Nyk sweeped back the curtain of Nether, Sumire cast her hand up and liquified the hail as it came raining down, and Momo’s tall rod of Nether sat in Viktor’s hand; it was the perfect chorus of apocalyptic collaboration. Sera’s lightning struck the tip of the rod, bounded down the body, shimmied its way through Viktor—making all of the hairs on his wrinkled arms stand rigid, and causing his eyebrows to puff up like pissed-off persian cats—and then, with bated breath, they waited. Waited either for Viktor to keel over and pass out, or, possibly…

The Chickenductor’s engine hummed to life.

Astonished, Momo’s eyes traveled to the chicken hatch. Purple and yellow lightning, zig-zagging endlessly without losing momentum, bounded around the inside of the round container like a washing machine turned on high. They had done it—they had captured lightning in a barrel.

Her eyes then went back to the wizard, who was by all accounts, still breathing. It shouldn’t have surprised Momo that Viktor survived. She had wanted him too, obviously—she had watched his health points and his soul chain like a hawk—but, admittedly, she had been skeptical. Given past experience—(see: his treasonous, self-centered, and generally psychopathic tendencies)—she had assumed that he had lied to her, that the lightning would have killed her on the spot, rattled her bones and showered the pavement with her remains.

But, by Morgana’s good will, or perhaps her negligence, the old man persisted. Momo watched as his soul chain cuddled up close to the grim reaper’s blade, near enough to kiss it, then deftly dodged out of the way at the last second. The lightning ripped unobtrusively right through him, the only noticeable ramifications of its passing being the goosebumps running up his arms and legs and the pale, ghastly shade of his skin.

He slapped his cheeks, disbelieving.

“I—I’m alive,” he muttered. Then he huffed, waving his hand in the air. “Well, I mean, of course I am. As always, science prevails,” he added pointedly, glaring at Momo. His own mortality only concerned him for about half a second before he turned his attention to the machine. He clamored out of his seat, pressing his soggy, sweat-drenched hands to the glass covering of the chicken hatch. It fogged up with his breath. “By the heavens, it worked! We’ve captured the wrath of the gods in a chicken-sized container!”

Momo shook her head. They had really done it.

“Nyk, cover me!” Sumire shouted. “I’m out of Mana!”

With a grimace, Nyk flung her hand up and covered them once more. The Nether slithered over them like a protective blanket as the hail resumed. Sumire clutched her chest, nearly out of breath. Momo went over to her to comfort her.

“You okay?”

“That’s a fuckton of hail,” Sumire said, coughing. “It nearly killed me just keeping it at bay.”

“You did great,” Momo said, smiling and kissing her forehead. Sumire blushed. Momo then turned to the rest of them. “You all did. But now it’s my turn. Thanks for volunteering, Viktor.”

“I cannot overstate to what degree I did not do such a thing—”

“Grimli,” Momo said, ignoring the mage. “What do you see?”

Momo had appointed Grimli to watch the holy knights while they were busy capturing the lightning. Grimli had taken the job on like it was the most important thing he ever did, his back straight and poised like a royal guard. He saluted her, then gave his report.

“They seem to be doing some kind of—some sort of ritual,” he stuttered, gesticulating wildly. “They keep repeating the same movements in the same pattern, you see, the squid-head first, with his mighty greatsword, then the blond-haired musclehead next… I’m not much of a mage myself, but I’ve seen some of the dark clerics in Deepgrove do a similar thing to usher in a new season of crops. It’s like a, a—”

“—a summoning circle!” Viktor interrupted, thrusting his fist towards the sky. Grimli looked utterly pissed to have his moment stolen from him. “They’re forming a summoning circle.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Momo grimaced. Summoning circles were like Schrodinger's cat. No matter what situation they appeared in, no matter how inconsequential they sounded at face value—they had the ability to summon anything from a smelly infant to a demonically possessed tyrannosaurus rex. But until the ritual was complete, until you placed all the correct salts and furs and said all the proper incantations, they were just circles. Harmless, scary-looking circles.

Best to keep it that way.

Giving Sumire one last squeeze on the shoulder, Momo climbed into the Chickenductor. The seat was still blisteringly hot—lightning residue. Wincing, she took the controls, rehearsing what Viktor had taught her. I should have cast [Focus] while he was explaining, she thought, but at least it meant she could do it now. She cast it over herself, and took a deep, shaky breath in.

