Matabar-Chapter 80 - 79 - ’They spoke no words’

Ardan, with Arkar at his side, leaped and dodged over the civilians sprawled across the floor, squealing and screaming in panic, and bolted out onto the street. Something incredible was happening on the narrow sidewalk, where a thin curb formed a frail barrier between the tiny roadway and the pedestrians.

The werewolf, who had assumed his Wanderer-like form (he was thankfully not much taller than an average human like this), had grabbed the hood of a "Derks" that had screeched to a halt right in front of him. The Firstborn folk passing by on their everyday business froze in place. They stood as still as ridiculous statues. They were almost reminiscent of that time when, during the War of the Birth of the Empire, some dwarven Aean'Hane had turned three dozen mounted Galessians to stone.

The orc behind the wheel of the "Derks" jammed his foot desperately on the gas and flashed his headlights, but he couldn't so much as budge the werewolf. The creature only growled, baring his teeth, and vanished into the smoke rolling off the car's tires as they squealed on the cobblestones. His long claws effortlessly crushed the metal, and then this spawn of Star Magic, sinking ankle-deep into the cracking pavement, twisted his body and, like a medieval hammer-thrower, hurled the one-and-a-half-ton vehicle — driver and all — straight at the entrance of the "Sea Breeze."

Arkar barely had time to think about jumping aside before Ardan slammed his staff against the ground. For an instant, the air around them froze so intensely that little spirals of frost surged out from the spot where the ancient oak had struck the sidewalk. A fraction of a heartbeat later, directly in the car's path, a thick, half-meter-wide and nearly three-meter-long barrier of ice coalesced out of thin air.

The "Derks" smashed into it roof-first, causing deep cracks to spread through the icy bulwark, but the wall held. The same could not be said for the automobile. It crumpled in on itself like an accordion and bounced back onto the pavement. Diesel, mixing with blood and scraps of flesh, trickled out over the shattered cobblestones.

Meanwhile, the werewolf was already… clambering over a wall. Ardan couldn't help noticing that the beast's fur had thinned considerably, and he was visibly smaller — he had likely used up a good share of his power, however it worked, in throwing that car.

Even so, he remained formidable. Carrying an unconscious Indgar over his shoulder, the monster was digging the claws of his free hand and both feet into the masonry of nearby buildings, springing from wall to wall.

The bystanders, finally snapping out of their shock, began shrieking and darting to and fro like flies trapped in a jar.

Arkar raised his revolvers, not caring about the fact that sirens were already wailing in the distance, and squeezed both triggers. The thunderous roar of ten-millimeter rounds flooded the street, rattling the windows of storefronts and houses alike. The gunpowder haze slammed into nostrils like a sledgehammer, and the whistling lead slugs sliced through the air.

Most of them missed their mark, chewing up chunks of brick and stone and leaving holes in the walls that were far worse than those carved by the werewolf's claws. Even so, a few struck home. The creature bellowed when one bullet lodged itself in his furry thigh, painting the evening gloom with vivid splashes of his bright red blood. Another grazed his left side, leaving a similar smear on the wall.

Arkar and Ard exchanged a single glance.

After that stunt with the "Derks," the beast had become vulnerable to bullets, which meant…

Ardan exhaled and concentrated on the Ice Wall spell — his modification of the Ice Wave that required one fewer ray due to the absence of a spreading motion. In practice, he'd used this version so often he knew it by heart. And while Ardan still couldn't properly use the Resonance needed to cast it freely, at that moment, he felt certain he could manage…

He inhaled the frosty air and seized the Ley flowing from the Ice Wall. Channeling it into a seal, he exhaled a cloud of glittering snow, then struck his staff against the ground. Ardi managed to release a small Ice Arrow — much smaller than the standard version — from the tip of his staff before the werewolf reached the building's eaves.

Despite being barely more than thirty centimeters long and resembling a knitting needle, the Ice Arrow pierced clean through the monster's right hind paw and shattered against the brick.

The bastard roared but still managed to scramble onto the roof.

"They're getting away!" Arkar bellowed.

"You owe me new shoes," Ardan said.

"What?"

"In fact, you owe me several pairs," Ardi muttered. He hooked his staff onto the chain at his belt, then slung it over his back, fastening the buttons of his jacket as he did so. He recalled seeing Edward Aversky using a carrying case for his staff that looked like a massive tube. While that was inconvenient for quick drawing or stowing your staff while you were on the move, right now, it would have been perfect.

"What are you planning to do?" Arkar sounded more bewildered by the sight of a barefoot Ardi than by the Star Werewolf launching cars and scampering up walls like a roach.

The young man had pulled off his shoes, socks, and overcoat, and also rolled up the sleeves of both his jacket and shirt. He was bracing himself for a run.

"And suits!" He shouted, dashing away. "You'll owe me several of those, too!"

Ardan paid no heed to Arkar or the passersby slowly regaining their wits. He started running. The wind tousled his hair, which was already damp enough that the styling paste had worn off. Just like in his childhood, he made sure to take deep breaths and focus on the leap to come. Aergar had always said that the most crucial part of crossing mountain trails was the first step, and after that, the only thing left to do was keep from falling and, above all else, never stop moving.

Ardi felt the rough cobblestones scraping away at the soles of his feet. They had softened over the years he'd spent wearing shoes. His legs, which had grown unaccustomed to explosive sprints, felt heavier and clumsier than in the distant past. His morning workouts and jogs were nothing like the unrestrained freedom of the Alcade.

And yet, despite these issues, as he recalled Ergar's teachings, Ardan shifted his center of gravity forward. Rolling from heel to toe, bending his knees and flexing his calves and thighs, he sprang forward. The wind welcomed its long-lost friend, someone who had not raced with it for far too long. The city lights spun around him in tight swirls of colorful flashes, and Ardi soon felt his cracked lips curve into a faint smile.

