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“What are those big spikes on the ground?”
I ignored Whelp's question. Too busy looking at Vetilian’s group in the distance. The sun was too bright, hurting my eyes. But I had to look. For information, for the flow of blood-scent.
Yes, we were about to enter death-dance with the Worm.
A dreaded beast that was more Mother Earth’s anger than monster. I still remembered how it sprouted out of the ground, splitting the earth like mud. Hundreds of years ago, my ancestors would have worshiped it as a god. The sky shook, stopping me with heart-fear. Covered in scale-chitin-armor made of rock and soil; it was a horrid, wretched, glorious foe.
And, we would kill it.
“Hey, man. I asked you a question.” The Whelp’s voice broke my focus.
There was a time, long ago, when I would have snapped at her. Whelps such as her in my village did not speak with such… 'ease' when addressing their betters. But I had to remind myself that she was not one of my own. She was not of the Deepeater Clan. She was not even of Zimmskar, my home-country. She was a wanderer, born in a place far from Zimmskar. A beastman-but-not-a-beastman.
Besides, Slaveborn had high hopes for this girl. And I agreed, the whelp was gifted. I could impart knowledge while we waited.
The first gift of knowledge, patience. “Be sssstill, Whelp.”
I saw her roll her eyes but did not punish her for it.
And the others think me impatient. Pathetic.
After I was satisfied with her silence, I motioned to her to approach. Then I pointed. “What do you sssee, Whelp?”
“Uhhh, Sis Aurora?” Then she quickly added. “And the other shielders of course.”
I allowed her a grunt of approval. Then I pointed behind us.
“Kyrian and the mages.”
Finally, I pointed to us.
“The Bladers. And Marc Pointell.”
I nodded, satisfied. Then I pointed at Vetilian’s group, “Hook and Bait,” then at myself and her, “Line,” finally behind us, at the mages who were far off and getting further still, “Reel.”
The Whelp frowned. “I don’t understand.”
I fought off a sigh, a habit I picked up from Slaveborn. He praised this Whelp for her observation skills, and touted her as the much needed Scout of our battle-party. But from what I could see, she was just a Whelp. She could not even tell the basics of every hunt, the Bait, Hook, Line and Reel. Then again, it was not the Whelp’s fault. She was born away from our people.
“The ssshielders,” I explained, then asked. “They are the bait and hook. What issss the purposssse of the bait and hook?”
“So that the fish bites on it. And the hook is to keep it there.” She smiled at me, somewhat smugly. “Duh.”
I gritted my teeth. “Yesss. Now replacsseee fissssh with monssster.”
“Oooohhh, I get it.” Her eyes widened with understanding. “Shielders are specialized in interrupting monster movements plus protection. They’ll draw the worm out and then keep it in engagement.”
These terms, ‘specialized’, ‘monster movement’ and ‘engagement’ bothered me. It is not of our people. So much so that I ended up rolling my eyes. “You sssspeak like Vetilian. Fancsssy words.”
“Sis Aurora’s been telling me loads of things over the last few days.”
The sod-begotten Whelp took my reprimand as a compliment. So be it.
“Attached to the hook is the line. Tell me itssss purpossse.”
“By the way, have you ever thought about fixing your accent?”
I glared at her. “What. Isssss. The Purpossse. Of. The. Line.”
“To pull.”
“Not sssimply to pull. It bringssss the monssster where we want it and leavessss it breathlessss The line issss a dancssee, knowing when to pull and when to releassse.”
“Then what about the reel?”
Usually, a Whelp should wait until spoken to. But she not only asked the first question but interrupted my teachings. But as the older, far more experienced hunter-fighter, I decided to let it slide. For I was a patient mentor and at times, it was best to let Whelps seize the first move.
“The reel decsssidesss the direction; choosing where to wage battle. Placsses unseen. Placsses with advantage. Plasscess familiar. It decsssides the ssstrength and tempo of the war.”
“Mages. Controlling the battlefield with their spells, turning the tides. The wildcards of the party.” She muttered.
“...Vetillian?”
“No.” She answered with a smug grin. “It was actually Mister.”
