Chapter 57 – A Lack of Mussels
They returned to the guild soon after the priestess left, neither victorious nor defeated but exhausted all the same. ósma found them on their way back, pale and sweating as he struggled to catch up with them. Palmira was horrified to see the injuries he’d taken, and it was only thanks to the Rodina girl at all that he was firmly stabilized and able to be moved to a safe location.
Originally they’d planned to return to the piazza with the guildmaster, but he’d taken one look at them and—after hearing a quick report—sent them all home, along with the majority of the other members. He’d remained behind along with Teresa and Leo to organize the remaining adventurers, but from what he told them the worst had now passed.
At some point while they were making their way back through the city the attacks stopped, the Demon Lord either running out of corrupted people to toss into the grinder or simply deciding they’d wasted enough bodies. Or, if her interaction with Rosalina had any weight, he may have simply been chased out by a much larger threat.
Regardless, they were no longer needed out on the streets, much to the exhausted adventurers’ relief. Stumbling into her tiny room late at night Palmira flopped face-first onto her bed, asleep before she hit the pillow.
That night she dreamed of a presence deep and dark. It clung to the edges of her thoughts, poking and prodding in ways that dug jagged canyons through her skull. It was vile and grand and all-consuming, an ancient evil which seemed impossible to defeat.
But before it could harm her a figure appeared, bright and comforting and sharp. It batted away the tendrils of the dark thing wherever it appeared, slicing soulless horrors and suffering not and inch to be lost in their deadly dance. For an eon and not they fought, neither faltering and neither gaining ground.
In the twilight of her waking dreams she witnessed a battle between light and dark which eclipsed all she had ever known before. And yet she felt no awe nor terror, only a bone-deep weariness and a desperate desire for it all to be over so she could just sleep.
When she woke up the next morning the sun was high in the sky, and she felt no more rested than when she went to bed.
“Well,” Morte’s voice lurched into her thoughts, sounding as exhausted as she felt. “That sucked.”
“Mrgh,” she agreed, wondering if she could just stay in bed all day. It wasn’t like anyone would blame her—even without the attack, people would normally spend this morning sleeping off hangovers.
The third day of All Saint’s Day was the Day of Martyrs, honoring all of those who died for the faith. The morning was supposed to be a quiet time, where people relaxed to wear off the previous night’s festivities and respect the honored dead while they waited for night to come. There a religious procession led by ghostly saints and martyrs would be paraded through the streets, the living symbolically following after.
Normally she even considered the event fun, but Palmira didn’t want to celebrate the dead tonight. Not when she barely felt alive herself.
Unfortunately, she didn’t get a choice. Her body had long since worked off of early mornings, and with the sun beating down on her through the window she found it impossible to even lie listlessly in bed.
That didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. Grabbing her stuffed lion she tossed and turned, squeezing her eyelids shut as she attempted to sleep the morning away.
She failed. After what felt like hours but was in reality only a few minutes she found herself fully awake and face down on her pillow. The sheer boredom had already gotten to her, and with a groan she blearily rose to her feet, snatching up her living weapons and stumbling out of her room.
Now somewhat awake she realized how hungry she was, her stomach suddenly feeling like a cavernous pit. Out of instinct she prepared to ignore the feeling, before the gears in her head clicked and she remembered that she got free breakfasts these days.
Turning on a dime she marched to the dining hall, her stomach growling loudly as though happy it was getting fed. She found the place emptier than she’d expected, most of the guild likely either still asleep or out dealing with the mess in the rest of the city. Seeing none of her friends up yet she instead slunk up to the bar, where Bettina was cleaning a glass across from a predictably sloshed Charles.
Come to think of it, Palmira couldn’t remember ever seeing the woman outside of the bar. Did she even sleep?
Regardless, as the elderly woman caught her eye as she slumped into a seat next to the old knight. Giving her a commiserating smile the barkeep simply moved over to the kitchen to grab her her breakfast.
While the woman worked Charles gave her a look out of the corner of his eye, something easy to do with how both of his eyes were looking in different directions. “Huh… so you survived, eh Three Dukes?”
She twitched at the nickname, but nodded. “Yeah,” she sighed, before his words fully registered. “Wait, does the reason you’re asking mean someone from our guild died?”
“Eh? Nah, nobody I knew at least,” he shrugged, knocking back another glass of wine in a way that would horrify anyone who actually knew how to drink a chardonnay. “Unless you count the Ambrosi’s Space Elf, but between you and me he had it coming, the cocky shit. But despite our best efforts nobody from our guild died, even if we had a few close calls. You could call us lucky I suppose, though it’s easy enough to be lucky when you aren’t the target.”
