Bowhunter – Chapter 7

The Mane, Huzken (The Venom State), City Capital Lajo – Typhon Resurgence, Day 19

Havicore Hall was the grandiose meeting place for the hunters and agriculturalists of the eastern regions of the Mane. It was named for the great explorer, and naturalist, Havicore; which one, no one was quite sure of, Havicore the first, the second, the third, the forth, and so on…

Many a debate often punctuated with fists and kicking had taken place regarding the issue upon its grand bluestone steps, and beneath the numerous statues depicting famous foresters and hunters.

The old hall had been ordained with clinging vines for some time, colourful flowers soaked in humidity, bursting through the many tangles. Nature, it seemed had been permitted to crawl over and infest the large hall’s exterior, supplanting the any stone carvings, reliefs, and other engineered works. Guttering, lost within the ivy and vines, caught the rain and moisture in the air, taking it on an intricate journey around the walls of the building, before releasing it into narrow channels along the promenade and steps. 

Havicore Hall held the impression of a bulbous flower, the stained-glass colours of its domed roof like petals trapped on the precipice of blooming, buried beneath the unchecked touch of nature.

In the vivid dark-water light of the late evening, each of the many statues placed upon the steps leading to the main entrance stood proudly, nobly upon their plinths. Each was, naturally, cast in a dramatic portrayal – more so than most of them deserved – as the evening shadows accented their expertly sculpted features.

Rutte, the quarter elf, quarter, goblin, and half ork, was there, the first of these honoured markers, at the base of the shadow-washed steps. His likeness was bound by a great titanoboa he had slain, was one of the few memorials that was not embellished – in fact, the titanoboa coiling about his body, its jaws distended, fangs pouring with venom, ready to swallow him headfirst, was certainly far smaller than the actual animal he fought.

When ascending the steps, Fergus and his hunting party couldn’t help but remark upon the many figures lining their ascent, and those fitted into the pillars upon the promenade. It was a game as much as it was a way to remember the history of not only the guild, they were all a part of, but of the eastern countries of the Mane.

“Philanderer,” Kelby said, over the top of the keg he held against his chest as they passed an elf figure standing within the flames of a chimera, unaffected and unbothered.

“Serial matricide,” Niva added, nodding to the human statue of Fenna Greathorn, holding a minotuar’s head aloft – a relic of an older time when culling such beasts was not the ‘debatable’ issue it was currently.

Of a dwarven figure looking meaningfully upon the carcass of a large dune jackal, Lenush remarked, “Madly xenophobic.”

“A xenophobic dwarf? Fancy that,” Niva couldn’t help but add. Fergus knew it was coming and had been grinning in anticipation.

“Hey!” Kelby barked, twisting about, trying to steady himself under the gait of the keg he clung to. “Ye may watch yer betherin’, man-ater! When we first met, ye thought I was some hoy leprechaun!” Kelby spat in disgust.

“Imagine my relief when I found out you were just a simple-minded dwarf.”

“Gods of breath, there’s going to be enough gnashing and spitting in there,” Lenush moaned, nodding towards the wide promenade of the hall’s entrance. “Can we not rehash this old tale.” She shivered, no doubt the thoughts of potential social interactions setting her nerves affright.

Ahead of the group, Erasmus’ pet draig, Mistress pattered up the steps, nose held high as her tongue tasted the air, hopeful of a fight no doubt. A few yellow dragonflies caught her attention, and she chirped at them, following their sudden flight and loosing them to the protruding creepers and ivy.

An emergency general meeting was nothing Fergus or anyone wanted to sit through. Mundanity as a form of torture, whilst the many heads of this hydra snapped and spat at one and other, choaking up the procedures, drawing out the excruciating event.

The Foresters Guild, centuries ago, had amalgamated many other smaller guilds as a means to strengthen the capabilities of those committed to taming, managing, and understanding all elements of the natural world. The guild’s members were far more than just hunters; in fact, against the many sub-guilds, hunters only made up a tenth of the affiliates.