He landed atop a parked car and, using his momentum, he vaulted again. Pulling his knees up to his chest and flinging his arms high and wide, he still fell just short of the third floor ledge. He hit the brick wall and began sliding down, but his fingers caught on the gouges the werewolf's claws had left behind.

Stopping his fall, and scraping his elbows, knees and chest raw in the process, Ardan raised his head and, pressing his hips against the wall, started climbing. His fingers latched onto even the tiniest of cracks, the most minuscule of hollows. His feet found purchase on window ledges so he could push off in bold leaps, racing higher and higher. At some point, the jumble of houses stacked atop each other vanished before his eyes; the shapes of the city softened in the reflection of the black sky; the noise and clamor faded away. Once again, just like six years ago, he found himself running along mountain paths, racing with snow leopards and eagles.

And just like back then, Ardan strained the muscles in his forearms to haul himself onto a ledge. The rooftop stretched out before him like a plateau full of fissures, dotted with boulders made up of water tanks, the hushed breaths of dwarf-like firs formed by ventilation shafts, and the deep cracks that opened into black chasms between the buildings.

Up ahead was his quarry — the furry beast hauling a wounded ally on his back.

Ardan sprinted after his prey, becoming faster by the second. He darted around each towering "boulder," leaped onto the "firs," and sprang across the cracks, ignoring the dizzying drops that gaped hungrily below. The beast, bloodied and gasping, truly reeked of prey. He was slowing, his movements more lumbering with each breath. The weight on his back and the wounds in his paws and body were dragging him down. In other circumstances, the hunter could never have caught such game — he knew that well. But here and now, the Spirit of the Night had favored him, laying a clean track beneath his claws, while his prey stumbled against boulders and snagged on firs, nearly dropping his ally from his weary shoulders.

The hunter pressed on, unwavering, unwearied by exhaustion or missed opportunities. His mind was gripped by the thrill of pursuit and the scent of fresh, hot blood.

Suddenly, the prey leaped into a crevasse, and Ardan heard the crash of ice shards below — there might have been a hidden grotto there. The hunter remembered his mentor's counsel: in two leaps, he scrambled atop a boulder, and from there, rotating his torso like Shali had shown him, he hurled himself forward. Spinning as he soared, he plunged into the grotto, where a pungent mix of fear and the promise of a kill hung thick in the air.

***

A small goblin girl clung fearfully to her mother, who in turn huddled behind her husband. He stood guard over his family. Through the shattered window, a bloodied, furry creature had burst in — something that looked like a dog, a bear, and a badger all at once. Its tattered clothing was soaked in drool and sweat, and its eyes gleamed with a crazed light. Draped over its shoulder was an orc missing his right arm.

Landing on four paw-like limbs — feet still covered by the shredded remains of what had once been shoes — the werewolf raced through the living room and leaped out the far window.

The girl managed a single exhalation, but a moment later… she did not scream. Not even a startled shout escaped her lips. Right on the heels of the werewolf, something like a beam of moonlight had torn its way into their living room — or so it had seemed to her for a split second. It had been wreathed in silver and glowing like… what was it called again? Her grandmother had told her stories about it… Ah yes, the Spirit of the Night. It was as if the Spirit of the Night itself had come to visit its children.

She blinked, and the previous image disappeared. Instead, right there in front of her, standing on all fours, was a human wearing a mage's robe, his garments ripped like the beast's. The faint gleam of a staff flickered behind his back. She blinked again, and the figure was a giant snow leopard of the mountains, baring its fangs and flicking a long, bushy tail.

It growled, low and hollow, and dashed after the werewolf.

She blinked a third time. She now saw a silver-shrouded sorcerer slip out the window, the shape of a snow leopard swirling around him like mist. Frosty prints remained behind on the floor — human handprints alternating with feline paw marks, both encased in ice.

***

The hunter ignored the prey cowering in the corner of the grotto, terrified. That was not his concern today. The Spirit of the Night was carrying the young snow leopard onwards along the hunt's trail, and he would not deny its call.

He roared as loudly as he could, announcing to any other hunters that this fleeing creature was his rightful quarry, then set off in pursuit once more.

***

Arkar, clutching his hat, watched the young man climb. Silver vapor was streaming from Ard's chest, gradually wrapping him in the phantom outline of a snow leopard.

Next to Arkar, the shutter of a portable camera clicked. A blinding flash briefly stunned him.

Without hesitation, the half-orc snatched the expensive device — one typically used by journalists — from the dwarf's hands. A camera like that cost at least two hundred exes, and you couldn't just buy one anywhere. It required a license.

"What are you-"

Arkar didn't let him finish protesting. He hurled the camera straight into the flames licking at the car the werewolf had wrecked.

"You-"

Arkar let out a thunderous growl, baring his tusks. The dwarf went pale, scampering off into the buzzing, wailing crowd. Meanwhile, the fire truck loudspeakers had joined the sirens in a clamorous chorus.

"Damn," the half-orc spat. Sweeping his gaze over the street, he noticed a parked "Derks" with the keys still in the ignition. The door stood wide open, and a forgotten hat lay on the back seat. Its driver must have fled in a panic.

All the better.

Shoving people aside with his shoulders, Arkar slipped into the car. He pulled the door shut behind him, turned the key, and slammed the pedals, yanking the gearshift lever.

The tires spun in place, then, with a squeal, the car lurched uphill. Somewhere behind him, a voice rose in both terror and outrage:

"That's my car!"

"Not anymore," Arkar growled, focusing intently on the silver outline of Ardi dashing across rooftops in pursuit of the escaping werewolf. "If I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, I'd swear I was having a bad dream…"

***

Once more, the hunter bounded up a sheer wall to reach the next plateau. His prey stood at the edge of a drop, panting heavily, hot, pinkish drool tinged with blood dripping from its maw. Beyond it yawned a chasm too wide for the plateau ahead to be reached easily. The slope of the next roof rose steeply overhead — a sheer cliff face. Even the hunter wasn't sure he could make that leap, let alone his injured target.