I did not deign to comment.
For her statement brought another worry.
I did not know where Slveborn was.
But I did know this. Without him, this party would break.
The people here had gathered because of Slaveborn. Not because of each other. Perhaps Tricilan and I will travel together. But the Whelp and Vetilian, especially Vetilian, would go their separate ways.
With Slaveborn gone, I had seen Vetilian’s determination waver. She could say what she wants, but I speak truth. I saw it in her eyes. She joined us on this journey because of Slaveborn. Because of his talent; his ability to use [Aura]. His leadership. Decisiveness. His prowess.
With him gone, she had no reason to stay.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
My eyes tracked the shielders, walking along the mouth of the canyon created by the worm-god. They looked like ants from this distance. I looked back. The mages had set up their own position. We probably looked like ants to them.
“Skaris?”
“...What isss it?”
“This hook, line and reel thing you told me about. Is it general knowledge?”
“It goesss by many different namesss. But we, the Beast-people, call it Fishing.” I did not bother telling her that only those of us who kept the Old Paths alive still called it fishing.
“Oh. Our people invented it?”
I scoffed. “No. We ssstole it from the Humans, back when our ancssestors were sssslaves. Sssslaves ussssed to hunt monsssters and fight for entertainment. It wassss originally their creatssion.”
“Oh.”
There was a confused look about her. I understood. Even in the home-country, Whelps did not know the history of our people. Out here, in the Free States, even less so. Only those who kept the Old Paths alive still cared to repeat the story of our people. My family included. My village had been full of people whose ways were ancient, even older than the swamp surrounding us. Our traditions were like steel.
Unbending.
Unbroken.
Eternal.
Even if we had to stain it with blood.
The sun rose to its peak. This place was turning into a Fire-Basin. With my chosen Path, I was fine. But the Whelp next to me fretted and squirmed, wiping the sweat out of her eyes. I saw others doing the same. I could only imagine what Vetilian and the other shielders must feel like. Their usual cold iron must be burning with the Sun. Yet, they had to keep moving. As the bait, they had to fulfill their duty of bringing the worm out of hiding.
“It’s so hot.”
Seeing the Whelp reminded me of my brothers back home. They should be undergoing their trials by now. Going out on their own in search of their own journey. Some would return to the Swamp after a day, the others after months. As for me…
My own Journey was still going.
Only after my Journey was complete could I become a Swamp-walker.
As the Humans had their Knights, the Dwarves their Hammers, the Orcs their Berserkers and the Elves their Sicari, my people had the Walkers. Those who set themselves on the [Evolution] path. Spending hard earned coin and hunting exotic monsters for their body parts; all to trade it in to grow as a Warrior. In my village, we called them Swamp-Walkers, to signify that the Swamp, our home, was a part of our path.
One day, I’d return back home and take the title of Swamp-Walker.
But enough of that. I had to remain in the present.
I brought my spear to my knees, taking my whetstone. I would sharpen my steel while waiting.
“You already sharpened your spear?”
“Then it will be sharper when we battle with the worm.”
I saw her mouth open to argue but it never came.
“Sign!” Screamed out the man. He had a small orb in his hand and was listening to it, in charge of relaying messages with the shielders.
Abruptly the mood changed.
I sensed the shift among the other three bladers. It went from faint annoyance and patient waiting to tense, fever-rapid, heart-beating bloodlust. Even my heart began to rage out, thrumming in rhythm with the others. The hunt was on and my blood raced, eager to be spilt. Humans and orcs they be, but they were like me. Ready to fight.
The Whelp didn’t. She reeked of fear and nervousness.
And neither did the scentless spirit-using-necromancer, Pointell. I could not sense anything off of him.
“Sign!”
A second warning. The ground began to shake. Cups fell down. Men caught their balance.
“Sign!”
I stood up, my spear-grip hard. “Whelp, can you ssensse it?”
She nodded. She was hiding her fear and nervousness from her face. Good. “It’s fast. How do we know they’ll go to the shielders and not beneath our feet?”
