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Matabar. Chapter 98 - Weeping Woman
🕑 Added 2025-04-28 23:02:01 +0000 UTCDouble chapter released today (yeap, once again). Don't miss the previous chapter.
Ardan didn’t know what the inside of a real castle was supposed to look like. His great-grandfather’s stories had depicted them in various ways, but always with a hint of scorn. Aror had described castles from the point of view of those who’d seized them.
He’d spoken of how dwarven phalanxes would march to storm barbicans, while their Stone Enchanters would protect their warriors from the catapults that guarded the broad frontiers of human fortifications. How the swift, light and deft swordsmen of the forest elves would practically fly up those jagged, massive, yet almost ludicrous walls without even using the ladders or grappling hooks so prized by human engineers caught up in their endless internecine feuds. And how, at four hundred paces, elven archers could hit even the smallest of targets through nearly imperceptible arrow slits, while their Aean’Hane would invoke the Names that brought human mages to their knees — those same mages who were only just beginning to master the Star Magic of the eastern continent. How hordes of orcs, astride colossal wolves and steppe horses, would trample the heavy, lumbering cavalry of Gales, Atruae and Aradira deep into the mud.
He’d spun tales of giants and ogres who had easily battered down massive oak gates, and of mermaids and tritons who’d poisoned rivers and wells.
He’d spoken of shamans from many races, who had unleashed spirits and enchantments that had ruined harvests and caused supplies in the granaries to rot.
Castles had never saved humans from the Firstborn. They’d only ever afforded enough time — brief though it was — for village folk to abandon their homes and fields, to flee and hide. Or at least hope they could hide.
And then... humans had invented crossbows that could shoot farther than any elven bow. They’d mounted siege towers on wheels that had been taller than even the grandest creations of the dwarven artisans. Humans had learned how to construct intricate forts with ramparts and earthworks, establishing an entire science of fortification so that neither elven swordsmen nor orcish hordes could simply sweep them aside.
They’d built trebuchets and ballistae, preventing their foes from even lifting their heads while enduring the barrage of artillery. And so, the age when humankind had gradually freed itself from the yoke of Ectassus had begun. Human cities had grown and evolved, and their progress had raced ahead at a blistering gallop.
Soon, Star Magic, together with advances in engineering and the first gunpowder weapons, had enabled the Last King of Gales to raise his banner and begin... What, exactly, had he begun?
His great-grandfather had called it “the conquest of the Firstborn lands.” But history textbooks gave... many different accounts. The War of the Birth of the Empire had lasted several decades and ended, as everyone knew, a couple of years after the heroic deed of Sergeant Mendera and his soldiers.
But nowhere, not once, had Ardi ever come across a description of what was actually inside castles. Still, something told him that, as he stepped across the wooden parquet carpeted in colorful Skaldavin wool, as he looked at the ornate wallpaper winding along the walls, at the ceiling with its grand, bulbous chandeliers that didn’t use wax candles but a complex system of Ley-lamps directing light into every corner of the room… As he noticed the broad, wooden window sills with carved patterns on their slopes, the tall doors with brass handles, the intricate system of central heating radiators, the Ley-wiring snaking along the moldings, and the utter lack of any real vestiges of antiquity aside from a couple of old curios on display in the hall, he knew that in ancient times, everything must have looked very different.
This “castle” had a large foyer, like any upscale apartment or house where wealthy, modern citizens lived. Adjoining it was an entryway furnished according to the recent trends. There was a sofa upholstered in fine brown leather, complete with pull-out drawers for shoes, a long, lacquered wardrobe featuring a wrought-iron rail for hangers, a hat shelf, an umbrella stand, and a tray for outdoor footwear. Beside it stood a horned contraption that resembled an oversized, two-pronged fork — quite handy for bracing against one’s heel in order to remove shoes or boots without bending over.
The air felt a bit dry, since the heating was still running and the place was rarely aired.
The floorboards creaked, hinting at issues with the joists — likely brought on by swings in temperature and humidity.
In other words...
“Are we sure this is actually a castle?” Milar drawled, giving their surroundings a critical once-over with eyes that appeared far too large. They were both still wearing their Ley glasses, so they likely looked somewhat comical to each other.
“We’re in something that looks like a castle from the outside,” Ardi corrected him, regarding the captain — who had already doffed his hat and was reaching to hang it on a hook — with clear skepticism.
Milar shifted his huge, fish-like eyes from Ard to the coat rack and back again, then shut them and shook his head.
“Habit,” the captain muttered, answering the unspoken question. He started to walk forward.
Ardi caught his partner by the shoulder, stopping him just a few centimeters shy of an invisible boundary.
