Chapter 9: - Governor Killer

  Exia dodged, weaved, punched, and struck.

  “Fucking, yes!” He laughed. That made it the second time this month.

  Morozova grinned. “You’re getting better at this, and it’s only been a year too.”

  “Of course I am.” Exia smirked. “My blood is strong, potent, and—”

  Morozova palmed him hard in the stomach and Exia collapsed to the ground, spitting half complete curses as he desperately searched for air. The brute looked down at him with a self satisfied smirk of his own now. “You know, people would be a lot nicer to you if you weren’t such a fucking prick.”

  He waited until the pain subsided and slowly got up on shaky feet. Exia glared at the ape, and the ape smiled back.

  “Your striking power’s still shit by the way.” Morozova said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He lit it, drew in a puff of smoke and let it out.

  “I thought you quit?” Exia asked.

  Morozova looked at him in a way that seemed almost accusatory for some reason. “Changed my mind,” he said. “Anyways, you need to work on the force in your punches, no good hitting if you can’t ring a target’s bell with it.”

  Exia ground his teeth. It was always some new thing after the last. When would his training be done so he could get rid of the damned ape already?

  He did have to admit that sometime during the twelve months that had passed, he’d gone from dreading their sparring matches to it being the thing he looked forwards to the most in any day. But that was more a testament to Volkov’s hellish schedule than anything. “How do I strike better?” he asked immediately.

  Morozova spoke, but Exia’s attention was grabbed by the opening of the manor gates.

  It wasn’t necessarily a rare occurrence; several governors and military personnel tended to visit Volkov in his home. What made this one odd, however, was that the carriage the stranger arrived in bore no flags of Bessmertnyy atop it—no flags of any kingdom, in fact.

  It stopped in front of the main door and out of it stepped a boy, perhaps no greater than Exia in age, but dichotomously different in features. He had peasant-black hair, skin the colour of earth, and dull-dark eyes that hid behind thick glasses.

  Those were eastern features of the Putesh. A republic colony. He wore Bessmertny colours however—the kind Exia had seen on boy scouts visiting the palace.

  The boy looked fidgety, nervous, like a rat dropped into a lion enclosure.

  “Who’s that?” Exia asked.

  “Volkov’s kid,” The giant replied in a way that made Exia know his eyes were also on the deer-like boy.

  “Ah, I forgot he and his husband adopted one.” Exia remembered. Poor kid, having to be raised by Volkov the wretch—his father probably made him eat thorns for breakfast and nails for lunch. ‘It’ll toughen you up, I tell you, toughen you up, and then you can be a monster, just like your old man!’ Exia shuddered at the thought.

  “Fucking Bezzies,” Morozova’s nose wrinkled. “I forgot you lot manfuck.”

  “Manfu…” Exia wasn’t familiar with the term, but from his tone he could guess it was a derogatory one. He rolled his eyes at the uncultured swine. “Well, your people fuck goats, so forgive me if I don’t hold your opinions on what I stick my dick in sacred.”

  It was Morozova’s turn to frown now.

  In truth, though Exia never had a proclivity towards men, he never took issue with those who did. He doubted too that most Bessmertnyy did either. What a man did with his cock was his business—well, as long as he was the superior in affairs that was. After all, suborning yourself to a man was only less humiliating than suborning yourself to a bloody woman.

  While Exia did have his issues with Volkov—those being that he wanted to cut him open and rip out his entrails while he squealed like a pig—he could not for the life of him imagine any man subborning the General.

  A heavy hand came down on his shoulder and it spoke with a low growl. “We don’t fuck goats. That's a rumour spread from a mix up with fines. And secondly, go say hi to the kid.”

  Exia turned to Morozova. “Why the shit would I want to do tha—”

  The man shoved him and Exia went stumbling forwards in a rather involuntary sprint. He locked eyes with the boy, who likely thought Exia was walking towards him now. Shit.

  “Oh, yeah, and Exia. Don’t be a cunt!” Morozova encouraged.

  Exia turned around and showed him a rude gesture.

  The ugly bastard just grinned.

  He was in front of the foreigner within moments and saw the boy stiffen in front of him. Zcigmagus’ arsehole, he looked like he might drop dead right then and there.

