Free The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail) by Irina Syromyatnikova

was up to my neck in work.
    My second winter in Suesson passed uneventfully. The moment of truth for our project was approaching - spring was the time to assess the results. The spring sun warmed up the water, the inhabitants of our pools came to life, and piles of rocks began to disappear rapidly.
    On that day I was busy with pools, checking that urchins didn't gnaw through the concrete foundation. They were extremely energetic bastards! As it turned out, they relentlessly scratched any solid support, no matter if it was the ore or the concrete. Hopefully, our white mage would instill a sense of taste in the next generations.
    When a loud bang reached my ears, I shuddered - it sounded like an explosion. Black smoke rose above the roof. I left the urchins and rushed home, fearing that someone was hurt.
    G listening fragments of shattered glass blinded my eyes. A cloud of ash from burning flesh and rubber hung in the air. Flame lazily licked my motorcycle's rim, and charred pieces of a human body were littered around.
    A truck on wide tires, roaring, drove away through Suesson's impassable mud.
    Stunned , I looked around for my companions and finally spotted Polak and Johan. They held on well. Ron was not at home; by elimination I figured that a leg in the middle of the yard belonged to Mr. Flap.
    They killed my zombie! A timid, harmless creature! Who committed such barbarism? And why? I called my Source and probed the smoldering wreckage for the presence of any residual aura. Alas, only Mr. Flap's was sensed there! I needed to examine the place where they threw the bomb.
    Johan noticed me, and his face reflected incredible relief, "Oh, Tom, we were so scared! We thought you were killed."
    My friends were right: Mr. Flap looked like me and was dressed in my clothes. The murderers saw my motorcycle in the yard - another confirmation that I was at home. They took Mr. Flap for me - the bomb was meant to kill me! No need to ask who to blame for this - militants of the sect, of course!
    My first impulse was to catch the villains. But to chase them on foot would be idiotic. My motorcycle was shattered, and I hadn't bought a truck yet. I needed to run to the nearest farm (it was five kilometers away from my house) and borrow a vehicle. They would be long gone in the meantime.
    P oor Mr. Flap died a second time! He had a truly angelic nature: he meekly did what we told him to do; without a word of complaint he carried out all the hard work around the house (now his job would become my duty again). He helped Johan set a garden in the backyard. I think he enormously enjoyed simple household chores. Mr. Flap even volunteered to wash my motorcycle. He absolutely didn't deserve an incendiary bomb for all his suffering!
    And then a s ickening internal shudder pierced my body: I knew the enemies would come and still missed them. If I continued along the same lines, my family would be under attack. How long would it take for sectarians to kidnap my white bro or sis? I would punish them sooner or later! But what would guarantee the safety of my family? I cast an appraising glance at the scraps of flesh in the yard and decided: "I'll have to stage my own death."
    * * *
    Powerful dark mages preferred to live farther away from each other. More than a year had passed since Satal quit his senior coordinator job; however, he didn't undertake any steps to move out of Redstone. For some reason, the presence of the spirited Larkes in the same city suited him well. It was nonsense. It felt wrong, until Rustle finally explained that it was his sense of self-preservation that compelled him to become a part of the hierarchy, to endure discomfort for the sake of predictability in his children's future. Many long hours spent with Rustle changed the dark magician: his subconscious forever imprinted the feelings of mages, who lost their loved ones because they had nobody to help. Born in peaceful times, Satal thought and acted like a hundred-year-old wizard.
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