Konstantine crept up the stairway and peered over the spikes topping the wooden palisade. Falling snow made the nighttime countryside around Wolfnacht a blur of gray and white. The young villager could barely see the Timberline Mountains—though their peaks loomed just beyond the forest trail. He wiped several large, wet flakes from his eyebrows and stared into the gloom. He’d heard a sound, but what was it? What kind of man or beast would be out on a frigid night like this?
Normally, the village guard would have investigated such noises, but Wolfnacht’s guard posts remained empty, and snow covered the catwalks atop the surrounding wall; no one patrolled the palisade tonight.
The sentries are all safe in their homes, Konstantine thought. Or maybe they’re busy with the town elders. The adults were always busy nowadays, and, as usual, they hadn’t seen fit to tell “Stan” what they were up to. Konstantine fumed about that. He was fifteen, and nearly in his majority, but no one had seen fit to tell him the purpose of all the hushed meetings.
Melting snow dripped down Stan’s hair and splashed into his eyes. He pushed the sopping black locks away from his forehead. “Fool!” he muttered quietly to himself as he continued peering into the storm. “If you had any sense you’d be inside with all the rest!”
But, despite the wet and the cold, he didn’t want to go back inside. There was something about the storm that had compelled him to venture into the night, something he’d felt even before he’d heard the muffled chimes.
This blizzard was different. Something about it was making the coarse hair on the back of Stan’s neck stand on end. If he could figure out what, then he could go back inside where it was safe and warm.
He heard the noise again—a tinkling, bell-like tone, cutting through the hissing of the wind.
A flash of movement drew Stan’s eyes to Wolfnacht Pass, barely visible through the snow. Dark shapes lurked at the base of the mountains, trudging away from the rocky cleft, heading toward the city. Konstantine strained his eyes, but he couldn’t make out what the shapes were. He turned toward the alarm bell, dangling from a scaffold on the parapet a dozen yards away. Should he ring it?
No, he thought. No sense stirring things up. Not on a night like this with everyone so busy. Those shadows could be just a trick of the light and the snow. We’re not expecting visitors. And, besides, no one ever comes to Wolfnacht anymore—not unless there’s a festival.
The idea struck a chord within Stan. Could the elders be preparing for a festival?
Konstantine didn’t remember any festivals being at this time of year—though Wolfnacht had a very long history, and sometimes an ancient remembrance would catch him unaware.
If they’re preparing for a festival, where are the tourists? Stan thought. He tried to find the shapes again, but they’d vanished like specters amid the blowing snow.
Maybe the shapes are tourists on their way to town, Konstantine thought. Maybe it’s some kind of snow festival, and they were waiting for a blizzard.
The idea seemed unlikely. Few tourists visited Wolfnacht nowadays, and even merchant caravans had become a rare sight. The remaining villagers refused to leave their decaying town, despite the struggles of daily life. Wolfnacht had been a thriving city once, before the Third Wizard War, and none of the remaining elders were willing to admit that those glory days had long past.
Stan knew his people would hang on as long as they could, eking out a marginal living by hunting and farming, rather than retreating to the safety of the Atrian Plains. Stan didn’t share their devotion. As soon as he reached his majority, he would leave Wolfnacht and never look back.
“Those shapes aren’t tourists,” he muttered, not caring that there was no one around to hear him. Not even the bravest merchant or the rowdiest tourist would venture through the mountains during a snowstorm like this.
A chill, entirely unrelated to the weather, ran down Konstantine’s spine. Would a blizzard bother the Enemy?
Stan didn’t know. The elders of Wolfnacht seldom mentioned the supernatural threat lurking beyond the Timberline Mountains, and when they did speak of it, it was always in hushed and furtive tones.
Could this be the Enemy, looking to catch Wolfnacht unaware?
The shapes emerged from the snow again, but this time they weren’t at the foot of the mountains—they were much, much closer.
How can anyone move so quickly through this kind of weather? Stan wondered.
The shadows resolved themselves into mounted figures, moving in single file, plowing rapidly through the fresh-fallen snow.
Konstantine hurried toward the alarm bell, near the main gate. He wrapped his hand around the cold, wet pull-cord, but then hesitated.
Maybe it’s not the Enemy, he thought. Better to get a good look at the intruders before stirring up the whole town. The adolescent took a deep breath to steady his nerves.
Gradually, seven figures emerged from the storm. Clouds of breath and steam rose from the riders, only to be whipped away by the snowy wind. The riders appeared human. They were dressed in heavy cloaks, wearing armor, and carrying weapons. Dirt and blood stained the travelers’ clothes; they looked as though they’d been through a war.
Konstantine gaped and his arm dropped away from the alarm bell. It wasn’t the warriors that riveted the young man’s attention, though; it was their mounts. Though one of the steeds was a simple pack horse, the remaining six animals were unicorns.
Stan had never seen anything like the unicorns before. Three were brilliant white, nearly invisible in the storm, save for the blood staining their coats. The fourth was dappled gray, and the fifth shone like gold. Ahead of the rest came a magnificent silver mare with a long, spiral horn protruding from her forehead. The unicorn stopped a respectful distance from the gate, and the lead rider—a big man with a serious face and a drooping moustache—called up to Konstantine.
“You there!” the man said, glowering. “I am Lance Sergeant Carl Volstag of the Sixth Atrian Cavalry, and this is my mount, Stardust. Your village is in dire peril, and my company needs rest and healing. Open your gates and let us in!” The sergeant wore tarnished and dented plate armor and carried a spiked mace.
“Please,” added the rider of the gold unicorn, waiting just behind the leader. She shivered slightly as she spoke; she appeared barely older than Konstantine.
Stan couldn’t seem to find the words to reply. He gazed at the strange visitors, one after another. Despite their wounds and their weary faces, he had a hard time believing the riders were real. He’d heard tales of the Atrian Cavalry, of course—everyone had—but he’d never seen so much as a single cavalry trooper before in his life. He noticed for the first time that there was a body, bloody and unmoving, slung over the back of the pack horse in the middle of the group.
“Stop gaping and let us in, boy!” Volstag commanded.
“I-I’ll have to ask the elders,” Stan called back. The riders didn’t seem evil, and he’d never heard of the Enemy using unicorns before—Could unicorns even become undead? But the arrival of a patrol of Atrian Cavalry in the middle of a blizzard was unlikely as well. Perhaps it was some kind of Enemy trick.
Stan couldn’t leave the palisade unmanned with intruders at the gate, so he grabbed hold of the wet, chilly bell cord and pulled. He beat the alarm in a clear, steady rhythm—hoping to convey a sense of urgency, rather than panic, to the people of Wolfnacht.
As the peals echoed above the storm, the doors of Wolfnacht flew open, and the villagers spilled out into the snowy streets. Some people pulled on clothes as they ran, others hefted weapons or buckled up ancient armor. Many of the townsfolk appeared frightened, others seemed curious, and some looked annoyed at being called out on a snowy evening. Many of the townsfolk carried torches and lanterns as they bustled toward the gate.
Berman, the chief elder, spotted Konstantine standing atop the wall and glowered at him. Many of the other villagers glared, too.
“What is it?” Berman called. He finished buttoning his trousers over his large belly and slogged up the palisade stair.
Nikolas, a rangy man with scruffy black hair and a stubbly face, laughed. “It’s just my little brother, Konstantine,” he barked as he followed Berman up. “Stan’s a bit daft. Just havin’ some fun with us, I’m sure.”
“Well, Konstantine will find I don’t have much of a sense of humor on a night like this,” Berman said.
“I swear, Elder Berman, this is no jest,” Stan said. The wolfish look on his brother’s face made Stan’s stomach twist.
Sweat dripped down the adolescent’s brow and mingled with the melting snow. “I-it’s important,” he stammered. “We have visitors. Look!” He pointed toward the cavalry below.
Berman frowned and peered over the pointed tops of the logs. When he saw the patrol, his eyes narrowed.
“Hail and well met, Elder Berman,” a dark-haired woman on a white unicorn called before the gruff sergeant could speak. “I am Corporal Lanna of the Sixth Atrian Cavalry, rider of Helios. And this is my commander, Lance Sergeant Carl Volstag, rider of Stardust. He would like to speak to you about a matter of great import.” Her tones were compelling, almost musical.
She flashed Volstag a slight smile, and the sergeant’s stern expression softened. He straightened regally in his saddle, brushed the snow from the shoulders of his cloak, and said, “Indeed, sir. It is urgent that we speak.”
“What do you want?” Berman called down curtly. He didn’t look very happy to see either the riders or their unicorns.
“My patrol is in difficult straits,” Volstag replied. “We need shelter from this storm and a medic.”
“I thought all unicorn riders had their own healers,” Nikolas put in suspiciously.
Volstag glowered at Konstantine’s brother for a moment before glancing toward an unsteady white stallion. A bloodied young woman wobbled atop the unicorn’s back, looking as though she might fall off at any moment.
“Our healer is gravely injured,” Sergeant Volstag explained, “as is his rider. Others of our company are wounded, too.”
Konstantine’s eyes fell on the body slung over the back of the pack horse. Was the man dead? If not, he soon would be.
Elder Berman remained unmoved. He folded his flabby arms across his chest.
“Please,” the rider of the golden unicorn interjected. “We need your help!”
“We also bring news about The Enemy,” Corporal Lanna added, “intelligence vital to the survival of your people.”
Konstantine noticed that she, too, was bloodied and unsteady in the saddle. The dappled unicorn was also hurt. Occasionally, the third white unicorn rider or the golden rider would move close and steady one of their injured comrades.
By now, more villagers had made their way to the top of the palisade. Many of them jostled past Stan, pushing the youngster back so that he could barely see over the parapet.
“Turn them away,” urged Mapes, a newly arrived elder. Her steely blue eyes glistened in the lantern light. “We can spare neither the time nor the supplies to take care of lost sheep—or unicorns.”
“She’s right,” Nikolas agreed. “We’ve got too much to do. They’ll only get in the way.”
“But we are Atrian Cavalry!” the young woman on the golden unicorn blurted. “We protect this village and every part of Atrios!”
“The only thing we need protection from is vagabonds like you,” Mapes shot back.
“I agree,” added Zurko, the butcher. “The cavalry’s done nothing for us. Now, suddenly, in the dead of winter—the day before the anniversary—they appear on our doorstep asking favors? Outrageous!”
“Aye,” Nikolas sneered. “They may ride unicorns, but they’re still just beggars. We should turn them away.”
Volstag reddened, about to give an angry reply, but Lanna cut him off.
“We will gladly pay for the services you render,” she offered.
“Pay with what?” Zurko asked. “Promises you won’t keep? We know about cavalry promises. The mountains are littered with dead villages promised much by the cavalry.”
“We’ll not be taken in by such tricks,” Mapes added.
“We’ll pay with gold!” Volstag bellowed.
“Or silver, if you prefer,” Lanna added calmly.
All at once, the villagers began babbling excitedly. The five elders—Berman, Mapes, Zurko, Bev the herbalist, and Thynes the scribe—huddled together, whispering to each other. Nikolas stood at the edge of the group, listening attentively, his dark eyes darting from the elders to the unicorn riders and back.
Stan strained his ears, trying to overhear, but he only caught a few snatches of conversation.
“Real money could be useful . . .”
“. . . so close to the ceremony . . .”
“. . . the anniversary is for us, not outsiders . . .”
“. . . a sign from the gods . . .”
“. . . no reason to turn them away . . .”
“. . . might be exactly what we need.”
As the elders conferred, Volstag leaned over and said something to Lanna. Her face remained impassive, but she nodded as he whispered. Konstantine wondered what the riders would do if Berman didn’t give in. The golden stallion and his female rider kept moving around the edges of the group, supporting first one of their comrades and then another. Konstantine caught the young rider’s eye; she looked as nervous as he felt.
The elders broke their huddle. “Open the gates!” Berman announced.
As the huge wooden doors swung open, the battered cavalry members let out a collective sigh of relief. Stan, who didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath, exhaled also.
Berman and the others made their way down from the wall and greeted the riders as the cavalry entered Wolfnacht. Stan followed and pushed to the front of the crowd as the villagers made way for the unicorns.
“You mentioned gold,” Berman said, stepping boldly in front of Volstag’s mount, forcing the unicorn to halt.
The sergeant pulled a small pouch from his belt and tossed it into Berman’s hand. Mapes took the bag from Berman, opened it, and dipped her head in approval. Berman bowed and stepped out of the way, though Stan thought the elder’s smile disingenuous.
The townspeople walked ahead of the riders, leading the cavalry through Wolfnacht’s winding streets.
“We can put you up in the inn,” Berman said, “though I’m afraid it’s rather dusty. We don’t get too many visitors this time of year.”
The rider on the dappled unicorn—a man with curly black hair and a moustache—shook his head. “It’s a wonder you have any visitors at all, if this is how you treat them.” His unicorn neighed in agreement, but stumbled slightly in the snow. A white unicorn with an injured rider on her back stepped forward and propped up the dappled rider.
“We’re sorry to appear so suspicious,” Thynes, the scribe, said rubbing his bony hands together. “But tomorrow is an important anniversary for us, and outsiders are not allowed at the Festival of Wolfnacht—not usually, anyway.”
As the group continued toward the inn, Konstantine pressed closer. So there was a festival! One he’d never heard of. That explained the elders’ furtive preparations.
Volstag seemed unmoved, but the golden unicorn rider asked, “What is the Festival of Wolfnacht?”
“It celebrates the savior of our village, Olen Wolfnacht,” Elder Bev explained. “He was a great hero who slew the mountain bandits threatening our people.”
“With the Enemy skulking nearby, the festival is very important to us,” Elder Zurko added, “and we can only celebrate on the anniversary of Wolfnacht’s victory.”
“The Enemy is closer than you know,” Volstag said grimly. “An army of zombies and fell creatures ambushed us on the other side of the Wolfnacht Pass.”
“We barely escaped with our lives,” added the curly-haired rider of the dappled unicorn.
The townspeople stopped suddenly, hemming the riders in. For a moment, the only sound was the howling of the wind.
“So you’ve led the Enemy here?” Mapes shrieked.
“The dark forces were coming anyway,” Lanna told her. “Tomorrow is the Vanishing Eclipse—one of the times the Enemy is strongest. We believe that they will storm the pass and sweep through the mountains into this land, if not during tomorrow’s eclipse, then very soon.”
