Chapter 46
“Can you bring the focus on to that boss boar's body please?” Timothy leaned in, paying careful attention to the magic field behind the pool's image.
Regi complied, flicking the image over and down. The once majestic specimen was crumpled up like a snowball thrown at a brick wall. Only the back portion was distinct after the sixty foot fall.
He tried not to pay attention to the gruesome sight, his stomach was delicate enough from the headache. No need to make it worse. Instead he focused on the quality of the image and was greatly relieved. It was crisp and clean. The turbulence was gone. A dead boss hog meant no more turbulence. If they could assassinate the leaders then large scale enchantments would be back on the table.
“It’s gone. Death stops the interference.” Regi noticed the same thing.
“Thank god for that at least. We’re going to have to really change up our strategy going forward. Snipers with ELR’s that dump the full capacity of a clip in a shot maybe?” Arthur mused.
A frantic clean up was occurring on the field as they spoke. Several tamed boars were hooked to a wagon and promptly trundled down the now rough faced ramp to remove the corpses while lines were dropped from the walls to tie around the remains of the boss boar.
A mini-boss should have some good loot right? Timothy chuckled at the thought for a moment before he stopped to really consider it. If enough people also thought that way… He reached into his pocket for a wooden tablet and made a quick note. He would look into it later.
It was a nerve racking task for the clean up crew. Even as they worked a steady trickle of various beasts leaked out of the jungle. Five here, ten there but with no guidance or control. They simply charged on.
The hogs died almost as quickly as they appeared to dust spirits. The minor spirit protectors of the fields took care of it without the sounding of the great drums. They were silent, conserving energy for coming storm.
The cat’s were still a real problem, their stealth worked spottily against the dust spirits. Some were caught, some slipped by. One particularly clever critter climbed over the walls on the riverside of the mesa. It killed an inattentive guard and clawed up several others before it was brought down.
“Is there a reason why they don’t keep that mist up around the top of the walls?” Ma asked, but from the glances directed his way Timothy guessed that she was hardly the only one to be wondering.
Not that he had more than a guess “Probably cost. They need to save whatever juice they have for the big kahuna. Even our own proximity wards take real effort to keep up for long lengths of time. It's why we lost Old Petey. He let the ward lapse at the wrong time.”
“They might need to add an overhang to the battlements.” Arthur chimed in, “a couple feet of lip to stop climbers. That or lots of small spikes on the walls.”
“How would that work though? It would be pretty hard to drop a rock on them if the overhang blocks you. And wouldn’t spikes provide hand holds?” Da asked.
“Toured a couple old castles while on shore leave. Pretty broken down but they had pictures of some of the things they used to do. Shuttered holes in the overhang that you can open to drop things on invaders. I remember them because they called them murder holes. Struck with me as truth in advertising. They also used them as latrines, not sure if that was during assaults.”
Ma gave him a particularly unfriendly glance while carefully putting her tea cup down. She was not the only one disgusted by that particular mental image. Ewww.
Arthur carefully didn't notice her disapproval as he continued “Spikes would only work as handholds if there was room between them. Space them very close together and make them long and slender. Don’t see why it wouldn’t work. Wasn’t done in those old castles though. I figured that metal was too expensive to waste. It would probably rust away. Stone won’t hold a spike that slender. But essence stone can. Besides, I don’t see hands on those cats.”
New materials, new options. Made him wonder what kind of exotics were out their, just waiting for someone brave or dumb enough to trudge through a man eating swamp or rain forest to find. Someday. He added another small note to the tablet in his lap.
“ETA Arthur?” Regi glanced over from his seat by the pool to Arthur standing over the map table. Grimacing, he started to stand up before he received an answer. With as many bosses in the main horde the pool was going to be difficult to use.
“Twenty odd minutes. You hearing any chatter?” Arthur tapped his forehead to indicate the kind of chatter he ment.
“A bit,” Regi sighed “The links are wide open just in case. They’ve several plans to assassinate the obvious bosses, but a cat or a snake chief could be a real nightmare. Hard to see means hard to pick off early.”
