Octophobia
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Spire's Spite - Arc 4 - Chapter 29
🕑 Added 2026-01-11 11:00:01 +0000 UTCFritz suppressed his greed and his aches and pains for now. The gold called to him, especially the gleaming hearts of the beasts. Though there was time to see to that later. The same could not be said of his wounded crew. He centred himself on compassion and maintaining a facade of confidence, one that would lend him an air of both graciousness and righteousness.
He knelt by Trudge's side, peering darkly at the gaping hole in his chest. The spike he had been impaled with had burst, just as the others stuck in the stone had under the overwhelming resonance The Ring of Echolocation had produced. The glass spear had struck him below the heart, and had pierced a lung and perhaps other organs besides. It was a lucky wound, considering that only an inch or two higher, and it could have put a hole in his heart.
The sweating, wheezing man's gut rose and fell, swift and shallow. What Fritz had learned from his tutor and other teachers led him to believe that Trudge would have nine to twelve minutes at most to live. Truthfully, only his defensive Passive, whatever its effects, had let him survive this long. Those without such enhanced toughness would have had their insides shredded. As it was, it looked as though his durable flesh had reduced the spread of shards and then kept them firmly lodged in place.
"Reed, Toby, get him up," Fritz ordered, choosing the two most hale of the crew.
Reed's injuries were seemingly minor, which made good sense due to his Treasures and magics and the course of the battle. Toby's condition was more suspicious. Though he still bore many cuts on his arms and was covered, like they all were, in the glittering, jagged slivers of glass, he had none of the signs of great blood loss, nor any of the terrible shoulder wounds Fritz had watched him suffer.
The reason for his apparent good health was obvious; he had a healing potion secreted somewhere on his person and had drunk it.
"You want us to get Trudge to the Well?" Reed guessed, standing slowly, wobbling on unsteady feet and holding a hand to the lump forming on his brow. He took his hand away with a hiss. A thin red line bloomed on his palm, and he muttered darkly. Seemingly, there had been a small, but horribly sharp fragment of glass caught in his eyebrow.
"Correct," Fritz said. "He needs it at once. Otherwise, he'll die. The rest of us will stay and gather up all this gold."
"That's a lot to carry," Toby stated, his eyes lingering on a golden heart in the distance. "It might be too much weight for just the three of you."
"Mr Blades, be assured that we will do everything within our power to find every speck of gold and haul it up. Even if that means overburdening us to the point of collapse. You have my promise that not one nugget, sliver or vein will be left behind. And if that doesn't satisfy you, think of to whom you are speaking. Do you doubt my own avariciousness is any less than yours?"
Toby snorted, then smiled thinly. "Alright. Alright. We'll get Trudge to the Well. Where's the stairway?"
"At the back of the room, over there. See that hole?" Fritz said, pointing with a shaking arm that he soon steadied. The cave-like entrance wasn't far away, only twelve yards.
The two men quickly cleared a small area, then made a stretcher out of blankets and carefully, though not gently, rolled the large man onto it. With grunts and great heaving, they lifted him and left, glass crunching beneath their boots. It took less than three minutes, but Fritz spurred them with a warning.
"Hurry, you don't know how tall the stairs are," he said while standing and straightening his back.
They quickened their pace without a grumble; there was a man's life at stake after all. Once they were away, Fritz checked Mel and Clover.
The first thing he noticed was that they had been showered with far less of the glass detritus and sparkling dust. Clover had likely used her barrier rod to shield them. The powdery substance still lent them a green tint, like they were fairies of the spirited spring fields and forests, flourishing and frolicking. Though really, they were too painfully plain and dreadfully dour to be mistaken as such. Truly, they were nowhere near those vigorous, voluptuous beauties.
"Is everything alright, uhh… Captain?" Mel asked warily.
Fritz blinked; his mind had wandered, and to a place he'd never seen or heard of before, even in rumour. "I'm…well," he hedged, feeling as though his feet were floating and his whole body was light, yet still as heavy as lead.
"You're a bloody mess, Captain," Mel protested. "Just look at yourself. You might just have it worse than me. I only got this cut on the leg. It's deep, but it didn't hit anything vital." She nodded at the red, soaked cloth she was currently holding tightly to her thigh.
Fritz frowned, then looked at himself, cataloguing all the small hurts he was enduring silently. His hands and face stung with many hairline cuts, but that wasn't the worst of his injuries. To his muted horror, the leathers he'd been wearing had been torn, and his legs were a mess of shallow lacerations.
