by Mark Shane
Max and Falon followed the boy but often times trailed behind. His movements were erratic, disappearing around the next corner when he ran ahead only to reappear, making sure they were still following. Long shadows filled the town square where merchants and shopkeepers alike made their final sales of the day as the sun dipped behind the rooftops.
Max stopped at one house where a lady was setting sweet cakes and bread on her windowsill to cool. Falon stood baffled, watching the boy run ahead while Max complimented the lady on her baking. Why did the man dally? Was it not clear by the boy’s behavior how badly the wounded men needed him?
The lady glanced at Falon then smiled knowingly at Max. Despite the smile Max returned in kind to the lady, his face was painted with annoyance just as it had been with Benjamin, the innkeeper. She wondered what that was all about, but more importantly she wanted to know why Max thought now was a good time to be asking for honey cakes! She was about to ask as much when Max moved his hand over the cakes and that familiar sensation of magic prickling her skin. It was faint like a ripple caused by a small stone thrown into water. She must have missed it when he had done the same to the cup of tea he had given her.
She hated what she was. She longed to possess a fraction of the power she felt emanating from Max. In the back of her mind, a voice mocked her. You are cursed, despised, hated. You will never be one of them. The thought lingered like a bee sting till they reached the garrison.
***
Impenetrable, gray, stone walls rising thirty feet and topped with crenelated parapets, the massive square structure overshadowed the town. Each corner was capped by a large circular tower with ballista mounted on its flat roof and two more towers along the wall bordering the river. Smaller, twin towers stood sentry over the gateway leading into town and another pair for the gateway leading across the river to Maridon. Massive, full of rapids and lined with steep cliffs, the Whitewater River formed the border between Timmaron and Maridon. The garrisons at Whitewater’s Forge, Glokstein, and Blackstone protected the only three places along the border where an army could cross.
Stren met them as they passed under the portcullis of the arched entry and rushed them to the infirmary. As Max entered the room, he felt magic, strange and faint, like week-old tracks, but there nonetheless. He looked at Falon; her eyes said she felt it too. She is powerful. The magic seemed to emanate from the four men lying unconscious on cots.
He greeted General Baldwin and the garrison doctor who gave Max a stiff nod as he pulled a sheet over the face of one of the men. Max understood the man’s annoyance, but military doctors were trained to patch up battle wounds, a far different matter than dealing with the illnesses Max was often called to deal with. Besides, there were three men in dire need. Not the time for the man’s ego to interfere.
“What happened?” he asked, bending down to inspect one of the soldiers.
“Not sure, to tell you the truth,” General Baldwin replied. “When they arrived, that one,” Baldwin pointed toward the dead man, “was draped over his saddle, unconscious.” Their sergeant, Belfor, mumbled about wolves. How or why wolves could do this, I don’t know.”
“What makes you say that? Wolves have attacked armed men before,” Max replied, eyes never leaving his patient and his frown growing deeper as he examined the man’s wounds.
“Yes, when rabid or starving in the dead of winter, but have wolves ever attacked three squads?” Max looked over his shoulder at Baldwin. “Twenty-four men left Tallijor, these four are all that arrived. Twenty-four armed soldiers reduced to this by wolves?”
“And the severity of their injuries is alarming,” the doctor added, wrapping a soldier’s arm with bandages. “They must have been massive animals.”
The deep claw marks and puncture wounds were bad, but the fetid taint of magic accompanying the wounds raised the hair on Max’s neck. The man burned with fever, hot to the touch. The next soldier, the one the doctor was tending to, was no better. His wounds were not as severe, yet his skin burned as badly and the taint was still strong.
Max moved to Belfor, examining him quickly, finding his wounds were superficial and his fever minor. His armor was family owned and much better quality than the other men’s standard military issue. Wealthy families maintained their own armor for protection and craftsmanship as much as for status. That luxury spared Belfor.
Max pulled a vial from his pouch and waved it under Belfor’s nose, causing him to gasp for clean air and bolt upright. His eyes went wide with fear, searching the room for danger.
