by J. Stone
Lockhart’s Legacy
By J. Stone
Text copyright © 2015 J. Stone
All Rights Reserved
Additional Works
Cultwick: The Sweeper Bot Plague
Cultwick: The Wretched Dead
Cultwick: The Science of Faith
The Poison Princess
The Untethered Demon
The Displaced Planet
http://jstonewrites.blogspot.com/
Cover Artwork by Giselle Ukardi
http://giselleukardi.deviantart.com
For Dwindle, the halfling thief
For Azgar KrakenAxe, the dwarven barbarian
For Toox, the changling illusionist
For Thertranna Arborshate, the eladrin ranger
For Aragond, the elven wizard with the anger problems
For Mongo the Muncher, the goliath fighter with the thinking problems
And for every other role you’ve played.
Chapter 1. Marked and Left for Dead
Chapter 2. What it Takes to be a Vespari
Chapter 3. Dead Men and Scheming Women
Chapter 1. Marked and Left for Dead
Corrigan Lockhart refused to die. Not yet. When setting out on this hunt, he thought he was tracking a beldam, a malicious and corrupt old witch. Turns out, he wasn’t. Someone had already gone and screwed that up. They’d killed her, but that wasn’t good news. Just because the beldam had died didn’t mean that her killer did it right. All they managed to do was bring her back as a pissed off wraith.
No less powerful. No less malevolent. Wilder though. And potentially harder to kill the second time around. Only a vespari knew how to properly kill a creature like a beldam or wraith. A silver emblem of a seven pointed star with a crescent moon etched into it hung from his belt, marking Lockhart as such a vespari, and it was his obligation to see this wraith dead. Despite his injuries, he would ensure she couldn’t live on to hurt more innocents. And, he would do it right this time, so she never came back.
The wraith had already got the best of him though. She’d surprised him when he tracked her to an abandoned campfire, slashing him open, but now that he knew what she was, he could prepare for her. The problem, however, was the gash she’d left in his gut and the blood that still trickled out of it.
Lockhart had done what he could to stitch it up. He had a few bandages among his scant possessions, and he’d wrapped them around his midsection. He’d even found a few herbs growing in the desert that would speed the healing. Regardless, blood still pooled against the bandages and seeped through. He worked on borrowed time. Even with the improved regeneration he had as a vespari, Lockhart knew he had to finish with the wraith and get to the nearest town for help.
After the wraith slashed his gut to ribbons, she’d fled. Back to her den, he presumed. In the distance of the desert night, he made out a cave. Had to be the den he sought. She wouldn’t have wandered far with the morning light so close to the horizon. The stars’ light overhead had already started to fade with the impending dawn.
The cave lingered in the distance though, seeming to come no closer no matter how many heavy plodding steps he took. He walked against the harsh, cold wind of the desert toward his goal regardless. Lockhart tucked his head down, letting the brim of his leather, weathered cowboy hat catch most of it. He wrapped his duster around him and tried to keep the hissing wind from catching it, opening, and hitting his wound with a spray of the harsh, gritty sand.
One hand gripped the pearl and silver handle of his revolver, while the other pressed the duster closed over his bleeding stomach. His eyelids drifted closer and closer together, ever threatening sleep, but he forced them open. He was losing the fight against the oncoming unconsciousness, but he stumbled upon a secret weapon. Periodically, Lockhart would press his thumb into his wound, shocking his system with enough pain to stay awake. Desperate measures, but he’d made a vow to protect lives at no matter the cost.
To that end and despite his injuries, the vespari eventually made his way to the cave’s entrance. He paused there a moment, taking in what he could. There was no light within. Nothing for his eyes to catch but natural walls speckled with a glittering array of minerals. His ears found little as well. There was a drip. An underground stream perhaps? The smell though. That told him everything he needed to know. This was the wraith’s den. The smell of blood and gore flowed out like a scented perfume laid on far too thick. The monster kept rotten meat inside, its sickly scent floating in the air. There had to be bodies inside the cave. Dozens, judging by the terrible smell of it. Humans, beasts, and other monsters. The wraith would have happily consumed them all. He told himself that she’d had her last meal, and he stepped into the cave.
