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Matabar. Chapter 117 - By order of the Second Chancery
🕑 Added 2025-06-30 23:01:01 +0000 UTCArdan only vaguely recalled what had happened after the dirigible had slammed into the Treasury building, tearing off a portion of its eastern façade before veering toward the Niewa.
He was pretty sure that he’d tried to keep himself anchored, clutching the cables lashing together the “cigar’s” hull. He also thought that he’d done his best not to drop his staff, which he’d removed from his mouth and pressed firmly to his chest, pinning it against the outer plating.
Smoke had coiled around his throat like a foul garrote, scraping his eyes with sparking claws and making it nearly impossible to breathe. His consciousness had flickered on at times, only to then be swallowed back up by darkness once again.
Whether that darkness had been the night itself — deep and roiling with the oncoming storm — or the cold, outstretched arms of the Niewa, waiting below like a patient, ravenous beast, Ardan could not say.
Then the impact had come. It had been so powerful that it had torn him away from the cables as though he were weightless, hurling him off to one side.
Clutching his staff to his chest, Ardan had flown through the smoke, the night sky, and the shimmering city lights — those wide, vivid strokes of old oil paints across the canvas of his failing vision. This had been followed by another jolt, and a slap of frigid, stinging water rushing into his nostrils and mouth.
Gasping and coughing, he’d lashed out with his free hand, fighting to reach the surface. When he’d at last broken through, his scorched lungs had inhaled the hot oxygen of the burning night with rabid desperation. And the final thing Ardi had seen before vanishing into the clay-thick murk encasing him was fire — a fire locked in a desperate battle against the water, with short, intermittent explosions drowning out the cries of the people and the sirens blaring on rescue boats converging upon the crash site.
***
The young hunter watched as the Spirits’ Breath crept in from the north, tumbling over the high crags. That was what his teacher, Ergar, called storms.
Soon, the cave would be engulfed by another squall — one of the last in this cycle. The season of snows and winds would end, and the mountain peaks would begin to thaw, gradually releasing their stored-up waters to the surrounding valleys. Streams would spill out in broad ribbons, feeding the swift rivers, and the storms, which had hidden among the stones all this time, would run east.
The swallows claimed that by the time flowers bloomed far to the east, on the shores of the endless lake, those storms would arrive there. And for a full week (week… what a strange word), they would roar across the heavens until they finally dissolved above that “lake without end.”
The swallows loved telling silly tales.
Ardan had often been told not to listen to them.
But he still did.
His paws… hands, yes, hands, lay on the snow, and pale clouds of breath slipped from his lips — this was what Atta’nha had called a hazy exhalation.
Ardi looked down to where the Stairs snaked away, step by step, vanishing into the snowbound forest.
Tomorrow — right after he returned from wandering the dream paths of the Spirit of the Night — he was supposed to meet Skusty and Kaishas for a game. The stakes were higher than ever: an entire blackberry thicket.
But first, Atta’nha would have a lesson waiting for him. The she-wolf had something important to share with him. Something very important, according to her.
“I can’t recall her ever telling me something unimportant,” the young hunter whispered, running his paw across the drifts.
And after that, on the evening of that same Spirit of the Day’s stride — when the eyes of both spirits, the yellow and the white, rose into the sky — he would become a fully-fledged hunter at last, free to choose his own paths.
For now, though, the storm loomed.
Ardi could already hear its measured, deliberate tread — still distant, but inevitable — rumbling across the old peaks and crags, disturbing their deep slumber.
In less than one stride of the Spirit of the Day, the squall would be here. After amassing power, it would unveil its true nature.
“Ard.”
The young hunter turned. Emerging from the cave, yawning and pausing every now and then to arch his back and shake out his tails, was his mentor and friend.
The snow leopard Ergar, the Storm of the Mountain Peaks. He hated raucous gatherings or anything that might disturb his keen slumber. He loved solitude, hunting, and all that reaffirmed his place as the Alcade’s most fearsome, most dangerous hunter.
Ergar padded over and ran his rough tongue — nearly as large as a beaver’s tail — across the back of Ardan’s head, ruffling the boy’s hair… Yes, this was hair, the hair of his ward.
Ergar also loved Ardan. Perhaps not in the same way forest parents loved their cubs until they grew fangs and claws and became hunters themselves, but still, it was love.
