interested in theoretical subtleties and went through the ritual of Empowerment in some provincial college or in the army lad camp. The cadets were taught, "The simpler the better." Of course, the principle of simplicity works well; I myself made a lot of money on the side with a single learnt spell. The corporal polished the recruits' reflexes and taught them how to avoid the most typical mistakes, not bothering himself with an explanation as to why the other way around wouldn't work. Too much knowledge makes the head bald, as they say.
That' s what the vaunted combat magic, so dearly loved by dark mages, is all about. The dark need not the brains and skill of reasoning; they brag about a bigger power channel and a faster reaction. And Satal was trying to bring me (me!) down to the level of an uneducated village gangbanger. Hands off me!
Noise, bustle , and the primitiveness of the tasks infused me with an incredible case of the blues, and the stupid simulators of the undead made me laugh. Regrettably, ordinary people don't see the difference between dark magic and otherworldly phenomena. They are as different as a swarm of bees and a sawmill: both buzz, yet one will split you in two neat pieces, if you are careless, but may be neutralized with an iron stick, while the other…where is the switch that disables the attacking bees? Everything created by a man bears the imprint of his mind, and to overcome the trickiest spell is much easier than to defeat a primitive, otherworldly, alien-to-all being. Though it would be wiser to practice on the real thing, our superiors wouldn't allow bringing a real undead to the training ground, because flirtation with supernatural powers always ends badly. While other cadets worked hard drawing hefty pentagrams on the soil strictly by the book, I did my job carelessly, only to disable the simulator - I outgrew this simple exercise. Suddenly I caught the glance of our attentive instructor and panicked: I had muddied something so mind bogglingly destructive that now I was too scared to look at it. Of course, my experiment exploded so violently that trees started swaying on the mainland shore.
"Tangor!" the corporal snarled, spitting sand out.
"Sorry!" I squeaked and ran away from the instructor, trying to stay on the other side of the hole - made by my explosion - till the end of our class.
After four hours of having fun, the corporal dismissed us, grimly swearing that next time he would teach us some good sense. I went to the drawbridge while the others walked to the pier, to wait for the ferry. Naturally, I rode my motorcycle to the island; otherwise I would have to get up an hour earlier to catch the ferry. The rain didn't stop and became heavier. Roads were barely passable: ice covered the streets at night and mud covered them in the afternoon. In such weather I dreamt about riding an airship.
I fished goggles out of my saddlebag and cleaned them thoroughly. Despite the shield from the dirt and insects provided by my divider amulet, I needed extra protection: once, I skidded into the bush riding my motorcycle, and the amulet "winked" and almost poked my eyes out. I do not like surprises!
"Tangor, hold on for a moment." The corporal was behind me, radiating kindness. That alerted me right away. "Come with me."
I thought for a moment about running away, but the bascules of the bridge weren't lowered yet. We left the bridge area and went to the opposite end of the island where there were a few wooden sheds - office buildings. The corporal brought me to one of them, which sported a sign that said "Warehouse". Its rough wooden shelves housed some magic equipment: boxes with chalk markers and mirrors, bags of salt, skeins of twine, rakes and shovels. Its cold vault, which looked like a grave, stored familiar visual aids: a piece of glass eaten by the phoma , a net made by the predatory echo , a ridge of the water twirl . On a separate table