And as Fergus crossed the tall padouk wood threshold, sun-yellow light poured from the fine glass windows, as if something spectral was attempted to escape the reception hall. He sighed, in anticipation of seeing so many people he resented, of having to sit through a meaningless meeting in which nothing would be agreed or committed to, and in how quickly his mind ran to a ghoulish comparison for the bright lights.

Bathed within the sun-coloured light, the most promenade feature of the reception hall, was the ancient bronze oak tree – at two thousand years old looked better than most of his peers, Fergus thought. Steel bars and cables held the decrepit, weary, and bare branches aloft, like a reluctant puppet on a string.

This tree was one of five remaining in the world, a symbol of the Foresters Guild in its commitment to tending to the natural world. Through keeping the tree alive, whether it wanted it or not, it gave testament to the honour of the Foresters Guild, its capabilities, strength, and commitment.

Fergus, having seen just about every manner of undead, knew something that was long past living when he saw it. It was a foolish symbol.

Rather crassly, in an attempt to add to the illusion of life within the symbolised tree, surrounding its vast base were plinths displaying many magnificent beasts. Outstanding taxidermy, by the absolute masters of the craft, presented many of the guild’s prized hunts, and triumphs.

Nothing larger than a tiger sat in eternal humiliation beneath the withered, flaking branches of the dead tree, the larger trophies displayed beyond the vault doors at the back of the hall.

Present were the gloriously amber bodies of a pair of ember tigers, swathed through with ruby stripes; lightning flanked laelaps, the canine’s dark flank cut through by silver fur; a display of ocellated turkeys with their odd blues and metallic sheens; and even a Dominator bear’s skull, donated by the Scared Foresters in the south of Bravenasil, with a maw large enough to fit Fergus’ whole head in, and fangs strong enough to rend steel.

These were all recent displays, within the last half century, replacing some of the older animals. There had been an old taxidermized double headed buffalo, from a time when a sinister virus had infested animals in the northern nation of Abtyn. Most bovine, deer, other mammals were caught by this contagious infliction, causing them to produce still born offspring. For the most part anyway. In frighteningly unusual exceptions, any surviving offspring were born with unnatural mutations such as multiple heads, extra limbs, their organs set in the wrong places within their bodies.

Starvation hit the nation like a cyclone, and thousands died in the first few months. It was the Foresters Guild, the eastern Mane Lodge, who culled the infected animals and severed the reach of the virus. A whole nation, and by extension an extensive region encompassing nine nations, tens of millions, were saved the hollowing out of an excruciating death, with countless mammal species native to the northeastern Mane surviving the threat of extinction.

It was the Foresters Guild’s finest hour in recent history, but also its most unglamourous. Professional hunters, champion dragon slayers, griffin tamers, and hydra hunters saw their talents denigrated, as they carried out a monotonous slaughter – work that was quintessentially why the Foresters Guild existed, but a duty since forgotten, buried beneath the glamour and adulation of clipping the correct head from a hydra first time round.

The crisis was before Fergus’ time, but that poor, wretched double headed buffalo, was why he wanted to be a Forester. It was the deeply ugly, and undignified work that kept people safe in the end. Removing the display only certified the fact that the Forester Guild – at least in the eastern Mane – was more interested in their image these days.

And if there was any notion of hypocrisy, Fergus was sure only he and his party could see it. Some time ago, he had visited the hunting lodge of the reviled Flint Castle, in Wetsven, on The Sigel. As an organisation, the Flint Castle was considered by Forester Guild members to be anathema to what they did, yet their own lodge here, this whole building was no different to what Fergus saw inside the Flint Castle’s hunting lodge; whilst the Castle called them trophies, the guild called them displays.

But the conversations, overheard, where the same.

“I want a rack like that over my mantle.”

