Matabar-Chapter 69 - 68 - Darkness

Ardan looked around frantically, but all he saw was a blinding darkness that seemed to be coiling around them. It was so dense that you could barely see past your own nose, let alone the length of your outstretched arm.

Sounds — lost and hollow, like a scream muffled by a pillow shoved against a wide-eyed face — teased him at the very edges of his hearing. Sometimes, there were gunshots that blossomed into fiery, powder-laced clouds deep in the murk, only to vanish an instant later into the silence, accompanied by stifled cries.

Clutching his staff before him, Ardan darted fearful looks from side to side. It was a simple, instinctive need — he wanted to protect himself from the vicious predator that lay hidden in the shadows. For the first time in ages, Ardi felt like prey, cornered and terrified.

Here and there, the wet flapping of the vampires' coats echoed with unsettling sucking noises. Occasionally, their sabers caught the glow of the Ley-lamps standing at the dark's very edge. In those moments, the white beams of light stabbed into the gloom, briefly illuminating severed throats, chopped-off arms pressed tight against bleeding shoulders while orcs shrieked in soundless agony, and blood pouring out onto the snow.

Twenty hulking, ferocious orcs had confronted just three smaller silhouettes. No one could have guessed how utterly outmatched the orcs would turn out to be.

"Mercenaries," Arkar muttered, struggling to his feet. In the next flash of lamplight, Ardan caught a glimpse of thick, viscous blood seeping down the half-orc's temple. When Ardi had shoved the Overseer aside to save him from a blood spear, the orc must have landed headfirst against the curb and ended up lying there unconscious for a while. "Ard, do something about this darkness before we're all-"

Arkar reacted quicker than Ardi's hunter's instincts could roar at him. Ardi was already ducking, the nape of his neck prickling with that chill wind stirred up by swung steel. He wouldn't have been fast enough if not for Arkar, who'd grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back, squeezing the trigger of his gun several times in rapid succession as he did so.

Click. Click. The muted shots were smothered by the oppressive gloom.

Sparks lit the darkness as bullets cut through the night. At such close range, and with Arkar's practiced aim, even vampires, who were gifted with near-mystical reflexes, shouldn't have been able to dodge. But this one didn't even try to do so.

The silhouette simply spun its saber faster than even that foreign Squire on the train had managed. It was as if time, obeying the will of the darkness, had slowed for an instant. Ardan noticed how the unusual steel of that blade shimmered like moonlight, and how all the bullets were sliced into glittering shards, scattering in a white-hot burst of sparks.

The vampire's face was hidden beneath a broad hat much like Cassara's. Before the shadows swallowed him again, he bared his long, bloodied fangs in a silent snarl.

"Damned undead!" Arkar bellowed, yanking Ardan away as he leaped back.

Ardan slammed back-first into a car. He felt shards of broken glass slicing through his long-suffering cloak, coat, and the thrice-mended suit beneath. He hit the ground hard just in time, because a moment later, the car door was shredded by raven feathers. They weren't normal feathers, either, but had been conjured with crystallized blood, much like that spear from before.

After carving through the vehicle and punching straight through its metal, the dark feathers embedded themselves in the brickwork behind it.

Remembering the way the Ley-lamps had driven back the gloom, Ardi rolled under the car.

"Cover me!" He shouted, praying his words could pierce the well of darkness around them.

It sounded like Arkar yelled something back, but Ardan couldn't make out the words. He forced himself to ignore the endless fluttering of the vampires' coats and the shrill screams that cut at his ears. Focusing on an old, rarely used spell in his mental arsenal, he pictured the blueprint he'd learned as a child — one he hadn't invoked in years. He still wished he had his grimoire open in front of him, but at least his practice sessions with Aversky were paying off.

"Ard!" Arkar roared as another volley of blood feathers slammed into the car, their red dots peppering the snow in a punctured trail.

One feather speared a tire, and Ardi almost lost a leg when the heavy vehicle collapsed with a hiss onto its rim.

For a heartbeat, Ardan's concentration wavered and this nearly destroyed the Spark spell he was reworking, but he caught himself and continued rewriting the blueprint in his head, making the final adjustments he needed.

