The creature pretending to be Granon’s father tiptoed down the alley, cruelty and hunger gleaming in its dead eyes. It paid no attention to the gusts of wind that toyed with its veritable mane of hair, or to the scent of other prey lurking around. The thing moved with the causal grace of a predator, confident in its supremacy. It would occasionally glance at the elders’ hiding places, but seemed undisturbed, fearless of any potential traps. It had been many clear nights since the skinwalker had grown too powerful for the villagers to threaten. They had found the cause of the disappearances far too late.
Arrogant and careless, the skinwalker stepped on an unassuming bulge in the dirt.
Worlds away, in the hall of the gods, Azarus drew his fist back for another strike. He was so sick of this hollow, lonely prison. Nothing had gone right since his birth, and even if it wasn’t this damn mirror’s fault, it was close enough. He was going to shatter it into pieces and reclaim himself.
Azarus focused all his helplessness, his humiliation, into his bloodied fist. Emerald, gold, and gray fire peeled away from his skin, gathering behind him as two great wings. His wide, ringed emerald irises seemed to spin in the whites of his eyes, drawing something indefinable into him to fuel his domain. He planted his feet wide apart, his long coat flapping in a localized breeze, the muscles in his back and shoulders straining as he fought through the rapidly solidifying air. Screens popped in and out of his vision, flickering at him with mirth.
With a roar of emotion, Azarus twisted on his front foot, pivoting his hips to bring his fist to bear. A screen, too slow to pop out of the way, exploded into motes of blue light as his fist passed through it. Space and time itself compressed around Azarus’s fist as it hurtled toward the still wavering surface of the hall-spanning mirror. For an instant, the only things that existed were the mirror and Azarus. Everything else fell away.
The mirror was still showing the image of the stalking skinwalker and its soon-to-be prey. Where Azarus’s smeared, tri-colored blood marred its surface, it reflected the hall. Time slowed as the godling’s fist approached the mirror, a visible shockwave traveling less than an inch in front of his knuckles. In the bloody reflection, an ancient, crude iron spike pierced his wrist as if it had always been there. The spike was bound to a rusted, runed chain that rustled like a whisper in the wind as it pulled taut.
An inch from impact, the chain connected to the spike through Azarus’s wrist jerked like a fisherman’s hook. Piercing agony stabbed through his arm. Flaming feathers fell around him, his domain flinching at the sudden pain. The shockwave from Azarus’s punch splashed over the mirror, a burst of golden fire evaporating his blood and sending the mirror into a frenzy of movement. When it settled, not a single burn nor flaw marred its surface.
With a wordless scream, Azarus drew his sword, running the edge across his upper thigh to coat it in blood. He was not a god who recoiled at the first sign of failure. His sword extended as he took a step forward, sinking his weight into his front knee. If reach was an issue, he would adapt. Azarus lunged to skewer the mirror on the tip of his bloodied sword.
Chains sprung into existence around him, tightening like a spider’s web. The tip of his sword shook as he tried to push it forward, mere finger-widths from the cool glass. When Azarus refused to relent, the chains pulled him off his feet, crude spikes running through his body like meat hooks, and shook him. Azarus swallowed the pain, feeling much like a marionette being reprimanded for trying to escape its master’s grasp.
Cold and uncaring, the Mirror of Eons continued to show the unfolding trial.
The skinwalker’s prodigious weight pressed into the lump buried beneath the dirt, causing the other end to pop. The carved wood pivoted on a carefully placed stone fulcrum buried beneath it. As the unladen end of the lever burst from the ground, it pulled the rope attached to it. The chain reaction resulted in a noose of rope-like vine cinching around the creature’s booted foot. It did not notice, at first; too caught up in the game it was playing.
Moka cursed in her hiding place as she watched her best trap do absolutely nothing for the third time. Everything hinged on this. The creature had already passed two of the buried nooses and this one was a dud. The mechanism at the other end of the rope must have failed. Or it was flawed from conception. Regardless, there were two more chances. If the traps failed, she would need to do things the hard way, a daunting task.
