Book 2, Chapter 70 - Waylaid (1/2)

Chapter 70 - Waylaid

It was a tree.

An absolutely enormous tree practically the size of a small mountain. It would take several dozen people to wrap their arms all around it.

It’d been dead for many years already, but it’s dried out husk of a trunk towered overhead. The wind and elements had turned it to stone and all that was left were spindly finger-like branches without a single leaf on them, reaching into the sky. It looked like the withered hair of a demon and it made the surroundings all the more sinister.

But it wasn’t the tree’s peculiar size or dramatic state that grabbed his attention. What gave Cloudhawk pause was what hung from it, things that did not naturally appear there. A dozen desiccated corpses swayed in the breeze like fruit that rotted on the vine, impaled by the thorn-like barren branches. It was a strange and gruesome scene. [1] Some were skeletons already, dead for more than three years. [2] Others were weathered mummies with dried and twisted expressions. Those hadn’t been dead long.

The dead weren’t strange, but seeing them here – like this – that was alarming.

Cloudhawk cautiously picked his way closer. The tattered robes on the corpses were the same sort he wore. Were these trainees like him, whose luck had run out? What killed them? It wouldn’t make sense to be some animal, for there weren’t any signs they were eaten and no animal he knew hung their dinner up like this. The tree itself just looked weird, but in fact was itself dead. He didn’t think there was any way it could do this to the trainees itself.

He was suddenly struck by the impression that this was not someplace he should linger. As he was turning to leave his keen senses perked up, but too late. His left leg broke an imperceptible thin silk threat that traversed the path.

A trap?!

A palpable sense of danger enveloped him as suddenly spines shot out from crevices in the tree’s trunk.

They shot out almost faster than he could follow, and were certainly coated in poison. Cloudhawk was fairly sure he could survive most poisons, but whatever this was certainly wouldn’t feel comfortable if he got a dose.

Unarmed, Cloudhawk had no way to protect himself, and it was all too fast for him to react. He tried to dodge but the thorns came raining down like hail. Thankfully he was able to avoid most, but a handful still managed to find their mark.

However the Cloudhawk of today was far different from the Cloudhawk of old. When the spines struck he immediately tightened the muscles in the area, stopping them from penetrating any farther than skin level. The toxins in the barbs diffused through the skin almost immediately, but it also awakened the trespasser virus. The two microscopic substances started to do battle.

Skin around the point of contact turned black.

At first it looked like a reaction from the poison, but in fact it was the opposite. The discoloration came from trespasser, which forced the toxins to the surface and away from Cloudhawk’s veins. He knew this was a sign that his organs and brain were protected.

He was still getting his bearings when several small human-shaped figures poured out from the trees.

The first thing he heard were strange, bestial hisses coming from their throats. Then he saw that their bodies were caked in some grey substance. It outlined their ribcages and made them look like shambling skeletons. Each one hefted wooden spears with chipped bone heads as they battled for who would be the first to skewer Cloudhawk.

Wastelanders? There were actually wastelanders living here!

He had to give it to that scar-faced fuck. He thought when they said go quick they were just talking about some mutated animals, maybe a dangerous plant or two. But this? An intelligent race of people laying traps through the forest? And the instructor hadn’t even hinted at it.

Sending a group of people without knowledge, without experience, into unknown territory where an enemy lay in wait… well, one could imagine what the results would be.

The pygmies weren’t typical wastelanders – they were more like sweepers, mutated humans from the wastelands. However this race seemed to have developed a stable mutation for their bodies, making them all look similar as opposed to the wide array of mutations he was used to seeing. Out in the wastes the mutations were as varied as the people who had them, making his old haunt a constant freak show.

Deadwood pygmies were about a meter and a half tall for adult males. Small, certainly, but they made up for it in agility. They moved through the gnarled forests quick as the wind. They were also smart, that was obvious from their trap. But in this case their trap made them overconfident.

They assumed that their poison-tipped barbs had robbed their prey of the strength to fight back. Like madmen they fell on Cloudhawk one after the other, eager to be the first to injure the elysian. Little did they know that their poisons had no effect on this human. He was hardly affected at all.

“Go!”

Cloudhawk shrugged his shoulder and Oddball took off. It rose overhead to survey the landscape and see how bad the situation was. If he found there were a lot of these mutants, or his competitors were closing in, he would have a chance to prepare.

“Ya-ya-ya-ya-ya!”

One of the deadwood natives brandished his spear and charged at Cloudhawk. Were his opponent human perhaps Cloudhawk would have shown mercy. Unfortunately for the pygmy, however, he had a deep distaste for their kind.

The sweeper stabbed, but his spear hit nothing. He stared, stunned, when suddenly the weapon was yanked out of his hand. He didn’t even see how Cloudhawk did it.

“Here, take it back!”