Chapter 3

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The ghouls were frightened of the sun, it burned them. At first, the skin turned red, then dark spots-burns appeared on it that gradually covered the entire surface of the body. After the outer covers died off, the meat and sinews burst into a bright blue flame, and the bones were the last to burn. It took less than ten minutes after the first touch of the rays for the risen to turn to ash. The knowledge of the threat from the sky ran so deep so need to take shelter in the darkness became the instinctive urge of any novice. Bloodlust and love of twilight were the first two qualities acquired by the risen upon awakening.

Another awakening brought no peace - Andrew could not stop remembering yesterday's events. The mood was disgusting. It had been four nights since he had come to the temple. Or was it more accurate to say "she appeared"? Salvian didn't know the distinction between feminine and masculine, but if he continued to think of himself as a man, he would sooner or later speak out. Those around her already considered Celesta strange - it could be seen in the occasional glance they caught. They're like wild beasts: they can tell immediately who's a different breed. They live by instinct. If you make a mistake, they'll tear you to pieces, no care that you, too, are an undead.

You can only communicate with Alarika. The woman is intimidated, afraid of everything, trying not to get in Carlon's face and never to contradict him, but remains the only one who is skeptical about his theory of the end of the world. Out loud she dares not doubt it, just slips something like this into her speech. However, as soon as Andrew brought up the subject, Alarika became withdrawn and turned into a model of obedience to her senior brother's will. She didn't argue, but she wasn't supportive either. In a sense, she was a pariah in the local community of the damned, and if it hadn't been for Artak, there was no telling what would have become with her.

Artak... He is probably the only ghoul who consciously seeks to quicken the coming of his Lord. He destroys people who fall into his hands without question, and brutally. He left the monastery the day he met Celesta, too, not just because he was hungry. He likes to kill, he likes to feel his power. At the same time, he is an unquestionably driven person by temperament, under the influence of the head of the community completely and utterly. Why he continues to defend Alarika against Carlon's wishes is a mystery. Maybe to satisfy his ego?

Gunn is next most important. He could have been second in the group, or even the leader if he hadn't been so desperate. I can feel a trace of his former strength in him. What's missing is a will to live, and what's left of his pride to spit on everything and go out in the sun. Artak said that in a recent clash with one of the big gangs of men, Gunn, pierced by a spear, fought with a completely indifferent face, and then coolly pulled a meter and a half of wood out of him without even a flinch. He seemed to feel no pain or other emotion at all.

But he's no match for Tick in this aspect. Tick lives in a world of his own, paying little attention to those around him. In general, there is logic in his actions - Andrew is still not sure of the reality of what is happening: too similar to the delusion of the ruined city and its inhabitants. The temptation to declare everything crazy and sink into sweet dreams is great, hindered by the habit of a rational perception of the world and some psychological stability, instilled by television and the old way of life. The man of the twentieth century is deaf to the technological wonders supplied by science - he who watched "Predator" is ready for anything.

Well, there's nothing to say about Paltin. He's a horny jackal, and you have to kick him hard if you get the chance, so he won't try to grope you. You won't have to wait long for the chance.

The last and most dangerous member of the community is Carlon. Not just a fanatic, but reasoning, thinking fanatic. A personality is capable of overwhelming, of leading. Give him time, he'll snap Gunn out of his black melancholy and grind Alarika to dust, turning her into a wordless executor of his will. He already has. He's well educated, and his priestly past has endowed him with great oratorical skills and a broad mind. It is not customary here to talk about his life before the plague, but, judging by the manner of his conduct, Carlon was a priest not of the rank and file. He was not at all afraid of magic, but regarded it as a simple trade, without any piety. Conclusion: Most likely, he belonged to the nobility.

Although Celesta remembered nothing of the past, she could easily get the answers she needed from Alarika, so she had an idea of the social structure of the dead society. The words "mage" and "noble" could be equated. True, most were limited to the most primitive tricks, and the descendants of the gods often lived poorer than their merchant neighbors. Wizards made up about a quarter of the population, while the rest benefited from their labors. How many of those who had the gift had survived the catastrophe, I wonder? One percent? One-tenth of one percent? Less?

