120. Wayfarer-on-Wayfarer

  [Designation: GULLOYNE—the Fjordstrider]

  [Steed Class: ZEALOUS]

  [Anchored Realm: PRETJORD (+1)]

  [Description: What manner of creature could possibly live up to the mantle of ‘the Realm Immortal’s Steed’? Enter the Fjordstrider, a reptilian behemoth whose rubbery feet are large enough to uproot the Realmtree itself, and who also happens to be resilience incarnate, thanks to a quirk of Mundane biology called ‘epimorphic regeneration’. Do not let this giant salamander’s pristine hide and royal regalia fool you. This is a beast who’s been at the frontlines of more titanic battles than most souls have years to their name—its war scars hidden from all but the most discerning eyes.]

  ***

  The Raksha-Yak-Man trio was back in the swing of things—though for a much more nefarious activity than their previous outing together.

  Renate, a subject matter expert who’d spent the better part of a decade evading capture by the Kronvakt, gave out scouting reports and hunting advice from the safety of her underwater hiding spot. Serac and Zacko put said advice into action, in the only ways they knew how.

  Serac soon discovered, much to both her satisfaction and chagrin, that she was kind of good at this. Indeed, her tools and skills really were quite well-suited for sneaking around and causing mishaps, which flew directly in the face of her moral misgivings.

  Some of it, of course, was down to the element of surprise. The Frostkrill was large, with its numerous segments spanning several dozen Iskolle rinks’ worth of ice. The Kronvakt hunters had spread themselves thin, a natural effort to avoid getting squashed by the same megaton punch. All this gave the Serac-Zacko assassin duo plenty of room to do their work without ‘making waves’.

  One victim was a burly barracuda who’d shown up to the chaos with a classic sword-and-buckler combo. He clearly had a lot of faith in his buckler-based magic, as he raised it above his head to deflect a falling Frostkrill limb.

  Serac aimed, locked, and fired at the barracuda man’s buckler arm, thereby interrupting his spell. The man looked up at her, understandably furious and momentarily forgetful of the threat from above. He charged at her with sword in hand, but as he did, Zacko slid in from the blind side with a [Staff] leg sweep. The barracuda fell, and didn’t get a chance to roll away to safety.

  [5,704 ?]

  Serac kept a pained yet steady gaze as she watched her fellow Wayfarer turn to Dust. She owed him at least that for the underhanded way she’d just sent him back to the Hubstation.

  But economy and efficiency were the name of the game (for real this time!). Team Serac couldn’t allow themselves to be dragged into lengthy engagements. Not only would that put them in danger of being squashed themselves, it’d also up the risk of their ‘game within a game’ being discovered, thus turning the Kronvakt against them.

  Swift and lethal. Leave no witnesses. Had been Renate’s emphatic advice. And the best way to follow it, ironically enough, was to use the Frostkrill against their fellow hunters. The aim wasn’t to fight the Wayfarers but to ambush and unbalance them enough that they’d fall, roll, or slide to their own deaths.

  And yet, a smite was a smite, as far as Pathsight was concerned. Serac pondered this fact as she was credited with her latest ‘smiting blow’.

  She’d stood from a safe distance as she fired her reliable triple burst—one aimed to trap a herring man in place before he was flung into the sky by a giant prawn tail. The man died from lethal fall damage, whose direct cause had been the Frostkrill, and yet…

  [7,816 ?]

  … It was Serac who took the spoils. She understood this to be a perfect example of a phenomenon Trippy (Version One!) had mentioned long ago, during her jailbreak/tutorial:

  “Under Pathsight’s omniscient gaze, the intention behind every action is laid bare. It’s not how the soul died that matters, but rather the who and the why. It behooves you, Serac Edin, to keep your smiter’s instinct ever sharp and gleaming, lest there be any confusion about Karmic attribution.”

  Ah, good old edgelord Version One. The truth of his spiel was borne out now, as Wayfarers fell one by one to the Frostkrill’s callous immensity—with all the leaked Karma flowing into the conniving assassins in their midst.

