Posts from the book on heroes is ready

The entire book is here:
http://proza.ru/2012/03/27/1071

And here are the annotation and separate parts

Elsinor, an apple merchant from the snowy city of Stormhold—where mages, nagas, titans, and gremlins live (the Tower castle in Heroes III)—accidentally saves a mage from dishonor, and as a token of gratitude, the same grants him the opportunity to attend a school of magic, which means the chance to become a mage. Following this, Elsinor must choose the element of magic he intends to study and even take exams for a magical rank in order to enter military service. He even participates in the most important events in the city's life, such as the start of the war with the Swamp Kingdom, the desolation of the city, the fall of the mages' power in the city, etc., and meets leprechauns and elves. For those who want to learn more about all this, I recommend reading the text below. Happy reading)

Stormhold

Chapter 1. The Apple of Fate

My family's history knew no other profession than that of an apple seller. My father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather—in short, all the men in our family were apple sellers. Therefore, when I was born 20 years ago, my now deceased grandmother confidently predicted that I would be an excellent apple seller, to which my mother remarked: "How wise are your words, Mother!"—and the men nodded their beards in approval.
According to old Stormhold custom, to determine a child's future fate, as soon as they began to crawl and could more or less distinguish a dog from a frying pan, they were placed alone before an entire arsenal of various objects, such as a horseshoe, a piece of unfinished leather, a goose quill, a purse with money, or, if lucky, a knife, a flute, or a lute. It was believed that the first object the child touched would determine their future profession. One who tried to lift the horseshoe became a blacksmith. He who took up the quill became a literate person and went to serve as an accountant or, as often happened, was an unfortunate poet and a well-known tavern drunkard. The whole family looked gloomily upon a child who accidentally cut their tender finger on a knife blade. It was believed that he would grow up weak or die of his own stupidity. But in most cases, the knives placed were blunt, unable to cut anything at all, and moreover, they were pointed handle-first toward the child. Therefore, when a boy in a family of swindlers, thieves, and murderers looked spellboundly at a knife, and then even tried to take it in his little hands by the handle rather than with his mouth by the blade, the family arranged a grand drinking bout with a traditional knife fight and the tragic death of two or three people.
It is said that in noble houses, a harp, a small pony, or even a volume of first-level magic from any school might be placed before the child. But unfortunately, this only applied to noble houses. Or at least more or less decent ones. In my house, there was nothing before me but apples. And for my family, the main intrigue lay in how much my father could fleece the market for the apple I had chosen.
Our Stormhold was a land of eternal snow, located in a mountain gorge. A home for the lost, a salvation for freezing travelers, a cold grave for many generations of its inhabitants. Winter here began long ago, even before my birth. Right when the current High Mage took charge of the guild. It is said that before him, there were still warm days here. The people in Stormhold can be very loosely divided into those who still remember spring and those who since birth have never seen a single dandelion growing around. The residents themselves love to reminisce about this after sunset in the local tavern. Previously, the "springers" were far more numerous than the "winters." At times, it was quite unsafe for a "winter" to sit in the tavern late into the night. But with each passing year, the "springers" become fewer and fewer. Which works in my favor. Although I wouldn't refuse to see growing grasses and dandelions in our mountains. Previously, they always greeted travelers who arrived in Stormhold with joy and left it with sadness.
The pride of Stormhold is our fortress—a towering white eagle soaring among the rocks, with many defensive towers that have saved us more than once during the Tribal Wars. The second most significant place for life in Stormhold is the tavern—a place where stories of great mages of the past are diluted with ale and wine. There are plenty of houses, as well as stables, which for some reason house not horses, but homeless people. There is also the town hall—a stone building with a huge clock on the central square, where we all paid taxes; the Forum—the center of political life, where the whole city gathers to argue, vote, and make important decisions; an icy bridge to the fortress, and other things. The Tower of magic with its library was always so secret from the common people that any mention of knowledge and magic caused internal disgust in me. The same Factory produces mechanical creatures barely receptive to sorcery. Mages use golems to hone their magical art upon them. Every mage, before beginning their studies, must buy a golem with their own money and attend magic classes with it. Simple students ordered stone or iron golems from the factory, while students from noble families came with gold or even diamond golems—they served much longer than their stone-iron brethren. The palaces of titans and nagas are mysterious and sacred places where a simple mortal never entered. Rumors say that somewhere near the city there is a pavilion of djinns. A mirage that for a second becomes reality. Whoever accidentally ended up there said goodbye to Stormhold forever and lived in the realm of their fulfilled desires. And, of course, one cannot fail to mention the place of my birth and perhaps even conception. I mean the market square.
The market, where my first apple was sold with a small markup, was much more to me than just a market. Everything I have learned in my life, I learned there. Here I spoke for the first time, sold an apple, learned to walk—exactly like that: first I spoke, and then I learned to walk. For in order to sell an apple profitably, one must first learn to speak, while walking, it seemed to me, was not necessary at all: noble people never got off their horses, and the especially noble always had a palanquin and servants. So, the market was much more to me than just a market. I knew everything about it—every mouse hole, every seller, their pedigree back five generations. All my friends worked at the market. All my enemies were buyers there.
Since childhood, I loved counting money. Making it jingle, holding it in my hands, moving it from one stack to another. Every gold coin I earned, I carefully hid from any eyes, saved, stockpiled, and sometimes treated myself or my parents to gifts that were expensive for a little boy. It is hard for me to say why I strove so strongly for wealth. Apparently, my love for shiny objects manifested as a desire to earn as much as possible, and then I simply liked gifting myself or others. And in this, my apples helped me.
— Hey, Elsinor! Are you talking to the apples from a hangover again? — That was the voice of the blond oaf and also my friend Brenn. We traded at neighboring stalls: I with apples, he with pumpkins.
— No, I'm not talking; I'm not some poor mentally ill person.
— Well, don't deceive yourself: after yesterday, everyone in Stormhold thinks you are the very first madman in our city.
— I remember nothing. And I don't want to remember.
— Then I'll tell you!
— And you don't need to tell me that.
— What, you don't want to know the main story of this winter in Stormhold?
— No.
— Then perhaps you want to know why Roxanne declared she won't speak with you until you drop dead and rot in your grave, and the only ones who will attend your funeral are the drunks from the tavern and brainless golems?
— What, did she actually say that?
— Yes, she said exactly that.
— Holy Grail!
— Quiet, don't swear like that.
— Maybe you'll tell me after all? — I tried to persuade him.