Sometimes I got the impression that the senior brother hated people, the uncompromising manner in which he spoke of the coming end of the human race. Just now he was showing on a primitive blueprint, a dirty piece of paper, the location of the main gangs and the places where the dangerous monsters lived, how, almost without transition, he began to plan the next sortie, in which the chances of the living were reduced to zero. Carlon never even considered who or what he would become when his god came into the world: the process of service was far more important to him than the result. In fact, he even loved people - the love of a craftsman who loved his instrument. After all, by their deaths, the doomed helped him to bring what he wanted closer...

Carlon would be a dangerous enemy, cruel and unpredictable. Andrew thought about it again and regretfully decided that it would not be possible to avoid conflict. It was a shame: he would have liked so much to get used to the new world first, to learn as much as he could about the new world, to just rest. The shock of the transfer still manifested itself in sudden bouts of panic or falling into a trance. What to do now? Fight or flee? The girl grinned. Fight the priest...

Yesterday's hunt not only drove the first wedge in the relationship between them but also provided much food for thought. Every three days the uprisings would raid their holdings around the monastery, killing all the people they encountered. It was not so much for practical reasons - you could get blood at any time, in principle: at the sight of a couple of ghouls, the ragamuffins scattered and were easily caught one at a time - as for psychological, or ritual reasons. The human race is steeped in sin, Carlon proclaimed, and so the time has come for him to retire into oblivion and purge the world of his vicious presence. Morvan's reign would continue until the last of the stained race had passed, and then mankind would be replaced by other, more perfect beings. But it is the destiny of the ghouls to carry out the plans of their dark master in every way possible.

There weren't too many deaths this time: bitter experience had convinced the marauders to stay out of the danger zone. Celesta, under the pretext of weakness, tried to stay in the back row and out of sight of Carlon, so her participation in the massacre was reduced to a symbolic fight with some ragamuffin. She let him get away with it and stepped into the small square where the others were already gathered. Everyone was staring at the sword-wielding man, presumably the leader of the marauders, who had so far successfully flung Artak away. The wall made it difficult to get to the warrior from behind. The ghouls hadn't bothered to come to the aid of his kin before Carlon had arrived, and even Alarika had stayed out of sight.

"Why do you resist the inevitable?" The priest stopped a few paces away from the sweat-covered, scratched man. Artak stepped aside at the leader's appearance. "Are you blind? Look, now is the time of the Great Night! The strict but infinitely fair judge has spoken his verdict, and the verdict is harsh! Leave your resistance and go to the next world to answer for the deeds of your kind!"

In response, the hoarsely breathing warrior only spat: "Get back in your grave, ghoul. Or I'll spill your guts, wrap them around a piece of wood, and hang them on that ledge over there. So you can roast better in the morning, bitch!"

"You've chosen your way," Carlon pursed his lips, a fanatical expression on his face. "In the name of Morvan the Destroyer, curse you forever!"

The priest's head was tilted back, his mouth opens in holy ecstasy. The hand, pointing at the victim who had dared to resist, was enveloped in a bloody blaze, the hand seemingly surrounded by a thick, dark flame. A small lump of flame separated from the main mass and flicked lightly, like a feather, toward the man, striking him in the heart area. The senior brother lowered his arm, his figure hunched over. After a brief, viscidly silent moment, the mortal's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the ground.

Dead one.

"Behold the power of the Lord!" The priest pathetically exclaimed, spreading his arms in a cross. "Thus he punishes those who dare oppose his servants! And he bestows his blessing on faithful servants!"

A blessing is a blessing, but he looked terrible. His eyes were sunken, his skin was unhealthy gray and dull, and his fangs were protruding from his mouth as if he had been starving for days and was now in the final stages of exhaustion. He could not stand upright, he staggered. But all the rebels, without exception, stared at Carlon with wild delight - their awe more than compensated for the energy expended. Even the perpetually detached Tick was distracted from his reverie, staring at the leader with eyes glistening with tears.

