Coyote Chronicles (The Veteran Book 1)

by Anton Le Roy

  We were moving too slowly, caught up amongst the rest of the fleeing Six. Magical blasts sizzled all around us and arrows blanketed the sky, pounding into hundreds of us at a time. Dragons from both sides fought and some managed to dive-bomb us and torch the world underfoot. I glanced over my shoulder to see Pitt and a few others struggling with Satipo. His ruined face turned to me for the first time and what shocked me the most were not the hideous burns but the way he looked back at me: there was pain, there was anguish, and there was also hatred.

  Then all of a sudden they were lost behind a torrent of running warriors. There was little hope of fighting through the surge of crowds to get to them. There was little hope of fighting anything! The Red Dogs, my family, we were ruined. The Army of the Six was no more. Now there was nothing left for us to do but flee.

  Trouble is, I would never stop running.

  Chapter 1

  Now.

  It’s cold. My joints ache. Those old wounds I used to ignore as a young man now throb, slow me down and hinder flexibility. I can no longer rely on speed and agility. Experience, subtle movements and moments of power: they’re what keep me alive now.

  “These fools are getting younger every damn day,” Gregor growls with his usual smirk.

  “No, my friend, we’re just getting damned older.”

  The five opponents facing us look like boys barely on the cusp of manhood. Nothing more than bandits they’re probably from one of the local mountain settlements, bored with hunting game in these desolate mountains. They have nothing to fear and why should they? I remember feeling the same once. They think they can take on the world and that they’ll live forever. Nothing can stop them, especially not two old men with grizzled faces and grey hair, stooping over in the bitter wind looking cold and worn out.

  “We gonna slice you up,” spits one unnecessarily angry kid, “Your days is done.”

  Not true, kid. Unfortunately these five children will learn an important lesson today and it saddens me to think it’ll be their last. It’s the best I can do though because there’s no stopping what’s coming next.

  Angry boy charges me first and I already know what will happen. His first attack is wild, arrogant, without any thought of his next move, without cause to think there will be a need for a next move. I’ve already dodged it before it’s complete and I can see in his eyes a sudden surprise when his blade slices no flesh and it’s clear that I’m not dead. He’s off balance, with no chance to block any attack. Surprise is replaced by fear when I gently slip past him and roll my wrist into his body. At least his death is swift, as are the others. Well, mostly. Arcs of blood upon snow white ground. Bouncing limbs. Sharp cries of pain. Then it’s over and there are five scattered bodies. One boy is alive, barely. Disembowelled, his innards stretch for several feet. Big old Gregor puts him swiftly out of his misery; his large axe thudding down just once.

  We may be older but this never gets any easier. I see things differently these days without that dazzling arrogance of youth. Standing amongst these dead boys the sightless stares of the dead are always hard to meet. They’re dangerous too because they make you remember all those dead eyes you looked into before, both comrade and enemy. And they make you think: when will my eyes have that same lifeless gaze? Will my face lay in the snow or dirt, dappled with my own blood? Will my sword die with me as it rests amongst the grass to rust and decay? Thinking like that isn’t good when this is what you do for a living! Living, ha!

  My sword, Fenix, gives me life at the expense of others and therefore I must treat it with respect. With the cloak from one prone body I clean gore from its surface and then slide it back into its scabbard where it waits silently, ever desperate to sing once more.

  Wrapped up deeply in our thick furs we leave the silent scene. No doubt others have smelt the blood and death. First there’ll be flies and then ravens calling out to the wolves. Those animals care not for our endeavours: in the end we’re all just meat.

  “There,” points Gregor, “They’ve got horses and I’m fed up with walking.”

  Aye, “Me too.”

  Indifferent to their new masters, these beasts carry us across the barren tundra and into the blizzard, where new aches and pains await my tired old body. A swirling vortex. Whiteout. Shapes within the white. Nothing more than snow taking the form of figures. Ghosts. Scenes from the past always hunting my vision. I curse and that cracks my frozen lips.

  Ghosts, ever present in my mind and if you were to watch me vanish deeper into the blizzard you would think me one of them. A wandering soul forever lost.

