Wendigo Rising: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Three) (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 3)

by James Hunter

  The chief lowered his head, gave Winona’s palm a brief squeeze—which, by the way, probably would’ve shattered all the bones in my hand—then nodded at me, a curt dip of his chin. He looked better now. Whatever spell had momentarily possessed him seemed to have moved on for the time being. Yeah, there was definitely more going on here than they were letting on about, but I kinda figured now wasn’t the time to push it.

  “Yes,” the chief said, “your weaponry.” He became a haze of arms and legs and hair. In less than an eyeblink, he was before me—all nine hulking feet of him—with his hands held out, my monster pistol in one hand, my K-Bar in the other

  “Damn it, Kong,” I said. “You’ve gotta stop sneaking up on me like that. That’s a surefire way to give a guy a friggin’ heart attack.”

  “My name is not Kong,” he responded, apparently unconcerned about my objections. “It is Chief Chankoowashtay. We have already discussed this. Come, let us go see the Kinslayer.”

  THREE:

  Indignity

  Kong led us from the cave, following a winding passage which eventually let out in a secluded clearing surrounded by a spattering of green pines and firs. I glanced back and found the cave entrance to be almost invisible, just a thin, craggy cut in the rock face of a pitiful excuse for a cliff. The eye instinctively slid over the opening, which told me there was some sort of illusion or glamour construct at work there too. The weaves for the working were hidden from sight—a complicated safeguard against those with the ability to see through conjured illusions. I still wasn’t quite sure what kinda hoodoo these apes were slinging, but it was powerful.

  “Alright, so where to?” I asked, turning back to take in the dense forest stretching off in every direction. It all looked identical to me. There wasn’t any sign of a well-worn path or foot trail, just dense, unspoiled wilderness.

  “We will lead you,” Kong said, “but my daughter must carry you.” Winona was beside me in a flash, scooping huge hands beneath my armpits and hoisting me into her arm, leaving my feet to dangle in the air.

  “The hell are you doing?” I said, struggling against her, wiggling and squirming to free myself from her grasp. “Put me down right friggin’ now.” I couldn’t see Winona, since she was behind me, but I offered Kong a glare fierce enough to peel paint off the wall. “I am not some booger-nosed toddler, and I refuse to be carried around like some little girl’s teddy bear.” I felt Winona shrug her burly shoulders before gently placing me back on the ground; leaves crunched underfoot.

  “Deal with him,” Kong said to Winona, his words terse, clipped, and annoyed.

  Winona stepped around me and squatted down, sitting on her heels so she could look me in the face. Her eyes, just like her father’s, were a startling shade of green. But they were kind eyes, very different from the chieftain’s. While he looked perpetually a hairsbreadth away from opening a great big ol’ can of whoop-ass, she looked like the kind of person who cried during Bambi, helped old women cross the street, and nursed baby birds back to health.

  I think Kong and I shared a bit more in common than I’d like to admit.

  “My apologies, mage,” she said.

  I turned away from her scrutiny, not wanting to meet those eyes any longer. “Stop calling me ‘mage,’ my name’s Yancy, alright? If I’m gonna be stuck with you and your inarticulate, ill-tempered, poo-flinging father, the least you can do is get my name right.”

  “I do not fling poo,” Kong growled, his shoulders knotting with tension and barely concealed fury. Winona shot him a warning glance, and I once again got the sense that some mental communication passed between the two. He snorted and turned away, his eyes scanning the forest, obviously ignoring us. I wasn’t sure what the relationship dynamic between these two was, but I sure found it odd that the chief was unmistakably a giant ball of smoldering anger. I mean, he kept saying the People were peaceful folk, but he couldn’t go three minutes without trying to pick a fight—guy was worse than a drunk Marine on liberty.

  Another trait we shared.

  “Again, my apologies, Yancy,” she continued as though nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. “To get close enough to observe the Kinslayer and his human allies, I must carry you. This is not to be offensive, but you humans are very slow and very, very loud. Even your most skilled woodsmen sound like a young buck crashing through the forest. If you walk, the Kinslayer will hear you. Holding you will also make concealment easier—I can extend my own veil over us both. Now, would you prefer to cling to my back like an unruly whelp, or shall I carry you as a babe?”

