Octophobia
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Spire's Spite - Arc 3 - Chapter 52
🕑 Added 2025-07-06 03:00:03 +0000 UTCThe Browncoats looked on furiously as their boss coughed a mouthful of blood. Todd himself was beside himself with rage as he choked. The veins on his bald head bulged brilliantly. Apparently, they hadn't considered that the Scarlet Shade would bring a crossbow to a knife fight.
More fool them.
Click-click-clack and place the bolt, Fritz almost hummed as he smoothly reloaded the crossbow and took aim again.
He was somewhat surprised that Todd stood there stupidly, he was more surprised that his men hadn't jumped in on the 'duel' yet. Still, he wasn't one to freeze when the unexpected inevitably occurred.
Thonk. The crossbow spat.
This time, the bolt caught Todd just above the hip, he yelped and toppled. As he fell, the glint of chainmail peeked out from the folds of his clothes and was plain for all to see. The sneaky bastard had come prepared for daggers and swords, it was too bad then that such armours did little to protect one from a crossbow loosed from only yards away.
This second bolt finally spurred the Browncoats into action, one hauled his boss to his feet and fled with him leaning heavily on one shoulder. The others quickly closed in on Fritz, attempting to encircle him as they each drew blades and bludgeons.
He wasn't about to let them surround him. He leapt back, dropping the crossbow and letting it hang by the leather strap that was slung over his shoulder. As he did, he also unclasped his long cloak and threw it at the face of a Browncoat approaching from the right and brandishing a stiletto. Soggy as the fabric was, it wrapped around the man's upraised arm, tangling him for a moment. A moment Fritz used to slip by while drawing and slashing Mortal Edge.
The blade was thwarted by more chainmail hidden under a bulky coat and rough shirt. Fritz was annoyed that he hadn't heard the clatter and clinking that the armour was sure to produce. Though as he observed further an acrid scent assaulted his nose. Some kind of oil coated the metal rings, one that was pungent and quieted the rings of steel.
As Fritz retreated further, sprinting away from the oncoming press of thugs. As he fled, Todd reached for a pouch on his belt and retrieved a vial containing red liquid. It could only be a healing potion.
Though Fritz wanted to stop the boss from recovering, he was being followed closely. The Browncoats were on his heels and some of them had Speed or other advantages they could use to catch up. He used a Lethargy on one such thug who blurred towards him.
Todd ripped the bolts from his body before drinking down the potion. Fritz ignored this, focusing instead on his closest opponents. He drew Quicksilver in a rising black arc, forcing the first man to reach him to step back, clutching at the new cut over his eye.
Another thug slipped past the long blade as Fritz deftly parried a strike from a third browncoat's hammer. He tried to stab Fritz with a single-edged shortsword. It would have found its mark if he hadn't already felt the blade enter under his ribs a moment before. Mortal Edge met the shortsword, deflecting it, then, with a vicious twist, Fritz slid the dagger down the inside of his foe's exposed wrist and arm.
There was no chain here to protect the thug's flesh. Blood poured from the wound and the blade fell with a clatter. A bludgeon made of granite swept over Fritz's ducking head, then that attack was met with a retributive thrust from Quicksilver, piecing a thigh and causing the man to yell and tumble.
More men joined and filled in the gaps. Fritz parried, dodged and slipped away, only to be encircled again, and again.
As he fought, embracing his Awareness and Grace, he dealt out small, but deliberately debilitating injuries to his foes. He would heed the Nightshark's warning, no deaths, save Todd Sleeper, if he could help it.
With both blades drawn and dancing, Fritz felt discomfort. His two Techniques were at odds, each leading him down distinctly diverging roads. Discordant and discrete. A disconcerting desire to do as both directed distracted him from the fight at hand and jarred him from the flowing trance that he had slid into.
And with that nudge, he noticed something worrying. The thugs, even though by his count he had wounded many of them, had recovered from any stabs or cuts he had delivered.
