Fury of a Demon

by Brian Naslund

  “And what the fuck is that thing on your hip?” Yustar asked, motioning to the weapon Osyrus Ward had built for Garret.

  “A whip.”

  “Don’t look like no whip I’ve ever seen.”

  That was a fair assessment. The whip’s braided fibers were made from a strange, translucent material. The grip was molded perfectly to his hand and covered by a dragon-bone guard that was packed with machinery and those little orbs Ward liked so much.

  Garret had practiced with the whip before leaving Floodhaven. The barbs that descended from the guard and pierced his skin were unpleasant, but the power they unleashed was worth the pain.

  When Yustar realized Garret wasn’t going to offer up more details, he spat again.

  “You’re more of a legendary asshole than anything else, you know that?”

  The ship shuddered as it changed course, banking east.

  “Two minutes out!” the pilot shouted from the front of the ship.

  * * *

  They landed in field of dry grass that was about a hundred paces from the wild and overgrown entrance to the warren. The Wormwrot men rushed out of their skyship and took up defensive positions. Garret exited last. No reason to expose himself.

  The second skyship landed to their left. Vergun, Castor, and another score of Wormwrot spearmen trotted out and completed the perimeter. Ten Wormwrot with Balarian longbows followed and set up positions on either side of the skyship.

  Behind them, six war acolytes came out of the ship. They ran a patrol around the perimeter Wormwrot had created—all six of them sniffing like bloodhounds, occasionally pausing to squat, pick up a handful of dirt, and taste it. Once they’d performed their check, they nodded to each other in some form of private consensus.

  “Harvester,” one growled. “Clear to proceed.”

  A final acolyte came out of the ship. Apart from the gray skin, this one looked nothing like the war models. It was quite thin, and walked with an imperious posture. Gait relaxed, almost graceful. Its arms weren’t really arms at all, more a conglomeration of needles and rubber tubes that were bundled together by the same translucent threads that were in Garret’s whip.

  The harvester moved to the mouth of the dragon warren, which was ringed by orange thornbushes and moss. Extended its arm. A bunch of machinery near the wrist spread apart—needles opening at the tips like flowers, but instead of petals, there were metal parasols that sparked and whirred.

  “Viable Seed confirmed.”

  The war acolytes turned to Vergun.

  “The harvester is vulnerable during collection. Keep the cave secure, no matter the cost.”

  “Not my first time doing this,” Vergun growled.

  Five war acolytes went into the warren with the harvester. One remained outside, guarding the entrance.

  Garret scanned the area, searching for signs of the enemy. There were none, but from a glance at the topography, if an attack was coming, it would arrive from one of two directions: a marshy lowland to the east that was dominated by moss-covered Daintrees, or from the western side of the field, where a set of massive termite mounds formed a complicated maze with good cover.

  “Castor, run a patrol along the termite mounds, I will take the marsh,” said Vergun, coming to the same conclusion as Garret.

  “Aye, boss. On it.”

  Castor drew his sword and motioned to his men. They headed toward the mounds.

  The Madman had been correct. This was a trap. But there was no way to know from where Ashlyn would arrive, so Garret stayed with the archers. As soon as she appeared, he’d make his move.

  Not a moment sooner.

  34

  JOLAN

  Dainwood Jungle, Sector Nineteen

  Jolan was hiding halfway up a Daintree, doing his best to keep the astrolabe pointed at the harvest acolyte for as long as possible. Ashlyn was on the ground below him, a wire running between her and the astrolabe. She both powered the machine and—if it worked properly—was using it to capture the signal of the harvester’s entry lodestone from a distance.

  She kept her eyes closed. Stayed completely still.

  When the acolytes disappeared into the warren, Ashlyn opened her eyes.

  “Did you get it?” Jolan asked.

  “Five points north, two points east. Forty-two points south, nineteen points west.” She paused. “Repeating. Nice and simple.”

  Jolan nodded. That was good, but they still had a problem.

  “There are six war acolytes with the harvester,” said Jolan. “Not three.”

