Warm water spilled over his forehead, slid down his closed eyelids, and then over his cheeks. Amon jolted as if struck, and, flailing, he blindly swung his fist upward, aiming for the fiery-red beard of the Cosmic Wolf. He wanted to strike. But his leaden body refused to obey. The Wolf grinned straight at him, baring long fangs. He poured water over him and, for some reason, called his name.
"Amon! Amon! Wake up!"
A hard, narrow palm pressed against his cheek. The enemy was mocking him, taking advantage of his helplessness, driving the sorcerer into a frenzy. Amon yelled an insult, but his lips remained still.
"Amon!"
The Wolf vanished, dissolving into the darkness. Water poured over him again. A new blow, this time from the other side. The Space Marine was struck by the weakness of his foe. If he were in his place, he would have severed his head long ago.
"Wake up!"
Amon struggled to open his eyes, staring blankly at the face above him, a nose broken. A woman's face. The girl looked at him with an expression of open concern, holding a leather water skin, and behind her, the azure blue of Tizka's sky shimmered. The sorcerer's head throbbed with unbearable pain, and he couldn't make sense of who she was or what she was doing in the city of light.
"Who are you?" Amon barely managed to ask, his tongue heavy. The girl pressed her lips together and splashed water over the Space Marine. He coughed and closed his eyes. He just wanted to forget.
Lie down and wait for the remnants of life to leave his battered body, and to see the ripples of the warp in the distance. He had fought. And it seemed he had fallen. It was time to meet the end with dignity.
They turned him onto his side.
"Leave me..." Amon mumbled. "Save yourself..."
The first thoughts flashed through his mind. He was still alive. Yes, that's right—he had escaped the burning city! The ship. He was on the ship.
His thoughts were tangled, coiling like snakes. Amon tried to find their end but couldn't. But then he managed to grab hold of something like a tentacle. He pulled it toward him, unraveling the trembling tangle of unknown entities.
Demons? Demons. The Chaos Space Marine. I am a Chaos Space Marine, a sorcerer. I survived on Tizka, I captured the ship and lost it in battle with the Priests. I am alive. I have won. I am wounded.
The slender fingers undid his belt and loosened the straps of his jacket. Breathing became easier.
"You're wounded, we need to bandage it," a familiar, worried voice confirmed his thoughts. Concern was evident in her tone.
"Healing," Amon thought dully. "The warp heals."
He reached out to the immaterium, sending a brief pulse into the void. His call went unanswered, and the sorcerer silently repeated the spell. Nothing. The warp didn't exist.
They removed his jacket and started undoing his shirt.
"There is no warp, because this is a different world. And I've lost my magic," a sudden realization cleared the fog in Amon's mind. "I made a pact with the Fallen Goddess, killed the pirates, and went to El-Farrah with the mercenary Alexandra. Then came the mamono and the people throwing stones at it. And then..."
The Space Marine's eyes widened. He lay on his side in the middle of a stone wasteland, in the shadow of a broken rock. A two-handed sword, bloodied from the battle, lay half a meter away, and a grey donkey wandered a little farther.
Alexandra was untying his shirt and now began to pull it off.
"Don't," Amon grunted. "It's just a scratch. I'm fine."
"You have to, don't argue. Lie still and be good."
In the old days, hearing such a thing would have sparked anger in Amon. But now, he lacked the strength to argue or resist.
The mercenary pulled up his shirt and, with effort, turned him onto his stomach. Amon knew what she would see. He felt he had been struck in the back, but the blow was too weak to cause serious harm. As he had said, it would only be a long, deep scratch covered in dried blood.
Alexandra remained silent for a long time. Amon pulled on his shirt and repeated, "It's fine. Just a scratch."
The sorcerer turned over and sat up, leaning against a stone. The mercenary squatted beside him.
"How are you, Amon?"
"I'm fine," Amon replied weakly. He lied. The sharp pain still pulsed in his head. He felt weak, defeated, and as if violated.
Something had changed, but Amon couldn't figure out what exactly. It was as if a part of his soul had dissolved, leaving no trace. Extra, unpleasant, like a stone in a shoe, foreign and repulsive, but oh so familiar. What had he lost, what had he gained? The sorcerer didn't want to think about it. Not yet.
"What happened?" Amon asked disinterestedly.
"A lot," the girl replied, her voice strange. "You better rest. We have time. Such a patrol lasts several days, and they won't notice for a while."
Suddenly, Amon understood why his sword was covered in blood and where the chopping wound on his back had come from. Had he attacked those people during the madness? Why? A senseless action, bringing him no benefit.
"Are there any survivors?"
"No," the girl said with grim satisfaction. "We'll talk later."
Alexandra stood up and walked away. Amon followed her indifferently, glancing toward where another body lay. The head of a person with ashen-white hair was lying on its side, pressing against a pointed ear. The other ear stuck up.
It was a girl—a pretty round face with delicate features, a small mouth, and a slightly upturned nose. The girl's dirty face looked cute despite the scratches, bruises, and cuts.
The mercenary leaned over the mamono, pressing her ear to the girl's chest.
"Completely green..." Alexandra muttered to herself. "A seasoned one would have fought back. How did you, foolish girl, end up here? And the camouflage didn't help. People aren't stupid; they know a lone girl wouldn't come from the desert... No matter, her heart is still beating. She'll live."
The girl moaned faintly and for a second raised her eyelashes, locking eyes with Amon. In that moment, the sorcerer could swear he saw recognition in them. It was as though something distant had stared at him with huge green eyes, and upon confirming something, it faded away like a shadow. The girl's lashes dropped, and she began breathing—measured, steady, as if asleep.
Alexandra stood up.
"The skull isn't cracked," she reported. "Priestesses are tough, so her life isn't in danger. Congratulations, Amon, you saved the succubus."
The sorcerer didn't respond.
"We shouldn't have approached them," the mercenary sighed. "But everything happens for the best. Hm..."
"How long ago was this?"
"About two hours."
Amon struggled to get up, almost collapsing onto the ground. His muscles wouldn't obey; his legs buckled under his body's weight. His coordination was off, and the world spun wildly. Still, the sorcerer managed to steady himself and take a few steps. He picked up his sword, cleaned it with sand, and shoved it into the deep scabbard. Alexandra draped his jacket over his back.
"Let's go," Amon said.
"Bad idea," the girl shook her head. "We'll rest here. They won't notice the patrol until the next day, and by morning, we'll leave. You need rest."
"I said let's go," the sorcerer said, weakly but with anger.
Alexandra tensed and, unexpectedly, agreed.
"Alright, don't get upset. I'll leave some supplies for the mamono. You don't mind, do you?"
"Whatever you want," Amon said indifferently, slowly heading off.
The mercenary moved the water skin closer to the mamono and took a bag of crackers off the donkey. Then, grabbing the animal by the rope, Alexandra followed Amon.