The beast, eyes red with fury, laid its wounded ally down on the ground and nudged him behind a boulder.

The hunter held still. Crouching low, he breathed slowly and methodically, steadying his heart and letting his muscles flood with oxygen.

The air smelled of confrontation. The hunter knew that scent well. He hadn't breathed it in for a long time. Not since the steppes, where he had met another hunter, the one who had sent his father to the Paths of the Sleeping Spirits.

"Matabar…" The prey rasped, speaking in halting phrases as it used the wild beasts' tongue. "I have… no quarrel… with you… I don't want…"

The hunter took advantage of his quarry's decision to waste time on foolish speech. If it was too ignorant to know that one never chats during a battle on the hunting paths, that was hardly the hunter's problem. He sprang left first, forcing the prey's gaze to follow him, and then the instant his paws touched the frigid rooftop, he lunged right and forward — just as Aergar had taught him — to end the fight in a single strike. His claws were aiming straight for the creature's groin, targeting the artery there. One blow, and then he would leap back, wait for his victim to bleed out, and once it was truly weakened, he would sink his teeth into its…

A powerful force yanked the hunter backwards, sending him crashing to the ground. He shook his head and…

Ardan blinked.

The staff slung across his back had caught on a water tower's frame, halting his jump. Rising to his feet, he stared at his hands. The silver vapor was fading away, rapidly retreating back into the tattoo left by Ergar's fang.

"You've come… to your senses?" Someone asked him in the language of the wild beasts, growling the words. "Is that a spell? Never seen anything… like it, Matabar."

Before him, perched at the roof's edge, stood the wounded Star-born werewolf. Beyond it stretched the commercial street where his tour of the Firstborn District had begun.

Scattered memories crashed into Ardi's mind. He'd lost himself, envisioning the rooftops to be the mountain hunting trails. Just like… in the steppes.

It was a foul feeling. He'd been so lost in his own thoughts and instincts that he'd nearly surrendered control of his body and mind. That was far more frightening than the wounded monstrosity in front of him.

But right now, any dread about the tattoo on his chest could wait for another day.

Ardan reached for his staff and let out a curse. He had a solid store of green rays — nine in his Star plus another nine in his accumulator — but his arsenal was too limited. Not a single Green Star combat spell he knew relied solely on that power.

Aversky hadn't lied. Ardi really did lack experience — and, bluntly speaking, he lacked a proper collection of learned and tested spells.

"Strange," the creature rumbled, tilting his head. "Just a moment ago… you were aiming for my groin… like an animal… And now… I don't feel that glow or the hunter's scent. Now you reek of… fear."

He stretched his toothy maw into a wide grin, hands — no, paws — spread to either side of him. Did Ardi smell of fear? Of course he did. He was alone with a wounded Star-born werewolf who'd just thrown a car at him minutes ago. Then, at least, he'd had his magic. And now…

He only had a staff awkwardly stuck behind his back, throwing off his balance and threatening to catch on every obstacle.

The werewolf, who was leaking blood and leaving a scarlet trail across the roof, lunged forward. In the blink of an eye, he covered the distance between them and slashed with his right paw. The long claws whistled as they sliced through the air, barely missing Ardi's innards. Instead, they ripped open his vest and shirt and carved four long furrows into his torso. Ardi sprang back and to the side, ducking behind a spinning ventilation unit.

"Looks like we've switched places!" The werewolf laughed. "I can smell your fear, Matabar!"

Ignoring the taunts, Ardan unfastened his belt, letting his staff slip free to the ground.

The monster vaulted over the ventilation unit, trying to pin Ardan, but the young man dodged aside again, landing painfully on his hip, then thrust his staff forward as a barrier. The werewolf jerked to a halt and instinctively backed away. Ardi jumped to his feet, striking his staff against the roof. The beast tensed, raising his paws defensively — but nothing happened. He realized too late that there would be no spell.

Drawing on the cowboy lessons he'd once received, Ardi flicked the belt in his left hand, wrapping the buckle around the creature's right arm. He yanked hard, throwing the beast off balance — but not enough to topple him. Still, it was enough for Ardi's next move. When the werewolf instinctively flailed his limbs to steady himself, he pulled them away from his head and neck. In that instant, Ardan swung his staff in a wide arc at the creature's throat. A direct hit to the cartilage in the throat would have been more effective, but Ardi doubted his precision.

The werewolf choked, and Ardan dropped both his staff and belt, lunging forward. Bracing his elbows against his ribs, he ducked beneath the creature's torso and clasped his thigh.

Just as Guta had taught him, Ardi collapsed to his knees and arched his body, forcing the beast to crash face-first into the rooftop, his chin slamming against the ground. That blow would have knocked out a human or even an orc, but not a Star-born werewolf. He tried to wriggle free, but Ardan wouldn't allow it.

He heaved himself bodily onto the beast's back, clasping his arms around the werewolf's head and neck. Guta had always said that a Matabar's elbow joint should press against an opponent's chin — not below it — for a neck break rather than a strangle. But Ardi had never had the strength to pull that off against a bear cub, let alone a Star-born werewolf. He wasn't about to risk-

The werewolf contorted, flattening himself, and slammed an elbow into Ardi's liver, breaking his lock. The monster then twisted on the ground, ensnaring Ardan's leg in a crushing vise of stone-hard muscle.

This was exactly… like what Guta had taught him! But how?!

"Where did you learn how to-" Ardan's words turned to wheezing, then a scream, as the creature tensed his entire body and wrenched his torso violently.

Following the werewolf's motion, shards of bone tore through flesh, bristling like hedgehog spines. The kneecap and joint splintered into a multitude of pieces as Ardi's leg bent at an impossible angle.