  Ashlyn didn’t say anything.

  “Ashe, I’m not sure you can handle six.”

  “Neither am I,” Ashlyn responded. “But I am certain the point of no return has passed.”

  “Oh, it’s long gone,” said Simeon, who was squatting next to her. He rolled one shoulder in a circle, causing a crisis of clacks from his armor. “Once the shit starts to fly, we’ll make our move. Keep an eye out, kid.”

  Jolan swallowed. Turned back to the skyships. Waited for the violence to begin.

  35

  CASTOR

  Dainwood Jungle, Sector Nineteen

  Castor didn’t like the look of those termite mounds. Not one fucking bit.

  Too many different routes and ways to get separated. Too many little trees sprouting up that might not be trees at all, but armored wardens waiting to draw steel and slit throats. And not nearly enough reliable exits.

  If all that wasn’t enough, there were also way too many termites on them—each mound swarming with a shimmering film of the wretched bugs.

  So Castor called his men to a halt ten strides from the first mound. Waited.

  Sergeant Yustar came up next to him. “What’re we doing?”

  “Shut the fuck up and get back in formation,” Castor barked.

  He didn’t like Yustar. The man had no character.

  Vergun halted his men at the borders of the marsh, too. Both groups held fast for a few minutes. The only sound was the rustle of grass in the wind and the heavy breathing of men wearing full armor in the jungle heat. Castor was just starting to think that there wasn’t anything around besides the wretched insects.

  “Contact right!” a Wormwrot shouted from the edge of the line.

  Castor turned. A tall, shirtless man was standing in the middle of the field, wearing a wooden mask that was painted black except for a thick, blue bar running down each cheek.

  “A dragonslayer,” Yustar whispered. “Think it’s Bershad?”

  Castor didn’t respond. But he didn’t have to count the tattoos on that tall bastard’s arms for very long before reaching a number that narrowed down the odds in a hurry.

  “Why’s he just standing there?” Yustar asked.

  “Because he wants us to make the first move,” said Castor.

  “I’m of a mind to oblige him. The bounty on Silas Bershad’s head is bigger than a fucking Red Skull.”

  That was true. Probably enough for Castor to afford his island. But charging the Flawless Bershad without a plan was a real good way to die.

  “You’ll stand fast until I order otherwise.”

  Castor didn’t take his eyes off the dragonslayer, but he could hear Yustar licking his dry lips. And he could imagine the stupidity that was running through his simple brain.

  “Fuck that,” Yustar said a moment later. “I’m going for it.”

  If Castor was still a Horellian—and some regular grunt in the Balarian army did that—he’d have severed the idiot’s back tendon and collapsed his throat with a swift kick of his boot. But this was Wormwrot and he wasn’t a Horellian, so Castor let the idiot charge across the field on his own, motioning again for the rest of his men to hold fast. Thankfully, they were smart enough to obey.

  Yustar trampled across the field, bellowing out a war howl. He was an idiot, but he was also a capable soldier who’d managed to keep himself alive after a whole summer of combat drops into the jungle. So when he came within five strides
of the dragonslayer and dropped his shoulder into a strong thrusting position, Castor gave him half odds at becoming a hero on the field today.

  It was a good thing Castor didn’t gamble.

  The dragonslayer remained still until the last available moment, but when that moment came, he darted to the left of the spear thrust and broke the point off with a swipe of his hand. Then he used the spearpoint to disembowel Yustar with a few efficient jerks.

  Yustar put up quite a fuss while that happened to him. Enough screaming and shouting that it got Vergun’s attention. He ordered the archers who were over by the skyships to loose a volley. They obliged, but while they might have been using Balarian-made longbows, they were not Balarian longbowmen.

  Only one arrow was on target, but the dragonslayer saw it coming and avoided it as calmly as he might dodge a snowball thrown by a small child. Then he turned his back on all of them and walked into the termite mounds.

  Vergun still had enough composure to keep half his men watching the marsh, but he ran to Castor’s position with a face that was brimming with rage.

