You got him? I asked Beats once it became clear we wouldn’t make it back to the stairs.

Yeah, I’ll have him back up in sixty, she said without looking up as she helped Roy to the floor. Go help the others.

I took a deep breath and turned towards the group, noticing most had backed up to within a few feet of us. Greg had dropped his big gun and instead had produced a much larger sword, almost five feet long, swinging it back and forth like it weighed nothing. Where the fuck had he gotten that? As I watched, he chopped dozens of tentacles that emerged from the black with every swing, ignoring the few that got through his defenses to poke neat holes in him. His follow-up swing would sever the few that got through, leaving wriggling tentacles in his body that were slowly pushed out as his wounds healed. Out of the many, many gross things I’ve seen in recent years, that’s near the top.

They’re more magical than physical, Roy said, his mental voice strained. Punched right through my defenses. There’s something weird about them.

That added more credence to my theory. I think they’re from a higher dimension, I said as I hardened my magic into a blade and began to whip it back and forth to Greg’s left. He immediately felt the difference in pressure from that side and began to focus more to the right. Over the next few seconds, he began to take less and less damage and started pushing forward a little as he reset his stance after every combination of swings.

How long can you keep that up? Albright asked, rightly assuming the invisible blade was my doing.

Not long, I said through a grunt. It was a surprisingly difficult application of telekinesis. I was used to focusing the power into a plane of force to stop bullets, but the smaller the area I made with the magic, and more dense, the more it wanted to expand to a more… gaseous, state? I guess? Normally, the telekinetic energy I gather sort of hangs around me in a cloud until I give it direction, condensing until it was strong enough to move the thing I want to move. That’s what the spell was originally designed to do: move things. Because of Circe’s method, I had learned to use the spell in every way it could be used, and then stretched it to many uses it was never meant to, over and over until it was very much a part of me. Thus, a simple spell that was used to move heavy objects could be used to block bullets, pierce things and rip them apart, strike and bludgeon—you get it.

It was a constant struggle to hone the energy into a space small enough to be cutting. It was like doing two math problems simultaneously while also having to keep coming UP with new math problems to do. Or rather, it was like doing complicated long division where the numbers tried to run away and you kept having to bring them back and then remember where they went in the long-ass equation.

Which was still a terrible simile because it didn’t account for the horrible feedback of running something that was connected to my mind through magical, interdimensional flesh that fought the cohesion of my magic. It felt like trying to cut a steak with a knife made of ice while trying to shove the melting water back into the ice.

Keep it up for as long as poss—Albright drew up short as he pulled the trigger and nothing happened. I heard him grunt in annoyance, drop his weapon and pull another out of thin fucking air. He began shooting after doing a quick check of the gun.

We just need to hold out until Roy is up, then we’ll push up and get you your shot, Albright continued.

Whatever magic that allowed you to summon guns and apparently infinite ammo, I needed to learn. I was so astonished, my blade of telekinetic energy became a club for a moment before I honed it back into a cutting edge with a protracted grunt of effort through gritted teeth. Sweat poured from my brow with the effort. It was getting harder and harder to cut through the tentacles—though the good news seemed to be we found a cap on how many the black could generate at once.

I think it’s been sixty seconds, I said, my mental voice somehow conveying how out of breath I was.

If you think you can do a better job, you’re welcome to come back here, Beats said, her own voice strained.

I growled audibly but didn’t project the noise to the group. I walked to the side while pulling my Webley from my waistband holster and dumping out the one unspent shell into my hand. I dropped it in my pocket and pulled out one of my two remaining speed loaders, trying not to rush and also rushing the job of reloading the hateful gun. My telekinetic blade lost some of its edge with me splitting my attention, but I made up for it by swinging it around harder.

What are you doing—? Albright asked curtly.

I snapped the Webley closed and lifted it, adopting a shooting stance. I was far enough to the side that there was no one in front of me besides Greg.

Try not to move, Greg, I said as I began to squeeze the trigger.