The Grand Magister had trained him to rewrite seals even in the most unpredictable conditions, but Ardan could never have guessed his first exam would take place under a half-fallen car, in a swirl of darkness conjured by a nest of vampires, with orcs lying shredded all around him.

"Arkar!" Ardan shouted, pouring three rays from his first Star into his makeshift construct. "Eyes!"

He prayed the Overseer would get the hint. Then he smashed his staff against the car's wheel rim and pointed the tip away from himself.

A brilliant, coppery-red light burst forth, spreading out in a widening cone that slammed into the darkness and burned it away like a prairie fire would devour dry grass.

Shrieking like demonic bats, the trio of vampires shrank back into what scraps of shadow remained, covering their faces with the heavy folds of their black coats. The light kept flowing from the staff, reflecting off windows and cars, transforming from a simple cone of light into a searing, branching web that consumed the last thrashing remnants of the darkness in its death throes.

Of the twenty orcs, less than half had survived — nine towering figures, some more gravely wounded than others, were scattered across the street. Atop the snow, with holes and gashes marring their still forms, which made it seem like a pack of wild beasts had savaged them, lay the mangled bodies of the dead. Severed arms lay strewn about alongside entrails spilling out from torn-open bellies, and the heads with shattered eye sockets were leaking something that looked like a broken egg.

The three vampires hidden in the half-shadows turned their crimson, hate-filled eyes on Ardan, who was slowly crawling out from under the battered car.

For an instant, his gaze locked with one of the undead, and Ardi's breath seized in his lungs. He felt as though he were clawing his way out of a coffin buried underground, breaking his nails in the process. He imagined ravenous worms gnawing at his bones, and a choking wind from a sunless valley filling his lungs and driving out his very last breath of air.

"Go for the Speaker!" Cried a sharp, feminine voice.

All three vampires began to close in on Ardan, gliding among the shadows that were gradually reclaiming what belonged to them.

"Not so fast!" Arkar roared.

Big as he was, the half-orc hurled himself aside with impressive agility. Tumbling across the bloody snow, he didn't hesitate to hack the hand off an orc's corpse, prying the handle of the belt-fed machine gun from its limp grip. Then he hoisted it onto his thigh.

Yanking back the bolt and chambering a round, Arkar let loose a guttural battle cry —"Aaaaargh!" — and squeezed down on the trigger.

Shell casings the size of a man's finger clinked and gleamed under the streetlamps. The recoil was monstrous, dragging Arkar, who was braced on one knee, gradually backwards until his boot jammed against the curb. Snow sprayed outwards, clearing a patch of bare asphalt around him.

The bullets hissed, whizzing through the thickening night, ricocheting from building walls, grinding brick into dust, and chewing deep holes into the masonry. The barrage pulverized the nearby compact cars — a few battered Derks — and mowed down a lone trolley stop, toppling it like a dried-up bush.

Ardan, clutching his staff, dove face-first into the snow and threw up his grimoire to shield his head. He was screaming something, too — perhaps he was trying to shout over the ear-splitting din of the gun, or maybe just howling in raw fear. The machine gun roared on, each burst launching another rain of deadly lead.

They could only thank the Sleeping Spirits and the Face of Light that no hapless passersby were out on the street, and that the bullets smashing into the ground-floor windows found no unlucky victims inside.

Still, they found no "lucky" targets, either. This time, the vampires didn't bother deflecting the hail of bullets with their blades. They scuttled up the walls instead, clinging to the tiniest ledges with their hands and feet like creepy spiders, soon vanishing past attic windows.

"Fall back!" Arkar shouted, hurling the jammed gun aside. "Move! Now, you retards! This way!"

He seized a massive hammer in his left hand — it might've passed for a sledgehammer in human hands — and in his right, he brandished a hulking revolver. Firing toward the rooftops, Arkar sprinted down the street.

Without looking back or waiting for the other orcs, Ardi scrambled to his feet and followed after him. Judging by the shots ringing out behind him, the surviving gang members did the same.

