by Hugo Huesca
Behind them, Brondan laughed like a maniac and threw a knife at a batblin that was trying to sneak out of the chamber. “No one’s leaving. I’ll have all your experience points; it’s the least I deserve.” The knife hit the batblin in the back and downed him.
“Please!” Klek begged, staring into Tulip’s stunned eyes. “He’s killing my friends.”
For a terribly long moment, Tulip said nothing. Then, slowly, her mandibles clattered as she made her choice.
“We’re all going to die!” Drusb muttered from inside his hiding spot. He coughed and spat out a bit of straw. With his echolocation, he could “see” despite being hidden inside the straw bunk. And what he saw he didn’t like at all.
The elf Thief, Brondan, had gone mad. Drusb, as cloudmaster, had seen it happen several times. Some people just weren’t all that strong in their noggin. They lived normal lives, most of the time, but they just needed one bad day and then… snap.
This mad Thief was going to kill Drusb’s entire cloud, and there was nothing he could do.
If only Virp were here, he thought with desperation. Virp would know what to do.
But Virp was gone, devoured by a giant bear, and Drusb could do nothing but hide.
His cloud ran out of things to throw. Brondan’s rapier was dripping blood. “Finally,” he said. “Now it is my turn.”
“We’re not scared of you!” A lone she-batblin stood in front of the elf. That’s Stush, Drusb realized in horror. His mate had always been hotheaded, but this was insane! She wasn’t a fighter, she had no chance…
Then he realized his mate’s intentions. Behind Stush, the youngest batblins inched away, their backs to the wall, trying to sneak past Brondan.
I need to help her. But what could he do? He’d only die alongside her. Trembling all over, he tried to force his body to react, but he was frozen with fear.
Brondan raised the rapier and took aim. Stush was shaking badly, but she didn’t move. I’m sorry, Stush! Drusb closed his eyes.
There came a terrible scream. Drusb cried in agony as if he had been the one struck. But something was wrong.
“Klek!” a young batblin yelled. Drusb opened his eyes.
Brondan was a step away from Stush. Both batblin and elf stared in surprise at a many-legged figure as it charged at Brondan again. The Thief was bleeding from a gash near his belly, right under his armor.
“What is he doing?” another batblin asked.
Drusb blinked. Was his brain playing tricks on him? Klek had a spear in one hand, and another grabbing the spider’s horn. Half his body was that of a spider, like some kind of centaur… He’s riding the spider, Drusb finally realized. He’s riding a damn horned spider!
“Haven’t I suffered enough?” Brondan asked as he dodged Tulip’s charge. He tried to stab at the spider’s flank as she passed, but Klek deflected the strike with his spear. Under normal circumstances, Brondan would’ve overpowered him, but the spider’s own momentum added to Klek’s strength, and he pushed the elf away like it was no effort at all.
Klek tugged at the horn, and Tulip changed direction, facing the Thief again. Klek lowered his spear and took aim squarely at Brondan’s chest. “You won’t hurt us ever again!”
Not even in Drusb’s wildest dreams would he have expected to see something like this. Virp’s useless son riding one of batblin-kind’s most terrible predators and charging as one.
Brondan dodged away from the charge, but this time only by a fraction of a second. Before he could counter-strike, though, Tulip jumped with surprising agility, well beyond what Drusb would’ve expected for her score—
And she shot a strand of webbing straight at the Thief’s chest. Brondan lost his footing, his rapier going wide, and at that exact moment, Klek jumped away from the spider and soared through the air, spear held firmly in front of his chest.
Both batblin and Thief crashed together. Someone made a gurgling noise as he hit the ground. Tulip fell nearby and skittered blindly until she smashed against a wall and was still.
DRUSB LEFT HIS HIDING SPOT, still not believing his eyes. It had to be a dream. Klek’s spear had pierced Brondan’s leather armor, had run him straight through the chest, killing the Thief instantly—leaving him nailed to the floor like a batblin may do to a pretty insect.
The battle was over. Brondan’s cultists had either died or run away, screaming, into the depths of the Haunt.
“Did he do it?” Stush asked softly as she reached Drusb.
