The Canterbury Council received Sid’s audacious plan with a surprising eagerness, their reaction far exceeding Warren’s grim expectations. The prospect of bolstering their defenses with well-trained reinforcements and the potential addition of more magus to their ranks ignited a spark of giddy enthusiasm among them. Warren could feel the political tides shifting against him, a realization that gnawed at him with a sharp edge of discomfort. Still, he knew that returning from London with new tales of valor and triumph would certainly enhance his standing with the council.
As promised, Sid had assigned forty of his guards to bolster the defense of Canterbury, placing them under the direct command of the defense counselor. The ten guards accompanying Sid on the perilous journey were led by Captain Marshall, a stern figure not much older than Warren. Her presence was a testament to a decade of relentless crusading, her hardened features and unyielding posture reflecting the weight of her experience. Her second-in-command, Lieutenant Davey, was younger and wirier, with a glint of ruthlessness in his eyes that suggested a formidable edge.
Among the guardsmen were Harrington, Beaumont, Cooper, and Roberts—each one a seasoned warrior in their own right. The female contingent included Turner, Taylor, Somerset, and Walker. Their uniform was a striking ensemble: rich brown coveralls layered beneath rustic orange tabards, each adorned with a circuitry rune embroidered in copper thread. The rune depicted a two-thumbed, open-palmed hand—Cypher’s sigil. The runic embroidery was a constant, intricate pattern running down the length of their garments, a visual testament to their allegiance and function. Cooper and Taylor also bore matching runic tattoos that stretched up their necks, disappearing beneath their hair—a silent mark of their commitment.
Their gear, though uniform in its symbolic embroidery, was a diverse arsenal of weaponry. Each guard carried their weapon of choice—a mix of swords, axes, clubs, spears, and shields. Despite the eclectic assortment, each weapon was meticulously warded with etched runic script, blending functionality with the mystical sigils of their order. Their small, unobtrusive packs were strapped to their backs, designed to carry essential provisions without hindering their movements.
The party had marched southwest through the dense, oppressive mist for a relentless six hours, finally setting up camp in a secluded patch of the Ashford golf course. As the mist-shrouded sun dipped below the horizon, Ashford’s street lamps sputtered to life, casting a sickly, hostile glow that seemed to pulse with malevolence. The flickering lights created a stark contrast to the darkened surroundings, their artificial brilliance evoking a sense of lurking danger. Yet, the party, seasoned by the harsh realities of this transformed world, remained undaunted. They knew their safety lay in avoiding the fatal allure of the artificial light and steering clear of any device capable of powering a mobile phone.
Tomorrow, they faced a critical juncture: a desperate dash through the heart of town toward the Ashford International Train Station. From there, they would need to remain ever-vigilant as they proceeded north along the train line. It was, regrettably, the safest route available, minimizing their contact with the major motorways that were choked with abandoned vehicles. These derelict cars, their batteries perpetually charged, represented a significant hazard. Navigating through them would slow their progress to a crawl and risk transforming their mission into a perilous odyssey.
As Warren consumed the modest meal prepared over the flickering campfire, the warmth of the flames contrasted sharply with the cold uncertainty of their journey ahead. He settled into his makeshift bed, the crackle of the fire and the distant moans of the mist providing an eerie backdrop to his thoughts. Tomorrow would demand more from him than ever before. He would need to embody the Warlock of Canterbury, drawing upon every ounce of his strength and resolve to face the trials that awaited them.
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“Don’t fight them, just run!” the Warlock roared, grabbing Davey by the shoulder and wrenching him around to face the station. Davey’s axe was already drawn, its edge gleaming menacingly in the dim light, but the Warlock knew better than to engage the swarm of Phobos-type sprites pouring out of the shopping center. The street was swarmed with hundreds of these spiteful, insectoid horrors, their chitinous exoskeletons glistening with malevolence. Their levels ranged from ten to fifteen, and the sheer weight of their numbers was enough to make even the bravest warrior hesitate.
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From within the chittering mass emerged the Myrillids—towering, segmented beasts that combined the worst traits of ants and millipedes. Their speed was unnerving for their size, and their approach threatened to crush the party beneath their relentless advance. The Warlock had hoped to conserve his mana for a more dire situation, but this was clearly one of those moments.
As he sprinted, the Warlock slashed a fiery line across the road with a deft, practiced motion. “Impassibilis ignis,” he chanted, his breath coming in ragged bursts. A fifteen-foot-high wall of fire erupted from the pavement, blazing into existence with a roar that seemed to echo his own desperation. The wall held true to its name, pushing back the Myrillids who recoiled from the searing heat, their grotesque forms igniting and crumbling into ashes.
Acidic bile and cytotoxic sludge spewed from the remaining Phobos sprites, hissing and splattering against the inferno. The corrosive projectiles splashed dangerously close to the party, their foul stench mixing with the acrid smoke of the fire.
“Cutis harenae,” Cypher intoned with an eerie calm, as though the chaos was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. The Warlock felt a gritty, sandy texture envelop his skin, glancing down to see his dark coat speckled with amber crystals. The sand, though light and non-intrusive, created an excellent barrier against the noxious sprays.
“Whatever you do, don’t get that Phobos poison in your mouth or eyes,” Cypher warned. “I can’t shield you from that.” The sand did not impede the party's movements but provided crucial protection against the volatile substances.
A low, ominous hum filled the air as a dozen Herculae, each a towering, beetle-like brute about six feet tall and twice the width of a large man, took to the skies. Their armored exoskeletons and formidable musculature signaled that they were more than a match for any conventional force.
“Captain, give me a volley!” Cypher shouted over the cacophony. Captain Marshall, her face set in a determined grimace, nodded sharply. “You heard the Magus. Party, halt!”
The guardsmen snapped into formation with practiced precision, halting their retreat and pivoting to face the aerial threat.
“Present arms,” Captain Marshall commanded, her voice cutting through the tumult.
In seamless unison, each guardsman withdrew a sling from their leg pouch and readied ball-bearing shots from a secondary pouch at their backs. The glint of metal caught the last rays of light as they prepared for their counterstrike.
“Take aim,” she ordered, the command hanging in the charged air as the party braced themselves for the incoming volley.
The Herculae flew in a staggered line formation. The Warlock noticed none of the guardsmen aimed directly at the sprites while drawing back on the strong elasticated cords. Instead, they aimed at the space around the sprites to ensure maximum spread.
“Fire.”
Cypher had already begun making rapid hand signs before the guardsmen loosed their shots. His fingers blurred, flitting from one rigid position to the next like some strange robotic hand dance. As the metal ball bearings flew through the air, Cypher performed the last position and held it for a moment.
“Magnetron,” Cypher commanded, watching as the twelve Herculae were sundered by a multitude of oppositional forces. Each ball bearing collapsed in on itself, creating a field of gravitic vacuum while a repellent magnetic force pushed outward. For a long moment, the Herculae were trapped, simultaneously subject to powerful competing forces. The very logic of the sprites began to unravel, as did the mist surrounding them, neither able to withstand the omnidirectional push and pull forces.
The Warlock watched in astonishment as the Herculae were simply erased from existence. He also noticed that, for a brief time, the site at the center of Cypher’s spell was completely clear of mist.
“That spell, you cast it in English, not Latin. Cypher, how…?”
“I’ll answer your question once we get to safety,” Cypher cut him off, pressing forward to the train station.
Captain Marshall gave the order, and the guardsmen followed. So too did the Warlock, but even at the back of the party, Warren could see how severely Sid’s hands were trembling.