He fell silent after that, and Palmira was too tired to pester him further. Instead she simply stewed in half-formed thoughts as she swayed on her stool, barely keeping awake. She found herself expecting Morte to try and make conversation as he normally did, but her staff remained silent, an uneasy quiet remaining between them.
Luckily though she didn’t have to wait much longer.
Bettina came back a little bit later, bringing along a platter of food that had Palmira near drooling with envy. A thick slice of Frittata Firozzizine took up the center, surrounded by a steaming croissant drizzled with jam and honey, a set of a half dozen steamed spiced mussels, and two almond biscottini along with a small bowl of Vin Santo to dip. The Frittata itself was a deep black—not burned, but rather made with the black eggs of a cockatrice fried and filled with bright red pork, smooth goat cheese and diced mandrake leaves topped with the sweet red sap of the Linfa Trees of the north.
It was a decadent dish, the kind of thing that only the wealthy could afford to regularly eat for breakfast. Something that even if she could afford she wouldn’t order lest the sheer expense ruin her appetite.
Which made it all the more shocking when Bettina set down the platter in front of her, a small foaming cappuccino joining quickly after.
The food smelled divine—her eyes snapped up to the barkeep, narrowing in confusion. “This… isn’t the free meal…?”
The elderly woman placed a finger over her lips and winked. “What the guildmaster doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Think of it as my own little reward for surviving the night. Eat it quickly though—no telling when he gets back.”
That was all the encouragement she needed.
Eyes watering from the smell alone she hesitantly grabbed her fork, unsure of where to start. A part of her didn’t even want to touch it, as though she could somehow wrap the food up and save it forever. As if the mere act of eating would ruin it.
The more practical part of her had her go for the mussels first. Shellfish required a half-starved desperation to open that she wouldn’t have once she was full.
As she dug into her decadent meal lumbering footsteps sounded behind her. So engrossed in eating she didn’t even notice until the person sat down next to her with a heavy thud.
Glancing up—crackling fingers in the middle of shoving a charred mussel in her mouth—Palmira’s wide eyes met her mentor’s tired squint.
ósma broke eye contact first, instead slumping against the bar with a frustrated grimace on his face. He looked exhausted, the old orc appearing to have aged a decade in the last few days. But more than his face her eyes instead dropped to the stump where his arm once was, its absence louder than any condemnation he could have given her.
Her appetite instantly left her. The memories of what happened last night slammed into her like a truck, the horrifying visage of her nearly dead mentor leaning against a fence a sight that will remain with her until her dying day.
The shellfish she’d just ate climbed back into her throat. It was her fault. If she hadn’t run ahead…
“You shouldn’t have given that to her,” ósma grunted, gesturing to the platter set before her. “She split from the group despite explicit orders not to last night—that deserves punishment, not a reward.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“She also nearly died last night as well, I’d say that’s punishment enough,” Bettina shrugged, the old woman setting out a slice of shepard’s pie and small glass of red wine for the orc. “Besides, look at the girl, she’d beating herself up enough as is! She’s learned her lesson, don’t you think?”
ósma sighed, making an aborted motion to rub his forehead with his missing arm. “We can’t afford to splurge on this, not with our current budget,” he reminded her, though his heart wasn’t in it. “If we do this for every adventurer that nearly dies we’ll go bankrupt within a week.”
“Well I’ve already made it, so we can’t just undo it. Especially now that the old time mage is dead!” she cackled lightly at her own joke before gesturing to the drunk knight on Palmira’s other side. “Besides, Charles here has already agreed to add it to his tab. Isn’t he such a sweety?”
Said man blinked, jerking suddenly when he heard his name. “I’m doing what?”
The old orc sighed once again, rolling his eyes as he simply let it go. He was about to start on his own breakfast when a small hand grabbed hesitantly at his sleeve.
“ósma?” Palmira whispered, flinching as his attention turned on her. “I… I’m sorry… I didn’t…”
“You didn’t think,” he finished for her, both stern and tired as she felt. “I’m fully aware. …But you’re also young and stupid and learning. We’ve all been there, much as we might try to forget.”
She flinched again, clenching and unclenching her fists. Smoke poured from between her fingers. “Is there anything I can do…?”
ósma gave her a long look, before huffing. “Aye, in fact there is,” he placed a massive hand on her head and wiggled it back and forth, ignoring as she frantically tried to put out her burning hair. “I have in my office all twelve volumes of the Adventurer’s Guidebook. For the next month you are going to report there where you will read every single one front to back until you have it memorized. Understood?”
