Kill Baxter

by Human, Charlie

  My epiphany is interrupted by the sight of tiny figures up ahead. Tiny figures with wings. Slaughtering each other. We have walked into the middle of Faerie Armageddon.

  The battle rages around us. A bloody, terrified faerie flies past me screaming, chased by two faerie warriors in armour. They catch and quickly dismember him. The forest floor is covered by faeries mounted on animals. An armoured squirrel rips the head off an angelic blonde faerie before it in turn is brained by a wild barbarian faerie with a spiked mace.

  From what I can tell, the battle can be roughly divided into two sides: heavily armoured faeries flying banners with animal-skull heraldry, and wild-looking barbarian faeries consumed by berserker battle rage. Tiny whoops of bloodlust and the screams of the dying ring through the forest. The barbarians fight well, but they’re outnumbered, and the well-armed regiment of trained battle faeries are brutally methodical. The barbarian force is abruptly broken and they scatter and flee. Lancers on the back of large angry rats run them down and skewer them.

  A female faerie directs her golden-armoured baboon mount towards us and removes her blood-spattered helm. She flicks her long dark plait and stares at us with the hard eyes of a killer, their coldness accentuated by sharp lines of blue paint that curve across her cheekbones.

  ‘I am Bodhi, Prime Enforcer of the Squirrelskull Cartel,’ she says in a high-pitched voice. ‘You are trespassing on our lands, humans. Why are you here?’

  ‘Greetings.’ Ronin bows with a flourish. ‘We mean no offence to the esteemed Squirrelskull Cartel, who are known far and wide for their battle prowess.’

  ‘Get to the point,’ Bodhi says, wiping the blood from her helm with a hand and bringing it to her lips to taste. ‘Or have the flesh stripped from your bones.’ The faerie battalion encircles us. They’re small but there are lots of them and their weapons are very sharp. They’d cut like surgical scalpels. One or two of those in the eye or neck …

  ‘We request a meeting with your Slugmother,’ Ronin says. ‘And I ask you to consider carefully the fact that we are here under the protection of MK6.’

  Bodhi laughs, a shrill little squeak. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find that that is no protection at all, human. The Slugmother has been expecting the human plague to send their little germs into our kingdom. I will take you to her mercy, but first, I have cartel matters to deal with.’

  Ronin bows again graciously. ‘At your leisure, brave and noble Enforcer.’

  As it turns out, ‘cartel matters’ consist mainly of the impaling of captured prisoners on sharp sticks. Bodhi’s eyes burn brightly as she oversees the skewering, calling out tips and suggestions to soldiers as they position the vanquished and terrified faeries on the sharpened ends of poles. Ronin sits smoking as tiny faerie screams rend the quiet of the forest. I close my eyes and think of Tinker Bell.

  Cartel matters concluded, we’re hemmed in by a guard of flying faeries, their wings fluttering like hummingbirds’, and marched through the forest. The faeries speak to each other in a supersonic dialect, part English, part Afrikaans, part bird call and insect hymn.

  ‘Quick cultural debriefing,’ Ronin whispers. ‘The Slugmother is their queen. Actually more like king and queen, because all Slugmothers are hermaphrodites, but always referred to as feminine. She gives birth to the entire cartel.’

  ‘Great,’ I whisper back. ‘So what are the chances that this will end up with us being slaughtered?’

  Ronin thinks for a second. ‘About fifty-fifty.’

  ‘If I’m going to be your apprentice, we seriously need to discuss strategy,’ I say.

  Ronin raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ve survived this far, haven’t we?’

  ‘Only because you’re harder to kill than a cockroach.’

  ‘I’m going to take that as a compliment.’

  We are finally ushered into a deep granite furrow. ‘Scorpion Gully,’ Bodhi announces.

  Scorpion Gully is where the Squirrelskull Cartel hang their hats after a hard day of killing and pillaging. Thousands of nests, like those of weaver birds, are attached to the walls of the gully with a grey goo that Ronin says is Slugmother vomit. We take a winding path between them, passing rows of faeries sitting and drinking out of broken sparrow’s eggs and acorn cups. It might have been charming if they didn’t spit in our path as we pass.

