Joseph stepped out into the gallery to see Phineas lying on the ground, the crusader standing over him. The man was gasping, red dripping from his mouth, a wild expression on his face. His chainsword dripped inky black blood, was caked in it.
Phineas was wheezing on the floor, his voice hoarse from screaming. His arm was laying on the ground a few feet away from him, black blood squirting from the stump. He was curled in a fetal position, his eyes shut tight, his entire body shaking.
Joseph took a step forward.
“Get away from him.”
The crusader looked up at him, his nostrils flaring, sniffed the air. For a moment, something within the crusader wavered, before he redoubled himself. The chainsword started up, all sound and fury, the whirring of the beast in his hand making Joseph's heart pound. But he was ready for this. He had resolved himself to save his guildmate. To do what had to be done.
Joseph shot out a fist, and like a javelin the lightning bolt sailed from his hand. The crusader brought his blade out in front of him, the whirring edge of the chainsword catching the plasma, preventing it from spearing him through. It was enough to push him back, however, the sheer force of Joseph's power making his boots slide against the ground, still slick with Phineas's blood.
The metahuman rushed forward, his soul blaring fully to life as it let out a swing, claws raking at the crusader, whose sword flashed out. Talon clashed with blade, sparks flying out as the eagle's nails were torn away by the chainsword’s teeth.
Joseph wound back an electric fist, firing it off. It smashed the crusader dead in the chest, sending him careening back to the next gallery. He crashed against an ancient statue of a multi-headed Dragon, the entire stonework cracking and bowling over, shattering to pieces. The crusader picked himself up from the Dragon's remains, let out a dull groan.
He looked up, grimacing as the soul bore down on him, the eagle extended out like the snap of a whip from Joseph's outstretched hand. The crusader's chainsword was a blur as he cut at the soul, Joseph wincing as the feedback ice rushed through his hands, up his spine, into his brain.
And the chainsword twisted 'round the soul's guard, burying itself deep into its chest. Joseph let out a wail of agony.
But he was a counterpuncher. He had dealt with pain before. The soul delivered a couple of quick shots to the crusader's head, and the two broke apart. The soul receded back into Joseph's body, and with it came agony. The crusader was stumbling back, a hand reaching out to support himself against the wall, the chainsword grinding down into silence.
They both breathed heavily for a moment, glaring down at the other.
Then, the crusader started to laugh. It was hoarse at first. Exhausted. The man was riddled with wounds, and it looked there was more blood outside his body than in. A welt was forming on his head. His metal armor was becoming rust-red.
Yet he laughed. It became more maniacal, more joyful.
For faith alone was the reason why Sir Ahklahan still drew breath.
Everything that he despised, all that he considered unholy, stood in front of him. A metahuman. A Mutt. A pagan devil, in the trappings of light. A demon in blue.
His chainsword started up. Joseph's heart skipped a beat as the Pantheon charged, far faster than he was anticipating. He could only bring up his soul's arm to deflect the blow, weaving out of the way as the blade cut deep. Joseph stumbled away from the man, who continued swinging his sword, twisting around to launch another bolt.
This one hit the crusader in the chest, flinging him back. The man was on his feet almost as soon as he hit the ground, pursuing Joseph as the metahuman fled through the galleries.
Joseph needed time. That was it. His soul was racing through him, trying its damned hardest to circuit into something able to match the crusader's zeal. He passed by the insect, who let out a scoff at him.
“You awakened the beast, you daft fool!” the insect called out, “Ahklahan will kill you! Run, lad, get out of here!”
But running away was not an option. Joseph stumbled into the main hallway, and he was shocked to see Broon and Ezel there. The half-orc was breathing heavily, a vicious slash winnowing along his chest. Ezel was beside him, her foot twisted at an angle. The cyclops was motionless behind them.
Ezel looked up at Joseph.
“You,” she said. Her voice was hard.