Without the light of the stars of the night, Lockhart couldn’t see much in those dark caves. He slid his revolver back into its holster and dug into his jean pocket. Tender scabs on the back of his hand from an encounter with a ghoul several days back scraped against the fabric, making him grit his teeth, but he grabbed what he’d gone in for. Lockhart pulled out a box of matches and slid it open. Picking up a match, he struck it against the coarse grain on the side of the box, illuminating the cave with a bit of the fire’s light.
Unlike the vast barren desert wasteland outside, both water and vegetation populated this cave. Mushrooms and other fungi grew on the cave floor, while water trickled through in a little stream and dripped from the ceiling, forming stalagmites and stalactites. All this, but there was no sign of the wraith herself. She had to have gone in there though, so Lockhart pressed on.
Eventually, and after another two more lit and discarded matches, the vespari found what he sought. Remnants of the wraith’s presence were scattered all over the cave floors in the form of discarded bones, the rotting guts he’d smelled even at the entrance, and assorted magical ingredients. Whether this was her home or not, she had made it a temporary den while she worked her dark magic and devoured whatever roamed too close. Lamps fueled with her magic illuminated this portion of the cave, so Lockhart stowed his matches and retrieved his revolver, relieved to have that cold but familiar silver and pearl weapon back where it belonged.
Lockhart had been taught to be deliberate, and that involved being certain. The vespari released the lock and knocked the barrel of his gun forward, checking that all six shots sat where he needed them. With his certainty acquired, he flipped the barrel back, locking it in place.
Each of the bullets in that revolver were special. Some people thought silver or iron was necessary for besting the kind of beasts he hunted, but this was myth, conjecture, and legend run rampant. In truth, the bullets had once been quite ordinary, but tiny runes engraved into the metal enhanced them, causing greater harm to dark creatures like the wraiths and beldams. Harm, but not usually kill.
No, that required a special touch and each different beast had its own unique mechanism of death. For a wraith, that simply meant a splash of water from his canteen. This was not ordinary water though. The canteen he carried with him also carried engraved runes of its own, these infusing the water within with the capacity to kill certain dark creatures, wraiths and beldams included.
All that remained was to find the creature he sought. Hearing sounds further in, Lockhart realized that wouldn’t be a problem. Another issue presented itself though. Wild as wraiths were, their rage and frenzy stripped them of their voices. Their fury only allowed them screams, but they couldn’t otherwise communicate. Why then did the vespari hear voices? Several, in fact.
Though he didn’t want to admit it, he knew what he’d stumbled upon. Beldams didn’t always stick to themselves. Sometimes, they formed groups. Th
ey called them covens, and it seemed that Lockhart had found exactly that. This one must’ve lost a member in the wraith. They were sure to be upset about that. That wasn’t going to make matters easier.
In truth, he didn’t think he had either the energy or firepower to take down a full coven, including a wraith. The wound in his gut would’ve made the wraith difficult by herself, but wiping out a full beldam coven seemed an impossible task. It didn’t matter. His vow superseded any fear or hesitation. He pressed on.
Lockhart couldn’t be sure how many there were, but he heard at least three distinct voices. Plus the wraith, that meant four. At least four bullets. He would have to make each shot count. More of his runed bullets sat in his pouch, but he didn’t relish the idea of having to reload with enemies such as these. Not with his gut slashed to ribbons and only held intact with a few loose stitches and pressure. He feared removing his one hand from the wound. His guts felt like they might fall out at any time if he didn’t keep them in place.
