Volstag puffed out his chest. “You should evacuate the village as soon as possible. My patrol will leave to fetch reinforcements as soon as we are able.”
“The storm gods willing,” added the dappled unicorn rider.
The crowd bust into worried murmurs. “But what about our homes?” “What about our farms?” “We can’t just leave!” “Tomorrow is the Festival!” “This is our town!” “This is our life!”
Stan’s stomach lurched. Had he sensed the supernatural forces gathering on the other side of the Wolfnacht pass? Was this the unnamable dread that had called him out into the storm?
Berman raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “Now, now,” he said. “There’s no need to worry. We elders have anticipated this . . . Vanishing, as the riders call it, for some time. Why, Olen Wolfnacht’s greatest deeds were accomplished on just such a day. It was during the dark moments of Nyarra’s Rebirth, long ago, that Wolfnacht himself destroyed our village’s enemies.”
“That is why we planned the Festival for this sacred time,” Mapes added. “It is the only time the rites will do any good. When the sun goes dark, our village has nothing to fear from anyone. Our celebration of the Festival of Wolfnacht will keep us safe for generations to come.”
The unicorn riders exchanged skeptical looks.
“Perhaps we can discuss this on the morrow,” Corporal Lanna suggested.
“Yes,” Zurko, the butcher, replied. “Plenty of time on the morrow.”
“The key is for every Wolfnachter to keep working,” Thynes added. “All the arrangements must be complete.” The scribe’s aged face gazed out over the townsfolk. Many grinned their approval, but some of the younger villagers seemed just as confused as Stan.
“Speaking of arrangements,” Lanna said diplomatically, “our patrol needs to rest and recuperate. I’m not saying your festival won’t work its magic, but if it doesn’t you’ll need the cavalry to protect you.”
Berman and the elders merely smiled. The crowd parted once more, and the riders crossed the last few hundred yards to the inn, an old timber-frame building with plaster walls and a thatched roof. A tumble-down stable stood next door; both structures were deserted.
The unicorns and their riders eyed the accommodations warily.
Berman beamed. “The best the town has to offer,” he said.
“Thanks,” said the curly haired rider, though Stan didn’t think he meant it.
As the patrol dismounted, most of the villagers—save for the elders—hurried back to their homes. The blizzard was still blowing, and few cared to brave the storm any longer just to gawk at the ragged cavalry.
Konstantine remained, patting his arms to ward off the chill.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to look after yourselves,” Mapes told the riders. “The innkeeper and his wife are busy with preparations for the festival—like everyone else.”
“What about the stable hands?” Volstag asked.
“He died of flu earlier this year,” Elder Bev explained.
“Not enough folk to do the work around here,” Berman added jovially. “Sorry.”
“I can help,” Konstantine blurted. “I’d love to help.”
Nikolas glared at his younger brother. “What about your chores, boy?”
“I can do them later,” Stan shot back. Nikolas stepped forward and raised his arm to strike his brother, but Berman stepped between them.
The Elder scratched his chin. “I suppose we could spare one of our young people to help you riders out.”
“Thank you,” Lanna said. She winced and gripped her left shoulder. Konstantine noticed fresh blood seeping through her cloak.
The eyes of all five elders fastened on the corporal. Some looked concerned, but others—perhaps still worried about the threat to the village—appeared to be taking the measure of the wounded riders.
“Yes. Thanks,” Volstag added, keeping his eyes fixed on Berman. “We appreciate it.”
Berman bowed politely as he and the other elders turned to leave. “I’ll see if I can turn up another youngster to help you,” he said. “But don’t count on it. All of us are very busy, you know.”
“So we’ve heard,” the curly haired rider of the dappled unicorn muttered.
“Keep out of trouble, colt,” Nikolas said, cuffing Konstantine on the back of the head.
Stan glared at his brother. “Worry about yourself, why don’t you?”
Nikolas and the elders chuckled and walked away.
“I will bring herbs,” Bev, the herbalist, called back over her shoulder. “I’m no Il-Siha, but perhaps some of my remedies may bring you relief.”
“Thank you,” the golden unicorn’s rider called after her.