Volstag puffed out his chest. “You should evacuate the village as soon as possible. My patrol will leave to fetch reinforcements as soon as we are able.”
“The storm gods willing,” added the dappled unicorn rider.
The crowd bust into worried murmurs. “But what about our homes?” “What about our farms?” “We can’t just leave!” “Tomorrow is the Festival!” “This is our town!” “This is our life!”
Stan’s stomach lurched. Had he sensed the supernatural forces gathering on the other side of the Wolfnacht pass? Was this the unnamable dread that had called him out into the storm?
Berman raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “Now, now,” he said. “There’s no need to worry. We elders have anticipated this . . . Vanishing, as the riders call it, for some time. Why, Olen Wolfnacht’s greatest deeds were accomplished on just such a day. It was during the dark moments of Nyarra’s Rebirth, long ago, that Wolfnacht himself destroyed our village’s enemies.”
“That is why we planned the Festival for this sacred time,” Mapes added. “It is the only time the rites will do any good. When the sun goes dark, our village has nothing to fear from anyone. Our celebration of the Festival of Wolfnacht will keep us safe for generations to come.”
The unicorn riders exchanged skeptical looks.
“Perhaps we can discuss this on the morrow,” Corporal Lanna suggested.
“Yes,” Zurko, the butcher, replied. “Plenty of time on the morrow.”
“The key is for every Wolfnachter to keep working,” Thynes added. “All the arrangements must be complete.” The scribe’s aged face gazed out over the townsfolk. Many grinned their approval, but some of the younger villagers seemed just as confused as Stan.
“Speaking of arrangements,” Lanna said diplomatically, “our patrol needs to rest and recuperate. I’m not saying your festival won’t work its magic, but if it doesn’t you’ll need the cavalry to protect you.”
Berman and the elders merely smiled. The crowd parted once more, and the riders crossed the last few hundred yards to the inn, an old timber-frame building with plaster walls and a thatched roof. A tumble-down stable stood next door; both structures were deserted.
The unicorns and their riders eyed the accommodations warily.
Berman beamed. “The best the town has to offer,” he said.
“Thanks,” said the curly haired rider, though Stan didn’t think he meant it.
As the patrol dismounted, most of the villagers—save for the elders—hurried back to their homes. The blizzard was still blowing, and few cared to brave the storm any longer just to gawk at the ragged cavalry.
Konstantine remained, patting his arms to ward off the chill.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to look after yourselves,” Mapes told the riders. “The innkeeper and his wife are busy with preparations for the festival—like everyone else.”
“What about the stable hands?” Volstag asked.
“He died of flu earlier this year,” Elder Bev explained.
“Not enough folk to do the work around here,” Berman added jovially. “Sorry.”
“I can help,” Konstantine blurted. “I’d love to help.”
Nikolas glared at his younger brother. “What about your chores, boy?”
“I can do them later,” Stan shot back. Nikolas stepped forward and raised his arm to strike his brother, but Berman stepped between them.
The Elder scratched his chin. “I suppose we could spare one of our young people to help you riders out.”
“Thank you,” Lanna said. She winced and gripped her left shoulder. Konstantine noticed fresh blood seeping through her cloak.
The eyes of all five elders fastened on the corporal. Some looked concerned, but others—perhaps still worried about the threat to the village—appeared to be taking the measure of the wounded riders.
“Yes. Thanks,” Volstag added, keeping his eyes fixed on Berman. “We appreciate it.”
Berman bowed politely as he and the other elders turned to leave. “I’ll see if I can turn up another youngster to help you,” he said. “But don’t count on it. All of us are very busy, you know.”
“So we’ve heard,” the curly haired rider of the dappled unicorn muttered.
“Keep out of trouble, colt,” Nikolas said, cuffing Konstantine on the back of the head.
Stan glared at his brother. “Worry about yourself, why don’t you?”
Nikolas and the elders chuckled and walked away.
“I will bring herbs,” Bev, the herbalist, called back over her shoulder. “I’m no Il-Siha, but perhaps some of my remedies may bring you relief.”
“Thank you,” the golden unicorn’s rider called after her.
“Thanks for everything,” Lanna added. As the elders left, she and the other riders turned and stared at Konstantine.
For a moment, Stan felt as though he might wither under their collective gaze.
“Can we trust you, boy?” Volstag asked gruffly.
“I . . . Of course!” Stan replied.
“I don’t see we have any choice,” Lanna’s white unicorn, Helios, muttered.
Konstantine’s legs buckled and he plopped down into the snow. “It . . . it talks!”
“So do you,” Helios replied, “but you don’t see me making an ass of myself about it.”
“Do all unicorns talk?” Stan asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes,” the golden unicorn nearby told him. “But some only talk to their riders.”
His rider, the young blond woman, helped Konstantine to his feet. “I’m Private First Class Kyra,” she said. “And this is Rigel.” She patted her mount on his golden neck.
“K-Konstantine,” the boy managed to stammer. “Most people call me Stan.” He extended his hand again, and Kyra shook it.
“Enough chatter,” Volstag said. “People are bleeding to death here, boy. Make yourself useful or get out of the way.”
To Stan, the entire patrol appeared much more beat up than they had just moments before: their shoulders sagged, their eyes looked tired and worried, and they clutched at their still-bleeding wounds and gritted their teeth against the pain of their injuries. Clearly, the riders had been hiding the extent of their wounds from Berman and the Wolfnacht elders.
A ginger-haired youth in the back of the group lolled forward, leaning heavily against his white unicorn’s neck. At the front, a woman with mousy brown hair swayed precariously, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
Stan and Kyra rushed forward and caught her before she fell. As they draped her arms around their shoulders and helped her down, the unicorn she’d been riding collapsed into the snow. Dark blood seeped from beneath the unicorn’s white mane.
“Percy’s down!” Kyra announced. “And Janise isn’t in much better shape.” She and Stan struggled to keep the wounded rider, Janise, on her feet.
“Get her inside,” Volstag ordered. He and Lanna had gone to help the unconscious rider slung over the pack horse. “Rigel can help Santos and Apollonia with Percy. Lanna and I will do what we can for Wilfred.”
Rigel, Kyra’s golden mount, bobbed his head in agreement.
“Luva’s tears!” Volstag cursed. “Stardust warned me that this place would be trouble!”
The ginger-haired young man righted himself. “Where hasn’t been trouble for us lately, Sarge?” he said. Then he broke into a coughing fit.
“Are you okay, Roj?” Kyra asked, concern written across her young face.
Roj nodded, but couldn’t manage to say anything through the coughing. His unicorn didn’t look in much better shape; her knees buckled slightly as she tried to support her rider.
“Volstag and I will help Roj and Cherish once we’ve looked after Wilfred,” Lanna assured Kyra. “You concentrate on Janise.”
“I’m fine,” Roj gasped, but none of the rest believed him.
Lanna and Volstag carefully lifted the badly wounded man, Wilfred, from the back of the pack horse. As they did, bells attached to the animal’s harness jingled softly.
Stan paused as he and Kyra helped Janise toward the inn. So that’s the sound I heard through the storm, he thought. The cheerful noise sounded completely inappropriate given the current situation.
Sergeant Volstag scowled. “And keep that boy out of the way,” he ordered Kyra.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Come on, Stan. Let’s get Janise inside.”
Konstantine helped walk the wounded rider inside the inn. Kyra’s blue eyes scanned the great room and settled on a padded chair by the fireplace. “We’ll sit her down there,” she told Stan.
At that moment, Janise’s legs gave way. Stan staggered under the sudden burden, but Kyra supported most of the weight, and they soon managed to drag Janise to the chair. As they set her down, the brown-haired rider’s head lolled from side to side. Her deep brown eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, and her mouth gaped. Kyra lifted Janise’s cloak, revealing a blood-soaked tunic beneath.
Kyra pulled a silver knife from her boot and cut open the fabric covering Janise’s right side. A ragged gash, just above the hip, oozed dark blood.
Stan gasped and went pale.
“Don’t pass out on me, Konstantine,” Kyra muttered, still cutting.
He shook his head, fighting back swirling nausea. “I won’t.”
“Good. Get me some hot water and fresh cloth to clean the wound.”
Stan peered around, but the fire in the inn’s hearth was merely a few smoldering coals. “There’s no fire,” he said plaintively. “And I don’t see any clean cloth, either.”
“There must be bedspreads somewhere in this gods-forsaken place,” Kyra said. “Tear some up—but make sure they’ve been washed recently.”
“Okay,” Stan said. He turned toward the stairs leading to the guest rooms.
“Oh,” Kyra called after him. “Throw me something strong from the bar. Cleaning the wound with alcohol will have to suffice until you can get the fire going.”
“Right,” he said. He took a bottle of whiskey from behind the counter and tossed it to her, then hurried to the stairs.
As he ascended, she uncorked the bottle with her teeth. “Sorry about this, Janise,” Kyra said, pouring the alcohol on her comrade’s wound. Janise screamed.
The horrible cry echoed in Stan’s ears as he raced upstairs. Heart pounding, he ransacked three guest rooms before finding a set of clean sheets. He yanked the linens from the bed and tore them into strips as he rushed back downstairs.
Janise lay slumped unconscious in the chair, with Kyra still examining her side. The other riders had brought the badly wounded man, Wilfred, into the room and laid him on a table near the fireplace. Sergeant Volstag, Corporal Lanna, ginger-haired Roj, and the rider with curly black hair crouched around their fallen comrade, tending the hideous wounds that covered Wilfred’s body.
“Thanks,” Kyra said as Stan handed her the strips of clean cloth. “Now see what you can do about that fire.”
Stan fetched some logs from beside the hearth and shoved them into the fireplace. The rough bark scraped against his skin, but he was glad for it. The sensation distracted him from the nauseating stench of blood and guts that now filled the room.
With skill born from long practice, Konstantine quickly built the smoldering embers into a strong blaze. He stood, triumphant, and smiled—but the expression faded when he saw the riders’ grim faces. All of them, even Kyra, now stood around Wilfred; they hung their heads.
“Dammit!” Roj said. “There must be something more we can do!” His breath came in ragged gasps.
Lanna shook her head and Kyra brushed back a tear. “No,” Volstag announced. “There’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry, Roj,” Lanna said. “He’s gone.”
Stan swallowed hard. The dead man lay pale and motionless on the table. The terrible wounds across his chest and belly glistened red in the firelight. Stan’s stomach twisted. He’d seen dead bodies before, but never anyone killed by violence.
“It’s better this way,” the curly haired rider said. “He wouldn’t have wanted to live with Fiona gone—same as I wouldn’t want to carry on without Apollonia.”
Roj staggered toward him, but Kyra stepped between them.
“Easy for you to say, Santos,” Roj snapped. “Apollonia’s not lying dead in that gods-cursed pass, swarmed by zombies like Fiona.”
Santos’ dark eyes flared. “You think I don’t know that?” he snapped back. “All of us were lucky to get out of that pass alive. I thank the gods that Apollonia was only wounded. But if she’d fallen, I’d have wanted you to leave me there at her side. We should have done the same for Wilfred.”
“You’re saying we should have left him there, even though he was still alive?” Roj said. He began coughing again.
“Better to die in battle than in some flea-bitten inn,” Santos replied.
“Enough!” Volstag barked. “There’ll be no more talk of dying while I’m in charge. We’re going to tend our wounded and return to base, every last one of us. Kyra, how’s Janise?”
Kyra took a deep breath. The flickering firelight behind her turned Kyra’s pale blond hair into a glowing halo. To Stan, the young rider looked like a warrior angel.
“She’s in bad shape,” Kyra said. “There was a zombie finger joint still lodged in her side, but I removed it. I’ve cleansed the area with alcohol and holy water—but I’m no Il-Siha medic. If infection doesn’t set in, she might pull through.” The girl appeared sad and very tired. “What about Percy?”
Lanna pulled her soggy cloak back from her face, revealing short dark hair and slightly pointed ears.
She’s an elf, Stan thought. Or a half-elf, anyway.
The elfish corporal gazed toward the front door, as though listening. “Helios says Percy is in very bad shape,” Lanna said. “His powers are failing, and he can’t even heal himself. The others aren’t sure if he’ll last the night.”
“What about Apollonia and the rest?” Santos asked. He worriedly smeared the sweat from his brow and pushed his dark, curly hair back on his forehead.
“Helios doesn’t think Apollonia’s in danger,” Lanna said. “If Percy were well, he could heal her up quickly. The others are fine, only minor scrapes and bruises.”
“By the Gods of Wrath!” Roj blurted. “Lieutenant Grimshanks and Clementine, Fiona, and now Percy! It’s like those undead bastards targeted our healers specifically!”
“They’re just zombies,” Santos replied. “They can’t tell a healer from a hole in the snow.”
“Someone’s directing them,” Kyra said quietly. “Someone’s driving that horde through Wolfnacht Pass straight toward this village.”
Volstag shook his head. “The Enemy is like a ravenous beast,” he said. “It doesn’t need a plan; it just devours everything in its path.”
A cold shock leapt down Stan’s spine. “W-wait!” he gasped. “You mean they’re that close? The enemy forces that attacked you are in Wolfnacht Pass? They didn’t attack you while you were trying to reach the pass on the other side? They’re not staying on that side of the mountain?”
Santos glared at him. “Weren’t you listening, boy? They’ve massed for invasion, and they’re on their way! What do you think we were trying to tell your elders?”
“But it’s the middle of a blizzard!” Stan protested.
“The storm didn’t stop us coming,” Santos said, “and it won’t stop the Enemy either.”
“They’re already dead,” Roj muttered. “They don’t feel the cold.” Pale and sweating, he leaned heavily against one of the room’s support posts. Blood dripped down his right arm.
Stan felt as though the whole world might cave in at any moment. “But we need to do something!”
“We are doing something,” Lanna said calmly. “We’re tending our wounded and planning our next move. Kyra, take a look at Roj, would you?”
Kyra stepped toward him, but Roj pulled away, saying, “I’m okay.”
Kyra fixed her blue eyes on him. “One infected wound and you’re fighting for the Enemy instead of against him,” she said. Reluctantly, Roj offered his wounded arm for her to examine.
Konstantine wanted to run. He wanted to bolt out into the night and keep running until the snowstorm swallowed him. How could the riders remain so calm with the Enemy nearly at the gates of Wolfnacht?