  In the centre of the gully is a huge sinkhole that has been turned into a giant faerie drug lab. Thousands of sweating faeries wearing face masks use their deft little fingers to mould pink powder into pills.

  ‘What are they making?’ I ask.

  ‘MDMA maybe,’ Ronin says. ‘But whatever it is, it’s weird. Squirrelskull have always manufactured counterfeit goods. For them to suddenly go into pharmaceuticals is a major fuck-you to the other Obayifo cartels.’

  ‘You think the Muti Man is involved?’

  ‘Selling drugs to fund a revolution? Very possible. We need to get a team in here to test those pills. Or take some with us.’

  Bodhi leads us to the entrance of a huge woven dome at the end of the gully. Ronin and I stoop to enter, and then straighten up into a long room lined with squirrel skeletons wired together with gold thread.

  An envoy appears in front us, a stooped, sickly looking Obayifo dressed in garish silks and a tall purple hat. He rubs his little hands together nervously. ‘I am Demna, High Priest to the Blessed Slugmother Meptu.’

  ‘Greetings, High Priest,’ Ronin says with a bow. ‘We are—’

  ‘The Blessed Slugmother will decide what you are,’ Demna says with a wave of his tiny hand. ‘It is my duty to inform you of the rules.’

  We are to speak only when spoken to. If she decides we are not worthy, we are to submit to execution without making a fuss. We both nod, although it’s a bit like clicking on ‘agree’ on a website’s terms and conditions. I mentally commit to killing as many of these bloodthirsty little bastards as possible if it comes down to it. Starting with the High Priest.

  ‘The Infinite Slugmother Dogran Meptu,’ Demna says, leading us into an alcove where a beautiful woman lounges attended by several shirtless male models. Except she’s not really. Beautiful, I mean. There’s something wrong with her, as if the air around her semi-naked body is being forced into doing something it really doesn’t want to do. I blink my eyes, trying to get a fix on her.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ I whisper.

  Ronin raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Obviously not all your training has been a waste.’ He turns to the woman. ‘Nice outfit,’ he says. ‘But why don’t you slip into something a little more comfortable? Really, there’s no need to dress up on our account.’

  The woman smiles, shimmers and pops like a bubble, leaving an obese slug creature lounging in her place. It’s roughly the size of a human, but big and lumpy like an old beanbag. Its skin is an uneven blue – dark at the head and tapering into a baby blue – and is carpeted in fine white hairs that sway and move like feelers. It rubs its spotted blue belly contemplatively with short T. rex arms and looks up at us with big, drowsy yellow eyes.

  The Obayifo warriors squeal and swarm around her, suckling at a dark, oily liquid that pours from her. I’ve seen a lot of disgusting things since I met Ronin. This ranks pretty close to the top.

  ‘I hope you have no objection to me feeding in public,’ the Slugmother says, the little warriors struggling against each other for prime spots to slurp the black liquid. ‘It really is the most natural thing in the world.’

  The male models have also dissolved to reveal hideous giant stick insects that twitch and hiss at us. The Slugmother waves a stumpy arm and they settle a little.

  ‘My Skinsects do love humans,’ she says. ‘But don’t mind them. They just want to play.’

  One of them extends a long proboscis covered in thousands of needle-sharp spikes. I quickly update my nightmare list to include Skinsects.

  ‘Humans in my kingdom,’ the Slugmother says. ‘How thrilling. I assume this is not a social call, considering the penalties for tr
espassing on our territory?’ Penalties. Must have slipped Ronin’s mind to tell me about those.

  ‘Slugmother,’ Ronin begins carefully. ‘The cartels have always worked within the boundaries that MK6 has set for them.’

  The Slugmother laughs. ‘Those boundaries once coincided with our interests.’

  ‘Your interests will be best served if you tell us about any communication you’ve had with the individual calling himself the Muti Man.’

  The giant slug shakes her body and Obayifo fly from her in unison, like a flock of pigeons that has been disturbed.

  ‘The agreement with the humans is null and void. A contract between master and slave is not a contract! We are tired of bowing our heads. You are the very definition of human arrogance, wandering into our territory and then demanding answers from ME! Send a message, the Muti Man says.’ The Slugmother rubs her oily belly. ‘Yes, we will send a message. A message that says that the age of human and dwarven exceptionalism is at an end.’