After a narrow riposte, scoring and likely scarring one of his foes, he saw why. The woman whose shoulder he split open staggered back and stepped away. Right into the reach of one of the other Browncoats. The pudgy man touched her torn flesh and pale green threads sewed and sealed the wound swiftly.
A healer. They had brought a bloody healer to a territory dispute. Knowing how much the Nightshark valued people with such powers, Fritz suspected that if that man was harmed, then there would be a terrible price to pay. For everyone.
While the Ability he used didn't heal completely, it allowed the Browncoats to get straight back into battle, albeit more stiffly and definitely more sore.
Now, more than ever, it was a war of attrition, and he was one man against many. His only hope was to change tactics. It wasn't merely enough to cut tendons and flense flesh. Nor was it enough to keep fighting as he was; the dance of dagger and sword, though exhilarating and evasive, was inefficient and exhausting. Although his conditioning was the best it had ever been, a battle on all sides, where he couldn't lose focus for even a moment, was a serious drain on his Stamina.
Inwardly seething, he cast a Lethargy over the Healer with a glance, leaving him with only enough of Dusksong's mana left for his Umbral Phase. His other uses of his curse and Gloom Strike had already cost him dearly on that front, and he didn't dare engage so many opponents without that last line of defence.
He continued battling as he had been for another minute, activating his barrier ring when needed and letting Mortal Edge's imbuement catch one of the more deadly of the combatants. That blade's curse was deadly, but he could hardly blamed for a death in such chaotic conditions and he needed to thin their numbers somehow.
When he was panting heavily and strikes were coming from what felt like all directions, he used his sea mist beads and broke away through the surrounding men under its cool, cloudy cover.
The reprieve the fog brought was blown away by a sudden gust of wind that cleared the square in moments. Fritz nearly yelled, they had come prepared for his tricks.
Although they couldn't prepare for all on them.
It was then that he began to make true use of what 'The Observations' had drilled into him. He darted away, ducking into a tenement's open door, stepping carefully over a twine tripwire. It was connected to a simple trap, one of many rigged within this particular building.
When he was followed, as Fritz had hoped he would be, his assailant's booted foot pulled the twine, and with a snap, a spike attached to a length of wood speared him deep in the gut. It almost went the whole way through the cut-throat and they staggered to a swift stop. He grunted, groaned and backed away, prying himself from the wooden shaft.
Those who were right behind him in the pursuit looked less willing to continue the chase and stopped a moment to confer.
"Trapped," one muttered darkly. "Think there's more?"
"Of course, there is," one grumbled.
"Do we go in?"
"We should just burn it down instead of walkin' into all those traps."
"Can't, 'they' would have our hides. No burnin'."
Fritz began cranking his crossbow again, the clack of the mechanism alarming those standing around the open door. They stared up at where he stood halfway up a set of stairs, still plainly in view.
"Oh, don't mind me, good sirs," Fritz said in his most aggravatingly arrogant manner. "By all means, keep conversing. This thing takes an age to load. While you're there, could you also do me the considerable favour of continuing to stand around like idiots? It would help with my aim. I haven't much in the way of practice with this quite yet. Though I have observed that I've been improving."
His words were met with fury, one thug dragged their spiked ally out of the way and another charged into the building. Fritz leapt up the stairs just as the oncoming foe's foot found a second trap, this one a loose step that fell away, revealing a number of wooden stakes below. The man's leg sank, and he tripped, but his body was surprisingly sturdy and the sharp points broke under his stomping boots.
Fritz loosed on him all the same, accidentally striking him in the throat. The bolt shattered on impact, leaving a scratch rather than sinking into flesh.
Fritz fled.
From there, it was a game of cat and mouse. He led the thugs through trap after trap. Pitfalls, springing spears and swinging stones most among them. Not all these prepared hazards were effective, but when they were, they repelled or injured his pursuers.