The skinwalker took another exaggerated step forward, then another, his high-step pulling more of the noose out of the dirt. As the noose came in contact with the air, it forcefully unburied the length of finely woven rope the pilfered, crude-hewn vine noose attached to.
A thick line of dust erupted from the path as the skinwalker raised its foot, the particles swirling up to join the wind. Feeling the resistance, the creature noticed the noose. Something between curiosity and amusement played behind its dead eyes. Bracing itself, it shook its foot. The tombstone grin Granon’s father wore faded a fraction as it waited for the other stone to drop. When nothing happened, the skinwalker let out a snort, scalding steam rising from its nose. It reached out with long, muscular arms and snagged the end of the rope, giving it a curious tug. When nothing happened again, the skinwalker’s grin returned twofold.
Granon’s father’s face twisted into a look of smug satisfaction as it planted both feet on the ground and gave the rope another experimental pull. It practically rolled its eyes when nothing happened a third time. The line continued to give way, so there was no possibility the rope could hold him in place. The monster gave Granon’s hiding place a smug look.
“His tricks and traps, ruined.”
The creature shifted his considerable weight, grabbed the rope with both hands, and heaved with all its might. Dirt exploded from the path in a straight line toward the mountain as it ripped the rope into the air. The skinwalker was so confident, so assured in its strength, it had not removed its foot from the noose. Granon’s father cackled as he held the slack rope in his hands.
“His plans may as well be dust.”
Moka spat to the side as she peered at the creature. There was a wicked look in her eye when it kept tugging at the rope. She watched it gloat with the rope held loose. Her dark frown blossomed into a bloodthirsty grin as she watched the rope grow taut. She readied her sharp chisel as the skinwalker gave the wiggling rope in his hands a puzzled look.
With a snap, the rope pulled straight. It pointed up and into the distance, toward the mountain peak. Moka let out a chittering warcry, her voice rising to be snatched by the wind.
Thousands of feet away, courtesy of all the rope in the village, was a kite of over twenty interwoven umbrella-shaped leaves. It crackled with a faint purple and white aura as the wind buffeted it. An updraft caught it, sending the kite hurtling toward the river of wind dominating the sky. Like a twisting river being drawn into a whirlpool, the wind was forming into a massive hurricane around the dwindling pillar of clouds covering the mountain peak.
The rope slipped through the skinwalker’s fingers as it pulled tight. The noose slid up his boot to clench around his ankle. A sharp sizzling sound, accompanied by soft purple and white light, filled the night air as the vines met flesh. In the sky, the kite met the river.
A sound like a whip cracking cut through the night, making the roar of the wind a distant afterthought. The rope tightened under incredible pressure as the wind grabbed hold of the kite. Granon’s father’s dead eyes bulged as the skinwalker flinched back. The kite yanked its foot from beneath it, eliciting a startled cry followed by the heavy sound of flesh hitting earth.
The creature slid a dozen feet in an instant, flailing on its back as the kite dragged it toward the mountain. With a haunting scream, it flipped over, scrambling with both hands to maintain its connection with the earth. It dug its fingers into the dirt, leaving ten deep furrows where it passed.
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To the sprinting goblin’s shock and delight, one of the skinwalker’s hand struck a hidden noose, becoming tangled in it. The creature screamed as the holy magic in the vine burnt it, purple and white light billowing out like clouds. Unlike the previous three, the fourth trap worked as intended. The rope went taut almost as soon as the noose tightened.
On the other end of the long rope, the sudden tension pulled a wedge out of place, triggering a series of events that ended in a bent branch hurling a bundle of leaves into the air as it straightened. The leaves caught the wind, unfolding into a massive kite that hurtled upward on strange winds.