The snow leopard straightened, half-closing his eyes, and turned his muzzle toward the gusts of wind blowing in from the oncoming storm, racing through the Alcade to warn everyone about the Spirit of the Night’s looming breath.
“A fine evening,” he purred with a sort of eager contentment.
“Maybe…” Ardan murmured, and felt a gentle yet firm swat from one of the leopard’s long, bushy tails land on his back. “Ow!”
Ergar’s eyes flashed.
“Never mumble, cub,” he said sternly. “When you speak, speak clearly and plainly. And if you cannot or will not, then be silent.”
Ardi turned his face back toward the Stairs. His gaze glided easily over the jagged black spires of rock, skated along the glittering icy slopes, and raced across the treetops that were still more like snowy mounds than the giant conifers they would soon become.
Kaishas had taught him how to see such things.
Beside him, the huge, furry shape sank onto its haunches with a low huff. As was his custom, Ergar pressed his warm flank against Ardan, curling his tail around him protectively.
Ardi exhaled and felt the tension leave his body as the heat spread through him.
“What’s on your mind, my student?” Ergar asked, surveying the forested expanses.
His teacher could also see with Kaishas’ kind of vision. But sometimes, the young hunter fancied that Ergar was looking even farther — somewhere no claws or feet could ever reach.
“I was thinking about tomorrow’s Spirit of the Day stride.”
“And what do you think of it?”
The young hunter sighed, pressing his hand… paw into the snow. The icy crust gave way with a faint crackle, leaving droplets of cold moisture on his skin and a neat imprint of his long, slender fingers. They were nothing like the paws of Ergar or Shali. Or Guta’s, for that matter.
“I’m going to be a real hunter tomorrow.”
“You will,” Ergar said, flicking his ears in a curious way, as though catching some distant sound.
“And you… You won’t be my teacher anymore.”
“I won’t,” the snow leopard agreed.
“And-”
“And we’ll still be friends, Ard,” Ergar interrupted him. “You and I.”
“You and I…” The young hunter echoed those old words once spoken by the first hunters who’d chosen not to stain their paths with blood and fangs.
“You and I” meant that no matter the differences between them, even if they might walk separate trails, even if they might argue over water or prey, they still lived on the same land. Their lives were but fleeting visions in the dreams of the Sleeping Spirits.
“Will I be able to come to you for advice or just… to spend time together?”
“Of course, my student.” Ergar hugged him a bit closer. “This cliff is as much your home as it is mine. You and anyone who carries your blood will always be welcome here. But I can sense that’s not the question you truly want to ask, Ard.”
“It’s not.”
“Then ask,” the leopard said more gruffly, with a hint of impatience. Ergar disliked roundabout conversations. Perhaps that was why he rarely spoke with Skusty and avoided Atta’nha altogether. In truth, Ergar avoided almost everyone, preferring his cavern and solitude.
“What… What if both of us want the same prey?”
“Then we’ll fight,” Ergar answered without hesitation. “And the prey will go to whoever proves stronger. That is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits.”
Ardan turned away, troubled. He…
“You don’t like to fight, my student.” Ergar rested his chin on the boy’s back, almost covering the young hunter entirely. “Your spirit is gentle and calm, like water in a lake. It seeks tranquility, not conflict. And your heart beats so cleanly and clearly — following your mind that hungers for secrets, not your blood that calls you to battle. You were not born among the mountain hunters. You were not born a warrior.”
“I know,” Ardi replied simply.
He had known for a long time. His playful matches with Skusty — who sometimes understood him even if they hadn’t exchanged a single word — and his talks with Atta’nha, whose lessons he often grasped more readily than Ergar’s, had shown him his true nature.
“You know this about yourself, and that knowledge makes you strong. But not all who are born hunters become the fiercest or the mightiest. You are a hunter of a different kind. Your hunt is unknown to me, just as mine will never be fully clear to you.”
Ardan rolled onto his back, nudging away the snow leopard’s heavy head. Ergar resisted playfully, and so, for a time, they wrestled in the snow, pushing each other and snapping at each other with gentle nips, until the big cat allowed the young hunter to climb onto his back.
In one Spirit of the Day stride and two flights of the Spirit of the Night, they would no longer be able to play like this, for they would be two adult male hunters, not a teacher and his cub.
Their games would become fights. Their jokes — bloodshed. As for their conversations… Not even the Sleeping Spirits knew if they would endure, no matter what Ergar claimed.
“But there’s something you still don’t know,” Ergar said.
