Chapter One hundred and eight


    I was wrong: Big Wroogh’s simple but rude call was answered — the gate of the fort slowly creaked open, each leaf pushed by two orks, and our adversaries came out to meet us. And I was also right: this was more than just dangerous for a lone Tentacle Horror. Twenty huge figures walked out onto the sloping field between us and the fort, armed and armoured to the point they had might as well been tanks, and as if that wasn’t enough, each of them had a familiar hovering behind them.


    This was the largest concentration of spirits I’d seen so far, and the fact the blue, translucent bastards were all staring at me, flexing their varying number of arms ending in spiritual claws or long, sharp nails, didn’t bode well. Not at all. I had expected maybe five or six of them — between me, Tilry and Fenar, and a few hundred orks, we could have handled that much. But this? This was not good.


    Huh! The idiots actually came out. Master Fenirig Arte scoffed. Do they even know what a fort is for? Fucking barbarians and their overconfidence.


    ‘Uhm … I don’t know about that,’ I said to him, hoping my voice wasn’t too shaky. ‘They’re … they’re all spiritualists.’


    All of them? Well, isn’t that something. Looks like we’ll have to do some work after all. He commented, sounding as unconcerned as if this was nothing but some overtime on top of a long, Sunday afternoon shift. And he was the one accusing the enemy of overconfidence? Damn, he was going to be the death of us, wasn’t he?


    A nervous silence fell on the rebel crowd as one of the twenty mystics stepped forward from their line, glaring at Big Wroogh. I couldn’t be sure if he was the famous Skraath Ironbite, but he definitely looked the part of a main villain. His armour was different than the rest wore, lighter maybe, plenty of extra spikes, and more … I wasn’t sure. Customised, perhaps? Kind of like the difference between a made to order product and something that came off an assembly line. The battleaxe he held with both hands was a mean looking weapon, perfectly suitable for spilling guts, and I was sure he knew how to use it to maximum effect. The ork himself wasn’t too large though, certainly not larger than Big Wroogh, but his face screamed “evil” — even compared to the rest of the orks, and they weren’t particularly pleasant to look at — and his eyes were almost literally glowing with what I could only describe as malice. And if that didn’t make him the boss of the bad guys, then one look at his familiar would have been enough to convince anyone. It was the first spirit I’d seen with six arms. Rather grotesque, but then again, spirit beauty standards were somewhat relative. Regardless, it meant this was a higher level familiar than Tilry, but just by looking at him I couldn’t gauge his pool sizes or how effective he’d be fighting directly against me.


    Then the villainous looking ork spoke. I didn’t understand a word, but Big Wroogh’s reply allowed me to guess fairly accurately.


    ‘Tentacles? What tentacles? Ya lost yer fuggen mind already? This ain’t some soul-eatin’ gank, it’s da Hellspawn, and we’re to take ya down.’


    Well, my dear, ignorant and not very bright Big Wroogh, unfortunately the enemy was correct.


    ‘No! It’s a Tentacle Horror. We must kill it!’ the six-armed familiar shrieked, then his host spoke again, probably repeating the demand. The rest of the spirits were murmuring their agreements, some of them fidgeting the same way a physical creature would, whether in nervousness or in anticipation of killing me, I couldn’t tell.


    Big Wroogh yelled back some obscenities to him, calling him by name, thus confirming that the ork in question was not Skraath Ironbite, but Zotaagh Gutspiller — his partner in crime or main henchman. Well, the evil looking guy had an evil sounding name regardless, but it also meant he was kind of a mini-boss, and the main event was still hiding behind the walls of the fort.


    ‘This isn’t looking good, Master Fenirig Arte, they didn’t come out here to fight the orks, they’re here to kill me,’ I complained to him.


    Can’t you kill them or eat them? You’ve done that before, no? Krissy asked, gripping the hilt of her sword like there was no tomorrow, the inside of her misery mask dripping with sweat.


    There’s twenty of them. Even he can’t deal with that, can he? Tilry asked, her voice somewhat hopeful, but at the same time turning her head around as if looking for an escape route.


    Honestly, I couldn’t blame her. Her host, on the other hand, was smiling under her mask, looking like this was shaping up to be the best day of her life. I was unsure whether I’d ever understand this weird elf woman, or if I’d live long enough to be able to at least try.


    ‘Hank, care to weigh in?’ I asked, not sure what I was hoping to hear from my idiot-brother.


    ‘I say we get to eating. They look tasty.’


    Yeah, asking him was a mistake, as always.


    ‘Maybe we should sort of leave the orks to it? I’m sure they can work this out between themselves,’ I said, finding myself agreeing with Tilry’s unspoken idea of getting out of here post haste.


