21

Blood and Bone

The forgotten shadow sighed and chased after his murky clone.

One of the imps at the dhampir's side cried out "Nageksi!" and the dhampir turned to confront the billowing shadow.

The dhampir let go of his spear, and the shaft of blood-stained bone hovered in the air, adjusting to aim at the charging shadow. It shot forward at the speed of an arrow, penetrating and dispersing the clone, digging two feet deep into the stone where it landed.

Cricket's eyes widened in horror, and he swerved to dodge behind a boulder.

He heard the dhampir's deep, hoarse voice reply, "It is lord Nageksi."

One of the imps responded, "You are not our lord. You are Nageksi."

Cricket peeked around the boulder and saw the dhampir loosen his whip, letting it dangle to the ground.

An imp landed atop the boulder where Cricket crouched, peering down at him, and the insect lunged with his spear, piercing one of its wings. The creature screeched and latched onto the shaft of his spear with one hand as it stabbed with a trident.

Cricket dodged, and yanked his own spear back. But he didn't want it anymore. Even though it was adamantite, it only had one point, and the imp's trident had three. Three was clearly superior.

Glowering, Cricket pounced atop the boulder, tackling the surprised imp and wrestling the weapon from its hands. The imp, possessing inferior strength, abandoned the trident and dropped to the ground to retrieve the discarded adamantine weapon.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cricket saw the dhampir’s bone spear easily slip free from the rock and begin to rotate toward him.

Cricket parried a couple of the imp's thrusts with his weapon, reserving his shield for the bone spear. When it came at him, the speed was so blinding that he barely managed to position his shield in time, even though he was ready for it. Still, the bone struck with such force against his adamantine shield that it drew a blue spark from the metal and knocked him clean off the boulder.

The shadow scrambled to his feet and rushed to finish the imp before he had to block the levitating spear again. The imp proved agile, able to dodge the simple thrusts with his wiry torso, so Cricket aimed again for its wings. This time, with the three tips of the trident, he managed to shred both wings with a total of three stabs, then finished the imp off by pinning it to the ground by its throat.

The bone spear levitated again and honed in on the shadow.

Cricket decided to take the next blow at a bit of a run, and charged the dhampir with his shield out front.

This time, he grabbed the shield with both right hands and bashed the spear as it flew at him. With the force of his sprint, he barely lost any speed on impact, and sent the bone shaft spiraling out of sight.

Before it had a chance to recover, Cricket was upon Nageksi. The dhampir taskmaster made one strike at the insect with his whip, which cracked so near his head that it left his antenna ringing.

Cricket rushed past the second imp, aiming for the dhampir, and stabbed for his face. Too late he noticed the bone spear flying at him again.

However, the ruby ring hanging around his neck flashed a silver light, and the spear bounced from an invisible barrier around him.

Since this fact surprised the dhampir and Cricket equally, the two paused in shock before reorienting themselves, while the remaining imp swooped in with a thrust of its trident.

Cricket, angry that the imp had as many spear points as him, caught the shaft in midair and wrested it from the imp with his free left hand. Then, brandishing the two tridents in his left hands, and the shield in his right, he rammed the shrieking imp and tore it to pieces with a series of thrusts.

Cricket turned to the dhampir and pressed him with stab after stab. However, the tridents simply bounced from the incredibly durable bone plates.

Nageksi stumbled backward from the increasing speed and intensity, and ultimately tripped on a rock, to the cheers of the goblin slaves.

Cricket continued his assault, but when both tridents were dented beyond recognition, he tossed them aside and jumped atop the dhampir, straddling him, bashing repeatedly at his head with his shield.

Nageksi blocked with a bone gauntlet until Cricket managed to pin the arm down with three of his own. Finally, he drew a dagger from his waist. Then, just as he pressed it against Nageksi's exposed throat, the dagger vanished.

*****

The original Cricket positioned himself to ram the door to the trollblood’s chamber, but noticed it opened outward. He paused, deciding to try the handle, and found it unlocked. He turned it very slowly, and quietly, until he felt it click, then instantly rushed into the room alongside three shadowy illusions.

He found himself in another laboratory, this time more similar to Oydd's, except still much more untidy, with dozens of melted, unlit candles on nearly every surface, alongside the other oddities.

One side of the room was entirely open to the outside air, with no wall or rail at the dropoff.

Sadly, he also found himself on the far side of the room from the trollblood, which almost entirely negated the element of surprise. The troll held an adamantine scalpel in his natural arm and bent over his patient, a gargoyle, to whom he was attaching Bale's wings. The massive, violet appendages stretched nearly twenty feet across the laboratory. Clear drool dripped from the trollblood's open mouth and pooled beneath his unconscious subject's side.

By the time Cricket had crossed half the chamber, the troll had turned and waited for him, raising Bale's arm as if readying a spell. The troll looked over the four insectoids for only an instant, then grinned as his eyes settled on the original.

"Little help!" Cricket cried in a panic, though he could not hear his own words. He held back while the illusory Crickets continued to charge. The trollblood ignored them entirely, letting their shadowy spears splash harmlessly against him as he stalked toward the real Cricket.

