New World: a Frontier Fantasy Novel

by Steven W. White

  Simon's eyes locked on something, down near Rastaban. "Bogg... there's the swordsman!"

  Bogg found him and grunted. "Yep. Mean skunk. Someday he'll pop his head up again, the one-eyed son of a bitch... and when he does, maybe I'll be there." Bogg balanced on the wendigo's head and considered his nephew. "Or maybe you will."

  The lad grinned at Bogg, all crazy-eyed. It was clear he had some kind of idea.

  "That's an unsettling expression," Bogg said.

  The pup didn't answer. He just held up a lopsided gold flintlock ball. He fitted the ball into the sling that hung off his finger. In his deepest voice, he said, "I can do this."

  "Do what?" Bogg asked.

  The lad stepped back from Bogg and stared hard at the swordsman, who was so far away that he weren't more than a little teeny feller.

  "Do what?" Bogg said again.

  The kid revved up the sling, faster and faster, until the vine was a green blur.

  Bogg couldn't believe his peepers. The kid was serious.

  "Do you really think you can...?" Bogg started, then he shut himself up to let the kid concentrate.

  Go get him, kid. You just might to it. You just might...

  The kid's face was wrenched into a grimace of concentration. The sling whipped in a circle so fast that it made a wild buzzing sound.

  The wendigo howled and snarled, but it was with a mouthful of sand and came out real soft and kitteny.

  The kid let fly.

  #

  Chapter 39

  Bogg stared at the swordsman dragging his chest, wishing all manner of holes to be knocked in him. Time itself seemed to hang around in the air.

  The chest exploded. Gold coins sprayed on the sand, and the swordsman -- holding nothing but a leather-wrapped handle attached to half a chest at most -- fell back on his keister. After a moment, he picked himself up, took a gander at his gold scattered hither and yon and everywhere, and let up a howl of frustration. Then he fixed his sword in its sheath and skittered off empty-handed.

  Bogg chuckled.

  The pup's head hung low. "I missed."

  Bogg nodded and stuck his tongue in his tooth hole.

  "He got away," Simon said.

  "Yes he did. But enough of that. We've got a wendigo to get rid of, and quite possibly, a four-legged hill to put some nursing to. Challenges abound... but sicker cats have been cured." Bogg stomped. "I'll carry him if you carry his leg. Come on."

  #

  At the tower, Simon dropped the leg and threw his arms around his furry friend. "Poor, poor Hummock."

  It was a strange sight to Bogg, in a day full of strange sights. Bogg shrugged and wrestled the wendigo to the door. "Tell me something, pup. How do you ride a four-legged hill without getting crushed, gored, or et?"

  "Lots to remember," Simon said. "Poor Hummock. First, wait until they're used to you. Next, wait until they're bored of you. Then, groom them."

  "Groom them?"

  "That's right. Pull bugs out of their fur. I noticed the vivet doing that when we were riding one. Do you remember?"

  "Not quite," Bogg said. "Tear yourself away from there, run past me and get the signal fire going up top. And watch your step. There's a dead feller name of Uilleam somewhere, and I reckon he's been chewed on."

  The pup managed to do it. He stoked up the signal fire, and like Bogg said, put Cadogan's leg in it. And while that was burning up, the pup found old headless Uilleam's (headless! Good land, wendigos were nasty) javelin, and set its steel point in the flames.

  Bogg needed all that time to hoist Cadogan the wendigo up the stairs. He couldn't tie the critter well, because those knife-claws could slice through anything holding his wrists or arms. So Bogg mostly just held him close, kept his claws at bay, and dragged. The critter snapped at Bogg with those wolf teeth once, and Bogg nearly lost his nose. The swordsman's hit was still there, in the critter's throat.

  "When you open your mouth," Bogg taunted, "I can see through your head."

  When they reached the top, the signal flame was hot and high, and the javelin had been in there a while. Bogg sent the pup downstairs.

  The sun, by this time, was low over the mountains to the hest, and the tower's shadow leaned a mile along the shore.

  Bogg pitched the wendigo headlong into the crenels. It righted itself, shook its scraggly red braids, snarled, and as well as it could on one leg, launched itself at him.

