"Priole!" a voice yelled from behind him, "Cover the rear!"
"The bridge is clear," Chuggie shouted back. "Lead 'em across. Let
me
watch the backside." Chuggie squeezed by the fleeing refugees to cover their escape.
"What
are
you, drifter?" a guardsman shouted.
"Get these folks across the bridge," Chuggie said. "Somebody's got to make it."
Dawes wanted only to please his god. The Gooch demanded living sacrifice.
The wooden men formed a circle around a screaming old woman. Dawes sensed great power within her. The wooden men tried to protect her, but they were too weak to withstand the onslaught of Desecration.
Dawes fought his way through the scarecrows. His summoner's podium chopped them into pieces with ease. When he reached the shrieking witch, he roared with delight. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to his lord.
She cursed him, but no curse could reach him through the unholy blessing of Desecration.
At the center of the square, the Gooch rocked its giant infant body back and forth. He gurgled and laughed while his minions piled bodies all around him. Some were carcasses, twisted, shattered, and missing parts. Some were bleeding and broken, but still alive. Some were the remnants of scarecrows.
In one hand, the Gooch held the limp body of a Stagwater guardsman. In the other, it held the demolished remains of a scarecrow. The Gooch's angry, rotten eyes moved back and forth between the two, as if seeing the potential of new playthings. He stuffed both in his mouth at once and grabbed up another pair.
"In death," the Gooch thundered to the city, "you will serve the Gooch."
He gobbled down more people, more scarecrows. Unholy digestion went to work in the Gooch's belly. It pushed the new creatures out the bottom of its vile digestive tract, birthing them in a slimy heap on the street.
In the driving rain and pooling blood, the first scarecrow-man crawled to its feet. Torn human flesh and cursed wooden limbs took their first steps. Another fell from the Gooch and plopped to the mud, then another and another. So were born the Scarecrows of Stagwater.
Dawes held the broken, screaming witch over his head in offering. The Gooch snatched her away and held her upside down. She flailed in the grip of the Gooch, screaming curses. The Lord of Desecration laughed in her face.
Dawes drank in the scene with something like joy. The gift had pleased his god. Dawes wished he could sacrifice himself again.
"Mine now," the Gooch rumbled to the broken old woman. "Love your new god."
"In death, you will serve the Gooch!" bleated Dawes.
His master devoured Shola's body, then shoved a handful of scarecrow parts down its throat after her.
Dawes watched with fascination as the Gooch's stomach shifted and churned. He longed to witness the vile digestion inside, to see her mind and body decay together — breaking down, but not completely. He wanted to taste her anguish as her soul died over and over, to hear her pleas for oblivion.
She splashed to the bloody mud in the square of Stagwater, transformed into something glorious. Eight wooden scarecrow arms clawed mindlessly at nothing at all. Eight empty eye sockets filled with rain as she wobbled to her feet. The witch no longer existed. In her place stood a newborn worshipper of the Gooch.
"I serve," she rasped.
"More!" boomed the Gooch.
Dawes savored the terror. He would share it with the world, all for the pleasure of his master. Off he lurched to find new offerings.
Rorid headed up the surge across the bridge.
"We're almost there, Dad." Drexel herded the children. In the downpour, they slipped and tripped, but Drexel managed to keep them on their feet.
Behind the group, the chain-swinging stranger held the monstrosities at bay. Any that got by him faced Priole'se spinning shockspear. Rorid could swear, one-armed or otherwise, the young guardsman grew more devastating with each creature he slew.
Rorid pointed to the bank. "Gather the children over there."
Rorid, Ree, and Drexel ran with the children off the bridge and up the muddy logging road. They slid and stumbled but Ree and Drexel gathered them all in a shivering huddle.
"Where do we go now?" Drexel shivered. He'd given his raincoat to one of the orphans.
"Move them up the trail, son. Get them sheltered in the logging pavilion. I'll get Priole and the drifter. We'll be right behind you."
Rorid raced onto the bridge to help Priole and the stranger.
He stopped as if he'd hit a wall.
A thunderous crack, louder than any from the sky, ripped through the night. Tremors ran through the entire bridge as the support timbers started to give way.
"Get off the bridge!" Rorid shouted to Priole and the man with the weird horns on his hat.
The two fought side by side like no soldiers Rorid had ever seen, but their desecrated enemies attacked in an endless stream.
Howling, the drifter cleared a swath with his anchor, flinging ruined creatures through the air. Priole ducked under the swinging chain as if they'd practiced it all before.
"The damned bridge is going to fall!" Rorid hollered again.
The drifter stopped mid-swing. He tilted his head as if listening then slapped Priole on the shoulder.
Priole and the drifter ran toward Rorid. Another tremor shuddered through the bridge. A section fell away between them and Rorid.
"
No, no, no
!" Rorid wailed.
Priole looked down at the expanse between them, then back up to Rorid.
"Sir!" Priole shouted. "Take care of Ree!"
He stood at attention with the glowing shockspear standing straight at his side. Its crackling light lit his face. In this stance, Priole's arm no longer covered his stomach, and Rorid saw the true extent of his wound. The young guardsman's arm had never been injured. He'd clutched it to his stomach this whole time to keep his entrails inside.
With a purposeful smile, Priole saluted his captain.
Rorid's arm felt as heavy as stone as he lifted it to return the salute.
The bridge section beneath him listed and bucked. Rorid had no choice. He turned and ran, leaving Priole behind.
He stepped on land moments before his half of the bridge crumbled. The structure crashed into the river and splintered on the rocks below.
