by Edwin McRae
The captain turned to the reiver woman and snapped off a crisp salute with his left hand. “Sergeant, you have that promotion you wanted. The command is yours.”
He turned back to Mark, a faint smile on his thin face, and dove off the catwalk.
14
The landing was so soft that Serik barely felt a twinge in his wounded shoulder. The hay had been stacked just shy of the stable entrance, in preparation for a mucking out that the livery shift hadn’t quite got to.
He rolled out of the fragrant pile and hurried into the stables, ignoring the grunts and metallic rings of combat above him. Having seen the newcomer in action, he doubted the sergeant would be able kill him, but she’d hopefully delay the murderous bastard long enough for Serik to saddle up and leave the whole tragedy behind.
He gave the bodies in the first bay barely a glance, fetched the closest gear and saddled a lean, mottled mare. She looked strong and fast enough to get him well clear of the fortress before the fighter-mage had a chance to pursue. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, Serik mounted up, squeezed the horses ribs gently with his legs, and coaxed her out of the stables. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the sergeant was proving her worth, so he gave his horse a sharp ‘giddyup’ and hurtled out of the gates, bending low over the mare’s neck just in case the fighter-mage had some sort of projectile spell in his arsenal.
Once Serik had put a good hundred meters between him and the ruin, he hauled in the reins and paused to look back at what had been, until scant minutes ago, his expeditionary force, his command to control and care for. Serik didn’t bow to such base instincts as vengeance, and viewed guilt as a dangerous invitation to wallowing and apathy. No, under the light of the moon, he saw this moment for what it was. A lesson. He’d badly underestimated Garland and his soldiers had paid the price. He owed it to them, to their memory and sacrifice, to never make that mistake again.
He gave the mare’s ribs a squeeze and sent her trotting uphill, toward the pass that would free him of Garland and signal the beginning of his journey back to Credence.
The dense beech forest gave way to briar as he ascended beyond the treeline, and then to a rough collage of tussocks and outcroppings of weathered limestone. It took him a couple of hours to reach Hawker’s Pass, and there he stopped to water his horse and to refresh himself at a cool mountain stream. To his relief, the fighter-mage hadn’t deigned to follow him. Either the sergeant had miraculously bested him or, more likely, he’d been content to claim the old fortress as his own.
He hoped the murderous bastard enjoyed his victory while it lasted. Soon Serik would return with a larger force at his back, and serve that petrifying prick up to the inquisitors, along with anyone stupid enough to stand at his side. Whatever he was, this new type of fighter-mage was a threat that needed to be dissected and understood. If there were more of his kind lurking in Garland, Serik needed to know how to find them and eliminate them. That would be his gift to his people, and in return, they’d give him the respect and responsibility he’d always deserved.
Serik rode through the night, making the most of the bright moon and clear starlit sky. Only when the sun rose up, and with it the mountain rain, did Serik and his horse find shelter in a cave. By now, his shoulder was nearly mended, thanks to his Tier 3 Vigorous Healing skill, so he gathered some wood before the rain set in and used the flint and tinder from his saddle bag to get a campfire going. Then he contented himself with toasting and eating some mushrooms he harvested from a damp alcove, and the cave crawlers he found in a crevice nearby. The plump, horny beetles tasted a bit like barbecued prawn once he peeled the carapace off.
As he ate and waited for the rain to pass, he pondered these new enemies of his. The ranger was nothing unusual. He’d killed her kind before, although this one was unusually accurate with that damned bow of hers.
The figurist, now she was an interesting one. He could understand why she’d wish to defect. The reiver life wasn’t easy on her profession. He had no doubt she’d been forced to get her hands very dirty in the service of her people, especially with the inquisitors in charge of all things ‘mystical’. He’d seen what their creations could do firsthand. “Brutally effective” was the term he preferred to use. The Garlanders hadn’t seen their like yet, and Serik would be very interested to see what the “Murderous Bastard” made of them. What he’d done to Serik’s soldiers was but a friendly tussle compared to what the inquisitors’ pets could do.
