Coyote Chronicles

by Anton Le Roy

  The burden on my shoulders lifts and the pipe smoke in the air instantly disperses as I push myself up, ignoring creaking knees. I stare down into those surprised eyes, noting a fading glimmer of green within. Another spook to haunt me?

  “Ever kill a god before?” asks Gregor, wiping his fouled mouth.

  I’m staring at the motionless form with regret strangely heavy in my bowels.

  Gregor shrugs, “Out here in the wilderness for centuries, all his true worshippers gone, he was as good as dead anyway. Probably did him a favour.”

  “Aye.” I bend down and pick up the pipe, still warm from the flame within. This must be the treasure we came looking for.

  “So that’s it, eh? The Princess will be pleased,” says Gregor, kicking over an old worshipper corpse for a better look. “I wonder if she knows the power that little thing contains.”

  “Of course she does,” I reply. And what of it? Powerful people always buy more power. Whether via money, cruelty or magic, what’s the difference? Who cares if we give her the pipe? If not her, only some other despot to arise and lay ruin to the world. These lands are tormented by endless wars, maybe it would be good if one side finally won and ruled over all; I’m not really doing any harm, am I?

  However, the more I inspect the pipe, the lighter it feels in my hand and that’s when I realise.

  “It’s not the real one,” I mutter in frustration.

  “How do you know?”

  In answer to his question the pipe collapses into a small pile of dust. Damn it!

  I wipe my hands clean. “It was a manifestation in our world, just as Loktie’s little body wasn’t real either.”

  Gregor finishes pulling a gold ring from one of many desiccated fingers on one of the dead worshippers. “So where’s the real pipe?”

  I look at the portal.

  “Great!” growls my companion. “Right where he invited us in the first place!”

  “It’s his domain. His spirit could still be alive in there.”

  “Well I didn’t drag my freezing arse around this shit-hole for weeks to go home empty handed! The Princess seems to be the kind of bitch to reward failure with a contract on our heads and I ain’t ever in the mood to start hunting damned assassins. Besides, I want my goddamn reward money for this shitty little treasure hunt and then a soft warm body to fool with in a soft warm bed! Looks like we got no choice.”

  I see what he’s poetically saying, the Princess looked like a usually shifty regal when she hired us and we did brag about how fantastic we were, that we’d easily get this done without really knowing (more like caring) about the facts. “Well, seeing as you put it that way, we’d best continue.”

  Gregor grins. “You don’t give a shit about what I just said, do you?”

  I shake my head, “Nah, I just hate to disappoint you.”

  “Touching, but that’s bull too. You’re just too damn curious for your own good to walk away from that portal.”

  I smile at that. “Well, we didn’t get anywhere in the old days from just walking away.”

  Gregor laughs. “Ha! We didn’t ever get anywhere! If we did, we would’ve given up this crap years ago.”

  “Really? Would we have done that?”

  “No.”

  So, we decide to leave the horses behind and they seem happy enough grazing on the miraculously lush grass and sheltering amongst the trees. Hopefully they’ll be here when we come back, assuming the gate will remain after we’re done. A few provisions in knapsacks and we’re ready.

  Just before stepping through the portal where obsidian becomes soft and silky as oil to the touch, I pause at a sound. There, the Coyote has returned. It lifts its head from the dead god’s mortal corpse, maw splashed with blood and meat hanging from its chops. Is that a glimmer of green in the dog’s eyes? No matter, time to go, although as we pass into the darkness of that magical doorway I know there is something significant about the scene behind me and I cannot escape a cold chill within my spine.

  Chapter 2

  A punch in the gut and then we’re through the portal, gasping for air as we stumble to the ground. Felt like I was walking through tar and when I look down at our bodies there’s nothing residual left on us except for fading outlines of those symbols on the stones. The portal is behind us and looks just the same as before. It’s brought us somewhere different – you can’t get much more different than a completely new realm!