It was as if the stranger's consciousness in the ghoul's body was divided. "I-Andrew," with the detached delight of an outside observer, saw the manifestation of the real magic, the same magic that he had long sought in his homeworld, but did not have time to catch in this one. The descriptions of former power, sparingly and painfully recounted in the intervening nights, were no substitute for a single demonstration. Though there was not much to see or understand, there was hope that something remained, that not all knowledge and power had perished in the flames of the disaster that had ravaged the wizards. At the same time, he thought about the reaction of his kin. Why had they reacted so sharply? Living in a magical society, they must have seen far more impressive displays of wizarding skill. Perhaps it was the sheer ecstasy of the magic that shook them: while other wizards were powerless at best, more likely dead, Carlon was able to perform miracles. How could I not think that the Chieftain is Chosen One?

"I-Celesta" had no thoughts at all. The second part was perplexed, looking at the dead body with no outward signs of damage, squinting warily at its frozen brethren, greedily inhaling the scent of blood. The scent of life, giving fluid permeated the air, the five dead men generously watering the dry ground. Hunger and mild bewilderment - the ghoul felt no other emotion.

"Celesta." The senior brother's voice shattered the strange stupor. The shattered mind trembled, the separate parts pulled together and merged into a coherent whole. He shook his head, coming to his senses, and the brief interval of splitting turned into a sudden shock. "Celesta, are you ready to serve our Lord, sister?"

No matter how badly Andrew was feeling, he understood how a negative answer would turn out in this situation. Therefore, despite his bad feeling, he nodded accordingly.

"Come closer, sister."

Inwardly cringing, the newcomer moved closer to the leader. Up close, it was clear why the warrior had defended himself so fiercely and not tried to escape: In a narrow hole, against the wall, a young girl of about sixteen was crouching. She was hard to see, so deeply buried and so tightly pressed against the rubble of the ruined house. She did not expect anything good from the sudden attention of the night killers, judging by her eyes wide open in horror, fixed on the body of her fallen protector, her face whiter than white, and her hands clenched tightly protecting her body.

Carlon spoke in a muffled, sonorous voice: "The day came and the hour came when the living envied the fate of the dead. But the Lord's mercy is infinite. He welcomes everyone in his kingdom, whether born on a silk bed or a child of unknown parents, the righteous and the sinner alike will bow before his throne to accept their fate with resignation. We, who have been brought back from the Darkness by his will, are in all things subject to the will of our Lord and Father. Become an instrument in the lord's thoughts and bring the creation of the new world nearer. Make a sacrifice, fill the demon's chamber with the blood of this wretched woman!"

Andrew-Celesta stiffened. He had killed in this world before, though he rarely even fought in his own. How many had he killed? Three, more? He was not going to feel any remorse. The men themselves were ready to fight, to rape, to do other evil. But the priest was offering to kill a defenseless, almost childish person. That is, to break the stereotypes created by education, to spit on conventional morality, to trample on conscience and become a real predator of the night, to cease to be a man in the spiritual sense of the word.

Each tribe has its ritual of entry. The father shows the child to his relatives and the sun, the civil registry office registers the new member of society and issues a paper decorated with a seal, the new relatives present the young wife or husband to the ancestral altar - it is impossible to list everything. Ceremonies unite individuals into a collective, establish strong bonds between them, and divide the world into their own and those of others. Celesta hunted with the community, lived in the same building, wore similar clothes. But she was not yet her own. Now Carlon intended to acknowledge the newcomer, thereby gaining another neophyte, and at the same time tying her to himself. With blood. He didn't expect resistance.

"I thank you for the honor, Senior Brother, but I feel no need to kill this child." Celesta shyly lowered her eyes as the experienced mind inside her frantically searched for a way out. The girl was pitiful - and she didn't want to die. And the fact that if he refused, he would not live long, Andrew was well aware. "The demon inside me is silent. Maybe he didn't like the sacrifice."

"He likes," the priest cut her off sharply. "He's only testing you, your loyalty."

"And yet I'm not sure..."

"Don't doubt my words!"

With difficulty he straightened up, he stepped closer: "Don't doubt the path you've chosen." His voice sounded caring and mesmerizing. "You are tired and frightened, you are tormented by the loss of your memory. There is destruction and chaos all around you, and death has put its mark upon this land. But believe me, you are not alone. We will be your new family, we wish you well. Come to us, become one of us..."

