Silas spun around to see the others frozen in the doorway as Stroud fired into the horde. His gaze flicked between her and the open door.
"We are not closing this door!" bellowed Harlowe. His massive frame blocked the opening—barricading it from both ally and enemy. He crossed his arms over his chest. "You aim to lock us in here with those… things?" he barked as Stroud aimed at the pouncing panther.
Stroud cursed and fired—a white-hot beam seared across the floor, scorching tiles black. The panther dodged gracefully. The cat began circling them, tail low, its eyes bright with calculating intelligence.
The Archarbiter strode toward Harlowe. Silas couldn't see Sorne's face, but his hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. Harlowe blanched, eyes darting between blade and beasts. Sweat beaded at his temple; he looked half-mad with indecision. He hesitated—then slammed the door shut.
"Silas, pay attention!" Stroud shouted over the din of animal voices.
Silas spun around. New scorch marks burned the room's tiled floor. An acrid, burnt-hair smell stung Silas's nose. It beat the stench of urine and feces. Silas breathed deep, almost savoring the change.
The stampede parted around Silas and Stroud—plowing ahead toward the shut door. Silas felt their anger, their frustration. The panther looked up and growled at the blocked exit. When its gaze locked on him, the foreign emotions in his mind surged. The animals' fury pressed into his skull, raw and electric. Silas clenched his teeth and shut his eyes, fighting for control of his body.
His eyes flew open. A vulture circling above dove, a black bolt of wings and shrieking wind. Silas froze.
"Move!" Stroud shouted—too late.
Its beak slashed down for his eyes. Stroud fired and missed. The air hissed with heat. Suddenly, the vulture's wings flapped open. It coasted over Silas's head and angled toward Stroud. Her eyes widened. Now it was Stroud's turn to freeze in shock. Silas reached out with his mind, tugging at the pressure that lingered between his ears. It had no effect. The panther made a sound like a grunt and glanced at Silas before turning back and padding toward Stroud.
An arrow whistled overhead and embedded between the vulture's wings. A viscous green fluid sizzled from the wound as it plummeted from the air. The vulture landed in a heap of feathers, blood welling under its body. It twitched and writhed before stilling. The pressure in Silas's head fluttered in agitation.
"Thank you, Elsbeth," Stroud said between gulps of air. She patted her face, wiping away the sweat on her brow. "I would've been blinded by that thing if you hadn't intervened." She kicked at the dead vulture, its blood soaking into the leather of her polished boot. She grimaced in disgust.
"They're ignoring Silas," Ravelin noted. She stepped into view, holding a crossbow in one hand and a phial in the other. She stared at Silas accusingly, like he had orchestrated their current situation.
Silas blinked at her. I am the one who led us here, he thought guiltily. Her suspicion is valid.
Silas watched Ravelin slip an arrow out of a compartment in her satchel and overturn the phial, coating the arrowhead in the green goop. Some sort of venom? he assumed.
Ravelin nocked the arrow and aimed at the remaining birds, one eye closed for precision. Her finger hovered over the trigger.
Disorientation gripped Silas. He felt his awareness torn between his body and the minds of the birds overhead. They watched Ravelin with keen eyes as she squeezed the trigger and the arrow shot upward. Silas saw it from two vantage points—half himself, half bird. His arms lifted instinctively, mirroring the creature's evasive tilt. The motion snapped his awareness back into his body. His stomach lurched. He clutched his head, gasping through the vertigo.
"Silas! What's happening?" Stroud snapped. "Hold it together—I can't protect you and fight you too!" She fired at the panther—her shot meeting empty air. The panther barely blinked. "Damn it! Why can't I hit this thing?"
The panther watched Stroud lazily. It looked bored, like this battle was not worth its time. Stroud squatted in front of it, staring down the barrel of her flarepistol. "Come at me, you big pussycat," she sneered. "Show me what those teeth and claws can do."
The panther took one last look at her before turning and moseying toward the shut door, its tail swishing back and forth. Stroud lowered her weapon, her eyebrows knit together. A silent conversation passed between her and Ravelin. Ravelin shrugged and jerked her head at Silas, who was still fighting to keep his consciousness contained in his own mind. Stroud clicked her tongue. She barreled toward Silas, who stepped back in surprise.