Volstag put a reassuring hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Talk to your people, if you think it’ll do any good,” the sergeant told the adolescent. “Maybe they’ll listen to you better than they listened to us.”
All of Stan’s breath rushed out at once; he shook his head. “No,” he said plaintively. “No one ever listens to me. I’m too young.”
“You’re old enough to help us,” Kyra said, dabbing Roj’s wound with a torn sheet. “We have hurt soldiers and injured unicorns to look after. How’s that water coming?”
Stan glanced toward the kettle simmering on the fireplace. “Nearly boiling.”
“Then fetch it here,” she replied. He did, being careful not to burn his fingers on the hot metal.
“Strip down, everyone,” Volstag commanded. “I want a full account of wounds. We need to make sure that no one’s infected. No one’s going over to their side, not while I’m in command!”
Elder Bev returned with her herbs in the middle of the bandaging. She offered a few suggestions for the use of her medicines and then quietly slipped back into the snowy night.
Lanna and Volstag made a quick assessment of the new supplies. They finished re-dressing and, together with Santos, headed for the stable to help the unicorns.
“I’ll go with you,” Roj offered. Despite his freshly bandaged arm, he still appeared weak and pale.
“No,” Lanna said. “Get some rest. Cherish is in better shape than you are; she can help nurse the others.”
It seemed as though Roj might not obey, but Volstag turned to Kyra. “Keep him here and make sure he sleeps,” he commanded. “Knock him out, if you have to.”
“Yessir,” Kyra said. Roj glared at her, but the look in the blond girl’s eyes told him that—if she had to—she would follow the sergeant’s orders to the letter.
“I’ll be upstairs,” Roj grumbled. “Call if you need me.” Kyra nodded, and the ginger-haired young man limped up the stairs to one of the empty bedrooms.
The fire guttered as Volstag, Lanna, and Santos opened the inn door and crossed to the stables. Stan shut the door behind them, closing out the wind, and the fire blazed up again.
Kyra let out a long sigh and slumped into a chair by the fireplace. She gazed at Janise, who slept restlessly nearby.
Stan flopped down on the floor next to Kyra, feeling the warmth of the fire against his skin. Irresistibly, the boy found his gaze drawn toward the ceiling. Before Elder Bev arrived, the cavalry riders had stowed Wilfred’s body upstairs.
“Won’t he . . .” Stan began. “Won’t he become one of them?”
Kyra shook her head. “No. Sergeant Volstag will have staked a silver knife through Fred’s heart. That, a few prayers, and some holy water should keep Wilfred from troubling us.”
“Was he your friend? Wilfred, I mean?”
Kyra ran her hands through her silvery blond hair, closed her eyes, and let her head slump back. “They were all my friends: Lieutenant Grimshanks and Clementine, Fred and Fiona, Vinson and Prys, West, Permichael . . . every one of them, friends as well as comrades. That’s the way it is here . . . the way it is for all of us. The Atrian Cavalry isn’t just a job, you know—it’s a way of life.”
“You’re not much older than me,” Stan said. “You can’t have been at it very long.”
“Long enough,” Kyra replied. “You’d be surprised how long.” She slitted her eyes open and looked at Janise. “I pray to the gods that we don’t lose anyone else today.”
Stan’s eyes strayed from the wounded rider to the door. The storm hissed as wind spattered big snowflakes against the swirled panes of glass set into the wooden portal.
“What happened to your patrol?” he asked. “I thought unicorns could heal from any wound. I thought their riders were invincible.”
Kyra chuckled ruefully. “It’s nice that some people still believe those myths,” she said. “We’re better trained and equipped than most warriors, but in the end, we’re just as mortal as anyone else—as you’ve seen.”
“Yes.” Stan said. It was more a sigh than a word, and his head sagged with disappointment. “So, what happened? Did the Enemy take you by surprise?”
Her blue eyes stared off into an uncertain distance. “They caught us in the pass as we were returning from patrol. There were hundreds of them, thousands maybe, concealed in the rocks. They pulled Lieutenant Grimshanks and Clementine down almost before we realized what was happening.
“The rest of us fought like hell, but it was all we could do to break away and save ourselves. The others—the ones we lost—bought our escape with their lives.” She glanced toward the door, and, at that moment, a high, keening wail pierced the snowy darkness.
“What’s that?” Stan asked, jumping to his feet.
Kyra quickly knelt at Janise’s side. The unconscious girl writhed in her chair. It was all the blond rider could do to hold her wounded friend down.
“Percy’s gone,” Kyra explained. She bowed her head and tears dripped down her face.
“How do you know?” Stan asked. “Do you have some kind of telepathic bond with your unicorn, like that elf girl does?” He was guessing about Lanna’s power, but, given what he’d seen, it was a reasonable surmise.
“I don’t need telepathy for this,” Kyra snapped. “Can’t you hear it? That’s the unicorn’s death song. They only sing it when they’ve lost one of their own.”
“I’m sorry,” Konstantine said. He felt a fool—completely inadequate next to this strong, brave, beautiful girl.
Kyra’s expression softened. “Just help me to hold Janise down until the fits pass,” she said.
Konstantine knelt beside her and helped keep the wounded rider in the chair. Janise was surprisingly strong, given her condition. “Will she be all right?” Stan asked.
“Losing a unicorn is like losing part of your own body,” Kyra replied. “Some people never recover from it. If we can get her through the night, she might stand a chance.” In Kyra’s startling blue eyes, Stan saw determination and just a hint of fear. But was it fear for herself, or for her friend?
“How long do you think we have?” he asked quietly.
“How long until Janise is okay?”
“No—how long until the enemy comes.”
“No way of knowing. Not tonight, I hope, but anytime in the next few days. We dealt them a blow, though it cost us dearly, but we haven’t delayed them for long. I hope this magic ritual your elders are planning to protect the town works.”
“I . . . I hope so, too.”
“How are they going to do it? Do you know?”
Konstantine squirmed and turned away from her piercing gaze. “I really don’t know anything,” he said. “I’m not old enough, you see. That’s what they think, anyway.”
Janise’s struggling had lessened, and Kyra put a steady hand on Stan’s shoulder.
“I was younger than you when I joined the cavalry,” the girl with the silver-blond hair said. “There’s more in you than your elders give you credit for.”
“It might not be so bad if my parents were alive,” Stan said. “But Nikolas ... my brother ... he likes to treat me like a child. It makes him feel older, I suppose.”
She bobbed her head sympathetically. “I lost my parents, too. What can you tell me about this hero your town is named after?”
“They say that on the day of Nyarra’s Rebirth, Olen Wolfnacht made a pact with the gods. The gods gave him the power to protect the village from its enemies,” Stan replied. “They say Wolfnacht drove the bandits back into the mountains and killed their chief. Then he tamed all the surrounding countryside and made Wolfnacht safe. At least . . . until the war.”
“Is that what the elders are going to do tomorrow? Are they going to renew the town’s pact with the gods?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. The temple in town is deserted.”
Kyra frowned.
“The priest died a few years ago, and they never sent a replacement,” Stan explained, feeling the paucity of the excuse as he said it. “I heard my brother say, ‘The gods abandoned Wolfnacht long ago.’” He took a deep breath. “I heard other people say the same thing about the Atrian Cavalry.”
“We didn’t abandon you,” Kyra said. “If we had, we wouldn’t have been riding patrol in the mountains.”
“Maybe it would have been better for you if you had abandoned us.” He hung his head.
Kyra put her hand under his chin and lifted his face to hers. “We will never desert those in need,” she said. “I promise you.”
Konstantine turned away. He believed her, but he also knew that sometimes people couldn’t help breaking well-intended promises. Sometimes circumstances intervened, and people didn’t have any more choice than his parents—or the town priest—had.
Janise had ceased struggling, so Kyra had Stan fetch down some clean bedding and pillows from the guest rooms. The two of them fixed up a makeshift bed near the fireplace and gently lowered the wounded girl onto it. Kyra tucked up the covers tight around Janise, wiped the sweat from her friend’s face, and kissed the unconscious girl on the forehead.
“You sleep now,” the silver-haired warrior said gently.
Just at that moment, the door blew open and the other riders entered. They slammed the door shut, stomped the snow from their boots, and stripped off their sodden cloaks.
“You heard?” Volstag asked.
“Aye,” Kyra said.
“We have a difficult decision to make,” the sergeant said.
“What decision?” she asked.
“Roj and Lanna are pretty badly hurt—” Volstag began. When Lanna started to protest, he cut her off. “—Even if our half-elf friend here won’t admit it. She and Roj need rest—a lot of it. Apollonia shouldn’t be traveling, either. You, Santos, and I are pretty banged up also, as are our mounts.”
“We’re well enough to ride,” Kyra said. “We could go for help.”
“Yes, the three of us are well enough to ride,” Volstag admitted, “but we’re not going to leave without our comrades. And we can’t stay in this doomed village any more than the townsfolk can, not with the Enemy surging through that pass at any moment.”
“Maybe the magic spell the villagers are planning will work,” Santos suggested. “Maybe it will keep the undead at bay.”
“Are you willing to bet your life on that, Santos?” Volstag said. “Because I’m not.”
“So, what can you do?” Stan asked. Everyone but Kyra jumped; they’d forgotten the boy was in the room.
“Yes,” Kyra said, “what can we do?”
“We can try to make a potion from Percy’s horn,” Lanna said wearily. “He had the gift of healing. Even in death, he could pass it along to us.”
“But Permichael and West are dead,” Kyra said. “None of us have the skill to brew such a potion.”
“I can try,” Lanna replied. “I’ve seen it done before—once.”
“It’s not much of a chance,” Volstag admitted.
The half-elf corporal sighed. “It’s the only chance we’ve got.”
“Unless the villagers’ ceremony works,” Santos put in. All of the riders stared at Stan, as though expecting him to know about the planned ceremony.
The adolescent squirmed under their gaze. “I don’t know,” he said. “I-I hope it will work.”
“The elders haven’t let him in on their plans,” Kyra explained.
“We have to try using the horn,” Lanna insisted. “I don’t like desecrating Percy’s body any more than the rest of you do, but. . . .”
Slowly, Kyra bowed her head. “We’ll need all our strength if we have to fight to protect the villagers.”
“You’d do that?” Stan said. “Even after the way they treated you?”
“It’s our duty, boy!” Santos replied.
Volstag crossed his arms over his barrel-like chest. “We’ll have to keep our mounts calm while extracting the horn,” he explained. “They understand the necessity of it, but it still won’t be easy for them.”
“No easier than cutting up Wilfred would be for us,” Lanna added. Stan shuddered at the thought.
“What about Roj and Janise?” Kyra asked.
“Gods willing, they’ll sleep through the whole thing,” Volstag replied.
“How can I help?” Stan asked.
Volstag glowered at him. “Just keep out of the way,” the leader of the unicorn riders said.
“And tell us if there’s any change in Janise or Roj,” Kyra said, flashing Stan a sympathetic smile. “Please.” She donned her cloak and the others did the same.
“How long will . . . extracting the horn take?” Stan asked as the riders opened the door. Outside, the wind howled hungrily.
“Hours, probably,” Lanna replied. “If the magic is to work at all, the extraction has to be done correctly.”
“Don’t wait up,” Santos added grimly.
The riders went out to the stables, pulling the door shut behind them. Outside, the blizzard howled and scratched at the windowpanes.
Konstantine bundled a soft quilt around his shoulders, settled back in a big wooden chair, and stared into the fire. He wished he could assist the riders in some way—they were trying to save his people, after all—but what else could he do? He didn’t know what kind of spell the elders were planning for Nyarra’s Rebirth, and he certainly didn’t know anything about unicorn horns or potions.
He glanced at Janise, slumbering next to the hearth. She looked terrible. Even in sleep, worry furrowed her pale, sweaty brow. Every now and again, she twitched and groaned softly. Stan wished he were a healer, or, at the least, that he’d taken lessons in palliative herbs from Elder Bev.
Outside, the wind continued to wail, and snowflakes scraped and spattered against the inn’s windowpanes. But inside, by the fire, the room was warm and the air close and comforting. As Stan waited for the other riders to return, exhaustion took him and his eyes slowly drifted shut.
He dreamed he was sitting in the common room of the inn, just as he had been when he fell asleep. Outside, the blizzard still raged, but there was a new noise, too. The howling that filled the inn wasn’t just the wind anymore, it was hungry wolves, prowling outside—the Enemy’s corpse wolves, looking for a chink in Wolfnacht’s defenses.
But hadn’t wolves been the totem animals of Olen Wolfnacht, too? Stan thought so, though his sleep-beclouded mind couldn’t be sure. He thought he remembered stories of the town’s founder wearing wolfskins and leading twin gray wolves into battle.
Perhaps that’s what Stan was hearing; perhaps it wasn’t the Enemy outside, but Wolfnacht himself coming to rescue the people of his village.
As Stan stared at the window, hoping beyond hope that the ancient hero was arriving, something stirred by the hearth. Stan swiveled in his chair just as Janise rose from her bundled blankets. She was tall and fair, naked—her skin pale and her brown hair golden in the firelight. She didn’t seem wounded at all; she looked like a shimmering goddess.
Stan made to stand up and help her, but she shook her head and put a finger to her lips. Wordlessly, she walked across the common room, opened, the door, and vanished into the snowy night. Outside, the wolves howled more loudly—apparently overjoyed to see her.
Konstantine smiled, glad that Janise had recovered. He pulled his quilts around him and settled back to sleep. But, oddly, he felt cold.
Why was it so cold here by the fire?
“Konstantine! Konstantine, wake up!”
Kyra stood over him, worry etched across her young face. She stepped nimbly out of the way as Volstag’s strong hands reached past her and seized Konstantine by the shirtfront.
Volstag lifted Stan out of the chair and shook him. “Where’s Janise?” the sergeant demanded, his face purple with rage. “Where is she, you foolish boy?”
“I . . . I don’t know!” Stan gasped. He glanced toward the fire; the wounded girl was gone, just as in his dream. Volstag dropped him back into the chair.
Near the door, Lanna bent low to the floorboards, examining some dark, wet stains on the wood—blood or melted snow. “She must have gone,” the half-elf said. “She must have walked into the storm while we were . . . working.”
“She’s delirious,” Santos put in. “The loss of Percy must have unhinged her. Better riders than Janise have lost their minds when their steeds died.”
“Damn it to the abyss!” Volstag cursed.
“We have to find her,” Kyra said urgently. “She won’t last long in this storm.”
