It was like lightning striking a tree, a bright flash followed by a sharp crack. Rodrick’s head burst like a rotten apple thrown at a wall. Splinters of skull and boiling hot juice flew out from the empty space above his shoulders. The residual blast Struck Jackson, just strong enough to break his nose and shatter his teeth. The splatter of scolding paste blistered his skin, shards of bone cut gashes across his face and dug deep into his neck. Blood sprang forth like a fountain from severed arteries. The warmth and colour drained from him as he failed to breathe. A circle of red grew large around him. Paul fell to his knees wailing, gripping his brother’s throat tight, desperate to stop the bleeding.
“Oh God, oh please God. Please don’t, Jackson,” he muttered over and over again, his tears poured down over his brother’s face, cutting lines through the caked-on blood. “Just keep breathing, just stay with me.”
Jackson gave a hazy look to Paul, his grasp of the world around him had long slipped from his fingers. He used the last of his strength to take one last breath and pull his brother closer.
“Just” – he coughed, his voice was below a whisper – “just go.”
“No,” Paul sobbed. “Please no.”
Jackson was still.
Thomas spun around and shot an arrow at the shadow on the roof, a solid thunk was followed by the squeal of a stuck pig. There was a crashing of feet as it stumbled and a thud as it smacked onto the clearing floor.
Screams drew Thomas’s attention back to the crowd. A dozen streaks of red light peppered the mob like hellish hail. All brawling had stopped. Once divided, they were now united in the desire to leave as fast as possible, a tide of humanity churning over itself desperately trying to run from the brutal light. A loud pop and the sizzle of cooked meat signalled a hit, the unlucky man fell like a stone or howled as they grasped an arm or leg. All the while a great wail filled the clearing, the cry of a child with the banging of a drum came from everywhere and forced itself into his ears.
Thomas swung out with his fist. Before he realised it, he was already forcing a duplicate of the silver artefact the Twins and Rodrick fought over away from his face. The object was knocked to the side, launching flame into the air. The moist grip of a hand was shoved onto his face, pushing him away. Thomas glared at his attacker.
His eyes went wide.
It wasn’t a bandit. Nor a witch, fairy or demon.
The hand shoved into his face had six fingers, four pressed firm against his forehead, two thumbs were hooked under his chin. Looking down the sleeve of a grey single piece suit, Thomas saw the arm attached to a fat sphere of a body, propped up by four legs, copies of the arms, like a demented interpretation of a centaur. Peering through a hole in the garment was the face of a toad, mottled green. A pair of fly’s eyes sat on its face like fist sized blisters. The monster bared a mouth of blunt teeth as it snarled at Thomas, muttering in an alien tongue. Clicks, grunts and inhumane gurgling were sputtered in a tone he needed no help in recognising. Anger.
The abomination charged him, barrelling him over. One blast after another was punched into the ground, each missing their mark as Thomas writhed around, desperately dodging the blasts. He wrestled with the beast, trying to shove the weapon away from his head. He looked upwards, finding his arrow jammed into its underside, jammed next to a metal square that laid expose through its clothing. Some kind of prosthetic sown into the flesh itself. Thomas’s hand launched upwards, grasping the arrow and ripping it out with a twisting motion. The monster hiss as orange bile sprayed out from the wound. He took no time in stabbing the projectile back into the thing’s belly. And then again.
And again.
And again, once more.
The last thrust curved in sideways, sliding under the metal square. There was more hissing, not from the creature itself, but out from the last stab wound. A gentle whistling of wind pushed through a gap in a wall. The monster’s legs wobbled, one of its knees collapsing. It huffed and coughed, struggling to breathe. Taking his chance, Thomas grabbed onto the monster’s weapon with both hands, firmly tugging to free it from the monster’s grasp. It resisted. Taking advantage of its moment of weakness, Thomas was able to jump to his feet. The silver egg was pulled back and forth between the two, each trying to get the upper hand to end the other.
The abomination grasped the weapon’s wiry back with its other hand before reeling backwards to use its hand like front feet too. Thomas wasn’t strong enough; he could never be strong enough. The monster cackled with a weak, strained laugh as it used its extra leverage to line up a shot straight into Thomas’s face. A small red light began to glow down its spout.
