Book of The Dead

Worthy looked up as his sense of danger surged. A useful feat, to be sure, but at times like this, it was a constant distraction. This was a massive battle! Of course there was danger everywhere, he didn’t need the Unseen tugging on his blasted ear trying to warn him about it.

In this particular instance, he was grateful for it.

“Somethings coming through!” he bellowed, then swung his warhammer in a blistering arc.

The monster in front of him shrieked in pain as he smashed the outstretched hand that had been trying to tear him in half. Scales flew into the air and he felt bone break. Screeching, the kin staggered back, the leg no longer able to take its weight, and Worthy took advantage.

He leapt forward, shifting so quickly he appeared to blur as his hands slid together to grip the handle of his hammer. In a massive overhead strike, he brought the hammer-point down on his foe’s skull, smashing it to a pulp.

With a moment of breathing space, he flicked a glance to the other side of the rift, his eyes piercing through the veil of darkness that obscured the undead horde within. Tyron was still standing on that ridiculous platform of his, his hands in constant motion as he rained down spell after spell. What was more impressive was the sheer size and ferocity of the skeletal army around him. Blazing with purple fire, the skeletons fought like demons, moving lightly over the ground as they inexorably advanced.

To think a single Slayer would be capable of dealing so much death. Worthy hadn’t seen anything like it since his brother and sister-in-law had taken the field. Tyron still had a ways to go before he ascended those heights, but if he kept going like that, there was certainly a chance he’d get there.

Worthy could still remember the little boy who’d learned to walk toddling between chairs in his Inn. Beory had always been certain he’d grow up to be powerful, even back then, when there was just an ambitious gleam in his eye, reaching for the next table leg. She’d been certain of it.

“What the fuck is that?!” Gawn roared, and Worthy was snapped out of his momentary reverie.

The largest portal in the center of the field seemed to stretch and fray at the edges as something pushed against it, trying to force its way through. Worthy’s sense of danger was blaring as he watched reality itself warp from a tremendous mass trying to break through the weave.“Big kin coming through!” Worthy roared, hefting his hammer again.

“How big?” someone called back, possibly Rurin.

“The biggest!”

“Oh, shit!”

Every Slayer in this assault was gold-ranked, and had fought the giant, lumbering kin that had roamed the plains of once-Granin over the past few years. Enormous, savage beasts, sustained by the magick that had birthed them.

This… this was different.

It was hard to make out the details of the monster as it filled the rift. Air rippled and twisted, the rent in reality itself obscured his view, but he gained a distinct impression of mouth. Way too much mouth.

“Clear the floor!” Worthy bellowed, holding up his hammer to draw attention to himself. “Open the firing lines and get ready to hit and run. It’s dangerous!”

His words were passed down the line to those who couldn’t hear him, and the Slayers quickly adopted a reasonable formation.

These were professional monster killers who knew their business like the taste of their lovers’ lips. They weren’t daunted in the field; nothing could shake them.

The melee fighters, be they Swordsmen, Hammerers, Defenders or Guardians, all braced and began a frontal push. They needed to kill as many kin as possible before whatever it was managed to come through. Trying to deal with a large monster while a horde of little ones nipped at your heels was every Slayers’ nightmare.

Imbued by the power his gold ranked Class gave him, Worthy’s hammer moved like an extension of his arm. His balance was flawless, the strength of his arm and shoulders unmatched. He felt like a juggernaut, able to smash down monsters ten times his weight with the might of his weapon.

Raising the level cap of his Hammer skill to seventy had been a good choice. Magnin had always preached the importance of raising the fundamental weapon skills, and as usual, he’d been right. Only the Gods knew how high that man’s swordsmanship had been at the end, possibly at level one hundred?

They’d already been fighting for hours. Worthy’s shoulders burned and his breath was coming hard and fast. Heart pounding in his chest, he could feel the fatigue just starting to kick in, but he knew he had plenty left in the tank. Enough to get the job done.

