Cobo watched morning break, watched the cloudscape gradually shift from red to purple, as a new year dawned. It was officially the first day of the windy season.
A ways away, he could hear Stingy retching. Over the last few weeks they had taken turns being violently ill; him because of the poisonous nature of Horrible Swamp, her because her body was processing out whatever her mother had used to keep her from molting.
It made traversing the swamp even more dangerous, though luckily they had managed to keep from both being weakened at the same time, by timing out when they moved and ate. They had swung south, following the wake of the Junk Dog army, before turning west and moving along the edge of the swamp.
Now they were bunkering down, trying to build up some supplies to cross the wastes and make it to Great Tomb territories. The cult wasn’t involved in the ongoing conflicts, so hopefully they would be able to pass through unimpeded.
After a few minutes Stingy’s body seemed to calm down some, and she was able to stand. He looked at the puddle of bile she left, spotting flashes of white. “Teeth again?”
“Yeah…” Despite the bouts of illness, she had been growing. Her limbs were longer, though not much thicker, and her voice had deepened.
“Do you think you’ll even molt in the normal way?” Cobo hadn’t ever met another woman before – excepting his own mother, but that was before he could remember – but he knew basic facts. While a man’s body grew for only a short time after their pupation, a woman would go through at least three molts before reaching her proper size.
“I don’t think so.” She spat. “I think my body’s growing unevenly. My teeth aren’t coming in all at once, see?” She used a finger to pull back her lips, exposing her back teeth. Some of them were too small still, leaving gaps that would make it difficult for her to chew. “Hopefully my second molt is normal. This sucks!”
Cobo nodded. “Yeah.” He wasn’t exactly having a great time himself, but at least once they were out of the swamp he would be able to keep a meal down. “Can you walk?”
She hopped in place. “I’m good, I think.” She drew her sword. It was chipped in places, some of the animals sporting bones or scales that could damage the steel, but she always made sure to keep it sharp. “Okay! I’m sick of this place; let’s go all-out! Kill a bunch of stuff and then leave!”
He grinned, his own teeth on display as his blood rose. “Sounds like a plan.”
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Eidolon stood atop a tower and looked to the horizon, beholding the forces of her enemies. They rode upon great vehicles, armoured convoys filled with men screaming towards her. Even worse were those few who travelled alone; they were vehicles unto themselves, hulking machines whose appearance set her teeth on edge. Too close to metal creatures. Is there even anything left of their flesh, underneath? For all that her clan consumed the strength of metal, not even the most foolhardy of them would go so far as to replace their limbs with the stuff.
Behind her were not only her own clansmen, but a portion of Tall Mountain as well. They had come down from their heights, incensed by Junk Dog’s aggression, to defend their territory together.
Beside her, one of the Mountain Warbosses – Black Lightning – spoke up. “Not just a raid, hmm? No matter; it looks like we hold the advantage in both numbers and strength.”
He wasn’t wrong. Even if every single one of those huge trucks were packed full of warriors, they would not equal Metal Tooth alone; add their Tall Mountain allies, and they were outnumbered at least two-to-one. And Junk Dog is a poor clan. Even if they’ve brought Junk weapons, they won’t match us pound for pound. Are they just throwing chaff at us?
It wasn’t impossible; if their population was becoming unsustainable, the clan leadership might have decided that pointless battles were to their advantage. It would explain a great deal of their behaviour of late. “Seems like it. But still, keep your best in the reserve; they might have some trick planned.”
Black Lightning nodded. Beside him, his brother White Lightning began chastising the warriors that were out of position; the battle wouldn’t start for nearly an hour yet, but artillery from beyond the horizon might happen at any moment. They needed to be ready.
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The meat was marching towards them, foolishly walking into an open maw.
Two-Drops lowered his looking-glass, a snarl on his face. “Fucking crusaders. What do they think they’re playing at?” Red Beast Canyon might be the only passage further east for days in any direction, but trying to push through the natural chokepoint was still suicide. If it was a foreign Lonesome, or even a group from way out west, he would understand. But anyone local should know that this was Dragon Eater territory.
His clanbrothers followed suit, one by one lowering their glasses. Only Garme, the commander, continued past a cursory assessment. “There’s got to be some trick – these aren’t dregs, these are elite warriors. Old Junk Dog wouldn’t spend them carelessly.”
“Internal dispute?” Airbee shrugged. “It’s all ancestor worshippers, right? Maybe they tried a coup, and this is their punishment.”
Two-Drops nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Makes sense, right boss?” But the commander simply continued looking through his glass, chewing his ration of dried scales. “Boss? C’mon, there can’t be more ‘n a hundred guys.”
“And there are ten of us.” Garme’s words were dry.
Two-Drops scoffed, as did several others. They were all thinking the same thing: We’re the Dragon Eater Clan. One of us is worth a hundred of them, elites or not. With the narrow passage, the numbers would be mostly pointless; it would come down to one-on-one battles… And one-on-one, they were the strongest clan around.