  We find ourselves on a mountain peak protruding from a sea of mist that appears to stretch for eternity in every direction while, further ahead, more islands jut from the undulating fog. The sky overhead is almost a monotone if it were not for the hint of turquoise blue, the same blue that bathes everything in this realm. Although it suggests coldness it doesn’t feel anything like the freezing mountains we’ve just left, so we pull back our fur hoods to give ourselves better peripheral vision. The sky shifts as if sculpted by a mighty chisel. Looking up there I’m reminded of the same swirling patterns we’d seen on the black obsidian rocks.

  Gregor hawks and spits.

  The horizon in one direction glimmers a different colour - sickly green, pulsating like explosions. This ripples across the whole turquoise skyline and over our heads like a tumultuous storm flickering with bizarre lightning, again in the form of strange glyphs, yet there is no rain, no wind nor booming thunder.

  We head off in the direction from whence the silent storm originates, frost crunching underfoot. A few random trees are dotted on each peak, barren of leaf as if long dead. Occasional stones bounce from our feet into the mist and I wonder what horrors dwell below that screen of vagueness? Upon reaching the edge of the first island we can see no way of reaching the next bit of land because it’s too far to jump and there are no bridges. We’re stuck.

  Gregor curses. And then spits.

  And then curses some more.

  I inspect the ground. No hidden runes I can see that can magic us across. Great.

  “Hey, Vet,” grunts Gregor. “Hear that? Sounds like someone playing dice.”

  Aye, it does. Of all the strangest things… A quick look around until finally we spot another island to our right and what appear to be two people playing dice against a ridge of stone.

  Gregor calls out and waves. Could be friend or foe, but it doesn’t matter because either way means at least we’re getting somewhere.

  The game stops and the two figures rise and walk as close to us as they can. The first man is tall and handsome, with curled mustachios and a slicked back ponytail. His attire is that of a nobleman: black leggings; high brown leather boots; open necked white silk shirt; tailor fitted red jacket with lots of shiny buttons and a slender rapier at his side. There are some furs at his feet that he must have discarded since being here. By looks alone his smart companion is obviously his valet: short; uninteresting face; bland clothes; amenable manner; easily forgettable presence, so much so that I’ve already lost interest in him.

  “I say!” calls the noble, “Please let us introduce ourselves. I am Lord Fussby, accompanied by my faithful manservant, Horice. Tis a wonder to finally meet a new soul in this drab place.”

  “Lord Fussby?” I query, “Renowned explorer and merchant?”

  The Lord puffs out his chest and smiles. “Indeed, it is I!”

  “More like, well known womaniser and gambler,” adds Gregor along with a bark of a laugh. “I could only dream of matching your exploits!”

  Fussby puffs his chest even more and beams even wider and then his smile fades. “Oh dear, I have just had a thought. You have not travelled here to follow up on a debt, perchance?”

  “Well…” muses Gregor, obviously scheming.

  “No,” I say before he panics and does something stupid. “Owe a little money do you?”

  “Ha, a little… yes you could say that. You understand how it is. Some individuals are so very impatient, so I decided to locate some more treasure to reimburse them and I found myself in this tiresome situation. I forget how man
y days I have had to endure the company of Horice alone. What I would give for some steak, wine and a couple of fillies to romp with!”

  “Wouldn’t we all,” drawls Gregor.

  Hmm, pompous, but strangely likable. “Aye, anyway, we’re looking for Loktie.”

  Fussby raises an eyebrow. “Short fellow? Bit old and babbles on about his worshippers? A few bats loose in the belfry?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, he resides in the temple yonder with all his cohorts, worshippers, whatever they are. And by the looks of it, a foul mood has taken him. Did you chaps happen to do that?”

  “Yep.”

  He chuckles. “Brave indeed! Say, would you happen to know a way out of here? I would be most grateful. Most grateful indeed.”

  “How about showing us a way to the temple first?”

  Both eyebrows rise at that. “You wish to make him angrier? Well I suppose we can grab some loot while we’re at it. Makes this uneventful saga in my famous story a little more bearable if I come out with some sort of windfall that I can take back home to Mazo.” He walks a little bit along his islands vague edge and looks down into the murk. “As a warning, putting ones hand into that dreary mist is a trifle dangerous, all manner of foul things lurk beneath. Horice? Come along now. Good man.”

