Ch 37: Slash & Run

The stench of decay clung to the air—wet rot, old blood, and crushed spores. It wasn't just the fungi breathing anymore.

Gurgles echoed through the canyon. Deep and viscous, like something drowning in its own lungs.

They came from everywhere at once.

Shadows swelled between the roots and rock. Fungal masses slithered out of crevices—half-alive, half-formed, molded from dead beasts and parasitic colonies. Their heads were clusters of spore sacs and ridged vents, exhaling invisible signals that tainted the air.

Six legs—sharp, jagged like stalactites—lifted their swollen bodies forward. Some bore amber-glowing cracks across their fungal hides; others had exposed bones tangled in mycelium strands.

Thornjaw didn't wait for an order. He was already moving.

Mark raised a hand. Flat, precise.

The signal was enough.

Thornjaw leapt from stone to stone, claws dragging sparks across the canyon walls as it engaged the nearest abomination. The golem moved like a feral thing, metal limbs carving shallow trenches across fungal plating. It was fast. Focused. But not enough.

The creature barely reacted. Thornjaw's slashes sliced soft growths—but couldn't break through the calcified rock beneath. The beast hissed—spores puffing from its vents in a cloud—and lunged.

Thornjaw flipped backward, catching itself with one claw and twisting midair. It landed with a tremor and immediately leapt to higher ground.

"Sir—!" one of the logisticians shouted from behind a makeshift ridge, voice tight with fear. "There's too many! They're surrounding the edge—if we stay here we're done for!"

Mark didn't respond.

He glanced toward the cargo—four sacks brimming with tagged samples. Glowing moss, spore-threaded roots, fragments of amber-stone. Their mission was already accomplished. Anything more would be loss.

A faint shimmer flickered along his ring.

Thornjaw stopped instantly, mid-pounce, and turned. The order had changed.

Two fingers lifted. Mark pointed to the team. Then down the slope. A flat palm.

Priority: cargo. Regroup. Withdraw.

They moved fast.

The handlers grabbed the sacks. One auxiliary slung his own bag over a shoulder and pulled a glowing rod from his belt, shaking it once before stuffing it in the canvas pouch to dim the light.

Thornjaw bounded toward the group, ignoring the screeching creatures now crawling over the canyon's edge like malformed crabs.

The golem crouched, arms wide.

The squad didn't hesitate.

One by one, they leapt into its grip. Two handlers clung to its shoulders, the others hanging on to rope harnesses mounted across Thornjaw's back. A logistician, panting, strapped the sacks down and tapped twice on the back plate.

Go.

Mark gave a single nod.

And Thornjaw launched.

The canyon blurred. The golem raced forward in massive leaps, bounding from rock wall to mossy plateau, kicking off sheer ledges with the precision of a beast bred for war. Every step dislodged bits of old fungus, every impact rattled the moss-veiled stone.

The fungal abominations screamed behind them—spores surging into the air like fine dust clouds. But they didn't chase. Not far.

Not yet.

Mark lingered. He stood at the canyon mouth, watching.

He didn't blink as another abomination emerged, this one larger, with a single jagged arm and bulbous growths pulsing along its spine. It hissed through its vents, chitin splitting to reveal strange green threads, but it didn't pursue. It was territorial—not hungry.

Mark watched its limbs retract, the spore clouds settling into stillness.

A slow, calculated inhale.

Then he turned, finally.

Thornjaw had circled back and crouched in silence.

Mark stepped onto the golem's outstretched hand and climbed to his perch just behind the head plate. Thornjaw sprinted once more, navigating through the narrow arches and half-collapsed tunnels that once served as Relict burrows, now overtaken by rot.

When they emerged from the canyon's far edge, the air was cleaner—though not by much. The others had already dismounted and were checking gear, repacking their samples and scraping spores off their armor.

The youngest logistician was coughing, a wet rasp in his throat. Another smeared some salve beneath his eyes, muttering curses at the glowing moss dust on his sleeves.

"We got what we came for…" someone said, breathless. "But what the hell were those?"

Mark dismounted, quietly.

The team watched him.

He said nothing, only pointed at the sacks. Then gestured to the mouth of the canyon.

One handler narrowed his eyes. "They didn't react to us."

"They reacted to the fungus," another auxiliary muttered. "To what we took."

Mark blinked once.

Everyone understood.

They immediately began layering the samples in resin-coated cloth, wrapping them tight and stuffing them into lined containers. One handler strapped a second cover around the container and checked for signs of glow. None. Sealed.

Next time, Mark knew, they'd need spore-dampening pouches before collection. Basic logistics. No excuse for the oversight.

He clicked his tongue once.

Thornjaw tensed. Alert.

No pursuit still.

But the team kept weapons close.

"Sir…" one of the logisticians said quietly, "do you think the bandits are using those things? Keeping them here?"

Mark turned slightly. His head shook once. Not dismissive. Just factual.

No. These weren't controlled. Not like golems. Not even like tamed beasts. These things were the canyon. Grown from its decay.

The group began their trek back toward camp. Step by careful step.

Thornjaw followed, claws silent on soft earth.

As they disappeared into the mist-choked ridges, Deadroot Canyon sat still again. Beneath the moss and amber cracks, faint pulses of light continued to glow.

Watching. Waiting.