Cort ran around like a madman, trying to get the riffraff into squads and putting them in defensive positions behind clusters of stalagmites.

He hoped the pits would help them hold some ground. The Podexians wouldn’t have an easy advance, at least.

Cort tripped over a rolling iron ball but stayed on his feet. “Argh! Again?” Damned things.

That gave him an idea.

“Isca! Isca!” he screamed over the furor.

She looked around and then caught his eye.

Cort pointed at the pile of iron balls and began gesturing wildly. “Roll them to the door! To the door!”

The cavern had a slope to it that bottomed out in front of the door. That could buy them some time - Cort would carve out every sliver. He turned away as Isca started directing the prisoners.

Just in time to see the door crumple into a ball. Prisoners scattered, pissing on whatever orders Cort had given them. He spotted Gwil—drenched in blood but running his fucking mouth as always—stumbling away with a few other prisoners.

The tank crawled through, lumbering on its big treads. It was monstrous. The Podexian force stayed behind it, matching its sluggish pace.

Fuck. That thing was unstoppable. It would shred them all into tiny pieces. Cort didn’t care to go to hell as a pile of woodchips. The tank was slow and cumbersome.

“Advance!” he screamed. “Get behind the tank!”

Cort scooped up a couple of pickaxes as he charged forward.

***

Chaos enveloped the prison. Guards ran every which way. An annoying alarm blared without surcease. The commotion had sent Brock into a panic, and now they were lost.

Leira shook her head. Literally made of solid stone, and he’s as timid as a mouse.

Ahead, a ball of purple fire bloomed within the tunnel.

“What the hell?” Leira said. “A laser gun?” That set her heart racing, but the weapon’s discharge looked too volatile to be of Leviathan make.

Brock went into a frenzy as sections of the tunnel collapsed. Blinded by fear, the idiot rolled toward the source rather than away.

“What is wrong with you?” Leira hissed. “You’re gonna get us vaporized. At least lift your arms up so I don’t get crushed!” she squealed as a chunk of debris just missed crushing the litter.

Brock took a sharp turn that nearly saw Leira thrown out. Recovering herself, she saw a blue glow through the haze. By the time she recognized the shape as a person, Brock had snatched them up, pinning the flailing figure between his two boulder hands.

Leira saw a chrome laser gun fall to the ground.

It was a strange little man, with long arms like a monkey, wild patchy white hair, and telescopic goggles. His skin glowed bright blue—Leira had never seen someone so afflicted by Kaia.

“What the fuck, Brock? We’re supposed to be looking for Gwil. Who is this guy? Hey! You’re gonna smush him doing that.”

Brock dropped the scientist-type fellow on the ground and then the Talus leaned forward to cover over the man and trap him in a very stalwart sort of cage. Leira thought she’d piss herself if she were trapped in that position.

She jumped down to take the measure of the scientist. “Who the fuck are you?” she asked, picking up the laser gun and inspecting it. What a piece of junk.

“I am Doctor Buzzard. Chief Scientist, Chief Researcher, and Chief Engineer of Chateau Podexia. I find your floral splice repugnant and in very poor taste, you heathen witch. The vaingloriousness of you people knows no bounds.”

“Eat shit,” Leira said. “I couldn’t get this Talus to hurt a fly, but it looks like he wants to crush you. What gives?”

“Well, I see you grew sick of dealing with Lord Ansoir and turned to a life of crime, Brock. Hmmm, I wonder,” Buzzard murmured. He held both his hands over his mouth, like a rat. “Could it be? Yes, I suspect.”

“Answer the question,” Leira snapped. The petals swayed.

Brock slammed his heavy fist against the ground. Splintering cracks shot out from the point of impact, crawling beneath the doctor, which gave him a start.

“Brock is mad because I designed the engines that power the Taluses,” Buzzard said quickly. “But it was not I who saddled him with a mind. I only gifted the Taluses the ability to be something more than sentient vegetables. Nothing deserving of such vehement vitriol. The World puts the curse of existence on all of us. To live is seldom joyous. I think we can all agree with that. Heehee.

“And I had nothing to do with the fact that he was made to serve as Ansoir’s personal Talus, though that is something worth seeking vengeance over.”

Leira pressed her palms against her temples. “Whatever. Brock, kill this miserable freak and be quick about it.”

The Talus heaved as Leira skittered away. But Brock hesitated, his limbs shaking. He toppled over onto his side. His boulders sighed and went limp. He looked like a sleeping bear.