Timothy shuddered at that thought. Big and scary was one thing. Invisible and scary was a whole ‘nother level of the hebejebes. But it did give him an idea. “Da, can you run the pool? See how close to the hord you can get before the view skives off.”
He nodded and moved over to the control seat, glancing up at Arthur for the starting location numbers he had the view located in about half a minute. “What are you thinking, Timothy?”
“If you can’t see a boss, but you can see a blank area caused by a boss then a blank area that you suddenly can’t see is probably a hidden boss.”
Joe took a few moments to unpack the wordy sentence before smiling in recognition. “So if we look away from the main thrust for any turbulence in the view we might be able to offer a warning?”
“Ya, just so long as the area from all those overlapping pig bosses doesn’t white out the entire town. With a wardstone not a hundred yards away we should be able to punch through some of the interference. It’s hard to tell how big the distortion will be with multiple bosses together. For that matter it might’ve been only fifteen feet with the first guy, but that's too small of a sample size. The rest might have vastly different size aura’s.”
The view slowly faded in as his Da moved the view towards Paradise at a good clip. Slowly the alien flickering figures and seizure inducing lights began to give way to small pockets of reality. A reality that included more than a few boars and sows spread out and filtering through the trees at a steady jog.
So they couldn’t see the center, but the leading elements were visible Timothy mused. “Arthur, if we assume the bosses are clustered in the middle of the pack can you guesstimate from the map how far away the leading elements are?”
“Hard to tell on the scale of this Map. 100 yards give or take? Pretty rough to guess. They could be spread out inside that cloud or all clustered at the center. Without more info I think any guesses are just so much hot air.”
Small plans and suggestions fired back and forth as they watched the horde roll on. Timothy replied when he had to, but mostly he focused on the turbulence, attempting to look through the hypnotic light show and perhaps begin to understand. He saw hints and could make educated guesses about the cause but a cure was out of the question. Frankly the number of bosses all together was causing so much chaos in the underlying magic web that he wasn’t able to see much of anything. Two many pieces all tangled together like a big knot of yarn. He needed to find a few bosses alone to maybe find the end of the string and begin to unwind this mess.
“- about the Dragon?” Da’s voice suddenly broke his concentration. His voice and the sudden contraction of the magic web around the room.
“STOP!” He called out rather frantically. “Please don’t mention that word again!”
They stared wide eyed at his frantic interruption. “The hell Timothy? It’s not Voldemort what are you on about? It’s not the first time we have discussed this.”
Timothy rubbed a tired hand through his hair trying to find the word to explain something he merely intuited. “Have you noticed that old wivestales are starting to matter more and more? Common idioms and meme’s starting to become truths?” He glanced around hoping to see some recognition.
A hope that was doomed apparently. Multiple blank faces stared back at him.
“Haaa, it’s not something I can completely swear to, just hints and guesses. You remember when I tried to block the worship, the belief, to Bensen? You remember how I failed miserably? The route belief travels to hit its goals isn’t something I can track, it’s affected by distance and proximity but it’s not something that can be blocked or mitigated. Belief is something like massed intent on steroids. You know, powerful sure but also chaotic and prone to mood swings. Intent acts on magic to cause phenomena. So if enough people believe in something, across the entire world or maybe just a geographical region that shares a culture, then it has power.”
Arthur broke in with considerable doubt in his voice, “So if we all believe in unicorns farting rainbows then it would happen? Then why don’t we all circle up and believe in heaven?”
“Because we’re human, Arthur. For every farting unicorn there are three times as many Nifleheims, Xibalbas and Hades. Fafn- you know I am not going to say that name. How about Dante’s archdemons? Or better yet, have you ever read the original Grimm’s fairy tales? It’s not happy tree friends and soda pop!“
He took a deep breath and brought his rising voice back down to a normal level, “Getting back to where we started; this isn’t something I can prove, but if you can accept that their is power in mass belief, consider the following saying. ‘Speak of the devil and he shall appear.’ It’s not limited to christianity or to English. A similar saying shows up in damn near every language and location on the planet. The Chinese say ‘Speak of Cao Cao and he shall appear.’ The Koreans say ‘Even tigers appear when spoken of.’ In Bulgaria “Speak of the wolf and he will appear near the sheep.” Hell you brought up Voldemort. The concept is so prevalent it’s even in multiple modern fictions. With so many people believing in this simple concept I really don’t dare to ignore it. If the being you wish to speak about is particularly powerful, then don’t speak its name, or anything close to a name.
