Cempa drew his longsword. The enemy had closed half the distance. Every time they passed a twenty-five yard mark, part of their line disintegrated as Leth triggered another of his reverse growth spells. The rubble, trees, and the enemy’s small target funnelled the Duke’s soldiers together, making their casualties worse with every trap.

Most of the troop’s fire was stopped by the enemies formidable armour or large round shields.

Twenty-seven fully armoured knights. The Heoruwearg must have killed a few since my last count.

He saw one of Elewýs arrows pierce a man’s chest and pin him upright. The man spasmed, the shaft broke, and his fellow soldiers trampled his corpse into the ground.

At fifty yards, the enemy archers stopped firing and Tadhgán’s shooting reached a whole new pace. Holding arrows in his draw hand, he fired six shots in quick succession, each one slamming through joints and open helms.

Cempa could see the enemy faces now.

They look like how I feel - terrified. Taking a wall is always costly, but I doubt they expected to lose half their number before they even reach the walls. We’re still out-numbered eight, maybe nine to one though.

The Duke’s soldiers ran closer.

Twenty five yards left.

“Check those stoppers and throw the damn bottles!” said Cempa.

Six heavy glass bottles flew over the barricade, splattering their contents over breastplates and shields. A few droplets touched bare skin.

One man dropped his axe as his arm sprouted an array of new fingers, another fell sideways as his arm grew so big it unbalanced him, and a third had his chest expand beneath his armour, squeezing ribbons of flesh outwards like a butcher’s sausage stuffer.

“All this magic makes you long for a good old fashioned decapitation,” said Hrolf.

“Any last bits of advice?” said Péton.

“Yeah,” said Tadhgán. “Watch out for splash back.”

The first hands grasped the edge of the wall. Cempa emptied his magic filled water-skin down the assailant’s throat. The man fell, his skin bubbling like hot pitch. The next soldier ran up the wall at high speed, hauled himself up, and crouched before Cempa. While looking the man in the eye, Cempa rammed his fist into the man’s neck. The man toppled onto his bubbling colleague, choking.

Cempa managed a quick glance to either side. The enemy were lifting each other up, allowing them to fight on the same level as the troop. Clæfre had a nasty gash across her face and her helmet was missing. Hrolf had lost half his shield and had bruised his arm badly.

Leth was porcelain white and his chest was plastered in blood and vomit. He was doing a credible job of whacking fingers and pushing the enemy from their precarious positions with his staff.

Milde and Tadhgán were doing the same, only their sticks were pointy.

It didn’t matter how good we are, or how lucky. If the enemy keeps up their assault, we have five minutes, at best.

A gloopy rumble permeated the din. From the base of the wall rose a monstrosity of pale, pink limbs and thick folds of flabby flesh. A bloated human head flapped and bobbed on the end of a thick muscular tube that swayed pendulously as the thing stood, garbling intelligible noises with its hairy tongue. Scraps of cloth and metal had half-grown into its skin and covered none of the bits Cempa wished they did.

Now that’s just overkill.

Cempa stared at it, face slack with disbelief.

He wasn’t the only one. The first man who tried to run was seized by fat, grubby hands and stretched; he screamed as his joints popped.

Tadhgán put an arrow in the screaming man.

The thing dropped the dead man and reached for another, but Dolwillen’s soldiers were already running back.

The creature was still growing. Fifteen feet, sixteen, eighteen. It kept going up and up. It bumbled about trying to move its ever expanding body.

What the fuck are we supposed to do about that?

The fleshy monstrosity’s ankle snapped under the weight of its own ponderous mass. The creature lurched sideways with a cry and plummeted to the ground, its body enveloping scattered masonry and logs.

It tried to get up, but kept breaking. Its undulating mass spread outwards, slithering up the troop’s wall.

Will my final moments be spent suffocating underneath the bulbous wings of a fat, naked man?

The thing’s skin split, spilling pink watery fluid over the ground as it deflated with a sloppy squelch, as if someone had stepped on rotting fruit with bare toes.

For once, nobody had anything to say.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

*

Dolwillen clapped.

A fine show.

He frowned. Helmets still peeked over the top of the enemy’s wall and he hadn’t seen the verminous Eten.

I’ll have to shout at my soldiers again. At least the flabby pink man is dead.

A soldier staggered across the carpet of flaccid, limp skin, his feet slipping on the wet muck. The man looked utterly defeated.