“No point culling tinder-deer on the peeks, leave it to the initiates. The bigger game is further west.”

“I almost have a full family of panthers for my display – just need a big male, but the contracts only send me after the smaller game bothers farmers’ livestock.”

For all the resentment that was thrown Fergus’ way, overtly and passively, most of the other hunters in the guild were no better than those in the ranks of the Flint Castle. Their perverse desires and egos matched those of the Castle, but wearing a Forester’s patch allowed them to pretend they were morally and ethically better.

Fergus never took trophies. It was sickening to him. Every animal on display nipped at his ire. The notion that this was a celebration of the natural world was, to use a parlance of Kelby’s fine people, naw wise – insane.

Nature was a ferocious beast, and though Fergus did not see it with the same divinity in the way others did, he knew if they weren’t steadfast and ferocious in their own way, nature would become something monstrous, oppressive, and the harmony in which sentient kind and nature was able to co-exist would be forever lost.

Naturally, Kelby could see the forlornness in Fergus’ eyes.

“I remember a time too, when this was all about doin’ a service. Thankless for the most part, but worth it in terms of what ye felt in yer soul, aye?” The dwarf said, loud enough that those around them would hear.

“Hardly any better than those Castle exhibitionists,” Erasmus added, a few clicks to keep Mistress away from the displays, and from sniffing at the ankles of others.

Fergus caught Kelby’s knowing glance and shook his head.

“He’s nay wrong, wee man. Our lodge may ‘ave fallen a fair bit… Devils in dying embers, the whole Guild has me scunnered these days, but we’re still better than those sleeked twats in the Castle, so we are, wee man.”

“In essence you are correct,” Fergus replied, looking about him at the fine tapestries depicting adventurous hunting tales. “But the Castle has deeper pockets and greater resources. If I’m to be stuck with such company, I may as well have the means to do the best work I can.”

“Such company? Aye, I hear ye. But these’ins,” Kelby responded, nodding here and there, “Are pains in the hole, alright, and don’ do the work for the right reasons either, but they are still a great dragon’s cry aff from being defined as criminals, or committing many o’ the same crimes against the natural world, like those in the Castle.”

“Not yet anyhow,” Fergus thought aloud.

“The worst we ‘ave are egotists, and ye can’t wander a fit without bumpin’ into a dose or two, but the worst the Castle has are hun’ers responsible for causing starvation, forcing extinction, even murderin’ tribes and others in their way. We’re fallin’ away, but we’re nay the cack-headed Castle.”

“I know, but I can effect change from within, I’m sure,” Fergus was quick to retort, hoping to get across that he had in fact thought all of this through.

“If yer puttin’ in that kind of effort, why not do it ‘ere then, wee man?”

It was very much rhetorical, and the finality of it blunted any response Fergus could think of. Rather, Fergus looked about him, at the company he was, in essence, keeping as a member of the Foresters Guild – at least in the Eastern Mane Lodge.

Whilst hunters like himself were a minority against the rest of the many practises, hunting was the one thing everyone associated with the guild. About the hall, milling and chatting in small groups, were farmers, agriculturists, botanists, tanners, butchers, aquarists, water conservationists, entomologists, toxicologists, woodworkers, lumberjacks, masons, cartographers, to name a few of the sub-roles within the guild.

Every occupation with the Foresters Guild had long ago been a guild of its own, before the amalgamation.

By a swirling banister, engaged in conversation with several other hunters, was a representative of the Scared Foresters of Bravenasil – famed warriors, more than hunters, as they sought to contain what was one of the most dangerous animals known, the Dominator bear.

It was, of course, obvious that this man was of the Scared Foresters, given how he lived up to the name of the organisation he worked for. Both of his arms and legs were enchanted prosthetics. Fergus found himself staring, disbelieving. Did he loose them one at a time over a long period of time, or all at once to the one bear? Or more than one bear? Whilst Fergus had seen the wounds and mutilations nature could inflict, no hunters’ scars held the wrath of the natural like those worn by the Scared Foresters.

