​​​​19 Serpents with legs

FOR HALF A DAY, Threadfin followed the path down the mountain. The chittering sounds had faded. He’d seen no sign he’d left the memory fragment, but hoped he had. Well, lying to oneself was best policy in difficult situations. It should be an imperial law in fact. I’ll mention it to Aiyana. She’s always reasonable about stuff.

A low valley and foothills led to a coast he didn’t recognise. Closer by was a dead forest, which shouldn’t have been there. He halted to look back the way he’d come. Well, sometimes lying to oneself, didn’t work. He hadn’t returned to his own world at all. Pole would have to get along without him a little longer.

The sun should’ve been close to setting, but it hung there in the same spot giving everything a reddish glow. A constant twilight. At some point, he must have exited one fragment and entered another. Whatever else he could say of the pair, and he had a bit to say, they were powerful. Mind-numbingly annoying, but powerful.

A weird sound startled him, and he spun.

The earth erupted beneath his feet, hurling him aside to land with a thump. If he’d been a breather, the impact would’ve incapacitated him.

Horrible screeches as twin monstrosities rose in a fountain of rock and dirt. Without thought, Threadfin reached out to drain their lives, and found nothing. It was becoming a bad habit. His reserves were almost gone, but he had little choice. He threw everything he had left at the monsters.

Spears of magic shot from his hands to lance through the nearest creature. With no effect. Well, he thought, that’s everything. For half a second, he considered his options, but got to his feet and ran. Better than lying to oneself when in a tight spot, was running.

He fled through the dead forest, hoping to lose them. Threadfin hated big and nasty more than riddles. Why couldn’t they be small and slightly hostile? Or medium sized with a chip on their shoulder? Always big and Grim-damned nasty. He discovered within him a new appreciation for Nipper. Will never complain about the little runt again. Might be nasty looking but at least he’s small. Strange the thoughts running through a shrivelled brain when one was about to be eaten.

Closing fast, his pursuers heaved slender boles to the earth with a shrieking and snap of wood. The monstrosities crashed through the forest as others attempted to flank him. These burst up through the ground in a shower of dry earth and dead leaves. He sped past, round jaws snapping in his wake.

Big and nasty with lots of teeth. Somebody somewhere doesn’t like me. I’m certain of it. What did I ever do? He could hear Tezcat rattling off a list and felt like grinning. The whole situation, like always, was ridiculous.

At times, the creatures slithered across the lifeless earth. Others, producing six, eight or twenty legs – producing as in, they didn’t have them a moment earlier – bounded after him, sword-like tails thrashing the air. They had broad snouts and bony skulls, which they used whenever a tree got in the way. Their teeth gleamed, but he saw no eyes in those heads.

He stumbled over thick roots, landing hard in a shower of dust and needles. He counted at least half a dozen pursuers. Too many, too close. He pushed himself to his knees, cursing. They’d already gained in the short time it took to get up.

One creature managed to get ahead. It leapt into view, numerous hooved feet thumping the earth, raising a veil of dust. Its legs slithered like boneless appendages up into the trunk of its body, which landed with a thump. The serpent slid closer, jaws opening.

Threadfin heard the rest approaching behind, with two from either side. He needed something living to draw on. The nearest one opened its circular jaws to reveal concentric rows of jagged inward pointing teeth.

He drew his weapons, prepared to go down fighting. Great, he thought, down the Grim’s hairy old gullet I go. I’ll be damned if I don’t make the bastard choke. What was the point of being a mage if he couldn’t use magic?

The creature in front of him shrieked. Its body shuddered, and it crumpled to the left. A spear was sticking out of its side. Shrieks, as projectiles struck the others.

Figures, with faces hidden, bounded between the serpents. The strangers stabbed with nine-foot spears. The creatures snapped at the weapons. None appeared fatally wounded but they withdrew.

One of Threadfin’s rescuers approached, placing a spearhead close to his neck. It had a serrated edge. Others flanked him.

‘You know,’ said the mage, ‘I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t have bothered coming. This place has a real attitude problem. Can’t be doing much for the local economy, I’d imagine, treating visitors like this. I mean, can’t one harmless undead mage get from point A to point F in peace, not to mention in one piece?’

‘Who are you?’ asked a muffled voice. The short person before him wore a metallic face mask and headgear, revealing white eyes through the slits. He wore leather clothing and boots. All light tan-brown. He also wore several long blades and some type of sword.

‘It depends,’ Threadfin answered with a smile, ‘on who you are. Rude to demand my name without offering yours, but why am I surprised? Breathers never have respect for the undead.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Exactly my point.’ The spear’s blade was millimetres from his face. He bristled at their interrogation of him. ‘Oh, fine, I’m the Grim himself. You know, nasty evil turd who cooks and eats children, and drags away women in the dead of night to do the Spectrum above knows what. You got anything to eat? You know, meat?’

The thought he might try a less antagonising approach had occurred. He ignored it. All he’d wanted to do was get to Tiral. If what Manic and Mania told him was true, it appeared Tiral was redundant. Had Astra known this would happen?