The room began to warp. Long ghostly arms reached from the corners toward the trollblood, and a wall of fire burst from the floor between Cricket and his opponent.

The troll's eyes flickered, for only an instant, toward the gnome, and he spoke.

While Cricket could not hear the word, he still felt it in his mind with the weight of a god's command. Erase.

Instantly the illusions disappeared. All three of Cricket's shadows vanished, along with the fire and the spectral arms.

Again, the troll spoke and Cricket felt a command in his mind. Sleep.

But Cricket was wrong. He still heard the command, even felt it, but it did not have the weight of a god. The urge was not half so strong as before.

He fell to the ground, against his will, and struggled to stay awake. His vision even began to dim, and the allure was warm and comfortable and almost irresistible. Almost.

Cricket lay on the ground, a bit groggy. He felt a subtle vibration on the floor as the troll crept up behind him, and then it grabbed his arm with Bale's claws. The claws felt oddly cool and yet they stung. His arm went numb, and the troll began to drag him along the floor.

The motion scraped the raw part of his back, but Cricket managed to remain still, as if sleeping. Truly, he wasn't sure if he could move yet, and so he waited until he was certain.

The troll left him near the table with the gargoyle, then went to retrieve the gnome. Cricket could not see Ixitl, and neither did the troll apparently, but wherever the octopus was, it was likely asleep.

Cricket did not remember much time passing, but noticed the gargoyle was gone and realized that he must have actually dozed off for a moment. The trollblood, however, seemed completely unconcerned. Nearby, Bax slept as still as a corpse, save for the ever so slight motion of his chest moving up and down with each breath.

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Cricket waited until the troll turned his back. He took the liberty of yawning and stretched, not certain if he was ready for a fight without the appropriate preparations. He saw his spear laying across the room and debated whether he should run for it.

Ultimately, he decided to rush straight for his opponent. Quietly, he sat up and positioned his feet beneath him, then rushed for the side of the troll that did not have Bale's arm.

This time, the troll did not react until Cricket had his right arm wrapped around its neck from behind as his left arms reached for its tongue. Thick scales covered the tongue, like a carp’s skin, and it felt surprisingly warm. He yanked on the tongue with both arms, hoping to cause a gag reaction, but the troll seemed unphased.

It reached for the arm around its throat with Bale's hand, and the claws penetrated the shell as if it were water—smoothly, without even cracking the carapace.

Cricket screamed. Instantly, he lost feeling in the arm—except for the pain! For a moment he could only feel pain, and in desperation he reached deeper into the troll's throat, searching for the end of the tongue.

Just as that arm began to grow numb as well, a dagger materialized in his fingers, and he slashed so deep that the black, shadowy tip poked out from the front of the troll's throat. This time it gagged and let go of his arm as it choked on its own blood.

Cricket wriggled the dagger up and down a few times until he felt the tongue come loose in his lower arm. Hastily, he stepped away from the gurgling troll, wary of remaining in range of Bale's claw.

Cricket stared down at the dagger, unsure where it had come from. He tossed the squirming, bony tongue onto the ground, where it writhed and then began to slither, leaving a trail of blood.

He placed the shadow dagger in the hollow at his hip, retrieving his spear, and he circled the troll as it stumbled to the ground, looking for a finishing blow.

The troll looked up at him, choking, with a pleading look in its eyes. Cricket dropped to his knees and plunged the spear up through the bottom of its jaw, through the soft palate and up into the cranium. He jostled it briskly, retracted a few inches and then plunged again, this time connecting with the far wall of the skull.

When he withdrew the blade, rather than blood, the spearhead was covered with a grey, slimy gel.

Once the half troll was quite still, Cricket pursued the retreating tongue and skewered it several times until it blackened and grew brittle. It took all his strength to penetrate the tough skin, and the effort dulled the blade of his spear until it was entirely useless.

Cricket kept it anyway, feeling almost naked without at least two weapons.

*****

Scorpion could barely see through the gaps in the troll's meaty fingers. He tried to squirm, but the troll simply clamped its fist tighter until he couldn't breathe, and it was easier to simply let it carry him without a fight.

The ratling heard a metal door creak open, like the door of an oven, and the troll tossed him in. A moment later, the door closed, again with a shrill grating sound, and he was left in darkness.

It was a large oven, but it wasn't hot. The ratling felt a dry powder on the ground that might have been ash, but smelled more of urine. His ears scraped against the top of the three-foot chamber, and he was forced to hunch down more than normal.

Reluctantly, he rested his belly on the urine-soaked floor, needing the rest more than anything, in case the troll opened the hatch again. However, he heard its footsteps as it moved further and further away, and then it was silent.

A muffled voice spoke from the other side of the wall, and his ears perked up, but he couldn't make it out until it repeated itself.

"Are you okay?"

Scorpion sat up. He placed his lone paw on the metal wall of the cold oven that served as his cell. "Who's there?"

A short silence followed, and then the soft voice answered, "I'm Beth."

Scorpion squinted his eyes suspiciously.

"You're not part of my group?" she asked.

"What group?" Scorpion replied.

"From Darrow."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Are you a ratling?"

"None of your business."

"Baba only seems to do tests on ratlings."

