Defense Team - Field Town (Opal)
I stare in awe at what Spindle is attempting. She’s weaving a web of ritual magic around the captive Sheikh, each thread anchored in one of his subordinates—the Sand Goblin tribe and the Belly Dancers, which technically includes me. I still have the diaphanous veil from when he attempted to induct me into his Belly Dancer harem even though I escaped. Shuddering, I push that memory from my mind.
Instead, I focus on the intricate threadwork her four nimble hands are constructing at a rapid pace. She’s throwing out tight lines of Dark Magic like fishing nets that hang in the air. The space above the bound Sheikh is especially dense with the glowing evidence of whatever spell Spindle is intending.
It’s difficult to idle here, sitting on my tail waiting for news from the battlefield, no matter how captivating Spindle’s magic can be. They’re fighting out there. Without me. Alex is in danger; I can feel it.
She gave me a job to do, here, though. Defend Field Town. 'Protect the humans.'
After my recent evolution, this stage a rarity my clanmates have heard of only in legend, it feels like an insult to be left behind. But I know Alex means it when she says I’m needed here. Even though we’ve spent so little time together, I think I understand the kind of person she is. Alex took the minimum force she felt necessary to ensure a clean victory while leaving a significant portion of her strength behind.
All to ensure no one can successfully raid Field Town while they’re gone.
Everyone vulnerable, including the rodent kin, is underground with their guardians. It’s only the fighters on the surface, now. We’re all wearing the outfits gifted to us by the Fleecy Sheeple instead of going nude, our instinctual comfort, to show we're serious. This is no time for fun or frolicking.
Janine the Hobgoblin Secretary has gone through her checklist a dozen times. Drosera the Sundew Trap and the Strangler Figs have formed a perimeter with their tendrils reaching all the way around our little town. Lizardmen, Guard Doggins, and the Pseudo-Cerberuses (Simona and Rallos) wander the pavilions with weapons at the ready. Lois the Dormouse Matron is antsy, busying herself with personally handing out Fruit Nymph treats to the predators on patrol since her people are all tucked away in the New Warren.
Aello the Harpy Matron secured a deal with Alex to remain here while the main battle rages elsewhere and spends her time soaking in some sun. She’s found a bright, warm spot near the pavilion to sulk while her usual attendant rodent kin boys are hiding for safety’s sake. It doesn’t escape me that Alex negotiated this agreement for my benefit, granting me my wings, and yet here I am, not contributing to the war effort.
Once again, I hope Alex knows what she’s doing out there.
An awful, rattling sound suddenly rips through the quiet of the scene. It’s Simona, the three-headed, three-tailed, and three-breasted Pseudo-Cerberus with golden-brown fur on her back, shoulders, arms, and legs. The canine woman wears a utilitarian tunic courtesy of the Fleecy Sheeple and a spiked collar around her neck. She’s snarling at a shadow on the pavilion floor.
There’s nothing there, but everyone around is spooked regardless. Simona’s fierce, protective growl in three-part harmony would scare most monsters shitless, pardoning the vulgarity. Lizardmen ready spears in response, Sand Goblins draw their bone blades, the Strangler Figs break ranks with their tendrils whipping about, and Rallos summons his chain-baton ‘nunchaku.’ Aello nearly falls on her tail feathers, she’s so startled.
“Come on out. I can smell you, furball.”
Doggin guards sniff around the area in confusion, coming up empty, but Rallos gives the air a whiff, and all three sets of his eyes widen. Each head clenches their jaws, snarls, and the middle one says, “It’s faint, but damn. This isn’t good.”
And this is coming from a Hybridization of Guard Doggins, monsters known for their ability to sense the strength of their opponents. I stoke my Inner Furnace at the confirmation this isn’t a false alarm. Regret tastes bitter as I realize I’m about to get my wish to prove my usefulness to Alex.
A figure peels themselves from the shadow, going from insubstantial to flesh-and-blood before our eyes. They seem to materialize from nowhere. It’s unnerving to say the least.
“Where are the Ingénues?” a feminine voice says from beneath a plain white cat mask with the whiskers drawn in red ink. The entirety of her body is covered by a black silk bodysuit, leaving not an inch of skin visible, even covering her feline ears, but not her tail.
“Fuck,” Aello whispers to herself as she springs into the air. Lois grabs her by the talon and pulls the other Matron back to earth. It rankles me that Aello would consider fleeing after giving Alex her word, but at least the Harpy woman won’t be getting out of this so easily.
“The… the what?” I hear myself ask. Despite not having meant to, I suppose I went and spoke on our behalf.
“The ripe fruit you picked from the Order’s fifth garden. Don’t purrtend ignorance.”
Aello quivers as she explains, “T-they’re talking about the Home Town humans. We should give them what they want; Alex will understand.” She turns to the shrouded figure, “They’re in the—”
“Shut up, old bird,” Lois jumps up and backhands Aello across the mouth.
“So, the Ingénues are somewhere on the purremises.” The black-clad catgirl’s voice lowers dangerously, “Despite being called in to see this task through, the Nyassassins don’t need to spill a drop of blood to fulfill their mission today. The Order of Nyaine Lives doesn’t seek violence. Monsters of your kind only have one life to live; stand aside if you value it.”
It’s dead quiet. Nobody moves.
I end up speaking before anyone else as anger bubbles up within me. “You can take Alex’s classmates over our dead bodies,” I promise while tensing my venom glands.
Simona chuckles, summoning her chain-baton, and Rallos just growls. Aello does a double facepalm with her wings.
