43: Born to Be Wilding

  The Vargs did not race as fast as the setting sun, though their speed was enough to blow Kim's hair back as if she were a rock star standing in front of an electric fan. Deer and other animals scattered at the first sound of the vargs, and at one point the entire pack leapt over a small herd of cattle who lowed in fear. Not once did the vargs eat any of these animals. In fact, even the farmers stood still in their fields and watched as the vargs loped past. One farmer stared at her in wonder as if he were looking at a queen.

  They jumped across a wide river. The thump thump thump of vargs landing on the other bank sounded like drums. No wonder no wizard or king could stop the vargs from traveling through their realms. The scenery went by so quickly it was a blur of brown and green. The land had become hillier and with more trees and bushes here and there. When she wasn't sniffing the air or just enjoying the breeze in her hair, she would glance at the sky, but there was no sign of Fiora.

  "Revenge is fun," she shouted, "But I wonder if my friends will ever find me."

  "You don't have to yell," Coverdale said. "My hearing is perfect. They know your destination and your task. You will get there first, and then they will find you."

  "Assuming they can survive without me," she said.

  The varg laughed. "You are born to be wild, just like us," he said. "I can smell it."

  She wasn't so certain about that. But the feeling of traveling at such a great speed was addictive. She wondered what her father would think of her riding in such a manner across this world. Perhaps he was watching from heaven. She hoped, wherever he was, he had all his albums with him.

  "There is someone else riding with you," the varg said.

  Kim got the chills. Had just thinking of her father summoned him? In this world of magic, that might be possible. "Is it my father?" she asked. "I was just thinking of him."

  "No," the varg said. "This is not a fatherly smell." He sniffed again. "Maybe it was something in the wind."

  The effortless lope continued as the sun rose in front of them. The land became more rugged, and soon the horizon was blocked by a line of thorn trees that had grown so densely packed they formed a wall. "What's that?" she said.

  "It is the border of Balladria," he said. "Wizards and kings do like their borders. But vargs fear no borders. We rock everywhere all the time."

  As they neared, she saw massive thorns pointed in every direction; the trees were grown for tearing flesh and shedding blood. The Mega Death Tree in the dungeon was a sliver compared to this monstrously impressive flora.

  "Uh, won't those thorns go right through us?" Kim asked.

  But Coverdale didn't reply, and as they rumbled closer and closer to the wall, she noticed several gigantic buzzards circling the trees.

  The wolves howled in unison, and it turned into singing and became a song that she was certain Damon or her uncle would recognize. She got the idea, even though the words weren't clear, that it had crying and rain in the title. And, singing loudest of all, Coverdale led his pack directly into the thorn trees. Kim let out a shout of fear, expecting a thousand thorns to poke through her body. She closed her eyes and braced for the impaling.

  Immediately, she felt what could only be called a caress of branches and leaves. She opened her eyes. Everywhere around her were death-dealing thorns. But not one of them touched her. A few heartbeats later, the vargs and Kim were in the open air. The pack stopped singing and charged on into a verdant valley.

  "How was that possible?" she asked.

  "No border can hold back a varg. Plus Fidds knows our scat is a wondrous fertilizer." Kim laughed at that, but Coverdale continued on. "Wars have been fought over our scat. The next time you eat a carrot, think of your friends, the vargs." He sighed. "I do go on about the glory of varg scat. Forgive me."

  "Uh, forgiven," she said. She didn't mention that a certain turtle she'd met also was obsessed with that same topic.

  They had already left the wall of thorn trees far behind. On her left was one lone jagged mountain peak. She did her best to recall the map she'd seen in the library, and was surprised when a name came back to her. "Is that Love Mountain?" she asked.

  "It is Love Bites Mountain," Coverdale corrected. "It is where minstrels go to write songs about heartbreak and sadness. All the berries that grow on that mountain are sweet and bitter at the same time."

  They passed orchard after orchard of apples, ripe oranges, and even pears. Though it wasn't laid out in any way that indicated it was a farm, the plants had clearly been taken care of because they were not overgrown. "It's beautiful."

  "Yes, and the rabbits are tasty, too," he said.

  They approached what looked to be a road of moss. Several wagons and travelers were moving down it, raising no dust. In the distance on a hill was a city surrounded by a wall of thorns. The buildings were a blur of green and brown—being in a world of castles and such, she'd expected tall gleaming towers, but this city looked more like it had grown up out of the ground. "Is that Everyrosehasitsthorn?" she said.

