by M. D. Massey
The creature floated out there in the Nothingness, poking and prodding at the horribly inadequate wards and protections I’d constructed to protect my little pocket dimension while it healed. I’d considered myself a pretty fair hand at creating and casting protective wards back on Earth, but these creatures ate such barriers for lunch. I speculated that my wards would be stronger back home, where the solid firmament of reality would shore up the separation between spaces and things.
But here? Here the delineations and boundaries that seemed so natural and permanent back on Earth were much more malleable, and that made it easier for Void travelers to break through my defensive spells. Yet, that didn’t mean the Grove and I were completely vulnerable—far from it.
“No rest for the weary,” I said as I rose, stiffly, from my comfy spot by the Oak.
My ancient druid mentor Finnegas had taught me many things that had helped me survive to the ripe old age of twenty, and one of them was a simple battle axiom. When in doubt, attack. Heeding that advice had saved me out here countless times. I hoped it would do so again today.
I accessed my mental link to the Grove, checking to see which spells, defenses, and traps we had ready. The Oak and Grove might be healing, but they still possessed formidable power I could bring to bear in our defense. I’d also made a habit of setting aside resources in preparation for each new attack, and assured myself that we were prepared to deal with this intruder.
Yep, we are totally ready to fight the offspring of an Outer god. Right.
The thing I’d learned about these Things was that out there in the Void, they lacked substance and solidity. Like the shambler, most of them remained ethereal while traversing the Nothingness, so attacking them while they were out there was pissing in the wind. To fight them, I had to bring them inside the Grove.
Smaller creatures would enter the Grove willingly out of necessity in their attempts to hunt, kill, and devour the sole inhabitant—me. That tended to work in my favor, since the moment they entered or materialized here, I could hunt and kill them with impunity. Relatively speaking, of course, because killing some of them was easier said than done.
But a being such as this one? It would be more than happy to float out there in the insubstantial Darkness, ripping away chunks of life, matter, and magic to fuel its own continued maleficent existence. It would be a real challenge drawing in a creature of this size, but I’d been waiting for just such an opportunity. If I brought the creature’s considerable carbon-based bulk into my little pocket of reality, and if I managed to kill it, well—I could then use its remains to complete my work on the Grove’s restoration and recovery.
A corpse was just a corpse, after all—no matter how inherently, primordially evil it had been when alive.
Yet the cost to do so could be high. There was a reason why people went mad staring into the Void, and it often had to do with the Things they saw there. I was having a difficult time just looking at this abomination in its current insubstantial state. Once I brought it into this reality, its immense malevolent presence would likely exert a maddening effect on my mind.
I’d experienced it before, during my encounters with lesser beings. Presumably, most had been servants and supplicants of dark gods—alien races long-forgotten by man or perhaps worshipped as gods themselves in some dark corner of my world. Pale reflections of their masters, their presence still turned my stomach and weakened my resolve. Everything about them reeked of wrongness, and at times it was all I could do to resist curling up in a ball to be eaten.
The experience was reminiscent of the fear I’d felt when I battled the Maori god of evil. Whiro’s avatar had emanated an almost palpable, abject terror that had paralyzed me and shaken me to my core. Thankfully, no Void traveler thus far had caused me to experience a level of dread like I had in Whiro’s presence. But this Thing, this amorphous colossus of writhing appendages, eyes, and orifices—I suspected it might just come close.
I had a pretty good idea what it was and what had spawned it, based on recent research I’d done on inter-dimensional entities. If I was right, this Thing was a child of Yog-Sothoth, one of the most powerful of the Outer gods.
Yeah, this is going to suck, I reflected as I sent the mental command to the Grove to begin our assault. Let’s just hope it pays off.
The great thing about my bond with the Grove was that I didn’t have to contain its magic as Jesse had. She’d been bound to the Grove when her resurrected human body merged with that of the Oak’s avatar, turning her into a direct conduit for the Grove’s enormous power. Possessing and wielding all that magic had driven her insane, but as the intended caretaker of the Grove, I was in no such danger.
Now that I’d bonded with the Grove, I was master and commander of its magic, a conductor directing and orchestrating its flows where I willed, sending them where they were needed. It was much more of a symbiotic relationship than a forced one, since I served the Grove just as much as it served me. In dire emergencies, I suspected I could also act as a conduit for that magic—but after seeing its effects on Jesse, I had no intentions of testing the validity of my theory.
That thought, detected by the Grove’s presence through our mental connection, caused the Oak to send me a series of images that assured me I’d come to no harm in channeling its energies. It sent me feelings of light and warmth, a mental impression of health and completeness. To top it off, it transmitted an image of me, wreathed and wrapped in leaves and vines, wielding its immense mystical energies like some dreadful green forest god who’d just discovered the existence of glyphosate.
The images, thoughts, and feelings had been meant to comfort me, but they had the opposite effect. All I could think of was mad-as-a-Hatter Jesse, a nascent nature goddess driven to the brink of insanity by channeling powers that were never meant for a human body to contain.
Grove, let’s just hope it never comes to that. I felt a small, subtle emotional backlash through our connection. The Grove didn’t like being called as such. It had a name, apparently, but I’d yet to suss it out. Sorry.