The pain was so intense that Ardan almost blacked out, but with a cry, he managed to snatch up his staff and blindly jab it backwards. Praise the Sleeping Spirits — he was lucky enough to poke the werewolf right in the eye. Freed from the hold, Ardan, fighting the dizzying swirl of pain, dragged himself away. Seizing the moment's respite, he flipped open a page in his grimoire.

Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was Aversky's training, which had thus far focused on shield spells and healing magic, but Ardan managed to force four green rays into the Bone Mending spell with shocking speed.

Fortunately, he did so just in time. Another second or two, and the only way to save his shattered kneecap would've been with the help of a Blue Star — something Ardi lacked entirely. A few minutes more, and even that might not have helped; only a five-Star healer could have managed it by then. Bone injuries were the trickiest, relying heavily on timeliness in the realm of Star Healing.

Alas, the young man hadn't fully outlined all the necessary parameters within the template, since it was one he seldom used. The scattered shards of bone did pull back into his knee, but blood still gushed from his torn flesh, and even though his leg was no longer broken, it was still dislocated and stuck pointing the wrong way.

"You've studied well… haven't you, Matabar?" The Star-born werewolf said, wiping blood from his eye. "If I hadn't known that bear fighting style, you'd have killed me for sure."

"How do you-"

"You real think," the creature interrupted in broken Matabar, "only Matabar live 'Mountain Predator,' is Egobar?"

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While Ardan stood there, blinking in confusion, the werewolf hoisted the still-unconscious orc back over his shoulder.

"There's a little of your blood in me, mage," the creature said in Galessian, "even if I wasn't born with it. It's the same with all Star-born werewolves. Matabar blood is one of the main ingredients for… Damn it. The Witch's Gaze? I was too-"

Now it was Ardan's turn to cut the monster off. From somewhere below them, he heard the familiar voice of the half-orc shouting:

"Ard!"

Well then…

Ardan, scrambling upright on his good leg and dragging his dislocated one behind him, let out a roar and hurled himself forward with all the strength he had left. Gripping his staff tightly, he slammed his shoulder into the werewolf's chest, and together, the three of them went plummeting off the roof.

In that brief moment of free fall, Ardan found himself thinking that — given how often he found himself tumbling from great heights — maybe he really needed a spell designed to soften his landing. Unfortunately, he had no such seal yet. And so, he clung with one hand to his staff and with his other to the werewolf's fur, pressing himself tightly against the beast's chest. They plunged down, catching on Ley cables, tearing through awnings, and denting metal window ledges as they went. Ardan, taking advantage of the fact that the werewolf couldn't use his arms freely or he would drop Indgar, kept twisting the creature so that the beast's back would take the brunt of the impact, leaving Ardan in relatively less danger.

They tore through a half-dozen cables, clipped several windowsills, and shredded a couple of canopies by the time they crashed to the ground. The werewolf's back had turned into something akin to ground meat, his flesh meshed with scraps of skin and fur — and yet he didn't even need to take a moment to recover. He merely kicked Ardan away, then rolled along the pavement, sprawling out right at Arkar's feet.

Somehow, amid the shouts of outraged onlookers, the half-orc had managed to drive a car onto the street.

"How's it going?" Arkar asked, helping Ardan to his feet.

"Not great," Ardan admitted.

"What about the werewolf?"

Silently, Ardan pointed down the street. The Star-born werewolf had just snatched a household accumulator from a nearby stall. He crushed it in his paws and his wounds began closing up instantly.

The street fell silent. Conversation died off. Arkar and Ardan froze, stunned by the sight. The werewolf, grinning broadly and looking suddenly invigorated, wheeled around and raced downhill. He leaped over the Firstborn crowding the lane, bounding across market stalls as he headed straight for the only avenue in that district.

"Damn it!" Arkar roared, being the first to snap out of it. "Quick, get in the car!"

Before following the half-orc inside, Ardan caught the eye of an elf and snatched a red household accumulator from his stall.

"Send the bill to the Black House!" He shouted before diving into the vehicle.

Arkar already had his foot on the gas, twisting the wheel and simultaneously thrusting his revolver out through the windshield and firing several rounds. None of the bullets struck the werewolf, but it was enough to make the panicked crowd scatter, opening up a path.

"Move aside!" Arkar bellowed, leaning on the horn. "Outta the way, you sons of bitches! Move!"

They barreled down the bright, well-lit street, smashing crates, breaking awnings, and sending goods flying in their wake.

"Ard!" Arkar shouted. "Now would be a good time for some magic!"

Ardan lay in the back seat, where he'd wedged his injured leg between his staff and the seat's backrest. Biting down on his own arm, he jerked it sharply to the side. With a crunch and a flash of searing pain that nearly caused him to black out, the joint snapped back into place.

Breathing hard and trying not to jostle his injured leg, sweating so profusely that he almost fainted from exhaustion, Ardan scrambled onto the front seat. As the market stands flashed by outside — merchandise trailing in the wake of the speeding car — he placed the accumulator into the tip of his staff and focused on its Ley. The sensation was nothing like using a military-grade accumulator.

When you drew power from a ring, you felt pure, mindless energy rush into you all at once, and you had to be careful not to pull in more than necessary, lest it spill out into empty air. Here, it was the opposite: the Ley trickled in through a filter of sand, grit, and filth. Bit by bit, he collected a Red Star ray. Ardan had grabbed the first crystal of the right color he'd seen, without any regard to its purity or size. Then again, you couldn't exactly find pristine accumulators on random market stalls.

"Ard! Bloody hell!" Arkar cursed through gritted teeth.

He yanked the wheel and jerked the gearshift. They nearly flipped as they careened around a corner. The werewolf, who'd apparently recovered fully, was now running… straight up the wall as if it were flat ground. He was digging in with the claws of his hands and feet and scaling the sheer surface as nimbly as a spider while still somehow holding Indgar with his free arm.