  "Yes. You will find the capital comfortable and heartwarming and stomach warming, too." He let out a loud growl, and as one the vargs came to a stop, including Coverdale. There they sat quietly, not even winded. "This is where we part ways, Kim of the Spawnlings."

  He lowered his head, and she slipped off onto the soft ground. Her legs and arms were stiff from holding on so tight, and she had the sudden sense that she had shrunk. Now she was just herself again. A tiny spawner with a sword in a world that had creatures as majestic as the vargs.

  "You aren't going into Everyrosehasitsthorn?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "Vargs, even here in Balladria, tend to alarm the livestock and the farmers and the little old ladies with their scrumptious pet rabbits. When you first saw us, you didn't think, 'I'd really like to talk to them about their feces,' did you?"

  "I didn't," she admitted.

  He gave her a wolfish, proud smile. "Do you have any coins?"

  She shook her head.

  "Well." His eyes squeezed slightly shut as if he were concentrating. "I have left you a gift."

  "You have?" she said.

  "Yes." He indicated with his head towards his rear quarters, stepping to one side. She was embarrassed to see he had left a handful of wolf droppings. The product looked like rabbit droppings and really was quite small for a varg of such size. She guessed that the scat of earthly wolves wasn't this size or shape.

  "Just a sample," he said. "It really is valuable." He raised a wolfish eyebrow, but continued to grin. "You have a look of displeasure. Are you uncomfortable with the gift?"

  "Well, it's, it's…" The French word 'merde' came into her mind. Finally, she said, "it is offal."

  Coverdale nodded as if he were a teacher encouraging a child. "I forgot you spawnlings are uncomfortable with the natural rhythms of life. My mother used to always tell me that if you're defecating, it means you're still alive. It is an unvarnished truth. One day she defecated her last time and was gone. The grandest flowers grew from that ultimate gift." He sighed. "Anyway, that image probably made you uncomfortable, too. But I will tell you that the pellets I have given you, won't rub off on your hands or in your pocket."

  Kim drew in a breath. You are in a different world, she told herself. Act appropriately. "Thank you for the gift," she said. "I'll pick up the, uh, pellets after you leave. I will remember your kindness."

  "Take care," he said. "May love be no stranger to you." He pointed a paw at her. "Do remember, you will fail in your mission. So, you seek a way to fail without dying. May luck be with you."

  "Uh, and with you," Kim replied, feeling like she was completing a religious ritual.

  Coverdale turned away, and the other vargs turned, too, though one took a last I'd like to eat you glance. They then loped away. She watched them until they had vanished over the horizon.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Kim steeled herself to lean over and pick up his gift, still wondering if it were some sort of trick. If she'd been in the real world, well, her world, someone would have a hidden camera, and it would have become a viral video with the title, "Girl Picks Up Poop Thinking It's Money." But she reached down and found the gift as hard as pebbles. She placed the seven almost perfectly round balls in her pocket.

  Kim rubbed her hands together and wished fervently for hand sanitizer. She risked a sniff and was surprised her fingers had retained a sandalwood scent.

  Poop picking up finished, Kim then walked toward the city of Everyrosehasitsthorn.

  44 The Thing That Should Not Be

  Throats and other digestive systems are wet. That was a basic fact that Damon had thought of as he was spinning into that darkness, pulled down into the mouth, past what looked to be a wicked beak-like pointy thing that just missed stabbing him. Thankfully, there were no teeth, nor was there a tongue, which would have been extra gross to deal with. Right before the maw closed over them, Fiora shouted out, "It's a Mot?rkraken!"

  He instantly had so many questions. Did it have a motor? Kraken were sea monsters, so what was it doing on land? And why was he hearing Motorhead's 'Overkill' as they were consumed? What she hadn't expressed was exactly what to do when disappearing into a Mot?rkraken. Before he could ask that question, he was inside the darkness and the squishing.

  It was a quick trip down into a pouch that squeezed him from all sides. The Mot?rkraken was very similar to an octopus—well, a King Kong/Mothra sized octopus. Damon had watched enough documentaries to know that octopuses usually stabbed prey with their beaks, gathered them into the digestive system, and used neurotoxins and acidic saliva to complete the whole dining process. So, this creature had the beak and the digestive pouch, and judging by the acidic burning on his skin, there was also acid.

  One other fact stuck in his head: octopuses have donut-shaped brains. It made him hungry for some inexplicable reason.

  Stop thinking about donuts! he told himself.