Worst case scenario, the vespari did have his knife too. The same runes were inscribed in its metal, allowing him a melee weapon should the need arise. That typically wasn’t a route Lockhart sought if he could help it. The slash along his stomach should’ve told you why clearly enough. He preferred to keep his distance from the dark things he hunted. Regardless, the option existed, and he would rely on it only if necessary.
First thing first though. He had to find the coven and their wraith. Not wishing for them to spot him before he laid eyes on them, Lockhart stuck to the shadows and ventured down another tunnel. A little reconnaissance would give him a better picture of what to expect. With each step forward, the voices became clearer and clearer, and when he found a darkened alcove ahead, he decided to stop there and listen in on the conversation.
“Did you even smell the blood on her claws?” one asked. “That’s vespari blood, and the fact that she didn’t bring back a body means he’s still alive. Still out there.”
“I know it’s vespari blood, Alviva,” another shot back in a harsh tone. “I’m not a child.”
“Vespari?” a third asked with a shrill voice. “Then why are we still here? We should flee! Run! Hide!”
“Shut up, Estrild!” this Alviva told her. “We can handle a vespari if we need to. We don’t flee from their kind.”
“But what about Gunnilda?” Estrild squeaked. “Look what happened to her! A normal human made her into a wraith! I don’t want to be a wraith!”
“Gunnilda was stupid. She got greedy and ventured off on her own. She left the coven. She left our safety, and she got what she deserved.”
“Gunnilda knew that we have to make them fear us,” the harsh one said. “We’ve cowered in the dark for too long. She knew that you were making us too weak!”
“They do fear us, Mabilia,” Alviva replied. “We don’t need to kill one of them every day to remind them of our presence.”
“You treat them like pets!” Mabilia shouted.
“I treat them like livestock! And that’s what they are.”
“And they grow bold under your leadership, as you allow them to do as they will.”
“You grow bold yourself, Mabilia. You should watch your tongue before I pluck it from your throat.”
There was a pause. Lockhart stifled his breathing for fear that they had caught his scent or heard him rustling in the shadows.
“I don’t want to be a wraith!” Estrild repeated in her squealing voice, finally interrupting their silence.
Yet another of the beldams laughed. That made five monsters total. This was getting out of hand.
“Don’t fret, Estrild,” this new voice said. “I am certain what happened to Gunnilda was an isolated incident. Our dear leader wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
Another silence filled the room. This one thankfully did not last as long.
“And what is it you think we should do, Petronila?” Alviva asked. “You always have schemes.”
“Who am I to say?” this new beldam replied, the words slipping out of her mouth like a tongue slithers from a snake’s. “I am but your loyal servant.”
Their conversation continued, but Lockhart didn’t have time to linger. His wound demanded that he return to town and get help soon. He needed to deal with the coven quickly, so he could get out of there. The vespari didn’t even consider the very real possibility that they would kill him there. Or that his wounds would take him before he could finish them off. It didn’t matter. He’d taken a vow, and he treated that seriously. Four beldams and a wraith. Not a bad way to go out if that’s the way it happened.
Slinking out of the shadows, Lockhart approached the voices. He hadn’t yet seen them, but his ears were good enough that he could locate them in those caves. The only variable was the wraith. He hadn’t heard her stirring as of yet. No matter, he thought. He thought wrong.
As soon as the vespari turned and entered an open area of the cave, he discovered the pale, partially translucent wraith herself. Her eye sockets were vacant pits dark as coal. Her mouth was agape in a silent, prolonged scream, showing her jagged, rotten teeth and a long slobbering tongue. The wraith’s hair stood up in wild strands, nearly on end, composed of streaks of white, gray and black. Her body floated there, held up by nothing. No legs touched the ground. A torn shawl shrouded part of her body, but what was left of her decrepit skin stretched out into two elongated arms, tipped with the very claws that had rent his abdomen.