“I-I’ll help,” Stan said. The thought of the injured rider wandering alone in the blizzard twisted his stomach into worried knots.
Volstag, Lanna, and Santos glared at him. “You’ve already done enough,” Santos snarled.
“It’s not his fault,” Kyra said, stepping between her friends and the young man. “You told him to get some sleep, Santos. How could he know Janise would wander off? Besides, Konstantine knows this area better than we do. Maybe he can help.”
“Yes,” Konstantine said. “Yes, I want to help. Please!”
“He’s your responsibility, then,” Volstag said, thrusting his index finger toward the silver-haired girl. “You, Lanna, and I will mount up. Santos, you administer the potion to Roj and Apollonia. Then you and she will follow us. Cherish can stand guard outside the inn and make sure Roj doesn’t wander off before he’s fully healed.”
The other members of the patrol saluted and said, “Yessir!”
Kyra took Stan by the elbow. “Grab your cloak,” she said. “You’ll be riding behind me on Rigel. He’s strong, and the extra weight won’t bother him.”
Stan fetched his cloak and boots from where they’d been drying by the fire. In less than two minutes, he and Kyra were out the door and into the blizzard.
Riding a unicorn was a lot like riding a horse—though Konstantine didn’t have much experience with that, either. The unicorns didn’t have saddles, so Stan perched himself on Rigel’s back, just behind Kyra, and locked his arms around her waist. Pressing against the quiver of crossbow bolts strapped to the girl warrior’s back was uncomfortable, but she felt very warm, and the strength of her body reassured him. Riding with Kyra of the silvery hair, he would be safe.
Kyra, Rigel, and Stan formed up outside the stable with Volstag and Stardust, and Lanna and Helios. Cherish went to stand guard in front of the inn, while Santos—having administered the potion to his steed, Apollonia—headed inside to heal Roj.
Lanna checked the snow for tracks and led the other riders toward Wolfnacht’s main gate.
“Are you sure she went the way?” Volstag asked, peering into the snowstorm.
“With the wind blurring the tracks, I can’t tell for certain,” Lanna replied. “Where else could she be, though? If she were wandering in the village, someone would have found her and brought her back to us by now.”
“The villagers haven’t been very helpful so far,” Kyra noted.
It’s that damn festival! Stan thought, feeling deeply ashamed. Everyone in Wolfnacht is too busy preparing for the Nyarra’s Rebirth. A wounded girl is wandering alone in the snow, and none of my people have even noticed!
As the riders approached the gate, a lithe shadow appeared out of the snowy darkness and blocked their way.
“Nikolas!” Konstantine said, recognizing his brother.
“Where do all of you think you’re going?” Nikolas asked. “Sneaking off like thieves in the night?” He scowled at the three unicorns and their riders from beneath his thick, dark brows.
“One of our riders has gone missing,” Volstag said gruffly.
“She was injured,” Lanna explained. “Delirious. She’s wandered off into the storm.”
“Did you see anyone leave, Nikolas?” Kyra asked.
Nikolas’ eyes narrowed. “We heard a commotion and the elders sent me out to check,” he said. “I found you prowling around. I haven’t seen any girl.”
“What about the guards?” Kyra said. “Didn’t you leave someone guarding the wall after we arrived? Did they see anyone?”
“Wolfnacht is a large town,” he replied. “And, with the festival tomorrow, we could only spare one person for the walls. Probably he’s walking some other section of the palisade.”
“So someone could have sneaked out,” Lanna pressed.
“It’s possible,” Nikolas said, shrugging. “But no one will be leaving while I’m here.” He smirked and bowed impudently.
To Stan, the smile seemed like a threat. How his brother might stop the powerful unicorn riders, Stan couldn’t imagine. Nikolas was slowing them down when every moment counted.
Stan slid from Rigel’s back and stood face to face with his brother. “They’re trying to help,” Stan said. “Don’t you understand that?”
Nikolas grinned at him. “Are you the unicorn riders’ pet now, Stan?”
“No more than you’re the pet of Berman and Mapes,” Stan shot back.
Nikolas’ right fist smashed into Konstantine’s chin.
The world exploded into a cascade of falling stars, and Stan toppled back into the snow. He landed hard on his rump. Nikolas seized Stan by the shirt and reeled back for another blow.
Before the punch fell, Kyra snagged Nikolas’ wrist. Her blue eyes stared coldly at him. He sneered at her.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave him alone and let us pass,” she said.
“So . . . that’s how it is,” Nikolas snarled.
“That’s how it is,” she replied.
Nikolas shook himself free and backed away. Stan staggered to his feet, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth.
“You can leave, if you want,” Nikolas told the group, as he pulled back one side of the gate, “but don’t expect to be let back in.” He fixed his eyes upon his younger brother. “None of you.”
“We’ll see about that when the time comes,” Volstag said. He urged Stardust through the gap and into the snowy wilderness beyond. Lanna on Helios followed, with Kyra and Stan on Rigel bringing up the rear.
Stan’s gaze lingered on the gates of Wolfnacht as he rode away.
“Worried about leaving—or about returning?” Kyra asked.
“Neither,” he replied. “I was just hoping my brother wouldn’t bother the other riders when they try to follow us.”
“Don’t worry,” Kyra said. “Santos and Apollonia can take care of themselves.”
They’d ridden several hundred yards toward the mountains now, but the darkness and the swirling snow was making it nearly impossible to see.
“Janise!” Volstag called, but the wail of the storm smothered even the sergeant’s booming voice. “Can you and Helios see anything, Lanna?”
“Not a trace,” she replied. “The snow blows away the tracks as soon as we make them. If Percy were still alive, Helios might be able to track Janise telepathically, but. . . .” She shrugged her hands helplessly.
“Fingall’s balls!” Volstag cursed. “We’ll have to split up.”
“I-is that safe?” Stan asked.
“There’s no other choice,” Volstag said. “We either find Janise quickly, or she freezes to death.”
“Dawn’s only a few hours away,” Kyra pointed out.
“It won’t come soon enough to save her,” Lanna replied. “Janise is tough, but, without Percy, she won’t last long out here.”
“Stardust and I will bull our way north, toward the pass,” Volstag said. “Lanna and Helios, head east and check the forest as far as you can. Kyra, you and Rigel circle west and then south. Lanna, have Helios tell Cherish that she and Santos should sweep the town thoroughly and then circle outside the wall, looking for any signs. We’ll join up by the main gate an hour after sunrise. If the gods are willing, we’ll have found Janise well before then.”
“Yessir,” the riders replied.
Kyra patted Rigel’s neck and turned west, while the others slogged north and east. At first, Konstantine wondered why Kyra, clearly the youngest of the group, had been given the largest area of ground to cover. It soon became apparent that Rigel was uniquely suited to the task of searching large areas.
While Stardust plowed through the snow toward the pass, and Helios lumbered a bit more swiftly to the east, Rigel vaulted to the top of the snowdrifts and sped west at an astonishing speed. The sleet pelting Stan’s face felt like bee stings, and the wind threatened to rip the breath from his lungs.
“H-how. . . ?” he managed to gasp.
Kyra laughed, an incongruous sound in the smothering, frigid grayness. “All unicorns have gifts. Rigel can run like the wind and cross any terrain as though it were open ground. Hold tight and keep your eyes open, Stan. We’ll need all six of our eyes to spot Janise in this tempest.”
Konstantine did as he was told, clinging tight to the warm, muscular girl, and scanning in all directions as they rode. The village lights behind them became pale dots and then quickly vanished in the snow and darkness.
I could be a thousand miles from home, Stan thought. And, for a moment, he wished he were a thousand miles away. How wonderful to be on some great adventure with this unicorn rider girl! How wonderful to never have to return to the bleak days and dreary nights of Wolfnacht!
The wind and stinging snow soon cured Stan of his fancies. His toes and fingers quickly began to ache with the cold. To keep his mind off his frozen digits, he asked, “How does one become a unicorn rider?”
“Some enlist,” Kyra said. “Others are conscripted. Still others, like me, are Chosen.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that we seem fated to be unicorn riders,” she replied. “At some point in our lives, our mounts find us, and we never look back.”
“So, Rigel found you?”
“Yes,” the rider and her golden unicorn said in unison.
“How?”
Kyra didn’t reply.
Rigel’s deep voice broke the uncomfortable silence. “That’s a tale for another time.”
“Konstantine, do you know where we are?” Kyra asked.
Stan looked around. Impending dawn had brightened the surrounding wilderness, and through the swirling flakes he saw dark, mountainous shapes ahead. “We’re nearing the western side of the valley—I think,” he said.
“We’ll stop a moment, check our bearings, and warm up, before circling south,” Kyra said. Rigel slowed and settled lightly into the snow.
“I’m plenty warm,” he remarked. The unicorn snorted and great clouds of steam rose into the snowy sky.
“Well, my limbs are stiff and cold, and I’m betting Konstantine’s are, too,” Kyra said.
“I’m fine,” Stan insisted. “I can keep going.”
Rigel snorted again.
“Take a few minutes to stretch,” Kyra told Stan. She hopped off of Rigel’s back and paced through the snow, swinging her arms vigorously.
Stan got down, nearly slipping, and did the same.
Kyra drew her sword and made a few practice cuts in the air. The weapon gleamed silver in the gray of the storm.
“Is it magical?” Stan asked, his eyes wide. His heart fluttered with the possibility.
“No,” Kyra replied. “I’m not of high enough rank for magic—nor have I won such a weapon in combat. The blade is a silver alloy, though.”
Konstantine’s stomach growled, and he wished he had brought something to eat.
“All riders carry weapons of silver and iron,” Rigel added. “In our jobs, we need such things.”
“Yes, I understand,” Stan said. Supposedly, weapons of silver or cold iron were more effective against the Enemy’s forces.
“If I live long enough, I’ll have better,” Kyra mused. With a final flourish, she sheathed the sword at her belt.
Somehow, it had never really occurred to Stan just how dangerous this silver-haired girl’s occupation was. Every day, she put her life in danger; every time she rode her golden unicorn, there was a chance she would never see another sunset. “If I live long enough. . .” The idea behind the words made Stan’s chest tighten.
“I-I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he said. “You’ll have plenty of time . . . I mean . . . I’m sure you’ll have the best weapons one day.” He smiled at her, but felt foolish.
“I’ll settle for just living through the night,” she replied. “. . . And finding Janise.”
“Time to get moving,” Rigel urged.
“Right,” Kyra said. She mounted quickly and helped Stan up behind her. He clung tight, though her crossbow quiver felt cold and unyielding against his chest.
“Circle south and the back toward the city,” she told her mount.
“I heard Volstag’s plan,” Rigel replied. “Did you think I’d forgotten?”
Again, she laughed.
Even though she’s not much older than me, Konstantine thought, she’s used to danger.
They galloped south, weaving back and forth across the tops of the drifts in a careful search pattern. For Stan, the world became a cold gray blur. The only thing that remained real to him was the girl and the thundering gallop of her steed. He found even this frigid existence preferable to his lowly life in Wolfnacht.
“Do you think . . .” he began. “Do you think I could join the cavalry?”
At first, he thought though Kyra hadn’t heard him through the wind. A low neigh, like a chuckle, rumbled from Rigel’s barrel-like chest.
“I’d like to see the world,” Stan added, “or Atrios, anyway. And I’d like to fight evil. I know I’m young, but . . .”
“You’re older than Kyra was when I met her,” Rigel put in.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t,” Kyra finally said. “Assuming any of us make it back to base, you’re welcome to tag along. I can’t promise you’ll be accepted, but you can at least try.”
Her answer made him feel even warmer than the closeness of her body. To leave Wolfnacht! To strike out into the world and leave his dull life behind!
“You’ll have to stay alert if you want to join the cavalry,” Rigel warned, breaking Stan’s reverie.
“I will. I promise.”
They rode silently for a while, as the snow-filled sky grew gradually lighter. The storm was abating as well; the howl of the wind no longer drowned out the blood pounding in Stan’s frigid ears.
Kyra gazed at the sky, cursed, and said, “It’s time to go back. Gods of Mercy, I was hoping we’d turn up some sign of her.”
“Maybe the others have,” Stan said hopefully.
“Helios and Lanna haven’t,” Rigel replied. “We would have heard.”
The golden unicorn turned north and galloped back toward town. Soon, the jagged teeth of the palisade appeared through the blizzard. Beyond the wall crouched the dark houses of Wolfnacht.
“When’s the eclipse?” Kyra asked.
“I don’t know,” Stan replied. “I didn’t know about the festival at all until you arrived.”
“No wonder he wants to leave home,” Rigel mused.
Kyra patted the stallion on the neck as he ran. “Some are lucky enough to be born into their families,” she said, “others have to find them.”
“Which were you?” asked Stan.
“Both,” she replied—and then fell silent once more.
When they reached the wall, they circled to the left. The storm had abated enough that they could see tracks around the palisade—but only the hoofprints of unicorns, no trace of human feet.
They circled west and soon spotted Santos and Apollonia riding toward them.
“Any sign of her?” Santos asked.
Kyra shook her head.
“That’s bad,” he said. “Helios told Apollonia that she and Lanna hadn’t found anything either and said they were circling north to join Volstag and Stardust in searching near the pass.”
Stan nodded understandingly and said, “Unicorn telepathy.”
Santos raised an eyebrow at him.
“Konstantine is thinking of joining up,” Kyra explained.
The curly haired rider and Apollonia regarded the boy skeptically. “Today’s not a great time to enlist,” Santos said, “but if this fool wants to stick his neck on the chopping block, who am I to argue?”
“I take it you didn’t find any trace of Janise in town,” Kyra said.
“Nothing—though the whole place seemed to be stirring as we rode out.”
The festival, Nikolas thought. It’s almost time.
“Any trouble getting through the gate?” Kyra asked Santos.
“No. That Nikolas guy opened it right up and smiled as we left.”
“Let’s hope our welcome back is equally warm,” Rigel replied.
Stan doubted it would be, but he didn’t say anything.
They kept riding north, circling the fifteen-foot-tall wooden walls, heading toward the main gate.
“Did the potion work?” Stan asked cautiously.
“Apollonia’s living proof,” Santos said, patting his mount’s dappled shoulder. “Roj was coming around, too, when we left. He was making rumbles like he might join the search.”
