Chương 221: Arc 4 - Chapter 23

The Spite bore down on Fritz and his crew, and as the hours passed, the large drops of false rain steadily grew heavier, colder and more frequent. This was just the first change they noticed. It took nearly a third of a day before they discovered the next complication the Spire had in store for them. The glowing crystals began to lose their light, flickering or flashing brightly before going dim, then it was that the fish began to frenzy.

Those mad streaks of silver would speed towards those that disturbed their ponds, biting and thrashing. Or would swim close by, attempting to slice open any unguarded legs with their unusually sharp fins. While these easily foiled assaults were more frustrating than deadly, the constant need for care was slowing the crew's passage through the steadily darkening cavern and wearing on their nerves. Still, there were benefits to the fish seeking them out rather than the other way around.

For one, the crew's supply of fish flesh and scintillating scales had grown greatly. For two, their adherence to, and experience with, a loose formation increased substantially. It had only taken a couple of falls, a few cuts and several bites before they all saw the great wisdom Fritz had been trying to teach. He hid his smile and his self-satisfaction once they finally heeded his suggestions without the telltale stiffness and stifled snarls his orders had previously elicited.

Fritz attempted not to be smug or too sour about the whole situation; he himself had the author of 'The Observations' to thank for the priceless guidance. And as arrogant as the pompous wordage of the book sounded when read firsthand, it must have been thrice as grating to hear it from Fritz's own mouth. Or so the crew's scowls suggested. Even as he instinctively dodged a drop with a slight twist of a shoulder, he wondered about the second tome, written by that same author and stored safely away in his pack.

Would it be more of the same? More advice on how to wage a war while on the weaker side of the conflict? Or would it be, as he had inferred from its title, a more arcane and fiercely scholarly work? There was only one way to find the truth of that, and that was to read the dauntingly large book. He almost sighed and wished he could have simply passed it off to Sylvia. She would have had her nose buried in the stale pages were she on this Climb. Alas, for both him and for her. A crack, then a rumble sounded.

The noise echoed from pillar to pillar as, in the distance, one of those same stone columns fell with a resounding crash. It was followed by another, then another, then, after a few minutes, the cavern was quiet.

"What was that?" Nail whispered.

"A beast?" Mel hissed.

"No beasts on this floor," Fritz reminded them.

"Unless you count the fish," Reed groused.

"I don't," Fritz replied coolly.

"Then what was that?" Clover asked hurriedly, her eyes scanning the dark.

"The Spite, it's toppling pillars now. Hoping to crush us with them, I suspect," Fritz explained.

"Or to frighten us."

"I ain't afraid. Not of some rocks," Trudge boasted.

"Me neither. I'm more afraid of catching a cold," Mel agreed.

"These pools have got my feet going all numb." Fritz frowned. He ducked down and tested the water with one hand and found it colder than it had been when they had first entered the Floor. No longer lukewarm, but now on the cusp of icy. He hadn't noticed this insidious danger due to his magical socks and boots; their enchantments had kept his feet dry and warm. He looked at the crew and noticed the occasional shiver. They would need to set up camp and start a fire to restore their vigour.

"You could always use your ring, didn't the Know-note say something about resisting the cold?" Reed suggested.

"I could, but its power doesn't last long. I ain't spending three gold for only a minute of warmth," Mel refused.

"Rather have cold feet than empty pockets."

"A pragmatic attitude, both astute and admirable," Fritz commended.

"I'll find us another island, and we can start a fire. We have plenty of wood left, correct?"

"We do," Trudge said.

"Good, let's go," Fritz said. Finding another island was easier said than done, especially since the pillars nearby were suspiciously unsteady, and it would be foolish to climb them. However, the sudden weakness of the stone also allowed the easier mining of any precious ore that occasionally veined the rocks. One powerful strike from Trudge's hammer or a rippling bolt from Clover's palm could knock large chunks out of the pillars before they fell to pieces.

They were careful not to get struck, but there were a few close calls. Mostly when those rampaging fish distracted them. The ores and quartz were put into sacks and packs, and eventually they collected enough to be thoroughly burdened by their weight. Though he could have sequestered more of ore and quartz, Fritz didn't reveal his Pouch of Many Stones. He felt it would damage any credibility he'd earned, that, and he wasn't particularly pressed to share that secret.

"Gods, how much further do we have to go?" Barge groused.

"Not much further," Fritz assuaged.

