Methodius Buslaev. Third Horseman Of Gloom

He no longer wanted to sleep. Methodius, without any special purpose, strolled around the room and, after recalling that it would be good to practise, he started searching with his eyes for the case with the sword. And he found it, however, to his surprise, not on the windowsill but in a corner of the room on the floor. Not attaching special meaning to this, Methodius opened the case and took out the sword. Suddenly something cold dripped onto his palm.

Squinting in surprise and not understanding what had appeared as a spot on his hand, Methodius approached the window. The dim morning light fell on the blade. Methodius recoiled in disgust. There was blood on the sword blade. Its brown drops appeared everywhere: on the floor of the room and on the velvet of the case. The blood should have dried long ago, but it was flowing and flowing, as if horror did not allow it to stop. It was crimson, shimmering with a myriad of tiny fires. The blood of a creature of Light appeared this way. Methodius had memorized this when Daph once injured her finger accidentally. The blood of a creature of Gloom was different: sluggish, sticky, with a greenish sheen that is on the abdomen of flies.

Methodius tossed the sword aside, dashed to the basin and quickly began to wash his hands. Although the spot was quite small, all the water in the basin was stained before his palm became clean again. However, he did not succeed in cleaning the sword as well. It seemed blood would now remain on it forever. The blade tinkled and throbbed. Methodius sensed the impatience and fury of the blade. It was like a beast, having discovered the taste of blood and wanting nothing else.

“Settle down!” Methodius said to the sword.

It was useless.

“Hit away! Kill! Blood spill! Blood like water into the ground run out! Scarlet poppy will sprout! Hit away!” the blade sang with inspiration like a maniac. Buslaev felt its small impatient trembling.

Methodius discovered that he was squeezing his hand against his will. The knuckles had become white. The fury of the blade had passed onto its owner. Buslaev suddenly wanted someone to appear beside him, someone he could knock down from shoulder to waist. Ares, Julitta, Tukhlomon – it did not matter. At this moment he would attack anyone. The single thought that cooled him down was about Daphne. It was enough for him to imagine her head with the weightless blond tails, which would not lie still and soared like wings, and his fury instantly dissipated. He understood that he would never be able to chop down Daph.

Calming the sword, which needed to vent fury, Methodius twice lowered it onto the high headboard of the bed. The blade sparkled like a young moon. He did not feel the impact, although he did not even try to pull the sword to himself, as Ares had taught him. The blade began to sing. The age-old wood fell apart easily, as if the bed was made of butter. Only when the bed, broken into three parts, spread out on the floor, did Methodius feel that he could unclench his fingers again and put the sword back into the case. He was free from the power of the blade. The carrier of death magic had let go of him.

Methodius looked at the sword, trying to determine from where the blood could have appeared. He definitely knew that no one else could take his sword. Even Ares never allowed himself the free handling of it, moving the blade only by the strength of spells. The sword of The Ancient One, having undergone many incarnations, did not tolerate strange hands.

“What if I, in delusion, under the power of black magic, hacked down someone? Although definitely not an agent! Then it wouldn’t be blood on the blade but it would be blackened with plasticine!” Methodius thought, with horror reminded of Daphne again.

He wanted to see her right away, to know that she was safe, but how? Where? He looked around the room with annoyance, regretting that there was no phone here. After all, Daph was still living at his home.

“Well, well! So far, they haven’t provided the future sovereign of Gloom with a free cellphone! But Methodius Igorevich himself can’t summon anyone telepathically! He is magically not mature! Blowing up the phone exchange is like hitting a dead fly with a slipper, but just calling – not!” Julitta taunted him sometimes.

Suddenly the Book of Chameleons, lying on the windowsill, woke up. The book cover started to rattle with an unpleasant sound. The closed and unsteady old door was knocking so when the draft hit it. Methodius’ teeth immediately started to ache depressingly.

Even without glancing into the book, Methodius understood that Ares was summoning him. The chief was impatient. A little longer and a mighty roar, after easily piercing the spectral boundary of the fifth dimension, would reach him from below. However, it was better to not lead to this. Eide did not like loud noises, especially when enraged creatures of Gloom generated them.

* * *

After getting dressed, Methodius went down to reception. He did this in an unexpected manner. In the corner, Julitta had scraped a rune with her rapier directly on the scratched parquet. It could be casually stepped on as much as desired. But it was necessary to step on it with closed eyes, stop, and utter, “Odium generis humani [hatred for the human race (Lat.)]”, and you found yourself right in reception, one-and-a-half metres from the fountain, from which the Crimean wine “Black Doctor” flowed day and night.

