Matabar

Chapter 56 - Warehouse

Soon, the low-rise buildings were left behind. The modest brick structures that had lined the streets gave way to towering, two-meter-high fences. Crowned with spirals of barbed wire, these fences, like the buildings themselves, were an unwelcoming shade of red brick. The few streetlights that could be seen cast a feeble glow, and were powered not by Ley energy, but by dim, flickering oil flames.

The road was buried under mounds of snow, leaving a deep, slushy track carved out by trucks as the only passable route. The trucks themselves, the solitary wanderers of industrial districts, were scarce at this hour — it was barely past four. In the time that Arkar and Ardan had spent driving through the maze of bristling fences, they had only encountered two wobbling vehicles. One had been laden with gravel, and the other, covered by a heavy tarp, had rolled casually down a narrow alley between two factories.

As for the factories themselves, they all appeared to be strikingly similar: massive edifices that loomed like mountains beyond their almost three-meter-high fences. Their premises were still lit, the faint voices of night shift workers occasionally audible, and their wide chimneys tirelessly spewed smoke into a sky already choked with smog.

Ardi pressed a hand to his face, trying to breathe less frequently. Even so, the air carried a thick, pervasive smell of rubber, the needles of its chemical stench pricking his nose like a harmful bristle. Sometimes, the overwhelming "aroma" of diesel and processed oil seemed to squeeze his throat shut. Amid this mix of penetrating scents that soaked into clothing and skin, the sharp, smoky tang of molten steel in endless furnaces provided an oddly grounding effect.

"They're following us," Arkar said suddenly, his voice low. He adjusted the rearview mirror. In it, a pale light from distant headlights flickered briefly before vanishing.

"Who are they?" Ardi tensed, checking to ensure his revolver was still at his side. It might not end up being much use, but its presence made him feel steadier.

Arkar jerked the wheel sharply, steering off the wide street. The car groaned in protest, rocking over the deep tracks, and turned into a narrow alleyway that stood between a steel mill and a plant producing rebar — or something else similar to that. Ardi couldn't make out the snow-covered signs on the massive gates leading inside.

"The Dandy's men," Arkar growled. "He's not particularly friendly toward us after Baliero, and this section of the factory streets? That's his parade ground... his territory, I mean. The Dandy runs a significant portion of the local workers' guilds."

Ardi glanced back into the night. His half-blood eyes could see reasonably well in the dark, but not well enough to discern much beyond the next bend. All he could make out were plumes of smoke, brownish, dirty snow, and the same sparse, oily lampposts.

"Don't get shaken," Arkar coughed, shifting the gear lever to spur their tired car forward. "Or worry, I mean. Ordargar coughed up things out with the Dandy... they resolved everything, I mean. So, they shouldn't touch us."

Ardan cast a doubtful look at the half-orc. Arkar, nearly bumping his head on the car's roof like Ardi himself, was driving with his left hand while his eyes darted between the mirrors, his right hand hovering near the holster of his revolver.

"But they might?" Ardi pressed.

"Oh, they might," Arkar grinned widely, baring his tusks.

Ardan squinted at him. "Do you have some sort of problem with the Dandy, Arkar?"

Arkar shot him an annoyed glance. "You'd make a fine hound... a fine investigator, I mean," he said reluctantly, grinding his teeth. "Yeah, I've got a bone to pick with him... an old debt he owes me, Ard."

The flicker of headlights behind them disappeared, and their car finally slipped out of the labyrinth of alleyways, auxiliary roads, and industrial clutter. The fences remained a relentless stretch of brick and wire, but they'd left the looming witnesses of the industrial boom behind. Instead, new giants appeared — some resembling enormous square boxes, almost windowless and thin-walled; others, by contrast, were awe-inspiring in their monumentality, with massive doors, gates, and the narrow strips of their windows gleaming in the icy steel of the night.

Warehouses of all shapes and sizes crowded around the lone vehicle crawling like an ant at their feet. During his first months in the Metropolis, Ardi had figured out a curious phenomenon — the taller a building was, the smaller a person felt at its base. Oddly, this sensation had never struck him in the mountains.

"We're here."

