Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Nineteen

Staging Area 3

Kolakolvia

Illarion Glazkov


Drinking did nothing to lighten Illarion’s mood. He’d only had one shot so far, but he couldn’t see how another would help. The last time he’d been in this particular bar, it had been a good night. Spartok and Chankov had both been here, and he had met the odd Rolmani sniper, Natalya. He absently rubbed his tattooed shoulder. That damned raven.

Do you believe in fate, Illarion?

As he set the cup back down, he noticed dark mud under his thumbnail.

The ghoul attack had broken their momentum. After 3rd Platoon had been taken off the line for field repairs, Illarion had made a feeble attempt at cleaning up and resting, but rest wouldn’t come. The only time the Wall got a break was when their Objects needed repairs. Soldiers were replaceable, but the precious Objects had to be maintained.

The Wall’s recent losses haunted him. He felt raw, and he often felt his heart hammering because of nervousness. Once they’d gotten their Objects back to the mechanics, Chankov had gotten evening passes for all his men to go into the staging area. Illarion had chosen to stay in camp, but when Chankov had seen Illarion’s state of mind he had ordered him to take that pass and walk back to the staging area to get drunk and find a prostitute or something. Chankov was a good officer.

He cleaned the mud from his nail, and it flaked away brown, then a dark rust color. Blood.

Illarion sighed and pushed the cup away. No, what he was feeling wasn’t nervousness. It was guilt. The same guilt that nearly consumed him after his entire village had been killed. He blamed himself for what had happened in the mud. He shut his eyes, just for a moment, and was greeted with the memory of the ghoul and its hideous face devoid of eyes. Even though the monster hadn’t done so originally, Illarion’s imagination conjured an image of the creature smiling at him with its crooked, tangled, mismatched set of human teeth and animal fangs.

Illarion shuddered. He suspected the Witch had sent those creatures to protect him, but they had caused so much destruction to both sides. Six members of the Wall hadn’t made it back to their trench. Most of their bodies were missing. He knew what that meant.

Those men were gone because of him. The price of his own survival. Illarion put his face into his hands, still filthy with his guilt. He stared at the bar, analyzing the grain of the wood.

Oddly, he found himself wishing for Natalya’s company.

It struck him as strange that he’d think of the curious scout at a time like this, but there was something unique about her. He wanted to see her half-smile, and the eyes that showed how intelligent she was. She thought about things in a completely different way than he did. She couldn’t have been more different than Hana.

But neither of them were here. He was alone, with only his guilt to keep him company.

Illarion heard the bar doors bang open, and the sound of laughter. The laughing felt vulgar after the week he’d had.

“Barkeep, a round for the ladies!”

Illarion tilted his head up just enough to see the cause of the commotion. A soldier, his new uniform immaculate, with many medals pinned on it. Illarion couldn’t make them out from here, but the Kommandant himself hadn’t worn that many. Draped on either arm were a pair of beauties—one blond, one with flaming red hair. Fairly fresh faced. They were new to this place then. He’d been told that many young women came to the staging area because it was seen as a wild and adventurous land of opportunity. He assumed they’d all meet bad ends. The three of them sat a few stools down from Illarion.

The blond one took a cup from the bartender, sipped, and then fingered one of the soldier’s medals. “What’s this one for?”

He looked down, squinted, and said, “Oh, uh, that one is for . . . heroism.”

“What happened?” Red asked.

“Well, I’m not sure you ladies are ready to hear a story like this. It’s pretty grisly.”

“Please tell us,” Blond pouted.

“Yes, please,” Red begged, added her pout to the situation.

This was one of the strangest things Illarion had ever witnessed, and he’d just come from a battlefield where monsters had dragged screaming men through a hole in the air. The foolish attempt at impressing some gullible women actually made Illarion smile.

The soldier sighed theatrically, and said, “Very well, ladies. You see, that’s my newest award. It was pure hell out there on the battlefield.”

“You must have done something real brave.”

“Indeed.” He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. “Almacians were everywhere. The rain was pouring down. I was piloting one of the iron suits of the Wall.”

