A Fortress of Pebbles

As they sprinted to the car, the driver ran past them in the other direction, flaming sword in hand. He sliced through a monstrosity of sharp bones that had been on Cassandra’s heels and shouted, “Go on! I’ll cover you.” His expression was no longer vacant, and his voice sounded suspiciously like the Master of Mind’s.

As Cassandra reached the car and waited for Orion to dive in, she looked back to see the limo driver make two heroic slashes against the tide of gnashing bones before getting overrun and ripped to pieces. Then, the Master of Language shoved her into the car and shut the door – silencing the sound of the Master of Mind dying yet another screaming death.

“She’ll be fine,” said the Master of Language, materializing in the driver’s seat. “Her usual avatar is in the trunk.” Three thumps issued from behind the seat that Cassandra and Orion were sitting on.

Before Cassandra could think about finding the latch to let down the seat, the three remaining bone creatures swarmed atop the car and began trying to rip into the metal and glass. They were too swift for Cassandra to get a good look, but they seemed to move like dogs or reptiles, slashing and tearing with scythe-like pincers and fangs. Orion sank down to the floor of the limo, trying to get as far as possible from the screaming metal of the roof.

The Master of Language didn’t seem worried. Just thoughtful. Maybe a tad annoyed. Only when a pincer-shaped dent appeared in the roof did he finally sigh and say, “I guess I should deal with them.” Cassandra tensed as he moved to open the door, but then he seemed to reconsider. “Actually, perhaps the Rot has inadvertently handed the two of you a worthwhile learning opportunity.”

A hole appeared in the roof overhead – not a big one, but enough to let in a trickle of cold air. The screams of bone against metal were louder now that the hull had been breached. Meanwhile, Orion was still crying and thumps were still coming from the seat behind her back. Sensory overload? That was putting it mildly.

“What we are observing here,” said the Master of Language, as if he were lecturing, “is a protocol that uses map magic to reanimate and reorganize human bones, arranging them into loose approximations of biological creatures.”

The hole over Cassandra widened as one of these loose approximations tried to penetrate with a bone spike – over and over, like a deranged woodpecker. The Master of Language was looking at her expectantly. “Okay?” she managed.

“We could, of course,” the Master of Language went on, “wipe their control pebbles. Or we could destroy the bones being animated. Any particular preference, Cassandra?”

Thump, thump, thump, came from behind Cassandra’s seat. “Um, whatever is fastest?” she said, heart racing.

“Excellent!” said the Master of Language. “At this rate you’ll pass up your brother’s level in no time.” He gave a meaningful look at Orion, who was holding his breath on the floor, trying his best not to hyperventilate. “One hundred XP to Cassandra for the observation that efficiency is, at present, more valuable than style.”

He snapped his fingers. The back of the seat where Orion had been sitting lowered, and the Master of Mind, looking surreally beautiful, crawled out of the trunk into the cabin.

“What do you think,” he asked her when she settled.

“I would surmise,” she said, eyeing the growing hole in the roof with the same detached scientific curiosity as the Master of Language, “that the Cult of Rot is trying to send a message.” She smoothed her robes and peered through the window toward the gravestone where Cassandra’s grandfather could no longer be seen. The smoke rings still lingered, though. “I think we should send one back.”

“A fascinating counterpoint!” said the Master of Language. “What do you think of this, Cassandra?”

Cassandra realized that her heart was settling. There was something comforting about the Masters’ demeanor – mild annoyance, a dash of disdain, a sprinkling of curiosity, and a steadfast commitment to having a calm philosophical discussion. Not a trace of fear.

She took a deep breath and tried to emulate them in spite of the hole overhead being big enough now for six inches of a sharpened femur to probe hungrily. Sinking low in her seat, she said, “I guess sending a message would be fine?”

“I concur,” said the Master of Language. “And the more I consider the matter, the more I find myself convinced that the strongest message to the Rot would be for the two of you to demonstrate your skills and commitment.”

Cassandra blinked. “I…”

“I agree,” said the Master of Mind. “If the Rot really wanted to set a trap, they could have incinerated the whole cemetery.”

“Yes,” said the Master of Language. “This feels more like some kind of linguistic act. A declaration of war, perhaps. Or a formal introduction.”

“On the other hand!” said the Master of Mind, as if she had just remembered something. “It could also be an attempt at psychological warfare. The children’s grandfather chose to reveal his involvement in the Cult of Rot in a way that would, I imagine, leave an emotional scar. Perhaps this was his intention.”

Cassandra realized they were both looking at her.

“Well?” said the Master of Language. “Do you feel emotionally scarred?”

Cassandra just wanted to answer in such a way that would not lead to her having to “demonstrate her skills and commitment.” She must have taken too long, however, because the Masters turned their attention to Orion.

“What about you, Orion? Do you feel emotionally scarred?”

He nodded from the floor, arms inside his shirt – a loose approximation of a turtle.

The Masters pondered the matter. Finally, the Master of Language said, exasperated, “We’re operating on very little information here. It’s difficult to determine the optimal way to proceed.”

The Master of Mind studied her faint reflection in the window and nodded. Then, she turned to Cassandra and said, “How well did you know your grandfather, Cassandra? Did he seem like the kind of person who might be a high ranking member of an ancient cult? Or someone who would use his grandchildren as weapons of war? Or someone who would psychologically harm you to sabotage your ability to be used as a weapon of war by the side that opposes him?”

These questions triggered a new kind of terror. The Masters were winging it. They were powerful enough to sit and have a seemingly intelligent conversation while abominations of bone were tearing apart the car around them, but not powerful enough to know what was going on, or why, or what to do about it. They might not be afraid – but they were every bit as paralyzed as she and Orion were. Sweat broke out on her forehead and the back of her neck.