Stroud took him by the arm and forcefully led him away from the fray. She guided him deeper into the room, which Silas was now seeing in its entirety. It was a laboratory. The room stretched out before him—rows of black benches buried beneath dust and glassware. Strange instruments gleamed under flickering lights. And behind them: dozens of tall glass cylinders, shattered and empty. Silas had no idea what he was looking at. The cylinders came in various sizes, some small enough he could hold them in the palm of his hand, others so tall and wide they could fit ten people inside with room to spare. Metal bases gleamed beneath clusters of dials and buttons. Each bore a painted symbol—the same star pattern from 47 Brimthorne Lane.
As Stroud pulled Silas closer, the air smelled of citrus and alcohol—so sharp it burned his throat.
Stroud stopped and turned. She pulled Silas around to face her. She cocked an eyebrow, her eyes slowly scanning the length of his body. Silas squirmed under the weight of her scrutiny. This deep into the laboratory, the pull from the animals was more lenient. He felt grounded in who and where he was. Silas gathered up the last dregs of his confidence and met Stroud's stare. He motioned with his hands, pantomiming writing. Stroud nodded and gave him the parchment and stylus she carried in her breast pocket.
"Explain everything—but keep it short," Stroud said as Silas hurried over to a lab bench to write. She watched the fight over her shoulder, her fingers inching toward the flarepistol resting in its holster. "I need to get back out there and help them."
Silas flinched at the sound of a phlogiston rifle firing, smearing ink over his aching fingers. The ink seeped into the raw flesh and stung, but he kept writing.
"Somehow, I am connected to the animals. I see what they see. I feel what they feel. I don't know where they came from or why they are down here. I don't understand why I am connected to them. But I will try to fight back. Maybe I can calm them? They desperately want freedom—"
Stroud stopped him by grabbing his writing hand. "Too wordy, mouse," she said, reading over his shoulder. "But I get the gist." Stroud flicked her eyes to the ceiling. They pointed toward the far-right corner of the room. "Do you see that?" she asked. "Those tunnels near the ceiling?"
Silas squinted. He saw small imperfections in the cave wall—cracks and holes leading into dark tunnels beyond the laboratory. Silas gasped, understanding. The animals that remained trapped here were either too big or unable to climb high enough to fit through those narrow crevices. Smaller animals most likely escaped and made it to the surface, where they had been terrorizing squatters and barge workers for the past eclipse. Silas wondered what could be small enough to crawl through those holes but strong enough to pull a man off the barge. Stroud nodded slowly, a half-grin twisting her lips.
"Alright, Silas. It's time for the mouse to play his gambit." Her grin grew deeper, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Malrick Sorne wants a demonstration, does he? Well then, little mouse, put on a show." Her smile fell. "But do try not to lose yourself in the process," she added, barely above a whisper.
Silas nodded, his jaw set in determination. Stroud freed her flarepistol from its holster. She winked at him and turned, jogging back toward the fight.
Silas followed close at Stroud's heels. She kept her flarepistol aimed before her, but she didn't shoot. The animals glared at her but did nothing. Silas wondered if they turned a blind eye because she was with him. Silas heard a roar and turned—his heart leaping into his throat. He expected to see a beast rushing at them with bared teeth and protruding claws.
He was not far off.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Harlowe Bragg crashed into a buck—his body a force of nature. Harlowe grappled with the buck, muscles rippling under his coat. With a roar, he twisted the antlers until the animal crashed down. Silas watched in morbid fascination as Harlowe wrapped his huge arms around the deer's neck and squeezed. His biceps bulged as the deer's eyes protruded from their sockets. The buck kicked and thrashed. Harlowe's boots slid against the tile, but his grip only tightened. Silas felt the deer's terror flood his own lungs—he couldn't breathe. He shook his head to disconnect the thread that tethered his mind to the deer. The animal clung to it desperately. Silas pulled harder. When its neck snapped, the sound echoed inside Silas's head like a bone breaking within himself. He coughed. The bargemaster met his gaze—his eyes clouded over with turbulent emotion.
Harlowe shook his head, staring at the deer sadly. "There's something nasty going on here," he said. When he turned back to Silas, his face was red with anger. He stood, towering above the boy. "These poor animals don't deserve whatever's happening to them. And you, boy” —Harlowe pointed at Silas, his index finger jabbing into his chest— "you're the one causing this, aren't you?"
Silas shook his head and stumbled back a step. He swiveled his head—searching for Stroud—but she was nowhere to be seen. He was on his own.
The bargemaster opened his mouth—accusations forming on his lips—when Maris screamed. Her anguished cry tore through the clamor in the room. Silas and Harlowe turned toward it. Maris was lying on the ground, trapped under the body of the great panther. Her left forearm was clamped between the cat's jaws. A heavy silver chain was wrapped around her torso—her weapon, Silas figured. Blood spurted from puncture wounds where the panther had bitten her. It splattered in her eye, forcing her to blink.