  Demna hovers in front of us, his little eyes wide with outrage. ‘Slugmother, I ask permission to deal with these humans who are defiling this sacred space with their presence.’

  Ronin’s hand slowly slinks down to where the Blackfish hangs under his coat. I pretend to stretch, and slip my hand under my coat and on to the grip of my new gun.

  ‘Well, High Priest,’ the Slugmother says, licking her thick grey lips. ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘The rules are quite clear, Blessed Slugmother: intruders to the realm are subject to the Grim,’ the little bastard says.

  ‘The Grim, yes. Very good.’

  ‘An excellent choice, Slugmother,’ Demna says with a bow.

  Ronin whips his coat open and I’m about to grab Demna and blow his little head off when there’s a pinch in my neck. I try to lift a hand to slap at it but I can’t move. My body is completely numb. Judging by Ronin’s posture, he’s either decided to play an impromptu game of musical statues or he too is experiencing inexplicable paralysis.

  Two little warriors with blowguns descend from where they were hovering.

  ‘Obayifo poison,’ the Slugmother says. ‘The human body is not a fan.’

  My entire body feels like how your arm feels when you’ve slept on it. My eyes and eyebrows can move but that’s about the extent of my body’s functionality. I slide my eyes across to Ronin and see him swearing as much as he can with his eyebrows. Our eyes meet and his ridiculous red eyebrows shrug. I try to tell him with my eyebrows to go fuck himself, but it probably comes across more like I’m having a seizure.

  We’re bound with strong silk and then airlifted out of the palace by dozens of faeries like we’re statues being transported by helicopter. We’re rudely dropped in the middle of a clearing and the silk is cut away by little swords. The faeries leave and I breathe in deeply. My body feels like I’ve been sleeping in an awkward position but it’s regaining feeling fast. I feel a resurgence of hope. Perhaps the Grim is nothing worse than being carried through an Obayifo village.

  Ronin is regaining movement too. He groans and looks across at me, and then shakes his head. ‘This is just the start. The Grim is like a foxhunt. We’ll run and the battalion will hunt us. They’ll attack slowly, wearing us down and bleeding us out like animals.’

  ‘So tell me, have the chances of us being slaughtered changed?’

  He moves his head from side to side, weighing it up. ‘I’d say they’ve dropped to about seventy-thirty.’

  I sigh and put my head in my hands. ‘You’re like a bad joke, Ronin. You know that?’

  ‘Yeah, knock, knock. Who’s there? Fuck you, sparky. That’s who.’

  I shake my head in disgust. ‘What now?’

  ‘I’d suggest stretching. We’re going to be doing a lot of running.’

  A soft hum breaks the quiet. Bees, maybe? I should be so lucky. We pick up our pace, moving through the forest at a brisk jog. Weapons jostle for space under my jacket and sweat prickles my forehead.

  With a sharp zzzzzzzzzuuuuuuu something flies past my face and I flail madly at it. A pinprick pain slices my neck.

  ‘Ah!’ Ronin shouts, clutching at his face. A droplet of blood appears on his cheek. He pulls the Blackfish from his coat and points it into the forest. I scrabble for my short sword and hold it in front of me. Back to back we circle around in the mist, the humming sound growing like a plague of insects.

  Suddenly the mist erupts with the whoop of a hundred faerie warriors in full battle armour. A faerie with a lance flies past and impales my hand. I shout in pain and swing my sword in a wide arc, failing to hit anything. Ronin fires the Blackfish wildly into the air, but Bodhi’s battalion are just too quick. He’s hit by a faerie with a poleaxe. I flail around with the sword and grunt with satisfaction as the flat side thwacks one of the little bastards from the air like a fly swatter.

  It’s not enough. I’m getting cut. A lot. The cuts are small, like paper cuts, but when you’ve been hit ten times in ten seconds they begin to take their toll. Little droplets of blood ooze from me like sweat. Ronin is also bleeding from a dozen small cuts. He pulls a disgusted face just as three small faerie arrows zip into his cheek. I give up trying to hit anything. ‘Run,’ I shout, ‘up the path!’

  He looks down towards where the Cortina is parked, but it is cut off by a wall of frantically buzzing faeries.

  ‘UP!’ I shout.

  We sprint up the orange gravel path. It’s steep and difficult, even if I wasn’t bleeding from tiny lacerations. Ronin swears constantly as we struggle up the hill, swatting at the winged warriors that dart in at us at regular intervals. If we manage to loop around the path back to the Cortina we might be able to make it. If we can stave off exhaustion and blood loss for long enough.

  That’s when we see the battle squirrels up ahead, line after line of armoured grey tree rats glaring at us with red eyes. The faeries weren’t mounting a concerted attack; they were just herding us towards the main attraction: being dismembered by the woodland family.

  We swerve off the path and on to the pine-needle-strewn floor of the forest.

  ‘We can’t fight. We need to hide,’ I gasp as we struggle through the trees, the terrifying chittering of a hundred rabid squirrels following us.

  ‘Great idea,’ Ronin gasps back. ‘Where?’

  He spins on his heel and blasts a leaping attack squirrel out of the air. We flatten ourselves against a granite boulder and he pulls another shell from his bandolier to shove into the Blackfish. He snaps the gun shut and we clamber over a gully of sharp boulders. I pick up a handful of little rocks as I run. Several squirrels appear at the treeline and hiss menacingly. Ronin fires another shot, scattering them. At the end of the gully I see faeries approaching fast, wings whirring and eyes filled with hate.

  A dozen more squirrels appear at the treeline and begin to advance in formation. I draw my handgun smoothly from its holster and fire. One of the squirrels leaps from a rock, sailing gracefully through the air and clamping its teeth on Ronin’s neck.

  ‘Errraaaiiii!’ Ronin shouts, trying to disengage the little jaws from his flesh. He spins wildly, lifting the Blackfish and firing a shot that sends squirrel meat splattering everywhere.

  We clamber up the rocks and break through the treeline and on to a path. An old lady walking her Labrador stands absolutely still as two gun-wielding maniacs, both bloody, one with tiny arrows jutting from his face, stumble wildly on to the track in front of her.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Ronin says, as we walk towards her. ‘Lovely day.’

  Once past her, we break into a wild run again. Running on level ground is gloriously easy, even though my legs are aching and my breath is coming in short, asthmatic gasps. We barrel along the path. Here at least the faeries seem reluctant to attack, falling back into the forest as we make our way among the bald, sweaty joggers and families guiding pushchairs carefully along the track. But the chittering of war squirrels and the hum of faerie wings doesn’t disappear. It sounds like
they’re massing for another assault.

  I look across at Ronin and stop abruptly, my sneakers skidding in the dirt.

  ‘What?’ Ronin says, stopping too and looking around.

  I’ve stopped because there’s something wrong with Ronin’s face. The area around where the three small faerie arrows are lodged is dropping and sagging, making him look like a stroke victim.

  ‘What?’ he repeats, swinging around wildly.

  ‘I think those arrows in your face were poisoned,’ I say.

  Ronin touches his face gingerly.

  ‘Oh,’ he says simply and then points shakily at my arm.

  I look down to see a little arrow jutting from a bloody patch on the fabric. With all the cuts I received in the melee, I didn’t notice it. Now, though, I begin to feel my arm tingling.

  I look desperately at Ronin. He shrugs, his sagging face resigned. ‘We carry on,’ he says gruffly.

  We continue moving swiftly. The tingling in my arm has become a deep numbness, which begins to ache. I try to lift it and barely manage to get it up to my shoulder. Ronin’s left eye has closed completely and the left corner of his mouth is dribbling saliva uncontrollably.

  The track ends in a large rolling lawn. We stumble past lounging picnickers and little cherub children chasing after guinea fowl. It’s idyllic. If you’re not poisoned by faerie arrows and running desperately for your life. We send the flock of guinea fowl scattering, making the children wail with fright. Ronin, one eye now completely useless, veers on to a checked picnic blanket and puts a large military boot into a gourmet arrangement of cheeses. Mothers pull their babies to them, and fathers stand protectively in front of their broods.

  I stagger wheezing past a group of picnickers and grab a pastry from a plate. Ronin rips a champagne bottle from a couple and downs it, half of it foaming out of his poisoned, near-useless lips. He hands me the bottle and I swig the bubbly liquid.