In one-second intervals, I emptied the Webley. Six wrist-thick beams of destruction punched through the tentacles and into the black wall from which they emerged. Upon hitting the black, the darkness convulsed around the impact sites, as if it was trying to cover up spots on its perfect surface. The result was a significant reduction of tentacles while the black convulsed upon itself.

Can you do that again? Albright asked after a heartbeat.

I glanced down at the Webley and saw some creeping black tinged with red tendrils seeping from the barrel of the gun into the cylinder. Not for a while no, I said. Not unless we’ll all die otherwise.

I want to say the shots from the Webley created bullet holes in the black, but as the wall of darkness roiled against the wounds, they looked distinctly biological… not quite like wounds. What I’m trying to say is they looked like buttholes made of darkness. Assholes that had tentacles emerging from around them. I had a strange premonition this day would feature heavily in my nightmares for years to come.

With the attacks from the Webley being slow to heal, the squad and I managed to push up a bit until the room started to shake. Before I had a chance to panic, I noticed the shaking was coming from Roy as he passed me, each of his footsteps thudding into the ground like a forklift falling over.

Armor? Albright asked.

Please, Roy said, his mental voice absent of the strain it had previously. I shot a quick glance behind me, seeing Beats covered in sweat and breathing heavily, still kneeling on the ground where I had left her.

When I turned back to the fight, Roy was in a completely new set of armor. Gone was the quasi-tactical gear and in its place was a matte gray suit of plate mail that looked straight out of grimdark MMO. It had minimal design flourish unlike what one would see in a fantasy show or historical display piece, instead showing an intimidating utilitarian design with some modern touches that suggested a modern engineer had spent a long time thinking about how to make a better suit of armor with modern techniques. After the shock of the armor wore off, I noticed his shield had been replaced with a larger version as well.

Push up, Albright said. Avery, you’re with me. We’ll get you as close as we can.

Roger, I replied, moving back into the group and hovering behind Albright. I holstered the Webley, knowing I wouldn’t be shooting it any time soon—unless we were all fucked.

With Roy taking the lead in his new duds, Greg stepped back into a slightly more passive role, giving me a moment to give him a look over. He didn’t look great. He was breathing in deep, rasping breaths. He was covered in blood even without any currently bleeding wounds. His clothing was hanging from his arms and legs in scraps, only the breastplate on his chest holding everything together. He’d even lost his hat.

I held back the manic giggle that threatened to overtake me at that last thought. I reined it in and took a deep breath.

The group steadily pushed forward. Roy’s armor held off the tentacles admirably. Once they found they couldn’t puncture the armor, the tentacles switched tactics and attempted to grab him and drag him to the wall of black. Having felt how heavy Roy was when dragging him earlier, I knew the strength of those tentacles. But I had also felt him make himself lighter, so I was strongly inclined to believe his magic had something to do with gravity or density. This belief was further encouraged when the tentacles couldn’t even budge Roy’s sword arm as he brought it back and forth in a motion so smooth it looked rehearsed, severing the majority of the tentacles attached to him.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

This is as close as we can get, Roy said, his mental voice heavy.

I glanced around him and could just barely make out some squiggles on the floor and wall around the opening just in front of the wall of black. I put my hand on Albright’s back to let him know I was moving up.

The extra inches helped a lot, allowing me to turn the distant squiggles into something I recognized… English. What? Who the fuck wrote their wards in English? Well, whatever, I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

See, usually when you begin to learn magic, you pick a language—usually a minor or dead language that isn’t spoken anymore—because magic is influenced by thought. You know what else is influenced by thought? Language. And vice versa. So when you start to harness the mystical forces of the universe to bend reality to your will, you really don’t want to taint your thought processes with words that have meaning outside of what you are trying to do. Let's say you want a fire spell and cast it with the word “fire.” That’s nice. But you’ve been using the word fire all of your life. What if one errant memory of “fire” enters your mind while casting? What if you think of the verb and completely change the outcome of the spell?

