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Matabar. Chapter 62 - Again, Baliero
🕑 Added 2025-01-23 23:08:01 +0000 UTCThey drove toward Baliero in complete silence. With each new, desolate turn; with each new traffic officer trembling from the cold they left behind; driving past quiet streets hiding from the barely-perceptible tread of the moonless darkness; along sidewalks where people hurried to return to the deceptively safe eaves of their own homes, seeking shelter from the oncoming storm — they drew closer to their destination.
And the city around them… Like a lurking cat, it waited. It didn’t know exactly what it was waiting for, but it was. More and more frequently, the lights in the windows were not Ley-lamps, but candles, which the residents had taken out of their boxes and, after lighting them, were now huddled around them, remembering the stories of their grandmothers about how living fire, in the hour of hungry darkness, could offer both salvation and aid. The closer midnight crept, the more sharply the veneer of civilization — wrapped tightly around the minds and hearts of both humans and the Firstborn — began to crack and splinter.
And now, with inactive Ley cables drooping like dead vines, as the capital was gradually succumbing to the relentless, determined march of the cold night, and as they sunk into its darkness… they remembered. They remembered forgotten legends and stories. They remembered old rites and traditions.
They took inherited talismans and amulets out of storage, the very same ones they used to mock as children. And right beside the candles, in the company of these pagan trinkets, lay the holy scriptures of the Face of Light. And no one cared about how odd such a pairing looked.
Fear gnawed at them, clinging to them and reeking of weakness and a frantic desire to run, to cower in the farthest corner and wait for the dawn.
Ardan could sense that stench. He could feel it as it prowled across the sidewalks, the half-seen paws and fangs of terror wandering through snowy gusts in search of their rightful prey. And maybe, had he reached out with his mind, had he opened himself up to it, he could have heard the distant echo of its name. One that was just as vile as it was powerful.
Ardi did not.
He sat in the front seat and, over and over, leafed through his grimoire, as if hoping that this would help him better remember the seals he already knew by heart. He only had a few memorized, unfortunately. Two defensive and two offensive spells. The rest he hadn’t yet mastered well enough to use easily in a fight. And there was no time for him to try and correct that mistake.
Milar was smoking and holding the steering wheel firmly. Alice was silently looking out the window. The operatives sitting to her right and left — Alexander and Din, who sometimes glanced at each other — were also staying silent.
And so was the capital.
It closed in around their car like a thick smear of nocturnal grease, smothering them in the black pit of night, squeezing them in the steel jaws of winter’s chill, and laying out a barren, icy roadway beneath their wheels. All traces of the earlier carnival of lights and that ceaseless celebration of life had long since vanished.
They crossed a wide bridge and found themselves on the other side of the Niewa, in the Baliero District on Saint Vasily’s Island. That first time, a sight worthy of his grandfather’s stories had greeted Ardi. Now, however, a frozen, black wasteland’s embrace was all that welcomed them.
The houses — frost-laced and draped in snow like scarves — stood grimly, looming like statues and barely lit by the timid glimmers of fireplaces or candles. No lively pedestrians filled the streets, nor flashy cars. The trendy cafés and restaurants had locked their doors, bars had shuttered their windows, and both the cinemas and regular theaters had hung signs proclaiming that they were being guarded by private security.
It was as though Baliero had turned from a place of endless enjoyment into a heavy, unwelcoming fortress.
Turning onto Fourteenth Street, they stopped near a particularly unremarkable — by the standards of the island anyways — house. It had two stories, was made from red brick, the façade was lined with white, faux-marble ledges, it had caryatids holding up porticos, and a parapet on the roof formed by elegant statuary. A small front lawn slumbered beneath a layer of snow cut through by a granite path leading to the wrought-iron gate. Milar brought the engine to a stop right by that gate.
“Corner of Fourteenth Street and the Lady’s Avenue,” the captain said like a tram conductor. “Here’s to your health, my dear colleagues.”
From a satchel nestled between the seats, Milar pulled out several small bottles. The first contained a thick, red fluid that smelled of wood-boring beetles, toadstools, and ferns. Ardi recognized that scent from his childhood: it was a potion meant to grant someone night vision.
