by Rob Scott
In a white-hot rage, he cast the staff’s magic into the beast’s body, with devastating effect, as the inhuman howl of the monster mingled with the sobbing screams of the dying. Steven, caught up in almost physical fury, imagined breaking the creature’s legs as it had pulled apart the Falkan partisans. As if in response to his thoughts, the beast’s chitinous exoskeleton snapped with an audible crack. Two of its forelegs were torn off and left to sink into the lake.
Steven thought he heard someone calling his name; was that Mark gripping the gunwale of Garec’s longboat? But he ignored his friend and turned his attention back to the Cthulhoid monster.
‘Get off them, you bastard sonofabitch!’ he raved, and released another burst of magic. ‘Come over here, come over here to me,’ he crooned. He could feel nothing, not the cold water nor the heat from the gigantic fireball suspended above. For a moment he became faintly aware that people were swimming towards him and he roared, ‘Get back! Back away! It’s coming!’
With a mighty cry, the black-tentacled bone-collector found purchase on the surface of the water and leaped into the air. What was this wretched creature that dared to challenge it? Humans did not dare; they squealed and ran and suffered. It would kill him, dine on his flesh, suck out his brains and polish his bones. It would kill this interloper, and then slowly feast on the others as it healed over the next generation. But blinding pain started to crest through its body as Steven’s magic tore it apart.
The monster screamed, an ancient curse that only a god could now decipher, and sprang full-bodied into the air, its deadly legs and writhing tentacles poised to grasp and disembowel the annoying staff-wielder.
Time slowed. Steven knew the creature would come for him; it would come from the air, as it had attacked the longboat. But he made no move to escape; instead, he remained with his head and shoulders above the water, peering up at the bone-collector as it hung in the air for a moment, then came crashing down upon him.
Mark, watching in awe and horror from the longboat, saw Steven finally move, reaching up at the last possible moment, just as the monster’s legs were closing down on him and the huge body was about to push him down into the very depths of the lake. ‘No!’ Mark yelled, but his cry was cut off by a deafening explosion that echoed and re-echoed through the cavern. A shockwave of water threw him backwards and capsized the remaining longboats.
Mark endeavoured to get his wits about him again. Save for the light from two torches that had miraculously survived, the cavern was dark. Steven’s fireball had been extinguished when he called upon his magic to destroy the subterranean creature. The Falkans, many stunned to find they were still alive, swam around trying to right their boats. Mark was surprised at the silence – until he realised he couldn’t hear anything except for the dull ringing that clamoured in his head. He dreaded the headache that would follow, but at least his ears weren’t bleeding. He looked around for Brynne: she was clinging to the side of a longboat with Garec. They both appeared unharmed.
Then he looked around for the monster, but all he could find were pieces of black chitinous carapace floating on the surface: it looked as if the creature had been blown to pieces by the force of Steven’s explosion. Mark called out to his friend before he realised Steven was missing.
‘Fuck!’ Mark swore, as loudly as he could manage, but he heard nothing. He took a deep breath and dropped beneath the surface. It was dark, too dark to see anything, so he had to trust his instincts. He felt the thermocline again, so he was at least twenty feet down, and dropping deeper with each moment. He equalised the pressure in his ears and continued kicking towards the lake bed. He’d be enormously lucky to find anything – if he were off, even by a few feet in either direction, he might swim right by Steven’s body.
Thirty feet: it would have to happen in the next few seconds. Thirty-five. His lungs ached, but he was determined to last at least another thirty seconds. He allowed his breath to begin escaping his lungs, slowly, so slowly; the simple act of exhalation helped him to hang on.
Forty feet. He could see nothing, sense nothing. It was cold and dark. Then he felt them. Tentacles.
At first Mark was frightened he had come upon the blinded creature, lurking below and entirely capable of ripping him to pieces, but he quickly realised these tentacles were not moving, not reaching for him. They swayed gently in the current, but they were lifeless. This was it. This chunk of the creature’s broken body was huge, and somehow he knew Steven lay trapped beneath it.