“I could always make an appointment for you with the Lady Mayoress if our reception isn’t to your liking,” Janine adds while adjusting her reading glasses.
The Nyassassin raises one arm in a salute, “Nyanjas, search every inch of this place! Fulfill your mission at all costs!”
From shadows across the pavilion and all around us outside, a dozen figures clad in blue silks from head to toe except for the narrow band their eyes peer through, and two more black-clad, cat-masked individuals step into the light. They all salute and shout in unison.
““We are few, but our lives are many!””
Immediately, three Nyanjas form hand-signs and disappear in a puff of smoke, five dart away so quickly my eyes can't track which way they went, and four hop up to the ceiling of the pavilion where they vanish into the shadows.
"Raise the alarm," I cry at the top of my lungs, "Don't let them find our charges!"
Everyone springs into action, and chaos erupts in the pavilion. I take a moment to glance over at where Spindle continues to weave spells while oblivious to the situation. The intruders are ignoring her… and I should too. She’d be a huge help, but I don’t dare interrupt the Ritual at this stage.
Simona and Rallos each square off against a Nyassassin while the third cat mask goes after Aello. Our enemies draw their straight-edged blades to point them at us, "Taste our Nyanjato steel!"
Each of the enemy's short swords is a work of art in stark contrast to the primitive Sand Goblin bone blades. Their hilts are intricately wrought tiger heads roaring naked steel from their throats.
Nunchaku batons clash against Nyanjato blades as a dance of death begins.
"I'm hungry for bird, even if she looks a little gamey," a masculine cat mask says.
"Eep!"
Lois darts in to grab the Nyassassin’s leg as he charges, and the blade falls inches short of the Harpy Matron's face. That gives Aello the bare second needed to blow the feline monster back with a gust of air.
Lizardmen jump at shadows, stabbing the ground and poking at pavilion walls. Guard Doggins sniff about and growl at anything that moves. Stranglers whip their tendrils about uselessly, creating further havoc as everyone else is forced to play jump rope.
I know none of that is going to work. The enemy has some sort of ability that allows them to go immaterial. So, I'm surprised when a feline voice yowls as a Lizardman's spear finds flesh. It's just a scratch, spilling a few drops of blood, the wound quickly staunched before the Nyanja once again vanishes in a blink.
Maybe not so useless...
I focus my attention as best I can, trying to gauge where the slippery Nyanjas intend to search next rather than chasing after them. Flickers of movement in the corners of my vision confirm two things. First, they can't remain immaterial indefinitely. Second, they're not even trying to fight back. Do they not see us as a threat?
I disabuse them of that idea, channeling my Inner Furnace through my tail and swinging it in a wide, fast arc that intersects the space I predict they'll need to cross next on their search. My scales are burning red! Impact! A blue-clad body is sent flying. I outweigh them by multiples, so my momentum wins in a collision. Bones crunch. The smell of burnt fur fills my nostrils.
The broken, fried corpse of a Nyanja collapses on the floor in front of me. None of their comrades so much as pause to mourn, but echoes of their voices haunt the pavilion.
""We are few, but our lives are many…""
Then the figure of the fallen Nyanja folds in on itself, disappearing to leave nothing but a scrap of burned blue cloth.
I understand, now, and the realization chills me. "They're not fighting to survive. They’re not even fighting to win; the Nyassassins are a distraction! We have to stop the Nyanjas!"
"Unfortunately, you can't afford to ignore us," the woman wearing a cat mask says as she draws a handful of fish-shaped steel projectiles. The Nyassassin flings them at Simona while the two are locked in a struggle of sword against nunchaku. "Eat my sardine shuriken!"
Simona twists to avoid them, but one fish-shaped projectile finds its mark on her leg. One head let's loose a whine as the blade sinks in. Blood oozes out around the imbedded sardine with each of Simona's steps. Her canine heads growl with pain and hatred for their feline enemy.
I don’t want to admit it, but the cat-masked woman is right. If we ignore the Nyassassins to go protect our human charges underground, we'll be stabbed in the back and slaughtered.
The second cat mask turns mid-combat to slash his sword across the chest of a Lizardman sneaking up on him from behind. Magical steel cuts through Second Tier scales like butter, and the reptilian soldier collapses.
“You dare show us your back?!” Rallos the Pseudo-Cerberus lunges for the opening with his chain-baton held high. His strike whiffs completely.
Shadows swallow the Nyassassin in the nick of time, and he seems to melt into the floor. An instant later, I watch with fury as the cat mask reappears behind Rallos to sever the canine guardian's spine with a casual backstab.
One of Rallos's three bestial heads notices the feline figure rise from his shadow like a ghost, and he attempts to dodge. Their difference in speed is apparent as he merely changes the lethal strike to a gut wound. Inches of steel sink into the Pseudo-Cerberus's side as the chain-baton slings around Rallos's shoulder for a retaliatory blow.
The Nyassassin releases his grip and slips away as soft as silk while the baton meets nothing but empty air. Rallos coughs up blood, shakes off the pain, and turns to continue the bout.
“Air Blade!” The cowardly Harpy proves she’s at least good for something. She flaps her wings, stirring the air and compressing it with her magic until forming a hardened edge that zooms at her target.
The third cat-masked figure flings Lois into the air with a flick of his foot before kicking her in the gut, sending her crashing into the side of the pavilion in a tangle of cloth. Then he slashes apart Aello's Air Blade with his enchanted Nyanjato, the severed halves of hardened air flying away uselessly to his either side, and he glares at the old bird.
"We're so dead," the Harpy Matron moans in despair.