The second held something dark that clung to the glass, leaving greasy streaks behind. As soon as the captain cracked the lid open, the odor of oak bark, armadillo musk, and something earthy drifted out. This concoction ensured blood did not flow too quickly from one’s wounds.
The other agents also drank identical potions, which meant they were all presumably standard issue. Alice handed a vial to Ardi as well. This one held a green fluid within that was reminiscent of an herbal tincture and had a sharp, repulsive smell — a strong painkiller. Grimacing, the young man downed it all in one gulp.
“Did you know,” Din leaned forward, saying the words in his usual cheerful tone. “That the Lady’s Avenue is called that because, two centuries ago, before the ban on prostitution, there was an entire row of brothels here.”
“Thanks for that valuable information, Erson,” the always surly Alexander said with a sigh.
“Alice,” Milar said, leaning across Ardi’s knees with practiced ease to open the glove compartment. From it, he retrieved a lady’s revolver, which he handed to her. “Shoot anyone who tries to come closer than a few meters.”
“Sure,” she nodded.
“But warn them first,” Alexander grunted.
The look Alice gave him right then was one Ardi hoped never to receive himself. He disliked feeling like an idiot.
“We’re moving out,” Milar nodded at them, his gun now in his hand, and stepped out onto the street.
All throughout the capital, the transformers had gone down, plunging the city into a darkness so complete that the view outside reminded Ardan of his native Alcade Mountains. The skyscrapers in the distance resembled the mountain peaks that would loom above the icy forests and cliffs — only here, instead of beasts howling, you could hear the sirens of the fire brigade, the ambulances, and the guards. They were roaming the city because, in times like these, when not even Ley cables worked reliably, looting became just another fact of life.
Milar approached the gate, whose bars were shaped like a lion rearing up on its hind legs. A layer of ice gave them a faint gleam. The captain was flanked by the two corporals, with Ardan bringing up the rear. He kept his staff at the ready, and his grimoire, just in case, was open at the page for the Ice Wall spell. That way, he wouldn’t have to search for it if things got dicey.
Captain Pnev extended a gloved hand toward the doorbell, paused, then lowered it. “It’s out,” he muttered, then flicked his gaze toward Din with a short nod.
“Understood, Cat,” Din replied, using the captain’s call sign — or whatever it was called.
Din undid his coat, stepped back, and, like a seasoned acrobat, ran forward, jumped, planted one foot on the gate’s bars, flipped over their pointed spikes, and landed lightly on the other side with his knees bent and without making a sound.
Ardi blinked in surprise. The man had effortlessly leaped over an almost three-meter-high fence and was now acting as if he’d done nothing special. With that slightly goofy, cheerful smile still on his face, he took out one of his knives, smashed the ice off the latch with its handle, and opened the gate for them. Perhaps he’d had another potion as well? To enhance his physical abilities? Such things did exist, but they lasted only a few minutes, and the person who’d consumed them would need a few days to recover afterwards.
“Please, go right ahead,” he said to the others with a bit of pride.
Milar nodded silently, and Alexander snorted disdainfully:
“Show-off.”
Ardan was seeing the carefree Din in a new light. It was one thing to hear that he had served as a ranger in the Ralsk Mountains, and quite another to witness his abilities with his own eyes. And, considering those impressive knives of his, this was clearly only a fraction of them.
“Din,” Milar gestured around them. “What do you think?”
To Ardi — who was used to reading tracks along forest paths and mountain trails — this little lawn blanketed in snow looked entirely ordinary. But Din seemed to see more here. He walked to the edge of the cleared path, pulled off a glove, ran his hand along the snow, then lifted his head and sniffed at the air. Next, he stood on tiptoe by the foundation of the house, checked the window ledges, and even felt around the porch and the door handle before carrying on. He inspected the flowerbeds, the corners of the house, the drainpipes, the fence — everything.
What he was looking for was a mystery to Ardi.
“The house has three adults and a small child that’s around three years old, no more than that, living in it,” he said after a minute of this.
“That’s bad,” Milar grimaced.
“Why?” Ardi asked, perplexed.
“Because this is the typical layout for a reconstruction of an old merchant’s residence,” Captain Pnev replied, drawing his revolver. “The living room should be right… there.” He pointed the barrel of his gun at the second window from the entrance, which faced them directly. “And there’s no light in the windows.”