Illarion blinked. The Wall? The amused smile that had been on Illarion’s face vanished as fast as his friends’ bodies had when the ghouls had claimed them. He lifted his head a little more and squinted, trying to get the man’s medals to come into focus.

His exhaustion fell away. Even the guilt left. A dangerous, simmering anger rose in Illarion instead.

“What’s it like inside one of those big suits?” Red asked.

“Yeah, what is it like?” The question had left Illarion’s mouth before he’d been able to stop it. Many heads in the bar turned to look his way. Tonight the other patrons were mostly locals, but the long timers recognized Illarion for what he was.

The soldier looked Illarion up and down, let out a small laugh. “Why? Thinking of piloting one yourself? I’m sorry, but you don’t look like you’ve got what it takes. Not dressed like that.”

As the women tittered, Illarion looked down at his clothes. Threadbare. Torn and patched. Stained by mud, blood, and tears—some of it his, some of it from his comrades. It wasn’t even a uniform at all. The Wall only dressed up for parades. The fool must have mistaken him for some local worker.

Illarion picked up his cup. “You say so.” This time he downed the drink. He tapped the bar so the bartender would know to bring him another.

“Ignore him,” Blond said. “Tell us about the Wall. We just got here, and we want to know all about it.”

“I want to hear more about the monsters you fought out there,” Red said.

The soldier laughed again. “Of course, of course. You see, I was in the suit, and the monsters appeared out of nowhere. Killing Almacians and our own with long razor claws. It would have broken a lesser man. But we in the Wall are made of stronger stuff. At one point I was surrounded by the creatures, and they—”

“What number?” Illarion interrupted, loudly. This time all the eyes in the room turned to him. The bartender placed another drink in front of Illarion, and then moved quickly away. The bartender clearly knew the lay of the land.

“What do you mean, what number?”

“Everyone knows,” Illarion continued, now on his feet and walking slowly toward the braggart, “the suits are all numbered. Which one do you crew?” He pointed toward the women. “I’m sure they would love to know so they can tell their friends.”

Blond nodded her head, and Red put a hand to the soldier’s arm. “That would be wonderful.”

Illarion was close enough now to see panic and anger warring on the imposter’s face. He looked from the girls to Illarion and back, before making a wild guess. “Four hundred . . . ” Illarion displayed absolutely no reaction. “And ten.”

“Interesting. There’s only about two hundred and fifty Objects in operation in the whole empire last I heard. The Tsar must have discovered a golem graveyard to make so many more so quickly.” Illarion stopped, just out of arm’s reach, towering over the man. He wasn’t even big enough to have been picked for initial selection into the Wall.

“Uh, yes, these are new. They’re not here yet. I earned these medals in my old suit . . . ”

“Go on.” Illarion tried to hide his loathing, knowing that the soldier would be desperately trying to remember the number of one of the Objects that people told stories about. Some of them were more infamous than others.

“Suit 12.”

The women gasped. The bartender shook his head in resignation, knowing what was coming. He began putting away bottles to keep the property damage to a minimum.

Red covered her mouth and said, “But, but that’s—”

“I know, I know,” the man said. “Unfortunate 12. The one so many brave Kolakolvians have died in. It is an unlucky number. But not for me. You see, I don’t believe in supersti—”

Illarion felt a wicked grin spread across his face. The smile stopped the other man mid-word. “Strange. I don’t recall seeing you out there as part of Object 12’s crew. I think I would’ve remembered considering I’m currently assigned to it. Then again, maybe I’m mistaken. It has been a rough few days. One of our crew was killed. What was his name? I mean, you should know since you were there.”

The girls weren’t laughing anymore, and the man had gone white, and wasn’t answering.

“His name was Bricks . . . You look a little pale.” Illarion leaned in close. “Not as pale as the ghouls that attacked us out there, but I doubt you’ve ever seen one of those in the flesh.”