Palmira nodded once he removed his hand, more confused than anything. “Yes…? Um, is that really all…?”
“…No, there is one more thing,” he locked eyes with her seriously. Twisting his body he forced her to look at the stump that was once his arm. “See this? This was the consequence of disregarding your orders. It could have been much worse—it also could have been much better. Regardless, our job is to eliminate the potential for any such consequences to be possible at all. Therefore, I want you to promise me something. Next time we’re in a fight and your emotions get all riled up, I want you to remember this. Remember this and let it cool that hot head of yours and think. Can you promise me that?”
Staring at her mentor’s injury she couldn’t do anything other than nod. “I promise,” she rasped, boiling tears burning the corners of her eyes. “I swear, I promise.”
“Now look what you’ve done,” Bettina scoffed, whacking the massive orc with a damp dishrag. “You’ve gone and made her cry!”
“I didn’t mean to—it’s an important lesson!” ósma spluttered, struggling to fend off the assault with one arm. “Gah—would you stop that woman! Let me eat in peace!”
The sight drew Palmira out of her own spiral, causing her to giggle slightly. Turning back to her own meal she left her mentor to her fate, only to frown slightly as she realized something.
Ah, over that conversation her food had gone cold.
Well, no matter. Warming up her hands she reheated the meal quickly, ignoring Charles’ jealous glare as she started on the Frittata. It was as tasty as she’d hoped—a bit crispier than intended, perhaps, but that only added to it in her opinion.
As they ate the rest of the guild slowly fumbled their ways down the stairs. Chiara and Lamezia came down a bit later, the former grumpy from lack of sleep and because she missed most of the action. The twins came in with a scowling Anima, the three of them immediately beelining for the bar. Lorenzo, notably, did not appear until much later and had a pep in his step that instantly made her suspicious. Last and certainly least was Johanna, who was still asleep and dragged in foot-first by a cheerfully unrepentant Matthias.
Before she realized it the whole guild was accounted for, idling around the dining hall with undirected energy as they waited for something.
They didn’t have to wait long.
The doors burst open and all conversation paused as the Guildmaster suddenly walked in. Flanked by Teresa and Leo he stormed across the dining hall, shoulders drooping and eyebags down to his cheeks. Yet despite his grim demeanor there was an energy of satisfaction about him, the kind that came from a job well done—with emphasis on the done part.
Within moments he was at his usual spot in the hall, the two adventurers who’d followed him pealing off so they could crash in their own seats.
“Right! Everyone listen up!” he called out, a bit louder than he might have intended. Not that he needed to, with all eyes already on him. “I have lots to report on the state of the crisis and only until the caffeine leaves my system to tell you it all. So I’m going to talk, you’re all going to shut up and listen, and then I’m going to my room to sleep for the rest of the week. Am I understood?”
There was a general murmur of assent, much more agreeable than normal. Perhaps after how he’d stood up and took charge during the crisis he’d earned some more respect from the adventurers under his command.
Or maybe they were just all too tired to care.
“Good!” he snapped, before sighing. “Right, first things first: the reason I’m able to come back now is that all of the civilians and adventurers trapped in the coliseum have been freed!”
There was a relieved cheer at that, a small part of the gloomy atmosphere lightening as smiles crossed everyone’s faces at the news.
The guildmaster let them get it out of their systems before continuing. “We were able to work with some of the mages both inside and out to establish a workable path to guide everybody out of the building. The last civilians were freed a few hours ago and most of my time after was spent handing things off to the surviving Ambrosi leadership so I could return here. Though to be clear the space-time anomaly caused by the confirmed death of Raum von Weldtraumstadt has not been successfully fixed yet. It’s still declared a hazardous zone by the city and will likely be so for the foreseeable future.”
Things sobered up a bit at that piece of information. The fact that there was now a part of the city cordoned off was a depressing—if not painfully familiar—byproduct of conflict between powerful mages. In a way they were lucky that the losses were comparatively light. There were stories of towns having been wiped off the map by a wizard with an axe to grind.
“The Demon Lord Nytheloph likewise is assumed to have left the city. We are however unsure if or how many more corrupted plants remain, and as such the Signora has sent out a mandate that every single living being in Firozzi and it’s surrounding territories is to be tested and purified by a powerful priest. They have also sent recommendations to our allies abroad to do the same. Punishment for avoiding these tests range from a seizure of assets if you are not corrupted to execution if you are, under the assumption that anyone who declines is working with the Demons anyway. We are also not allowed to test ourselves due to the risk of corruption—either bureaucratic or demonic—causing the city to miss anything.”
