Kids, by nature, are chaotic. That much is a universal truth. So it makes sense that the plagued children whip their extra limbs brutishly about, like creatures forever trying to regain their balance.

  Adult plagued however—they know what they’re doing. Each of their chimera appendages moves with alacrity and control. So, when they cut towards me, gliding along the mud of the mire with their amphibious parts, the adults make quick work of the distance.

  But in the few seconds it takes for me to unfurl the frayed whip, I note my advantages.

  For one, the adults are slower than the children.

  And secondly, their movements are more predictable. Their directed violence is more familiar than the chaotic swarming attacks of those poor youths we’ve faced throughout the briars.

  Dodging the leader’s first blow is easy—mostly because it's predictable. He raises one of his centipede-laden frog legs and tries bludgeoning it towards me.

  I scramble back into Umbrahorn, shoulders posturing against the tree. With my free hand, I push the spirit back onto his stomach—despite his protesting groans.

  Two other adults converge on us. They never arrive. One is dragged back by those familiar wind spirit hands of Zyla’s and the other is wrapped up by Kiren’s Meteorfang. The fourth one is busy screaming, flesh melting thanks to some acidic concoction that Saegor lobbed at it.

  Leaving me to deal with their leader.

  “If me kills you, she like me, no? Yes, oh yes!” he yells, sword swishing in front of him as his other leg flies up and comes down for a smashing hit against the tree.

  “Umbrahorn move!” I yell, hopping on the shark. But he is slow to even flap his fins.

  I brace myself for the impact of the leg.

  Only, I hear a pained grunt from the jealous infected. The frog leg bounces back off something and the transparency in front of me cracks.

  Kiren shielded me. And he calls me a soppy bastard.

  A smile slashes my face for a brief moment—stolen by another wicked movement of the plagued’s body, for the frog legs that extend from his waist now twist to balance him and as a result, what remains of his half-formed human body stretches and squeezes out some rumbling of blood that gores him like a meridian horizon, and the sword he plays with now arcs up and splatters that blood unto his eyes giving them a jealous, zealous craze that hounds my very soul with its accusation of lustful impudence.

  “She should be MINE! She touched me first! ME. You are unworthy, child of lighting. Unworthy of her love.”

  Given his sentiment, I have a strong feeling that Thrae did not send these ones after me, but rather, they came of their own accord.

  Not that it matters.

  I slap Umbrahorn again. “Wake up and help me kill this thing damnit!”

  “Hmmm, but me want resty Raity-paity—” Umbrahorn groans.

  Can spirits get concussions? I grit my teeth. My free hand instinctually falls to the amulet sack. I shake my head and instead, raise my whip-hand. The rope slashes down at Umbrahorn, eliciting a yelp from the hammerhead.

  “What the fu—”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Dumbass! Look around!”

  He does, and, when he sees the leader of the plagued assault the shield once more, his wooden black eyes widen.

  “Shit, right. Alright, hold on—”

  The shield breaks under the pressure of a third blow. The crackling essence falls like glittering diamonds.

  The frogged plagued leaps up, catching the glint of the sun cracking through the gray haze of clouds, coming down upon us like some avenging angel drenched in the blood of his enemies. Except it's his own blood. And he looks much more demonic than any angel could ever be.

  Umbrahorn flops into the mud and swims away from the leaping blow. That doesn’t deter my jealous pursuer, who simply jumps onto the mire and skates its length, catching up to us right quick.

  But Umbrahorn is waking up now, so his pace also increases. Muddy clumps weigh down my uniform and splatter against my face. I hold my whip arm high, hoping that the flapping rope doesn’t get more damaged in the chase. My free hand grips onto Umbrahorn’s top fin while my legs are dragged through the muck.

  We move away from the battle of my fellow mancers, scouring North to the more dense path of trees.

  I glance back—see our pursuer gliding after us, laughing and screaming more about his deserved love.

  A trickle of fear actually burrows its way into my heart.

  I stifle it with a growl and tap Umbrahorn’s head. “I have an idea. Cut left at the tree bend ahead, but do it abruptly.”

  “Youh cou’ fwall—” he says through a mouthful of mud.

  “That’s fine. I have a plan. Just be sure to cut back when he’s down.”

  “Gwo i’t.”

  “RAITEN! SHE IS MINE!!!” the plagued roars. The whole mire rumbles at his call. I clutch harder to Umbrahorn, molding my chest to his hide.

  “Steady now,” I say as the tree line approaches. “At my go.”

  Another roar and an attempt at a leaping smash sounds off behind us. I don’t turn my head.

  I trust in the strength of my legs and chest to hold me as I roll the whip up and crane it back.

  “Now!”

  Umbrahorn veers left and I let go of his hide. My body flings off sideways, soaring towards the hanging branches of those trees.

  However, my pursuer can’t stop his glide either. And as he notices the tree-line and tries flailing back to halt his momentum, I snap the whip back—let it extend.

  And I flay it forward.

  The frayed rope spins ‘round both his frog legs, which lean back to slow him.

  And as I come crashing through the tangle of branches, their black leaves score my body and their sharp points dig into my back. Yet, I am able to pull on the whip and the plagued falls onto his back, slipping halfway into the mire, rolling and tumbling into the same treeline.

  He smashes into and bends against a thick tree stump. I come falling down from a thicket of branches.

  And all becomes blackness. For a terrifying moment, I think that the fall has knocked me out. But no—its just the fact that my head is dunked in the mire.

  I emerge gasping for breath and swiping the mud off my face, from my eyes. A few stray curses linger on my breath while I struggle to stand. Thankfully, however, the damage is minimal for once.

  Only a few back scratches really.

  My enemy looks in far worse shape, for his spine bends crookedly against the tree. The frog legs flail and try to punch into the mud—to gain some purchase.

  He succeeds surprisingly, rising to his feet now.

  “I’ll kill you—”

  Umbrahron emerges from his flank and bites off the creature’s head.

  The body convulses back and the hands clutch at the sputtering neck and the legs bend back and he dies writhing against the mire, sinking into its depths.

  Umbrahorn whoops: “That’s right! You stupid son of a bitch! That’s what you get for ambushing a GREAT SPIRIT!”

  I trudge towards him, laughter bubbling up in my own chest as well.

  My left hand dips into the mud and stays stuck there. A sharp pain squeezes it. I grunt and pull hard, flinging it out of the mire.

  And attached to the fingers are five wriggling worms trying to burrow into my skin. I scramble back.

  “Umbrahorn! The worms!”

  The shark looks at me, not understanding first. Then, his eyes track to my hands and immediately he dives down.

  Worms flurry through the mud, heading my way. Looking for a new host.

  I kick at the ones approaching while trying to pull the others off. I squeeze three to death in my hand.

  Two remain. My flesh peels like butter and they slither past the nail bed. A pulse of white hot pain shoots up my arm, making the muscles go taut and the veins all pop like green vines.

  And that’s when I begin to scream.