Arkar pulled up to a curb buried under filthy snow, set the handbrake, and killed the engine. Some 150 meters away, at the intersection of several broad service roads, near towering gates wide enough for several heavy trucks to pass through them, a simple metal sign swayed forlornly under the weight of the wind and frost.

"Warehouse 6."

The car's headlights failed to reach the intersection and faded, plunging the street into oppressive night. A night so dense that an ordinary person wouldn't be able to see their hand in front of their face.

The already starless sky in Tendari's industrial neighborhood was also hidden under a blanket of smog, smoke and cinders.

"And?" Arkar asked, breaking the silence.

"What?" Ardan countered.

Arkar looked at him with a bit of annoyance.

"What's the plan?"

"The plan? Why are you asking me?"

"Sleeping Spirits, little guy!" Arkar nearly shouted but stopped himself, hissing the rest. "This, damn the angels and demons, is your bloody debut. I'm here to help, not organize your mess."

If he thought about it, Arkar was right. It was Ardi's responsibility to get Boris out of the trap. He had asked for Arkar's help, which the half-orc, if one remembered what he'd done with Inga, had already provided. But that didn't mean...

There was a knock at the window.

Simultaneously, Arkar and Ardan drew their revolvers, pointing them toward their unexpected visitor.

Outside, four barrels gleamed in the darkness, accompanied by flashlight beams and the unmistakable sight of cocked hammers.

"Arkar?"

"Crooked?"

"Crooked your ass, you unshaved mongrel."

"Didn't have time," Arkar said, running a hand over his thick stubble. "And stop shining that light in my eyes."

Slowly, the flashlight beams dropped closer to the ground, revealing their visitors. They were four young men with sharp, wolfish eyes and movements to match. They seemed to stand together in a pack, shadowing the one in front, who was not the tallest or most muscular, but someone whose twisted nose spoke of countless scuffles.

"Here, take this," Arkar handed the one called Crooked (the nickname was unsurprisingly apt) the note Inga had given them. "From your boss."

Crooked, even though he'd lowered the hammer back into the cylinder, didn't holster his revolver. Taking the note, he read it carefully and shrugged.

"And what the hell are we supposed to do with this scribble, Arkar?"

Arkar blinked a few times, then sighed heavily and... slammed his forehead against the steering wheel.

"And how many are there?" The half-orc asked.

"Fuck if I know," Crooked shrugged again, a flicker of unpleasant amusement dancing in his eyes. "We were paid for three wheels' worth of passage and to keep anyone else out. Or, if someone more serious showed up, to give them a signal."

Arkar cursed in Orcish. Ardan couldn't quite parse the meaning, but it seemed like the half-orc's string of curses went as far back as Inga's ancestors from five generations ago.

The half-orc lifted his head from the wheel, then looked at the group with a glimmer of hope.

"How about joining us in rescuing one dumb lord?"

"Three wheels, Arkar," Crooked repeated. "There are at least a dozen of them. And Pavel saw two with staves. Right, Pavel?"

"Yep," one of the others confirmed.

"Exactly," Crooked drawled, dramatically stashing his revolver back under his battered coat. "And I'm allergic to mages, Arkar. Especially when they've got a dozen armed, imported muscles with them."

"Not locals?"

"Exactly. Westerners, by the looks of them. None of our people have ever seen their faces before." Crooked gave the car roof a mocking pat. "My advice, overseer, would be to turn around with your friend and drive back where you came from. There's nothing for you here. Whoever they've got in that warehouse will need stormtroopers from the Guard to pull them out. Or the Cloaks."

Arkar swore under his breath, then began opening the door.

"Well, it's your call," Crooked said, tipping the brim of his fur hat that protected his ears from the cold.

Once the half-orc stepped out onto the street, Crooked gave him a measured nod.

"Arkar."

"Crooked," the half-orc replied with equal solemnity.

The group of four turned and began to fade into the snowy night. Meanwhile, Arkar circled around to the trunk of his car, unlocked it, and pulled out a set of ten industrial-grade explosives with rather short fuses. He handed a few to Ardan.

"You know what this is?"

"I'm from the Foothill Province," Ardi said simply, taking the explosives and tucking them into his belt.

Arkar snorted and carefully, quietly, closed the trunk.

Standing beside Ardan, he stared at the enormous, elongated structure of the warehouse behind the fence. His gaze was fixed on it and his whispers were barely audible.