With the members of his new team with him, Worthy felt safe enough to advance further, pushing right towards the heart of the Broken Lands. Gawn was a Guardian, and a damned good one. With him on his right side, massive tower shield raised, Worthy knew he’d be protected.

On his left, Byron, a Battlemage, kept his staff ready, flinging deadly, short-range magick right into the faces of the beasts. Lecia would be somewhere behind them, using her force magick to protect the back lines, although it would have been mighty useful to have her in the grind with the rest of them. She could generate enough power to knock a monster off its feet, even the larger ones, making it easy to pounce on and finish off. The trick was in playing the angles right, at least, that’s what she said.

“When it gets out, be careful,” he warned Gawn as they continued to press forward. “Don’t think you can take a hit. It’s not worth the risk.”

“Do I look like someone who wants to die by getting stepped on?” the Guardian shot back. “I’ve seen enough people get pancaked to know my limits.”

“Aye, well. That’s good, then.”

There was sound building around the rift, a whine that was quickly rising into a scream. The creature in the rift loomed larger and larger, forcing its way through. Space itself seemed to bulge outwards, distending around the titanic maw of the beast as it pressed and pressed against the Dimensional Weave.

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Tyron, it appeared, had also realised that time was up. Giant skeletal warriors, clad in black armour with great, two-handed swords, strode forward from amidst the horde, their blades emitting black smoke as they walked. With great sweeps of their weapons, they cleaved a path through the smaller kin, cutting their way straight towards the emerging beast.

With an ear-splitting howl, the rift-kin burst through the rent in space, materialising in a new realm in a storm of power. The rift itself seemed to scream in pain, its edges tearing and fraying as the great monster appeared, perhaps opening a fraction wider in the process.

As he’d thought, the kin was enormous, probably weighing over a hundred tons. Towering over the battlefield, it opened its comically large maw and roared again, shattering Worthy’s ears.

“Blood and bone!” he cursed, clapping a hand to his ears. When he pulled it away, his palm was slick with blood. “Fuckin’ hell!”

Thick scales covered the creature’s hide, with hundreds of protruding, rocky growths along its body. Four-legged, it stomped out from the rift, though Worthy had no doubt it could rear up and swipe with its tree-trunk thick front legs.

Trailing black smoke, the huge skeletons marched forward, glowing purple eyes unwavering as they held up their blades and prepared to engage the monster. As big as they were, Worthy didn’t think it was a good fight for them. A single swing from that beast would rip those bones apart.

It seemed his nephew agreed with him. Just as they drew close enough to engage, the monster lunged forward, snapping with its mouth open frighteningly wide. As if they’d predicted the move, the skeletons skipped back with surprising agility. A storm of spells rained down from above, sharpened bones that mostly skittered off the beast’s thick hide.

This was going to be a tough nut to crack.

“You going to leave all the work to the boy?” Worthy roared.

With a bellowed battle-cry, he rushed forward, bounding over the earth with superhuman speed and strength. Behind him, a wave of Slayers, all gold ranked, whooped and cheered as they too joined the charge.

But Worthy got there first.

Not stupid enough to target its head, he rushed towards its rear right leg, unleashing a thunderous smash of his hammer with the full might and rotation of his body behind it. He may as well have struck an anvil. Shock reverberated up his arms, stinging his hands and rattling his joints.

“Fuck me!” he swore.

Quickly, he glanced down and breathed a sigh of relief that the hammer hadn’t bent. It was a good weapon, forged to withstand his high-level strength, yet he wouldn’t have been surprised if that blow had exceeded its tolerance.

Skidding to a stop well clear of the creature, he kept his wits about him, making sure no smaller kin were nearby. Gawn and Byron pulled up alongside him, having struck the kin themselves on the way through.

“Thing’s as tough as your fucking cooking, Worthy,” Byron swore. “I don’t think I made a scratch.”

“Me either,” the Hammerman admitted, eyes narrowing. “Those scales look like they’re as thick as your damned skull.”

Already, a firestorm of magick and arrows fell upon the beast, but little, if anything, was getting through. Even the lances of energy, balls of fire or streaks of lightning seemed to wash off the monsters’ scales.