The rain finally gave way to shafts of golden sun, yet the snow-spattered mountain peaks remained wreathed in wisps of white cloud as Serik pressed on. He weaved his way between mighty rock falls, whispering slopes of scree, and tarns as bright and clear as polished mirrors. It took him three days to traverse Hawker’s Pass, fending for himself as he went. He’d been a scout before rising to captain, so it didn’t take much to refresh his Tier 2 Living Rough skill. But as he descended into the dusty, desolate slopes of the Barrens, Serik knew full well that he would need more than Living Rough to survive the two days it would take him to reach the tip of Carver’s Way.
The Barrens stretched from the upper slopes of the mountains through to the border of reiver country, and there were many good reasons why it had never been occupied. High Command was still trying to push the unfinished road, Carver’s Way, through the inhospitable tract, and was paying a bloody price for every meter.
He reached the uppermost ruins at sunset, their twisted architecture jutting out of the earth like the tortured, gore-clad skeletons of giant beasts. Reiver prospectors had learned a few things about the crumbling towns and monuments along these slopes, but most died, horribly, before they could deepen their investigations.
The people that’d lived here had been humanoid; tall, skinny folk with pointy ears. And by all accounts they’d been fairly advanced, even by reiver standards. But somewhere along the winding road of their history, they’d taken a wrong turn. Where they went after that, no-one knew, but they’d left quite a mess in their wake. Fractured ruins, freakish creatures, and places where the very air could turn you inside-out upon the first breath.
Serik had felt relatively safe travelling through here before, with a company of soldiers surrounding him. Now that he was alone, he knew the dice were loaded against him. For a moment, he considered turning back, returning to Hawker’s Pass where he could survive off the land until another reiver troop traveled through. It wasn’t a bad plan, as far as they went. The only problem was that it could be months before High Command sent another force into Garland via this route, and every day was another for that fighter-mage to grow stronger, to gather his own forces, to become even more of a murderous bastard than he already was.
Serik retraced the original route his company had taken, pushing himself and his horse hard as they wove their way through fragments of looming buildings and patches of ‘nature’ that had long since shucked that label.
He was passing under an ancient archway that looked more like a bent spine than a piece of architecture, when the first dart bounced off his chainmail. Serik activated his Hastened Wits skill, giving him just enough time to take in his surroundings and plan a possible escape route. His assailants were all around him, popping up out of the ruins like the first crop of weeds after a thaw. Two arms, two legs, eyes, mouth, nose, all the usual hallmarks of humanity, but that’s where the similarities ended. They were utterly hairless and their skin had the sickly mustard hue of jaundice. Their eyes were wide and wild, red-rimmed, irises jet-black, indistinguishable from the pupils. They wore animal skins and woven vegetation, carried spears and blowpipes, and when the closest of them smiled at him, she presented teeth more suited to a cat than a human being.
Serik was outnumbered, six to one, and he was so tired that he wasn’t sure he could even lift his sword, let alone wield it. He dug his heels into his mount, launching her into a gallop. If only she hadn’t been as tired as he was. Her left-front hoof caught on a piece of rubble and she went
down with a squeal of terror and pain. With his Hastened Wits in play, Serik saw the whole thing in slow motion as the poor animal’s leg buckled, the carpal bones in her knee grinding and fracturing. He saw the ground coming for him, a sedate procession of stone, dusty and sickly grass, and was able to throw himself from the saddle so as to avoid being pinned beneath his stricken horse.