If it were not the occult experience, Andrew would not have felt the extraneous influence. He simply would not have been able to realize that he was being influenced. Carlon did not hypnotize the newcomer; he gently enveloped her with his words, overwhelming her will with his participation and kindness. A normal person simply would not have doubted that the priest wished only good, sincerely seeking to help the poor girl, who had lost her bearings and did not understand what was right and what was wrong.

"Please, Senior Brother, give me more time."

The chief straightened, his eyes filled with amazement and rage: "Was I wrong about you!?"

Celesta felt the pack behind her move closer. The ghouls, still under the sway of Carlon's miracle, sensed the displeasure in their idol's voice and were ready to tear apart whoever had caused the displeasure. Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew noticed Alarika tentatively retreating into the shadows. No, the woman would not help him now; they knew each other too little, and the fear of the chief was too great. And - the other side the crouched girl looked at her with fear and hope. She knew that for some reason the strange ghoul did not want to kill her.

The pack behind me took another tiny step.

There is no escape. There are many of them, and now their actions are guided by an instinct that screams: The one who is not with us is against us!

Andrew made a decision.

The hope in the victim's eyes gone.

She didn't have time to scream as Celesta's arms wrapped elusively and delicately around her head, twisting her neck. Death was instantaneous - the poor girl felt no pain. Behind, the rebels howled joyously, welcoming their new sister, a real sister now, not just in words. A tired Carlon straightened up, wanting to say something...

He stuttered.

Celesta stared straight ahead into the leader's face without looking away. And he knew that one day he would be challenged. Yes, today he had won, the power was on his side, he had achieved what he wanted. The sacrifice was made. But the newcomer could not be broken, sooner or later she would respond to today's coercion. Someday...

Andrew, a child of the technological era, had a great prejudice against the word "magic". His interest in the occult did not prevent him from being skeptical about the legends and traditions he studied about the supernatural abilities of people, and his long acquaintance with charlatans strengthened his disbelief. But the strange and absurd belief in the unseen continued to guide him through life - and that is what it brought him to. Well, what can one say, knowledge has to be paid for. And perhaps losing his own body and becoming a bloodsucker wasn't the harshest price.

Because of his worldview, Andrew saw the inherent abilities of wizards as a way to advance technology. There was a good reason, according to Alarika, most local wizards used various artifacts and objects to practice their craft. "Pure" magic - the creation of spells by force of will - was the prerogative of the higher aristocracy, almost destroyed in the early days of the epidemic. The Duke's family belonged to such in Taleya. Do they still have their powers, he wondered?

If they survived, the glow around Carlon's hand that killed the man gets a logical explanation. From the beginning, the religiously colored theory about the end of the world and the coming of the Lord of Darkness was questionable - there were hundreds of such doctrines in the history of old Europe alone. Every war produced satanic cults whose ideologies more or less coincided. Invaders of all stripes behaved with such exorbitant cruelty that the thought of the coming of the last days seemed real to the witnesses of the crimes being committed. The situation here is similar, just the place of war has been taken by the Great Plague, which destroyed civilization with no less efficiency. However, there will be wars later.

Suppose the inherent abilities of the noble bloodline were still intact, though severely weakened. Celesta remembered how haggard the priest had looked after the brief use of his powers. Then... Then what? There were too many uncertainties and assumptions. It is not known who Carlon was before the disaster, nor is it known what magic even is in the local sense of the term. On the other hand, a false theory is better than none. There's something to build on.

The undead stirred and rose from the bunk, continuing to ponder at the same time. Another burning question, so beloved of the Russian intellectuals: what to do? What to do next? Of all the rebels, Alarika and, to some extent, Gunn inspire my sympathy. If we leave, we should leave with those two. The others are insane in varying degrees, and it's dangerous to be around them, not just to live with them. I've no desire or reason to fight Carlon for power in the small community.

In fact, what does he want? What is Andrew's goal? To return to his homeworld? Absolutely. As bad as it was, compared to the local conditions, a small room in the center of the city seemed like a dream come true. Hot water, a favorite coffee shop in a cozy basement, a TV, a yearly vacation, beautiful women - just heaven. If he had been sure that suicide would bring him back to his usual body, he would have jumped into the fire without waiting for morning. Unfortunately, there was no such confidence.

