by Jeffrey Hall
Garp scanned the Piles. “You think there’s a horde of them out there?”
“Holes go deep enough…” Wumps preferred to live in packs, but the size of that pack depended on the space of the warren they called home. The bigger the hole, the lesser the chance of them turning on one another for a chunk of rock that they all wanted.
“Only seen about a dozen wumps in all our crossings. There ain’t no horde out there,” said Grey.
“Now you’re the Scarred?” said Garp.
“Don’t need no stone to know that. It’s common sense, something you should be using.”
Requiem scanned the Piles as they passed. The hillside was riddled with holes, some cavernous pits as big as houses where the brimlings had dug greedily. There were other things besides wumps and sleepers that would take residence in such places.
“Why do you insist on coming through here?” said Requiem, rubbing his head.
“And do what? Go around with the Fiddle Road? Do you have any idea how long that would take?”
“Better to be late than to be dead.”
“You’re not a miner no more,” said Grey. “Being late equates to losing weight. We need every shard in order to climb out of those holes. But you would know nothing about that any longer, would you?”
Requiem laughed to himself. If Grey could see the insides of his pockets he’d be saying differently.
“Ain’t going the Fiddle Road because a few mishaps that could have easily been avoided if we had our own stones correctly in our sockets.” He stared at Garp.
“Close it, Grey,” muttered Garp.
“See? He knows I’m speaking the truth. There’s nothing to worry about here as long as we keep our heads down and the reins cracking. We’ll be through here in no time—”
Thunder boomed overhead in that cloudless sky. Requiem and the others ducked their heads as if the sound were a whiplash, scolding them for their talk. As it faded Requiem noticed how much it sounded like a roar.
“What was that?” shouted Garp.
But before Requiem could come up with an answer the ground started to shake, and from the darkness of the nearby holes came a chorus of calls.
Wump! Wump! Wump!
“Shit,” said Garp.
The first of them popped out of the nearest hole and sprinted, its lanky legs carrying it over the rocky terrain, kicking up soil, its long pointed ears flopping behind it like pigtails.
“Wump!”
“By the Abyss, is that thing coming for us?” said Grey.
Requiem slid off the back of the coach, his headache thrust aside momentarily by adrenaline. The lonesome creature scurried about, its pupiless white eyes pointed in their direction as it continued with its ridiculous, comical call.
“Does this one have a death wish?” said Requiem.
But as soon as he asked it he saw others pop up from the top of the hole.
“Oh shit,” said Garp.
Like a flood, dozens of pink bodies climbed out of the tunnel top, scrambling into the hills and crying out, “Wump! Wump! Wump!” Like a flock of birds, they called to one another as they rushed towards the caravan.
“Git!” cried Grey as he snapped the reins of the horses, but there were more pouring out of other tunnels up ahead. The horses trotted into a gallop, but quickly reared as the first of the skittering creatures crossed their path.
“Stand behind me,” shouted Requiem. He unclasped his robe, letting it fall to his side to expose the worn armor beneath. He pulled Ruse from its sheath, and the ring it made as it left was louder than the cries of the coming onslaught, but not louder than the second crack of thunder that boomed afterwards.
The swarm of wumps screamed. From beneath the soil broke free a dozen sleepers, the giant, grub-like beasts wriggling free of their hiding spots, their jeweled lures deflating as they flopped forward, almost as if they were trying to get away.
But if it was escape or hunger in that calamity, Requiem could not tell. The wumps fell over the freed sleepers, and the sleepers snapped them up like feed to fishes as they squirmed forward.
“Garp! Steel!” Grey tossed Garp a rusted sword, while Grey himself stood in front of the caravan with a pickaxe. They had only a moment to prepare before the wave of creatures caught up to them. Garp looked terrified. Grey looked ready.
Requiem swallowed as that familiar rush of adrenaline peaked. The scar stone knew it too, ready to give to him its power in exchange for some of his own.