Kyra shook her head. “He should save his strength. If Volstag and the rest haven’t found her—and I assume they haven’t, since we haven’t heard—I’m afraid there’s not much hope.”
Santos frowned. “Well, she couldn’t just up and vanish.”
“In weather like this, I’m afraid she could,” Konstantine replied. “There was a woodcutter two years ago who went to fetch some logs. It was only a ten minute trip, but he never came back. And last week, old Sekta disappeared. The elders said she went to cut snow blossoms or mistletoe in the woods, but no one’s seen her since.”
“Maybe wolves got them,” Santos suggested.
“There are no wolves around here,” Stan said. “Not since Olen Wolfnacht’s time.”
Santos rubbed the dark stubble of his unshaven chin. “Wolves have good sense. Maybe they heard the Enemy coming and cleared out. If your people know what’s good for them, they’ll do the same.”
“Aye,” Kyra agreed.
“Maybe the magic ritual will work,” Stan said. “Maybe Wolfnacht will be protected for another hundred years.”
“Maybe,” Santos agreed, though he didn’t sound any more confident than Stan felt.
As they reached the front wall, a murmuring chant drifted out from inside the palisade. The riders stopped thirty yards from the gate and listened.
“Maybe they’re starting the ceremony,” Kyra suggested.
“The sun should just be coming over the forest,” Stan said, peering east. Though the day had grow progressively brighter, and the blizzard had lessened, the distance still remained obscured by snowfall. They could see neither sunrise nor Wolfnacht Pass.
“Festivals usually start at the second bell of the morning,” Stan said. “I’m surprised we didn’t hear the first bell.”
“Me, too,” muttered Kyra, frowning.
The chant built, voices joining one another in a chorus of wailing.
“Sounds like they’re having a right good time,” Santos said.
Kyra appeared nervous; Stan felt it, too.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the rhythmic shouts. Kyra sat bolt upright, as did Santos. The unicorns turned their heads toward the main gate, and the riders’ hands strayed to the hilts of their weapons.
A shiver ran down Konstantine’s spine.
“What in the name of the Blessed Lady was that?” Santos asked.
“We should find out,” Kyra said.
“Wait, I see something,” Santos said. He pointed toward the mountains.
Out of the white distance, two riders appeared. Volstag and Stardust charged straight toward the gate, with Lanna and Helios following right behind. Helios stumbled through the drifting snow, struggling to keep up. Both riders and steeds were weary and battered.
Apollonia and Rigel rode out and met their comrades a half-mile from the town wall.
“The Enemy is through the pass!” Volstag announced breathlessly. “Keep riding! Back to the village!” The others formed in behind him and galloped back the way they’d come.
Stan peered into the snow, expecting to see undead swarming down from the mountains at any moment.
“They nearly took us while we searched for Janise,” Lanna said. “We didn’t see them coming through the snow.”
“Didn’t Stardust sense the danger?” Santos asked.
Volstag shook his head, and drips of sweat and melting snow fell from his salt-and-pepper hair. “There’s so much danger all around us, her heightened senses are useless.”
“We dealt the Enemy a blow before escaping,” Lanna added, “but they won’t be delayed long.” Her shoulder was bleeding afresh, and she sported new cuts on her face, arms, and legs. A long purplish bruise swelled on the side of Helios’ face. The unicorn blinked wearily, looking as though he might collapse at any moment.
That’s why he didn’t warn us telepathically, Stan thought. The wound must have addled his brain.
Helios struggled to stay on his feet as the group skidded to a halt before the wall.
“Open the gates!” Kyra called, rapping heavily on the wood with her fist.
“Open up! Let us in!” Stan added.
The bearded face of Nikolas poked up above the palisade.
“The Enemy is coming!” Volstag boomed. “We haven’t much time!”
“You’re right, you don’t,” Nikolas said. “You shouldn’t have left. Especially not you, Stan.”
“But we can help defend you!” Lanna said.
“Fools! You can’t even defend yourselves!”
“You bastard!” Stan cried. “Let us in!”
“Too late . . . brother.”
Nikolas sneered down at them mercilessly. Beyond the wall, the wailing chant of the villagers built to a fever pitch.
Then, a terrible, keening cry rose above the screams. The sound pierced Stan’s heart, chilling him to the bottom of his soul. The unicorn riders looked as though they’d been struck physically.
“That’s Cherish!” Lanna shouted.
“What’s happening? What are you doing to her?” Santos yelled, his face flushing.
Nikolas shrugged and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Not to you.” As the bearded Wolfnachter turned away, Santos pulled out a crossbow and shot at him. The bolt flashed past Nikolas’ head, brushing aside a stray lock of coarse black hair. Stan’s brother laughed and vanished behind the palisade.
Bellowing with anger, Volstag and Stardust charged the gate. The silver mare lowered her head, and her spiral horn bit deep into the wood, passing straight through the three-inch thick boards. Splinters flew and the great doors shuddered with the impact, but the gate did not break. Stardust backed off to try another run. Volstag hefted his battle ax. Lanna drew her longbow. She and Santos scanned the wall for hostile villagers, giving their sergeant cover.
Again, Stardust crashed into the gates, and, this time, Volstag added a powerful blow from his ax. Again, the huge doors shuddered, but did not give way.
“It’s not enough!” Santos said, almost spitting the words. “We’ll never make it through in time.” He and Apollonia backed away from the gate, eyeing the palisade.
Kyra and Rigel did the same. “Can you make it with two?” the warrior girl asked her golden mount.
“I think so,” the unicorn replied. His gaze flashed from the wall to the newly healed scars on Apollonia’s flank. The stallion seemed unsure whether the dappled mare was well enough for whatever they were about to attempt.
“What are we—?” Konstantine began.
“Hang on!” Kyra said.
With a sudden burst of speed, Rigel and Apollonia charged forward. They bounded deep into the trampled snow and then sprang into the air.
The unicorns sailed through the snowy sky as gracefully as birds. Rigel, Kyra, and Stan easily cleared the spiked tops of the palisade.
Stan glanced down and saw the startled face of his brother as Rigel soared overhead. The golden unicorn landed inside the wall, his hooves touching down lightly upon the snowy street.
Apollonia’s leap didn’t end as cleanly. Her back hooves clipped the top of the palisade and nearly took off Nikolas’ head. Stan’s brother threw himself out of the way just in time.
Apollonia landed awkwardly; her legs buckled and her hooves skidded across the avenue’s slick surface. Santos held on, his expert riding keeping him on her back.
Rigel paused, waiting for the other two to recover.
“We’re all right!” Santos called. “Keep going! I’ll open the gate!”
Apollonia scrambled upright and turned toward the doors. As she did, Nikolas pulled out a shortbow and loosed an arrow at her.
The arrow missed the unicorn and lodged firmly in Santos’ shoulder. The dark-haired rider grunted in pain, but managed not to fall off his steed. Santos whirled and fired his crossbow at Stan’s brother; Nikolas ducked out of the way and reloaded his bow.
“Let me down!” Stan said, trying to wriggle off of Rigel’s back. “I . . . I can help open the gate!”
“No!” Santos barked. “Kyra, take the boy with you! Have him guide you through the streets. He’d only get in the way here!” He swung his crossbow in a guarding motion and deflected Nikolas’ second shot. The arrow skidded off of Apollonia’s flank, tracing a line of crimson down her rump.
“Find Cherish!” Santos ordered. “Go!”
“Yes, Corporal!” Kyra replied. She tightened her legs around Rigel’s sides and the golden unicorn shot down the street, away from the wall.
Nikolas wheeled and shot at Rigel’s passengers, but his arrow fell harmlessly into a snow bank, several yards to their left.
“I can’t believe he’s shooting at us!” Stan muttered.
“Never mind about him,” Rigel said. “Which way?”
“I-I don’t know!”
“Think!” Kyra said, her voice calm but firm. “Where would they be holding the ceremony?”
“The wide avenue in front of the inn, maybe?” Stan suggested. “No, wait ... the old church. Important ceremonies were always held by the church—at least until the priest died.”
“Sacred ground,” Kyra muttered. “A fitting place for whatever deviltry they’re up to.”
At that moment, the clouds overhead parted and golden rays of sunlight peeked through. The snow kept swirling, filling the air with dancing patterns of brilliant flakes.
Stan looked up and his eyes went wide. “The eclipse is coming!” he gasped. “Nyarra’s nearly reached the sun—and I can hardly see her rings at all.”
“The ringless moon blotting out the sun,” Rigel whispered. “Nyarra’s Rebirth.”
“Then the ceremony’s reaching its climax!” Kyra exclaimed. “Quickly, Rigel!”
“Keep guiding me!” the stallion replied. His hooves kicked up small puffs of snow as he raced across the drift-covered streets.
The gloomy houses and alleys of Wolfnacht flew past. The village looked no more welcoming in the daylight than it had the previous night. Even the thick blanket of snow barely concealed the decay of the dying town.
“The church is there,” Stan said, pointing. Ahead, a crooked alleyway opened up into a wide square in front of a dilapidated stone cathedral. The wailing song of the villagers grew to a deafening cacophony as the keening scream of the unicorn ceased.
Rigel skidded to a halt.
At the end of the alleyway, almost in the square, lay the body of Roj. His neck was twisted awkwardly and his eyes stared blankly up at the sky. A large, slushy pool of blood surrounded him, and snow dusted the young rider’s ginger hair.
“Blessed Lady!” Kyra gasped.
She made to dismount, but Rigel said, “No. He’s already dead.”
Stan’s heart went cold.
Kyra drew her sword; the silvery blade glistened in the sunlight.
Everyone in town was crowded into the square in front of the church. Every man, woman and child, held hands and wailed their ghastly festival chant. The five elders of Wolfnacht—Berman, Mapes, Zurko, Bev, and Thynes—stood on the decaying church’s steps.
Between the elders and the crowd, on a makeshift stone altar, lay Cherish and Janise. The unicorn’s blood stained the altar and splattered the snow-covered steps. Zurko, the butcher, held a knife made from an antler above his head. Gore from the blade dripped down his arm.
“The magic flows into the blade, multiplying the power!” Thynes announced, reading from an ancient scroll. “The protection of Wolfnacht will increase a thousand fold!” The aged scribe squinted up toward the sky. The clouds blew away and the blizzard ceased, revealing slender-ringed moon and blazing sun, nearly touching.
The wailing chant rose into a frenzied cheer as the rings tipped on edge, almost vanishing.
With a bellow of rage, Rigel leaped over Roj’s body and charged.
The crowd wheeled as the unicorn thundered into the square. Some of the villagers stopped their chant and screamed in terror, but Mapes thrust out her bony hands and shouted, “Stop!”
Rigel skidded to a stop, kicking up a huge spray of slush. Kyra jerked forward and nearly fell from his back. Konstantine held on for dear life; it felt as though they had been struck by a powerful gust of wind.
Above them, the moon and the sun kissed. Nyarra’s rings were a thin line now, and the satellite’s cloudy face grew darker by the moment. The sky also darkened, not from the storm clouds looming around the perimeter of the village, but from the start of the eclipse.
Elder Berman grinned with satisfaction. “There’s no need for further violence,” he purred. “We warned you that we didn’t want your help. Leave this place while you still can.”
“You killed Cherish!” Rigel neighed.
“And Roj!” Kyra added.
“He resisted,” Mapes said. “We can’t let anyone interfere with the ritual—not after all these months we’ve spent planning.”
“It was unfortunate,” added Berman. “Your friend didn’t have to die. One sacrifice would have been enough. We had intended to use one of our own . . .” Here, he glanced at an old woman in the crowd.
Sekta, Stan realized—the old woman who had vanished into the woods.
“. . . Then you riders showed up,” Berman continued, “with a girl who was nearly gone anyway. A much better sacrifice, I think you’ll agree. The power of the unicorn was merely a bonus.”
Rigel neighed and pawed the air, but he remained stuck against Mapes’ invisible wall; try as they might, the unicorn and his riders could not move forward.
“The girl’s blood is perfect,” Bev, the herbalist, said. “She is young and brave, and her connection to the unicorns makes her much better to invoke Olen Wolfnacht’s protection.” Her gray eyes sparkled. “No offense, Sekta.”
The ancient woman smiled a toothless smile and bowed in return.
“I can’t believe the riders were trying to protect you!” Stan blurted.
Berman scoffed. “We don’t need their protection,” he said. “The ritual of Wolfnacht is all we need. Then we will be strong.”
“Don’t you understand?” Kyra said, pleading. “This is wrong! Your ritual has been perverted. You people aren’t fighting the Enemy—you’re joining the Enemy! Please, let Janise go!”
All five elders laughed.
Kyra sheathed her sword. “What about you, Stan?” she asked coldly. “Do you want to join your people?”
Stan’s guts twisted and roiled. “I’m with you now, not them,” he replied.
“Make sure you stay that way,” Rigel whispered.
With one lightning swift move, Kyra drew her crossbow and shot. Her silver-tipped bolt streaked through the invisible barrier and buried itself in Zurko’s chest. The butcher gasped and crumpled to the stairs, dead. Kyra reloaded.
“Back off! All of you! Now!” she snarled. “Stand away from Janise! I will kill every one of you if you try to harm her!”
The elders stood stunned for a moment, and the chanting of the crowd died away. Then, with a howl of incoherent rage, the mob surged toward the unicorn riders.
“Should I retreat into the alley?” Rigel asked. “It will be easier to defend.”
“No!” Kyra replied. “We need to get to Janise!” She drew a bead on Mapes and shot again, but a villager threw himself in front of the bolt and died in the witch’s stead. Mapes and the remaining elders scrambled to retrieve Zurko’s fallen sacrificial dagger.
Rigel lunged into the crowd. Kyra quickly traded her crossbow for her sword and began slashing. The villagers stayed away from the silvery blade, but kept the unicorn and rider hemmed in, refusing to let the rescuers near the church steps.
Stan held on for dear life. The people of Wolfnacht, once his friends, clawed at him, trying to pull him and Kyra from Rigel’s back. Stan beat them back with his fists, bruising his fingers and bloodying his knuckles, but the mob kept coming.
Not all the villagers were attacking the riders, though. Some began chanting again as the four remaining elders resumed the ceremony. Berman proudly clutched the sacrificial knife.
Tied to the altar, Janise roused from her stupor and screamed, her cry rising above the rhythmic wails of the entranced villagers.
Just then, Volstag, Lanna, Santos, and their unicorns thundered out of the alley and into the square. They joined the melee, but Kyra and her friends remained massively outnumbered.