“I . . . I—”

Illarion grabbed the man by the shirt, lifted him up, and slammed him down on top of the bar. He tore the fake medals off the uniform and flung them away. “The Wall doesn’t wear medals. We wear our accomplishments on our skin.” He pulled open his tattered shirt, exposing the raven scar. “Did you know it gets so hot inside an Object that it burns your skin? No? Are you even a trencher? Are you even in the army at all?”

There was so much sudden anger boiling through him that he barely noticed when the imposter threw a wild punch that caught Illarion across the back of the head. He lifted the man and hurled him across the room, where he collided with a flimsy table and broke it.

In the back of his mind, Illarion heard the two women screaming. People scrambled for the door, and the barkeep continued frantically shoving bottles out of harm’s way. To the imposter’s credit, he got up, shook his head, and raised his fists. But Illarion didn’t care much.

The soldier threw a wild punch that glanced off Illarion’s shoulder, then another to the gut. The man’s wrist buckled as the second punch landed, and Illarion could almost hear the awful sprain happen.

Before the Wall, Illarion was already strong—the product of working the mill. Training had made him even stronger. Illarion’s first punch broke the other man’s nose. The imposter grabbed for Illarion’s eyes with his one good hand.

It reminded him of the desperate Almacian clawing at his face while drowning in mud.

Illarion grabbed that wrist and twisted until the liar screamed, and he kept twisting until bones cracked. He slammed his fist into the other man’s stomach, then his ribs, then broke his jaw. By the end the only thing holding him up was Illarion. So he let go of the useless appendage and let the imposter collapse to his knees. Illarion cocked his arm back to throw another punch, wanting to break everything left in that smug face.

Something caught his hand, easily preventing the blow.

Illarion turned and saw that he’d been stopped by a giant of a man, far bigger than he was, with a blindfold that covered his eyes. With a shock, Illarion realized that he could see the veins of his neck, straining, dark red, but pulsing with that same blue light as when bullets struck his Object.

This wasn’t a man at all. This was a thing. Instead of a steel machine being powered by golem magic, this was a machine of flesh and bone.

“I think the poor lad’s had enough, don’t you?” A thin man in a black coat stepped out from behind the monstrosity. “Whatever did he do to earn your ire?”

“He pretended to be part of the Wall.” Illarion tried ripping his arm out of the thing’s grip, but the blindfolded monster held him effortlessly. From the unnatural strength of that grip he had no doubt the thing could pluck his arm off as effortlessly as pulling a weed.

“Ah. I can see how that would be a problem. Were you at the ghoul attack?”

His anger had made him slow to realize what manner of man he was talking to. The pet monster, the way that all of the remaining patrons had gone from enjoying the lopsided fight to averting their eyes in fear . . . this was one of the Tsar’s secret policeman. But now that Illarion was aware, he would be careful to answer as directly and factually as possible. “Yes.”

“I think I understand.” The monster’s keeper looked down at the broken, bloody form of the now-weeping fraud. “Would you like me to have my Cursed kill him for you? As a soldier, you would be written up for disciplinary action for killing a citizen, but I have no issues with such an act, and you would suffer no repercussions at all.”

All the anger faded, leaving Illarion empty.

“No. He’s done. I’m done.”

“A pity. Vasily, throw that thing outside.”

The Cursed let Illarion’s arm go, picked up the fake soldier like a rag doll, and carried him outside.

“Today he obeys.” He held out his hand to Illarion. “Where are my manners? I am Kristoph Vals. May I have your name, soldier?”

Illarion shook the offered hand, only realizing afterwards that his knuckles were smeared with blood. “First Strelet Illarion Glazkov. Sorry about the blood.” He withdrew his hand and wiped it off on his shirt.

“Not the first time I’ve had blood on my hands.” He took out a yellow handkerchief and wiped them clean. “Glazkov, you say? Yes. I oversaw your final test to be accepted to the Wall. Though I barely recognize you. They say war ages a man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No need for formalities. At this time, anyway. Will you sit with me for a moment? I’d like to speak to you about your recent battle.”

What choice do I have? “Of course.”

