Chapter 52 – Rallying the Idiots

Ósma sat quiet, slumped over a table with his head in his hands. The old orc looked like he’d aged decades, exhausted and melancholic and unresponsive to anyone who approached. Palmira hovered awkwardly next to him, wanting to help but uncertain what she could do. Finding out that your brother was the necromantic thrall of an old comrade of yours wasn’t the kind of situation she knew how to handle.

Morte—the one she’d normally go to for advice with this kind of thing—was equally unhelpful.

“How dare she,” the staff snarled, his voice dangerously soft. “When we see her again, these chains or not I’ll tear her throbbing soul from her mortal flesh and rip it in half.”

“My, you’ve grown quite bitter, haven’t you?” Vita asked, the spear resting against the table next to them. Johan himself was too full of nervous energy to sit still, pacing frantically behind them. “The old you would never have made that kind of threat, at least not so seriously. Have the years really changed you that much?”

“I’ve always been bitter,” Morte scoffed back. “I just used to think that if I tried hard enough I could make the world a better place in spite of all the horrors. But I’ve long since learned that was merely a fool’s errand.”

He fell silent after that and Vita—perhaps for once deciding to read the mood—didn’t try egging him on.

Palmira huffed at the byplay, smoke pouring out of her mouth. It still frustrated her how little she was learning she knew about Morte. But she supposed she could put grilling him on hold, at least until this crisis had been resolved.

They’d since returned to the coliseum, Ósma having rushed the three of them back as quickly as he could. Once they’d arrived, Palmira had been surprised to see the rest of her guildmates had already escaped the arena. Even now it still loomed a twisted mess in the distance, countless people still trapped inside a non-Euclidean labyrinth.

Just outside the ruined stadium a temporary headquarters had been set up by her guildmaster, trying to hold to a semblance of order amidst the crisis. The majority of the adventures who’d escaped seemed to have been people who’d already fought, some wandering the piazza aimlessly while most were still too injured to be of any real help. The once sprawling festival market stalls surrounding the coliseum had been cleared out and coopted into a messy infirmary that was packed with the numerous injured and overseen by a handful of stressed and overworked healers.

Some of those who were well enough to move were patrolling the nearby streets, getting as many civilians as they could inside and safe from the chaos afflicting the city.

Speaking of, she saw one of them coming back right now.

“Lorenzo!” she waved him down. His face lit up with relief as he saw her and he rushed over, another woman trailing behind. Sourly, she realized it was that battle priestess he’d fought earlier. “Over here!”

“Palmira,” he sighed, running a hand through his leafy dreadlocks. “Thank the Goddess you’re safe! When we didn’t see you amongst the survivors we assumed the worst. Ah—this is Catherina, we fought in my first match. Catherina, this is Palmira. Do you think you could look her over for injuries while we talk?”

The woman squinted at her—and she squinted back—before she seemed to realize she was sizing up a girl several years her junior. “I can try,” she nodded, leaning down to grab a squirming Palmira. “But I’m not the best when it comes to healing miracles. If there’s anything wrong it would be better to get a professional.”

“I’m fine!” she huffed, grimacing as the woman poked a bruise on her arm. “I was with Johan the whole time, and we didn’t—well, we did get into danger. But I wasn’t hurt! Much!”

“Who?”

“Ah, that’s me,” the half elf stepped forward, holding out a hand. Lorenzo shook it firmly—perhaps a bit too firmly, if his wince was any indication. “We ended up outside the arena together when everything kicked off. She was helping me protect the innocent by fighting off those corrupted by the Demons until Monsieur Ósma found us.”

“You’re make us sound so heroic when you describe it like that,” she scoffed, squirming as Catherina grabbed her jaw, holding up a glowing finger to each of her eyes. “But I guess you were right that they’d manage to find their own way out eventually.”

The holy woman gave her one last glance over before nodding. “Right, she seems healthy enough. A couple bruises, but nothing that requires immediate attention.”

“What a relief,” Lorenzo sighed, giving her a smile which showed of his shining rows of teeth. “Thank you so much for checking, Catherina. It means a lot.”