    Oh, stop whining. What are you? A spirit of cowardice? Master Fenar decided to shut down the discussion that was close to turning into a pity-party-slash-run-for-our-lives event. Things are going fine. How are we on power? Got enough for Misery and me both?


    ‘Uh … yeah, tank’s full.’ I reported. ‘I can keep your weird fire-thing and Krissy’s Mana-armour up for about … let’s see … for about eight to ten minutes, with some extra for Krissy to use.’


    Then we’ll be just fine. He said, his thought-voice reverberating with finality.


    Well, I definitely disliked being called a coward when I was making good progress doing away with being a pushover. But I didn’t have a deathwish either, and I was sure Krissy’s vision of the future didn’t include her being skewered by ork spiritualists.


    The loud and angry back-and-forth between Big Wroogh and Zotaagh Gutspiller was still happening, demands for surrender and demands for slaying the Tentacle Horror being issued and rejected then getting lost in a metric ton of swearing and name-calling — probably an orkish pre-battle ritual or something.


    I wanted to believe Fenar’s insane confidence was justified. But twenty spirits against my twelve tentacles? And to make things worse, they were up the slope from us — sure, it was a very gentle slope, but if the prequel trilogy had taught us anything, it was that high ground mattered.


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    ‘Krissy, if you don’t want to do this, now is the time to say something. Or to bail,’ I said to my host, hoping she’d turn tail and run as far from here as possible. I knew full well this was an underhanded attempt on my part to push the responsibility on her, but I just couldn’t get myself to see our odds in the same positive light as Fenar.


    ‘No turning back. We can do this. We’re doing this,’ she said, almost whispering the words, her breathing fast and shallow, her hand on the hilt of her sword trembling.


    Oh, Krissy! I was sure that by saying it out loud she was trying to convince herself, and perhaps me as well, that Fenar was right, and this was going to be a piece of cake.


    ‘That’s my boss!’ Kiwa squealed her approval excitedly.


    I really needed some of that stupidly defiant, maniacal bravery right now.


    ‘I’m ready, Kiwa,’ Tilry stated with the voice of someone who had given up fighting fate. Then she looked at me. ‘How many spirits can say they fought alongside a Tentacle Horror and not against it?’


    Et tu, Tilry? I was speechless. Then again, she wasn’t a Tentacle Horror, therefore wasn’t really a target. Must have been comforting to know.


    They’re nearly done with their insult-contest. Stupid barbarians and their stupid way of doing things! We’ll strike now before they finish. Fenar announced.


    Yep, no turning back now.


    ***


    Master Fenar — bless his aggressively vulgar and proactive soul — shot forward with a mental yell of “follow my lead”. I nearly had a heart attack — or the spiritual equivalent of it — as Mana rushed out of my pool, reaching and enveloping him in a split second. Krissy was already on edge and ready for anything, Kiwa was just a maniac, so they followed the elf without hesitation, drawing more Mana from me and Tilry, and dragging me with them towards the sharp claws of angry spirits hell bent on murdering me. Life was great.


    Fenar literally flew past the line of ork rebels in front of us. He didn’t have that blazing blue fire around him this time, but I could tell the Mana — at least 10MP’s worth of it — was around him, carrying him up the slope, unlike Krissy and Kiwa, who used it to enhance their muscles and bones and were running the good old-fashioned way. It was somewhat like my Mana-Armour skill, at least in the sense that it was on the outside of his body, but instead of — or along with — protecting him, he was willing it to propel him forward. Somehow. I wondered if Krissy could learn that.


    Oh. Mana-Armour. That would be a good thing right about now. I activated the skill, and the protective shield flared into existence around Krissy just as Fenar whooshed past a flabbergasted Big Wroogh. A second later the two, masked women also ran past him, eliciting a barrage of obscenities from the big, green fellow.


    Fenar and Krissy’s combined Mana use ticked up to about 16 MP per minute, so we were still good on that front. But now the problem was the twenty spiritualists, or more specifically the rapidly decreasing distance between them and us. Oh, hell, I wasn’t ready for this. How was I supposed to prevent twenty of the bastards from cutting me to ribbons with their spirit-claws?


    Oh. Of course. How could I have forgot? I had my own soul-shield, two of them in fact, neatly tucked away in my Spirit Room. And I had my new Enzyme Pool. And I wasn’t alone.


    Fifteen metres separated us from the enemy line now. The angry mob behind us was screaming bloody murder, probably outraged by us beating them to having the first go at Zotaagh Whatshisname and his gang, but also elated that something was finally happening. It seemed they didn’t need any orders or encouragement — they began their charge, running up the hill as best as they could, following the Hellspawn into battle. What a sight.


