An arrow nocked, Cillian took a deep breath and raised the bow slowly, simultaneously drawing the string. Standing straight and looking downrange, he judged that it still wasn’t right – an uncomfortable tension in his biceps attested to it. He tried pushing the elbow back just a tad more, then reassessed, A wee better? They’d been told it should feel as if you could hold the pose all day, especially with these lightweight bows. Cillian wasn’t sure about that, but his wrists, forearms, and shoulders seemed more at ease.

  At that point, Mairead Gehler stepped up to his front, having finished with Cathal, looked him over, and asked, “Why are you hesitating?”

  Not sparing a glance, Cillian murmured, “Is it weird that I feel like I should tilt the bow?” He demonstrated the words by slightly rotating his left arm clockwise, pivoting the weapon.

  “It’s called canting, and no, it’s not weird. Proper alignment is a must, but the rest is up to you. Although, you should lean forward a little together with the cant. Yes, just like that. Maybe tilt down your head even more, almost as if resting it on top of the string. Your right eye should be directly above the nocking point so you look straight down the shaft.” He did as instructed. “How does it feel?”

  Cillian contemplated, then let the bow down and raised it back up, trying to settle into this newly discovered position from the beginning. He succeeded, mostly – a conscious effort to move the elbow back was required – but, once set, it felt good. Yes, with the middle finger now lightly scratching his face, it felt better than anything he’d attempted before – his back was clearly doing most of the work. Cillian smiled and nodded in thanks.

  “Don’t just stand and smile. Loose!”

  He rotated left, lining up with the target. Up and down was more difficult though; he had to basically guess.

  Not quite, not quite… There!

  He released the string – the arrow went flyi– Oh. Cillian cursed.

  Instructor Gehler let out a soft laugh, “Yes, I was curious if you’d remember it. You do well not to squeeze the bow with a death grip, but you also need to actually grip it. Can’t just rest it like that with all your fingers spread. Under tension the bow stays in place, but, unless you properly hold it, it will jerk when the arrow’s released, skewing your aim.”

  He fetched another arrow from the quiver, conveniently attached to the bow itself on the other side of the sight window, and repeated the process, this time tightly snuggling the bow between the thumb and the forefinger. He was unsure what to do with those fingers left; wrapping all of them around the leather grip made the hold overly rigid. So he ended up curling the trio until their tips lightly kissed the handle’s front.

  Cillian set himself, aimed, and released.

  The arrow whisked forward and, in the wink of an eye and with a barely perceptible sigh, sank into the target block. The sound was pleasant, he thought, yet disappointing. Whatever the slab was made of, he’d been hoping for a satisfying thwack and not this whisper. The arrow’s fletched tail protruded far to the left and above the painted circle.

  “Not quite there.” Instructor Gehler narrowed her eyes and peered at the distance. “You likely didn’t pay attention, but your bow arm lurched left on release. Not much, but enough to tell me your posture is not entirely correct. Try again, but don’t shoot.”

  He made the stance, and the woman examined him closely from behind – touched the upper back, the shooting arm’s elbow, and both shoulders, her hand lingering on the left one. She tapped it twice. “You squeeze it too much. Relax, let it sag a little. Yes, good. Now try ‘pushing’ it forward, towards the target, without moving anything else, as if you’re trying to lengthen your entire arm.”

  Lengthen my arm?

  Cillian tried. He didn’t feel any different, but she seemed to see something. “Yes, I think this is better. Now go again!”

  He aligned with the target once more, accounting for the fact that his previous shot had gone too high, and let go of the bowstring, propelling the arrow to its freedom. A brief flight– Yes! Below the circle this time, but horizontally he was spot on!

  “Better. Next time pay attention to your posture after the release, too. It should remain more or less the same – your bow arm should only be pushed forward, not to the side, and your shooting arm should stay where it is, not wobble all over the place. Now try replicating the deed. Remember, consistency is your goal. You’re doing well though, so keep it up!”

  With these parting words and a gentle clap on the back, the woman flitted toward his neighbor. Cillian nocked another arrow, ran through the steps in his head, and drew the bow.

  It was intriguing watching the others. Most stood completely upright, but some, same as him, preferred to lean forward and cant. Most took their time to aim, but one fella released right away. Apparently, there were people who could shoot instinctively, like throwing a rock – they didn’t really aim; just did what felt right – but the majority couldn’t. Most also intensely concentrated on the task. Even Eamon, who was occupying Cillian’s lane at the moment, for once wasn’t joking or flirting with Nuala – a rare sight these past couple of weeks since their impromptu first date.

