As Eric finished off the last of the tentacle-like arms in his area, he slashed at the demon’s hide with his sword, cutting easily through the hard scales as blessed metal tore infernal flesh. Thick, gooey blood oozed out from the wound, and Eric redoubled his efforts. His friend was in there, alive or dead, and he’d be damned if he allowed Thistle’s final resting place to be inside some glorified demon worm.
Thistle was, at this point, doing very little resting. Point of fact, he’d never worked harder in his life. After the monster’s scream, one that had left him with twin trails of blood trickling from his ears, and had very nearly forced him to release his blades, the constriction had finally begun in earnest as the demon tried to dislodge the discomfort in its throat. However, for once Thistle found his size to be a boon, rather than a burden. Big as the creature was, it had clearly been bred for large meals and its physiology reflected that. Had Thistle been a touch bigger or lacked the dagger handholds, he’d surely have been sent down the express route to its stomach and impending digestion. As it was, he was just barely able to hang on against the pressing muscles pushing him downward. While the constriction failed to dispose of Thistle, it did succeed in moving him and the daggers slightly downward, rending the demon’s flesh as it went.
After a particularly hard thrust, the constriction relented. Thistle took this opportunity to pull out one of the daggers and slam it back into an unharmed bit of throat, slightly higher than the previous wound. While it didn’t result in another ear-splitting shriek, Thistle felt the creature jerk and twitch, shuddering in pain.
He had no idea what he was trying to accomplish. Perhaps a dim hope of climbing back up and out of the demon’s mouth flitted about his head, but the logistics of getting past the teeth would have crushed that delusion as easily as the jaws would crush Thistle. No, this was not an attempt to survive, a break at freedom, or even some stupid belief that he could kill the demon from the inside. This was merely Thistle showing the quality that had defined him most in his youth: relentless stubbornness.
It was what had gotten him tossed from his church, what had forced him to travel with a band of adventurers, and what had ultimately led to winning his wife. Pliable as Thistle’s mind could be, there were just some things he absolutely could not do, and dying quietly was one of them. Had he passed away at this particular moment, Grumble would have pointed out that this trait was what made him a candidate for paladin-hood in the first place. But Thistle did not pass away, nor did he relinquish his grip on the daggers when the next round of constriction began. Instead, he held on tight and stabbed again each time the opportunity came.
There was no end goal or strategy at work; Thistle just intended to give as good as he got before the inevitable occurred. Of course, had he been able to hear the sounds from outside the demon, he might have entertained a very different idea of what constituted “the inevitable.”
There was no style to Gabrielle’s technique as she swung her axe, no sublime grace that others would watch and find beautiful. She was, in fact, quite ugly. Her hair was matted in blood; hot, sticky stuff that also coated a large portion of her face, a face that wore the sort of scowl one sees just before a knife enters their belly. No, she was far from beautiful as she swung downward, rending another Claw’s head from its shoulders and sending a hot spray of fresh blood into the air. Gabrielle didn’t need to be beautiful. She was effective, and that meant worlds more than beauty in her current situation.
With a heavy grunt, she pulled her axe free and spun around, searching for fresh targets. The last few minutes had been a blur. After the dagger-thrower’s sacrifice, her rage had broken free, sending her on a collision course with the Claw who had killed him. Alone, anger or no, she’d never have stood a chance against such a monster. But she wasn’t alone. At her charge, other adventurers had taken the cue, swarming the demon with her and splitting its attention. They’d tried this tactic before; however, this time, they had Gabrielle, who demanded the monster focus on her with every snarl, grunt, and swing she sent its way. The demon was dead in minutes and her newly-formed party hurled themselves at the next one, and the next one, and so on, until she looked around and realized she might be out of Claws to kill.
At that realization, the anger ebbed, and Gabrielle was able to think clearly once more. She surveyed her surroundings carefully, on watch for any threats that might leap out at her. The Claws in her area were all dead, the last of them a headless corpse at her feet. Somewhere along the line, the Scuttles had been broken, their groups destroyed. A few rogue ones darted about, but without the advantage of numbers or the Claws, a single Scuttle proved little challenge for any adventurer. She could see other groups of adventurers and guards still fighting throughout the arena. From the way they were bunched together, it seemed likely they were cleaning up the last of their demons. Truly, the final challenge was the giant monster that had sprung from the ground. Gabrielle hefted her axe to her shoulder and began heading over.
“Be careful,” said a familiar voice to her right. She turned to find Grumph, holding a glowing spear that seemed to be made of purple light, pinning a Scuttle to the ground. It was close to her, so close it could have struck had it made a few feet further. As she watched, he lifted his weapon up and it turned into a hammer, which he brought crashing down on the insect-like demon with a loud crunch.
“Thanks,” she said, noting that her words sounded slightly slurred.
“You need rest,” Grumph advised her. “Anger tolls the body.”
She saw no reason to object; Grumph was certainly right. Already, she could feel the stiffness in her muscles, the heaviness of her weapon. Hell, even taking a few steps had been an arduous task. Grumph was right; she should rest. And she would: when the battle was over.
“Soon,” she promised him.
Grumph merely nodded. He understood that arguing would waste energy she didn’t have. She would fight until either the battle was done, or she was. That was the way of the barbarian, which Gabrielle most certainly was. He would do the job of a friend and keep her safe as best he could.
“One left,” he said, pointing at the ground demon, which was thrashing wildly about.
“Big one, though,” Gabrielle noted.
“Big still bleeds.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
It was only Eric’s natural grace that kept him from slipping on the massive pool of blood at his feet. He and the other adventurers had taken out nearly all of the demon’s legs and turned their wrath onto its body. The hide was thick and tough, but with time and determination, they’d hacked through it, slice by slice. Each blow opened up new wounds, spilling gooey blood onto the ground. Within minutes, they were all soaked in the stuff; a few minutes more and not even the thirsty dirt could soak up any more. The effects of their damage could be seen: the demon was growing slower, its few remaining limbs weak and ineffective. Sooner or later, they would bleed the beast out. Eric just didn’t know if it would be soon enough.
“Make a path!” The voice rang out from behind Eric, its source a human with copper hair and shining armor, one from the group he’d seen yesterday. Next to him was the elf woman Thistle had been throwing next to, as well as a vast conglomeration of people wearing robes and holy symbols.
“Everyone get clear! We’re going to hit it with a coordinated strike, so move!” the man yelled again, his words finally penetrating the battle-fog most of the remaining warriors had fallen into. Bodies gave up their front-line positions quickly; the one thing any good melee fighter knew was to get clear when magic was about.
Eric scrambled away, nearly losing his footing twice, thanks to a combination of haste and exhaustion. As he exited the demon’s crater, he saw a growing light radiate from the group, as each person there began casting a spell. The light grew brighter, dozens upon dozens of symbols materializing in front of each adventurer, magical energy so thick it made Eric’s hair stand on end, even at such a distance away. The energy grew, swelling slowly like a filling water-skin. Then, just when he was certain no more could be contained, the energy burst.