As light as sparrows, the vampires darted along cornices and drainpipes, cutting bullets from the air with their sabers. Occasionally, they drew their own revolvers. They fired rarely, but each of their shots ended an orc's flight. And with every sickening thud that followed right after, yet another orc would hit the ground. They were dying one after another.

Arkar was luckier. Or quicker. He let out a furious yell when a steel slug tore right through his shoulder, but he never slowed.

One bullet caught the glow of a Ley-lamp as it burst free from an orange muzzle flash and headed straight toward Ardan. He managed to raise a shield, but, in his panic, he cast a Universal Shield instead of the classic one.

"Damn it!" Ardan hissed, feeling the lead sting against his forearm. It almost knocked him off his feet.

He spun from the impact, but stayed upright. He managed to see one of the three vampires crouch low, then drag an elongated claw across his own wrist.

Dark blood poured out, but it didn't spill to the ground. Instead, it billowed in midair, taking the shape of five short but thick spears. The vampire raised his dripping hand toward the sky. The spears shot up. Anyone could guess the devastation that would follow if they came crashing down.

Ardan pressed himself against a lamppost and pried open his grimoire with his half-numb hand. Thankfully, he had only a handful of two-Star combat spells, so he'd placed a special bookmark on the page he needed.

Perhaps it was the extra hours he'd spent practicing with Aversky, or maybe sheer desperation, but Ardan managed to form the seal on his first try, doing so faster than the blood spears could fall upon the orcs below.

They froze in midair, mere meters overhead. At that same moment, the two-Star seal beneath Ardan's feet flared to life — he'd struck the ground with his staff to conjure it.

Unfortunately, Ardan hadn't trained enough to rewrite two-Star spells on the fly, so he used it exactly as the blueprint specified.

Even so, it was enough to allow the five-by-five-meter square of Ice Flowers to brush against the blood-soaked vampire. Delicate, glimmering stalks sprouted across the wall and the edge of the opposite building, their crystal blossoms swaying and chiming with an invisible breeze.

Had Ardan been able to adjust the seal mid-cast, he could have shifted it higher, aimed more to the left, and replaced many of the blossoms with a faster flurry of petals — enough to engulf all three vampires. But it was a miracle he'd even hit one.

Two shadows lunged away from the Ice Flowers just in time. But the third vampire — frozen and bristling with frost — wasn't so lucky. One of the flowers that had blossomed across his blood-smeared body cracked and burst into snowy dust swirling with dozens of sapphire petals. One after another, the rest of the flowers popped, sending more ice petals dancing through the air.

In the blink of an eye — barely a heartbeat after Ardan had slammed his staff into the ground — the vampire on the roof was encased in a glacial sculpture, his hand still outstretched toward the cornice. He stood imprisoned amid the drifting petals, his wild red eyes rolling in their sockets as he found himself unable to move so much as a finger.

"Artem!" Cried one of the remaining shadows in a high-pitched, feminine voice. She made to rush toward the icy statue, but the third vampire caught her by the arm.

A pity… If she'd laid so much as a finger on the frozen prison, she would have shattered right along with him when Ardan made a small, deft motion with his staff. In a single breath, the trapped vampire and his half-formed blood spears splintered into crimson shards that fell from the rooftop in a gruesome avalanche, smashing into the sidewalk below.

"Noooo!" The second vampire's wail tore through the night. Her gaze — burning with seething hatred — bore into Ardan. "Speaker!" She hissed.

Ardan had already flipped a page in his grimoire, readying another spell that would devour the last two rays of his Red Star and four from his Green one. But then the roar of a gunshot split the air.

Arkar's bullet slammed into the gut of that hissing shape, forcing her to clutch her stomach and double over. The last vampire caught his wounded comrade under one arm, flicked the hem of his coat like a black wing, and vanished into the shadows at the far side of the building.

For a fleeting moment, the street went still. A few faces peered out from behind windows — foolishly curious faces. They were foolish because only someone with a negative intelligence score would stick their head out during a gang shootout, or even consider getting up off the floor for that matter.

"Well done, mage," Indgar said through ragged breaths. Several jagged claw marks now streaked his face. He clapped Ardan on the shoulder.

