Logan stood before a seemingly impenetrable wall of living wood. Beside him was the utterly bizarre spirit that had granted himself and the children sanctuary. He couldn’t help but stare at her from time to time. She was tall for a human woman, and powerfully built. Enough so that he half wondered if she might have some Orc in her bloodline. It would certainly explain her hairstyle; perhaps even her clothing.
“You’re staring again,” the dungeon chided. “Told you, bro, you’re not my type.” A slight quirk of her lips gave away her banter for an attempt at levity. Logan gave a nervous huff of laughter, unable to muster the real thing in the face of what was to come.
“I was just trying to figure out if you were a thin, pale orc woman, or the brawniest human woman I’ve ever met.” He jabbed.
“Purebred huma- Hold up, Orc? Orcs are real too?” She asked with a bit more enthusiasm. Logan just stared at her.
“You’re takin’ the piss, yeah?”
“No! I’ve never seen one. I’ve seen Halflings, Dwarves, one Elf, Humans, and the Lizards. No Orcs yet.” She explained.
“The lizards, as you say, are technically called ik’ssah. Most folk will know what you mean, though. You’re not likely to run into Orcs here anymore. When the settlers came down the river, the natives were driven west, into the swamps. There wasn’t space for the Orcs and the Ik’ssah, so the Orcs ended up driven further north into the plains. Nearest batch to here is gonna be the Southern Isles.” She nodded along as he spoke, taking it all in. Manglegrove was stalling and they both knew it.
“If we survive this, I’d love a map of this area. Hel, even a globe. I don’t even know how many continents this world has.”
“Sure. I can do that…” Logan assured, trailing off. The dungeon seemed to decide that the banter was at an end and the time had come to get down to business.
“Remember. You’re there for tactical support, and reporting. If things go sideways, you hightail it out of there and get yourself back to safety. You have two kids back there who need you. They’re the priority.” Logan could hardly believe what he was hearing.
“You want me to abandon your own and come home?” he asked incredulously.
“If it comes down to it, yes. This is our fight, and if it looks like we’re going to lose, then you need to get those kids out of here and take them to safety. Got it?” Logan blinked back tears at her words.
“Yer good folk, you know that?” He said a tad thickly.
“Hey! No touching moments! That’s how heroes die!” she joked again, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The sun was up now, casting the swamplands in hues of orange and gold. It was now or never. Lifting her hands, Manglegrove pulled at invisible threads, causing two trees to creak and groan as they untangled themselves and shifted in opposite directions, making an opening into the dense core grove. She took a deep breath, and Logan saw how flickers of crimson light danced behind her eyes and under her skin as she projected her voice outward into a flurry of howling wind, and creaking wood.
“MANGLEGROVE!” She boomed. “MARCH!”
Logan stared into the shadows of the doorway as a cacophony of groans and crackles and rustling rolled like thunder into the open space. He’d thought he was prepared. After all, he and the dungeon had been working together closely, and he was well aware of the forces they had at their disposal. But knowing the numbers was different from seeing the real thing with his own eyes.
The first things to emerge into the light were the two new Mangroves. As the sunlight cast them into sharp relief, he saw that each of the titans had been transformed into beasts of war. Each carried dozens of the leafy Leshy warriors on platforms of wood and fiber that had been woven into their very branches. Below the canopy, their trunks were peppered with scores of cylinders, each full to the brim with stockpiled ammunition for the javelin throwers. Like the war elephants of legend, they were practically mobile fortresses for their tiny riders. Then came the troops.
The shadowed floor of the grove itself seemed to move until the three columns marched into the daylight. Row after row of Leshies poured out of the trees. More than Logan had ever seen. More than he could have imagined in his nightmares. Down the center marched a column of the familiar foot-tall shrubs, armed with one long spear and a quiver of javelins each. To either side of them marched narrower columns of the Manglegrove’s newest madness.