“Relax, son, you’re at the garrison in Whitewater’s Forge,” Max said, pushing the man to lie back down. Touching Belfor’s temple, Max released a flow of Spirit into him. He seldom used magic with others present, but he needed the man lucid, and only Falon could tell what he had done. To the others, it seemed he simply calmed the man with a skilled touch. Even Belfor, too groggy at the time, would not be able to connect what he felt to magic. As Belfor’s eyes focused and the fear faded, Max began to feed him a magic-laced honey cake to fend off the fever and mend his wounds.
“Now tell me, son, what happened?”
Belfor swallowed the first bite hungrily and spoke. “We were attacked by wolves, but...they weren’t...normal. They had eyes that...that...they glowed blood red.”
Max grabbed him by the shoulders. “Were they black?”
Belfor did not answer; his eyes were distant, seeing something in his mind’s eye. Fear gripped him.
Max spoke sternly like an officer speaking to a subordinate, “Sergeant! Tell me, were they black as night?”
Belfor nodded his head. “They laughed,” he licked his lips nervously, “as they attacked. I’ve never heard anything like it. It was maddening.”
Max leapt to his feet, instructing the doctor to wake the other two men and feed them each a honey cake. The doctor seemed affronted by such a ridiculous course of action. The magic laced in the cakes would not cure the poison coursing through their veins, but it was all he could do for them under the circumstances. Their will to live would play a large part in their survival.
“Every bite,” he emphasized before dashing out the door. His final command to treat their wounds with the poultice in his bag echoed over his shoulder as he ran down the hall.
Baldwin caught up to him in the stables and grabbed his arm. “Max, in the name of the Creator, what is going on?”
Max looked to the purpling sky. Dark was upon them. “I need a horse. And your help.”
“Why?” Baldwin’s tone made it clear nothing was happening till he got an explanation.
“They’re after him. Those wolves, they’re after Michael.”
CHAPTER 4
Nightmares Come Alive
The fire crackling in the hearth chased away the evening’s chill. Michael fell into his favorite chair, yawning. Between sparring with Garen and carpentry, he was exhausted. He had not realized how tired until he sat down to eat. Now he just stared at the kettle of stew over the fire, trying to decide if he was hungry enough to eat or too tired to try. The aroma decided for him, and he served up a large bowl.
His mind wandered to the wolf, trying to reason it out. He was finishing the bowl of stew when a sound caught his ear. It sounded like laughter. Michael did not live far from town, but people did not stroll by his house at night either. Muscles protesting every movement, he walked to the window. He saw nothing as he looked out into the front yard. Masked behind clouds, the full moon cast only muted light. He could barely make out his three-rail fence. Turning back to his soft chair and warm fire, he decided it must have been the wind. Halfway to his seat he heard the sound again, this time more clearly. It was laughter, eerie and haunting. He returned to the window and strained to see beyond the darkness. Perhaps Max was paying him a visit or Garen with another pretty girl hanging from each arm. He opened his door for a better look.
“Max? Garen?”
Haunting laughter answered. Michael stepped out to the edge of his porch, s
training to see past his fence for the source. Glowing red eyes appeared in the darkness glaring at him. He took a step back, heart racing. The moon broke through the clouds, bathing his yard in soft white light, revealing four massive beasts standing at the tree line beyond his fence.
They resembled wolves, but larger with coats so black they seemed to swallow the moonlight around them. His hair stood on end, chills sweeping across his body. He felt like he was being looked upon by the Soulless One himself. A low, guttural growl emanated from the beasts, unnatural, terrifying and hypnotic at the same time. A perversion of what should be.
One of the beasts charged, bounding over the fence with ease. Danger screamed through Michael’s mind, yet he stood frozen, unable to take his eyes off the horror charging toward him.
