THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM

  600

  Albus doubled over, panting from the effort. “We good?”

  Sula stepped on Wilhelm’s face for leverage, pulling the instrument out of his comrade’s chest. The Backbreaker gasped, returned from death’s edge. “Never better.”

  “Good. How many lives has he got left, Sully?”

  “Two,” translated the mercenary, fingers working inside one of the pits. The instrument released a ghastly wail. “One if she has to squirt out another big one.”

  “Dammit, Sully!” Wilhem asked. “Tell your girlfriend to give back my other arm!”

  “My instrument will do no such thing, spiller Wilhelm. That monster’s poison claimed our arms. Fallopia is quite territorial when it comes to other women, so we must blame ourselves for being molested.”

  Wilhelm grimaced. “If I don’t get to wear my other gauntlet again, I’m killin’ the both of you and puttin’ my manhood in every single one of its holes. You hear me?”

  “Relax, boys. There’ll be plenty of hole-fillin’ after we’re rich. But for now, let’s focus on some barrier-breakin’ and monster-killin’, yeah?”

  Beauty of the Feast lay within a pile of the mercenary’s broken bones and rotting flesh. As the bones snapped into place, Saint slipped the steel man’s gauntlet over the shadespawn’s right hand.

  The armour shrank to the appropriate size.

  Backbreaker and the cultist charged into the square with Albus trailing behind them.

  Cynzen Sula broke ahead.

  His cleaver tore through skin and shattered bone, severing the shadespawn’s other arm before it had the time to recover. Wilhelm’s reinforced boot sent the limb flying.

  Goodhall’s corpse kicked up off the ground. It wiped black blood off its lips, paying no mind to the gauntlet. “I didn’t expect that kind of attack from a fatty invalid.”

  Here on the cobbled path, the distance between the walls was wide. Perfect for keeping a distance while applying pressure to the enemy.

  Wilhelm and Sula circled the beast, primed for a sudden movement to kick off the second round. Albus cut off the escape, blocking the street where the battle began. And Saint did the same for the path into the square. So far, this was going according to his plan.

  The escapee didn’t move a muscle.

  The three main combatants in this brawl were severely, but not equally, crippled. Beauty of the Feast, as it called itself, was a terror through and through. Not only was it somewhat intelligent, but it was also experienced and familiar with their best fighter’s instrument. Then there was the Black Hand poison coursing through its veins and its ability to dismiss any injury.

  All this while using a non-combatant’s corpse.

  Besting this shade in combat was impossible, frankly speaking. And if it could control another corpse, then letting it kill Wilhelm or Sula was a welcome to the end.

  Thankfully, a battle wasn’t their intention.

  With a whistle from the red giant, the buckler at its feet enlarged again, sweeping the monster’s legs.

  Sula seized the opportunity, aiming for the corpse’s exposed back as it stumbled.

  Beauty twisted mid-fall, one hand shooting out to block the blade. The gauntlet scraped against bone, redirecting the strike. The Teardrop Cleaver bit into stone, creating a shower of sparks.

  Wilhelm’s fist broke through the shower, seeking to meet the shade’s ribs.

  Goodhall’s shoulder dislocated, meeting the gauntlet with its own.

  Albus pressed the advantage, shield up, trying to drive the off-balance shade backwards. Beauty planted one foot, stopped its forward momentum, then shoved. The force sent the red giant stumbling back several steps.

  All three attacks were woefully insignificant.

  The corpse rose to its full height, that terrible smile still stretched across its face. It looked from Wilhelm to Sula to Albus, shaking its head.

  Then it abandoned any pretence of dragging this on.

  Albus was first. He raised his shield, but the instrument offered no resistance. A wooden base and the Slacksteel holding it together shattered. The monster’s fist turned his defence into shards that tore his cuirass open.

  Grimy fingernails drove into the gap, drawing five bloody lines across his belly before sinking knuckles into his gut, sending him flying.

  Sula’s pitted blade glowed red. He swept it five times.

  Beauty shot forth, sidestepping the first bloody wave. It slid under the second and third. The fourth went awry. And the fifth, it punched directly through, slamming into the wide-eyed cultist’s face with its unbroken momentum.

