There were only three patients left on the north bank, waiting for the ferry to return for them, when Nightvale's very own hell broke loose.

  In a matter of seconds, all three of them exploded into blood and gore, giving birth to a wyvern, a hydra and a manticore. Screams coming from the south bank indicated that something similar was going on there, too, and Kesten had no way to bring succour.

  He snatched the bugle away from the bugler and blew the retreat signal himself, calling the archers back (as dusk crept up, their usefulness was fading, anyway), then drew his sword and entered battle.

  Dividing his forces, he set three militiamen upon the hydra and the wyvern each to keep them occupied, and attacked the manticore with the rest. It snarled at them fiercely, baring its fangs and brandishing its claws, but as it wasn't yet fully aware of its surroundings, they managed to beat it to death using their shields. The satisfying crunch of its breaking skull gave a much-needed morale boost to the militia after their debacle with the goblins.

  The hydra chose this uplifting moment to breathe a cloud of poison out of several maws.

  "Retreat!" bellowed Kesten, blinded by tears as his eyes were trying to protect themselves. It was a mistake to raise his voice. The gas filled his lungs, making him cough and retch, burning all his orifices from the inside. He scrambled to get away, out of the cloud, tripping over a militiaman on all fours, bumping into another, and hearing the howl of pain of a third one as a hydra head snapped its jaws around the poor guy's arm, ripping it free. The whistling sound of arrows let him know that the archers finally arrived. He faintly sensed another of his men being downed by friendly fire.

  Fire.

  They needed fire from the big brazier in the middle of the camp. Unless they stopped the hydra's regenerating ability, they stood no chance. Alas, he had no voice anymore to issue the command. The unreal amount of phlegm, tears, snot, saliva and whatever else could fill a person's respiratory system made it impossible to form any semblance of words, apart from some unarticulated rattle.

  Suddenly, a little green shape appeared through the cloud, unfazed by the poison. Was Kesten starting to see things in his agony, or was it a goblin? The only useful goblin in the history of the River Kingdoms? Whatever it was, it clung to the hydra's central neck and repeatedly plunged a flaming kukri into it with a mad cackle, making blood spurt everywhere. Even if the head wasn't sliced off neatly, the fire seemed to do the trick. A quick series of arrows followed, all hitting true, sizzling with acid upon impact. Kesten felt the soggy earth flop under his feet as the hydra's body slammed into the ground. A pair of strong hands grabbed his arm and finally dragged him out of the gas cloud.

  "You okay?" asked Valerie, her bright blue eyes clouded with worries. Kesten grunted in agreement and immediately threw up, missing the Lady Regent's boots by an inch.

  From the corner of his tormented eye, he saw Guelder press her foot against the wyvern's chest and yank her spear free in a spray of blood. Then she knelt down beside the still twitching body of a militiaman to see if she can help him, if nothing else, with her presence. At least she cared, Kesten had to give her that.

  The ferry was drawing near to the north bank. As Kesten's hazy vision slowly cleared up, he saw it was dangerously overloaded, carrying nine militiamen and Tristian huddled in the middle. Kesten spat out the rest of whatever was in his mouth, took a gulp from his faithful brandy bottle to rinse his palate, and slowly but surely regained his composure. By the time the ferry reached the bank, he was radiating strength and competence again.

  His men filed off the ferry, some of them bloodied but in decent condition. Of course, they had Tristian. He must have done some healing underway. A burly lad named Piotr, former apprentice to Varrask the Wildfist, took it upon himself to deliver a report.

  "Shambling Steps is lost to the monsters, sir. After three successful surgeries, the rest of the infected people burst open. We did our best to hold up the monsters until we evacuated. They immediately ripped apart the three vivisected people in recovery and killed some of our comrades, too."

  "Anyone left behind in need of rescue?"

  "No, sir."

  Kesten swallowed.

  "Well done, Piotr. Take a breather and wait for further instructions."

  He cast a side glance at the baroness, who had already closed the unfortunate militiaman's eyes, and now divided her efforts between comforting a shocked Tristian and listening to Hazel's reproach in Elven. She caught his gaze and waved him closer.

  "Thank you for standing your ground, Kesten," she said. "We have cleared the fort. More importantly, we obtained vital information as to the next and hopefully final step of our mission. Before his death, the goblin shaman mentioned a cave somewhere upriver, called the Womb of Lamashtu. That is where the source of the infestation must be sought."

  Kesten nodded, slowly, his eyes scrutinising Guelder's face, her weird eyes that were now as stern and focused as ever, without any trace of the lustful, predatory gaze they'd had not long ago. Alas, the inner monster brought alive by her contact with Lamashtu was something Kesten couldn't unsee anymore. There was no way he could let Guelder visit a place named the Womb of Lamashtu and undergo an even more radical transformation. Sure, on the one hand, that would provide a welcome justification for a coup in Lady Jamandi's interest. On the other hand, that coup was already justified anyway, and Kesten preferred to avoid the necessity of facing off against an evil weretouched druid enhanced with unthinkable boons of the Abyss.

  There was one way to avoid that, and that required him to stick his neck out. The militia could handle the followers of Lamashtu just fine, they were getting quite experienced at tackling goblins, and if they played smart, they even stood a fighting chance against monsters. Once he found the plant itself, it wouldn't be a big deal to destroy it. A druid might be tempted to keep it alive, study it, experiment on it... which was another reason not to let Guelder anywhere near it. And if Kesten did pull it off, he would become a true folktale hero, a protector of the people, second to none but the baroness herself, if at all. When he carried out Lady Jamandi's will and took over, he would have plenty of supporters among the common folk.