“Phin's in the back galleries,” Joseph said, “He's-”
He felt the wind rush behind him before he heard the sound of the chainsword. Joseph ducked, feeling the chainsword whip over him. He stumbled back-
His soul was strong enough. It burst from his chest, claws snarling. It caught Ahklahan by surprise, the man stumbling back and on the defensive.
For only a moment, however, as the crusader took stock of Joseph's strikes. Even wounded like this, barely holding on, he gauged the eagle's claws, the myriad azure daggers that closed on him. He was Broon's better.
And he found himself getting under the eagle's guard.
He ducked beneath one of Joseph's swings, his blade rushing upward with a lion's roar. It tore through the eagle's neck, up through the other side. There was a moment where he wrestled against the bird of prey, Joseph's wincing as the soul embraced Ahklahan, attempting to crush him in a bear hug. The crusader's armor bent, popped, broke.
Then the chainsword gave, twisting, wrenching through cobalt flesh. Through the neck, blurring past skin and feather. Headless, the soul broke. Joseph's mind swam as he fell to the ground, ice replacing blood, pain replacing reason. He was gasping, feeling Ezel's hand distantly as she placed it against his temple. Her voice was muted. She was saying something. But his world was awash with motion and cold and pain.
“Joseph, get up,” she said, “Get up, Joseph.”
And he did. The marble floor was splattered with azure blood. It glowed like bioluminescent slime on the ground, giving the museum light.
The soul had been shattered. Joseph could feel it. It was much like with Mordenaro on Nesona, damaged and corpse-like, sitting like a dull stone in the pit of his stomach.
But he was alive.
The crusader was still stumbling to his feet.
Joseph walked over, grabbing the man's greasy hair, and rammed a knee into his face. The man flopped down.
This wasn't a good place. Broon was still injured, as was Ezel. She was murmuring words to herself, trying to will what little water was left here to her side. Right now, the crusader had eyes only for Joseph. He could tell by the way the man was glaring at him, the maniacal glee replaced with murderous hate.
“Dog,” Ahklahan spat, and in the blue light his saliva was dark with blood.
“Yeah, fuck you, too,” Joseph said, “Come and get me.”
And he moved away, limping now, eyes darting here and there for -
There. Broon's sword had been shattering during his duel, pieces of enchanted metal littering the floor. Joseph picked up the remains of the sword's tip, a jagged shard, and made his way down the opposite hallway.
He could hear, like a predatory slug, Ahklahan behind him. Stumbling. Gasping. Limping, like him, his wounds beginning to truly wear him down. His boots scraped against the marble floor.
Joseph stumbled down the hall, into the next exhibit. This one was a traveling exhibit, one that displayed...
Displayed magic.
The very air changed as Joseph entered. It tasted both sweet and bitter, sour and spicy. It was the scent of magic, though where he had only encountered its scent when Wakeling had hinted at her more formidable spells or when Urash was preparing his spellrod for a day's work, here it suffused the place. His heart's beat sped up, though not with the adrenaline of combat, but with elation. Excitement.
Possibility slept here. In the magic crystals floating in the air, roaring whirlwinds held within. In the treasure chest on its dais, ready to be opened and reveal its secrets. In the strange, chittering grasshopper on its pedestal.
He was ahead of Ahklahan. The crusader had not yet entered the room. Joseph turned, closed the door behind him. Set one of the marble stands in front of it. He could hear the chainsword start up through the wood.
There wasn't much time. Joseph looked around for a moment, choosing something, anything. He picked up a glass orb, a fire spell of some sort burning within, though the ball itself was cool in his hands. He turned, and waited.
The chainsword ruptured through the door, twisting and pushing sideways. It found resistance against the marble stand, but that too started to break as the chain sliced through.
Joseph wasn't sure what sort of spell was in the glass. He looked down at the orb.
It was up here for a reason, on display. It wouldn't be some little firecracker, some random fire spell that a basic magician had cast. No, if it was here in a museum, it must have been conjured by a famous sorcerer. For a moment, scenes of apocalyptic fire swam through Joseph's head.