  “Why didn’t you go in after him?” he hissed.

  “That’s a trap, boss.”

  “That is Silas Bershad.”

  “One and the same, in this particular instance.” He paused. Scanned the area. “They probably don’t have the numbers to fight in the open. We keep our perimeter tight, we’ll be in and out with only Yustar down the river.”

  Vergun responded by drawing his falchion. “Ten men go in with me. Ten go in with you. Take the north side.”

  With that, Vergun disappeared into the termite stacks.

  Castor cursed. He knew Vergun would kill him if he refused, so there was nothing to do but follow his orders.

  The place was a proper maze—twisting passages that divided, then divided again so within a few minutes it would be impossible to trace their way back out by anything besides bootprints.

  Castor called a halt, not wanting to get lost.

  “Was that our fourth right?” he asked the man next to him.

  “Fifth.”

  “You sure?”

  A silence.

  “No.”

  Castor cursed.

  “Nothing but rights from now on, got it? Then it’ll be lefts on the way out so we can—”

  “Behind us!” a private shouted, raising his crossbow. Castor turned to find Bershad filling their back trail and holding a white shield. The private fired his crossbow, but the bolt bounced harmlessly off the shield.

  Bershad darted out of sight.

  “On me,” Castor said, moving back through their line until he reached the place where Bershad had been standing.

  “Man’s not wearing boots,” he muttered, looking at the footprints.

  “That’s because he’s a fucking demon,” whispered the man next to him. “Demons don’t need—”

  There was a wet thump from the other side of their line, followed by the clatter of an armored man dropping to the dirt. Someone else fired a crossbow. Cursed when they missed.

  “Keep this direction covered,” Castor growled, then shoved his way back to the front. There was a dead man with a gaping hole where his face used to be.

  “What happened?” he asked the private who was recranking his crossbow.

  “Bastard speared Kornut,” he said. “Then he ran off that way.”

  He pointed down a twisting path.

  “Did he have a shield?”

  “Naw. Just the spear.”

  “What about boots?”

  “What?”

  “Was he wearing any fucking shoes?”

  “I didn’t have time to inspect his footwear.”

  Castor looked around. “Something’s not right.”

  “Not to be rude, boss, but that’s pretty obvious.”

  Shouts rose from the south side of the termite mounds. Then screams.

  “How’s he moving around so fast?” a man asked.

  “Like I said, he’s a fucking demon. I heard he can transform into a dragon when he wants to.”

  “He’s not a demon, you idiots,” Castor growled. “He’s just not alone.”

  “What do we do?”

  Castor checked the ground. Took a moment to suss out the footprints that he saw. Found the ones coming from bare feet instead of boots. Those were Bershad’s.

  “On me.”

  They moved forward until they reached a wide clearing that was pocked with squat, hip-high trees. Vergun and his men were just coming in from the other side. A masked man was standing in the middle of the clearing. He was carrying that shield again. Breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. His feet were bleeding.

  “Silas Bershad,” said Vergun, stepping forward. “I am going to cut off your head and put it in a pickle jar.”

  He motioned for his men to fan out, covering the different paths out of the clearing. The man waited until he was surrounded, then he took off his mask.

  Castor had never seen the Flawless Bershad’s face, but unless the legendary lizard killer had been a Lysterian this whole time and nobody had mentioned it in the stories, this was not him.

  “Pickle jars, is it?” the man asked in a thick Lysterian accent. “Seems an odd place to put your head.”

  Vergun’s face twitched with rage. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Name’s Goll,” the big man said happily. “You’re Vergun?”

  “Commander. Vallen. Vergun.”

  “Right, right. Titles, titles. Anyway, Silas Bershad has a message for you.”

  “What message?”

  Goll cleared his throat, as if he was about to perform the soliloquy of some play.

  “Not yet, asshole.”

  The squat trees that filled the clearing came alive and started killing people.

