Downfall

There were hundreds of the things-roughly the size of blackbirds, though they were not birds. They had batlike wings that were more membranous than leathery. Their heads resembled that of mosquitos-complete with needlelike noses that dripped something viscous.

Dhamon reached up to knock one away, discovering that their bodies were segmented and hard like the shell of a beetle. He swung at another, slicing it in two and releasing a foul red gore.

"Stirges!" Fiona hollered.

"What?" This from Dhamon.

"Stirges. They're… they're insects. They'll drain your blood!"

Dhamon was quick to react, for the creatures were already swarming him. Though he swung his sword high above his head, cleaving some in two, several dove at his chest, their needlelike stingers stabbing into his flesh. He hollered, in surprise and pain, as they began feasting on his blood.

He heard Fiona behind him, sword whistling as she cut through the foul creatures. The Solamnic was protected by her plate mail, the stirges flying at her and stunning themselves by colliding with the metal. She was careful to cover her face with one arm. And she continued to strike at one after another as she made her way toward Rig.

The clearing was filled with growls from the ogres, who had never encountered such malevolent insects and who were plucking them off their bodies and squishing them in their bare hands; screams from the freed slaves; the soft thud of the dead stirges hitting the ground; smacking sounds from the creatures gorging themselves.

Bare-chested, Dhamon was an easy mark for the little beasts. A dozen were latched onto his chest and his back. He scraped some off his legs, stomping on them before they could take to the air again.

"They're not that difficult to kill!" Maldred was shouting.

"No," Dhamon muttered, as he jabbed at the stirges who flew in to take their dead brethren's place. "There's just so many of them! Too many!" He felt weak, and realized it was because so much of his blood had been drained. "They could destroy us," he shouted to his friend.

"I'm not going to die here, Dhamon Grimwulf!" Maldred returned. "I promised to help you with that scale, remember?"

I won't have to worry about the scale, Dhamon thought. If we can't get rid of these deadly pests, soon the scale will be the smallest of my concerns. He hefted Wyrmsbane with one hand, using it to fend off the creatures diving on him. With his other hand he began plucking at the insects, squeezing them in his hand until the chitinous shell broke, then hurling them on the ground and stomping on them for good measure. His hand was slick with his own blood that they'd drained, and he whirled about to see that the ogres' hands were bloody as well. They'd all abandoned their weapons, using their hands to squeeze the life from the stirges. Dhamon considered doing that as well, but he was loath to drop the long sword, and wasn't about to leave himself too open by taking a moment to sheathe it.

There was a snarl behind him-Mulok. The big ogre was plucking the stirges off Dhamon's back. Dhamon felt blood spatter him with each creature the ogre squeezed. Then he felt the ogre's back against his, slick with blood. Others were copying Mulok, standing back to back; those who didn't were falling.

"No! Mugwort!" Maldred cried to the largest ogre, the one who toted Fiona's chest of gems through the swamp. The great ogre dropped beneath a cloud of black, winged bodies. He flailed about on the marshy ground for a moment, then lay still. More of the creatures descended on his body, their smacking noises hideous.

"Enough of this!" Maldred was battling several of the creatures. He tugged a few free and then began gesturing. An instant later, Mugwort's body-and all the stirges blanketing it-were engulfed in a crackling ball of flame.

The ogres nearby began plucking the stirges off themselves and throwing them on the bonfire, the insects shrieking and popping and releasing a nauseating stench. There was another burst of flame, and then another, as Maldred ignited the corpses of other fallen ogres and slaves.

Finally he tended to himself, tearing one bloated insect after another from his arms and legs, backing toward a pair of Donnag's ogres and shouting for them to pull the last ones off his back.

Rig and Fiona were standing back to back, a ring of dead stirges at their feet. The Solamnic battled the insects without a word, one hand clenched tightly on her sword, the other reaching up to grab stirges from the air and crush them. Rig was vocal, cursing the swamp and the insects, Maldred, Dhamon, the chieftain Donnag, all the lost gods. The faster the words flew from his lips, the faster his hands moved; he had abandoned the sword, dropping it at his feet in favor of grabbing and squishing the creatures.

"Stirges, huh?" Rig said. "Damn big mosquitos, if you ask me. Fought them before?"

"Hu-uh." Fiona, too, was busy.

"This many of them?"

A shake of her head.

"Where?"