From the corner of his eye, moonlight faintly reflected off the blade of his wood axe resting beside the door. The beast was halfway to him. He grabbed the axe, the need to survive coursing through his veins. Screaming as he brought the blade down, he embedded into the beast’s skull with a sickening thud. The massive animal fell limp, lifeless. He glanced at the other beasts, but none made a move toward him. They only stared back with those glowing red eyes. Were they afraid or just waiting? Waiting for what?
Fear crashed in on Michael as the beast lying on his porch began to stir. Groggily at first, then pushing itself up, the hellish beast stood. The axe protruded grotesquely from its head. Michael backed away into his house. The beast lifted its head and let out the most unearthly howl, echoed by the others in a hellish chorus, chilling Michael to the bone.
Slamming the door, Michael threw the bolt in place and leaned against it as if the extra weight would keep the monsters out. His heart pounded, mind racing.
The door shook. Michael jumped away, panic threatening to take him. The solid oak door cracked when the beast slammed into it again. The need for survival pushed fear aside. Michael refused to die like some scared rabbit with no defense. He heard wood splinter as he scrambled for his bow. The hinges gave way, and the door crashed to the floor as he slung the quiver over his shoulder.
Instinct replaced thought as Michael drew and released an arrow in one, smooth motion, striking the beast in the left eye. The animal flinched from the force of the impact but showed no sign of pain. Another arrow struck the right eye.
“Die!” Michael screamed, drawing back on the bow, every fiber of his being willing the arrow to kill the beast. He loosed the arrow, ripping through the beast’s heart. Howling and thrashing in pain, the monster collapsed in the throes of death. Michael felt a cool sensation wash over him like he had emerged from a hot bath into cold, wintry air.
Another beast crashed through the window near the fireplace. Michael loosed an arrow, taking it in the ribs, causing it to crash into his chair and table. A third appeared in his doorway, standing over its fallen brother, snarling, muscles tensed. As its hind legs recoiled to spring for Michael, it erupted in bluish-white flames. Thrashing about, the monster howled in pain as tongues of fire consumed it.
The beast by the fireplace lunged for his throat. Michael raised his bow defensively, gripping it with both hands. The beast’s jaws found solid wood rather than soft flesh, but the sheer force of its charge sent them tumbling in a mass of fur and flesh.
Pinned beneath the beast, muscles taut and shaking, Michael fought to keep those teeth from his throat. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, the need to escape screamed through his mind. The need consumed him, and he felt the cool sensation rush through him again. The beast flew backwards crashing into the stone fireplace. Michael heard the pop of bones breaking, and the beast fell to the floor twitching.
Max appeared in the doorway, his face a mixture of alarm and rage. Michael sat there, eyes wide with shock and horror.
“What happened?” Michael asked. “What are those things?” He was not sure he wanted to know.
“It’s a long story, Michael,” Max said, helping him to his feet. “But, I’m afraid, the time for its telling has come.”
Michael began to tremble as fear rushed through his body, remembering the struggle with the blinding speed of the mind’s eye. He looked at the beast lying on the floor in front of the fireplace, and then the beast in the doorway with arrows protruding from it like a pincushion. Only ash remained of the one that had erupted into flames.
“Max, what’s going on?” His voice trembled with desperation.
Max inspected him for injuries mumbling something about the slightest scratch could cause fever.
The beast at the fireplace stirred, raised its bloody head, and let out a chilling howl. It was similar to the howls before, carrying a chord of arrogance and contempt, but it faded with a hint of failure. Long and loud, the sound carried through the night and was answered in the distance.
Max stretched out his hand and shot the beast with a ball of fire, consuming it in that same bluish-white flame.
Michael stared at the healer, certain the world had gone mad. “Max?”
Max pulled Michael to his feet with a grunt. “I’ll explain everything, but right now we have to leave.” Michael grabbed his leather pack lying next to his overturned chair and followed Max out the front door.
As they emerged from the house, another terrifying howl rang through the crisp night air. Michael looked past Stren, General Baldwin and a young woman he did not recognize to where the beasts had first appeared. Weren’t there four? The whole ordeal was such a blur to him.