  Horice rolls his eyes and trudges over beside him with the look of someone used to forfeiting his life for his master. On his knees he peers into the gloom and snaps a hand down into it, immediately pulling it back out again with a fat rope between his stubby fingers. Where his hand had just been something alive rolls across the surface of the mist with its slick spine briefly visible before disappearing once more.

  Fussby slaps him on the back. “Well done, my man. Nothing like a little adrenaline to spice the day up, hmm?”

  Another eye roll from Horice, before trudging off a little way back until the rope grows taut, one end still in the fog.

  “Excellent,” barks Fussby. “Now, you chaps have a snoop about for another rope. It is wonderful to finally be able to do this. You see, these bridges can only be made if we work in co-operation.”

  We have a wander around our little area of rock and finally Gregor gives a grunt and a nod to what must be another length of rope.

  “Be my guest,” I say to him.

  He shrugs and a little languidly grabs it. All of a sudden the fog explodes beneath him and a disgusting worm with the head of a dog surges upwards, canines dripping ooze and filth. Before it can chew his face off Gregor snaps his other hand up and grabs the beast just below the jaw and it clacks and cries at length, the gross body twisting far off into the mist.

  “I’ve kissed worse bitches,” chuckles Gregor, despite the struggle to hold it at bay.

  My sword, Fenix, sings and slices through its body in one swing. Green blood spurts everywhere. As the lower half of the twitching body slides from view, the head and neck still moves, keen to eat even though there is no belly to fill. Gregor launches it into the air, my sword sings a second time and two pieces of head spin off into the fog.

  Reluctantly, I wipe the green gore from my sword across my trouser leg. Then we both take the rope and stretch it out parallel to the other rope our two friends hold.

  “And now we all simply pull,” states Fussby, finally giving Horice a hand.

  At first it feels like we’re trying to pull a mountain. Nothing gives. Then finally a creak, which, for a moment, I think comes from my knee joints, or maybe my back. Slowly the rope moves while in unison two old bridges arise parallel from the mist, one linking our island to a new peak and the other linking Fussby’s island to a peak in line with ours. A few familiar glyphs adorn the new wooden structures.

  “At long last!” delights Fussby, eagerly grabbing his furs.

  A walk across the old and creaking bridge back onto a new island and then Gregor reminds me it’s my turn to find the next rope. I manage to pull it up quicker than he and as I disturb the murk, another beast rolls by without attacking me. With Horice finding their rope once more we slowly hoist two more bridges into view.

  And that’s how it progresses with searching, kneeling, hand into the fog as quick as possible, a moment of tension, pulling ropes, bridge appearing, rope, pull, bridge and so on.

  It seems that the more islands we walk onto the more we have to travel to. Slowly my muscles begin to burn with each rope pull. Our reactions dwindle each time we recklessly plunge our hands into the unknown. I tire every time I cross another bridge. We should rest, sooner or later one of us is either going to pull a hernia or get nibbled by a monster, but we have to keep going. I know Loktie was weakened when I killed his earthly body, I know his spirit needs time to heal and the longer we take to reach him then the more he recharges his powers. Unfortunately everyone else has slowed up too, taking their time to cross the bridge and find the next rope.

  “Why are you two out here?” I call to Fussby. “Why aren’t you in the temple with the other worshippers?”

  Fussby smiles, enjoying the prospect of some more self-advertising. We take the opportunity to have a quick sit down to rest while he says, “Well that is quite an interesting question. Spot of luck really. I was perusing the market stalls of one particularly disgusting village in the mountains when I happened to chance upon a small artefact of obvious enchanted properties.” He motions to a rather bland brooch on one lapel. “In my search for Loktie and his magical pipe, I had also discovered the myth of wanderers falling under his spell and a quick chat with the grotesque retailer of said item led me to believe that while wearing it my companion and I would remain untouched by many magics, including the harshest of Loktie’s. Thus I would be able to enter his realm and yet not become imprisoned by it. I found that it worked quite splendidly.”