Rorid walked with his head down in the direction of the logging pavilion. He turned one last time.
Priole and the drifter held their ground on the quaking remains of the bridge. Rorid stood at attention, and tried to salute. Instead, his hand went to his eyes. He fell to his knees and cried.
"How's that stomach, kid?" Chuggie patted Priole on the shoulder. "You got guts. I'll give you that."
"Not for long, I don't." The young guardsman fell to his knees, holding himself up with one shaking arm. "I'm done now."
"You fought plenty," Chuggie grunted as he blasted a creature with his anchor.
"Don't… let them take me."
"I'll do what I can, kid." Chuggie wished he could say something a little more reassuring, but he didn't want to make a false promise to a dying man.
"You do it," Priole said with effort.
"Huh?"
"Finish me off and throw me in the river." Priole groaned and pounded a fist on the bridgeboards. "I won't end up like them." He pointed at the desecrated mob.
Chuggie bashed more of the abominations with a swing of his anchor. He sensed them crawling along the bridge's underside. Soon they'd get up behind him. He swore he felt others clawing and gnawing at the bridge supports.
"
Do it
!" Priole screamed, his voice slurred with agony and sorrow. He stretched out his arms to receive Chuggie's mercy.
Chuggie went numb. As if on its own, his arm shot out and the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu pierced Priole's heart.
Priole's dimming gaze turned in the direction the others had escaped. He saluted. His life left him, and his body thudded to the bridge deck.
As requested, Chuggie heaved the body over the rail.
A flash of lightning crackled through the sky A creature lumbered onto the bridge. It stood nearly eight feet tall, man and scarecrow melded together in mockery of a Steel Jack. Its mindless, grinning face chomped at the air.
"Alright," said Chuggie, "let's do this, big boy."
Chuggie launched his anchor at the thing. Not waiting for it to land, he launched himself at it, too. The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu stabbed through its chest, doing absolutely no damage. He yanked the blade free and unleashed a combination of slashes, stabs, and hacks. He severed its left arm, and still it came. He severed its right arm, and it rammed into him with its head.
Huge teeth snapped at his throat.
Chuggie kicked its leg out from under it, and it flailed to keep balance. The thing bit into his shoulder, but luckily for Chuggie it got more chain than shoulder meat between its jaws.
As it fell to the bridge-deck, it dragged Chuggie down. A chain-tangled wrestling match ensued.
An army of similar creatures loped towards him. Chained to the scarecrow-thing, Chuggie clawed and kicked his way to the edge of the bridge.
The bridge cracked and reeled in the stormy darkness. With one last push, Chuggie launched himself from the crumbling structure. He hacked his armless attacker to pieces as they plummeted into the water.
Chuggie landed with a cold splash. He backstroked furiously with the current, hoping to get far enough away before —.
Tons of bridge timbers and metal supports crashed into the water. The ensuing wave blasted Chuggie downstream.
The weight of the chain and anchor held him below the surface as he tumbled through the water.
The river's roar and rush blended into an all-encompassing monotone. In the icy darkness, Chuggie found comfort. He could no longer see or hear horrible deaths. For that, he was deeply grateful.
He grappled for a thick beam and held tight to it. Chuggie slid the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu into his belt. The dagger-vision fled, as did every last bit of energy in his body.
He clung to the beam and to consciousness in equal measure. The latter failed first.
By the light of two fat, full moons, Chuggie awoke and discovered he sat at the muddy bottom of a riverbed. The mighty Staghorn River had been reduced to a sad trickle. He was to blame. He felt as used up and twisted as the driftwood all around him.
The pair of yellow moons shone down from the starry sky like the eyes of a disappointed parent.
He dragged himself up onto the bank. At the northern horizon, he saw no hint of the lights — or, indeed, the skyline — of Stagwater. There was no way to know how far he'd drifted downstream, but he guessed not far enough.
He took inventory of himself. His chain knotted about him, and his anchor lay not far away. The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu was still wedged in his belt. In his pocket, he found the friendly curve of the boar tusk pipe. Kale's slug-plate satchel containing the goat-face purse was tangled up with his coat. It lay in a heap on the bank. And if he could ever get it out… Chuggie reached his hand around behind his back. He strained and clutched at the handle but could not reach Stinkface's knife.
He built a fire and sat down beside it. He dug out his tobacco stash. The pouch, soaked and dried out one too many times, started to crumble in his hands. He moved the tobacco to the safest container he had: the goat-face purse. As long as he never looked inside, what could go wrong?
He was glad to find that his matches were dry. He lit his pipe and tried to smoke away all memory of Stagwater. He built a much bigger fire than was necessary.
"What happened, Chuggles?" asked a quiet voice.
A girlish squeal nearly escaped from Chuggie's lips, but he composed himself and put extra gravel into his voice. "Shit happened."
"Where are you going?" the voice asked.
He looked around for a lurking trickster. "Who are you?"
"You don't recognize me? It's Faben."
"Uh… hate to say it, Faben, but you're dead."
"No shit."
"Where are you? Come out." Chuggie turned in circles and scanned the surrounding darkness. There was no one there. He was clearly losing his mind. He needed him some sleep.
Chuggie took up Faben's book. He opened to the page she'd been writing on when she died.
Everything is a door.
He closed the book and stared into the fire. The weary mind played cruel tricks, indeed.
It was time to rest. After all, Chuggie had promises to keep. First, he had to get Faben's book to the Lodge of Woodsmen. Then he had to go to the ocean's salty shore. There he had to buy, build, or steal a boat to name after Shola, just like he promised.
Then he had to sink it to the bottom of the sea.