It sent me an image of a happy little forest grove on a bright sunny day, a gentle breeze blowing through the grass and leaves. The Grove was funny that way. It was mercurial, but never malicious as dryad-Jesse had been; it was quick to take offense, and just as quick to forgive. Its temperament reminded me of a small child, or a puppy—and in many ways, that’s exactly what it was.
The creature snapped through one of my wards, releasing magical shockwaves that reminded me we had a primordial demigod to kill. I telepathically instructed the Grove to shoot thick, thorny vines at the creature, hoping we might encircle it so we could reel it in. As I watched the vines lash out at the horror, I flinched in anticipation of what came next.
Brace for impact.
The moment we made contact with the creature, panic washed over me in waves. My mouth grew dry, my limbs numb, and my heart began beating out of my chest. It was such a visceral, gut-churning fear, if I’d had anything in my stomach I’d have retched it all over the place. Terror and revulsion gripped me, my body felt leaden, and no matter how much I screamed at my muscles to obey, I couldn’t get them to move.
Damn it!
Mentally, I strained and struggled, yet remained paralyzed with fear and disgust at the innate peccancy of the creature. Thankfully the Grove didn’t experience fear as I did, so it had obeyed my initial commands. Vines whipped around the Thing, snagging and capturing it and then reeling it toward us. Soon, it would cross the barrier into our reality and manifest itself physically—an angry, fifty-foot-tall godling seeking something or someone to devour.
And crippled as I was by bone-deep terror and gut-level abhorrence, I was powerless to defend myself against it.
3
As the creature materialized in the Grove, the feelings of dread and horror intensified. My stomach muscles clenched up and then I was leaning over with my hands on my knees, dry-retching. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, th
e Thing opened every mouth it had, and each one screeched the same, ear-piercing syllables.
“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”
The cacophony was like a thousand ice picks piercing my skull all at once. I sank to my knees, sobbing incoherently as something warm and wet began to run from my eyes, ears, and nose.
Make it stop make it stop make it stop!
The monster’s hundreds of eyes locked in on me and the Oak. Without hesitation, the god-spawn began to ambulate toward us, slipping around, under, and through its constraints like a massive blob of self-healing gelatin. Rather than walking like an insect or mammal, the creature’s strange, tentacle-like legs rolled it forward as if it were on a conveyor belt. As it moved toward us, new legs sprouted from its “chest,” each traveling down until the suckered feet made contact with the ground. Those legs traveled in a continuous pattern from front to back, only to be replaced by new appendages that popped out of the Thing’s body in a never-ending sequence, similar to the treads on a tank’s tracks.
The sight both mesmerized me and filled me with even greater revulsion, causing me to shut my eyes for fear of having a complete mental break. Somewhere inside my mind, I knew the creature was getting closer, and I knew I had to act soon or die. Yet my conscious mind had retreated to a deep, dark place within me, where it sought some escape from the mental, emotional, and physical onslaught of the creature’s psionic and sonic attacks.
Linked as we were, the Druid Oak sensed my predicament, and it began sending me a combination of urgent warnings and comforting thoughts. Unfortunately, my conscious mind wasn’t accepting correspondence at the moment. Although on some level I knew the Grove was communicating with me, the messages weren’t being received.
But the will to survive was a difficult thing to extinguish. While my conscious mind attempted to retreat, my more primitive self decided we were not going to be eaten and slowly digested over the course of several centuries by the spawn of some inter-dimensional god. Like it or not, my other half was coming out to play, and he was not amused by this creature’s presence.
When my shift happened, it took about twenty to thirty seconds to complete the entire extensive, excruciating process. I would gain about four feet in height and several hundred pounds in mass. My bones would elongate and thicken, my muscles increased in size and density, my skin toughened, and my teeth and nails lengthened and hardened. The end result was that I transformed into something that looked like a cross between the Hulk and Quasimodo. When I was in control, it could happen faster if I’d already partially shifted, and slower if I started from my fully-human state.
But under life-threatening circumstances, my Hyde-side often decided to make an appearance in spite of my own plans to the contrary. When that occurred, the change was nearly instantaneous. In such cases, the Fomorian side of my personality became dominant, and I turned into a much more ruthless, war-like, and dangerous version of my normal self. It used to be that I had zero control when my other side took over, but eventually I’d found a way to integrate my two halves. These days, I remained cognizant and in the driver’s seat when I went through a spontaneous change.
Yes, I was in control when the change happened—but my thoughts and emotions were heavily Fomorian-influenced. They were the race that once subjugated the Tuatha Dé Danann, a group of god-like entities that comprised the Celtic pantheon. And while the Tuath Dé eventually managed to throw off the yoke of subjugation placed on them by the Fomorians, the Fomoire never stopped being the badass supernatural race of warriors they were.
In short, Fomorians were god-killers, plain and simple. Meaning, my Hyde-side wasn’t about to be intimidated by the offspring of a had-been god. In the instant my transformation from human to Fomorian was complete, the terror I’d felt vanished. In its place, I felt righteous indignation at the creature’s gall for initiating the assault in the first place, and determination to make it regret that decision.