“Look closely,” Ardan whispered, leaning toward Milar’s ear and nodding at the floor.
At first, Milar didn’t understand what he meant, but a second later, he noticed it. While the spirits of the Alcade had not taught him their hunting ways, Milar was still a first-rank investigator with a keen (if somewhat undereducated, according to him) mind.
Shoving Ard’s hand aside, the captain crouched and stretched out his own. The tips of his fingers hovered just above the parquet. Meanwhile, Ardan was sniffing the air. Apart from the dryness scraping at his nostrils like an irate cat, he... could sense nothing else. No sulfur, no stench of rotting flowers, no trace of salty, searing tears.
“Strange,” Milar muttered, lifting his fingers to his nose and sniffing.
A normal human nose likely wouldn’t pick up anything either, but... Ardi didn’t really know for sure. He had never been “just human,” and so he had no idea what Milar expected to smell. Even people without a particularly sharp nose could occasionally detect something.
“Indeed,” Ardan agreed.
“There’s no dust,” Milar said, brushing his hand clean before straightening. “But there’s no smell of soap or lye, either, so it hasn’t been cleaned. And yet, Le’mriti moved out a while back.”
“There’s no demon smell, either,” Ardi added.
A spark of hope flickered in the captain’s huge, spherical eyes.
“Well, maybe-”
“Step back,” Ardan cut in, retreating a step. “She’s hiding.”
Milar carefully moved behind his partner. They had yet to cross the invisible threshold between the foyer and the hall.
“I don’t like your tone…”
“I should’ve known,” Ardan exhaled, never taking his eyes off the broad, “winged” staircase that led to the second floor. “The Ragman collects antiques, right?”
“That’s right.”
“So, the Weeping Woman really does have a physical body — it’s just...” Ardan sighed, briefly closing his eyes to rally what remained of his strength and willpower after he’d dragged himself out of the demon’s illusion.
“Just... what, Magister?” Milar asked, clearly tense. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”
“It’s simply not the kind of body I was expecting,” Ardan finished.
He drew a silver rod from his belt. It was about the length of his forearm and roughly as thick as a glasses case. It glimmered in the Ley-light, decorated with carvings of birds grasping snakes in their talons.
“Honestly, Ard, one day — when my nerves are completely shot and you forget to curb your infuriating habit of speaking in single-syllable riddles — I’ll just shoot you in the knee,” Milar muttered through clenched teeth. “And any jury alive will likely acquit me.”
Without a word, Ardan lifted the rod high and drove it into the floor with all his might. The parquet cracked and split, allowing the rod to punch through and strike the concrete below with a resonant boom. A spray of powdered stone billowed up, bits of debris scattering in every direction. The rod sank a few millimeters into the concrete — just enough to keep it standing.
“Yeah, I’ll definitely shoot you in the knee. I’m not risking hand-to-hand with you,” Milar’s voice came from behind him. “There’s still enough brute strength in you — even when you’re just skin and bones — to cause trouble. Eternal Angels... You have no idea, Magister, how often I forget you’re not human.”
Ardan glanced down at his hand and frowned. He could vividly recall how, in the steppes far from the Alcade, his physical prowess had been only slightly greater than that of a normal human. Now... it felt as though it had increased. And he doubted the invigorating potions were the cause. If anything, those should have worsened his condition rather than improved it.
But those were thoughts for another day.
“The demon has possessed some sort of object,” Ardi said in a distant tone, still eyeing his hand curiously. “An item that serves as its body.”
“Could it be any object?” Milar cast a wary glance at a pair of red high heels that had been left behind by Le’mriti’s wife, daughter, or mistress.
“No. It can’t be just anything.” Ardan clenched and unclenched his fist, then returned to the rod embedded in the floor. “We still don’t really know what Fae are, so we don’t really know what demons are, either. They exist as both physical entities and Ley-particles.”
“Ley-particles?” Milar let out a shaky breath. “Eternal Angels, what does that even mean?”
“It’s complicated,” Ardi admitted. Aware of the fact that the man behind him was breathing rapidly and nervously, he continued, “Honestly, Milar, I don’t fully understand it, either. Picture demons as existing and... not existing. Like a reflection in a mirror. You see it, but it isn’t really there. And if-”
“And if you smash the mirror, the reflection cracks,” Milar said. “So we just need to destroy whatever it’s bound to, and it’ll slink back to hell?”
“Yes, but the mirror has to be special.” Ardan opened his grimoire, scanning his notes. He hoped that he hadn’t squandered the hours he’d spent in the library, studying those old monster hunter texts. “Demons carry a certain... charge. And the items they can, let’s say, ‘inhabit,’ must also have a charge. So, we’re looking for a Ley artifact, not just any random object.”