  She delivered the whole spiel completely straight-faced, so either she was being genuine or she was the reincarnated, Bigfoot-version of Bud Abbott—arguably the greatest comedic straight man of all time.

  Unfortunately, she also made remarkably good sense; the Chiye-tanka were renowned in the supernatural community for their prowess in the woods. A field-mouse farting in the wind was louder than a Chiye-tanka strolling through the forest. And they had hearing that dwarfed the human capacity by miles. So yeah, probably I wasn’t gonna be able to sneak up on a community of bloodthirsty Sasquatches on high alert.

  Dammit. That meant I was gonna have to let her carry me … boy, I swear, some days my life is just one big, undignified slap to the face.

  “Fine,” I eventually consented. “You can carry me.”

  “Front or back?” she asked, no mockery in her gruff voice, which almost made things worse. Having her give me a piggyback ride would be slightly less humiliating, true, but then I wouldn’t have my hands free, which meant no gun and no offensive Vis constructs of badassery. That sounded like a losing proposition all around. “I guess the front would probably be for the best,” I muttered.

  She nodded and moved, her immense feet flying into motion as she covered the space between us. She scooped me into her heavily muscled arms and cradled me like a newborn.

  Without any words passing between them, Kong burst into action, darting away into the tree cover, his long limbs eating up ground like a starving dog going to town on a juicy steak. Winona flowed a second later, and really there was no other word for it. She was running, but the ride was as silky smooth as good scotch.

  Wind beat against my face, blowing my hair back, plastering my clothes to my body, but the experience felt more like riding my motorcycle than being carried by a running she-ape. The forest whizzed by as we maneuvered through the brush, zipping and zagging between trees, weaving around moss-covered boulders, leaping downed logs. If it wasn’t for the friction of the air tugging at every inch of me, I would’ve said we had somehow become one with the wind.

  We followed Kong like that for maybe ten minutes, trailing deeper and deeper into the Montana wilderness, covering untold miles in that brief span—we had to be moving along at fifty or sixty miles an hour, and doing it without making a sound. Graveyard silent. Eventually, our speed diminished until we were moving at little more than a brisk jog. Kong glanced over one meaty shoulder and gave us a curt nod, a signal that we were nearing our intended destination.

  “We will put up the veil, but you must remain very, very quiet,” Winona whispered into my ear, the words almost below the range of my hearing.

  I nodded my head in understanding and opened myself to the Vis—the power bubbling and broiling just below the surface of the material world. Life-giving force and energy rushed into me, filling my limbs with a surge like a jolt of electricity; time crept to a near standstill as my mind and senses sharpened and focused, noting and cataloging the scenery as we moved. The power felt alive inside of me, a seething mass of thinking flame just begging to be used up, to be turned loose.

  I wasn’t sure what kind of horror show we were walking into, but I sure as shit intended to be ready for anything. I quickly prepared the weaves for a standard friction shield in one hand and a javelin of air in the other. I wanted to go with a flame spear, but the trees were pretty dry this time of year, and I didn’t want to be responsible for sta
rting a statewide blaze. I’m not exactly the pinnacle of moral excellence and responsibility, but forest fires are nothing to screw around with. A lot of innocent people could get hurt that way, and I’m never game to see that kinda shit go down, not if it can be avoided.

  I watched as a nearly invisible blob of purple light oozed away from Kong, first encircling him, then snaking across the ground and encompassing Winona and me. The world dimmed perceptibly around us as the working bled over us, creating a close-fitting second skin of violet, which moved as we moved. This had to be a veil, but it wasn’t like any I’d ever seen before.

  Without a thought, I breathed out a wispy probe of spirit and air, a delicate working which would allow me to get a read on any constructs, veils, or barriers without setting them off. I could sense the power at work around us, but it wasn’t a formal construct.