But no one would be dumb enough to put these out on display for the public, right?
The chainsword cut through the stand completely. Ahklahan shoved it away, tearing the door off of its hinges. Joseph threw the orb at him.
And the world exploded.
***
The cyclops was coming to, groaning to herself and clutching her head. Ezel looked at her, water spinning over her open palm, ready to spear at her, if need be. The demigod was pulling herself, slowly, to her feet, having finally managed to extricate herself from the goop that had held her down. Her ankle was well and truly broken – she didn't even dare to test her weight on it. The cyclops froze at the sight of her, at the sight of water welling around her arms, about to snap forward.
“One wrong move, and I take out your eye,” Ezel said.
“No wrong moves, then,” the cyclops said. She raised her hands in the air in surrender, and she noted Broon, “What happened?”
“Your guildmate, the crusader,” Ezel said.
The cyclops shook her head.
“Not mine,” she said, “I'm a Disciple of Aether.”
“Then who?”
“Pantheon.”
Ezel's blood became ice. Wakeling had been right. Agrippa had stationed one of his cronies here. It made logical sense – crusaders from Tsaeyaru were monsters, chained only by their so-called faith and the vows they made to their masters. Of course a being like him would be in Pantheon.
It also meant that they had fucked up, big time.
There was the sound of flames roiling to life. It was a sound she was well familiar with, dark memories from her childhood rushing to the fore. But those memories did not own her. She faced them, head-on, as the exhibit Joseph and the crusader had run into became awash in bright orange flame.
“Shit,” the cyclops said. She stood up, reaching for a wand, only to realize her bracers were missing.
“There,” Ezel said, pointing to them on the ground. The cyclops strode over, fumbled out a wand. It was clear and cornishly rainbow, like carnival glass. She pointed it as the flame tunneled out of the hall, and erected a barrier of light.
The two magic forces met, and the entire museum shuddered. The flame crackled and spat, seemed more alive than usual, and had a dark crimson hue. It crashed against the barrier like a wave, deluging against the magic surface. The cyclops grimaced, the wand cracking in her hand.
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“What is it?!” Ezel yelled over the din.
“Vorpal's Burning Rage!” the cyclops replied, “A small piece of it!”
Indeed, the flames seemed angry. They lapped against the barrier, battered against it. Ezel could do nothing but hope that it held. She hunkered down over Broon, prepared to cover the half-orc's body with her own.
And she watched.
***
It was only because of the other spells in the room that Joseph was not immediately immolated by Vorpal's Burning Rage.
He was thrown back by the sheer force of the casting, the glass and water orb shattering to pieces. Akhlahan was ground zero, and he was completely covered in dark red fire. It took to his skin, his armor, his blade, using the man as kindling and growing by simply existing. Its flames lapped the walls, devoured the stands that the other spells were on. Some were merely consumed.
Others activated.
The flames bore down on the single grasshopper in its cage. As it ate through the bars, the grasshopper's back opened as though it were molting. But instead of a single insect came thousands. Millions. A wave of locusts erupted, the chorus of chittering wings drowning out the flames. They acted as a wall for Joseph, who could do nothing but watch as the bugs caught aflame, smashing against and through the walls and out into Stellaluna. The Burning Rage drove through them like a drill through the earth. Embers caught wings, cooked through carapace, heat boiled locusts as they flew above the fire.
So many of them were materializing, however. An endless deluge of legs and wings and mandibles, eyes that were constantly searching and bellies that were eternally hungry. The sheer weight of them suffocated the flames, crushed it beneath their bodies, which cooked from the ambient heat in the air.
It was a war between sorcerers who had died long before. Joseph could do nothing but watch.
He looked behind him. The exhibit was positioned at a dead end, though there was an emergency exit. But he couldn't leave the others behind, not after witnessing that. They were still in danger.
Guilt, raw and red, struck him like an arrow.
He may have just killed everyone.