  “You’ve picked it up fast,” Cathal said from the bench to his right. “Or have you had some training before?”

  “No,” he shook his head. “It just feels… methodical, you know? I like it. You do things properly – you get the result.”

  “Tell that to me,” Cathal grimaced. “Any advice?”

  “Really?” Cillian glanced at him. “You want advice from a guy who’s had two brief shooting sessions in his entire life?”

  “You’re doing much better than me. I’ve yet to even hit the block.”

  “Uhh, no, I have nothing to tell you that hasn’t already been said. I don’t do anything special, just find the anchor point and shoot. Besides, you have stones and tokens, aye?”

  Cathal nibbled his lip in worry. Cillian didn’t quite understand why he was so down. It was their first class. Like in the forest, they were supposed to experience troubles.

  As far as he could see, Eamon and Nuala were doing decently enough. Ahh, that’s likely the issue. The former was silently cheering about his latest shot, while the latter appeared to be trying to imitate that one guy who loosed without aiming. Maybe she’d discover that she was also one of the lucky ones. Personally, Cillian couldn’t even fathom the idea of somehow hitting the target without properly lining up the shot.

  Nuala missed. By a lot. It deterred her none.

  He looked at his bow, hanging horizontally on a wooden stand along with two others. His was at the top – not that it made much of a difference as they had all started with the same model. A simple recurve bow, the design of which made Cillian think of a soaring eagle with the wings spread to the fullest extent and the feathers at the tips fanned out wide. It was an elegant weapon, and he’d taken a liking to it right away.

  They’d been informed that from now on the archery lessons would take place three times a week and that they could also purchase additional access to the range and equipment at certain hours in exchange for tokens. However, there would be no instruction, only a staff member to observe. The stones though would net you a personal training session with either Mairead Gehler or Cormac Hafner – their other instructor, who was even now making the rounds.

  Cillian had yet to spend a single stone. Not for the lack of options but for the lack of urgency. Aoife had shared that she and Sorcha would keep the stones until they obtained their companions, much later in the year. As far as he could tell, it was a common strategy among those 16 students who actually had some funds on the ledger. Thankfully, unlike the tokens, the stones couldn’t be stolen (since the victors had relinquished them to the academy), so there was no need to rush.

  One exception he’d heard about was the same fella who’d advised Cillian to hold on to his tokens until he gauged his weaknesses – Teagan. According to Eamon, the everlasting fountain of rumors, the boy had requested help from a craftsman with some project – a gift to Moira on her birthday, which had taken place last week. What exactly the project was and how much it cost Cillian wasn’t privy to, but, apparently, Teagan was a budding tinker, who in the past had constructed various curios like puzzle boxes, where you had to rotate and slide geometric shapes to unlock a secret, hourglasses, and figurines of non-magical animals. He’d also made Sorcha’s miniature chess set for her birthday.

  Cillian had trouble picturing Teagan’s meaty hands performing intricate carvings or whatever, and it was interesting that the fella was willing to spend the stones on something so outwardly frivolous. Although, he himself was still entertaining thoughts of buying a hot air balloon flight, so...

  Apart from the stones, Cillian was a proud owner of five whole tokens. He’d earned one for another Bestiary test; one more – for finally completing that first gym challenge that the others had undertaken earlier; and the rest – for an assignment in the Slaughterhouse, helping out to remove the tainted aether from dry-aged meat.

  Eamon had reluctantly accompanied Cillian on that one, and it’d been enlightening. Previously, he’d only ever dealt with an already de-aethered meat, but on that day he’d witnessed the entire process and found out why some cuts came in such weird shapes. The assignment also coincided with them receiving a more thorough lecture on the nature of the three aether states. So, while the elusive aether’s transition to agitated still remained a bit of a mystery, the nature of the tainted one became clearer.

  Beasts drew in the elusive aether with their elanroots, then distributed it throughout their bodies – into the muscles, skin, bones, and even organs. At some point during this process, the elusive aether stopped being elusive and transitioned to physical, colored the creature’s particular flavor. Tainted. Poisonous to humans and non-magical animals. Tendrils of such aether were akin to tendrils of fat – they were everywhere and they were sticky, very difficult to carve out without an unacceptable amount of waste. But if you just dry-aged the meat, instead of dealing with it fresh, then the tendrils would gradually contract, shrinking into easily removable clumps. Not to mention that meat also tended to get more flavorful and tender when aged.