Especially don’t talk about something that flies around breathing fire and eating anything it pleases. You might annoy him.”
The room froze into a thoughtful, and somewhat fearful silence. Regi stirred and finally spoke, “The other side of that coin is refusing to speak something's name gives them power over you. You’re afraid and your refusal to say even a name proves it. Shouldn’t we stand up to our fears rather than hiding from them? Let the devil come and send him packing rather than living in fear.”
Timothy stopped and considered that. After attempting, and failing, to find any flaws in his brother's logic he had to concede. It was the other side of the coin. Then again, “I can’t argue with that. We are admitting to our fears. But those fears are not fake. We don’t have the power to ‘send him packing.’ We are not the top dog in this scenario, some fear is both warranted and necessary. There's a fine line between brave and suicidal. I would like to be on the right side of it.”
Arthur broke in before Regi could continue the argument, “Fascinating and all that, but the fight is starting, table it.”
Indeed the scene in the pool before them showed the trees rushing past and the flat green plain beginning. Pa adroitly pulled the view up to give an overhead view of the soon to be battlefield. It was still speckled with the corpses of the boars, but the cat’s had apparently been a priority acquisition. Glancing around Timothy could not see a single one. Considering their camouflage gave out in death he would have had they not been collected already.
“Da, if you drag the point of view directly on top of the wardstone we gave them, we’ll probably have the power to punch through the distortion. Should be just off the main amphitheater.”
“You going to tell me how to put my pants on next? You do remember that I installed that gaudy monstrosity don’t you?”
Timothy’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red at that reprimand. He had forgotten, and the stone was somewhat gaudy. The red spread easily, and very visibly, over his pale irish skin to the amusement of all. The pool showed the six foot tall block of solid stone, carefully carved with multiple bull shit runes enlayed with copper to make them all the brighter. The real active rune link was buried inside the solid stone. The presence of a real and active rune supplying all its fake and gaudy cousins to share that certain pulse and look that meant real magic at work. It didn’t hurt that people had an easier time believing something was powerful magic when it was large and gaudy impressive looking.
He pushed those thoughts away, and hopefully the noticeable burning he felt on his face, as the view rotated to the jungle's edge.
The clear reflection of reality at Paradise began to flicker and break into disco ball colors and flickering non-euclidean shapes. Thankfully, with the support of the wardstone, the view didn’t fall completely into raw magical chaos. Rather blots and balls of disruption would frequently travel across the pool. Potentially hypnotizing the watchers. Timothy had to quietly reach over and give his Ma a hug, incidentally breaking her line of sight to the pool.
With her sight blocked she returned to her senses and patted his back, breathing a brief ‘thank you.’ She stopped looking after that. Apart from sending the occasional glance in response to a comment. The rest of the watchers, similarly struggling and occasionally falling to the temptation, carefully didn’t notice the episode.
The packs of beasts bleeding through the tree line were growing steeply larger. What was fives and tens became forty and fifty. And, what was worse, they were no longer lacking leadership. They stopped and waited at the edge clearing.
They were waiting but the defenders were not. The war drum began to beat once again, the deep thumping beat giving life to the coyote shaped dust devils once more.
They had learned from the first fight. The centers of the passels were left alone. Instead, like their namesakes they nipped and struck at the edges of the horde, picking off the weaker members and making use of their death throes to delay and cause chaos.
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“I see three bosses so far. Might be another hiding back in the trees. Also a fair number of snakes and cats slinking around the edges, no bosses for them yet.” Regi observed. Timothy shrugged, he was having trouble tracking through the crowds for even that much. Something like 900 pigs? A bit less? He couldn’t tell with all the movement and clouds of animate dust.
