Chapter 6: - Desperation

  Exia gazed down into Volkov’s office from a hole in the ceiling; he’d climbed up into it the moment the Captain had entered the office. The alternative was to stand outside and merely imagine what Volkov would decide his fate would be once told of his theft.

  For now there was silence. Volkov sat at his desk, writing something into paper that demanded all his attention. Morozova stood at attention silently, bread in one hand, flask in the other.

  Only time separated Exia from being a damned man, and the dread built up his heart with a thunderous rhythm. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do much of anything but wait in this eternal torture.

  Then Volkov looked up. “Captain, you wanted to see me?”

  Morozova nodded. “Yes,” he said. And for the first time Exia heard his voice. It was gravelly, rough and bleeding with what Exia assumed was a Lezviye accent. He raised his hands in display of the contents within them. “I saw the King attempting to sneak these into his room,” he reported, and Exia’s gut sank. He wished desperately to return to that feeling of eternal dread.

  Volkov’s face wrinkled ever so slightly, as if he’d just been presented with a mildly foul odour. “I see. He will be punished.”

  There… There it was. A simple statement, yet infinite in its gravity. Punishment from Volkov wasn’t a simple spanking or a mild lashing; he’d gotten those from Mother when he pushed her too far. No, a punishment from Volkov was conditioning; it was something so severe as to make the thought of repeating his offending action synonymous with the despair it invoked.

  Exia had read such a technique used on dogs; he’d experienced it when he’d first refused to greet the General by his title. What he would get for stealing…Exia’s stomach turned at the thought and he thought he might throw up.

  “You’re not hearing me, General.” Morozova continued, voice carrying a curious weight of strain to them. “He’s stealing because he’s a child, a child who’s being punished with starvation because he can’t hit a grown man. A Captain."

  “And I shall make him into a man who can hit a Captain.” Volkov replied, as if it were a simple fact.

  Morozova was silent. Exia saw his fists tighten, his hands tremble, and the veins on his head bulge against skin. “Well then…” The man inhaled, as if readying himself to be struck. “I don’t think I want any part in your process, Sir.”

  Volkov’s reply came quick and with little deliberation. “That’s fine then, Soldier. After all, though you were my first pick, you were never commanded to take on this task. I merely requested it and you answered the call. For that, I thank you, Captain.”

  Morozova nodded stiffly and headed for the door.

  “However…” Volkov continued, and that halted the Captain, hand on doorknob. “As you were my first choice, I have no choice but to resort to my second. Lieutenant Grigoreva.”

  Morozova whipped his head around. He looked pale as a ghost. “Sir… You can’t be serious.”

  “Why would you think I have suddenly taken a fancy for jests, Captain?” Volkov asked.

  “Because Grigoreva’s a fucking nutter—” He nearly snapped, then caught himself, because one did not snap at Volkov. “Sir,” He added, voice softer now, subdued, but not yielding. “I’ve seen the things he did in the war, I’ve heard the reports. He’ll fucking crush the kid.”

  “Grigovera might be excitable,” Volkov began, words smooth and cold as ice. “But he is still a tool. A less than ideal one, I admit, but we must make do with what we have, Captain. We must always make do with what we have.”

  The room was still, both men stared at each other silently. The Captain glared at the General, the General met his heat as if it were merely the soothing warmth of a bonfire. In the end it was clear which of the two would falter.

  “See you tomorrow, General,” Morozova breathed.

  “Of course, Captain.” Volkov won.

  And with that, Morozova left.

  ###

  Gorodlzhi was terrifying at night. It was cold, dark, and empty. But most of all, it was terrifying at night.

  Sasha, ideally, would be in her quarters, drinking coffee, compiling evidence, coming up with a case—fuck, maybe even just sleeping. But she wasn’t. Instead, she was in the cold, dark world of Gorodlzhi, searching for a King who’d suddenly disappeared into a city within which a group of serial killers were at large.

  Fucking shit.

  It was a city—a damned city. How in the heavens was she supposed to find the bastard. What if he was dead? Now, that one did get a surge of joy spreading through her cheeks, and then she remembered that she’d lose her job, her reputation would be ruined, and she might very well be hanged for it.

  Sasha quickened her pace.