The moon blotted out the sun and Nyarra’s Rebirth began; the satellite’s rings completed turning edge on and became invisible in the growing darkness.
Berman raised the antler knife high and plunged it into Janise’s chest, stilling her screams forever.
Kyra and Stan both shouted, “No!”
The mob roared with triumph. As the echoes of the victory cry died away, the people of Wolfnacht began to change.
Their wailing chants became an obscene chorus of pain and delight. The villagers transformed, their bodies twisting and growing more muscular. Their faces elongated, their noses became snouts, and their ears grew tall and pointed. They ripped apart their confining clothes with long, sharp talons. Their teeth became fangs, and coarse fur sprouted from every inch of their skin.
In a frenzy, the villagers’ crouched forms capered and loped wildly around the square. They turned their faces to the eclipsed moon and howled their exultation.
“Gods of Wrath and Mercy!” Volstag whispered.
The villagers who had been trampled under the unicorns’ hooves wrenched themselves to their feet as their broken bones knitted back into place.
“Werewolves!” Santos cried.
“Run!” screamed Lanna. “We have to get out! There’s nothing we can do here now!”
“Nothing but die!” growled the wolf-like thing who had once been Thynes.
He leaped at Lanna and Helios, but the half-elf wheeled and put a silver-tipped arrow through his eye. The scribe fell to the ground, twitching; he transformed back into a man as he died.
A grim smile crossed Volstag’s face. “At least the tried-and-true methods still work.”
The pack howled with anger and leapt after the fleeing riders.
“Go! Go! Go!” Santos yelled.
“That way!” Konstantine called, pointing. Werewolves already clogged the alley the riders had used to enter the square, so Stan picked a wide street leading toward the gates.
Kyra glanced over her shoulder at him, trying to read his intent. “Do it!” she cried to the rest and urged Rigel in the direction Stan indicated. The others galloped toward the avenue, too. Volstag and Stardust led the way. Rigel and Apollonia fell in behind, with Helios—still sporting wounds from his fight in the pass earlier—and Lanna bringing up the rear.
The mob swarmed in around the cavalry, slashing with wolfish claws, nipping at the unicorns’ hindquarters. The werewolves were clumsy and slow; they hadn’t yet adjusted to their new shapes, and this worked in the riders’ favor.
A hairy monster who had once been Elder Bev jumped out in front of Stardust. Volstag whirled his ax and sliced the former herbalist in two. Stardust trampled both halves of the elder into the snow.
Kyra’s sword described a deadly arc, protecting her, Stan, and Rigel. The weapon’s silver blade bit through hairy wolf skin, leaving steaming gashes in supernatural flesh. The townsfolk howled in pain and anger. Even as they backed away from Kyra’s weapon, they clawed at her, trying to drag her, Rigel, and Stan down.
“Are you all right, Konstantine?” Kyra asked as the cavalry galloped out of the square.
Stan felt far from all right. His heart was pounding, sweat drenched every inch of his body, and he feared he might vomit. “I’m fine,” he gasped. “I don’t think the transformation spell affected me.” He hoped he was telling the truth.
“Good,” she said. “Just hang onto me. I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”
“And don’t let them bite you,” Rigel cautioned. “Anyone surviving a werewolf bite becomes a werewolf—and there’s no magic in the World-Sea that will save you.”
Stan swallowed, hardly daring to glance back at the rabid mob pursuing them.
Because the town’s residents had gathered in the square for the ceremony, all the werewolves were behind the cavalry. No lupine shapes sprang out to bar the riders’ way as the unicorns galloped down the deserted, snowy streets of Wolfnacht.
But the villagers knew the town better than the Atrian patrol, and it didn’t take long for the werewolves to adjust to their new forms. The transformed villagers quickly organized into several smaller packs and raced after the fugitives. The alleyways echoed with their howls.
Kyra pulled a silver dagger from her boot. “Use this to protect yourself,” she said, handing the blade Konstantine as they rushed headlong through the town.
Stan reached for it, but the dagger slipped through his fingers. He fumbled for the blade, bounced it off of Rigel’s flank, and snatched it up just before it tumbled to the street.
“Watch it!” Rigel snapped.
“Sorry,” Stan replied. He smoothed the golden coat on Rigel’s hindquarters, just to make sure he hadn’t done any harm. As he glanced back, his blood ran cold.
Lanna and Helios, still suffering from earlier wounds, had fallen behind the rest of the riders. As Stan watched in horror, the hideous wolfpack caught up with the half-elf and her mount.
At the last instant, Helios wheeled and charged full force into the hairy, rampaging mob. Wolflike bodies scattered before the unicorn’s stabbing horn and trampling hooves. Lanna’s longsword flashed in the eclipse-born darkness, and several werewolves fell dead, but twice as many leaped forward to take their place.
“Lanna!” Stan screamed. “They’ve got Lanna and Helios!”
Kyra and the others wheeled around, startled. They would have turned to help, but Lanna shouted, “Flee! Run while you still can!” Then clawed hands fastened onto her tunic and dragged the half-elf from the saddle. An instant later, the pack pulled down Helios, too.
As the unicorn disappeared into the ravenous mob, pain stabbed through Stan’s head. For a moment, he clearly heard the telepathic voice of Helios in his mind.
“Don’t let our sacrifice be in vain!” the unicorn whinnied.
Volstag screamed in incoherent rage and yelled, “Ride for all you’re worth!” He and Stardust thundered away from the pack.
“Gods curse this town and everyone in it!” Santos cried, following. Kyra tightened her grip on her sword and rode on.
Hot tears clouded Stan’s vision. He could barely make out the palisade wall as the remaining riders rushed toward the half-opened gate. Beyond the portal, human-like shapes shambled in the snowy darkness—not werewolves, but something else. Stan’s guts twisted as he realized that the true Enemy had finally arrived.
“Sergeant. . . !” Kyra began; she also had spotted the new menace.
“I see them,” Volstag replied. “Form up! We’ll charge straight through if we have to. There’s nothing more we can do here. We need to make it back to base and brief the colonel.” He gazed sternly at both Kyra and Santos. “No matter what happens, keep riding. That’s an order!”
Both riders nodded. Only a dozen yards separated the three cavalry troopers from the gate when, suddenly, the great doors began to swing shut.
“It’s a trap!” Santos cried.
As he said it, werewolves sprang up from their hiding places on the parapet walkway. Many of the transformed monsters were indistinguishable from enormous wolves; others retained a hideous mix of human and wolf traits. A half-dozen wolfmen clutched shortbows in their feral claws.
“Shoot!” hissed one of the damnable creatures.
The wolfman archers fired as one. Their black-shafted arrows streaked through the air. At the last instant, Apollonia leapt forward, shielding her comrades from the hail of deadly shafts.
The arrows struck the unicorn’s dappled body with a series of sickening thuds. Apollonia crashed to the ground, but stumbled to her feet once more.
“Again!” hissed the lead monster. Stan’s heart nearly ripped in two as he recognized the voice and the twisted visage of his brother, Nikolas.
Again, Apollonia leaped and took the full brunt of the arrow fire. Santos batted aside two of the arrows with his sword, but another struck him in the chest, and three more sank into his unicorn.
“Go!” Santos wailed and he and Apollonia tumbled into the snow.
Only a slender gap remained between the gates, but Stardust and Volstag didn’t slow. They charged headlong into the great doors. Stardust lowered her head, and her spiral horn gleamed golden in the dim light of the eclipse; Volstag brandished his ax.
The pair met the huge wooden doors head on. Splinters filled the air, and metal groaned and snapped as the impact wrenched the gates from their hinges. Stardust staggered through the portal and into the snow-covered landscape beyond.
Kyra and Rigel followed, dragging Konstantine with them. The last thing Stan saw as they exited Wolfnacht was Santos and Apollonia lying unmoving in the street, pinioned with black-fletched arrows. Werewolf archers jumped down from the palisade and began tearing at the bodies.
Stan turned away, but the sights ahead appeared just as dire. During the blizzard, the Enemy’s forces—zombies, gaunts, ghouls, and creatures far worse—had found their way through the pass. Now the undead surrounded the village, blocking the riders’ escape. Konstantine turned this way and that, desperately seeking a way out, knowing that the werewolves would soon be on their heels once more.
Dozens of zombies penned in the two remaining unicorns. The animated corpses staggered through the snow, feeling neither the cold nor the decay of their own flesh. More undead streamed down from the pass, which remained hidden in the blowing snow and eclipse-born darkness. To Stan’s frightened eyes, the stream of supernatural monsters looked endless.
Volstag chopped down the first two zombies in his way; Stardust skewered another, tossed it into the air, and trampled two more. “Go west!” the sergeant called to Kyra. “Then circle south and back to base. If we ride directly east, they’ll catch us in the forest.”
Kyra didn’t reply, but responded by cutting down a zombie blocking their escape. Rigel charged westward, but the zombies’ attacks kept him bogged down in the snow. Konstantine held onto the warrior girl with one hand and kept a tight grip on his silver knife with the other. He seldom swung at their enemies, for fear of losing his weapon. Instead, he concentrated on keeping out of the way of the monsters’ attacks.
“Gods curse it!” Volstag cried. Stardust surged toward Rigel, but she was nowhere as nimble as Kyra’s golden unicorn. Battering through the gate and her wounds from the search had taken a toll on the silver mare. The zombies pressed in around her, and the faster-moving gaunts slashed at her flanks. Even Volstag’s lighting-quick ax couldn’t fend off every attack.
A knife-wielding gaunt leapt forward and gouged a long cut in Volstag’s thigh. The sergeant grunted in pain, as the dagger skidded off his leg and plunged into Stardust’s side. The unicorn wailed in agony.
“Volstag!” Kyra shouted. “Stardust!”
Just then, a pack of werewolves burst out of the city and joined the attack. Volstag and his steed had lagged behind Kyra and Rigel, and the werewolves ran straight for the wounded unicorn.
Spotting the enemy reinforcements, Volstag caught Kyra’s eye and hissed, “Don’t you dare stop, Private!”
With a mighty roar, he swung his silver-bladed ax in a huge circle. The blade decapitated one werewolf and cut the arm off another. Five more zombies fell to Stardust’s hooves and horn, but the undead and the werewolves kept coming.
“Gods of Mercy, help us!” Kyra cried. If the gods were listening, they didn’t respond to Kyra’s plea. Stan bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood.
He kicked away a zombie clawing at Rigel’s side. Stan’s boot crushed the animated corpse’s face, and it fell back into the snow with a sickening splash. Rigel stomped two more undead into rotting jelly. Then, as Kyra sliced off three clawing hands, the golden unicorn sprang free.
Suddenly, Rigel was on top of the snow pack, racing west along the wall, toward freedom. Few zombies stood in their way, and the unicorn batted those aside with horn and hoof.
Behind them, the forces of the Enemy surrounded Volstag and Stardust and dragged them down. The sergeant and his mount kept fighting, even as the monsters tore them to pieces.
“No!” Kyra cried, tears streaming down her face. “NO! Rigel, turn back!”
Rigel kept running.
As the echo of Kyra’s anguished cry died away, a hairy shape leapt from the top of the wall. The creature landed on Kyra and Stan, knocking them from Rigel’s back. The force of the blow sent the unicorn tumbling. The great golden steed rolled twice and crashed heavily into the palisade wall.
The rider, the adolescent, and the monster landed hard. Snow burst up around them in a blinding cloud of frigid crystals. Kyra rolled to her feet, groping for her dropped sword; the werewolf rose quickly as well. Stan blinked and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He stumbled toward where Rigel lay.
“Don’t leave yet, brother,” the werewolf growled. A casual swipe of his claw sent Konstantine sprawling.
Kyra grabbed her sword, but Nikolas lunged at her before she could raise it. He batted the sword from her hand and snapped at her face. Kyra ducked aside; the wolf’s slavering teeth missed her throat by inches.
She drew her iron-bladed knife from her boot sheath and stabbed it deep into Nikolas’ gut. The wolfman howled with anguish, but he did not die. He swung wildly and his forearm crashed into Kyra’s chest, sending her sprawling.
She landed two yards away, stunned and half buried in a snow drift. Nikolas laughed, pulled her dagger out of his stomach, and tossed it aside.
“The power of Wolfnacht is stronger than unicorn magic,” he sneered.
Desperately, Stan sprang to his feet. As Nikolas leapt for the fallen rider, Stan jumped between them. Kyra’s silver dagger remained tightly clutched in the Stan’s hand. He tried to bring the weapon around, but Nikolas smashed full-force into him.
Something snapped inside Stan’s chest, and his body exploded with pain. The brothers crashed into the snow. The dagger slipped from Stan’s fingers, landing in the drift beside Kyra. Nikolas howled with rage, trying to rip himself free of his brother’s entangling body.
Bleary-eyed, Kyra scooped up the dagger and lunged. Her thrust brushed past Stan’s neck and sunk into Nikolas’ chest, just below the left shoulder. The werewolf howled and staggered back, but, again, he didn’t die. He clutched the smoking wound, hatred blazing in his feral, red eyes.
Stan suddenly realized that the undead had caught up to them during the fight. The zombies and gaunts surrounded them, waiting to feast once the werewolf had slain the rider and her foolish companion. Outside the circle, more undead shambled forward like an endless, rotting tide. Behind them came the werewolves of Wolfnacht.
Stan collapsed in the snow, his strength exhausted, but Kyra staggered to her feet. Her blue eyes blazed as she stared at Nikolas. “Come on, then!” she gasped, the silver dagger clenched tight in her fist. “Let’s finish this!”
“Yes,” Nikolas snarled. “Let’s!”
Suddenly, Rigel burst into the circle of undead. He decapitated a zombie with his horn and trampled three more as he raced to his rider.
“Come on!” Kyra cried. She leaped onto Rigel’s back and extended her hand to Konstantine.
Stan reached out, his fingers brushed hers . . .
Kyra seized him in her firm grip and pulled him onto the back of her galloping steed. With a mighty leap, Rigel cleared the ring of monsters and landed atop the snow a half-dozen yards away.
“After them!” Nikolas howled.
Heart pounding, Stan glanced back at their pursuers. The zombies were no match for Rigel’s speed, nor were the other undead. The werewolves were much faster, though. A dozen of them, their fur matted with blood, raced after the unicorn riders.