— Look at that, how interested you are! No, dear, now I won't just tell you so simply.
— Speak, you scoundrel! — I lunged at Brenn, grabbed him by the ears and began to rub them as hard as I could. Brenn fought back as best he could, but poor Brenn's ears first turned red, then purple, and then I myself became afraid that a little more and he would lose them.
— Enough! I'll tell everything, just let me go! — Brenn hissed, and I loosened my grip.
— Fine. — I said and let him go. — So what did I do yesterday?
— Remember how you were hitting on Roxanne, and she said she didn't think being drunk gave you better chances?
— Yes, I remember, but that was the last thing I remember about that day.
— Don't be upset, I'll tell you the rest. After she told you no for the fifth time that evening, you completely changed your tactics. First, in the voice of a squeezed lizard, you squeezed out: "No problem, dear, but you will still write me love letters for a week of love,"—took a pint of ale, and, triumphantly raising your left hand to the sky, drank it in one gulp, threw the mug on the floor, jumped onto the table, tried for a long time to dance something—I should note that the musicians had long since left the tavern by then—fell off the table, hit your jaw on the floor, walked out of the tavern and slammed the door loudly.
— So that's where this wild toothache comes from. And you, mouse-tail, just left me alone?
— Unfortunately, I didn't leave you. But only when I left the tavern, for some reason you were already rushing up the mountain to the academy of magic. From afar, I saw how you knocked on the door, scattering foul curses in honor of our main enemy—the frozen port, which no decent merchant vessel has been able to enter for 30 years.
— So far it's not sounding very pretty.
— To my great surprise, the mages didn't throw you down the mountain, and the activity itself soon bored you, so you ran up, flopped on your stomach and rolled down the mountain along the icy slopes.
— Strange, how am I still alive?
— Everyone is asking that same question now. Having descended to the market, you ran up to Roxanne's father's stall.
— Holy Grail!
— Exactly. Oh, how many beautiful peaches and pears you trampled! You could have fed a whole army of titans.
— How did Roxanne's father react?
— He chased you all over the market for half an hour, trying to put you on the family pitchfork. You bolted from him faster than a flying dragonfly from a battlefield.
— Of course I would like to be related to their family, but in a completely different way. What happened next with Roxanne's father, and why am I still alive?
— Poor guy, chasing you, got quite agitated, fell, and now lies at home under some quack who considers himself a healer. I think you should pay those expenses.
— Yeah, probably. And also apologize to Roxanne.
Suddenly Brenn turned his gaze toward a couple of visiting gremlins intending to pass by our stalls.
— Oh, look! A pair of gremlins. Want to work?
— No, I'm not in the mood yet.
The words "work" meant the following. The profit from trading apples consisted of three main actions: acquire apples as cheaply as possible, sell them as dearly as possible, and slip as many apples as possible to a passerby. Since when buying apples you always deal with traders just like yourself, there was no hope of buying them cheap here, and saving at this stage was only possible by buying rotten and wormy apples. Charging the buyer a higher price was easier. Among decent traders, this skill is cultivated even before the ability to read and write. But the most profitable and my favorite activity was slipping an apple to a passerby.
It constituted the lion's share of my income and required immense skill. In my circles, I was even known as a master. I could slip up to three apples into a passerby's pocket at once; then an observer from "the side" would expose the "thief" and start a scandal demanding payment for the stolen goods. A noble person tried to give the money as quickly and quietly as possible, sometimes even paying extra for silence. A person with lower moral values agreed to this with difficulty. Gremlins, however, were such vile and disgusting creatures that they could not only refuse to pay for the stolen apples but also take a couple more along with them. When you accuse one gremlin of theft, they appear before you in a huge crowd, rattling chains, shouting: "Justice! There is some!"—shoving and interrupting each other. The profit from deceiving a gremlin was minimal, but the trouble they caused was enormous. Therefore, I refused Brenn's offer. Moreover, gremlins love apples insanely, and I didn't want to lose my best customers.
Who haven't I pulled this scam on: craftsmen and peasants, heroes and commoners, paladins and monks who occasionally visit us, even those who absolutely do not need my little apples. I was so good at this business that people around said: "The Devil himself is a seller of apples!" But the real challenge was slipping an apple to a mage. Mages were everything to the residents of Stormhold: our main military force, our intellectual elite, our spiritual fathers—and in general, they founded our city for their magical practices. And then, unfortunately for them, people like us appeared: apple traders, because one cannot live on mana alone. Therefore, among traders it was very honorable to fleece a mage. They say that throughout the history of Stormhold we have succeeded about twice. To be honest, it seems to me that there is no creature left in Stormhold who has never, to their surprise, found a beautiful apple, or a small pumpkin, or several elegant, tasty and insanely expensive elven cakes wrapped in a plane tree leaf in their own pocket. But what can you do: there was only one market in Stormhold, but very many mouths.
At that same moment, I noticed a female figure approaching my stall with a determined step and clearly ill intentions. Without doubt, it was Roxanne. And from the speed at which she walked toward me, I guessed that she also knew about my yesterday's exploits. Roxanne approached—or rather, ran up to me—raised her right hand and gave me a stinging slap.
— May a thousand cerberuses devour you, scoundrel! — she uttered instead of a greeting.
— Roxanne...
— You swamp lizard, if you do not reimburse my father for all the losses caused by you, then we shall never see each other again.
— But, Roxanne! — I timidly murmured, thinking about what to say.
— What?
— Nothing.
I found no words that could in any way convey my regret and lack of understanding while simultaneously improving my lot. Roxanne looked at me once more. It seemed to me that at the last moment some kind of smile appeared on her face. Turning away sharply, she departed from me no less swiftly.
It was not very pleasant to realize the fact that a huge debt had fallen upon me, caused by my stupidity and inability to control myself. I cursed this ale a thousand times, this tavern, all this filth that accompanies merry company. First, I imagined the sum of money I would have to give Roxanne. Then I imagined what else I could spend it on. The second activity was more pleasant than the first. I had to earn this money as quickly as possible so as not to completely ruin my relationship with her. Among all the girls I had met in Stormhold, except for a couple of noble elven women who accidentally wandered our way, Roxanne seemed the most beautiful to me. She had short white hair, dark eyes, a smooth regular face and a long nose. I especially liked her dry, slightly cracked lips, which I had managed to kiss several times. She was small in stature, but at first glance one could tell that this girl was a true queen of the market, a princess of traders and the dream of all destitute revelers.
After Roxanne's visit, I began to treat those around me differently. Now, when I looked at someone, I quickly calculated how and in what amount of time it would be possible to fish out the maximum number of gold coins from them. Quickly scanning the market square, I realized that right now there was not a single worthy creature on it from whom one could obtain the desired coins, and near my stall the picture was even more depressing: all sorts of riffraff and the lowest scoundrels, like me and Brenn, were scurrying about. From this day on, I needed to earn twice as much as before, and nothing helped me in this matter. And only somewhere in the distance did a ray of hope glimmer.