Using another language that is new to you is basically clearing off your desk before you start to work, so nothing gets in the way or taints what you are working on. Obviously, I’m oversimplifying, but it’s a good metaphor.

So the ward being written in English lends evidence to a couple of possibilities. Either whoever wrote the ward is uneducated in magic (kinda like myself, but even I know not to use a common language), without the fundamentals. Or—and this is very concerning—the person who wrote the ward was so focused and competent mentally that they didn’t need the handicap of using an unfamiliar language.

Now, you’d think that the ward being written in English would make it easier to dismantle. And you’d be half right. It means I didn’t have to guess from context what words mean what. But wards were all about shaping magic on a two-dimensional surface—and because of that constraint, once you get a good enough grasp on wards, the language used with them is far less important than how the ward itself is constructed to direct energy, and the individual methodology behind it.

The author of the journal I studied on how to deconstruct wards was adamant that in order to deconstruct a ward, you had to reverse engineer it so you know what to attack. I have found this to be only partially true. I have come to this conclusion because I designed a really good ward once, but fucked up a crucial step and locked myself out of my house. I knew how the ward was constructed, yet it took me three days to figure out how to dismantle the fucking thing. Since then, I have made it a habit every now and then to design a ward without a way of turning it off, to see how fast I can deconstruct it. It makes for a fun weekend.

With these experiences under my belt, I would say that the more important step in disabling a ward would be to know how it directs energy. Once you have that stable point from which to work from, the basic shape of the ward comes into focus and thus becomes that much easier to disrupt.

All of this ran through the back of my mind as I studied the writing in front of me. Seeing the ward in action for the last few minutes already gave me an idea of how to defeat it. Assuming this was the only entrance to the domain, the ward would need a way to detect friend from foe, and thus must need to direct some of its energy in a non-focused, benign way… like that spot over there.

On either side of the wall of black, on the actual stone walls of the room on what I’d call the “jamb” of the ward, were two sets of identical instructions that I heavily suspected were used to identify friendlies. I focused my magic into a point and began etching symbols into the wall.

What’s the ETA, Avery? Albright asked. His gun was gone and he was hacking at the tentacles that made it past our two front-liners with a mean-looking kukri.

About thirty seconds per wall, I replied. After that, I’ll need to get closer to energize the counter-measure.

You have to touch it? Albright asked.

Yeah, I said distractedly as I did a bunch of math in my head. Fucking fractions. I corrected a symbol I had already put down, making the thing look weird. I was etching the symbols, so I couldn’t erase them with the rush I was under. Going to basically short it out.

Walt, going to need your assistance for the final push, Albright said.

I’ll need a break afterward or I’ll be useless for the rest of the day, Walt said.

Understood, Albright said. Wait for my mark.

Seconds became a minute as I worked. I slowed down towards the end and reviewed my progress, making sure I was making a new ward command rather than a shittily made bomb.

Can’t keep this up much longer, Roy said with a heavy voice. Greg added a grunt in support of the statement.

I ignored them and kept looking over my work, comparing it to the enemy ward. I was just about to say I was ready when I spotted a sequence on the ceiling that changed the frequency of the whole operation and rushed to correct my counter-ward, having to add three new lines in a Frankenstein’s Monster of eldritch scripting.

Ready! I said when the final symbol was down—the one I needed to touch. It was slightly less than fifteen feet away, and looked ugly and rough from having to use my magic awkwardly to carve it.

Push! Albright cried.

Greg and Roy roared and began attacking with renewed fervor, slowly gaining ground. I reformed my magic into a blade, feeling a deep ache form at the base of my skull as I pushed the magic into a shape it didn’t want to be in.

The floor was covered with severed tentacles, making footing treacherous. Greg slid his feet forward, in a way that reminded me of some moves from Wing Chun, shoving tentacles out of the way with shuffling steps. Roy just lifted his leg high with each step and brought his foot down with enough force to shake the cave, squishing the tentacles under his feet like a machine press. He had to wait for the interdimensional flesh to stop pancaking under his feet until he moved again, otherwise he’d just create a slippery slurry if he rushed.