The rest of the batblins formed a circle around the fallen combatants. Tulip was groaning softly, her chitin raising rhythmically.
“That’s Virp’s son,” Sas whispered, almost reverently. “I thought he didn’t have the Shaman’s path in him.”
“He doesn’t,” said Drusb. “He and Tulip did this using only pack tactics.”
Whispering spread like wildfire among the batblins. Pack tactics was a talent that many critters of the forest had. It simply strengthened their physical attributes when fighting as a pack. It was a modest increment—the batblins all had had it active during the fight. But when Klek and Tulip had allied themselves, the talent stacked with Klek’s normal buff within the batblin cloud…
For a brief, glorious instant, Klek and Tulip had been as strong as an adventurer.
Drusb had never seen anything like this before. Until the Haunt had come along, horned spiders and batblins had always been enemies. That such strength could be obtained by joining forces was unthinkable.
It was the most egregious bending of the rules of Objectivity that Drusb had ever seen. It was something that Dungeon Lord Wraith himself would’ve done. Klek may lack his father’s power, but he has the cunning of a Dungeon Lord.
The bloodied batblin stirred, then tried to stand. The rest of the cloud erupted in cheers. Hands reached for Klek and propped him up.
“Adventurer’s Bane!” Sas announced, lifting Klek—who had no idea what was going on. “All hail Klek Adventurer’s Bane!”
Drusb didn’t join the rest of his cloud as they celebrated Klek. Something above them, by the roof, claimed his attention. A humanoid shadow, not entirely unlike a specter, a faint hint of green pinpricks of light instead of eyes. Is that the wraith? But before Drusb could shout in alarm, the figure vanished.
It was as if it had merely been making sure the batblins were still alive.
The fence was torn and shredded, and the Imp Felonworth weed had grown out of control, its green tendrils reaching easily seven feet—the weeds’ tips were bent over by their own weight, which gave Lavy the impression that she had stepped into a jungle and even the vegetation was stalking her. She could see the remains of the barbed wire fields. Some had snapped in half as if something had taken a bite to see if they were edible.
Lavy didn’t like the kind of silence around her at all. It was the silence of an ambush.
This place is huge, she realized, as she headed for the Felonworth field. Instead of entering it, she remained a few strides away.
How many beasts are watching me? Ed had started with a single batch of hell chickens. A month had passed since. Certainly there couldn’t be more than a dozen, right?
I only need enough of them to distract that asshole, she reminded herself. Enough of them so she could sneak out and lock him inside the farms. If she survived the next few minutes, she’d sent St. Claire and Tillman a damn flower bouquet.
Behind her, the doors roared open, so suddenly that she screamed in surprise. Her first idea was to dive into the Felonworth field, but something primal inside of her told her it would be a terrible idea. So she froze like a scared rabbit as the giant man blundered into the lost farms.
“Ah, there you are,” he told her. He used his axe as if it were a walking stick—Lavy realized he was probing for tripwires while keeping an eye on her. When he was done, he stepped forward and carefully closed the doors behind him. “Let’s get this over with, girl. Just you and me. Enough people are hurt because of us.”
“Not nearly enough, if you ask me,” Lavy snapped at him. She raised her hand at him, readying her last spell—but it was an empty threat. Nothing in her arsenal could even faze the man, and as soon as she cast it, she’d be out of tricks.
The giant smiled without any joy. He closed the distance to her, talking all the while. “My name is Rolim. The man leading us is called Nicolai. I understand you’ve a cause to hate us, given our current situation. But know our cause is just. Your death won’t be in vain. We are to set right what once went wrong. We will free Starevos from the decade of slavery that Torst and Heiliges brought upon our people.”
Lavy snorted. “People always have their reasons to break into a house and kill everyone inside. Dungeon Lord Heines insisted that every child he sacrificed to the Dark had died for a good cause. But when others did the same to him, suddenly he couldn’t have cared less about their good reasons.”
Rolim nodded. “Of course a Lotian wouldn’t understand my plight. It’s fine. I just wanted you to know, girl… before you meet your Dark gods.”
Also, you want to distract me while you get closer, Lavy thought.