Twenty seconds more. He began to count: twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen … He ran his hands through the forest of tentacles, trying not to focus on the pain when the evilly serrated claws sliced through his flesh. He found the ragged edge where the monster had broken apart in the explosion and gripping hard, Mark pulled with all his might.
Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. He started as the body shifted, then stretched out on the sandy lake bottom, reaching beneath the carcase for any sign of Steven. Nothing. He exhaled more bubbles, trying to fool his body into staying down for a few additional moments.
He tugged again, moving the corpse further away. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. He stretched as far as he could beneath the monster—
Finally! Mark’s fingers closed around a leather boot. He pulled, and felt something give. Four. Three. He shifted his weight and pulled again. Two. Finally, Steven’s body came free. One.
Mark kicked off the bottom, dragging Steven’s inanimate form behind him. Forty feet. That would take fifteen seconds, twelve if he were lucky. Steven had been under water far too long; Mark’s worry overcame his own need for air. At about twenty feet, his temple struck something hard, but as he raised an arm to brush it away he realised it was the staff. He shoved it towards the surface like a javelin, following as fast as he could. When he broke through the surface he was screaming, ‘Someone help me!’
THE MEADOW
Versen and Brexan were moving north along the coast. They had no waterskins, so they drank from every stream they passed. The jemma fish was finished, leaving nothing but the smell – they’d stuffed their pockets full of the cooked flesh and the fisherman’s generous gift had seen them through to the second day. They were happy to be alive and their spirits were high: they held hands while they walked, and chatted amiably. Brexan talked about Malakasia; she was pleased to dispel the myths that the entire nation was shrouded in ghostly fog, and that strange and horrible creatures wandered freely committing gruesome acts of dismemberment or murder.
‘Except around Welstar Palace,’ she added as a caveat. ‘No one goes there by choice – unless they’re stationed there, of course. And Prince Malagon’s generals are very selective about that: only the Home Guard, his own personal security force, are permitted in the palace, or even on palace grounds. I understand it’s very dangerous.’
‘Outstanding,’ Versen said sarcastically. ‘That’s where our group is heading.’
Brexan frowned. ‘You’ll never make it inside. You might not make it through the forest surrounding the keep. I was only there once, for a short time before we were deployed to Rona, but Ox, there must have been a hundred thousand soldiers massed around the palace.’
‘Why?’ He was dumbstruck. ‘What does he have to fear?’
‘Fear? Prince Malagon? Nothing.’
‘Then what’s he planning to conquer?’ Versen tugged at his whiskers. ‘You don’t have an army that size unless you’re about to defend or attack something. It’s too expensive to keep them all fed, and an idle army is a terrible thing.’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, ‘but it was a sea of warriors, stretching across the valley and blanketing the hillsides leading up to the palace.’
Walking through a grove of scrub cedar in bare feet, stinking of fish, nothing to eat other than a few bits of jemma stashed in his tunic pocket, Versen really didn’t feel up to the task of invading Malakasia and storming Welstar Palace. He sighed. ‘This may be hopeless. We’re a lifetime – ten lifetimes – away from be
ing ready to battle that army.’ Suddenly tired, he sighed and said, ‘I don’t even have a pair of boots.’
Flashing a sexy grin, she pulled him towards a sandy patch of sunlit ground just off the narrow trail. ‘All the easier for me to get you out of your clothes,’ she laughed.
‘Incorrigible hussy,’ Versen cried with feigned disgust.
‘Trying to get me excited, Ox?’
Resisting for a moment, Versen asked, ‘What about O’Reilly?’
‘I haven’t heard from him all day, have you?’ She continued dragging him towards her chosen spot. ‘And if he is around, let him watch. He’s been dead for more than nine hundred Twinmoons, after all.’
Versen gave up trying to be sensible and grasped Brexan around the waist, pulling her to the ground. His tongue flicked over her full lips and she responded with a low growl as she slid her own tongue playfully into his mouth. As they sank into a tangle of arms and legs and sighing and moaning and deep breathing, a ghostly figure took position on the trail ahead. Gabriel O’Reilly was on sentry duty.