“What’s that?” Ardan asked, hugging his warm, furry mentor.
“Come.” Ergar rose carefully onto his paws. “Just like on the day you first walked upon the snows of the Alcade, I’ll give you a ride.”
“Where are we going?”
Instead of answering him, Ergar turned north, toward the rolling black clouds massing into a menacing flock.
“But there’s a storm there!”
“And that storm holds my final lesson for you, Ard.”
Without waiting, Ergar kicked off with his powerful hind legs, and the world blurred into a single sweep of shimmering light and dark crags. All Ardan could do was cling to his mentor’s thick fur for dear life, for the snow leopard ran nearly as fast as Kaishas could fly.
***
Ardan opened his heavy eyes slowly, feeling as though someone had tied bags of sand to his eyelids. He tried to lift a hand to his face and wipe away the fatigue, that dragging weight that pressed down on him, but found that he couldn’t move.
Instead of his hands, only his lips moved — and a low moan of pain escaped them.
Everything hurt, from the very tips of his toes to the nails on his fingers. Even things that, in theory, shouldn’t be capable of hurting throbbed with pain. The last time Ardan had felt this wretched… No, not even when he had fallen off a cliff trying to catch that ibex had the aftermath been this excruciating.
Blinking a few times, Ardan allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. He glanced around. He was tied to a chair in a space that looked like a cramped closet. It was scarcely bigger than a few paces in any direction, with no windows and a ceiling so low it wouldn’t let even a human stand upright.
But instead of mops or brooms, the place was full of miner’s picks, massive hammers, bundles of spikes, and entire reels of chains, their heavy links glinting dully as they caught the meager light of a Ley-lamp coming in from beneath the door. The air was damp and stale, clinging to the roof of his mouth like sticky tar and pooling on his tongue and leaving a faintly rotten taste behind.
They had to be underground. That would explain the low ceiling, the stagnant air, and why his fingertips felt pruney.
Maybe they were under the Niewa?
That would make a great deal of sense, especially when you took into account all the inconsistencies concerning the subterranean tram lines that were supposed to run directly beneath the city’s main river…
He heard a set of familiar, heavy, shuffling footsteps on the other side of the door. Hinges groaned in protest, and into the closet — stooping so far forward that he was practically bent in half — stepped none other than Indgar.
The orc looked even worse than before. On top of all the obvious injuries he’d already had, a deep fatigue that bordered on exhaustion had also been added.
Indgar said nothing as he circled the chair to which Ardan was bound. He inserted a pin into something attached to the chair’s base — some crude contraption that let him swivel Ardan around one hundred and eighty degrees. Then he simply wheeled his prisoner out of the tiny chamber. In silence, they moved along a line of Ley-lamps hung on miner’s hooks in a narrow, lengthy passage hewn through the rock.
So that had been Lorlov’s entire task. That was the key to the whole riddle surrounding Baliero and whatever had happened in the middle of winter. The Spiders truly had wanted to sabotage the Emperor’s grand opening of the tram lines, but not for the sake of some convoluted political scheme. They’d done all of this simply because the publicly-used lines, the passengers, the engineers, and the Ley insulation along every stretch of the underground rails might’ve jeopardized the Spiders’ plans. Perhaps if the route for the underground rails hadn’t run beneath the Niewa, the Spiders wouldn’t have interfered, and Selena Lorlov would still be alive…
Indgar pushed the chair along the path carved into the rock while Ardan studied the damp walls. They were going down a slope, traveling deeper and deeper underground.
Sleeping Spirits…
Arkar really had stumbled onto more than just Indgar and the Star-born werewolf. He’d found the Spiders, too — without ever realizing it.
“We’re under that old, abandoned pier meant for pleasure yachts, aren’t we?” Ardan broke the silence first, struggling to force his numb lips into something like speech. “The one you burned down. Did you do it just to hide these excavations under the ruins?”
Indgar remained silent. This time, he did not threaten torture or bloody vengeance, nor did he attempt to bargain. He merely pressed on.
Ardan, who’d been stripped to nothing but his trousers, tried tensing his muscles to slip free of the ropes, but each time he did so, they only bit more deeply into his flesh. They had most likely been treated with some Ley-based infusion.
He had none of his artifacts — not his staff, nor his grimoire, nor anything else. He had only his father’s watch, the fraying strip of Atta’nha’s bracelet on his wrist, and two small trinkets around his neck: a shard of oak that had been split by a bullet, and Ergar’s fang that had been gifted long ago to Ardan’s father.