“Thanks for everything,” Lanna added. As the elders left, she and the other riders turned and stared at Konstantine.
For a moment, Stan felt as though he might wither under their collective gaze.
“Can we trust you, boy?” Volstag asked gruffly.
“I . . . Of course!” Stan replied.
“I don’t see we have any choice,” Lanna’s white unicorn, Helios, muttered.
Konstantine’s legs buckled and he plopped down into the snow. “It . . . it talks!”
“So do you,” Helios replied, “but you don’t see me making an ass of myself about it.”
“Do all unicorns talk?” Stan asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes,” the golden unicorn nearby told him. “But some only talk to their riders.”
His rider, the young blond woman, helped Konstantine to his feet. “I’m Private First Class Kyra,” she said. “And this is Rigel.” She patted her mount on his golden neck.
“K-Konstantine,” the boy managed to stammer. “Most people call me Stan.” He extended his hand again, and Kyra shook it.
“Enough chatter,” Volstag said. “People are bleeding to death here, boy. Make yourself useful or get out of the way.”
To Stan, the entire patrol appeared much more beat up than they had just moments before: their shoulders sagged, their eyes looked tired and worried, and they clutched at their still-bleeding wounds and gritted their teeth against the pain of their injuries. Clearly, the riders had been hiding the extent of their wounds from Berman and the Wolfnacht elders.
A ginger-haired youth in the back of the group lolled forward, leaning heavily against his white unicorn’s neck. At the front, a woman with mousy brown hair swayed precariously, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
Stan and Kyra rushed forward and caught her before she fell. As they draped her arms around their shoulders and helped her down, the unicorn she’d been riding collapsed into the snow. Dark blood seeped from beneath the unicorn’s white mane.
“Percy’s down!” Kyra announced. “And Janise isn’t in much better shape.” She and Stan struggled to keep the wounded rider, Janise, on her feet.
“Get her inside,” Volstag ordered. He and Lanna had gone to help the unconscious rider slung over the pack horse. “Rigel can help Santos and Apollonia with Percy. Lanna and I will do what we can for Wilfred.”
Rigel, Kyra’s golden mount, bobbed his head in agreement.
“Luva’s tears!” Volstag cursed. “Stardust warned me that this place would be trouble!”
The ginger-haired young man righted himself. “Where hasn’t been trouble for us lately, Sarge?” he said. Then he broke into a coughing fit.
“Are you okay, Roj?” Kyra asked, concern written across her young face.
Roj nodded, but couldn’t manage to say anything through the coughing. His unicorn didn’t look in much better shape; her knees buckled slightly as she tried to support her rider.
“Volstag and I will help Roj and Cherish once we’ve looked after Wilfred,” Lanna assured Kyra. “You concentrate on Janise.”
“I’m fine,” Roj gasped, but none of the rest believed him.
Lanna and Volstag carefully lifted the badly wounded man, Wilfred, from the back of the pack horse. As they did, bells attached to the ani
mal’s harness jingled softly.
Stan paused as he and Kyra helped Janise toward the inn. So that’s the sound I heard through the storm, he thought. The cheerful noise sounded completely inappropriate given the current situation.
Sergeant Volstag scowled. “And keep that boy out of the way,” he ordered Kyra.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Come on, Stan. Let’s get Janise inside.”
Konstantine helped walk the wounded rider inside the inn. Kyra’s blue eyes scanned the great room and settled on a padded chair by the fireplace. “We’ll sit her down there,” she told Stan.
At that moment, Janise’s legs gave way. Stan staggered under the sudden burden, but Kyra supported most of the weight, and they soon managed to drag Janise to the chair. As they set her down, the brown-haired rider’s head lolled from side to side. Her deep brown eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, and her mouth gaped. Kyra lifted Janise’s cloak, revealing a blood-soaked tunic beneath.
Kyra pulled a silver knife from her boot and cut open the fabric covering Janise’s right side. A ragged gash, just above the hip, oozed dark blood.
Stan gasped and went pale.
“Don’t pass out on me, Konstantine,” Kyra muttered, still cutting.