"I'm trying!" Ardan yelled back, struggling to fully restore even a single ray. "Stop distracting me!"

"Fuck!" Arkar, switching to steering with just his right hand, smashed the driver's side window with his elbow, stuck his left hand out, and squeezed the trigger again.

Two more bullets whistled through the air before the gun clicked empty.

"Damn it!" The half-orc roared.

Ardan followed the trajectory of the shots with his gaze. Both bullets bounced harmlessly off the werewolf's hide, only slowing him slightly and failing to wound the beast.

"Why is he running away?"

"What?" Arkar was still trying to drive through the cramped street amid scattering bystanders, fumbling with his half-full revolver as he did so. Luckily, he had a speed loader — a "moon clip" — ready to go, making reloading a bit simpler.

"He's invulnerable to bullets again…" Ardan muttered. By then, he'd managed to restore two of his Red Star rays. He tried for a third, but the accumulator cracked and crumbled into glittering dust. "Why doesn't he just tear us apart along with the car?"

"How should I know, Ard?!"

The answer came sooner than they'd expected. The moment they saw daylight ahead, which represented a break in the maze of streets that led onto Ectassus Avenue (obviously named after you-know-what), the Star-born werewolf dropped down to the ground. He ran to a "Derks" that already had its engine clattering. He stuffed Indgar inside it like a sack of potatoes, slammed the door shut, then turned to his pursuers and smirked, giving them a playful wink. With one leap, he soared to the level of the fourth floor.

By the time Arkar and Ardan had burst out onto the avenue, the car containing Indgar was already pulling away, heading toward the Niewa, while the werewolf had scrambled up onto the roof.

"Get Indgar!" Arkar roared.

"Get the werewolf!" Ardan lunged for the door handle.

They locked eyes. Arkar was right: both of them needed the orc, but the werewolf definitely knew something about "Operation Mountain Predator." Ardan sensed it deep down. Even so…

The young man smacked his forehead against the door frame and hissed:

"Go after Indgar."

Arkar nodded and jerked the gearshift, wrenching the wheel yet again. The vehicle tilted hard as they raced onto the main road in pursuit of the car disappearing into the distance.

Ardan stared out the window, watching the werewolf shrink to just a speck on the rooftop…

"Ard!" Arkar bellowed. He wrenched the wheel aside to dodge a lone truck, then punched the clutch, dropped a gear, and revved the engine until it sounded like it was living out its last seconds on this world. "Wake up, damn it! They're getting away!"

Ardan blinked and turned his gaze to the road. Buildings flashed past, streetlights flickered, and the pavement spread out like a dark carpet. The "Derks" carrying Indgar was receding into the distance. It was probably a more modern model than theirs.

"Get a better grip on that wheel!" He shouted.

"What are you doing?!"

But Ardan paid him no mind. Emulating Arkar, he shattered the passenger window with his elbow — there was no time to fiddle with the crank. Then, as though mounting a horse instead of riding in a car, he leaned half his body outside.

The rush of oncoming wind stung his face, forcing tears from his eyes.

"And keep a hand on me!" He yelled over the roar.

"You damn fool!" Arkar shouted, grabbing the wheel with his left hand and Ardan's pants with his right. The young man, gripping his staff as tightly as he could, lowered it toward the cobblestones.

Star Magic had plenty of drawbacks. One of them, as Ardan had learned in his childhood, was that, in order to form a spell, you had to link the mage's Ley energy with the Ley Lines beneath the ground. That was why mages would tap their staves against the earth or some other object connected directly or indirectly to the ground.

The one exception? Moving objects. Once an object exceeded a speed of 22 kilometers per hour, no amount of tapping would form the link.

Holding his staff, Ardan drew energy from his Star and constructed the familiar seal for Ice Arrow, channeling the two rays he'd gotten from the accumulator into it.

Just as the arrow was about to erupt from his staff's tip, another vehicle appeared. Arkar swerved to avoid it. Already struggling to cast in such awkward circumstances, Ardan lost focus, the seal snapped, and the Ley energy flooded out into the world uncontrolled.

It ran along his staff, touched the searing hot tip, and erupted in a brilliant tongue of flame. A wave of fire spread across the road, igniting the tires of all three vehicles. The unlucky driver who'd ended up in the Broken Seal's zone went careening off into a lamppost. Arkar and the people getting away with Indgar, however, managed to keep their cars steady and continued the chase — now with the added stench of smoke and burning rubber.

"Try again!" Arkar shouted, shifting gears violently and pressing the accelerator to the floor.

Ardan could practically feel the machine rattling beneath him and the thick smoke pouring from the flaming tires.

"I can't!"

"Then reload and shoot!" The half-orc nodded toward his revolver.

Ardan almost told him that this was a terrible idea — he couldn't hit a target while standing still, let alone like this… But a single look from Arkar shut him up. He set his staff aside and grabbed the orcish revolver, which barely fit in his hand.

Arkar had already dumped out the spent casings. Ardan slotted in a fresh "moon," snapped the cylinder into place, braced the massive handgun against the car's frame, clasped the grip with both hands, tensed his forearms and shoulders, cocked the hammer, and then squeezed the trigger.

The recoil slammed him back into the seat, sending pain shooting through his shoulders. And yet somehow — maybe by sheer luck, or because he wasn't aiming at all, just firing "somewhere over there" — the bullet tore right into the fleeing car's rear left fender, punched through it, and popped the burning tire.

"Nice one!" Arkar whooped, whistling with glee.

The "Derks" ahead fishtailed, losing control for an instant, and then took a sharp turn. Arkar yanked the wheel to avoid a collision, and they spun in a broad arc, practically scraping against each other's front and rear wheels.