His bare feet could feel the bits of stone grit stuck to the platform. It must have been used for hauling excavated rock and gravel for years.
“You-” he began.
“Shut up, half-blood,” Indgar growled. “Be quiet unless you want me to knock out every tooth in your head.”
Ardan watched the orc. Indgar was walking with a calm, steady gait, as if utterly certain of their victory.
“Sleeping Spirits… You never know how to mind your own business, Matabar,” Indgar muttered at last, unable to keep his emotions in check once his tongue was loosened. Maybe Ardi didn’t have any artifacts right now, but the deeper into this Ley-saturated tunnel they went, the more potent his Witch’s Gaze would grow. “You saved a few dozen of those scum… You even helped Man, right? And now he can go on-”
He broke off — not because of any magic, but because he simply lacked the strength to keep speaking.
His pain wasn’t merely physical. It was something far deeper.
“You would’ve killed not only Man and the others, but hundreds of thousands of innocent humans and Firstborn as well,” Ardan said quietly.
“We’ll bring them all back, Matabar,” Indgar rumbled.
Ardan sighed and shook his head.
“Don’t you see how your own words contradict themselves, Indgar?” Ardan lifted his gaze toward the orc again. “If you truly believe you can bring everyone back and rewrite the past, why kill Man and the others at all? They’d come back, too.”
“So they can suffer,” Indgar snarled. “The same way we did. All of us.”
“They won’t even remember any of this, Indgar. When you change the past — Man, Le’mrity, whoever else — they’ll have no knowledge of an alternate fu-”
Ardan never got to finish that sentence. Indgar backhanded him viciously, turning Ardan’s lips and nose into a bloody mess. The orc’s thick knuckles split his skin with ease.
“At least we’re doing something, half-blood,” Indgar growled, baring his tusks and leaning so close to him that Ardan could feel his breath. “We’re trying to bring back those we love. Or if we can’t do that, then we’ll at least avenge them.”
“So,” Ardan managed, mouth filling with blood and saliva as he spat to the side, “you admit that there’s a chance you can’t succeed… which means all the people you’ve killed-”
“Will become a warning to the rest,” Indgar cut him off. “A wake-up call to this bleating flock of sheep who happily let filth like Man shear them for profit!”
Ardi remembered that Indgar was an educated man — a trained welder. But now he sounded like someone who’d studied next to college orators, and was full of fervent rhetoric. None of these fiery words were truly Indgar’s. He simply believed them with a faithful zeal.
“You’ll never understand, half-blood,” the orc hissed contemptuously, turning as though to keep walking.
“I know your family is dead, Indgar,” Ardan whispered.
Indgar froze, half-turned away from his prisoner.
“I do understand,” Ardan went on, even more softly, sounding the words out one by one. “My father… my great-grandfather… my grandfather on my mother’s side… and-”
“You understand nothing,” Indgar growled out. “You bleat your pity for your losses, but what do you do about them? Serve humans? Wear black and flaunt your damned Cloak’s badge? Is that how you avenge your father? Or is it something else — maybe you know better than me. Maybe the Shanti’Ra chieftain isn’t currently wandering the steppes alive and well?”
Ardan looked away. For years, his friends and mentors in the forest had taught him not to let vengeance consume his soul and burn out his heart. Even Atta’nha… It was only years later that Ardi realized why she’d once told him an old Fae legend about a mortal General who’d challenged all of existence for the sake of revenge.
It was a sad story.
He’d never liked it.
“Just because I don’t hunt him down doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him,” Ardan said, each word stinging his tongue.
“And I haven’t forgiven, half-blood. I haven’t forgiven, nor forgotten. And I’ll have my revenge. Right to the bitter end. No matter where this path takes me, I-”
“Wake up, Indgar,” Ardan cut him off. “Look where this lust for vengeance has already brought you. It can only lead you to-”
Whatever Ardan had meant to say next was drowned out by the orc’s fist ramming straight into his face. And as the blow rang in his ears, Ardan sank once again into cold oblivion.
***
Ergar ran. Sheer slopes, treacherous even for the eagles — the lords of the Alcade’s skies — submitted to the mercy of his paws, paws that never slipped and never tired. Enormous chasms, gaping wide as though trying to swallow him, grew still in reverent surrender to the predator’s might.