"Not uncommon. We're expendable."

"I think it's more scientific than that," Beth said. "She wants some consistency."

Scorpion growled, more at his entire situation than annoyance at the conversation.

But he was annoyed at the conversation. He would rather have quiet to think. Still, his mind raced and eventually returned to unanswered questions brought up by his neighbor.

"Why are we in ovens?"

"Because they can light a fire if we... if we're difficult."

"What's Darrow?"

"A village. Or it was. I think it's gone now. The azaeri got most of us."

"You're all ratlings too?"

"Yes."

"Who ever heard of a village of ratlings?"

His neighbor never answered, and Scorpion continued. "You've been here a while?"

"I think I'm the last one. Baba Kesu injects us with some sort of serum and then tosses us back in the ovens to see what happens."

"And what usually happens?"

"They die."

"Why hasn't she experimented on you?" Scorpion pressed.

"She has, but I survived. I think I'm a control."

"I don't know what that means," Scorpion said in irritation.

"Sometimes I hear the voice of a rudra discussing the experiments. I think the serum is derived from changeling blood. But they try to mix it with other types of blood."

"Try?"

"Well... it's always fatal. Except my dose. It was just the base, and they keep me to see how it progresses."

Scorpion rested his chin on his arm. Unconsciously, his tail began to wave.

"They tried mixing it with dragon blood," Beth said. "I think they wanted to see if changeling blood could copy any draconic traits. But it can't."

"Why do you say that?"

"He died so fast!" Beth answered, horrified. "I think he melted."

Scorpion sniffed the air again, and noticed a burnt, acrid smell in his tank, distinct from the normal residue from an oven.

A moment later, Scorpion heard the clacking steps of clawed feet against the stone. They neared his prison, and he heard a very dry hand rustle against the hatch. The voice from the neighboring oven grew eerily quiet, as if in fear.

Scorpion situated his feet beneath him, and readied a pounce—his teeth bared and his tail waving excitedly.

But before the hatch opened, he felt an involuntary urge come over his body. First he took a step toward the hatch, and then another. He tried to resist, but some outside force compelled him to move. The ratling had seen witches compel motion before through magic, but the effect was far more invasive and traumatic than he imagined. Against his will, he huddled up against the hatch, leaning his weight on his single arm.

An iron wheel turned, unlocking the hatch, and the door opened, letting in a faint candlelight that illuminated the azaeri matron from behind, accentuating the threadbare quills that protruded from her back.

The firelight danced from her black beak.

Scorpion nuzzled up against her as a knot grew in his stomach. He fell to his knees and reached out, touching her beak tenderly. Though he felt only revulsion in the touch, his body moved against, or in spite of, his that feeling.

The witch opened her beak in a bit of a smile, indulging in the forced affection.

But then one of her arms went limp, and the azaeri pressed her beak and forehead against the opened hatch. At first Scorpion thought it some kind of a tic, but the matron sneezed and a large grub of some sort dropped from her nostril.

It fell on the ground and the witch's eyes closed a moment as if she nearly passed out. She wobbled and slowly opened her eyes, registering where she was. Through all of this, she managed to keep a hold on Scorpion's mind, though he waited for an opportunity to attack.

When she seemed present again, Baba Kesu motioned for the ratling to follow her and shuffled down the hallway at an aged pace.

Scorpion found their speed painfully slow and fought all the while to control his body, but he couldn't so much as clench a fist.

The witch led him up a small flight of stairs to a cramped room with a marble altar, stained with blood, and three domed, wicker cages.

The previous ratling sat inside one of the cages in a state of delirium, slumped against the walls of the cage.

He sputtered nonsense. When he noticed Scorpion he reached out a hand in a panic, through the wicker bars, and managed to form three words, "Chances... rot... rot."

While Scorpion tried not to make sense of it, the caged ratling charged the nonsensical words with a sense of urgency and frantic importance.

Scorpion expected to be tied down, but found himself climbing and laying down upon the altar of his own volition. In a sense, his mind screamed and then chose to act—his will becoming the witch's will.

At times, he could not differentiate between his desires and hers—could not remember what he wanted. But he still felt hatred toward her, and he held onto that, hoping to act on that sensation alone if he broke free.

The witch held up a rusty syringe of glass and iron, filled with an orange liquid. She placed the needle near his tear duct, angling it upward toward the brain, but her shaking hands penetrated part of his eye as it entered. He felt the rough metal scrape against the white of his one good eye—felt flakes of the rusted crust break from the thick needle. It seemed the size of an icepick.

Despite the pain, he could not scream. The azaeri paused. Her head drooped and she pressed her forehead involuntarily against the marble for several seconds before she regained control of her faculties again.

The azaeri produced a small hammer, which she used to ram the needle through his skull. She held her fist around the plunger to stop it from injecting as she struck the butt of the syringe again and again with the hammer. The procedure might have been completed with a single powerful strike from a stronger surgeon. But the elderly azaeri struggled.

At last he felt the bone break, and the witch injected the orange serum deep into his brain.

A pounding force hit the ratling, like a ball and chain, and he was enveloped—as he passed out—not by blackness, but an explosion of color.