The Wild Beasts of Anthony Mannis
Chapter 16

Kesla-Ally PK-3s,more commonly known as “stalkers,” are single-pilot tripod-walkers often manned by Spectre Men, PSOs, and the occasional ranger. From the high vantage point, a soldier can easily maintain crowd control, overtake escaping rebels, or fight rogue beasts.

- Information Available to Borges Citizens, Pamphlet III

Uh-oh, Anthony thought, those kids are definitely invokers. They must be about eight or nine…in their prime. And they’re SSI…I’m going to need help. Good thing I held onto these…

He reached into his pockets and pulled out some sightseers, pretended to yawn and discreetly popped them into his mouth.

“What do you want Raffick?” Philip cried, “Leave us alone.”

“I just want him,” Raffick pointed at Anthony with a gloved black finger, “do not cause trouble, Anthony. The Nosferat are stronger than you. Your friends will be allowed to leave, if you think harm will come to them. Think of their health.”

“He’s lying,” Hayley gritted her teeth, not breaking eye contact with The Jester. Her quarterstaff was clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.

“They won’t let us leave. This was a trap. They’re going to kill us.”

She sized up the situation. The pissos are nothing to worry about—not the same squad as last time. Three invokers, two boys and a girl, all tier-three; that’d be hard for me, hopefully Anthony could do it…but there’s no way Philip could take Raffick…and me against this freak…

Anthony gestured with his hands towards his friends.

“You think harm will come to them?” he jeered, “What about you? Look at what we did to your helmet. And did you tell your pissos what happened to the last squad?”

The PSOs exchanged nervous glances. Raffick frowned underneath his cracked helmet. Anthony smirked.

“Oh…I guess you didn’t.”

The Spectre Man scowled. “You are quite eager to offer up your friends’ lives. Perhaps you should ask them how they feel about it.”

Fire flashed behind Hayley’s eyes. “I’ll shred these jokes apart.”

Philip brushed back his jacket, revealing the pistol holstered at his side. The Jester, who had been silent up to that point burst out laughing, sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight. It was a hollow, ugly sound.

“Oh boy. You should look at yourself. My dear boy. You are so brave. I will make you change your mind. You little baby.”

Anthony frowned. I’ve heard his voice before.

“Who’s this clown?”

“The Dead Man. He’s mine.” Hayley ground her feet into the dirt, arched her back like a leopard.

“Wait, Hayley, you know this guy?”

“Long story.”

“This,” Raffick interrupted, “is Marceau.”

Marceau bowed again, but this time only slightly. “That is my given name, yes. There are also those who call me The Dead Man, a title I am partial to, but bit of a misnomer; those who call me that are usually the ones that end up dead. For your sake, you may call me The Jester,” his body bent, he tilted his head up sideways at Hayley, “It is so very nice to see you again, little girl.”

“The pleasure is all yours, Fool,” her voice was ice.

Marceau tutted at her. “One cannot go around calling people fools all the time. I would have thought your mother raised you better. Oh, no that’s right, I forgot…she wasn’t around.”

Everything happened at once. Hayley snapped and charged Marceau, her staff whirling so fast it lopped the heads of wheat from the stalks. Philip drew his pistol and promptly dropped it; when he saw Raffick aiming at him he dove into the grass. The railgun burnt a path where he was, trails of purple fire sizzling burnt wheat. The Nosferat began to summon.

“Samael,” said the first boy.

“Yama,” said the other.

“Siu,” said the girl.

The two boys each made a Daemon Lord: great bat-winged humanoid monsters with horned heads and hooved feet that stood near thirty feet tall. The girl created a vampiress, a pale, stick-thin, eyeless creature with clawed fingers and a black billowing shawl that hung off it in shreds. It screeched, revealing fanged teeth.

Anthony answered their monsters with a colossal green wyrm, its scales flashing jade. It roared, and instead of fire, corrosive acid flew from its mouth, melting some wheat and a sizable portion of tree trunk. The Daemon Lords drew flaming swords, thumped their armored chest-plates, and bellowed back. The battle had begun.