Garen approached from the back of the house with Michael’s horse.
“Get on your horse,” Max commanded, “more are coming.”
“More of what?” Baldwin demanded. “What were those beasts?”
“They’re exactly what you’re afraid they are, General. They’re nightstalkers.”
“Nightstalkers don’t exist. They’re nothing more than campfire stories.”
Another howl cut through the night.
Max swung into his saddle. “If you like you can stay here and debate that with them when they arrive.”
“Why are they here?” General Baldwin asked. The question sounded accusatory.
Max glanced at Falon. She would know soon enough. He would have to watch her; she may still be a threat. His eyes fell on Michael. “To kill a king.”
He spurred his horse into motion. “Ride! Ride to the garrison!”
They raced toward town chased by an unseen enemy. The forest felt like it was closing in. Branches seemed to reach out, snagging clothes or striking faces as they sped down the path. Only the foolish would ride a horse at a run through the forest trail at night. Or the desperate.
The trees began to thin and Michael could see the first houses ahead. He felt they were going to make it when a massive body emerged from the shadows, barring the path. Max released a volley of fireballs, engulfing the beast in flames.
“Ride,” he yelled, “don’t stop till you’re in the garrison.” He veered down a street and disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER 5
Secrets
General Baldwin climbed the cold steps spiraling along the curvature of the wall to his quarters. The echoes of his boots bounced off the walls. The torches cast grim and foreboding shadows. It matched his mood.
For some time, he had barked orders that sent men scurrying with little idea what was going on. He was not sure himself. He ordered Garen to escort Michael and Falon to his quarters and dispatched Stren into town with a sizable group of soldiers. Everyone was told to be inside, doors barred, no resistance tolerated, and no questions answered. Baldwin had no answers to give. Anything on four legs and black was to be shot full of arrows or hacked to pieces on sight.
No sooner had he given orders for Max to be arrested than the healer had ridden into the garrison with an old commoners sword strapped to his back. The sword raised a few eyebrows, an oddity for a healer, but Baldwin had seen it resting in a corner of Max’s house for many years. Max dodged his questions by giving instructions on how best to
kill the nightstalkers, which only fueled his temper to a white-hot boil. He ordered Max to wait for him in his quarters and had sent two men to make sure the healer got there.
An hour later Stren returned to report all was well. No more black “wolves” had been spotted. After dismissing Stren, Baldwin had paced the rampart above the gatehouse for a while longer. He had needed time to think and let his temper subside.
Now he stood before the oak door of his chambers, uncertain he wanted to enter. He needed answers, and he would get them, no matter how much he had to wring Max's neck. But he feared those answers would change everything.
Magic was involved. In Timmaron, such matters were not taken lightly. Not since Sarlon wizards rained down destruction on Timmaron twenty-four years ago.
Baldwin did not share the animosity most people in Timmaron showed toward magic. He had fought alongside magichae, seen them bleed for Timmaron as much as anyone else. Magic was like a sword. It could be a dangerous weapon or a protector of life depending on the person wielding it. Some people called for a stop to the Crafting of master blades, and there was a growing movement in Tallijor to ban magic altogether. Baldwin sniffed. When he had first heard such rumors, they had sounded improbable. Timmaron was not like Valan. Those crazy zealots killed magichae on sight. Yet this very day he had plucked King Darin’s decree from Belfor’s saddlebags declaring all magichae be arrested. A far cry from Valan’s treatment, but a step closer regardless. Baldwin found himself wishing King Edwin, Darin’s father, still lived. Darin’s youthful exuberance was taking the country in a direction Baldwin did not like.
The door loomed before him. He had seen something evil tonight. He still had a hard time comprehending nightstalkers running loose in the world, and a close friend was tied to it somehow. He hesitated, hand on the door. Hard decisions lay at hand. He feared them, a foreign feeling for him. Difficult decisions were part of being a leader, but these decisions involved a deep friendship and a debt he could not repay.