Chương 102: Curse

Róise woke up just as Miriam and Cormac ran off towards Onóra. Her whole body was pain. Every single muscle and tendon had been pierced - and so many veins. She would have probably bled out quickly if Róisín Dubh hadn't staunched the bleeding immediately. Róise struggled to her feet, resisting the urge to activate Róisín Dubh a second time. She didn't have enough fórsa for that and to do what she needed to do. Róise was certain there would be an opening.

Cormac and Miriam would make one - together they were impossible to ignore. Her faith in them was absolute. So she started a plan that would only work if Onóra's attention was divided. Róise began Seven Drunken Nights. Nailing the timing would be impossible. She had to just trust in luck. Róise had rarely ever seen Cormac's golden threads, but at this point she thought she could instinctively feel their touch. Now they wrapped around her.

Cormac gave no sign he had even noticed her getting up, but his luck didn't need him to know how to manipulate events to do so anyway. The only problem was the fine mist that surrounded Onóra. With that in place, there was no way Róise could sneak up on her. The holes in her body that were now slowly closing were proof of that. She had no plan around that. Just a hope in luck.

Her chance came in the split second after Onóra repurposed her mist into water needles, followed an instant later by the onset of the Seventh Night to cover her approach. She dashed forward, her every muscle screaming, landing attacks that should have been absolutely impossible. Unless you were very lucky.

"Surprise," she said, driving the two blades deep into the Banshee's back. Then she stabbed again, over and over, in as many random places as she could. Onóra might be the most talented fighter Róise had ever seen, but even she wasn't fast enough to activate her Ethereal Body skill to avoid every stab. Especially when Róise started leaving the knives in teh wounds, summoning new ones with every stab.

Onóra roared and the water needles raced to perforate Róise again - only to meet a shield of vines as Miriam used Entangle. With the dryad's power it was easily thick enough to block the needles. Róise reached forward and slit the Banshee's throat. Choking on her own blood, Onóra crumpled. With a might Raging Current, Miriam sent her flying into the fray of Iron Dead. Speaking of which, Róise ignored the continued pain and grabbed the Heart of Iron.

"Go far away," she ordered.

"Fast." Róise had considered trying to use the Iron Dead on their side again, but the hot-potato fight for the Heart was too dangerous. It could very easily swing against them again. Suddenly every single Iron Dead whirled as best they could and ran back into the tunnels.

"Poor bastards," she breathed. Suddenly a sharp pain slammed into her neck, followed by the feeling of blissful Life fórsa streaming into her body.

"What the hell?" Róise snapped, looking in the direction of the projectile. From across the grotto where Eoin had tossed him Sol winced in apology, waving his fórsalock.

"Sorry!" he called. Róise couldn't blame him much - the sting quickly faded as she now had the fórsa to run Róisín Dubh. Blissfully the pain ebbed as her wounds healed. She also made sure to get Eoin in the radius of her technique - though being a Fifth, his wounds would take longer for her to heal. A Fifth's own fórsa healed them the fastest, but hers would help, though not as much as if she had used it on a Fourth or below. The double-edged sword of greater fórsa density.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. However, the fight hadn't ended just because the Iron Dead were gone. They had taken a mighty toll from the Shorinu Crockern - only one in four remained alive. Ferris Einion was still wading through the Séarlait troops, seemingly unstoppable with his unconventional techniques. Róise watched as he reforged several of his steel chainlinks into spikes, burying them into the body of a Séarlait guard.

Then, with a snap of his fingers the alloy separated into its base parts - iron and carbon. The separation tore the guard apart from the inside and the iron, no longer sheathed with a moderating element, set him on fire.

"Pixie help me," Róise breathed. Ferris was devastating.

"Ferris!" Miriam called, throwing something in the Regent-Elect's direction with a thin arrow of Raging Current to make sure it hit its mark. She had fished the chainmail suits they'd stolen out of her bag. Ferris roared with laughter, taking command of the alloy, replenishing his weapons. Róise wondered if Sol had any Earth material fórsa - Ferris might be enough to win this on his own now. But… now it seemed that Ferris was struggling.