  Honestly, Cillian was more confused with that last fact than with the de-aethering itself.

  The assignment had taken a little over four hours. Four hours for three tokens. Cillian had decided not to agonize over spending them. He needed to be careful to always have some on hand for the competitions, but other than that? Perhaps he’d even take up the offer of the additional archery practice. He liked it well enough.

  Speaking of tokens and them disappearing, he spotted Rory along the right wall of the range, doing quite well – Bastard – judging by the arrows sticking out of the corresponding target block. Oscar, on the neighboring lane, was confidently drawing the bow back. A moment to aim, then release – a good shot. How many here had received prior tutelage?

  Both of them had become the focus of most everyone’s quiet resentment after the events of the competition. Clearly, people didn’t like being taken out unfairly and liked even less that nothing had been done about it. Cillian thought it amusing – privileged bemoaning other privileged.

  His eyes drifted left until they landed on Sloane.

  Also amusing was the fact that no one seemed to bear a grudge against the cailini involved.

  Liam though – Oscar’s friend and co-conspirator – was a different matter. While the other two boys were mocked for cheating and failing anyway, the attitude toward Liam was more respectful. Success trumped everything else, evidently.

  The mood wouldn’t last, but for now Cillian was enjoying some peace as Rory had switched to tormenting his detractors. Just recently, he’d brawled with a fella named Padraig, according to Eamon’s mysterious sources again.

  The knucklehead still sent Cillian loathsome glares promising retribution, however, at least twice a day.

  Bring it, acushla.

  A loud whistle interrupted his musings. “Bows down, everyone!” Cormac Hafner ordered. When all the shooters complied by hanging their bows on the nearest stands, he looked them over and continued, “Now go fetch the arrows. Pull them out gently. Yes, I’m talking to you, Ms. Adenauer.”

  The target blocks weren’t even a quarter down the range, but it still took some minutes for the students to fetch the stuck arrows one by one, find all those scattered around, secure them in the tube-shaped leather holders, also attached to the stands, then plant themselves on the benches.

  Meanwhile, instructor Hafner positioned himself roughly in the middle of the room breadthwise, and, once everyone finished, began lecturing, “I’ve noticed many of you experience target panic. It’s when you can’t release the arrow without flinching, or, more commonly, can’t release it at all. And it’s perfectly normal, a lot of people face that. The reasons why it happens don’t really matter – perfectionism, overthinking things, or, as is often the case in real combat situations, apprehension at taking another’s life – whatever the cause, there’s a solution that generally works well.”

  He briefly disappeared into the arsenal chamber and came out with a longbow. “Look at the handle. See here, at the front, there’s a thin nail I hammered in, not fully, ages ago.” The man demonstrated the truth of his words by strolling parallel to the benches with his arm outstretched. “Serves no practical purpose, but it gives me something to put the tip of my middle finger on, like this.” He mimed nocking an arrow and raised the bow without drawing the string. “I aim, I scratch the nail, and I shoot.”

  Lowering the weapon, he explained, “This is a so-called psychological trigger. In other words, through countless repetitions I conditioned myself to always loose the arrow right after scratching the nail. I scratch it – I shoot. No matter the circumstances – it could be in the safety of the archery range or while facing down a raging beast. By using such a trigger, you decouple yourself from the context of the situation, from your own internal doubts and struggles – from everything. Shooting becomes an instinctive reaction, and that’s what you want.”

  He let the bow slide down until the tip touched the floor. “Obviously, it’s just an example, you can use anything you wish; there’s no need to mutilate the handle. In fact, you’re forbidden from doing it. As another example, I know a gal who lightly twitches her right ear as a trigger. My point is – find what works for you and stick with it. It could be very useful even if you think you don’t suffer from target panic because you wouldn’t really know until you find yourself in a dangerous situation, at which point it would likely be too late.

  “Makes sense? Great. It’s the first group’s turn again!” He motioned for them to take positions.

  Cillian got up. Psychological trigger, huh. He considered what to use. He couldn’t twitch his ears, but because of the way he’d been positioning his fingers on the handle, a nail would actually work for him. However, was it really a good idea to rely on a modification to the bow? The academy would issue them personal bows later, sure, but would he never have to use someone else’s?