Ardan answered the gesture with a single nod. In his mind, two embers of raw, feral hate still flickered — the memory of that vampires's crimson eyes would haunt him.

"Over here!" Arkar called out, waving them on.

Four orcs, plus Ardan, trotted after him, leaving behind the bloody remains of their fallen comrades. The half-orc had managed to bash a lock open using a plethora of curses, a hammer, and his considerable muscle. He yanked open the door that led into the basement of a nondescript building.

They descended a narrow staircase slick with meltwater and reeking of stray cats that had snuck in through the vents. The six of them — four full-blooded orcs, one half-orc, and one half-Matabar — stumbled into the cellar. They all had to hunch over (the ceiling was too low), but they managed to shuffle far enough inside to let Arkar slam the door shut and brace it with a pipe that was lying on a stack of wooden pallets.

Panting for breath, they checked themselves and each other for wounds. The orcs reloaded their revolvers, muttering half-stifled curses and clinging to the simple fact that their hearts were still beating.

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"Could the Hammers have hired the Narikhman?" Indgar wondered out loud.

"The Hammers had nothing to do with this!" Arkar snarled back. The force of his voice cowed them into silence. "Or are you all idiots? Anyone can get themselves some fake ink! You really think that poor fool just happened to cross your path? He was planted! And Ordargar, damn him, had to have known that!"

Ardan gathered that "ink" meant tattoos. What Arkar was saying seemed painfully obvious in hindsight, but until now, Ardi hadn't even considered it. Not because he lacked the smarts to figure it out, but because he'd tried to keep himself detached from the troubles of the Orcish Jackets.

He owed them — or rather, he owed their Overseer — a debt for helping him save Boris. No more, no less. He hadn't probed deeper because tonight was simply supposed to be the night he repaid that debt.

He now realized that such an attitude might have been a mistake.

"Arkar, with all due respect…" Indgar started, stepping closer to the Overseer. "You shouldn't talk that way about our Boss-"

Though Indgar was both taller and broader, Arkar outmatched him in sheer speed. The half-orc feigned a swing with his right fist, drawing Indgar's guard upwards, then hooked the orc's ankle with the hammer in his left hand. Indgar toppled, and Arkar slammed a boot into his chest.

"You don't get to tell me what I should or shouldn't say, whelp," Arkar growled, baring his tusks in the frightened orc's face. Leaning his full weight onto Indgar's creaking ribs, he lifted his gaze to the others. "Anyone else got something to say about what I need to do?"

They all shrank back, silent. In that cramped, rat-infested basement stinking of cat shit, they no longer looked like the fearsome thugs they'd seemed to be at "Bruce's."

"Thought so," Arkar growled, giving Indgar a shove with his boot so the young orc could scramble to his feet.

The young orc rose without a word, shooting Arkar a dark, smoldering glare — one that clashed with the easygoing image he'd once presented. Clearly, the Overseer hadn't been lying when he'd warned Ardi to keep an eye on Indgar.

"Ard," Arkar motioned for the mage to join him. They moved over to a thin strip of grimy glass set just below the ceiling. It was level with the pavement outside.

Arkar looked worried, and blood still ran freely down his arm. The belt he'd used as a tourniquet wasn't doing him much good.

"We're in deep trouble, Ard," he said quietly, so the others wouldn't overhear.

"Yes, the vampires-"

"Never mind the damn bloodsuckers," the half-orc interrupted him with a dismissive wave. "This whole thing is one giant setup."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"I mean what I said," Arkar growled, tightening the makeshift band around his arm. "Starting with the hit on Ordargar, all the way to us crouching in this stinking basement… They lured us in. And the old wolf fell for it, like some naive cub."

"Arkar, I'm lost," Ardan admitted honestly.

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With a sigh, Arkar leaned against the wall, one shoulder pressed to the brick, his revolver resting at the ready. He kept his eyes on the street, as though expecting something at any moment.

"The gangs carved up their territory ages ago, Matabar," Arkar murmured, half under his breath. "Sure, we butt heads sometimes, but that's rare. The last all-out gang war was what — thirty-five years ago, maybe? It was around the time that the Dandy showed up in the city, snatching up other people's turf. I wasn't with the Jackets back then, but I've heard the stories."