The first of the wumps scampered onto the road and Requiem began his cuts, slicing the air, making the rune for slash just as Dorja had taught him those many years ago. He brought Ruse across, like he was attempting to decapitate an invisible foe, and a barely visible purple ripple of energy sprung out from his arc. It connected with the first five of the wumps, severing two of their heads, opening slashes along their bodies, dropping them where they stood. A powerful spell, one he paid for instantly as he felt a large new wound open on his back.
The pain caused him to stumble forward, but he still had time to do one last slash towards the ground. The soil bubbled and popped. A web of sticky residue ebbed out from where the edge of his blade struck. A dozen wumps stumbled, creating a pile of the creatures as they cried out, “Wump!”
“Protect the coach and the horses,” snarled Grey, but it was an impossible directive.
The wumps came like a pink flood, crashing into them with such power that it was a wonder they were able to stand their ground. In moments there were creatures everywhere. Running beside them, jumping over them, scrambling upon the soil and stone by their feet, but even more coming straight for them.
Requiem swung and slashed, the coming of the creatures so fast and relentless that he felt like he was battling the undergrowth of a forest. A wump lunged for his head, but he swatted it away in a streak of blood. Another ran at his legs, claws extended, but he stabbed it through the top of its head and kicked the body off his blade. Still others jumped and scrambled towards him, and as they did their pale eyes widened as if shocked to see him there amongst the chaos, but he cut them down all the same. The creatures left minor rakes upon him, their claws jabbing into the unarmored joints of his platemail, but he did not react, knowing full well that if he bent to address the pain he would expose himself to more vital blows. So he bore it, like a familiar sting caused by the scar stone, and concentrated on creating enough of a gap in the fighting to cut a rune. Somewhere he heard Garp and Grey yelling nearby, still alive, still fighting, but they were hard to see amongst the horde of wumps.
He stepped back, the back of his foot hitting the wheel of the coach, and sliced a wump in midair. It fell back into two of its calling brethren, giving him a small window amidst the fray.
He made an X with his blade at eye level, and an explosion of burning spittle sprayed from its center. A dozen wumps hit the ground, holding smoking parts of their bodies. The spell caused a new wound to erupt on his right shoulder.
The spittle created a gap on the battlefield, allowing him to see Grey and Garp in front of the horses, swinging, bleeding, but still standing. The gap also showed him the coming sleeper.
It lurched forward, its segmented body thrashing along the soil as it snatched the wumps foolish or unlucky enough to stumble in its way. Its rows of sharp teeth were decorated with blood and bits, making its mouth look pink. Hanging over its upper lip, its lure bobbed, forming and deflating to make mock precious stones. There was an emerald, a chunk of ellidite, a diamond—the sporadic nature of it a clear sign that the beast was panicked.
Panicked and barreling towards Requiem.
Requiem raised Ruse, hoping to make a fire rune before it could arrive, but a wump ran into him, causing him to slam into the coach. He momentarily lost his breath. When he opened his eyes the jaws of the sleeper were bearing down on him like a bladed trap trying to snare his life.
The creature was so close that all he could do was slam his hands into its lips and keep its teeth at bay as it
drove forward, still holding onto Ruse as he did. The power of the beast was overwhelming, threatening to snap his arms as he tried to keep its teeth from tearing him apart. The scar stone flared, and he felt its strength flood his muscles, every scar it ever created on his body screaming with agony. He locked his arms and held the sleeper before him even as it wriggled forward, forcing him once more into the coach, this time so hard that the thing tipped.
“Shit!” cried Requiem as the coach crashed over onto its side, bringing Requiem and the sleeper with it.
The weight of them caused the wood of the coach to buckle. Requiem’s hands slipped from its face down to its neck, where he held it upright, preventing it from crushing him entirely.
“The clink!” shouted Grey.
Requiem glanced to his right and saw the boxes of gathered stones spilled onto the ground, and beneath them, like a buried bone, was the white robe of the girl. She had been thrown with the stones, but worst of all, those stones were attracting new traffic.