“All we’re doing right now is talking, partner,” Milar said, looking around with growing unease. In his left hand, he held his revolver, and in his right, his drawn saber. “And we’re smack dab in the beast’s den.”
“We’re safe here.”
“What?”
Ardi gestured behind him to the wall, where, disguised as a key cabinet, a knot of crackling Ley energy gleamed.
“This is where the Ley cables come in,” the young man explained, finishing his calculations. “It’s the main node distributing power throughout... the ‘castle.’ That field is too strong. It’s shielding us from the demon.”
“So that’s why the floor’s dusty?” Milar brushed off his uniform pants.
“Exactly,” Ardan said with a nod. “Now give me a minute, please.”
Milar fell silent, and Ardan returned to his notes. If he had read everything correctly and understood it properly, then...
Ardan straightened and, taking a step back, placed the head of his staff against the silver rod. Focusing on his Red Star, he ignited three of its rays and directed them into the rod.
“Damn... That’s beautiful...” Milar whispered in awe.
Ardi watched as scarlet sparks flickered to life somewhere in his chest before racing along his arm as wisps of crimson fog to pour into his staff. There, they formed into thick droplets that didn’t merge or devour each other, but assembled themselves neatly, almost like soldiers in a formation, and vanished into the artifact.
Nothing happened at first. Then a brilliant white glow started shining from deep within the silver rod. It stirred as though waking, gazing about like a newborn chick, then stretched out slender filaments that touched the ornamental birds etched along the metal’s surface.
Within the span of a heartbeat, those birds started shimmering with a hazy radiance and spreading their wings. Dozens of transparent, gleaming shapes — within which flickered constellations of Ley-lights — peeled away from the rod, each leaving behind a faint, ghostly thread connecting it to the silver shaft, and scattered throughout the hall.
They touched down on the wide windowsills and the steps of the staircase, tapped their talons or beaks against the glass-enclosed relics — broken fragments of swords, spears, and a single gauntlet — and then flew on. One soared up the stairs, then another, then a third, until only Ardan and Milar remained on the first floor.
Were it not for their Ley glasses, they would never have seen the spectral threads tethering those phantom birds to the rod.
“What is that?” Milar asked.
“A Claw,” Ardan answered curtly. Then, before Milar could press a revolver to his temple (and the captain certainly looked tempted to do just that), he explained, “An artifact akin to those forged in the War of the Birth of the Empire. It was used to imprison weaker Fae. The rod can capture a small spirit. It’s a rather intricate piece of Star Magic that-”
“Wait,” Milar broke in, his huge eyes following the shimmering strands. “You said it can capture a small and weak spirit. So how’s this thing going to help us?!”
“Milar,” Ardan sighed, stepping back to get closer to the Ley node, “the Weeping Woman... The White Lady... she’s a weak spirit. In current classifications, she’s at about two rays of the Red Star. If something stronger had occupied this place... Well, we wouldn’t have even come here.”
“Why not?”
“Because the building simply wouldn’t be present,” Ardan answered with a slight shiver. “Milar, you’ve never really dealt with demons or Fae because it’s incredibly difficult for them to exist among all this metal and Ley-cabling. But that’s the paradox: the weaker a being is, the longer it can manage to remain here, among all the interference.”
The captain grumbled something inaudible, then flicked a finger against Ardan’s staff.
“You’ve got two Stars, right? And a fair number of rays. Why not go handle her yourself?”
“Because the demon classification follows the guidelines for anomalies — magical creatures, if you want to use the layman’s term,” Ardan said, glancing at the staircase. “And that’s as arbitrary as it gets. Apart from Lady Talia, no one in the Empire has studied demons openly. So...”
“So are we already deep in the ass, or just hovering on the edge of the crack?”
Ardan nearly choked on that phrasing. Indeed, every Cloak seemed to share a penchant for coarse language — something they had in common with Arkar. Perhaps a blunt manner of speaking served those who forever danced with death, always dodging her attempts to bring her partner crashing down.
“I don’t like your silence, Magister. I’m starting to-”
“Quiet,” Ardi hissed, pulling a small vial of “perfume” from his belt and hiding it behind his back. “And please, don’t fire at anything. And don’t listen to her.”
“Her? Who-”
Milar never finished that sentence. A moment later, a piercing, birdlike cry echoed from the second floor. The rod quivered, flaring up with silvery flames. One by one, the strands linking the rod to the phantom birds snapped, and with each one that broke, the artifact itself grew thinner, melting and spreading across the floor, scorching the parquet and filling the foyer with smoke. It simply could not bear the force contending against it.
Ardi — who had no desire to face a demon or a Homeless Fae in their lair empty-handed — had never expected to find such an artifact in Dagdag’s supplies. Star artifacts, unlike those crafted by the Aean’Hane, didn’t retain their properties for long.