His fur blazed ever brighter with a white luminescence, crackling with the tiny lightning bolts dancing along his many tails. They etched out intricate, icy patterns in the snow behind him. And overhead, the dark storm clouds clashed amongst themselves.
Like a tar-black lake that had been flung into the sky, they threatened to come crashing down upon the earth, smothering everything in impenetrable darkness split by white-hot lightning. Each jagged bolt scorched the air and splintered the boulders perched on the highest peaks.
It was as if the mountains, rousing from their ancient slumber, has risen up to protect the land, denying the storm free rein in the valleys and forests below. They refused to let that seething tar and fire ravage the world and leave in its wake only terror and smoldering embers.
Ergar kept running.
He charged toward the very horror that had consumed what was ordinarily a maternal, gentle nature. Admittedly — thanks to Atta’nha and her old scrolls — Ardi knew that nature was neither kind nor merciful. It simply was. It lived by its own laws, which lay beyond the grasp of those who only observed it from afar.
Just as you couldn’t call a hungry wolf evil for seizing a young rabbit before its mother’s very eyes, you couldn’t call a peaceful deer good merely because it grazed on grass.
They simply lived.
And they were all short-lived visions in the realm of the Sleeping Spirits, who dream of everything that is.
“Almost there, Ard!” Ergar’s voice boomed above the roar of the raging storm.
Clinging to the snow leopard’s back and shoulders, the young hunter listened to his mentor’s pounding heart. It thundered like a mountain torrent that had at last been freed from winter’s icy chains, brimming with might that could snap ancient oaks like kindling and shatter century-old pines.
Or so it seemed to Ardi. Perhaps he thought this because the skies above had unified against the defiant mountains, no longer warring amongst themselves. Black thunderheads unleashed bitter, howling winds that set loose shards of stone, spinning them in deadly cyclones. Lightning sheared entire peaks, cracking icy summits and turning them not merely to rubble, but to sudden clouds of steam.
And Ergar kept running as though there was no great clash of elements around him, no cataclysm that accompanied every leap, every step, every heartbeat with the cold inevitability of death. Death that Ardi had also read about in Atta’nha’s scrolls.
Ergar did not know fear.
Ardan knew nothing but fear.
He could scarcely breathe. It felt as though icy fingers were clutching his heart. There was a yawning pit in his gut, pulling him down. His hands trembled so badly that he feared he might tear out clumps of his mentor’s fur.
At last, Ergar halted at the edge of a cliff. Directly beneath his paws was a deep canyon that split the Alcade’s peaks. Its depth spanned nearly several strides of the Spirit of the Day, and its breadth was an entire dance of the Eye of the Spirit of the Night. It was dark and unfathomable, filled with stone and snow. The snow leopard stood right at its boundary, perched on one of the boldest crags — it was nearly tall enough to scrape those blackened clouds.
He coiled his tails around the paralyzed young hunter and slid him off his back, placing Ard behind him.
Then, rising to his full height and waving his tails, Ergar opened his maw and let loose a roar so immense it contended with the rolling thunder.
No snow leopard was ever known to roar like that — in fact, snow leopards hardly roared at all. But Ergar did.
“My True Name!” The snow leopard bellowed, his fur blazing brighter than the lightning. “I am Ergarbar, Storm of the Mountain Peaks! And I await you on my trail!”
Ardan, arms clasped over his head, cowering in the snow, stared in horror at his mentor’s back. How could he? How could Ergar speak his True Name so openly, handing it over so easily to his foe? And not just any foe, but the sky itself, which was mighty beyond all measure. He had given it away, freely, to the raging darkness. And now it held power over him.
But the snow leopard only bared his three remaining fangs in another roar, as though summoning the full wrath of the heavens.
“Remember this, my student!” Ergar roared while the storm strove to drown out his words. “Only by speaking your True Name can you truly defeat another! This is the way!”
Ardi understood then.
Ergar had just issued a challenge to the skies, like one of those mad warriors from the ballads of the Firstborn. And the sky did not hesitate.
Insulted by the snow leopard’s boldness, the first bolts of lightning stabbed downward. They struck the crag upon which Ergar stood, aiming for his flank or head. Yet each time that blinding white flame ripped through the howling darkness, Ergar was ready.
