Chapter 53 – Into the Spider’s Web

Following the guildmaster’s speech (more a rant, really) Palmira had been sent back out into the city, though this time with backup. Lorenzo and Catherina, having been standing next to them at the time were drafted into a team with herself and Johan by Ósma, whose despondency had been chased away by a burning desire for answers and—if possible—revenge.

Personally, Palmira did not think this was the mindset their group’s leader should be in. But even Morte had taken his side and she found herself unable to argue with both her mentors at once.

This led to now, the five of them making their way further south, linking up with the Ambrosi’s overextended House Guards and the struggling City Watch. The former didn’t have the numbers to defend much beyond the Piazza del Drago while the later didn’t have the power or skill and had half fallen to the corruption themselves to boot.

The All-Seeing, it seemed, was very thorough in its infiltration.

“Hold.”

Ósma’s massive hand moved to block her way forward, stopping the rest of them from rounding the corner. Rising on her tiptoes to see over it, she frowned at what was approaching them.

A troop of the City Watch were marching toward them, four in number and in loose formation. The setting sun was at their back, casting long shadows which danced across the glistening streets. Any other day she wouldn’t have batted an eye at the sight, but here and now they looked almost menacing.

“They’re corrupted,” Catherina murmured, smoldering with righteous fury. “The City Watch would never send a group so small alone. Especially not after asking us to come here.”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Lorenzo whispered back. “Maybe the rest of their troop was taken out. We can’t attack without being absolutely certain that they’re lost.”

“I know how we can make sure,” Johan crouched down, picking up a large pebble off the ground. Then with a grunt he tossed it, the stone ricocheting off a wall and loudly clattering to the ground.

Instantly two of the watchmen broke ranks and charged the stone. One stopped right above where it landed, twisting his head in all directions in a frantic attempt to find what made the noise. The other didn’t stop running—he slammed straight into a wall, bouncing off it with a pained cry.

The other two stopped, simply standing and staring into nothing as they waited for their fellows to return to their ranks.

“Yep, they’re corrupted,” Johan nodded, tightening his grip on Vita.

“Not a bad trick,” Ósma hummed approvingly, flicking a finger. Thin strands of silver thread slid along the ground between the cracks in the cobblestones, silently encircling the watchmen’s feet. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“It’s nothing much, just something I had to come up with when I was younger,” the half-elf shrugged self-consciously. “The thing about the corruption is that it can’t force you to do things you don’t want to do. Instead it takes over your mind, twisting your senses and your thoughts to force you to make choices you never normally would have.”

“That’s awful,” Palmira scowled, eyes softening with pity as she stared at the watchmen. The one who’d run into the wall had returned, but the last one was still trying to find the stone beneath his feet. “Wait, but if they can still think for themselves then why do they end up like that?”

“The answer to that question is time,” Morte took over the explanation. “The eyes may hide themselves from outsiders, but they aren’t subtle to the host. If you’re corrupted, you know you’re corrupted. That makes people scared and paranoid, which the eyes want. They’ll mess with your senses, stopping you from getting help and making you push away anyone who could save you. After a couple years of being corrupted you’ll be little more than a puppet, dancing along to the rules of a world only you can see.”

“Unless they don’t have enough time for that. In which case, they simply overstimulate your brain until you’re a rabid, violent berserker who attacks everything around them,” Vita chirped, her voice somehow both bitter and cheerful. “It’s quite the awful experience. One of my previous wielders fell to it, so do be careful, Johan dear. I wouldn’t want to find myself turned against you in the future.”

“You make me feel so loved, you know that right?”

“All of you quiet down,” Ósma shushed them. “They’re moving again.”

The last watchman had finally returned to the others, and now back in formation they began to march once more.

Or, at least they tried.

The moment the first one took a step his leg was suddenly yanked to the side, the watchman falling into an impromptu split as his arms were dragged into the air. The others shouted in alarm but were unable to do anything as silver threads erupted from around their feet, a whistling flurry of death which lashed them from all sides.

The battle was over before it begun, all four restrained by Ósma within seconds. Waiting a moment to make sure the men were secure, the orc finally gave them the all clear and led them out around the corner and onto the street.

The watchmen thrashed against their bindings, some shouting profanities while others snarled wordlessly. One of them even tried to bite at the old orc, not that he paid them any mind. Instead he got to work tearing off their armor, revealing the splatterings of yellow eyes which had been hidden beneath their clothes.

Ósma looked each of the men over with a critical eye, before sighing and shaking his head. “Only this one can be cured,” he pointed at the watchman who’d run into the wall earlier. “The rest are too far gone for us to be of any help.”