The woman blushed and smiled back, absently twirling a strand of her fluffy brown hair. Palmira stuck her tongue out at the both of them from behind.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Johan cut in, “do either of you know what happened? Everyone’s been too busy to fill us in except Monsieur Ósma here and he’s, well…” he gestured to the unresponsive orc.

Lorenzo nodded, a solemn frown growing across his face. “I was in the infirmary at the time, so I can’t say for certain, but everyone agrees that something happened to Raum von Weldtraumstadt, the elf who was in charge of the coliseum before space collapsed. It’s split on whether he’s dead or was corrupted, but everyone agrees that if he weren’t he would have fixed this mess by now.”

Johan’s face fell at the news. All at once the frantic energy seemed to leave him and he fell onto the chair next to her.

“…I’m sorry. If I’d known he was important to you, I would have been less callous with my words. …Do you want me to continue, or do you need a moment?”

“Continue,” he bit out sharply, fists clenched against his lap. “Please.”

“…Right. Well, as I was saying, we were in the infirmary when it all happened. They, uh, they don’t tell you this, but the Rodina didn’t have as many healers as we assumed. They were a bit backed up, with even members of their own guild not having gotten treatment yet. But apparently Zeitn—that elven time mage who Matthias electrocuted—got a priority. The woman who’d healed me went and got him back on his feet far ahead of the queue. And then…”

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“And…?”

“He stabbed her,” Lorenzo’s face darkened in both rage and disgust. “Right after she finished healing him. Just stood up and shoved his knife in her chest, so casually none of us knew how to react. Then he kept killing. He slit the throats of every healer in the building within seconds. And then he was just—he was just gone.”

Palmira swallowed. “That’s awful.”

“He didn’t bother with any of us—probably knew a bunch of crippled adventurers weren’t much of a threat—but we still tried to send someone out to warn everyone. But then that happened and we weren’t able to do anything to stop him. A while after that Teresa and Leo found us and helped us escape,” he nodded over to where the Crusader was currently arguing with the guildmaster.

Johan ran a hand over his face. “Those healers were all our guildmates,” he sighed heavily. “Did… did any of them survive?”

“Only three,” Catherina placed a hand against his shoulder gently, grounding him as she joined him in mourning. “Two were on break when it happened. And the last… uh…”

“The last was hidden in a closet,” Lorenzo cut in dryly. “Shockingly, Matthias was also hidden in that same closet. And out of respect for their privacy that is the most I’ll say on the matter.”

Damn. She wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or disgusted.

With his side of the story done Palmira explained what happened with them, how they were launched from the arena and stumbled across the corrupted civilians while trying to rush back. When she got to the part about killing them Lorenzo placed a gentle hand on her back, silently comforting her as she forced her way through the explanation.

It was as they finished that the guildmaster seemed to have finally concluded his business with Teresa. Marching up to the center of the piazza he turned to the desperate adventurers meandering about.

“EVERYONE, LISTEN UP!” he boomed, getting the attention of everyone present. After a few moments waiting for them to quiet down he continued. “Good. As you are all aware, we’re in the middle of a crisis right now. For the first time in decades Firozzi is under attack, the Demon Lord Nytheloph having infiltrated with its followers running amok and causing chaos. As I’m sure you all agree, this is beyond the pale. In order to combat this attack I’ve been working with some of the others to develop a plan to counter the Demons and hopefully return order to our city.”

As the guildmaster finished speaking some of the adventurers from other guilds began frowning. The point he brought up was valid, but to the warriors before him—many of which were from the wealthier, more famous Rodina guild—it appeared some random nobody was trying to order them about.

“Eh? Who the hell are you?” one of the adventurers scowled. He was a brawny human, one of the many people without any ties to the Rosa Dominae Guild. “Why should we listen to you?”

Her own guildmembers glared at him, though his complaint seemed to have struck a cord with the other nonaffiliated warriors lounging about the piazza. They were only a fraction of those who were still stuck in the arena, but they still outnumbered her own guild three to one.

“Hey, aren’t you that guy who renamed himself ‘Firozzi?’” Another called out, vaguely recognizable as a woman who Johanna had obliterated during her winning streak. “Arrogant bastard. And you broke away from the Ambrosi Famiglia, didn’t you? Hah, and how’s that been working out for you?”

