Chapter Ten

## **A Scourge of Stirge**

##### **Zanakuradag 17th Biriskjur 1770 to Zreethdag 18th Biriskjur 1770**

Nixe wiped the blood from his shortsword and looked down at the man’s body that lay before him, covered in its own blood and the eviscerated remains of the creature he had slain. He knew it to be a stirge; a bloodsucking, bat-like beast, that could drain a person dry in mere moments once it had sunk its thick straw of a proboscis into their unsuspecting flesh.

A second scream went up, this time to the left of where the five friends had made their camp. Plymouth leaped into action, grabbing his newly acquired bullwhip and sprinting towards the commotion to his right, where Nixe and Brandyr had made their macabre discovery. Before he could react however, the three of them, as well as the gathered onlookers, were swarmed by nine more of the flesh-winged beasts.

Plymouth’s urgent arrival drew the ire of the creatures as four of them latched onto his chest, neck, and back, their protruding mouths sinking deep into his body as they feasted greedily on his blood. He dropped to the floor and writhed in pain in a desperate but futile attempt to rid himself of the vampiric passengers but, with his lifeblood drained, he soon succumbed to unconsciousness.

Nixe and Brandyr were not spared in the assault, with two stirge apiece latching onto each of them and another attempting but failing to find purchase in Brandyr’s flesh. Nixe shouted a warning and directed people to make for cover, before attempting to skewer the beast that had affixed itself to the back of his neck, but a surge of pain caused him to swing wildly and miss his mark.

Brandyr, as he often does in times of need, turned to Berronar Truesilver for aid, grasping his holy symbol and uttering a divine word. Radiant energy erupted from within the dwarven priest and scorched one of the creatures attached to him to ashes.

By this point Fitz, having been awoken by the earlier screams, surveyed the commotion in the encampment. Gathering his backpack and spear he set out to assist a band of fellow survivors who were beset by a separate swarm of flapping bloodsuckers. Two stirge flew towards him, one finding purchase on his arm, as the other bounced from his armour before being soundly skewered on the Tiefling’s spear. In a twist of fate, it was the stirge’s turn to be drained as Fitz drew the flickering remnants of its lifeforce and used it to heal his wounds.

Booker Longsparkle rolled over in his bed and glanced around the camp. He was tired and wished people would stop screaming, but seeing his friends in trouble woke him from his stupor. From his vantage point he had a clear line of sight on both points of action so, drawing his shield over his body for protection, he summoned three glowing darts of energy and levelled them at the creatures he could see. POP! POP! POP! went the creatures as they were struck by the force of the missiles and Plymouth, Nixe and Brandyr found themselves with one less stirge to deal with each.

Forgoing his own safety, Nixe made for the downed Plymouth, a second stirge attaching itself to him in the process, and deftly swiped away the last beast that remained, supping the remnants of life from the unconscious professor. Nixe pulled a healing potion from his pack, readying to administer it but, before he could, Brandyr stepped forth and uttered a healing word that brought Plymouth back from the brink of death. Three more darts of light picked the remaining stirge around them from their flesh and for the briefest of moments, they were left unmolested.

Alas, the same could not be said for poor Fitz who had been swarmed by three more of the creatures, latching into his flesh, their bellies distending as they drained him of fluid. With four bloodsuckers now attached, Fitz toppled and hit the ground with a thud. All four of his friends sprung into action, sprinting towards him with utmost urgency. Nixe lead the way, three more missiles of light tearing past him from Booker's direction, plucking the stirge from Fitz's back, one by one. Nixe slid to his knees beside the unconscious Tiefling, tugged the cork from the healing potion with teeth and poured it down Fitz's open gullet.

There was no sudden intake of breath. No gasping or flailing. Fitz's eyes opened and, with minimal delay, he reached for his spear, gripping it close to the tip, and drove it into the stirge that still clutched to his arm. The sound of panic subsided as, elsewhere in camp, people finished off the last of the attackers and began to assess the damage.

Twenty people died in the attack. Most drained in their beds before the first screams were heard, but others perished in the subsequent swarm. Brandyr had witnessed one such death first hand, picking the beast from the man with an impressive toss of a stone just moments too late to save him.

Having exhausted himself and his magics, Booker returned to his bedroll. Meanwhile, the others worked tirelessly throughout the night to dig graves for the deceased, so that they might be returned to the earth, in accordance with the ways of the Morndinsamman. As morning came, Brandyr said a few words for the fallen before the survivors of Russet set out on their journey to Rime once more.

Morale was low, but the day passed uneventfully until, as they prepared to find a spot to make camp, Combine Rostselmash, who had been scouting ahead as usual, called them to a halt. Up ahead, hidden from view by the incline of a hill, between a steep cliff and a sudden drop, sat an enormous wooly mammoth, directly in the middle of the road.

Next: Chapter Eleven. The Elephant in the Room