The monster dug its free foot into the ground, intending to slow itself long enough to use its unbound hand to free itself. Its hand and foot dug into the ground as it leveraged its unnatural strength to fight against the wind, its ankle and wrist all but disappearing beneath the earth. Before it could fully stop itself, its scream of rage took on a note of pain. It jolted as spears, angled at forty-five degrees and buried in the ground, pierced its foot and hand. The unexpected pain caused it to lose its grip on the ground, the kites pulling it off balance and dragging it down the alley in a tangled mess.
As the first kite hauled the creature’s foot past the x drawn in the ground, a shrill cry sounded out, almost lost in the wind. Moka put her entire being into her shout, her throat raw and voice cracking after more than a full day of yelling to be heard.
“NOW!”
The first stone, backed by all the force of a catapult with none of the air-time, took the skinwalker in the hip, hitting the leg caught in the snare. With the crunch of breaking bone, the stone released a pulse of purple and white light that lit up the alley. Cloth and skin all but evaporated from the point of impact, the trap leaving blood-matted fur and visible bone peaking through. The second branch, minus the stone, cracked against the monster’s back as it fought through the pain to slow its exodus. The unladen branch smacked the creature so hard it knocked the air out of its lungs, cutting off its wrathful screeching, and causing it to go limp.
The flailing skinwalker was only out of commission for a moment. With it no longer fighting against the wind, the kites dragged the massive creature with surprising speed. The creature’s sudden acceleration threw off Moka’s aim. She had been aiming for the thing’s head, intent on finishing this fight before it could truly start. Her spear sailed wide, touching nothing but air.
Quick to change tactics, Moka rushed to the bent branch closest to her. One of the few with a stone bound to its head. She attacked the rope lashing it to the ground with abandon as the creature’s legs flew past her hiding spot. The rope frayed and snapped before her sharp chisel could finish the job. Stone and wood parted the air with gusto as the branch released all of its pent-up energy. The pointed chunk of stone whipped forward in a tight half-circle, crushing the skinwalker’s trailing hand in a burst of purple and white.
Moka cursed as the blow missed the creature’s skull.
Having its hand crushed was enough to snap the monster from its daze. It bellowed in the village chieftain’s voice.
“He thinks I can be chained!”
Sickly yellow bone horns burst from the skinwalker’s skull, blood and skin sloughing off to make space. The horns were shaped like many twisted hands grasping at salvation. With a quick twist of its head, the monster used its grotesque antlers to slice through the rope connecting the vine noose to the kite attached to his uninjured hand. Talons ripped through the skin of his fingertips, the skin of his former fingers hanging loose as it gripped the ground with its uninjured claws. If more buried spears were puncturing its flesh, it gave no sign.
With one clawed hand anchoring it, one foot scrambling for purchase, and its lamed leg being pulled into the air, the skinwalker’s stance bordered on ridiculous. It used its injured hand like a club to smash through the roof of the closest dwelling, honing in on the ogre-elder’s position. The absurdity made the situation somehow worse. Unnatural in every sense.
Moka stepped into the broad alley, a bundle of spears on her back and an atlatl in hand. Her face was passive as she watched the monster flail, destroying everything within reach. At this rate, it was only a matter of time before the creature freed itself. She wrinkled her nose, trying to smell any fear on the creature. There was none. It did not fear for its life despite nursing injuries. She would have to change that.
The five foot tall goblin stood in the middle of the path, staring down the raging monster five times her height, many times her size. She dipped her shoulder, dropping the bundle of spears on the ground. Slow and unhurried, she selected the five straightest spears and stuck them point-first into the ground beside her. She snagged a sixth, less-ideal spear and loaded it into her atlatl.
Other than on its forehead, hands, and around its worst injuries, the creature still wore Granon’s father’s skin. Gore dripped from its blood-soaked beard as it lashed out, its fury and contempt plain to see in its sadistic expression. It seemed to enjoy wearing the face of Kinrest’s protector as it destroyed the village. Cruel satisfaction sparkled in its eyes as it tore a noose from the ground with its antlers and flung it away.