At two feet tall, the flytrap Leshies came up to Logan’s shoulder, each sporting at least three mouths that bristled with fibrous fangs. Logan was becoming well acquainted with the fact that The Manglegrove didn’t do things by halves, however; so it was little surprise that she’d somehow taken an even more aggressive-looking version of the green demons and managed to make it even worse. He had wondered why they wanted leather armor when their natural bark would be harder and more protective than the freshly tanned rodent pelts. Now he understood. The columns of flytrap Leshies bore piecemeal suites of armor, with each of them being equipped with a tiny shield and what looked like the wood and stone ‘swords’ the Lizardfolk were so fond of. Logan slowly turned towards the ephemeral image of the core, when something stopped him in his tracks.
“What in the name of Hel’s hound is THAT?!” the rugged ranger squawked. The absolute monstrosity that was shambling unevenly out of the grove was possibly the most bizarre thing he’d ever laid eyes on. The machine was made of driftwood planks, woven twine, and what appeared to be a fairly nice Rowan bow, all slapdashed together into a kind of primitive ballista. This, in turn, was held in place by two leather belts with shoddy-looking copper buckles. This alone would have been enough to disturb him, but it was the thing their device was mounted to that disturbed him most. The wriggling bundle of tendrils could only be an uprooted assassin vine. The little green devils had roped sticks and bones to the thickest vines, giving the beast of burden form and stability. It was horrifyingly clever. Normal Leshies were bad enough, and they were Stone Age hunter-gatherers.
“That… That might be my new favorite thing!” The core cackled gleefully. “That’s brilliant!”
“You didn’t tell them how to make that?” Logan asked, incredulous.
“Nope! Never would have thought of it. That is pure shrubbish innovation!”
Logan’s thoughts drifted to those tales in his book of dungeons gone mad, or feral, and creating horrible monstrosities. Good gods, he hoped the Manglegrove never turned out like that. As the bulk of the forces passed, he let out a sigh and secured his quiver to his belt.
“Remember. No matter what happens, you get yourself back to those kids.” Liv reminded him once more.
“I’m marching with a literal army. How much safer could I get?” Logan jokingly tossed back.
“Wise a-“ Her voice was swallowed up, disappearing entirely between one step and the next. It took him a moment to piece together that he must have just passed outside the dungeon’s sphere of influence. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and focused on the moment at hand. One of the Leshies, he honestly couldn’t tell most of them apart, stepped up to him and stood as straight as its little wooden body could manage. It snapped a hand outward, and then folded the limb inward until its gnarled little hand sat parallel above its eyes. Then it jerkily dropped that hand back down to its side. Logan hadn’t the faintest idea what that was supposed to mean, but he was here for tactical support and figured he’d best get started.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Right. Okay… People?” He paused his stumbling address as the Leshy before him did a brief dance. His confusion suddenly turned to comprehension as he realized the leafy being in front of him was translating. Some of these Leshies must be from the village the dungeon adopted.
“Keep well away from the water. Tight formation. We don’t want them picking off stragglers.” He looked towards the mangroves. “Igore!” The knotted, lopsided mangrove perked up. “You’re the forward battery. Take the lead.” He looked at the other and sighed.
“M-“ He struggled to keep his expression level. “Mosstache,” Damn that dungeon. She’d claimed she made them distinctive so he could easily differentiate them, but the scraggly green ‘mustache’ on the latter treant was rather over the top. “You’re rear guard. Both of you stay close enough together that your javelineers can cover at least half of the line.” ‘Mosstache’ looked down to the tiny translator, then back to Logan to give a slow nod.
—
The morning had passed in relative peace. With the parasites being so prolific, it seemed they had depopulated most of the immediate marsh, leaving only occasional slugs to worry about. Those were slow, and none too sturdy, so they hadn’t proven to be much of a concern. It wasn’t until nearly noon that they started to encounter errant bits of infested wildlife.
Logan swayed back and forth, perched in the heavy crook of Igore’s trunk. The seat gave him a good view, and as the only being present that was at risk of infection, it ensured he didn’t accidentally step on some errant slug hidden in the grass and end up like those things. At the sound of a tussle, Logan turned to look back at the line in time to see what looked like a large snake with a head of writhing black tentacles surge into their flank. An adrenal jolt electrified his limbs as he grabbed for his bow, but by the time he knocked his first arrow, the mindless beast was already cut to ribbons by the flytrap Leshys.
Encounters were growing more frequent now, but thus far there hasn’t been anything noteworthy. Their sheer numbers were proving to be more than enough to make short work of even the larger beasts. Still, this was no time to let their guard down.