  Bogg snatched up the javelin and drove its orange-hot tip square into the wendigo's chest. Its howl shrank down to a wheeze. It clutched at the javelin and tried to pull it out, but Bogg pushed hard and pinned the critter against the stone floor. It squealed and cried, turned all to smoke and was gone.

  Bogg stood alone at the top of the tower, signal fire warm behind him, holding a javelin with a suit of chain mail stuck on the end.

  Downstairs, he found the pup hugging and murmuring to his great big hairy friend.

  "That's that," said Bogg. He stooped and pulled gear from his pack. Then he emptied his saddlebags, dumping odds and ends on the ground.

  Simon looked up. "What are you doing?"

  "I've been thinking," said Bogg. "I ought to be the one to scoot down the hill and gather up all that loot before that swordsman comes back for it. Gold doubloons and silver pieces of six, it mostly looked like. A shame to let all that go to waste. And you, being an expert on four-legged hills, ought to..." Bogg rummaged. Where was it?

  "What, Bogg?" asked Simon.

  Bogg's thick, dirty fingers closed on a soft package. "Here it is."

  "What, Bogg?"

  Bogg stood. "You ought to figure out how to feed fur-bearing trout to your friend, there."

  "What?"

  "Now, it's a little singed. Not to say burnt. I hope it’s still good. I had a little problem with a certain dr--"

  But here the kid was hugging him again.

  #

  Chapter 40

  That night, the pup stayed with his hairy friend. Its foot never left that treasure hole, and it bellered and bellyached about its broken leg. But somehow the pup got some of the smoked trout down its throat -- without losing his fingers -- and the critter was quiet after that. The pup just snuggled his little self against its furry hide and murmured and sang quiet songs to it.

  Bogg chose to steer clear of the beast, and watched all this from the top of the tower. By the time he'd stuffed his saddlebags full of the swordsman's treasure, the signal fire had burned down to hot coals and the stink of the wendigo had faded. It was right easy and comfortable up there, not a bad place to spend the night. But Bogg slept fitfully. He kept peeping over the crenels to see if anyone was advancing on them from Dragon's Head, and to see if the four-legged hill had flattened Simon or gulped him down. No, on both counts.

  Time enough, the coals were dark and the sky turned pink over the ocean. A morning breeze, salty and cold, blew up from the beach. Down the stairs and outside the tower's front door, Bogg found the four-legged hill struggling and trumpeting. The pup stood clear, looking quiet and hopeful.

  With a good hard snort, the critter stepped out. Its leg was as fit as any hairy tree trunk could be. The pup squealed and jumped about, tickled. He threw himself at it and hugged its trunk, and the trunk hugged him back. Bogg had no kind feelings for the beast, not a bit, but the sight lifted his spirits just the same.

  Or maybe it was the sunrise.

  The pup looked up to Bogg in the tower's doorway. "Bogg! Good heavens, you look terrible."

  Bogg grunted. "Fine morning greeting, that." He glanced down at himself. He'd gotten himself coated with sand last night when he scampered down to gather the spilt coins. The sand stuck to all the soot, not to mention the blood, which had dried dark and ugly. "I reckon I could use a swim."

  The pup grinned. "I reckon that too. Then breakfast, if there is any. Then Tyrus."

  Bogg's spirits lifted even higher. "Suits me.
Maybe if we try, we can sneak up on the one-eyed son of a bitch."

  The pup frowned. It made him look older. "No, Bogg. It would be better if you led Hummock back up to the tree line. So she can find her way home."

  "Me? Why?"

  The pup let go of the thing's trunk and faced Bogg directly. "Because I'm going after Tyrus, and you're not. I'm going by myself."

  That hit Bogg hard. He blustered about for words. "Where's your sense, pup? You want to stick yourself on the end of that sword of his?"

  Simon wouldn't look Bogg in the eye. "Don't try to scare me, Bogg. I know it's dangerous. But I'm doing it."

  Bogg fumed. "By jings, kid, if brains were gunpowder, you wouldn't have enough to blow your nose."

  Simon's little face turned hard, and now he did look at Bogg dead-on. "You can't stop me."

  Bogg laughed. "Sure I can."

  Simon didn't budge. "No. You can't."