Ardi frowned harder in utter confusion.
“Din, explain things to the kid.”
By this time, the ranger had already returned to the other Cloaks who were standing at the very edge of the property.
“Judging by the doors and the snow on the main stairs, one light person with small feet left the house last night, and returned only a few hours later, after which no one else went out.”
“And there’s no light,” Alexander added.
“Perhaps they’re sleeping?” Ardi speculated.
“On a night when the city is crawling with looters?” Alexander almost smiled in amusement. “Unlikely, trainee. Look, their neighbors are still awake.”
The gruff man pointed to a neighboring building, which looked almost identical to the one they were standing next to. Ardi turned just in time to notice the curtain swaying, behind which flickered the flame of a candle and a couple of blurry silhouettes.
“I have a hunch, Magister,” Milar, stepping forward along the path, drew his revolver and pressed it against his waist. “That you really have found our demonologist.”
“Demonologess,” Din raised a finger.
“There’s no such word, Erson,” Alexander snorted at him.
“Really? Well, alright,” Din shrugged carelessly.
The Cloaks, along with Ardi, climbed the front steps and stood near the door.
“Should we go in guns blazing or try to be quiet?” Alexander, holding a revolver in each hand, along with Din, was pressed up next to the door, standing to the right of it.
“Let’s try to go in without shooting everyone first,” Milar replied, getting into position with Ardan to the left of the door.
They pressed themselves close to the wooden door. The frost cracked beneath their weight, and yet, Ardi could not bring himself to touch the house.
Not because he was scared (though he was), but because he could literally feel with his entire “being” that the building was breathing. It would inhale the frosty, nocturnal air, and then exhale something musty and heavy that seemed to be pressing down on his chest. It could’ve been mistaken for pain he was suffering due to his wound, but not after that painkiller potion.
The breaths of the house enveloped his consciousness with a swarm of annoying horseflies. They buzzed, trying to get under his collar and into his ears. And the stench exhaled by the building literally clogged his nostrils and mouth, filling them with the disgusting taste of rotten vegetables and mold-covered berries.
And even if Ardi had never encountered such a thing before, this rotten, acrid mustiness was something he would never be able to mistake for anything else.
Demons.
By the Sleeping Spirits, he’d wanted — wished for it, even — to have his suspicions proven wrong, but it seemed like he had indeed solved the puzzle.
“Is anyone home?!” Milar banged his revolver against the door.
In response, the door swung open. Slowly, like some crooked old crone, it creaked inwards, shedding icy shards that fell onto the granite steps with a soft, ringing clatter.
A stench wafted out from the exposed, dark maw of the house. It was so foul that Ardi barely held back a wave of nausea.
“It looks like they’re inviting us in.” None of the others, not Alexander, or Milar, or Din seemed to feel anything.
“Are you sure we can handle this without reinforcements?” Din whispered.
“All the guards and House agents are spread throughout the city,” Milar whispered back. “The bastard chose the most opportune time… and don’t even try to think of a female form for that word!”
“Alright, alright,” Din raised his knives. Presumably, he meant what raised palms meant with that gesture.
“Let’s go,” Milar had already stepped inside, but was stopped by Ardi.
“There is something demonic inside this place.”
“You sure?” The captain asked him quietly without turning around.
“Almost one hundred percent sure.”
“Almost?”
“I haven’t studied demonology,” Ardi raised his staff, ready to cast a spell at any moment. “But the stench was about the same on Fifth Street.”
“So you’re saying it smells bad?” Milar growled. In a swift motion, he brushed aside his coat and drew a short saber from its sheath. “All right, let’s roll, boys!”
The operatives nodded. Alexander raised his revolvers and Din grabbed his knives in a reverse grip. In unison, the three of them jumped in and pressed their shoulders together, forming a triangle. A moment passed, then another, and yet only the howling of the wind that had invaded the musty, dark dwelling could be heard…
Nothing.
Milar aimed his sabre and revolver at the living room, Alexander kept an eye on the stairs leading to the second floor, and Din, knives crossed in front of his face, watched the kitchen intently.
But nothing happened.
“Trainee.”
“Yes?”
“Are you sure something reeks in here?” Milar whispered, almost managing to not move his lips. “I can only smell cat shit.”