“Is there really nothing we can do?” Lorenzo grimaced at the grotesque sight. “If we can cure one, surely we could cure the others…?”

“Not at this stage,” Ósma shook his head apologetically. “Especially not when they’re so close to the organs. See this one?” he pointed at the watchman they could apparently cure, the same one who tried to bite him. Unlike the others, whose eyes were on their chest or stomach, his were only on his left leg. “When it comes to Nytheloph’s corrupted, it’s not the eyes themselves but their roots that are the issue. They dig into your organs, tearing them apart and replacing them with their own distorted mockeries. If you don’t catch it early enough it becomes impossible to heal—even if you purge every last bit of the eyes from the body, the damage they caused will kill a person long before even the strongest miracles can heal them. Even this one will need his leg amputated and cauterized to be safe.”

Palmira gagged, her face going green. “How is it that everything I learn about corruption makes it so much worse?”

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“There’s a reason people have always hated fighting the bastard,” he nodded with a grimace. “At least Edda and Laurence just kill you.”

Having finished his inspection, Ósma didn’t waste another second. Flexing his fingers the threads decapitated the three unsalvageable watchmen instantly, a quick death the only kindness left to them. The last he moved over to Catherina, who with holy light and a big sword began the painful process of purging his body of Demonic influence.

Palmira ended up with the much worse job of disposing of the bodies. With a hollow heart she set them alight, burning them until they were naught but ash. The smell of cooked flesh made her want to puke.

She’d never liked Demons. But if someone were to ask her when she began to hate them, she’d point to today, to these moments, when the best she could do to save someone was cremate them.

--

They gathered the ashes into blessed urns, before dragging the survivor back with them to the Piazza del Drago for further treatment. Laying him down amongst dozens of other injured the five of them barely got a second to catch their breath before being sent back out into the city.

As the sun finally set below the horizon they’d attempted to cross the river to patrol the eastern side of the city, but within minutes a group of mercenaries found them and they’d been politely but firmly rebuffed. The east was Capparelli territory after all, and they weren’t about to let Ambrosi affiliates snoop around when they didn’t have the manpower to keep an eye on them.

Where the Ambrosi owned the majority of the adventurer guilds in Firozzi, the Capparelli owned the majority of the mercenary guilds. But unlike the adventurers the mercenaries had not all been trapped in a singularity and as such were free to protect Capparelli interests at their leisure.

A similar situation was occurring in the south, with the Holy Hospitaller—the only Firozzi Holy Order currently not off fighting Demons in the Cantons—gleefully splattering the infidels across the pristine cobblestones of the New Quarter.

As much of a relief as it was that the whole of the city wasn’t overrun, the fact they were all leaving the Ambrosi territory to deal with it alone was frustrating. Just how many innocent people were going to die because of stupid Famiglia politics?

It made her angry. A pressure was building in her heart, one which she had no way of relieving.

When she was younger she hadn’t cared about the Famiglias. They always felt too big, too abstract to form a real opinion on. It was like hating Demons or Angels. They weren’t real, not like the City Watch or the Dukes of Iscrimo. From the perspective of a street urchin, the Signora was just a word.

But now she was a part of a Famiglia. Now she stood at eye level with the oligarchs who ran Firozzi, and upon seeing them for what they truly are all she could feel is disgust and hate.

For the first time she found herself agreeing with Dante’s decision to strike his own path. Though their reasoning might differ, one thing was for certain:

Something had to change.

Palmira shook her head. Now wasn’t the time for this. She had a job to do, and unlike some people she planned to see it through to the end.

Even as night fell they continued patrolling the city. The ghosts began to appear in swarms now, the veil between life and death growing ever thinner. As the long dead mixed with the recently deceased it became harder to find the corrupted, as spirits centuries old begged them to find their decrepit killers.

It wasn’t impossible, though. Every few minutes Men, Elves, Dwarves and more were cut down as they patrolled the winding alleys of the Old Quarter. Each corner turned upon a new murder, each broken door revealed a new tomb.

The night wore on them, exhaustion both mental and physical grinding them down. But as the Moon and the Angel Threads rose in the sky they finally stumbled across a potential end to the crisis.

It began with a Drowned-Man standing by the river, chuckling to himself as he stared across it. He twitched with repressed energy, and yet his shoulders were slumped and his head bowed. They approached him warily, fanning out as they prepared to attack.

Then he turned to look at them, and they halted in their tracks.