  Bogg scowled and moved his foot, scuffing away some of the soot on his boot. The four-legged hill stood there next to Simon, all placid, its big hairy sides swelling up and down with each windy breath. "Well, look, here's a thought..." Bogg shrugged. "Let the bastard go."

  "You don't mean that."

  "I surely do. The swordsman's gone. Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you."

  Simon frowned. "Never... what?"

  "Never mind. Look, pup," he patted the saddlebags that hung heavy with gold on his shoulder. "I got what I need. I can let the ransom on that sword pass. Thundering after bounty and following the Maven Minder's orders ain't the best life."

  "I don't believe this." Simon shook his head. "You would let him get away? After what he's done?"

  Bogg jabbed a dirty finger at him. "My brother ain't coming back! Nor's your father. We can't change that."

  Simon sighed. He grabbed handfuls of hair and pulled himself up to the crown of the beast's head. From up there, Simon looked down on him. "Tyrus is just getting started. He'll kill again. Lots. I know."

  It seemed to Bogg that the pup talked as if he'd seen it already, and Bogg wondered how he could be so sure. Then again, the pup's reckoning wasn't exactly a stretch. "I judge that's true enough. But the killing he does needn't involve you."

  The four-legged hill flapped its reddish ears, and the pup settled in front of its shoulder hump, ready to ride. "The vivets were willing to let him go, too. Ee tried to persuade me to give up."

  Bogg nodded. "I always thought the greenies had some sense, living as deep in the sticks as they do."

  Simon laughed. "You and Ee. I wouldn't have believed it." His fingers touched the raccoonskin hat on his head. "You want your hat back?"

  Bogg felt himself flush. "Don't talk like that!"

  The pup pulled the hat low on his head and tugged gently on the critter's ear. It started lumbering toward the slope to Dragon's Head. "Goodbye, Bogg."

  "Wait! Let's do this together then."

  Simon turned to him as the monster lumbered away, his face small and pale over the beast's sizeable backside. "Thank you, Uncle. For everything. I love you."

  Bogg made fists and jutted his chin out as the boy moseyed away. "What in tarnation! You're jest going to ride a four-legged hill through downtown Dragon's Head?"

  The beast was picking up speed. "No, Uncle," Simon called. "Just away from you. I have to do it! I'll meet you right here. I'll light the signal fire. I'm sorry!"

  The pup touched the hill's head in some way Bogg couldn't see, and the thing took off. Bogg tore after it. They both ripped down the slope. The critter pulled ahead right quick, but there was no way Bogg could lose sight of it. And any moron could follow four-legged hill tracks in beach sand.

  The pup didn't guide the monster straight toward the town. The thing curved away, running closer and closer to a road that led out of Dragon's Head. Bogg huffed and puffed, but he was falling behind. All the gold pulling at his shoulder might have been the problem. Bogg let the saddlebag slip off and plop heavy in the sand. Lighter now, he poured on the speed and raged after the pup's monster, small in the distance.

  It reached the road out of Dragon's Head and kept going. But the road weren't empty! A haywagon pulled by a tired-looking horse found itself in a head-on spat with a four-legged hill. The wagon swerved and the hill swerved, horse neighing and hill trumpeting.

  Oh, pup, you've done it now. Bogg laughed as he ran.

  The wagon made it by intact, and the driver, a young feller with blond hair and a white cotton shirt, spurred on his old mare and rode for dear life. He'd have a story to tell for the rest of his days, Bogg judged.

  The four-legged hill ripped along, too, crossing the road and dropping out of sight down the slope on the other side. Bogg closed in, his breath roaring through him, his boots pounding the sand. He watched the spot where the hill had disappeared and tried to conjure in his mind what the blazes Simon was planning.

  Bogg reached the road. On the other side, the waters of Pirate's Bay crashed on the beach. The morning sun sparkled on the waves. And Bogg could smell four-legged hill.

  There it was! Not running anymore. As Bogg ran to it, it crept up to the water. A wave surged up the beach and washed over all four of its big round feet. It trumpeted and scampered back.

  Simon wasn't on it.

  There was no trace of him. Not even a single kid-sized track in the sand. Just a four-legged hill playing in the surf. What had Simon done? Swum for it?

  Bogg followed the monster's tracks backward. If Simon had jumped off, he'd leave a mark. Time enough, Bogg had backtracked all the way to the road. By then, even without Simon's tracks, Bogg had sussed out what had happened.

