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The monster loosed another bone-scraping cackle. Its shining sockets fixed at once upon Mika, and in the next instant it was bounding, scrambling straight for her, its movements as swift as they were impossible to describe. But already the orcs were moving to close it in.

Mika’s teeth ground together as she braced against the tree trunk, digging in her belt bag for her old mushroom-leather dress. Tearing two wads from it, she jammed them into her ears. Not because the laughter was loud…though it was. But because it made her stomach clench and her insides quiver, and she was quite sure that if she heard it unmuffled again, she’d vomit.

There was a whooping howl from somewhere off in the forest, and then a great deal of crashing in the distant underbrush. Clinging to the tree, Mika peered around it to see what approached.

Thrall Alaric was closing in. But the hunters of Thrall Uthur were already upon them. Half the guardians emerged from their hiding places, pulling shields from their backs as they advanced just enough to wall the beast off. The Great Wretchblight cackled again, and bile rose to the back of her throat as Mika twisted to peer its way once more.

It was every bit as big as the bespectacled orc had described, perhaps even bigger. A skeletal, branchy, ten-legged abomination which resembled the offspring of a spider, a stag, and a lightning-struck tree. Green ichor glowed from within it, spilling from its fleshless jaws and dripping from its open ribcage, leaving a trail of steaming, noxious ooze in its wake.

As the battle between thralls waged all around them, orc-after-orc on both sides subdued, Threl took his first shot. The metal—or whatever it was his weapon blasted—ripped through the front of the creature’s neck, spilling more of the slime as the Wretchblight emited a horrible, gurgling shriek of a laugh. But what didn’t slop out of the creature glommed it back together, and within heartbeats the tear was mended. More orcs fired on it, ripping its body open in one place after the other as it writhed and giggled and sprayed glowing green fluids in all directions.

The Greensingers among them rose their voices, and vines shot from the trees to tangle in the creature’s antlers and about its legs. But its jaw dropped open and warbled a series of long, high notes…sending the vines lashing outward at the orcs instead. A Stormsinger called out, only for the monster to call back, the Singer’s blades of wind dispersing into nothing before they could make impact.

Mika’s improvised earplugs muffled it all, but not nearly enough.

To the far side of the clearing, one of the orcs screamed in agony, failing to lift his shield high enough in time as the stuff splattered across his face. Mika trembled, claws digging into the bark and unable to look away as the orc’s clothes and armor began to rip apart. His body warped and broke and reformed, his skin blackening as though charred, flesh peeling away while bones flared outward. The blood spurting from his wounds turned green and began to glow. Then, lurching sideways, he attacked his fellows.

Another of the orcs howled from somewhere out of sight…though why, exactly, Mika could not be sure. Her heart wrenched for them nonetheless, orcs or no. And suddenly she felt intensely, unforgivably useless. Again.

I should do something.

She wanted to do something.

But there was nothing she could do.

Another orc screamed as a burst of green fluid made it past his defenses, and helpless tears streamed from her eyes. Her heart beat loud in her ears, drowning out her own thoughts for a moment, until…

Touch it.

It was that Other Voice again, speaking up from the back of her mind, louder than usual. And its words were so insane, so utterly wild, that in spite of herself, Mika laughed out loud even as Threl unleashed another round of blasts and the creature’s gut-curdling screams rang into the night.

Stolen novel; please report.

But then…when has the voice ever been wrong? Glancing at the elf once more to ensure his attention was focused elsewhere, she hiked up her skirts and tucked them through her belt. Then she began to climb—or more accurately, to slide—down the trunk of the tree.

She hit the ground softly, the moss absorbing the impact. Though in truth, she could have been twenty times her weight and landed in a pile of rocks and still gone unheard over the screaming and weapons fire. Pulling the rest of her mushroom dress from her bag, she held it up over her head and ahead of her as she went, a meager shield against the threat of the ooze.

Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this? What is wrong with me?

Her ordinary self, her sane self, fought her every step of the way, but still she continued forward, the orcs too distracted in battle to notice or do anything about it. But the Other Voice urged her on.