“That is not important right now,” the guildmaster grit his teeth. “What’s important is that we are under attack and I’m trying to create a strategy to deal with—”

But he’d already lost the crowd, those complaints only opening the floodgates as everyone else started shouting over each other.

“I’m not sure I want to take strategic advice from the guy who thought he could take on the Ambrosi and win.”

“Yeah, this guy’s what, twenty? Thirty at best? Why should I have to listen to a human a quarter my age!?”

“He’s so scrawny. Has he ever even lifted a sword in his life?”

“Eh, I don’t work for free anyway. I’m not about to risk my life without some kinda reward, ya know?”

“Come on, we don’t need to listen to this guy. Let’s just go crush the Demons ourselves.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe him. We’re in the middle of a crisis and he’s just jockeying for power over us. Typical politician.”

That comment, it seemed, was the last straw.

“THIS ISN’T FUCKING POLITICAL, DUMBASSES!” the guildmaster roared, slamming his fist onto a nearby table. The wood crystalized where his fist landed, ruby streaks splattering across the surface like blood. The action caused the crowd to fall silent again, if only just. “A Demon Lord is attacking our city! Infiltrators corrupted by demonic taint are running around slaughtering innocent civilians and the best people who could stop it are either locked in a singularity or too damn busy trying kill each other to save anyone! And now that I’m trying to do something about it you people just spit in my face! So let me be clear, as I frankly do not give a shit what any of you idiots are complaining about, because it does not matter. This right here isn’t about politics or money—we are adventurers, this is about doing our Goddess-be-damned job!”

There was some shuffling at that, angry and embarrassed but they were at least paying attention now, if begrudgingly. Much as he was right, nobody liked being called out like this.

“I do not care if you don’t like me. I do not care if you’re from another guild or my own. I don’t even care if you think I’m a greedy idiot with delusions of grandeur! But right now the threat is on our fucking doorstep and the only thing I care about is for all of you to take five minutes to fucking listen.”

It wasn’t the kind of speech that would win hearts and minds, but it didn’t need to. The sheer frustration in his voice cowed even the rowdiest of adventurers, if only for the moment.

“AM I CLEAR!?” the guildmaster shouted, getting muted grumbling in return. It wasn’t agreement, but it was likely the best he’d get from the surly lot before him and they all had bigger issues regardless. “Good. Now, thanks to my scouts we know that the corrupted are attacking civilians seemingly at random, which means until we drive them off or find out what they’re after we’ll need to split up into groups to cover the whole city. I want five people at the smallest and ten at the largest, but nobody goes out there alone! If you get hurt return here as a group to receive healing and get reinforced. The last thing we want in some poor injured schmuck getting offed because he set out alone in the middle of a Demonic invasion!”

There was some more grumbling at his words, though at this point it was as much for the sake of it than anything else. There was even some relief from the few people who’d escaped alone, no longer as worried about surviving without the rest of their guild.

“As for the lot of you who can’t move,” he turned to shout at the dozens of injured adventurers. “Don’t think I’m letting you all off the hook! If you can’t use your bodies, use what little brains you have between you to figure out how to fix that big fucking mess!” he gestured at the warped arena in the distance. “The faster we fix that the faster the rest of your guilds can help us return this city to order!”

There was even more groaning from the makeshift infirmary, though more than a few seemed to draw strength from his words. A group of more esoteric wizards hailed the healers to push their cots together and quickly got to brainstorming.

“Good!” he nodded sharply. “Now, let’s get out there and kill some Goddess forsaken Demons!”

There was a much more enthusiastic cheer at that, as for whatever differences they might have all adventurers agreed on one thing; all Demons deserved death.

Sitting where they were at the back of the crowd, Palmira couldn’t help but feel her own spirits rise. Much as things might seem bleak, at least she wasn’t alone. With the small army arrayed around her, she even felt confident they could win.

Ósma seemed to have agreed, some life returning to his eyes as he watched the guildmaster shout down another group of idiots who tried to gainsay his orders. Behind him the looming form of Leo the Barbarian dissuaded any form of violence, sneering down at any and all who approached.

“Ah,” Ósma chuckled softly, a small smile finally returning to his face. “They grow up so fast.”