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"What do we do?" Morrow asks me. "I'm almost fully depleted. Without some food and rest, I'm not going to be able to hold my intentions."
"Me too," Mace says, pushing his too-long hair from his eyes. The shaggy, unkempt hair is a good look for him but not practical when we're constantly fighting something. "I don't know how much I'm going to be able to support," he admits.
Unlike the others, I feel fine. My energy is barely touched. As much as I would like to think I could handle the wyrm on my own, it's possible I have an inflated sense of self-worth, and if I were to try it would leave all of my companions open for attack. I'm not willing to take that risk. Having them use offensive or defensive magic makes me feel better about our odds.
A glance at Zeph shows me he's in good spirits, too. A quick pulse of power runs through my veins, and we lock eyes.
"I figured it out from long distance," he says with a grin.
I spin to look at my travel partners. "Then we're going old school here, guys. We're not going to be able to rest. We have to strike now while it's sleeping. We brought weapons with us for a reason. Morrow, you've got your axe. Attack from the rear and try for the tail. Mace, the mace is going to be the most usedirectly in the face. Stick beside me, and we'll be the ones who rush forward."
"Always by your side, numen," Mace says, nodding and pulling his mace from the strap along his back.
"Zeph, you're in charge of protecting Tulip so she can give me more power through her devotion and Plume so she can heal us after all is said and done because no doubt significant injuries are going to be gained." He easily accepts my command with just a dip of his head.
I check that my braid is tight and pat my thighs for my blades. Unfortunately, my whip will be no use here, but I don't want to risk losing it in the jungle, so I leave it wrapped around me. I pull the gorgeous black blade Himureal gave me from my gauntlet, prepared to throw it if I need to.
I summon the shadows from all around me and begin to weave them together, similar to how I created the blade. This time, though, I weave them into a net that I drape over the wyrm and then tighten, hoping to restrain it.
Immediately, the creature awakens and opens its mouth in a serpentine roar, a hiss with depth and volume that shakes a flock of cockatrices into the air. The sound spurs me into action, and Mace and Morrow fan out around me. Morrow begins attacking from behind, swinging his axe with practiced skill at the tail of the best.
Mace and I cannot get close enough for him to be of any use with the mace. Every time we try, the creature opens its massive mouth to either consume or destroy us.
"Fuck," Mace says, dodging out of the snapping jaws of the wyrm again. "I'm no use here, Viola."
"Do you have enough magic left for some Geomancy?" I ask, sending a bolt of Ice into the side of the wyrm. "Like what you did with the mace in the inn?" My face heats at the memory, and Mace barks a laugh despite the seriousness of the situation.
"Good idea, numen. I think I can manage it." The mace falls out of his hands as it morphs into a chain and wraps it around the wyrm's neck, pulling tightly.
A pained groan from behind the wyrm alerts our attention to something being very wrong. Tulip lets out a scream, and we see Morrow go flying and crash against a tree trunk, slumping down. I rush around the wyrm and see that it has broken one foot out of my shadow cage, most likely because I lost my focus talking to Mace.
Morrow must've been kicked.
I swear under my breath, cursing myself for letting my focus slip. I don't need to set my intentions for magic generally, but when I am trying to hold multiple types while weakened, it helps to keep my focus on them.
As much as I want to, I can't check on him if I want to keep the wyrm contained. It's thrashing and bellowing, thick gobs of hot salvia dripping onto the jungle floor. "I've got this, Shadowweaver!" Zeph shouts.
I put my trust in my high priest and return my focus to the wyrm, pulling more shadows and wrapping it again. The scales that overlap one another on its body are tough, andsqueezing the shadows only does so much.
Mace is still tightening the chain but encounters a similar issue. An idea hits me, and I begin to mix my Shadow with Frost. The shadows encasing the wyrm turn frosty. Once the creature appears to be in a cage of frost and shadow, I will forth a type of magic I've only used once before, and that was an accident.
Frost freezes.
The wyrm ceases all movement, completely frozen in time right before my eyes. Holding the situation is difficult, and I can feel my magic waning. I run to Zeph, yanking the sword from his back. He touches his hand to my forehead, and I feel a boost of power that he had yet to transfer to me from a long distance.
It's like I can feel the essence of the wyrm fighting against my own. Each second that I hold the magic is more difficult than the one before. Just as I get in front of the creature, the magic releases, and it lets out another feral sound that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Before the wyrm can dive for Mace or me, I push the sword up into the soft underside of its neck.
The broadsword slices a wide, deep cut into the flesh, and I am bathed in a blood rain. It coats every part of me, a hot and sticky shower that weighs down every part of my body. I don't stop at the one cut, instead dragging the sword through the throat and down to the chest, where the scales stop my blade from going any further.
Held up only by my shadows, the wyrm slumps, the remaining blood in its body being pumped out. I snag Mace out of theway and then release the shadows, the creature crashing to the ground with an echoing thud.
With the wyrm no longer fighting and Mace and I standing in front of it, panting, the forest is quiet and still. It' appears that all of the beasts heard that roar of pain and decided to go in the opposite direction.
I try to wipe the blood that is dripping down my brow and into my eyes but only succeed in smearing it around more. A wail of pain reminds us of our injured friend, and Mace and I race over to the edge of the clearing, where everyone now huddles around Morrow.
Morrow, who is missing an arm just under the elbow.
The arm lies next to him, the cut clean, the culprit likely the axe that Morrow was holding when he got kicked.