It will be alright. Just touch it.

Just touch it.

The guardian standing between herself and her path to the Wretchblight tripped backward as she approached, ichor splattering off of his shield. And though she brought up the dress to block it, it was no use. The stuff spattered across her hair, her brow, her fingers. Her muscles clenched with terrified anticipation. Will it hurt to become a monster? Will I even be aware?

But the stuff just sloughed off of her. She froze to the spot, awaiting agonizing transformation…and it never came.

Emboldened by her discovery, she bolted forward—tripping through the spongy moss as fast as she could, straight for the forest of spindly legs twitching beneath the Wretchblight’s gaping body. More green slime flowed over her as she scrambled to press her hand to one of the monster’s appendages, but always they were dancing from her grasp as it avoided the orcs attacks and writhed in pain when it failed. And just as she nearly brushed her fingertips to one of the legs at last, it shot up over her and came down again, and Mika only just avoided getting trampled as she stumbled to the side.

The orcs must have caught sight of her, for those who’d still been firing stopped. The beast slowed, its open ribcage heaving, and Mika lunged forward…pressing her palm to the end of one of its forelegs. An immediate sensation of tingling intensity flared up at the point of contact. It was not the pleasure of hand-touching-hand, but something else entirely, and almost as wondrous.

The creature cried out yet again, but what began as a warbling laugh became a long, airy call like the sighing of wind through trees. The leg beneath Mika’s hand cooled, then warmed as the charred, bone-like chitin gave way to a green fuzz somewhere between fur and lichen. She peered up, watching as a fleshy webbing grew to enclose the creatures ribs, save a luminous strip running down the center of its belly.

All around her, the orcs made muffled sounds of awe as those who’d been changed returned to their original forms, albeit now rather less clothed. The creature cantered around her, and Mika hurried to get out of trampling range. But rather than turning, she backed away—for she didn’t wish to lose sight of what the Wretchblight had become.

Its general shape was unchanged. Its neck long and arching as ever, its legs as numerous, and still, it glowed from within. But it was a creature of lush greenery and life now, fleshed and covered over in its strange plant-like pelt, its big leaf-colored eyes gleaming. Moss draped from its antlers, and flowers grew where light dripped from its belly.

A sudden commotion forced Mika’s attention from its beauty as orcs of Thrall Alaric, including Alaric himself, crashed up through the undergrowth, finally winning their way forward. The red prince’s weapon—longer than two Mikas laid end-to-end—was hefted and aimed for right below the creautre’s head.

“No!” she shrieked. “Don’t you da—”

But the orc was already pulling the trigger. Then a piece of the forest came to life beside him, knocking him sideways as the weapon went off so that the projectile shot ineffectually into the upper branches of the trees. The blast pierced the mushroom stuffing in Mika’s ears and rooted her to the spot. At the same time, the guardian orcs of Thrall Uthur closed in on the enemy intruders, beating at brows with blunted grips and Singing up vines to bind and wind to push them back. But Alaric was not so easily subdued. Shoving aside the camouflaged elf, he roared a single note…and a gust of air like a giant battering ram surged through the clearing and straight for the beast.

The creature that was once the Great Wretchblight threw back its head and Sang a note so beautiful that for a moment after it came to an end, everything felt empty. The hammer of wind vanished. Alaric howled with rage, charging forward with weapon brandished as though he meant to pummel the animal to death with it. Other orcs moved to stop him, but Alaric’s own men intercepted them. Mika leapt sideways to stand between the oncoming prince and the lovely creature, throwing out her arms and glaring up at him.

“You can’t harm it,” she said. “It’s not a blight anymore.”

The prince’s lips pulled back around his crimson tusks, baring the brilliantly white, brilliantly sharp teeth behind them. A chuckle like quiet thunder rolled from his throat.

“Oh, I would very, very much like to watch you try and stop me, little pig.”

Then Uthur, clothes ripped away save a few bare shreds of his trousers, barreled forth, fist hauled back, and punched him square in the face.