The thing was: Marvel Satis didn't want to die a second time.
The first death had been terrible. He didn't think he'd ever sleep without the memory of it haunting him—if he survived this. He wasn't eager to go through it again anytime soon, and if he made it out, he'd find a way to prevent it from ever happening to him.
For now, he resolved: I will do whatever it takes to avoid dying.
He didn't need to win; he just needed to escape.
Towering over him, the Tusks and the Stomper seemed frozen in shock. They probably belonged to the warlock woman who had… killed Quinn. Given how powerful she was, one of them had to be Higher Circles. The Tusks was probably a Four, though the Stomper— about fourteen or fifteen feet tall, with three eyes— would be Second Circle at most.
Didn't spell good odds for Marvel but he was used to bad odds.
The golems clearly hadn't expected a survivor from the way they just stared at him.
Marvel knew he had only seconds before they got over their surprise. Behind him, the heat from the violent blaze in the cave pressed against his back. A quick glance around told him the cave was merely a small opening in the side of a hill.
He had stepped into a gorge surrounded by steep, colorless mountains painted white by moonlight. Tall sermon trees with low-hanging branches grew everywhere, the kind he had climbed all the time as a child. A brook burbled through the centre of the valley. The cool, brisk air was spring-like.
His heart fell. He was surrounded by mountains. Even if he could run, where could he escape to?
His mind raced, heart pounding almost painfully as fast. Sweat trickled down his back, beneath his armour. And underneath all of that, there was a hunger he couldn't understand. It was like he hadn't eaten in days. His body felt almost sore with the craving for— what? Golems?
Marvel recoiled at his own thoughts. What the fuck was wrong with him? He needed to concentrate. He was about to attempt to fight a Stomper and a Fourth Circle with no magic and only his dead friend's daggers.
The only outcome he could predict here was his own death. Again.
Still, he readied himself. Better to die fighting than wait for it to happen, right?
Finally, one of the golems moved, shaking of its shock. To Marvel's surprise, the Fourth Circle stepped back, letting the Stomper lurch for him.
Marvel leapt out of the way, circling the giant. His reflexes from training with the Academy Guard weren't too rusty. Stompers were huge but slow and stupid. That was an advantage, but it wasn't enough without magic. He wasn't sure he'd survive if it landed a hit on him.
He needed another advantage.
Marvel readied himself as the beast turned, ducking a giant fist swinging for his head. Seeing an opening, he swiped a dagger at its foot.
He missed.
The Stomper lifted itself out of reach, raising itself on its hands. Marvel watched, slack-jawed, as the golem flipped over him and landed behind him, balancing on a single hand. The ground shook on impact, shaking Marvel's balance.
The golems ugly teeth were bared in what he would have called a smug smile if he had a head injury.
Is this thing taunting me?
Marvel barely had time to think before a foot, twice as large as his head, hurtled toward him. He managed to dodge, but didn't predict the fist that swung for him moments later. It caught him in the chest, sending him soaring into the brook.
Breath left his lungs at the impact, and pain flared in his side, making his vision white out. His head thudded against something hard. For a few moments, everything was dark.
He gasped back to consciousness, pulling water into his lungs. Coughing and spluttering, he dragged his aching head out of the brook.
Water blurred his vision. He tried to clear it, shaking his head.
The Stomper was crossing the distance between them now. Frantically, Marvel searched for his daggers, finding only one a little way off in the grass. The other was missing.
He threw himself at the nearby dagger and nearly got crushed by a large fist for his trouble.
Leaping back, he stepped straight into the path of the Stomper's large palm. It swung for him. He tried to dodge, but was caught by the side of its fist, emptying his lungs of air again.
His body thudded onto the grass.
One side of his chest screamed with agony. Clutching at it, he bit his lip to keep from crying out and curled onto his less painful side. Tears stung his eyes.
It hurt. It hurt so much. Godsdamn. But he couldn't lie here forever. The Stomper was still coming for him. He needed to move.
With great effort, he forced his eyes open to glare at the approaching creature. It smiled at him with an awful, corpse-like grin.
So it was toying with him. The Tusks stood a few feet behind the Stomper, watching lazily.
