The Mercenaries’ Tale – 1.16 Enter Abaddon
The circling ship levelled itself so that it was at an equal height to the conference room’s windows. It was a small ship, its interior crowded. Robed figures sat on benches lining the hold awaiting the time to land. A tall figure stood in the door which separated the hold from the cockpit. Another robed figure sat in the co-pilot’s seat, only they weren’t assisting the flight of the ship. They held onto a piece of string attached to a glowing crystal which slowly swung from side to side like a pendulum. There was a scrap of red cloth tied to the crystal. The figure chanted quietly to themselves. As the ship neared the conference room, the crystal began to move of its own accord, pointing towards the cruise ship.
“We have found him, my Lord. He is in there,” the chanting figure announced, pointing to the portion of the ship the crystal was pulling towards.
“Very good. Ramming speed, acolyte,” the standing figure announced, his voice deep and authoritative.
“Wh-what?” the pilot asked in disbelief, turning to look at the robed figure in dismay.
“You heard me, acolyte,” the robed figure ordered in a matter-of-fact tone. The pilot gulped and turned back to face the controls, following the command.
—
“…You both need to leave, now,” said Gratin authoritatively. Doug rolled the cigarette in his mouth around his lips as he guffawed.
“You’re both so bloody paranoid, it’s just an-”
The world shook. One of the walls sheared as the nose of a craft tore through it like a knife through paper. It continued to slide forward, the nose piercing the opposite wall as the airship squeezed itself into the room and sat itself on the conference room floor, crushing the bodies of several Mafioso corpses in the process. Debris rained down from the ceiling as the roof of the aircraft tore through it.
“-airship,” Doug finished, looking at the airship in front of him as the cigarette fell from his gaping lips. It was a small ten-man craft designed for speed and painted black. There was an unfamiliar emblem painted on the side panel, stylised flames wrapped around a ornate magnifying glass. There was a hiss as the panel ejected steam, and then it fell open, revealing stairs on its interior. A tall figure in a burgundy robe stepped down the metal stairs carefully, and then hopped the short gap between the stairs and the room’s floor. He turned to regard the mercs, his features hidden within the shadow of his robe’s hood. The figure pointed at Gratin.
“I have come for you,” he announced. He had an odd inflection, emphasising words randomly as he spoke. A linguistic quirk. The pointing hand returned to his side. “Where are the ones known as Doug McCracken and Blaise?” he asked.
Doug and Blaise looked around them. Aside from Gratin and the figure there was nobody else in the surrounding area, save for corpses.
“Er, that’s us,” Doug volunteered. Blaise rolled her eyes at this admission.
“Ah. You two must be destroyed,” the figure boomed casually.
“Cheers,” Doug replied. Blaise punched him in the shoulder.
“Idiot!” she muttered.
Several cloaked figures stepped out of the ship and took their places either side of the first robed figure, presumably their master. Rehearsed or not, it was intimidating. Doug and Blaise pre-emptively began backing towards the door. Gratin stepped forward.
“Run, now!” he warned, a ball of green flame appearing in his hand. He swung it underhand at the robed crew, and it sped across the conference room. It didn’t connect with its target, instead bursting apart a metre from the leading figure against an invisible wall, spluttering into nothing. The robed figure laughed and crossed his arms.
“Ha! Kill the humans, leave Brother Gratin to me! Go!” he ordered. Doug and Blaise were already out of the room and pegging it down the corridor. The cloaked peons all scattered, some leaping out through the new airship-shaped hole in the rubble that had been a wall five minutes prior and others disappearing in clouds of smoke. Gratin flexed his fingers and then made fists.
“Abaddon…” he murmured under his breath.
—
Doug and Blaise hurtled down the corridor with little regard for the other passengers milling about. Blaise was the faster of the two mercs and had developed a lead over Doug. She nimbly dodged and sidestepped those in her way, bursting through the double doors at the end of the hall that led to the stairwell. From there, she took cover and provided covering fire for Doug as he attempted to catch up with her. He was less agile than she was, opting to barge through crowds and knock people over rather than waste energy going around them.
He was aware that the acolytes were chasing them due to the shouts at the end of the corridor. He could hear the ‘fwoosh’ of fire spells being thrown around and the following screams and smell of burning flesh. Some of the bystanders had been hit. He didn’t take the time to inspect the damage, instead focusing on reaching the doors. He ran through them and sprinted up the stairs, Blaise following closely. They managed to climb up two flights before Doug began to run out of breath. Blaise, quickly realising her partner wouldn’t be able to run much further, led him through the nearest set of doors, the duo taking cover on the other side whilst he caught his breath again.
“Are you armed?” asked Blaise as soon as his breathing evened out. She wasn’t looking at him, instead keeping watch on the stairwell through a pane of glass fitted into the door. Doug looked at his stump and then scowled at her.
“Are you taking the piss?” he replied angrily.
“Just take this!” Blaise snapped, picking an emergency derringer out of a holster hidden in her boot and tossing it at him. Doug caught it and looked at it in contempt.
“Faust1, Red, this thing’s so tiny I’m frightened I’m gonna break it!” he complained.
“Oh shut up and shoot!” she snapped, as some of the robed minions appeared on the stairwell. She fired a warning shot to keep them at bay, one mage having to be pulled back by his compatriots in order to avoid being shot in the head. Blaise remained focused on the stairwell, prepared to fire at the first sign of movement. Doug, however, was more concerned with what was happening further down the corridor.