Ardan pressed himself into the door frame, one hand latching onto the door, the other clinging to his staff to keep it from flying out the window. Finally, their swerve ended in a jarring crash. Indgar's car slammed into a fire hydrant, while Arkar's "Derks" clipped a lamppost, rolling onto its side and skidding along the sidewalk until it slammed into the corner of a building.

Ardan got flung on top of Arkar — whose shoulder had been stripped clean of clothing, skin, and part of his muscle — and didn't regain his senses right away.

Waking from his short blackout, Ardan crawled out of the twisted, smoking vehicle. Limping, reeling, and barely aware of his surroundings, he kicked out the smashed windshield and dragged the unconscious, heavy half-orc outside.

He pulled Arkar along by the wrist, hauling him away from the wreck just in time. A moment later, an explosion rocked them, shoving Ardan bodily in the chest. A second blast followed, hitting his back and slamming him face-first to the ground.

The next thing Ardan remembered was the feeling of something bursting inside him, and blood welling up in his throat.

***

"Sergeant, this one woke up!"

Ardan jerked his head, blinking himself awake. His entire body ached, but especially his skull. He tried to raise a hand to his head and realized he couldn't. Not his right one, anyway.

He stared in confusion at the heavy cuffs around both of his wrists.

Finally, he regained enough clarity to notice he was seated on the pavement, propped up against a wall. Nearby, two gutted car frames blazed, while dwarf and orc firefighters sprayed them with powerful hoses. The entire avenue had been cordoned off by the guards' vehicles. Several of them, armed with revolvers or even military rifles they were holding at the ready, stood around Ardan and Arkar.

The half-orc, his shoulder bandaged, was still unconscious. He sat beside Ardan, head sagging onto his chest.

"That face looks familiar," a deep voice rumbled above him.

Ardan lifted his gaze, taking in the enormous figure of Sergeant Boad, who was well over three meters tall. He took note of Boad's revolver, too. Ardan now knew that he had been wrong to call the orcs' guns hand-cannons. What the ogre held was truly a hand-cannon. With a four-round cylinder that probably fired artillery shells, it was hardly what one might've called a simple "revolver."

And that monstrous barrel was aimed right at him. There was no doubt about it: if Boad pulled the trigger, it would blow away the entire upper half of Ardan's body.

"I have a lot of questions for you, mage," the sergeant said, voice vibrating with barely contained force. "A lot."

Ardan rasped, "Inside pocket."

"What?"

Sleeping Spirits, how wearisome that eternal "What?" could be when used against him.

"Check the inside pocket of my jacket," Ardan repeated, nodding at the torn edge of his coat. "My documents are there."

Boad narrowed his eyes — a gesture that, given his size, was as intimidating as the weapon in his hand. He hesitated for a second, then jerked his head at a goblin wearing a red coat. The goblin holstered a mini revolver (Sleeping Spirits, it looked too small to even be called a ladies' pistol) and approached Ardan. Carefully, he tugged the jacket's lapel aside, rummaged around in the shredded pocket, and withdrew the battered but still legible leather holder, complete with all its official seals.

Boad, still squinting at him, produced a pair of spectacles big enough to double as mirrors. He bent down, casting the sidewalk in shadow, lifted the holder with two fingers, and placed it on his palm.

A few seconds later, he tossed it to the ground at Ardan's feet.

"Can't read the name, but the seals and service number look genuine," the ogre growled. "Uncuff him."

The goblin darted back to his fellow guards, then returned with a dwarf who unclipped a ring of keys from his belt and opened the shackles. Ardan rubbed at his wrists, glancing around.

"Where's my staff?"

"It'll be brought over," Boad said, lowering but not holstering his monstrous gun. "Might I ask, Corporal, what exactly the Second Chancery is doing in our district, and most importantly…" He stepped back, gesturing at the fires and then motioning behind him. "What in blazes do you two think you're doing here?!"

His shout hammered Ardan's ears and dropped several goblins to their knees.

"Boad…" One of the dwarves murmured, pleading.

"Yes, ahem, my apologies," the ogre coughed, though he never took his eyes off Ardan. "I trust my question was clear?"

"Perfectly," Ardan replied, ears still ringing, his headache worsening.

"Then, Corporal, let's hear an answer."

Ardan opened his mouth, then closed it again. By law, he didn't actually have to answer… to anyone, in fact, other than the Black House's leadership or his own superior officer, Captain Milar Pnev.

"No."

Boad's eyebrows rose. And so did everyone else's.

"What did you just say?"

"I'm not sharing anything with you, Sergeant," Ardan said, gripping the wall as he struggled upright. "Instead, you're going to tell me what happened to the driver and passenger of that car."

He nodded toward the "Derks" belonging to the escapees, which was nearly extinguished now. He figured the guards wouldn't appreciate his refusal, but…

Boad simply walked up to him, placed both hands on Ardan's shoulders, lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing at all, and brought him face to face with the ogre's formidable visage.

"Who do you think you are, human? You're in my dist-"

Boad paused, flaring his nostrils. Then, startled, he set Ardan back down. The young man hardly had time to grasp what had just happened.

"A half-blood… You smell like… cat. Matabar."

Silence descended upon all of them, sharper and more unpleasant than before, so tangible it felt like it was scraping against Ardan's skin.

"I know who you are, mage," Boad spat out the word as though it were an insult. "A Matabar half-blood. A wizard. You're Ard Egobar. Descendant of Aror Egobar."

A few of the Firstborn guards flinched, clearly not feeling friendly toward him at that revelation. They almost pointed their rifles at Ardan.

"No surprise that the great-grandson of a traitor is a traitor himself," one of the dwarf guards growled. He stepped up to the sergeant and threw Ardan's staff at his feet. "You put on that Cloak, huh? How much did you sell yourself for to the humans? Though, you're half-human yourself, so-"

"Private," Boad said, raising his voice slightly, apparently having regained his composure by now. "You're speaking to a superior. Mind your manners."