“One of the ssshieldersss musssst be able to attract monsssssterss.” Stiff shoulder. I rolled it. Loose shoulders. “How clossse?”
“Very close!”
“SIGN!!!” The man’s cry rang like a bell.
The Whelp’s eyes was wide. I’d seen the look before. On my younger brothers, on their first hunt. It was the look of uncertainty. Fear of the unknown. That the first step you take might be the last. This monster was big. Bigger than any she had faced. I knew what she was thinking. Asking questions. Wondering why she was here. Why she should not turn back and run.
And by all rights, I would not blame her if she did.
“If you lossse sssight of yourssself during the hunt, flee towards Tricsssilan.”
“W-What?”
She would understand. Besides, I had no time to elaborate.
The god-mountain-worm was here.
“Spotted! Over there! With the Shielders!” The messenger remained faithful to his duty.
It burst out of the ground, blotting out the sky and sun. Even from a distance, I could feel the rumble of its throat-roar. Its sheer size and strength stirred long-lost feelings, of facing an insurmountable task. Like looking at a mountain too tall to climb, a peak hidden behind clouds. Boulders fell like rain and men screamed, the ones near me.
I kept my eyes on the shielders who stood right beneath the worm and prayed to my ancestors for their success.
In the shadow of the great-worm-creature, the shielders shrugged off boulder sizes of carts. They used their shield with skill. None tried to block the boulders head on. It would be death. They slipped it instead, like a skilled warrior.
But the worm-mountain had not even begun yet. I saw it fix its no-eyes on a more tasty prize. The Mages.
Beast-people cannot become mages. The magic is not in our blood and if it were, my country would not be. For monsters are drawn to the magic, like crows to a battlefield. Monsters roam every inch of my country. If we had Mages amongst us, our cities could never have been built after winning our freedom from the Humans.
We call these Mages –both human and elven– Freaks. Freaks of nature, for the World’s blot-stain, the monsters, will always be drawn to them. They tell us stories as children, how monsters are servants of Mother Nature and have been tasked with killing all Freaks. Not true… but…
Folktales teach a valuable lesson. Do not be near a Mage when Monsters are near.
I saw the worm-dragon fall. Another earthquake. Then it began to slither towards us, towards the mages behind us.
But Pointell was no fool. Slaveborn and Tricilan made an ally of him for a reason.
“Leashing!”
The shielders summoned weapons from their rings. Colossal hooks, twice the size of a large man. I saw them up-close when he gave them. Hooked and barbed; coated with poison and enchanted by the Freaks. They were attached to giant chains. The shielders spun them, throwing them onto the monster. The hooks caught easily; for the monster was one giant target. Only a fool would miss.
But there were precious few chains. To the worm, they were nothing more than thin strings.
Then the shielders summoned more hooks. They threw them again, tying the chains around the giant spikes that the Whelp was curious about.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
Then the mages got to work.
｢ Kyrian Tricilan casts [Electric Web] ｣
｢ Kait Turante casts [Slow] ｣
｢ Ymir Ghard casts [Minimize] ｣
…
Lightning flashed. Fire came to life and the earth rumbled. The Freak Arts of the humans and elves both lighted up the clear sky –painfully bright-white. At first, I saw no difference. But I knew better than to dismiss the might of the Freaks. They were powerful and results would show.
Steadily, like a stream of water beating down on a rock. Bits of the worm's armor began to be worn down. Chipped and broken; large plates of chitin falling down. Deceptively slow, like an avalanche or iceberg. A warship crashing onto the rocks, straining to move.
The great worm stopped cold.
Then it began to shiver.
From the gaps of its armor slithered out hundreds and hundreds of insect monster. I thought my eyes were speaking lies. Black-slithering-squirming-leg-things squeezed out of every gap. Every crevice of the worm was a home for its whelps. Like a tide of the ocean, they broke through. Leaping through the air like arms and legs of the worm-god; hundreds upon hundreds of them marched, an endless tide.
“Guild Master! The mages! They’re heading for the mages!” One warrior cried out.
“We should help.” Another offered.
The few of the mages had detached from the main group. They threw spell after spell into the incoming monster wave. They killed them in droves. But it was no use. Too many of them came. A battle of attrition was not what the Freaks wanted.