  Because as far as the Frostkrill was concerned, these ‘smites’ meant nothing. The ants that swarmed and rippled along its length were nothing more than food—fuel for the upkeep of its defensive shell. It might crush some of the ants underfoot and send others flying, but there was no intent behind the fatalities.

  No intent except, of course, the ‘plan’ concocted by the outlaw they called ‘the Finless’—though Serac now saw that Heartless might’ve been just as apt.

  “Why is any of this happening in the first place?” Serac wondered aloud, on her team’s way to find another victim. “If the Frostkrill has these impenetrable shields, why do the Kronvakt gather in numbers and whack away like they could do anything about them? Are they following a different tactic from us?”

  “Imagine yourself in Tyr Djofulsen’s fins,” Renate said by way of answer. “You’re a braggart and a layabout with no cause for real [Hunger] other than to chase your next bit of vainglory. If you alone in the Realm—with the benefit of unmatched longevity—arrived at the central gimmick behind the Frostkrill’s powers, would you share that nugget with the rest of the Hunt?”

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  Serac the conniving assassin gasped at the sheer scandal of it. Could it be? Mr King keeping the secret to himself, just so he can be the victorious Hunter every time out?

  But then her thoughts immediately turned to Mr Prince, who could still be seen [True]-zipping all over the place, looking for all the world like he could crack the Frostkrill’s shell, shields or no. It was largely thanks to Rathor’s single-minded commitment to his task that Team Serac had yet to be spotted by the most dangerous Wayfarer on the ice.

  “Not even his own son, though?” Serac pressed the point. “Especially now that Mr King has hung up his hunting boots, you’d think he’d at least pass on the secret to his children, right?”

  To this, Renate made an odd noise, halfway between a snort and a snarl—and distorted by bubbles besides. Serac waited for a verbal response that didn’t come, before pressing on with her complaints.

  “Anyway, if it’s true that these Kronvakt don’t know what we know, then this makes it feel even more unfair!”

  “Unfair?”

  “Yeah! Here they are, busting their asses to smite a boss the old-fashioned way, not knowing that a whole bunch of them have to die first before there’s any real chance! The least we could do is share our knowledge, right? And if they wanna come for us too, then that’s only fair.”

  “You want to speak of fairness, Rakshasa? How about you take a look at who’s at the helm of that salamander? Then you’ll see for yourself just how much the Kronvakt care about your fairness.”

  Serac did, and saw right away what the frog woman meant. For sitting atop Gulloyne’s head and holding its reins made of braided vines was none other than King Tyr himself—accompanied, as always, by his faithful queen.

  Serac didn’t know what she’d expected, but the realization won her over to Renate’s side of the argument—at least a little bit. Sitting this one out, he’d said. Have favorites in mind but good luck to all, he’d said. Yet, here the king was, clearly in the thick of the action and undeniably helping his Kronvakt by playing the ‘biggest’ tank role this side of the Sanzu River.

  Oh, that does it, Serac made up her mind. I still wish there were a more pleasant way to go about it, but this is clearly every Wayfarer for herself. No more Mrs Nice Rakshasa; I’m in it to win it!

  Yet it was in this moment that something truly unexpected happened.

  Serac watched as the slim, barely distinguishable figure of Queen Loha suddenly turned in her seat. Then their eyes—or whatever apparatus they used to perceive each other—met. Spanning a great distance, shrouded in growing darkness, and across the haze of battle.

  Serac’s right temple flashed with pain. Both of her horns shuddered under the intensity of the malice that rippled her way. And in her mind’s eye, she saw Loha’s face as clearly as if the queen stood right in front of her—a Rakshasa ravaged by age, every feature contorted by rage and murderous intent.

  How many signs from the heavens did she need? Serac broke into a sprint, but not before bringing her teammates into the fold:

  “We need to get out of here! Now!”

  This wasn’t Zacko’s first rodeo, and he hopped to right away, no questions asked. Renate, however, took some convincing.