Even as he spoke, his tone made it obvious that he was saying this out of a sense of duty, not genuine concern. The dwarf understood perfectly and spat at Ardan's boots before stepping back.

"The body's over there," Boad jerked his head toward a white cloth draped over a corpse.

Just one.

A single body.

With a sinking feeling, Ardan hobbled over to it, leaning on his staff. The white sheet was already soaked with blood and stuck to a burned body. Even so, Ardan pulled it aside. One glance was enough.

Beneath the sheet lay a human who was around 165 centimeters tall, with a fairly unique skull shape covered in charred flesh, patchy hair, and blistered skin. His eyes had melted out of their sockets, and his jaw was locked into a wide rictus, stuck in a final, terrible scream.

He had burned alive.

Which meant…

"You got here not too long ago, right?" Ardan asked.

"Ten minutes," the ogre snorted. "It's lucky for you two that the flames didn't finish you off."

Ardan looked at the scorched sidewalk. An island of relative safety had somehow formed around him and Arkar, while the walls and asphalt all around were singed.

Tomorrow's worries…

"Was there no sign of the orc's body?"

"You mean Indgar, Cloak?" Boad took out his massive notepad and scribbled a few lines on it. "No, we didn't find him. Same goes for the werewolf."

Ardan closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths in and out.

"If I understand things correctly, Cloak," Boad continued, apparently refusing to use Ardan's name on principle, "you and Arkar, who's suspected of having ties to the Orcish Jackets, just trashed a couple of blocks of our district for no reason at all? All right. I'll be delighted to file a report about this fiasco… One highlighting your part in it, Corporal."

"Do whatever your toad face pleases, Boad."

Ardan turned. Arkar, grimacing and swearing, had finally come around. Slumped against the wall, the half-orc forced himself upright.

"Watch your mouth, orc," the sergeant rumbled. "We're alone here… Maybe I'll decide to thin out the Jackets."

"You yap, but you won't bite," Arkar sneered.

Boad took a step forward, but a few dwarves comically grabbed his pant legs, holding him back. The orcs stood aside, for obvious reasons.

"Take me to the Conclave, Boad," Arkar said, heading for the reinforced guard van used to transport detainees. "I've got something to tell the elders." He halted mid-stride and called out more loudly, "Punch in the number of your new apartment, Ard. Take whatever you need. Don't be shy."

Ardan had no clue what Arkar was talking about, but the half-orc had already climbed the few steps into the van, and several dwarves had slammed the heavy door behind him.

"Looks like it's time for you to go, Cloak," the ogre said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the Niewa waterfront in the distance.

Ardan, still clad in his tattered clothes and the scorched remains of his Star Mage regalia, barefoot, and leaning heavily on his staff, hobbled in that direction.

"Half-breed," Boad's booming voice followed him. "Remember this. You're not welcome in this district. Don't show your face here without good reason, or who knows what might happen to a corporal who loses his way in unfamiliar territory."

Even if Ardan had had any strength left in him, he would have ignored such a threat. From the day he'd arrived in the Metropolis, it had come as no surprise that in the eyes of the Firstborn, he was human, and in the eyes of humans, he was Firstborn. And both sides agreed on only one thing: their mutual contempt for Aror Egobar.

Marvelous…

***

"D-do you need me to call anyone, M-Mr. Investigator?"

"Who?"

"Anybody at all."

"No need."

"Then we're here."

The driver stopped his vehicle in front of number 23 on Markov Canal. A round sign shaped like intertwined grapevines spelled out a simple name: "Bruce's Jazz Bar." Its harsh flicker revealed the same empty bar as before.

"How much do I owe you?" Ardan asked wearily.

"N-nothing-"

"How much?"

The young driver glanced at the meter set into the dashboard.

"Twenty-eight kso."

Ardan shook his head, fished out a few coins from a hidden pouch in his belt (a trick he'd learned back on the farm), and handed them over.

"Th-thank you," the driver said.

"Safe travels," Ardan said.

"Th-thank you… a lot… I g-guess…"

He got out, and the unfamiliar vehicle, its tires hissing and its exhaust roaring, sped away down the canal.

Leaning on his staff, Ardan unlocked the door of the bar and went in. Walking behind the bar, he approached the register and stood there silently for a moment.

Then he pressed "6" and "3" in sequence. Nothing happened. He considered things for another second, then pressed both keys simultaneously. A small tray slid out of the register. Inside it lay a tiny key he'd seen before — it was the one Arkar used to open the storeroom.

Taking the key, Ardan walked over to the door leading to the gang's cache and opened it without any preamble. He didn't bother examining it for seals or traps. Presumably, Arkar would have warned him… probably. Well, it would've been better if he'd at least checked.

Fortunately, nothing happened. Ardan stepped into a long, narrow room stacked high with crates. They were mostly filled with ammo and revolvers, though there were a couple of racks with military-grade rifles and, of course, a pair of massive safes that seemed to take up most of the floor space.

He didn't even reach them. He nearly ran into a long coat rack loaded with maybe twenty suits. There was enough of them to open a small tailor's shop.

He picked out a few of the ones that, with a little alteration, might fit someone who wasn't orc-sized. He ended up with six. From a cabinet, he pulled out about fifteen shirts. Unfortunately, the shoes had all been made for orcs, and wouldn't fit him at all. Ardan would just be swimming in them.

After stacking the clothes in a neat bundle, he returned to the bar, shut the storeroom door, placed the key back in the tray, and slid it into the register.

Trying not to think about anything at all, he stepped onto the staircase and headed up to his floor. But then he caught a familiar scent, turned, and saw Tess standing in her apartment doorway.

"I… wanted to wash up and get clean so that-"

"I wouldn't see you like this," she interrupted him drily. "I know. My father and brothers do the same thing."