  36

  JOLAN

  Dainwood Jungle, Sector Nineteen

  Jolan watched the battle unfold through a Papyrian lens. The sounds of steel on steel rang out from within the maze of termite mounds. Wormwrot’s perimeter around the marsh broke as men rushed to help their dying comrades.

  “They’re starting to thin out,” Jolan said.

  “Good,” said Ashlyn. “How are things looking near the warren?”

  Jolan shifted his lens.

  “One war acolyte is still guarding the entrance,” he called down.

  “How many Wormwrot around the skyships?”

  Jolan did a quick count. “Seventeen. Most of them have bows.”

  Ashlyn turned to Simeon. “Go out there and get their attention. I need the entrance to that warren cleared.”

  “No fucking problem,” Simeon growled, putting on his helmet.

  He trotted toward the skyships, picking up speed with each lumbering step. When he was out of sight, Jolan raised the lens again and focused his gaze on the perimeter of the marsh.

  Simeon broke free from the undergrowth about a minute later. Most of the Wormwrot men were focused on the termite mounds, so only one soldier saw him break out of the mire at a full sprint. Simeon threw a rock at him, which caved in his breastplate and blew a pink smear of organs into the grass behind him. That got everyone screaming, turning around, and forming a shield wall against him.

  Simeon met them head-on. Started tearing them apart.

  “Any movement from the war acolyte?” Ashlyn asked from below.

  Jolan turned his lens to the warren’s entrance. “None. I don’t think it’s going to move.”

  “Black skies,” Ashlyn said. “No choice, then.”

  “What are you doing to do?”

  Ashlyn didn’t respond. Just started working her way through the marshy undergrowth.

  Jolan turned back to the skyships, where Simeon had massacred about half of the soldiers—reducing them to limbless heaps and smashed torsos. He was currently beating one man to a bloody puddle while four others beat at him with swords that might as well have been big stalks of wheat for all the damage they did.

  When Ashlyn appear
ed at the fringes of the marsh, her armbands were already churning and she had all ten lodestones orbiting around her body. When she was about ten strides away, she zipped them toward the acolyte in a blur. But the acolyte had seen her coming. Its forearms snapped in front of its head, and the orbs were buried harmlessly into his thick muscles. The acolyte lowered its arms. Two massive bone spikes extended from between the fingers of each hand.

  “Oh no,” Jolan muttered. “No, no, no, no—”

  Ashlyn’s bands froze. A final lodestone—which Jolan had lost track of—dropped from the sky, slamming through the top of the acolyte’s skull.

  The creature’s spikes retracted back into its arms. It tottered, then fell backward. Dead.

  Ashlyn stepped over the corpse and disappeared into the warren, dragging its body with her by using the lodestones that were peppered into its body as anchors.

  “Thank the gods,” Jolan muttered to himself, relief flooding his veins. “Five more to go.”

  A strange sound sizzled through the air, and when Jolan turned around, Simeon was no longer pummeling Wormwrot with their own limbs.

  He was down on both knees. There was an electrified whip wrapped around his throat.

  Jolan studied the man holding the opposite end of the rope. Even with a painted face and Wormwrot garb, he recognized Garret’s face.

  Jolan climbed down the tree, took one of his explosives out of his satchel, armed it, and ran toward the skyship.

  37

  GARRET

  Dainwood Jungle, Sector Nineteen

  Garret had been watching the Skojit tear Wormwrot apart from the shadow of the skyship when Ashlyn Malgrave darted out of the woods and killed the acolyte guarding the warren.

  So, the ambush in the termite mounds and the Skojit’s assault had been nothing more than diversions. Simple and clean. Garret was impressed.

  The only way for him to reach Ashlyn was to go through the Skojit. So Garret had activated the whip and made his move.

  Even with a body full of current, the Skojit managed to kill three more men just by thrashing around. Garret squeezed the whip’s grip harder, increasing the current flowing through the mechanism. He nearly had the big bastard cowed—which would leave the path to Ashlyn Malgrave wide open—when Jolan came running out of the woods.