He ran for the emergency exit, throwing it open. The cold air of Stellaluna greeted him, blowing in as a freezing gale. But it felt warm against his clammy skin. He had experienced colder. He looked back, watching as the flames finished devouring the locust swarm. But it had been a mutual kill, the fire dying out, the room charred black, exposing the walls' wooden, ember peppered frames.
Outside, the world was surrounded by a wall of fog. It circled, almost perfectly, ten feet around the building.
No, not fog.
Steam.
Mallory had come. That meant Rosemary, too. More people to get caught up in his bullshit. Joseph bit his lip. He hoped they were okay.
The emergency exit led to landing, and to get to the ground, Joseph had to climb down a ladder. His entire body cried out as he clambered down. It was like fighting a head cold, the way his soul whined in his belly, icy pain lancing through his body. Never mind the fact that he was bruised and battered after his fight with Ahklahan.
“Joe!”
It was Rosemary. She had spotted him. She and Mallory were just at the entrance of the museum, her sceptre in hand. Mallory had surrounded the entire place, the steam so thick that Joseph could only see the silhouettes of guards on the other side.
“Hey,” Joseph murmured, though he knew she couldn't hear him. Nonetheless, she ran over to him.
“What happened?” she said.
“Bad shit,” Joseph said, “Have you gotten inside?”
“We just got here,” Rosemary said. She caught Joseph as he started to fall, “Joe, how bad is it?”
“I got the guy,” Joseph said, “But they're all-”
He suppressed a sob.
“They're all hurt pretty bad. I fucked up.”
“We all do,” Rosemary said.
“Gotta get inside-”
“You're staying here,” Rosemary said, “You lie down, let yourself rest. I got this.”
Joseph looked at her, his eyes hollow. Then, he nodded, letting the elf guide him to the steps, where he laid down beside Mallory. The Steamer glanced over at him, giving him a grim nod.
***
Rosemary ran inside. Museum guards spun to face her, but she swung her sceptre, clocking one in the head. No time to explain, no time to apologize. They had to get out of here. The other guard fumbled out a baton, but Rosemary spun, unleashing a beam of light from her sceptre, one that turned into a net midflight, catching and tangling the guard as it pushed her back. She could hear shouts coming from further in, but the security was hanging back.
And the reason why was at the top of the stairs. A blood red flame was blazing up. Held back, just barely, by a barrier of light. Ezel and Broon were there, the half-orc with a nasty gash in his chest, the demigod with a twisted foot that made Rosemary's insides squirm. A cyclops stood over them, a wand pointed at the wall. The source of the magic spell.
Rosemary rushed past the guards, who turned and yelled at her to stop. But they didn't dare pursue as she took to the stairs three steps at a time.
“We told you to stay!” Ezel said, “Get out of here!”
“Where's Phin?!”
“In the back!”
She pointed to the side. Without another word, Rosemary danced to the hallways. She passed into a room that had once been caked with shadow, ink staining the walls, magic having scoured the artifacts and broken the displays.
An insect was extricating himself from the mess. A monk, by the way he was dressed. He held a spear in hand, and he rounded on Rosemary.
“Another one!” he shouted, “Have at you!”
“No time,” Rosemary said, “Deep One. Where'd he go?”
“I don't have time for your poppycock,” the insect said, “Now-”
“The place is on fire!” Rosemary said, “We have to get out of here. All of us.”
At that, the insect grimaced.
“They didn't- the fire, what color was it?”
“Dark red.”
“Hell. Your lad went into the back rooms. Go get him, quickly now. Go!”
And the insect was taking off, flitting away back towards the main halls.
***
Krishyar landed beside Rinny, a concerned look on his face.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“Not as bad-” Rinny winced as the flames convulsed, cracks appearing in the barrier. She redoubled her efforts, a thin line of light shooting from the tip of her wand, stitching the barrier back together.
“Not as bad,” she said, “Something in the gallery must have taken the brunt of the fire.”