Not all the wounds he had felt through his Danger Sense had been merely prophetic; some were real as the blood still slowly trickling down his skin and onto the glass below.
His arms were likewise slashed all over, right through the rent sleeves of his sirensilk shirt. It was the damage to the fine fabric, rather than his body, that really upset him. He wasn't looking forward to enduring her displeasure or hearing her recriminations when he brought it to her for repair. That and it was one of his most prized possessions. It wasn't all too terrible, though, at least the Slim Pocket sewn into it was unharmed.
"My shirt," he said dully.
"You're covered in blood and cuts, and all you can complain about is your shirt?" Mel asked incredulously. "You really are a lord, aren't you?" She scoffed.
"A heroic prince," Clover added in a mutter. "Right. I was rescued by a prince. Just like the tales." There was no passion in those words, only resignation. It was as if she had awoken from some joyous dream, only to open her eyes to the wretched, hopeless world around her.
Fritz's head throbbed, and while he wanted to comfort the weary woman, he was distracted by his own poor condition and his fleeting bouts of fey confusion. He briefly considered quaffing the healing potion in his Slim Pocket. Though it was tempting, he held off, instead deciding to rely on the bandages, greases and tonics in his pack. He also handed out what he had to Mel and Clover, and after applying the soothing substance, then wrapping his arms and legs, aided them with their own bandages.
They didn't need much help, rather it was Fritz himself, whose wounds were cared for with his own stiff, shaking fingers that required attention and re-bandaging. The two women, with false calm and veiled exasperation, fixed his shoddy wrappings while he could only smile on gratefully.
He wondered where they had learned their healer's skills, and so asked them.
"Refuge," Clover said, with a small shrug. "Once I was mostly better from… before. I helped out the nurses who helped me. Seemed the right thing to do, and they need all the help they can get."
"What can I say? I've lived a rough life. I've patched up enough cuts to know my way around, needle, thread and bandages," Mel explained. "Woulda died without it."
Fritz nodded, and when they had finished tightening the now neat wrappings, he offered them pain tonics. They both refused.
"I need my head clear," Clover said.
"I can hold on for now. I don't want to rely on that stuff," Mel admitted.
Fritz, who was about to drink one himself, found their reasons compelling enough to abstain as well. In his current state, he could drift into another dream or song, which, while not disastrous, was not something he needed to risk. And besides, the pain in his head was receding slowly already. He guessed it would fade away in less than an hour.
"Well, take these at least," Fritz said, handing them small packets of powder.
"What's this?" Clover asked.
"Some kind of blood restorative," Fritz explained. "Not sure what it's called."
Mel opened the folded waxpaper and, recognising the substance, snorted. The other woman also knew of the powder, and they shared a condescending smile.
"I've been told it's good when you've been bleeding. Add it to water, preferably hot, but cool will be fine," he added, remembering Naomi's advice.
"I think we know how to prepare a monthly relief remedy," Mel stated with a smirk.
"Oh," Fritz said stoically. "Well, I was simply being thorough."
"And when it comes to remedies, you really are that. You're like a walking apothecary, or an over prepared midwife," Mel observed.
"I don't believe you can be be over prepared. You never know when even these tonics, pastes and powders will come in useful. So it's best to keep a large supply of them," Fritz claimed, ignoring the well meaning mockery. "Though, I won't lie, I am beginning to run out. Less than a third of what I brought is left."
"We'll make do," Mel said, then she sighed and poured the powder into her mouth. Grimacing, she chased it with a drink from her waterskin.
Clover did the same.
While it wasn't how he was told to imbibe the remedy, he wasn't about to gainsay to two women and would rather follow their more experienced example. Sometimes, Fritz reflected, he could be wise.
He reached for his own flask, only to find it missing from his belt and to be reminded that he had destroyed it. With an ingratiating smile, he borrowed Clovers readily offered waterskin and washed down the metallic tasting powder.
They rested for a few minutes. That break somehow stretched into an hour, one in which they barely spoke, instead preferring to keep to their own thoughts.
Fritz cleared a space to lie down and, while doing so, decided to drop into his Sanctum. The battle before and his dancing assault were still fresh in his mind, and he wondered what, if any, effect it had had on his Spire Sheet or Techniques.
The rain fell coldly upon him and his sapphire willow, the wind blew in churning currents. There was the quiet chiming of a song eerily echoing from the shaded, shadowy pavilion. Dark curtains rippled in windows of grey wood, and green-blue flame flickered from the doorway.