I just pushed forward and accepted the awkward footing, not having the attention to spare to find clear spots. If Greg or Roy lost their footing, we’d probably all die. If I fell over, I had to get back up.

Once we came within five feet of the ward, our advance was halted. The damage I had been able to inflict with the Webley was nearly gone now, and scores of tentacles attacked over and over. Greg and Roy worked together to chop them down with superhuman speed, strength, and coordination: I had never been more impressed by two people in my life.

Walt! Albright called.

Suddenly, all the tentacles fell to the ground and a deathly pale Walt was stumbling past me, to be caught in the waiting arms of Beats who had approached from behind me without being noticed. Okay, maybe don’t antagonize Walt. Did that motherfucker just do an anime finishing move?

Go! Albright shouted, his mental voice a gunshot in my psyche.

Roy and Greg dashed forward in the sudden absence of tentacles. I trailed behind them by half a second. The tentacles were already re-forming, but it seemed we were lucky: trying to recreate all of them at once seemed to slow all of them down, like a computer that had run out of RAM capacity. Roy and Greg took up positions around my counter-ward while being careful not to step on it. I leaned down into a slide, ignoring the scraping rock on my belly and the Webley digging into my groin as I flopped down.

Time seemed to slow as my hand approached my counter-ward. A long, sickly thin hand, the same shade of black as my own hand shot from the black wall and seized my wrist with machine-like strength. I almost froze in pure shock but managed to bull ahead and reach for the ward with my other hand.

The hand gripping me reacted by lifting me into the air, the force making my shoulder scream with pain. I flopped in the air as the arm’s momentum suddenly stopped, my hip smacking painfully into Roy’s sword arm.

My eyes widened in Terror as I saw half a dozen tentacles suddenly accelerate out of the black, aiming at my neck and torso. I tried to harden my magic around me, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Greg saved me. Suddenly the big-chinned bruiser was in front of me. For a split second, I thought he had sliced the tentacles away until one burst through his skull and stopped two inches from my throat.

I screamed wordlessly and in pure reaction clawed the hand that gripped my wrist. Ripples of pain went up and down my fingers and hand up to my elbow as my nails sheared through the offending limb with hardly any resistance.

No longer held in the air, I fell. Because the tentacles hadn’t extricated themselves from his body, Greg was still standing in front of me. I used him—I used his corpse for cover as more tentacles came my way, shoving it forward a foot and reaching between his legs to slap my hand on the counter-ward, slamming my will into it with the intention of forcing it to work. With a sound like metal scraping, the symbols and English circling the five-foot hole in the wall flashed through the prism of color before fading away, revealing a narrow tunnel.

The black wall and the tentacles that emerged from it were gone, but not the severed tentacles on the ground. With nothing holding him up, Greg’s body collapsed on top of me, knocking the air out of my lungs. Roy quickly lifted it off me and carried it to Beats, who stepped away from Walt to examine the body. I slowly pushed myself up into a seated position, which is when I saw my hand.

I had grown claws, very much like the kind I had had last year during the cruise. Using some instinct I didn’t know I had, I shook my hand, once again experiencing the rippling pain as my claws became nails again.

That’s… problematic.

Good work, Albright said tightly as he and Kristy moved up to cover the tunnel. I gave him a severe frown.

Good work? Your teammate just died—Wait.

I glanced over at Beats and Greg when I had the critical thought about Albright and noticed something: the dude was still breathing.

He’s not dead? I asked.

Highly likely he’ll recover, especially with Beats here, Albright said. He’s lost his entire head before, so I have high hopes.

His entire head?!

Kristy shot me a “just between us girls” look. He’s always a little weird after it happens.

Kristy, Albright said with a note of warning.

Kristy winked at me and returned to watching the tunnel.