— What?
— Well, his name implies that he is a bastard of royal blood.
— Ah, that. No, he is not a bastard. It seems the archmage is from a family of townspeople, but I can't say for sure; he is over one hundred and fifty years old.
— Then why such a name? — The vampire was genuinely curious, so why not satisfy his curiosity and at the same time distract the woman from her gloomy thoughts? After all, who knows what she might concoct in her beautiful head, and might demand to go with her son. It would be better if she occupied herself with social chitchat.
— In the southern part of the Uzmer Empire, in the deserts where the mines are located, there is a legend about a fabled land called Os. My grandmother was from those parts, so I know these childhood tales. Ask the archmage where he knows it from. But when he chose his name, he called himself the bastard of a king of a non-existent country.
— How interesting.
— I don't think so. When my late husband went to Zalon and met with Elos about twenty years ago, he described the archmage in just two words: "Pompous turkey." So I see this name merely as an attempt by the man to elevate his status; apparently, being an archmage wasn't enough for him.
— That is precisely what is interesting. It's always useful to know what kind of person your opponent is.
— My dear! I ask you! Please convey my request to Alex! — the woman suddenly said quickly, changing the subject of their conversation.
— I'm listening, Your Grace, — the vampire bowed his head and kept it lowered, waiting for the duchess's message.
— Tell him that I would be very grateful if he would accompany my son to Zalon as an advisor and observer.
— I will pass on your message, madam.
— Then I will not keep you any longer. Thank you for such a quick visit; it's a pity it was so brief.
Leaving the castle and pulling their hats down lower to shield themselves from the glaring sun, the vampires headed towards the inn. It was fortunate that both women were wearing men's clothing, as ladies' fashion did not include such wide brims on headwear.
— What do you think about the conversation?
— Thinking is your job as a triumvir. My job is small—building the fortress for you!
— Not "for you," but "for us."
— That's what I said, — Olga replied with a frown and then unexpectedly smiled, — Anyway, hire more soldiers. The battle near Zalon will be fiercer than at the Cursed Bridge.
Forty-two hundred elite fighters comprised Askold's squad. Why exactly that number? Simply because that was how old he was. All the others were sent to different squads making up the army of the rebels. The man who declared himself the Supreme Vampire did not seek supreme power; he preferred to command only his own squad and give only general instructions to the others. If they didn't follow them… well, then he simply forgot about their existence and took no further punitive measures.
Anarchy at its best, or complete freedom; what to call such an organization was irrelevant as long as it could not achieve goals beyond the destruction of some territory. And the former guard did not need more. Revenge against the mages and making them pay in blood for old humiliations was what drove him, not power or fame. And the scattered squads of vampires were ideal for this. But the Supreme Vampire kept only the very best soldiers with him. Just in case. A total of forty-two hundred.
When the first reports came in about clashes with the army sent to suppress the rebellion, Askold became anxious. He was a good commander of the city guard, but he had never fought in the field.
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