There was some grumbling at that, though nobody spoke up too loudly. It was a reasonable precaution, for all that the lack of trust was grating.
“Similarly, as has recently been revealed, the Demon Lord Aethric the Lich-King has been confirmed to be no longer deceased,” there were despairing groans at that reveal. His territory had long been closest to the border, so his death had been a great comfort to most of them beyond the passing of one of the remaining Demon Lords. “He was seen in the possession of Rosalina the Priestess, who we believe he has fully corrupted.”
If the reveal of the Lich-King had brought about despair, the reveal of Rosalina’s complicity brought about rage.
“The Priestess was corrupted!? If even someone like her fell, are any of us safe?”
“I wouldn’t have thought… I saw her a month ago and she looked fine…!”
“What the fuck, how dare she!?”
“So even the damn Lich-King can corrupt people now!?”
“QUIET!” the guildmaster roared, before coughing heavily. Gratefully accepting a drink from Bettina while they all settled down he shouted again, “Everyone shut up!”
They didn’t naturally, and he was forced to down the whole glass before he could shout at them again. Once the volume in the room had lowered to a reasonable point, he finally sighed. “Yes, I’m as horrified as the rest of you! But we have learned this information from a credible source,” his eyes darted to Palmira, which naturally caused everyone else to turn to her until ósma glared at them to turn back. “And more importantly, this is not something we can allow to fester. The Ambrosi, the Capparelli, and even the Generalli are in agreement here. As this goes beyond petty politics a report has been sent out to everyone from the Lady Pontiff to the Empress of the Holy Volan Empire on her new status as persona non grata. Ideally, with all of us working together we’ll starve her out long before she becomes a true threat.”
He didn’t sound convinced of that, and few of the adventurers did either. Whether it was the power of the person they were talking about, the politics at hand, or simply the fact that a zombie didn’t need food, one thing everyone could agree on was that this wasn’t going to end so easily.
“There is one last thing I’d like to inform you all of tonight—this morning, and it is likely the thing which effects our guild most,” he took a deep breath, looking terribly solemn. Despite herself Palmira found herself leaning in to listen closely, an action mirrored by the rest of the guild. “Due to the attack on the coliseum and its now defunct state the rest of the Tournament of Ghosts has been obviously been cancelled. However, as the majority of the guilds had already fought, it was decided among everyone—except the Ambrosi—that a victor could still be decided amongst the guilds who fought. And after tallying up the points, the winner was clear to all.”
A wide, almost manic grin stretched across the guildmaster’s face.
“Thanks to the attack on the city, the Rosa Dominae Guild has won the Tournament of Ghosts by default!”
There was a beat of silence, and then—
“HELL YEAH!” Johanna roared, jumping up on one of the tables in a burst of freezing air. “FUCK THE AMBROSI!”
The guildhall exploded with noise. Cheering and shouting over each other every voice gleefully meshed together into an incomprehensible celebratory gibberish.
The only person who could be distinctly heard over the cacophony was Matthias, booming “BY DEFAULT! BY DEFAULT!” across the guildhall between chugs of a bottle and rude gestures at the not present Rodina Guild.
The cheer was quickly taken up by everyone in the room, a wave of sound and manic energy from a group of people who were both sleep deprived and drunk as hell. This was followed by a veritable tide of people crashing against the bar, grabbing whatever alcohol was within reach—and even some that wasn’t—as they got ready for the biggest bender the guild would ever see.
ósma sighed as he seemed to realize this. “They’re going to be partying all day, aren’t they?”
“Hell yeah we are,” Charles ground out, dropping his glass to simply start chugging straight from the bottle. “Oi! Barkeep! This is a special occasion, and I want to get so wasted I forget my own name! Get me your best port, on the double!”
“A port!?” the old orc turned to the aging knight incredulously. “Who the hell gets drunk on port!?”
Palmira giggled, relaxing back in her seat. Despite how awful she’d felt this morning, as the rest of the guild celebrated she couldn’t help but join in, the festive atmosphere raising her spirits to new heights.
It was nice, to know all their work hadn’t been for nothing.
Huh, maybe this was why adventurers partied so much.
Eventually, however, she had to beg off. Not that she wanted to leave, but given she only had a few hours before the nightly festival (that may or may not still be happening, she still wasn’t clear on that) there was something else she wanted to get done before the end of the day.
Morte had promised her a story, after all, and she was going to hear all of it.
fire alarm I didn’t have as much time to write as I was hoping. It’s now been fixed, though there will still likely be a break this next week as I’m going on vacation and won’t have as much time to write. So expect the next update on the 21st.