Rigel was bruised and scraped, and he limped slightly as he broke into a gallop.
Can he outrun them? Stan wondered. As the walls of Wolfnacht faded into the snowy gloom, the howling werewolves drew closer to their prey—ever closer.
Kyra unlimbered her crossbow and took careful aim.
Twang! A silver bolt pierced the eye of the lead wolf and he tumbled across the snow, dead.
A hopeful grin crept over Stan’s face.
“Don’t smile yet,” she said. “There are more werewolves than I have crossbow bolts.”
As she spoke, the landscape around them suddenly grew brighter.
Stan turned his face to the sky. “The eclipse is ending!” he cried.
The pursuing werewolves fell, a twisting heap of fur and contorting limbs. They screamed hideously as their bodies changed back into human form.
“You prayed for a miracle,” Rigel’s deep voice rumbled. “Looks like you got it.”
“The gods help those who help themselves,” Kyra replied.
“Should we go back and finish them off?” the unicorn asked.
Kyra shook her head. “We can’t chance it. Sunlight won’t stop those zombies from killing us, even if it does slow down the gaunts and the ghouls. Besides, Sergeant Volstag ordered us back to base.” She choked back a sob. “It was his last order, and I’ll be damned if we’re not going to carry it out.”
Rigel kept running. After a time, his fatigue seemed to lessen and his pace evened out. Stan slumped against Kyra, every muscle in his body aching, his brain afire with horrible memories of everything they’d been through during the past day.
Just as he began to drowse, Rigel cantered to a stop.
“What is it?” Stan asked, blinking. After the gloom of the storm and the eclipse, the sunlight was almost unbearably bright.
“We need to rest,” Kyra said, “at least for a moment.” She climbed down from Rigel’s back and stretched her limbs. Stan dismounted and did the same.
They’d stopped in a small clearing in the lee of a stand of sturdy pine trees. The wind had blown the earth bare, here, and Rigel dipped his head to lick at the frozen grass.
Kyra removed three strips of dried meat from her rucksack. “Want some?” she asked.
“Sure,” Stan replied. She tossed the backpack to him, and he stopped to retrieve it.
When he stood again, she had her crossbow out and a silver bolt loaded.
He stared behind them, terrified that—somehow—they had been followed. “What is it?” he asked desperately. “Are they coming?”
“No,” she replied in a soft voice. “Just a precaution. Are you all right, Konstantine?” She was gazing at his ribs, just below his left shoulder.
Stan looked down and saw dried blood amid the torn fabric. A chill ran down his spine. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
The unicorn stopped browsing and asked, “When did you get that wound, Konstantine?”
“I-I don’t know,” Stan said. “Sometime during the fight, I guess. I don’t remember.”
“It looks like a bite,” the unicorn observed. “A wolf bite.”
Kyra aimed her crossbow at Stan’s chest.
Stan dropped her pack onto the frozen grass. “Kyra,” he said, pleading, “it’s me.”
“Did he bite you?” Kyra asked, her voice flat and emotionless. “Did Nikolas bite you?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe. I was trying to save you. Remember? I saved your life!”
“I know you did, Konstantine,” she said, “and I’m sorry.”
“Kyra, I could never hurt you—or Rigel. I wouldn’t hurt anyone! I want to be a unicorn rider!”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible now,” she said.
“No it isn’t!” Stan barked. “I’m not like the rest! Even before you came, I wasn’t like the others! I didn’t change when they did! I’m one of you—not one of them!
She pointed the crossbow straight at his heart.
“Kyra, please! I’m your friend!” Tears streamed down his face and the blood pounded hot in his ears. “You said you’d get me out of this! You promised!”
Rigel lowered his horn and prepared to charge.
Stan slumped to his knees and sobbed, “You promised!”
Slowly, Kyra lowered her crossbow. “I remember.”
Rigel frowned at her and shook his mane. “This is probably a mistake.”
“Time will tell,” the silver-haired rider replied. She stowed her weapon and climbed up on her unicorn’s back.
Stan gazed up at her, and she held out her hand.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ve a long way yet to ride.”
* * *
Here are some samples of other stories by me that you may enjoy.
Don’t forget to read the “About the Stories” and “About the Author” sections that follow the samples!
~ An Umira the Accursed Story ~
Sharks circled Umira, above, below, and on every side. Their cold black eyes gazed at the triton starwatcher, scrutinizing her scaly blue skin, her long green hair, and her glittering jewelry. Umira gazed back, her own black eyes trying to peer into their alien minds.
Are we so different?
Eyes, teeth, skin . . . all so similar. Both, feared and hated—outcast from civilized societies.
We are alike.
Despite their similarities, a chill of doubt ran through Umira. As a triton, she’d been around sharks most of her life, but she’d never faced so many at once, never a school this large or with so many different species: redfins, daggertooths, blues, hammerheads, and more. Mariners had named this place the Shark Keys with good reason.
Had it been a mistake for Umira to come here? Would this decision be her last? Even with all her strength and skill, a school this size could tear the triton apart in moments. Would that be so terrible, though? At least then there would be an end. At least then she would know: there was no place in the Blue Kingdoms, either above or below the waves, for Umira the Accursed.
Umira steeled herself, strangling the dark thoughts until they vanished into the depths of her soul once more.
I will not die this day. Not unless I am stupid. Not unless I show fear.
She kept her swimming movements regular and her heartbeat calm. She did not reach for the serrated longknives strapped to her hips. Instead, she forced every aspect of her body to send a single, potent message:
I am not prey.
Though Umira was neither mage nor telepath, the sharks seemed to believe her. They remained curious but respectful, keeping their distance from the starwatcher. Even the school’s sole ravager—a species of shark known to eat both human and triton—spared Umira merely a passing glance.
Is this what it feels to be accepted?
Umira focused her sea-born senses on the school, heard the water passing across their gills, felt their sinuous movements as waves of pressure against her scaly skin. She moved in harmony with them, but she still could not tell: Was this acceptance or merely indifference?
She reached out and caressed the side of a passing redfin with her webbed fingers. The fish arched pleasurably under her touch. Its skin felt smoother than her own. Then the shark darted away into the azure distance of the middle depths.
I am like them. More than I am like people.
For a moment, Umira almost felt at home.
WHOOMPH!
Smothered thunder shook the deep. The entire water column quaked, and the sharks swirled in agitation. Some buffeted Umira, their skin scraping like sandpaper now. Umira gasped involuntarily. The school wasn’t attacking, though; they were confused, frightened. Umira felt the confusion, as well.
The pressure, the sound, the sudden rush of cold from deeper waters, all dazzled the triton’s senses. Every instinct told her to flee, to swim away, fast, as her fishy brethren were already doing. Only Umira’s intellect overcame her panic. Once more, she strangled the fear inside, pushing it back into the deep recesses of her mind.
In an instant, the rest of the school had vanished into the deep, leaving Umira alone.
What just happened?
A shadow eclipsed the bright disc of the ocean’s surface, many fathoms above. She looked up and saw the silhouette of a large ship cutting through the waves.
People? People did this? How?
As the waters calmed around her, Umira felt a slight tingling just below the surface of her scales.
Magic.
But from where? The ship felt alien, an intruder in her world. She felt the magic emanating from it, but there was something else, too . . . She peered down into the indigo depths, and noticed a faint glow that hadn’t been there before—not a reflection from the surface above, but something different, something that made her feel as though crabs were crawling across her skin: powerful, ancient magic.
She looked from the ship to the strange glow and then back.
The humans’ magic is causing this somehow. They are harming the ocean! They must stop!
Umira swam toward the surface, her sleek body cutting through the water with sinuous powerful strokes. As she drew near the ship, something splashed into the water to her left: a glowing, greenish orb that sent tingling electricity across her skin. The light sank quickly, leaving a trail of hissing bubbles in its wake.
It dropped into the blue and then exploded.
A senses-numbing shockwave buffeted Umira, thrusting her toward the surface. The bottom of the boat’s hull loomed above, unyielding, covered with sharp barnacles.
Read more in “Monster Shark” at better e-book sellers everywhere!
Is there anything in the multiverse worse than waking up naked and chained to a dungeon wall? I say, Yes: dying before you get to pay back the son-of-a-bitch who put you there.
I intended to make sure that the bastard priest who put me in this position got what he deserved, and in this lifetime, not some future one. Of course, being naked and chained to a dungeon wall, I wasn’t currently in a position to do much about it.
Acting as pin-up girl in some sadist’s twisted fantasy isn’t something I’ve experienced a lot in my many lifetimes, mostly because “death before dishonor” has always been my mantra. Of course, that kind of hard-ass credo is easier for me to follow than it would be for most, death not being a permanent set-back in my case. In situations like this, my peculiar brand of immortality is more of a blessing than a curse. Trouble is, I wasn’t the only one in this jam.
Other women—little more than girls, really—occupied the dungeon with me. We were chained in a line against a damp stone wall, each of us far enough apart from the rest that we couldn’t possibly touch or help each other in any way. I guessed from their pallid skin and soft bodies that the others weren’t going to be much help in getting us out of this predicament.
I hadn’t seen my own body in a mirror since I revived in this new incarnation, but I knew what I’d find; the “gift” from the gods that unhinged me in time also allows me to look more or less the same every time I’m reborn: trim and muscular, pale blue eyes, red hair—shoulder-length in this incarnation—and busty. Somehow, I always end up with big boobs; I figure the gods must like them. And so, judging from the endowment of my cell mates, do pervert clerics.
I assumed it was the priest who’d put me here, as the last thing I remembered before waking up in chains was accepting a drink from him. I really must learn not to accept wine from strange men, even when they drink from the same skin first. Either he had some magic that protected him, or he’d built up an immunity to whatever drug he slipped into the drink. I wondered if my fellow captives—there were five of us, counting me—had fallen prey to a similar fate.
I couldn’t see what I had in common with the other girls, aside from chest size. All had different skin and hair colors; three were human, one an elf. All four looked exhausted and terrified, their hair ragged, their eyes puffy from crying. They slumped against the wall, their chains hanging limply. I was at one end of the line, a girl with short, mousy-brown hair at the other.
I stood and tested the strength of the shackles. Though rusty, they seemed sturdy enough, and the walls were smoothly joined stone. This was no makeshift prison; whoever constructed it knew what they were doing—unfortunately.
“Hey!” I called. “Who’s in charge here?”
“Quiet! He’ll hear you!” said the girl with mousy-brown hair.
“Do you want to be next?” hissed the Elf, though I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Mousy or me.
“Next for what?”
“For the dragon!” the Elf replied.
“H-he took my sister!” the long-haired Brunette, chained next to Mousy, said between sobs. “He just came and took her!” I noticed an empty set of shackles at the start of the line, and I remembered hearing screams just before I woke. I wondered how long ago he had taken the sister—and was she the first victim, or just one in some kind of sick series? “The wall just opened up, and he dragged her through, and . . .”
“And you’ll be next if you don’t shut up,” the Elf shot back. “On second thought, keep talking.”
“Bickering won’t help,” the blonde in the middle of the line said. She looked older and a bit less haggard than the rest. “I’m Princess Rachelle of Narosh. Who are you?”
“Crimson. Just Crimson.”
“Crimson, how did you get here?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Last thing I remember was having a friendly drink with this priest, and then next thing I know, I wake up in this shit hole.”
Saying “shit hole” brought my attention to the stench of the place, a wonderful combination of dampness, mold, and human excrement. Some of my companions had not comported themselves with much dignity during their captivity, not that I blamed them. I looked at the wall the Brunette had indicated earlier, but couldn’t see any obvious door. In fact, I didn’t see any way in or out at all, just stone and mortar. Either the room was sealed by magic, or its exit was a secret door constructed by some very clever stonemasons.
“The priest would be Bentano Dracus,” Rachelle said. “He drugged you.”
“Where are we?”
“In the catacombs below Dracus’ church, I think.”
“And how do you know this guy?”
“Dracus was my father’s chief priest when I was a child. Years ago, the church kicked him out for . . . questionable actions. I heard he went to Lemagne and started his own church in an old, abandoned cathedral. I was passing through Lemagne when I was kidnapped. I woke up here.”
“Looks like Dracus’ actions have gotten even more ‘questionable’ in the intervening years.”
“I never did like the way he looked at me when I was a child. I like it even less, now.”
“So, who are the rest of you?” I asked.
“Look,” the Elf replied, “there’s no use getting to know us, because we’re all going to die!”
“I don’t want to die!” the Brunette sobbed.
“Quiet! He’ll hear you!” Mousy added.
“What? You think that shutting up will make this lunatic spare us?” I asked. “You think maybe he’ll get tired of feeding girls to dragons before he gets to you? Forget it! I’ve met guys like this before, and they just keep on killing until someone stops them.”
“Why is he doing this?” the Brunette wailed.
“Power, I think,” Rachelle said. She seemed almost completely calm now, and regal, even in this awful situation. “Bentano Dracus always wanted power.”
“No,” I replied. “People may say they do this kind of thing for power or some other motive—but the only real reason to chain someone up and kill them is because you get off on it. Dracus is no different. Thing is, this time, he picked the wrong victim.”
Read more in “Crimson & Dragons” at better e-book sellers everywhere!
Captain Ali al Shahar eyed the golden trinket in the girl’s hand. “So, Princess,” he said, “why is this bauble so important to you?”
Princess Makachiko Sunrii averted her brown eyes from the captain and adjusted her carefully fitted silk garments. “It’s been in my family a long time,” she said. “I didn’t want to see it lost.”
The captain shook his head. “That may be your story, but I’m not buying it,” he said. “Even with the pirate ship burning, and cutthroats all around you, you were more concerned with rescuing that necklace than with saving yourself. Why?”
Kor dar-Bek, the Starcutter’s first mate, nodded. The half-ogre’s huge frame completely filled the cabin door blocking the afternoon sunlight; his brutish countenance made the nod seem vaguely sinister.
Makachiko frowned. “It’s really none of your business, Captain,” she said. “You may have rescued me from my captors, but neither I nor my family owes you any explanations.”
“True enough,” Ali said. “All I was promised for your return was a fat reward. However,” he continued, his hazel eyes growing cold, “I am captain of the Starcutter, and anything that may imperil my ship or crew concerns me. Rescuing you from the Purple Tern Brigands was dangerous. Taking you home, even with the pirates defeated, will be more dangerous still. Everything aboard this ship concerns me, including that necklace.”