They're having fun before they eat me. Great. Marvel clenched his teeth. I'm the entertainment with the meal.
He spotted the other dagger not two feet away.
Pain gripped his ribs as he grabbed it, blood pouring into his eyes from a head wound. He wiped it away and staggered to his feet.
You want entertainment? Marvel held his dagger in front of him with one hand and braced his side with the other. Come and get it.
A plan formed in his head as he and the Stomper regarded each other. The creature seemed almost amused that he was still trying. It lunged for him with the force of a cannon. This time, Marvel was sure the blow would kill him.
Instead of waiting to be hit again, he bolted. The Stomper skidded to a stop, spinning to chase after him. Marvel reached the nearby sermon tree he'd been aiming for. Holding the dagger between his teeth, he pulled himself into its branches.
Climbing was clumsy, with every breath feeling like shards of broken glass stabbing his left lung repeatedly. His sweaty hands slipped often on the branches, splinters breaking the skin of his fingers.
By the time the giant reached the tree, he was a quarter of the way up, waist level with the Stomper. He watched it wind up for a blow with both fists aimed at him.
Gripping his dagger in his right hand, Marvel jumped, aiming for the grey bulge of the Stomper's gut.
The dagger barely slashed the Stomper's torso.
Marvel fell to the grass, his weapon knocked from his grasp again. Pain exploded through his leg and arm. His whole body, burning with agony, begged him to lie still, to accept his fate.
If death came, so be it. It would be his fault. If only he hadn't begged to follow the group on their assignment… If he had just given up on being a Mage one of the million times he'd been told to. He ought to be dead already. What difference would it make to die again?
The Stomper turned on him. He saw its jagged teeth and rotting flesh. He smelled the stench of decay pouring off of it. Was this really how it would end?
Despite his body's plea for him to stay put, the fear of another death wouldn't let him. He couldn't accept death again so easily, not with the terrifying uncertainty of what would happen next.
That was terror in its purest form.
No, he thought. Not again, please. Never again.
Rolling onto his stomach despite the protests from his ribs and arms, he began to drag himself toward the dagger. He barely moved an inch before two legs taller than him blocked his path. He looked up at the colossal monster silhouetted against the bright moon.
It was over.
Yet, looking into the face of his demise, he didn't feel the fear as heavily as he had a moment ago.
Another emotion replaced the desperate fear from moments before. Replaced the pain. Replaced the hunger that still dogged him.
Hatred, blazing and thick, swallowed him completely.
As far as even the oldest mages knew, these creatures had existed for centuries, killing for pleasure. Since they were sustained by the magical energy of the warlock who made them, they didn't need to kill for food. They weren't like animals. They didn't even kill solely because their masters commanded them to either. Marvel had heard many a tale of a rogue golem that didn't even have a master.
These things had killed millions of people over the centuries.
They had killed his parents.
They had killed his friends—Flynn, Pidge, Adia.
They had killed the villagers Marvel had volunteered to protect.
Now, Marvel was going to be next.
No, he thought as the Stomper picked him up, hating it with every part of his being. The Tusks stood by, watching silently.
No, he thought as the Stomper began to squeeze him. He heard his bones splintering and cracking, muscles giving way. His life slipped away, but not the anger. It burned like an inferno, engulfing him.
NO!
Marvel's ears popped as sound and light and heat exploded around him. Or inside him. He couldn't tell.
He felt hatred erupt through him. What felt like fire transformed into lightning, tearing through his veins, and then out of him in a massive boom.
He screamed, feeling as though he was being flayed alive.
The Stomper dropped him suddenly. Marvel writhed on the ground as the torment reached its peak, then faded to something manageable. Breath rattling through him, he opened his stinging eyes to see the Stomper staring at him in fear.
Confused, Marvel drew himself to his knees. Why was the creature staring at him like that? What had just happened?
His breath caught as he realised the answer.
Marvel stared at his hands in his lap. Hands surrounded by a mist of shadows. Panicking, he shook them, trying to get rid of them, but they stuck. Was this a warlock's attack?
