Kit turns into a copy of Colton, and the two of them stand back to back, stomping on any monster brave or foolish enough to come at them. This goes on for a while, until two enormous condors swoop down and smash into the giant figures’ heads.
The condors die on impact, but they stun Kit and Colton long enough for a colony of ant monsters to swarm them, their mandibles leaving nothing behind.
A pang of anxiety washes over me as I watch a nail-swordsman behead Dream Valerian.
Though it may not be rational to retaliate for the killing of a dream construct, I put an arrow into that nail-swordsman’s eye. Watching it die is satisfying, so I figure it’s good for my morale.
How is the real Valerian doing in the waking world?
No time to ponder that. The ground battle is escalating. A spiral worm leaps on Dream Felix, peeling him out of his suit so that an angler can pierce his neck with those shark-teeth.
At the same time, a tardigrade slashes the throat of the construct-siren mid-shout, just as a turkey vulture swoops in and takes out Dream Maxwell.
A whole committee of vultures somehow gets past the Escapists and swoops down. The ballista takes out four of the birds, and I join everyone in slaughtering the rest.
It’s hard to keep track of the battlefield now. Superheroes and gods take the brunt of the attacks, but their ranks are thinning. The dream constructs that are most effective are duplicates of the New York Councilors and their equivalents from the other worlds. Dream Nina works closely with Fabian in wolf form and with Stanislav, who’s armed with a saber. She throws half the creatures in her way onto Fabian’s teeth and claws, and the rest onto Stanislav’s saber.
That is, until a turkey vulture fractures the telekinetic’s spine with its beak, and an angler finishes her.
Fabian leaps at the vulture, rending it with his claws. Somehow, the vulture stays alive long enough to drag the werewolf twenty feet into the air before dying—at which point, Fabian crashes into a tardigrade and also perishes.
Thanks to his phasing, Stanislav is like a mini-army. He pierces two foes—an ant and a spiral worm—with his rapier, phases when a nail-swordsman tries to shear off the top of his head, then kills the monster with a touch.
Forget vampires, I should’ve manifested more chorts.
Still, the cannon fodder troops are dwindling fast. Eventually, even the likes of Stanislav can’t manage the onslaught. An angler gets the chort near the end, and the rest of the monsters finish off anyone left.
“Infantry, attack!” Ariel shouts.
Pucking puck.
Infantry is us, and unlike the dream constructs, my sister and I will face dire consequences if we die.
Chapter Thirty-One
We smash into the enemy army before they can regroup from the fight with our cannon fodder troops.
The New York Councilors and their Maxwell-recruited equivalents from the Otherlands are in front, displaying a staggering assortment of powers.
In the span of mere seconds, subdream monsters are torched, ruptured from the inside, split into atoms, pulverized, exploded, imploded, torn into large and small pieces, slammed into each other, and hurled at the other side of the battlefield—all with minor losses on our side.
Occasionally, a monster breaks through, and those of us in the back ranks have to dispatch them. At first, I cut them down with my bow, but then my quiver runs empty, so I toss the bow aside and slice the monsters with my katana.
It’s frustrating not to be able to use my power. Here in the dream world, I could be more destructive than any of the Councilors.
Suddenly, I hear a strange sound from our flank.
The Escapists battling warthog/mole rat riders must’ve lost or given up because a significant portion of the cavalry is galloping our way.
A telekinetic slings Vickie, the siren, in front of the newcomers. With a mighty shout, she rends fifty riders apart. But then one of the surviving warthog creatures pierces her chest with its spider-like legs, and she dies.
Well, “wakes up in a cold sweat” is more accurate. Either way, she’s no good to us anymore unless I manage to push her back into REM sleep, which would involve using my powers.
A woman I don’t know shoots black energy at a warthog, and the thing’s spidery eyes instantly go blank.
Ariel downs a mole rat rider with her last arrow. “Fighting on two fronts can be a problem.”
“Make me more zombies!” Rowan shouts. “I can help.”
Again, if I could use my powers, I’d do better than make more zombies. Same goes for my sister.
Yet, a fresh batch of zombies shows up in the path of the cavalry. Since we’re now below our air-support Escapists, I have to assume someone up there—probably Kojo—heard Rowan’s plea.
As the cavalry and the zombies face off, the rest of us carve through monsters, slowly advancing toward Phobetor.