  He picked up his weapon, checked that both the leather hood, filled with some kind of cellular rubber, and the gripper parts of the quiver were still securely attached to the limbs, fetched six arrows from the holder, and carefully slipped them into the quiver. By the time he reached the shooting position, Cillian had made his decision – a jerk of his right pinky toe would trigger a shot. Not something he did normally, and no one would be able to spot it.

  He tested it with the first arrow. Drew the bow, aimed, twitched the toe, and released straight away. Felt a little quare but otherwise fine. He shot five more times. Fetched fresh arrows, sent them all flying, got new ones again. It was lots of fun, and the trigger was definitely helping. His aim was improving – the shafts had formed a tree grove in and around the circle.

  Cillian knew it was just the beginning – a close, stationary target, a lightweight bow, bright illumination, perfect footing, and no pressure. It would get progressively harder.

  He smiled and loosed another arrow. He was looking forward to the challenge.

  The day was exciting not only due to the start of archery lessons but also because they’d been promised a live beasts demonstration, up close. At lunch, instructor Hass had come and informed them that the Bestiary class would take place later than scheduled, at 7 pm, next to the Slaughterhouse. That was where they were heading now, after having dinner, with Cillian walking beside Sorcha and Cathal – not uncommon these days since Eamon was often eager to pull Nuala someplace away.

  He didn’t begrudge his friend – was Eamon a friend now? – this newfound comfort. However, it had made the first couple of days a bit awkward, since neither he nor Cathal were as talkative and couldn’t carry a conversation the way the other boy often did all by himself.

  When Cillian had remembered that only third-ringers could testify in case of another assault on his person, he’d started tethering himself to Aoife’s group, which often included far more than four people, dragging Cathal with him. The girl was the center of attention – not in the same way Shauna often was but in a more subdued manner. She didn’t do much of anything really, and still people constantly revolved around her.

  Sorcha was typically content to walk on the periphery of the group unless Aoife interlinked arms with her. Cillian enjoyed the brunette’s running commentary on an assortment of topics. Commentary, usually biting in nature. As was the case right now.

  “He’s good with a bow, but he never actually graduated, did you know that? ‘Facing down a raging beast’,” she imitated instructor Hafner’s voice and scoffed. “I wonder if he’s ever come across real danger.”

  The girl, evidently, held a dim view of their second archery instructor.

  “Never graduated?” Cillian asked.

  “Yes. The other instructors are retired chevaliers themselves; it’s supposed to be a requirement. He isn’t. I don’t know the details, but he dropped off sometime during his second year and had to serve out the term through one of the contingency routes. Even my parents didn’t know how he landed a position here. You noticed he’s much younger than the rest?”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Cillian shrugged, “So long as he teaches me well.”

  “Shooting dummies, maybe.”

  Several instructors already awaited them at the destination, standing before the hangar’s closed doors. The skywalker was at its dimmest, providing only a modicum of illumination, and no beasts were in sight. All they knew was that there would be two creatures, of the species they hadn’t studied yet, and that both weren’t from the area but rather specifically transported here for teaching purposes.

  “You see this?” instructor Hass noticed them, raised a long, thick stick, and pointed at the line tracing a crescent in the gravel surrounding the hangar. “Form in two rows behind it and don’t step closer.”

  They waited a few minutes longer for everyone to gather and for the class to begin. Eamon and Nuala joined them, the former nudging Cillian on the elbow from behind.

  On time, Odhran Hass addressed the students, “We will roll out one beast, examine it, roll it away, then deal with the other. I’ll tell you about them, show their features in detail, and we’ll have further discussions in class later.” He gestured for one of the guards to get going, which prompted him to head into the Slaughterhouse through a side door.

  “These particular species have been chosen because they are common and dangerous. Wherever you head for your eventual assignment, you’d meet them sooner rather than later. And there will be more demonstrations in the future, but never for monsters that frequent these parts,” he vaguely gestured around, “since you’d likely encounter gutlisks, thistledors, and the rest before the year’s end anyway.”

  After clearing his throat, he continued, “Now, as you can guess, the academy being erected close to the lands that have been farmed for generations wasn’t a coincidence. Beasts getting periodically thinned out all around means much less of a chance of encountering truly unstoppable creatures. At the same time, it also means we have to deliver many exemplars from far-flung regions of the plane, which not only vastly complicates logistics, but, more relevantly to you, often plays havoc with the schedule. We showcase the beasts upon their arrival since holding them long-term is a huge and unnecessary risk, so be ready to sometimes be called to have unscheduled Bestiary classes.”