No, it didn't feel like someone else's magic. It felt like… his?
The Stomper backed away from him, nearly stumbling into a tree. The Tusks also retreated, suddenly alert.
From him. Because they were afraid of him.
Of Marvel.
Well, if that was the case… Marvel rose to his feet, surprised to find his body free of pain. He felt amazing. Like he hadn't just fought a Stomper. Like he'd had a long nap. He felt well-rested, well-fed, full of energy and power.
He felt like he could defeat two golems easily.
He faced the monsters, a grim smile curving his mouth. "Well, come on, motherfuckers. You're not scared of some little maverick, are you?"
The golems didn't move.
Taking one step toward them, he was stunned to find them shrinking back. Did they think he could defeat two golems just because of some black, shadowy magic show?
Did he?
He was eager to find out.
He ran for the Stomper, not moving any faster than his usual peak speed. That gave him pause. Despite his new burst of strength, he wasn't faster on his feet than he had been before. Maybe attacking a golem was a bad idea.
But the golem was backing away in fear.
Not only that. It was turning and fleeing.
Marvel blinked. Alright. Maybe not such a bad idea after all.
Unfortunately, he couldn't catch up with a fifteen foot creature on his ordinary human legs. What a shame. He wanted the golem erased from the world completely. He didn't know how he'd do it, but he knew he wanted it gone.
The shadows around his hands seemed pleased. They liked that idea.
Wait, what? Marvel stared at his hands. Did you just talk to—
A curtain of shadows appeared around the Stomper. It cried out, trying to push them away with its massive arms. It roared, batting at them, clearly terrified.
Marvel watched in a mix of horror and fascination as the shadows covered its arms, climbing up its fingers and wrists, curling around its body. Everything the shadows touched vanished. It wasn't like the Grandmaster's magic that turned the golems into threads.
Anything the shadows touched just disappeared.
Almost as if it had never existed at all.
Just like that, the Stomper was gone.
Seeing its friend die, the Tusks tried to escape, but the shadows overtook it too. It disappeared in less time than it took to draw a breath. .
Marvel couldn't believe his eyes. Had he just used magic to kill two golems?
"I did it," he whispered to the valley. "I just killed golems." Then, shouting in excitement: "I'm a mage! I'm a fucking mage!"
His voice echoed through the gorge. He felt an urge to dance and celebrate. One that vanished the moment he noticed the shadows hadn't stopped.
They spread everywhere, multiplying, moving over everything. Marvel watched in dismay as the sermon trees and the grass disappeared, replaced by empty space.
What's happening? Marvel turned around, taking in the destruction. Why was everything being erased?
"Stop it!" he ordered the shadows. "Quit it now! STOP!"
They didn't listen. They swept over everything in sight, leaving behind nothing.
Marvel turned to the cave and fell to his backside. The entire mountain was vanishing, replaced by empty, black space. The cave was disappearing too. The fire, the bodies. The bodies.
Flynn. Pidge. Adia. Even Quinn.
He got to his knees, watching the shadows consume the world around him, taking it all away.
"Stop! Stop, please!" Marvel shouted. The ground around him turned into empty air as the shadows drew closer. What if they consume me too?
Behind him, a tearing sound caught his attention.
He spun around to see a shimmering, glowing crack in the air. It had a golden halo around it—Orson Baldrik's signature, a portal from the Academy.
Someone from the Academy was coming. He remembered the fire call he'd made just moments ago.
What if it's Aisling?
"Stop, stop, stop," he begged the shadows. Nothing changed. They moved closer, erasing everything in their path. Begging wasn't working.
Trembling, Marvel stood up and prepared to use all his authority. He was desperate. Aisling was his only friend now that the others were gone. He had to save her. It might not work, but he had to try.
Standing tall and firm, Marvel faced the shadows and commanded, "I COMMAND YOU TO STOP!"
For a few fearful seconds, nothing happened.
Then, all at once, the shadows surged toward him, hitting his chest and forcing him backward. They burned like every hell he could think of, but he held his ground. His vision blurred, and his strength waned, but he stayed on his knees, enduring the agony as they pushed their way into him.
And then he let himself fall.