He caught one with a trapdoor that, when it gave way, caused a woman to plummet three stories. Breaking her legs, if the horrible sound of snapping bones was anything to go by. Another was stunned by a bucket of stone bricks that tipped and fell on his head, letting Fritz stab him in the arm. It wasn't quite enough to force the man to flee from the building, but another cut, right across the face, had him staggering away, slipping and tumbling down the stairs and into his allies.
Unfortunately, many of the thugs were tough as stone, and some were as slippery as eels. The traps only caused them to hesitate for moments as they endured or simply avoided them. Still, he wasn't trying to kill them, no, he was merely stalling until help arrived.
Fritz found a shadow to hide in for some minutes while the villains searched for him warily and wrathfully. He heard them stomping and shouting, their taunts echoed through creaking halls, met with no reply save the snap of a tripwire, or the thunk of a pitfall or dropped rock.
While he regained his breath, Fritz heard the sounds of a scuffle outside. Yells suffused with affront and a great clattering filled the square below.
Peeking through the slats of a window, he scanned for what was causing the commotion.
It was the Refuge. Harry and the militia had assembled, and they were joined by the hardiest and bravest of the residents, arming themselves with all sorts of blades and bludgeons. Some were of a domestic nature, pans, knives and mops, more were simply taken from the Refuge's small armoury, all sorts of arms scavenged from the gangs. The mob grew by the minute, forming a wall that faced off against the thugs.
Todd Sleeper stood at the head of his gang, derision clear on his brutish features. He looked ready to slaughter them all, but in truth, Fritz could see some fear mingling with the restrained fury radiating from him.
While he watched both sides, worry tied a knot in his gut, while pride brought a savage's smile to his face. For all he'd done, all those lonely nights and solitary patrols protecting the territory, the Refuge was finally ready to come to fight for itself.
Although it was obvious that the people were outleveled and under-equipped, the fact that they were prepared to bravely do battle meant all the more for it.
"Clear out!" Todd bellowed.
"You clear out!" Harry replied in kind, brandishing a borrowed sword from the front of the mob. "We're good, hardworkin' folk and we don't hold with you lot terrorising us day and night. We're sick of it! So clear off!"
Todd glared and strode right up to the man, attempting to hide a limp while he did so. "What did you just say to me!?"
Harry barely flinched. "You heard me. Get out of here."
"Just who do you think you're talkin' to?" Todd growled. "We're all Pather's and you're a bunch of leveless scum. We'll bloody kill you all without breakin' a sweat or bleedin' a drop of our own blood."
Just as he finished his threat, a man staggered out from the building where Fritz was still hiding. He clutched at a speared leg and winced as he made his way over to the much-wearied healer, who nearly groaned with exhaustion.
"Not a drop?" Harry asked with a grin that couldn't quite hide his fear.
Todd was furious, his face as red as a boiled lobster. Still, he was hesitant, he swayed slightly on his feet and touched the wound on his chest. Sweat beaded on his bald head and he wiped it away. The poison from the first crossbow bolt was taking its toll.
"You want to fight. I'll give you a fight," he ground out. It was meant to appear tough, but his voice croaked like a sick frog.
Harry's nerves got the better of him and struck out with the sword; his inexperience showed as Todd dodged the blade with ease and, with a crunch, knocked the barrel-chested man out with a jaw-breaking punch. As Harry fell, chaos ensued. The mob surged and the thugs met them. The melee that followed was not one that favoured the Refuge. Not at first.
The Browncoats had no trouble brutalising the first few that came into their reach, however, it wasn't easy to resist the tide of bodies. And while their Attributes and Abilities overpowered the levelless, they still suffered from repeated blows from sturdy labouring folk. They fought and were driven back by the sheer weight of the wave of men and women. One Browncoat and two of his leveler lackeys were dragged down and beaten viciously.
Seeing that the people of the Refuge didn't break immediately as the gang had expected, and finding that they were nearly surrounded and totally outnumbered, the cruel cutthroats fought harder. Whether it was out of fear for their lives or for a chance to fully let loose their violent vices, they forgot the Nightshark's rules or simply stopped caring that their strikes could kill. Blades flashed bloodily and bludgeons bashed brutally. Red joined the rain, coating the square as both sides screamed.