  Exia took in a deep breath and let it out with a huff. “I am King Exia Vanfoster. Pleased to meet you. What is your name?”

  The boy blinked and something flashed in his eyes. “You are…King Exia?”

  ‘Oh god, don’t start kissing my feet or something.’

  “Yes,” he replied.

  The boy looked at him.

  Exia looked back.

  The boy said nothing.

  Exia raised an eyebrow. “Is something the matt—”

  The boy’s fist slammed squarely into Exia’s jaw, turning the world into a tremor of blurred agony, and deadening his legs. He hit the ground hard, and saw everything spin stomach-turningly around him.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  When it stopped, his head pounded with agony and he tasted blood in his mouth. On the floor, swimming in pain, Exia looked around and only found Morozova standing above him.

  “Vwhat thze fhuck just happent?” he slurred.

  Morozova grinned ear to ear. “He threw a good punch.”

  ###

  Sasha awoke to the jostling rhythm of iron wheels clattering along tracks. She groaned and rubbed bleary eyes open.

  She was laying on the top bunk, below her was the King. Sasha eyed his bunk, and found no King.

  Gnev’s sphincter.

  She rolled off and got to her feet.

  Already she could hear giggling from outside the door, and didn’t need to guess the source.

  Sasha slid it open and saw… well, she didn’t know exactly how to describe what she saw.

  The King Exia was on a unicycle, pedalling around in circles, while playing an accordion with hands he apparently didn’t need for steering. Around him were a group of passengers, clapping and singing tunes with him in a language she didn’t understand.

  Sasha just stared. Stared some more, and then let herself take it all in.

  Judging by their attire—embroidered skirts, beads laced into their hairs and curious tattoos—they were probably Veltrassi. Travellers—Citizens of nowhere really, they lived across borders, allied to no nation, and tied to no land.

  That made them the perfect sort for spies, infiltrators and saboteurs. The kind of people I’d send to kill a King. Memories exploded in the back of her mind—of travellers whispering secrets in a language neither her nor her men understood, and caravans hoarding Sorcerers while approaching for trade.

  Death, chaos, magic flying everywhere, corpses cold in the snow. Screaming, shouting, yelling, Screaming.

  Sasha took a hurried step forwards, caught herself and settled her gaze properly on the Veltrassi—mother and daughters clapping, father and sons sharing jokes. They were a family… They’re just a family.

  Sasha drew in a breath and calmed herself.

  The King noticed her and grinned. “Captain! You’re awake. Meet Anna, Banna, Dutric, Spinof, Misha, Vanya, Kolya, Sashka, and Tolik.” He caught his breath. “They call me their krasochnyy. It means colourful local—but in a more endearing way than you might initially think.”

  All eyes fell on her and the singing immediately stopped.

  All joy that animated the family had vanished, and only terror coated their faces now. I’m wearing my uniform. That was what caused it. No. It was her—she was the one who’d taken the warmth out of this room. Not her uniform. It was her and her and men like her who they must have remembered being harassed on the borders by. It was her and men like her who must have stopped their peaceful caravans, loosed magic on them maybe. And it was her and men like her who they’d probably lost kin to. Not the uniform, never the uniform. Her.

  She set her eyes on the King. “We’ll be in Znaniye in three hours,” Sasha said, and then slid back into the room and closed the door in front of her.

  She sat in a chair and waited for the singing to resume. It never did.

  ###

  “Uzhka, Pul'tra, Uzhna, Pul'tra, Uzhka, Pul'tra, Ayekhin,” The King sang, shoulder bobbing up and down with each lyric. “Uzhka, Pul'tra, Uzhna, Pul'tra, Uzhka, Pul'tra, Ayekhin.”

  “Can you stop chanting that?” Sasha asked.

  “It’s a good song,” he whinged.

  “You’ve been singing it for an hour now.”

  King Exia huffed, but said no more and, even more thankfully, sang no more.

  Znaniye was a city nothing like Gorodlzhi, and Sasha found herself thankful for that. Looking through the window of her carriage, she could see the tall, colourful buildings of the old Kingdom standing proud with their spiralling roofs and twisting architecture.

  Those were—to be honest—only the inner parts of the city. The slums here looked like the slums in Gorodlzhi, or Lyubov, or Chnek, As’tra or anywhere else she’d been stationed really. All ruined roads, crumbling taverns and begging masses.

