Chapter 14: - Forged and Broken

  Exia found Navtej Volkov holed up in a corridor and sobbing his eyes out. He had his back turned to Exia, body rising and falling in trembling waves that made his guts feel all kinds of wrong to witness.

  Stupid, fucking, Morozova. Why couldn’t he just let me have this?

  But he hadn’t, so Exia had little choice but to feel terribly wracked with guilt at his actions.

  He could just turn, leave, let the boy cry, and move on with his life.

  Exia’s legs moved forwards, and he found himself making his way over to Navtej. He nudged the boy in the shoulder and received a blow to the side of his face for it.

  Exia stumbled back, fell, and felt a dull pain throb through his head. His hands flared up where hot tea spilled from both mugs he was holding. “Ah! Fuck!”

  “Stay back!” Navtej Volkov demanded. “I have a weapon.”

  Exia looked up to see that the weapon was in fact a very thick book. Well, Exia certainly did feel weaponed by it, so he supposed that counted for something.

  Exia raised a hand, steaming mug still held tight, and Navtej Volkov flinched, ready to strike him again.

  “Wait, wait, wait!”

  The boy waited. Thankfully.

  “I didn’t come here to fight.” Exia said carefully, and then he slowly pulled himself up to his feet. He put the cups down and raised both hands up in the air placatingly. “I came here to…” Exia hesitated. “Apologize,” he finally forced the word out.

  Navtej didn’t look convinced. Exia couldn’t blame him.

  “It has been brought to my attention—quite rudely might I add—that I have not been the kindest of fellows to you.”

  “You’ve been a cunt,” Navtej growled.

  “I have been a cunt,” Exia agreed. “And I will try, perhaps, to be less of a…”

  “Cunt?”

  “Yes. That.” Exia grit his teeth.

  Navtej Volkok slowly lowered his weapon-book, though only halfway. “Okay,” he said.

  “Good. I propose a peace offering. I brought…Tea,” he nodded to the still-steaming mugs, “for one thing. What say we go out, have some fun?” Exia suggested.

  Navtej actually seemed to be considering it. “There’s nothing to do in your manor,” he observed.

  Exia smiled. “Who’s talking about the manor?”

  The boy looked nervous now. “Father says we’re not allowed outside.”

  Exia was grinning now, bending down and handing the boy a mug. “Who says Volkov needs to know.”

  ###

  The Zakadochnyy came at Exia like a bullet, leaping from the roof, tearing through the air and sending a ball of wind racing ahead in a gale-forced fury.

  Exia dodged, the attack missed, slammed into a wall behind him, and then it was his turn to play.

  Hand… he called, and his god listened.

  Stun.

  Crackling tentacles emerged behind him, swinging madly at their target.

  Exia felt shock through the man’s mask, but then he recovered quickly, dodging limbs with an impressive grace, and hacking through those he could not, with a sharp arc of air.

  The severed halves dissipated like inky smoke in the air, and Exia couldn’t help but be impressed by the skill of his opponent. This was no gangster—only used to loosing his magic on helpless civilians—or mad priest—shaped by trenches not alleyways.

  This was [Mage] first, and everything else second.

  And yet Exia was the clear superior.

  Exia stretched his palm forwards and a stream of blue fire spat out of it.

  A vortex of air wrapped around the Wind Mage like a protective cocoon. It beat back the flames as they met it—first with a mad anger, and then with a strain.

  The wind was slowing, the Zakadochnyy stepping back further and further as Exia pushed forwards.

  Funny that…he was actually straining himself against this one. It was a novel thing for Exia to find himself doing, at least outside of the Senate’s practice halls, but surprises were what made the job fun.

  The fire pressed closer, and closer, and closer, and right before Exia was graced with the sight of charred flesh and burning skin, his opponent leapt to the side.

  The fire licked a wall where it quested for man, melting the concrete into bright red globules of death.

  The Zakadochnyy was on his feet the next moment, running—away, not towards Exia.

  Sore loser.

  Exia gave chase—following him up buildings, across rooftops, and back down onto the bustling streets. The bastard was a fast fucker—Exia would give him that.

  The Mage did not slow down as he raced towards the crowd, and when the two masses met, it was clear which was going to be the victor. The Zakadochnyy crashed into people like a train—tearing flesh, shattering bone, as he ripped clean through people like a man wading through water.

  Compared to a Mage, they were just bags of blood.

  Pandemonium ensued, men, women, children, all screaming in terror, anguish and emotions too primal and ancient to be named, they all fell victim in one way or another to might that was well beyond them.

  Exia couldn’t go through the crowd like his enemy did—it would look terrible on his report—so he had to use the long route of dodges and weaves while his opponent was barrelling further and further away from him.

  At this pace he’d be out of sight before Exia could catch him.

  Hand of Zcigmagus.