Ardan listened carefully, committing every detail to memory. If he really was neck-deep in the Metropolis' underbelly, he'd do his best to grasp the lay of the land.

"But when Grand Prince Pavel came back to the capital, everything quieted down. They really started clamping down on us — tightening the laws against organized crime," Arkar continued, never once looking away from the empty street beyond the glass. "Lots of folks went to the labor camps. Rats, moles, informers — they sprang up like weeds. Not to mention…"

He trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his revolver.

"And this relates to what's happening now… how?" Ardan asked.

"There's no reason for us to fight, no easy justification," Arkar explained. He fumbled in his pocket with his good hand, fishing out a cigar. Ardan lit it for him. "Thanks… Okay, see, there's no sense in fighting. We've all got our slice. Business is steady. Exes keep rolling in. Everything's smooth."

Ardan's gaze shifted toward the street. He was beginning to piece things together.

"And then, for some reason, the Hammers — who are part of the northern diaspora forces — attack the Jackets," he murmured.

"Exactly," Arkar said. "Starting to get it now?"

"Little by little," Ardan answered uncertainly. "Even if the Hammers were framed, Ordargar forced your hand by sending you out here."

"Precisely," Arkar growled, flashing a tusked grin. "Now it doesn't matter whether the Hammers were set up or not. Blood has been spilled, Ard. And on the Hammers' turf, no less. Orc blood. You can bet your staff that tomorrow's headlines will say a few stray bullets killed innocent citizens in a gang shootout."

"I didn't-"

"They'll produce the corpses," Arkar cut in, "and plant them to 'prove' it. Make sure it looks like a godawful bloodbath."

Ardan leaned against the wall too. The other orcs were waiting for orders and catching their breath. Indgar glowered at them in the dim light. Ardi's thoughts were swirling with all that had happened. He might not have been an old bloodhound like Peter Oglanov, but he could still sense that these events were all surely connected to the demonologists and the Order of the Spider.

Why?

Too many pieces of this puzzle looked suspiciously alike.

One question still lingered in Ardan's mind, however:

"But… why?"

"Who cares?" Arkar shrugged his uninjured shoulder. "It doesn't matter anymore, Matabar. What matters is that if we don't figure out how to solve this — fast — this city's going to get a whole lot more… unsated."

"Unsettled," Ardan corrected him absently. "And how exactly do you plan to figure things out?"

"By using two tools," the half-orc replied. "First, we'll talk. If that doesn't help, then…" He gave his revolver another casual swing. "We'll take them all down before the real trouble starts. Right now, it's just the Hammers and us, so if we bleed the northerners hard enough, the rest will think twice before they come clawing for their slice of the pie… join the fray, I mean. That'll buy us some time."

"There are six of us," Ardan reminded him. "How do you-"

"And here they come," Arkar said with a predatory grin.

Beyond the window, out in the middle of the street, a large group of northerners approached. They had black hair and dark eyes and wore thick fur coats along with sturdy boots. Every single one of them was also brandishing a revolver, an axe, or a hammer. There were about forty of them in total, marching along as if they owned the road.

Ardan swallowed hard.

Before long, that crowd, which was intimidating enough to force even the boldest onlookers to pull their heads back inside, halted right in front of the building where the orcs were hiding.

A man stepped forward. He wore a simple, long coat lined with black sheepskin, and in his hands, he gripped two battered-looking construction hammers. He seemed to be about forty, with streaks of gray in his dark hair, a pair of scars across his face, and a heavy, oaken weight in his brown eyes.

"Arseniy," Arkar growled under his breath. "The Overseer of the Hammers."

"Arkar!" The gangster boomed as though he'd heard his name echo in the wind. "Come out! We need to talk."

Cursing under his breath, the half-orc smashed the window with the butt of his revolver and bellowed, "How do I know you won't gun me down the moment I step outside?"

