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"Yes, the young mage." Worthing looked up in the general direction of his room, squinting slightly. "Sedatives, I think? Seems he's rather drained from the day's events." The mage continued. "I ran into another friend of yours earlier this evening. Quite an unpleasant fellow, if you don't mind me saying so. Killed a man in the most dreadful way." He returned the handkerchief to his pocket, giving Willoughsby a direct look. "I'm afraid the men I left him with were none too happy." Willoughsby calculated. "Yes, Sebastian can be quite…persuasive when need be. Might that be where you received your wound, good sir?" 
The mage smiled, seeing through the attempt. "No. I'm afraid I encountered your half-ogre servant earlier, waiting for me down near the house engines. A fierce individual, that one. You can rest assured he fought right until the very end." Willoughsby was silent, but his pain was evident. He leaned slowly back into his chair, his shoulders sagging. "Come now, old boy. Such feeling for a half-breed? You and I both know there's more where he came from." A conspiring wink. "The miracles of science never cease to amaze me." The old gnome sat up stiffly, his features hardening. "Forgive the breach in etiquette, sir, but I'd entreat you to shut your bloody mouth." 
With another flick of the mage's hand, Willoughsby's head was snapped back violently, the force of the blow sending his body over the arm of the chair. He landed on his back, his head striking the stones of the hearth. His vision blurred as a wave of nausea swept over him. Breathing deeply, he rose slowly to face the mage once again. "No reason for unpleasantries. It seems your bad manners are a familial trait-you're as obstinate and stupid as your brother, Willoughsby." Willoughsby was taken aback, his hand finding the arm of the chair. "How…?" "Oh, I know Master Oakwood quite well. You might say he's part of the reason for all of this. Him, and the rest of the Tullan elders." "What do you mean? What have you against the mages of Tulla? Obviously you were trained there…" Worthing was on his feet in an instant, looming dangerously over the gnome. "Never speak of my associations with that place, or the short-sighted, rigid old fools who live there. I've grown far beyond their feeble teachings, and their antiquated ethics." 
Willoughsby, at last, understood. His words came slowly, laced in malevolence. "Tulla leaves a bitter taste only for the very few, Worthing. You hadn't the capacity to finish their curriculums." The gnome spat on the ground. "You were a failure." Lightning arced from Worthing's hand, twisting around Willoughsby's body and down his legs, searing exposed flesh. A cry escaped his lips, and he was thrown backwards, his body upsetting a pile of stacked logs. Broken a nd bleeding among the cordwood, Willoughsby attempted, weakly, to rise again. The mage approached, his hands writhing in white fire, his eyes burning an old and seething hatred. "Old fool. I tire of this game." The fire burned bright, dancing up his arms as he raised them. " I'll pass condolences on to your brother." Willoughsby covered his eyes, power flaring like the noonday sun… Behind the mage a façade window shattered inward, and something landed heavily among the glass and splintered wood, moonlight reflecting off burnished metal. The mage had turned, throwing his fire, but the thing was already moving, leaping in a blur of steam and whirring motors to land on the far side of the room. Worthing crouched low behind one the chairs, waiting. And again it leapt, firelight glinting off the bottom of its metal carapace, eight legs splayed in attack. It landed behind the chair, its front legs sweeping it aside and exposing the mage. Willoughsby stared in disbelief at the creature before him, a metal arachnid as big as a man, its legs a tangle of thick wire and counterweight, its body an armored engine. Two long antennae seemed focused on Worthing as the machine heaved up and down, pistons and joints hissing steam, shifting its weight in response to his every move. It's two front legs, mounted with thick blades, swung viciously, feinting and slashing as it sought an opening. Worthing cast again, twisting to target the spider's legs, but he overextended and missed, and the creature brought a blade down across his midsection, finding its mark. The mage screamed, swearing in pain and fury, clutching his belly and stumbling further back into the room. 
The spider jumped, but Worthing anticipated the move, rolling beneath it and spraying its underside with flame. It shuddered with the impact, unbalanced, landing topheavy and shattering an antique wooden table as it fell to the ground. Righting itself almost immediately, it dodged another searing attack, but two of its legs were damaged and it wobbled unsteadily as smoke poured from its innards. It a pproached the mage again, attacking in blind machine instinct, blades slashing, seeking flesh and bone. Worthing backed away, just in front of the hearth, crackling energy arcing between his hands as he crouched for another attack. Sebastian stepped into the firelight behind the spider, his head bandaged and his left arm hung in a ragged sling, brandishing a small, gleaming pistol in his free hand. The mantle clock shattered behind Worthing as Sebastian fired, and then the mage was down, the lightning subsiding as he gripped his left leg, blood pouring forth from between his fingers. And still Sebastian was firing, chunks of masonry exploding behind the mage as he barely avoided the spider's blades. It began as a change in the surrounding air, like a storm, a tightening pressure on the inner ear. Worthing was on his feet, hands raised to the sky, and Sebastian was having trouble with his pistol. The spider was strangely immobile, and then began shaking as a thick, bluish glow formed in the air around it. It was falling apart, gauges and screws flying from its body, joints creaking and bending in response to some unseen force. Worthing was screaming, jagged bolts of energy passing between the spider and he. There was a loud crack, and suddenly the spider was gone, only smoke where it had been standing just moments before. Sebastian dropped the gun, unsheathing a knife from his belt. Worthing was laughing, turning to him, his eyes wide and demented. And then, between them, another flash. A greater demon, roaring, its mouth a snarl of ragged, blood-stained teeth. The creature was huge, its limbs hung thickly with muscle and covered in scale and spiked bone. It turned to Worthing, and the floor shook with its movement. The mage cowered before it, cringing as it raised a clawed hand to strike. And then Worthing was on the ground, unconscious, and the demon disappeared. Edward Willoughsby stood over the mage, a knotted log in his hands. Movement at the top of the stairs, and both men turned to look. A pale figure there, doused in sweat and leaning heavily to the banister, a nightgown hanging loosely from his spare frame. Perriman Smythe.
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Continue the adventure . . . |