Thomas closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose.
His hands scrambled forward, fingers slipping through the wires in order to hook and hold firm onto the weapon itself.
With a loud bestial groan. Thomas jumped up, planted his boots onto the creature’s face and kicked away, pulling the weapon over his head with all his might. Startled, the creature pulled backwards, holding tight onto the squirming mess of wires.
There was a snapping of twigs and a dozen sharp pops.
The monster was left grasping on a ball of torn wires, limp like noodles. The weapon grew hot in Thomas’s hands, a droning tone growing louder and louder as the red light grew brighter and brighter. As it began to burn his hands, he lobbed it like a ball towards the creature. It clunked against its head. Falling to the floor in panic, the creature began to scream, fear was laid thick onto its unknown dialect. Thomas ran to the corner of a hut and dived behind the wall.
Bang.
The light of a third sun filled the air for a second, a painful ringing lingered in his ears. Thomas peaked around the corner. There wasn’t a monster nor a weapon any more, in their place were a half dozen shards of silver, an ox sized crater in the ground and orange paste on what remained of the wall of the cube.
His sigh of relief was interrupted by screaming, more of the monster’s kin swarmed towards the group. Thomas ducked behind cover and watched the horror out of sight of the invaders. Marksmen crawled up the sides of the cube hovels and hopped from roof to roof, peppering fire down onto any who thought to flee. Meanwhile, pairs armed with blunted black spears made their way down pathways, prodding the mob backwards, lightning sprayed out from the spearheads as they were jabbed into stomachs.
Thomas saw five of Rodrick’s gang mates break away from the chaos and race towards the edge of the clearing. They didn’t get far before three were crushed like ants under the hoofs of an elephant sized shape that came charging out of the Delmerk towards them.
Hovering over them on a dozen pairs of thin silvery legs was a purple worm, a colossal beetle larva with the head of a demented ape. Stumps lined the sides of its body, what Thomas assumed were the remnants of its original legs. Its new limbs curved over and attached onto Its back, supporting the abomination like a baby in a harness. Two long talon tipped arms dangled from its front, bolted to its underside. The beast silently flashed its teeth at the men below, the joints of the apparatus it was suspended from clicked and groaned as the limbs flexed and twitched.
An arm was swung, cracking like a whip, the fourth man was sent flying backwards, he skidded across the ground before coming to rest in a crumpled heap, tangled up in himself like a broken doll thrown across the room by an angry child. The fifth and final man took no time to mourn or even look back, his sole focus was to run. One of the bizarre wagons blocked his path. In one swift motion, he pulled himself up and vaulted over it, only to come to a sudden stop. His foot was caught in between two of the pedals. He grabbed his leg, rapidly pulling it side to side to free it. In the struggle, one of the pedals was thrown backwards. With a jerk that shunted the man onto the wheel, the construct sparked to life. Panicked and desperate for a handle to hold onto as he righted himself, he pulled a leaver, sending the iron steed galloping forward toward a box house. It pulled itself up the wall, embedding its legs into it like splinters through paper. Its grip vanished once it became fully vertical, falling backward with the clanging of silverware. Its accidental driver was pinned underneath and motionless.
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Thomas turned his gaze to the side. Beside the remains of Jackson and Rodrick stood Paul, tears streaming down his face like rivers, nose red with snot, loosing ray after ray of burning light at the monsters before him, those on the ground kept their distance, while the marksmen on the roofs ducked flat for cover from the barrage. They were completely unprepared for this type of resistance.
A great shadow loomed over him as another of the large beasts crawled over one of the buildings, hanging underneath perched between two of its thin wiry legs hung a giant wasp. It was wingless, mustard yellow and the size of a dog. It wore the same style of suit as the frog centaur but of a far superior quality, finely woven deep red replaced rough scratchy grey. Thomas could even see golden trim along its sleeves. A small golden disk adorned with more of the unknown script was pinned to the creature’s chest. Unlike all the other creatures that assaulted the group, this one had nothing implanted into its body.