An old man, apparently a mage, was lingering by the stall of potions and their ingredients, obviously choosing herbs for some magical concoction of his own. In appearance, he differed practically not from an ordinary, hunched-over old man and was dressed in a very worn green coat that had previously been a patterned garment of a mage. He wore a long beard, had no headgear, but thick hair reliably protected his head from the cold. And the main attribute giving him away as a mage was his staff: worn, crooked, made of rotten wood, falling apart literally before one's eyes. It is impossible to mistake a mage's staff for anything else, just as it is impossible not to know its power. And by the color of the staff and the shape of its upper part—the horn—one could guess which school of magic a particular sorcerer predominantly practices.
Adepts of the water school—and such were the majority in Stormhold—used a beautiful blue-colored staff whose horn resembled the structure of a snowflake. The magical staff of those who dealt with the element of fire was scarlet, burgundy or red, possessed many small horns pointing upward, each resembling a flame. The staff of air magic had one, two or three straight horns standing up, and the staff of earth mages was the simplest of all. In appearance an ordinary stick of any wood, crooked, but certainly with a branched end sticking out like animal horns. It was precisely a staff of earth magic that the mage at our market held in his hands.
Lightning-fast, I grabbed the first apple I came across and rushed toward him. I remember that apple well: large, juicy, green, slightly irregular in shape—without doubt, it was my most expensive item, which could be given to someone for a holiday. I decided that if I were to try and deceive a mage, I should do it for a worthy sum.
The old man was focused on choosing a potion, and therefore distracted in other matters. His leather bag hung in such a convenient way that nothing could be pulled out of it or put into it. Passing by the mage, I inconspicuously slid my hand into the bag, placed the huge apple at the very bottom so that he would not feel a sharp change in weight in the bag, removed my hand no less quickly and calmly walked on. When I performed these simple actions, refined by me to the smallest detail, blood literally boiled within me, and as if doing it for the first time, I barely restrained myself from shaking with excitement, although my legs did buckle for a fraction of a second.
Then one had to wait. Let him look around and, best of all, when the "buyer" is approaching the exit from the market, accuse him of theft. The minutes of waiting seemed like an eternity and, when the mage prepared to leave, Brenn ran up to him and uttered the routine phrase:
— My dear sir, do you intend to pay for that apple which you took from the stall of this honorable man?
By tradition, I followed, wondering what was going on. Brenn explained that he had seen with his own eyes how our new interlocutor filched an apple, and I confirmed that indeed today I was missing one, two or even three apples, but could not even think it was this "deeply respected by all" gentleman. Then we together looked at the contents of the "thief's" bag or pockets and "unexpectedly" found the missing apple there. However, to Brenn's suggestion, the mage uttered the following:
— You must be mistaken or confusing me with someone else.
— Then please present the contents of your bag. — Brenn did not lose his nerve.
— That is to say, you claim that I—the keeper of the traditions of the academy, honorary archivist of the magical library, professor of the school of magic, friend and comrade of the former High Mage, magister of the element of earth Solnir, who gave his whole life to the service and protection of Stormhold—have just stolen an apple from you?
"Wow, I've stepped in it!" — I got scared, and calmly said:
— There are suspicions that there is an apple in your bag which is my property, therefore please present the contents of your bag.
— But I didn't even pass by your stall.
"Also true," — I thought, but continued to stand my ground:
— I insist that you show the contents of your bag.
— You insist?
— Yes, I insist.
— Well, very well.
The mage shook all the contents of the bag onto the ground: some useless book, a couple of dry roots, petals, a piece of unicorn horn the size of a thimble—an essential attribute of every magical potion—and that was all. To Brenn's and my great surprise, no apple was found in the bag.
— Well, are you satisfied?
— Yes... I apologize to you...
— It is nothing, — the mage interrupted me — I have heard that sellers in our glorious city are sometimes dishonest of hand.
Uttering this phrase, the wizard turned his back to us sharply and prepared to leave, not only without picking up his property but even without looking at it, giving Brenn and me a chance to properly study the contents of his bag, and the honorable public—the opportunity to enjoy the performance. The sly mage had outsmarted me. Just now he had mockingly dealt with us: filched my apple and gave a lesson in nobility, while himself, apparently, received great pleasure from this. His silhouette slowly receded: worn, almost holey coat, old powder, long beard almost to the knees, dandyish green hat, boots of deer fur. What? A green hat? What kind of fur is it made of? The old man was without headgear just a moment ago, and his gray hair reliably protected his head from the cold. Quickly realizing what was what, I called out to the mage again:
— My dear sir — I paused — do you intend to pay for the apple from my stall?
The crowd looked at me and at the mage who had stopped mid-step in amazement. This was certainly something new for them. Scenes of "discovering a thief" among buyers happened more than once at the market, but no one had ever tried to accuse the same person twice. The mage, who until then had been completely sure of his victory, paused for a moment and, smiling, slowly turned toward me. But his smile meant that despite his defeat, he would stand until the end. Unable to bear the tension, Brenn covered his face with his hand and hurried to get lost in the crowd as quickly as possible. The crowd did not move from its spot, greedily fixing their gazes on us, and waited for what would happen next. At that moment only one thought occupied me: a wizard, especially of such rank, will never admit defeat by an apple trader at the market. Everyone waited to see what would happen next. And then I said:
— My dear sir, do you intend to pay for the apple from my stall or will you accept it from me as a sign of respect for your nobility?
Simultaneously with this, I reached into my pocket and produced a beautiful, scarlet apple that I always kept just in case, which grow in the gardens of fairies not far from the fields of the Young Unicorn. The crowd exhaled. It seemed the mage did too. Suddenly he said:
— I, Solnir, honorary professor of the academy of magic, fifth-generation mage, gladly accept this beautiful apple from you as an apology, but only if you personally bring it to my home. Also, I declare to the honorable public that before you is a noble person with whom, unfortunately, we have had some misunderstanding.
At the mage's words, for some reason the crowd at the market shouted joyfully, clapping their hands loudly, and someone, they say, even fainted in happiness. Whether they were glad that a mage, an honorable mage, for the first time in their memory called a market trader and commoner a noble person, or whether they were simply glad that I remained alive. Never have I seen anything like it at the Stormhold market. The mage turned away from me for the second time and slowly walked home. For the first time an apple was truly stolen from me. For the first time I yielded to my thief but remained grateful to him. For the first time I did not expose a mage and refused to enter the history of Stormhold. Too much new for one day.