Based on what the dungeon had told him he had been expecting to confront a swarm. He felt a tap on his arm and glanced down to see his leafy translator vying for his attention. It pointed to him, tapped its gnarled knuckles against its wooden head, and then gave an exaggerated shrug. The odd pantomime gave him a bemused chuckle.
“Best as I can think, there’s a few possibilities for what we’re seeing.” He held up a single finger. “You lot did more damage to the enemy than you realized.” A second finger joined the first. “The enemy killed off too much of the local wildlife to keep a force ready.” He ticked the next digits as he carried on. “They could be busy elsewhere, or they could be waiting for nightfall.”
He fell silent, deep in thought. He didn’t relish the idea of fighting in enemy territory in the dark, but the thought of returning empty-handed was a bitter idea to swallow. Glancing back the way they had come, he settled on a copse of cypress trees and signaled the troops to head that way. It was close enough to The Manglegrove that she should be able to catch up to them and reclaim the territory, assuming they could keep it clear. When the column arrived at his destination, he stood and raised his voice.
“Alright lads, circle the wagons and hold.” Logan made a twirling gesture with one finger lifted, signaling one of their few practiced maneuvers. “Javelineers, guard the tree line. Eyes on the sky. Mangroves, cover the rest of the Forward Guard. Ranger two, patrol duty. Ranger one, with me.” He nodded with satisfaction as his translator repeated his words for those who needed it, and the various squads broke off to do as they had been ordered.
He jumped down from the crooked trunk, and the first ranger squad formed up around him. Another practiced hand signal sent them radiating outward into the trees. At the first sign of trouble, any of the rangers outside the perimeter would make a break for the javlineer’s cover range, signal whistle blazing. If the area was clear, then these trees would make useful materials for proper barricades.
The copse wasn’t especially large, boasting a few dozen trees around a stagnant, shallow pool. Many seemed to be dead, their hollow trunks rotting from the inside even as they stood. A few of the braver rangers waded into the murky water, but by the time the sun was lowering towards the horizon, no sign of the enemy had been found.
Just the same, Logan continued his slow patrol with his bow held at the ready. Scout had returned to the others, giving the signal to begin fortifying their position. He could hear one of the mangroves moving inward and ground his teeth to fend off the nerves as the treant began to loudly wrench at one of the dead trees for materials. The cypress was much larger than Mosstache and must have been rooted deeply because it seemed to be taking considerable effort to knock it down.
The noise set him on edge, nervously fingering his nocked arrow. The stagnant, cloying air already had him damp with sweat, and now his nerves had the underarms of his tunic soaked. Deep groans and creaks echoed through the grove, slicing through the deep rustling of the wind through the canopy over his head. He kept his keen eyes peeled, glaring into the growing shadows for any sign of movement. A flicker of motion nearly made him jump out of his skin, his bow snapping upward on pure instinct, only to scold himself when naught but a single leaf fluttered straight down from the canopy above.
“Hel’s hound!” he cursed under his breath, then froze as something nagged at him. The falling leaf. He glanced at where it floated in the still water nearby. Hardly unusual, the wind knocked leaves down from trees all the time. It was late in the year, the leaf was the right kind for the trees around him, what was the issue? Why did this leaf bother him? He replayed the scene in his mind as the mangrove paused and repositioned itself, giving him a moment of deathly silence to consider.
His mind raced to uncover the source of his unease. Silence. The salty sweat in his eyes. The tree trunk. The mangrove. The wind in the trees. The silence. The leaf… Logan’s eyes widened. The bright green leaf had fallen straight down. Straight down.
“There was no breeze,” he breathed the words so softly they barely made it past his lips. He turned on the balls of his feet and sprinted for the troops.
“THEY’RE IN THE TREES!!”
Mosstache heaved, freeing the dead wood from its damp earthen embrace. The crash spiraled outward into a cacophony of splintering timber, decayed trunks bursting open all around him. Logan took a flying leap over the perimeter guard, who were already weaving their shields into a wall. From the shattered log at Mosstache’s roots, an armored, serpentine beast reared upward. The infested centipede stood at nearly twice Logan’s height, its clicking limbs rattling like a bag of bones. Mandibles that could pierce a leather cuirass snapped down on a root, shredding the wooden limb into sappy fibers.
