The Mercenaries’ Tale – 1.17 Mercs vs Mages

The lead mage, Abaddon, smirked at his prey.

“So, my Brother, it’s been a while,” he announced, moving to lower his hood.

Judging by his prominent cheekbones and strong jawline, he once could have been considered attractive. However, time had not been kind to him. His skin was pock-marked; the left side of his face could double as a reference guide to the various types of burn scars the human body could endure. His nose looked like it had been broken dozens of times in the past. He had cauliflower ears. His blonde hair was matted, greasy and unkempt. His left eye was lazy due to the amount of damage that side of his face had withstood over the years, and he only had the one eyebrow.

“When did we last meet?” he asked.

“…Two years ago, Planet Greglath’s fourth moon,” Gratin reluctantly suggested.

“Ah yes. I believe you were planning on taking sanctuary in the Basilica¹. You put up a noble fight. Such a shame it was cut short.”

“Hmm.” Gratin’s muscles were tensed up, anticipating an attack.

“And now I find you here, of all places. I must say I am perplexed, Brother! Why are you following these pathetic mortals? Tell me, do they know who you truly are?” said Abaddon, studying Gratin’s reactions carefully.

“…They only know what I’ve told them,” the merc responded, uncomfortable with the line of questioning.

“Then this is far more perplexing than I first thought! Why are you here, of all places, when you could have established yourself in any Elementist community? With your talents, you could have claimed a prominent position! Instead, I find you living amongst these…peasants!”

“You know perfectly well that not only do I hold no interest in wielding that kind of power, the Monastery would have been alerted the moment I tried to integrate myself and you would have come for me.” There was a hint of anger in Gratin’s voice, his fists clenching tighter.

“Hmm, fair point Brother. Even so, when was the last time you were able to cut loose and unleash your true power? Playing with the common man must be so dull. You must be itching for a true challenge.”

“I’ve never been as bloodthirsty as you, Abaddon. You are a disgrace to the name Tserulia.”

“No, Brother! You are the disgrace!” spat Abaddon. “You have been disowned, fallen below Acheron in the eyes of the Grand Master! And so it falls to me to remedy your wretched existence! Have at thee, Brother!”

Abaddon jerked his hand forward, a jet of flame blasting forth from it like a flame thrower, the attack rushing towards Gratin. The merc sidestepped, raising his arm and concentrating on imposing his will upon the fire, the attack following his arm in an arc around him. It passed behind the mage’s back and looped around, Gratin flinging it back at its creator. Abaddon wasn’t worried by this, catching the jetstream and separating the flames into his palms, flinging the split attack to the ground. Abaddon sneered as the conference room’s carpet was set alight, and summoned more fireballs in his fists. He flung them at Gratin as he charged, closing the gap between them in a split-second. Gratin dodged the first blast, summoned one of his own whilst simultaneously slapping the second off course, causing it to impact and smoulder fiercely against the wall. He unleashed his emerald blast on Abaddon, who was forced to duck to the left mid-swing, his right fist clenched and ignited.

The punch fell short, Gratin back-peddling as Abaddon continued to move forward offensively, his left fist also igniting as he swiped at his quarry. Gratin grabbed Abaddon’s forearm with his right and slammed his left palm into the mage’s gut, firing a blast into it that sent Abaddon flying across the room and through the wall, into the corridor beyond.

Abaddon chuckled as he picked himself up, dust and plaster gently falling from his shoulders.

“Heh, good show Brother. I’m glad to see your reflexes haven’t dulled with time,” he remarked. Gratin didn’t reply, instead bracing himself for the next barrage. Abaddon continued to chuckle. “Yes, yes. Very good. Again!” He flung his arm out towards the rapidly spreading fire consuming the conference room floor. Suddenly, the flames doubled in intensity. They grew to the ceiling and then cascaded forward like a tidal wave, rushing at Gratin. All he could do to defend himself was to summon a spirit shield. The liquid-flame lashed against the barrier, completely smothering it at Abaddon’s command and threatening to break through and incinerate the mage inside. It took a great deal of strain to keep the shield up against the mounting pressure. Abaddon hacked out a sneering chuckle from his mouth as he manipulated the flames, comfortable in the assumption that Gratin’s shield would fail at any given moment. The assumption didn’t account for a sudden explosion of power from his rival. Green flames burst forth from the surface of the shield, counteracting Abaddon’s spell.

Gratin stood at the centre of the swirling vortex of flame, surveying his pursuer.

“You made a mistake in coming here,” Gratin boomed.

“No, Brother, you made a mistake in thinking you could fight the inevitable. I shall defeat you.”

