‘Go, get between it and those idiots,’ said Vintage. She had her crossbow in her hands, and was letting her fingers fit a new quarrel. She didn’t take her eyes from the parasite spirit. ‘If we can drive it back outside of the village, perhaps we can get a proper look at it.’
But it was too late. As they arrived, the spirit was bending down over the hapless Fera, who was still thrusting his pitchfork at it. Long tapered fingers closed over him – Vintage was struck briefly by how it looked like a child peering at a new bug on the ground – and then Fera was falling apart. He screamed as his body was unzipped, and Vintage saw a gout of blood and other fluids hit the dirt. The long transparent fingers were still moving though, and her stomach twisted as the man’s skin rolled back like a carpet being peeled away from a floor.
‘Damn it all.’ She raised her crossbow, already knowing it was pointless. ‘Ahoy! Lanky!’
She squeezed the trigger and one of her specially crafted quarrels sank home into the parasite spirit’s uncertain flesh. It looked up, taking notice of them for the first time – as well it might. Each of Vintage’s quarrels was tipped with shards of winnow-forged steel. Priceless, every single one. Inside the blurred glass of the creature’s flesh, the quarrel grew faint, and then seemed to disintegrate, but the place where it had entered was a small blackened hole.
‘Well, I think you have its attention.’ Tor stepped up next to her, his handsome face creased with distaste. ‘My undying gratitude, Lady de Grazon.’
‘Shut up. See if you can push it back into the forest.’
He shot a look at her.
‘Are you out of your mind? It just killed someone. The poor bastard’s entrails are currently staining my boots.’
‘Do as you’re told.’
For a wonder, he did. Stepping lightly forward, Tor swept the long straight blade of his sword in front of him, directly challenging the parasite spirit. He didn’t make contact, but the spirit took two large steps backwards, its focus on the blade. It knew what it was now.
Vintage stared at its face, for want of a better word. There were four circular white lights, that could have been eyes, swimming in its elongated head, while at the bottom a wide flap hung down, lined with gently glowing fronds.
‘They are all different,’ murmured Vintage under her breath. In her mind she was already sketching this beast into her notebook, taking care to capture the fronds, the oddly split feet, and the spidery hands . . .
‘Do you have any further thoughts, Vintage?’ Tor was yelling over his shoulder. ‘On, for example, what we do once we get this bastard beyond the wall?’
‘Just keep going!’ She loaded another shot into her crossbow, fingers moving automatically. The spirit was stumbling slowly backwards now, its elongated head swinging slowly from one side to another, lighting up the night. She could hear shouting from behind her, and assumed that the villagers had come out of their homes; probably discovering the inside-out remains of their kinsman steaming on the ground. She had no time for them.
‘Push it back gently,’ she called to Tor. ‘Perhaps if we just persuade it to leave, rather than chase it off, it will lead us back to the remains of a Behemoth.’
She could see from Tor’s stance that he meant to reply with something quite rude, but then one of the creature’s arms was sweeping down towards him. Tor jumped gracefully away, bringing the Ninth Rain down in a sweeping arc to sail through the parasite spirit’s spindly arm, severing several waving fronds. Immediately, the creature’s clouded-glass body turned darker and its head split open in the middle. A high-pitched keening noise filled the night, so loud that Vintage felt it reverberate against her eardrums. She winced even as the villagers screamed in response.
She sprinted over, keeping her crossbow trained on the monster and her eyes on the ground. There. Smoking pieces of what looked like glass lay on the grass, writhing like snakes, already growing still. One handed, she pulled a rag from her pack and threw it over the remains before scooping up what was left and stuffing it back into her bag. Above them both, the parasite spirit was howling; the cavernous hole in the centre of its head was sprouting dark tentacles like bloody tongues, and the four lights were blinking on and off furiously.
‘Vintage!’
Tor was slicing madly at the parasite spirit, driving it back with abandon, while casting furious looks at her.
‘Stop looking at me, you fool! Concentrate on getting that—’
There was a chorus of screams, quickly drowned out by an odd discordant bellowing. Vintage turned to see an alien shape burning in the night, all purple and green lights like a migraine. Another parasite spirit had melted out of the darkness, and it was heading right for them.
‘Oh, well, that’s just bloody marvellous.’
Tor ducked out of the way just as the first parasite spirit took another swing at him – it was still screaming, and the dark tentacles that had sprouted from its head were writhing maddeningly; meanwhile, the new creature was stomping along towards him with its head down. Vintage, her coat with its many pockets flaring out behind her, managed to jump out of its path just in time, and now it was bearing down on him. It was markedly different to the first creature; still formed of odd, twisted glass-flesh, it was squat, like a toad, with lots of tiny purple and green lights swarming and swirling at the ends of its appendages. It had a wide fleshy mouth, which fell open as it ran.
With one parasite in front of him, one about to arrive to his left, and the villagers behind him, he had very few options. Tor spun in a quick circle, letting the sword move like a thing made of water itself. Both parasites reared back, and Tor shouted in triumph. The sword of his ancestors would be too much for them.
Too soon. The tall parasite seemed to take sudden offence, swiping one long hand down at him while the toad creature lurched forward. All at once, Tor found he needed his blade in two places. Slashing at the shorter one’s nose, he felt a surge of satisfaction as his blade met resistance, and then he was off his feet and crashing into the dirt. The taller one had caught him, and now his left arm was threaded with a weird combination of pain and numbness – it felt as though something had tried to twist the flesh off his bones.
‘Die, beast!’ One of the villagers had run forward brandishing a short sword, his ruddy face wild with terror.