And yet...
And yet, it had managed to do part of its job. While a puddle of molten metal was sizzling and spreading across the scorched floor, something began to form in the hall.
Smoke crawled over the carpet and herringbone-patterned parquet like a lonely dog, then started frothing and churning like boiling milk. And from that foamy haze, from within the bubbles that burst one after another, silhouettes emerged.
Thin, feminine arms reached upwards, flesh peeling away from bones and melding with shreds of tattered clothing. Long, yellowish nails scraped against the floor, leaving deep gouges as though the women were clawing their way out of oblivion.
Their faces, twisted into agonized grimaces, had glowing yellow eyes. Their mouths gaped, assuming unnatural shapes and brimming with sticky saliva that dripped down in thick ropes to the floor.
Drip... drip... Drip... drip...
Their teeth — crooked, yellow-green, broken, and filed down — stuck out at odd angles, much like the women themselves. Each time their twisted legs took a step, they jerked and twitched like marionettes in the hands of a clumsy puppeteer.
And the soles of their feet clicked along the parquet.
Click... click... Click... click...
There were dozens of distorted women. They howled and moaned like the dying, clinging to whatever faint spark of life still flickered within their collapsing minds. They were like children crying beside a fresh grave. Like mothers staring at a telegram that says their son is never coming home. Like a starving, freezing kitten mewling under a scrap of cardboard in a downpour. Like a woman betrayed. Like a man who has lost his reason to live.
They reeked, too. They reeked of injustice never avenged, of slights undeserved, of heartbreak and broken dreams. They stank like withered flowers, stale water, and charred flesh.
“E-Eternal Angels,” Milar stammered, blessing himself in the tradition of the Face of Light. He was not a man prone to fright. “You told me ghosts don’t exist!”
Ardan thrust his arm forward, clutching the small vial.
“They don’t,” he said, pressing the atomizer.
A crimson mist spurted from the copper nozzle and, in an instant, expanded into a dense, swirling cloud. Spreading faster than one could blink, it blanketed the entire first-floor hall. Then, just as swiftly, it dissipated into thin, red ribbons.
And along with it, the wailing women disappeared as well. Their howls ceased and their nauseating stench evaporated. All that remained were clawed-up floorboards, shredded wallpaper, and a slashed carpet, the silent testaments to the fact that those women hadn’t been a mere illusion.
Sleeping Spirits... It was daunting to even imagine what a true demon might unleash — like the one that had nearly killed Ardan last summer, almost taking everyone else on that train along with him.
“You came well-prepared, Speaker,” a voice declared.
It sounded like a fresh wound carved into one’s soul. Like the moment where you dreaded opening an envelope because you were sure it held nothing but bad news. It was like seeing the answer in someone’s eyes when you asked them, “Do you still love me?” — and knowing that the reply wasn’t what you’d been hoping for. It was like the groan of a wounded, bleeding soldier who knows there is no help coming.
And there was a clang of metal in it, too. Heavy, grinding metal.
Walking down the staircase from the second floor came a full suit of plate armor that was perhaps a meter and eighty centimeters tall. It had clearly once been worn by a mighty warrior. Its broad pauldrons were shaped like ram heads, and its hefty cuirass bore the marks of crossbow bolts and a deep slash — perhaps inflicted by an axe or halberd.
The armor, empty yet alive, walked toward them in metal boots. It was dragging a sword behind it as well, one that looked enormous enough to crush someone with.
The armor hauled the blade along, and the weapon tore through the parquet as though it were a loaf of bread, grinding into the concrete beneath like it was mere sandstone.
Ard remained silent. In his right hand, he gripped his staff; in his left, a mirror enclosed in a copper frame. The Marange acid he’d brought wouldn’t be needed after all — which, in its own small way, was a relief.
“Oh, Eternal Angels...” Milar whispered.
“They won’t help you, ape-blood,” the armor said in Galessian. Stepping off the stairs, it halted in the middle of the hall.
“Who summoned you here, Lost One?” Ard asked, also in Galessian, though he spoke the final two words in Fae.
Above their heads, the chandeliers began to sway, even though, only a moment before, they had been perfectly still. Thin cracks ran along the walls, and the windowpanes splintered into webs of white fractures.
The demon radiated an overwhelmingly dense energy. Were it not for the mitigating effect of the Ley-cables, both Ardan and Milar would have been in serious trouble. Though in truth, the captain would have fared much worse. Far worse.
“Come out, come out, blood of clay hunters and apes,” the demon growled, its voice rasping like rusty metal. “Step forward, and I will tell you everything.”
