Raiten

  We’re almost out of the marshes when the fourth ambush occurs. It’s a matter of time really—almost a relief that it happens now. I hate waiting. The skulking in the shadows. I’d rather be stabbed in the front than the back.

  Zyla points all around us when her eyes roll up. We ready ourselves, making a sort of diamond formation that Saegor taught us. One person to cover each point of the diamond. Despite being a…weird bastard, he’s certainly got a knack for tactics. The diamond allows us to converge on any enemy attacking our flanks. Envelop them. He apparently “stole the tactic from across the sea”—whatever that means.

  I wrap and unwrap the whip around my wrist, constricting my blood flow. Bad tic, but it oddly grounds me—helps me focus. Kiren watches the rear, his kusarigama drooping along the mud. Zyla doesn’t summon her aether wolf this time—instead, from the essence she expels, comes three elemental blood raven spirits: one of wind, another of ice, the last of fire. They differ from their normal cousins by their crimson beaks and, more importantly, their size: they’re as big as wyvern babes.

  One of the ravens, the wind spirit one, digs its claws into Zyla’s back.

  Confused, I almost yell out a warning to Saegor and Kiren. But, they pay no attention to what Zyla is doing. Meaning, this is normal.

  The raven flaps its wings and, with all its heft, lifts Zyla into the air.

  The other two ravens—the ones of fire and ice—caw and circle around her.

  And thus, we have a vanguard.

  Last is Saegor. Good old, one-eyed Saegor, who yawns behind me while aiming his hand laxly at the western patch of briar trees.

  Umbrahorn pops up next to me. His beady black eyes track Zyla in the air.

  “Jealous?” I ask.

  “Please. What need would a great spirit like me have for flight? That is simply preposterous.”

  “Whatever you say,” I mutter, eyes still roving the shadowed marshes. There’s no humor in my voice. I know, just as well as everyone else, that one stupid mistake with the plagued spells our end.

  But does it spell your end?

  Would the disease outpace your regeneration? Or, would your curse fight it off?

  I pull the whip taut around my wrist, turn the skin pale. Stupid questions. Just don’t get infected and you won’t have to find out.

  The forest begins to shake. The ground thunders. Blue birds and white moths take flight from the trees, swirling up through the gaps of the canopy and eliciting a rain of crisp leaves.

  Finally, Kiren spots the first one. When he calls out a warning, I glance over. My stomach drops. Children are bad enough.

  But this…

  “Raiten, I know you have your own vengeance. But you better slaughter that witch as well. You hear me?” Umbrahorn growls.

  I gave him the slightest of nods.

  And suddenly, a new black sun scorches that river in my mind.

  If she’s doing this to make me angry, to show me the consequences of my actions in my dreamscape…

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  Whatever the petty reason might be, there. Are. Limits.

  The monsters we’ve seen thus far are children who sprout alien appendages from their backs. Two days ago, we saw an adult with a similar affliction—though half-formed and weaker than the children.

  This thing is different.

  Thumping through the forest comes a roiling mass of wailing, crying, screaming infants. Some look like they came out the womb too early—others, too late. They are all attached by fleshy strings and tubing—similar almost, to that rat crown that Thraevirula dawned when she fought Hui. Or, as I later learned when I asked Saegor about it, it is called a “rat king”: a congress of entangled limbs and tails, which often results in the deaths of rats unlucky enough to take part in it.

  This is somehow worse.

  There must be hundreds of infants. They are of varying races, no doubt scoured from all corners of this wretched continent. I wonder what went through Thraevirula’s mind when she constructed this abomination.

  No matter how inhuman, who could construct…this?

  Black worms wriggle out the mouths of some of the babies. Little black ticks suckle on their cheeks. Hundreds of insectoid legs rake their mass across the briars, careening them towards us.

  And as they get closer, as Saegor, Umbrahorn, and I prepare to envelope them while Zyla watches the vanguard (where even more thumping can be heard), I can finally discern that they are not, in fact, crying out in pain nor sorrow.

  No, they are crying out names.

  Two names in particular.

  The right half calls out, in mocking tones, “Saegor! Saegor!”

  The left—more worm colonized—half of the mass roars out “RAITEN! RAITEN! RAITEN!”

  And I know then that this thing is made for me.

  Made because I subjected the witch to my own nightmares. This is her payback.

  I slot the whip back into my belt.

  Saegor will burn them. Probably take them apart afterwards, like he’s been doing recently.

  But I won’t let them die like that.

  “Raiten, what are you doing?!?” Umbrahorn hisses. But, when he sees me reach for the sack on my belt, he sighs and turns towards Saegor and Kiren. “Back away.”

  “What do you mean spirit? They’re upon us! It’s about to get interesting!” Saegor exclaims, all giddy and practically drooling.

  Then he looks over at me. Sees the amulet in my hand.

  “Are you sure you want to—”

  “Listen to Umbrahorn,” I tell both of them. Then, I step in front of Kiren. Notice his worried glance.

  I forget that they haven’t seen me use these yet.

  Well, I’ll be quick about it.

  I crush the amulet in my hands. Red essence, like particles of dust, scatters from the broken metal. Then, it seeps into me, through my pores, my body, my skin.

  The babies stop chanting Saegor’s name. Start only chanting mine. Louder, and louder, and louder.

  “RAITEN!”

  “RAITEN!”

  “RAITEN!”

  An endless beat.

  Red lightning coalesces around me, forms a bubble of rage and thundering death. The Mancer Troop backs away further. Staring.

  I aim my hand towards the mass of infants. Twenty feet. Ten.

  Five.

  Later, I will no doubt tell myself that I delay their fate because I’m charging a blast. Which is partially true. But, in reality?

  I’m a coward.

  That much is proven when I turn my head away and close my eyes. Then, from my hand, a great bolt of crimson streaks out.

  And the screaming stops.

  Seconds later, the familiar crackling of thunder echoes throughout the briars.

  When I open my eyes, it's to see the awed faces of Kiren and even Zyla, whose gaze meets mine for a brief moment.

  Saegor just smirks.

  I look towards our other enemies. Thankfully, these are just the child ones, raking their way towards Zyla.

  Thankfully?

  I chuckle darkly to myself. I’m going to murder that witch.

  I swear it.

  I take one last look at Kiren before zooming toward the vanguard.

  Since I’ve wasted an amulet, I might as well make the most of it.