Chapter 203

Chapter 203: Fight of the Fools

“Here he is,” said Durran, his breathing heavy. He handed Argrave off to Galamon, his body limp. “Lighter than he looks.” They were in the small house Argrave had been holed up in. His Brumesingers stayed by his side, protecting him by shrouding the environment with their mist.

“Because he has little blood,” Galamon concluded. “You…” he looked down at Durran’s hands. His left hand was covered in blood and seemed misshapen.

“Just a few fingers gone,” Durran laughed, though his voice was tense and betrayed his pain. He gazed at his hand—the middle, ring, and pinky finger were all gone, torn off by a bite. “Someone had to save him. Couldn’t trust the Waxknights. A few fingers is a small price, in my eyes. He’s… quite the scary one, looks like. Conjured that magic show,” his gaze lingered on Argrave, who looked half a corpse. He had countless cuts, yet they did not bleed.

Galamon looked at Durran, judging. Eventually, he nodded. “Rejoin the fight,” he directed. “I will ensure Argrave is safe.”

Durran nodded. He ran outside, grabbing his glaive. He cast healing magic on his hand—though the fingers did not regrow, the wound did close. He awkwardly handled his glaive, possessing considerably less grace than he typically did.

Anneliese strode towards Durran. She looked a mess, hair wild and unruly, enchanted armor damaged in half a dozen places… yet her steps were strong and decisive. “How is he?”

“Galamon is keeping him safe,” Durran assured her at once.

She did not seem quite relieved, yet Anneliese contented herself with that. “That centaur has returned with reinforcements,” she informed him curtly. “You are needed.”

“Argrave gave you command,” he reminded her.

“I know this. And I have a plan,” Anneliese nodded. “The bulk of the forces within the palace are routed. Not dead, mind you—I suspect they will join up with the host approaching the palace alongside the centaur. They acted reasonably, meaning another one of the fortress commanders is with them, commanding them.”

“How many got away, do you think?” he questioned, looking around. The place was a mess of inhuman corpses, and even now the Waxknights stood diligently, waiting for more to come. Their numbers had thinned. Some were badly injured.

“Hard to say. I must assume over one hundred, for the sake of surety,” Anneliese looked around. “Neither the gate nor the walls are enchanted. Even if they were… that centaur was large enough to bound over them.”

“And you said he brought one of the commanders from the fortresses,” Durran noted.

Anneliese put her hands on her hips. “This place was not made for defending. Only four of the Waxknights are still capable of fighting, even. I have little magic left, and the Waxknights are the same. We could not even heal Argrave.”

“Yet you have a plan?” Durran took off his helmet, wincing as sliced flesh stuck to it.

“First—destroy the host’s morale,” she stated plainly. “We must take the corpse of the jongleur and bard both, string them up above the gates. It will have little effect on the animalistic creatures… yet the leaders are the ones we target, here. We must instill caution in them. Considering their clumsy strategy on display in this palace… they are not capable of scouting.”

“What’s the bottom line?” Durran pressed.

“Stall desperately,” Anneliese admitted. “Orion can turn the tide, I believe. Failing that, I am considering retreating. Either will be immensely challenging, to be sure. I may… need to disobey Argrave.”

Durran looked to the distant main palace, taking a deep breath. “Good gods… I never thought I’d be hoping to see that man desperately.”

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Orion seldom fought foes that could keep up with him. His father had been one—though that had been ten years ago, and the king had never deigned to do it again.

This Jester, though… she could.

On their first exchange Orion bullheadedly rushed in, intending to contest strength with strength… yet the Plague Jester played a different game. She charged forth just as he did, yet when they neared confrontation, she darted down, sweeping his legs with the scepter in her hand. When he stepped over her blow, she planted a palm against his chest powerfully.

The metal shone, bursting into sludge, and Orion staggered from the power. The Plague Jester darted away. He made to pursue once more, yet that sludge took the shape of a plant and thrust towards his neck. Orion caught it with one hand, quickly shattering it. When he looked at what had broken off, he saw a wooden knife. It was familiar, and memories of Magnus surfaced.

“Did you kill my brother?” Orion demanded.

“The man Matesh saw with you? I cannot say. Why not go check?” the Jester straightened.

Orion shattered the knife in his grip, discarding shards of wood. He could not determine if she was feigning innocence. Though he had already been angry, he stepped forth with an icy cold and intense rage. His hand caught fire, and he thrusted it out. The Plague Jester stepped back, yet Orion opened his palm and shards of fiery wood flew out, pelting the Plague Jester.

She staggered back, and Orion punched as he stepped. The Jester nimbly ducked, then swung her scepter towards Orion’s knee. He caught the scepter with his free hand and liquid light danced out, cutting deep into his palm. He put power in his legs and kneed her in the face. She caught air for half a second before rolling gracefully and coming to a standing stop.

Orion’s palm bled slightly, yet soon enough the blood flowed back into his hand, and the wound slowly closed. “The gods do not let me bleed,” he declared, palm held forward.

The Plague Jester stared back. Her light green nose was broken, yet she did not bleed. She fixed it with one hand.