  Stun.

  Exia stretched a hand forwards, the tentacle emerged like a viper, weaving and curving its way through fleeing citizens as it raced for its masked target.

  Exia felt himself strain as the limb travelled, going further, and further, and further, until it could barely extend itself anymore.

  There was a searing in the back of Exia’s mind, a clawing, a pain. A sign of Zcigmagus’s displeasure—that Exia had misused his Gift.

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  Fuck. Off!

  Exia growled, extended the limb just a bit further, and clipped the Zakadochnyy by the ankle.

  He tripped, fell, and Exia’s limb snapped back into the abyss in his palm, the portal closed with what almost sounded like a snarl.

  Exia raced towards his target.

  They were standing.

  He slammed into the masked man, sending him through a wall, into a building, and crashing further through wooden furniture like stacked twigs.

  The Zakadochnyy forced Exia’s grip off, and met him with strikes of his own. Each powerful, powerful enough that Exia actually felt pain—true and proper pain—when they landed. His teeth were bloody, his jaw aching.

  Magnitude Seventy-Five at the very least.

  That would make the man very easy to track indeed, if it still needed doing later. Exia retaliated, moving with intent to kill just as sharp as his opponent’s—no, sharper.

  Each blow quested for vulnerable flesh, and found its target more often than not. For each strike Exia received, his opponent was marked with three more.

  Exia struck the mask, broke it, and found a bloodied pale face underneath. One filled with terror, shock, and dread. The kind that came when all men well used to domination met a beast that surpassed them.

  Exia swung, missed, but only because the Zakadochnyy had slipped and fallen onto a table. He laid there, eyes drifting from side to side like a pendulum, though Exia could see him desperately try to focus. “A bastard of royal blood…you use Zcigmagus’s Gifts… you use them to serve enemies of the crown,” his words came out as a leaking slur.

  That was often the conclusion many of his opponents came to. After all, it seemed more likely he was a bastard, than their King moonlighted as an assassin for the state.

  “I have a lot of questions for you,” Exia informed the man. “The first of which is; are you from the North or South?” Exia needed to settle his bet with Nav, and he couldn’t place the bastard’s accent through his broken jaw.

  Perhaps he should have held back his punches? No, the fucker tried to kill me, I wish I could punch him again. Oh wait, I can.

  The Zakadochnyy opened his mouth, hesitated, slid his gloves off, and then bit down harshly.

  Shit!

  Exia fished into the man’s mouth for the pill, but only found foam. The dying man was spasming now, body violently jerking from side to side.

  Exia shook him by the shoulders. “Come on, at least answer the first fucking question!”

  But the inconsiderate cunt didn’t. Instead, he just fucking died.

  “You, fuck, fuckity, fuck!” Exia growled, stomping his feet, and pacing now. He groaned, then sighed. “Could this day get any worse!”

  ###

  “This is the best day of my life!” Governor Belavkin blubbered excitedly. “You bloody did it, you really bloody did it. I wish I had been there myself! Shown the bastard a few tricks of the gloves of my own, if you catch my meaning?!”

  Sasha braced herself for the King’s response—expecting a quip, a snide remark, or maybe he might just pull the Governor's drawers over his head. Nothing came however, nothing but a noncommittal hum.

  That was enough for the Governor to interpret whatever he wanted onto the expression, and the man beamed even brighter now. He placed a golden medal around the King’s neck, and had his sycophant placed one around hers—bronze.

  They were in his office—he’d called them in here mere hours after the neutralization of the Zakadochnyy to reward them for their excellent service.

  Navtej Volkov was not called, however, as far as the governor was concerned he was only doing his job.

  Sasha and the King were soon out of the office, and on their way to their room. King Exia made no jokes as they walked, and Sasha—for a reason that utterly confounded her—found herself more terrified than relieved at finally having some peace and quiet. King Exia stared angrily ahead at nothing, and it took Sasha a moment to realise that was thought, not rage that creased his brows.

  “Is everything alright?” She asked.

  “No, not at all…” the King noted. “I’ll be right back, I have to talk to Nav.”

  “Ok—”

  The King was gone before Sasha could reply,

  ###

  “Hello Exi!” Navtej beamed.

  “We’re being lied to,” Exia growled.

  “O-okay then?” his brother’s features scrunched up, the way they often did when a social faux pas had been committed and he was trying not to bring attention to it.

  “May I come in?”

  “Su—”

  Exia came in, frowned. “Your room is small.” It was, barely ten percent of the size of his and Sasha’s actually. Poorly lit, and seemed cursed with a foul odour.

  Navtej smiled falsely. “Governor Belavkin prefers to save the better rooms for more esteemed guests.”

  “He’s a cunt,” Exia growled.

  “That, he is,” Nav agreed with a shrug.