Coward.

“You there!” said Dolwillen.

The man’s head swung towards him.

“Why are you here? The enemy is over there.” Dolwillen pointed with Beceorfan, “What are you, an idiot?”

“I’m not going back.”

“Then I will have you executed.”

The soldier laughed in his face, “You can order whatever you wish, your Grace. Good luck finding someone who will follow yours.” The man trudged past. He didn’t look back.

“Return immediately,” said Dolwillen.

The man ignored him.

Dolwillen felt a hot rush fill him to the brim.

How dare he ignore me!

Dolwillen chased him, “Come back here!”

The man looked around.

Dolwillen swung his sword.

The soldier turned, stepped forward, and punched Dolwillen in the face.

“Ow! What was that for?” said Dolwillen. He wiped his nose with a finger. He stared. It was covered in blood. Dolwillen felt his eyes tighten.

“You attacked me, what did you expect?” The soldier leered at him, “Are you an idiot, your Grace?”

“I ordered you to attack them and you walked away. I will have your head,” said Dolwillen.

“You can’t make me do anything. Your sword work is less effective than a donkey swatting flies with its tail. If you want them dead, you can bloody well do it yourself.”

“It won’t be just you who dies if you don’t go back,” said Dolwillen. “I will hunt and crush your whole family.”

Everyone caves when you threaten their family.

“You don’t even know my name, how will you find them, your Grace?”

Dolwillen couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. He was too angry to think. The veins in his hand turned black and wriggled. He needed his stone. He scrabbled at his breastplate, trying to get underneath.

The man sneered and strolled off.

I’ll deal with him later.

He reached under his pauldron and tugged the clasp for his gorget. It snapped open and Dolwillen dragged the metal away from his throat. Everything began to go white.

He rubbed his eyes. The salt, blood, and grime on his hands made them sting and water. He burrowed his hand beneath the protective aketon and yanked at the chain, dragging the stone up and out.

Dolwillen held the stone to his forehead and sighed. The first twinges of his headache receded as his vision cleared. He cupped the stone and ran his thumbs over the intricate patterns carved into the Feorhhord Gimcynn.

They were beautiful, even looking at them made him feel at ease. The world was filled with a strange yellow mist.

Where did that come from?

He let the stone drop and it swung against his breastplate with a heavy ding. He blinked. The mist was gone.

“Guntard, where the hell are you?” said Dolwillen.

Guntard stepped from behind a tree, “Right here, your Grace.”

“My soldiers have run off. Do something about it.”

“I am not sure I can. Your soldiers have faced a Heoruwearg, implosive magic, flasks of neat life magic, and,” he lifted a flap of pale skin with the tip of his boot, “explosive growth. No amount of threats or bribes will force them back. I do not think I can be scarier than certain death. Perhaps you should give up this pursuit of yours and choose another hobby.”

“No, no, no, no. I can’t do that! What if there are more Etenas like that woman. We need to stomp them out while we can.”

“What could she possibly do to you, your Grace?”

“How the hell should I know? She is a mutant, an unknown quantity. I don’t want unknown quantities running about my kingdom. Besides, it’s not natural. She looks funny. Everything about her feels wrong. She’s too tall. I don’t like the way she looks at me, down her nose with a little frown, as if she can actually think. It’s disgusting. I won’t be judged by a monster.”

“Such reasoned arguments, your Grace. Why don’t you head over there yourself and ask them to surrender her to you. They are only common soldiers, when they see you in person they will simply have to obey you.”

“I knew I kept you around for something Guntard. I will do just that.”

For a moment, I thought I might actually like Guntard. He is unusually reasonable today.

Dolwillen stomped through the slippery remains of the pink monster, humming. He wrapped his right hand around the stone hanging from his neck.

He stomped through the pallid ooze.

My soldiers have defied me. Everyone has conspired against him. Gristbitung is dead, my pet crow is dead, and my kings-foot-trefoil crown is missing.

There will be no more mocking, no more headaches, no more pain. The world will be right.

His hand trembled and his knuckles whitened. Blood dripped from his hand.

There will be death.

He could feel it tugging at him, a gentle whisper, a promise of peace, of freedom. He reached for it and pulled. His body tingled, it itched, it ached, it demanded, it required, it begged, and Dolwillen was only too happy to let it.

He pointed.

Death surged forward.