  She cut a corner, and found something that struck her; in a sea of silent buildings and black windows there was a bar, burning not only with light, but with chatter as well. Loud chatter. Like chanting. From across the streets she could see the shadows of dozens of people within the building.

  Sasha made her way across the street. She shouldered her way through the door and was assailed by the atmosphere of noise and liquor.

  The room was packed with bodies; laughing, dancing, singing and drinking. All citizens of Gorodlzhi from the looks of things. Their brown hair and eyes were set on something in the centre of the room.

  Sasha forced her way through sweaty men, elbowed a few in the face when they got too handsy, and finally drew close enough to see the object of their attention.

  Black haired, blue eyed, and grinning with joy, the King of Bessmertnyy thrust his fist into the air. “Say it with me now!” He roared, and the crowd exploded into a chant.

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  “Ooooh, you don’t put your cock in a whore from Voin, it’ll come out shrivelled and limp and torn!”

  “You don’t ask a Voin man for the time, he’ll steal your boots and teeth and run!”

  “Voin, Voin, the Gods latrine of piss and cum!”

  “Voin, Voin, the Gods latrine of pissss andddd cummmm!”

  The King seemed to be having the time of his life, hopping from one foot to another, spinning around in a thrill, if she squinted quite hard Sasha could almost forget he was a highly valuable asset who should be under her supervision at all times—and certainly not singing sailor shanties in a bar.

  “The Butchers might kill our flesh, Gorodlzhi, but they can’t kill our spirit!” The King roared, and the crowd exploded into merry joy. “Say it with me again!”

  “Oooooh—”

  Sasha decided she’d had enough. She tried to push through the crowd but was denied with a shove. She landed on her arse, glared, put on her gloves, got to her feet and stretched her hands to the sky.

  Roar of Gnev.

  Stream!

  A jet of fire erupted from her palms and brightened the room. It would have melted steam, at full power. Would have torched half a ceiling, at full power. It was not at full power, barely at an echo of full power. That, it seemed, was nonetheless enough to force the people into scattering—what with their self preservation instincts and all. There was a lot of cursing, screaming and running, but soon enough the bar was empty.

  Save from her and the King.

  “Well, that’s my party pooped isn’t it.” He huffed, like a child being denied cake.

  Sasha just glared at him.

  “Pooped, as in, you being the pooper. You pooped my party. I’m saying you’re a party poop—”

  —“I know what that idiom means!” Sasha snapped. She drew in a breath, did not slam a chair into the King’s face, and most notably and commendably, did not beat the King half to death. Sasha just… breathed. “What I don’t know, and could not begin to guess as to why, is the reason why you’re hosting a party at a bar while there are serial killers on the loose.” She calmed her voice, making it a hiss instead of a growl.

  “It’s not like they were going to come for me then,” he scoffed.

  Sasha blinked. “What? How the fuck could you be certain about that?!”

  “Because—” he began, and his eyes narrowed, and she felt under the gaze of a serpent, “---they’re coming for us now, silly.” She hadn’t noticed when he slid on his gloves, but now the Mage in front of her was powered.

  Sasha felt the words escape her, pulled them back into her mind, and spat them out with haste. “I didn’t authorize you to put on your gloves.”

  “I know. But you’re about to, so I decided I might as well get ahead of things.” He shrugged.

  Coat.

  Her hands erupted in flames like a welder’s torch and she glared at the Mage. “Why are your gloves on?” She growled.

  The King looked at her flaming palms like they were toys, and Sasha was suddenly aware of the stark difference between their power.

  Without thinking she called upon her biography and saw it claw its way into the air, somewhere just before unreality.

  ────────────────────────────

  [Discipline: Mage]

  [Sect: Fire]

  [Magnitude: Sixty-six]

  [Gift of Gnev:]

  ────────────────────────────

  [Roar of Gnev- Spells]

  (Coat)

  (Sphere)

  (Stream)

  (Combust)

  (Vortex)

  (Whip)

  (Scythe)

  (Stun)

  (Wave)

  (Smite)

  (Track)

  (Erupt)

  (Chase)

  ────────────────────────────

  By all accounts, Sasha was a phenomenal Mage, the kind that not just changed battlefields already filled with other Mages, but outright decided them. In all of Besmertnyy’s Empire there were, at best, one thousand able to match her. And yet if he wanted to, this barely-man could kill her, instantly and with very little effort. Her heart thundered in her chest, her veins burned with terror. And she still stood her ground.