He pulled his eyes from the Scared Forester, and looked about, awaiting the announcement that the meeting would begin. What resided within him was not the heartening feeling of seeing an organisation brought together, but the heavy, lumpen discomfort in recognising just how divided the guild really was. Everyone group had their own agendas, their own goals, plans, and means.

“The more unified we are, the more divided we become,” Kelby said, having seen the look on Fergus’ face.

“Yep,” Lenush replied, softly, all but huddling in the safety of the Fergus and the others, in hopes of staying hidden and out of the sight of any who might try to engage her in conversation.

At the far left of the hall, a pair of wide wooden doors opened with a rustle of air against the notifying clang of bells fitted to the upper frames. Each of these small bells had been grafted from the metals and rock of slain gargoyles and would announce to those waiting within the entry hall, that it was time to begin the main proceedings.

From the threshold, stepped Mister Pentronius, local chief of the Foresters Lodge for the eastern Mane.

And gods and other divine nonsense, did he look wretched.

“There’s a cretur whose nay had any proper sleep,” Kelby said with a sympathetic sigh.

“And spent too much time in session with the Venom Lords,” Niva added.

“Thon wee man needs sleep, not this cack.”

“Esteemed members of the Foresters Guild, please enter and take your seats. This emergency general meeting will start momentarily!” Mister Pentronius shouted across the diminishing din, with a timbre belaying that of his haggard appearance.

Sluggishly the mob of foresters began to congeal into a single body and shuffle towards the main hall, those outside upon the promenade and steps wandering in like rivulets meeting the mainstream.

“’ere, Lenush, fish the spigot outta ma satchel, and I’ll get this keg broken in, eh?”

The main hall was once a tribal meeting place, and the old rock and wood glowed with longstanding reverence against the more recent additions and installations. Since the building became the headquarters for the eastern Mane’s lodge of the Foresters Guild, many new chambers had been built to accommodate the guild’s needs, and numbers.

Within the main hall several tiers had been added, lifting the height of the hall into something closer to the interior of an opera theatre – though the rough wood and steel was hardly of the same elegant design and build.

Braziers, hanging along the walls, provided the light, washing away the gloom of the late evening like an amber tide pushing in. Along the left wall, tall panes of glass allowed the outer braziers to peek into the chamber and add an additional charge to push out the dark.

Upon the ceiling, was a wide, thorny chandelier built from mammoth tusks – at least thirty of them woven together. Their ivory sparkled under the white heat of the specialised candles, gleaming wetly, with shadows carving through the scrimshawed stories and patterns upon the tusks.

Fergus and his party took to the first tier, high enough to hear and if necessary, engage, but to also get away with staying unnoticed.

“There must be a couple of hundred of us,” Fergus noted taking a seat, Erasmus on his right, Kelby on his left. Rigid, unmalleable wood met his back, and he forced himself upright.

“Aye,” Kelby grunted, fixing the keg upon the seat next to him, and twisting on the spigot. “So ye’d hope we could get a plan or somethin’ together; how to manage our resources, safely store ‘em, produce more food, and clean the local water – and of course how to slay this biggin beast.”

“You’re think of going after the typhon, then?” Fergus said, shifting about to give his hunting pal an incredulous look.

“I’m thinkin’ nothing.”

“We know,” Niva called out from the other side of Erasmus.

“But I know you cannie stop thinkin’ about it… An’ I’m a dwarf. I got countless generations of legends to live up to, so I do.”

“If everything we talked about the other evening is true, then we have to do something?” Fergus replied passing his tankard to Kelby. He didn’t want Kelby, his oldest hunting parter thinking of him as being so opportunistic.

“Aye, there’s that. But you’re still mucking about with that notion o’ yours to get into the Castle.” Kelby filled the tankard with a foaming, pungent, brown liquid, and passed it back to Fergus. The beverage had been crowned with the perfect head, he noted. Leave it to a dwarf, Fergus thought.