  The clanks of the heavy double gates getting unlocked disrupted the peace, and instructor Hass stepped to the side. “We've been fortunate in this instance – only a short delay.” As the doors began slowly swinging open, he gestured at the widening gap and the onrushing torrent of amber light, amidst which the silhouettes emerged, “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to a grootslang – one of the many examples of aether not caring about perceived physiological limitations. Don’t get fooled by its ostensive sluggishness, or it will be the last thing you do.”

  Cillian expected roars but heard only the rattling of metal and the wheels crunching on the gravel. A cage was being pushed out on an enormous platform cart, and, apart from the bars, it also sported thick shafts sticking out left and right as if trying to pass for a palanquin. Four men accompanied the cart – two were pressing from behind while the rest ambled forward between the massive handles.

  The cart stopped, well within the hangar’s glow, and he got a first glimpse of the monster inside. No roars had erupted because the creature was slumbering. It was facing them, and what immediately caught Cillian’s eye was the beautiful bronze hue of its scales – they were large and reflective, but it was a dull shine.

  Grrrrrrrr…

  “Is it– is it snoring and drooling? The niss-crap is this?!”

  The indignation in the fella’s voice – whoever he was – made everyone laugh, even the cage’s keepers.

  Only the beast remained unamused. Its guttural growling did not pause, and Cillian swore that, even standing a good dozen paces removed, the vibration penetrated his bones.

  The grootslang had lost consciousness in the process of trying to tear the cage apart – its two muscular front legs, thick as a grown man’s torso, had paws gripping the bars, eight hefty claws scraping the metal. That wasn’t its most striking feature though. No, the honor was reserved for six wicked tusks, growing three apiece from both sides of the mouth, filled with fangs, and therefore preventing the cavity from fully closing. The long, forked tongue and the somewhat triangular, blunt head hinted at some distant connection to reptiles, perhaps. The way the tusks curved made them resemble a rib cage, shattered in the middle. In place of a nose, the creature had vertical slits, and, while both eyes were currently closed, Cillian imagined them to be narrow and yellow. Because it would fit. He also noted the absence of scales on its wide, powerful chest. Instead, both it and the head were covered in rust-colored fur.

  Instructor Hass gave them a few heartbeats to appreciate the sight without comment but soon issued a command to turn the cart sideways. Careful maneuvering was required, after which they got a good look at the thing in profile, and Cillian right away realized his mistake – those weren’t the beast’s front legs; they were its only legs. The large torso seamlessly flowed into the equally large lower body, which in turn transitioned into the curling tail, like a crocodile’s.

  The creature looked disproportional. The legs were too long and meaty for it to be able to comfortably crawl along the ground, while the lower body was nothing more than a lump of dead weight. How did it even move? Physiological limitations, my arse.

  “I don’t understand – it seems whole; why is it unconscious? Are we interrupting its nap time?” asked Eamon, instigating more sniggers.

  “We put it to sleep deliberately, of course,” instructor Hass replied.

  “Huh. How do you even make a beast like this go to bed early?”

  “It’s a–”

  “Did you sing it a lullaby?”

  “Stop babbling, eejit,” Cillian heard Nuala mumble.

  “Oh, I get it! You made it attend our ‘Aether’ cla–!”

  “If you cease your useless commentary, Mr. O’Leary, I will be happy to explain.”

  The boy zipped his mouth shut.

  “Told you.”

  The man eyed him sternly. “There are two general ways. The first one is cutting the beast’s connection to the aether for a long enough span. It’s reliable but requires special equipment that you can’t carry around. The second is sedatives. Notoriously unreliable. Requires the right dosage of the right sedative, injected into the right place. Some work for multiple species, but never believe anyone who attempts to sell you some kind of universal narcotic; there’s no such thing.”

  “Isn’t aether non-physical and permeates everything?” a girl far to the left of Cillian questioned with her face scrunched up in confusion. “How exactly do you ‘cut the connection’?”

  “The agitated aether interacts with the aethereal, so you could–” the man abruptly stopped and grounded the stick. “It doesn’t matter at the moment, does it? You’ll learn the specifics soon enough. We shouldn’t dally; the monster here can wake up at any moment.”

  “Let it!” Rory shouted.

  Instructor Hass ignored the call and poked the grootslang at its flank, then pushed the stick in with his whole – not inconsiderable – weight, but the scales refused to give. “See? The scales are very thick while the body beneath them is pure muscle. It’s a typical specimen – around ten feet from the head to the tail, 520 kilograms. It can move much faster than humans; thankfully, only in short bursts, two to five seconds. It’s this species’ aetheric ability. Not flashy, but a beast this size and strength can do a lot of damage very quickly.”

