Like a rubber band, the toxic beast whipped backward and launched itself forward. The body struck Arlen's wall and scuttled up it, whipping tentacles at everyone. Spearmen jabbed once each and then fled for their lives. The points stuck in its hide, at least. A stinging rope of flesh wrapped around Arlen's left arm and a toothed mouth coiled nearby as if deciding where to bite.

Arlen had a sword. He slashed down and cut the tentacle with one desperate blow. The rest recoiled. Meadow whipped a machete back and forth, barely keeping it at bay. The Foul Shell rose and breathed in, bloating, rising.

"Now we run!" said Arlen.

Meadow took the invitation. Arlen made the wall erupt upward to spear the beast from below again, then turned tail and leaped from his platform. Everyone ran away. The creature belched poison and bled over the platform, but it didn't follow them far. Its territory was secure.

Arlen's arm stung and he'd been drooled on by several mouths. Two women quickly dumped buckets of water on him, then on Meadow, hosing off the worst of the filth.

Arlen sprawled on the ground outside the poison zone, laughing. The chief stared at him, saying, "How can you find that funny?"

"Congress," Arlen said. "Ugh, it was awful. We did beat it up, though. It was a little tough for us today, but did you see we made it bleed? We know what we're doing, now."

Though he'd lost today, he had the island spirits' blessing for whatever it was worth. And more of a plan.

#

He asked the islanders about their past heroes, the ones who'd fallen in the first battle against this creature, or against Mirefolk raiders or the golems of Catacomb. Or in other battles. Despite the isles' pleasant appearance, they had stories of many fights.

He and the villagers shared a sparse meal of fish and those monotonous crunchy gourds, which made him think of dry cereal. He asked, "Do you have any treasures or symbols of these fighters, that you can show off?"

"My grandfather's axe," said one man.

A woman said, "We keep my uncle's mask."

Arlen began building pillars a little ways into the monster's territory, each one waist-high and flat-topped like a Roman column. Atop each one he had the islanders place their treasures. The axe and frightful mask, and the shell necklace of a heroic sorceress, and the shield of a guardian chief, and more. They had a curving wall of artifacts between them and the cursed ground.

Meadow whispered to him, "Will this really help?"

He smiled and gestured grandly outward. "Among my people this ritual is called..." He switched to English. "Ruth Points At the Bleachers."

Then he set to work at the more practical details. He had his little fort and expanded on it, now that he understood. He added a panic room his team could drop into. More importantly, he added columns and walls full of holes. He was ready to run if the monster rushed him, but it wasn't yet in sight. So he expanded on his design and waved to call for backup. He'd convinced three melee fighters and another three archers to help with the dangerous job. The chief had browbeaten Juti the shaman into lending a hand (without any of his friends) along with a junior spellcaster specializing in wind, like Meadow. The job of the wind-keepers was to push the fog away and minimize how much everybody was choking on it.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

He'd had the melee men swap out their spears for slashing swords that he made, along with shields and helmets and breastplates for all. Thick wrappings for everyone's limbs reduced the threat of poisonous acid burns.

So now, they shouted taunts into the wilderness. Behind them, in sight, stood the relics of the last generation. Behind those, the people sang and prayed loudly. Arlen said, "You're standing between the monster and your families."

The monster came. It lurched in zigzags across the woods, kicking up splashes of filth. Everyone drew back at the sight of it, but they had their upgraded fort. The archers took useless shots. Now its many mouths roared and it reared up, bloating itself. An arrow caught it and knocked its main body back, drawing dark blood. It was angry now. It yanked itself forward and sailed, fell, squelched, and bounced up again with flailing vine-arms.

Another arrow hit and Juti's ice attack nicked a tentacle. "Be ready," Arlen warned.

The Foul Shell embraced the fortress, spreading its limbs wide and slipping its dark tentacles through many openings. Fanged mouths chorused and oozed just feet away. Two drew dangerously close to the fighters, who shouted and battled with sword and shield. Arlen's stomach churned but he raised one fist and clenched it.

The ground shook and stonework crushed inward. Holes that'd been narrow now drew tight enough to snare the beast on its armored bits. Pinned in four or five places at once. "Cut!"

Soldiers' slashing blades hacked off chunks of living, rotten flesh while shields swatted aside flailing blows. One long limb snaked around the side of an open wall and the archers desperately tried to jab it with their bows before it could grab them. Juti jabbed with a knife and a swordsman lunged to finish it off.

Arlen left the tentacles pinned. "Now, spikes!" His wall boomed and erupted forward into the monster's body. Discordant shrieks came from the mouths. A vomiting sound erupted from the main armor-shelled blob. It wobbled just out of sight hard enough to shake the stones. He peeked through a large hole, dived out of the way as another limb clattered toward his face, and found another spot where he could target the main body by sight. Stalagmites ripped up from the earth to spear it from below.

"Archers!" he called. The bowmen hopped up along prepared stepping stones and pumped arrows into the beast, so that a few shots got through its armor and tore open more oozing wounds. A loose tentacle whipped around at him and he slashed, cutting it midway. Then he made the ground rise all around the monster like a box.

It thrashed, still impaled, and its blood stained the coffin growing around it. Spikes gashed it from the sides, then from above. It was shelled with half an inch of stone, a full inch, two. Arlen gave a signal, and everyone left the fort to come down and hack off every protruding limb at its base. Even now the core banged and raged. It took several minutes to go quiet. Arlen opened up the box to make sure it hadn't escaped, and everybody took turns stabbing down into the squelching mass.

They were filthy, splattered with slime. Arlen's armor had taken a dent and a nasty bruise throbbed under it. Juti was bleeding from several wounds, and everyone else was banged up. Arlen caught his breath. "Let's get someone to clean this up. Make sure no part wriggles away to regrow, somehow."

The villagers had seen only from well behind them, but they'd heard, and they saw the party return with their weapons stained and their heads held high.

"It's done!" said Arlen. "The source of the blight is dead, thanks to the blessing of your heroes and the spirits. The deaths of your friends and ancestors are avenged!"

A cheer went up. Even the shaman Juti let himself share in the credit for working with Arlen.

Had the relics of the dead really done anything? Well, they'd given the troops more confidence, and now they were a source of honestly earned pride.