  And as ghosts we emerge with skin paled and seemingly lifeless. Bodies limp upon horses white with snow resemble undead beasts. At last we find shelter within mounds of rock left here as if dropped from the sky. There, a black crack, leading into a cold cave free of snow. Here we light a fire and rest with five horses, all sharing steaming body heat and instead of watching figures dancing in the snowfall, I watch them in steam and flames. For a moment one particular memory comes to the fore, that of a dragon and the burning of men and friends. I wrench my eyes downwards before the fire swallows my mind. At last, heat slowly re-enters my body and the damn aches remember their purpose within tired joints and muscles. I tug at a pouch from my belt and from that I pull a thumbnail of hard brown paste called Redleaf. Chewing it softens the mixed herb formula in my mouth, which helps dull the pain and provide a little relief.

  “How much further, you think?” asks Gregor, tearing dried meat with shining teeth while his thin eyes inspect me. Firelight glints from his ear and eyebrow piercings. Like the rest of his body his face is wide and solid, while his nose is thick and his hair tied back into a neatly braided ponytail.

  Always the same question, always the same response. For years, decades, we’ve aimlessly wandered the endless lands while a beckoning horizon stretches for eternity ahead. With an apologetic shrug I lay back into my animal furs and close my eyes. Sleep is a welcoming peace. Momentarily.

  We’re soon up and standing at the mouth of the cave surrounded by the black rock as shiny as obsidian and highlighted by etchings of strange whirling symbols. Hugging the horizon in all directions are the tips of mountains in ragged blacks, greys and whites. It’s an empty world. Quiet too, except from the crunch of our feet in the snow. Animal tracks approach the cave and then disappear again in a scurry – I guess a fox or something seeking shelter before finally discovering a human scent. The blizzard has ceased, leaving a land of snow dunes in its wake. At least the sun has appeared to take the chill off the winter air although my bones still feel frozen, the marrow laced with ice. We both take a leak and watch the steam rise from our piss and it’s the first time in a while we’ve laughed together, as carefree as our younger selves. Ah the good old days. Ha, when were those days ever bad? How many years ago now? Thirty odd? Something like that? Whatever, it seems like a whole lifetime. What I would give to go back, to be with the old gang before it all turned sour. To be without ghosts.

  “Huh,” exclaims Gregor, flinching at the sound of something falling over nearby, “Well, one of the horses just snuffed it.”

  “Handy,” I reply, glancing up at him, “What with our food stock almost depleted.”

  A little later and we’re riding two horses at a walk and leading two others laden with packed horsemeat (I wonder if the horses realise what they carry!). The snow deepens, pushing away from us like water on the bow of a ship. We must be careful as there could be ditches or holes, enough even to break a horse leg, and I’d rather not lose another horse needlessly – we don’t know how much further we need to travel. A grunt from Gregor. To our left, a hundred yards away, just below the brow of a low hill riddled with shrub, is a coyote. It looks old, scruffy and immediately I feel an affinity towards it.

  “Maybe it’s a spy,” mutters Gregor humourlessly.

  “Maybe it smells our food,” I respond thoughtfully.

  The Coyote suddenly breaks into a run across our path, jumping
through the deep snow as if its paws have wings. Now slowing in front of us it seems to know what direction we’re destined for because it starts to lead the way and then after a mile it falters, glances back and veers to the left.

  “What do you think?” I ask my companion. “Follow it?”

  “You’re the one guiding us by hunch alone, Vet. I’m just your ‘loyal follower’.”

  “My gut says this is what we’re looking for, but what if I’m wrong?”

  “No, you’re never wrong, not about this stuff, Vet. And besides, if it tricks us, leads us into another fight, then, so what!”

  I chuckle. “You never tire of it do you?”

  “What, fighting? Ha! It’s all I’m good at!”

  Yeah, me too.

  Barren wastelands. Just rock, tree and snow. Every direction looks the same! Chopping winds thrusting stinging snow into our eyes. Too many days spent in this godforsaken winter land that I’ve gotten used to the cold, don’t even remember what it was like to feel warm in and out. We would’ve died days ago if not for all the extra furs, layers of clothing, cloaks, hoods and new horses from those bandits although I still worry about frostbite – I can’t hold a sword with no damn fingers! As I watch that Coyote guiding us with formidable exuberance, my conscious begins to slide. Each paw scuffs the snow like the ticking of a clock I once saw in a wizards hall, that monotonous sound hypnotising me.