Drascourt danced to her side, his glaive whirling in wide blue arcs that carved through the horde. A pig tried biting his ankles. Drascourt pirouetted to dodge and swung low. His glaive struck the pig on the snout. The weapon discharged a blue bolt of power from the haft's charged crystals. The pig squealed and retreated, its snout burnt and bleeding.
Drascourt stopped above the panther. The point of his curved blade stabbed down—aiming for the spot between the panther's eyes. The panther feinted to the left. When Drascourt took the bait, the panther crouched low and swiped its paw—claws retracted. The swipe caught him on the leg, and he yelped. All the while, Maris's arm was still imprisoned between the cat's powerful jaws. A puddle of blood collected under her arm, growing wider by the second.
"Silas!"
It was Stroud who had shouted. Silas craned his neck, searching for her through the chaos. He balanced on tip-of-toes, hunting for her chestnut brown hair.
"Do something, Silas!" Stroud said, her voice coming from somewhere new. She must have been shifting around, drawing the enemy toward herself, or running from their attacks. "You led us here—you have a connection to them. You have the power to turn the tide of this battle!" A flare burst near the door, white light searing the air.
Sorne's voice slid out of the shadows. "She speaks the truth, Silas," he said, walking forward with his hands clasped behind his back. The closer he got, the farther Harlowe retreated until the bargemaster eventually disappeared into the animal maelstrom.
Sorne ignored the bargemaster. His attention was fixed on Silas—his cold grey eyes boring into the boy as he said, "Thus far you have shown nothing to prove your worth." Sorne tilted his head, a tuft of ginger hair draping over his eyes. "If you can't control them," he murmured, his hand resting heavily on Silas's shoulder, "then you're of no use to anyone."
The Archarbiter's gaze lazily swept through the room. Silas stiffened under Sorne's touch but followed his line of sight, watching the scene around him. Oscar was fumbling with his phlogiston rifle. He mumbled to himself as he went about the motions of reloading the weapon: open the primer valve, then pump the ignition bellows, followed by the release of the firing lever. The Warden pointed his rifle at a coyote and fired. The valve overpressurized. The rifle coughed and spat. Smoke hissed from the vents, blackening Oscar's sleeve.
"Bloody thing—!" he yelped, tossing it aside.
He pulled a stun baton from his belt, thumbing it on. The air crackled with electricity. He swung wide—missed—but the coyote yelped anyway, fur bristling from static.
Stroud defended the door, but she was flagging. The flarepistol vibrated against her palm, hot enough to blister through her glove. Stroud kept pulling the weapon in and out of her holster, her face taut with pain each time she touched it. She tugged off her smoking gloves and threw them to the floor.
"Yes, it looks hopeless for them, doesn't it?" the Archarbiter whispered, his breath tickling the back of Silas's neck. "They need someone to save them—before they fall." As Sorne said this, the panther released Maris and pounced—landing on Drascourt's back. "Show me what you can do, Silas. Prove to me that something like you deserves to exist in this world."
Sorne's words rang in Silas's ears. Something like me? he thought. Silas swatted Sorne's hand away and stepped forward. He stared at a single point—at the panther toying with Drascourt and Maris. This panther was the leader of the animals. Silas could feel it in the way the others turned to it for guidance, the tethering pressure undulating with each interaction. The panther was always planning, every move calculated and predetermined. In Silas's opinion, it had no business possessing such intellect. It was impossible—how could an animal be so conniving? He could worry about the hows and whys of the matter later. Now, he had to focus.
Silas had flung his thoughts at the Unspoken before with tangible effect. He had shaped words into weapons, firing them off like bullets. He had done it to people, too, and Stroud had paid the price both times. Silas was reluctant to test his abilities in this room so full of people and mayhem, but if he didn't act now, soon somebody would die. Silas dove into himself, blocking out the world to sharpen his mental blade. He gathered his energy until pain bloomed between his eyes. He built it until he could bear it no longer and thrust it outward, projecting a single word:
Everything froze. Humans and animals both turned to look at Silas. They paused, watching him like they were waiting for his permission to move. The moment ended, and the fight continued. Silas's shoulders sagged in defeat. Why didn't it work? Silas felt his attack bounce off the animals' minds. It was so frustrating! It was like trying to mix oil with water: it worked temporarily, but the two wouldn't stay together for long. Silas wracked his brain, his thoughts buzzing as he decided on his next move.