Garme remained tense. “Our fire won’t hurt the flame worshippers.” Yeah, but their fire won’t hurt us either. What’s your point? “This feels weird. Airbee, Crimson Fish, get back to the camp. Get some backup.”
He was the commander, but he wasn’t so far above them that they would obey him without question – at least, not the more headstrong ones. “Boss! You’re asking us to retreat? I can feel their power from here, they’re nothing special.” Crimson Fish tossed a morsel of his own rations at the commander, and it plinked off the side of his glass.
Garme finally dropped the tube, whirling. Oh, fuck you Fish. Now we’re going to get our asses beat. But the inevitable consequences of Fish’s dumbassery were halted, as they all felt an immense power press down on them.
They scrambled as something fell from the sky, hitting the centre of their ambush point and throwing up red dust from the canyon floor. One of them breathed fire, and the dust was blown away by the caustic red and yellow flames. Another warrior joined in, and even the ground was burned under the intensity of their combined attack.
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But when the smoke cleared, they saw that the enemy had been shielded by a bubble of energy. “Don’t let up! He’s still alive!”
Garme’s words snapped them out of their surprise, and they started pouring on the flames. The energy shrunk, blasted away by the force of their breath, until-
“RAAAH!” With a roar, the Dog detonated his shield, pushing Two-Drops and his clansmen back. “Warriors of Dragon Eater, you face Dies Twice! Test your might against me, and be found wanting!” The man was huge, as tall as the Clanboss, but Two-Drops could feel the sea of power in him had diminished; taking their attacks had put more of a dent in him than he was showing.
Garme shouted his response. “Dragon Eater, attack! Flyers, get going!”
The enemy Warboss – with his strength, he could be nothing else – dodged the next wave of dragonfire, leaping away. The three winged clansmen took to the air. Airbee and Blast peeled off, but Crimson Fish’s pride overpowered his sense a second time. “Boss, we can still take-“
His words were cut off as a blade of power sliced through him, bisecting him at the waist. Two-Drops spent a fraction of a moment thinking you get what you pay for, idiot, before getting back in the fight.
It’s not like he was dead, anyway; he quickly pressed the top and bottom of his halves together, and with a sizzle his guts stuck back together. Three seconds later, and he was on his feet again. “Fuck you! Die!”
As the fight became more chaotic, the Warboss darting around with a speed that was at odds with his sheer bulk, Two-Drops took the opportunity to hang back and charge up a certain-kill move. He breathed in, then continued to breath, inhaling a massive amount of air as the dragon blood in his core turned to fire.
As he reached the ideal ratio, the technique completed. He held it a moment, waiting for the giant to block an attack and hold still for just one second-
He released. A beam of fire, white-hot and wide as his torso, carved a chunk from his pelvis. Coughing weakly, Two-Drops watched as the fight turned in their favour. His brothers’ claws tore into him, spilling blood around the narrow battlefield.
“Good job.” Garme shot him a look, before tearing a strip out of the man’s leg. The fight was gradually going out of him, and soon they would bring him down.
But then the rest of the Junk Dog army arrived, and things got more complicated.
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Jonn watched calmly as the amalgamation of plant life rose up. It was majestic, in a way; it was obviously a woman, but she seemed to be formed from the essence of the swamp itself. Her flesh was earth, her blood water, reeds and lilies sprouted from her like hair. But even as indistinct as her features were, Jonn could still see a resemblance.
“Sister.” Stinger-Tail tensed at the one-word speech. She declined to answer in kind, only hissing as power wafted from her body.
Across from them was an army. Smaller than theirs, baring less fearsome arms as well, but still undoubtedly their match. Both sides waited, tensed in preparation, as their leaders faced each other. Her greetings unreturned, the Great Swamp Mother spoke again. “What do you hope to accomplish? You cannot win here; even if you should overpower me, my sons will wear you down and consume you.” Stinger-Tail again refused to answer, the silent tension ramping higher and higher. The swamp titan sighed, a sound like wind blowing over a still pond. “So be it. May you find peace in the innumerable deadworlds.”
All at once, like a lever had been flipped, the armies clashed. From their side came bullets of stone and lead, gouts of flame, slashes of cutting air. From the other, great fountains of water and mud, poisoned spears, and miasmas of rot and sickness.
And yet, even as the two sisters moved to tear into one another, Jonn did not move. Not yet.
Great Swamp Mother’s attacks were indirect; grasping vines grew to tangle in Stinger-tail’s limbs, biting insects and fish leapt from hidden places to dig into her flesh. The titan never made an offensive move with her body, merely dodging and retreating as the Horrible Swamp seemed to come alive to defend her.