“It’s from a dog,” Din corrected him.
Ardi frowned. Due to the putrid, damp stench of rotten vegetables and berries, he couldn’t detect the slightest hint of animal waste.
Crossing the threshold of the house, Ardan sniffed the air and…
Click!
He turned sharply to see a wall standing there. The door was nowhere to be seen.
“Not again,” Ardi barely managed to say before a wild howl, one that no human, Firstborn or beast would be able to produce, ripped through the room.
It was such a chilling howl that his heart skipped a beat, and the blood in his veins froze for a moment, stopping its endless flow.
Ardan whipped around toward the source of the noise. On the landing at the top of the stairs, some sort of fiend was feasting on a human corpse and making a wet, sucking noise as it did so. Its doglike muzzle was plunged nearly up to its brows into the mangled remains of a man, while two clawed limbs stuck out from the folds of its leathery wings, gripping the ragged shirt that hung in tatters around a torn-open rib cage.
Spatters of blood were flung in every direction, staining the walls, mirrors, wooden paneling, and even the chandelier. The creature, which looked like an unholy union between a dog and a bat, continued to gnaw on its grisly prize, chewing and tearing at spilled intestines and other organs.
As there was not a single source of light in the room, Ardi saw everything in smudged shades of gray due to the nature of his Matabar night vision. Only the blood glistened, bright as living flame, painting the horrific spectacle in the vivid brush strokes of death.
“Fire!” Milar shouted.
Ardi flinched at this and screamed:
“No!”
But it was already too late.
The captain, as well as Alexander and Din, had already cocked their guns and pulled the triggers. Thunderous shots rang out, accompanied by flashes of gunpowder. Every bullet hit its target. Lead pierced holes in the creature’s wings, tore off chunks of its flesh, scattering fur across the floor, and several bones were also shattered, sending unpleasantly crunchy bits falling to the ground.
But the creature didn’t so much as think of succumbing to its wounds.
Howling again, it turned and looked at the stunned Cloaks with its beady, yellowish eyes.
“Woo-eee!” It squealed, and, launching itself away from the man’s corpse — his face was mutilated and frozen in a grimace of terror — the demon spread those massive wings and swooped down the stairs.
Milar and Alexander flung themselves aside, going in different directions, which meant that its paws only managed to slash the edges of their coats. Meanwhile, Din pushed off the floor and sprang into the air, landing on the back of the demon below him. Then, with a cry worthy of the best wranglers, he drove his steel knives into the creature’s ears. They plunged into the monster’s skull with a nauseating slurping sound.
The creature jerked, flailed its leathery wings, and crashed to the floor, rolling a good two meters along the ground. Din had leaped clear and was now hopping from foot to foot like a seasoned boxer, eyes bright in the dark from that night vision brew and his pupils so dilated they nearly filled his irises.
“Let’s check it out,” Din drew out his small, handheld analyzer and pointed it at the monster. “It’s got enough Ley for three rays of a Red Star. That’s about six exes and thirty kso. Not quite the juicy bounty I’d been hoping for.”
Milar, ignoring the ranger, turned to Ardan.
“What were you yelling about?”
“It’s a bat, albeit only partially,” Ardi shook his head dejectedly. “And bats…”
“Live in colonies,” the Cloaks finished for him. After that realization, they made sure to stand back to back once again, this time forming not a triangle, but a square due to the addition of Ardan.
As if hearing their words, the darkness within the house began to roil. Along the ceiling, where previously only spiders had dwelled; in the corners between the walls and furniture, where daylight had never reached; across the floor, in those far-flung areas that the housekeepers’ brooms had barely brushed… The shadows churned and puffed up in every place the light had never held sway.
And these bubbles of darkness, swelling faster and faster, all simultaneously burst, erupting like a swollen pimple full of oil, taking on the features of the same creature that Din had just eliminated. Some were smaller, the size of a dachshund, while others were much larger than an adult wolf. They all spread their still-forming wings, opened their maws impossibly wide, and howled madly.
“What were you saying about a bonus?” Alexander whispered, cocking his weapons again.
“Go up!” Milar yelled and, waving his sabre in front of him and shooting his revolver at the enemy, ran toward the stairs.