Fritz spat out a curse. Another bloodbath. One he had to stop.
He rushed from where he hid, stepping on a trapdoor and letting himself fall two floors, where he landed with a thud and a grunt. Pain leapt up his legs, and not for the first time he thanked the moonsilver laced within his bones. Without it, he may have broken something. Straightening, Fritz sprinted on trembling limbs, he made his way out of the doorway and into the square.
The Refuge's militia and residents still clashed with the thugs, but were now losing the battle badly. Though they were hardy folk, they just weren't used to the terror of fighting for one's life. Something Climbers had, mostly, inured themselves to through repeated horror. Yet, in defence of their home and their neighbours, they didn't flee, even in the face of overwhelming power.
And that would kill them all, if he didn't act.
Embracing what was left of his Dusksong, Fritz let loose a high, piercing whistle, it shrieked high above the din, wailing like a mournful ghost. It caught the attention of most within the square, and with their eyes upon him, Fritz yelled an echoing command.
"Refuge, retreat!"
As the order came to them clear and cold. They obeyed, breaking away and fleeing into their homes. The Browncoats, still frenzied from the fight, saw the retreat and pursued, seeking vengeance for any hurts they or their friends had taken. They struck down men as they ran and pulled the women from their feet. It was a barbaric sight, one that burned Fritz as he watched.
Throwing caution to the wind, Fritz joined the fray, attempting to limit the harm done to the refuge's people as they escaped into the nearby buildings.
Todd headed him off, aided by some of his men. Mist burst from the beads around Fritz's neck again, covering the square. He hoped the obscurement would hinder the thugs while they chased and allow his own allies to avoid any further assaults.
The wind blew harshly, whipped around by some Ability and dispersing most of the sudden fog, though not all of it, as it had done earlier.
Though it had bought the Refuge some seconds, and most had found their way inside their homes, the mist hadn't deterred the thugs.
A trio rushed to a doorway, intent on hurting those within. The door slammed swiftly in their faces, and one beat on the thick wood with fists of stone. In a window above, two women carried a heavy, steaming pot and poured its boiling contents on the men below. Searing pitch splashed down their brown coats, staining them black. Agonised screams rang out as they leapt away and tried to rip their clothes and the sticky, scalding ooze away.
Similar sights and sounds abounded all around Fritz as he defended himself from Todd's charge, nimbly dodging a thrown axe as he backed away gracefully.
It became clear as he watched the defence of the tenements that he wasn't the only one who had taken 'The Observations' lessons to heart. It wasn't only the hot pitch that repelled the invading gang, but heavy bricks thrown from high windows and hallway floors covered in crude caltrops or broken glass.
These mundane means of attack were not completely effective, though they did slow and infuriate those who trespassed, giving Fritz and the militia more time to mount a dedicated defence.
And time was what they needed. Every delay would drain their enemies, and every wound, no matter how minor, would make a difference. A small difference, but one that Fritz knew, from his experience with the raider, would add up and could mean victory in the end.
Every step had a price. Fritz would have them pay in blood.
A ripple rolled over his Sanctum, and through the chaos of the rout and subsequent pursuit, he could see the faults in his foe's lines. If they could be called that. They weren't a disciplined force, so there were many holes to take advantage of, or rather, he could if he had a trained squad to follow his orders.
As it was, he would have to strike himself.
The only question in his mind was where?
There was the obvious target of the healer, though he seemed to be on his last legs, there was also their boss. If both could be removed, then the rest would break.
His thoughts were interrupted when Todd closed in. The two men with him quickly flanked, cutting off an escape. One swung a curved sword at Fritz's back, while the other rained down a hammer blow. Each weapon glowed with the light of magic, the blade gleamed blood red, and the mallet shone with a dull, mind-aching grey.
