Patrick W. Marsh

2025-11-28 15:00:00

Beware the Ills: Part 19

The spear holder looks my size, almost an exact replica in fact. His face falls narrow, scared, and jagged. His hair blooms upward wildly, in short and thin points. He has a bright red bandana wrapped around his pale forehead. It’s for warmth I imagine. His plated armor gleams a midnight black. It covers his body similarly to the others. It looks worn, diced, and torn. Not much for decoration or utility.

I know this man’s seasoned though, even without his mutilated armor. He has steel blue eyes. They’re cold, cutting, and beady quick. I’m jealous. He smiles at me and squats down over the paper man. He sticks his hand inside the entrails and thrashes around. Then, in one quick jerk, he pulls the glowing vial free and throws it in the air towards the black rail. A pale white hand snatches the salve hungrily out of the empty air. The woman, it has to be the woman. She jumps up over the rail onto the deck. She stares at the wooden floor. It’s bloody and speckled with bile. She looks pale, white, and piercing. Those strange blue-green eyes of hers, they almost glow.

She holds my eyes. I can’t move them.

He stabs and swings at me. I dodge. The air hums beyond the black rail. More howling, and thumping machines drown out the deck. Men charge from our right. They feel invigorated by this man’s presence. I push Blue howling into their crowd.

The man attacks again, more stabs and swings. He moves fast. I’m not intimidated but impressed.

The air hums as the iron point follows me. It’s a blur most of the time, but I watch it patiently. I do not counter with my sword but lean back and forth to each stab. I want him to hook me. He stabs impatiently at me, and I swing my sword up and counter. The metal clangs and echoes over the din. The hit staggers him, and he loses his footing on the slick deck. He wasn’t expecting the power behind the strike. An arrow whistles at me. I knock it away with my sword. So irritating, these interruptions of theirs. I charge the man in a big leap with my black shoulder forward. He leaps back and lets his spear drift up nonchalantly. I hook the massive point with my gauntlet on my left arm. He pulls me towards him by reflex. I smash the round, blunt bottom of my hilt into his armored chest. Not enough to kill him, but enough to wound. He jumps backwards a few times. He drops to one knee, and spits blood onto the deck.

He’s smiling, why is he smiling?

She still watches, leaning casually against the rail. Something looks odd about her slender back hidden behind the whipping white cloak. I see a hint of metal below it all. The spear is at me. He has stood and recovered already. I’m very impressed. He stabs at me, and I move. The rail smashes and sparks. The point of the spear straddles to my left hoping to collide with me. My sword connects in a parrying vertical clash, only this time the spear bends and twists towards me. The spear’s fast, it counters my quick swings. The rhythm and stances are quick for such an unwieldy weapon. I’m impressed. He’s smiling as we clash, so much smiling.

I’m proud of him in a way.

He looks very grizzly up close. I knock each thrust away casually with the point of my sword, while dodging the hook as he withdraws. The black point of the spear wrinkles blood worn, dented, and bent. He’s seen many of me, but none exactly like me. The onslaught grows, but I show no signs of fatigue or irritation. The point stabs and I knock it away over and over.

He stops abruptly and jumps back towards the crowd on the opposite side of the deck. The wind screams, the motors hum, and the ship quivers in the current. He’s panting like a dog; he’s pulled his lips back along his teeth.

---

I’ll be releasing my novel Beware the Ills in segments every Friday. You can find out more about the book right here, or check out Amazon’s info. I love this book. Happy to simply share it.

#books #darkfantasy #fantasy #fiction #horror #novels #reading #steampunk #writing

Other Books

An ancient werewolf laments his annual, blood-soaked pilgrimage. A doll comes to life only when your fear gives it motivation. Empty spaces are a feeding ground for an ancient monster. A mother dra…

^{Patrick W. Marsh}