He shook his head, fighting back swirling nausea. “I won’t.”
“Good. Get me some hot water and fresh cloth to clean the wound.”
Stan peered around, but the fire in the inn’s hearth was merely a few smoldering coals. “There’s no fire,” he said plaintively. “And I don’t see any clean cloth, either.”
“There must be bedspreads somewhere in this gods-forsaken place,” Kyra said. “Tear some up—but make sure they’ve been washed recently.”
“Okay,” Stan said. He turned toward the stairs leading to the guest rooms.
“Oh,” Kyra called after him. “Throw me something strong from the bar. Cleaning the wound with alcohol will have to suffice until you can get the fire going.”
“Right,” he said. He took a bottle of whiskey from behind the counter and tossed it to her, then hurried to the stairs.
As he ascended, she uncorked the bottle with her teeth. “Sorry about this, Janise,” Kyra said, pouring the alcohol on her comrade’s wound. Janise screamed.
The horrible cry echoed in Stan’s ears as he raced upstairs. Heart pounding, he ransacked three guest rooms before finding a set of clean sheets. He yanked the linens from the bed and tore them into strips as he rushed back downstairs.
Janise lay slumped unconscious in the chair, with Kyra still examining her side. The other riders had brought the badly wounded man, Wilfred, into the room and laid him on a table near the fireplace. Sergeant Volstag, Corporal Lanna, ginger-haired Roj, and the rider with curly black hair crouched around their fallen comrade, tending the hideous wounds that covered Wilfred’s body.
“Thanks,” Kyra said as Stan handed her the strips of clean cloth. “Now see what you can do about that fire.”
Stan fetched some logs from beside the hearth and shoved them into the fireplace. The rough bark scraped against his skin, but he was glad for it. The sensation distracted him from the nauseating stench of blood and guts that now filled the room.
With skill born from long practice, Konstantine quickly built the smoldering embers into a strong blaze. He stood, triumphant, and smiled—but the expression faded when he saw the riders’ grim faces. All of them, even Kyra, now stood around Wilfred; they hung their heads.
“Dammit!” Roj said. “There must be something more we can do!” His breath came in ragged gasps.
Lanna shook her head and Kyra brushed back a tear. “No,” Volstag announced. “There’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry, Roj,” Lanna said. “He’s gone.”
Stan swallowed hard. The dead man lay pale and motionless on the table. The terrible wounds across his chest and belly glistened red in the firelight. Stan’s stomach twisted. He’d seen dead bodies before, but never anyone killed by violence.
“It’s better this way,” the curly haired rider said. “He wouldn’t have wanted to live with Fiona gone—same as I wouldn’t want to carry on without Apollonia.”
Roj staggered toward him, but Kyra stepped between them.
“Easy for you to say, Santos,” Roj snapped. “Apollonia’s not lying dead in that gods-cursed pass, swarmed by zombies like Fiona.”
Santos’ dark eyes flared. “You think I don’t know that?” he snapped back. “All of us were lucky to get out of that pass alive. I thank the gods that Apollonia was only wounded. But if she’d fallen, I’d have wanted you to leave me there at her side. We should have done the same for Wilfred.”
“You’re saying we should have left him there, even though he was still alive?” Roj said. He began coughing again.
“Better to die in battle than in some flea-bitten inn,” Santos replied.
“Enough!” Volstag barked. “There’ll be no more talk of dying while I’m in charge. We’re going to tend our wounded and return to base, every last one of us. Kyra, how’s Janise?”
Kyra took a deep breath. The flickering firelight behind her turned Kyra’s pale blond hair into a glowing halo. To Stan, the young rider looked like a warrior angel.
“She’s in bad shape,” Kyra said. “There was a zombie finger joint still lodged in her side, but I removed it. I’ve cleansed the area with alcohol and holy water—but I’m no Il-Siha medic. If infection doesn’t set in, she might pull through.” The girl appeared sad and very tired. “What about Percy?”
Lanna pulled her soggy cloak back from her face, revealing short dark hair and slightly pointed ears.
She’s an elf, Stan thought. Or a half-elf, anyway.