  This was his chance, and Nightvale's chance, too. He drew himself up to his full height and rose to the challenge.

  "I'll take care of that, Your Grace. I have enough forces left. You head back to the capital and wait for my return."

  Guelder raised an eyebrow.

  "I appreciate your offer, Kesten, but my answer is no. Your men are untrained peasants, just learning the basics as they go. You have already lost... what, nine of them to the monsters and another five to the goblins? What makes you think your men are strong and skilled enough to defeat whatever awaits in the Womb? Leave that to me and my companions. For the avoidance of doubt, this is an order."

  "No, Your Grace. Your place is with your subjects. I insist."

  "You are overstepping your boundaries, Kesten," said Guelder in a soft voice, slightly baring her teeth.

  "Sorry to interrupt," butted in Hazel with that insufferable, knowing smile plastered on their face, "but am I the only one bothered by the fact that a number of Bloom seeds just hatched at the same moment, in individuals hardly showing the first symptoms of the disease? What if this time we are under a coordinated attack, encompassing the entire affected area? As in, the capital, too?"

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Guelder turned as pale as snow (and hopefully more susceptible to Kesten's idea). Her eyes sought out Tristian, who still looked shaken by what he'd been through.

  "Tristian, initiate a Sending to the High Priest. Ask him for a status report and warn him of an incoming wave of hatching monsters. Based on his response, I shall decide on my next move."

  The cleric nodded and left in search of a quiet place, welcoming any distraction from what he'd seen on the south bank. Kesten, too, turned around to issue orders and start to prepare his departure. His mind was set, and no baring of fangs could deter him from his intention.

  "Kesten, we are not done yet," said the baroness, making him stop in his tracks and turn around to face her. "You have decided to disobey me and question my orders in a situation where cooperation is of vital importance. Explain yourself."

  Kesten took a deep breath. All in all, Guelder deserved his honesty. But what could he say? That he had made mental notes during her clash with the priestess, and observed her in the days after? That she bore the evil's mark on her body and flaunted scars on her wrist from self-mutilation rituals? That she couldn't be trusted to deal with the filth of Lamashtu, because she was part of it? Would that resolve anything or just make it all worse?

  The time was not yet ripe for such statements. He had to lie.

  "I'm worried for your health, Your Grace. You were grievously injured at the monster hunt and haven't fully recovered ever since. I saw you were unwell when we hunted down the cultists of Lamashtu, and by the time you were done with them, you were too weak to walk up the stairs on your own. It pains me to see how you burn the candle at both ends and continue putting yourself in harm's way, and I want to take over some of your burdens. To make it all a little easier for you."

  Guelder narrowed her eyes, looking him up and down. Had it been a mistake to appeal to her weakness? Or had his arguments not been convincing enough, after Guelder had saved his skin twice in a day?

  "My health is unimportant," she said. "What is important, though, is that you go against my orders and are about to drag a bunch of brave but unskilled villagers into destruction. Men and women that could be put to good use in handling an emergency situation in the capital. Think, Kesten, and do not let your personal ambitions lead you astray."

  "My decision is final, Your Grace. I'm bound by duty to undertake this task. For you and for all of us."

  The baroness didn't even notice that her claws popped out, poking holes into the fingers of her gloves.

  "In this case, Kesten Garess, you are relieved of my service. You can go wherever you want, with anyone who decides to accompany you of their own free will, but your authorisation to command the Nightvale militia is hereby revoked. When this is over, you shall report to me for your documents of dismissal."

  Kesten lowered his eyes, feeling a little indignant but, on second thought, overall content with the outcome. Guelder was ostensibly overreacting, humiliating her good-intentioned subject in an irrational fear that his deeds might surpass hers. She'd stepped on the path of jealous, paranoid rulers that would ultimately lead to her demise. And still, she didn't stop him from doing what he wanted.

  "So be it, Your Grace," he said, avoiding her gaze. "I'm convinced I will return with results that may or may not make you change your mind."

  Guelder turned to the militiamen.

  "Volunteers! Those who served under Captain Garess until today are now free to make their own decision. You can follow him in his foolhardy undertaking that will likely lead to nothing but his death, you can follow me in equally dangerous but also meaningful endeavours, or you can return to your families to protect them from any immediate danger. The choice is yours. Whichever you choose, I will not make your lives harder than it already is."

  After some muttering and shuffling of feet, six men remained with Guelder, eight with Kesten, the rest decided to go home. The two parties separated from each other. Kesten put his men to work burying the dead and dismantling the camp, while the baroness listened to a flustered Tristian's account. Kesten's ears caught a few words of it. Bad news. We are late. It's happening in the capital, too.

  Guelder's face darkened even further. After a few moments spent in heavy considerations, she shoved down her panic and acknowledged the information.

  "Fine. This is what we do."

  Kesten paid no heed to her words, trying in vain to use some similar mental trick to overcome his inner turmoil. The capital was under attack. His friend Jhod was in grave danger. But it was too late to backpedal now. The path was laid out both for him and for the baroness. He cast a furtive glance at Guelder and her team, watching as they ferried themselves to the other side to snatch a few boats from the monster-infested area, and wished she could harness Lamashtu's dark power (or any power she had access to) into saving as many as possible in Tuskdale.

  Now he was bound by duty to deal with the source of the seeds once and for all.