Another charged for the front line, javelins ricocheting harmlessly off its chitin. The primitive monster’s maw opened wide as it closed in, only to crash to a halt as Logan’s arrow burrowed down its gullet.
“HOLD YOUR FIRE TILL YOU SEE THE BELLY!” Logan roared. Another cacophony from the rear pulled his attention to where their troops had clashed with a sudden rush of the infested.
“Option three it is…” he growled. Then the Halfling’s face curled into a predatory grin. The enemy was likely expecting the same kind of fight The Manglegrove had given them before. Whatever was controlling these things was in for a shock.
“FORWARD TWO, PIKES! JAVELIN TWO, HARPOONS!” One of the ranking Leshies pulled out a whistle, relaying his orders. The second line of Flytrap Leshies sheathed their blades and pulled out pikes nearly as long as Logan was tall. As the first batch of infested wildlife impaled themselves upon their spears, the larger beasts found themselves barbed by roped javelins. Squads of the shrub-like warriors pulled beasts down into the range of the shield wall’s blades to be hacked to bits while the pikes kept them safe from smaller enemies.
Logan whirled and loosed another arrow into a centipede from the cypress copse. The impact was enough to redirect the thin stream of bile it was spitting. One Leshy writhed in agony as the acid dissolved the green, barkless flesh, but the arrow had saved its fellows. The carcass of the carapaced monster lifted into the air, and Logan couldn’t help but cheer as Mosstache used the corpse like a club, crushing another of its brethren with a mighty swing.
He watched carefully for changes in the enemy’s tactics or some kind of break in their defenses. To his shock, there were none. This was working. They were holding the line! Another centipede reared up, twitching as its underbelly was peppered with spears. Logan barely had time to dive to one side as the acidic spray just barely missed him. He kept his momentum, rolling onto his back and drawing back the string… Which came away limply in his grasp. His jaw dropped in horror as he saw the still-smoking end of his bow where the acid had dissolved the string.
He rolled to his feet, falling back as he searched his pockets for a replacement string. He stood in the center of the formation, backed up against Igore, and watched as the offending centipede was pierced by Mosstache’s root. Which was why the sound of another tree falling came as such a surprise. Both the mangroves were accounted for, so who was felling more trees?
A towering cypress, still green and living, crashed down like the hammer of the gods. The copse-facing line was scattered by the blow, and Logan himself was only saved by Igore’s quick thinking and willingness to take the blow on his behalf. The twisted mangrove was tangled in a mass of branches, with many of the riders laying scattered and disoriented on the ground.
“HOLD THE LINE!!” Logan coughed. “WE NEED TO RE… Oh.” The last rays of the fading sun were cast into shadow as a stooped hulk extricated itself from the felled canopy. The hunchbacked being had ape-like arms, crooked fangs, and claws as long as his hand. Bulging muscles twitched spasmodically beneath its lumpy green skin as it arched backward and briefly achieved a height nearly four times his own.
“Bugger.”
The fen troll bellowed skyward, one eye bulging with rage-fueled insanity whilst the other socket leaked pale fluid around a writhing slug. The savage grabbed hold of the slug and ripped it out, with some bits of green flesh still attached, and blinked a few times before yet another slug tore through the half-regrown eye.
Igore managed to pull itself free from the tangle, and Logan hoped that would prove to be enough of a distraction for the troll. Abandoning his hunt for the bowstring, he grabbed his pack and dug frantically for his flint and pitch. It was far from ideal, but it was the only thing he had on him that had any chance of harming this giant. He heard another crash and for a terrifying moment thought that another tree with coming down with a troll rider. Then he saw Igore land. Hard. The mangrove's bark was stripped with deep claw gouges.
Frantic now, he managed to get his hands on the small box he needed. Yanking it out, he glanced up to check on the troll’s position as he grasped the fire starter, he felt his stomach drop as the crazed eye of the troll locked onto what he held. It may have been half mad, but it knew what that was.
“Fu-“
The world spun in a blazing spiral of pain. A flash of green, a whorl of colors and shadows, then a splash muffled all but the ringing in his ears as dark waters swallowed him whole.