He tucked his head and right arm in as he landed, rolled on his shoulder and back, found his feet, and turned the momentum into the fastest sprint his leaden legs could muster. A quick glance back revealed that his attackers were watching him, wide-eyed and seemingly dumbfounded. Perhaps they’d never seen potential prey recover so quickly. Perhaps they were impressed enough that they might even-
The dart caught him in the back of the jaw, a stinging jab followed by a numbness that spread like a splash of ice-cold water across his face and neck. The poison swept down his spine and took his legs out from under him. With his face already numbed, he didn’t feel any pain as it smacked against the ground, although he did hear the sickening crunch of his nose breaking, followed by the thick, hot taste of blood in his mouth. He was wondering whether he might choke on his own blood, a preferable option to what his assailants might do to him, when the toxin reached into his brain and deftly doused it in darkness.
15
Mark and the reiver woman traded blows back and forth, testing strikes as they tried to get the measure of each other. The captain plummeted into the courtyard and landed comfortably in a pile of hay. A duck and a parry later, Mark saw the captain mount a horse and gallop at full speed out of the fortress gates.
"Son of a bitch," growled the sergeant as she shuffled backwards and stole a glance after her retreating superior.
Mark couldn't help himself. "Congratulations on the promotion."
The sergeant acknowledged his quip with a half smile. "Thanks."
She raised her sword a little higher, leveled the point at Mark's throat, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "blade of doom". The longsword turned a shade darker and sprouted a series of nasty serrations down both sides. Mark was so taken with the transformation that he almost forgot to dodge as the sergeant thrust the vicious blade at him with frightening speed.
Mark threw himself to the left, slamming painfully into the stones, and hissed in pain as the serrated edge carved a bloodied line across his right shoulder. The flesh there puckered and tore, and he felt suddenly weak, like his life force was leaking from the wound faster than his blood was.
The Reiver Sergeant has damaged you for 12 HP!
HP: 43/70
Dammit, he thought, Blade of Doom packs quite a wallop, even from a light scratch.
He retaliated by knocking her sword aside with his, and driving into her with his good left shoulder. The sergeant anticipated his move and rolled with the impact. She brought her sword around in a blurring arc that sliced into his side, cutting through his chainmail like it was paper.
Reiver Sergeant has damaged you for 30 HP!
HP: 13/70
The pain hadn't hit him yet, and Mark didn’t look down. He feared losing his nerve entirely if he witnessed what the woman's sword had just done to his entrails. Instead, he tried to force the words "Terrifying Manifestation" out of his parched mouth.
Again, the sergeant was one step ahead. He'd barely got to "ING" when her mailed fist ploughed into his mouth, knocking out teeth, words, and even thoughts. He stumbled backwards, hitting the wall once again, smacking his skull against the stones hard enough to make his vision swim.
Reiver Sergeant has damaged you for 8 HP!
HP: 4/70
Mark didn't try to speak the next words, his stunned brain attempting to think the spell into existence instead. "Avalar’s Leech!"
The sergeant faltered, the spell gripping her insides as it had done to the archer before her, gripping her heart with spectral fingers, promising to squeeze the pulsing organ until it stilled its beat. Mark simply had to live long enough for the spell to do its work, to rob his opponent of her strength and lend it to his ravaged body. Unfortunately, the sergeant seemed to be in a hurry.
Gritting her teeth against nausea and lethargy, she drove forward with her sword and pinned Mark to the wall.
Reiver Sergeant has damaged you for 50 HP!
HP: -46/70
Death is imminent!
Aghast, he looked down at the dark steel protruding from his chest, blood welling up in his throat. He gagged and coughed, spraying the sergeant with flecks of arterial red. She scowled in disgust and wrenched her sword out from between his ribs. The serrations came out, raggedly coated in one of Mark's lungs. At that point, the pain finally did hit him, and he would’ve died screaming had his throat not been swamped with his own blood. Instead, he gurgled as he slumped down onto the catwalk and wetly expired.
When he awoke, lying flat on a rug in Citadel's library, Mark found his throat now clear of blood, so he made the most of it.
“FUUUUUUCK!”
"Oh dear," offered Citadel. "Are all of your deaths going to sound like that? If so, we might need to shift your resurrection point into a chamber with thicker walls and a little bit of soundproofing. Perhaps the Torture Chamber."