The angle of view from in back of the walls facing out let him see something else right as it started. Groups of Paradisians were forming on jutting outcroppings behind the battlements. A pair of the Canny along with a larger group of norms. He could tell the difference between the two pretty easily. The Canny were decked out with beads, feathers and bone charms. A normal might manage the same outfit, but with the Canny those charms lept and danced on their own in defiance of the winds. Their personal guardian spirits were awake and ready for battle.
The gaggles were quickly organized and became two concentric circles of dancers. Norms to the outside with the Canny to the middle. Their wild gyrations and singing started slow then picked up the tempo. Faster and faster until they suddenly stopped. Large muscular shapes began to take form in the middle, still slightly transparent, they soon became recognizable as massive silverback apes. In what was clearly a well polished drill one of the two Canny men took out a thin piece of rope and began to whip it quickly in a circle through the air. The skirling bullroarer sounds rose as small barely seen shapes began to jump and play in the rope's wake. After several seconds building up speed and collecting a few laughing, playful air spirits he snapped the spinning rope, whip-like, to a cloudy glass ball filled with a vibrant green liquid. Upon contact the spirits spun down the rope and continued spinning inside the head sized glass orbs, whipping their viridescent contents into a froth.
The second Canny man, still dancing and chanting with the outer circle, called a change and the dancers reversed directions and began a much more energetic series of steps. In turn the great apes stood up and roared! Mightily beating their chest in time with the great central drum before reaching down to pick up the waiting orbs and fling them at the forming army. In particular at the bosses who led it.
Despite the clear evidence of practice, they didn’t manage a concerted volley. The orbs trickled out over several seconds. Even without a concerted impact the effect was still maliciously effective. As the missiles arched towards the horde the air spirits grew frightened of the disonace below. They shattered the glass of their temporary home and fled for the skies prematurely. Scattering the fluid in a wide fan of droplets as they did. Droplets that were far more numerous than should have been possible considering the size of the orbs. Droplets that were distilled and concentrated from the acidic swamp leeches who could dissolve an entire hog in mere days. They burned through flesh and bone and left deep malignant wounds. No instant killer, these droplets. Not unless a lucky drop exactly hit an eye or inside an ear. But the pain was nothing short of debilitating.
The attacks were centered on the boss hogs, and even with early detonations they still received more than their fair share of hits. Their massive resplendent hides were quickly pockmarked by smoking wounds.
In a rage they responded with an attack Timothy was greatly familiar with. The massed screams of pain and rage took almost physical form as a flickering wave of sound rushed at the walls of the fortress. It broke on the walls without giving the defenders more than an instant to prepare. The sound wave broke, but so did some defenders. Collapsing with blood trickling from the ears and eyes rolled back in their heads.
And yet the walls stood, as did the majority of those who stood upon them. Up and down the line stood the Canny men and women, guardian spirits of many forms and colors taking semi-physical forms. From foxes and wolves to cows and bears, spectral forms extended to protect those who stood close to them. A fox curled its tail and tucked its head as a bulwark for an even dozen. A bull snorted and lowered its mighty horns, spread near as wide as its body was long, and scuffed it’s hoofs in defiance for another ten. A bear took a stride forward and roared its rage, fighting sound with sound to protect a few dozen more. There was no uniformity in the response that stood up to the wave of hate and pain, but stand they did. Only sporadically was a spirit crushed by the tide. A reminder that building the will was a lifelong task. Those who neglected it would be tested by the world at large and a failing grade would result in far worse than detention.
In defiance the second wave of orbs flew through the air. Again exploding in their vicious spray. Even as they arked a different resounding thud was heard. The massed stomp of some 200 women and children in a circle surrounding the great drums. Many of them pregnant or holding children by the hand they stomped forward in time. First one, then another, then several rapid steps and a resounding defiant yell, a turn to the side, a step, a turn back double step. In time and leading the dance were Oscar and Lotsee. A face well lined and wrinkled with good living opposite an ageless face of grace and beauty. Age and grace danced counterpoint about the great drums. They danced steps that could not help but be new, yet felt so old. Together they called out to their spirits for protection.