As I rose, the god-spawn’s screeching ceased—as did its steady forward progress toward the center of the Grove. I stared at it with my two beady eyes, set as they were beneath a jutting, Cro-Magnon brow, and it stared back with hundreds of eyes that were possessed of every shape, color, and type.
I strode forward on tree-trunk legs until I stood within twenty yards of the great quivering mass of flesh and pestilence. Fomorian-me was confident that, despite our difference in size, this thing was going to be meat for my pot. Or, rather, for the Grove’s pot.
Arms crossed, I spread my feet wide. Raising my chin as if speaking to a child, my challenge echoed across the Grove. “You fucked with the wrong pocket dimension, god-spawn. Now, you’re going to pay the price.”
Most of its eyes blinked—some once, others several times. The creature’s multitude of mouths spasmed until every one of them had been drawn into a tight rictus, some curling up while others twisted down. The orifices then emitted a noise that was at first strange to my ears, until I puzzled out what it was.
Laughter.
The god-spawn replied in a chorus of voices, some high, some low, many otherworldly. It spoke in a garbled string of syllables, grunts, and clicks, yet I understood the creature perfectly.
“There are things older than your kind in the cosmos, Fomori, and I am one of them. Your threats are empty, but your bulk will fill my ninety-nine stomachs, each in turn, as I digest you slowly over the course of many millennia.
“Whoa, slow your roll there, Sarlacc. This is my turf, and I call the shots here.”
“Be that as it may, your powers are insignificant compared to my own. Your only choice is in how you will die—willingly, as a voluntary, sacrificial act of worship to my magnificence, or struck down in battle, as is inevitable if you resist.”
I smiled a crooked grin that was all jagged teeth and hate. “Neither sounds very appealing. I’ll take what’s behind door number three.”
“There are no doors here. Of what alternative do you speak?”
“The one where I rip your guts out and use them as garland for my Christmas tree,” I replied, sending a message to the Druid Oak to grow me some weapons as I began to run at an oblique angle to my prey.
The Grove responded, and several saplings sprung up in my path. As I reached for the first one, the branches and leaves took the shape of fletching, and the trunk at the base narrowed into a sharp, leaf-shaped point. I snapped it off from the roots and threw it in mid-stride, aiming for a rather large cephalopodic eye in front. The shaft pierced the platter-sized orb cleanly, and the god-spawn roared in anger and pain.
I circled the creature, making certain I was out of reach of its tentacles but well within throwing range. With one spear throw after another I pierced its eyes and hide, repeating the tactic as I made three complete circuits of its monstrous body. Soon the thing’s skin sported more than a dozen spear shafts, like a huge quivering pincushion made of flesh and evil that spilled black blood in rivulets.
But despite the many wounds I’d inflicted, the godling seemed none the worse for the wear other than being angered. Indeed, it soon began to suck the spear shafts into its body, spontaneously healing each wound as it grew new eyes to replace the ones I’d ruined. Clearly, attacking the monster by conventional means had been a futile attempt at best.
We need another approach.
Fire was out of the question, as the Druid Oak barely tolerated the presence of Dyrnwyn; if I started tossing fireballs around, the Grove would go nuts. Besides, I couldn’t risk damaging the Grove while it was in such a precarious state. Acid was another option, and while I suspected it would work well on the creature, I didn’t want to risk it for the very same reasons. Cold would likely have little effect, as creatures of the Void were used to the absence of warmth. That left a single alternative, and thankfully it was one at which the Grove was particularly adept.
With a thought, the Druid Oak received my message and obeyed my command. Six thick, tree-like vines shot up from the ground around the god-spawn, each br
istling with thorns the size of my forearm that dripped with venom. Those vines grew rapidly, and when they reached a length greater than the height of the creature, they whipped up and around it, slamming into the interloper’s body so the thorns pierced its hide.
I’d instructed the Grove to produce toxins that were necrotoxic, neurotoxic, and paralytic. The first would destroy soft tissue, hopefully faster than the thing could heal, and the others would interrupt the god-spawn’s nervous system. Or so I hoped.
As the vines attacked the creature a second time, it roared defiantly as it used its many tentacles and appendages to tear the vines away from its body. However, the Druid Oak knew its business, and the thorns on the vines were barbed and detachable. Thus, when the beast ripped the vines away, their poisonous barbs remained behind, continually dripping their deadly payload into the god-spawn.
Soon the toxins began to take effect, paralyzing entire sections of the creature’s body. In those affected areas, eyelids drooped shut, pupils became unfocused, mouths grew slack, and limbs went limp and flaccid. Yet this only served to enrage the thing even more, and unfortunately the Grove’s ability to create new vines was limited by its current infirm state. I instructed the Grove to attack again and again with the same six vines, but the beast began to fight back.
Numerous tentacles and multi-jointed, insectile limbs sprouted from the god-spawn’s hide in areas not affected by the toxins. Those appendages latched onto the vines, holding them out and away from the creature’s body where they could do little harm. Then, the creature grew several crab-like limbs with large, wicked pincers on the end. It used these to sever the vines at the root, tossing them to the ground where they withered and died without their connection to the Grove’s life-force.