The Hammers replied with derisive laughter. Ardan noticed the triangular symbol of the Face of Light hanging from simple necklaces resting on each of their chests. The northern provinces and their fervent devotion to faith…

"You don't," Arseniy called back. "But if you don't come out on your own, we'll drag you and your mutts out ourselves. And believe me, your options will be far worse then."

"Screw you, northerner," Arkar spat. "Go on, try to get in! We've got more than enough bullets, and…"

Arseniy lifted one of his hammers, and at his signal, a few men stepped out from the crowd, smoke grenades clutched in their hands. The implication was crystal clear. If Arkar refused to come out, they'd smoke them out. And that was if they chose to use plain smoke instead of poison. Suffocating to death would hardly be a pleasant way to go.

"…and, on the other hand, it's been a while since we last shot the breeze, Arseniy. I don't mind talking."

The northerners let out a few restrained chuckles.

"A wise choice, beast," Arseniy said in a mocking tone.

"Fucking Tavser," Arkar muttered, then raised his voice. "I'll bring a friend with me!"

"Bring your whole lot out into the light of day if you want," Arseniy said with a shrug. "Makes no difference to us how many of you we send off to stand trial before the Light."

"Arkar…"

"Don't lose your nerve, cub," Arkar said through the cigar he'd clenched between his teeth. He was also wiping blood off his face with a sleeve. "Arseniy doesn't act rashly. He thinks things through. We can talk to him."

The half-orc turned to the other gang members, keeping his gaze fixed on Indgar. "Once we start talking, you all slip out through that door," he said, pointing to a discreet exit in the far corner. "Try to make it to "Bruce's" and tell Ordargar what happened here."

"Yes, Overseer."

"Understood, Arkar."

"We'll do it."

Only Indgar kept silent.

Arkar tucked his revolver inside his sleeve and secured it there with some hidden trick. He raised his hands — wincing at the pain in his injured shoulder — then used his good shoulder to nudge the door open and step into the glow of the streetlamps. Ardan followed him at once, staff in one hand, his other hand lifted toward the sky.

As soon as the northerners caught sight of his crimson cloak, insignia, and staff, guns were readied, curses flew, and a few men reached for the cords of their handheld grenades.

Ardi was starting to suspect that every gang in the capital had military-grade weaponry. Could Mart have been right after all when he'd claimed that, in the Metropolis, as long as you had money, you could buy and sell anything?

"Well, I'll be damned," Arseniy, the only one whose expression had remained unmoved, said. "I never put much stock in the rumors. Figured no self-respecting mage would throw in with the Jackets."

"He's just renting from us," Arkar said, nodding toward Ardan. "Got buried in this mess by shit luck. He's got no dog in the race."

"Arkar," Arseniy said with a faint sneer. He might not have been a half-blood, but he could've still passed for a very distant orcish descendant. "All these years later, and you're still spouting street lingo like some two-bit thug."

"Old habits," the half-orc said with a slight shrug.

Arseniy caught the gesture. "I see you didn't come empty-handed, beast."

"Just like old times, northerner," Arkar replied in kind, not showing even the slightest flicker of fear in front of forty armed, hostile gang members.

"That's not good, Arkar. Not good at all," Arseniy said, shaking his head. "Stirring up trouble in someone else's territory is a foul deed. Ungodly."

"And squeezing dues out of the workers and stirring up strikes is godly, is it?"

"I've no time for pointless debates."

"De… bates?" Arkar repeated. "Is that some sort of weird northern bedroom game?"

"It's what you call an argument," Ardan murmured.

"Ah," the half-orc drawled, turning back to Arseniy. "You need to understand, friend, that we don't really have a quarrel with you. Your folk are safe and sound. We didn't have many of our own to begin with, so there's not much left of us now. This was all a setup, Arseniy. Someone wants us at each other's throats and-"

Arseniy raised a hammer, cutting Arkar short.

"You could've come to us in good faith, Arkar," he said heavily, each word carefully measured. "We would've talked it over, found common ground, and come to a solution that worked for both sides — just like we've been doing for years. But you showed up with guns and blades. Now that things have turned grim, you're scrambling to wriggle free."