Starting with the third chapter? That's original! P.S. And it's not a book, but rather a fanfiction.

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Chapter 2. Paintings with the Grail

That night, I couldn't fall asleep for a long time: the ambivalent feeling remaining after what happened in the market square caused my nocturnal insomnia. Yes, the mage had publicly called me a noble person, but for that, I gave him my best apple, which, for the most part, is a disgrace for a true merchant. Had anyone else been in my place, like poor Brenn, he would have reminded himself until the end of his days how he gave away merchandise without receiving a single gold piece in return.
The long-awaited sleep came closer to morning. And with it came small green islands in a sea of some white color, and then small lakes, a green field, towering trees standing in a row on a riverbank—fragments of distant warm lands, stories of which I had only heard from travelers visiting our Stormhold. I didn't want to wake up after such a dream in my little room, embraced by cold from all sides, but the daylight was interfering with my sleep too much.
By that time, all other residents of Stormhold had long since awakened. Gremlins, who made up no less than a third of the city's population, rose before everyone else, took their places in the squares, the market, the mayor's reception room, and other public places, and began to practice their favorite craft: grumbling at passersby and everything around them. Most often, they disliked how all the other residents of Stormhold dressed, walked, talked loudly, woke up late, flew incorrectly, sold expensively, disregarded traditions, or did nothing at all. Moreover, the gremlins spoke in a very funny manner. Our language was not native to them. In fact, any language seemed foreign to them, except those in which it was easy to grumble and complain. Gremlins excelled in only one other activity as much as they did in grumbling—making clocks. Generally, for some reason, clocks strongly attracted gremlins, and at the clock shop in the market, owned naturally by a gremlin Magister, a whole crowd of small, stingy, never-satisfied monsters gathered, grumbling, rustling, and speaking in their own chewing language.
High in the mountains, far from the main part of the city, was the palace of titans, or giants—huge creatures, half-gods, half-humans, who appeared as a result of being the first to break a prohibition that they themselves had previously devised. The location of the palace was chosen based on the consideration that the giants simply lacked space. They spoke some incomprehensible, ethereal language, in which every word was surrounded by a thousand echoes. The giants did not believe that anyone in Stormhold had the right to speak with them, and simply settled in our city, saying they would protect us in case of war, while we would feed them. In those times, we were glad for such neighbors, as the Tribal Wars were ongoing; now, however, we suffer greatly from heavy taxes, a lion's share of which goes toward paying for food for these arrogant hangers-on.
Nagas were so-called untouchable castes, descendants of queens exiled from the south for their excessive cruelty. Although the people of Stormhold considered them nothing more than capricious women who had lost power and authority but retained royal airs. My father always said they simply lacked men. In general, they were quite graceful; their plasticity, unusually regular facial features, long hair, and slightly dark skin were mesmerizing. They had only two flaws that repelled all men. A beautiful naga did not have one pair of arms, and instead of legs, a snake's tail protruded from her torso.
Besides the creatures listed above, other beings lived in Stormhold as well, but now it is difficult for me to remember them. In general, relations between races in Stormhold were complicated; Stormhold itself resembled a bestiary, and to visiting guests, it seemed like a rather dismal northern dead-end.
Waking up because the sun covered me with its ray, at first I didn't even think about going to the mage: trudging own nowhere just to give my best apple to someone unknown—no way! But then some very curious things began to happen, forcing me to reconsider my point of view.
While I was still lounging in bed, my huge dog approached me, sat on his hind legs next to the bed, and began trying with all his might to say something. These were very strange sounds, resembling some human words that the dog had heard in his canine life. And after every "sentence" spoken by the dog, he looked at me questioningly. At first, I watched what was happening with interest, but quickly realizing that the hound was simply preventing me from sleeping, I reached out to him, lightly patted his healthy shaggy head, and then abruptly grabbed his long snout with a nose so that he would be quiet. And why not? Why do people, when they want to say something important, spend a long time searching for the right moment for a conversation, while this hound decided that he would be welcome at any minute just because he is a dog who speaks like a human? At first, the dog growled, then began to whine, and finally ran out of the room. After all, the law should be the same for everyone. This event alerted me, but I still decided to go to the mage only if gold unexpectedly fell into my lap instead of the need to work at the market.
Arriving at the market, I remembered a very unpleasant fact. To reach my shop, one had to pass by the Roxanne family's shop, where Roxanne's father stood and looked at me with some disapproval. I immediately recalled my debt to their family and thought that I would get beaten before even reaching my trading spot. Fortunately, it didn't come to that. He only followed me with his terrible gaze and said nothing.
Reaching my shop, I came across a strange sight. For some reason, a mother and a boy—a suckling about nine years old, but already with an unusually terrifying face for a child, causing horror in anyone who dared look at it—were sitting on the empty shelves. Seeing me, the mother immediately spoke:
- I have seen you before. They say that yesterday you fought a mage, and he declared that you are a real devil in human form.
Perhaps I had underestimated how quickly rumors spread in our city and how much they differ from what actually happened.
- I am listening to you, human female. – I replied, according to my new status.
- Strike my son harder with your left heel on the face—he is a true spawn of hell, and only its master can correct the deformity that plagues our entire family.
It was an unusual day in every way. I looked at the unfortunate child whose mother looked at me with such hope. "A very strange proposal," I thought, "but surely I won't hit a little boy in the face for free?" We agreed on two gold pieces, and the scream of the unfortunate child illuminated the market square for a second.
- Thank you, kind man, thank you. – the woman squeaked, hugging her crying toddler, and left the market with him, satisfied.
Finally, I understood how one could make money on bare fame alone. In principle, two gold pieces is not a bad result from trading on a non-holiday day. At first, I decided that this money could be doubled in the tavern playing dice and try to pay off the Roxannes as soon as possible. But suddenly I remembered the promise I gave myself this morning. Such a number of barely explainable events, as well as money given as if by my command—everything seemed to push me toward going to the wizard.
I took an apple—naturally, not the beautiful one I showed him yesterday, but a cheaper one—and set off in search of yesterday's mage.
Finding out where the grandfather-wizard lived in Stormhold was not difficult. In general, there are only two places in our city where everyone knows everything about everyone—the tavern and the market; and since the same crowd gathers in both, just at different times, going to the tavern was completely unnecessary.
- Well, and where is my apple?
Those were the first words the mage said to me when I stood on the threshold of his door. I handed the apple to the mage, and he let me into the house.
The mage lived in the attic of one of the old houses on the outskirts of Stormhold. The attic was a rather uncomfortable place, cluttered with many paintings, each of which for some reason depicted the Grail. Paintings with the Grail occupied almost the entire room, covered the windows, lay on the floor one atop another, were used as tables, curtains, and partitions, and even hung on the walls. Perhaps the Grail, as seen by artists, can be very different: from a classic jewelry box to a golden five-meter disk with "Sacred Grail" written on it. It turns out some artists were not very literate, but they were imaginative, and some of them even imagined the Grail in the form of five red dancing goblins. The Grail could vary in appearance and be made of different materials, but next to the Grail there was always a traveler, or a group of travelers, who by the plot finally reached the Grail and, stopping, gazed with admiration at their find. Probably, this is a rule of the genre. Because otherwise it would be impossible to understand that this is a painting with the Grail, and not one with grandmother's jewelry.
I had never met a person who harbored such a passion for a single object, although I once heard about how half the world became obsessed with some ring and slaughtered each other. And they also told of a certain book because of which a war began. Perhaps obsession with one thing is a very unwise phenomenon. In general, the mage was a very strange person and sometimes spoke nonsense.
- Do you want to find the Grail? – he asked me.
- No.
- Of course, why would you need the Grail? You wouldn't even think about it if it were right under your nose. After all, you didn't spend forty years of your life searching for a map of the Grail, travel through distant lands, or unravel the mystery of magic keys. – said the mage with unusual own rationality for someone obsessed and began to angrily chew my apple.
- And yesterday's apple was much tastier. – he stated with dissatisfaction.
I did not expect at all to hear all this from Solnir, a fifth-generation mage, an honorary professor of the academy of magic; I barely understood him and didn't know what I should say to him. His actions were as incomprehensible as his speech. Instead of offering me a decoction or something stronger according to the rules of hospitality, the mage walked from place to place with my apple and, for lack of anything better to do, turned various useless objects on the table in his only room into even more useless and incomprehensible ones. Then he sat in a chair, fixed his gaze on a painting with the Grail, in which the Grail lay under a tree in a dense forest, discovered by some wizard slightly resembling Solnir and a group of elves; he looked at it for a long time, thought deeply about something, and fell asleep.