Erasmus and Niva passed their tankards across.

“If ye are lookin’ somethin’ so mad, then let’s head up north, find a behemoth or some such,” Kelby continued.

“Gods, Kelby give me some credit here. We need to slay this typhon, it’s of the great necessity, back when the guild knew what real service was. I’d be doing this, even if I’d never heard of the Castle.”

“Hey, I know, I know, wee man,” Kelby replied excitedly, filling the tankards. “But we bring down this biggin, the guild cannae overlook us, and we can use our prestige then, to make the changes we want.” He passed back the tankards to Erasmus and Niva, then placed a hand on Fergus’ arm. “Ridding the guild of its transgressions would be ball-breakin’ enough, never mind the Castle. Sparkling fairies, our odds of actually slayin’ this typhon are better.”

“We’ve put down just about every type of undead there is, Kelby. What’s a typhon?” Fergus said, weakly, unable to reassure even himself. Though he was feeling better, keeping his standing in Kelby’s eyes, Fergus decided not to add that what he was thinking. If he the one who to slay the beast that had felled Orion Aldenberg, that was a guaranteed entry to the Flint Castle – even a place on their committee. He would be where he needed to be and would be able to get about affecting change straight away.

 “Lenush, ye wan’ a dram at least?” Kelby shouted past him.

On the right side of Niva, Lenush was laying out her note tomes on the empty seat next to her and unscrewing a frosted-glass inkpot. A good way to keep a stranger from sitting next to her, and something practical to keep busy during these meetings.

“No thank you,” Lenush replied, softly, drawing her quill, an oily red cockatrice feather, free from the pouch it was sheathed in.

Kelby looked back to Fergus. “Look, wee man. Ye bring down the typhon, and think o’ the pull ye’ll get with our lodge, and the guild itself, eh?”

“Still, it almost feels academic really.” Fergus sighed. “I mean, how does anyone put down a beast the size of a typhon?” He nudged Kelby and settled into the discomfort of the wooden chair.

At the front of the hall, Mister Pentronius was taking to the podium to begin the meeting, leaning more on his bad leg than usual. Sitting off to the right, and behind the podium were the other committee members of the lodge, some good at what they did, others hopeless, and some just lazy and hoping to coast their way through to retirement. Who was what obvious from the manner in which they sat and expressions upon their faces; anyone slouching with a sour bake, as Kelby phrased it, they were the self-interested, feckless twats to watch out for.

Hopefully they’d keep their mouths shut, and let this meeting flow, and not get in the way of anyone with anything meaningful and useful to say, as was their way.

A clap of thunder broke through the heavy murmuration hovering over the hall, as Mister Pentronius brought down his gavel.

“Attention members, this meeting is now in session!” He shouted, to ensure his voice carried to the upper tiers, and to the wider sides. “Please be seated, and quiet. Thank you.”

Though his voice rang with that natural authority, his face was awash with exhaustion, and his hunched shoulders did not provide Fergus with any confidence.

“Given the alarming situation in the northeast, I shall be waving the reading of minutes from our previous meeting, and will not be taking any points of order,” he began, keeping his eyes down at the scattering of notes he had laid upon the podium.

Fergus’ gut squirmed, and not just from whatever Kelby had added to their beer.

“Close to three weeks ago, in the northeastern waters, fifty miles from Fohalin Proper, a Vainglory Typhon surfaced among the small, scattered islands there.”

Heavy breaths belonging to near two hundred people poured forth like the shifting of a landslide. For many Fergus knew this would be a rumour now given nightmarish reality. Another anvil-hard crack of thunder from the gavel shattered the chance of any louder commotion

“How, or precisely where it came from, are still under investigation. For now, I am delivering the facts and will not allowing us to be marred in rumour or hearsay,” Mister Pentronius continued, his strength of voice as hardy as the gavel he wielded.