It remains to survive and hope for the best. If one charlatan managed to throw him to the unknown, why shouldn't another bring him back? The main thing is to be able to find the native Merlin. The surviving intellectual elite had most likely concentrated in the palace: it was the only place where they could wait out the rampage of the beastly mob. So, first of all, to gain access to knowledge, and then we shall see. A difficult task, not for one year. Given the ideological attitudes of his senior brother, there is no time at all.

He did not want to leave the cell. The thought of meeting the very creatures who had been ready to kill him yesterday made him shiver and feel unpleasantly angry. The scene of the conversation with Carlon and the murder that followed kept recurring before her eyes. Embarrassing. No matter how much Andrew convinced himself that there was no other way and the girl would have died anyway, still the decision he made did not give peace. If he had been a Christian, he would have said he could not stand the temptation. After all, he could give up his own life and risk it, he could. If he had failed, he might be lying in his own body now, instead of biting his lips in shame in a gloomy room.

Usually, Celesta was one of the first to go out into the courtyard. Tick or Gunn sometimes spent all day in their cells, unresponsive to the knocking on the door, Artak for some unknown reason slept for a while after sundown. Today her legs wouldn't go - she had to force herself. As a result, she was greeted downstairs by a frowning and angry Alarika: "Let's go quickly before they notice. Or have you changed your mind?"

"Carlon where?"

"I don't know, let's go. He mentioned last night that it was dangerous to wander alone. He can assign a chaperone"

What a priest cannot be faulted for is a good response to the situation. If he did appoint Artak as a spy, life would become more difficult. In addition to the existing difficulties.

A trivial attempt to wash turned into a real adventure epic with chases, throwing rocks, and running from monsters. All water sources were controlled by large gangs, jealously guarding their resources. The river was too far away, and either mindless creatures or shady swarms of midges hung around it, ambushing and sucking the brains out of passersby. Though they were not squeamish about livers, either. The ruined sewers could not help, the liquid splashed under the ground stank. Drinking water had to be carried to the monastery from afar or stored in barrels after the rains. The girls did not ask to share the water with them, the priest would not give it to them anyway. The ghouls did not need food, but they drank as much as the average person. Besides, most of the collected water went for washing the temple.

At last, Alarika remembered a partially preserved building, the dwelling of a mage who had ordered a pond to be dug in the courtyard. He was experimenting, or he just wanted to. Short excursion confirmed that yes, there is water in the pond, and clean enough for washing. They scooped up some firewood in a certain nook, scraped away the dirt with a large jar of transparent material - Alarika assured them it wouldn't melt on fire - and disguised the preparations securely. The risk of being spotted, they felt, was well worth it for the chance to get rid of the scabby crust on their bodies and hair. Celeste had suggested a bath day yesterday, but the hunt had interfered.

The undead' "possessions," an area about a kilometer in radius, were deserted at night. People didn't risk approaching the notorious monastery. There were too many bad rumors about it. So the first part of the journey passed quickly, even chatting a little on the way.

Alarika told me how beautiful the city was, how many beautiful buildings, parks, monuments, fountains, and palaces were in it. Some of the houses were still majestic, not because of their volumes, but because of their proportions and the skill of the architects and builders. From here on it was more difficult. They turned off the route three times to avoid places that seemed dangerous. They especially checked the place around the place of washing. They both did not want to be disturbed in the moment of pleasant relaxation. Fortunately, no one was seen, and nobody touched the prepared things. The firewood was there, the cauldron and a small pot had been taken from the hole in the corner, and the pieces of cloth and the precious bit of soap which had been miraculously found had been brought with them. They stole the rags, and borrowed one cassock from the general storehouse - there was plenty left. Maybe there was something else useful, but Carlon always kept the keys to most of the rooms with him.

While the water was warming on the small fire, they had time to take a dip and wash off most of the dirt. He looked at his companion from the corner of his eye and felt several contradictory emotions at once. Admiration for Alarika, her perfectly formed body without a single flaw. Beauty is relative, of course, but in his eyes, she was as close to perfect as she could be. Average height, with long strong legs and small feet, wide-shouldered, without any fat under the smooth white skin; narrow waist and dainty hands, an oval face, with huge green eyes, straight nose, and sensual full lips ... luckily, he was born a man: a woman would have been jealous. His second sense was astonishment at his reaction: the admiration he felt was not a hint of carnal desire. In his former life, the slightest hint of it would have been enough to try to get him into bed with a girl like that; now, if Alarika offered him something like that, he would probably refuse.