They moved to one of the other tables, and as they sat, Kristoph raised his hand and held up a single finger. The barkeep was at the table an instant later, setting down a bottle and two freshly cleaned glasses rather than the regular tin cups.

“Rolf, my friend. How is your wife, Sasha?” Kristoph smiled, but Illarion noticed it never reached the man’s eyes. “And your son, Daven. Does he still have that sweet tooth?”

“Uh, yes, Mr. Vals. He loves his sweets. The family is well, thank you.”

“Wonderful. I should stop by sometime. Just to check in.”

“Ah, yes. You are always welcome. If you’ll please excuse me. I need to clean up.” He waited until Kristoph waved him away, then escaped to clean the mess Illarion had made.

“I should help him,” Illarion muttered.

“Nonsense. That is his job. We all have our purpose in life. If I recall, your promotion was fairly recent. An act of valor on the battlefield.”

“You seem to know a lot about me, sir.”

Kristoph chuckled. “Knowledge is power, Illarion. May I call you Illarion? You see, in my line of work, knowledge is often the difference between life and death.” The Cursed reentered the bar, then stood silently, unmoving against the wall nearest the door. The other patrons in that area quickly retreated from the thing. “Now . . . speaking of the value of knowledge, what did you learn about ghouls?”

“The only thing I know is that they killed many of my comrades.”

“And many more of the enemy.”

Illarion nodded in reluctant agreement. “The exchange was hardly an even one.”

“You have a point, Illarion. You have a point, indeed. What all did you see out there? Anything strange?”

Choosing his words carefully, Illarion said, “This was my first time seeing ghouls.”

“Did you see the blood storm?”

“I’d never seen one of those before either,” Illarion said, though he vaguely recalled his old trainer, Yannic, saying something about them once. From what the other veterans had said afterward, that had been a small and brief example of the phenomena. “It was unnatural.”

Kristoph nodded. “Tell me about it.”

“There isn’t much to tell. There was a loud shrieking sound. Then I could hear ripping, like tearing cloth, and I saw the sky split open. Hot air came out of the opening. That’s about it.”

“You were looking at it?”

“Yes.”

“What color was it? Through the gate, I mean.”

“The sky on the other side was red. Like blood.”

“Interesting.” Kristoph leaned back. “This is the first I’ve ever heard about it making a sound, though. I’ve spoken to several other witnesses from your platoon, and they all said it appeared suddenly with no warning. By the way, why aren’t you out carousing with your platoon?”

Illarion swallowed hard. It was clearly no accident Kristoph had found him here. “I wished to be alone.”

“As do I, usually. Are you sure you heard the rift make a sound?”

“I don’t really know. We were in the middle of a thunderstorm and my ears were ringing from the cannons. I could have been mistaken.”

“Oh, I doubt it. You do not seem like one prone to mistakes nor exaggerations. Did you know the Chancellor himself is obsessed with what can potentially be found beyond those gates?”

“I did not.”

“Of course not. If you did, I would have to have you killed for knowing state secrets.” Vals laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m only joking. However, it is known the Chancellor has conducted many experiments on the subject, but he has kept the results of his research private. Why do you think such an anomaly would appear here now?”

Glazkov’s guilt came flooding back, but he tried not to let it show. “It is beyond my understanding, sir.”

“Mine as well, Illarion, mine as well.” Kristoph said nothing for a minute. He sat in his chair, sipping at his drink, and staring at Illarion with flat eyes. Finally, Illarion couldn’t stand it any longer and stood.

“I’m afraid I must return to camp, Mr. Vals.”

“Of course.” Kristoph waved one hand dismissively. “It was a pleasure speaking with you. I am quite happy you survived the attack. But yes, please, go get some sleep. Who knows what tomorrow will bring after all? Though I have a feeling the Almacians will be hesitant to attack. For whatever reason, they fear the ghouls even more than we do. Rest well.”

Illarion nodded politely and made his way to the exit. He was nearly out of the bar when he heard Kristoph call after him.

“Oh, and the next time you see your friend, Natalya Baston, please give her my regards.”


Back | Next
Framed