Moe Lane

Shooting!

That question answered itself as the first foul monsters came hopping through the brush: all fourteen ballistae fired at once, flashing through the air and leaving behind the smell of ozone. Thirteen hit their targets, which gratifyingly exploded from the strikes; the fourteenth slammed against a sudden globe of blue and yellow materializing around the sailors scrambling onto the golboats. Jack frowned: that was a major ward spell. There were a couple of sailors in the party who could cast those, but why were they ready to set one off?

He ignored the question at the moment: the bolt crews were prepping another volley — with no enchantments, this time — while a squad of crossbowmen climbed the rigging and found good firing spots. Rocca Jack had a taut crew, who knew their business; his job right now was to stand where everybody could see him be in command, and hear his orders when things went wrong. Something usually did, in a fight. You got used to it.

In this case, Jack decided that the something was the swarm of — “What the hell are those things, Charlie?” They looked like headless, legless chickens, only much bigger, and with wings long enough to let them hop on the sand.

“Monsters,” Charlie replied, her eyes growing light. “Arcanely mutated, not first-generation cursed. They feel out of place, and they don’t like it. Oh, and they don’t like us, either. Everything on the land is hateful to them.”

“Right back at you, you ugly bastards,” Jack muttered. More loudly, he shouted, “Marble shot on the next volley! And aim away from the golboats! Ready… FIRE!”