Todd himself reached out with one hand, trying to touch Fritz on his chest. If the man was any faster, he might have succeeded, but as he was, with his sluggish movements and the hitch in his gait due to a lingering hip injury, there was no way he could catch the Scarlet Shade. Especially since Fritz activated both his Eelkin belt and his barrier ring.
As the world slowed, Todd's hand slid right over the invisible skin, finding no purchase. In the same moment, Fritz parried the swordsman and sidestepped the mallet.
Stabbing Mortal Edge behind him, Fritz cut a bloody gash in the thigh of the hammerman and with a twisting riposte, guided by a distant music, he sliced a deep cut across the other's wrist.
The strange sword clattered to the stone and Todd thrust forward with a punching dagger. It was deflected by Fritz's barrier. He reactivated the ring in less than a heartbeat, though not before delivering a devastating kick between the gang boss's open legs.
Todd went to his knees, eyes watering. Then he let loose the contents of his stomach. Before Fritz could finish the man with a thrust from Quicksilver, the hammer came for him again, right for the knee where it would have shattered any bone it struck. While his shield may have protected him, he couldn't risk getting struck, not with the grey glow that wobbled around the head of the hammer.
Fritz leapt to the side and prepared to lunge forward, until Danger Sense warned him of further perils. The others of the gang had closed in all around him, having given up assaulting the rest of the Refuge. They swiftly protected their boss and surrounded Fritz for the second time that day.
Again, he fell into a dance of black and bone, striking where he could and slowly, circuitously, cutting a path towards the Healer in the hope of stopping the man from lending any more aid. It was not to be. Though the gangs' numbers had been thinned, at least half of them taken with an injury too severe to mend, there were still too many for Fritz to face alone.
His barrier was broken with that despair inducing hum of dissipation and he activated his ring's last cast as soon as it had faded. Mist burst forth only to be blown away. Fritz cursed under his breath. He sweat and panted and promised that if he ever found the person responsible for that air magic, he'd make them regret their part in this battle. If he survived.
Fritz's arms began to shake from all the parries, blocks and thrusts. His legs began to lag, unable to keep up with his Dancer's Grace. His chest heaved as he sucked in the too-hot air within the press of men.
Umbral Phase activated, draining the very last of his Dusksong mana. In that bleak realm, he tried to break free of the surrounding gang, but a light flashed bright. His whole shadowy body burned and he tumbled to the ground instead of floating through the ring of thugs as he had planned. Obviously, they had come prepared for this trick too, and he suffered for it.
Fritz rolled away from a stomping boot aimed at his head and swiftly leapt to his feet. His flesh felt raw and his skin steamed. He coughed, but managed to dodge a blade heading for his back. He forgot about his dance, he forgot about trying to get to the healer, he even forgot about Todd and the Refuge. He focused his all on surviving. From one moment to the next. He just had to hold on, just a little longer, and it would soon be over.
He ducked and weaved, slashed and snarled. The clangs of blades rang dully in his ears, the screams he heard far more keenly. Some fell to his blade, which made them wary, but most kept on the pressure, sure he would fall at any moment and wanting to be the one to end the Scarlet Shade. Treasures were emptied, Abilities exhausted. Both the gang and Fritz held on with only the strength that filled their limbs and the skill drilled into their sinew.
It was here that Adam's training truly showed its merit. Even outnumbered and surrounded, wounded and drained, his body still moved. And that was all he needed.
With bleary vision, he stared at the shoddy stances and ill-held weapons all around. He heard himself laugh at their inadequacy. His chuckle echoed strangely and was full of scorn. It soon turned into a mad roar of mirth that was all too loud for one man to make.
The thugs flinched from the sound and stared around as if there were another joining in the laughter.
To their horror, there was.
A golden-haired man in a white vest and blue pants, he was well-muscled and light on his feet, moonsilver bracers adorned his forearms. The man strode in the centre of the square and bellowed his own laugh, just as mad as Fritz's, which was to be expected.
"Bloody Bert is here!"
Comments
Pierre-jean Samaran
They are so dead ^^'
Malcolm Haynes
Amazing chapter! Excellent work!