“I ask you a second time,” Ardan began, “and for the second time, you will hear me, Lost-”
He was cut off by deep, resonant laughter. This was the laughter of a ravenous beast. The laughter of a mountain echo. The laughter of a foul cesspit. And the laughter of a weeping woman. All at once, tangled together in a single sound.
“The law of three, Speaker? What do I care for laws, boy? Fool... No law holds sway over me anymore…”
The armor raised its hand, twisted its wrist, and hoisted the massive blade onto its shoulder. From that single movement, several windows shattered at once, letting in a burst of frigid wind and droplets of rain. The glass shards fell uncomfortably close to the woven mesh of Ley-cables, but as far as Ardan knew, standard domestic wiring had decent enough protection from water and moisture.
The demon looked like it had expected a different result entirely.
“I know who you are, Speaker,” the creature said suddenly. “I know your pain. I can hear it in your breath. I can feel...” Its visor quivered, as though sniffing the air through invisible nostrils. “...your doubt. The blood of killers. The blood of mass murderers. She will never accept you, Speaker. You are pathetic. Weak. The last of those whose footprints will remain within the Mountain of Memory. I-”
Ardan raised his staff and struck the floor. A clear ringing sound echoed through the hall, like the chime of crystal goblets clinking together — or perhaps ice.
“I don’t care what you have to say, Lost One,” he declared firmly, putting both will and power behind his words, just as if he were investing them into the shard of a True Name. “You do not know my True Name, and you have no power over me or my paths. You are merely a spirit — formless, bodiless, without past or future. A Lost One. Your Name has been forgotten. Your esse-”
Ardan stopped mid-syllable, not because he didn’t know how to finish the incantation Atta’nha had taught him — she had shown him what to say and how to say it — but because he simply didn’t have the time to do so.
“Bastard!”
A shot rang out.
Bam!
Sleeping Spirits... The demon clearly had no intention of fighting him the way the she-wolf had taught him to expect from a demon. After all, he hadn’t come alone. Milar was with him.
He was a Captain of the Second Chancery, a former military investigator, and an Investigator of the First Rank. And also… he was simply a man. A man who had amassed so much pain that the demon had practically found a feast within him.
A man who was shooting straight at Ardan.
***
Milar watched as a woman descended toward them. She was dressed all in white, her steps light and graceful. She glided down the stairs like a swan drifting across the water, carefully placing her delicate, bare feet with each step. It was as though she were an apparition or a fable come to life — an ancient, forgotten story made flesh.
Her hair was as dark as the night and streamed behind her as if it were floating on the surface of an invisible pond bathed in moonlight, because that was what he saw reflected in her bright eyes.
Eyes brimming with memories. Memories of that first, trembling kiss you dare to initiate, fortifying yourself inwardly with bravery yet still remaining uncertain — the kind of kiss you go in for when you think you’ve found your eternal, truest love.
She smelled like dreams of nights spent far away, hidden in secrecy from prying eyes. Her voice rang out like song, and her milky skin gleamed with the warmth of passionate embraces. Each of her words chimed with a small bell in a cozy little shop where the air always carries the scent of cinnamon and strong tea.
“You have endured so much, soldier,” she whispered, and in her voice, Milar heard the voices of everyone he had left behind.
His first friends, whom he tried not to recall too often, lest he find himself tempted to turn to the bottle. His first love, long since buried beneath the burdens of adult life. His fellow soldiers and companions who’d never made it back, who were now off recounting their deeds to the Eternal Angels.
“So much pain, so much sorrow,” she said smoothly, yet all Milar could hear was Alice’s voice. “How you cried and screamed when your father beat your mother, soldier.”
“Enough...”
He heard the sobbing and the cries of his mother. The stinging, brutal crack of his father’s belt. The man had whipped her hard. And true. Always aiming to strike her with the buckle. A heavy, iron buckle engraved with the Empire’s crest.
“He never loved her, nor you, nor your brothers and sisters, soldier. You knew it... Tell me you knew.”
“Be quiet...”
Milar shook his head.
There was a gunshot. That shot echoed again. He was the one who’d fired it. Using his father’s revolver. Right into that bastard’s back.
Bam-bam!
Bam-bam!
Bullet after bullet. Click after click.
Into the back. Not in the face.
Because he was scared.
Because...
“That’s not my story, witch,” Milar growled through clenched teeth. “My father loved us. He was a cavalry officer. He died fighting for our homeland. Enough… it’s not my story.”
“But you saw it,” the maiden murmured. “You saw it and did nothing.”
Yes… Milar had seen it. He’d seen how, every day, in the house next door, the lights would go out. And he knew that every evening, once the drunk came home, he would beat his wife and daughters. Swiftly. Precisely. With the Empire’s crest.