“Tch. Get up, Brock.” She moved to stand above Buzzard, who still sat on the ground. “You’re important, yeah? I guess I’m collecting hostages then.”

Buzzard’s long, noodley arm flared with light and swung at Leira.

She’d been prepared for that. The lotus opened, puffed out a cloud of pink spores. The scientist sneezed, and then fell over onto his side, stiff as a board.

“Ah ah ah, nice try,” Leira said, wagging her finger. “I’m no idiot. I see you're jacked to the tits with Kaia. I guess that’s why you’re still conscious, too.”

“Merciless gods,” Buzzard said, speaking through a locked-up jaw and a slack tongue. “It’s real. You are a Megrim Child. You hold the World in your eye!”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Shut up,” Leira said, kicking him in the ribs. “Sorry, Brock, but he’s coming with us. He seems useful.” She picked Buzzard up under his arms and shoved him up into the litter, dropping him behind the chairs so that he laid on top of Ansoir. Then she sat down with Buzzard’s laser gun lying across her lap.

After a fit of grunting, Buzzard said, “Who’s this that I’m lying on top of? Lord Ansoir! You have him with you? I demand to know what’s going on. I despise being ignorant.”

“Good thinking, Brock,” Leira said. “This guy can tell us where to go. Where’s the action at, doc?”

“Turn around,” Buzzard said. “You were going the wrong way.”

Brock spun about and went back up the tunnel. Leira hummed along with the shrill pulses of the alarm.

“What were you doing firing this laser gun off all willy-nilly?” she asked, holding the weapon up.

“Is someone so gifted truly so dense? I was blockading myself, so I wouldn’t get ripped apart by a horde of angry prisoners, obviously. Heehee. I happened to be outside of my laboratory when the commotion began, and it seems things are escalating.

“By the way, your enchantment is making it very difficult for me to speak. How does it work? You are a myth made real. And not just real, but undeniable. I didn’t think any of you existed anymore.” That whole slew of words came out as a garbled mess.

“You’re talking more than enough,” Leira said. “Hey, did you see a new prisoner? A Hallow, named Gwil.”

Buzzard squealed. “Oh my. Oh yes, I know him. Heehee. This has suddenly become the most interesting day I’ve had in a long time.”

“You do?” Leira yelled. “Is he okay?”

“It sounds like he’s doing quite well,” Buzzard said. “Alright, Megrim Daughter. I will ally with you.”

“Fat chance,” Leira said. “Why?”

“Because I’m stuck with you and I don’t want to die, of course. Heehee.”

***

As the prisoners rushed the door, the drill tank plowed forward.

And then the monstrous contraption stalled, lurched, and went off-kilter. Its treads had rolled up onto the field of iron balls.

The Podexians screamed as the tank swerved backward and slid out, its deadly front end swiveling out of control. The careening drill chewed through a clump of bodies, turning them into red mist.

In that moment, when the prisoners crashed against the Podexian line, it was raining blood.

The tank crashed against the frame of the door, settling there, across the opening, with its outer side propped up on a cluster of iron balls. The drill stopped spinning, but the engine continued to chug.

Gwil hurled himself into the mass of bodies and spears, into the thick of the Podexian ranks. He wrenched weapons away from their wielders, plucking them from weak arms like a parent snatching something from a child. He slammed his fists into anything he could reach, the half-formed one landing with wet, squelching impacts like a sponge slammed down on the floor.

Stabbing spears ripped chunks out of his flesh, and yet they slowed him down no more than if they were mosquito bites.

The Nirva flowed like a raging river. Oh, how the voices screamed. With the cries of the Podexians and the wheezing lungs of the prisoners, they formed a harmonious chorus. This conflict was drenched with the crimson-black hues of the Yalda’blood.

As he fought, moving as if this was a dance that he knew by heart, Gwil wondered. What the hell is Yalda’blood? I’ve never heard of that, but I know that it’s the name of this tattered veil. And I see that we are all swaddled in its essence.

Weird. Oh, well.

His hand lashed out to catch a spear as its tip came within a hair of his adam’s apple. He jerked the weapon back so that its butt rammed into the ribs of its wielder.

That man stumbled, and then Gwil choked up his grip on the weapon and charged forward. Using the man’s body a bit like a garden plow, he bowled through a few Podexians.

That game ended when two enemies rammed into him from the side. As Gwil staggered, he wrapped his arms around them and threw himself backwards, giggling as he suplexed them.

However, the Podexians had recognized him as a terrible threat, and they saw that he was lying on the ground, vulnerable.