He sprang aside, striking the lightning with a swipe of his hooked claws, shattering it into a shimmer of sparks. Whirling in midair, he tore into the fiery prey with his fangs. His fur crackled with light, his tails bristled, and with every blow he unleashed, his claws and teeth struck true, showing no mercy.
And so he battled the storm alone, having surrendered his True Name. And the storm could not subdue him. The brooding sky seethed and spat lightning, but the snow leopard fought it. Even a fool would have seen there was no chance he could ever win. All he could do was refuse to lose — enduring until the storm passed onward.
Until dawn arrived.
Which meant that his mentor had broken his own rule, facing a foe infinitely stronger than himself.
“Ergar!” Ardi shouted when one lightning bolt nearly pierced the snow leopard’s chest. Ergar dodged again, smashing it to sparks with another slash of his claws.
“There will come a time, my student,” the snow leopard bellowed in return, “when you must fight someone a hundred times stronger than you! Then you will speak your True Name, for defeat will mean your death regardless! I have taught you, Ard, how to live among hunters, how to stalk prey, how to kill with a single strike. But you are not a hunter! You were not born one, and you will never become one! But…” Ergar halted, resetting his stance on the rocky outcrop. “You are a Speaker, Ard — a Speaker of the Egobar tribe! I have shown you how to live with dignity. Now, before you choose your own path, you must see how one dies with honor!”
Another lightning bolt, larger and more ferocious than before, tore through the heavens and plummeted. Screeching like a hundred predatory birds, searing the air and melting stone, it plunged straight for the leopard’s chest.
Ardan was certain that his mentor would raise a paw and destroy this strike of celestial fire, leaving not a trace of it behind. Ergar was the mightiest, fiercest, fastest predator in all of the Alcade. When he trod the snows, no other being dared lift its head to meet the gaze of the Storm of the Mountain Peaks.
Yes, it had to be so.
The lightning struck.
The thunder crashed… and faded…
Then came a howl of pain from the wounded snow leopard, whose chest was smoking and had a blackened scorch mark on it. The stench of burned flesh and singed fur filled the air.
“Ergar!” The young hunter cried out in terror, but he dared not move.
The snow leopard turned his face toward him, scorched and breathing raggedly.
“Find your heart, Ard,” he rasped. “Or the storm will tear me to shreds.”
The next bolt didn’t wait. As before, Ergar did not budge from his spot. He roared in pain and helpless fury when the lightning scored his back.
“You have to fight, Ergar!” Ardi yelled, trembling so violently he barely had the breath to form words. The sight before him was no Ley-Wolf or Mountain Troll — no foe he’d encountered on the hunting trails. Not even Ergar could conquer the storm; how, then, could Ardi — a young hunter who didn’t even truly have claws — stand a chance? “You’ll die!”
Another flash. There was a third roar of agony from the snow leopard as one of his paws was seared black.
“If you do nothing, Ard,” Ergar’s voice was quieter now, his eyes dimmer, “that is exactly what will happen.”
Ardan met his mentor’s gaze but, for some reason, he saw something else and heard someone else’s cries. He smelled burned flesh that was not the snow leopard’s. It was as though, in a long-forgotten dream, he had once lain there just like this, trembling in sheer helplessness while flames rained down from the sky.
And the lightning strikes fell, merciless as a lash, against the unmoving snow leopard.
“But I’m not a snow leopard,” Ardi whispered, “I’m not a hunter… I’m just… I’m just-”
“You are Ard!” Ergar interrupted him, hissing the words between clenched fangs. “You are the student of my brothers and my sister. You are the student of my mother. You are my student. In this world or any other, there is nothing you cannot do!”
Ergar trembled, his paws threatening to fail him. The snow beneath him was crusted with ice where his silvery blood had seeped out from blackened wounds. Ardi lay small and powerless in the drifts.
Just like… like…
Another lightning bolt ripped through the sky. Ardi could never shred it with claws he did not possess, nor tear into it with fangs that sometimes struggled even against the bones of young deer. His hands were nowhere near as strong as Ergar’s — or even a young snow leopard’s.
But…
He had read nearly all the scrolls kept in Atta’nha’s icy dwelling. He had heard stories from the forests and mountains. He’d beaten Skusty at their strange games (well, some of the time). He could see a tree from all sides at once if he truly tried. And he sometimes heard the whispers of snow and ice.
If he did nothing, then Ergar — who had sheltered and taught him for these past six cycles — would burn alive the same way…
Ardan could never remember who it was, in that forgotten dream, who’d burned before his very eyes in fire that had fallen from the heavens.