  When a mage makes a construct, it’s almost like constructing a machine. The working has a specific purpose, and is composed of the necessary pieces to make the thing work. Air, water, earth, fire—those are the primary elements, though there are others—basically, just a bunch of scrap metal, held together by the nuts and bolts of spirit and will. Then, once the mechanics are taken care of, the construct is guided and controlled by an operator: the mage. Easy-peasy, though, I’ll admit, that kinda takes the “magic” out of the whole thing, but there it is, nonetheless.

  But what the chief was putting out was almost organic, vastly simple in some ways, yet simultaneously complex beyond my understanding. What he was doing almost seemed like real magic, at least to me. It also served as a subtle reminder that although these beasties couldn’t call up a firestorm or rip the earth asunder with their power, they shouldn’t be underestimated.

  After a few long minutes of waiting I finally let the weaves for the probe vanish and focused instead on preparing some nasty, hard-hitting offensive workings, just in case things got ugly. Heck, knowing my life, things would get ugly, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

  Another fifteen minutes passed by molasses-slow, and I started to feel both irritated and antsy. The way Kong and Winona talked, you’d think the world was gonna spin out of orbit and careen into the sun in the next five minutes. But instead of doing something productive, here we were standing around with our metaphorical thumbs up our asses. Hurry up and wait, the story of my life.

  After another fifteen minutes of twiddling my thumbs, I couldn’t take it anymore. Holding in the Vis was a deadly battle in its own right, and the longer I held my constructs in the wings, the more difficult the fight became. The weaves were already slick, wriggling and writhing in my mental grasp—not a good sign. Not to mention, my legs were also filling up with pins and needles as they quietly drifted to sleep. Surely there had to be some better use of our time.

  “What the hell are we waiting for?” I finally hissed into Winona’s ear. “A friggin’ party invitation or what? Let’s get this show on the road, already.”

  She stared at me, her thick lips pulling back into a snarl that told me Shut up better than words ever could. I scowled back at her, folded my arms across my chest, and clenched my fists into tight balls—two could play at this game of pissed-off chicken. And I would win, because I knew that between us, I was the ornerier by far. Hell, I could take home Olympic gold in the ornery-stare-down competition. After a minute of strained, awkward silence, she finally pressed her eyes shut and slumped forward, wilting in defeat.

  Her brow furrowed in concentration and I felt something brush at my mind. The sensation was a little like walking face-first into a spider web. She was speaking to me telepathically, though nothing was getting through. Nothing intelligible, anyway.

  I had some heavy-grade defenses in place to keep outsiders where they belonged: outside. But if I wanted answers, I was also pretty sure this was the only way I was gonna get ’em—she didn’t exactly seem like a regular Chatty Cathy, not now that we were so close to our destination. The last time I’d disengaged my mental barriers wholesale, my brain had been invaded by a friggin’ harpy and I’d had the pleasure of reliving the worst days of my life over again. Wasn’t gonna make that mistake again.

  So instead of just dropping my mental wards like a sack full of hot potatoes, I carefully unraveled the individual Vis-conjured shields encircling my mind. You see, my brain is a little like an onion: stinky and often offensive, but, more relevantly, wrapped up with thin layer after thin layer of potent, eye-watering protection. I dismantled seven layers of defenses before I could hear Winona’s words inside my head—faint and oddly distorted, though clear enough for me to make out.

  Your mind is well fortified, she said. There might’ve been a hint of approval in her words. Strong defenses speak to a strong mind. We will need such strength to overcome our enemy.

  You can flatter me later, I thought back. Now tell me what in the hell we’re waiting around for. My legs are going numb hanging around here.

  This is what your kind calls a stakeout. We must be patient. The humans will arrive any moment. They pick up a new shipment of chattel every third day. When they pull up with their vehicle, then we will move. Not before.

  Human chattel? I asked, genuinely confused and more than a little alarmed.

  Patience, she thought. It is best for you to see. Easier that way. Things were quiet for a moment, though her presence remained in my mind. Uncertain and lingering, almost expectant. Like there was something more she wanted from me.