  The haywagon was long gone, clear to Dragon's Head now. Heck, in all the fracas, the driver might not even have noticed a little boy slipping into the back and burying himself in the hay.

  Bogg sat down by the side of the road and had a think. He saw himself trudging up and down every muddy stinking street, bumping into every shoulder, casting about for a wee hard-to-spot lad who knew towns, and how to sneak in them, a whole peg better than Bogg did. Bogg could reckon his odds of finding the pup before the pup found the swordsman. Not good.

  There weren't no answer. Nothing to do, now, but pick up his damn saddlebag, wait by the tower, and start worrying.

  #

  The doctor in Rastaban removed Tyrus Jurgen's destroyed eye. That, and the week of expensive leech treatments that followed, had forced Tyrus to sell his armor. He had nearly run the doctor through with Blodleter when Tyrus heard the cost, but Tyrus stayed his hand. Good doctors were rare.

  Now, Tyrus stood at the bow of his new barque, the Eldritch Wand, as it docked at Mutiny Island at the mouth of Pirate's Bay. He wore cotton instead of chain mail, and his dark high-collared captain's coat hung past his knee and covered the sword at his hip. The sun had set, and while the sky overhead was rose-colored and bright, the eost was darkling gray, the horizon fading. No wind pulled at his long hair, and the sea was flat as glass. He inhaled to draw in the familiar salt smell, and his jaw tightened at the stabbing ache under his new eyepatch.

  His crew would board on the morrow, take on final supplies here, then sail to Algolus. Tyrus had stepped back from privateering for now and made use of his skills as a ship's captain, and taken the safe and banal job of ferrying the Wand, a colony ship, back home, since her original captain had died of dysentery.

  Tyrus's old habits lived on, though. He might sail this rig down the coast a bit, around the peninsula and skirt Driftwood Bay, and if he found a suitably harmless victim on the water, he would raise the blue unicorn and strike. It would be foolish -- he had not engaged in mortal combat since losing his eye and had no feel for its effect, and he had no privateers among the Wand's crew to fight with him -- but to take another ship single-handed would be a lovely and glorious thing.

  It would put his mind at rest.

  Ty
rus Jurgen walked the perimeter of the deck, casting his eye about in grim inspection, uncertain what he was looking for. There were no munitions to check on this empty civilian boat. Tyrus was just restless.

  He stopped at his captain's quarters under the poop deck. As the frail wooden door creaked open, the maiden lashed to his bedpost startled and launched a fresh round of tugging at her bonds.

  "Do you know what I would do if you actually broke free?" Tyrus asked.

  She stopped tugging and trembled quietly under his gaze. Her petticoats were torn and dirty, her hair fallen unkempt but pretty about her shoulders, and her face was streaked with tears. Her teeth showed white and lovely, biting the rag tied round her neck.

  She had been quite another sight in the Swan, a pub in the aust quarter of Rastaban. All sass and laughter with the sailors, drunks, and riffraff. Tyrus had snatched her in the wee hours of this morning, after hearing that his new employer could not afford a ship's whore for this journey.

  The windows to port and starboard showed nothing but gloom outside. Tyrus moved to light the lantern on his desk, but thought better of it. He dropped his coat over his chair, unhitched his scabbard belt and set it by the lantern.

  "Don't be afraid," Tyrus soothed. He approached her on the bed. "You've got important responsibilities here. You're going to keep me sane on an otherwise maddeningly dull voyage." He set a boot on the straw mattress and unlaced it. Then he unlaced the other, and slipped them both off. "I'm going to remove your gag, and you're going to tell me your name. Do you understand?"

  The girl had striking green eyes. She nodded.

  As gently as he could, Tyrus untied the gag. Her lips remained parted, her breath still coming quick, her bosom heaving. Perhaps Tyrus would light the lantern after all, to get a better look at her.

  From behind him came the sound of Blodleter being drawn from its scabbard, and a child's voice. "Her name's Amorette."

  Tyrus whipped about and found a boy standing in the shadowy corner of the cabin. The sword gleamed brightly, shadows or not, its deadly tip pointed at him. The boy stepped into the gloomy light from the windows. He was dressed in the red wool cap and check linens of a cabin boy.