If she darted into the Felonworth, maybe she’d lose him. She was shorter than he was, so she’d be able to see him coming and he would have trouble spotting her.
Yet all her instincts were screaming at her that she’d rather face the axe than what lurked behind her.
Rolim was now but two strides away from her, definitely within striking distance. Lavy hated herself for the way her knees shook, but she couldn’t control her body. At least I haven’t pissed myself. The axe remained still.
He called me a Witch when I could fight back, but now he calls me a girl, she realized. “It isn’t as easy as you thought, right? To kill a young woman in cold blood.” She scowled at him, like she was staring at a mountain of dung. “So you have to parrot all that crap about freeing your people and whatnot. Tell me, brave hero, will Starevos be any more free once my head rolls on the ground?”
The veins in Rolim’s neck were taut, his muscles tense. His hand was trembling. He said nothing.
Lavy wasn’t scared of him anymore. Her knees stopped trembling. Instead of cowering at him, she stood straight, her chin raised proudly as befitting someone of her dark heritage. “Do it, bitch,” she snapped at him.
Many things happened at once.
Rolim lifted the axe and swiped like an avalanche of steel, a sideways strike aimed at her neck.
The Witch dropped to the ground. The axe passed half an inch above her head, and she felt the air from the strike caress her back and shoulders.
Something inside the Felonworth field roared, a high-pitched cry that sent goosebumps throughout Lavy’s back. The wall of weeds rustled as that same something pushed past them and pounced at Rolim—Lavy saw the creature’s shadow as it passed right over her, and she felt the tip of its claws brush her shoulder. That soft touch was enough to throw her against the ground face first and send her sprawling away.
“What?” she heard Rolim say—or try to say.
A great impact, followed by another terrible roar. Rolim cursed. Lavy turned in time to see him rolling on the ground, wrestling against a flutter of raven-black feathers the length of a short sword. A beak that had more in common with a spider’s chitin than the beak of any other bird, smashed against Rolim’s armored forearm. Rows and rows of pointed teeth—sharp like knives—tore at the metal in a frenzy. At the same time, curved claws like scimitars tore at Rolim’s belly, and without a doubt would’ve gutted him had he been unarmored.
Rolim roared in pain as the black creature’s beak found soft flesh—blood poured away from the man. With a titanic effort, the giant caught the monster by the neck, half hugging it close to his body. The creature frantically tried to bite his neck—it tore off an ear instead, which disappeared into its mouth. Then Rolim brought himself down, falling with all his weight over the creature’s head.
Crack!
The body of the creature trembled once, and then was still.
Wincing in pain, Rolim pushed the corpse away from him. His armor was covered in nicks and long scratches, and he sported long, deep, angry red wounds around his arms and legs. Lavy could see muscle and, in some cases, bone. His axe had fallen away from him, out of reach.
The giant touched the meaty spot where his ear had been. He winced in pain and stared at the red on his fingertips. “What was that?” he asked Lavy with an incredulous voice, his eyes distant and glassy. “It gave me so many experience points…”
Lavy wanted to cackle like a madman, but the sight of Rolim’s wounds sobered her. She wanted to puke. “A hell chicken, I reckon. We eat them for breakfast around here.”
Rolim stared at her like she was insane. The man stood and examined the creature’s corpse. It was a few inches taller than Lavy, with powerful, sinewy muscles hinted through the dense expanse of feathery darkness. A glossy red eye without sclera stared at the Witch. The creature’s head was elongated, ridged, and it barely looked like a chicken’s. Had it not been for the feathers, it’d have been easy to mistake the creature for a giant lizard, like the kind some people insisted roamed around the deep, untamed jungles that surrounded the Wetlands.
Lavy had thought those stories idiocy—how could a lizard be taller than a house? But now, she wasn’t so sure.
“You lie,” Rolim told her grimly. “This was a trap, wasn’t it? You planned this. Damn well almost worked. Unfortunately for you, almost isn’t quite good enough.”
The man retrieved his axe. To do so, though, he had to turn his back to the Felonworth for a second.
