The kind of partners who spend time naked together. Gyre smiled at her description. Is that what we are?
Eventually, he fell asleep. In the morning, Naumoriel led them past the junction of the nameless river with another, and they clambered over a field of rocks to enter a valley, now moving upstream. Not long after, it became clear to Gyre that their real journey had only just started.
*
“Duck!” Kit shouted.
Gyre threw himself flat. A blaster bolt crackled overhead, detonating against a looming plaguespawn the size of a bear. The explosion tore off a long limb, halfway between an arm and a tentacle, which held one of the soldier-constructs in a death grip. Another pair of constructs hacked at the thing from behind, severing enough of its many legs that it toppled sideways with a wet-sounding bellow.
One down. There had been two of the giants in the horde of bone-and-muscle monstrosities, standing out among their smaller brethren like boulders in a sea of pebbles. Gyre had never seen a plaguespawn that large, nor had he ever heard of the things attacking in vast packs. Since they’d passed into the hidden valley, all the usual rules had apparently gone out the window.
This stretch of riverbank was a mass of struggling constructs and plaguespawn, two sets of inhuman creatures animated by dhaka striving to tear each other to pieces. The constructs were bigger and stronger, with stone-and-metal plating covered in spikes and blades, and individually they were more than a match for the haphazard monsters. But there were so many plaguespawn, dozens of smaller creatures backed up by a few of the larger varieties, including these latest monsters taller than Gyre. Four times so far the wave of fleshy things had descended on them, and four times they’d fought their way free, but the constructs were falling one by one, pulled down like lions fighting packs of dogs.
This fifth attack was the worst yet. At first, Gyre had barely had to draw his sword. Now he and Kit fought for their lives alongside Naumoriel and his inhuman creations.
Naumoriel himself, in his enormous war-construct, grappled with the second giant plaguespawn. One of his claw-arms had sliced deep into its body, but the thing had thrown several other limbs around it, and the ghoul couldn’t get free. His other claw snapped and dodged, keeping back a dozen reaching tendrils trying to pry open his canopy.
Fucking plaguefire. Gyre concentrated and felt the click from his skull. The energy bottle at his side grew warm, and the struggling constructs were wreathed in layers of shadow. The silver sword buzzed in his hand, and he sprinted toward Naumoriel with long, loping strides.
There were a dozen smaller plaguespawn separating them. A construct was dogpiled under three of them, struggling to rise. Gyre fell on them like a whirlwind, his sword lashing out on neatly plotted trajectories to intersect the monsters’ makeshift bodies with maximum violence. One of the three came apart at one blow, separated into two shuddering halves, and the second lurched away missing most of its inside-out head. The third swung at him with broad claws, but Gyre felt like he had all the time in the world to duck under them, shadows passing over his head. He thrust his sword up into the thing’s guts, then twisted it to let stolen viscera gush out.
More of them came at him, two or three together, working side by side with unnatural coordination. Only his speed and the shadows projected by his silver eye kept him safe, while the ghoul blade he wielded was sharper and lighter than it had any right to be. He left wreckage in his wake as he closed in on the remaining giant.
One of the larger stone-constructs stumbled in front of him, crushing a struggling plaguespawn between its outstretched hands. Gyre swarmed up it, gripping its rocky surface with his free hand and pulling himself onto its shoulders. From there, without pausing, he leapt for the plaguespawn’s back, sword outthrust to make a handhold. For a moment he hung there, the thing’s muscle shifting and rubbery under his fingers. Then he started to climb, boots slipping, using his sword to brace himself. By the time he got to the top of the thing, its tentacles were reaching for him. He dropped into a crouch and intercepted them, one by one, drawing a neat line across their shadow-path and sending them spinning away.
Free of the need to defend itself, Naumoriel’s construct gathered its strength and went on the offensive, giving the plaguespawn a shove that nearly sent Gyre toppling off. As it staggered, the construct thrust its other clawed arm into the core of the thing, blades cutting into a massive clutch of eyes. Black blood gushed forth, and the plaguespawn weaved drunkenly, its legs spasming. Gyre jumped clear, hit the ground in a roll, and popped back up, looking for his next opponent, only to find none remaining.
“Kit!” He looked around for the familiar shock of blue hair. “Kit, are you all right?”
Finally he spotted her, one arm waving to him from the other side of a downed construct. Gyre sheathed his sword and switched off his augmented perception with a click. A glance at his energy bottle showed that it was nearly empty—he’d brought four with him, and this was the second he’d exhausted in these fights.
He found Kit with her saber laid across her knees, back to the construct’s mutilated body, breathing hard. She was covered in blood, both black and alarmingly red, the latter coming from a slash across her midsection and another on her biceps.
“Chosen defend,” Gyre said, kneeling to help her. “Can you stand?”
“Yeah.” She waved her free hand vaguely, panting. “Not as bad as it looks. Just. Winded.” She touched her stomach and winced, her fingers coming away sticky. “Ow.”
“Hang on.” Gyre bent closer, peering at the wound. “That needs stitching and quickheal, at least.”
“Not sure our taskmaster will give us the time.” Kit nodded at Naumoriel’s war-construct, which had shaken itself free of the dying plaguespawn. Other constructs, in obedience to his silent instructions, were forming up, ready to continue the march.
“Plague that.” Gyre took Kit’s hand and pulled her to her feet, sending a fresh wash of blood into her already sodden shirt. They walked together over to Naumoriel. “Hey!” Gyre said.
“Humans,” Naumoriel’s distorted voice answered. “We proceed up the valley.”
“Kit’s hurt,” Gyre said. “She needs to rest. Plague, I need to rest.”
“We have no time.” One smaller arm waved at the assembled constructs. There were less than a dozen left. “Our forces are depleted. The plaguespawn will return. We must reach the head of the valley. If she cannot continue, leave her.”
“No,” Gyre said. “She comes with us. You promised you’d help her, once we finish this.”
“If we delay, none of us will survive.”
Gyre thought of the remote trigger, buried in his pack, and gritted his teeth. “Then, do something about it!”
The canopy opened. The construct’s two smaller arms reached in and brought Naumoriel down to ground level, holding him face-to-face with Gyre.
“There is a limit,” the old ghoul said, “to the insolence I will tolerate from your kind.”
“You’re welcome to leave me behind, too,” Gyre said. “But you won’t, will you?” He tapped the brow above his silver eye. “You gave me this because you knew we’d need it to get here.”
“Do not overestimate your importance. I was merely determined to make use of every available resource.” He sighed. “However, given our depleted state, I cannot deny your contribution. Here.”