"Never trust whores..."

"You've said that before."

"I told it to you," Arkar snapped, lifting his fur-lined collar to shield himself from the biting winter wind. "And now I'm reminding myself."

"But what-"

"Inga screwed us," the half-orc cut him off. "I thought that if this business was on her turf, it not only had her permission, but her muscle... her people, I mean. But all she gave was permission, while those bastards brought their own muscle."

Ardan realized what the half-orc was upset about. If Inga's support had included her own enforcers, her note might have drastically reduced the number of opponents facing them. Now, though...

"By the way, why is it that when you greet someone or say goodbye to them, you just call each other by name?"

"Because wishing them good health when parting is just asking for bad luck, and asking to meet again is wishing to risk your neck once again and..." Arkar abruptly stopped, his eyes gleaming with irritation as he turned toward Ardan. "Sleeping Spirits, Ard! Is that really what's on your mind right now?"

"I just thought I'd ask since it came up," Ardi replied calmly. He'd always been curious about why criminals of all kinds, marshals and Cloaks didn't say "hello" or "goodbye" but simply addressed each other by name or title.

"You're a strange one, Ard," the half-orc muttered, scratching his stubble with fingers that had gradually reddened due to the frost.

They fell silent. Ahead of them loomed the warehouse, while their backs were pressed against the cold brick fence. The wind howled, bringing in icy air from the ocean's frozen shores, and farther out, less than a hundred meters from the quay, it raged in a dark winter dance colder than snow itself.

"Arkar, if you want to leave, then-"

The half-orc bared his tusks, grabbing the handle of the axe tucked into his belt.

"Are you calling me a coward, pup?" He growled.

"I'm just saying-"

"Save your warnings for the girl you finally take to bed when you're forced to tell her that the only breast you've ever held before was your mother's when you were drinking her milk!" Arkar snapped. "Now focus that overly-clever skull of yours and figure out what we're going to do. You understand mages better than I do."

Ardan sighed and thought about it for a moment. It was unlikely that Orvilov had spared enough money to not only hire ten thugs but also find a Star Mage crazy enough to assist him. Why was the mage crazy? Because, despite everything else, the baron had kidnapped a lord. What's more, he was the son of the Southern Fleet's commander, who was a hereditary aristocrat of the Empire and a member of the Upper Chamber.

People like that didn't take kindly to having even their estranged kin cut into pieces.

At least that was what Ardan had guessed based on his general knowledge. What it was really like in practice... Only Boris himself might know that.

So, he was presumably facing ten or more armed men who probably lacked substantial military training (such people valued themselves too much to get involved in abducting the aristocrats' offspring), and probably two first-year students from the Grand.

Ardan harbored no illusions about his abilities as a combat mage, so taking on two "schoolmates," even if they collectively had just ten rays between them, wasn't feasible. And they had the aid of a bunch of hired guns, whatever their level of skill.

Crooked had been right. It would've been more sensible to get back in the car, turn around, and leave, but...

Ardan remembered how Boris had spent an entire night listening to his emotional struggles. Not just listening, but actively participating, doing his best to help his... friend? Did Ardan really not know how to befriend humans? Strangely enough, Neviy, his brother, Anna, and Faruh had seemed to understand that.

Tomorrow's thoughts.

"I'll make us invisible," Ardan said, gripping his slightly-icy staff tightly. "But I don't know how long I can hold the veil, and..."

He stopped himself, but it was too late.

"A veil?" Arkar turned to him sharply, raising an eyebrow. "Not a seal, but a veil? So that's how you pulled Lisa out of her nightmare in that house... She mentioned some bullshit... nonsense, I mean... and I thought it was just her nerves... but you... You know the art of the Aean'Hane."

"I'm just a simple Speaker," Ardan admitted, no longer denying it. It was too late. "And not a very skilled one at that."

"Work your magic, Speaker," Arkar ignored his deflections. "If we were in the steppes, songs would be written about this adventure of ours."

Orcs truly did have an obsessive passion when it came to valor and the legacy they left behind in the histories of their clans. At least that was what Ardan's grandfather had taught him. Orcs valued warrior and hunter glory above all else and composed songs about it. They called the eras of the greatest wars and upheavals "Times of Great Songs."