"I can see a place to camp. It will only take another half an hour at most to reach it."

"Half an hour," Trudge repeated through raspy breaths. He rolled his shoulders, then moved a large sack of heavy stones from one side to the other.

"It would only be nine minutes away if the footing were flatter and there were fewer treacherous ridges," Fritz added. Of course, the rough landscape didn't threaten him quite so much, his Trap Sense and Grace keeping him well balanced even on the slipperiest of stone surfaces. While he was paying close attention at least. Mel let out a grumble of agreement. She'd fallen a couple of times, and she was hardly the clumsiest of the crew. Everyone else had tripped more than once.

Save Toby, whose training with the Cutter had kept him sure of foot and more than capable of traversing the floor. A minute later, Fritz signalled a warning, pointing at a ripple in the clear water and a silver streak heading towards them. The frenzied fish was dealt with quickly, Barge's sword slicing through the water and through its scales, leaving it headless. A cloud of glittering, greyish blood floated to the surface along with the lifeless halves of the body.

"Wish these fish would just leave us alone, we done nothin' to them," Clover complained.

"Yeah, what did we do to make them so mad?" Trudge asked.

"It's the Spite," Fritz said, sighing as he spoke.

"Same with all the perils that keep hindering our progress towards the Door."

"Spite the Spite," Reed spat.

"True as the rain," Fritz agreed.

"But the only way out is through, I'm afraid. Onwards to the isle. We'll rest only a while. A few hours of sleep, just enough to put some strength in our step." The expressions of the crew grew harder, and they began to push themselves to move faster, determined to make it to the island as quick as they could. With an effort, they made it to the long stretch of raised stone in only twenty minutes. The campfire was started immediately, and soon they surrounded it with hands held out, warming their numbed fingers.

The flame sizzled, shrinking while boiling the heavy drops of water when they splashed over it. A question of how much wood to use was raised. Fritz decided to use all they had to keep the fire burning. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"What about tomorrow?" Trudge asked, throwing a dry plank onto the struggling flame. Fritz shook his head.

"We need the fire now. I'll lead you out by tomorrow."

"What if you don't?" Mel asked darkly.

"What if you get us lost?"

"Yeah, what if we freeze to death out there?" Barge accused.

"What if I slip and you leave me behind?" Reed added.

"And what if you're missing in the morning?" Trudge said with dull dread.

"You'll abandon us to die in the dark?" Clover asked pitifully. She was crouching, pulling her knees to her chest.

"In the cold water," Mel said softly.

"Drowning."

"What if you want to get rid of us? Just like you did Bucket?" Nail growled. Fritz frowned, glancing at Toby, who was the only one who hadn't aired any misgiving or grievance. Even his eyes had a black, doubtful gleam. After all he had done for them, all he had given. The perils he'd led them through and the great trust and near-infinite mercy he'd shown them, they still doubted him? They thought he would betray them!?

They were mutinous eels, each and every one of them, slimy and scheming, but he was the one to be feared? Immense anger ignited in Fritz's chest, and that burgeoning blaze crawled into his stomach. He was about to spit out some fiery words when, suddenly, he clutched the searing, slithering emotion with his Control and choked it. Instead of the fury being smothered and suppressed, it burst, then dissipated into fine, stringy smoke.

That was far from usual, and his surprise forced him to question his previous furious thoughts. There was a stain, a splotchy black film over the clear glass that was the window to his memory. The culprit was easy to guess. Without further introspection, Fritz set his sight outward. He peered over the heads of the crew and could see, descending from on high, dark, sticky strands stuck to them. The web-like threads pulsed like a diseased heart, feeding the fears within each mind. The Spite.

It was obvious in hindsight, but chilling to consider in the present. He'd known that it could affect emotions, heightening fear and anger to greater peaks and worsening moods to the point of melancholia. Though for it to happen so quickly, and so potently, was a shock that rattled him to the bottom of his moonsilvered bones. And right now, he could see it, if only barely. Even though he caught it for only a few moments, the vision was already fading.

The strands slowly sloughed away, losing their strength and structure. But the damage had been done, the seeds of doubt planted. The taint lingered, clinging to the motes flitting and fluttering between the crew, red and black sparking subtly. Resonating ruinously.

"What are you staring at, Captain?" Nail growled.

"Did we guess right? Did you think we're too stupid to figure out your plan?" Mel seethed.

"Captain? It's not true, is it?" Trudge pleaded.