"Arseniy!" Arkar barked. "We were attacked by vampires. Fucking vampires, you understand? Someone hired the Narikhman, and-"

"It doesn't matter anymore, Arkar," the northerner broke in. "Blood was spilled on our land. If we don't respond, the others will smell weakness."

"Did he and Ordargar smack their heads on the same door or something?" Arkar muttered, then jerked his chin at Ardan. "What's your plan? You'll gun us both down, even the Imperial Mage with all his regalia? Sure, maybe the local guard is in your pocket, but killing a mage is something the Second Chancery won't ignore."

Ardan suddenly understood why the sirens hadn't started shrieking yet, despite the gunfire, and also why Arkar had brought him along — to serve as a living shield.

The half-orc had warned him that they weren't honorable warriors, but simple gangsters who did things the gangster way — underhanded and in secret.

"Blood for blood, Arkar," Arseniy said in that same cold, stony voice. "You know how it goes… We won't stray from the old traditions. Here, catch."

Arseniy slipped one of his hammers through his belt, pulled out a long knife, and tossed it at the orc's feet. "I need a right ear. From either one of you. Did you think I wouldn't notice a beast standing in front of me, orc? You've got a half-blood Matabar with you — a descendant of the Dark Lord's servant, may his name be consumed by the fires of hell."

Ard was beginning to piece together why Ordargar wore that ear prosthetic, and why the replacement wasn't shaped like an orc ear, but a human one. According to the history texts, the Tavsers were fond of cutting off ears.

"Bastard," Arkar hissed so quietly that no one could hear him, then spoke louder. "I already told you, Arseniy. The kid here is innocent. He just blundered into this mess and-"

"I don't care," the northerner spat, letting a flash of anger slip through. "A beast is a beast. Don't care whether he's renting a room at "Bruce's" or working with you for coin. We don't welcome beasts here. If you came, you pay your toll."

"Dammit, Ard," Arkar muttered. "Never thought it would-"

"Hey, I know that guy!" A voice called out from the crowd.

The northerners stirred. Then a man stepped forward. He was about thirty-five, with a round face, a kindly look in his eyes, and a relatively fresh scar running from his chin down past his collarbone.

Ardan squinted at him. Then he exhaled in relief, almost not believing his sudden stroke of good luck.

"Hello, Mr. Krivov," Ardan called out, waving. "How's your son?"

"Doing fine, Mr. Egobar, thanks," the man answered with heartfelt gratitude and respect. "We're still giving him that tea you recommended. He hasn't had a nightmare since."

"Good, I-"

"Iors!" Arseniy barked, drowning out Ardan. "Explain yourself."

"He's the mage I told you about, Overseer," the man replied, gesturing at Ardi. "He was with the Cloaks when we were traveling to Presny. He treated our children for free."

For a moment, Arseniy — and, interestingly, Arkar as well — looked at Ardan in an entirely different light.

"With the Cloaks, you say…" Arseniy drawled. You could almost see the cogs spinning in his head.

The same thoughts were likely stirring in Arkar's mind. The half-orc must have noticed that even Tess — who was no expert on underworld affairs — had recognized how often cars from the Second Chancery stopped by "Bruce's."

Arseniy stayed silent for a time, then tucked his second hammer away.

"Luck is with you today, beast," he finally said, exhaling a puff of breath into the cold air. "The guards will be here in five minutes, so let's talk."

He stepped away from his men, drawing near enough to speak with them at arm's length. Up close, the Hammers' Overseer looked even larger. He was only a little shorter than Ardan, but broad-shouldered enough that he didn't seem small even when standing next to the bulky half-orc.

His bare knuckles were knotted with old calluses, and his face carried several small but telling scars.

"Ordargar sent you, didn't he?" Arseniy asked, lowering his voice.

"Yes."

"He had to know this was nothing but a messy shit-fart."

"A shit-fart?" Arkar let his hands fall, relaxing slightly. Blood was still running down his arm. "And here you were scolding me for my thug talk."

Arseniy ignored his jibe. "Calm yourself, beast. I've already sent my best muscle after the bloodsuckers, but they'll likely find no trail."

"Probably not," Arkar agreed.