Milar had been too scared to do anything. He hadn’t found the strength for it. By then, his father had been long dead. Only he had remained — the eldest son — his mother, his brothers and sisters.
Milar had done nothing... nothing...
“No, that’s not what happened, witch,” the captain insisted again. “It wasn’t like that.”
And again, the vision shifted.
He saw himself at fourteen, bursting into that house. A huge man, fat but still muscular, and perpetually drunk, was engaging in his usual pastime. Frothing at the mouth, eyes glazed over with booze, he was striking blow after blow with a belt buckle against a woman who had already gone limp. Blood trickled from her forehead, staining the boards beneath her.
Nearby, a child — maybe ten years old — knelt crying, covered in bruises and scrapes.
Milar had lunged at the drunkard’s back. A brawl had ensued. Fists, teeth, ragged breathing, shrieks — anything within reach had become a weapon. And then something fell into Milar’s hand…
“You shot him, didn’t you, Captain?”
“No,” the captain gritted out, steadfast. “No. I used his belt buckle. I jammed the Empire’s crest down that scum’s throat, along with his teeth. And when the authorities arrived, I didn’t run. I waited for my trial, witch. My mother wept. My brothers and sisters, too. But I didn’t run. Enough, monster. What next? Are you going to make me remember the bastards I caught near the border? Or the filth I hunt down in the city? Be my guest, abomination. Remind me of every one of them. I’d be glad to take them all out again. And the ones who were lucky enough to end up behind bars? Fine, I’ll leave them to the Face of Light’s judgment.”
“You are afraid, though, soldier, aren’t you?” Again, her tone changed: it was now calm, sweet, and gentle, warm like home. It sounded just like Milar’s wife. Like his daughter. “Remember Erlang? Remember how he drank himself to death? A former soldier — he was the only one from his unit to survive the Mercenary War. Just like you were the only one who survived the raid on that Angel Dust lab. Remember? Remember how terrified you were? Afraid you would never again embrace your wife, or see the sunrise, or breathe in the sea air? You remember…”
“Shut up...”
“Look, soldier. Look. This is you, isn’t it?”
And Milar saw it. He saw himself climbing the stairs to his home. Opening the door to his apartment. Taking in the faces of his loved ones. Their eyes were filled with simple joy. Their smiles were carefree. They had no idea. They knew nothing of the darkness lurking around the corner, of all the horrors he had to fight each and every day.
They knew nothing.
And they practically mocked him with their ignorance, aggravating him with their laughter and their smiles. Those idlers. Those freeloaders. Parasites. Every day he battled just to hold his life together, and on top of that, he had to carry them, too?! He’d been caged his whole life, ever since childhood. Never living for himself — always for someone else.
But what did he truly want? At what point had he lost himself in the flood of days filled with nothing but pain, fear, and blood?
No, he would teach them a lesson!
Milar saw himself. He saw fake him.
Saw himself climbing the stairs.
Opening the door.
And there, in that snug apartment filled with the scents of home cooking and love — his own refuge from the storms of the outside world — something horrible was happening.
He saw himself standing over Elvira, his beloved wife — his anchor, his sanctuary. Their children, those tiny sparks of happiness Milar had fought tooth and nail to wrest from the wretched jaws of fate, were crying by her side.
And he… The other him, the fake him, was striking Elvira, swift and true.
A crimson haze filled Milar’s vision.
“Bastard!” He roared, seizing his father’s service revolver and firing into his doppelganger’s back.
***
Everything happened far too quickly. Ardan managed to raise a shield, but not a specialized one. Perhaps it was the surprise, the fatigue, or the demon’s presence — who could say? Ardan instinctively conjured the very first military spell he’d ever learned.
Nicholas-the-Stranger’s Universal Shield shimmered with a rainbow sheen. As usual, rather than stopping the bullet, it deflected it, sending it whizzing straight into the demoness’ armor.
Ardan might have foiled the creature’s plan then, if not for the captain. His eyes were covered with a milky haze, and his movements were jerky and ragged, much like those of a possessed doll. He cocked his gun again, ready to fire at his partner a second time.
Ignoring the deep scratch on his left shoulder, Ardan raised his staff and struck the floor.
“Milar,” he commanded, pouring all the will and strength he could muster into his words. “Wake up!”
Maybe Ardan possessed more power than he realized, or maybe Milar was already fighting the demon’s influence, but the captain woke from his trance at that. The pale film fled from his eyes even as the demoness — whose armor was wreathed in gray mist — did nothing at all.
And yet the bullet, after striking the armor, simply rebounded at full speed, losing none of its momentum. It whipped back the way it had come…
And hit the key cabinet. The Ley-node sparked, and a second later, it went dark. Along with it went the glow of the Ley-lamps.