  “Relax, Captain,” the King chuckled. “I’m not the one who’s going to try and kill you. The Priests are.”

  Sasha raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? That’s not possible. The priests are in the Pokoritel pris—”

  —”Ugh, come on Captain, don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out, you’ve talked with them haven’t you?” He seemed to recognise confusion in her face and continued on. “Fine. If I must do everything, I shall, all I ask for is for a modicum of appreciation.”

  “Speak.” Sasha growled.

  “Fine, fine, fine,” he threw his hands up acquiescently. “The reason why the killings look like those of the Priests is because they are of the Priests. They’re being let out at night to kill and then return to cells after said killings without a trace that they were ever gone…Well, save from the bodies that is.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “An educated guess.” The King shrugged. “They’re also going to try and kill us both in a surprise attack.”

  The King was insane, he was insane with his theories, and he was insane if he thought she was just going to latch onto them without any eviden—

  The ceiling exploded downwards with a sound like gunfire and a spray of splinters and dust clouds. Something dropped into the cloud—four things to be exact—figures that stood between her and the King.

  There was silence, long and heavy—and then there was motion.

  One dashed at her.

  Donchenko burst through the cloud like a bullet, eyes and mouth wide as he roared. His fist came quickly, coated in violent, crackling white and grey energy—lightning itself.

  Sasha blocked. It hit.

  A force like a howitzer slammed into her arms, launching her off her feet and sending her through the wall in a spray of wood and dust.

  She hit the asphalt, bounced, skidded against it, and cracked thunderously into the side of a building.

  Her back hurt, her shoulders burned, but where the true damage laid was in her forearms. They felt like they were on fire; an area the size of a fist had been charred from her sleeves. The skin underneath was red raw, and smokey black tendrils twisted upwards from where the flesh was still sizzling.

  Sasha winced.

  She fucking hated Lightning Mages.

  She pulled herself to her feet and saw Donchenko step through the hole her body had left in the wall. Sasha tried to look past him, into the bar, hoping for a glimpse of the King—was he still alive? Did he need her help?—but there was too much debris in the way.

  Regardless, it looked like she had a more immediate concern looming before her right now.

  The street lamps brought their lights down on the Priest, illuminating him in such a way as to leave no doubt that the supposedly incarcerated man was the one standing in front of her. A bandage sat on his nose where she’d punched him and he still wore his rags from the prison, but in the place of cuffs, there were now gloves. Mage gloves.

  “Captain Osin,” Donchenko called out, playing with the words in his mouth in a way that made her skin crawl. His eyes ran across her form stickily and his lips arched upwards into a grin. “A whore masquerading as a Mage. This… This will be fun.”

  Priest Donchenko, Lightning Mage, Magnitude Sixty-Seven as of last estimation. Slight chance of being a higher Magnitude due to recent events. Sasha ran through the facts clinically in her own mind, like a chirurgeon observing symptoms in a patient. It was how she was taught to process things in the academy, after all; more Mages died to panic and complacency than superior opponents.

  He’s a magnitude above me. That combined with his several decades more experience puts me at a disadvantage. Somewhere between her mind and the Beyond, Sasha heard a whispering, a salivating, a hungry wanting. Gnev. The Fire God wanted this one’s head—he always hated the servants of Iskra.

  There would be a reward waiting for her if she managed it, an increase in power, maybe enough to even place her a magnitude higher. But in truth, Sasha was skeptical she had much chance of leaving this alive in the first place.

  I cast, Coat.

  Sasha requested, and the flames in her palms spread all over her body, enveloping her in a maelstrom of red and orange conflagrations.

  Donchenko did the same, and grey and white lightning danced across his body, crackling, popping and hissing, like vipers in search of prey.

  He was death—the Butcher of Gorodlzhi, the fallen Priest—and Sasha charged towards death. Because there was no other choice.

  ###

  Exia considered the three opponents before him. Magnitude Sixty, Sixty-one and Magnitude Sixty-seven. He sighed. This was going to be a rather uneventful affair.