“How long will it last?” Krishyar asked.
“Not sure,” Rinny said, “In my studies, it only died out after a hundred years. Ever-blazing-”
She winced as the spell made another try at breaking through. She held it back.
“Ever-burning. This is just a small ember of it.”
“Guards should be coming in soon. Mages from the college.”
“Good,” Rinny said, “I can't hold out much longer.”
Vorpal's Burning Rage, like a beating heart, hammered against her barrier.
***
Phineas was on the ground. Rosemary suppressed crying out at the sight of him, at the way his scales were pale as sickly snow. His arm was off to the side, and sticky black blood caked the floor. He had somehow stopped the bleeding as she rushed over to his side, kneeling down and turning him around.
He was still alive, though his breathing was quiet and haggard. Rosemary knelt down, gingerly helping him up, shouldering him and adjusting so she could walk. He was lighter than she realized.
She left his arm there.
The two of them stumbled through the gallery, past the carnage that Joseph's battle had wrought. Phineas's eyes opened up as he quietly came to.
“Rosemary,” he whispered in her ear, “What is...?”
“Don't talk,” Rosemary said, and she bit down the fear in her voice. Or, at least, tried to.
“He came back, Rosemary,” Phineas said, “Joseph, he came back...”
He drifted away again. She redoubled her pace, all but dragging him away.
Ezel was waiting for them. She had torn her jacket in half, using it to bind the grisly wound on Broon's chest. The cyclops and the insect were looking at them with wary eyes.
Rosemary set Phineas down, looking at Ezel.
“We can't stay here,” she murmured to the demigod.
Ezel looked conflicted. She cast a glance over at the insect. He was, among the two Disciples of Aether, the one who would be able to stop them. The cyclops was occupied. If they revealed themselves, the other guild would go after them.
And they already had enough problems getting involved with Pantheon.
The insect, perhaps, realized this. He wheeled on them. Rosemary pointed her sceptre in retaliation. The two of them were quiet as the cyclops battled the flames.
“...This doesn’t have to end like this,” the insect said.
“You’re right,” Rosemary said, “It doesn’t.”
“The battle’s over, I think,” the insect said, “If you tell me your guild, you can go. I won’t try to stop you.”
The three of them were quiet.
“Tell me your guild, lass,” the insect said, again, “And, on my honor, we'll keep this to the Law of InterGuild. We won't tell our client that you did this. You're interlopers, nothing more.”
“Just business,” Rosemary said.
“We failed in our job, because of you,” the insect said, “We'll be reprimanded by our client, but keep stiff upper mandibles about it. But we'll be going after you for costs.”
She winced.
“R-right,” she said.
“You know the alternative, lass,” the insect said, “And your guild's been through enough today, eh?”
“We didn't mean for it to get like this,” Rosemary said.
“But it did, didn't it?” the insect said, “Live with the mistakes you make. Atone for them, if you can. Apologize. Then don't make them again. Simple as, simple is.”
The heat convulsed again.
“Your guild, lass.”
Rosemary traded a look with Ezel. The demigod nodded.
“Amber Foundation.”
“Wakeling's folk?” the insect said, “Not too often you lot go for smash and grabs, eh?”
“T-true,” Rosemary said.
“You're alone?”
“Got people outside.”
“Then it's time for us to evacuate, too,” the insect said. He turned over and hollered out an “Oi!”
The guards at the bottom of the steps started.
“Got three injured up here! Two of you, get up here! The rest of you lot, get out of here. Now!”
He had a surprisingly commanding voice. The museum guards complied, two burlier fellows running up the stairs. The first one picked up Ezel without too much trouble. The other one grimaced at the sight of Broon, then made to pick him up. The insect helped him, the two of them together making their way down the stairs, supporting Broon on each shoulder. s
Rosemary looked at the cyclops. The fire spell still had not abated, pushing against the wall of light and coughing out flame. But it was still holding. She glanced over to the insect, gave a grim nod.
Then they went down the stairs.