“Shit,” Milar muttered under his breath.
Without missing a beat, Ardan turned, trying to raise the special mirror in front of himself.
The demoness flicked her gauntleted hand, and right beneath the partners’ feet, a fog swirled up. From it, the same doll-like maidens from before emerged.
Milar cleaved one with his saber, while Ardi shoved another aside with his staff. But a third managed to snatch at the mirror. She’d almost torn it from Ardan’s hand by the time the captain managed to yank Ardan back by the collar.
Despite its delicate appearance, the living doll possessed surprising strength — enough strength that Ardan couldn’t keep hold of the slick mirror. It slipped free, arcing through the air as it flew backwards.
It landed on the windowsill of a shattered stairwell window, then slid across the painted wood, teetering at the edge of a thirty-story drop.
Milar and Ard exchanged a single glance. In that fleeting look, they shared a wordless understanding.
The captain nodded and, firing at the foggy figures that materialized in his path while slashing at them with his saber, he sprinted down the steps after the artifact.
Ardan, meanwhile, opened his grimoire and struck the floor with his staff. At once, a ring of twelve transparent discs formed. Swirling around him, they reflected the clawing strikes of the misty apparitions emerging from the fog.
He paid them no mind. His gaze never left the demon’s figure as she moved slowly, deliberately, across the hall toward him.
“Using a mockery of the real art, Speaker?” The creature said in Fae. “How utterly pitiful you are.”
While the discs cracked and shattered under the relentless assault of her puppets, Ardan slammed his staff against the floor again. Energy poured out of his Star, rapidly replenished by the power that still resided within the accumulators in his rings.
The air around the tip of his staff froze, and an Ice Arrow — longer and thicker than the one that had impaled Kerimov — shot toward the demon. Ardan noted absently that the energy cost was still the same as it had been in that duel, but that was a concern for another day.
The demon merely swung her massive blade in a lazy arc, shattering the arrow — more a short spear, really — into shards of ice.
“So this is how you fulfill your duty, disciple of the Aean’Hane?” The creature mocked. “Is this how you protect these lands from me and my kin? You cannot accomplish anything.”
The demon spoke true. Ardan knew he wouldn’t be able to conjure even a shard of a Name right now, nor did he have enough strength to immerse himself in the underside of the world. And that was precisely why he held a grimoire brimming with seals in one hand and wore the standard-issue military accumulators on his fingers — their energy fueling his Star.
Aversky had trained his protégé well.
Ardan struck the floor with his staff twice in rapid succession. Sweat beaded on his brow. His heart thundered like a locomotive’s pistons. Rapid casting like this would push a Star Mage’s mind to its limit.
He felt a hammer strike an anvil inside his skull. More than once. But still, he did not lose focus, and the seals flaring beneath his feet did not dissolve.
The first seal summoned six frozen darts shaped like slender javelins — one for each of the remaining discs that still held the puppets at bay.
The second produced another spear of ice.
The javelins soared toward the ceiling, then came back down on the demon in a cold flurry. The spear followed a different trajectory, striking dead center at its brigandine.
Or it would have, if the demoness hadn’t simply swept her enormous sword in a wide arc, destroying both spells in one blow — all seven projectiles at once.
A whorl of snowy dust danced in the darkness, catching the gleam of lightning coming in through the shattered windows high above. The demon stepped closer to Ardan and extended a gauntleted hand.
The three remaining discs of Orlovsky’s Shield lined up to block her, but they only managed to slow her down. Her gauntlet crushed them all the same, and then seized Ardan by the throat, lifting him off his feet.
Ardan tried to draw on more power, but the demon slammed her sword against the floor, and every accumulator — the ones in his rings and the ones at his waist — shattered into the same fine powder as his ice spells.
He reached for a vial of Marange acid, but one of the demon’s puppets snatched it away.
“And now, Speaker, you’ve no more crystals of power, and your mind is almost out of Ley. What will you-”
“Ard!” Came a shout from behind them.
And Ardan — driving his staff into the floor — mustered what little energy lingered in the air. He knew full well it wouldn’t be enough to match a demon in raw power, especially not with only two Stars at his disposal.
No, only a Blue Star Mage or higher could match a demon in a raw contest of strength.
The creature undoubtedly knew this too. But it likely did not know that Star Magic had advanced in the past few decades.
Ard, using Resonance, gathered the scattered energy back into his Star and shaped a seal. He did this sloppily, perhaps. He fumbled the alignment and nearly botched the entire construction — a mistake that could have cost both him and Milar their lives — and yet…
A field of Ice Flowers bloomed around the captain, who was hacking his way toward the window. Doll-like shapes broke each emerging blossom, but every brush against those frozen petals turned them to statues of ice.