Orion pursued once again. Yet as he stepped… the room burst into color. Everywhere the Plague Jester had touched burst forth into plant life, like a spring decompressed—where her feet had stepped exploded into vines, where Orion’s kneepad met her face writhed with thorny flowers, and even his own hand burst into grasping, carnivorous plants.

The room became chaos at once, everything attacking Orion fiercely. His struggle was an intense surprise at first, yet then became coordinated. All he touched became flame, and he twisted about like a mongoose wrestling a cobra. Then, with a tremendous rush, he pushed past all that.

The jester did not approach, this time. She danced about the room with grace. With every step that she took, the place became more and more alive. The flames grew just as quickly, Orion fanning them deliberately to free himself of his pursuit.

In not seconds, the once dead throne room became unrecognizable—a jungle of biting and tearing plants, burning and growing in equal measure. Yet when the jester stepped atop one of her own roots, she winced and spasmed, shocked by electricity from one of Orion’s numerous blessings. Orion took that brief moment to close the distance.

A spear of ice simply formed in his hand from the moisture in the air, and he thrust it towards her with caution, giving her combat prowess ample respect. Though she attempted to deflect it, the spear broke off at the tip, creating only another spike. She pulled her head aside, yet it cut into her ear and pushed the jester hat off, revealing silken brown hair.

With Orion close, she reached for his face. The jester succeeded only in brushing his beard, which immediately turned to plants resembling fly traps. The plants bit at his face with teeth far too sharp. As he tore them free, the jester fled once more, her bells ringing and chiming like an unspoken taunt.

She ran alongside the wall, running her hand against it as she moved. Innumerable obstacles rose to meet Orion as he rushed, yet he barreled past them like an industrial machine. She wove in between the pillars holding up the ceiling, changing her direction with practiced grace as she dodged around Orion.

Orion could not say how much time passed. His determination never waved, and he pursued the fool as intensely as he knew how. He brought all of his blessings to heel, seeking to catch up… yet he felt like a dog led about by the nose.

Eventually, the jester came to the center of the room. The pillars, which had been still, writhed to life. Four giant wooden hammers thrust out with tremendous speed, and though Orion dodged two, he could not dodge all. One struck him into another mallet that slammed him from above. He managed to stay standing, holding up a tremendous mass of wood. He threw it up, casting it aside with his tremendous strength, and moved to catch the jester.

Yet he did not foresee the ceiling collapsing. A great wave of stone and brick fell upon him. The main palace’s roof had been heavily ornamented, and the great weight of all these ornaments fell upon him. The jester dodged the bulk of it, having predicted this, and closed the distance.

She jammed the sharp back of her jester scepter into his gut. It sunk deep, piercing out his back. He saw her smile.

Yet Orion smiled too. “Finally,” he said, spitting blood.

He grabbed her arm so fiercely her smile faded in not half a second. He pulled, slamming his foot into her knee so hard it bent backwards. The movement made him cough yet more blood, and he deliberately spat it into her face.

Orion fell atop her, the jester’s scepter still lodged in his gut. He grabbed her neck and slammed it against the stone. The granite cracked, but her head remained intact. Greenery assailed him from all sides, piercing his back, his shoulders, his arms, his neck and head…

Yet Orion did nothing but slam his fist against her face time and time again. The ground cracked and dust scattered everywhere with each blow. She tried to hit him and hurt him, yet no damage deterred Orion. As his own flesh writhed into plant life and ate at him, it became a struggle simply to see who could kill who first.

The Plague Jester’s head gave into gore, and the struggle ceased. He kept slamming again and again, ensuring nothing remained. Only after a long while did he stop.

Orion rose to his feet, blood pouring from his mouth and staining his beard. Much of his flesh had been turned to plants from the jester’s touch, now dead and wilting after her demise. Hundreds of gashes and gouges in his back tried to heal, each doing so very slowly. He fell to one knee and spat yet more blood on the Plague Jester’s corpse.

As he knelt, he caught sight of the jester’s scepter still embedded into his gut. The mock head atop it made of silver still smiled up at him. He grabbed it with bloody hands and pulled it free. He stared at the scepter, doing nothing but catching his breath.

Ahead, something stirred. Orion lifted his head and stood at once. He had a hole in his gut the size of a fist, and his armor was so terribly damaged it was astounding it did not fall from his body.

The golden stag rose up out of the collapsed ceiling. It struggled against rubble, rocks and debris falling from its body. Most of the flames had been suppressed by the collapse, and the greenery died with the Plague Jester.

Orion walked forward towards the stag, his steps steady. Even now, his blood tried to make its way back inside of his body, dancing through the air from various portions of the room. Ahead, the stag’s golden fur turned to white ever so slowly, and its eyes regained its light. It watched Orion as he approached.

When Orion came to stand before it, expression inscrutable, its voice echoed out.

“Kill me,” Rastzintin asked earnestly, voice old and pathetic.

Orion probably did not need to be asked. He jammed the jester’s scepter between its eyes, and then its legs lost its power. It collapsed into the fallen palace, then turned all white. From its spot pierced into the stag’s skull, the mock head atop the jester’s scepter still smiled at him, half-covered in a bloody handprint. Orion’s gaze fell to where his uncle the Archduke sat.

Orion fell to one knee. Without so much as a grunt of pain, he rose once more. His gaze turned back where he knew Argrave and the rest of the expedition was.

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