  “What? Rakshasa, wait! I told you to be discreet!”

  “You swim away as fast as possible!” Discretion was the last thing on Serac’s mind. “Or dive down—whichever takes you farther from what’s coming!”

  “Farther from what? What’s co—”

  A fleshy appendage the size of an ancient sequoia. Gulloyne’s prehensile tongue darted across the sky and into the ground, right on top of Team Serac’s heads.

  And despite the forewarning, Serac realized there was no dodge-rolling out of this one. In the space of less than a Ksana, she made the switch to the only action that had any hope of keeping their Realmhunt hopes alive. She jumped in front of both Zacko and Renate, PULVERIZER raised to the sky.

  [711!]

  Poise-break! Of all the ‘one-shots’ Serac had managed to survive with the help of PULVERIZER, this one hit by far the hardest. Indeed, it’d damn near been a one-shot anyway, even with the mitigation!

  But as she fell to her knees, she was gladdened by the sight of Gulloyne’s tree-sized tongue bouncing away. Before she’d committed to her gambit, Serac had no clue if it’d let her survive the hit, let alone keep her teammates safe from damage. Well, luckily, it appeared to have done bo—

  CHOMP!

  With that painfully familiar report, a set of spiral mandibles closed over Gulloyne’s neck, shearing its entire head clean off, tree-sized tongue and all. And even as Serac’s jaw dropped to the ice, she understood what had happened.

  It hadn’t been PULVERIZER after all that had repelled Gulloyne’s tongue shot. No, it was interference from the other titan, taking full advantage of its opponent’s distraction. And now, a giant salamander was less a head—and a giant prawn was one salamander’s head fuller.

  Oh no, poor salamander! Was, bizarrely enough, Serac’s first thought. What happened to the royal couple? Was the next logical question. But even from a distance, Serac made out two figures—one bulky, one slim—who fell through the sky at speed, evidently having made a narrow escape. It certainly looked to be a lethal fall, though, so unless…

  … They had a readymade way to break the fall, in which case they’d be fine. And they were just fine, thanks to the gusts of wind that suddenly rose all around Queen Loha, slowing both her and her husband’s descent. The work of DIAPHRAGM, no doubt, Serac thought, but still no sight of the actual Instrument!

  “This isn’t good.”

  A bubbles-distorted croak at Serac’s knees. Renate had poked out her hooded head, only to gaze up at the sky in obvious concern.

  “What were they playing at, targeting us like that?” Renate exclaimed, sounding deeply aggrieved. “Now the main tank is out of commission, and the Frostkrill will want to choose a new ‘prey’, one who’ll almost certainly do a lesser job of it. This better not have ruined our plan…”

  Out of commission? That seemed to Serac like an incredibly callous and casual way to describe what had happened to Gulloyne. And she was about to let it lower her opinion of Renate even further, when—

  Gulloyne the headless salamander stood up on its four legs. It then turned tail and beat a hasty retreat from the battleground, far too deftly for its size—oh, and for the fact it was missing a head!

  By now, Serac had recovered her Poise, but she was too stunned to pick up her jaw off the ice.

  “Gulloyne can regrow itself,” Renate offered a far-too-casual explanation. “Yes, even if it’s missing a whole head. That’s how it’s managed to serve Tyr Djofulsen for so long, and also how it’s grown to be so big. But the problem is, epimorphic regeneration takes time, especially for damage as extensive as this. And while we wait for Gulloyne to come back, we need another hunter to step up and take the Frostkrill’s agg—”

  Another hunter did step up then—or rather, flew up. Rathor Tyrsen, previously busy surveying the integrity of the Frostkrill’s underbelly, now shot toward the giant prawn’s maw—still open and dripping with salamander blood. And from where Serac sat, accompanied by her assassin friends, she couldn’t help but admire the view.

  The prince looked tiny next to his direct opponent. But he also looked heroic. And boy, did he look dashing as all hell, with his ash-gray mane rippling in the wind.

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