‘It’s him,’ cried one of his rescuers, who approached the first. This one was much taller than the others. ‘Lower your weapon,’ he ordered, and gave the man a cuff across the head. ‘How many virals you met lately?’

‘Quite a few if you must know,’ answered the first, hurt in his voice.

‘On two legs, talking too much about nothing?’

‘Hey!’ said Threadfin.

‘You certain, Ash?’

‘I’m telling you, it’s him.’

‘Wait, wait,’ said Threadfin, catching on. ‘Those things before, they were ...’

Both ignored him, as the first argued his point. ‘He never said nothing about no horns or whatever those things are on his face. He looks like some sort of screwed-up lizard thingy. Not how he described him, Asher.’

The taller one, Asher, shrugged.

Threadfin touched the small bony projections on his forehead. A screwed-up lizard, eh? ‘Are you lot going to kill me? I’ll warn you, it’s not easy.’ Tentatively, he reached out for their lives but hesitated. Killing breathers had, at one time, seemed easy. His perspective on such matters had changed. Besides, they hadn’t harmed him. In fact, they’d saved him.

‘We bring him with us,’ said Asher. ‘We move without rest,’ he added glancing at the sky as though expecting an aerial attack. Two of the others shoved their prisoner ahead. The viral mage grinned, and thanked them for their hospitality. What a wonderful place and such lovely guides. Any advice on which sights he should visit first? What were the best taverns, brothels? Any local undead girls they might introduce him to? He didn’t mind if they were missing bits. Added to the experience.

Despite his bravado, inside he was worried. Who were they and how did they know him? His suspicions grew about who he was to meet too. He kept a wary eye on the sky. He prayed those serpent things didn’t produce wings like they did legs. He spotted two specks in the blood-red sky, whirling in a slow pattern, and groaned.

i

The rider dismounted from the beast. Its snake-like tail whipped back and forth as the rider patted its scale-covered flank. An affectation from the prisoner’s reflection, and perhaps others. The beast’s head with its single horn turned to regard it, opening its jaws to reveal iron-like teeth.

‘You’re too late,’ the Fetch said, as it turned from its mount.

The figure blocking the road through the ruined city was tall, and strong. She also possessed horns down her back, and across the shoulders.

The Torment female, Striga, said nothing. She held a broad sword in her right hand. For one about to die, she looked at ease. Such bravado was common among Torments. Arrogance unto excess.

‘You are lost to us,’ said the Grim’s servant stepping forwards, its heavy cloak flapping in the light wind. It regarded her, considering her a nuisance. ‘You think you have the power to destroy me?’

‘I will not hurt you, Ralan,’ she said at last. ‘I will stop you.’

The Fetch strode forward with quick strides, ‘Oh, you misunderstand. I am not him.’

Striga offered up a vicious smile. ‘I was not talking to you. You, I will chop into pieces.’ She spat.

‘And how will you achieve this without killing him?’ Its power exploded in a controlled burst. Black lightning lashed its target in thumping explosions and eruptions of earth.

Striga had raised her sword in time, diffusing the attack. The weapon shone with dark fire, the ground about her feet shredded, and blackened. The Torment growled, and charged the remaining distance. To any other opponent, she would have been formidable, a body of pale muscle and horns, a beautiful nightmare. To the Fetch, she was an insect.

It made a small gesture with its right hand, and flung her aside. Her body crushed against weathered stone. The wall cracked, and much of what remained of the ruin crumbled inwards. ‘You no longer serve our master. This makes you weak. He does not grant you, his blessing. This makes you weak. You think with a heart once mortal. This makes you weak.’

Striga attempted to rise. Alas, Torments were not easy to kill. Another gesture brought lightning and a second wall tumbled over her.

It returned to its mount and continued through the abandoned kobold city, striking north. Within the Styx there was but one direction. It made finding its prey easier. A pity the master did not wish to kill this one. Perhaps he would change his mind once he held the Shathra Stone. Yes, it would force the human to hand it over, and it would play with her. It liked to play.

Lost in delicious thoughts, it did not see the next attack coming. Magic lashed earth and sky. The creature beneath it stumbled, and the Fetch tumbled to the ground. It rose slowly, and turned back to face its enemy. Buildings groaned and collapsed as it battled the indomitable Striga. It was impressed and pleased with her resilience. It would savour her defeat. Their master would not be pleased, but the power of Tartaros was anarchy, not order. So, it was with those who wielded it.

Striga pounded it with magic and sword. However, its flesh was a composite of reflections. Thrice, it hurled her afar, and thrice, she returned more broken but determined. Finally, after a dozen more attacks, it defeated her, flinging her battered body aside. Love for the prisoner, the unwillingness to do too much damage had made her, weak.

Deep within, the prisoner’s mind stirred, bound by otherworldly chains. Ralan cried out in anguish and horror. He wept, but the Fetch was too busy to hear. It needed to regenerate, to repair the damage the Torment had inflicted, reflections or no. It needed to feed upon the souls of the faithful, the most sustaining of all. It needed to see to their gathering in the mortal city of Shamar.