Mark rolled onto his side and curled up into the fetal position. His mind was consumed by the agony of feeling his own lung pulled out through his ribs. He pressed his hands to his chest, trying to convince his twitching brain that the worst was over, that his lungs were where they should be. He lay there, simply breathing, until he felt brave enough to sit up.
"Would you like some more of that wine? I can send one of my cockroaches down into the cellar to fetch a bottle. Perhaps a glass or two might settle your nerves?"
Mark waved the suggestion away and leaned on a side table as he got unsteadily to his feet.
"Be careful, that table is very-"
The table gave way under Mark's weight with a resounding crack. Mark found himself back on the floor, this time draped over a pile of broken wood.
"-Old."
"God-fucking-dammit!" muttered Mark into the thick rug.
"If it's any consolation, you should perhaps check your notifications. I can feel them humming away in restrained excitement. I believe it might be good news?"
With a groan, Mark rolled off the pile of splinters, eyes adjusting to the new notifications hovering above him.
Part 2 of the "Welcome Home, Warlock" quest has been completed!
Your XP reward = 50 XP
Progress to Level 6 = 442/500
Your Avalar’s Leech spell has reached Tier 2.
Tier 2 casting cost = 14 HP
Tier 2: Has a range of up to 10 meters, and a leech rate of 3 HP per second for up to 10 seconds.
Mark waved the notifications away and struggled to his feet with much groaning and cracking of joints.
"Reckon I might take you up on the offer of that wine," he muttered as he slumped into the closest armchair.
"Excellent! I’ll have a bottle delivered soon. I also suspect that fleshy vessel of yours could do with some sustenance, so I’ll have the cockroaches rustle up a snack for you."
Never before had Mark heard the words "cockroach" and "snack" in a sentence, at least not one that was meant to convey anything vaguely promising.
Citadel must’ve sensed Mark's reluctance, for he hastened to add, "Contrary to common assumption, cockroaches can be extremely clean. I order mine to bathe almost every day. And their culinary talents are quite remarkable, all things considered."
"Considering that they are giant, carrion-eating bugs?"
"Exactly. In the meantime, you should probably splash some water on your face before you go and meet your visitors above."
Mark rubbed his eyes, trying to banish a fresh vision, one of his lung dangling from a serrated sword. "Visitors?"
"Yes. Two horses, each bearing a rider. The riders have just dismounted."
A door swung open in the library wall. "I've taken the liberty of
having my servants prepare the washroom for you."
"Meaning, it's just been cleaned by cockroaches?"
"Yes, and it is veritably sparkling."
"Wait." Mark stood and took a deep breath to still the anxiety that was now prickling up through his insides. "What happened to the woman who..." He trailed off, unable to bring himself to relive the experience.
"Who impaled you on her sword?"
Mark shuddered. "In your first life, Sid, did you ever come across the concept of sensitivity?"
"Yes, I'm familiar with the term, but the way I see it, you're likely to be doing quite a lot of dying in the near future, Mark. The warlock life is a treacherous one. You can either try to ignore that fact or embrace it. Up to you, although I know which coping strategy I would personally choose."
"Great. Thanks for the advice, Freud."
"Freud?"
“Nevermind. So, like I was asking, what happened to the woman?"
"She took one of the horses and left shortly after your demise."
"Well, here’s hoping I don't meet her again, not until I'm at least a few levels stronger and wiser."
"Sound thinking there, Mark. I'm sure this Freud fellow would commend you."
Yes, thought Mark, his real body was missing in action while his consciousness was wandering a digital dreamworld, turning people to stone and having his lungs pulled out by platinum-haired women. Freud would have had a great deal to say about all that.
16
As Mark entered the courtyard, he saw Vari staring at the statues. He stopped, halted by a spike of anxiety. What would Vari and Dayna think of what he’d done to these reivers? He’d done what he thought was necessary at the time, but there was a fine line between necessity and monstrosity.