    Ten metres. I got my soul-shield out of storage and fiddled it into position in front of me with three tentacles. I hoped the crude, hardened Essence-thing I had spent so much time making, was going to be worth the effort.


    Five metres and about a second separating us from crashing into the enemy, all of them readying their shields, weapons and their familiars’ Mana, when the orks in their flanks screamed out in pain and surprise. Arrows. Dozens of arrows in quick succession hit the orks on both ends of their line. Finally, Fenar’s rangers, still lurking in the shadows or wherever, had made their presence known, and the greenskinned fuckers hadn’t seen them coming. Rangers were excellent shots — some arrows panged off steel, but many of them found the openings at joints or helmets, causing black blood to run everywhere.


    Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to kill any of them outright, but I didn’t think that had been the goal. The moment came, and Fenar was the first to engage the enemy, none other than that Zotaagh fellow. The elf, carried forward by my Mana, swung his sword. The ork, also aided by his familiar’s power, moved fast to block it with his enourmous battleaxe, batting it away. But that didn’t stop Fenar; he spun around with that same motion, performing a roundhouse kick — very Chuck Norrisy of him— his foot connecting with his breastplate. The ork flew back with a grunt, his six-armed familiar yelling out in surprise, landing in a backward roll and stopping in front of his men. All in a second. This was a good start, and I began to suspect the high ground wasn’t that big a deal after all. And Fenar was on the move again.


    The second passed and we arrived, too. Thanks to the distraction the rangers had provided, instead of a line of twenty orks we had about eight of them to deal with. The rest were looking around for the unseen archers, bleeding and bellowing, while the arrows kept coming.


    Krissy drew more Mana to coat her blade and aimed at the nearest armoured ork. I maneuvered my free tentacles, aiming at his familiar. She brought her sword down, cutting into the guy’s steel-plated shield. His familiar screeched something unintelligible as he clawed at my soul-shield with four arms. The half-spherical spiritual shield worked pretty much as intended —the strikes of the spirit dented it, but it held. The ork, having deflected Krissy’s strike, swung his one-handed hammer faster than he should have been capable of swinging such a heavy-looking thing, the metal head of the weapon sparkling with Mana. She ducked down, just about avoiding being hit in the head. I wrapped four of my tentacles around the four arms of the familiar, and I opened the floodgates of my Enzyme pool. The spirit screamed in pain along with his host as Krissy’s second strike slashed into his leg under his shield, biting into flesh and bone as if his steel shinguard wasn’t even there.


    On our right, Fenar was dealing with not just the Gutspiller and his giant axe, but two others as well, while on our right Kiwa was dancing around another two orks, keeping them busy. And behind us, the green horde of vengeance, led by Big Wroogh, was seconds away. Less than half a minute into the fight, my Mana-Pool was holding out fine, and I was ready to re-fill it from my Essence Pool whenever necessary.


    ‘Stop! Stooooop! Heeelp!’ the enemy spirit screamed as my concentrated spiritual digestive enzyme began to disintegrate his arms, and spreading onto his torso. Did I feel sorry for him? Not really. Kill or be killed, right? It must have been some sort of spirit-adrenalin in play here, because I suddenly felt none of the fear and apprehension I had a minute ago, only the need to fight and to win. So, I started slurping up my pre-digested, kicking-screaming meal.


    The now half-eaten spirit’s host roared with anger, trying to get a hit on Krissy, but she was nimble, using my Mana effectively, dodging, counterattacking and wearing down the ork who had suddenly found himself with little to no spiritual power. Krissy dealt the final blow before the first minute of the battle was over; she managed to get behind the ork, and she plunged her blade into the back of his neck between the base of his helmet and the weird neck-guard of the armour piece covering his torso. That was a very precise strike, well timed to coincide with the metaphorical last breath of the poor, invisible sod, and his subsequent transformation into delicious EXP. And I gobbled up the ork’s soul too, while I was at it.


    ‘Great job, Krissy, good teamwork!’ I yelled with excitement.


    ‘Huh? What? Teamwork? Who’s next?’ Krissy panted, gasping for air, but the corners of her mouth were curling upward under her mask while looking around for her next victim.


    I was about to take a better look at the chaos around us as well and look for the next meal … uhm … enemy to confront, when 25 MP left my Mana-pool all at once, throwing me off balance completely. The next thing I knew was a booming explosion on our right side, an intense blue flash of Mana almost blinding my spiritual sight.


    ‘Master Fenar, what the fuck?’ I screamed angrily at the grinning elf, standing against a backdrop of blood and minced ork raining down.


    One thing was sure, that Zotaagh fellow’s gutspilling carrier was over. Fenar turned to face Krissy, who was as shocked by this turn of events as I was, then he said,


    ‘Huh, I did miss doing this after all. And don’t call me Fenar!’