Following him, Ardan rushed to the steps as well, right behind Alexander. Each shot the gruff man fired invariably found a target, exploding the eye sockets of the creatures diving on them from all sides. Din brought up the rear, delivering quick, fast strikes to the right and left of him, cutting wings and slashing throats with his knives.
Ardi, meanwhile, was mentally holding a defensive seal at the ready, and so he remained inactive. If, of course, one didn’t count the fact that, from time to time, he had to duck down, dodging the enemies swooping in right above him, and the fact he also sometimes had to use his staff in imaginative ways it hadn’t been intended for, fending off the creatures with its base or even hitting them right on the head with it.
Milar reached the second-floor landing first, skidded off to one side, whirled around, and fired his gun, knocking down a demon that had almost stabbed its claws into Din’s back. The ranger, for his part, leaped onto the banister and kicked off it with the predatory grace of a hunting falcon. For a single heartbeat, he seemed to hang in midair as he drove a knife into the back of the creature’s skull, then used the demon’s dying body as a springboard to fling himself past the railing. He landed and rolled across the floor, slamming painfully against the wall.
Alexander, who was shooting with both hands in different directions and not missing (which seemed impossible to Ardan), still couldn’t stop one of the hungry, flesh-craving creatures from clawing his head. It tore off some skin and took his hat along with it, revealing his bald head… covered in the ornate, intricate tribal tattoos of the Armondo.
“Bastard,” he spat. With a spin of one emptied revolver, he holstered it and, in the same movement, pulled a large knuckle duster from his belt.
Easily slipping it onto his fingers and clenching his fist, Alexander delivered a swift and equally powerful blow to the demon’s chest. A cracking sound resounded, and his fist, which had dented the demon’s chest a couple of centimeters inward, sent it flying back.
When all four of them reached the second floor, Milar took something small and round out of his inner pocket and shouted:
“Eyes!”
Ardi panicked at first, but after noticing how everyone was covering their faces with their elbows, he managed to close his eyes. Alas, he couldn’t cover himself with his hand in time, and so, even through his closed eyes, the world around him still blazed with white light.
When Ardan opened his eyes again, everything had been reduced to a bunch of blurry silhouettes.
“Move!” Alexander barked into his ear and, grabbing him by the elbow, dragged him somewhere.
Then came the sound of the door slamming shut, and he felt himself being violently yanked down. When Ardan regained his ability to see, he was almost sick again. They were hiding in a nursery. A nursery where, in a broken bed — with splinters all around it and torn sheets and a mattress that had fallen to the floor — lay the gnawed on, bloodied remains of a three-year-old child.
Ardan sometimes had nightmares about Baliero, and for a moment, he thought he was asleep and experiencing one of them.
“So, let’s count that as twelve creatures with three rays each,” Din said, seemingly unconcerned by what he was seeing, including the bloody scratches on the blue wallpaper depicting poodles frolicking on white clouds. “We just need to collect some sort of tangible proof of our kills, or else half of the bonus will be deducted. And they’ll still charge us for the grenade. All in all, that’s almost seventy exes and-”
“And we’re screwed, Din,” Milar said tiredly, reloading his revolver as he did so. “It’s really not the time to be angling for a big bonus.”
“You’re out of grenades?” Alexander, who was busy doing the same thing, asked.
The “moons,” while suitable for quick reloads, were limited, and the Cloaks were not in a hurry to spend them. Ardan was fighting against his nausea. He had seen it all in the last six months and had probably even gotten used to corpses and blood. But what normal person could ever get used to the sight of a child’s body, let alone one that had been torn apart so viciously...
The Cloaks, on the other hand, acted as though the carnage barely registered. Maybe that was why society both feared them and despised them in equal measure.
“I’ve got two left,” the captain said, pulling out two small glass orbs tied off with plain twine. Inside, a shimmering white fluid sparkled and swirled. “We can burn the swarm two more times, but…” Milar shook his head and tucked the grenades away again. “They’re just low-level creatures, summoned to be a distraction by that demonologist bastard…”
“Demonologess,” Din insisted again.
“She’s a murderous psycho bitch as far as I’m concerned,” Alexander growled. “Now is not the time for niceties!”
Din — twirling the cylinder of his revolver that he’d fired only once or twice — just shrugged, his knives still clenched in his hands.
