Sar-ek’s heart hammered in his chest as the Lady’s biocrawler lurched forward, its massive joints grinding against shattered stone and brittle bone plate. From his vantage, he could see the chaos far below—flashes of lancefire, screaming echoes reverberating from the City’s depths. Yet he focused on the battered vehicle carrying Lady Bhaeryn. She remained within the carriage, hidden from view.

  “Move,” Sar-ek hissed through his teeth, slamming an open palm against the crawler’s cranial plating. Its stubby head—with deep, sunken eyes—glanced nervously at him. Then, the crawler lumbered away from the elevator and the precipitous drop. At last, the monstrous machine groaned and trudged further into the circle of their newly ascended forces.

  Around them, the black-and-gold banners of Bee’s warbands rippled, jostling for position as captains barked orders. The azure-and-sable of Lady Hash’s forces were there as well, ranks merging in an uneasy alliance, but their great Lady and her personal cohort were absent. The Nesta Barshaum, too, hunched like enormous mechanical crustaceans atop the ash-swept surface, cannons yawning wide with readiness as they turned towards the far horizon. They were the city-breakers, each bristling with venerable power. Their capacity was limited here, with the rearguard locked in a losing struggle far below.

  The tension thickened as Sar-ek saw confusion ripple through the lines. Soldiers clutched biocannons or angled their lances uncertainly. They wanted to help the beleaguered forces—yet the hurriedly constructed elevators behind them were choked with war machines, and descending in force would only lead to further disaster. They had made this climb with so much effort; reversing it would be near impossible.

  Sar-ek cursed under his breath. So many times had war demanded swift action, but never had they been hamstrung by such topography. Inwardly, he seethed at Vashante’s absence, at her foolish dash to do what she always did best—slaughter. And where was Jhedothar? They needed him here, needed his leadership to keep order. But no, he was gone, and they were alone.

  He had scarcely begun to marshal the soldiery to stabilise the perimeter when a vast shape reared from the depths. At first, it was only an oily darkness surging from the fissure, a grotesque coil of flesh that slithered up the raw fracture. Then, its outline became hideously clear in the penumbral half-light of the setting night.

  Blachaeus Tem Etal.

  That hungry Grafter’s new form rose up, towering above the ragged lines of the assembled armies. It was serpentine in shape, a monstrous worm of bruised and ulcerated skin, throbbing with gore. Twisted limbs jutted from its sinuous body, moaning faces and parted jaws embedded in the ceaseless churn of biomass. Sanguine cloth hung in scraps from its slippery hide, a grotesque parody of a robe trailing in his wake.

  Sar-ek’s stomach lurched. The wormlike abomination hissed a breath that reeked of decay and freshly-shed blood. And at its apex, forming a wicked approximation of a draconic jaw, was something that made Sar-ek’s blood run cold—parts of Vashante’s mechanical plating fused into the abomination’s head, twisted into a fang-filled maw. The pale metal of her limbs were reformed as wicked teeth that now glinted with spattered gore. A feral snarl that snapped at the air with unstoppable might.

  He could do nothing but stare in shock. The allied ranks around him recoiled, lines breaking formation in stunned horror.

  “Gods…” a soldier muttered, stepping back.

  Sar-ek’s voice went hoarse. “Take up arms—now! Defensive lines!”

  His mind swam, reeling at the monstrous sight. Vashante, devoured, repurposed. A savage, merciless being that had turned the might of the Eidolon into its own vile weapon.

  They had waited all this time for the Pilgrim himself to show himself. This siege. They had waited so long that another God entirely had finally intervened, Sar-ek realised. The Vat-Mother of Acetyn. She had sent a monster to turn their own strength against them, to turn the might of their own champions against them; it was a strategy they had been wholly unprepared for, having intended to face the ancient master who stood alone, together as a united force.

  Fear lit the eyes of the troops around him. Even the iron-clad legs of the Nesta Barshaum recoiled, uncertain whether to fire on a monstrosity that bore the half-living remains of their one of their own great leaders. And in the midst of that paralyzing moment, the monstrous serpent roared again, quaking the ground beneath them as it howled.

  Sar-ek swallowed, gripping his lance. The Lady was safe, at least for a few moments, hidden in her crawler. But if the beast advanced further… He forced his voice, stifling the tremor it carried.

  “Form up!” he snarled. “We stand. We fight!”

  And silently, he begged that there might be something left of Vashante in that hideous mass—and that if not…

  Sar-ek’s horror settled into a dense, suffocating dread. He’d known Vashante was formidable—now, unmistakably, one of the greatest warriors that any banner had ever boasted. To see that same relentless power grafted into Blachaeus’ monstrous bulk was a fate beyond nightmares. It meant one simple, terrible fact: this monster, this wicked serpentine hound, bloated on the Eidolon’s strength, could kill them all.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  And he was already making good on the promise.

  A shudder in the ground announced Blachaeus’ assault. Massive lengths of fleshy coils swept forward, and in a single, horrifying instant, the abomination’s serpentine form lunged through the soldiers’ lines, countless mismatched limbs protruding from its writhing body. Twisted, grafted torsos and gnashing jaws snatched up victims as he went, sweeping through the ranks with unstoppable force. Sar-ek wrenched himself aside, narrowly dodging the avalanche of limbs that tore across the stone, raking up chunks of broken ground and tossing bodies aside like rags.

  A thunderous crash rang out behind him. The Lady’s biocrawler—heavy as it was—rolled in a clattering of steel and carapace, pitched meters from its place. Sar-ek’s heart twisted as the cabin lurched with a sickening crunch, the crawler’s insectile legs scrambling against the raw stone. He prayed Bee remained alive within its battered shell.