Such a reception greatly disappointed me. Apparently, hospitality is a quality that all hereditary mages are the first to lose. At first, I thought about teaching the grandfather a lesson and taking one of his useless paintings with the Grail, which he valued so much—preferably the one he was looking at while falling asleep. I don't know what made me change my mind, but I decided to wait a bit. After five minutes, Solnir woke up and said:
- Do you know how hard it is to be a mage, oh youth?
- No, I don't, but I can say that trading at the market is also a very difficult business.
- Have you heard of Taisha, Vazahun, Duntrun—the great mages of antiquity? Has their fame ever lured you? Did you dream of repeating their fate?
In the market, not only rumors spread, but also stories about mages who lived long before us; therefore, absolutely everyone knew about Vazahun, Duntrun, and especially Taisha.
- Yes, I wouldn't refuse: all three were unusually wise, and the latter two were also incredibly wealthy. – I said with a smirk, since the wealth of Vazahun and Duntrun consisted in the fact that they collaborated with the Stronghold and drew maps of Stormhold for them, explaining this by saying that in the future people would remember only their wisdom, not their betrayal.
- Well then, unfortunately, mages are just people familiar with the art of magic, and like any other person, vices are not foreign to them.
Solnir suddenly spoke very seriously:
- I will be honest with you, Elsinor.
- Excuse me, how do you know my name? – I interrupted him.
- It doesn't matter. I am grateful to you that yesterday at the market you did not insist on your own way, but acted wisely by yielding to me. As a sign of gratitude, I can show you the school of magic, lead you into its auditoriums and library, and perhaps introduce you to my former friends. – said the mage with a very important air. It was clear that he had long since had a vague relationship with the academy, if he ever had one at all.
- Thank you, but I owe a considerable sum to one family, and therefore I am forced to work at the market every day. – I said with a slight hope that the mage would gift me gold rather than take my time.
- Are you really not interested in how the holy of holies of Stormhold is structured, where they study magic in its primordial form and where ordinary people are not allowed?
- I'll tell you this. Every day of mine is structured so that I can extract the greatest benefit and pleasure from it. And as for how to do that, I have learned very well over my twenty years. Your school of magic interests me no more than any other place where they don't know me and will never know me. And what, for the most part, walking through schools of magic and staring around is a matter that may be interesting, but it is certainly not profitable.
- You are still a merchant to the last generation. – Solnir said a phrase that was, for some reason, very offensive.
- And you are still an eccentric clown who doesn't even know how to offer a guest bread.
I was very strongly touched by Solnir's previous words, and therefore I answered him so unrestrainedly.
- I thank you for this remark. – he gracefully acknowledged. - The last guest I had was about fifteen years ago, and I completely forgot how a host should behave. If you don't mind, I suggest we start our conversation over and conduct it somewhat more friendly.
I agreed, and the mage went to the kitchen. Then he returned with a quite decent decoction of tasty berries, offered me to sit on his best and only chair, and then his company seemed even slightly interesting to me.
- You understand nothing about the customs of Stormhold. If you are allowed to enter the school of magic, it means that you are allowed to become a mage.
- But how?! How? Is this true? – not believing Solnir, I asked again.
- And what confuses you so much?
- How can one become a mage without having absolutely any abilities for it? You probably forgot that before meeting you, I, like my whole family, traded apples, not volumes of spells. I have never even drunk magic water from a magical well.
- You, kid, are completely wrong to think that the ability for magic is hereditary. Or that it is a gift of the chosen, like, for example, the ability to compose music. Yes, it is a gift, but we all possess this gift. Some to a greater extent, some to a lesser. The ability for magic is in everyone—no magical well is needed. But, like any other ability, it can be ruined or developed. You will never understand if you can cast spells until you try. And I generally believe that every resident of Stormhold should know how to cast spells. Or he is not a resident of Stormhold. Although the High Mage has a different point of view. He thinks magic is the lot of the chosen, meaning only children of mages, and even better, third-generation mages, can engage in it. That scoundrel doesn't understand that in this way soon there will be no mages left at all.
- But I don't even have mana. Or whatever your tribe calls it.
- Whatever our tribe calls it, my dear. And mana is just a potential embedded in everyone. No one can say how much mana they have until they try to cast spells. One can only approximately understand this.
- You know, I know how to work well at the market. I am an excellent apple seller and can tell absolutely everything about them—and, by the way, I believe their price is greatly undervalued. My father always said: "Do what you do well—there's no need for you to climb where you don't belong." And you are offering me something that I don't know, don't have a skill in, and can hardly imagine.
- I am not offering you anything yet.
- All the more so.
- Your father had his own position. However, allow me to tell you something as well. Do you know how river carps become water dragons?
- Carps become dragons? I heard that one is born a dragon.
- Yes, that is common knowledge. But one can also become a dragon.
- I have heard many strange things in our tavern, but this—for the first time.
- Now listen to me, son. Far to the East, where the sky is worshipped more than magic, and the most important animal is the water dragon, well there, among many mountains, there is a small gorge hidden from all eyes. A lightning bolt long ago hit the rock that forms this gorge; a crack appeared, which then turned into a cleft, and water began to flow from it. Thus a small mountain pond was created, where soon fish settled—river carps. River carps lived carefreely for many years, but one day among them there appeared one particularly playful fish who dreamed of becoming a bird. She learned to jump very high, flapped her fins in flight, and did nothing but confuse the other fish, who considered her crazy. And one time, when a fierce wind was blowing through the gorge, the fish, at her own risk, jumped up again; the wind caught her, struck her hard against the rock, and then carried her lifeless body even higher and placed her inside that cleft from which the lake had formed. The other fish decided that the madwoman had come to a mad end. However, the next day a small water dragonlet climbed out of the gorge, smiled looking at the lake below him, and flew far, far away. Thus it became clear that any fish that jumped up to the cleft becomes a dragon, and everyone began trying to repeat this feat. Some fish, having tried to reach the cleft several times, believed it was impossible and abandoned the pursuit. Other fish continued trying to change their fate, jumping up toward the cleft a hundred times every day, but they too failed because the height was enormous. To reach it, many coincidences must align. But approximately once every hundred years, one of several thousand fish manages to become a dragon by jumping to the cleft in the rock.
Over the last twenty years of my life, I have spent too much time talking with people for anything to be able to surprise me. However, the story told by the old man was beautiful and new to me. For a second it even seemed to me that I had a chance to become this carp, who is one among a thousand of his brothers to turn into a dragon. Slightly mesmerized by this hope, I still decided to ground our conversation a bit.
- And do you have children?
- And why do you ask?
- Because you constantly call me son.
- For forty years I searched for the truth, which turned out to be only the tail of a poisonous chimera slowly killing me from within. I had no time for children.
- So, maybe you just lack children, not students?
- I don't deny it, son; perhaps I want to help you, since I have as many children of my own as a poor gremlin has gold teeth in his mouth. Although, maybe some unbearable bastard resembling me is running around somewhere. In any case, you have something to think about. Go home today, and come to me tomorrow, if, of course, you want to.
- I would like to find that place where one becomes a dragon. – I said at the end.
- And why do you think it isn't Stormhold?
I came home in a very cheerful state of mind. For the second day in my life, strange and interesting things were happening—maybe it's time to get used to this? However, great doubts still tormented me. What use is this chimerical dream to me? I would gladly trade apples all my life, sit in the tavern with Brenn, badmouth mages with foul words, marry—in the best case Roxanne—father "bastards resembling me," as Solnir puts it, and be done with it.
I knew one tavern sage who insisted that very much in life depends on our choice, and one must always be ready to accept a new reality that they hadn't even guessed about before. This man unexpectedly appeared in Stormhold, rustled a pile of money in his own hands, got acquainted with all the residents of the city, listened carefully to our stories, and disappeared without a trace the next day. I would like to know his fate. I hope it was interesting.
Why does a routine life not disturb at all and so easily lull one to sleep in the evening, while everything new and incomprehensible begins with nervous distress and the destruction of the sleep schedule? Happy are the people who perform great feats or betrayals and fall asleep peacefully in the evening. I hate going to bed toward morning, but apparently, sometimes we have no other choice. All these thoughts had been keeping me from sleeping for two days running. However, I was certain that I would go to the mage the next day.

