The Old City

0.43: Marcus vs Marek Part 4

Marcus spooned his stew into his mouth, glazed eyes unfocused. The tavern remained still. The patrons dared not move. He was no longer dripping; the blood had dried and was now caked over all his skin. His enormous halberd laid against the bar just a foot away. It too was drenched.

Nobody asked his name. Nobody asked from where he'd come. Nobody asked whose blood he wore.

He sat at the counter for an hour and ate three bowls of soup, only raising his gaze to indicate he wanted another serving. When he finished, Marcus sat, alone at last with his thoughts. After several more minutes, he called the barkeep. 

"I need a room. And your bathhouse."

Inside the storeroom.

Marcus bent over, panting. He'd grown lightheaded and tore off apiece of his shirt and pulled it tight with his teeth to stem the blood that spewed from his arm. The Black Phoenix grunts he'd put down were slowly coming back to their feet, but shied away as he approached Marek.

"Find me a doctor," he croaked. "I'll pay whatever you want, whatever it takes. Find me a doctor."

Marcus knelt, the fatigue of his fight like an anchor on his shoulders. "Tell me why you breached the Grand Bazaar. Then I'll get you a doctor."

"Doctor. First."

Marcus looked him up and down and knew he could do nothing. His strike had cut clean through three ribs. Marek was dying and the finest physicians in the Fourth Ring could not have saved him. He snapped his fingers t o one of the men who'd survived to bring him over. Alight sweat broke out upon the man's face and his aura spiked with fear.

"Run off now like you're fetchin' a doctor," Marcus whispered. "Move fast, don't talk to any of your mates, and you can keep your life."

The foot soldier moved with surprising speed. He was used t o obeying shocking orders in high pressure moments, though he didn't know Marcus was bluffing.

"I've sent that man to fetch a doctor. He'll be here soon. Now you must tell me: Why did you attack the Grand Bazaar today? What was so urgent about gettin' these crystals?"

Marek coughed blood, which splattered against Marcus's shirt. The strength was fading in his hand, but Marcus still held tight, praying for afew moments of clarity.

"Three weeks," Marek croaked. "Attacks!"

"Who will attack? What is the target? Don't die on me! I need you to keep your eyes open. Focus on my voice, damn it!"

But Marek could focus no more. He let out a soft breath and his eyes closed for the final time. For the first time in his life, Marek seemed calm. His fight was done.

***

Outside the Storeroom.

This is why I chose desert combat. Even with so much water around, I didn't expect him to find my weakness so fast.

The blood now dissipated, Mordat released his water armor. It splashed across the cavern and slowly settled into a pool around him. He then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a knife with which h e sliced his own arm, just deep enough t o draw blood. He placed his palm on the cut then drew a Rune on the water's surface.

"I can fight with nightmarish creatures too."

The Rune glowed with the purple intensity of Mordat's aura. Steam rose off the puddle and clouded Seneca's vision, but he sensed the shift immediately. Mordat himself had lost a significant amount of his aura, but another entity had arrived boasting even more power. The steam condensed into a heavy fog and he started when a black, spindly leg reached out and crashed onto the ground

He summoned a damn rylachnid!

The head of the fifteen-foot spider barely peaked out from above the fog, and a few more of its legs appeared as though in a veil. Many of its hateful red eyes bore down on Seneca, but others were focused into the darkness. Horrible mandibles reached down from its head and nearly brushed the floor. Those razors could sever a man's head from his body without effort.

"Let us see how the facsimile compares to the original!" 

Listen you old bastard!

The voice was like jumping into the bay at winter. Banjo, is that you?

Praise the gods, you can finally bear me. I've been shoutin' for the last ten minutes but you weren't answerin'.

I'm tryin' not to get eaten. What do you want? Seneca jumped as Mordat's monstrous spider jumped out of the fog. Seneca waved his hand and his bloodform rylachnid moved to meet it. 

We took care of everyone else. Let us help with the lieutenant.

That's not something Mika's rod can deal with, Seneca thought while dodging a blast of venom shot by Mordat's creature. Try to find Mordat in that fog and drag him somewhere I can see him. Once you do, I'll deal with them both.

Seneca ran through his tactics. He was a processor, evaluating a dozen options before choosing the best one. No element can beat that creature. Its skin is harder than the stone these walls were carved from and the species is heat tolerant. I could blind it. Those eyes are one of its only weak spots. I could crush it, collapse part of the cavern on top of it, but that risks more structural damage and who knows who'd survive that...Oh, that could work.

He reached for his belt, summoning a bow and nocking an arrow. He drew the bowstring and imbued the arrowhead with a small amount of aura before launching a barrage of projectiles into the ground, creating a myriad of divots in the cavern floor. When the rylachnid stepped into one, its balance was thrown and its leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Seneca seized the opportunity to shimmer and jump into the air and release several arrows into the creature's eyes, causing it to roar in agony. 

Seneca released his bow and drew a new blade from his belt. He was about to launch into another assault when Marcus stepped out of the opening to the storeroom. His arm was covered in blood, his sleeve in tatters, and he walked with a heavy limp.

"What the Hell did you do up here?" he asked.

Seneca stared at his friend in shock. The bloody figure looked nothing like the man who'd dived through the entrance just minutes ago. This man was driven, yes, but Seneca wondered if it was to the edge of sanity.

"How the Hell did you get out?" Mordat demanded, stepping out of the fog.

"He's dead," Seneca realized, landing deftly. "You killed Marek."

"Where are my men?" Mordat yelled as the truth dawned on him as well.

Marcus shrugged. "Some are dead, but Ididn't kill the ones who gave up."

"Gave up? Black Phoenix does not give up. You should have killed them. I shall not grant them a quick death."

The threat hung in the air like a challenge. Marcus turned Schnitter's blade toward the lieutenant. "If you attack the unarmed down there, even thugs from your own gang, I will kill you too. This is your last chance to keep your life."

Mordat's eyes flared at his assertion that he could not inflict his will upon his own subordinates, but logic won out. He took a final look at Marcus as though evaluating him for the first time. And perhaps it was - Marcus had attacked so quickly that he could not have made much of an impression. But now he had and frustration bubbled to his face as he realized he'd misjudged his opponents. He released his summoning, disappearing his rylachnid. The fog began to dissipate as well.

"Who the Hell are you?"

Marcus stepped forward and wiped blood from his jaw. His eyes still burned with righteous fury.

"I am Marcus, son of Soran. I am the bringer of peace."