"Mags!" The word came tumbling out harsh and desperate, as if it might drag out Marek’s guts along with it. He couldn’t believe what had befallen his friend. One minute, the mare had been moving at a good clip bearing Mags to safety—the next, a kobold-covered boar had hurtled out from the tree line and collided with the horse.
Before Marek could so much as cry out a warning, the horse fell, and Marigold Strongtower went hurtling down the road. Watching her slim frame crash against packed dirt and gravel brought to mind the first time he’d seen Mags take a hit. She’d been six years old and fearless. Isaac had foolishly pegged her as an easy mark. Who’d think such a little kid could have spine? Yet she’d punched the bastard in the nose after he’d shoved her. Isaac had bloodied her good after, yet the experience did nothing to blunt her ire.
Since then, the girl had fought a number of people, mostly boys, and all bigger than she. Mags hated a bully, and because she'd been born with implacable morality, she hadn’t once backed down from a fight.
None of the beatings she'd taken could have prepared Marek for the sight of his childhood friend thrown from horseback and battered to a pulp. In the span of one horrifying second, her tunic ripped, soaked through with blood, and she lay limp in a messy pile in the middle of the Quartz Road.
Marek’s ears pounded. The world took on a strange haze. He didn't know if it was his impending madness calling, or if this was a simple response to their situation. Marek stopped thinking, stopped caring. He would not let his friend die.
A crash of branches announced a second boar as it thundered down the hillside. The rider veered toward Marek and the gelding. Marek yanked on the reins, pulling the mount's head back and to the right. Such an aggressive and sudden maneuver was risky at best, but he didn't have time to analyze or Intuit his way through this. The gelding staggered before spinning right and kicking at the incoming boar. Marek lost sight of the enemy but still heard the wet smack of hoof on flesh.
The gelding finished its turn. Marek watched the great boar slide across the dirt road, leaving a swatch of dark blood behind it. One of the kobolds flew from its saddle and smacked its face into the ground. He doubted the monster would rise again. Its fellow rider proved more resourceful. The kobold performed a nimble roll and was on its clawed feet far too quickly for Marek's liking. It glared up at him with yellow eyes filled with rage. Then, to Marek's horror, it turned to join its fellows down the road. All three were on foot and surrounding the bloody lump in the road that was Magpie.
Marek drove his heels into the gelding’s flanks. A storm rumbled in his chest—not the icy cold of ether, but an intense rage. His horse galloped toward the kobolds, picking up speed until he was nearly upon them.
He leapt from the horse's back and triggered Spirit Body. The armor clicked into place while he soared through the air. Then Marek drove his knee into one of the kobold's backs. Bone cracked, and the unlucky creature spat out a stream of blood when Marek's full weight crushed ribcage and lungs. He drew the black sword and charged the second kobold.
This one managed to aim a bow at his face. Marek dodged to one side and lunged. The arrow clanged off the side of his helm harmlessly as the dark blade pierced the kobold's skull like a melon.
The final monster stood ten feet away with a small axe in one hand and a buckler in the other. It pivoted fluidly, turning the shield toward him to provide a bit of defense while it hefted its axe above the fallen rider. The cursed thing is still trying to kill Mags! Damn you! He couldn't reach the kobold in time, so he hurled the greatsword with all his might. Few would be foolish enough to discard their main weapon—and thus, the action surprised the kobold enough to stay its hand. With admirable skill, the kobold deflected the sword before hissing a string of harsh words. Marek suspected they were a curse or threat. In the end, it didn’t matter.
While most fighters relied on their weapons, he had other resources. Marek poured as much ether as he could invest into his spectral armor. A second later, he drove his shoulder against the buckler. The creature shrieked as its feet left the ground. It crashed and rolled across the road before rising again. The kobold still held its axe, but not the shield.
Marek flew at the creature. When it swung its axe, Marek caught the weapon on his forearm and grasped the kobold’s skinny neck. Clamping down with all his might, he yanked the monster closer before driving his head into its face. Blood and bits of teeth slid down the invisible plate of his helm. The kobold might very well have been dead, but the mage had little reason to take chances. He twisted and slammed the kobold against the hardpan road. Growling like a feral dog, he swung his elbow down in an arc and crushed the monster’s skull.
Orange blood dripped down the visor of his invisible armor. A mess lay underneath him. Scales, bone, and flesh crushed to a pulp. He might have vomited if his stomach was full.
The grind of gravel under foot warned him he couldn’t yet rest. Marek rolled to one side just in time to avoid death. A large warhammer, glittering stone fixed to a wooden handle, pounded into the road. An explosion threw him further, and dirt pelted the side of his body. The plate covering his thigh shattered.
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He twisted and tried to get up, but whatever was attacking him was determined. The head of the hammer rose and fell once more. For a second, Marek recalled Tregan and the terrible mace the bandit had borne. He backed away in a crab crawl, narrowly avoiding another blow.
That was when he saw the face of his attacker. Twisted and enormous for its race, the kobold shrieked in outrage. Marek swept his gauntleted hand across the road, spraying its eyes with dirt. This bought him enough time to stand. He hadn’t a clue where his sword was, however, and the kobold recovered too quickly.
