Grub and Pazuzu stared at each other.
Neither moved or blinked. The space between them hummed with violence. Their eyes fought a war of their own — Pazuzu's black sclera burning with calm certainty, Grub's blackish-green irises sharp with desperation.
Between them, on the ground, lay the ivory sickle.
The village around them seemed to fade away. The distant screams. The flickering lanterns. The blood soaking Grub's shirt. None of it mattered. Only the sickle lying between them. Both of them knew it. Both of them wanted it.
The two moved at the same time.
Grub dove low as Pazuzu lunged forward. Grub hit the dirt and slid, kicking the sickle sideways before Pazuzu's hand could close around it. The weapon skittered across the ground and Grub threw himself on top of it, his fingers wrapping around the curved handle.
His wounded shoulder fervently protested the sudden movement but Grub had no choice but to push past it, because Pazuzu was on him instantly. The Guardian slammed into him like a charging beast. Grub barely had time to roll before kicking upward with both feet, slamming them into the Guardian's chest. Yet it barely even budged him.
Grub's stomach sank.
Oh come on.
The horned man grabbed Grub by the collar and pulled him off the ground like he weighed nothing. Then a hand closed around Grub's neck.
Pazuzu's fingers wrapped around his throat with a grip that felt less like strangling and more like threatening to pop his head clean off his body. The pressure was immediate and absolute. Grub's vision went white at the edges. He could feel his vertebrae groaning under the force.
Pazuzu smiled.
"You fought well."
His grip tightened.
"But we're done now."
Grub had the sickle in his bad arm. The enchanted notebook was in the other. His shoulder screamed in protest as he lifted the sickle and aimed for the back of Pazuzu's skull.
The Guardian's eyes widened. For the first time all night, he actually reacted. Suddenly, a wave of unnatural peace washed over Grub.
It rolled through his body like warm water. His muscles softened. His focus blurred. The sickle in his hand suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds and weighed nothing at the same time. For one awful, blissful instant, the urgency evaporated and the idea of stabbing the man holding his throat felt utterly unnecessary.
The blade drifted off target. Instead of burying itself in Pazuzu's head, it plunged deep into the Guardian's back shoulder.
Pazuzu let out a scream. It was calm, almost polite. The sort of scream someone makes when they stub their toe rather than when they've just been stabbed.
As the sickle pierced deeper, purple blood sprayed across the street. In a fit of pain, the guardian released Grub and threw him aside.
Grub hit the ground hard, his head bouncing off the dirt. He rolled twice before stopping face-down in the dirt. Stars exploded behind the boy's eyes.
He gasped, his throat raw, his neck throbbing with what felt like the beginning of the worst bruise of his life. He forced himself up and spat blood.
Across from him, Pazuzu stood with his grey face painted dark purple by the blood running from his head wounds. The sickle protruded from his back shoulder at an ugly angle, and the same dark purple dripped steadily down his arm and onto the ground. Pazuzu reached behind himself with his good hand, gripped the sickle's handle, and ripped it out.
He didn't flinch. He just stared at the bloody blade for a moment, and set it aside.
Looking at his broken hand, Pazuzu sighed. The fingers were still bent in wrong directions from when he had punched the notebook earlier. As he began to focus, he held his hand to his face.
A faint pink glow surrounded his fingers. Slowly, one by one, the bones realigned themselves with quiet, wet clicks. The fingers straightened. The swelling didn't recede and the blood still stained his knuckles, but the digits moved again when he flexed them.
Pazuzu clearly felt pain when he flexed it. But it worked again.
Grub sighed. This has to be anima. Of course it is. Why wouldn't he have healing too?
Pazuzu picked the sickle back up with his newly repaired hand and began walking toward Grub. His demeanor was casual and unhurried.. He made it seem as though the stab wound in his shoulder was simply a minor inconvenience.
The horned man began to laugh.
"What a good little traitor you are, brat!" The laughter echoed off the nearby buildings. "The Lacerts have found themselves quite the ally!"
Grub measured his breaths and stared at Pazuzu through bloodied vision.
"I am NOT their ally!"
The words came out raw and furious. More emotion than Grub had shown anyone in this village. More than he had shown anyone since the Ridge.
Pazuzu shrugged.
"Lying now isn't going to save you, traitor."
The sickle swept in from the left. Grub got the notebook up just in time. The ivory blade connected with the enchanted leather and the impact shook through his entire body, rattling his teeth. He held on. Barely.
Then Pazuzu struck again. And again. And again.
Each swing was heavier than the last. The sounds of the sickle crashing against the notebook echoed through the evening like hammer blows on an anvil. Grub blocked each one, but each impact pushed him backward, his feet sliding in the dirt. His arms shook. His muscles burned. His shoulder screamed with every vibration that traveled through the book and into his bones.
He was losing ground. Fast.
Pazuzu reared back for a massive overhead strike and brought the sickle down with everything he had. Grub opened the notebook. The sickle's blade slammed between the pages. In a flash, Grub snapped the book shut, clamping the blade between the enchanted covers like a vice. Pazuzu's eyes widened in surprise as his weapon locked in place.
Grub yanked. The trapped sickle pulled Pazuzu forward, off balance, close enough that Grub could see the individual cracks in his horns. Then Grub poked him in the eye.