Even Kelby was listening.

“This particular species, the Vainglory species, is a colossal sea snake. The largest recorded was four hundred and thirty-five years ago, a length of one thousand, three hundred and nine yards.” He paused, obviously anticipating more unruliness. However, the crowd remained silent. “What information we have on the current beast, places its length at close to one thousand yards. This information was provided by our kindred at the Nurinian Coastal Watch and Research Guild, who took ships north to monitor the beast as closely as possible.”

At the mention of the guild a few grating murmurs of discontent surfaced. Another crack of the gavel dispelled them. The notion of the many sirens and merpeople who worked for the Nurinian Coastal Watch and Research Guild provoking old prejudices in some foresters of lesser intelligence.

“And I thank them for that information, and for their sacrifices,” Mister Pentronius continued, the statement reaching out like a whip to crack upon the dissenters. “I will now pass the podium onto Amina Khatib of the Nurinian Coastal Watch and Research Guild, who will update us on the current particulars regarding the beast.”

From a seat behind Mister Pentronius, an elven woman rose, clearly nervous from the previous agitation. She smiled nervously at Mister Pentronius as he limped back to his chair, and the ork leaned in, whispering something to her – no doubt something encouraging, something that reassured her that jaws would be broken, and windpipes bruised should there be further discord.

Stepping up to the podium, Amina cleared her throat in preparation for raising her voice. “Thank you, Mister Pentronius,” she began, shaking back her moss green hair, and grasping the sides of the podium a little too tightly. As her moss-textured hair was tossed back, Fergus swore he could make out gills on her neck – mer ancestry.

“Good evening, members of the eastern Mane Lodge – if one could claim it to be. Instead, I say good evening in the hope that we will come to a plan, something through which we can begin saving lives.” She paused for a moment, only the hollowness of indifference receiving her. After another cough to clear her throat, Amina continued. “This species of typhon is one that I am sure many of you know only from myths and legends. Well, the descriptions are usually correct, as the beast is so apocalyptically violent, there is seldom any need for embellishment.
Thick hoods upon its head pull in heat, feeding the beast with energy. In addition to this, the scales of these hoods force friction against the air surrounding it and can be – for lack of a better term – flapped, kind of like wings to force a ground splitting thunder. Within the cells of these scales, static from the friction of the air can be held, and built up, adding lightning to match its thunderous assaults. The Vainglory Typhon can use its sheer gait to alter the currents of the ocean, pulling whole shorelines out or pushing them in, causing tidal waves tall enough to reach the sky that can crush whole cities, or even generate whirlpools with cyclonic force winds. Within its fangs, sacks of venom can be weaponised like catapults. This venom is extremely acidic, and will reduce mountains to slag, faster and more thoroughly than any volcanic discharge. And then, at the base of its tail, is its rattle. On smaller, terrestrial snakes, the rattle is utilised as a warning system. But, in the typhon, it is wielded as a means to generate seismic force through its reverberations, capable of breaking up small islands, and shattering the foundations for cities.”

Each description broke over the audience like a rainstorm, unsettling every member and forcing them to wince and hunker lower into their seats.

Only now did Fergus realise that he was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, brow knitted. The tension in his back forced him to straighten up.

“Whilst the animals spend most of their time beneath the sea, they are very comfortable on land. They cannot breath under water, they have no gills, but their capacity to stay beneath the sea for long periods of time comes from the air sacs on their lungs. These sacs hold air and release it into the animal’s blood stream when needed – storing air in reserve. Yet, this one seems to be taking advantage of the natural caverns and tunnels within the bedrock and foundations of the islands that make up Fohalin. The amount of air a typhon can hold, can keep it submerged for many hours, perhaps most of a day.” Amina finished, appearing to swallow a hard lump as she bit upon her upper lip.