The Mages were powerful in their own way. But fragile. Brittle bones and even softer flesh. Easy pickings for the insects.
But we were the bladers. What the mages could not finish, we would have to kill. Soon, the mages would run out of use. We could not strain ourselves. Too many spells. Too little Mana. They would not be useful any longer. What would Slaveborn do in this battle?
I already knew what Slaveborn would have done. I looked to see what Pointell would do, doubtful of the existence of so-called human compassion. His face was unreadable. Never trust a man who does not lead from the front.
Slaveborn would not have made this mistake. He would always leave the weak flesh of mages protected. And if he didn’t…
And Tricilan, one of our own was there.
A Freak, yet a friend. A human, but a brother. That was reason enough for my decision.
“I ssshall go.”
“Skaris.” The Whelp hissed in warning.
I saw the others look upon me. Some with shock. Some with admiration. It mattered not.
The necromancer gave me a sharp nod. Of course, I gave him the easy out. Sacrifice me and save the mages. Cold. Calculating. The definition of a Human War Leader. As it should be.
“Turak, Moirut. Go with him.” He said.
But I did not wait for the others. My feet already pounded against the dry soil.
Reaching deep within my Soul-Heart I called upon the spirit of this world’s darkness. The darkness that we, the people of this world, hated. Yet to kill these abominations, we have to take in these spirits. A necessary evil, a duty of a warrior.
They roared. The [Bool Dokkaebi]. The [Inmyunho]. The [Ifreet]. They pounded their chest and jumped up and down. Fire came to life. Hot, getting hotter, searing and turning blue, enough to make me, its wielder, feel the danger of being too close to the primordial element.
Two hundred paces.
I summoned my clone, myself but not myself, my form but not my form, the [Inmyunho] but not the [Inmhyunho]. Seven feet tall. Lanky. Eyes sharp and bits of red scales; a trait among my family. The spitting image of my father and his fathers before him.
Hundred fifty paces.
The monsters saw me but they did not veer. Driven into a mad frenzy by the concentration of mana. The air hummed with the power of the Freaks, the longtime enemy of my people. But now, I ran to protect them.
Hundred paces.
Why did I fight?
A useless question that needed no answer.
Less than fifty paces.
The insects screeched as I bore into them, my spear alight with flame.
I calmed my heart –slowing my breathing and slowing the heart-rhythm. My spear whipped out, flames licking across an insect leg. It toppled to the side and I stabbed it in the face. It thrashed, green liquid vaporizing into gas and I stumbled back. No doubt, each insect carried poison-acid-blood. I could not stay near for too long.
My spear rose over my head. Streng surged through my legs and I felt myself leap. Higher than before; my spear blazing bright-blue with the force of a thousand suns.
I landed among their midst.
｢ Skaris Deepeater casts [Blooming Conflagration] ｣
I slammed the spear and gave birth to blue-flames all around me. It burnt away the insects. It burnt away their life-blood and strange limbs. It even burned away their fading screams. A perfect ring of battle, where I shall bleed and they shall burn. Nothing remained. Purified.
They chittered, raising their fangs and claws in anger. Poison dripped. Gas expelled.
A year ago, I would never have dreamed I would become so powerful.
Yet.
Slaveborn was faster than this. Better than this. More brutal. More efficient. Just better. Slaveborn did not care about appearances, only what worked. For him, for us who were slaves, Victory meant Survival. He was the embodiment of my people, even more than my people. For they had lost their way long ago.
He made me curious about where his path led. He was someone who made me want to follow. To watch where he went.
But…
Slaveborn was gone. Without him this party would dissolve to nothing. I had a good enough journey. I should return home. Greet my younger brothers. Greet the Great Mother. Become a Swamp-Walker. Teach. Find a Mate. Guide my offspring. Tell them my stories. Protect the village. If he was dead, I could go home again. Become a swamp-walker and spend the rest of my day in peace.
It’d be peaceful.
I hoped he was alive.
“Sssshhhhaaa! Come at me, Inssssects!”
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