The music ceased, taken by the wind and drowned by the rain.
He wandered into the pavilion and sat on a stiff-backed bench in front of the moonsilver brazier, warming his hands in the weirding light of the Eldritch Flame. It twisted, attempting to bite him, but Fritz's skin simply tingled from the touch.
While inside the glyph-bound brazier, the fire was his. He smiled mockingly at it, and it retracted sulkily.
"Don't pout. I let you out once already, and you burned me terribly," Fritz chided. "You know, if you weren't so unruly, I'd let you out more often."
The flame roiled indignantly, clearly stating that to scorch, to strive, for blazing freedom was its nature, and it couldn't be blamed for being born as what it was. Might as well scold the seas and storms for being wet and wrathful.
Fritz shook his head; he was speaking to a thoughtless fire. Assigning it an intelligence it did not possess. All it did was burn and break and ruin.
Sometimes he felt as though he were a similar flame.
Again, Fritz shook his head; he didn't drop into his Sanctum to ruminate on his own nature. With a though he summoned his Spire Sheet, then let his eyes glide to the Technique Channels.
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Technique 3/3
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The Observations (Journeyman)
Whittle away, scatter survive, poor prevail, covertly thrive.
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Python's Fangs (Journeyman)
Twist and curl, cling and clasp. Bitten, bleeding, inside your grasp.
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The Inevitable Blade (Journeyman)
Fencing, caging, a razored gaol, the thrust most perfect, too sure to fail.
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At first, he saw nothing new in the silvery glyphs; then his tired mind returned to the second channel. Python's Fangs, which used to be at Novice mastery, had grown to Journeyman.
"Spire's Spite!" Fritz cursed.
He hadn't sensed the tremors in his Sanctum while focused on the sinuous music and the rhythmic beat of his battle-dance. It would have been a distraction he had discarded in those dire moments, and as such a warning he hadn't heard or heeded. And now a Technique he'd been intending to be rid of had been further ingrained.
He cursed again, flooded by irritation.
The Eldritch Flame flicker-frolicked with delight.
Fritz sneered at the idiot fire. "You're in this with me, you fool. Don't gloat."
It continued to burn smugly. He had the sudden desire to kick over the brazier, but his better judgement saved him, and he instead scoffed and glared at his Technique and the effects of its greater mastery.
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Python's Fangs (Journeyman)
Twist and curl, cling and clasp. Bitten, bleeding, inside your grasp.
Gives lesser benefits to the Strength, Agility and Grace of dodges, grapples and strikes with small blades, spikes and bludgeons.
Your grapples are more difficult to escape.
Abilities that restrain or exhaust your foes are more difficult to dispel.
These benefits increase when striking a restrained or hobbled foe.
Abilities gained and Evolved are more likely to be influenced with these effects.
---
You were inspired.
Aspect of the Eel aided your understanding and intuitions into the secrets of pythons.
You engaged in a battle of attrition with a foe of greater size and far greater strength and prevailed.
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Fritz scowled. He was 'inspired'? What nonsense was this? While the other two clauses were true, he highly doubted the sheet's claim; it was more likely he was being punished by the Spire. If it could infect people with the Spite, then why not influence their Techniques?
His eyes darted around suspiciously, searching himself and his Sanctum for any sign of the black taint. When none was apparent, he stood and strode out into the rain and glared fiercely at the ruined garden and swaying willow.
He pulsed his Awareness, his whole Sanctum shook and spun. The world roared, then went black.
He fell.
Fritz awoke moments later, lying in the mud. Seemingly, weaving a pattern and wielding it within one's own soul was a poor idea. Something that he probably should have expected, and also something his tutor should have warned him about. He only let himself grumble and grouse for a minute before resuming his search.
Despite his keen Senses, he could discover no dark strands or evil webs polluting him. After another muttered curse, he sighed. He came to the reluctant conclusion that he was being paranoid and that he had further mastered the Python's Fangs by sheer mistake.
That didn't douse his annoyance at all. How much effort would he have to put forth to uproot the Technique? And just how much pain would be involved?
Seething, he made his way back to the pavilion and sat heavily on the bench. After centring himself and attempting to rid himself of his frustration, he decided to look at the Technique again and weigh its benefits.
