly, summoning a scythe whose truly enormous blade was forged from some sort of purple stone. — What is thy bidding, my Overlord?