It was not an elegant move that an honorable fighter would do. But Grub was far from honorable. Pazuzu reeled back, his eye watering dark purple blood. His grip on the sickle faltered.
"What the h—"
Grub's fist connected with Pazuzu's jaw.
The blows hurt Grub more than they hurt Pazuzu. It felt like punching rock. Pain exploded through his knuckles and raced up his arm. But Pazuzu's head snapped sideways. Grub hit him again. And again. Each punch sent fire through his hands and each punch moved the Guardian's head another inch.
Then Grub grabbed the notebook, planted his feet, and swung it across Pazuzu's jaw with everything he had left in his body.
The impact was nauseating and final.
Pazuzu's head snapped to the side and his body followed. He hit the ground hard, face-first, and didn't move. Dark purple blood pooled slowly beneath his head. Grub stood over him, swaying. Then the notebook slipped from his fingers and hit the dirt.
He couldn't hold it anymore. His arms were done. Every strike he had blocked, every swing he had taken, every desperate punch he had thrown — it had all accumulated into a debt his muscles could no longer pay. His arms hung at his sides like wet rope.
Grub coughed. Blood spattered the ground in front of him.
He looked down at Pazuzu. The Guardian lay unmoving, his scarred grey face pressed into the dirt, his dark purple blood seeping into the soil and chuckled weakly.
He had actually won. This man was stronger than him as well as faster. Had Anima and a weapon. Had an ability that could turn Grub's survival instincts off like a light switch. And Grub had beaten him with a notebook, a stolen sickle, and a finger to the eye.
If Luthiel hadn't given him that gift, he would be dead right now.
Grub coughed more blood and sighed. His body swayed. The adrenaline was leaving and what remained was pain. Everywhere. His neck, his shoulder, his arms, his ribs, his face. Everything hurt in a way that made the Jangushut burns feel like a warm bath.
Then he heard the scream.
"WHAT HAPPENED?!"
Grub turned slowly.
At the end of the street stood Luthiel. Her golden eyes were wide, her mitten-like hands pressed over her mouth. Beside her stood Morrigan, staff in hand, the water in her basin churning. And behind them, spread in a loose formation, stood the rest of the Guardians wearing white vestments and ripped sleeves. The emblem on their chests catching the lantern light.
Shit.
Grub couldn't even move, let alone run. His body had nothing left. He stood over Pazuzu's unconscious form, covered in blood—his own and the Guardian's—with destruction scattered around them. Broken stalls. Cracked walls. A trail of dark purple and red leading back through the street like a painting of violence.
He looked at Luthiel. Lu's golden eyes were filled with horror.
He looked at Morrigan. The old kappa's face showed no warmth. No humor or her casual vulgarity. Just frustration and disappointment so heavy that Grub could feel it pressing against his chest from across the street.
Grub slowly raised his hands.
Luthiel screamed again. "Mister Grub! What happened?! Are you—"
She didn't even get to finish before the Guardians moved.
A fist came into his chest at lightning speeds. The impact nearly punched through him. While the last of his dinner came up as he doubled over in midair. Before he hit the ground, a knee crashed into his skull from the side. His vision split into fractured white. Then something clamped down on his arms — teeth, claws, hands, he couldn't tell — and he was driven face-first into the dirt.All while he couldn't fight back. Couldn't even raise his arms.
Fists and boots and weight piled onto him from every direction. Each impact was precise and brutal. These were trained soldiers releasing weeks of suspicion and distrust onto a body that had already been broken once tonight.
Grub couldn't even scream. He just absorbed it. The dirt filled his mouth. The blood filled his throat. His consciousness flickered like a candle in a storm.
Then Morrigan's voice cut through everything.
"HALT."
The word carried a weight that had nothing to do with volume. The Guardians froze instantly. Every fist stopped. Every boot pulled back. The silence that followed was absolute. Morrigan sighed. It was a long, heavy, exhausted sound. The sound of someone who had been holding a situation together with both hands and had just watched it slip through her fingers anyway.
"Bring him in for questioning."
The Guardians looked at each other. Several of them clearly wanted to continue. Their eyes burned with the same certainty Pazuzu had carried. Grub could feel their desire to finish what their associate had started. But Morrigan's word was law. Even now. Even for this.
Grub's eyes, swollen and blurred, found Morrigan's face one more time. Behind the frustration. Behind the disappointment. Somewhere deep in those old, tired eyes, he saw something else.
Sympathy. Faint but real. A look that said: I'm trying, you stupid boy. Work with me.
He blinked it away. He didn't stare. He couldn't afford to give the Guardians any reason to suspect their chief was on his side. They lifted him off the ground. His arms were pinned behind his back. His feet dragged through the dirt as they carried him. Blood dripped from his face and left a trail behind him.
A groan was heard from the ground as Pazuzu slowly stood up and sat on his rear and watched them take Grub away.
As they moved past Luthiel, Grub couldn't meet her eyes. He heard her voice — small, broken and desperate — calling after him.
"Mister Grub…"
He said nothing.
He was dragged through the village streets like a criminal. Because that's what he was to them. A traitor and a spy. A threat that should have been killed the moment he arrived.
The Mgbaaka Maara pulsed faintly against his wrist. Still there. Still ticking. His fear of dying by the bracelet in a few days seemed almost silly now. At this rate, Anwansi was going to beat the Lacerts to it.Grub closed his eyes and let them drag him. He didn't have a plan anymore.