On the ground, an almost invisible outline zigzagged at breakneck speed. Each landing kicked up faint dust; some kind of invisible jumping bug fleeing for its life.
Though its form was hidden, the dust it picked up left a broken trail behind.
Broga chased relentlessly. His heavy ringed saber whistled down again and again.
Yet without a clear target, the blade always barely missed the unseen body, only carving deep gashes in the earth.
A bolt of lightning streaked along the ground, striking the blurry outline.
The air instantly filled with the stench of burnt flesh. An electrocuted jumping bug, charred outside and cooked inside, tumbled from mid-air, limbs still twitching.
Broga’s following strike arrived, cleaving it in two. Thick purple blood gushed out, soaking into the soil.
Broga straightened, looking at the old acquaintance slowly approaching. His tone carried faint dissatisfaction. “Rama, your lightning almost grazed me.”
The half-demon named Rama flicked residual arcs from his staff tip. “I thought if I didn’t act, that thing would’ve slipped right past your blade.”
“I don’t have your magic eye that sees through concealment,” Broga grumbled. “Besides, one escapee changes nothing. They’re trapped in the encirclement. All dead sooner or later.”
Rama was an elite warrior from the neighboring “Stone Claw” tribe.
Like Broga’s “Broken Blade” tribe, they were typical mixed northern tribes.
Mixed tribes were settlements formed when different races banded together to survive this harsh land.
No racial barriers and no fundamental conflicts meant Broken Blade and Stone Claw got along fairly well. Some elite warriors from both sides were even friends.
Broga and Rama were such.
Broga kicked away the still-spasming insect corpse in disgust. “Fucking revolting.”
In the north, food was precious. Even now with mushroom trade from the fortress, tribal frugality ran deep; nothing edible was wasted.
But these purple-blooded bugs were an exception. Their meat was slimy and foul; eating it caused violent vomiting and weakness. Inedible.
Rama looked at the warriors slowly tightening the circle, sprinkling dust inward. “Once we wipe them out clean this time, we’re done. These damn bugs have taken forty-plus of ours in just a few months.”
“My tribe lost more,” Broga said darkly. “Even an elite warrior!”
Rama nodded gravely. “I know. Otherwise the chiefs wouldn’t have decided on a joint operation. Leave them be and they’re too dangerous.”
“Thanks to that whatever-fortress,” Broga said. “Without their mushrooms, who knows how long we’d have needed to stockpile for a hunt this size.”
Before the fortress, northern tribes scraped by. The fortress’s appearance had injected new life into the surrounding tribes.
A few slaves for a whole cart of mushrooms; pure profit.
They could even trade small amounts of mushrooms to farther tribes for slaves, then sell those to the fortress for the difference.
If not for these sudden purple-blooded bugs, this spring would have been the best time in memory.
Of course, not everyone was satisfied with the status quo.
“I’m more curious,” Rama scooped up some dirt, “our tribe has fungal mat nearby too, but mushrooms grow sparse. How do they make them sprout like weeds?”
Broga said, “Must be some secret ritual or special recipe. Didn’t your tribe take in a shapeshifter? Have him sneak in and steal the formula.”
Rama nodded, but now wasn’t the time.
As they talked, one of Rama’s warriors jogged over. “Captain, blood traces over there!”
After a moment, he added, “Red.”
They followed to a shaded slope. The ground was indeed splattered with dark-red blood, shocking yet with no body; clearly the bugs’ work.
After searching, someone dug up half a severed finger from soft soil.
Rama examined it carefully. “Human finger. Probably from one of the ‘bait’ poor bastards… never thought one made it this far.”
Since spring, surrounding tribes had suffered repeated attacks.
Timing and location suggested these purple-blooded bugs lurked in the Luo River.
To draw them out, the tribes had pooled slaves as bait.
The plan worked. Large numbers were lured out. The allied force then blocked retreat and steadily tightened the noose.
This operation, even if not eradicating them forever, would at least cripple them for years.
The blood here was likely the last trace of one bait.
The encirclement continued shrinking. Encounters with invisible jumpers grew more frequent.
Everyone knew the bugs were at the end of their rope, making a final desperate struggle.
To these elite warriors, invisible monsters were troublesome but ultimately dumb creatures acting on instinct.
Sneaking up on lone warriors might work, but against organized intelligent races, they were no real threat. The entire hunt had only cost the allies a handful of casualties.
The final death throes might be fierce, but the outcome was set.
The bugs tried frantically to break out but crashed into walls everywhere, finally fleeing onto a stretch of Luo River still covered in thick ice.
The ice here was solid; no worry about weight until summer.
As a tribal priest chanted, a detection spell’s glow swept the ice like ripples. The last few hundred bugs instantly had nowhere to hide.
They clustered at the center, tightly guarding an especially large one with six scythe-like claws.
“That must be the insect king. Easy now that we can see it! First merit is mine!” Broga licked his lips bloodthirstily and charged with his men.
“Kill them all!”
“For our fallen kin!”
His move triggered the rest. Thousands of tribal warriors roared and surged toward the insect swarm on the ice like a breaking dam.
Broga charged first and clashed first.
In one exchange, he cleaved one large and one small bug in half.
Without pause he pressed forward, aiming straight for the presumed insect king.
The bugs resisted fiercely, but without invisibility and outnumbered by thousands of tribal warriors, resistance was futile.
Countless bugs died. Purple blood dyed the ice.
Just as Broga carved his way to the center to face the insect king, violent tremors came from beneath his feet.
Broga stumbled, nearly falling. The insect king, as if prepared, steadied faster and slashed.
At the critical moment, Broga twisted his waist, spinning to deflect the attack with his saber while rolling backward, regaining posture somewhat awkwardly.
But this was only the beginning. Tremors grew stronger.
Finally, before everyone’s disbelieving eyes, a massive toothed tentacle burst through the ice from the river…
(End of Chapter)