  He spat curses, scanning the chaotic fringes of the new battleground. The serpent’s body convulsed as it swept around them, monstrous in scale, convulsing along the ground in spasmodic lurches. His serpent-like trunk was riddled with snatched flesh, slick limbs, and stolen faces, and screams of protest vanished as entire squads were dragged into the living maze of his body. Each muzzle flash from a soldier’s lance, each hack of a blade, sank into that slithering horror and disappeared. Every soldier consumed only fed his hideous metamorphosis further.

  Lancefire bristled through the gloom, desperate lines of black-and-gold and azure-and-sable shooting madly into Blachaeus’ monstrous hide. The biocannon beams and flechettes from the lances pricked him as nothing more than stings, searing the edges of his patchwork flesh but doing nothing to halt his rampage. Sar-ek joined the fusillade, levelling his lance to fire with as much discipline as he could muster, but his resolve wavered. The holes their weapons carved simply closed as more twisted flesh reconfigured itself.

  Hopelessness flared in his gut like acid. He was no coward, but all their might felt meaningless in the face of this abomination. Then, a metal blur caught his peripheral vision—Slashex, lurching across the carnage, mismatched limbs working furiously as he sprinted for the Nesta Barshaum.

  Sar-ek’s mind snapped into focus. If Slashex could reconfigure or direct those cannons—if he could bring them to bear on the serpent—there might be a chance. But they needed time.

  Gritting his teeth, he cast a final, fleeting look to the Lady’s overturned biocrawler, then sprinted back toward the front lines. He rallied the scattering soldiers with urgent shouts and flung himself at the monstrous silhouette. They had to distract Blachaeus—keep him pinned and engaged—long enough for Slashex to prime that final desperate shot.

  Sar-ek led the charge, though it felt less like leadership and more like a desperate tide of life surging against an unstoppable devourer. Hundreds of black-and-gold soldiers, joined by azure-and-sable auxiliaries, hurled themselves at the serpent in wave after wave, determined to buy time for the Nesta Barshaum.

  The serpent loomed enormous beneath the starry sky, contorting and lashing across the ash-laden plain. Its many mismatched limbs, stolen from the fuse of countless bodies, grappled any soldier within reach. Gnashing jaws scoured the ranks in a nauseating sweep. Some were crushed on impact, others ripped off their feet, only to vanish screaming into its roaring depth. In the swirl of panic, Sar-ek’s cries went half-heard as he strove to rally them, trying to coordinate a formation that might hold, if only long enough for the City-breakers to fire.

  But they couldn’t hold. The serpent’s jaws—the repurposed remains of Vashante’s once-proud mechatronic body—became a crimson scythe, gleaming with the blood of those it rent into pieces rather than consuming. Sar-ek felt his stomach twist with each gruesome strike, the savage clangour of metal on flesh echoing across the field. Cries rose as clusters of soldiers broke and ran, terror driving them away from certain death.

  Still, Sar-ek fought on, flinging his weight against the serpent’s coiled trunk as it lunged anew. There was a moment of violent collision: the Grafter’s greatest mouth parted wide, half-living steel jaws gaping to swallow him. Sar-ek gritted his teeth, bracing with all his might, as the monstrous fangs clamped around his torso and tore him into the air.

  His gleaming cuirass, a metallic bone shell gifted by the Lady Bhaeryn upon his induction to the Knights Consort, screamed under the pressure. The armour croaked and bent, shards of plating warping around him. In that instant, the creature’s surgical limbs, barbed and needling, scrabbled over the metal of his armoured harness seeking flesh. Sar-ek tensed, each muscle trembling in dread. He could feel the Grafter’s vile instruments cutting, searching for entry points to integrate him into its own writhing form.

  Yet the Goddess’ blessing endured. Though the cuirass buckled, it did not give way. The serpent roared in frustration, and Sar-ek found himself pitched aside, flung across the dusty ground. He landed hard, ash pluming around him, his breath torn from his lungs. But he was alive. And free of the abomination’s assimilation.

  Pain lanced through him as he attempted to push upright. His legs wobbled dangerously, and his vision swam with black flecks. Dazed, Sar-ek forced himself to look up. In the distance, the monstrous serpent continued its feast, unstoppable but no longer chasing him.

  A pair of figures leapt from the swirling chaos to intercept the beast. Cartaxa, the grim veteran pale warrior, and Toshtta Yew, vines whipping around her limbs, charged into the fray. Their star-metal weaponry shone under the night sky, voices rising, once rallying what remained of the warriors in a vain attempt to push the serpent back.

  Dizzy, Sar-ek looked beyond the fray. Off to one side, on a higher ridge, Lady Isbet Hash and her personal retinue stood watching, azure-and-sable standards fluttering in the swirling wind. Next to her loomed Jhedothar, his centaurian frame tall and rigid, ruby spear in hand casting a flash of light as it reflected the carnage, regarding the scene with an unsettling calm.

  Neither of them moved to help.

  Sar-ek clenched his fists against the ash, every muscle trembling. Jhedothar? His mind reeled. His former Lord master held back. Why was he not aiding them?

  Sar-ek swallowed down his agony.

  If they would not intervene, so be it; they would not deny him his last stand. Grunting against the pain, he forced himself to his feet, determined to do what he must. If not for Jhedothar, if not for Lady Bhaeryn, then for all the lives that remained of their battered host.

  Yet, when he looked the other way, the Lady Bhaeryn’s carriage door was open…