The elfish corporal gazed toward the front door, as though listening. “Helios says Percy is in very bad shape,” Lanna said. “His powers are failing, and he can’t even heal himself. The others aren’t sure if he’ll last the night.”
“What about Apollonia and the rest?” Santos asked. He worriedly smeared the sweat from his brow and pushed his dark, curly hair back on his forehead.
“Helios doesn’t think Apollonia’s in danger,” Lanna said. “If Percy were well, he could heal her up quickly. The others are fine, only minor scrapes and bruises.”
“By the Gods of Wrath!” Roj blurted. “Lieutenant Grimshanks and Clementine, Fiona, and now Percy! It’s like those undead bastards targeted our healers specifically!”
“They’re just zombies,” Santos replied. “They can’t tell a healer from a hole in the snow.”
“Someone’s directing them,” Kyra said quietly. “Someone’s driving that horde through Wolfnacht Pass straight toward this village.”
Volstag shook his head. “The Enemy is like a ravenous beast,” he said. “It doesn’t need a plan; it just devours everything in its path.”
A cold shock leapt down Stan’s spine. “W-wait!” he gasped. “You mean they’re that close? The enemy forces that attacked you are in Wolfnacht Pass? They didn’t attack you while you were trying to reach the pass on the other side? They’re not staying on that side of the mountain?”
Santos glared at him. “Weren’t you listening, boy? They’ve massed for invasion, and they’re on their way! What do you think we were trying to tell your elders?”
“But it’s the middle of a blizzard!” Stan protested.
“The storm didn’t stop us coming,” Santos said, “and it won’t stop the Enemy either.”
“They’re already dead,” Roj muttered. “They don’t feel the cold.” Pale and sweating, he leaned heavily against one of the room’s support posts. Blood dripped down his right arm.
Stan felt as though the whole world might cave in at any moment. “But we need to do something!”
“We are doing something,” Lanna said calmly. “We’re tending our wounded and planning our next move. Kyra, take a look at Roj, would you?”
Kyra stepped toward him, but Roj pulled away, saying, “I’m okay.”
Kyra fixed her b
lue eyes on him. “One infected wound and you’re fighting for the Enemy instead of against him,” she said. Reluctantly, Roj offered his wounded arm for her to examine.
Konstantine wanted to run. He wanted to bolt out into the night and keep running until the snowstorm swallowed him. How could the riders remain so calm with the Enemy nearly at the gates of Wolfnacht?
Volstag put a reassuring hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Talk to your people, if you think it’ll do any good,” the sergeant told the adolescent. “Maybe they’ll listen to you better than they listened to us.”
All of Stan’s breath rushed out at once; he shook his head. “No,” he said plaintively. “No one ever listens to me. I’m too young.”
“You’re old enough to help us,” Kyra said, dabbing Roj’s wound with a torn sheet. “We have hurt soldiers and injured unicorns to look after. How’s that water coming?”
Stan glanced toward the kettle simmering on the fireplace. “Nearly boiling.”
“Then fetch it here,” she replied. He did, being careful not to burn his fingers on the hot metal.
“Strip down, everyone,” Volstag commanded. “I want a full account of wounds. We need to make sure that no one’s infected. No one’s going over to their side, not while I’m in command!”
III. Night at the Inn
Elder Bev returned with her herbs in the middle of the bandaging. She offered a few suggestions for the use of her medicines and then quietly slipped back into the snowy night.
Lanna and Volstag made a quick assessment of the new supplies. They finished re-dressing and, together with Santos, headed for the stable to help the unicorns.
“I’ll go with you,” Roj offered. Despite his freshly bandaged arm, he still appeared weak and pale.
“No,” Lanna said. “Get some rest. Cherish is in better shape than you are; she can help nurse the others.”
It seemed as though Roj might not obey, but Volstag turned to Kyra. “Keep him here and make sure he sleeps,” he commanded. “Knock him out, if you have to.”
“Yessir,” Kyra said. Roj glared at her, but the look in the blond girl’s eyes told him that—if she had to—she would follow the sergeant’s orders to the letter.
Zombies, Werewolves, & Unicorns Page 7