  "Mot?rkraken," he said aloud. He could do this because there was a small pocket of air near his head, allowing him to speak. It was an interesting name, and it made him wonder whether everything here had tentacles? First the rat tentacles thing, then the door on the library, and now this. The Mot?rkraken, unconcerned about his questions, continued to squish him, eagerly waiting to separate him from his bodily fluids.

  A numbness drifted over Damon. It was a strangely beautiful feeling, because in the space of a few heartbeats, his pain, his sense of being squished and the claustrophobic fear dissipated and he had the belief, that right here, right now was where he was meant to be, where he belonged, and this was what he was meant to do. His whole life had been for one amazing and glorious purpose: to be eaten by a Mot?rkraken.

  "Damon." Fiora's voice sounded as squished as their exteriors. The movements of the sac had put her head in his air bubble. He could see the edge of her snout. "Cover yourself."

  "With what?" he said, for he had nothing to cover himself with. Nor could he move. Besides, he felt too good to be covered. He so wanted to be one with the Mot?rkraken.

  "The blue cheer acid is making us happy," Fiora hissed. "The few who have escaped have spent their whole lives wishing they could go back. So we must act with the speed of a speed king!" Her face was bright in front of him because there were flames in her nostrils.

  "Oh," Damon said. "You mean cover yourself because you are about to blast the kraken with—"

  The flames shot out of her mouth, and all he could do was lift a hand to his face, fighting against the squishing of the digestive sac. There was a sensation of heat and pain, made most horrible by the fact it erased the feeling of perfection and wonder and completion. The inside of the sac immediately squished and pulled, and he momentarily felt cool air and heard a cry of a splendid beast making its pain and anger known. Then he was back in darkness; the pouch had expanded around him.

  "Sorry about your hair," Fiora said, her nostrils still en-flamed. The surrounding sac was now large enough to move around in.

  "What about my hair—oh." He rubbed his hand, and clumps partly burnt by acid and flame came away.

  "Worry not, my metalhead friend. Here in Metaloria hair grows quickly; your gorgeous locks will be back faster than you can say Uriah Heep." She glanced around for an opening. "There's no way of knowing which way is out. If only I'd brought Kim with me."

  "Kim? Why?" Damon said.

  "She has a sword," Fiora said. "She could cut her way out. You just have that bird staff. And three spells. I'll have to use my claws." She lifted a hand and cut five deep lines, making the walls of the pouch bleed blue blood. "If we're lucky, I'll hit one of its three hearts." The pouch didn't collapse, though the creature was clearly shuddering.

  He poked the lining with the staff, but it was too tough to puncture. "It could squish us again."

  "It's too afraid," Fiora said. "Or it has another—"

  A tentacle darted into the digestive sac, its tip a sharp, bone-like needle. It jabbed Fiora in the center of her spine. "Judas priest!" she shouted. She arched her back, the flames in her nose the only light.

  Special 'KILLED BY DEATH' Attack: -8 Damage to Fiora

  Metal Health: 108

  "WOW!" she said. "Amazing! That poke was like a heavy metal massage for my soul and my flesh. Glorious!" The tentacle pulled out. "It's pure feeling. No, it's more than a feeling!" She fell over.

  "Fiora," he shouted. "The toxin is taking over your thoughts."

  "It's the finest wine. The greatest steak. It's the scratching of the itch you can never scratch." The flames in her nose grew dimmer. "Let's never leave here, One Dimple. Never."

  "Fiora!" he shouted. The wet darkness folded over her and then him, like the collapsing walls of a slimy cave. Within that suffocating embrace, there was a small pocket of air.

  It felt strangely comforting as the toxins covered him again. Burning his skin. He blinked his eyes, his tears clearing the toxins out.

  Fiora had been correct. This was like a massage. Or a Dairy Queen hot fudge sundae.

  Or being massaged by a Dairy Queen hot fudge sundae.

  The perfection of the feeling was exactly the same as rolling a twenty and landing a critical hit. The dice in D&D had granted him that moment of pure possibility, a sense that he deserved the luck. Numbers! They held such significance, such importance. They were perfection. He was perfection.

  He was a living, breathing twenty!

  And then it dawned on him. Numbers! Numbers were the key. They would get him out of here. If only he weren't growing sleepier. His air was running out, and he turned his head left, finding nothing. Right, still nothing. Why bother moving further? But he pushed forward an inch into the pouch and discovered another pocket of air, taking a breath.