"We're going to die, aren't we?" Clover despaired, holding back a sob and reaching for a knife.

"I won't die to the cold and dark. I won't suffer that. Not again."

"I won't let you kill us," Barge said, hand on the hilt of his sword. Fritz had stood there, silent, for too long, and the situation had cascaded into something akin to a bout of insanity. Their darkest instincts were running wild.

"Stop!" Fritz commanded.

"The Spite has-""The Spite, the Spite," Nail mocked in a high voice.

"Think you'll fool us by blaming the Spite!? I blame you!" The thug reached for his axe, shouting, "Surround him! We can't let him get away!"

"Don't let him take the lantern, we'll be lost," Reed said sluggishly. Barge made to flank his right, and Mel took his left. Trudge backed away fearfully, and Clover raised a shaking knife slowly to her neck. Toby's eyes darted this way and that, his face full of confusion. Reed sat and stared into the fire, seeing nothing and mumbling under his breath. Fritz closed his eyes and grasped for his Dusksong.

He knew it could affect emotions in otherworldly ways, and if he desired to end this bloodlessly, he would have to wield it. To shake off the Spite's taint, he would have to do more than simply lace his words with its power, so he embraced the bleak, beautiful song that hummed within his chest. He pulled from his centre and let it spread to every inch of his body, then poured the pulsing, pounding potency up his throat and into his heart. Fritz opened his eyes, and they gleamed a violent violet glamour.

"Quickly, heed me, bend thy ears. Cast off, scatter, needless fears. Listen true, and listen well, Listen deep, and hear the spell. There is no plotting, no traitor's turning, Only spite-sent splinters of dark discerning. Listen true, and listen well, Listen deep, embrace the swell. That dreadful doubting, that breaking trust, be blown away, be nought but dust. Listen true, and listen well, Listen deep, feel the knell. The stains unbidden, be washed away, Despair will end, as sure as day."

The verses flowed over the crew, setting them to stumble. His voice drew all gazes. Now staring, fascinated. Fascination gave way to enchantment, and their eyes grew hazy. Each wave of woven words washed away the oozing black taint of Spite. Soon, the last note echoed into nothingness, and they stood still as stones. The stupefaction didn't last longer than a few moments. The false rain splashed against his crew, and they awoke from their dazes.

"What happened?" Toby asked, glancing down at his drawn daggers.

"The Spite," Fritz said, the faint trace of Dusksong lingering in his tone.

"It struck you with madness."

"Who was singing?" Clover said, her arms held lazily by her sides.

"It was beautiful," Reed said softly.

"It was," Mel agreed.

"But it was sad," Clover added. Fritz didn't recall singing. Even if his voice had taken on a rhythmic, rhyming bent, it was simply words. He didn't sing. Well, not as often as he spoke and certainly not as publicly.

"It struck us with madness?" Toby asked.

"How? Why? I've never felt the Spite do that before." Fritz considered, then gave the best answer he could conjure, "I suspect it has to do with Bucket's demise. A team turning on itself provokes the Spire to be more... Spiteful."

"I see," Toby said thoughtfully.

"Will it happen again?" Mel asked, sheepishly sheathing her shortsword.

"I don't know," Fritz replied.

"Though I broke its hold on you once, I should be able to again." He smiled surely, hoping it looked genuine. Fritz actually wasn't so certain. His Dusksong was drained. It felt as though he had cast Lethargy over and over, and now his constantly humming reservoir was almost silent. The shadowy mana would return with rest, that much was sure, but if the Spite struck again, just as horribly, then he would have little left to defend them with.

This was the first time he'd wielded so much of that fairy magic; every other occasion hadn't been nearly so directed or forceful. His mind wandered and he wondered what had allowed him to channel so much of the energy. Was it need? Was it intent? Was it his training with his other Advanced Attributes? It could be all or none of them, it could even be simple fortune. He doubted that last one. Or rather dreaded. Whenever he was lucky, it seemed to cause him nothing but thrice the trouble he had avoided.

Fritz sighed, it stretched into a yawn, and he blinked heavy eyelids.

"Rest, sleep a few hours," he said.

"I'll keep watch." Only then did the crew realise how tired they were, the motes above their head were blurred, dim and raw. They wrapped themselves in oilskins and blankets, then took off their boots to dry them before lying down around the campfire. Fritz didn't risk sleeping himself. He worried that the Spite would strike again or slowly soak them in fear and worry while they rested.

