Jeff Inlo - Nightmare's Shad

More struggles.

He thought he was tired before… tired of the conflicts he faced, tired of the decisions forced upon him. He was now sick of the struggle.

The delver looked over the algors around him. They armed themselves with clubs, spears and slings. He wondered if they had any chance with such crude weapons.

He imagined the coming conflict. The winged monsters would swoop down with razor sharp claws and hardened beaks. The fighting was certain to be brutal.

Ryson didn't want to see such carnage, let alone be part of it. Violence, blood, and death-more byproducts of the struggle.Pointless and foolish.

Such thoughts forced him to reconsider his decisions. Was it foolish to include himself? Where did he truly belong? The answer was clear-with Linda. And yet, he could not deny the strong sense of obligation he had to these strange lizard-like beings that considered him one of their own. The war might have been beyond foolish, just as the struggle was beyond his comprehension, but standing with the algors was neither.

A decision made with finality-a decision to fight for and with the algors-he examined their formations. They stood in close contact along haphazard lines stretched across the desert floor as well as across the many ledges of the sandstone cliffs. They took no cover. They waited patiently for the shadow in the sky to move closer, and it did.

The algor Ryson had questioned tilted his head as he addressed the delver.

"It is time for you to be what you are. You are algor… but you are delver. Do not stand idly by. Move-as is your custom."

Ryson didn't know what to say, but he couldn't disagree. He would have to fight. Baannat was forcing the issue-and probably laughing with glee. He forced the slink ghoul out of his mind and focused on staying alive and saving as many algors as he possibly could. The algor was right. His strength was his movement, and now was the time to use that strength.

He raced down one ledge and leapt to another. Utilizing the downward motion to add to his speed, his momentum carried him past hundreds of algors as he dodged his way down to the desert floor.

Once upon the ground, he gave another quick look to the progress of the predator birds. They closed the distance in a great hurry. The battle was almost upon him before he had any further chance to examine his conscience and the ramifications of his actions.

As the first wave of flying beasts came into range, the algors grasped their slings. Every algor, whether perched on a rock ledge or standing shoulder to shoulder upon the desert sand, took hold of the long straps and began to swing. They moved as one.

Stones in the sling cradles swung through the air in a dramatic display of unity. The twirling motion at first made only the faintest whirring whisper that barely defied the cackling of the razor crows, but it soon turned into an angry whine that overpowered the calls of the swooping birds.

Ryson actually paused at the sight. He did not stop moving, but he slowed and released his attention from the incoming predators. He simply could not ignore the algors. Their cohesive action demanded his attention. Thousands upon thousand of algors twirling their slings in complete harmony. It was more than individuals acting in concert. It went far beyond that. The algors became a single entity-one objective, one perception, one thought.

Ryson realized the true power of the algors at that moment. The sling was no longer a crude weapon of minimal effectiveness. For a hook hawk to be hit by one stone was possibly nothing more than an annoyance or a deep bruise-a laughable defense-but to be hit by thousands at once was bone crushing destruction. Guided by a common goal, the algors released their projectiles as if following the frantic guidance of one conductor. It was an avalanche of devastation that didn't roll down a mountainside, but flung upwards in the simultaneous release of the sling cords.

The stones formed a rainstorm-a tidal wave-of flying missiles. They darkened the skies, not to the same extent as the attacking birds, but certainly far beyond Ryson's expectations.

What's more, the algors seemed to understand the consequences of the tight flying formations of their enemy. They aimed for the monsters highest in the air and at the ones at the center of the flocks. Those that fell crashed into birds below or behind, causing further havoc in the ranks. A chain reaction of mayhem exploded through the cluster of attackers in such a fashion that taking down one bird meant the destruction or disabling of several more.

And this was just the first volley. Ryson understood the algors were prepared for a long battle. They reloaded and fired again, and more monsters fell from the air.

The delver turned on his speed once more and carefully watched the ebb and flow of battle. In these early stages, the fight was taken to the invaders. The predators fought against flying projectiles and made little progress toward reaching their prey. Ryson could do little more than observe and hope the battle would remain that way.

Unfortunately, both speed and numbers were on the side of the winged monsters. Algors were forced to reload, swing and release. Too much time passed between each volley, and eventually a great number of twisting hook hawks and swirling spin vultures fell upon the algor lines.

Some algors were yanked from the ground and pulled into the air, but most were simply sliced open where they stood. Talons clasped and ripped at algor scales. Beaks jabbed and tore. Powerful wings knocked many off high ledges. Casualties quickly mounted.

The algors dropped their slings in unison, but then broke into two separate and distinct groups. The first group, the majority, turned their attention to fighting off the flying menaces with clubs and spears. They readied their weapons just as the full breadth of nightmare birds dropped from the sky like a collapsing tent of twisted feathers.

As the mass of invaders that once darkened the skies draped over the sand and stone, the algors fought desperately against superior numbers as well as superior fighters. The slim form of the algor did not translate well into melee conflict. They swung their clubs and jabbed their spears with valor but with only marginal success. Whereas a sharp claw or jagged beak could incapacitate an algor with one swipe, it took several blows of a club or stabs with a spear to drop a single hook hawk.

Spin vultures-powerful flyers with bodies of great bulk-could plow through the algor lines. As their flight path took them in swirling patterns along the ground, they crashed into their victims with great force. Once they landed, their massive beaks swung back and forth like a battering ram on a pendulum. Thick claws grasped any algor nearby and tore the poor victim into shreds.

As the fighting continued, the second group of algors-a smaller portion of algors representing slightly less than a quarter of their total number-moved to their injured comrades. Utilizing the healing power of the magic they could temporarily hold, these algors set upon saving the fallen. Wounds closed, bones mended, consciousness was restored. They worked feverishly, helping every algor that could be saved. Only the ones that had passed the threshold of death remained upon the ground, but they were few. Even algors savagely torn apart that still clung to a small spark of life were revived, and once restored, they rejoined the fight.

In this, Ryson found more optimism. The algors were outnumbered, but their wounded could return to battle. The same could not be said for the enemy. The fallen dark creatures remained in heaps on the desert floor, dead or disabled. Over time, the algors might just offset the superior numbers, and perhaps even overcome the viciousness of their adversaries.

The battle, however, had just begun. Hook hawks, spin vultures, and razor crows were just the first wave. Baannat had also sent ground forces to the desert and their appearance caught the attention of the delver.