Called to and were answered as the bird that bore the town's name broke through space, screaming its defiance to the skies it spread its enormous wings and cupped them about the entire length of the walls, magnificent plumage a vibrant spray of reds, browns and golds arcing up over its wings in a barrier that was as beautiful as it was effective. Fed by nearly ten months of ritual this was no temporary construct, but the spirit and hopes of the town given form.
The squealing of pigs was no threat in the face of such accumulated magic and belief. A fact that the boars were forced to acknowledge as the second wave of pain filled rage barely managed to ruffle a few fifty foot long feathers.
Showing intelligence they gave their sound attack up as a bad bet and began the charge. Not one massed charge but rather four. The mass split into four short fat columns. Each with a seperate goal.
One to the ramp, losing members left and right to the dust devils and acid spray. They sprinted over then attempted the ramp. Like those who went before the first batch died to spikes and opportunely poured grease. But there were more and they too could learn from their failures. The next set lunged upwards and stomped down, releasing great bursts of motion into the ramps surface. Shattering and cratering it. Creating from a slick surface a rough and ready path. Step by step each boar pushed the ones before it up then used force to divot and fracture the path in their turn as well.
They did not accomplish this for free, every time they released their stored force they became vulnerable. Vulnerable to the rocks and rolling wood being flung down from the battlements. And as the boss passed out of range the spirits of the earth rushed in to repair what they could.
Riddled with deaths and disruptions, still they struggled onward and upward.
The second and third fingers curved out and made a running charge at an angle to the bluffs, the second at the center of the north side with the third over an eight of a circle to the west. In long ribbons they rammed the very base of the cliffs themselves. A constant jackhammer of living flesh. Each hit unleashed the force stored up within them.
Enough force for flesh and bone to smash solid rock and even more solid essence rock. The first dozen merely caused large cracks to form on the surface layers, but as each additional massive body made contact the cracks grew and became ruble, then became a cave like undercut.
After unleashing the stored energy individual boars spun out in a circle, vulnerable, dazed and desperately dodging through a hail of falling rocks and acid. Those that survived raced for the ramp to lend their weight to that slowly progressing bloody assault.
The fourth and last finger smashed the dirt beneath their feet, halfway across the cleared killing grounds they snorted and used their hoofs and tusks to dig. Hogging out a trench and piling the dirt into a large mound beside it. It was eye-catching but unclear what they were planning. It was a poor choice for a tunneling operation so far away from the walls. Not to mention tunneling up through a cliff sounded like a hell of a task. The other three fingers seemed to be much more threatening compared to pointless digging. Nevertheless, in digging they created an ideal environment for dust devils and suffered greatly as a result.
A colorful sprinkle suddenly caught Regi’s eye, “Dad over there!” The view darted in the direction of his pointing finger and an odd sight caught their attention, up and down the line buckets full of compost were being sifted over the edges one handful at a time. Colorful weeds, already broken into tiny chunks, provided the bursts of color that caught his eye. This deluge of chaff was floating upon the wind, like feathers it moved back and forth almost as much as down. Floating gently until, in its dodges and swirls it outlined shapes of cats and serpents winding or clawing their way up the walls. Wherever the chaff would not go, a large rock was sure to quickly follow. The feline and serpentine screams of pain and rage were becoming nauseatingly loud.
It was a makeshift defense for an unplanned threat. It was wonderfully effective for what it was. But not foolproof. Here and there a man screamed in pain, mauled by an enemy he could barely see. Thick boarhide armor repeatedly saved lives as claws that might have disemboweled merely bruised internal organs. Large sweeping cuts became minor gashes. If they were lucky enough for the attack to hit the armor. Armor cannot cover everything. Here an inner thigh spurted blood where a claw slipped through the lighter leather, there a torn out throat or bleeding armpit.