#

The Jester drew his sabre almost lazily, just in time to block an overhead swing from Hayley. She attacked three more times: at his head, his midriff, and his legs. Marceau frowned as he parried. The girl was using the superior reach of her staff to keep him from getting close; biting at his feet every time he stepped in and then swinging up to attack his head, forcing him to abandon an attack. Still, he wasn’t worried.

“You listened, little girl,” he said expressionlessly, his blade moving in lazy arcs, “you have trained.”

“Screw you, clown,” she feinted a thrust, then slammed the staff down towards his toes. He sidestepped and the staff only hit dirt. He trapped the end of the staff under his foot and stepped lightly up it as if it were a tightrope. Hayley jostled the trapped staff furiously, trying to unbalance him to no avail. Smiling, The Dead Man swung at Hayley’s unprotected face.

#

The Daemon Lords swung their fireswords against Anthony’s wyrm, sparks flashing as if they were swinging at steel. The dragon knocked one to the ground and pinned it down. It slammed into the other Daemon Lord with its tree-sized tail, sending it tumbling head over heels with a dent in its chestplate. The vampiress skirted around the wyrm and headed straight for Anthony, shrieking. Anthony stumbled backwards and fell, but before he did, he swung his arm and a golden ram burst into existence to charge the spectress to the ground. The ram turned into a treant with a wooden stake for a hand, and drove it into the vampiress’ heart. There was a sound like ice cracking and the spectress disappeared with a hiss. The Borges girl cried out, clutching her head, and fainted. One down, Anthony thought.

#

Okay, just need to hide in this grass like Ten Faces does, Philip thought, if I can circle around Raffick I can get to the PSOs and take their weapons.

He crawled on his hands and knees, making sure not to let any part of him show above the grassline. Thankfully it’s still dark, or they would see the grass move.

“Stand up and fight like a man,” Raffick growled, staring down the sights of his railgun.

He paused his search for Philip to fire a pulse at the colossal wyrm. It was a direct hit, but the beast was unfazed. It turned towards Raffick as if the Spectre Man had caused it to be stung by a bee, and roared a gush of acid. Raffick had to dodge unceremoniously. Decay, he thought.

Cursing, he tossed his melting railgun aside and tore off his gauntlets, which were also dissolving. He glanced up to see one of the PSOs get coldcocked by Philip.

Amateur Oaktown bumpkins, he thought disgustedly, mere security who have never seen a battle. They deserve to get ambushed by a farm boy.

“Torch the grass!” he shouted to them, “The boy cannot hide in flame. Smoke him out.”

#

Hayley jerked up her arm to block the descending sword, and the blade that should have severed her forearm bounced off with a muted clank. The Jester puckered his lips into a bemused frown.

“There appears to be more to that straw jacket than just poor fashion sense, little girl.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Hayley growled.

She twisted the staff and it split into two staves underneath the Jester’s feet. He tumbled awkwardly but recovered. Hayley picked up her staves and attacked him two-handedly, hammering furiously and faster than the eye could follow. I didn’t want to do this, but I have to: sacrifice my reach for speed. I hope this gamble pays off…it will. I can’t doubt myself. Not now.

Marceau deflected the majority of the blows, but occasionally one would slip past him, leaving a dent in his armor or tearing his doublet.

He’s letting me push him back too easily, she thought. What is he up to—ah!

With his free hand he had flicked out his stiletto, aiming for her ribs. She rapped him across the knuckles and turned the blade away, stepping inside simultaneously. In an uncharacteristically panicked move, Marceau jerked his head backwards. The cut that would have been his throat was instead on his cheek. A drop of red ran down his powdered white face. Hayley smiled, a dagger clenched in her teeth. Bet you weren’t expecting that, clown.

“You have tricks, little girl. I, too, have some.”

He paused to watch the PSOs who were lighting torches a ways off, then with a flick of his wrist, the field surrounding them was on fire. Quickly, Hayley reassembled her staff and swung it in a large circle, cutting the grass around her down—but still the fires raged, licking the wheat hungrily and trapping her in its embrace. The Jester tutted at her again.