Gratin cracked his neck in response, preparing for the next barrage of attacks.

—

The hallway the mercs were running along emerged out on to another strip of exterior deck. Taking the lead, Doug paused to look up towards the direction of his room. The ship was a series of winding balconies wrapped around tall structures that made up the ship. His room was somewhere three or four floors up. From their position, they could see the back of the smaller aircraft sticking out of the conference hall a few decks below, wedged tight like a tick nuzzling into the flesh of a bigger host creature.

Blaise took the initiative, guns pointed ahead in expectation. She nodded Doug in the direction of the nearest set of stairs, entering yet another hallway. They made it five feet in before a ball of flame whizzed past Doug’s shoulder from behind. Two mages had materialised at the end of the corridor behind them, and up ahead three more were mounting a charge (or, in the very least, a limp, reluctant gait).

“I’ll take the three!” announced Doug, aiming the Derringer at the trio in front, the gun dwarfed by the size of his hand. Blaise began unloading bullets at the sneak attack from behind, causing the two mages to jump for cover – one behind an alcove within the right-hand wall, the other behind a steel bin screwed to the left side of the hallway. Doug opened fire with the Derringer, which was enough to cause two of the trio to at least hug the walls. The third caught a pellet somewhere in the abdomen and went down swearing. With a grunt Doug leaned back, arm prepped to catapult the small, useless gun in his hand. Blaise’s eyes widened as she glanced to her side to see what Doug was doing.

“Don’t you dare!” she snapped. Doug immediately straightened up. He shrugged and sniggered, slipping the Derringer back into her coat pocket, and then giving it a reassuring pat just to show it was safe and sound. On the cue of a sudden hot fuzzing noise, Doug grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her a step to the side as another orb of flame crackled past her head. The two mercs nodded at each other and then returned their attentions to the mages surrounding them.

Blaise sounded off a volley of shots at the corner of the hallway alcove, just to keep that one mage at bay. She did the same for the other, the bullets zinging off and denting the steel bin. An idea struck, she aimed one of the pistols at one of the fresh dents in the bin and fired off three shots. The first embedded itself in the bin, the second bouncing off limply. The third hit the dent at just the right angle, the tip of the bullet following the curve of the bin. It ricocheted, finding its new path intersecting with the torso of the mage hiding in the alcove, who cried out and slumped forward, writhing around briefly and then opting for solace in a quiet, dignified, motionless death as he bled out on to the carpet. That was his plan at least, had his arm hadn’t decided to wreath him in flame for a timely cremation, prompting him to flail around and scream in agony at the top of his lungs.

Doug was closing the gap between himself and the three mages. It was like some deadly game of dodgeball, and the mages had the disadvantage of not being particularly gifted throwers. Doug quickly noted that, despite being of a magical nature, the balls of fire still obeyed the laws of physics – they had arcs and felt the effects of gravity. With little trouble he ducked under and sidestepped two or three of the repetitive attacks. The two standing mages were backing off back down the corridor, leaving the third with the pellet in his stomach to groan and claw at the floor.

Doug paused to look down at the wretch at his feet. Realising that the mage wasn’t just making gurgling noises and was actually trying to say some sort of chant under his breath, Doug remorselessly booted the man in the teeth. The sounds that followed were now definitely just gurgles. With a grin he advanced on the other two, who opted to flee back down the hallway.

Blaise continued exchanging bullets for fireballs with the last remaining mage in the hallway. The carpet around her was now irreparably marked with black smears, the occasional sprout of flame here and there. She holstered one of the pistols and took a moment to reload the other, her back to one of the walls. With a fresh magazine, she aimed at the bin. The moment a hand appeared over the top, she nailed it in the palm; the orange glow in the centre had been more than enough of a bullseye to aim for. There was a howl as blood cascaded like a sprinkler over the bin, and what was left of the hand quickly shot back behind cover.

“YOU BITCH!” the mage shrieked. “T-THAT WAS MY MAGIC HAND!”

Blaise smiled.

“Not anymore,” she said.

“F-FLAMES OF INTENSE A-ANGER AND DEFIAN-” the mage yelled. Another hand appeared from behind the bin, this one the opposite from the last, but with the same orange glow. Without even trying this time, Blaise nailed it in the palm, much to the same reaction as last time.

“GODS DAMMIT AARRRRGGHH” came the response. With the mage cowering behind the bin, both hands clasped against his sticky, blood smeared robes, Blaise decided he wasn’t worth any further bullets and strode off after Doug.