Then the Bird of Paradise ruffled its feathers and withdrew its wings. Shifting to an upright stance it began to beat them in wide deep strokes, creating a massive flow of wind that hugged and circled the exterior of the walls without affecting the defenders within. Screams became even louder as the wind plucked the hidden climbers off the walls and flung them to their death. It even deigned to peck down, barely missing a dodging boss hog but acquiring his neighbor.
The winds threw off nearly all of the climbers. Nearly, but not all. A cat twice the size of his lesser brethren launched himself up, riding the circling winds to land on top of the battlements roof. Almost invisible despite his massive size he could not fit through the crenel's. Instead he jumped past the fixed defenses, landing catlike from the twenty foot drop and blitzing inward towards the drums and the great circle within. Being a truly massive mesa that included many fields and the occasional hut. The distance the leopard had to cover was not small, but there were few defenders who noticed, and if they did they could not break away from the other assaults.
Even the couple of Oscar and Lotsee dancing within found themselves pinned down. The fourth columns' plan had become apparent. Boars sprinted down the trench then up the mound to launch themselves into the air with their full storage. It was a ramp and the hogs upon it might as well have been trebuchet shots. They cratered the walls where they hit, threatening to bring them down in sheets of rubble. The great bird's wings dropped once more in response, protecting the walls and tying down the two shamans' attention.
Even the assault of the second two fingers was beginning to cause problems. Great chunks of the wall supports had been removed and the battlements above them began to creak and crack alarmingly. Small chunks were already falling away as the undercut walls threatened to crumble apart entirely. Perhaps sensing the moment of crisis the great bird gave a trilling call.
A section of dirt on the far west side of the clear cut crumbled down, releasing a flanking maneuver of tamed boars. In a single rank, shoulder to shoulder they picked up speed and charged. Forty massive bristle backed boars well fed, barded with sturdy armor and enchanted to the gills by Tuckers able efforts, they were champions of their kind. They did not quite manage the size of a boss hog, but they got fairly close.
Each was fully saddled with two riders. Being considerably wider than a horse there was no way to fit in standard stirrups, instead both passengers were kneeling with knees and lower legs wrapped around formed protrusions in the leather. They were kitted out in thick boarhide armor with fluttering charms and feathers on both norms and Canny men alike.
The norms proudly brandished great spears as the boars built up speed, while the occasional canny men held shepherds' crooked sticks with a pitch black dream catcher in the loop.
In a roaring, squealing charge with old man Tucker in the lead they fell upon the unsuspecting flanks of the forth assault. The collapsing walls would have to be abandoned and their defenders rushed over to support the defense of the ramp, but the living artillery could not be ignored.
They screamed their war cry’s as they charged. Cry’s that were more than just intimidation as black smoke began to stream out from the Canny mens staves. Spectral hogs, shadow snakes, chameleon cats, mosquito swarms, hover crocs and so much more. A smorgasbord of fear and nightmares took form from the smoke and became the vanguard of the charge. As more and more smoke streamed out the dream catchers that gave up their blackened appearance until they stood bright and colorful once more.
But while the source became bright, the boars that were touched by the malignant emissions went mad. Lashing out in all directions with panicked cries and flailing limbs the ordered ranks dissolved into a chaotic swirl of internecine slaughter.
The charge hit this disorganized mass with bone breaking force, dumping not just the speed of their charge, but their internal force storage as well into the unprepared mass. Hogs were launched before them in a great wave, exploding from within as their internal tanks were overloaded or simply too madened to properly control their own magic. Here and there a non-tamed boar managed to release their foce charge before it went critical. The boar riders were ready for this. Darting stabs of their spears sought out eyes or throats with well trained skills. Canny men touched their now emptied staves to a hog and hooked out the spirit from their physical bodies.
They didn’t slow, they didn’t founder. The charge maintained the fierce momentum that had made cavalry a feared force for most of human history. They pushed through the bodies to their target and at last Tucker raised up to strike the soul from the boss hog with his hooked staff.
Even as he died the dust rose up and swarmed those who remained.
They reformed, coughing and wrung out from adrenalin. Not unmarred or without cost, several mounts were missing in the scrum and there was no sign of their riders. Without time to search they reformed and prepared to charge again. The knot of beasts at the base of the ramp was still a potentially lethal blow for the town on the heights.