  Now for the last one—

  Beauty staggered, hand rising to its throat.

  A cough from the corpse's mouth. Another. Then another. Each one came with a cloud of debris, sounding dry and muffled, as if submerged under a mound of dirt. It doubled over, clawing at its chest. The shade doubled over, clawing at its chest.

  There was movement beneath the stolen flesh, pushing outward like living things seeking light. Green leaves spilt out of breathless hack, jagged bark bursting through sunken cheek.

  The shade's eyes went wide, no longer smiling.

  Wanting to flee, it looked down at its feet in horror, where roots had punctured its soles and dug firmly into the sand. Then, it looked ahead, where the final mercenary slung his instrument over his shoulder.

  Beauty of the Feast growled.

  Moreso than the cleaver, The Backbreaker’s red lumberman’s axe carried a disgusting scent to this particular shadespawn. “I hate using this damn thing,” Wilhelm muttered under his breath. What kind of axe makes plants grow? “Never been much of a tree hugger, but a little birdy told me that dead bodies make good fertiliser.”

  A verdant plague spreading beneath the skin. Bones turned to dry bark. Tendons to sticky sap. Each vine that burrowed drew forth a keening wail. And every root, locking it in place.

  Beauty of the Feast clicked its tongue. “How embarrassing.”

  The Black Hand poison hissed inside its veins, heralding the power of death. Pioneer roots curled and blackened at the tip, disgusted by the contents of their soil. Goodhall’s bones shed their bark, revealing stained black ribs through the shadespawn’s wounds.

  Wilhelm's head turned but a heartbeat too late.

  Wrapped around the hand of the undead shade, his precious gauntlet, Primrose, kissed her daddy on the jaw. She’d never been the gentle type. It was a devastating blow. A brutal, blooming crack.

  Skipped stone across still surface—the Backbreaker tumbled across the sands, into the base of an ivory pillar. Twitching. Groaning. Dazed.

  The monster threw back Goodhall’s head.

  There were many layers of laughter beneath a single stolen tongue.

  A sharp whistle broke through the creature’s show of glee. “Hey!”

  Saint observed the shade. His life depended on what happened next.

  It sniffed the air twice, confirming two of his suspicions at once.

  Depending on the environmental factors, the decomposition of organic matter can

  take days or even weeks. But in a place like the Forsaken Land of the Gods, devoid of life and without a sun to warm the air, it should take months, if possible, for a thorough decomposition.

  After three days, Cedrick Goodhall was an ecosystem of decomposers.

  Pitted, green flesh held together at the seams by thick, juicy threads of burrowing maggots. Flies buzzing around its head, stench sunken into scheming hands that pitched and went as they pleased. Extensions of a humid air that wafted first around bends when the beast itself was three and a marathon’s sprint away.

  According to its boasts, the shadespawn's abilities invoked the power of rot. And rot followed a procedure. First came the soft tissue—tendons, nerves, ligaments. And most importantly, the eyes.

  It sniffed another time, pinpointing his location, then turned.

  Cedrick Goodhall's eye sockets had remained empty through every regeneration. Which meant the shade was either incapable of bringing them back or had no need of them.

  “There you are, my little emperor,” moaned the disgusting thing. “If I’d known you were coming to rescue me from these brutes, I would have let them rough me up.”

  “Stop attacking them,” Saint responded, voice cracking with grief.“What are you saying, my prince? I’m your woman, and these men attacked me first.”"They weren't attacking you, sweet. These men are my servants. They’ve come bearing news on my behalf.”

  Beauty tilted Goodhall’s head. "What news?"

  “Earlier, you asked me to be your prince. Well, I wasn’t going to do it at first, but watching you fight these past few days has changed the way I look at you. You see, I’ve always had a thing for strong women. Therefore, I accept your proposal. My hand is yours, if you prove worthy of taking it."

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  Saint sprinted toward the plaza.

  “Really? Oh, that’s wonderful!” Beauty squealed and stomped her feet rapidly in place, elbow tucked tight against its stomach, a mercenary’s corpse bouncing with pure girlish delight.

  Unfortunately, he underestimated the creature’s desire.

  “Wait.”

