Chapter 8: Ichor on the Wall

What roused Marion was the sound of heavy footsteps outside that preceded the waystation door being thrown open. Their eyes snapped open, turning quickly in their spot on the floor so that they might come to their knees, hand on the blade at their hip. Eris had been startled awake, scrambling on the floor so that he might turn and see the source of such intrusion.

“If it isn’t just who we’re looking for,” the voice was low and rumbling, like the distant thunder that warned of lightning. Marion’s gaze drifted among the grouping, counting. Six pairs of eyes, all an angry sort of yellow. Unblinking hatred, resting not on the elf, but on the prince. Ashen skin was crowned by locks of silver and small, curling horns. The lower halves of their faces were concealed by dark leather, concealing whichever of the six it was that had spoken first.

Their hand twitched on the hilt of the blade.

“You best not draw that, pretty thing,” another voice chirped, feminine yet distorted, as if being pushed through water. Marion’s brows furrowed, gaze drifting from the intruders to Eris. Fear, they thought, was what they felt most in that moment. Six pairs of hateful eyes rested on the prince and all Marion had to defend either of them was a blade. Jacket too, but she seemed absent from the room in the moment of dread.

“If you draw the weapon,” a third voice chimed, too akin to the clinking of too many coins to be anything other than unnerving. “We’ll just have to make a mess of things, won’t we?” Marion’s hand came away from the blade, instead now reaching for Eris. Their fingers shook, unable to hide the emotions coursing through them. “Yes, a very fine mess of blue blood!”

Eris’ pearl hued eyes darted between each hidden face and his breath caught in his lungs. It was happening again, the ice welling in his throat as he began to panic. The anxiety was filling the space that the air had left, threatening to smother him. One kingsteel blade was bad enough, but being unable to discern what weapons these intruders might carry made it worse.

For what purpose had they pursued them? Which of them were these bandits after? His body was beginning to ache as magic strained against flesh, scales threatening to form as he struggled to keep control.

“Look,” a fourth voice chimed, a sound like a tin whistle that assaulted Marion’s ears. “Look, the little man is going to cry.”

In eerie synchronization, each of the six strangers pointed at Eris. A display like marionettes, jerked about on puppet strings. Marion’s gaze shifted to the prince and they felt a sense of dread upon seeing him. His pupils had constricted, mere pinpricks as he shook. His breathing was ragged, sounding more akin to a wheeze than anything that might bring in air.

Marion grabbed Eris’ shoulder, squeezing it tight. Their head turned to him, blue eyes trained on his face. “We’re going to be okay,” the elf whispered, though their hands were still shaking. “So long as I shall live,” the knight echoed.

Something dire crossed the threshold in those gentle eyes and their hand returned to their blade. The walls began to rumble with an unseen presence.

“A kid plays hero, is there truly a brave heart in that chest?” A fifth voice, one like a reedy whisper, called. It was marked by laughter, amusement that rubbed Marion’s skin like the grit of wet sand. “Every story ends the same. The hero dies and there is little more to say,” the voice hissed, yet the words sounded like wind blowing the reeds on a riverbank.

The knight would not lose their nerve, though there was a moment of calm as they inhaled, their eyes closed.

It was on the exhale that hell broke loose. Kingsteel was drawn and a war cry fell from Marion’s lips. A war cry echoed not by another elf, but a creature of ethereal tone, whose scream forced Eris to recoil. An audible thundering filled the small space as Jacket emerged from the unseen veil. Her shape was unusual, all the familiarity of dog or horse was lost as the fey stood tall on her hindlegs. Jacket descended with fury alongside Marion upon ashen-kin, teeth bared and claws outstretched with intent to maim.

The strange, marionette-like synchronization broke as the first blow landed, kingsteel piercing black leather as sharp teeth sank into the ashen-kin’s skull. A crunch, a pop and Jacket pulled back with a spray of blood. A frenzy had begun, blades and crossbows drawn in retaliation. Bolts flew, fired in quick succession at Marion. In such close quarters, the efficiency of a crossbow was greatly reduced.