Ardan closed his eyes and opened his mind to the world around him. With a familiar effort, he distanced himself from the endless constellation of complex shield spells that, like festively-lit trees, adorned the warehouses and factories. They shimmered like a dispersed rainbow, creating the illusion that the night had turned into the fever dream of a madman.

Ardan turned toward the far end of the warehouse, where he thought he'd briefly heard a familiar voice through the maze of stacked crates.

"Will you cover me?"

"There are six of them, little one," Arkar said, shaking the spent casings out of his revolver and reloading it. "Plus two more wounded who are still capable of shooting. And I'm alone... Of course I'll cover you! This whole situation's completely against those pissers... I mean to say-"

"I understand what you meant," Ardan assured him.

Arkar bared his teeth in a grin. "Orak Han-da," he said, making Ardan flinch. "Or, if you translate from the language of Ectassus: good hunting."

"And to you," Ardan replied with a nod.

The young man knew what the phrase meant, just as he knew it was the battle cry of all Firstborn. But for him, those words would forever remain burned into his memory as the battle cry of the Shanti'Ra gang...

Tomorrow's thoughts.

"You sons of rotten bitch-" Arkar's last word, shouted as he leaped out from behind the crumbling truck, was cut off and drowned out by the thunder of his revolvers.

Ardan, catching his breath, unfastened his belt and pulled it free so he could tie it around his thigh. The bleeding from his gunshot wound needed to stop.

Glancing at the revolver lying abandoned in the cab of the truck, Ardan sighed. He ignored it, opened his grimoire, and plunged into the labyrinth of crates. Pressing his back against the rough wooden planks bound with steel rivets, he left behind the echoes of the gunfight, moving through what seemed like an endless tangle of pathways and junctions.

He navigated more by instinct than scent — his nose was overwhelmed by the acrid smells of gunpowder, blood, and sweat. Eventually, he reached a relatively open area.

Crouching behind a crate, Ardan cautiously peered out to assess the scene.

There, tied to a chair with thick ropes, sat a naked Boris. Or at least it was someone who looked like Boris. His ginger hair was matted with blood, and his face was swollen and covered in numerous bruises. His left eye was completely shut, while his right had been reduced to a narrow slit.

Long, deep cuts made by a knife marred his chest. His right leg was broken in several places near the knee, the joint itself almost entirely shattered. And on his left hand, not only his pinky, but also his ring finger were missing.

Boris wheezed, occasionally spitting out a mix of saliva, foam, and blood. Several teeth had been pulled from his mouth, roots and all.

"If you think those fools will manage to save you, you're dumber than I thought," said a young man standing before him.

His appearance was extremely ordinary: he had chestnut hair, an average build, and was around 175 centimeters tall, maybe a bit taller. Ardan thought he might have seen him before, possibly during the lectures they shared with the Military Faculty.

Next to the mage, on a table, lay a collection of bloodied tools: construction pliers, a hammer with a chisel, a crowbar, a screwdriver, a saw, and other instruments that were likely taken from the warehouse.

"You're better off just telling us the cipher for this," said the second mage, who was also vaguely familiar to Ardan. He held up a medallion. The medallion's chain, which had been crafted into an intricate weave of mythical creatures, was immediately familiar to Ardan.

Boris had never taken it off. The cipher for the medallion was their goal?

"Tell us the cipher, Boris," said the chestnut-haired mage, his tone eerily calm. "And your suffering will end. I swear on my honor as a baron, I won't harm your maid."

Ardan narrowed his eyes at the scene and fought back a curse that burned on his tongue. He wouldn't have understood what he was seeing if not for the week he'd spent deciphering the Staff of Demons' seals.

Engraved on the silver medallion of Lord Boris Fahtov, eldest son of the Southern Fleet's commander, was a seal from the demonic school of Star Magic. And it was encrypted far more cleverly than the cipher Gleb Davos had used in his research.

Boris, despite his condition, lifted his head slightly. The two men stood with their backs to Ardan, oblivious to the visitor peering at them from behind the crates.

But Boris... Through the narrow slit of his one functional eye, he somehow recognized the familiar face. "No..." He rasped, coughing up blood and spitting out small bits of flesh.

