The teratome is nibbling on something. That’s probably not the right word as it doesn’t have a mouth, but the small bug legs beneath its body are stabbing at the ground and lifting dirt and moss, pushing it against its fleshy underside. The dirt seems to just fall off.

  Mandollel circles and creeps around the monster. I can see the light blue glow of his readied darts shine between the tree trunks. The teratome has no eyes, so the light doesn’t matter.

  I shift my grip on my bow. I’m going to start things off by shooting the arm. Finna told us that a single arrow won’t be enough to cripple it, but it’s a start. Mandollel will cast his spell right after and Finna will start stomping on the opposite side of the teratome as me.

  They crept closer, while I stayed farther back and found an angle to shoot at it. Finna said that she and Mandollel can move lightly enough not to alert the teratome but Rworg and I can’t. I’m dejected. I’m good at moving quietly in the forest, but guess I’m not as good as them. I get why the elf is better, but how can a thief from the city move more silently in the forest than me?

  I nudge the quiver a final time, make sure the arrows are separate enough that I can grab them quickly. Breathe in, out. The arm doesn’t have any proper joints, but there seems to be some sort of hinge in the middle, so I aim at that. It’s worth trying to catch something that can actually break to make the arm less useful.

  The string creaks as I pull it back. They offered me a new bow before we left, but I didn’t take it. Mine is better than anything anyone at the city could have made. It’s heavier than it looks, thick yew, rare and old. Gift from Lille. I couldn’t even draw it properly for months after she gave it to me.

  I have my left hand extended straight and pull the arrow back fully, fletching next to my eye. I remember I want to leave the arrow in instead of punching straight through, so I relax the pull a bit.

  I take my time. Once I let go, there will be no more time for reflection or musing.

  “Hurry up already!” Finna shouts from somewhere on the other side of the teratome.

  The monster doesn’t react. I’m glad I was right that it’s deaf. She probably knew it for sure.

  Fine. The teratome reaches down with its arm. I shoot. The arrow thunks into the flesh, cracking something. The arrow settles, the sound a brrr as it vibrates to a halt.

  The teratome screams. It has no mouth, but it does. The sound presses out from somewhere under the armor plates. It turns away to launch itself at me backwards, but dozens of bright darts shoot out from the forest. This time, they don’t hit the armor plates or the body, but home in on the giant arm and the bases of the long spikes. Two darts miss the arm. They try to circle back, but can’t make the turns, zapping into trees, blowing off large chunks of bark and wood that fly into the air. The smell of resin and fresh wood mixes into the teratome’s stench of rotting flesh.

  The other darts slam into the monster. The darts aren’t that precise, but they hit close enough to the arm that the teratome changes target. It keeps aiming at its target using its backside, to throw itself toward the most recent attacker with its frontal arm.

  It really is dumb. I have been completely forgotten. Finna stomps her feet on its other side, but that causes nothing more than the spikes on her side to start slashing the air toward her. They are sharp as daggers, the snikt-snikt of their movement mixing with the whooshing of their edges cutting through the air.

  The teratome leans down, pressing its arm into the ground. I’ve been waiting for this. A single heartbeat more and the arm presses down like an accordion, preparing to push off the ground. I shoot. The arm starts its push as the arrow pierces it.

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  The arm jerks and collapses, crashing the back half of the monster to the ground. It screeches, the armor plates clattering against each other as air escapes from under them.

  Mandollel zips across the distance, sword poised for a thrust. He sinks half of the blade into the teratome, at the root of one of the spikes. The spike shoots up straight, then falls to the ground, unmoving. Faster than the beast reacts, he raises a leg and kicks off from one of the plates of the teratome. He somersaults backward for a full spin before landing far beyond the reach of the spikes, which swing wildly and ineffectually at him.

  The main arm still moves, but it has no strength left. The teratome tries to push off the ground, but it only causes thick, clear blood to spurt out from both ends of the arrows lodged in the arm. I shoot a third arrow into it for good measure.

  The teratome is bleeding and running out of strength. It lies heavily on top of its small bug legs. They point out from under it like a thicket of eyelashes. The spikes still keep stabbing and swinging at us, like they are part of some completely different animal. Mandollel parries a swing, sending sparks flying as blade meets bone. He pivots his body to let the spike stab at empty air just a hair’s breadth before his chest, plunging his sword into the base of the spike. He yanks it out, and the clear liquid paints the ground slick. The stench of rot hangs everywhere around the whole area.

  Finna stands back, watching. “This was actually easier than when Rworg was with us. He always just got in the way and wanted to have a sword fight with it.” She laughs, but the laugh peters out.

  I think of Rworg, alone at the camp, and my feeling of triumph abates as well. I shoot a final arrow at one of the spikes still swinging around. It jerks and flops down as well, the monster now defenseless. The flesh under the armor plates still squirms and undulates. The arm twitches but it can’t support even its own weight anymore.

  Mandollel is pinching his nose shut, sword dangling from his other hand. “How do we do this?” he asks, ts rolling into ds.

  That’s a good question. It’s going to be nasty, no way around it. I remind myself that teratomes are not really animals. Even if it sounds like it’s gasping for breath and squealing, it’s just a slug filled with magic. Bleeding something while it’s alive doesn’t feel right, but putting down a teratome is not as easily done as said. “We just got to do it. I’m sorry. There’s no easy way.”

  Mandollel reaches to poke at the teratome with the tip of his sword and pricks the flesh squeezing out from between the plates. The cut drips a droplet of clear liquid. He turns away, still holding onto his nose tight.

  “Out of the way, prudes,” Finna says. She has both daggers in hand and she smashes them down up to the hilt under one of the plates. The plate rips off as she wrenches, twisting and leaning on the daggers. Under it, there’s a pulsing sack of liquid, rubbery membrane glistening and translucent. “Jackpot.”

  I come closer with a bowl we found at the camp. Polished wood, it tapers toward one end into a spout. I don’t know what it’s been used originally, but it’s perfectly suited to this. I hold a water skin at the other end and nod at Finna.

  She cuts at the membrane and twist the dagger. Up close, the stench is overpowering. I gag and clench my teeth, trying not to breathe. Even so, my eyes water, the air itself feels caustic. Finna wrinkles her nose, but that’s all. I hope the blood doesn’t eat through the leather of the water skin.

  The teratome twitches, plates on its body shifting. It’s disgusting, everything is disgusting. That’s all it is, though. It can’t move, it can’t do anything.

  Mandollel spikes his sword under another plate and flicks it around, cutting the tendons holding it in place. He swings his sword backwards, shooting the plate into the air. The guy just can’t keep from showing off.

  A third plate falls off the teratome’s body on the side opposite us. I concentrate on catching the last of the liquid into the water skin, but Finna raises on her tip-toes to see what’s going on.

  She screams and flinches away from the fallen teratome. “Bug!”

  We know it’s a bug, I think, before noticing that all of the plates on this side wobble. They twitch and one falls off next to my hands. A slug, covered in slime, wriggles out. It has a mass of tendrils with suction cups on its back. I fumble with the bowl and it bumps into the body of the teratome. The slug twists and shoots towards my hands, its whole frontal half opening up to reveal rows and rows of teeth, serrated needles of ivory bony.

  I twist the bowl and smack the slug with its base. Teeth crack and the slug squelches against the wood. Something moist splashes my fingers and I throw the bowl to the ground, wrenching myself away from the teratome.

  Its body writhes, every single armor plate tilting back and forth, wriggling as slugs the size of a cat writhe out. The body seems to collapse on itself, emptied from the bugs that mostly formed it.

  Teratomes are the worst.

  Just the worst.