CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

SETBACKS

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Unknown

The lesser spawn had been successful. At first. Unfortunately, those successes had tapered off. As soon as the fodder became aware of the spawn in their midst, their warriors came forth. And they were well-armed indeed.

Cimigda held the strange weapon in his hand and examined it curiously.

A harnessed explosion used to propel a single piece of debris fast enough to smash through the skull of a Vulmongrel. A gun.

Ingenious. Problematic.

Cimigda took the gun, small in his large claws, and pointed it into his arm before pulling the trigger.

A loud bang. A clink.

One of the lessers, cowering in the corner of the room, jerked before slumping to the ground, a hole in its head, blue blood leaking all over the floor.

He frowned. He’d felt that. The Greaters had mentioned the prowess of the bows and crossbows humanity could bring to bear. Enhanced by the cursed Valam, those bolts could pierce even greater demons. Unenhanced, he shouldn’t have even been able to feel anything the fodder could produce.

But he had.

This wasn’t even one of the strongest weapons. No. This was what almost any human could arm themselves with now. Not… not scythes and pitchforks. Not bows. No. Harnessed. Explosions. According to his Wraiths and Slinkforms, humanity had grown incredibly proficient in learning new ways to kill themselves.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He could not expect the fear his kind had commanded whenever the last Valam had fallen. He could not depend on overwhelming strength.

It didn’t matter though. Either he succeeded in reclaiming this mortal plane, or he would die here. There was no returning. Humanity’s growth would not be believed. He would be ignored. He would be consumed.

But no matter. So, the humans had better weapons. They were still chaff. After all… he had the seal.

He cocked his head as he considered the weapon before he summoned one of his lessers. The spawn bickered and argued as was their way before one of them was kicked forward, a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter.

He came as beckoned, terrified. Certain of his death. Something similar had happened to Cimigda himself so very long ago. Instead of killing the creature, he placed the small weapon in the spawn’s fingers. Then, pointed back toward the group of lessers.

The spawn’s eyes widened, and then a grin of delight spread across its features as it took aim and pulled the trigger.

Bullet after bullet sprayed into the unsuspecting lessers, killing them or missing as they scattered and fled the wrath of their sacrifice. Clicks came as the contraption ran out of arrows. Bullets, they were called.

One lesser had killed eight of its brothers in but a moment. Perhaps a pivot in strategy was in order.

Cimigda laid one of his claws upon the spawn before imparting power and a modicum of intelligence. The creature grew, its station in life becoming more. It gained magic and it gained some small understanding of the world. It also gained a new task.

The lessers would only continue attempts to retrieve the most isolated of fodder. Instead, they would put all of their efforts into claiming these… guns.

Cimigda didn’t actually expect them to succeed. That was what the wraiths were for.

But one spawn or a thousand made hardly any difference to him. Their little hands had learned to hold daggers once upon a time. This was no different.

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