It swung the hammer sideways. Again, the head lit up with mana. Marek didn’t think he could avoid it this time, so he pivoted and kicked the long handle. The blast shattered his leg plate instantly, and he winced in pain. Lacerations spread down his right leg. Nothing was broken, however, except the oversized weapon.
The kobold stood only five and a half feet tall, but it was thickly built. The creature hissed and tackled him to the ground. In half a second, it freed a dagger from its belt and swung down with impressive strength. Marek caught the kobold’s arm. Staring up at the trembling knife point, he threw a punch with his opposite hand. His own arm was blocked, and the two opponents were locked in a stalemate.
Then Marek remembered a weapon he’d thus far neglected. He hadn’t come close to mastering it yet, but he didn’t need much. Focusing his will, Marek tapped into the Ability. A tiny spike forged of his own soul punched through his palm and into the kobold’s forearm. The monster shrieked, its yellow eyes widening at the sudden pain. With a split second to act, Marek caught the dagger as it fell and drove it into the side of the kobold’s skull.
Panting, Marek shoved the monster off and sat up to get his bearings. The enemy lay dead on all sides. The final boar had abandoned its dead masters to run back into the woods.
In the distance, the caravan continued to fight with a handful of raiders. He could detect no other danger nearby.
“Thank Tenacity,” he said before realizing the irony of his words.
The mage nodded, feeling he’d been right to give praise to the Principality that had given him such power. Without it, we’d already be dead. Then again, without them, neither of us would be in this mess. A terrible sound drew him back to the present.
Mags was attempting to speak. She tried again, and this time he understood. "Marek," she rasped. His eyes found the battered form nearby. She looked a proper mess, yet he was relieved to see her sitting up on her own.
Her clothes were torn. A dozen or more scrapes mottled her arms and legs, all raw and bleeding. The arrow that had struck her back was gone, but a large patch of her tunic was soaked in blood. None of these details alarmed him as much as the terror in her eyes.
He ran to her side and knelt. "Are you okay, Mags?"
"Gods, Marek…” she croaked. “What have you become?" Then her eyes lost focus and her head swooned to the side.
He scooped the woman into his arms and, with a force of will, swallowed the bile rising in his throat. It wasn’t time to dwell on what had just changed between him and Marigold. They’d work it out once they were safe.
“Gather the animals,” he told himself. “Get Mags on a saddle. Ride to the caravan.”
He found Cinnabar close by. The mare had been bloodied too, and she kept lifting her front-left hoof like it was giving her trouble. “Good enough,” he said and rushed to the mare’s side. She shied away from him, but thankfully Mags came to again and reached out a hand.
“It’s okay, Cinny. Keep calm!”
Every second felt like an hour, but eventually Marek got Mags into the saddle. He recovered his greatsword and wiped its dark blade clean before sheathing it. Then he ran to the gelding. When the horse spooked, Marek realized he still had Spirit Body active. Can he see the armor? he wondered. Logic crept in a moment later. He can see the blood coating it, at least. Wake up, Marek, and get moving.
Marek released the Skill, and orange gore spattered the ground around him. The gelding allowed him to mount, and soon he and Mags were closing in on the caravan.
Lydia had bolted down the road, but they’d overtaken her. All that remained was to reach the safety of the caravanners. The dregs of a battle raged ahead. Several men with spears kept three raiders at bay. Their boar mounts bled from dozens of wounds, and still they continued to harass the men.
Marek cursed. He didn’t want to use his powers in front of these strangers. Mags was in no condition to fight, however, so he took her bow and a few arrows. He fired at the kobolds’ backs a few times. One landed true, and the raider crashed to the ground. The boar it was riding died soon after with a spear through the chest. The other raiders wheeled around and charged Marek. He fumbled with another arrow, and was just about to lead the kobolds away from Mags when a figure emerged from the defenders. A stout man in bronze scale armor wielding a polearm Marek had never seen threw himself at the raiders. Distracted as they were, neither saw their deaths coming.
Both lost their heads in a matter of seconds.
The man ran up to Marek and waved toward the caravan. “Quick, inside!”
Marek detected the trace of a Basari accent, and the stranger’s dusky features were worn with travel. It was hard to trust someone he knew nothing about, yet he wasted no time in considering it. “My friend,” he said. “Help her first.”
The man nodded and took Cinnabar’s harness. Then he shouted to the others to part, and they made space for Lydia and the horses to enter. Within a wide ring of wagons, a throng of solemn travelers huddled. Most were human, yet Marek spotted a few Haikini and, interestingly, the bulky figure of a golemite.
Marek slid off the gelding’s back and met the stranger at Cinnabar’s flank. “Mags!” he shouted as he squeezed the woman’s leg. “Mags, stay with us! We’re safe now!”
His friend’s gray eyes opened. She was in a bad way; that much was apparent. Her bottom lip had split, causing blood to stain her white teeth. Confused, she blinked lazily before gathering her wits. “We are?”
Marek was about to reply, but the stranger beat him to it. “Aye, ma’am,” the man said as he reached up and grasped Mags around the waist. He hauled her from the saddle and turned, allowing her feet to reach the ground. “You’re as safe as can be.”
She blinked at the Basari holding her upright, noticing him for the first time then. Eyes wide and mouth parted, she seemed at a loss for words. Finally, the woman sighed before muttering, “Oh, well, that’s nice to hear.” Then, unceremoniously, she lost consciousness once more.