"Idiot," the chestnut-haired mage said, spreading his arms out theatrically. He grabbed the hammer from the table and brought it down on Boris' other knee — the one that had yet to be reduced to a bloody mess.

Boris screamed. The sound tore through the warehouse like a wild animal's death cry, raw and brimming with agony. It was the kind of scream only those on the brink of madness could make. Ardan had heard such cries before in the Alcadian mountains, from animals caught in a hunter's trap.

Gritting his teeth, Ardan pulled back behind the crates. He suppressed the burning desire to rush forward and attack the torturers. Doing so would accomplish nothing.

"Are. You. Going. To. Talk. Now? Or. Do. You. Want. Promyslov. To. End. Up. Here. Too?"

With each word, the chestnut-haired mage paused to deliver another blow, waiting for the blood-soaked screams of Boris to fade before continuing.

Ardan, flipping through his grimoire, fought to keep his composure. He would need it. Boris had to hold out for just a few more seconds. Just a little longer.

Boris screamed. He screamed so loudly that Ardan's heart clenched, and the blood in his veins seemed to freeze.

But Ardan... Ardan knew almost no combat magic. Ice Arrow was useless — Military Faculty students would easily shield themselves against it. He didn't have enough rays for Ice Barrage. That left only...

Got it, Ardan thought, a flicker of relief passing through him.

His grimoire's pages were currently displaying the sigil for Ice Wall, which his remaining five rays were just enough to cast. But why use a defensive spell?

The answer was simple: a match. That idiotic match Convel had made him ignite.

Closing his eyes, Ardan began mentally integrating an embedded seal into Ice Wall. He had no idea if it would work without physically sketching out the formula, but...

"Aaaah!" Boris' scream, filled with pain and despair, snapped him back to reality. There was no other choice.

Boris screamed once more. It was a sound that carried raw, almost primal pain within it, and made it seem like he was desperately clinging to the last vestiges of his life and mind.

Ardan didn't hesitate any longer. He finished sketching the seal in his mind, straining to maintain its structure in his head, then stepped out from behind the crates.

"Hey," he called out loudly and clearly.

He needed the mages to be distracted, and they were.

Both of them were splattered with blood, their coats and jackets removed, their sleeves rolled up. They turned toward him as he spoke.

"Egobar?" The chestnut-haired mage's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. "What are you-"

Ardan didn't let him finish speaking. He slammed his staff against the ground, and at that moment, a sigil of ice flared to life beneath his feet.

But... nothing happened.

No burst of frost came, no fiery explosion, no stone spikes or spectral blades of wind. None of the flashy displays first-year Military Faculty students expected from magic.

Then, several meters above their heads, a massive ice wall appeared, fully formed, and slammed down onto them. The impact made the floor shake, and shards of ice exploded outwards like shrapnel.

The second mage — judging by the blood and bits of flesh now scattered across the floor — was crushed instantly.

Orvilov, however, had managed to summon a shield just in time. A fiery cocoon had surrounded the baron, carving a molten tunnel through the wall of ice. But in his panic and desperation, Orvilov had poured every bit of energy he had into his shield.

And now he stood waist-deep in scalding water, steam rising around him, yelping in pain whenever the melting ice touched his exposed skin. Drained of strength and trapped, he could barely move.

Ardan didn't spare him a glance. He walked around his creation — knowing it would fully melt and vanish in minutes, the Ley energy returning to its source — and approached Boris.

"A... A-r-r-d..." Boris' voice was weak, barely audible. "W-what... t-took you... s-so l-long?"

A lump formed in Ardan's throat as he fought back tears. Memories flooded his mind: laughing with Elena and Boris in a café, visiting them on Saint Warriors Street, their frequent visits to "Bruce's," and all of them playing card games like Olikzasian Sevens with Tess, Talis an Manish, and anyone else who'd wanted to join.

And now, in his friend's hour of need, Ardan had...

"The important thing is... y-you... c-came..." Boris whispered, his breath rattling out of him.

Ardan carefully pulled out his father's old work knife and began cutting the ropes. He tried his best not to cause his friend more pain, but it was unavoidable. Boris groaned and gritted his teeth with every movement.

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, Egobar," Orvilov muttered, finally regaining some composure. "You've involved yourself in something that-"

Suddenly, Orvilov gasped, his words cut off.