  Scuff, scuff. Tick, tock...

  I jerk awake and Gregor eyes me with a void expression.

  “Wanna stop?” he asks.

  “No.”

  There’s no shelter nearby anyway, just random clumps of that same black rock spiking the sky like gigantic spears with none forming into any sort of usable cave or den. The closer I look at some of the bigger ones the better I see more strange markings engraved into the surface: wards and symbols amongst swirling patterns.

  And then suddenly I’m alert. Something stirs my senses and I can feel my hair tingle while even the furs of my animal skins seem to shiver. Gregor feels it too – I know because he hawks and spits in disgust due to it always leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. Magic. Its presence is thick in the air, bleeding out in some archaic form. This isn’t some crackpot wizard turning frogs into fish this is old and raw, as if from the breath of a god.

  We reach the summit of a hill and look down into a small coomb, at the bottom of which is peculiarly little snow meaning we can see spots of grass and blossoming wildflowers and there are even a few scattered pine trees circling the area. Weird. Within this strange area sits the Coyote. It stares at us for a while and then the air about it shimmers and it sembles into an obsidian statue at a much larger scale, covered in more of the swirling engravings. We just sit there for a while, watching the scene and chewing on our thoughts.

  “So was the statue alive or was that dog just an illusion?” asks Gregor.

  “Well, why don’t we ask that bloke down there?” I suggest, nodding towards the right side edge of the grove, where a bent over and very old man hidden in furs prepares a smoking pipe while resting on a small black boulder.

  Gregor hides his surprise well and scoffs, “I thought we were supposed to be the old men?”

  I allow myself a chuckle as our elder looks up to beckon us down with a warm smile.

  Cautiously and with feigned nonchalance, we dismount and lead our horses down towards him. The weight of magic grows ever stronger; sitting upon my shoulders like boulders added one after the other. Gregor spits some more with a fed up grumble.

  I was right to suggest this man was our senior because he looks well over a hundred, so crumpled and sagged is his face while pin drop eyes hide within wide slits. His smile is another slice across his leathery head, revealing black stumps that must have once been teeth. His clothes are old, simple and beautifully crafted. With stubby fingers blackened by tobacco he packs more into his simple pipe crudely shaped like a dog’s head, whilst those deeply pitted eyes, sometimes as black and lifeless as a corpse aside from occasional sparkles of green, stare into my very soul.

  “Welcome, welcome!” His voice is as craggy as sliding stones, tinged with an accent more pronounced than the usual mountain folk around here. The smell of spices is also thick. “You travelled far.”

  “No shit,” grunts Gregor. “Do we look like locals?”

  Old man laughs. He clicks his fingers over the pipe and then there’s a green spark in the tobacco. Then he works the pipe with sucks and puffs until it begins to smoke.

  Bored, I eye that obsidian statue. “It’s a portal isn’t it?” I remark.

  Old man nods. “Dare you enter then, travellers?”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “More like observation. I always observe.”

  I shake my head. “That thing’s dangerous and I’m not young and reckless anymore.”

  “Shame,” old man sighs within a cloud of pipe smoke that glitters with metallic green flecks. “It beckons like lost lover, pray it become not jilted.”

  “What about the Coyote,” mutters Gregor, “Did it go through there too?”

  Old man shrugs, “Maybe still here. Maybe not.”

  And then I realise the magic isn’t just coming from that gateway it’s this old man too, if that’s what he truly is.

  “Yes,” chuckles he, “You see with eyes not meant for mere mortals, warrior they call Veteran. Old eyes. Wise eyes. You quest for many things but you wonder if answers in that portal await. Answers. Always seek answers. That your true quest in life. When they are found be you ready for them? Of course you are. So go, go through the door. Will be most enlightening!”

  “Why should I trust you?” I ask, ignoring his waffling bullshit, “I’ve never thought it wise to trust a god.”

