by Mark Eller
“Faugh! He’s filled with poison or we would have taken him yesterday.”
Shivering, Mathew turned his head toward where Trent’s body still burned in the fire. Fleshless fingers gripped the splintered log, trying to twist it into the place where his neck had once been. Mouth gaping, The head emitted silent screams intermingled with voiceless laughter. Already, one cheek was entirely burned away and both eyeballs had burst from the heat. He looked back toward the girl.
She kissed Mathew’s muzzle, licking Trent‘s blood from his lips. “Why did you cut my brother’s head off? Why throw him in the flames?”
Mathew smiled happily. “Because you’re both monsters. When I held his hand it had the feel of a troll, and trolls are almost more dangerous than devils.” He gently ran his fingers over the bloody feathers on her head. “I think you’re a harpy.”
“And a witch,” Haley agreed. “You’re going to be a wonderful hunter once I get you completely tamed. I’ve never had a wolf as a hunter before. I tried a baby demon once, or maybe he was a devil. Either way, he was too much for me.”
“Devil’s are conceived in a deeper level of Hell than harpies and trolls,” Mathew answered.
Haley sighed. “I wouldn’t know. I was born on Terra. I’ve never even been to Hell for a visit. They won’t let me in.” She pounded an angry fist into Mathew’s left eye. “Discrimination because I‘ve a touch of human blood! Hell can be so unfair.”
She stilled. “I’ll deal with that after I finish training you. But first, you have to pull Trent from the fire before his bones cinder, or at least pull the log out of his neck so he doesn’t look so silly.”
Setting her down, Mathew fell to his paws. His back ached. His hands no longer had fingers. He stretched, felt his back creak, crack, and then the ache was gone.
“Mathew,” Glace croaked. His hands fumbled at his pack. “What happened to— please don’t.”
Lowering himself to the ground, Mathew slunk toward the fire, knowing his fur would burn when he grabbed Trent’s bones, as would his mouth. It would hurt, but Hallie’s approval would make the pain worthwhile.
Only there was no need for him to reach into the fire. Trent’s searching hands finally managed to knock the log free and grasp his head. They dragged the head toward the neck, set it in place, and then Trent’s bones stood. The skull’s jaw dropped open in a grin as Trent set one foot outside the fire. New flesh began to form around the burnt char..
Glace finished opening his pack. Reaching inside, he drew out a chunk of salt and weakly threw.
“NO!” Hallie shouted.
Fear washed over Mathew. Anger consumed him. He twisted, lunged, and ripped Glace’s throat open. Blood fountained over him, washing him in its glory. Mathew opened his mouth and let the blood in, savoring its sweet flavor, shivering with a sudden burst of ecstatic strength. He lunged at Glace’s twitching body, set his teeth in flesh, ripped meat free, swallowed, and howled in sudden anguish when he realized what he had done. Sitting back on his haunches, Mathew howled again as a wisp rose from the body, hovered, and then was sucked down into the earth.
Trent!” Haley shouted. Her fists beat against Mathew’s fur, against his head, forcing him to look toward the flames. “Damn-it, I wasn’t done with him yet.”
Trent’s bones lay in a jumble, separated one from another. While Mathew watched, the bones turned into dust and flared into flame, leaving only hard edged crystals of broken salt behind. Other salt lay on the floor, shards broken free when Glace’s chunk struck Trent. Mathew stood on one. Tendrils seeped from it, entered his flesh through his paw, and seeped into his body.
“Go to the door,” Hallie ordered. Mathew shifted, prepared to obey, but her order held little force. It took almost no effort to disobey.
Hallie set her small hands on her hips. “You will have to move off the salt sometime, you know, and when you do, you’ll belong to me again. You’ll do what I say.”
Mathew caught the girl’s eyes with his, keeping her attention focused, and grinned his most wolfish grin. Leaning forward, he tensed, ready—
And then Murth shoved Huntley’s sword into the harpy’s back. He drew it out, shifted, and shoved it back in again. Hallie’s eyes grew large, larger. Her mouth opened. Blood spilled free.
“No,” she whispered. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
And then she died, taking the cabin’s dark aura with her.
Murth stabbed her seven more times before he looked at Mathew. “She forgot about me.” Drawing the sword out of her body, he lifted her head by its hair and used the sword’s edge to slice through bone and flesh. He grinned when he threw the pieces in the fire. “I guess you’re glad I didn’t stay out of it. I’d even say you owe me lots of money if you can think of a way to get it to me.”
