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Fields surrounding Great Wall of Gambino

Something small and round crashed into Harold’s ankle, chittering loudly. He stumbled, catching the tip of his sheath on a rock. Conall and Abdul each grabbed a shoulder, hauling him upright.

“Thanks. What the…?”

Conall stared down at the creature. It stared back with somewhat insane-looking eyes, mouth open as if panting, and bared sharp teeth at him.

“What the devil imp-loving mother is that?” Abdul said.

Harold made a disgusted noise, rubbing his shin. “Something Animated and spiky. Look at what it did to my greaves.”

Conall couldn’t take his eyes off the spherical form of the creature. “No, it’s not animated, it’s…I thought they were all myths.”

“What’s a myth?” Abdul asked interestedly, keeping one eye on the spiked thing as he circled behind it. His posture was relaxed but Conall noticed he kept one hand on his sword hilt.

“It’s a story that the older Guardsmen tell. About…creatures, monsters no higher than your knee. They form wild tribes in the bush and the field where Barton town and Aekea and the Durem Reclamation Facility are now. The stories say we scared them off with the construction. This one is—I think it’s a pokey.”

Harold wrinkled his nose. “A…gesundheit?”

“Are they dangerous?” Abdul was keeping a respectful distance from the pokey, sword in hand.

“In packs. Grandfather said…” Conall frowned in thought, dredging up the half-forgotten memories from his childhood. “They eat until they literally explode. Wild tribes send them out as foot soldiers to destroy other tribes’ home bases.”

Harold shifted his weight, trying to rub his punctured greave surreptitiously against the back of his calf. “So what’s this one doing?”

“I don’t know,” Conall admitted. “I guess…I guess it could be out gathering. Or scouting. Tribes keep worker slaves, but if they were killed in an attack I guess maybe they’d send out one of these.”

“They must be clever, then, if they can conduct surveillance missions and enslave others,” Abdul observed, his eyes on the creature in front of him.

Conall rubbed his forehead. “Not these. Pokeys are…gun fodder, essentially. They seem to have a hive mind. Nobody knows how they know what to do.”

Harold rubbed the hilt of his sword, seemingly to comfort himself. “What else do you know about them?”

“They collect resources—twigs, pebbles, things like that—and build structures out of them. Tribes raid each other for resources, and retaliate against the smallest offense. There’s other legends about the monsters that do the heavy fighting—things with tentacles, and teeth, and venomous bites or armored bodies.”

“Do you think they’re related to the attack by the Animated?”

“I don’t know,” said Conall, “but we have to report this. Let’s find Phoebe and get back to field camp.”