Paul paused his panicked onslaught and looked upwards, a pair of solid green eyes with beady black pupils stared back at him. The wasp pulled a thin metal tube out from a bag that hung from its waist with human hands. Thomas saw it stuff something small and round into the tube before pointing the open end toward Paul and flicking a latch attached to the underside. With a pop, an egg smacked into Paul’s face, out from the splatter wiggled a finger long red worm. Paul screamed as the worm latched onto his head and began to twist and burrow into his skull. He desperately tried to grab onto the parasite, but it slipped out from his fingers.
Paul suddenly dropped to the floor, convulsing and foaming at the mouth. The wasp’s attention switched to the last of the mob, with a buzzing trill it commanded its nightmarish mount to march forward.
Paul grew still.
The behemoth took one step.
Two steps.
The boy’s breathing returned to him. Slow and gentle. He pointed the silver egg upwards, and it began to glow bright.
The wasp’s tube along with its arm vanished in a spray of molten metal and blue ichor. It wailed with the grace of off tune bagpipes. As it fell, its mount rapidly scuttled in place, legs and arms flailing in a panic as it went to catch its rider. Before it hit the ground, the Wasp was gently cradled in the giant monster’s hooked claws, demonstrating more dexterity and care than what Thomas could ever imagine a thing of its shape and size could produce. In the process, though, the ground below was reduced to waist deep mud and several frogtaurs and huts were either knocked to the side or suffered a hoof shaped hole punched through it.
In the chaos, an opening was made. With a scything swing of his pole axe, Theo struck down a few of the frogtaurs, breaking their ranks. The last free stragglers of the party charged through the opening.
Junior hanged back, his eyes softened as he gave his protector a pleading expression, “Please, we need to go.”
“No time, sir. You need to go, I’ll catch up.”
“But I don’t want to leave without –”
“Gilligan, run!” Theodore barked.
Junior flinched at the bellow and let a terrified yelp before scampering off behind his fleeing comrades. Paul followed shortly after, firing bolts at the monsters who had the same weapon as his, providing cover as they ran.
Theo leapt into the horde; every swing of his pole axe echoed with inhuman cries. Sprays of orange went every which way; the battlefield was fill with the soft crunch of bone as his foe gave way underneath his cutting edge. Any that he didn’t notice, Thomas promptly peppered with arrows, dividing their attention between the two of them. The abominations panicked, backing away as Theo charged at them. Then, with thunderous stomps, the two colossal mounts gathered at the site of the brawl.
The frogtaurs gathered their courage and threw themselves into the fight, weaving between the long silver legs. Thomas couldn’t get a clear shot, any time he did his arrows merely grazed a limb. On impulse, Theo swung at one of the legs. The axe blade shattered, the pole arm fell to the ground as the shock of the swing rippled through his arms, losing his grip from the painful vibrations. A spear rammed into his back, Theo’s legs spasmed as his knees gave way under him. The crowd of horrors surrounded a kneeling Theodore. With a final defiant burst of energy, he lunged towards one of the frog centaurs, grabbing firm onto its fat eyes and squeezing them like fruits. It screeched as it flailed trying to get Theo off it.
With a metallic snap, a hoof was brought down from above. Theo glanced downwards. Blood rushed down along the metal leg he was skewered upon. His grip loosened as he slumped to the ground. The wasp let a high pitch whistle, directing the beast to turn around. As it spun in place like a top, the wasp stared directly at Thomas, he ducked too late to avoid notice.
⁂
Stumbling to his feet, he bolted, weaving between the huts as he made his way to reunite with the others. A few barks from the wasp followed, accompanied by brays from the hoard and bolts of fire that skimmed either side of Thomas’s head. Glancing behind, the frogs gave chase, galloping like horses with their spears held underarm. A mockery of knights in mid-charge. Up at either side, more of them bounded between rooftops, lobbing fire below at him.
Thomas weaved between grey cubes and vaulted over stacks of crates, anything to stall their progress towards him. But nothing worked. The beasts kept pace. In the end, it was only Thomas’s panic that kept him from falling behind in the chase.
