Chapter 2.2 - In which Percy becomes the reluctant assistant to a blood sorcerer

Percy

Month 12, Day 17, Thursday 9:45 a.m.

Percy’s ridiculous, entirely false words hung in the air while he and the blood sorcerer stared at each other. Percy’s heart was pounding so hard he was sure the man would see his panicked pulse in his throat. Percy closed his eyes for a moment, praying that his hastily concocted lie would buy him even a few precious seconds while the man was confused. If he could just get up, maybe he would get a chance to run away.

The blood sorcerer tilted his head, the expressionless mask revealing nothing of his thoughts.

Percy shakily pushed himself upright, ignoring the flare of screaming pain from his left side that almost made his arm collapse beneath him. He made it to his feet, but swayed with dizziness. As his diaphragm relaxed, he took a few deep breaths despite his broken ribs—his body needed to be flush with air for him to sprint away.

It was stupid and cliched, but he would pretend to point to something behind the man, and then trip him when he turned. Hopefully, that would give Percy enough time to get down the street and turn the nearest corner before the man could use his battle wand. If that didn’t work, there was nothing else Percy could do.

But before Percy could implement his plan, the man groaned and stepped back, his shoulders sagging with visible relief as he exclaimed, “Oh, thank Myrddin! I was beginning to think they’d forgotten about me.”

Percy blinked rapidly, his mind reeling.

The sorcerer’s voice, muffled by his mask, took on a nervous, almost whiny quality as he said, “There’s so much to do, and so little time. Am I doing this right? The viscera distribution feels off.” He gestured toward the gruesome scene he had created in several doorways.

Percy thought faster than he’d done in his entire life, parsing the implications. Somehow, his lie was plausible. This man wasn’t just a single deranged individual, but part of a larger, organized effort. The thought sent a chill down Percy’s spine, colder than the damp cobblestones beneath him. He swallowed hard. “Your work is…acceptable.” It was the most neutral thing he could think to say, but he immediately regretted it and tensed, waiting for the man to become offended and snap. Everyone knew blood sorcerers had volatile tempers at the best of times.

But instead, the sorcerer laughed awkwardly, then waved a gore-covered hand to Percy. “Well, it’s my first time. You can guide me for the rest. Come on, then. We’ve got work to do!” He gestured to the barrels on the platform strapped to his back. “You look so young! You must be a pretty powerful thaumaturge. Did you start start learning very young, then?”

Percy tried his best to display confidence that he didn’t feel. “Oh, you know how it is. Ambitious parents.”

The man nodded sagely. “I wish my own ma’ had pushed me a bit harder at that age. But she didn’t have any kind of big legacy to pass down, and was too busy working her fingers to the bone just keeping’ us alive. Do you have your own gloves? I didn’t bring an extra pair.”

Percy paused in confusion at the subject change, then stared at the contents of the uncovered barrel in dawning horror. But his life was on the line. This was no time to be squeamish. Reluctantly, he reached up and grabbed a chunk of pale n limb with a few sparse hairs caked beneath a layer of sticky blood. He winced and coughed as his stomach rebelled and the resultant contraction of his stomach muscles caused a spike of pain that took his breath away.

The blood sorcerer grabbed Percy’s free hand dragged him  along, chattering nervously. “You see, I’ve been trying to optimize the distribution pattern.” The man gestured with his free hand at the carnage. “But I’m not sure if I’m getting the ratios right. What do you think? Does it look very disturbing but also natural? It’s really hard to replicate the effect of someone exploding into pieces by hand.”

Percy swallowed hard, limping beside the broad man. “If only they’d provided some tools to explode things more authentically,” he managed to croak out.

“Yes!” the man exclaimed with the excited commiseration universal among all workers complaining about their bosses. He released Percy’s hand as he pulled out the battle wand in preparation to blast down another door.

Should Percy run? No, best to wait until the sorcerer’s back was turned and the man was in an awkward position, if possible. Turning his back while the unhinged man had a battle wand in his hand was just asking to get murdered and his corpse-pieces added to the ritual. Besides, in his current state Percy wasn’t sure he actually could run.