Celesta looked at the terrible tangle on her friend's head and nobly offered: "Wash first. You don't know how much water you'll need. I'll check if anyone's around."

"Thank you," Alarika hissed, brushing her hair furiously with her fingers. We couldn't find any combs, but the long, strong claws were a good substitute.

By the time Celesta returned, the beauty had mixed success. In other words, her hair had lost its original ashy hue, but it was far from a final victory over the layer of dirt. It took four washes and another pot of hot water and half the soap before Celesta made an unexpected discovery: "And it turns out you are a blonde."

"Let's not joke about that," Alarika smiled sadly. "Can you distinguish the colors?"

"If they are very bright. Mostly things seem painted in shades of gray."

"I can't tell the difference at all. Only black and white and gray in between. Demons!"

"Where?!" Celesta looked around frantically.

"My hair's all tangled again..."

In a hard fight, Alarika's hair regained its original color. The miserable piece of soap testified that the dirt didn't give up right away, and the girls had to heat a third pot for Celesta. Finally, deeming themselves clean and sharing the improvised sheets in a sisterly manner, they sat down near the fire.

"Don't sit so close to the fire." Alarika felt grateful to her new friend and tried to express it somehow. "Undeads burn easily. Though we drink well and have just bathed, it's not worth the risk."

"Ok..."

Silence, disturbed only by the clicking and whistling of nocturnal insects and birds. In the cruel world one cannot lose vigilance even for a second, but no one, not even the living dead, can be in constant tension. Sometimes you have to rest, relax. Lie on the ground, watching the unfamiliar sky with alien constellations from under half-closed eyelids, feeling the faint warmth of your friend lying next to you. I forget everything completely, a gnawing feeling of hunger prevents me from forgetting everything: tomorrow I will have to go in search of prey again. I don't want to talk, I just want to lie there.

The internal clock reminded me: It would be dawn soon. It's time to go home... It's time to go to the monastery.

"Everything is annoying." Alarika groaned and stretched, involuntarily turning the simple movement into a sensual and seductive one. "Maybe we should stay. Be patient and go to the Gardens of Eternity, away from all this crap..."

"Suicide is cursed by the gods of all religions. It seems."

"I've suffered in advance, a dozen lifetimes ahead." She smiled grimly at the strong, long fingernails on her fingers. "You know, I could be in the citadel right now. Before the catastrophe, my manager had contracted me to perform at the Duke's palace - the first concert was to take place on the seventeenth. And on the fifteenth an epidemic broke out, the carriers stopped all over the country, and I was stuck halfway down the road. By the time we got to town the company had split up and there were only four of us left - me, the director, and two dancers. Beautiful boys they were. We stood in front of a closed gate, shouted, and left for the Pit."

"Were you a singer?"

"I've got a medium talent for magic, and all my parents have is an ancient name and a distant kinship with Phirisa the Windy. I was still at school when the priests noticed me and invited me to sing in the temple. I have a voice, appearance suitable, the first records connoisseurs liked. I would become famous, find a good husband, give birth to three children, and live at my pleasure until death comes. I didn't want too much... All right. There's no point in feeling regret."

Celeste squatted in front of her friend. She brushed a tear slowly crawling down the older woman's face with her finger.

"Everything's gonna be all right. Got it? Everything. We got it. We will. Be patient."

A surprised expression flashed across Alarika's face. Despite the ridiculous pose, naked, wearing only a loincloth made from a piece of old cloth, the frail and young girl did not seem weak. She did not doubt herself. She believed in her promise. She gave hope, however foolish and unthinkable it might seem.

"Do you think so?"

"Sure. Not right away, but we'll manage." Celesta smiled, got to her feet, and sighed, pulling on her dirty robe. They didn't dare wash the clothes. Stealing a spare would be dangerous. "Come, it will soon be dawn. People rarely come near the monastery, it is better to hide there."

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