Roaring with fury, it snapped with its jaws, crunching pillars of stone or crystal like carrot sticks. The three Slayers winced. Anyone who was caught by those teeth wouldn’t have the time to regret their life choices before meeting their end.

This thing was going to take some killing.

There was no panic among the Slayers. This was their lot in life. Unkillable beasts from other worlds were exactly the sort of thing they dealt with.

“We can wear it down,” Worthy advised, then pointed. “You see the others have already picked out four points of attack.”

The two rear legs, as close to the joint as possible, were being hit hard already. Darting in and out, melee fighters took turns to smash and slash the scales over and over again. Making sure they never stopped moving, they’d been able to avoid the monster’s sweeping tail and stomping feet… so far.

The ranged attackers were focused on the creature’s flanks. Closer to the belly, where the scales should be softer. On one side, the Slayers concentrated their fire as much as possible, while on the other, the undead struck with their unnervingly coordinated precision.

Tyron himself, stood upon his platform, hadn’t stopped casting. Curses and spells rained down on the creature, all sorts of magick, anything to try and break through. His skeletons had positioned themselves in the most dangerous place, trying to stay in front of the kin and keep it interested while the Slayers worked on its hind legs.

“That’s a dangerous place to be,” Worthy muttered to himself as he hefted his hammer again. “Alright. Let’s kill some of the little fish leaking out of these rifts and then come back to the big one.”

The tide of kin was relentless, and if too many Slayers focused on the massive monster, they’d soon find themselves overwhelmed by the rest. A rookie error this experienced group refused to make.

After a short but intense burst of fighting, Worthy regrouped with the others and assessed the fighting again.

Some progress had been made on the massive beast. Persistence was paying off, peeling away the scales, but slowly. The creature was growing more and more agitated, thrashing and snapping wildly. Anything that large had no right to move that fast.

Already, a number of the massive skeletons had gone down, caught in the jaws or too slow to avoid those raking claws. Crunching on the bones didn’t seem to be satisfying the monster. Not even a little bit.

Worthy was off and running in an instant.

“It’s going to turn!” he roared. “Watch out!”

In the horrific din of battle, it was hard for one voice to break through it all. Some heard him, but not all.

Snarling, the gigantic rift-kin spun, stomping the ground beneath its feet, crushing stone like it was paper. Its tail lashed out in a wide arc, forcing Worthy into a running slide to get underneath it. Tyron was wise to the move, the Hammerman could see his nephew’s skeletons giving space.

It was the right hand that did the damage. Worthy could see it in slow motion. As the creature turned, too many Slayers had been caught flat-footed and couldn’t see the massive right hand coming.

Most were able to get out of the way, inhuman agility and speed making up for their lapse in judgement. Not everyone was so lucky.

Worthy didn’t let himself get distracted by the spray of blood, the screams or the stench of iron. Slayers couldn’t afford distractions. If you panicked when the claret started flying, you only guaranteed more claret.

With a yell, he leapt off the ground, propelling himself a dozen metres into the air, hammer pulled back over his shoulder.

The Hammerman soared, prepared to swing right as the monster’s momentum brought its head in front of him. He could see its eye, just like every other kin, filled with rage and madness, glaring hatefully at the living around it.

With a roar that rivalled its own, Worthy Steelarm struck like a falling star, the head of his hammer crunching into the monster’s temple, shattering bone and sinking deep into the flesh beneath.

The monster shrieked and wrenched its head to the side, ripping the weapon out of his hands. He fell to the ground heavily, the air driven from his lungs by the impact. Regardless, he stood and watched as the giant kin thrashed and staggered. The Slayers pounced on its weakness, raining down blows, spells and arrows, breaking through its defenses and sinking their weapons into its body.

Soon after, the kin fell with a thunderous crash.

A great cheer rose from the Slayers as they rushed towards him. Worthy frowned.

“You lot always need a Steelarm to save the day,” he rumbled.