Milar, who’d caught the mirror just before it would have tumbled away, hurled it across the stairs to Ardan. Ardi released his staff, stretching out a hand to grab the flung artifact.
“You foolish mortals,” the demon rasped sadly, tightening her gauntlet around Ardan’s throat, intending to drag him to the Sleeping Spirits.
The demon was clearly trying to crush Ard’s windpipe, but a steadily thinning bracelet of impenetrable darkness glimmered on his wrist — the same one Atta’nha had once given him. It shimmered, seeming to prevent the demon from completing her grim intent.
Seizing the mirror, Ardan pressed it toward the creature’s helm and shouted, “Look! Look, Lost One — look at what you’ve lost!”
For an instant, the reflection in the glass didn’t show the visor, but the face of a young maiden. She was smiling as she gathered snowdrops beneath the spring sun, radiant in her joy and beauty.
There was no scream.
No grating cry.
Nothing at all.
The grip on his neck simply slackened, and the suit of armor fell away piece by piece. The fog sank into the floor along with it, and the doll-like maidens vanished, leaving no trace behind.
Gasping for air, Ardan managed to pick up his staff and, leaning on it with all his weight, he made his way over to collapse onto a bench meant for taking off one’s boots.
Milar was cursing under his breath as he climbed back up the stairs and into the Stronghold, while Ardi fixed his gaze on his own wrist.
Where a broad, dark-blue band had once been, there was now only a faint strip of silk left, one barely thicker than a thread.
“Shit.”
“Oh my, Magister! You’re learning to swear? Are you trying to reform your image? Maybe you’ll start smoking soon — and who knows, drinking as well?”
Milar plopped down beside him. His uniform hung off him in tatters, bearing obvious cuts and slashes — he looked as if the dolls had wielded knives instead of mere claws. He fished out a cigarette, paused, and offered one to Ardi.
“I’ll pass. But cigars do smell nice sometimes, I have to admit.”
“Well, there goes my hope,” Milar said with a shrug, trying to light up. His match snapped. Then the strip of red phosphorus on the box, against which he’d struck the match head, tore right off. “Eternal Angels... I can’t afford fancy cigars on my pay, you know.”
He glanced at the pile of metal that the armor had become and started to give it a kick, but stopped. Eyeing it more closely, he slowly turned to Ardan.
“I may not have studied at the Grand University,” the captain said, “but even I can tell, Magister, that this is just an old suit of armor. It has no enchantments or anything.”
“Yes,” Ardan agreed with a nod. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“But you said-”
“I did,” Ardan cut him off. “And until tonight, every Star Mage believed, as I did, that a demon couldn’t possess an object that held no Ley-charge.”
Milar swore. Loudly. Excessively.
“Another of the Spiders’ experiments?”
Ardan stayed silent. There was no need to say it. The answer was obvious.
“Right. Well then, partner,” Milar sighed, patting Ardan’s knee. Both of them cried out in pain at once. “Sorry… So. We’ll go downstairs to the car. Wrap up our wounds. I’ll have a little whiskey. I’ve got a thermos of tea for you, by the way. Then it’s off to the Ragman’s.”
“We should-”
“Call in our lab techs?” Milar finished his sentence, showing him one of the signal medallions. “I already did, partner. So, let’s get a move on.”
Helping each other, they managed to haul themselves to their feet. Ard leaned on his staff and on Milar for support; the captain dragged one leg behind him, gripping Ardan’s shoulder in turn. If Ard had had any accumulators left, he might have used a few simple healing spells from his grimoire. Alas, the demon had blown up over a hundred exes worth of gear. And they would probably have to write a whole slew of reports about all of it…
But the thing that worried Ardan the most was something else entirely.
“We’re heading for the elevators, right?”
“Yes.”
“Shit,” Ardan muttered again.
“I’m telling you, partner,” Milar snorted. “I haven’t given up on you yet. We’ll make a decent Cloak out of you someday.”
He chuckled, then instantly winced in pain. Ardan smirked in reply, then hissed in agony as well.
And so, groaning and limping, their clothes in tatters, eyes wide behind their Ley glasses, they made their slow trek to the elevator.
Comments
walid bennour
this is giving me Dresden files and supernatural's vibes
Diarmuid McGinnity
This was a great chapter
Alibhai
Why does Ardi's knee hurt? He lost blood to the dream manipulating vampire slime, he might possibly suffer from a migraine due to the star magic and finally, he was strangled by the spirit lady. I don't remember him hurting his knee.
sweaty bastard
EVOCATIVE!!!. Wow, your writing feels so lush.