  "Now, where was I?" he muttered. "Oh, right, numbers."

  He was squished under immense pressure. He needed to access the Mot?rkraken's numbers, but they had always appeared floating above any creatures. He couldn't see them here, and he couldn't stick his head out into the air.

  He could rest for a time, let the answer come to him. No! Damon thought. Don't lose this plan. This willpower.

  He visualized the numbers, picturing them above his head. In the darkness, he could see Fiora's numbers despite not being able to see her body:

  Blue Cheer Acid Attack: -3 Damage to Fiora

  Metal Health: 105.

  Her points were decreasing, as indicated by the color red.

  His own Metal Health was worse:

  Blue Cheer Acid Attack: -3 Damage to Damon

  Metal Health: 9

  He had significantly less than she did. He would die first. She had lost more points only because the tentacle had stabbed her.

  "Fiora! Fiora!" he shouted, but she had taken to humming a song that sounded like happy birthday.

  With each moment that passed, it became harder to concentrate. He didn't feel any pain. So it was easy to imagine it not being bad for him. Like the people who froze to death only minutes from their ski lodge.

  But with a massive effort, he saw the numbers of the creature floating far above him:

  Metal Health: 825

  Type: Monster, Male

  Kind: Mot?rkraken

  Abilities: claw tentacles, poison sac, blue cheer acid

  He held the numbers in his mind's eye. They were large, green, and happy numbers because the creature was feeding. Damon fixed his gaze on them, admiring their magnitude. He wondered if he could alter their color or make them go down. The glow emitted such happiness. The kraken seemed content, pleased with its meal. Perhaps it had been waiting there for ages for them to stumble along.

  Blue Cheer Acid Attack: -3 Damage to Damon

  Metal Health: 4

  He was close to death. He shifted, poked, but such a large number required immense effort. Concentrate! He prodded and poked until the color of the monster's numbers turned orange. Then he tried again to lower the numbers, imagining a bolt of lightning going from his head to the numbers.

  Rainbow Vision Attack: -5 damage to Mot?rkraken

  Metal Health: 820

  It worked! He would have danced if he weren't caught in a digestive sac.

  Food, a voice echoed in his head. Why are you not acting like food?

  It resonated so strongly within his mind.

  I am more than food. It took every ounce of his will to rebel. For the acid was pushing at his thoughts. He should just fall into that perfection. I am not perfect. But I am Damon.

  A Damon is still food.

  He persisted in pushing at the Mot?rkraken's numbers.

  Rainbow Vision Attack: -5 damage to Mot?rkraken

  Metal Health: 815

  You make me feel sick, food. Act like food! The other food is being food, so you be food.

  I am not food. He continued to prod and push. He'd always been good at math. Numbers were a part of him. Easy to figure out. And these numbers belonged to him. He proved it by making the number drop by thirty points.

  Rainbow Vision Attack: -30 damage to Mot?rkraken

  Metal Health: 745

  You will become food, the voice declared. A tentacle shot past him, stabbing into the sac wall an inch above his head. He couldn't duck; he was stuck too tightly inside the creature. Another tentacle passed by, missing its mark. However, the third one struck him.

  Blue Cheer Acid Attack Injection: -3 Damage to Damon

  Metal Health: 0

  A flood of pure, blissful joy burst into his system, spreading out from his back. The rapture was indescribable. There, you are food again. Be food.

  It was as if he had just performed Eddie Van Halen's 'Eruption' without a single mistake and Eddie himself had bowed to him. It was akin to scoring a perfect 100 on an exam or indulging in a delicious donut. Yes, he definitely enjoyed donuts. A donut. With the right number of sprinkles. A donut.

  But why did a donut make him think of a brain?

  Then he remembered. An octopus had a donut-shaped brain.

  It was a brain. Another brain that wanted him to feel this joy.

  To be joy in being food.

  I am not a donut! He shouted in his head, and the digestive sac shuddered. He was surprised he could still think while his health was zero. Were these his last moments?

  I am more than food, he declared. I am happy. I am one with the metal of life.

  As powerful as that statement had felt, he realized something troubling. He was growing darker, losing fragments of himself. His thoughts were breaking apart, dissolving into individual moments of happiness. Amidst it all, he caught sight of the Mot?rkraken's glowing Metal Health number. He desperately tried to hold on. He gave it one last stab. One last roll of the dice.

  But before his blow landed, Damon split apart. No longer thoughts, just pure joy.

  Damon became food.