Limping In

For a being without muscles, the undead skeleton moved fast. Running down the tunnel, whenever Martel looked over his shoulder, he found the creature keeping pace. While maintaining his magelight, floating over his head, Martel tried to shoot more bolts of fire behind him as he ran. Unable to take aim using his heat sense, he had to rely on the light, which did not work as well; sprinting in panicked flight probably did not help either. Every bolt missed, accomplishing nothing but making him slow down each time he looked over his shoulder to attack.

Moment after moment, the dreadful creature gained on him.

But Martel did not have to go far. Assuming he was correct about the letters scratched into the walls, the skeleton could not pursue him past a certain point. He had not come far from the entrance; he could make it back.

Glancing behind him while shooting off another bolt, Martel did not watch his step. He stumbled and fell.

The skeleton launched itself forward to close the distance with one leap, landing on the ground with its bony arms outstretched to grab Martel's ankle. Both of them now on the ground, Martel panicked as he felt the impossibly strong grip around his leg. He kicked with the other, but even though he hit the skull of the skeleton, it caused no harm.

Keeping Martel from escaping with one skeletal hand, the undead creature raised the other and swiped across his leg. Sharp as knives, bony fingers tore through Martel's trousers to draw blood, making five gashes.

Pain caused an outburst from Martel, but it also cut through his panic and focused his mind. Raising both hands towards the skeleton, he unleashed a ray of scorching fire, pouring more and more spellpower into the attack.

It did not kill the creature – if one could kill something already dead – but it raised both hands to protect itself against the onslaught of the intense flames. Released from its grasp, Martel scrambled to get on his feet. The pain in his leg momentarily suppressed by his overriding need to flee, he ran as fast as he could.

Behind him, the skeleton came in pursuit. Ahead of him, he began raising a wall of flames.

As he jumped through his self-made obstacle, he felt it singe his hair. Fuelling it with further spellpower, he kept running. He waited several desperate moments before he dared to look behind. Nothing but the curtain of flames met his sight. Whatever sentience ruled the skeleton, it had decided to stay back. With deep breaths, Martel staggered onwards to escape the catacombs.

~

Limping through the sewers, Martel felt about the same as he looked. His leg hurt with every step, and he could feel the dried blood on his wounds twisting around. He had lost his map; it probably fell out of his pocket during the struggle. His chalk was gone as well, though that at least was easily replaceable. And although least of his concerns, he had also lost his cloth mask, and the full stench of the sewers assaulted his nostrils, adding insult to injury.

The fight forced Martel to re-assess some of his considerations. He had assumed the maleficar did not actually possess any powerful magics, considering he could not prevent a small child from running away. But if he was a necromancer, even if he had no other skill in sorcery, a whole army of corpses lay dormant for him to use. Certainly, the novice would be foolish to still think he might contend with the dark wizard haunting Morcaster like a spectre.

Martel considered if this was something he should report. In the end, he decided against it. He had no reason to assume any connection between the maleficar and the undead creature he had encountered. Also, if his assumption about the wards scratched on the walls was correct, the undead could not leave the catacombs. Lastly, any explanation for his presence in that unholy place would be awkward for himself at the very least. Master Fenrick would be furious at his reckless behaviour; the inquisitors would probably consider him a maleficar in training or something like that. The last point alone decided matters.

After a long and slow march through the sewers, Martel reached the grate door. Picking up the padlock, he had another decision to make. Feeling defeated, he placed the lock on the door and clicked it together, barring his own return. Once again, Martel had gotten himself in over his head, but at least he could recognise this and stop. His journeys underground had brought him nothing but pain; whether Undercroft, sewers, or catacombs, Martel finally understood to stay away.

Reaching the Lyceum did not afford him rest immediately. Knowing the danger of leaving injuries unattended, he made that his first priority. Limping all the way up the tower to his chamber, he only stayed to collect his key to the apothecary and left. Another walk saw him to that place, where he might clean his wounds and apply blood salve to prevent infection and finally a bandage. When he first became aide to Mistress Rana, he had never imagined that the best part would be gaining access to healing supplies.

His clothes proved the next issue. His other robe was already waiting to be cleaned, as smelly as what he currently wore. He could not throw this one to be washed as well, as that would leave him with none to wear tomorrow. So, another slow trot back to the workshops and into the laundry. At least he was familiar with the routine.

His robe dripping wet, but at least smelling more like soap than sewer, Martel yet again marched up the steps of his dormitory tower. Exhausted, he entered his chamber and placed his robe on the dummy reserved for his leather armour so that it might dry. He glanced at his clock. He had been gone four hours or even more; Martel forgot when exactly he had left. It did not matter either; only sleep did.