On his second read, he could more calmly assess Python's Fangs and wasn't too displeased. The advantages had both increased and now stretched over spikes and bludgeons as well as blades. There was also the fact that the benefits increased against hobbled foes in addition to restrained. The Technique's power and applicability had broadened substantially. That almost caused him to waver on his desire to remove it, but only almost.
As he stared sullenly at the glyph, he noticed something else. The slight chiming the silver emanated was resonating with other sections of his Spire Sheet. He scowled as he realised which glyphs were ringing with that same discordant tone. Awareness, Grace, Dusksong, Illusory Shadow, Gloom Strike, Cloak of Dusk and The Inevitable Blade all hummed together for a moment. Then the sound ceased.
Fritz felt it was an ill omen. Though it was more likely that those were simply the magic affecting the Technique, he was also worried by the connection to The Inevitable Blade. Would it likewise be corrupted by the foul form of fighting he'd only adopted to survive the Spires and the streets?
To have his father's style be stained so would be more than he could bear.
If he wanted to avoid that fate, he'd have to seek out his tutor and have some questions answered. And that would mean that he had to finish this Climb quick as may be.
Wasting no further time, Fritz left his Sanctum, returning to a body full of aches, but with his mind and purpose surprisingly clear.
He stood swiftly, and wrapping his legs in some spare cloth, began to wade through the glass debris.
"What are you doing?" Mel asked.
"There's gold all around us. I intend to gather it," Fritz stated. "When you're both feeling well enough, join me."
Clover got up at once, and Mel stood after a few more minutes, and together they sifted through the glass.
Truth be told, they found quite a bit of gold, armfuls of the lustrous metal. Some of it was still stuck in or onto glass chunks, but the majority was simply lying around waiting to be plundered.
It was triply so for the three golden hearts in the ruined bodies of the beast sculptures. Each was of a different proportion; the egg-shaped sphere from the bird spanned one's entire palm, the tiger's mighty heart was the size of two fists, while the bull's was easily as large as Fritz's head.
They were stuffed hastily in packs, safe and secure, then they went about picking up the small nuggets and thin slivers of gold scattered all around.
They took about thirty minutes to collect the largest bits, then they took another two to scour the floor for anything they missed. When only minute specks of gold dust remained, they ceased.
Sweating and sore, weary and waning, they stood over the two lumpy sacks of gold with proud smiles on their faces.
"Gotta be at least three hundred gold triads, all told," Mel said, then whistled appreciatively.
"More than that," Fritz corrected. "Around five hundred if I'm not mistaken."
"So much," Clover muttered, stupefied.
"And that's not all," Fritz said, smirking only slightly.
"It's not?" she asked, looking at him doubtfully.
"Oh, no. Definitely not," Fritz said, shaking his head. "There's a little more. Just over here."
He strode away, right to a section of crack-marbled wall. "Clover, do you have another bolt in you?"
"I do," she said, following in his wake.
"Loose it. Aim right here, if you would," Fritz suggested with an extravagant gesture at the cloudy glass.
She did, and a portion of the wall shattered and fell apart, revealing a small cave. And there, in the dark beyond the glass, was a chest banded with silver.
Fritz retrieved it, handily carrying it back to their packs and sacks and setting it with the rest of their fortune.
He smiled wide, presiding over the chest and gold like a lord surveying his lands. The two women joined him, basking in the wealth with brilliant smiles of their own. In that moment they looked rather pretty, and wholly unburdened by the suffering they endured.
Then Fritz sighed, both content and nearly spent. "And now comes the hard part. Getting this to the Well room."
All three looked at the stairway with weary resignation.
"Let's take a rest first," Fritz suggested.
Clover and Mel readily agreed and they sat, drank some water and ate a little.
The others could wait for now, and the stairs ahead would be arduous and long.
Comments
Øyvin Reinvik Johannessen
Thank you for the chapter!
Jordan
From what we saw of the abilities and techniques resonating with Dusksong in his sanctum, my guess is he was on the edge of getting some sort of combined Fae technique from using them simultaneously. Waltz of the Dusk Court or something. Fighting the bull construct probably didn’t meet the requirements because it lacks the mental capacity to feel fear or recognize Fritz’s superiority.
Isaiah Weaver
I’m wondering if the python fang technique is meant to combine with something else or would’ve changed. During the fight it seems there was something missing because it wasn’t the right type of opponent. Also I’m very curious if he will leave the kingdom to climb other towers for power. Climbing all the towers in this kingdom won’t put him on equal footing as his oppressor.