Mister Pentronius stood and limped back to the podium, thanking Amina, and nodding as he passed.

“Thank you Amina,” he began. His own hands grasped the edges of the podium now, in place of Amina’s, and Pentronius was now stooping as if the whole the eastern Mane where set upon his shoulders. “This typhon began its attack in the northeastern waters off of Fohalin, as I said. It then moved south and west, into Fohalin proper. This was due to the major port cities established along the southeastern islands, the beast exercising its territorial temperament…” He sighed and mopped at his brow.

“Anyone need another?” Kelby whispered, a concerning look passed between him and the others. “Might help.”

“All three port cities are now gone.”

A pattering of murmurs broke out amongst the audience, disbelief. Several members made to stand, to challenge the information no doubt. A hand waved by Pentronius stayed them, and with obvious trepidation, he continued.

“Two quakes, collapsed Dasin, and Kuyop, leaving sinkholes in their place, the sea having moved in to bury the remains.” Mister Pentronius was trying his hardest to speak as matter-of-factly as possible and get the necessary information out as clearly as possible. Yet a quiver here and their betrayed him. “Neither time was the beast was sighted, so we believe it struck using the seismic power of its tail rattle. The third city, slightly further in land took the beast on directly as it crashed through the taller structures, before using its venom to drown the remains of the city. The beast then moved north, into the centre of the islands, over land, carving out new rivers with its gait, and sinking many smaller islands under its weight, opening up larger lakes.
It’s next sighting was further west, and south once more, when it struck a military fort guarding Thilso bay…” Something clearly caught in Mister Pentronius’ throat, and tried to avoid wincing, though it was obvious he was bracing even himself for what was to be said next. “At this point, a massive displacement of refuges was passing through the region, the fort operating as a main channel…” Pentronius’ voice fell away, his head dropping, the words lashing at him, sapping his will.

To match this struggle, Fergus found his own jaw clamped, a sudden ache coming to the fore of his mind. He sighed, not realising he had needed the breath. The trio of port cities in Fohalin’s southeast were not mere fishing towns, but major, powerful establishments with a collective population of several million.

“The fort was destroyed, collapsed into the bay,” Pentronius continued. “Since then, the beast moved north again into the vaster rainforests, and larger islands, targeting cities and towns, anywhere there is life, in a north, south zig-zag pattern. As it stands, a quarter of Fohalin is now under its domain, with the smaller islands destroyed, or sunk, making way for the sea to pour in and create vast lakes and rivers. No cities, towns, villages, or even hamlets remain.” He paused, taking in a deep breath. “It’s been difficult to determine with certainty the number of dead, as few bodies have been found. However, as of a few days ago, the figure for missing stood at two million, nine hundred thousand, whilst the confirmed dead was at one million.”

“We could’a went ta war with Fohalin and not inflicted such devastation!” Kelby gasped over his tankard. “Gods o’ the Coals hav’ mercy.”

The silence that fell over the chamber was heavier than any funeral Fergus had been to, far more severe as it clutched at the members of the guild. Thought as numbed as the members were by this horrific news, Fergus knew they’d break eventually.

“This beast is not just Fohalin’s problem,” Mister Pentronius continued, finding a modicum of reserve. “A typhon’s territory is measured by continent, not country. Once Fohalin has been removed from the maps, the beast will continue to remove major cities along the eastern edge of the Mane, as far south as Nurin it has been estimated, and even as far in land as the Barran State… But that’s the future, as for the present, the economic devastation will make its job far easier. That is the typhon’s greatest, most dangerous weapon to us right now – unbeknownst to it. All shipping south of Fohalin has ceased, and states south of our boarder are no longer trading, instead shoring up their own stocks for the inevitable food and water shortages, and unsettlement following the mass loss of jobs, and poverty to follow. Most of our fresh water comes through the underground tunnels of our neighbour, The Barran State, who won’t hesitate to collapse those tunnels and leverage the water under the guise of trade. They have little to nothing, and rely on us for seeds, and even soil cultivation – us as well as their other neighbours. We get away with it, because we’ve been importing clean meat from Bravenasil and the southern states. And our wealth, which comes from the venoms, and anti-venoms we produce, has now turned toxic, as it’s been used to bring in what we need, rather than fund the research and projects needed so we can provide for ourselves. This has been happening for so long, that it took a while to find the records, but close to two thirds of our meat is imported. And to make matters worse, our main exports, venoms, poisons, anti-dotes, will cease as our neighbours’ priorities other needs. No ships are going across to the Sigel anymore, trading in this area now ceased… No one is willing to brave the Pirate Capital.”