A collection of tiny lights each the size of a firefly phased into existence, hovering in the middle of the space, the tiny light particles slowly being drawn together. They burst into flames the moment they touched, an acolyte stumbling forth from the blaze. He hopped forward in order to avoid falling on his face, clasping his hands onto the wall to steady himself. He sighed with relief, then glanced towards the mercs who were staring at him in surprise. There was a pause, the acolyte suddenly remembering that these were the people he was supposed to be killing. He clapped his hands together and then turned them so that his palms were facing the mercs.
“Embers of wrath, hear my call…” he chanted, tiny flames beginning to form in front of his palms.
“Oh shit!” Doug swore. Blaise was already scrambling past him, towards the closest door that didn’t lead to more mages, Doug following suit. Unfortunately this turned out to be a janitor’s closet, the two mercs hiding behind the open door in the vain hope it would provide some form of cover against whatever manner of spell was about to be flung their way.
“Grant unto me your power and…um…grant power and…and…” the acolyte fumbled, the flames beginning to flicker in and out of existence.
Behind their door, Doug and Blaise shared a confused look.
“…Bloody pillock’s forgotten the words,” Doug summarised.
“You just can’t get the homicidal mages these days,” Blaise added, deadpan.
The acolyte continued attempting to finish the spell.
“Grant power…something about enemies…oh! I remember-” they never found out if he had the correct chant as Doug stepped out from his cover and opened fire. He used two bullets, the first hitting the mage in the left shoulder, the second in the right side of his chest, the mage collapsing into a heap.
A second mage choose this moment to rush out from the stairwell, arms outstretched with a flaming ball of magic blazing in her hand.
“…purge thy enemies and relinquish-argh!” she yelled, tripping over the prone body of her fallen comrade, her spell freeing itself from her flailing arm and arching down the corridor as she fell victim to gravity. Doug threw himself to the ground to avoid being hit, the blast impacting the far wall. Blaise then leant out from behind the closet door and plugged a bullet into the female mage’s brainpan. The moment the bullet entered the woman’s skull, her arm spontaneously combusted, the flames rapidly engulfing her entire figure until nothing was left.
“Woah,” Doug muttered, shocked. He didn’t have time to dwell on the combusting mage as a low moan caught his attention.
The first mage was crawling to his feet, clutching at his chest wound with his left arm whilst he propped himself up with his right.
“Aargh! That bloody hurt, you prat!” the mage complained as he locked eyes with an irritated Doug. The acolyte shifted his balance so that he was on his knees and pointed his good arm in Doug’s direction, a fresh spell igniting in his palm.
“I’ll fucking have you! Embers of wrath-” there was a loud bang, a bullet cutting through his throat like a knife through butter. The mage tumbled over, combusting the moment he touched the floor. Doug peered round to see Blaise leaning around the closet door, pistol still smoking from the shot.
“Well don’t just lie there like an idiot, we’ve got to keep moving!” she scolded, waiting for him to get up. Doug did so, checking the derringer’s bullet chamber as he went. He only had two shots left.
“I hate to say it, Love, but this ain’t gonna end well if this is all I’ve got to work with,” he pointed out as he frowned at the tiny pistol. It looked like a toy in his large hand.
“I know. Your room isn’t too far from here. Do you think you’ll be able to make do until we get you your arm back?” Blaise replied, keeping watch for more acolytes whilst she found her bearings.
“I’ll have to, won’t I? I just wish I knew where my gun was. It’ll be more useful than this crappy little thing,” Doug complained as he began to jog towards Blaise, who was starting to lead the way forward.
“It’s in my room.” Doug hadn’t been expecting her to have an answer.
“What the hell’s it doing in there?” he wondered in surprise. Blaise came to a halt and gave him a calculating look.
“…How much do you remember about last night?” she asked, an odd look on her face. Doug thought she looked almost worried about him.
“Not a lot after the eighth pint if I’m honest.”
Blaise continued to study him as he answered before seemingly making her mind up about something as they heard yelling coming from the stairs.
“Well we don’t have time to get you up to speed now. We’ve gotta go!” she announced, taking off down the hall. Doug frowned as he followed. She was hiding something and he didn’t like it.
- Faustus Christ was the son of the Devil, who sold his soul to a higher power in order to gain eternal life. Not to be confused with Doctor Jesus, the brilliant scholar born in a barn under a North Star who went on to cure the lame and the blind with his awesome science. Historians often debate which of the two originated as a play and which originated as religion, many favouring the former as deriving from ‘The Magical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Jesus’, and the latter being Faustianity. A rare few historians theorise that both were actually completely different entities that may have merged into the bastardised versions popularised in the present, but they have since been discredited as ‘talking a lot of old bollocks, don’t be so bloody stupid’.
The term ‘Faust’ is a term often uttered in annoyance or surprise and is considered blasphemous by the Church of Latter-day Faustianity. Variations include ‘Faustus Christ!’, ‘Faustus!’ and ‘Christ!’. ↩
Post by Sean Patrick Payne | November 13, 2013 at 12:00 pm | The Mercenaries' Tale | No comment
Tags: Abaddon, Blaise, Doug McCracken, Faustus Christ, Gratin, magic and mages, the Galactic Finders of the Tserulian Monastery, the Mercs