The Old City

0.64: Licking Wounds

The street was nauseating, filthy with the stench of rotten bodies. It was almost too much for Mordat, but he'd earned a hard stomach working as a medic. Nothing in Soran would compare to the pustules and the steaming limbs and the fermenting excrement in the war.

Still, this battle had been hard fought and harder won. The Black Phoenix was crippled, yes, but victorious. After a few weeks, the gains would be obvious: expanded territory over the Silver Bear, a firmer revenue stream from the gambling houses, new recruits. That would make this all worthwhile.

Then he looked at the grin on Lucien's face and realized he was wrong.

It would have been worthwhile regardless.

Battle itself was their prize.

The Treehouse, the next night.

I'm no leader.

Marcus sat on the rooftop's edge, a few yards from the Treehouse. Unable to face Seneca, he'd brooded all day, but he continued to hover just out of sight in case anything happened. He couldn't eat knowing how close they'd come to death.

The people below seemed so peaceful. He yearned for that kind of calm. Perhaps it would have been better to fade into the background when he'd returned. He could have nudged Seneca out of his depression slowly, instead of dragging him into this mess. Then his friend wouldn't be unconscious on the couch.

One horrible thought echoed in his mind, pushing away everything else: I'm not strong enough.

And he didn't know what to do about that.

Marcus's formal education had been brief. Like all children, he'd been tested for magic at a young age. Showing a little promise, he enrolled in a school that taught him how to control his abilities. But the Pennygrave School was a sham. Its teachers, if they could be called teachers, were second-rate, and its students were the dregs of the First Ring. One or two remarkable students might matriculate out, earning a spot at one of the proper state-run academies, but everybody else was merely there to stop them from causing trouble.

He wished he'd paid more attention.

The military's training had been necessarily brief. When the war began and the draft was on, Soran needed bodies and hadn't the time to train unskilled mages. They taught basic combat magics and medicine but had always emphasized that if he came across a proper mage, he should run. Only after several battles' experience did Marcus begin to feel his powers grow stronger. He kept surviving, and in surviving, became one of the proper mages.

But he had a limit. He was no genius. He couldn't split the ocean or contort lightning, as his peers had. His shields would splinter against the riotous spells Magnar's top spellcasters threw at them.

If he'd been stronger, he never would have been captured. He never would have found Schnitter.

The halberd lay across his lap, its heavy steel cold to the touch. This position seemed most natural for some reason. It was relaxed. Calm. Whenever he held it, Marcus felt energy ripple through his body, calling him to fight. That wasn't what he needed now. But he'd needed it then.

Why wouldn't you Ignite?

There was no answer. Of course there wasn't. Schnitter was a very old, very powerful weapon, but it was not alive. Those who claimed Ancient Weapons could speak were sentimental fools who romanticized warfare because they hadn't experienced such Hell themselves.

The damn thing had given him a sliver of hope, though. Hope that he could become stronger, that he could accomplish his dream of unifying the Rings. But that wouldn't matter if he wasn't strong enough to seize the dream himself.