  Grrrrrrrr…

  He signaled to rotate the cart until the hideous mug was expelling the foul breath right at their faces again. “While the tusks and claws look fearsome and are indeed very dangerous, in all likelihood it would first use its tail to stun or kill you, then pounce on top to tear you apart. Believe it or not, a grootslang can lift itself on its arms and whip the tail around faster than you can blink.”

  Wonderful image. And these are arms, not legs then.

  “You should wake it up,” Rory urged again, smiling eagerly.

  “I could, but I wouldn’t.” Instructor Hass briefly glanced at the boy. “Do not fret, Mr. Raskopf, our next guest is very much awake.”

  At that moment, Cillian caught something out of the corner of his eye, and he wasn’t the only one. Multiple students turned right to look at… shapes striding parallel to the gathering half a hundred paces away. The skywalker was fully powered down now, and with him standing in the light of the hangar, the figures in the dark weren’t recognizable, but their general outlines were – it was a man wearing a fedora and his companion.

  A quadruplet, even on all fours reaching the chevalier’s shoulders; a long, skinny tail – that was all Cillian could confidently tell. He’d seen companions before and in much better lighting conditions, to be sure, but this was the first time any of the instructors had demonstrated theirs, no matter the visibility. It made him irrationally excited, and all the pair had done was appear from somewhere and swiftly vanish behind the Slaughterhouse. Where do they even keep them? Underground, too?

  “One of our safeties for tonight, in case things go null,” instructor Hass explained, observing the shift in the students’ attention. “Eyes on me, please! Let’s discuss how to kill a grootslang, shall we?”

  That was enough to snap everyone’s heads back to where he wanted.

  The stick pointed at the head, “The obvious place. Its elanroot sits right behind the nostrils, 8 to 10 centimeters deep. Since the face is unarmored, from the front you could kill it with a well-placed shot from a rifle. However, given the tusks, it better be a very well-placed shot indeed.” He dragged the stick lower. “As this helpful fellow is showing us, its chest also lacks scales, but it’s very thick anyway. Our general advice? Unless your guns pack a heavy punch, don’t waste the ammo. Grootslang is one of those monsters that don’t have many vulnerable points. Especially when it turtles up and borrows the tusks into the dirt.

  “But there is good news, too. For one, they are dumb. Old or young – it doesn’t matter. Also, slow. Outside of their signature bursts. And, of course, having a companion by your side changes the dynamic completely. But since all companions are different, more specific instructions are premature.” Instructor Hass followed up that statement by beckoning one of the loitering guards to approach.

  The man bravely confronted the sleeping monster face-to-face, and the students shuffled left and right to see better. He raised his rifle high, bracing it against his shoulder.

  “Protect your ears!”

  A flash and a deafening crack were followed by a metallic chick-chuck as the guard flung the gun’s lever forward and back to eject the spent round. Not that anyone paid much attention since the grootslang’s head snapped back and the newly drilled tunnel belched sickly yellow blood. Then, the monster’s entire body started trembling. The massive paws gripped the bars, making the cage and the cart rattle. The gargantuan arms shook like tree trunks during a groundquake, their claws akin to roots desperately clinging to the not-so-stable surface.

  Shit!

  Half a ton of meat and dense bone tissue suddenly coming to life and threatening to break the confinement was enough for the students to collectively take a startled step back.

  The beast didn’t roar or express defiance in any other way. After five seconds of convulsions punctuated by the tail lashing out uncontrollably, it slumped down with a gravel-scattering whump, never to move or consume aether again.

  Good frackin’ riddance.

  The grootslang’s eulogy took the form of pitiful squeals of the wheels dancing back and forth. And even they terminated shortly, eerily leaving the body in the same pose they’d first seen it, as though the monster had merely returned back to its slumber. The still frothing hole notwithstanding.

  “The death throes were pretty lackluster,” instructor Hass commented, “because it’d been deprived of aether for a long time and only recently reconnected with it. The convulsions could be much more violent…” He shook his head, seemingly ridding himself of unpleasant memories, and sighed, almost regretfully. “A good beast is a dead beast. You can go touch it now, two at a time, but do not dawdle.”

