They were sprouting everywhere; the hundreds of Euryathides crew were all blooming into thorny bushes that tore through the earth and soared skyward as if someone had sped up the growth of trees or plants. Green leaves, bark, vines wrapping around the stems at they rose up. Darke and the others were moving through the middle of them.
“Get as far past these as we can!” Darke shouted. “But keep together.”
“Those in front, those between us and the ship, they will surround us if they break open!” Danwyar cried.
“I know, but we keep together. If we break and run, we will be shredded.”
“Your captain speaks best,” Loch cut in, “they would prefer us piecemeal.”
“And who do you speak for, Daath?” interrupted Storan, irritated.
“He speaks for us all,” answered Hyacinth. “Listen to him, he reads time, he senses spirit, do not mock his words, Storan.”
“These are known as pod growers,” Loch said,” but they are spellbound to develop twenty times their rate. They will shortly bear fruit.”
“Rat,” Darke shouted, spotting him. “Get out of there!”
Fire Rat was ahead of them, but he could only stare, amazed as the pod soared to the height of a giant, the size of an Etlantian. He never had been right in the head and presently, his curiosity had overcome all reason.
The wooden bushes were reaching seven, eight, ten feet now. The same heights of Euryathides’s crew.
“They are about to bloom,” Loch warned. “Be ready.”
“Rat,” cried Darke once more, “get away from there!”
“You have seen these?” Danwyar said as he sidestepped quickly. Danwyar was keeping his shield up, his other hand pinning an arrow to the bow, angled downward.
“Only matured. I do not know what will come from these pods, but I sense they are almost complete.”
Fire Rat screeched, finally leaping away, colliding with Marsyas as the group reached him. The pod before him had split open and inside was a quivering, jellylike creature whose organs, eyes, and brain were all contained in a viscous fluid that seemed to be hardening even as Rat watched. Rat broke and ran on his own to clear distance for his naphtha bags.
They had made it through the center, and though pods all around them were splitting open, there were far more of them behind than in front. It seemed a short distance to the beach and the ashore boat, but it was not going to be easily reached; there were scores of pods breaking open between here and there.
Rat had cleared the mounds and turned to run backward, readying his bags, watching as the thorn pustules broke open. He saw one of the first giants emerge. The beast was a shivering globule of pale flesh somehow held together in the shape of an Etlantian—naked, pink, with muscle wrapped in thin cords and webworks of veins. On the outside something was quickly forming, a yellowish outer cover of ill-shaped bone, almost wobbly bone, though it seemed to be quickly hardening into separate plates: chest plates, back plates, arm and leg plates. All the outermost flesh was becoming a kind of rubbery armor.
Once free of the pod, the giant moved with amazing speed. Rat was down the beach, far ahead of the others, reading his bags, and it was Gryn the creature first spotted and leapt for. It was able to leap into near flight. Gryn screamed as a torn claw came down on him, and had he not stepped back quickly it would have torn open his chest; even still it left gaping slashes. Though the muscles and rubbery plates were almost gelatinous, the fingers were all heavy, dark claws of thorns, the size of a dagger, curved and razor sharp. Gryn was cut open, but he had mettle; he was no coward quick to panic, and he brought his heavy broadsword over his head and literally halved the creature down the center from the top of its head. It split apart, and the two sides fell outward then hit the ground in a splash of mucus and blood-meshed sacs.
There were hundreds popping open with cracks and snaps as the thorn plants split in their centers to release their wobbly, gelatinous spawn. The giants stepped free of their wooden wombs to search for food, needing blood and flesh badly. Like newborn calves, their legs and arms were at first unsteady and they moved in lurching strides, aided by wings sprouting from their ankles. Amazingly, the wings helped them leap so they were airborne for seconds, though when they landed, their legs were so unsteady in the beginning that many went down, spastically.
From all sides they were starting to swarm. Luckily, the pirates had gotten through most of the open graves, close enough to the beach to offer hope. But there were thorn pods still in front of them bursting open.
“Keep tight; head for the beach,” commanded Darke. “Storan, Marsyas, carve out our path should they block it!”
Storan switched with Danwyar, taking position on Darke’s left.
The crackling sound of the thorn plants opening was loud, like logs snapping and splitting everywhere. The angel had made a comedy of his trap. Once matured, pod creatures were invincible warriors, but newly born, they walked in unsteady staggers, arms reeling. They came heaving their way toward the pirates, making sounds, moaning as though they were talking with one another, but all of it high-pitched wails and gibberish.
“Mother of us all,” Storan swore at the sight of them.
They were Euryathides’s full crew, with oarsmen, and they would have numbered nearly two hundred. Luckily, the pirates had made it far enough down the beach that the majority were to the rear, but the plan seemed to have been to surround them. Many of them did not have pure blood in their veins. Consequently, some could not control the newly formed muscle and bone, and they emerged from their pods only to rupture in sprays of jellylike globs.
“Back to back!” Darke screamed as the creatures finally were able to move in with focus, leaping and lurching in quivering steps. Their bodies were like jelly, but their hands and teeth were hardwood thorns, and as rubbery as they were, they were incredibly strong. When the first one reached Loch, he slammed the buckler into its face, expecting it to be thrown back, but it proved surprising resilient, its hand swiping for his face so Loch brought the sword low, shearing through both legs. The creature dropped with a maniacal howl and a splash of viscous fluid and blood.
They were at first coming two or three at a time, and the pirates were taking them out with heavy weapons. All bore axes, double-edged irons, heavy bucklers and shields, and as they came two and three at a time, they were shorn open or smashed by Marsyas’s hammer.
Danwyar used arrows through the eyes. The silver missiles splashed into the eyeballs and out the back of the heads with a splat and the creatures would scream and spin, wildly waving their arms. They were halted in their tracks, but never did they die quickly.
The wails, cries, and childlike bawls were unnerving as the creatures were smashed, shorn open, and sliced in pieces.
But they were also developing quickly. Hardening. The plates of what would become hardened thorn wood armor were yellow and spongy, but with each moment, each second, they were darkening and taking on coppicelike hardness more difficult to cut.
“This is simple, mindless madness,” Storan shouted, shearing through glob after glob.
“Shield to shield—press for the shore!” Darke commanded. “And do not underestimate them—if they reach you, they will tear you apart!”
Darke slammed his shield sideways through the face of a creature. All the Tarshian shields were steel-edged. He sliced through just above the eyes, but even brainless, the beast kept coming, still swiping at him, snarling with a gurgle. Darke used his sword, in and out of the chest, until it finally screeched and spun, slipping to the ground where it writhed with sounds as though it were a terrified child.
Hyacinth stayed beside Loch with Taran to her right. Taran was using sword and shield to ward off anything that came near Hyacinth, hardly protecting himself. He had already taken blows to his back and sides, but he dodged them effectively enough that none were deep or lethal. He used his heavy, black double-edged sword in the same cut over and over to guard his right. He swiped through guts, their
softer midsections, cutting deep enough that they fell over backward, snapping the rubbery spines or sometimes dragging their bodies as their legs continued their wobbly assault, harmlessly bumping and slamming into Taran’s side until they lost control, spilling ooze across the rock.
The ground, mostly rock and dirt, had become slippery. It was difficult moving quickly without sliding, but these were pirates, used to heaving seas, all but Loch. He was finding it maddening, sometimes sliding backward instead of running, other times nearly falling.
Hyacinth moved backward half-crouched. Just as Danwyar, she was firing her tiny missiles into their eyes, upward through the tops of their heads, which were hardening as each moment passed and would catch the tips long enough to take the poison. The poison would often discolor their blood, swirling through their brains—orange, yellow, brown, sometimes a rich purple or dark blue.
One of them, feeling the poison, began whirling in a circle, its arms flailing and waving in what might have been a practiced dance until it finally dropped to a writhing mass on the black rock.
“He plays with us,” Hyacinth said to Loch, “toys with us while he laughs somewhere.”
Even though the ashore boat was close, there were now enough matured pod beasts that they had slowed the rapid retreat. The pirates were still steadily moving for shore, but Marsyas and Storan were doing all the work, hacking their way through, the heavy axe and the big Etlantian’s war hammer working as if cutting through a thick jungle.
Hyacinth continued piercing eyes. At least when her bolts went through they stopped in their tracks.
“How many bolts do you have left?” asked Loch.
“Ten and four.”
“Kill sparingly. Let me and your protector Taran take the brunt of them.”
She obeyed, keeping the small crossbow at the ready, but waiting to choose her mark only when they were too close to her or Loch.
The path to the sea was finally blocked by a mass of them. The pirates for the moment found themselves surrounded, fighting on all sides. Marsyas’s hammer took off heads one after the other, and Storan found his axe worked through the midsections.
Loch finally let the sword suck blood from his palm. It surged in pain up his arm and through his head, but the sword finally came to life, spilling light. Almost immediately they backed off, covering their eyes, some even screeching or screaming, and ran, arms waving above them in terror.
Hyacinth gasped. “They fear you,” she said.
“They fear the sword.”
Darke was busy killing, but he turned to see the Daath, poised and ready. The monsters gathered in a frightened mass before him; those behind them pressing forward, but those in front terrified by the humming light slashing into them, ripping them open, spilling out the fluids and blood and guts.
“To the front,” Darke cried, “Loch, move to the front, cut a path to the sea.”
Loch back stepped.
“Marsyas, cover Hyacinth!” he commanded.
Loch and Marsyas stepped past each other. From Marsyas’s side they immediately came forward. There were perhaps hundreds back here. Marsyas prepared to slay, though he was exhausted, weary to the point of collapsing.
Loch stepped forward, separating from the others slightly, letting blood into the hilt. The sword readily drank, as if it were thankful. Like quenching thirst it sucked hard until the sting of blood slipping through his skin made his head light, while at the same time bolts of pain shot up his arm, through his shoulder, into his head with hammer blows. He let out a thin ribbon of blue light, focusing past the pain to move the blade slowly from right to left. The flowing, weaving ribbon of light cut hot and searing through legs, midsections, chests—anything it struck. All of creatures within sight of Loch were thrown into a wild panic. The ones in front desperately tried to run, only to slam into those behind.
The pirates needed clear passage to the ashore boat. Loch’s arm was nearly paralyzed with pain, but he dropped a moment to one knee, lowered his head, and let the Angelslayer take a solid stream of his blood, granting it all it wished. Pain ripped into him, screaming, searing pain as blood tore through the skin of his palm and even streamed from the vessels in his wrist, sucking into the hilt and then through the blade. Darke saw a vessel in Loch’s temple burst open, spewing blood into his hair. With a deafening crack of thunder, a blue bolt of light left the tip of the Angelslayer and spread out as it moved toward the giants. They were screaming in wild panic, throwing themselves back, but the light continued coming for them, widening, until it was like a wave rolling. It slammed into the thorn beasts, flinging them in all directions, tearing their flesh to shreds, their fluids spraying as they were blown into pieces. When it was over, the creatures were cleared all the way to the shore. A path to the boat had been opened. The ground before it was drenched in shredded flesh, vicious fluids, and bloodied debris.
The pain ripping through Loch was unbearable. It left things blurry. He ignored it, standing.
“I will take the rear now,” he said to Darke. “Go for the boat!”
He turned and moved for the rear. He was nearly blind with pain, but he forced the Shadow Walker to see through it. He kept his balance, kept his focus. He let the blade cool down, and as he did some of the pain began to abate.
Taran, Marsyas, and Danwyar had been left to hold off hundreds closing on the rear. Now the light of the Angelslayer backed them off as Loch stepped past the captain to Hyacinth’s side.
Darke glanced to the waterline; it was cleared, but just as he turned, a pod creature caught him in the shoulder, shearing away a chunk of flesh. Darke hissed, furious, and sliced him open, sideways from the midsection through the top of his head, but they were getting harder to cut; they were maturing. As they dried, their exoskeleton was taking on dimension, forming a coating of armor that by now was almost thick as leather.
Suddenly a circle of whispered chuckling swirled around them like wind. It was the angel, watching his circus, amused.
“Double-time for the shore,” Darke commanded, “and hold the sides and flanks. We must still stay together—but move! Move!”
They were moving quickly now. It seemed close, the ashore boat, they could have sprinted to it in minutes, but they were being pressed too hard from the side and rear. If they turned to spring, those to the rear would be caught and torn to pieces.
Taran cried out. He had been fighting hard, his sword arcing and thrusting with deadly mark, shearing arms, legs, guts, slashing through faces. He had killed countless numbers of them, but a giant had suddenly stepped around the edge of his shield, moving with speed unlike the others, and this one sank thorny, arced teeth of hard thorn wood into the muscle of Taran’s lower neck and shoulder, then ripped away a chunk large enough for the creature to step back, chew, and swallow. Taran’s sword ripped through his gut as he did, but blood flushed across Taran’s chest and his head was left leaning sideways.
“No!!” shrieked Hyacinth, whirling to send two bolts ripping into the giants coming at the weakened Taran, smelling his blood. She sunk her bolts through the eye sockets, and the pod beasts reeled in confusion, blocking those behind. One wailed, clutching for its eye as the poison visibly swarmed through its head, through the pink tissue of its brain.
But the smell of blood was strong and it drew them with renewed vigor. From the left another got close enough to grab Taran’s shoulder with thorn claws, about to tear off Taran’s arm. A bolt of light pulsed through the monster, igniting him like a torch before he exploded in bits of flesh and slop. The thorn claws were left lodged in Taran’s shoulder, along with a piece of the arm above the elbow that flapped as Taran continued to fight, wielding the broadsword to protect Hyacinth at his side.
Loch hissed. Each time he fired the sword, an arc of pain ripped through his arm and up his neck. The sword caused a split in the veins in the back of his hand. As blood spilled from the wound, it was quickly taken by the sword. The Angelslayer seemed to crave Loch’s blood as badly as the
thorn giants, and it drew in the blood from the split veins in his hand in tiny streams, like rain being driven by wind. The blade rippled in fire now, a deep orange-red. The stream of fire roared as it streamed into the creatures. Loch gasped, sucking for air; it was out of his control; the sword was sucking in the blood from the wound without slowing.
For a moment he almost blacked out, but then he dropped to one knee and lifted the blade, using the pain and loss of blood to level off the stream of fire, letting it tear into them. The thorned beasts screamed. Some tried to turn and run. Panic spread as Loch swung the screaming swath of flame from one side to the other, shearing most in half, bursting others open, turning some into pillars of fire that caught others aflame as they ran through the crowded giants howling. At one point he kept it leveled straight and the stream of pure fire sunk deeper and deeper through them, killing dozens, as if cutting a roadway through the midst of them..
But he could barely focus, barely keep him eyes open. The loss of blood was tapping his strength, leaving him so weak he felt as he if were about to collapse inward, just like one of the creatures whose bloodline failed to hold their bodies. Suddenly, Loch’s arm began to jerk in spasms and the light from the blade came in pulses, uncontrolled bursts of energy destroying everything they struck. Loch was unable to hold either the bursts or train their direction. At one point a solid, blue, crackling bolt of light spread in a wide, shimmering arc, imploding as many as fifteen at once, like a heavy blade ripping a deep swath through their fleshy outer layers.
“He cannot stop!” Hyacinth cried. “Help him; he cannot stop!”
Loch dropped his head back, growling through tight teeth as the pain overwhelmed him. His head was near to bursting; every muscle and tendon of his body was screaming. He managed to keep the sword level and he knew he was still slaying from the screams he could hear, but his head was tipped back and all he could see was sky graying—he was losing his vision.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 33