  Since we’ve got nothing better to do, can I ask you a personal question? I asked. She didn’t reply, but neither did she shoot my request down, so I decided to throw caution to the wind and wade right into the thick of things. What’s the real deal with Achak—I got this feelin’ that maybe you and your pops don’t exactly see eye to eye where he’s concerned.

  There is no disagreement between me and my father, she replied. Achak is a traitor. And anything he was, anything once between us, is now gone.

  Yeah, I sent, but what was he to you—before this all started, I mean. I’ve known you for all of two hours and even I can see it hurts you to talk about him. Every time his name comes up, you flinch away. A new silence settled over the conversation, one so long and heavy, I thought she’d somehow managed to close the mental link between us without me noticing.

  Then: He was the favored son of our People, my father’s apprentice. We were betrothed, he and I. After our marriage, he was to succeed my father as Chief and bear the old trusts. Silence fell as profound as a dark, still night. Our people have been dying and fading, she sent abruptly. Only a handful of us are born every decade. Soon our people shall dwindle completely and be no more. A faint memory, you understand this? Achak had many plans. He believed we could become what we once were. Many of my People were fool enough to believe him. Including me …

  This time, I keenly felt the presence of her mind withdraw from me, pulling back, leaving me empty and alone. Guess that meant our conversation was over. I quickly replaced my downed defenses while I waited to get further word. The whole time, her tale circled and spun around in my skull. I’d been there, too. Poor kid.

  It was another twenty minutes, and the sun was sinking below the tree line, painting the sky red and gold, when I heard the rumble of an engine break through the tranquil mountain air. Without preamble, we were moving again, this time practically creeping through the foliage, drawing up on a small clearing, which housed a rundown motorhome and a dusty, old access road.

  FOUR:

  Wendigo

  We loitered thirty feet from the clearing proper, watching in silence as a black panel van, coated in road dust, pulled in. The engine rumbled for a moment as the driver dropped it into park, then died as he killed the motor. Two men slid from the van and circled around until they stood in front of the motorhome, hands cautiously raised skyward.

  The driver, a short dumpy guy with thinning hair, moved a little closer. “We’re unarmed,” he said, his high-pitched voice brimming with nervous energy. “We don’t want
no trouble. We’re just here for the test subjects.”

  For a long beat everything was silent and still, then there was a faint rustle as a pair of Sasquatch guards materialized, one flanking either side of the motorhome entryway. Their eyes were glassy and unfocused, and both were smaller than Kong, similar in size with Winona. Both were also far, far bigger than me. And woo boy, there was definitely something wrong with those hairy sons of bitches.

  A faint aura of red, invisible to the naked eye, but visible to my Vis-enhanced sight, confirmed that someone had monkeyed around (pun certainly intended) with their heads. Some kind of heavy-duty compulsion for sure, though I wouldn’t be able to determine the extent of the damage without a closer look-see. A look-see I wasn’t likely to get, at least not without putting those two out cold.

  No, nothing I could do about that just now.

  So instead, I focused on the two human henchmen. I hauled out my cell phone and brought up the camera, hoping to catch a picture of the driver, his passenger, or a plate number for the panel van. I glanced down at the screen—not only was I too far away, but my phone had a “low light” warning displayed on the screen. That wasn’t gonna be any help. I slid the phone back into my coat pocket and fixed my attention on the scene unfolding before me, committing the details to memory for later.

  One of the Bigfoot guards grunted, a harsh bark that filled the early evening air with menace. A moment later the motorhome door swung outward, revealing yet another hulking ape-man, who unceremoniously ushered out a trio of bound and gagged humans: two men and a woman.

  All three wore several layers of dirty rags. They were filthy, and I mean grimy to the bone; the level of uncleanliness told me straight away all three were likely homeless. Either that or they’d been held captive for months and months without access to a proper washroom. Since all three also had open sores on their dirt-caked faces—a common symptom of meth use—I was gambling on the former.