"Then I-"

"I've already seen you," she continued, still speaking curtly. "That's the first thing. Secondly, where exactly were you going to wash?"

"I usually just scrub myself with snow," he admitted, and only then did he recall that the snow had melted.

Without a word, Tess stepped aside, and Ardan entered her apartment silently. She took his staff and the clothes he'd gathered, holding her breath (he must have reeked worse than a barn) and opened the door to the bathroom.

"I bought you a washcloth while you and Arkar were gone," she said, gaze averted. "And a towel. So you'd have your own."

"Thank you."

"Go on. I'll heat up dinner."

"Thank you," Ardan repeated.

She made her way to the living room, while Ardan lingered at the bathroom entrance, finally asking in a small voice:

"Tess… What do you think I am? Human or Matabar?"

She stood there for a moment.

"To me, you're just Ardi," she answered softly. "Ardi the wizard. That's enough."

"Thanks," he whispered for the third time.

Under the shower's stream, as the crusted blood, dirt, dust, and sweat was washed away, Ardan struggled to silence the thoughts clamoring for attention in his mind.

How had the werewolf known a bear fighting move or the Matabar tongue? Ardan already knew that the Egobars weren't the only Matabar line left. They were just the only ones whose blood hadn't gone dormant… But more importantly, how was the werewolf connected to Indgar? The beast was clearly acting as a hired gun… How was Indgar tied to the Order of the Spider? Did that shadowy organization even exist, or was it all a smokescreen? Why were they really testing the Second Chancery's response — for the sake of one medallion that had blocked Edward Aversky's communication spell? That seemed trivial… How did all these recent events tie together, including the attempt to pit two members of the Six against each other? Where had Indgar gone? If he'd been rescued, why didn't they finish off both Arkar and Ardan when they'd been lying there helpless? Why offer him a chance to "leave the game?"

It was too many questions…

And he didn't have a single clue he could use to answer even one of them. Every time — by the Eternal Angels and Sleeping Spirits — they got close to something, the trail vanished. The moment they grabbed a thread, it snapped.

"Still," Ardan whispered, feeling the lukewarm water trickling over him, letting his Matabar blood get on with the slow work of healing him, "there's one thing I do know…"

He recalled the scene where Indgar had tossed a small iron disc with a seal onto the table. At first glance, it had seemed a bit unusual, but it had mostly appeared to be a standard design. But if you knew where to look?

If you knew about it, then you could find nodes characteristic of Lady Talia's Chaos School in the structure of the runic link. What did that mean? Not much yet. But even the hardest puzzle had to begin with you finding a single thread that connected a few of its pieces.

And right now, that single thread was the name of a company…

"Bri-&-Man."

Ardan turned the faucet, shutting off the water, and dried himself thoroughly. He had no other clothes but those tattered, filthy ones, so he put on a robe that still carried a faint smell of the store from which Tess had purchased it.

Padding into the corridor barefoot, he made his way to the living room. Tess, wearing a house dress, light makeup, and her hair in a tight bun, glanced at him with a look of self-reproach, not directed at him but at herself.

"I didn't think about slippers," she said softly, gesturing at the table. "Sit."

"What about you?"

"I've already eaten," Tess said calmly. "It's late. I'm working at the shop tomorrow. While there are no gigs at "Bruce's," I took on some extra shifts."

"Tess, I-"

"No," she cut him off abruptly, then caught his perplexed expression. "You're about to say something foolish. Probably something along the lines of how you get a Cloak's salary and a stipend from the Grand, so you can cover our expenses… but don't. We're not husband and wife. You pay for our dates and coffee shop visits. I cook dinner. Let's leave it at that."

Ardan nodded. He had, indeed, been about to say something foolish.

Tess' face relaxed, and a gentle smile lit her bright green eyes.

"Hurry, or it'll get cold," she said in a voice as soft as a kitten's fur.

Ardan took a seat, habitually cracked his knuckles, and picked up the fork and knife. In the hallway sat his staff, with his grimoire nearby, and along the doorframe — if one looked at it with a Speaker's Sight — his passive shield spell still shone, ready to keep anyone from disturbing them.

Only then did Ardi realize that he'd forgotten to warn Tess about that seal. It was a good thing no guests had turned up today. Then again, in all their time living as neighbors, he'd never seen Tess entertain any friends or visitors…

"Is it good?" She asked.

She was sitting across from him, resting her chin on her hand, and watching him affectionately as he wolfed down the buckwheat and roasted venison fillet.

"Delicious," he replied honestly. "You're a really good cook, Tess."

Her smile grew brighter, a soft pink coloring her cheeks. Ardan ate quickly, feeling just a hint of strength returning with each mouthful.

When he'd finished and drunk an entire pot of tea, Tess rose from her chair and… snapped a pair of scissors she'd been hiding under the table.

"But-"

"We agreed, Ardi-the-wizard," she said, stepping behind him and running her hand through his damp hair. "Tonight, we're getting rid of this messy mane."

She snipped the scissors again, letting the first strands of hair fall to the floor. Her warm, gentle fingers stroked through it, her breath tickling his ear, and he could sense the contours of her body against the back of his neck.

Snip.

Snip.

Ardan tried to focus on the sound of the scissors, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. All he could sense was her warmth, her hands, her breath, her body pressed against his.

He didn't even know how he'd ended up on his feet, Tess in his arms. The scissors dropped to the floor. She looked into his eyes, breathing shakily.

They spoke no words.

Not when they slipped onto the bed, nor when one of them lost their robe, and the other lost their dress with its complicated fastenings undone by trembling fingers.

Outside, the moon rose.

Its silver light shone through the heavy spring clouds that held the glowing Metropolis captive beneath a ceaseless drizzle, grimy puddles, the stench of sewers, and all those things the city's poets found to be anything but romantic this time of year.