  The man’s words resulted in immediate tussling for positions, and when Cillian’s turn finally arrived, he first stepped to the grootslang’s front and gingerly brushed the tusks. They felt how they looked – strong, heavy, and deadly. The scales, on the other hand, from up close had an appearance of polished wood, but to the touch were like cold stone. He walked to the back of the cage and peered at the tail next – the rows of sharp triangular “teeth” proudly fencing the area indeed made it strongly resemble a crocodile’s tail, if somewhat mutated.

  Are they also semi-aquatic?

  A sound of rapid drumming of talons on metal violated the sanctity of his mind, and Cillian involuntarily shuddered, whirling to look inside the hangar.

  Oh, hell no.

  His eyes darted from one object to another until a large, tarp-covered box snatched all of his attention.

  Shit. It couldn’t be an acromantula, could it?

  “Come on, Kil, move!”

  He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  The first cage was rolled back inside, and the one he’d espied took its place. The vibrating tarp was removed, revealing a myriad of thin, crisscrossing bars. Inside, sat a monster – not a dreaded acromantula, but something that made the damn overgrown spiders look almost friendly in comparison. Dozens of eyes stared back at them – the two main ones glowed a baleful orange with black vertical slits for pupils, while the rest were scattered all over the skull and had the colors inverted, orange on black. The light reflecting off them gave the head a particularly unsettling look, even discounting the rest of the creature’s hideous body.

  The beast hissed angrily and opened its mouth impossibly wide.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  And what a body it was. A huge serpent, coiled up, also supported by eight spider legs growing from below the head and each ending in inky-black talons. Cillian recognized the species at once – a blackmera. He couldn’t discern it right now but knew that the beast’s tail was actually three separate tails seamlessly slotting in together. The grown-ups were highly venomous and freakishly fast. The legs should have hindered its movements, but the opposite was the truth – if the descriptions he’d read were to be believed, a blackmera could glide like a motorized boat along a river and selectively use its legs like oars to add even more energy or make rapid, implausible turns.

  The talons kept tapping. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

  Other than that, the monster stayed motionless.

  Cillian hated acromantula, but this thing wasn’t any better.

  Eamon whispered in his ear, “Rory should be happy; he’s no longer the ugliest bastard around.”

  Cillian guffawed. When everyone glared at him, he raised his hand in apology, “Sorry,” then blindly swung it back to thwack the moron.

  “A blackmera,” instructor Hass broke the ensuing silence. “Their greatest weapon is their speed. But they are also smart, stealthy, have deadly poison, and can climb anything – a nightmare to deal with if you don’t know how. It’s pretty useless trying to pelt it with arrows or bullets since they move incredibly fast, can pivot on the spot, and also have plenty of variability in the elanroot placement. Even if you wreck five of its legs and a dozen eyes, it would still keep moving and assailing you.”

  He rattled the cage with the stick, and the creature quivered and snapped its jaws at the offending object, then retreated all the way to the back, hissing. “Thankfully, their weaknesses are also significant. Blackmeras hate strong vibrations, and their hairy legs are pretty flammable. Set it on fire and watch the beast lose its mind. Just don’t stand anywhere near when it happens. Also, no webbing. It’s really much more of a serpent than a spider. The main danger is letting it get a grip on you – with eight formidable legs and the body wrapping around, there would be little chance of escape.”

  The man pounded the cage again, but, instead of stopping after a couple of hits, kept at it until the blackmera flared up in a hissy fit and hoicked up its tail, fanning it out into three.

  “There it is.”

  The newly emerged appendages lashed out over the top of the head and struck the cage’s wall, but instructor Hass didn’t flinch, continuing to bang on the metal, faster and faster. The blackmera seethed even louder, then threw itself forward, crashed into the wall, shook it off, and immediately leaped sideways, without turning – another unnerving impact rocked the steel confines. And all the while bang-bang-bang resonated around – the sound a twisted reflection of the creature’s own tapping.

  Without any prompting, a guard approached carrying a blazing torch to Mairead Gehler, who was waiting to the side of the throng, and she dipped an arrow into it before raising her bow and releasing the string so fast Cillian could barely keep track of her actions.

  A flash streaked past, through a small hole, and right into the tangle of legs.

  The limbs erupted instantly.

  Heaven! They can’t be that flammable, can they?

  The next few minutes were extremely disturbing.

  The blackmera didn’t shriek, which somehow made it worse. Open-mouthed, it kept exhaling, rapidly and forcefully, all the while trashing uncontrollably. The nauseating stench flooded his senses and played havoc with his recently filled stomach.