  It stopped. A purple glow warmed its eye sockets. "What kind of man makes the lady propose? Get back here and get on your knees, Loverboy!"

  The sand cratered under its feet.

  Saint left the ground entirely. A powerful suction swept him up.

  There was no resisting it. The monster’s pull was absolute. A swirling vortex of hunger and decay that became a sandstorm in the empty street.

  The shade grew larger in his vision. One arm outstretched for a wide embrace.

  A metallic glint rose over rooftops, chopping through the air.

  The Apothecary’s Axe, the instrument originally belonging to Cedrick Goodhall, spun end over end in an eager return.

  Saint dug his heel into the sand to buy himself an extra second.

  It was all he needed to survive.

  The axe severed the creature’s arm at the shoulder. And with it, the vortex. Goodhall’s limb fell away, still reaching. Its suction cut off instantly. And Saint was running before his legs touched the ground.

  He sprinted toward the plaza, bare feet kicking up sand.

  Before him, there was the watchtower.

  Inside, a coward sobbed, curled up with riches untold. Its pinnacle rose to meet the heavens, dark against a darker sky, save for a single streak tearing through the heavens.

  Behind him, a monster shrieked.

  The severed arm dragged itself across the sand, crawling back to the whole. Maggots emerged from their fleshy burrows, sewing it back to the stump.

  “I said get back here!” Beauty gave chase immediately, the corpse moving with unnatural speed.

  “Didn’t I tell ya, baby?” The ugly one stepped into her path, Priscilla raised. “You’re mine.”

  “Step aside!”

  Primrose crashed into him with terrible force, driving him backwards across the path, but those few seconds were bought.

  “Die!”

  Another large blood wave shot down the path, illuminating the street in crimson light.

  Beauty slid underneath, ignoring the weapon and the one who wielded it, eyes fixed on the fleeing figure. Her emperor was the prize. He was the only one who mattered. The others were merely obstacles, annoyances to be swatted aside.

  Albus struck from behind, his sword biting into the shade's leg.

  Beauty whirled on the fat one, metal claws raking across his chest.

  Saint kept running.

  The mercenaries were buying him time with their blood and bone, each strike another second closer to survival.

  Finally, he passed through the archway that led into the plaza.

  Beauty did the same, closing the distance with terrible speed. “Where’s my ring?!”

  "Oh, Odeyyyy!"

  Inside the watchtower, Oedipus jolted at the commotion.

  The Peeping Tom poked his head out of his cage.

  Three mercenaries poured into the plaza behind the shadespawn.

  Wilhelm was first, his metal gauntlet gleaming violently despite the blood seeping through his leather armour. Sula came next, clutching his side. Albus stumbled in last, one hand pressed to the wounds across his chest.

  He raised his gauntleted fist and grinned through the pain. "We got something for ya! She ain't a thicky like your sissy, but she can suck the soul out of a ginger’s…!”

  Beauty lunged at her prince. “On your knees, or I'll break them!”

  Saint pressed his body up against the barrier, narrowly avoiding its embrace.

  The Backbreaker inserted himself between them. She wheeled around and came face-to-face with the ugly loudmouth. “Sorry, little missy! You can’t have the dreamer’s butt-buddy. Not even for a little kissy.”

  Wilhelm puckered his lips.

  “Now!” Saint dodged to the side.

  Wilhelm put his back into it.

  He sacrificed his arm for this, so he had no choice but to make it count. The mercenary lowered his stance, turning at the hip with the monster’s blow. Beauty’s fist whizzed past his head.

  Together, a pair of bloody gauntlets slammed into the barrier.

  Prim and Priscilla, the steel man gauntlets stolen from his teacher, ground against the unseen wall. Red sparks flared out from the point of impact.

  Saint held his breath.

  This should work. While this barrier was stronger than the one he experimented on, Beauty and the Backbreaker were stronger than Albus. The sparks intensified, spreading across the barrier's surface like cracks in ice.

  Wilhelm grunted, pushing harder, his single arm trembling with the effort.

  Sula threw his weapon into the watchtower, bringing a wail that penetrated their minds. Wilhelm remembered losing his eye to the little brat. Old grudges turned fresh in Beauty’s memory. Sure, it still wanted its prince, but right now, it wanted to shatter that pitted blade more than anything.