Palmira recognized him, if only vaguely. He was the same Drowned-Man the twins had fought earlier. A smug ass who only stood out from the other dozen smug asses due to the scales which covered his skin. Now the two scimitars he wielded were stained red and his armor torn and muddy. He looked a shell of the warrior who’d competed before the crowd.

But more than that, the eyepatch he once wore had fallen around his neck, revealing what was hidden beneath.

A pulsing, putrid eye, far too large for the socket it inhabited. Twitching, it roved over each of them, yellow puss turned orange by bloody tears.

“John, of the Rodina Guild,” Ósma growled, a deep frown engraving itself upon his face. “That’s the second Rodina adventurer who fell to the All-Seeing. I can’t help but wonder how poor their security must be, that they’ve been so thoroughly compromised.”

“Oh?” the corrupted adventurer blinked, only one of his eyelids able to close all the way. “You know me? You know me, do you? And yet, I don’t know you. Or perhaps I do? It’s a bit hard to think these days, you know. After the snows melted, my head’s been filled with nothing but water!” the Drowned-Man laughed, a twisted, desperate sound. “How horrible! What a travesty! But that’s the way of things, I suppose. Not even Winter can last forever!”

The old orc glanced over at the two Rodina adventurers with them, raising an eyebrow. “Was he always like this?”

Catherina coughed and looked away, while Johan simply shrugged. “There are hundreds of people working at the guild. We don’t know everyone. …I, uh, I didn’t even remember his name until you said it.”

With a sigh, Ósma turned back to the Drowned-Man. “Well, John, you seem a bit more coherent than the last few we’ve met. So will you come forth quietly and be cleansed, or have the Demons sunk their hooks too deep into your soul?”

“Cleansed?” he blinked again, the action grotesque in its familiarity. “I was already cleansed. In brine and blood and boney broth! I was blind before, don’t you know? I thought ice could form in salty seas. What an ignorant fool I was! Ah, but that was an era long past, and now… now I can see.”

His mad ramblings faltered as he suddenly attacked. He rushed forward, sloppy yet faster than he’d been back in the arena. Within a second he would be upon them.

Or he would have, if he hadn’t been caught by Ósma’s web.

Over the course of their brief conversation the old orc had filled the air with silver threads, near invisible in the darkness of the night. The moment John had charged he’d doomed himself.

First his arms were bound, and then his legs. Finally his neck was tied in a noose, and in an instant all he could do was struggle helplessly.

The Drowned-Man stopped. His normal eye didn’t break eye contact with them, but the swollen Demonic one trundled in his skull, looking for something only it knew to find.

He smiled. And with a flick of his wrist his scimitar left his hand to fly through the air, shining in the moonlight as it severed a dozen threads at once. His neck and legs were instantly free as they were disconnected from Ósma’s magic.

Then the blade came back down, and he sliced off one of his own hands.

None of them knew how to react to that, and that gave him the moment needed to escape. Tearing off the last of them with his teeth he turned and ran, blood gushing from his stump and he crossed several blocks in an instant.

“Quickly!” Ósma swore. “After him! Don’t let him get away!”

They ran, though it was clear that they wouldn’t be able to keep up. He had some weird jumping magic that let him bound across distances in half the time it took them to run. Already he was but a distant speck along the waterfront.

Palmira huffed in rage, smoke billowing from her jaws. Maybe the stress of the day had finally caught up to her, but she would not let that happen.

Her feet ignited. Ignoring the other’s shouts for her to stop, she rocketed ahead, rapidly making up lost ground. Now she was gaining on him, charred footprints sizzling against the bloody trail he left in his wake.

The Drowned-Man didn’t stop to look back at her, but he must have known she was there. Instantly he turned sharply, leaping up onto a nearby rooftop. Not one to be left behind she followed, barely making the jump as she kept up the chase. She almost lost him there, but at the last moment she caught sight of him soaring across the red tile roofs which were so common in the city.

“Palmira!” Morte shouted, his voice cutting through the rage clouding her mind. “Stop! Wait for the others!”

But if she stopped to wait for the others she’d lose him!

Given a moment to calm down and think she might have agreed with him acted differently. But right now her thoughts were running as hot as her legs, and she found herself unable to care.

So when the corrupted adventurer suddenly stopped jumping, when he fell down into one of the dark alleyways of the Old Quarter, she followed him without thinking.

Following him, she landed with a thud, the mud beneath her burning shoes steaming. Flames blazed up her arms, angry and bright as she held Morte aloft.

She immediately regretted doing this.

Because he was no longer alone. Standing before the two of them were Zeitn and Rosalina, the familiar smell of burnt flesh wafting into her nose.

In hindsight, she really should have listened to Morte.