“Clever, clever, adaptable girl. It will not save you,” he studied her face. It was one of terror, her mind going to a memory she hated and feared but couldn’t let go.

Fire.

“You’ve been burned before, do you remember, little girl?”

I shut my ears but I could not block out the sounds of the men who died screaming.

“Poor little girl. It will all end soon. The Dead Man is coming for you,” he idly cut a path through the burning grass towards Hayley, who couldn’t move.

“Fire is not your friend, is it? So many memories. Poor little girl. Fire is a friend for me. I adore it. See how I command it.”

The Jester stuck his hand in a burning section of wheat. He held it there for a few seconds, then pulled it out. His gauntlet was burnt black and flaking, but he flexed his powdered fingers and gripped his sword.

“Good-bye, poor little girl. Your mother and father hang their head in shame at your failure. I will tell them your last act of valor was not one at all. Instead you chose to freeze in fear like a scared little whelp. Do not worry, poor little girl, it will all be over very soon.”

#

“I don’t get it,” panicked one of the remaining PSOs to Raffick. They were in a shootout with Philip and were forced to take cover behind a tree.

“I thought those Special Service Invokers were made to be better than the average invoker.”

“They are,” Raffick grunted. He wished the PSO would shut up. A bullet pinged off the trunk in front of him.

“Don’t you guys dope them up with a bunch of psychedelics to make them stronger?”

“We do.”

He fired with his secondary and missed. Can’t concentrate.

He watched some of the other PSOs behind other trees fire recklessly. Trash. They don’t even aim.

“Well? Why can’t they take this kid down?”

Raffick glanced at the wyrm, which had sprouted another head. Each head was attacking a Daemon Lord and driving them back. The two remaining Nosferat were also summoning devil-goblins to try to attack Anthony directly, but the forest invoker had invoked a claymore-wielding armored centaur. It cut through them as if they were rotten tomatoes, each devil-goblin exploding messily on contact. One of the wyrm heads ate a Daemon Lord, and the other Daemon Lord succumbed to a blast of acid and melted away. Raffick cursed.

I asked Warden Tan for The Black Death. Or the Tartarians. You force me to do this, Tan. He is not ready.

“Release Abaddon,” Raffick said to the PSO.

The officer paled. “Me?” he squeaked, “I don’t think, I don’t think I should…that kid makes me nervous—”

Raffick punched him solidly across the jaw and the man splayed out across the ground. Raffick pointed to another PSO.

“You. Release Abaddon. Don’t make me ask twice.”

The PSO saluted shakily and ran to a tarped battlewagon, ripping off the cover to reveal a large cube. From under the cube’s lid emanated a light purple glow. She nervously entered the passcode on the keypad and the purple glow diminished.

The lid of the cube exploded, a cloud of swirling black humour erupting from within, knocking the poor officer to the ground. Otherworldly screams and howls filled the air. A huge, demonic hand connected to an equally huge arm reached out of the box and gripped the ground, then another. Something—a huge body—was lifted out of the box. Fifty feet up in the thick black smoke, a fiery horse’s head appeared, neighing furiously, and the whole colossus was revealed.

It had two huge hooved feet, each one the size of a battlewagon—in fact, it had crushed the one on which the cube had been—and muscled equine legs black of fur and frothed with sweat. The torso was of a man’s nature, but unnaturally huge, as big around as a small house. In each hand was a sickle the size of an apple tree. The pupil-less eyes rolled wildly in the horse’s head, and the mane was of hellfire. Anthony’s two-headed wyrm barely reached its waist.

Awestruck, Raffick lifted his helm to better see the monster. Hayley, too, surrounded by fire, stared. Even The Jester’s eyes widened momentarily.

“A Nightmare.” Philip said, the color draining from his face.

Only Anthony paid no attention to the monstrosity above him. His focus was instead on the colossus’s creator—a young boy, pale and barefoot—stepping forward out of the blackness.

Anthony’s voice came out cracked and weak.

“Munroe?”

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