[Focus] brought her targets into vivid detail. It was as Grimli had described. Exilo—the tentacled one—was dragging his greatsword in a circle along the top of the barrier. A shimmering white light followed the sword’s edge. The others were on their knees in prayer. Some were jangling small golden bells. The light from the sword was pulsating harder and faster with every consequent circle. Whatever was coming, was coming closer.

She stopped her mind before it veered too far into her imagination. It didn’t matter what they were summoning. Infant baby or elephant god, bring it on. All I need is to fry two of these guys. That’s it, then I’ll hit Excalibur. Then… She clenched her jaw. Then I can unleash Sera’s stupid box.

She took another breath in, and squeezed her eyes closed.

I got this. It’s just like driving a car. A manual car.

Not that it bears any real importance, but Momo had never driven a manual car.

She gripped the first lever and pulled it straight back.

The machine instantly responded, churning to life like a motorcycle engine. It growled and barked and spat. The hum of the engine was so deafening that Momo could no longer hear the hail nor the crack of lightning. Her seat vibrated, her knees bobbed violently up and down. Baryte was squawking like a wild animal.

“Momo! Balance the lever!” Viktor shouted over the engine. He was hopping like a bunny, frantically waving his hands. “Let it come to you! Handle it gently!”

Shit. She pushed against the lever. It met her with equal and opposite resistance; the increased power of the Nether lightning was making the lever grind forward harder and faster than anticipated. She retaliated, pushing even harder, and it gave slightly, but then it suddenly veered up and down, loose and wild. The engine sputtered.

“Smooth it out!” Viktor shouted. “Leverage the inner liquidity of the gnomic vibrations!”

“I have no idea what that means!” she shouted back at him.

The engine made a noise like a microwave exploding. She screamed.

“Gods—what are you doing? This isn’t even difficult!” Viktor insisted, steam erupting from his nostrils. “A child could operate it!”

“Well, too bad I’m not a child!”

He pulled at his hair. “The lever is nearly at a right angle! This isn’t safe—eject Baryte!”

“No, not yet!” She gripped the lever for dear life, pouring every ounce of her strength into it. The machine hissed, its tea-kettle-like scream reaching a crescendo. She pushed and she pushed, her vision graying, a black rim forming around her eyes. Her muscles burned hotter than lava, her fingers going numb in their grip.

Click.

The lever stalled. She flung forward, nearly falling out of her seat. She caught herself at the last moment, breathing heavily as she kept herself inside the vehicle.

The engine had calmed. It didn’t turn itself off—thank goodness—but it settled into a healthy hum. The regular beating of a drum.

“You did it!” Sumire shouted.

“I did it,” Momo mumbled, nearly delirious. Her fuzzy eyes focused and unfocused until they once again landed upon the septet of knights on the dome’s edge. Something was rising from their summoning circle now—eight tentacled legs, crawling out of a glowing recess.

“Queen Momo, now!” Grimli said, an unnatural urgency in his voice. “It’s nearly upon us!”

It. Momo clenched her limp hands around the central lever. It wasn’t an it—it was a he.

She thrust the lever back, and a ring of black smoke shot up the barrel of the cannon. That was only the chemical remnants of what was to come; within seconds, another hatch released, and the conductor vibrated ferociously as the trapped lightning shot out of its chamber. A cylinder of black and yellow flashed through the sky—two intertwined snakes fighting for dominance.

It curved up, parabolic, before landing just where Momo intended it.

Boom.

In the immediate aftermath, Momo’s first thought was—that wasn’t just two of them.

The knights, deep in their ritual, were totally unprepared. They had counted completely on Sera’s storm to keep any resistance at bay; consequently, the eruption of pure black magic hit them like a freight truck. Vaporized them. Electrocuted then vaporized them. It was like watching something from a nineties CGI film.

All around Momo, paper couriers began to spawn. They were swarming like bees. Dozens of them. Pages upon pages, documents filing into the air like a clogged mail chute.

On top of the dome, Exilo’s greatsword clattered to the ground.

A tentacled hand, shivering with anger, reached out to grab it.