  “So why are you still in here?” Gregor points out.

  “Because I became sodding well stuck! No one informed me of islands and bridges and whatnot! I do not know why you fellows appeared on another island to ours, but you’d have found yourselves trapped too had you not. ”

  I wonder at that. And then, all of a sudden, our little chat is disturbed by a tremor thudding through all of the islands. It’s enough to send us all reeling. Glancing over my shoulder at where we entered this realm, those islands closest to the portal begin to crumble and sink into the fog.

  “We have to speed things up!” I shout, scrabbling onto my feet.

  Ropes are found and heaved, followed by frantic running across bridges. Another search. Another pull of the rope. Another island. Not far behind now, peaks are disappearing, pulling bridges down with them. The sky flashes even more angrily. A worm dog lurches out of the fog and Fussby seems done for until he somehow dodges just in time and then his rapier slices open the belly. As the monster squirms in pain at Fubssy’s feet, Horice finishes the poor thing off with a large knife. No time for loitering. Pats on backs can wait. Another rope and we’re pulling for our lives, struggling to find the extra energy to heave those two blasted bridges up.

  The ground shudders under our feet, spitting stones painfully into our legs. As cracks slice through our islands, we’re running onto already tilting bridges. The islands behind us implode and we leap from the bridges as they disappear into the fog. No time to find the next rope, no time for messing about. We keep running, knowing there’s only one option left once we reach the edge.

  I can see the temple is very close now. The sky above ruptures and light cascades brilliantly all around it: Loktie’s currently limited power is almost fully charged. I watch it no longer because the edge is upon us. The next island for Gregor and me is too far away but we try anyway and as we jump hopelessly into the air, I wonder how far the old me (I mean, the young me) would be able to reach. Then we’re falling and everything and everyone is lost in the mist.

  Chapter 3

  Down, down, down. Falling and falling. Worm dogs are all around us, I know without needing to see. One bumps my leg and another bangs the back of my head. Are w
e still falling?

  “I think,” groans Gregor from somewhere to my left, “I think we’re on the floor.”

  He’s right and I realise that I’m lying on some sort of soft surface. Bumpy. Cold. Within this cloud of uncertainty there are rumbles all around – obviously more falling islands. I stand and shrapnel falls nearby, appearing from the fog to skitter across my feet. Something grabs my arm and I jump in surprise, almost stabbing with my sword before I realise it’s Gregor.

  “Why aren’t we dead yet?” he asks.

  Beats me.

  We call out to Lord Fussby and his manservant with no response. Meanwhile, a small light smoulders within the gloom and approaches like a hovering sprite behind misty glass. No, it’s a pipe, the real pipe and holding it is Loktie, still old, still small and still cheerful, the lunatic.

  “So glad you came! Glad, glad.”

  “Likewise,” replies Gregor, “You need to work on your hospitality though.”

  As if a host beckoning us to a party, he turns and gestures for us to follow. “Come, come, join other worshippers. Join, join. This is very good indeed! A growing flock.”

  “We haven’t come as worshippers,” I mention, “We entered of our own free will for other means. Remember?”

  Loktie pauses. Shoulders hunched, he looks over one shoulder and for the first time there is menace in his eyes. “Not worshippers. No. Came for pipe. My pipe! No answers here for the Veteran. Need lesson taught. Then worshippers they be.” He turns to face us once more and smiles like we didn’t hear him. “Come then, if you must.” And then Loktie is no more than another section of fog.

  “Looks like we get to kill this daft sod a second time,” grunts Gregor.

  Not yet. The fog slowly disperses and finally we can see the strange sky once more and the fallen islands and crumpled bridges and also the strange floor. No wonder the ground felt soft because as far as the eye can see lay body after body all piled atop one another or next to each other, as if part of a great woollen weave holding the very fabric of this realm together. Dead people. Grey faces with hollow eye sockets and bodies free of any rotting. Frozen in time only hours after death. The many followers that long ago helped a once great god exist are now nothing more than empty husks and there lies his lost remaining power. If he could regain that with new worshippers then who knows where his damaged mind would take him?