Eventually, the monster’s progress was halted as Thomas reached the clearing’s centre. His pursuers dived to the side as Paul sent more ruby rays down towards them. Thomas leapt over a makeshift barricade of crates to join his comrades. He and those who remained both alive and free were all herded to a dinky fort around the spine. Thomas took up a position against the barrier and readied his bow. Scanning his surroundings.
The creatures had ceased their charge. The only movement he saw was a blur as they ducked from hut to hut, slowly advancing while preventing the window for retaliation from Thomas or Paul. The rest of the Orhill group hide behind cover, unable to do anything to help without a long-range weapon. Either huddled in prayer or ripping any spare fabric they could find to bandage the wounds of the injured. The mob of at least a hundred had been cut down to fifteen.
The only one among them with a weapon still standing was Junior, putting on a brave face he tried to encourage the party to fight on and stay strong in the face of the enemy. Every attempted speech either got caught in his throat or was interrupted by a pot shot from one of the frogtaurs. The second time he nearly got struck, he stayed in cover for good. There was no jeering from the party, those who remained were either too tired or too defeated to bother to tell him to stop.
A silence descended upon the clearing. Deafening. Thomas felt his heartbeat in his ears like a drum. Wherever he looked, the survivors had every muscle in their bodies tensed. Waiting for what was to come.
Then came a mighty cry.
An endless stream of red descended upon them. Paul fell backwards to avoid getting picked off. Thomas could barely stick enough of his bow above his head to loose a few blind shots without losing his head. All around him the party were huddled like children in bed hiding from a storm. Peaking to the side of his crate, he saw groups of spear men slowly advancing towards them. Everything before was like a pleasant dream to Thomas. After witnessing the grisly trophies in the hut and witnessing his nightmarish foe and their capabilities, the only thing he could see ahead of him was a slow, painful death, or worse.
“Hay, over here!”
Thomas whipped his head back towards Paul. Paul had to lean backwards in order to be able to look up at him. He was standing sideways on the spine, like a spider crawling up a wall.
“How in God’s name are you doing that?” said a confused survivor.
“Does it matter?” Paul retorted, “This is going to be our only way out,” he nodded his head towards the golden light above.
Another butted in, “You don’t honestly mean fleeing into that thing?”
Paul snapped back, “Like staying here is going to be any better.” The boy was tired and angry, only his exhaustion and strained throat kept him from screaming.
Thomas glanced over to Junior; their young leader was huddled on the ground, hyperventilating.
“Mister Gilligan, Sir,” Thomas’s voice awoke Junior from his panicked trance, “You’re the leader, make a choice. Do we stay, or do we go up?” He did his best to keep his voice calm but firm.
Junior took one last deep breath before speaking up, “Men, follow Paul. We are leaving.”
The group needed no further persuasion. Those who could stand on their own, lent their shoulder to prop up those who couldn’t. One by one, they planted a foot against the spine, with a jerk they snapped backwards, as the downward pull of the world was replaced with the sideways pull of the spine.
As their forms appeared one by one over the barricades, the volley of flame died down and eventually stopped. The group ascended higher and higher, far above the clearing and the surrounding forest below.
Glancing downwards, Thomas saw the frogtaurs breaking into full gallop once more. Periodically, he turned around to shoot one or two arrows downwards at their pursuers. Focusing his aim at any that was making particularly swift progress. Paul who ran side by side with him followed in kind, sending bolts of flame both downwards and outwards to where he remembered marksmen skulking. This in turn prompted the creatures to resume their ranged assault, now focused instead on the pair of them.
Thomas and Paul engaged in a frantic dance, hopping and swerving side to side as small fire-bombs detonated at their feet. As the gaping maw of the hovering cathedral grew closer, the party increased their pace, sprinting as fast as they could. Safety, or at least sanctuary from the horrors chasing them, was nearly in reach.
There was a loud bang just behind Thomas. He felt weightless. A familiar pull came over him as he began to involuntarily fall downwards.
Then, there was a thud.
Then nothing.