The long legs were a blur, a furious flurry as the metallic clogs walloped Gwil in the face. His body was being squeezed—smothered—by what he’d determined was an extremely large person. A mountain of a man.

  Pop.

  Gwil shrank down into his legs, vanishing out of the chokehold. He landed on the floor in the shadow of the enormous man.

  “Impervious Jello Technique!” he bellowed.

  Gwil ran—as fast as his little legs could carry him—as the shadow narrowed, racing against him. He was too slow, this man too wide. The belly flop would consume him.

  He stopped, raised his arms over his head and pumped them—and his knees—full of Nirva, holding against the formidable mass of flesh as if it were a collapsing ceiling.

  All he managed to do was create a sort of tent. A copious blanket of fat fell around the place where Gwil stood, enveloping him.

  Elbows and knees shaking, straining with everything he had… Nope. Gwil collapsed. He was devoured by the hefty, silk-clad robes.

  He thrashed—kicking, punching, scratching—but it was ineffectual no matter how much Nirva he expelled. The girth was too robust. To move even the slightest bit required tremendous effort.

  It was the worst sort of prison. But Gwil was thankful for the protection afforded him by his captor’s silk robe, though the fabric was damp with sweat and stank of pork. To be buried beneath a nude belly of this magnitude would’ve been unpleasant and sticky. He did wish he’d fallen face down, though.

  What to do? His first inclination was to start yelling, but there was no way sound could pierce this flabby mountain.

  Pop.

  In the instant of growth, Gwil could feel his limbs pushing through layers of thick, sproingy flesh. It reminded him of dredging the swamp in Guice’s backyard.

  Gwil immediately regretted his decision. So much more of him was being crushed now, and he was pressing back harder against the weight—a futile, detrimental resistance. The sweaty silk clung like tape to his whole body.

  It was nice to breathe, though. He turned his head away and took a few gulping gasps, as much as he could with his ribs being smushed. The Elder Warren was lying next to him, groaning, face beaten to a pulp. And there were the metal clogs walking across the floor.

  “Ope! Hello there, you vicious little cretin. Did you burn my kitchen? Do you have any idea how many rare ingredients you destroyed?”

  Gwil gasped upon seeing the huge man’s face. All three men looked the same except that they were different shapes and sizes. The metal-shoed one was gaunt in the face and lanky, though his torso was short—all his height was in his legs. The one Gwil knew, with the claws, was more normally proportioned. And the one sitting on top of Gwil resembled a sea cow. He was at least four times wider than the others and his cheeks looked like balloons. But they all had the same nose and eyes, and they were all bald save for the single stuck-up peak of hair in the middle of their heads.

  “Back away, my lovelies, back away,” the large man said, waving his hands. “Everything is under control. Run away and go help your fellows, or something. This demon you see below me is dead.”

  There was some yelling and the sound of many footsteps. Gwil craned his neck and saw a bunch of Malikauans running away.

  One of Gwil’s arms was completely trapped, and the other was pinned at the elbow. “Get offa me!” He smacked his fist against the rotund belly, but even with Nirva he couldn’t muster any force.

  The man ignored him and said, “Claws, what in the hells were you thinking? Look what you’ve done! Look how many servants you’ve cost us.”

  “Oh, elude me, industrious Self and all your indicate wisdom,” the claw-man said, his speech further warped by his swollen face. “I only fought off an entire Leviathan army my byself. Oh, and let’s not forget how the Vessel turned traitress. But please, imbibe me, Oh Wise Self. What should I have done deferentially?”

  “You should not have given that speech,” the metal-shoed man muttered.

  “Hey! Are you guys twins or something? Or triplets, I mean,” Gwil said. He had to tilt his head all the way back to see, so his view of the conversation was upside down.

  Ignored again, Gwil was jostled by jiggling as the immense man raised his arm to hold up a finger. “Try to use simpler vocabulary, Claws. I think your brain is scrambled. And I think I can see part of it peeking out. But yes, that speech was obscenely stupid. Strong start, shaky middle, abhorrent ending.

  “Please tell me you’d already sustained that brain damage before you gave the speech. At least that would be an excuse… I’ve always worried I gave you too long of a leash, Claws. Too much power. It’s my fault, I suppose. I feel like a disappointed parent.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “You became impudent and far too confident in your ability to operate outside of your expertise. We’re meant to be a team, and you are no Head. You are stupid.”

  “Fuck you, Self! Look at my face! Help me heal. Give me more Nirva!”

  The laughter shook Gwil like an earthquake. “How dare you speak to your creator with such foul language? Give you more Nirva? Are you insane? Claws, a mistake like this, I’m much closer to exterminating you. I would’ve already done it if not for the fact that my heart can’t handle the loss of three clones in a single day.”

  “Three?” the one called Claws—who Gwil had thought was Tezca the Warden—asked. “What did Tail do?”

  The man’s curt nod shook Gwil like the waves of the sea. “Regrettably, Body has moved on. In a permanent way. The Jaguar will never again number more than four.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Gwil shouted. “How are you so big? Stop ignoring me!”

  “Oh. I’m sorry for our loss, Self,” Claws said. “Erm, by the way. One of this demon’s companions has already escaped with the Erithist Spike. He told me while we were fighting.”

  “Good!” the big one said. “We want nothing to do with that thing. Yuma will pursue it like one of Hell’s own hounds when he finds out.”