Springing to his feet, the young hunter — Speaker — lurched forward. He shoved the wounded snow leopard aside, cleared the rock of snow with a kick, and at the last second, he flung himself away. The lightning struck the bare stone, shattering into sparks that burned everything like the flaming scales of a Volcanic Salamander.
But Ard was already murmuring words, not with his lips, but with his mind and soul, and imbuing them with his will. He drew his palms together, and the snow responded to his summons, whirling in a vortex around the Snow Leopard and the Speaker.
Icy hands caught the sparks, guarding Ergar and Ardan, then imprisoned them in transparent spheres of frost. One by one, each spark of lightning became trapped within shards of the Name of Ice and Snow.
Panting, Ardi staggered and then collapsed. The black clouds split again with a flash. This time, he had no energy left to summon those fragments of the Name. He couldn’t even move a muscle.
At least… he had managed…
Ergar roared and surged upright.
The black char flaked off him like dust, and his fur flared even brighter than the storm itself. Suddenly, the maelstrom fell silent, and the lightning scattered.
All this time, his mentor had been calling down the wrath of the heavens upon himself, for he was the Storm of the Mountain Peaks.
He stood before Ardi, whole and unscathed, eyes burning with a fierce light. Dozens of tails waved in a dance behind him, and in his maw gleamed four fangs of glacial fire.
“You are not a hunter, Ard.” Ergar’s uninjured tails curled tenderly around the young man, lifting him to his feet. “You never will be. But that does not mean there’s anyone on the paths — visible or unseen — who can defeat you if you hunt them as you hunted today. If you hunt in the only way you can.”
Ergar swept aside a snowdrift with his other tails, revealing the spheres of ice. Within each of them flickered the captured embers of lightning.
“Just as your father once bested me in a fair fight to become a fully-fledged hunter, so, too, have you completed the first part of your trial today.”
“My… father?”
“And now, sleep, Ardan, my little friend.” Ardan felt the weight of slumber overtake his eyelids. “Sleep and forget, for tomorrow will bring your final challenge before you set out on your own trails. Will you leave me behind? Will you forsake a beast’s life for that of a Matabar? Can you relinquish the gifts I have given you? Will you break free of your clay shell? I do not know the answers, my little friend. All I know is that the traitor’s blood is close at hand, and the hour of our parting draws near.”
Ardi likely didn’t hear any of this. He was already drifting off to sleep. Resting on his shoulder was the broad head of the mighty snow leopard. An icy droplet slid down his feline cheek.
“I will miss you, my little Speaker,” Ergar whispered.
***
Ardan came to once more, though it wasn’t easy. He was still bound to a chair, but this time, he wasn’t on a wheeled platform. He was sitting on a step pyramid made of stone that seemed to be nearly ten meters high. Around its base stood the same people Ardi had glimpsed at the abandoned factory workshop.
The entire Order of the Spider had gathered. Indgar and the last of the three vampires were also among them.
Looking down, Ardan made out a complex seal carved directly into the stone — it was an old one, obviously restored, and possibly far older than the Empire itself. The weathered yellow bricks, scrubbed clean of moss and silt, bore testament to how ancient this all was. Standing along the perimeter of this cavern — a grotto of more than a thousand square meters — were towering statues, each of them twenty meters tall and hewn directly from the rock. One depicted a man with a bare torso marked with innumerable scars who was holding an axe in both hands. Another portrayed a woman clothed in a light veil and leaning on a staff while reading a book. And there was an old man without eyes who was bent nearly double, as if seeking something on the ground.
This was a Temple of the Old Gods — humanity’s chief religion in the age before the world had learned about the doctrine of the Face of Light. Of course, no Old Gods had ever truly existed. Their temples — where their priests had prayed and mages from ancient times had gathered — had simply been built at the crossroads of many Ley Lines. Places of power, one could say.
For example, the Imperial Magical University — like the Grand Library before it — also stood on one such “place of power.”
Ardi should have guessed that the Spiders would select such a chamber as their staging ground.
Heavy generator housings rumbled in the background, each of them massive enough to rival a Pink Star-class machine. Bundles of cables thicker than a grown man’s torso extended from those generators to a series of crystalline domes, each containing small trinkets, amulets, and even some things that looked like ordinary stones. From the domes themselves, dozens — perhaps even hundreds — of other cables with bare, sparking ends had been guided toward channels carved into the rock, all leading up to the stone platform upon which Ardan sat.