“I just wanted to remind you that the target is a woman, so the poor guy that the demon ate is at least innocent.”
“The esteemed Lady Demonologess is our target,” Milar corrected him mockingly. “And she’s most likely still somewhere in this building, planning something bigger.”
All three of them turned to Ardan in unison.
“The trainee is about to throw up,” Alexander pulled out a five-kso coin from his pocket.
“He won’t,” Milar took out a coin as well.
“I’ll pass,” Din shook his head.
Ardan looked at them, trying to understand whether the Cloaks had gone insane or not, and then, bending over the wreckage of the wardrobe, he coughed a couple of times but managed to not vomit.
“My coin,” the captain took the five kso. “Alright, what are your guesses, Magister?”
“Basement.”
“That is very vague,” Milar squinted. “We need some specifics, Ard.”
Ardan closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. His heart was trying to burst through his chest and escape, and his legs were shaking treacherously. He would’ve liked to remain ignorant about the abilities of demonologists — especially the powerful ones — and their demons like the Cloaks. But after reading Atta’nha’s scrolls and stories, he no longer had that luxury.
“The deeper into the ground you go, the stronger the influence of the Ley gets, especially on this night,” Ardan clarified, wiping the bitter saliva from his lips. “We’re now on the second floor, but the creatures aren’t attacking us anymore, although they clearly could keep going. That means they are almost definitely guarding the entrance to the basement.”
“That’s better,” Milar nodded approvingly. “Alexander?”
“We could clear the way to the kitchen with one grenade, and then throw the second one into the cellar before immediately going down after it.”
“And if there’s some crap waiting for us in the basement?” Din put away his knives and took out two much longer, curved ones that looked like short sabers or very lengthy daggers.
“Then we’ll improvise,” Alexander raised his revolvers.
“As we always do,” Din sighed dejectedly.
“As we always do,” Alexander agreed.
“Plamena offered me some of her famous apple strudel this morning,” Din groaned dramatically. “And being the fool I am, I refused. If our improvisation ends the same as our last one, we’ll be stuck in the infirmary for a couple of months again.”
“You’ll have your strudel tomorrow morning,” Alexander growled in annoyance.
“Tomorrow… But I want some now. And yet, instead of strudel, I get demons! Damned half-dog and half-mouse ones, too. I can’t stand mice. They’re small, agile and always chewing on something.”
“Then they’re almost like you, Din,” Alexander snorted. “You’ve always got some sort of nasty snack in your maw, but you’re as tall as a beanstalk, too.”
Ardi, while listening to the clearly nervous banter, kept his gaze fixed on the remains of the mauled toddler. If the unknown demonologist was indeed planning to conduct the experiment described in that Grand Magister’s autobiography, then why would she part with, as bad as it sounded, good materials?
Yes, the Grand Magister had mentioned eleven-year-old children as a baseline average, but by that logic, a small child could be better suited to the experiment, at least to some extent.
And yet…
“Have you noticed it?” Milar asked him in a whisper, ending the argument at once.
“Yes,” Ardan confirmed. “I have.”
They exchanged glances and fell silent. Alexander and Din, who were shifting their gazes between the captain and the young man in puzzlement, both finally shrugged.
“Perhaps, gentlemen investigators, you would like to share your thoughts with us?” Alexander demanded harshly.
“It doesn’t add up,” Milar ran his fingers over his stubbled jaw.
“What, by the Eternal Angels, doesn’t add up, Cat?”
“The details, Alexander, the details don’t add up,” the captain said, sliding a palm across his revolver’s cylinder and giving it a spin to check the mechanism. “We don’t know how yet, but it’s clear things aren’t lining up.”
“And what are we doing about it?” Din asked, a glimmer of hope in his voice.
“First, we’ll clear out this lair, and then we’ll think about it,” Milar shrugged. “How much time do we have left until midnight?”
Ardan raised his watch up to his nose.
“Two hours and twenty-one minutes,” he informed the Cloaks.
For several suffocating heartbeats, a heavy silence filled the ravaged nursery. Outside, the night tore at the city, ripping away more scraps of its resistance, which came in the form of desperate attempts at lighting up the gloom with Ley-lamps and flickering candles and oil lamps.