Arseniy's eyes narrowed. "Then you realize what this means? Ordargar knew, and he still sent you. Not just anybody, but you, his right-hand man."

"I know," Arkar said heavily.

Ardan didn't know, though he suspected some things. He couldn't say for certain that he understood exactly what Arseniy was getting at.

"The street's already told us what happened with Ordargar," Arseniy went on. "In an ambush like that, you know as well as I do that no one should have survived. Orc or not — it doesn't matter. It was worse than back when you and I were under fire at Shangrad, Corporal."

"But you got us out of it back then, Sergeant," Arkar replied, wincing at the pain of his wound. "You saved us after the brass had already written our entire company off."

That was when Ardan realized a small but crucial detail: Arseniy and Arkar had served together. That might've explained why they hadn't rushed to spill each other's blood, and also why they'd given themselves this one chance to talk things through.

"They might've spared Ordargar on purpose," Arkar said through clenched teeth, "so we'd think he sold us out. Maybe he sent us here to prove he didn't."

"Or maybe it's the exact opposite, Corporal," Arseniy mused softly. "Maybe you just don't want to see the worst in your old friend."

"Maybe."

Both Overseers fell silent for a few moments.

"I can buy you three, maybe four months at most, Arkar," Arseniy said, his voice almost a whisper. "But after that, someone has to answer for this. And whether you believe me or not, even though half your blood is that of a beast, I'd rather that someone not be you."

"You'll bare your fangs at us, Sergeant?" Arkar bared his fangs demonstratively. "We may have taken a beating, but we're still armed and ready."

"You think the Dandy won't join in to snatch some turf while we're fighting? Don't be stupid, Arkar. Either you settle this and bring us the head of the one responsible for…" Arseniy nodded toward the half-destroyed street, the burning cars, and the bullet-riddled buildings. "…or…"

"A war, Arseniy?" Arkar's eyes narrowed. "Because we've shed our own blood, too. Ordargar's lost an entire leg, practically."

"Not war," the northerner said, shaking his head. "Extermination. Not a single one of the Six will stand by you because you're-"

"Firstborn," Arkar snarled.

"See? You already know," Arseniy said, spreading his hands. "And if you call on other beasts for aid, you know how the city will react. I can already see the newspaper headlines: 'The Spring Rebellion of the Firstborn,'" he added with a mocking smile. "We wouldn't even have to lift a finger after that. The guards and the Cloaks would crush you on their own."

Arkar stayed quiet. Even Ardan, with his limited knowledge, could see how right Arseniy was. The Orcish Jackets had carved out their niche, but the city would never let them claim more. It was strange that Ordargar had overlooked such an obvious fact and sent in a group of armed Firstborn.

"Four months, Arkar," Arseniy repeated. "If in Four months, you don't bring me that head, we'll have war. As your old comrade, I'll give you one piece of advice: take it from someone who's gotten too full of himself. After all, who needs a boss who can't even keep both of his legs," he finished with a contemptuous little smile. "Arkar."

"Arseniy," the half-orc growled in return.

Arseniy shot a quick glance at Ardan before heading back to his men. In the distance, sirens were already wailing, signaling that the city guard and fire brigades were on their way. And despite the sheer number of witnesses, Ardi had a sinking feeling that they'd chalk this up to terrorists or come up with some other excuse to explain it all away.

"Spirits…"

Arkar staggered, nearly collapsing into the snow, but Ardan managed to catch him. He slung the half-orc's good arm over his shoulder and started leading him toward the avenue just off the street — there seemed to be a tram stop that way.

They still had to make a long journey back to "Bruce's."

"You know," Arkar muttered, "I should've given that bastard the boot when he first started waving his exes at me for that job at Baliero. But no… He sweet-talked me like all Castilians do."

"A Castilian?" Ardan asked, pausing. "The go-between who brought you the Baliero deal was from Castilia?"

"Yeah."

Ardan's brow furrowed. In the report Milar had shown him, there wasn't a single word about the messenger being a foreigner.

Again with these Castilians…

What in the name of the Sleeping Spirits was happening in the Metropolis — and more importantly, what was about to happen next?