  The gauntlets ground against the wall with renewed force.

  Beauty shrieked and threw herself against the barrier, clawing with desperate fury.

  The invisible wall groaned under their assault.

  Still, the barrier wouldn’t shatter.

  A deep humming emanated from the base, telling them just that: I will protect this place in the absence of my creators. I didn’t break for aeons after their disappearance. So, I’m not going to break now.

  Saint realised how na?ve he was in his assumption.

  This was the construct of a civilisation advanced beyond the present age.

  Of course, it wouldn’t shatter at full power.

  It wasn’t made to shatter.

  It never shattered before.

  So why would it do so, now?

  The barrier didn’t shatter.

  But it flickered.

  For a heartbeat, the shimmering wall vanished.

  Saint moved forward instantly.

  He slipped through the gap, most of his body through the entrance.

  Thoughts of the next step flooded his mind at the first sign of victory.

  Once he took the control mechanism from the mercenary, he would take what the kid wanted to find here, wait at the top for the shadespawn to slaughter the other mercenaries, lure it into the watchtower and kill it using the control mechanism, then loot the antidote from the big one’s body.

  Then, the procession would continue its journey to the centre of the Forsaken Lands.

  However, the mercenary’s hand shot out and clamped onto his shoulder.

  Wilhelm hauled him back.

  He slipped into the watchtower while the beast and his comrades were dazed, the barrier closing the entrance behind him.

  "Spiller Wilhelm!" Sula’s voice cut through the plaza.

  Beauty staggered away from the barrier, purple light dimming in its eye sockets as it shook its head, disoriented from the barrier’s backlash.

  Mouth agape, Albus stared at the closed barrier.

  He saw his comrade’s figure climbing the stairs.

  Moments later, Oedipus stumbled out of the watchtower.

  He scrambled away and climbed onto a horizontal beam jutting from the tower's side. "Please! Please, I'll give you the control mechanism! I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Wilhelm sauntered out after him. "Too late for that."

  "Wilhelm!"

  “Save it! Still can’t believe you tried to sell out the old backbreaker, Odey! After all we been through?”

  "I’m—"

  "Did you touch it?" He asked in a conversational tone, forcing the man to the very edge.

  "Touch what, sir?”

  “Oh, don’t play dumb with me.” He lifted the man by his throat. “I know you didn’t stab me in the back just to look at it.” He pulled the traitor’s face close, assaulting him with hot breath. “‘Cause if you did, that’d make me mad. Real mad.”

  A distant buzzing mixed in with the background.

  "What'd it feel like, Odey? Better than Odette?"

  Oedipus’s eyes watered, feet dangling over empty air. "I didn't—that's not—"

  "No matter." Wilhelm's grin was cruel. "It'll be mine soon, any-."

  The mercenary stopped.

  The Backbreaker’s mouth remained open, frozen mid-sentence. His gauntleted hand still gripped Oedipus's throat, but the fingers weren’t moving at all.

  Oedipus blinked, confused.

  His breath continued to escape him, but his attacker was petrified in his place.

  In the plaza below, the other mercenaries echoed his bewilderment.

  Albus threw one of his boots. “Damn it, Willy! If you’re gonna kill the bastard, then do it!”

  The buzzing was louder now. Almost deafening.

  Wilhelm's eyes shifted to the side, straining to see what was coming, but his head wouldn't turn. His body refused every command he gave it.

  Oedipus managed a strangled sound in his throat.

  An insect the size of the larger boulder brother crested the rooftops. At the speed it was travelling, it was a blur of chitin and wing. Its body shimmered with a sickly sheen, carapace painted in dried blood and dim light. Each beat of its wings sent another wave of sound skittering through the city.

  On its back, a determined rider was gripping the antennae like reins—forcing the creature’s direction.

  His head was fixed on the tower below, gaze locked onto the two men who’d just stepped beyond the safety of the barrier.

  And when the creature saw them, when it laid compound eyes on the two exposed sacks of meat, it stopped resisting.

  The insect's wings snapped inward.

  Its serrated mandibles opened wide.

  The Essaifame slammed into the beam, jaws closing around both men, chitinous blades grinding flesh, bone and wood.