Succubi, frivolous folk, constantly strove to splash in the small fountain in their birthday suit, catching the sweet drops with their lips. Only after Ares’ shout did they climb out of the fountain and, leaving tracks of wine on the parquet, scurry guiltily to Julitta to prolong their registration. The treasured fountain did not only attract succubi. Somehow, Tukhlomon, playing a drowned man, blue and bloated, lay on the bottom of the fountain for the entire day and was so carried away that he passed up the eidos of Leo Ovalov, a philology theorist and author of the mystery Col and Bok and the ideological novel Three Piglets.

Methodius looked around. He saw in reception only Julitta, who, after sticking out her tongue with diligence and helping herself with its tip – in any case the tip of her tongue was moving synchronously with the pen – was sketching Essiorh’s portrait on documents. The flame of a candle was flickering wildly on her desk.

“Hey!” Methodius called.

“Yeah!” the witch responded, continuing to sketch.

“Do you hear me?” Methodius asked.

Julitta looked pensively at the drawing and touched up the line of Essiorh’s cheek, attaining absolute likeness. But to capture the resemblance was tricky, since the incompletely-drawn Essiorh was constantly turning his head and squatting.

“You hear me,” the witch acknowledged after Methodius repeated the question again.

“What do you want?” Methodius asked.

“What do you want?” the witch repeated like an echo.

“Me? Nothing!” Methodius flared up. Summon a person in the middle of the night and then forget about him, as if he came on his own initiative. This is totally in the spirit of their organization.

“Well, and nothing for me!” the witch said.

“Then I’m off!” Methodius snapped.

“Well, go!” the witch agreed and, after noticing that Methodius took a step to the rune, she said, “Oh, wait, I remember! The chief summoned you.” After giving out this information, Julitta again returned to the drawing.

“Is Ares in the office?”

“Uh-uh. He teleported somewhere about five minutes ago. He said he’ll soon be here and you’re to wait for him. That’s all! Don’t bother me! I’m drawing the ears. Hey you, the sketch, don’t twirl! I know, it’s ticklish! Ears are the most crucial part!”

“Ears are the most crucial part? Why?” Methodius was surprised.

Julitta suddenly put down the pencil and stared at him with indignation. “What are you, Buslaev, a parrot?”

“What?!”

“Then for what reason do you repeat everything after me?”

Methodius was dumbfounded. “Repeat? Me?”

“Again! Only idiots do that!” Julitta twirled a finger at her temple.

“Listen, you’re cheeky!” Methodius said with admiration.

Julitta ran her hand lovingly through her hair and made herself a little bang on the forehead, just playing Uncle Adolf.

“Well, I’m cheeky! He discovered America! I’ve always been cheeky, for your information! Cheeky and fat! On the whole, remember, applicant! Geniuses have big ears. Students who hand in exams ahead of time and genies trapped in non-sterile containers have small ears. Lab techs of technical specialties and first year biting vampires have elongated ears with deep conchae. Here I am trying to recall what ears Essiorh has in order to understand what kind of suspicious character he is! But you’re pestering me! You won’t bother me anymore?”

“No,” Methodius said concisely, afraid of repeating something again. He walked away from the witch’s desk and began to wander around reception, waiting for Ares. Suddenly Methodius caught sight of something bulky concealed under a long red cover. Here and there on the cover were traces of damp earth. Musty rot wafted from the unknown object.

“What’s this?” Methodius thought. He did not like oblong objects, on top of that even covered. The emerging association was not in favor of what was inside. “Where did this come from?” he asked.

“Ares brought it,” Julitta replied lazily.

“And went off again?”

“He stated that he needs some tool. And that you’d wait for him and not take it into your head to be off anywhere.”

“What tool?” Methodius was puzzled. The situation looked strange. Guards of Gloom usually did not need tools. In order to demolish a wall or pierce a solid twenty-metre stone well, it was enough for them to stare at it or desire it.

“Listen, Met, I’m a smart girl, of course, but not enough to answer every question that you have enough stupidity to ask,” Julitta remarked compassionately.

Methodius carefully tapped the long cover. It was a quick, almost fleeting touch, but also enough for him. With his fingers he came into contact with something deathly cold and hard like a diamond. An icy viper crept along the vessel to his elbow. His arm went numb. His temples ached. Methodius hastily withdrew his hand and took a step back.

“Ah, that’s what you are!” he said vindictively to the strange object.

Angry, Methodius wanted to decisively pull a long brush and tear away the cover, but something, more real than fear or suspicion, stopped him. He simply felt that it was not worth doing. What was inside presented a threat no less than Mamzelkina’s scythe.