Unfastening the button that held his slim pocket closed, he palmed a stamina potion and drank it, swiftly swallowing the buzzing, burning liquid. It bubbled in his stomach as the energy flowed into his weary legs and tired mind. His stamina rose steadily, as if he had taken a long, lazy nap on a warm day. Though there was still a slight sluggishness to his thoughts and a series of mild aches assailed him, he was ready to take the watch and then push on afterwards. The crew slept.

If Fritz had been worried that they wouldn't be able to gain any true rest, due to the cold, wet conditions, he needn't have been. Each was born and raised in the streets of Rain City. The gutters had inured them to such hardships, rough stone, dripping water and the occasional splashing of thrashing fish weren't enough to wake them. An hour passed without trouble, then another. Fritz tended the fire, watching for any signs of the Spite's assault. None came to pass.

Every now and then, he'd glance at the ghost of the necromancer, attempting to judge how much longer it would linger in the living world by the glow of its spectral skin. It floated above a pool, far enough to be outside the fire's flickering light. Fritz noticed something that irked him. The grey of its flesh was slightly brighter than it had been only minutes before. He frowned and immediately rose to his feet. There, he was able to spot why the ghost's form seemed stronger.

Two silver fish floated below it, dead and drained. Fritz scowled and whispered an order to hover high above the water, far out of the reach of any of the scaled nuisances. He cursed his foolishness; he should have set it far from anything living in the first place. Now he would be stuck with the spectral prick for longer. Grumbling, he returned his attention to the fire and the crew. No sign of the Spite showed itself. After around six hours of otherwise uneventful rest, Fritz roused them from their slumber.

They woke without much grumbling and soon had stored away their gear and shouldered their packs. Then it was back to wading through the pools. The first thing they noticed was that the water was colder, freezing. They complained, but Fritz was in no mood to hear it. He pulsed his Awareness and led them on a relentless march towards the Stairway. The crew began to shiver after half an hour, the heat seemingly sucked from them through their feet.

The falling of the false rain, which had only grown in size and frequency, didn't help either. Still, Fritz forced them on, ignoring any pleas to rest and get warm. He did, however, pass out some remedies that bolstered their stamina and warmed their limbs. Or so Naomi had claimed. The pressed triangles of herbs were dry and tasted like dirt and moss with a hint of sweetness and liquor. They were meant to be chewed, then spat out once they had become tasteless.

Hours passed, and Fritz kept chewing his remedy long after it had lost any flavour. Though he had been buoyed by the potion he had drunk before, he now heard the siren song of sleep keenly. Every step he took was in tandem with another bite down on the bland pulp in his mouth. The cold and the monotony began to gnaw. Even when the dreary wading was punctured by the assault of mad fish or falling pillars, their journey swiftly returned to trudging through the water and over slick stones.

More hours passed and they drew ever closer to the Stairway.

"How much longer?" Barge asked through a clenched jaw.

"Just a little further," Fritz replied.

"That's wha-wha-what you said last time," Mel said, her teeth chattering.

"And it's still true," Fritz retorted. Mel grumbled and was joined by the others. Fifteen brutal minutes later, Fritz let out a long, grateful sigh, then pointed into the distant dark.

"There, I can see it." It wasn't what he expected the Stairway to look like. He had thought it would be set into the cavern's wall, but instead it was a vastly tall stalagmite with steps set in a spiral up and around it.

"Can't see nothin' in this gloom," Nail muttered.

"You don't need to, you just need to trust me," Fritz said.

"Come on, not far now." Without further words, the crew hastened their pace towards the stairway. Fritz had an eerie impression, like some trap was about to be sprung, but the closer they got to the steps, the more the feeling faded. He was the first to set foot on the Stairway, and swiftly, with one last push, he climbed. Step after step, they ascended. Hundreds of slippery stone steps. They endured, but each was groaning, cursing and breathing hard.

Twelve minutes later, they breached the cavern roof, followed a narrow passage and passed into the Well Room. Fritz staggered to the Well, a still pool of freezing water and allowed its power to restore him. He nearly wept from the relief as his body warmed considerably and his aches were soothed. Of course, it did little for his current exhaustion; only sleep could remedy that, but it was welcome nonetheless. It had been a rough road, and the Spire had almost caught him with its tricks, but Fritz had succeeded.

They had conquered the sixth Floor, Spite and all. Now he could rest, just for a few hours.