Stinger-Tail was the opposite. Her strikes were simple swipes with an unadorned longsword, but they never failed to cut deep. She attacked absolutely, not even attempting a defense, cutting a swath into the enemy as she charged ahead. Attacks landed on her body, but she continued to barrel forward, using her huge abdomen and incredible regeneration to crush anything in her path. For the first time since she had spotted her kin, she spoke. “I cannot win? Fool, you’ve got it backwards!” A savage chop sliced the heads off three men, disembowelling a fourth. “It is my sons who will devour you.”
Despite her boasts, she didn’t seem to be doing well. She was simply too large a target; she killed at least one enemy with every swipe, yes, but in return she received a dozen wounds. The battle wore on, the armies slaughtering each other.
And still, Jonn sat unmoving. Soon, soon. Be patient.
It was over ten minutes in, an eternity, when it happened. A particularly fat swampman blew grey dust over Stinger-Tail’s wounds, and she shrieked. Even from where he was, Jonn could feel the concentrated rot eating into her, joining a thousand other wounds to bring her down. Her massive body collapsed, and instantly the swamp rose up to entomb her.
It was a feint. While her wounds were quite real, Stinger-Tail still retained a bounty of energy in her core. The moment her sister reached out to snatch victory, she intoned in a low voice; “Horizontal Cut.”
She did not attack with a sword. Rather, Jonn observed her entire body move, pivoting around where her head touched the ground like her massive bleeding abdomen was a twenty-ton blade. It was terrifying, that fraction of a second where she moved faster than sound – if that attack had been aimed his way, Jonn would have surely perished.
Which was why he could only nod his head in respect, when the edge of the Idol’s body cut through only half of her sister before halting. An old man, thin and wrinkled, stepped out from the wall of water that had impeded one daughter and saved the other, a crude stone knife in his hand.
“Stingy. I thought I might die before I saw you again.”
Stinger-Tail hissed, tugging with all her muscles to try and free herself. But the water held tight, not even rippling. “Still Water. Is mother hiding somewhere, ready to pop out as well? Or have you come to die alone?” She was terribly injured, the rot still burning in her veins despite her regeneration, but her voice held a note of triumph.
Still Water shook his head. “Her fighting days are long passed. I’m afraid you’ll have to reconcile some other time.” He raised the knife, flexing power to crush the woman’s trapped hindquarters-
Finally, Jonn moved. He stepped out from Stinger-Tail’s shadow, rope and pitons in hand, armed and armoured in the treasures of Junk Dog. He took in the shock on his old rival’s face as the decrepit old wet blanket mouthed “Digger?” Then he smiled, and wrapped a coil around his neck.
Great Swamp Mother, the deep crevasse in her side already filling with mud, launched a wave of greenery. Her clansmen joined her, and a vast array of attacks sped towards him – and with his hands busy strangling his swampy counterpart, there was nothing he could do to block.
So his son stepped out of his shadow, his entire body covered in jewel-like armour. He raised a shield of fifteen metals, and half the myriad attacks parted around him. He raised a spear of diamond, and the other half fizzled out. In the morning light, he glimmered, every part of him polished and obscenely shiny.
Ratbite Jonn spoke into the flabbergasted silence. “A man’s treasure is his clan, and a man should carry all his treasure on his person.”
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They were almost done. A few more fish, or just one of the armoured lizards that liked to lurk just underwater, and they would have just enough to scrape by. Stingy stalked, her head on a swivel, and he followed right behind. He was actually doing slightly better than her for once; while his chaotic consumption was horribly inefficient, it seemed that he could replenish himself from anything. While her body was stronger and faster, and more durable, and healed better, and…
While she held a slight physical advantage, in terms of energy she was running on fumes. He wasn’t sure exactly what she needed, but evidently the swamp didn’t have it. As such she conserved herself to normal attacks, while he was free to use as many techniques as he needed.
Something splashed in the distance. They glanced at each other, eyes meeting with simultaneous nods before they started creeping forward. The reeds seemed to form a tunnel in front of them as they went, the vegetation becoming thicker and thicker. His boots crunched as the path became more gravelly. I hope it isn’t one of those slime-fish. Those are basically just water and poison, it’s not even worth it.
But when they pushed through the thicket, it wasn’t any type of fish that greeted them. Cobo’s spine went rigid as he looked directly at- Wait, that’s not Stinger-Tail. She looked a bit similar, and was wearing the same kind of mask, but her body was wrong. She had two arms and legs, and she was tiny. She was sitting in a clearing, on a rock beside a simple stone table, and munching from a bowl of fried flexgrass seed. Actually, she looks more like Stingy. Why does this seem familiar..? His dread, momentarily chased away by confusion, returned.
Stingy said it first. “Witch of Ten Thousand Poisons.”
His contribution, muttered a second later, was much less respectful. “The Hag.”
The woman noisily slurped from her mug, somehow getting it under her mask without revealing any part of her face. “There’s no need for formality, dearies. Just call me Granny Poison, everyone does.”