  Funny that—how poor people everywhere all just convergently decided on the same aesthetic.

  Must be something in their blood.

  The architecture of Znaniye did explain some things however. Most importantly it explained why they were here.

  Znaniye had always been a city with strong monarchist ties. Even its city governor, despite agreeing that something needed to be done about the King, was infamous for refusing to be present for the execution of the King and Queen. ‘The murder,’ he’d called it.

  Given that the Republic was now majorly anti- royalist, the other governors and senators had not been exactly kind to the man who’d publicly denounced their actions.

  That meant Znaniye was cut out of trade deals, more taxes were placed on its head, and more of its men demanded to make troops for the war effort.

  This and a combination of other factors, meant that the city held a good bit of historical grudges against the country it sat in, and that made it the perfect breeding ground for what came next.

  Royalist militants.

  Causing chaos, destruction and terror everywhere they went, these men’s goal was to ‘restore the crown to its former glory,’ —whatever that meant— and they were willing to kill anyone in their way for it.

  Efforts to subdue the militants had been successful for a while now, and they had, until recently, been forced underground. Had things remained like that, Sasha’s mission would have been a cakewalk, but Zcigmagus hated foreigners so she wasn’t going to be getting any cake.

  ###

  “He’s here—here!” Governor Belavkin paced around his office worriedly. “The Zakadochnyy is in my city!”

  Zakadochnyy: Governor killer.

  Sasha could imagine why that might bother him.

  It bothered her.

  He was a somewhat religious figure that went around lopping governors’ heads off in his spare time. So far he’d managed six, two of which being major governors. Two major governors out of twenty-five—dead. They were replaced, quickly and efficiently, because Volkov did not seem able to stomach the very notion of inefficiency.

  He’d claimed to be doing so for the crown, claimed to be speaking for it in fact—’because the crown has been gagged and bound by the Republic and its hands.’ —Sasha just thought he was a bit of a nutter really. Now she had been given the job of standing in between that nutter and a Governor.

  Lovely.

  “This Isn't right, this isn’t right!” Belavkin continued, quadruple-chins flapping to the quiver of his jaw. “I have done nothing but serve my people—” wrong, “dedicated my life to them,” wrong, “and this is what I get in return?” Correct.

  Sasha drew in a breath. “I assure you Governor, the King and I will not let any harm come to you.”

  He set his eyes on her as if he’d only just noticed she was here, and decided he didn’t like that fact once he did. His gaze turned to the King and they burst with warmth. “Your Grace.” He bowed his head slightly. “I truly, truly am relieved you came.”

  Sasha braced herself for what might come next, but the King only smiled back.

  The Governor took a step towards the King and took his hands in his. “I have to say,” he began, fervour, regret, and anguish in his eyes. “I truly had no part in the brutality that took place that day. None at all I tell you, none at all.” He shook his head as he spoke. “Your Father and I, we may have had our differences, but we always respected one another, always.”

  The King squeezed back and smiled so earnestly that Sasha almost thought him a different person. “Gorvenor Belavkin, yes… I know you. We haven’t met before, but I remember when I visited my father in his cell, saw his frail form, bones pressing against his ribs, gaunt face looking closer to a corpse than man. We had very little time to talk. It was the last time in fact that we would ever talk. And the first thing he asked me—his son, his heir—was ’is Belavkin present?’ I told him no and I can still remember the way his eyes lit up. Because even though he was going to die in sickening anguish, while you thrived in your new manor…At least he was going to die at peace.”

  The Governor searched the King’s eyes for even an inkling of falsity and found nothing. Sasha only knew it was there because she’d spent enough time with the man to tell. That his story was bordering on absurdity helped too. Belavkin clearly didn’t know what to do with all he’d just seen, and so he awkwardly let go of the King’s hands and stepped away. “O-ofcourse.”

  The King kept his earnest smile, and the Governor, his uncomfortable demeanor.

  There was a silence, and then thankfully the door opened behind her.

  Belavkin cleared his throat and gazed past Sasha. “Ah, Volkov, you’re here, come in.”

  What would happen if I smashed the two together like a neolithic caveman?The result was The Last Mage King.

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