  I notice Gregor baulk slightly at my comment. Didn’t realise that, did you, old friend?

  Old man laughs again and finally stands. He’s so short that he doesn’t stand much higher than when sitting, like a strange child that’s all old and haggard – you would expect him to run off and play. Instead, hands in pockets he merrily strolls towards the Coyote statue, leaving heady pipe smoke in his trail.

  “Veteran has no reason, no reason to trust,” says the old god, “But instincts always right. Well, usually.” He winks and I know he sees my past and that riles me. “Indeed travelled far. Quest after quest. Always travelling, always searching. Gregor his faithful dog. Here doggy!”

  Gregor growls. “Fuck you.” Now, that’s one way to talk to a god!

  Old man smirks like a naughty little brat.

  “How do you know about us?” I ask.

  He laughs again. The pipe smoke doesn’t seem to disperse; instead it slowly fills the area in a glistening cloud. “I travel mountain winds, follow the cold, seeping into bodies. Bodies. I see into more than flesh. Brains and souls. Memories. Intents. Purpose. Always I watch. Observe. Yet, I not the only one. Others have interest in Veteran and Gregor too. Other eyes and minds. So, what treasure sought this time, other than answers?”

  I see no reason to lie, although his comments snag within and cause me to worry for a moment. “Not answers. Just another treasure for another Princess. Our last clue of its whereabouts led us into these wastelands.”

  Another smirk at that. “Then you know of legends surrounding these vast peaks? Hehe!”

  “We know of the forgotten God, Loktie, stranded up here, driven mad and searching for his worshippers. I didn’t expect you to be real, to be honest.”

  The deity happily nods, “Yet here I am! More than real. They will come, I know they will come. All of them. Like a flood. Go on, go on, what else?”

  “The legend says you lead weary travellers into your domain, where you trick them and keep them locked away for ever. When you’ve got five thousand souls, or what you’d call ‘worshippers’, your true powers will return and you can finally free yourself. You must have quite a wait; I doubt you get many travellers in these frozen wastes.”

  Loktie chu
ckles. “Not enough. Never enough! So many years and so few travellers. But numbers grow. Slowly worshippers become many. Many.”

  Gregor laughs this time. “Only because you force them to.”

  “No! They are drawn here. It their purpose! I see if they not. I always observe!”

  The wind picks up, scattering the pipe cloud slightly and I notice snow and earth blowing from various bumps on the ground all around us, revealing vaguely recognisable things.

  “Look, Loktie,” I sigh, growing irritated by the smoke that stings my eyes, “We don’t care about that shit. We’re just looking for treasure, remember?” And I don’t care if he’s unwilling to give it to us – then we’ll just have to do it the hard way.

  A cackle from the little god, “Treasure. Another treasure hunt.”

  Another gust of wind and again the mounds reveal more secrets. I can see the bones now, forming limbs covered in rags. I can see glimmers of trinkets or sword hilts and now and then the round pate of a cracked skull. All of the human bodies are in the same position on their knees. All are in adulation. These are his new worshippers.

  “No, no,” spits Loktie, the surrounding smoke from his pipe suddenly growing thick as soup. “No more treasures. No more quests. No more treasures. Now my treasure! You make wonderful worshippers. So strong. So powerful. So strong!”

  Gregor spits and then vomits, the air becomes pungent with spices and the weight on my shoulders suddenly becomes more intense. I can feel gravity pulling me down, dragging me to the floor. It’s hard to resist and I sense Gregor having the same problem. Down, onto our knees, in a state of worship just like all the bodies. Limbs unresponsive to any suggested movement from our brains. Stuck and ready to die. Loktie approaches me, eyes blazing green as he reaches out a hand to bless me. If he does that I know I’m dead. Then, from somewhere deep within, a flash of strength returns to my tired old bones.

  In a single swift movement, my sword sings from its scabbard and it passes through the god's neck in a blazing curve. A thud and roll as the head bounces in snow to one side while the body stumbles momentarily. Instead of great fountains of blood from the severed arteries a strange sickly green flame bursts up intensely for only a moment before subsiding as the body finally rests in the snow a few feet from its detached head.