There was no time for tact. No plan would prove more beneficial than instinct. Lockhart made a choice, and he would have to live or die with it. He expected the latter. Raising his silver and pearl revolver and before she could react, Lockhart fired an engraved bullet into the wraith. The monster’s semi-ethereal body flopped to the ground, wailing in agony from the wound, while Lockhart took his canteen and slid the lid off in one fluid movement, pouring the liquid on her ghostly form. Her shrieks were loud enough that he wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been heard in the next town. If the beldams hadn’t heard the gunshot, there was no doubt that they’d heard her death rattle. The wraith, at least, lay dead at his feet. Most of her form dissipated in a drifting cloud of gray smoke, while a pile of ash fell to the cave floor.
The wraith’s death also granted him one small advantage. Each time he killed a monster, Lockhart inherited a portion of their power. In the case of a beldam or wraith, that meant a partial resistance to their spells. Whether it would save him or not was yet to be decided, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt.
Lockhart gripped his revolver. Five shots left; four targets. He doubted the possibility of the beldams being as easy as the wraith. He got lucky with her. Caught her off guard. Gritting through the pain in his gut, he moved forward to meet them head on. It seemed that the sorcerous women had the same idea, and before he could even take a few steps into this new room, they came to meet him. That was when the vespari got his first glance at the beldams.
Each was more revolting than the next. Brownish green, leathery skin hung in sagging rolls despite their varying sizes. Their hair was nothing but grey strands that looked like straw. Their clothes were shoddy tatters of fabric that he found himself wishing concealed more of the beldams than they did.
The grotesque women were quick, and they said nothing. They all lunged for him from different directions. Lockhart raised his revolver and fired three shots. He might as well have saved his ammunition. He struck nothing but the walls of the cave. One of the beldams grabbed the weapon from his hand before hurling it across the room. Two of the other women restrained him. They pulled him toward a pair of meat hooks wedged into the ceiling and tied each of his hands to the hooks separately. They then released him, letting him hang suspended there while they looked on.
Lockhart groaned and tried to fight against them, but they’d already bested him. He just squirmed on those hooks, unable to do anything, while they stared at him.
The fattest of them was the first to speak. “You don’t look so
strong,” she said.
Lockhart glared at her, saying nothing.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” she continued.
“He killed Gunnilda!” a short one shrieked.
“Let me rip his flesh off!” a hulking one demanded.
“Wait, wait,” a slender one said, stepping in front of the others. “Perhaps we can use him.”
“What are you talking about?” the fat one asked.
As they spoke, Lockhart tried to identify them based on the voices and names he’d heard during their conversation. The fat one matched up to Alviva, he thought. She appeared to be in charge of the others. She did look the oldest, so it made sense. Given her size, it appeared she also got the majority of their meals. Beyond the others, her sagging skin consisted of rolls of fat accentuated with a flopping gut hanging below her skin. Much of her exposed flesh had large brown moles speckling it. Long, whisker-like hairs protruded from them similar to quills on a porcupine.
“I don’t want to be a wraith!” the little one repeated yet again, cowering behind Alviva’s considerable girth.
That made her Estrild. Her cowardice easily separated her from the rest of the coven. She’d been the most afraid of him when they spoke, and that was no different now. Estrild appeared younger than the others. That’s not to say she looked young, just not as decrepit as the other beldams. She was also much shorter than the others, being the only one Lockhart could look down on from where he hung. If it were possible to compare such a thing, Estrild also looked the most unkempt. Her hair was a mess of tangled knots, she had red stains on and near her mouth, and her clothes were in shambles, more so than the others.
“Shut up, Estrild!” the muscular one said. “I’m going to kill it. The only use it has is food.”
Mabilia. She was big. Not fat. Big. Mabilia looked strong. She looked like she could rip him in half if she wanted to. She definitely wanted to. One of her eyes bulged from its socket, while the other was nothing but a slit with yellow pus seeping out. As the pus reached just above her lips, she scraped her tongue up on her cheek to wipe away and consume the sludge. Lockhart had seen a great many disgusting things, but seeing her lick her own eye pus made his stomach turn.