Shots went wide as the frenzy wore on. The elf was no longer focused on their surroundings, only on the fight. The intertwined link shared between elf and fey had only driven Marion further into bloodlust. How dare they threaten Eris? How dare they forsake the rules of hospitality? How dare they exist like this? For only a moment, the frenzy did not cloud their perception beyond rage. The blood that stained the kingsteel blade was black and ichorous, boiling as it came into contact with the blade.

Blood sprayed the walls as each ashen-kin was felled. Bones cracked as flesh was ripped from them with brute force. The sizzling of the ichor on the blade filled Marion’s ears as they drove the blade through the mouth of the final ashen-kin left standing, pinning their trembling corpse to the wall.

The elf breathed heavily, blue eyes marked by malice as they scanned the hovel room. Slain ashen-kin were strewn across the floor, their corpses crackling akin to a dying campfire as they began to wither and dissolve. Ashen-kin, returned to dust and ichor once more.

A spray of ichor followed Marion’s blade as they wretched it out of the final corpse’s mouth, the body falling to the floor in an unceremonious, broken heap.

“So long as I shall live,” the elf hissed, spitting at the melting thing that laid at their feet. Jacket’s tongue lulled from her mouth as she dragged it across her ichor-stained muzzle. “Eris, it’s safe now. We should go,” Marion called softly, turning to look at him.

Three bolts clattered to the floor as Eris yanked them out, hissing under his breath as he put pressure on the wound on his shoulder.

“Safe is certainly a word to describe this,” he snapped lightly as Marion rushed towards him, arms outstretched. “I’ll be fine. Just need some bandages and. . . we can go find the poor farmer who owns this hovel, let them know we’ve made a right mess of it.” He was trying to grin and bear it, but it was evident how much it hurt.

The elf was gentle as they sat him into the floor and even gentler in applying first aid to the best of their ability with what they had. Jacket was the one to pack the saddlebags back up, great care put into securing both of Eris’ personal effects back into their designated spots. The prince tried not to stare at the fey for too long, not wishing to disrespect her with the discomfort caused by her true form. His vision got blurry as Marion tended to his wounds and his head felt full of cotton, but perhaps that could be expected after being pierced by three bolts.

The knight hoisted him to his feet, clapping him upon the back.

“Jacket, can you walk with him to find that farmer while I collect my plates? I’ll be just behind you all, promise.”

Their face was covered in blood and despite it all, they still smiled at both Eris and Jacket. They were only minorly injured, a few nicks and bumps from their close-quarter rage. The prince offered a meager smile, his head still not quite on his shoulders as he stepped out the waystation’s door. The fey was not far behind, keeping a pace with him in careful, slow strides.

His head only felt lighter and a fever bit the prince’s bones as he walked. Each step was agonizing and difficult, as if he had been forced to tread water. His limbs felt heavier with each step forward. Jacket must not have noticed, focused on the path toward the home of the farmer rather than on him or the main road behind them. Eris’ eyelids grew heavier and heavier, fighting to keep them open.

The prince felt as if someone had ignited his body. A singular thought crossed Eris’ tired mind, one he considered for some moments before it escaped him. He should have taken a better look at those crossbow bolts. Had the bolt heads been the dull gray of iron, or the dull green of imp glass? He was not able to tell when he yanked them out of his shoulder, given how blood-soaked they were. He was tired, perhaps more tired than he had ever been.

If it had been imp glass, the fleeting thought came, was there anybody who could treat the toxins that could not be seeping into his bloodstream? He could not muster enough conscious thought to scold himself for not paying closer attention to the effects of imp glass toxin in all his tutoring.

What did it cause? Vomiting? Headaches and nausea? He couldn’t grasp the thoughts as they slipped away from him.

His vision grew darker with each moment, his breathing uneven as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. He collapsed into the cold, muddy road, no longer able to keep himself upright. He couldn’t stay awake, lids fluttering as he tried to fight it.

Where was Marion? Was this how he was going to die? From imp glass toxin? For the briefest moment, he opened his eyes to see the sun and Marion racing towards him. He could make out the terror and panic in the elf’s face as they drew nearer.

His eyes drew close once more, no longer able to fight to stay awake. He could feel hands on him, though he could barely register their presence. It was a whisper of a touch, his senses dulled. Then came a noise that broke the hazy silence that had fallen upon the prince, though he didn't register it either.

“ERIS!” came Marion’s frantic scream before Eris slipped under.