No one there so much as glanced in the direction of that fleeting safety. Unlike in Baliero itself, this house did not present itself as a simple deathtrap.
If anything, it was the other way around: the vanishing door and the demon swarm seemed designed to push unwelcome guests toward one sensible decision — turn tail and flee this hellhole as quickly and as far as possible.
“Whoever dies is a Fatian,” Milar spat and, stepping over the crib’s wreckage and the gnawed limbs of the child, approached the door.
Taking a grenade in his left hand, he used his revolver’s muzzle to slightly open the door and, exhaling, shouted: “Well, you flying exes, come on! Here we are!” And with that, he lunged into the hallway.
Alexander and Din darted after him, and Ardan followed last. While they were in the second-floor corridor, as Ardan had guessed, the demons did not attack them. But the moment Milar crossed the invisible boundary between landing and stairway, the darkness that had spread throughout the first floor ballooned again into viscous, oily clouds.
The rotten, tarry bubbles burst, spawning more and more hybrids of bats and dogs. They also had fish-like teeth and flapped their wings, generating a buzz of nauseating pops reminiscent of the flapping of torn skin in the wind.
“Eyes!” Milar shouted, leaping from midway up the stairs and hurling another glass orb ahead of him. Ardan recognized it at once — he’d seen Mart use something similar on the train.
Shielding his eyes with one arm, staff raised, Ardan dove after Alexander and Din. He landed in something viscous and half-melted — the steaming remains of a demon burnt away by the orb’s supernatural flash.
When he moved his hand away from his face, Ardan saw that the gloom had been seared so badly that blurry afterimages were now scorched into the walls like sun-bleached silhouettes. And yet, in the corners where that eerie light hadn’t reached, new bubbles were already bursting, birthing more shrieking, drooling horrors.
“Don’t slow down!” Milar shouted.
Ardan and the Cloaks dashed into the kitchen. A whoosh sounded behind the stove as yet another monstrosity lunged at them. Its fangs never reached Cloak flesh, though — they slammed into one of Din’s blades instead. The former ranger, holding his left knife in a reverse grip, wedged the steel firmly between its teeth, then drove his right blade deep into the fiend’s belly. In one fluid spin, he flung himself aside, twisting the demon into a whirl of wet, black flesh and steaming gore.
Its skull split from ear to ear. Its torso was bisected from crotch to maw. Four separate chunks of the monster collapsed onto the tiles just as Milar yanked open the cellar door.
“Behind you!” Alexander shouted.
He yanked Ardan backwards, planting a hand on the boy’s collarbone and bracing an elbow against his shoulder, then pulled the trigger three times. The shots cracked right behind Ardan’s head, each blast threatening to rupture his eardrums. Ardi tried to shout something, but he could hardly hear his own voice.
By the time Alexander let him go, flipping open his gun to shake out the spent shells, four demon corpses lay behind Ardan. Each one was sporting an extra hole dead center between their eyes and their diameters matched his bullets perfectly.
Unfortunately, Ardan could no longer hear anything with his right ear, which was buzzing like a faulty transformer.
“Grenade!” Milar tossed the orb into the cellar and slammed the door shut. From beneath it, searing rays of white light shot out for a moment, eliciting shrieks from the horde of demons that had begun pouring into the kitchen. Screeching, the creatures shielded themselves with their wings — which burned under the onslaught of that brilliance — and retreated deeper into the shadows.
“Move!” The captain bellowed. Holding the door open, saber raised, he kept firing. His aim was less impeccable than Alexander’s, but he was still dropping the occasional demon as it came too close.
That bought enough time for Alexander, Din, and Ardan to dash through. Then Milar darted in as well and yanked the door shut with a bang.
Fangs and claws instantly battered the thin wood, ripping into the flimsy boards and prying apart large chunks of it.
“It won’t last long!” Milar shouted, occasionally stabbing his saber into newly-opened gaps and skewering any howling demon unlucky enough to shove its muzzle through.
Ardan quickly opened his grimoire to the page detailing the Ice Wave variant. It was nothing fancy: a standard form set within one of many free arrays.
“Get behind me!” He shouted, straining his throat until it hurt.
Alexander and Din were the first to duck behind him. Milar had to kick off the stairs and leap right over their heads — fortunately, Alexander and Din were quick enough to catch him before he dropped like a sack of potatoes onto the cellar’s stone floor.