The wumps flooded the downed caravan as they scooped up stones, trampling over the girl as they gathered their share and fled.
“Watch out, you bastard—”
The sleeper tried to shift its head and bite, but Requiem, with the last of his borrowed power from the scar stone, shoved the beast over the side. He came to his feet upon the coach just as his strength wore off and the immense pain dissipated. But even as it left him, his rage did not subside as he saw the wumps carelessly run over the girl.
Freed of the wump rush, he stood above the fray like he was upon an island and looking down into menacing torrents. There, he clenched his jaw and braced himself for what the scar stone would take from him as he violently sliced the air, cutting, slashing, twisting, painting a rune so immense that the air began to feel heavy around, swelling with an energy like a bloated stomach ready to vomit. At last he brought Ruse down and froze.
The air roared like a beast, a long-caged animal finally set free. From it came a web of green lightning, jagged and volatile, striking dozens in their chests and heads like elemental bolas. A great chorus of wumps sounded as all those touched by the magic flopped to the ground, smoking and tremoring like insects fallen into a flame.
The scar stone immediately took its share. Requiem felt a new wound open up all the way from his abdomen, over his chest, and up the start of his neck. The pain was so severe that he crumpled to the ground and fell from the wagon. He hit the stones below, but the bite of them was a faraway feeling compared to the new scar.
He lay there for a moment, his heart thumping like a monster in its own right, embracing the pain, closing his eyes, and listening to the thuds of the still living wumps’ feet and the massive pounds of the sleepers’ bodies trudging onwards. What would it matter if he didn’t rise again? Maybe here he could die and be done?
Something blocked the sunlight sneaking in behind his lids. A great shadow passed over him and when he opened his eyes he expected to see a sleeper standing over him come to see him out. But there was only the sun and the thin tendrils of smoke and dust rising into the sky like beings reentering the city of clouds taking residence overhead.
“Help! Grey… umph!” Garp’s voice rang over the chaos.
Requiem looked over wanting to see what he was going on about and why he wouldn’t just let him die, but there was the girl, still sleeping next to him, a little bruised, a little dirty, but still breathing, impervious to the violence infecting the world surrounding her. Oblivious just like Mote when Requiem would sneak in and watch him while he slept, absorbing his peace, marveling at his innocence.
“You son of a—”
Beyond, just on the other side of the downed wagon, the body of the sleeper Requiem had pushed away lay atop one of the horses, the poor thing dead. But beneath the horse, stuck like a rodent in a trap, was Garp, his lower half covered by the weight of the two creatures, his upper half exposed, providing an easy target for the other sleeper wriggling its way towards him.
“Grey!” he shouted, feebly holding up his sword and attempting to wiggle free of the horse. But Grey was nowhere to be seen.
The new sleeper opened up its maw and Garp held up his sword as if hoping the beast would impale itself by accident.
Requiem watched it all from his knees, a slave to his pain, a captive to his own weakness, and gritted his teeth.
“Up,” he told himself. “For the last time, up.”
But his body was depleted of its reserves. It was never supposed to be there. It was never supposed to have come back from the Edge. They had made an agreement, some time ago, that he would cause it suffering no more, and now he was trying to break that promise. It wouldn’t let him.
“To the Abyss with you then,” he whispered. With one hand on the girl, he raised his blade as high as he could and cut down, the momentum of his swing taking his entire body forward and to the ground. The air rippled and snapped as the rune was released and put into motion.
He watched from his place on the rubble, over the girl, as the slicing arc reached the sleeper just as it was about to bite down. It arrived in a mist of blood. When the red fog settled half the creature’s face was gone and so was Garp’s hand.
Requiem dropped his head, and as the scar stone flared and the new wound formed, he couldn’t tell if the screams he heard were Garp’s or his own.
Chapter 5
“Hold still!”
The world slipped into his vision like a spill of grey oil, slowly pervading his senses, thick and heavy and hard to absorb, hard to comprehend.