Gwil flailed under a flurry of stomping boots. So many. Pain shot through his body when they struck his wounds. He wrestled to get free, but they pinned his limbs down, smashing him in the head over and over.

Again, he felt that horrible sensation of the Nirva growing thin. Piddling, diluted embers dribbling through his veins. It drained away too fast. Too much damage. The voices went quiet.

Blood sprayed. A lot of blood. And it splashed down onto him, so it couldn’t have been his. The beating ended, but there were still feet everywhere. Lots of them were bare and blue.

Cort stood over Gwil—red, gleaming, and grinning. The prisoners had broken through and the Podexians had fallen back.

Cort held out his hand. Gwil took it and stood, noting how his own arm looked like a pile of raw chicken.

“We’re winning,” Cort said.

And then that horrible whining sound returned. Gwil jumped up to see, though he already knew. The Podexians had fallen all the way back and the drill tank was working on extracting itself from its jam.

Gwil put his hands on Cort’s shoulders. “I can stop it. Throw me.”

Cort laced his fingers together and Gwil stepped up. At the same time Cort heaved, Gwil launched himself.

He went twirling through the air, soaring over the enemies, crashing through a few aloft spears, and landed atop the drill tank.

The Podexians, noticing his intrusion, began jabbing at Gwil with their spears, and trying to grab hold of his kicking legs. He crawled around to the front side of the vehicle so that the wall was behind him. The whirring drill protected him from another angle.

He glimpsed Cort heading the swarm of surging prisoners. They were backing him up. If he couldn’t stop the tank, they’d be butchered. Aww, Gwil thought. Cort really trusts me.

The hatch on the roof of the tank appeared to open with some sort of spinning wheel on its top. Gwil tugged at it with all his might, but it wouldn’t budge.

He began pounding his fists on it. The sounds of impact were dull for the thickness of the metal. He tried the wheel again from a different angle and then rammed his fingers into the infinitesimally narrow seal of the hatch.

A spear impaled his foot. Not my new boots! Gwil kept ramming his fingers into the seal, pushing until they were pulped. His finger bones were being ground down into little bits. Slivers of his flesh got stuck in the seal.

That was something. He had to get through. He started using his head to ram against the seal. Whether he was trying to rip it open or force his way through, Gwil wasn’t sure.

He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, screeching like a demon as he spent everything he had. He saw stars. The screaming voices went wild.

Parts of his hands had made it through, but some damnable instinct of self-preservation prevented him from forcing his skull through.

Some irrelevant part of him knew—this was delusion. Nothing but lunatic determination. Yalda’blood bloomed through his darkened vision. It smothered him. The whole World was crushing him. Pins and needles, stabbing everywhere.

Through all the screaming, a single small voice whispered in his mind. His limbs, everything… deflating.

Pop.

Relief, sweet relief. Gwil gasped, felt his lungs balloon at a rush of air. But nothing hurt. He felt great. Shit, did I die?

Someone was screaming in his ear. And something was jabbing into his chest.

Gwil rubbed his eyes and then found that he was face to face with a masked man. A Podexian. He was the one doing the screaming, and Gwil screamed too.

He was sitting in the man’s lap. Gwil jumped back and smacked his head on something. The space was very cramped.

The man began shoving Gwil and trying to hit him. Gwil untangled his arm, ripped the man’s mask off, and then smacked him across the face. That stopped him.

This place was tiny, and everything was shaking. The drill was still whining…

“Ahaha! How did I get in here?” Gwil laughed. “I bet you pissed yourself when I appeared in your lap. Gross. Did you see what happened? Did I teleport? Or turn into string like a meat grinder?”

The man stared, sputtering.

“Do I look normal?” Gwil asked.

Wide-eyed, the man raised his hand and touched his own forehead. Gwil mirrored him and felt a wet flap of flesh. He sort of pasted it back in place and said, “That’s nothing. So, you didn’t see how I did it?”

The man shook his head.

“Can you move over?” Gwil asked, shoving the man and trying to twist himself into a better position. “There’s not much space in here. Hey, how do you drive this thing?”

The man continued sputtering.

“You’re not helpful. Get out of the way.”

Gwil reached above the man and unlocked the hatch, then threw it open. After some shifting around, he got his hands under the driver’s arms. He flung the man up out of the hatch, then pulled it closed.

Settling into the seat, Gwil looked at the mess of cranks and levers and foot pedals and dials and glowing red lights. He began hitting things at random and then craned his neck to see out the tiny sliver of a window.

The tank lurched. The drill sputtered.

He smacked the control panel with both hands. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”