Had anyone observed the translucent figure standing vigil, they might have noticed that the spirit’s attention was focused on a small hillock behind a meadow that stretched outward from the cedar grove’s edge. The almor was waiting. The spirit could detect its putrid stench defiling the air, overlaying the crisp scents of autumn with the dank smell of death, rotting flesh and disease.
At least one Seron waited as well, but the wraith did not think twice about him. The lovers would have to deal with that one – he would be too occupied with the demon. Waiting patiently for the sun to come up, he reflected on what he could recall of his life. A lot had faded since his death, but he could still remember sensations, often more distinctly than events or people: the heat and humidity along the Warrenton Parkway at Bull Run, the pain of the rifle slug in his leg and the worry that it would have to be amputated; the excitement at beginning life again in Colorado. These memories wandered through his mind as he stood at his self-appointed post. He remembered what it had felt like to be loved; that was the recollection he wished to immerse himself in for the few moments he had before battling the demon. He could not now recall any specific scripture, but he had believed most faithfully that Jesus Christ would ensure that his soul ascended to heaven. But He had not.
Just after dawn, O’Reilly detected the almor moving closer and wafted over to where Brexan and Versen lay sleeping beside the trail.
‘You must wake up now,’ the wraith urged.
Versen stirred. ‘What? What is it?’ He sat up and pulled his wrinkled tunic on.
‘A Seron,’ O’Reilly said. ‘Be ready.’
‘Oh, demonpissing rutters,’ Versen spat, suddenly lucid, and shook Brexan hard. ‘Up, quick,’ he ordered, scanning the copse for anything he might use as a weapon. Brexan still had the knife she had managed to swipe before leaping into the ocean, but he had nothing. ‘No boots. I can’t believe I don’t even have a pair of boots,’ he muttered to himself as he picked up a short but sturdy length of cedar.
Versen turned back to Brexan, who, ever the soldier, stood silently beside their sandy bed, her tunic adjusted and trim, her hair pulled back neatly with a leather thong and her knife held loosely in one hand. ‘Ready?’ he asked.
Brexan nodded. ‘It’s worse.’
‘What could be worse?’
‘He has the almor with him.’
Versen held his breath. ‘Can O’Reilly—’
‘He says he’ll try.’
‘Right.’ Versen swallowed, fighting the dryness in his throat. He hugged Brexan hard, then pointed through the trees. ‘Let’s go.’
Neither was surprised to see the Seron was Haden. ‘I knew that horsecock would never give up,’ Versen muttered. The Seron was standing alone in the centre of the meadow. He didn’t move as they left the woods and came towards him: his ruined face grim, he seemed to stand even more rigidly, as if preparing himself for the coming battle.
‘Him again,’ Brexan groaned. ‘I was hoping it was Karn or Rala. Where do you suppose the almor is waiting?’
‘We’ve got enough on our plate; let’s leave the almor to O’Reilly and hope to all the gods of the Northern Forest he’s powerful enough to keep it off us while we deal with this one.’
‘He’s got no weapons,’ Brexan observed as they emerged onto the meadow. Thick morning dew coated the knee-deep brush and her feet were quickly soaked wet and growing cold.
‘Gilmour said they sometimes like to attack with their hands, feet and teeth. The ones who attacked us in the foothills didn’t have weapons.’
‘So you had the advantage?’ Brexan asked hopefully.
‘Not exactly. Sallax and I managed to kill one each, but he had a rapier and I had an axe. Steven Taylor dealt with the rest. A friend of ours was killed, beaten to death, before Steven could save him.’
Despite her cold feet, Brexan felt herself begin to sweat. Suddenly, she wanted to let the battle begin. ‘C’mon Ox, let’s go. It’s two of us against him, and I have a knife. Let’s get started.’
‘I hope O’Reilly’s dealing with the demon, otherwise this might end up being a very short engagement.’
Brexan blanched as her feet slipped on the wet grass. ‘It could be anywhere out here.’
