Amon didn't calm down even when his feet hit the rocky bottom. He sprang out of the sea like from boiling oil. The wizard ran a good hundred meters along the pebbly beach before stopping, coughing and spitting out the water that had gotten into his lungs. The shameful sweetness wouldn't leave his body, and his head buzzed with unfamiliar emotions and sensations.
"I need to get rid of the toxin," Amon thought, without hesitation shoving his fingers into his mouth to induce vomiting. The acrid stomach acid burned his throat and nostrils, washing away the sugary aftertaste.
Amon spat out bile and vomit. He sat on a rock, spat again, and began speaking to himself, trying to make sense of what had happened.
"What kind of monster was that? Why didn't my saliva kill it? That's impossible. A monster, a monster... I can't harm... the monster. Damned contract!"
The situation became clearer. The strange magic, bound by a signature, had an inexorable, ruthless power over him. It was the reason he couldn't fight the strange mutant with a girl's face — just as stated in the contract. There were no other options. Amon's face elongated, and he muttered grimly, "Oh Chaos, what have I gotten myself into?!"
***
Amon sat on the beach until the first rays of the sun lit up the sea. Then he got up and headed toward the city, located a couple of kilometers from where he emerged from the sea.
Like any port, Al-Gord was full of contrasts. Sturdy stone buildings with several floors were surrounded by wooden hovels hastily nailed together from various debris and shipwrecks.
Large ships with two or even three masts swayed on the waves next to small, weathered fishing boats. The stench of rotting fish, unwashed sailors, and sour beer mixed with the delicate aromas of spices brought from distant lands.
Captains in rich coats with intricate embroidery and staffs adorned with gold and stones walked surrounded by their crews, dressed in gray, greasy clothes. Some wore elements from different outfits, and an expensive cloak, trimmed with white fur on the collar, was paired with knee-high woolen pants. Appearance held no meaning here, nor did it convey information about a person's status or wealth.
Sometimes a merchant with a precious chain around his neck would grovel before a beggar in ragged tatters, but with an ever-present cleaver hanging from a rope belt, proudly holding his head high, flashing golden teeth and thick earrings.
Amon left the pier behind and began weaving through the alleyways filled with traders, adventurers, middlemen, and scoundrels of all kinds. Everywhere, curses, fragments of conversations, and cries from small shopkeepers trying to attract buyers could be heard.
"Meat! Fresh, just off the spit! Meat!"
"Tobacco! Tobacco! Fragrant, buy it, don't be stingy!"
The buildings were adorned with signs of taverns and brothels, from whose windows prostitutes smiled invitingly. At the entrance to the realm of debauchery, sellers shouted.
"Girls for all tastes! Black, white, yellow, red! Fat and skinny! Come in, satisfy your hunger!"
Their piercing voices almost drowned out the conversations of drifters and pirates who lazily leaned against the walls.
"I lost... The one-eared guy threw six sixes... twice in a row. I gave him a punch, but he and his pals..."
"Their beer is piss. That bastard innkeeper is probably pissing straight into the barrel. He serves us, and smiles – 'drink up, guests!'"
"Josh returned from the campaign. I thought I'd ambush him at the dock, but damn, he won't get off the ship. No matter, my boys are there day and night, we'll get even..."
Fights often interrupted conversations. More than once, Amon saw some thug darting out from a dark doorway, followed by a whole crowd of screaming thugs. The locals, used to such incidents, pressed themselves against the walls, letting the brawlers pass by, and closed ranks behind them as if nothing had happened. But the wizard considered himself above such things. He didn't step aside, walking steadily forward.
His imposing appearance and arrogant posture made an impression even on the angry pursuers, and they cowardly veered around the Chaos Space Marine, unwilling to tangle with the mysterious brute. However, once, someone tried to stab him with a knife, but the wizard barely perceptibly intercepted the man's arm and dislocated it. The man lost consciousness from the shock of pain, collapsing into the mud, while the wizard continued on as if nothing had happened.
"Just like home," Amon muttered, leisurely surveying the filthy streets.
Indeed, Al-Gord looked very much like the lower decks of some space station captured by heretics. And even though instead of low ceilings above, there was the deep sky, and instead of dim lamps, the bright sun, the wizard couldn't be fooled by appearances. He had long since learned to see the true nature of things.
Though the local pirates and swindlers didn't have horns, tentacles, or long fangs, inside they were as hideous as the most frightening mutants in terms of outward appearance. But Amon wasn't bothered by flaws. On the contrary! The flaws of others warmed his black soul, opening up ample space for intricate combinations and schemes.
"Speaking of plans," the wizard thought, adjusting his rope belt. "It wouldn't hurt to get some decent clothes. Nobody cares about your outfit here, but I'm not planning on staying in this city forever. By the way, here's a shop."
Amon stopped in front of a squat house with a brightly painted sign featuring a spool of thread. He approached the low doorframe and pushed the door open.