To either side of him, set on heavy rails, were the two halves of a dome — a larger copy of the ones protecting the myriad artifacts. The same cloaked figure in dark robes from before stood facing him, a hood drawn forward over their face. In the figure’s hands was something like a detonator — a device with only a single button — whose cable wound its way to a complex machine taking up nearly an entire wall. It was a chain of devices, sensors and instruments, all interlinked. Ardi had seen a contraption like it before, albeit on a far smaller scale.
It had been Senior Magister Paarlax’s engine for detecting Ley particles.
“In truth, your gifts as a Speaker,” said the hooded figure as though continuing an interrupted conversation, “hardly matter, Mr. Egobar. The real key lies in the peculiar nature of Matabar blood. Who knows, perhaps you truly were shaped from clay by these Sleeping Spirits you worship… Once we turn back time and set everything right, I will find you and take you as my student. Your talents shouldn’t be wasted in service of tyrants.”
It seemed like the Spiders were finishing their final preparations while the figure waited to press the button.
“You played this game well, Mr. Egobar,” came the figure’s flat voice, devoid of any emotion or nuance. “But you lost, and-”
“And as my partner would say,” Ardan cut in, spitting out the blood that had pooled in his mouth, “you talk too much… Professor.”
Seizing the moment’s hesitation, he pressed his lower lip against his teeth and let out a piercing whistle — the signal they’d arranged weeks ago.
A sudden flash of steel tore through the gloom, and a throwing blade sliced through Ardan’s bindings with surgical precision, grazing his skin only slightly. Another knife nearly struck the Star Mage’s chest, but the figure managed to slam their staff against the stone, summoning a shield. In the process, though, their hood slipped back, revealing a porcelain mask underneath.
Figures emerged from the darkness. First came Milar Pnev with his saber and revolver in hand; beside him was Edward Aversky, grimoire open, his staff glowing with seals. A short distance away stood Din Erson, armed with sharp daggers and a dozen throwing blades hidden in cleverly-rigged sheaths. Next to him was Alexander Ursky, both hands steadying two unusual-looking revolvers. And behind them all… was Alice Rovnev, trembling not from fear, but from anger.
Off to one side, gripping an axe in one hand and Ardan’s staff in the other…
“Matabar, catch!” Arkar roared, flinging his staff across the grotto.
Ardi stretched out a hand, snatched his steadfast companion out of the air, and hauled himself to his feet.
Reflected in the mask of Professor Lea Morimer — behind which a single eye shone with confusion — Ardi caught a glimpse of his own visage, including his bare chest. For years, no one had ever seen a tattoo or a blue sigil given to him by Ergar there, for the simple reason that he’d never had one. Instead, strung on a leather cord along with the oak token that had been shattered by a bullet, hung… two fangs.
And that was precisely what Aror had noticed during their very first meeting after his training in the Alcade — he’d been looking at the fang, not some nonexistent marking. Only later had Ardi realized a simple truth: just like his father, his grandfather, great-grandfather, and generations of Matabar before him, he had defeated his mentor in a fair fight.
“Go on, partner,” Milar said with a smirk, cocking his revolver.
Ardan offered her a curt nod. “You are under arrest by order of the Second Chancery, Professor Lea Morimer.”
Of course, the words accomplished nothing. An instant later, bullets and spells began to fly.
Comments
G
The prose are fantastic, the logic and setting has thrown me occasionally.
G
It's so he can make the same deal his grandfather made.
Ben
I STILL DONT UNDERSTAND WHY YOU GAVE ARD 50-60 years to live. At this point just make him a human, you already have him completely forgetting his hunter roots. I HATE THIS
Xonian
Honestly it feels like every chapter I can’t help but appreciate Kirill’s prose. The changing of the setting when he becomes unconscious to tell another part of the story with it all culminating in the reveal of the second fang is amazing writing. Beautiful
G
Fight with the Shai'tan described a tattoo burning bright from his chest.
good guy
I'm lost. He had a tattoo?
LiteWvr
I CALLED IT!!!!
CentaureHeart
Yeah we need to know how they managed to follow him/when did they decide he was going to be bait..
Andrew Simpson
I wonder how they coordinated this. Ardan only realized where they were while being wheeled down the hallway, so did they already know where all this stuff was? Did they let him get captured and follow?