The sorcerer tucked away the wand and began flinging gore and clotted chunks of blood, looking toward Percy for approval.

Percy eyed the doorway, desperately trying to imagine this was just an avant-garde, abstract painting and tossed the chunk of flesh in his right hand into the mess at a spot that seemed appropriate. He gave a single, confident nod. “Onward.”

But as the sorcerer finished tossing out turned toward the next house and Percy turned in the opposite direction, Percy’s foot suddenly slid on a particularly gelatinous piece of…something. He flailed, arms windmilling wildly as he desperately tried to maintain his balance. His foot slipped backward further, which kept him from falling on his backside, but instead forced him into a forward split. He managed to catch himself with his hands before sinking all the way to the ground, but the muscles of his thighs and groin still burned with the excessive, sudden stretch. He held himself there, trembling. Congealed blood had seeped between his fingers.

Percy would never eat jelly pudding again.

The sorcerer turned and stared down at him again. “What are you doing, man? There’s no time to be playing around!”

Percy forced a weak smile onto his face. He couldn’t come up with any reasonable lie to make himself seem more competent, and didn’t want to risk it—the blood sorcerer might have been fooled once, but someone with a working brain could only be so gullible before they became suspicious. “I wore the wrong shoes for this kind of work.”

Percy flopped onto his side and the man helped him up, suppressing laughter beneath the mask. “You’re quite…flexible, aren’t you?”

Percy blushed, straightened his clothes—inadvertently getting more blood on them—and and cleared his throat. “Well, you know. Flexibility is required for certain kinds of rituals.”

The man turned to hurry on, talking over his shoulder. The grin hidden by his mask was obvious in his tone. “Those kinds of rituals, you mean?”

“Let’s focus on the job at hand,” Percy said.

The sorcerer repeated the strange process at the next house.

Percy flinched as a pale pink limb hit the door-frame and bounced off with a wet thud. Was that a forearm, or a shin? The sorcerer seemed intently focused on his task, and as he turned his back, Percy’s eyes darted around, desperately searching for an escape route or a potential weapon. His gaze swept over the blood-spattered room, taking in the shattered furniture and scattered debris.

A broken chair leg caught his attention, lying just a few feet away. Its jagged edge promised a modicum of protection. Percy’s heart raced as he considered grabbing it. Could he use it to defend himself if the sorcerer turned hostile? Or would attempting to arm himself only reveal his deception?

Maybe he could snatch the battle wand out of the depraved man’s apron pouch. If Percy was holding it, it couldn’t be used against him as he fled. Even if he couldn’t sprint, surely even a fast limp would allow him to escape. Was he faster than a man weighed down by full-body protective leathers and at least one full barrel of corpses?

Percy wetted his lips as he watched the sorcerer’s back, his eyes darting between the leather apron pocket and the man’s bloody work. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for action. With a burst of desperate courage that made his heart feel like it might explode in his chest, Percy lunged.

But again his foot slipped, this time on a thin brown puddle seeping out from some poor creature’s removed and perforated stomach bag. Percy grabbed onto the edge of the sorcerer’s gore barrel to catch himself, making the man stumble. His arm slipped inside, and his hand closed around something soft and limb-shaped. His eyelids fluttered as some weak part of him decided that it might be better to pass out than endure this situation.

There was no time to dwell on the horror. Pushing aside his revulsion, Percy gripped the grisly object tightly and swung it with all his might at the back of the sorcerer’s head.

The impact was solid, producing a sickening thud. The sorcerer, who was already off-balance, staggered. Unfortunately, he was steadier on his feet than he had any right to be, and didn’t fall, let alone topple to the ground unconscious.

With a growl, the sorcerer whirled around. His eyes, visible through his slightly clouded goggles, were wide with shock and betrayal. “You…you’re not here to help me,” he sputtered, his voice rising to a shrill pitch. “Are you betraying the architects? Or are you here to eliminate me and try to take my place in the ranks?”

Author Note: Weekly discussion thread (and tidbit authorish notes from me) on the Alcove: https://alcove.azaleaellis.com/t/chapter-2-2-weekly-discussion-in-which-percy-becomes-the-reluctant-assistant-to-a-blood-sorcerer/851