Miremanders – lumbering beasts, fit for long-distance travel and short, straight bursts of power. These pair were war lizards – a breeding tradition lost in times of peace, and their stamina and size were enhanced from a [Ranger]’s specialized training.

  Draven and Hecate, beard and duster flying, stood in their stirrups – skill enhanced for communication between rider and beast, simple thoughts and commands effortlessly transmitted. Mitzy’s ademantite claw, held fast to the pommel, as she leaned into the wind, ready for action.

  As they charged into the village, eyes sharp and nerves on edge, Draven noticed simple homes of wood and plas, rectangular or domed, stacked in rows. The farmland stretched East and West of the village, and unlike their last stop, seemed to be intact, if the stalks sticking out of the soil were any indication.

  Their flyer wasn’t in sight, but the sounds of destruction coming from the far side of the village, echoing down loosely organized homes. Like Smolderville, there was a sense of emptiness and loss here. Draven set his jaw – Hecate simply split off and headed towards the commotion. Draven’s mount understood the tactic and flanked in the opposite direction, a classic pincer maneuver.

  Draven raced through the village on his massive mount, high on the saddle, his eyes just above the rooftops. What at first he thought was part of the horizon was, in fact, tall two-story barns, painted to blend in. There were a half a dozen, and as Draven approached, a massive double door – capable of fitting two carts abreast – flew off its hinges. Draven leaned out of the way as it whizzed over his head. He glanced over his shoulder at a small shack completely smashed in.

  His danger sense flared – too late to save him from the door, but he turned to see shamblers burst through the doorway. There were too many to count. Mouths stretched and hissed. Their bodies shook and rattled, each like a thousand leaves.

  A battle cry from nearby, “Ye canna have them!” Draven pulled his mount up short, skidding to a halt. Mitzy flung herself forward, using the momentum of the stop. The crack of her light knife split the air, as her rocket boots flared – Mitzy hit the oncoming group like a pink meteor, bisecting the lead shambler from head to sternum.

  Draven held his fists together overhead, “[Summon Scythe].” There was a smile in his voice as he slid his hands down the haft of his rusted long scythe, its long blade hungry for work. Draven urged his mount forward, as shamblers turned to follow Mitzy into the barn, her first strike, while devastating, proved a miss – the core still intact.

  Draven stood in the saddle, raising his scythe overhead. He spun it in tight circles as he closed the gap. Strafing the group, their attention split, he swung his scythe in a long sweeping arc, reaping limb and foliage, throwing the pack into chaos.

  After his first strafe, the lizard skidded to a stop, preparing for another charge – its massive bulk unable to make sharp turns. War lizards struck hard and fast, and Draven set his on a collision course with the tangle of vine, bone, and muck as it let out a battle cry – an angry cacaphonous groan – leaping as it neared the downed foe and flattening all in its path.

  Draven swung his scythe at the ground and twirled it overhead before sweeping it above the head of his mount, cleaving the nearest shambler in two.

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  “For the Lecker Smeker!” Mitzy’s outrageous battle cry echoed from inside the barn.

  A glance from Draven into the barn. His heartbeat picked up. There were too many. There was no indication of Hecate, his battle cries fallen silent – he couldn’t afford to think, he needed to keep moving, lest he be overwhelmed.

  Draven charged headlong into the barn, leaving trampled bodies in his wake, as his war lizard lowered its thick skull. “By the Shining Ones!” he spun his scythe overhead in a two-handed maneuver, before bringing it down in long, sweeping strikes, back and forth. Rider and mount cast aside shamblers – one with a tool for reaping, and the other as it tossed its head – a skull like iron, and neck muscles like giants.

  As Draven’s eyes moved around the inside of the barn, he could tell this had been a mistake. There was nothing but shamblers here, dozens and dozens, far too many. Their charge ran out of room; the war lizard skidded to a halt, swinging its armored, spiked tail to form a clearing, as they held their position. There was still no communication from Pat, and he had no idea where Hecate was.

  The trained mount pressed its side up to the wall, allowing Draven to hold the clearing. He slid out of the saddle, already twirling his scythe in front of him, left and right – in long and longer sweeping strikes, building momentum and reach.

  As the weight of monsters pushed in on his position, Draven allowed his scythe to strike, removing limb and branch, taking anything off the second it was within his reach – he held his ground, spinning from side to side – pushing and retreating, keeping the war lizard at his back, when Mitzy rushed through the tangle, tucking into a roll and coming up at Draven’s side.

  Mitzy was covered in muck and foliage, more green than pink – but her light knife still burned. “They are weak but many – their cores seemed to be placed at random…”

  Angry rings of smoke shot from Draven’s mouth as he spoke, “There must be a greater force at work here!”

  Mitzy wondered when he’d had time to pull a smoke out before she dove between his legs, helping his flank. She sliced through anything moving and green, caring little for her own safety. “They probably want my sucrose recipe – they can’t have it!” Mitzy dove into the mob, swiping her knife in all directions, a war cry on her lips.

  “Draven, Mitzy – keep at it, we located survivors, Hecate is clearing a path to them.” The suddenness of the voice surprised and distracted him, right as a shambler lashed out with a whip strike, gouging flesh with thorn and bone.

  Blood ran freely. Mitzy was nowhere to be seen. Crashing sounds from outside. More barn doors torn from hinges. Shamblers redoubled their efforts. Hissing and rattling rose to a fevered pitch, and more monsters flooded in. This was an ambush – and the trap had been sprung.

  Draven’s feet were planted. And the comms, silent. The ground was littered with the cores, and slowly withering, rotting monster corpses. He was losing space to maneuver.

  “Drave! This way!” Mitzy shouted from the other wall, through a wall of monsters, when light poured in from a gash suddenly opened in the wall – the work of Mitzy’s devastating melee weapon.

  Draven dismissed his scythe before leaping into the saddle and slapping the hindquarters of the war lizard – the beast let out a groan as it charged, its head held low. Mitzy rocketed over its form, with a flare from her boots and a snap of her withdrawing knife – she clung to Draven’s duster, as the three of them charged for the weakened section.

  Splinters flew and wood cracked as their mount shattered the wall. The trio crashed into the dayswamp light. Draven’s palms were slick with free-flowing blood as he clung to the pommel. The mount needed no direction, as it thundered away from the melee.

  Mitzy pulled herself onto Draven’s shoulder, her head dish swivelling as it pinged in all directions, “Drave – that was not smart, next time warn me before we go into an ambush – this war lizard is sweet, can we keep it?"