It would be good to post an annotation with a brief description of the plot so that it is clear what it is about. Although I only glanced at a few lines, I can say that the writing style is good. And the plot seems to be quite lengthy. Good luck!

Nagas, titans, gremlins, and other similar creatures inhabit the Tower Castle (Tower, in the localization), and not the Stronghold (which we translated as Citadel, and which is inhabited by goblins and orcs). Also, if you are writing about the world of Might and Magic III, I would advise you to first familiarize yourself not only with the third part, but also with Might and Magic VI-VII. And learn the names of the countries.

"P.S. And it's not really a book, but rather fan fiction." Debatable. These concepts are not mutually exclusive, as books about S.T.A.L.K.E.R. (which are essentially fan fiction) do exist. Sincerely.

Undisputed. Fan fiction is an unofficial work based on a particular universe, written by a fan. A book (like those based on the Stalker series) is written under license and is considered official.

Thank you. I've changed the annotation. The book is written and contains 16 chapters, so I suggest you familiarize yourself with what is available)
By the way, strict adherence to country names is unlikely to make the book better, but it might lead to copyright issues)

Added 1 minute later
Chapter 3. School of Magic

No matter how much we badmouthed the valiant mages in our market! For a true merchant in Stormhold, mentioning a mage with an unkind word was as natural as drinking cold water in the morning or breathing air. Clown, cheat, charlatan, upstart, swamp creature, stinking rat, scum, cat-scratcher, brainless golem, and even dog shit—the classic callsigns for mages in Stormhold no longer evoked any emotion in us and were as inconspicuous as prepositions in our language. Examples of harsher insults included the following expressions: stupid, vile snake. Or, for example: ridiculous, crooked-toothed second-rate magician, gallows-bird, charlatan, and pauper—such variants were somewhat beyond comprehension and appeared only as a result of some subjective reasons.
Goblins also disliked mages and gladly joined us whenever we discussed one of the "magicians." Dirty Kubbel, paladin, as well as slacker, failure, and glutton were considered truly goblin insults. It was especially surprising to hear the term "slacker" from those goblins who went out in the morning, spent the whole day wagging their tongues, headed home in the evening, and repeated this day after day without weekends or holidays. "Oldrogge!"—a crazy one-eyed elf once said about mages; he had long since settled in Stormhold, showed his private parts to noble ladies for money, and lived off them. After that, the elf burst out laughing and couldn't stop for a long time. Many viewed this ambiguously, but for some two years afterward, elves were called "oldrogges." And one visiting monk from the Stronghold, who was studying our mores and customs, even entered this word into the dictionary of Stormhold dialectisms opposite the word elf. In general, any insult uttered by anyone in the market that wasn't addressed to anyone specifically was primarily directed toward mages.
We deliberately spread all sorts of rumors about mages, which we then came to believe wholeheartedly ourselves. The rumors blamed them for every misfortune that had befallen Stormhold in recent years. For example, in a year when there was an enormous amount of rats, it was decided that mages fed on cat soup and flew through Stormhold at night, stealing cat carcasses. Mages were often seen grazing outside the city and gathering various plants. We came up with the idea that they spent their whole days searching for intoxicating mushrooms growing from under the snow near Stormhold; we raised a hue and cry and declared at the mayor's office that we would not sell potion ingredients to mages cheaply, as we feared the mages would prepare intoxicating potions from them and slip them to our children. In short, we took revenge on the mages for being better and wealthier than us in various ways.
I don't know why they were so disliked. Perhaps because it was believed that if we knew magic, we could have everything. And these "gluttons" not only possess nothing themselves but also share nothing with others in Stormhold. After all, envy is a very bad feeling. I was to enter the school of magic for the first time—a place where market boys simply dream of penetrating since childhood—so that day I put on my best suit, as if I were about to sell an entire cart of apples.
I stopped by Solnir; he wasn't surprised in the least by my appearance. He was in the same rags he always wore and said dryly: "Ah, you've come!"—put on his coat, and we set off for the school.
The school of magic—a round tower with white walls—was located on an elevation, and almost all of Stormhold was visible from it. The roof of the school was very unusual: several colorful domes were believed to help concentrate magical energy. The school could be clearly divided into four floors, which meant four levels of spells of various elements. The library, which housed many books, was attached to the academy, but the only entrance to it was through the school; since only mages and their guests were allowed through the school gates, it was impossible for commoners to read anything.
A few words should be said about the school gates, where the acquaintance with it ended for most residents of Stormhold. Huge, double-leafed wooden gates, capable—it seemed—of withstanding an entire siege involving a battering ram, catapults, and even magical bombs, were divided into 12 small squares. In each was depicted an episode from the life of Stormhold: the founding of the fortress by the first mages, the arrival of giants and nagas, the solemn promise of goblins not to eat until they were given a vote in the Stormhold forum, and the subsequent tragic death of most of them—each resident of the city considered these and other events as their great history. A few empty squares remained on the gates, but so far there hadn't been enough significant events to fill all the vacant space on the gates.
At the school of magic gates stood a wizard of very tall stature, in a long blue coat trimmed with white fur and a hat, with a large white beard, a red nose, and a huge white staff almost larger than the mage himself. This was Balthazar, who stood before the school gates every day. Common people considered him one of the actual members of the academy, something like a sentry or gatekeeper intended to prevent non-mages from entering. Balthazar had left the academy long ago for some personal reasons and stopped practicing magic. Now he stood every day before the school gates and watched everyone who entered and exited. Balthazar addressed Solnir:
- Greetings, my dear friend. It is not often that we encounter such a venerable Wizard as you. What need has brought you to us?
- Greetings to you too, Balthazar. You are right, I very rarely visit the academy now, but today I have come to introduce my new apprentice for the first time.
- Yes, I remember this young man; they say not long ago he already attempted to penetrate here, pounding his fists on our wretched door and spending half the night telling it unkind words about ships in a frozen port. – Balthazar said and laughed loudly.
- Well, you complain as if you aren't known here!– Solnir recalled and began to laugh along with Balthazar. I felt somewhat unpleasant that a bad reputation already preceded me among mages.
- Apparently, on that day he desperately wanted to earn the lifelong contempt of our guild. – Balthazar added.
- Which means absolutely nothing would have changed. – I snapped back.
- And your apprentice is a spirited lad. – He continued speaking.
- Yes, he's not one of the timid sort, which is why he has come here for a second time.
- It's interesting how you exercise your right to bring a guest here once a year. Previously, if mages brought non-mages here, they were young common girls who were ready to give themselves just for the thought that she might be considered a sorceress.
- Those times have passed; our youth much prefer magical treatises over good company. I wouldn't be surprised if half of them are still virgins. – Solnir lamented.
- Indeed, and can you imagine how much they spend on books, scrolls, and everything else. By the way, did you notice my new coat that I bought? Is it not grand?
- It is magnificent, Balthazar—what an amazing cut and what a harmonious combination of tones! Will you allow me and my apprentice to enter the school?
- Very well, proceed. – He answered shortly, satisfied with Solnir's response.
In reality, the previous dialogue between Solnir and Balthazar had no significance. Balthazar was generally a decent fellow, but his connection to the school of magic was even more indirect than Solnir's. The lover of fine coats never served as a gatekeeper in the academy; he simply stood there all day with nothing better to do. Moreover, the academy never actually had such a position as a gatekeeper, and the doors opened themselves if a password known to all mages was spoken nearby. Everyone was aware of this, but they still treated Balthazar with respect and asked his permission to pass.