Moka readied her spear, one hand held in front of her, aimed at the monster’s face. She took a deep breath. A gust of wind reached down to unbind her already faltering bun of hair, sending the pencil holding it together clattering to the ground. With three quick, bounding steps, she ran forward, her hair reaching toward the brilliant, glowing moon behind her. She pivoted on her lead foot, bringing all her momentum to bear as she hurled the spear. It flew straight, despite the slight curve in the shaft.
Halfway to the skinwalker’s face, the spear rose on an updraft, flying up and away, harmless, into the darkness. Moka watched it go, her jaw set and her chin held high. When it missed, she gave herself a curt nod and collected another spear. She lined up her shot again, her lead arm angled lower this time.
Three steps later, another spear was hurtling forward faster than Moka could ever throw it by hand. It flew parallel to the ground until it met the updraft that had caught the previous spear. The wind carried the shaft of wood, a comparative splinter, up, redirecting it to the intended target.
The skinwalker turned to Granon’s hiding place, in the direction the kite was trying to pull it, and cocked its head as if considering something. Shifting right and left, it swung its arm back and forth as it leaned further to the sides, shattered hand hanging limp at the end of its wrist. It shot a look at the ogre-elder’s position, like it was trying to judge the distance. The creature anchored its good foot, flexing its knee as it strained against the kite.
From the opposite side of the creature’s wounded arm, Elder Orestilla sauntered into the alley, her steps slow and smooth, a thick branch with a jagged end in hand. She held it loosely, moving it this way and that with gentle flicks of her wrist, her marble-like skin gleaming in the moonlight.
Gathering its weight, the monster wearing a beloved face fixed its gaze on its nearest prey. When it smiled, the tombstone-like teeth were gone, replaced by vicious fangs. Thick ropes of drool dangled from its maw. It was tense, ready to spring.
Moka’s spear broke into splinters against the creature’s bone antlers, releasing a small cloud of purple and white energy. Where the energy touched the antlers, it caused them to wither and crack. The skinwalker flinched, its pupils narrowing to pin pricks and nostrils flaring as it caught sight and scent of the little goblin.
Orestilla took her branch in both hands, holding it vertical against her chest. She stood still as the skinwalker dodged Moka’s subsequent spear, looking as if she was one of the statues guarding the shrine on the mountain peak. The skinwalker did not notice her movement. Her earthy scent hid her from its nose. With the patience of stone, she lined up her strike, raising the makeshift club overhead.
When the monster turned from Moka and lunged in the ogre-elder’s direction, Orestilla swung. With the strength of giants on full display, she rose on her toes, held her branch steady for a moment, and then sent it crashing into the skinwalker’s shoulder. She turned her entire body in the blow. Purple and white energy lit up the alley once again, leaving fur and broken flesh in its wake. The force of the strike caused the creature to crumple and bounce off the ground, its good arm going limp.
Recovering remarkably fast, the skinwalker gathered its weight under it as best it could, a wild swipe sending Orestilla scrambling away. It opened its toothy maw, its blood-stained beard beginning to tear away, and roared its defiance. The power of its cry shook the nearby dirt walls and caused steam from its super heated breath to cover the alley. Somehow, it maintained its grip on the ground under the remaining kite’s constant pressure.
It rose through the cloud of steam like an ascending comet, using its might to rise faster than the kite could reel in the rope's slack. With a flick of its antlers, it severed the rope at the apex of its jump and came crashing back to the ground. All illusions of personhood shattered as it rose from the steam and dust. The matted fur and scraggly feathers along its hunched back rustled in the wind. Ominous lights peered from its deer-skull head, looking angry and ravenous. Still, it took the time to laugh at its prey’s failed attempt.
“Before me, chains are dead, rust.”
Azarus, hanging suspended before the Mirror of Eons, held by far greater chains, scoffed at the creature. It knew nothing of bondage. And it would learn something of death and poetry if he had his way.
Moka scanned the torn ground as the skinwalker stalked closer, trying to spot the final snare. When she did not see it, she did what she could. She threw another spear.