Ardan turned sharply and saw Arkar. The half-orc was a mess: he was bloodied, his left arm was hanging limp, and two bullet wounds were clearly visible on his right side. He was also covered in several knife slashes, but his expression was cold and steady as he gripped Orvilov's throat with his one working hand.

"This one's a regular of mine, you bastard," Arkar growled. With a sudden, vicious twist of his wrist, he tore out the baron's throat.

Clutching Orvilov's larynx and part of his windpipe in his bloody hand, Arkar watched dispassionately as the baron collapsed into the steaming water, gasping and clawing at his neck. He twitched once, then again, and finally, he went still, blood pooling around him in the water.

"He didn't get to finish speaking," Ardan said quietly, a note of dismay in his voice.

"Didn't get to finish speaking? Are you an idiot, Ard?" Arkar barked, stepping over the ice wall and picking up something from the floor — a revolver, as it turned out.

"He was stalling," the half-orc continued, wiping the weapon clean before tucking it into his belt. "If we hadn't already agreed on this, I'd say you owe me... for saving your overly clever but incredibly stupid ass."

Arkar approached Ardan and helped him finish untying Boris, hauling the beaten lord to his feet. But as soon as Boris stood, he collapsed again, clutching something on the ground. It was his medallion, bloodied but intact, lying next to the rapidly-melting remains of the Ice Wall spell.

Arkar and Ardan exchanged a glance, then hoisted Boris back up.

"Let's go, your lordship," Arkar grunted. "If my head's still working — and it is — Crooked hasn't gone far and should be waiting for us nearby. Inga still needs her order fulfilled..."

Arkar left a bloody trail across the floor, limping on his right side. Ardan hobbled along with his wounded leg and clutched his side where a bullet had grazed him. Between them, Boris dangled like a half-dead slab of meat, barely conscious.

"We'll head to a clinic first, your lordship," Arkar rambled, seemingly more to fill the silence than anything else. "It's mostly my kind — us orcs, I mean — that go there for treatment, but they'll sterilize you, too."

Boris let out a faint groan, barely clinging to consciousness.

"Stabilize," Ardan corrected quietly.

"Yeah, that's what I meant. After that, we'll take you wherever you want to go."

***

Ardan sat on the stairs outside his apartment, slumped against the cold wall. His clothes were soaked with blood — his own and others' both. His ruined outfit clung to him like a second skin, and he barely had the strength to climb the last few steps.

He was there without Arkar.

The half-orc had gone to sort out some details with his superior... chief... The leader of his gang... The gang head... Ardan had never worked out what titles the members of the Orcish Jackets used.

Arkar had been right. Crooked and his men had been waiting for them. After exchanging a few words with the half-orc, they'd loaded the wounded into their cars and taken them to the agreed-upon destinations. After a stop at Old Park's underground theater-turned-clinic, they dropped Boris off at a New City hospital so grand it resembled a museum. Ardan was pretty sure he'd even seen elven healers in the reception area.

And now, after being dropped off near the bar, Ardan had climbed partway up the stairs to his apartment... and stopped. He just sat there, staring at nothing. His head felt hollow, emptier than even his growling stomach.

The creak of a door caught his attention. Red hair glinted in the dim light as Tess appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She was still wearing the same outfit from before. Climbing up, she adjusted her skirt and sat down beside him.

"You alright?"

"I will be, in a couple of days," Ardan mumbled, his words sluggish.

"And Boris?"

"He will be, in a couple of months."

Tess sat silently for a few seconds before taking Ardan's bloodied hand in hers.

"Let's go patch you up," she said, casting a skeptical glance at his torn pants and shredded sweater. "Those stitches look more like loose threads. They'll split open."

"Let's sit here a bit longer," Ardan replied, unmoving.

"Sit here? You're bleeding all over the place."

Instead of answering her, Ardan nodded toward a small window. Beyond its dirty, foggy glass, the sunrise was beginning to blaze. Golden light wrapped around the snowy rooftops of the Metropolis, illuminating the steam rising from the streets and chasing long shadows down the alleyways.

Tess sighed, resting her head on Ardan's shoulder. He sat there quietly, gazing at the horizon as the sun climbed higher.

Or perhaps it was the Eye of the Spirit of the Day?