Entering the school, we entered a huge two-level hall—a place for informal communication between adepts and professors, with enormous marble columns, pilasters, portraits of great mages of Stormhold on the walls, and stairs with balustrades forming the two levels of the hall; to the right of the central gates was a passage to the library, and on the other side were numerous entrances to various corridors and a mirror before them. It had appeared here relatively recently: one of the students created this mirror and submitted it as coursework for the subject "Possibilities of Craft Use of Magic"; most mages liked it so much that they decided to install it at the entrance. People would approach the mirror and ask what it saw, and it would tell the person looking into it what it thought in very amusing and detached phrases. Previously, the words of the mirror often reflected the truth, but lately, for some reason, it had been malfunctioning. A few months ago, it suddenly informed some mages that a stupid person is shameful even to feed to one's own dog. And then, when the High Mage passed by, it somehow said that even dead bones melt in the fires of hell.
As soon as Solnir and I entered the hall, the mages who were standing in small groups and chatting fell silent for a second, as if signaling to each other: "There is a commoner here,"—and then began talking among themselves again. Most of them never even looked our way, deliberately paying no attention to me and specifically not showing that I had any significance to them.
The hall froze a second time when Solnir led me to the mirror and asked what it saw. It replied with the following phrase:
- Today I am in a good mood. On the skyline of Stormhold, closed by black clouds, new stars have finally begun to appear.
- And why don't you approach the mirror? – I said to Solnir.
The mage approached the mirror, adjusted his beard, and smiled slightly while looking into it.
- It is painful to search all your life and not find, but far more terrifying to achieve what you seek. – The mirror said and asked to be left in peace.
First, Solnir led me to the library. Above the entrance was written: "Whosoever studying the sciences enters here, do not slam the door nor stomp rudely with your feet—this is unpleasant to the muses. If you find someone already sleeping here, bow respectfully, silently, and do not engage in chatter: here the wisest speak with those who study."
It was evident that the mages highly valued their library. It consisted of two levels; below was a large reading room, shelves with books, and step-ladders for easier climbing onto the shelves; the second level, enclosed by a balustrade, was intended not so much for books as for all sorts of flasks, test tubes, dried and undried ingredients for various potions, and other trifles accompanying magical practice. Several archivists worked in the library, not counting the chief one, along with a group of adepts who deftly climbed the towering shelves to retrieve the necessary book. Once a year, every student of the school underwent mandatory library practice. They say this was very useful, and many former adepts, with few exceptions, read the bulk of the books during their library practices. Nowadays, however, the situation has changed, and reading is a way of life for many students. Aside from those adepts undergoing library practice, there were very few students in the hall. Solnir explained this by saying that it was the first days of the school year and not all subjects had even started yet, and that closer to exams, one wouldn't be able to breathe in the library. I asked Solnir about the purpose of reading magical books.
- You see, son. To perfect oneself in the art of magic, it is necessary to read treatises on sorcery written by other mages.
- But it seems to me that much can be grasped personally through practice.
- You are right, but when you reach your limit, you should read what the great mages of antiquity wrote. You will gain knowledge and without noticing, you will become wiser, more informed, and your magical abilities will grow. Just don't play too much with the book: it is a good servant, but a bad master. Illiterate people are twice as happy, and he who increases knowledge increases sorrow. And do not abuse books; they only develop greed, malice, and a suffocating desire to know, understand, and read absolutely everything. More and more.
Access to almost all books was very free, so I decided to walk past the shelves and even touch some copies. I think Solnir was even surprised that I didn't steal anything from there. Although now it seems to me that I should have. Passing by the shelves, I bumped into a red-bearded professor. Dressed in a leather robe, he was reading a book, carefully levitating between the shelves and not looking around. This was Diamantis, perhaps the most charismatic teacher in the academy, one of the best experts on air magic in Stormhold. Bumping into me, he shook his head and, without taking his eyes off the book, squeezed out:
- Young man, you likely have no respect for this place if you wear such dirty shoes.
They say Diamantis always uttered this phrase instead of a greeting. Strange mores among the previous generation of mages. They are more upset by the not-so-beautiful appearance of young people than anything else.
A cursory glance was enough to understand that the shelves were full of most precious books. Finally, I understood why our mayor calls the city not only beautiful but also expensive. Above the first and second levels of the library towered a vaulted ceiling painted by the best artists of our city. The paintings generally repeated the stories described on the school gates, with the only difference being that the mages on the vault were depicted more like titans, with muscular bodies and incredibly beautiful faces. Especially talented artists depicted mages sitting on an icy throne with very thick hair and long beards, with staves larger than many of the depicted enemies.
Another important room in the library was the scriptorium, where those students renowned for their fine handwriting performed the honorable duty of copying magical books. Copyists were selected from the most meticulous students and soon became true calligraphers. Among them was also one with a well-trained voice. He read aloud the book being copied, strictly observing all pauses. Five people slowly wrote down what he dictated. Upon finishing a chapter, correctors began their work, and after them, the book was given to illuminators who illustrated it and gave it to masters for binding. Only the most valuable books were copied in such a complex manner: the most precious magical, philosophical, and spiritual treatises. Volumes related to sorcery were written with magical inks; others—with ordinary ones.
From the library, we returned to the first hall, from where we entered one of the numerous corridors. The long narrow corridors of the school intertwined with each other, going up and down, connecting and disconnecting via passages and stairs. Their stone walls were decorated with portraits of mages, incomprehensible paintings with strange plots, and numerous lamps. Sometimes it seemed that all these corridors changed their direction, running over, through, and under one another.
Movement through the corridors was very fast, and no one was recommended to walk slowly; standing in a corridor was actually quite traumatic: any professor of the academy could knock you down without a second thought and then lament that the youth do not remember or wish to honor the traditions of this glorious institution by deliberately obstructing teachers. Even moving through practically deserted corridors, I felt a certain trepidation toward these stone walls, as I did not yet consider myself part of the school. Solnir noticed this and reassured me.
- It is good that you are nervous. This means your destiny is linked to this place.
Through an enfilade of corridors, halls, and stairs, we reached the residential wing. More accurately, these were auditoriums converted into living quarters. Mattresses placed in a row on the floor where mages slept, a couple of nightstands, and that was all. Not all mages lived in such rooms, as many came from very wealthy families, but some still spent the night right here.
- Those who hang around here are either those fed by the school or the especially diligent.
- Why do they do it?
- I don't know. They say that now many renounce everything, sell family homes, give money to the school, and try to live by the ideals of magic and self-improvement. Devil knows what is on their minds! Soon, because of these scoundrels, the mayor will announce that since mages are ascetics and feed on manna from heaven, all our lifelong salaries will be cut. And then the noble word "mage" will become a synonym for pauper. May the Holy Grail not let such nonsense happen!
As a result of long wandering through corridors, we found ourselves at a door with the inscription "Hall for the Study of the Theory of Magic Nature." The door was half-open, and the pleasant voice of a lecturer could be heard from within:
- A mage is a kind of medium who has merely learned to embody the manifestations of a higher will, an ability developed through numerous practices. And if you suddenly stop noticing this order and begin to cast spells as you wish, without thinking about anything, you can overdo it in this matter and simply burn up.
- Do you want to listen to this lecture? – Solnir asked.
I only nodded my head.
- Let's go. – He said.
- But how is that possible?
- No one in the academy will condemn the noble desire of students to engage in magic; besides, this lecturer is an old friend of mine.
We entered the auditorium together with Solnir. His appearance caused such delight among some adepts that they squealed joyfully. It turned out that for current students of the academy, Solnir was a semi-legendary figure. The professor was giving a lecture, but as soon as he saw Solnir and me, he smiled and fell silent.
- Allow me and my apprentice to listen to your wise words, Sturix.
- What news! In his old age, Solnir has acquired an apprentice. Lately, events have been occurring that can be interpreted as nothing other than a bad omen. – Then the lecturer addressed the class:
- Well then, shall we allow the great Solnir and his apprentice to listen to the lecture with us?
The class squealed joyfully, which made me unspeakably happy. Solnir and I sat on chairs, and Sturix continued the lesson.
- A mage strives to accumulate magical energy—mana—and not waste it in vain. Therefore, it is so important to control one's emotions, not spend strength on trifles, be able to close one's eyes to everything, and not succumb to passions.
After five minutes, Solnir left, stating that he had more important business. And I stayed to listen to the lecture until the end. From that lecture, I learned that magic is as natural for a human as sleep. In a dream, there are no restrictions by which we bind ourselves, and the ability to see life as a dream is one of the keys to sorcery. Sturix's words struck me with their simplicity. Thanks to them, magic seemed more accessible to me than ever. I only wanted to start casting spells. And preferably, as soon as possible.
I left the auditorium with a feeling of incredible relief, with the sensation that I was now one of them. I had just passed through a door that had always been locked for me with a heavy barn lock. Now my life is full of uncertainty and mysticism. After the lecture, I struggled to find the exit from the endless corridors of the school of magic. Old Balthazar was still standing by the large gates.
- Well then, kid, your first day won't be your last?
- I hope not, Balthazar.
- Have you already decided which school of magic you will study?
- What does that mean?
- It means you must choose one of four elements in which you will perfect yourself. You can, of course, choose several, but such a choice often leads to nothing good; a mage who knows several schools of magic but none of them well is a pitiful sight.
- Yes, perhaps it's worth concentrating on one school. Maybe you could offer some wise advice, Balthazar?
- And do you know what wisdom is, son?
- I've never thought about it, to be honest.
- Then allow me to tell you what wisdom is. The concept of wisdom is characteristic not only of those who live in Stormhold but also other cities from the marshy lowlands to the Necropolis. And almost nowhere is wisdom defined as the number of books read. Long ago, the kingdom of the Wastelands was ruled by one legendary king—Krzys. During his reign, there were almost no dissatisfied people, and those who were disappeared without a trace or died of an unknown disease. One warrior-mage wanted to subdue the king, who didn't value the lives of his brothers in the slightest. And, coming to him, he prophesied that the king would be cursed by the gods of the Wastelands if he did not stop mercilessly killing his brothers. The king listened carefully to the mage and asked how the fate of the mage himself would unfold. The mage almost instantly declared that he would become a great mage and rule the Wasteland, and his reign would enter history as one of the most virtuous and blessed. Without hesitation, the king pulled out his battle axe and cut off the mage's head. All the courtiers swore their loyalty to the king once more, and he himself entered history as Krzys the Wise.
- Indeed. A truly wise king. If you'll allow me, Balthazar, I'll be going.
- Of course, go; home is good.
- And you, Balthazar, will you stay here until late?
- No, of course not. It's about time to sit at home. Am I a fool—to hang around here until late?
- A very wise decision, Balthazar.
- I like that you've understood what wisdom is, kid.
On the way home, one not-so-pleasant event happened to me. Near my house, Roxanne's father was waiting for me with clearly ill intentions. I decided not to wait for his first phrase and immediately tried to improve my unenviable position with a moderately polite preemptive phrase.
- My dear sir, – I stammered, forgetting his name, – Perhaps you consider me an ignoble person, but that is not so.
- Listen here, Elsinor. They say you've aimed your filthy spear toward my precious daughter. I've known you a long time; you're a fine lad, but you haven't proven that you are worthy of my daughter. She is a queen, and you are merely a petty merchant. So no offense. Understand?
- Respected sir, do not worry, I will pay my debt to you in the near future. Be confident in me, for it is in my own interests.
- You owe me nothing. Understand? All that is required of you is to accept that Roxanne is not for you. She isn't for people like you at all. She needs a high-ranking person.
- And who is that? – I asked with curiosity.
- That is one who has everything and will have everything.
I came home very angry. Who am I from the point of view of Roxanne's father? A piece of shit compared to a high-ranking person? No more. But if I am a piece of shit, and I am no worse or better than Roxanne's father—having traded in the market all my life, never having held huge sums of money, never having been endowed with power—then it turns out that he himself is shit too. I would like to know why people so little respect, value, and love themselves? I would like to think that money is not the main thing in this life. That the fairy tales told to me in childhood about selfless, brave people who were rich not in money but in spirit come true. Today, my last hope died; the last illusion about life melted away. Meeting such insignificant people, who feel trepidation before "high-ranking people," was like a slap in my face, like a long needle penetrating straight into the heart, like a fat blow from behind. How can one even live with such logic, with a desire to sell oneself and one's daughter as dearly as possible just to become slightly wealthier than others? I loved money very much and, like any merchant, tried to squeeze the last gold coin out of the buyer, leave him in his underwear—but with my goods, and preferably without underwear and without goods. But at the same time, I always remembered that health and happiness cannot be bought with money. That money is necessary, but only so it's easier to respect oneself. I decided that, first, I would pay him back as soon as possible, and second, I would prove to him that he was wrong to treat me this way. Happiness is not for high-ranking people. Happiness is for everyone.
I wonder what those who wake up in the middle of the night and then cannot fall asleep think about? When you have so much useless free time, the need to think about something is simply mandatory. That night I stared at my room door. It was slightly ajar, and a dim light came from it. I remembered the half-open door to the hall for the study of the nature of magic and thought that, at the very least, two doors are not closed to me. And outside the window in the cold city, there was a blizzard, and it was very dark.

Well, here it's either one or the other, as you understand. Either it will be "based on" the game, or we'll have to use different titles. And the problems might only arise if the book is actually published.

Will Necropolis be included in the book? Add Necropolis!

Of course, there will be vampires and necromancers, but not from the very first chapter. Does anyone actually read the book, or do they just criticize it?

Please upload a text file containing all 16 chapters; I'm too lazy to read them like that.

File containing one-third of the book. If anyone is interested, I will send the rest.
I am continuing to publish the book on the forum. Thank you for your feedback.

Stormhold is not Stronghold; it's a perfectly normal name.
I don't remember exactly which portal I found it on:
Each race has 16 cities (with different names – they are all listed there, possibly taken from the games).
Castle – Erathia, humans
Rampart – Avlia, elves
Tower – Brakada, mages
Fortress – Tatalia, swamp
Stronghold – Krevolod, barbarians
Dungeon – Nighon, warlocks
Necropolis – Deyya, necromancers
Inferno – Eofol, krigane (demons)
Conflux – Elemental Planes (?), elementals.
And also – leprechauns, as far as I remember, don't live in the third game – they are already in the fourth (just for general information).

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The entire book can also be found at
http://proza.ru/2012/03/27/1071
Enjoy reading.