  Cillian didn’t have any sympathy for the monster, but there was something gut-wrenching about watching a caged, helpless creature have its legs go out in flames. He noticed Cathal looking away and heard Eamon make retching sounds.

  Was the arrow coated in something?

  And, for all that, the blackmera still wasn’t dead – it kept fighting to endure another moment, albeit much less vigorously.

  Two guards came in and overturned a basin full of water on top of the cage.

  A steam tide rushed out with a sizzle and drenched them all in that awful smell.

  Thanks a lot.

  “A resilient beast,” their teacher muttered, his tone verging on admiring, then took a proffered rapier from a colleague, and, one hand on the pommel, another – wrapping the grip, nudged the shivering creature’s mouth open, and skewered it.

  The twitches continued.

  “Damn you. Carry it away and deal with it.” He retrieved the dripping blade, passed it over, and turned to face the students again. “The root must be somewhere at the base of the tail then; it’s one of the common locations. Obviously, don’t leave a blackmera alive in the field, make sure you destroy the elanroot. As a general rule, spider and serpent-like monsters regenerate quickly. It’s also the reason it was awake in the first place while the grootslang was not.”

  “What’s their aetheric ability?” asked Keefe.

  “‘Dome of Silence’, same as acromantulae, but, unlike our favorite spiders, blackmeras are loners and so their domes do not merge. You shouldn’t rely on this logic though – there are other seemingly related species that have no similarities whatsoever save for their looks.”

  “Is setting a blackmera on fire the only way to incapacitate it?” the stocky boy continued, not sounding pleased at the idea.

  “Crushing works too, if your companion is capable of it. Obviously, you could inflict enough damage to it in whatever manner you deem fit. Fire is simply the most expedient option. And it also works to keep them away.”

  As the cart with the spasming creature was noisily wheeled inside, more questions followed. Was there an antidote for the poison? Why hadn’t it used its ability? Who were their natural enemies? And what about the dome’s radius? Instructor Hass answered a few but soon declared that it was too late and they would continue the discussion tomorrow.

  “When’s the next session?” Oscar made one final inquiry.

  “Hopefully, in two weeks’ time. But we’ll see.”

  The hangar’s doors closed with a resounding clang, serving as a signal for the crowd to begin to disperse. It was suddenly very dark where Cillian stood.

  No more monsters. But the stench lagged behind.

  Frackin’ spiders.

  “Hey, you alright?” Eamon tapped him on the shoulder.

  “M? Aye, I’m dandy. Just dandy.”

  “We’re heading to– Hey, where are you going?”

  Cillian dedicated a minute trying to find the companion and its master from earlier, but they weren’t around anymore. Disappointed, he rejoined Cathal and the two lovebirds, who were waiting for him amidst the departing backs of cadets, instructors, and guards.

  “That was… something, innit?” Eamon commented, turning to amble away. “A batfox seems downright cuddly to me now. It’s me new favorite.”

  “Nah,” Cillian said, wearily glancing back at the Slaughterhouse. Not seeing the blackmera actually die made him uneasy. “You can always outrun a grootslang. But a batfox? I ain’t so sure.”

  “Blackmera is the worst,” Nuala stated definitively. “Those creepy eyes… brrr.”

  “It could be beaten with a loud enough–,” Eamon clapped, “–racket! Hardly impressive.”

  “If a blackmera is using its ability, you’d need to be, like, under the dome and very close to it,” Cathal said. It was a fair observation.

  If only acromantulae shared the same weakness…

  Cillian shook his head.

  It doesn’t matter.

  They traded opinions all the way to the dormitory. Once near the doors, Eamon halted. “By the way, Nuala and I are heading to the kitchens to cook for a couple of days in advance. You wanna join?”

  “I already did it yesterday,” Cillian replied.

  Pulling on the handle, Cathal said, "Told you."

  “I hate you both. When did you even find the time?“

  “We should go,” Nuala urged, “it’s already past 8.”

  “Have fun,” Cillian waved them off, yawning. “I’m going to lie down and relax. My soft bed misses me.”

  “Traitor.”

  As he watched the pair go, Cillian wondered what the academy was planning to do with the dead beasts. Were they about to get roasted grootslang on the menu?

  He climbed up the steps.

  Or would it be a fried blackmera?

  The acrid stink still lingered in his nostrils.

  After all, it was already medium rare, was it not?

  Irish slang: