He made quick work of the boot laces, only loosening them enough to wrench each foot free like a potato from loose soil. Thick woolen socks were soaked in blood, forcing him to unroll them more delicately than he’d have liked. Then all that remained were the prosthetics. Like the wrist blades, they’d been designed to open and close with a simple flick of his thumb.

When he’d commissioned the replacement toes from Slacktooth, he’d wanted to pay for something simple and wooden. After a bit of convincing, he’d agreed with the sluzir that metal would be sturdier and less prone to filling his stumps with splinters. Though the expertly crafted metal wasn’t worth much on its own, and Bleak didn’t imagine there was much demand for prosthetics to replace all ten toes, it seemed a shame to toss the things.

Not when he could make a weapon of them. He’d promised to visit Slacktooth after chasing down the latest rumors of a grail, and the sluzir always relished a new project.

“By all means,” the interloper said, “take your time. We both have more than enough of it. Kruh, kruh, kruh.”

Chuffing laughter traced a path close to Bleak, angling toward the grail on its pedestal–the only part of the cavern aside from himself still remaining–and Bleak wondered again if the figure would resolve into a porcine monstrosity.

Something about the entity’s words or tone rubbed Bleak as raw as his feet and ankles where the prosthetic’s straps had been. Before attaching any of his toes–one of the pinkies currently held out toward the glowstone as he tried to guess whether it was the left or right one–Bleak gave the figure his full attention. Twisting his body and scooting back a stride without making it too obvious, he faced the stone pedestal and the thing behind it.

The creature, whom Bleak had already begun to think of as Interloper, stood on the other side of the pedestal from Bleak who couldn’t have said whether the position was meant to protect the figure from him or the other way around. He’d only feigned complete absorption with reattaching his fingers, watching the entity on the periphery of his vision all the while.

It didn’t move like any of the humanoid races he knew. Too fast, almost flickering between one location and the next. Bleak got the impression the thing was capable of incredible speed and was struggling to keep its movements slow enough for him to track.

Though no more of Interloper’s form had coalesced, its chalky outline seemed to be another deception that slipped from time to time. Unless Bleak had imagined it, the figure had an extra set of arms.

Relishing in Bleak’s attention, the figure’s smile grew even wider, stretching beyond what he’d have thought possible. With a dramatic wave of its hand, the grail vanished.

The figure froze, arm at the height of a dramatic flourish. It obviously expected a reaction from Bleak. He returned to the matter of his toes instead.

But not before some consideration.

He weighed his pinky toe against the antics of the chalky figure for a whole second before popping it onto his right foot. Bleak didn’t care if he’d matched it correctly, and he didn’t care about the figure. With a satisfying series of thuds, soft though they may have been, he reattached all ten toes.

Rising to his feet, whole after so long weakened, Bleak was anxious to test his skills and immortality against Interloper. It still stood in the same stance, still stubbornly awaiting a reaction.

“Made everything else disappear,” Bleak said. “Am I to be impressed?”

“No,” Interloper said. “I suppose not. But aren’t you curious where it went? I haven’t simply cordoned it off like the rest of reality. It’s gone on a voyage to some–”

Bleak moved like a wave. Cresting, he drew the diremetal blade at his hip. Roiling, he flowed toward the figure, carried past the stone pedestal with a quick sidestep. Crashing, he swung in an upward arc.

Interloper howled, pain and rage vanishing into the far distances of their empty setting. Two left arms dropped to the black ground, both clearly visible now that they were no longer attached. Despite his curiosity, Bleak couldn’t spare any attention for the fallen limbs.

With a slight twist of his wrist, he brought his raised arms down, slicing a neat slanting line of red across Interloper from neck to belly. Crooking his elbow, sword level at chest height, he lunged forward to plunge the razor-sharp blade into Interloper’s heart.

“You talk too much,” Bleak spat, staring into the thing’s eyes for the familiar signs of life leaving them. Ever cautious, he stepped back several paces. A flick of his blade cast a thick streak of blood on the ground, and he held it ready before him, waiting for the strange creature before him to quiet.

The screams didn’t stop. They only became louder, quickly turning into something outlandish. Long past the time when Interloper should have fallen dead, it continued howling, only pausing long enough to take exaggerated lungfuls of air.

Bleak felt cold dead fingers tickling his spine. Something was very wrong.

In the middle of a particularly mournful cry, Interloper suddenly stopped and fixed both yellow eyes on Bleak. That Cheshire grin returned, teeth too white in the empty space, then split as peels of laughter rose from deep in Interloper’s chest like a mine collapsing around him.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Several things happened at once.

Interloper snapped its fingers. Bleak had the barest sliver of a moment to acknowledge both of its severed arms had returned to their original locations. Then he stood several dozen strides away.

Barely able to see anything of Interloper besides the faintest gleam of its smile, the next snap reached him nonetheless as if the fingers had brushed together beside his ear. Bleak returned to his original position. Ready to strike at Interloper and cut it to pieces as many times as necessary to truly kill it, Bleak tensed, shiting his weight forward.

*Snap*

And almost fell when transported a pace to the right.

*Snap*

Another pace to the right.

*Snap* *Snap*

Each quick percussive slap of fingers moved Bleak in a circle around Interloper whose chalky outline also shifted, arms moving in a sinous dance as its feet tapped a beat on the ground. Just as Bleak thought himself growing accustomed to the rhythm, as he barely managed to sheath his sword and was about to reach for his crossbow, the world turned upside down.

Several times during his hunt for the grail, Bleak had been thrown from any number of mounts. Some might call it an occupational hazard. He called it rude and more importantly–inconvenient. Wild or trained, animals had a vendetta against him. Maybe he just didn’t bathe often enough. Each time he’d been thrown, as reality rearranged itself in a spiraling whirl, he’d felt the same shuffling of guts that he felt now.

Knowing he was on the ceiling did little for his balance, and he fell to his knees on the bloodslick floorboards directly beneath the butcher’s still-dripping body. A quick series of snaps spun him in a circle, each pop in an alternate ear. Bleak fought the disorientation–it more than Interloper was his most pressing enemy–and finally managed to grab the crossbow.

Loading it was another matter. Seeing what he was about, Interloper’s next flurry of snaps threw Bleak against the walls. With no discernible logic, all rules about what was possible ignored, he struck one wall with the top of his head and remained perfectly balanced, desperately clinging to the crossbow. Next time he landed on the tip of his right elbow and spun like a top.

He lost track of how many bruises he earned in places that oughtn’t be susceptible to bruises (an earlobe, for one), never once loosening his hold on the crossbow.

The whole ordeal was ridiculous. Interloper seemed to have absolute control over everything in the cavern. It was magic beyond anything he’d ever encountered. If the entity had truly wanted to disarm Bleak, it could have changed all his weapons into blueberries or baby rabbits.

Bleak still would have thrown them at the entity. He did have some principles. Foremost among them–everything is a possible weapon.

With that in mind, he finally relinquished his hold on the crossbow, which clattered to the wall. As he had hoped, and to be honest, maybe prayed a little though he didn’t hold stock in gods or those who believed in them, a final snap settled Bleak on his feet where he’d originally faced Interloper.

“–other land,” Interloper said. “Much like your new friend.”

The words made no sense until Bleak remembered the bit of conversation he’d interrupted by attacking. Something about the grail going on a voyage. Well, if he’d doubted that, Interloper’s strange snapping dance had convinced him. On top of that, he’d sensed the armor-clad man’s arrival, seemingly out of nowhere, and had no reason to distrust the further claim that he’d also come from some other land.

Bleak also didn’t care.

With a quick flex of his wrists, two throwing knives appeared in each hand, sailing toward Interloper’s eyes in a blink. He didn’t think they’d actually reach the thing, which was why he followed them, sweeping in low with his sword drawn once more. If he cut enough pieces away, maybe he would find the creature’s weakness. If given the chance, he’d also grind the pieces into so much pulverized flesh with a gleeful stomping. Taking a cue from Interloper, he might even do it at a steady rhythm. His own dance to say thank you. A performance for a performance.

Not even halfway to Interloper, Bleak groaned as he saw the fingers sliding together once more.

*Snap*

Light blinded him, and a strong wind whipped his cloak to the side. His hair would have followed suit if it weren’t so greasy. The sun warmed him to an almost uncomfortable degree immediately. A quick shift of his feet assured him of solid footing on rocky ground almost identical to that of the cavern. And several people were screaming.

Squinting one eye open, Bleak stood on a cliff or mountaintop. He was surrounded by white-clad women, all of them wearing some version of the same all-concealing dress. Even the neckline rose in a skintight grip up to their noses, stopping directly beneath their eyes. For all the modesty suggested by the dresses, their hair had been coifed, tied, plastered, and/or magicked into the most fanciful loops and swirls he’d ever seen.

He’d been teleported outside the cavern. Acceptance came as easily as a good yawn or noisy fart. Bleak hadn’t survived as long as he had by questioning every new danger as it hurtled his way. Action ruled the day.

So he’d traveled to somewhere else. Not only that, his daggers had joined him, ending their flight in the eyes of a crumpled woman.

He liked to think that he and Interloper were getting to know each other quite well by now. Killing was the most intimate of acts in his experience. So he was fairly certain the daggers’ placement was no coincidence. Bleak could imagine the chalky entity belting out a chuffing laugh wherever it might be.

With sword still in hand, Bleak prepared for the women to rush at him. They didn’t appear to have any weapons, but they had numbers. Add to that the many places from which they could toss him over the cliff’s edge. Multiply their anguish, and the group could instantly become a bloodthirsty mob.

Bleak wasn’t prepared for what they did instead. As if of a single mind, they turned away and sprinted to the cliff’s edge. None hesitated, a river of white pouring away from sight, many of their legs still kicking even after they’d left the ground behind.

With a shrug, Bleak took a deep breath of the fresh air and retrieved his throwing knives. Doing so was as messy work as any he’d already partaken of that day. Sharp objects generally entered bodies much more easily than they exited. Normally he’d have twisted the blades around, shredding the eyeballs into a chunky jelly, but he was irritated and found the slow pull of each orb leaving its socket–followed by the resulting pop–to be a therapeutic exercise.

*Snap*

Without any sense of movement, Bleak appeared in a long room with high windows. Dust motes danced among crisp morning light as the all-too-familiar sound of steel rang from all sides. Though unable to match their uniforms to any of the known nations, Bleak had no doubt the well-toned men and women just beginning to notice his presence were soldiers.

And he’d appeared in their midst, holding two knives with eyeballs on the ends like skewered grapes.