The demons, after reducing the door to splinters, got stuck in the narrow passage, and then began scratching their way inside, leaving long, deep gouges in the stone walls as they pushed forward.
Ardan slammed the butt of his staff against the ground. A seal flared to life at his feet, and a flurry of ice streamed out from the tip of his staff. In seconds, a rectangular ice wall — two and a half meters tall, half a meter thick — rose up from floor to ceiling, sealing off the stairs. The demons that had clawed their way onto the steps crashed into this new barrier, ripping at it and gnashing their fangs against its smooth, transparent surface.
Of course, they would eventually break through, and likely without too much trouble since the conjured wall would only hold for half an hour or so before its stored energy returned to the Ley Lines.
“Well, that’s… interesting,” Ursky remarked, tilting his head as he studied the fiends attempting to gnaw their way through.
Ardan, meanwhile, tapped into the remaining two rays in his ring. The accumulator on his finger cracked, falling away in tiny crystal shards. Shaking the ring free of any remnants, Ardan swapped in his other accumulator and drew three more rays from it.
This left all seven of his rays burning in his Star, but only six in reserve in the last accumulator. Ardan had already realized while saving Boris that the number of Stars and rays he possessed was quite insignificant when it came to a serious fight. And now…
It was no wonder Mart had been so skeptical about Ardan’s combat magic education.
“Good job, trainee,” Milar straightened up, shaking himself off. “But we’re not resting just yet, gentlemen. The main event is still to come.” And the captain pointed deeper into the cellar.
Nothing about this basement seemed remarkable: there were a few wooden casks, an ice chest against the nearest wall, a pair of cabinets full of cleaning supplies, mops, and garden tools. A single, non-functioning Ley-lamp swayed idly in the center...
Which meant that Milar was pointing somewhere else.
Ardan squinted and spotted a hole in the far wall. The masonry had been pried away — chunks of brick and stone littered the floor — revealing a tunnel that led into a dark abyss. The stench of rot and swamp was so strong that Ardi nearly gagged again.
Din, blades still in hand, stepped up to the hole and peered inside. “Well, that’s a surprise,” he whistled softly. “It’s an old smuggler’s passage that opens right into the sewers.”
“Damn it,” Alexander muttered, tucking away his knuckle duster and loading a second revolver. With a flourish, he spun both guns, lifting their barrels to rest near his shoulders. “Those fucking drug runners had to screw things up even here.”
“I have nothing more to add, Alexander,” Milar sighed. “Nothing more… except for the fact that we’ll have to go down there.”
“Into the sewers?” Din asked. “How will we know where to go without any blueprints? I can’t navigate in there. And even if I could — the demonologess could be anywhere. It’s a real labyrinth down there.”
Ardan probably could have remained silent. Maybe he should’ve even suggested that they try to escape. Together, they could have fought their way through the demons and gotten out, even without any grenades to aid them. This was not his hunt. His pack had not been harmed. Only Lisa… Boris… And those missing children…
Maybe Ardan still didn’t know who he really was — a human or a Matabar. But he did know who he had no desire to become.
“I’ll find her,” the young man said firmly, drawing everyone’s attention.
Milar approached, looking him in the eye. “And how, might I ask, Magister, do you plan to do that?”
“By scent,” Ardan touched his nose. “I can smell the corruption. I’ll find her.”
“Are you sure?”
Ardan thought about it a bit and uncertainly spread his arms out.
“Alright,” Milar waved his hand and also reloaded his revolver. “That’s still better than nothing. In that case, Magister, you can go first. Din, stay close to Ard. Alexander, you and I will cover them from the back.”
The Cloaks and Ardi exchanged glances.
The watch on the young man’s wrist kept ticking.
Time until midnight: 2 hours, 11 minutes.
Comments
Dee22
I didn't find that part unbelievable. They only had confirmation that Ardan's theory was anything more than conjecture once they were in the house, and there are lots of things going down that would bind Chancery resources, so they would be reticent to call more people on a hunch.
Anthony Goh
Love the story so far. Just wanted to state that this part seems to be flawed. its unbelievable that they never requested for additional help. They could have started the assault after they have released a signal for reinforcement
