edge of Boarderland’s Duneraria
and a particularly dense patch of Wonderland’s
Outerwilderbeastia.
To be invisible meant that whatever death and injury the bodyguards caused would have to be done by conventional methods—no ripping or shredding for Ripkins, no blistering for Blister, lest their victims’ bodies serve as evidence of their mission. Accordingly, Blister wore elbow-length gloves, and he and Ripkins carried a wealth of traditional Boarderland weapons hidden in their clothes, munitions that might be used by a variety of the nation’s tribes: mind riders, remote eyes, kill-quills, gossamer shots. They were likewise armed with the whipsnake grenades and crystal shooters so prevalent in Alyss’ armies. But to be invisible also meant that members of their own tribe could not witness their doings; unwanted chatter, possibly compromising intel, could come from any quarter. The guards patrolling the Boarderland side of the demarcation barrier were members of the Doomsines—two youths born into the Astacan tribe who had found life among their own kind uninspiring. Like all Astacans, their long, spindly legs and foreshortened torsos, which had evolved from generations of Astacans making camp in mountainous regions, rendered them particularly adept at maneuvering on irregular terrain. Some Boarderlanders thought Astacans elegant and graceful creatures, but others—Blister among them, fellow Doomsine or not—thought them grotesque. “I’m feeling a tad Maldoid-ish,” Blister said, taking a couple of mind riders from his coat pocket. Self-propelled darts with serum-infused tips, most commonly used by Boarderland’s Maldoid tribe, mind riders could turn the most peace-loving citizen into a brawling lunatic. “Haven’t thrown one in a while,” Blister said. “Good to keep in practice.” He and Ripkins stepped into view and the border guards paused in their patrol, surprised to see Arch’s notorious henchmen.
“What’re you both doing here?” one of them asked. “Nothing much,” Blister said, and with a forward thrust of his arm, released the mind riders. Thunp! Thunp!
A mind rider lodged in the forehead of each border guard, tips penetrating their skulls, injecting the angst serum into the nooks and gulleys of their brains. Their neural pathways filled with static. Poison spiked their wits.
The serum never took long to produce its effect. The Astacans looked about in a daze. Then, as if noticing each other for the first time, their glazed-over expressions morphed into visages of hate. “Aaaagh!” one of them yelled.
“Yaaah!” the other shouted.
They fell together, punching and kicking at each other with a ferocity that would soon leave them both dead.
Ignoring the brawling pair, Ripkins and Blister stepped up to the demarcation barrier—a tight, impassable mesh of lightning-like sound waves. To try and step through the barrier, even to venture a single limb tentatively into its mesh, was to invite a painful end. The sound waves would cause one’s internal organs to vibrate, generating more and more heat until one burned to death from the inside out.
To be invisible meant that whatever death and injury the bodyguards caused would have to be done by conventional methods—no ripping or shredding for Ripkins, no blistering for Blister, lest their victims’ bodies serve as evidence of their mission. Accordingly, Blister wore elbow-length gloves, and he and Ripkins carried a wealth of traditional Boarderland weapons hidden in their clothes, munitions that might be used by a variety of the nation’s tribes: mind riders, remote eyes, kill-quills, gossamer shots. They were likewise armed with the whipsnake grenades and crystal shooters so prevalent in Alyss’ armies. But to be invisible also meant that members of their own tribe could not witness their doings; unwanted chatter, possibly compromising intel, could come from any quarter. The guards patrolling the Boarderland side of the demarcation barrier were members of the Doomsines—two youths born into the Astacan tribe who had found life among their own kind uninspiring. Like all Astacans, their long, spindly legs and foreshortened torsos, which had evolved from generations of Astacans making camp in mountainous regions, rendered them particularly adept at maneuvering on irregular terrain. Some Boarderlanders thought Astacans elegant and graceful creatures, but others—Blister among them, fellow Doomsine or not—thought them grotesque. “I’m feeling a tad Maldoid-ish,” Blister said, taking a couple of mind riders from his coat pocket. Self-propelled darts with serum-infused tips, most commonly used by Boarderland’s Maldoid tribe, mind riders could turn the most peace-loving citizen into a brawling lunatic. “Haven’t thrown one in a while,” Blister said. “Good to keep in practice.” He and Ripkins stepped into view and the border guards paused in their patrol, surprised to see Arch’s notorious henchmen.
“What’re you both doing here?” one of them asked. “Nothing much,” Blister said, and with a forward thrust of his arm, released the mind riders. Thunp! Thunp!
A mind rider lodged in the forehead of each border guard, tips penetrating their skulls, injecting the angst serum into the nooks and gulleys of their brains. Their neural pathways filled with static. Poison spiked their wits.
The serum never took long to produce its effect. The Astacans looked about in a daze. Then, as if noticing each other for the first time, their glazed-over expressions morphed into visages of hate. “Aaaagh!” one of them yelled.
“Yaaah!” the other shouted.
They fell together, punching and kicking at each other with a ferocity that would soon leave them both dead.
Ignoring the brawling pair, Ripkins and Blister stepped up to the demarcation barrier—a tight, impassable mesh of lightning-like sound waves. To try and step through the barrier, even to venture a single limb tentatively into its mesh, was to invite a painful end. The sound waves would cause one’s internal organs to vibrate, generating more and more heat until one burned to death from the inside out.