Another hell chicken flashed out, black darting past the green—Rolim barely turned in time. The man swung his axe and beheaded the creature in one fell swipe. The severed head stared at him in hatred as it arced through the air.
Two hell chickens slithered out of the Felonworth. They kept their distance this time, one at each of Rolim’s flanks. Their dark tongues tasted the air, and their heads turned inquisitively as they cried in sharp, whiny tones.
Three more joined the others. One of them headed for the beheaded chicken and sniffed it. It licked at the blood, whined, then bit a chunk out of the corpse. Five more hell chickens joined this one, and together they began devouring their fallen companion.
More came out to devour the one with the broken neck. Lavy lost count well past a dozen.
A semi-circle of black feathers had formed in front of Rolim, just out of the reach of his axe. The giant’s eyes were wide open in disbelief. He had gone pale from blood loss and fear. “Nicolai,” he muttered to himself, “have you brought us to the realm of Murmur himself?” He took a step away from the creatures. His foot slipped on his own blood, and he fell to one knee. He immediately jumped to stand—
And the creatures descended upon him.
Yeah, fuck this. Lavy very, very slowly snuck away from the hell chickens as they devoured their prey. Rolim had stopped screaming at some point, but out of the corner of her eye, Lavy could see him still struggling. What remained of him, at least.
It was amazing how long could a man live without his kidneys. Or legs. Or—
There was a ruffle of movement to her left. Slowly, she turned to see a hell chicken a few strides away, red eyes staring straight at her. This one was a bit bigger than the others, about two heads taller than Lavy—not that it’d need the extra height to take her down.
Shit. Lavy had seen them move. If she ran for the door, the creature would no doubt beat her—or worse, it’d escape before she was able to seal the entrance; then she’d unleash them all into the unsuspecting dungeon.
The other creatures were busy feeding—there was plenty of meat to go around. But this one wouldn’t budge. Its head shifted to one side as if questioning her.
They didn’t attack Rolim until they figured out what he could do. A couple of exploratory scouts, at first, to see how Rolim would react. When they got his measure, then the others struck.
They a
re intelligent. She caught a glimpse of the creature’s Mind score: a six. Definitely smart, for a savage beast.
“Now, now,” she told the creature with her best soothing voice. “Haven’t you had your fill?” She slowly walked back, feeling the ground with the tip of her boot, as not to stumble like Rolim had.
The creature snapped forward, its tongue tasting the air, its eyes fixed on Lavy with raw animal hunger. A couple of the other beasts raised their heads, their beaks covered in blood and viscera.
I’m stuck. If she moved, the monster would attack her. She’d never make it past the door. The urge to break down was overwhelming—she was hurt, her legs and arms bleeding from a dozen scratches, fragments of glass still embedded in her, some of them quite deep. She was dripping blood, and if it weren’t for the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she’d have gone mad with pain. She had been burnt, scratched, and almost murdered several times in a few minutes. And now she was going to get eaten alive by a fucking hell chicken.
“Are you watching, Alita? Do you get off on this?” she muttered. The beast in front of her titled its head as if she were speaking with it.
Just give up, a nasty part of her whispered. Haven’t you had enough? First you barely escaped Lord Heines’ dungeon, and then you barely escaped from Kael’s when his time came. Did you really believe the Haunt would last forever? This was the only way it could end for you, you know.
She grimaced. A drop of blood trailed down her finger and splashed at the ground. The hell chicken sniffed at the air, then took a tentative step forward. And then another one.
The worst part was, she’d never finish her research. She’d dreamed of having her own laboratory for so long, and now she’d lost it before she even managed to learn improved spellcasting. So much potential, thrown in the trash.
Her hands clenched into fists. That’s right. I’m no apprentice anymore. I’m a goddamn Witch. Time to act like one.
She scowled at the black creature. “Do it, bitch.”
The beast lunged, a flurry of teeth and claws. “Blazing whip!” A line of fire flashed between the hell chicken and Lavy. The monster stumbled, lost its footing, clawed at the ground to regain its balance, and stepped away from Lavy. The smell of cooked chicken meat mixed with acrid burnt feathers reached the Witch. The creature’s beak was smoking, a line of smoldering red crossing it.