Gabriel O’Reilly moved like autumn wind. He could sense the almor’s presence everywhere: it felt as if it had blanketed the entire meadow. The wraith couldn’t decide where to engage – he wasn’t even sure the monster would be vulnerable to his assault – but he knew he would have to act quickly, if only to distract the demon while his friends battled the Seron. His friends. Were they his friends? He had almost forgotten what it meant to have friends, but a recollection of Milly and Jake Harmon, and Lawrence Chapman, and his friends from Idaho Springs brought him up short. Versen and Brexan were weak and essentially unarmed, ill-equipped to survive the season, never mind an attack on Welstar Palace. Yes, they were friends, like Mark, and there wasn’t much he could do to help them in their mission, but he was determined to see them safely past the Seron. That’s what friends did. He spiralled up into the morning sky. As he cleared the tops of the tallest trees he caught a glimpse of the Ravenian Sea and the Falkan countryside. It was beautiful in the bright gold of the rising sun, though not nearly as breathtaking as Clear Creek Canyon. The former bank manager readied himself for battle and plunged headlong into the meadow.
Versen stumbled as the ground beneath his feet seemed to shift suddenly. ‘That was O’Reilly,’ he said with a burgeoning sense of confidence. ‘He has the almor.’
‘How can—?’ Brexan’s question was interrupted by a desperate wail that shattered the morning; she could feel its resonant vibration underneath her bare toes. If they survived to reach the opposite side of this meadow, they would owe their lives to the wraith once again.
She looked up to see the Seron had lost his balance as well. As a look of surprise passed over his face, Brexan seized the moment and rushed forward, crying, ‘C’mon Ox, he wasn’t expecting that!’
‘I’ll go low,’ he whispered, hoping she’d heard him.
Ahead, the Seron stripped off his tunic and threw it to one side. ‘Smart,’ Brexan mumbled: less for his assailants to grip. Haden’s upper body was a mass of lean muscle tissue crisscrossed with thin, pink scars.
Brexan felt adrenalin warring with terror inside her and she forced herself to continue running. She was a soldier. It wasn’t right to let Versen lead the way. She was still embarrassed that she had hoped he would be first to drown so he could be a comfort for her in death. Now they’d face the Seron together. As she and Versen pounded along, side by side, a coldness filled her mind and washed over her body. Her vision narrowed down to encompass the Seron alone as Versen dropped from her peripheral sight.
Haden crouched, awaiting them stoically, a low growl in his throat and rage on his face. Versen had a plan; it was too late to discuss it with Brexan so he’d just have to hope she would pick it u
p as he went along. This was it: he’d have just one chance to disable the giant Malakasian. Using the wet grass as an impromptu slide, he threw himself feet-first towards Haden, slipping beneath the Seron’s outstretched arms, and swung his cedar staff in a vicious blow that shattered one kneecap.
The Seron bellowed in rage as he felt his leg buckle beneath him and lashed out as he fell, catching Brexan solidly in the ribs.
As Haden collapsed under Versen’s bone-crushing swing, Brexan went into action, but she misjudged how quickly Haden was toppling over and instead of driving Karn’s knife deep in the Seron’s neck, her thrust ran into his shoulder. It was a painful cut, but Brexan had over-extended her arm, which allowed Haden the opportunity to land a vicious punch that sent her tumbling.
Rolling to a stop, Brexan winced as she struggled to draw breath. She pulled herself onto her hands and knees, then collapsed face-first into the grass as agonising pain gripped her side: she recognised broken ribs. Get up, her voice commanded from somewhere deep inside, there’s no time for this. She stumbled to her feet and turned back to the fray, the bloodied knife clenched in her hand.
Versen had suffered badly in those few moments she was down. Haden rained blows down on him, but the woodsman was fighting back, repeatedly punching the Seron’s fractured knee. Haden cried out, an unnerving mixture of agony and rage, but still the scarred warrior continued to pummel the Ronan.
Now Versen was hanging onto the Seron’s leg with one arm and punching with the other; though he was causing the enemy soldier almost unendurable pain, his own face and neck were receiving vicious blows from the Seron’s massive fists. Versen was clinging on in pure desperation, praying he could last long enough for Brexan to come back and finish off the Seron with her knife. As he watched her rise awkwardly from the grass he realised she had been injured herself; for a moment he forgot his own pain and worried about the young woman instead, until a solid kick to his chin brought him back to the present.