Erasmus whispered. “Nationally, there could very well be a mass exodus.”

“To where?” Niva added. “Our neighbours won’t have us. They won’t be able to feed themselves either given how much comes through us to them.”

“So, what’s our plan?” One member shouted, rising from their seat.

“What reserves do we have? We must have food, grain and fresh water stored away somewhere?” Another bawled, a little too obnoxiously for Fergus’ liking.

Not giving the storm the opportunity to break, Pentronius began clattering his gavel. “We are not recognising anyone yet!” He snapped, throwing his voice like hurling boulders.

“What have the Venom Lords said?” Another voice yelled. “Are they going to starve as much as the rest of us?”

But it appeared the storm had broken, and more shouts lashed out at Pentronius as if he alone was both responsible and held the solution.

Fergus was of the mind to begin taking swings at those around him, as they rose and began bawling out their nonsense.

“So much for those poor Fohalinites,” Fergus said, raising his voice, to Kelby. The dwarf returned sardonic roll of his eyes and nodded.

An explosive crack struck silence into the entire chamber, rattling Fergus’ bones. From beneath the podium Mister Pentronius had produced a colossal blunderbuss and discharged it into the air. Even the mammoth tusked chandelier was swaying back and forth from the force of the weapon, the flames within the surrounding braziers flailing as if in panic.

Kelby was chuckling like an amused child.

Growling, seething, Pentronius continued, “We are not taking statements now. If you are all so concerned, then listen now. We are the Foresters of the eastern Mane, and thus the responsibility of solving this crisis falls to us! We will formulate a plan, find a way to kill this animal, and do so quickly enough to save what’s left of Fohalin!”

“That’s shut their gobs, eh?” Kelby cackled softly.

“This why we are here, tonight. The Mane needs the guild, now. We will make a plan, and cull this beast-”

It was no use, as the mob rose up to loose their frustrations and fears upon Mister Pentronius and the other committee members. For every cry, accusation, complaint thrown out, Fergus felt a stab in his gut, something between frustration and bitter anger. He didn’t need to say aloud that this sort of obscene discord would not be seen in the Flint Castle. What utter fecklessness this was.

Unfortunately Mister Pentronius was too good a leader to walk away, and leave them to their selflessness, and cowardness, and began attacking the podium with his gavel, with a gusto not unlike someone trying to batter through a portcullis.

Perhaps to his advantage, many guild members began to walk out, throwing upon themselves a demeanour of disgust, as if they had been failed. As soon as a handful of members began storming out, many more decided to follow, and soon enough only Fergus and his party were left… With one exception – the Scared Forester was still sitting in the ground tier.

Mister Pertronius weathered it well, then again, what was the misguided disdain of cowards to a man who’s thick ork skin could probably break the fangs of serpents. He glanced up to the tier upon which Fergus as his party sat, smiled weakly through the defeat.

“At least that’s over with,” he shouted up, pacing away from the podium, hands on his lower back.

“Aye, yer a fair man for takin’ it so! I’d a been throwin’ shot into ‘em, like square go, mate!” Kelby hollered back.

Mister Pertronius turned about, and sighed. “I’ll assume that was a compliment.”

“Ye fancy a drink now?”

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