Why wasn’t it done with him yet?
“Don’t! Wait until I get some low!”
The harsh yelling made his head hurt. It was like each word was a club striking his brain. With that noise it was impossible to stay down.
He sat up and blinked, allowing the wreckage of the world to come into focus.
The Piles rose nearby like infected bites upon the land, swollen and discolored, the green and grey of their sides now tarnished with pinks and reds.
Requiem blinked again.
It wasn’t some blight upon the soil, but the carcasses of a hundred wumps, split, charred, and broken as if a rabid storm had run through them. And among them, the bodies of sleepers, grey lumps, cancerous and ugly upon the world. Garnishing it all were splotches of blood, red and dazzling beneath the sunlight like melted rubies.
“No!”
He twisted to see the commotion and felt the harsh pain of his own grave wounds. His undershirt had become untucked during the battle. He could see the bottom of it flaring out from beneath his armor. It was stained yellow from use beforehand but it had turned a dark red, as if it were a rag used to sop up wine. He didn’t need to look beneath it to know the penalty he paid for using the scar stone was severe. He followed that view below to see the girl beneath him. She was covered with the leftover stone from the wagon and the kicked-up debris from the wump stampede, but worst of all was the vast stain of red that permeated the robe she was wrapped in.
Requiem panicked, scrambling off of her, expecting to see a great rent in her flesh, a killing blow to finish what the cultists had started, but couldn’t find a thing save for some minor tears in the fabric. He put his shaking hand to her nose and felt her warm breath against his skin. She was still alive. Still asleep. The blood upon her was his own.
“Ready?” said Grey.
“By the Abyss, no!” shouted Garp.
Requiem finally saw them lying beside the broken corpse of one of their horses and the dead sleeper who was its breaker. A small fire raged beside them, snapping and furious like a wicked thing trying to make its way into reality. Grey held the fat part of Garp’s blade over the flame with one hand, while with the other he held up Garp’s severed wrist.
“Count of three. Just like a swig of red low. A snap of pain and then you’re good.”
“Ain’t nothing like that!” shouted Garp, and he tried to squirm away from the man’s grip.
“Hey!
Do you wanna pour out and die? That’ll happen if we don’t get this done. Now sit tight and let the fire do its work.”
Garp’s eyes swam as he mumbled something to himself. As they did, he saw Requiem sitting there amongst the rubble.
“You. You took my goddam hand, didn’t you? You and that demon stone of yours. Now look at me. I’m a freak. I can’t hold a pick. Can’t hold a woman. Can’t hold a bottle without being afraid I’ll drop it—”
“The man saved your life,” said Grey.
“He done took it! I was gonna skewer that sleeper where it stood, but he went and swiped it away with my hand like they were goddam dust to a broom.”
Requiem just sat there, taking the man’s words. Though he should have been used to it by then thanks to Proth and what he had done, and how the people of Moonsland now thought of his kind, this was personal. A misdeed done by his own hand. Even if he’d saved the man’s life, he had still killed him, just in a different way. A miner needed two hands to work. Two hands to swing. Two hands to climb and navigate the treacherous holes boring into the ground. Without one he would never work as a miner again.
“Would you shut the sure up and calm down!” growled Grey.
Garp glared at Requiem. “To the Abyss with your count to three.”
Grey nodded, and before Garp could reconsider, he brought the flat part of the blade down with two hands against the bloody stump of his arm.
The sizzle of the blade against the man’s flesh sounded snake-like before it was drowned in the yell of Garp. The man’s eyes bulged as he writhed and tried to escape the pain, but Grey’s knees in his chest and on the crook of his arm kept him a prisoner to the agony. His only way free of it was to go dumb-eyed and pass out, falling back into the dirt as if he’d just taken an arrow to the head.
Grey removed the sword, looked at the wound, and put it back there, sealing it where it didn’t seal before. When he was done he sat back, threw down the sword, and mopped his brow as he kept Garp’s arm lying in his lap. He locked eyes with Requiem.