Doug emerged from the hallway into a wider room with adjoining stairs. He instinctively jerked to the right as a stream of heat coursed past his shoulder. He patted at the small flame that appeared on his jacket shoulder next to his stump, and noted the two mages had now been joined by another; they were stood behind this third mage, cheering him on. This mage, who had a little badge pinned to his robes on his chest in the shape of a small flame with the number ‘3’ embossed on to it, had both hands outstretched into a clasping ball shape, from which black smoke billowed.

“Oh, so you guys do have more than one attack!” said Doug. The badge mage just grinned and held his hands towards Doug expectantly.

“Unleash unrelenting flame!” he quickly incanted. At the same time, Doug dived into a roll across the room, narrowly avoiding two fireballs and the line of flame that engulfed the floor and walls. Landing on his feet, he shouldered the fire extinguisher hung on the wall next to the stairs off its bracket, slipped the tank under his one arm and clumsily thumbed out the safety pin. He spun around, gripping the nozzle in his one hand, and fired viscous white fluid at the oncoming stream of fire flying his way. The badge mage was swallowed up by thick, pure white foam, the fire quickly dampened out of existence. The two lesser fireball mages watched on as their ally slipped on the wood floor under the torrent of white sludge, cracking his head on the floor and slipping into unconsciousness as the foam mounded up around him, obscuring his features.

“That’s not fair!” whined one of the fireball mages.

“Not my fault you guys can be disarmed with basic safety equipment,” replied Doug, the foam from the nozzle now slowing to a drip as the tank emptied. Doug allowed the tank to slip down his arm on to the floor, at his side. He sniffed. “Oh, that’s reminds me, safety first!”

Gripping the top of the tank, he swung his arm and caught one of the mages across the face, sending them flying into the stairs. He slapped the other one over the top of the head with the backswing, caving in the front of the guy’s face. The mage on the stairs, ears ringing from the heavy metal tank connecting with his head, tried his best to piece together some sort of chant. Standing over him, Doug introduced the mage’s jaw to the underside of the tank a few times, followed by a kiss to the nose and eyes just for good measure. The mage twitched as his pulpy face belched blood and he slipped into a pain coma.

Blaise appeared next to Doug at the foot of the stairs, looking at the twitching bodies around her.

“I think I was destined to be a fire-fighter in another life,” remarked Doug.

“Fire-fighters are supposed to help people, not leave them bleeding out on the floor,” replied Blaise nonchalantly as she observed the mage with the caved-in face combust.

“Hmm, maybe not then. Come on.”

Pausing only to let Doug attempt to fruitlessly pat down the one un-incinerated mage for a wallet, both mercs proceeded up the staircase. Blaise noticed that Doug was still carrying the fire extinguisher with intent.

—

There was only one acolyte that wasn’t currently giving chase to the mercenaries: the pilot. He was also the only mage of the squad not to practise fire magic; a little upwards-pointing triangular pin with a line intersecting the tip distinguished him as an air mage². Currently, however, he was wishing he had chosen a different vocation. His ship was badly damaged, all manner of warning lights complaining about the rash actions of the squad leader. Pieces of the hull were falling off. The left wing was damaged. Only three of the four turbines were still operational and, to make matters worse, it was currently wedged into a room that was on fire.

“Mother was right, I should have signed up with the Cathedral³…” he moaned as he massaged his aching head whilst contemplating whether or not it was too late to try his hand at accountancy.

He was aware of what he had to do next: salvage what he could in the vain hope that he and his associates would still have some manner of getaway vehicle when the fire mages’ tasks were completed. That seemed easier said than done. He tried turning the key in the ignition. The ship’s engines replied with a splutter and a wheeze. So far not so good. He decided it would probably be a good idea to check the turbines for debris and then try again.

Stepping outside the craft was like walking into an oven. Heat was rippling off of the flames as they ate away at the floor. The combating mages were now out in the hall, beyond the gaping hole that had once contained a whiteboard. That came as a relief as it meant the air mage would no longer have to worry about being nailed by a stray (or possibly intentional) fireball whilst he was trying to clear up Abaddon’s mess. There was still the burning conference room to contend with, but a few quick blasts of cold air beat the flames back.

That dealt with, the pilot turned his attention to trying to remove the chunks of hull and plaster from the rotor blades of the turbines.

---

Post by Sean Patrick Payne | November 14, 2013 at 12:00 pm | The Mercenaries' Tale | No comment

Tags: Abaddon, Blaise, Doug McCracken, Elementism, Gratin, Greglath, Ilymp, magic and mages, the Galactic Administrators of the Ilympic Cathedral, the Galactic Finders of the Tserulian Monastery, the Mercs

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