His chainmail links seemed to bounce off of armor, poorly aimed, or just badly timed shots. One of his own men cracked him in the jaw with a pike when he turned around too fast. A fire arrow that should have missed him curved and slammed into his thigh. Cormac growled.

"Black threads. The Curse Adept." Róise looked at him, "You got this?" He grinned.

"Did you forget who you're talking to?" ✧✧✧ Jarlath didn't like this. He didn't like Keavy, with her smug Hag face. He didn't like Caolán Séarlait. He was one of those smug rich people who assumed that because they had more money than you they were smarter. Idiot. He really hated Teilgcheárta. He'd never been inside the city, but there were way too many Crockern for his taste - even the ones that weren't slavering iron-filled husks. Hated the tunnels, hated the fighting, hated that scary lady, Onóra.

Constant hate was key to being a Curse Adept. To Jarlath it came naturally. He was busy wrapping Ferris Einion (who he really hated too. What kind of degenerate used iron in their Adept class?) in black threads when he saw Cormac Fiadh enter the battlefield. The Bodac was walking casually through the fighting, a little smile on his face that made you think he probably knew something you didn't. Jarlath really hated Cormac Fiadh. He thought he was so special just because he was Luck Nature?

Jarlath hadn't even known that was a thing you could be. But it didn't matter. Skill was what was important, and Jarlath had been trained by the best the Séarlait Consortium could buy. He flung out a weave of black threads. Cormac would trip on his own stupid feet before he made it two steps. Cormac tipped his hat - an accessory he was not wearing - to Jarlath. Tiny golden thread whipped out of the ground and wrapped around his curse threads, tearing them into dust. Jarlath's jaw dropped.

He had no idea that was even possible! He growled and unleashed more powerful curses. Friendly Attack. Random Shrapnel. Out of desperation he even tried Crushing Depression. Cormac continued to walk through the battlefield like he was sauntering through a pretty meadow instead of a pitched fight that could take him out at any minute. He couldn't believe it. Jarlath watched Cormac's luck threads. They moved in ways he didn't even know Threads of Fate even could.

In comparison his curse threads were more like sluggish ropes he just threw out onto the battlefield like discarded entrails. The golden threads wrapped around his allies as he passed by them, saving a Crockern from a fatal stab there, preventing another from missing a desperate strike there. It looked like he literally wasn't doing anything, yet he was saving lives and turning the tide of battle everywhere he walked. Jarlath clenched his teeth. For once Caolán Séarlait had been right.

In a war, this man could mean the difference between victory and defeat. He had to be taken out!

"Hey bud," Cormac said, sidling up next to Jarlath.

"It's just fascinating to watch you work. Never seen it from the other side before." Just standing next to him, Jarlath's black threads were withering on the vine. He couldn't even start a curse before the golden glow ate it up completely. He spat.

"You're just lucky. Not all of us could stumble into a Nature no one's ever heard of before." Cormac laughed.

"Boy, lucky is exactly what I am. Never claimed otherwise." Jarlath knew something about Cormac's nature though - a detail that gave him a clear advantage. In his hand a black fórsa-knife manifested and he plunged it right at Cormac's heart. The fool was well within stabbing distance and had made no effort to put up any sort of guard against his enemy. Cormac's Luck Nature had no physical manifestations. All he would have were his fists.

"Please," Cormac said, rolling his eyes. Jarlath's knife caught on a button on Cormac's vest and was inexplicably turned aside, scraping harmlessly away. Cormac shrugged and slammed his fist, wrapped in hardened brass, into Jarlath's gut, following it up with his other fist to the face. Jarlath went down quickly - he was meant to be support, not a front line fighter! Blood running from his mouth, clutching his stomach, he stared up at Cormac incredulously.

"Brass knuckles? That seems so…"

"What?"

"Inelegant?" Cormac sighed.

"Don't I know it." Then with another fist to the side of the head, Jarlath's world fell to darkness.