"Hm, such a shame," the Archarbiter said at Silas's side. "Perhaps I've overestimated you." Silas heard a metallic shwing as Sorne unsheathed his sword. "Disposing of you now might be a mercy. It wouldn't be fair to euthanize you after you've watched your friends die, would it?"
Silas glared upward, his chin held high. The Archarbiter stared at Silas with disinterest. The tip of his sword came to rest under Silas's chin. Silas forced a smile to his lips. He took a step forward, allowing the blade to bite into his skin. He felt warmth trickle down his neck. Surprise briefly ignited the Archarbiter's expression. His sword lowered. The boy took this opportunity to turn and run.
He rushed into the horde. As expected, it parted down the middle when he flew past. Silas zig-zagged back and forth, using the repulsive effect he had on the animals to lure them away from the Arbiters. As he ran, he focused on the tether. Before, he ran from it—trying to sever his connection to the animals' minds. Now, he gathered it, letting the tension build and build between his ears.
"What are you doing, Silas?" Oscar asked, staring dumbly at the boy as he ran around in erratic circles. "Stop fooling around. This isn't a playground."
"Oscar, shut up for a second and let him focus," Stroud said, still lingering by the door. Her flarepistol sat dormant in its holster. She was nursing her blistered hands, picking at the bubbles erupting from her palms and finger pads. "Can't you feel it? He's doing something."
Silas herded the animals away from the Arbiters. A few stray birds soared overhead, but Silas ignored them. Once they were all gathered, Silas threaded through the horde—pushing and shoving through fur and feathers as he weaved into the center. The animals watched him cautiously, their minds resonating with him as the tension in the tether accumulated. Silas stood still and closed his eyes. He directed all his focus to the tether. The pressure built like a compressed spring—the potential energy amassing into a throbbing, pulsing sensation begging to be released. Silas paused, winding the spring tighter and tighter until he nearly lost control over it. He inhaled a shaky breath and held it.
He let it go.
There was a recoil. The tether vibrated violently and snapped. Silas stumbled back a step. The animals mirrored him, backing away. A soundless wave burst through the room. Then came the noise. The animals cried out as one—their howls of pain reaching a deafening crescendo. Silas covered his ears against the cacophony. The tether finally severed—freeing Silas from the animals in a violent pulse of energy that sent him sprawling.
Silas sat up—his eyes wide and disbelieving. He was in denial. He convinced himself he was having a nightmare. Yes, that had to be it! The animals seized—their eyes going white as they rolled back in their sockets. Blood gushed from every orifice—their noses, eyes, mouth, and ears. Their skulls split, bursting in a spray of blood and grey matter. Birds and blood rained down, saturating Silas's face and hair. The animals gave one final convulsion before they stilled. Their blood seeped into the floor, pooling under Silas's legs as he sat there in horror.
Silence fell.
The Arbiters stared at Silas—petrified by shock. Their mouths gaped. Their eyes followed Silas's every move—every twitch and breath he took. They watched him, fearful they might be his next victim. Silas swallowed down the bile that crawled up his throat. He looked up and spotted Stroud. She was leaning against the door, a blistered hand clamped over her mouth. Her skin was a sickly shade of green. Silas's eyes threatened to spill over with tears. He reached for her, longing for her solace, but she flinched back. The fear written on her face cut Silas to the core. He wished he could melt into the floor and disappear.
The sound of clapping shattered the silence. Slow. Mocking. The Archarbiter strolled into view—stepping around the gore. Sorne could not hide his glee. His lips spread in a harsh smile that bared his teeth. When the Archarbiter ceased his applause, he bent to grab Silas's wrist. He wrenched the trembling boy to his feet. Silas was pulled close. Sorne draped an arm over Silas's shoulder. The one person unafraid to touch him was the one he feared most.
"Excellent work, Silas," the Archarbiter murmured, peering down at him with unfettered satisfaction. "You have saved us all."
Silas shook his head. No. Please, no.
Silas tried to shake Sorne's arm off, but the Archarbiter tightened his grip. Silas bit back a cry.
"We owe you our lives, don't we?" Sorne directed his question to the audience.
Nobody responded—they stood stiffly, their faces pale and haunted.
Sorne chuckled. "Now, let's see what else our savior can do."
The Archarbiter trudged deeper into the lab. Silas stumbled along beside him. Guilt consumed his every thought, hollowing him out until nothing remained. Numb and dazed, Silas was pulled along at the Archarbiter's side, hanging from Sorne's hip like his ceremonial sword.