  “As I was saying—”

  “Can I make you some tea before we start , Exi?” Navtej asked politely. “You seem to be in an excited state of mind, and that helps none of us.”

  Exia frowned.

  Navtej smiled.

  “Fuck you, fine.” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  Exia sat in a chair, and soon enough Navtej sat in the one across and handed him one of two mugs he held. He grabbed it, and began. “So, as I was—”

  “Ah, ah,” Navtej wagged a disapproving finger. “Calm yourself Exi. A sip first, then we talk conspiracy.” Navtej took a sip out of his own mug, as if demonstrating to Exia.

  Exia hesitated, but didn’t mirror the man. Fuck... He’d missed Putesh tea, he’d missed Navtej’s Putesh tea—it was the perfect blend of sweet and bitter. Exia had tried and tried to get the recipe out of him, but the bastard held onto it with a vice grip. He wanted to down it. But he had things to say first, and besides…No, he just had things to say.

  “I’ll talk first.”

  Nav sighed, but nodded.

  “On you go, we can talk.” His smile didn’t waver

  “Okay.” Exia sighed, actually feeling himself calm a bit now. “Several things aren’t adding up. I fought the Zakadochnyy, he was tough, but at no point during our exchange was the outcome unclear.”

  Navtej’s brows creased. “So we’re looking at the mid-high seventies?”

  “Yes. Impressive, but not skilled enough to kill that many Governors and make it out unseen,” Exia pressed.

  Navtej took a sip. “Okay, so he has an accomplice.”

  “Not just an accomplice, Nav,” Exia told him. “An accomplice within our circle. How else would they have known to attack the post office instead—it was clearly an improvisation to a plan altered.”

  “The Captain?” Navtej asked, eyebrow raised.

  “I am aware it sounds…slightly out there,” Exia explained. “But who else could it be? I took all precautions while we spoke, there were no spies in the walls, nothing.”

  “That’s…not ridiculous.” Navtej comforted gently. “It’s not hard to imagine the multitude of reasons Royalists might have to sneak an agent to the side of the King.”

  “So you think it’s the Captain?” Exia asked, carefully, setting his eyes on the man.

  “I think it’s a fair assumption.” Navtej replied, meeting Exia’s gaze with a severity.

  Exia felt his gut twist, his bile rise, his heart burn. Betrayal, that was not something he was used to being on the receiving end of. Far too distrusting, far too watchful. And yet, here he was, forced to confront it. Exia swallowed. “It’s not the Captain,” he whispered feebly.

  Navtej’s eyes were sympathetic at the sight. He leaned forwards. “I understand you have formed a bond with her, but—”

  “It’s not the Captain because Volkov would never make such a mistake, Nav.” Exia told him, words sharp, hard, ridgid. “I know that. You know that. And you never thought to point it out.”

  Navtej leaned back now.

  “You’re lying to me…” Exia said, and nearly winced at being forced to bring the thought into words. “Why?”

  Navtej met Exia’s eye with one of anguish, smile faded, only a look of sadness and torment remained. He didn’t try to fool Exia any longer—at the very least, regardless of what was truly going on Exia took comfort in knowing the man still respected him that much. Then those eyes shifted to his pocket—where both of them knew his shifter necklace lay.

  “If you so much as flinch in that direction, Nav, I’ll have no choice but to stab my spoon right through your eye straight into your brain.” Exia shook his head. “And neither of us want that.”

  Navtej smiled sadly. “I knew you were going to figure it out…right from the moment you walked in here.”

  Exia slammed a hand on the table. “What the fuck is going on, Nav?!” So filled was he in rage, that he found the arm trembling.

  Navtej looked away. “I suppose in that…we both lose this contest.”

  “What the shit are you talking about?” Exia stood, felt his knees ignore him, lurched forwards, and was caught mid-fall by the other man.

  “I’ve got you,” Navtej groaned as he lifted Exia’s form.

  Exia tried to shove him off, he tried to punch, to kick, to bite, snarl, or even just talk. But his body was having none of it. It wasn’t listening to him. Heart racing, mind racing even quicker, he shifted his gaze to the mug. The tea… He hadn’t drunk, fearing a trap. But Nav had smeared his toxin on the handle.

  “You’ll be fine soon.” Navtej told him, and then carefully placed Exia on the bed.

  Exia looked up, confused, terrified, scared. Nav was his brother, Nav wouldn’t do this, but he was, he’d been lying to him, tricking him, stringing him along. And now, here he was, poisoned and paralyzed. Exia tried again to move, and nothing came of it but a maddening frustration at his own impotency.

  Navtej shook his head—whether it was out of pity, or shame, Exia couldn’t tell. “I really am sorry, brother.”

  He tried to speak, but could only watch, watch as Navtej picked up his briefcase, and stare as he made his way out the door.

  Leaving Exia all alone, in the too-small room.