Chapter 644: The Dead Company (4)
Figures erupted from alcoves with a scratch of antler against stone. They were shaped like men but stretched wrong—limbs elongated, bark plates fused into armor over bone that clicked and hissed with every motion. Antlers rose from skulls, twisted into crude spearpoints that dripped black sap. Bramble-Wraiths, but grown on some monstrous fertilizer. Two on the left, two on the right, all moving faster than the smaller ones above.
Thalatha blurred forward, more reflex than choice. Her longsai blade left its sheath with a whisper and met the first wraith mid-leap. Steel kissed rot; the creature’s mask split clean along the nose ridge, falling away in halves like rotten fruit. She pivoted on her trailing heel, cape snapping, and used the backstroke to slice an exposed vine-tendon in its knee. The corpse crumpled, green ichor splashing the moss-tiles.
Mikhailis didn’t have time to appreciate the choreography. The second wraith bore down, claws as long as kitchen knives. He snapped the wax seal on his grenade, lobbed it underhand. Glass shattered against its sternum; a bloom of psycho-gel vapor hissed outward, odor sharp like crushed mint mixed with funeral incense. The wraith gagged—if fungus can gag—and swiped blindly, its antlers gouging the ceiling.
The third attacker barreled straight for him, more confident. Its claws scissored at throat level. Survival instincts overrode decorum: he dropped to a crouch so fast his knees barked, twisting sideways behind Rodion’s waiting chassis.
The construct responded in a blink. Plates along its spine unfolded, revealing silk launchers. With a pneumatic pop, a web of sticky filament shot up, pinning the creature across shoulders and skull. The net yanked upward in a violent jerk, plastering the wraith to the ceiling like a nightmare carp caught on a boat hook. The monster thrashed, but every pull only tightened the net, silken threads scoring grooves into bark flesh.
A fourth wraith darted low, using the collapse of its brother as cover. It slid under Thalatha’s guard, scything claws across her thigh. Leather split, crimson blooming through the gash. She gritted her teeth—no scream—then answered with a vicious upward sweep that took the head clean off. The antler crown clattered down the corridor, coming to rest against Mikhailis’s boot with a hollow knock.
She staggered but refused to fall. Blood soaked the edge of her cloak, dripping in steady plinks onto mossstone. "Just a scratch," she breathed, though her pallor betrayed more pain than she’d admit.
He offered an arm, half in jest. "Bandage or more monsters to hit? I’ve got both in stock."
Thalatha shot him a look of dry disdain. "Lead, Prince of Jokes. I’ll follow."
Rodion flashed two blue pulses across its chest plating. <Correlation: wounded ally detected. Suggest medical intervention within fourteen minutes to prevent mobility loss.>