The die had been cast. The paradisians had released their last trump card and it all came down to timing. Could the gates hold long enough for Tucker to relieve them?
The hogs had pushed their combined columns up the now splintered ramps and were approaching the gates themselves. With a squealing roar one at last made the landing and flung himself, mostly emptied of stored force he maintained a tun and a half of muscle. Muscle that slammed into the thick essence wood gates with a splintering thud. A flung spear took him in the eye, but another struck beside him, then another, and another. The gates splintered and small openings began to appear.
In the darkest hour both the best and worst of humanity will show its face. Some men broke and ran from the splintering gate. Another man, Harold, broke and ran towards it. He was not the smartest of men, nor the strongest. But he had the courage to do while others talked and to stand when others ran. He jumped from the battlement over the gate onto the leading hogs back.
Harold was one man. One very brave man. But he was not alone. The brotherhood stood with him. He called upon his bonds and released the lighting. All that he could bear and then some, the lightning arced and flicked from his body like angry snakes of eye searing white and blue. From his twitching body to the beast beneath him. And from that beast to the next, and the next, and the next.
Packed in like sardines the lightning jumped from flesh to flesh without resistance or mercy. In a rippling chain that flared and pulsed with power the arcing light faltered as it neared a boss hog, eddied to the side before being braced by another. Two bosses held the line, pitting their intent and the belief their passels held in them against the lightning.
For several moments it held, refusing the blue touch in all its splendor. But it was but two boars, their living followers were bloodied and depleted. They were nearly alone, but Harold was not. The united force of an entire town's guardians stood behind him, fresh and raring to fight. And that combined will crushed the boss hogs, fried them with lightning then went on to do the same to their passels. The gate held even as Tucker struck like an avenging wraith on the bottom of the ramp and the disorganized and now leaderless remnants that stood confused upon it.
The gates held. Due to one man’s bravery and the towns behind him who did not let him go to his death alone.
Cheers broke out on the battlements, perhaps too quickly as the battle was not quite over. The Chameleon Cat chieftain was still unopposed and fast approaching the dancers within. Pregnant women and children who had no business being on the wall but were unwilling to sit by and do nothing. Still they danced and sang to contribute. To empower the great spirit of their town to protect them all.
Sometimes, Timothy reflected morosely as his hands began to move, you can’t not act, no matter how dumb it is. These are not my people. I should not spend this on them.
But he was going to do it anyway. He sighed as his finger nail broke open the barely clotted cut on his hand. Using the pooling blood he drew a specific and familiar rune on the top of the long distance material removal canister. On the newly drawn rune he rested his left hand, ignoring the smeared blood. He steeled his resolve and placed his trusty old Pen-is-mightier against the base of his pinky. It was a small cutting head and it took several passes. He fought through the pain to link the removed finger to the blood smeared rune and more importantly, the enchantment beneath it. Connecting the various threads of magic he overwrote the location parameter on the device and committed himself to the task.
The rune activated. His rune. The rune most closely tied to the basis of who he was and what his path meant. Sacrifice. Give something up and receive a commensurate return. Something that was fully his to give and of his own free will. The returns were potent. For example, the pain and loss of a pinky on his off hand for the next sixty-ish years of life balanced out the cost to cast one spell on a worn out will. To cast it and punch it through the interference defense.
A small spot in space began to revolve. A square merely an inch on each side dumped its contents through the nearby wardstone back to the cask beneath Timothy’s bleeding hand. A simple removal of nothing until the cat raced through that spot at a sprint a cheetah would be proud of. A square inch stripe of removed flesh at chest height through the length of the animal. Through bones, through the heart, through a chunk of lung and through a long strip of intestine.
As his vision began to blur Timothy watched the cat drop, ridiculing himself for his supposed dispassionate logic. He thrust the bleeding stub of his finger into the blood clotting cream. The still opened first aid kit, suddenly very useful. Then fell backwards, spread eagled on the floor.
This was going to suck to explain.