***
They evacuated, all of them, out to the entrance of the museum. It was chaos. The guards took one look at the steam wall that Mallory had created, and started working themselves up into a panic. They could hear voices on the other side, shouts from the city militia, from magicians woken up from the college. Krishyar took point, barking out orders and organizing people, making sure that the night crew had gotten out safely.
It was at that time that the Amber Foundation slipped away. Mallory cleared an opening through the steam, and they left the vicinity of the Foreign Plaza. The steam died away as Mallory gave up hold over it, and magicians rushed inside. They secured Rinny, getting her out of the way, and collectively managed to smother Vorpal's Burning Rage. The damage was contained, just barely, to the traveling exhibit, that entire wing charred and scarred black by the blood flames.
The Amber Foundation ran off, heading back to the inn, gathering their things. They went down to the docks, which were quiet and cold, the sailors still asleep in their beds. It would be another few hours before they got up, and they could secure passage off of Stellaluna.
New sounds joined the quiet wind. Shouts from the city guard. What sounded like a chorus of chimes as magic was cast. Screams. The sound of a lone siren that caused the dogs in the city to start braying out, sharp and distant.
But true to Krishyar's word, no one hunted them. How he did it was anyone's guess, considering that others had seen them in the museum. But no guards ran to secure the ports. No armed soldiers marched past their hiding spot, a small room in an abandoned shack near the docks.
Rosemary provided light, and she and Ezel got to work tending to Broon and Phineas. Joseph was fine. Physically, at least, though he hunkered down in a corner, pulling his knees to his chest. Ezel directed Mallory and Rosemary, covering his wound in a bandage, making him drink potions to magically stitch him back together. They got to work on her ankle, too, and she drank a vile looking concoction that numbed the pain just enough to reset it and tie it up.
“Elenry will be able to do more work once we get back,” the demigod said, “I'm... not sure what to do with Phineas, though.”
They cast a look over at the Deep One. Phineas had come to again, a hand clutching the stump where Ahklahan had dismembered his arm. A bit of color had returned to him.
“I will be fine,” he rasped, “Did you get my book?”
Rosemary grimaced.
“That is alright,” he said, “I will summon a new one. With the arm.”
He shuddered a bit.
“Sleep,” Ezel said, “All of you. I'll keep watch.”
“Like hell you will,” Mallory said, “Get to sleep. It's only for a few hours. Once I see people up and about, I'll get us a ship.”
“That's...” Ezel stammered, but the very mention of Mallory taking watch put a spell on her, and she drifted away. They all did, save for Mallory, who took a sip from her thermos, and Joseph, who was too cold.
It was another hour before Mallory spoke.
“You fucked up,” she said.
Joseph looked up at her. She was all but glaring at him, her hands curled into fists.
He nodded.
“I did,” he said.
“You came back, though,” Mallory said, “You didn't fuck off back to Earth.”
“I didn't.”
She took a second to herself, staring at the wall.
“Listen up, Joe,” she said at length, “A lot of people just got hurt because of you. And I know that Wakeling's gonna spit roast you when we get back, but I'm going to tell you here: you do something like this again, you hurt my family again, and I'll make sure the only earth you're in is the dirt.”
Joseph could only give her another nod in response to that. Because she was right, and she had every right to be angry. Seemingly satisfied with that, the Steamer turned back around, took another sip of her thermos.
At the first sounds of sailors outside, she got up.
“I'm going to get us a ship,” she said, “Be right back.”
And she was out. She returned a half hour later. They had their ship, a merchant's vessel that would take them off of Stellaluna.
Away from the sarcophagi. But when Joseph thought back on them, all he could think of was Phineas's scream, mixed with his memories at the guildhall. His...
His home.
He swallowed that down like a bittersweet pill, let his soul feed on it.
He didn't say a word as he helped Broon, who was freshly woken up and able to limp, up and towards the airship.
Dawn crested the sky, painted it red.
And they left Stellaluna.