  While trying to wrestle his arm free, Gwil’s hand brushed against something in his pocket. He felt at it with his fingers and realized it was the tube of ztuff Leira had given him. Nice. I’m starving.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about your kitchen,” Gwil said. “It was an accident, really. Are you a chef?”

  The substantial man finally looked down at Gwil. He giggled and blushed. “Oh, I wish I was. I dabble. I’m more of a connoisseur of the actual eating than the cooking. But I always say a meal is more satisfying when you’ve made it with your own hands.”

  “What’s your favorite food?” Gwil asked.

  The large man’s brow furrowed with seriousness. “By sub-category?”

  “Sure,” Gwil said.

  “Don’t make me narrow it down so much. How about we do top threes? Do you mind if I use Old World nomenclature? Shall we start with chicken? Oh, maybe I’d better do top fives.

  “Saltimbocca, cordon bleu, masala then marsala—that’s an important distinction. And fifth, mm, well how could I forget good old homestyle fried chicken? With barbeque sauce. I’ll actually bump that up to number two.”

  Gwil grinned. “I love chicken too.”

  The man nodded enthusiastically and patted Gwil on the head. “Call me Tezca, friend. I’m the true Warden, by the way. You must have been confused. These are my clones, you see.”

  “Oh, cool,” Gwil said.

  “Yes, now, back to business. Fish next?”

  “Self,” Claws said. “Be cautionful of this one. He’s Hallowed and lasciviously clever.”

  “I am?”

  “Shut up, Claws,” Tezca said. “How dare you critique me?”

  “He’s right, Self,” the metal-shoed one said. “You’re getting distracted. We need to leave before—”

  “Piss off, Legs. You two skinny-minnies have never respected my passion. Neither of you have any interest in the culinary arts. So, forgive me if I’m overjoyed at the opportunity to speak with a fellow enjoyer of cuisine. It’s just… ever since the loss of Body, I feel so…” He flapped his hand and his face squished up as if he was about to cry.

  “What about the fish?” Gwil said. “I wanna know.”

  “Ah, yes! Number one, obviously, easily, bouillabaisse. Then baccala alla livornese…”

  Gwil didn’t know what the hell Tezca was talking about, or what language he was speaking, but he’d extracted the tube of ztuff from his pocket and was working hard to free that arm. He found a way of wriggling his hips and torso that let him move his arm, millimeter by millimeter.

  “Beef next?” Tezca said. “No, how about we do breakfast foods?”

  “I love breakfast,” Gwil said.

  “Anyone who possesses a tongue knows that number one is eggs benedict. Please tell me you’ve had the pleasure of eating eggs benedict…?” He chortled. “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Gwil. And I’ve never had that before.”

  Tezca wiped away a tear. “I thought not. You have the look of an uncultured country boy, and know that when I say that, it’s not an insult. I myself was an uncultured country boy, growing up in these very lands. But with my own twelve hands, I built a culinary empire. Even so, it pains my heart to meet a person who truly loves food but has not had the opportunity to explore the bottomless depths of the culinary art. Gwil, please, allow me to make you some eggs benedict. And don’t you worry about the destruction of my kitchen. I have several backups.”

  Tezca made to stand up and Gwil had a fleeting moment of incredible relief—during which he freed his arm. But Legs and Claws had both run over to Tezca and pushed him back down.

  “Self, please—”

  “Shut up, Claws,” Legs said. “You’ll make things worse.” He turned to Tezca. “Self, this man burned your kitchen. He stole the Erithist Spike and summoned the Leviathan into our home. He has ruined everything. Do not cook him eggs benedict! He doesn’t deserve to even sniff your hollandaise sauce. Self, Yuma will be here soon.”

  “Shut up, Legs,” Gwil said as he unscrewed the ztuff cap with his thumb. “I want the special eggs.”

  Tezca slammed his giant fist down on Gwil’s face. He saw stars. That had some Nirva in it.

  “How dare you talk to Legs like that,” Tezca said. “If I scoot over just a little bit, you’ll suffocate. Watch your tongue.”

  “Sure, sorry,” Gwil said. He unscrewed the ztuff cap with his thumb. “Try this.”

  He brandished the bright red tube and squirted a spurt of ztuff into Tezca’s open mouth.

  “Mmmm!” Tezca said. He snatched the tube out of Gwil’s hand.

  Dammit. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Gwil’s plan was to give Tezca a taste, and then squirt a trail of it on the ground, baiting Tezca away.

  “Zippy’s Zooper Zesty Ztuff,” Tezca read. “Oh, that is delectable. Capsicum, habanero, soy, honey, vinegar, and so much more. I could spend months examining the composition and never get close. This is not a medley, it’s an entire menagerie. So bold!”

  “I know, it’s amazing,” Gwil said. “And it goes with everything. It’s nutritious, too.”

  “Yes, I see it has potassium,” Tezca said.

  “My favorite way to eat it is to suck down the entire thing in one pull,” Gwil said.

  Tezca took the advice, squealing with delight as he drained the tube. Squealing, and leaping to his feet.

  Gwil scrambled away and then jumped up onto an archway. Damn. His shoe was still over in that courtyard.

  “Self!” Legs cried. “He’s escaped.”

  Tezca turned to look at Gwil, holding up the wrinkled plastic tube. “Do you have any more of this ztuff? I will allow you to buy your freedom with it.”

  “I already told your friend we’re not making any deals,” Gwil said. “You suck, and you’re a weak coward and your hair makes you look like a giant baby. I’m gonna kick all your asses. Is there any more of you?”