“What the captain is saying,” Kor explained, “is that you either come clean about that trinket, or you practice up on your swimming.” The half-ogre’s eyes gleamed poison-green, and a wide grin cracked his gnarled face. He bowed slightly and added, “Yer highness.”
The princess looked alarmed, too alarmed, really, for one of her breeding. She glanced hopefully from the captain to the half-ogre and then back, pleading with her deep brown eyes.
Princess Makachiko’s looks were enough to sway the mind of nearly any man. She was round in the right places and slender in the rest. Her dark hair cascaded over her bare shoulders. Her silken clothes, rescued from the pirates, clung lovingly to her figure, and revealed much of her tanned skin. “Captain,” she said, “please. . . .”
Ali folded his arms across his chest and gazed sternly at her.
“Give it up, girl,” the half-ogre said, laughing. “You’ll never win a battle of will against the captain!”
Makachiko sighed. “Very well,” she said. “It seems I have no choice but to tell you.”
She held the necklace out so that the captain and the half-ogre could see it better. The medallion glittered enticingly in the sunlight leaking through the cabin’s starboard porthole. The necklace looked like a tiny silver dragon. Its bejeweled form dangled from the end of the stout chain twined through the princess’ slender fingers. The dragon’s body curved into a sinuous “S,” and its blue gemstone eyes gleamed. It almost looked alive.
“This bauble, as you’ve called it,” Makachiko said, “was given to my father by the dragon queen Argentia Lumus—for services rendered during the recent Wizard War.”
Ali arched one dark eyebrow and studied the necklace carefully. “So you’re saying its value is more sentimental than monetary,” he said. “Somehow, I don’t buy that.”
Kor moved forward, ducking to keep his head from brushing the cabin’s top timbers. He laughed. “The captain’s heard enough fish stories to last his lifetime!”
Makachiko’s face reddened. “This necklace is a gift from the dragons. Its price is beyond measure!”
Ali’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“The dragon lady gave it the power to summon her people to my family’s aid!” the princess replied.
Kor dar-Bek frowned. “That’s a lot of fish-oil, too, Captain,” he said. “If the trinket has that kind of power, why didn’t she have the dragons save her ship from the Purple Tern Brigands? Or rescue her from their brig? For that matter, why doesn’t she call them now to ferry her back to Sunrii Isle and save us the trouble?”
“It will only work once,” the princess said icily.
The half-ogre scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, when your shipmates were being slaughtered might have been a good time to use it.”
“The pirates caught us by surprise,” the princess hissed. “And, besides, the necklace was immediately taken from me. Do you think I wouldn’t have saved my crew if I could have?”
The half-ogre shrugged. “From what I’ve seen of you so far, it’s hard to tell.”
“Enough,” Ali said. “Why the princess didn’t use the medallion’s magic—if it exists—is none of our concern.” His handsome face melted into a smile. “Besides, if she used it to fly home, how would we collect the reward for her rescue?” He balled up his fist and affectionately slugged the half-ogre in the left biceps.
Kor dar-Bek rubbed his bony head. “Well . . . if we get into another fix,” he said, “I hope her worship will be a bit more generous with her dragon-magic.”
Ali looked from the half-ogre to the princess. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly to her. “I’m sure we’ll have smooth sailing from now on.”
“I agree,” said a musical voice from the cabin door. “With their home base ablaze, the Purple Terns will be hard pressed to follow us. I saw no other Tern ships as I scouted the surrounding seas.” In the doorway stood Sarifa T’Liil, the Starcutter’s master-at-arms. The siren warrior folded her wings to duck through the cabin’s human-sized portal. “I have assessed the damage from the skirmish, Captain,” she concluded.
Ali nodded at the lightly-armored bird-woman. As usual, Sarifa appeared completely unfazed by the difficulties of the recent battle. Not one delicate red feather atop her head appeared out of place. “Go on,” he said.
“Many minor scrapes and bruises,” Sarifa reported. “Seven wounded, three severely—one may join his ancestors in the stars.”
“Who?” Ali asked.
“Old Tifek,” the siren replied.
Ali nodded grimly. “Is that Doran’s assessment?”
Sarifa nodded. “The physician’s Il-Siha training only extends so far. If you’ve any magic to spare, Captain, now would be the time to use it.” She looked at him hopefully.
Ali shook his head grimly. “I used all the ship’s blessing stones during the fight. I’m fresh out of miracles—even minor ones.”
“Maybe her worship can help,” Kor said. He turned toward the princess, bumping his brow on the rafters as he did so.
“I can’t use the necklace for just one sailor,” Makachiko said. “I have to save it for important things.”
“Every life is important,” Ali reminded her.
“Things that are important to my family . . . to my kingdom,” Makachiko shot back. “The power of the medallion is not mine to throw away as I please. It belongs to the whole kingdom of Sunrii.”
Kor glared at the princess. “What’d I tell you, Captain?” the half-ogre said. “The highborn are always trouble.”
“It’s not that I don’t care,” the princess explained. “It’s just that I have to consider my responsibilities. If I wasted the dragons’ gift on one lone sailor. . . . Well, what would the people of Sunrii say when the next typhoon struck?”
Ali looked from the princess to Sarifa. “Tell Doran to do what he can,” the captain told his master-at-arms.
The siren woman nodded curtly. She folded her red wings tightly against her back and turned to go. As she paused at the doorway, the sunlight silhouetted her lithe frame. To those inside the cabin, she looked for a moment like a fiery-winged angel—a messenger of light and darkness, bringing portents for mankind.
Suddenly, the ship lurched hard to its starboard side.
“Rogue wave!” Kor blurted.
Read more in “The Gift of the Dragons” found in Martian Knights & Other Tales and in single-story form at better e-book sellers everywhere!
* * *
Both novellas came about as ideas for the Blue Kingdoms: Shades & Specters anthology. I wasn’t sure which tale I wanted to use, so I decided to write them both.
Short stories are always tricky for me; I’m more comfortable with longer formats. One of the ways I’ve developed to cope with this is to not outline before I write. I dash off a few notes, a few characters, and then I go.
From the length of the notes on these tales, I should have known that they weren’t going to fit the 4000-6000-word format I’d assigned to the anthology. Heck, when all was said and done, they weren’t even going to fit the 8000-10,000-word format of my last Blue Kingdoms “short.”
But I didn’t realize that when I decided to write Festival at Wolfnacht. I chose to do Wolfnacht first because I had a feeling—accurate, as it turned out—that the other contributing authors for Specters were going to turn in sea-faring tales.
That was fine, and Jean Rabe (my co-editor) and I like to let contributors have their rein. The Blue Kingdoms setting is more than just an ocean-covered world, so I wanted to include at least one story set far from the shores of the World-Sea. I thought that Wolfnacht, mired in the snowy mountains, would be a good break from ship-bound tales.
Horror stories are tricky to write. Both of these are of the Ten Little Indians variety—that is, they build suspense by bumping off characters as they go, until the reader (hopefully) doesn’t know who will die next.
So, I needed a fistful of characters for Wolfnacht. That meant a good number of both riders (as victims) and townsfolk (to change into bad guys at the story’s climax). The Blood-Red Isle faced a similar “suspense through attrition” problem, and I arrived at a similar boatload-of-characters solution.
Silly me. The number of characters in the story notes should have been my second hint that neither tale would end up short.
Wolfnacht originated with an image in my head of a werewolf and unicorn fighting in the snow. Not quite the same image as the cover of this volume, but enough to instill in me a strong desire to write.
I had been itching to do a Unicorn Cavalry story for some time. I’ve got a cavalry trilogy in the works, and I wanted to “warm up” some of the characters from that proposal. Festival at Wolfnacht serves as kind of a prelude to that upcoming arc. Of course, now that I’ve written Wolfnacht, I see that I could expand the novella into a full-length book of its own, too.
Ideas beget more ideas; which is another reason that short stories are tricky for me.
In any case, I hope you’ve enjoyed my unicorns versus werewolves and zombies epic. (Drop me a line at my Yahoo group and let me know.)
As I worked on Wolfnacht I realized that it was going to be too long for the anthology. More pages means more cost, and—as the publisher of Walkabout Publishing—I wanted to keep the anthology’s price at $15 or less.
No problem, I thought. I’ll just finish Wolfnacht and move on to Blood-Red Isle.
Good plan. It meant adding another island yarn to what was looking like a collection of sea-faring spooky stories, but so what? Pirates of the Blue Kingdoms had done well enough. No reason not to give the public more salty adventures.
Blood-Red Isle also began with a picture in my head—the image of the rotting, vine-covered corpse of Sanguinarre rising amid the wreckage of her throne room. I’m a visual guy (I majored in Fine Arts), and movies and illustrations have always been a strong influence on my work.
So, off I went again, aiming for that picture in my head.
About half way through Blood-Red Isle I realized that it, too, was going to be too long for the anthology. I’d written over 8000 words, and I still hadn’t gotten to Sanguinarre’s palace where the climax of the story takes place.
Then I had a brainstorm; I could cut Blood-Red Isle in half, re-start with my doomed characters already in the palace (thus avoiding the “island story” patina), and then continue to the end.
I inserted some judicious recapping (removed from this version of the story) after the “break,” and . . . Voila! I now had a story the right length for the Specters collection, “Court of the Blood-Red Queen.”
I still liked the first half of the story, though. It had a lot of character development and helped build to the Ten Little Indians-style horror payoff.
What to do? I’d “uncovered” two novella-length epics when all I really needed was a short.
Then it hit me. I could combine both of these spooky tales into a bone-chilling book of their own.
That way, people who like “Queen” in the anthology can check out the longer version of the story in this volume, and new readers get the full-length heart-pounding impact of both tales.
It seemed a perfect solution.
So, I created an attention-getting title, whipped up a new cover, and set the type. (Fortunately, my printer is very understanding.)
You hold the result in your hands—just in time for the holiday.
Happy Halloween.
—Steve Sullivan
October, 2007
Stephen D. Sullivan has been a professional writer, illustrator, and monster-maker since 1980. He is the author of more than thirty published novels and numerous comic books. His recent projects include Martian Knights, Spider Riders, and Iron Man. He has won the Origins Award—adventure gaming’s highest honor—twice, first for his samurai fantasy novel The Lion, and later for his Mage Knight short story “Podo and the Magic Shield.” His novel, Dragonlance: Warrior’s Heart, was nominated for a 2006 Scribe Award. The second book in that trilogy, Dragonlance: Warrior’s Blood was cited by the Detroit Free Press as a novel Harry Potter fans would enjoy. The third book, Dragonlance: Warrior’s Bones, was a 2007 Scribe Nominee. Steve’s upcoming books include Tournament of Death, Frost Harrow: Dream Lover, and A Season of Fear. Steve lives in haunted Frosthaven, Wisconsin, with his wife and two children. You can find out more about Steve and his work and sign up for his free newsletter—giving access to free stories and other cool stuff—at www.stephendsullivan.com.
* * *
© 2007-2010 Stephen D. Sullivan
Adventure guaranteed. (Monsters optional.)
~ Official Home of The Blue Kingdoms ~
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If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy my other novels and short stories.
You can find more of my e-book & online stories on the Books & Stories Online page of www.stephendsullivan.com.
Tournament of Death – my free online novel is currently available at www.tournamentofdeath.com.
You may also enjoy some of my other books & stories, available online in e-book form and in print at many fine booksellers.
(Some of these books are also available in e-book form.)
Martian Knights & Other Tales – A collection of my Fantasy, SF, & Horror short stories.
Luck o’ the Irish – Hard-boiled modern fantasy about a wandering gambler.
Uncanny Encounters: Roswell – Where alien fact meets fiction.
Zombies, Werewolves, & Unicorn – Featuring the novellas Blood-Red Isle and Festival at Wolfnacht.
Tournament of Death – Featuring Crimson, Brion Wilde, and more in a monster-filled battle to the finish. (Coming Soon!)
Frost Harrow: Scream Lover – The first full-length Frost story. (Coming Soon!)
Pirates of the Blue Kingdoms – Featuring the story “Shipmates.”
Blue Kingdoms: Shades & Specters – Featuring the story “Court of the Blood-Red Queen” (an abridged version of The Blood-Red Isle).
Blue Kingdoms: Buxom Buccaneers – Featuring “Sisters in Arms.”
Stalking the Wild Hare – Featuring “Time War” featuring Crimson, Orm the Demon Borne, and many other Sullivan characters & tributes.
Blue Kingdoms: Mages & Magic – Featuring “The Last Alchemist” (Coming Soon!)
“Forever Crimson” – Crimson’s origin story.
“Crash of the Titans” – A light-hearted look at the Perseus myth featuring Crimson.
“The Gates of Paradise” – Crimson faces a Blue Kingdoms drug cartel.
“Crimson & Dragons” – Waking up naked, chained to a wall, and about to be fed to a dragon is no way to start the day.
*Crimson also appears in “Time War” in the anthology Stalking the Wild Hare.
“The Gift of the Dragons” – Ali & the Starcutter crew face sea-wide disaster.
“Sisters in Arms” – The Coralshell Sisters look for lost treasure.
The Blood-Red Isle – A team of treasure hunters awaken ancient evil.
Festival at Wolfnacht – The Unicorn cavalry faces zombies and werewolves.
“Monster Shark” – Umira the Accursed fights a rampaging megalodon.
Snowraven – The origin of the Blue Kingdoms’ legendary woman warrior. (Coming soon!)
“Kidnapped by Saurians” – A Dungeons & Dinosaurs™ story. (Coming soon!)
* Note: The novellas Blood-Red Isle and Festival at Wolfnacht are also available in the book Zombies, Werewolves, & Unicorns.
Ghosts of 9/11 – A collection of stories written by Steve immediately following 9/11/2001.
Uncanny Encounters: Roswell – Where alien fact meets fiction.
“Ares Zone-A” – A Martian colony is threatened by terrorists.
Tricks & Treats – A quartet of scary stories not for the weak hearted!
“Martian Knights: Buried Secrets” – A cyborg menace from the past threatens all Mars. (Coming soon!)
* Note: the stories in Ghosts of 9/11, Tricks & Treats, and Martian Knights also appear in the book Martian Knights & Other Tales
Be sure to write and let me know how you like this story at: fanmail@stephendsullivan.com.
Ask about my “review a story, get a story” policy.
Find an error? Let me know at:
publisher@walkaboutpublishing.com
Updated 12/11/10