Absently nodding, Mathew stepped off the salt shard. His mind felt clear, his focus sharp. Good. He studied Murth for several moments, knowing he owed the man more than he could repay. The old Mathew would have given Murth more gold than he could spend in a year. The old Mathew would have seen the advantage of paying well for service freely given so others wouldn’t hesitate to step in when they were needed.
The old Mathew had been half a man. That Mathew had known friendship and loyalty. That Mathew had not murdered his only friend.
He padded toward Murth, lunged, and knocked him to the floor. Thirty seconds later the man lay dead. A slow kill, but Mathew enjoyed the game.
Straightening, Mathew looked at the door. It was bitter cold outside, and getting colder. In a few days or a few weeks it would warm. Mathew wasn’t sure of the time. He knew this journey could be no more than three or four weeks old, but it somehow seemed much longer.
No matter, Eventually the weather would change. Until then he had water and food and blankets to burrow in. When the temperature warmed enough he would head for Grace. A kingship awaited him there. Athos would give him a throne and restore his body or there would be hell to pay.
Most of the cabin was cold. It was coldest near the door. Mathew bit into a leg and dragged Murth’s body away from the fire. There was no need to let good meat spoil.
Chapter 12-- Ludwig’s Dilemma
Ludwig closed his eyes while careful female hands dabbed smoothed honey over his flaccid handle and sack. The honey felt cold and globular, but a hand over his privates warmed it enough to flow smoothly beneath gentle caresses. His manhood stirred and rose, giving the woman’s hands better access to every fold and crevasse. A honey coated finger wiped itself clean on his chin and lips. Rough clothes brushed against his bare chest. Legs straddled him, and then sensuous lips folded over his mouth. They pressed in and down, filling his head with visions of grappling bodies and insatiable lust. The lips pulled away. A smooth tongue lapped honey from his face, and then she was gone. Groaning, Ludwig opened his eyes to find her looking down on him. Her face was exquisite; a composition of an artist’s greatest dream. Her body was smooth cream churning into sweet butter, a flowing of perfect form to suit a seductress’s function.
Her body lied, for Belthethsia owned the cruelest eyes he had ever seen.
His amulet dangled from her neck.
Nervous sweat burst from Ludwig’s pores when she casually dripped honey onto his nipples.
“I so like being a bitch,” she whispered. Her lips twisted into a slight smile. “I appreciate the donation, darling. Insurrection can be sooo expensive.” With a violent gesture, she wheeled, leapt on her waiting horse, and rode away, pulling her companions and the pack arvids and several months of Ludwig’s life along with her. He groaned while dreams of fleshpots and sweet debauchery withered and died.
“Thief!” Harlo shouted. “That’s our gold! That’s our spice!”
The succubus’s soft chuckle drifted back to them. “Just continuing your tradition, honeypot. It’s much easier to let other thieves do the collecting for me.”
“I’ll cut out your liver!” Harlo shouted. “I’ll eat your heart.”
“I wouldn’t speak of eating if I were you,” the hellborn called back, “but if the time ever comes, just ask around for me in Grace. I’ll be standing close to the throne.”
She released a sudden curse, and Ludwig heard fading hoof beats.
“I never wanted to be a brigand,” Ludwig complained after several silent minutes passed. He pulled on his wrists, but the wet leather ropes and stakes holding him spread-eagle on the ground gave no hope of freedom.
“Shut it,” Jorge ordered. “You liked the money as much as the rest of us, and you weren’t too squeamish about the killing and dying so long as it was somebody else doing it.”
“He has a point,” Harlo pointed out. “Ludwig, dear fellow, I hate to mention this, but I remember there being a nest of fire beetles not too far from you, and fire beetles are notorious for loving honey.” He sighed. “You never should have called her a bitch. She seems to have taken it personally.”
“Three to one the beetles eat his privates before the vultures get his eyes,” Jorge provided. Ludwig heard him struggle with his bindings. “I’m sort of surrounded by a lot of dead bodies so we can’t expect much help from them. Any hope over there.”
“The Weasel isn’t tied down, and he breathes,” Harlo said. “Unfortunately, most of his organs have spilled from his belly. I hear two or three others breathing, but there was a good deal of pounding stakes and soaking leather going on, so I suspect they are in worse condition than us.
“I think Relic lives,” Jorge supplied.
Ludwig swallowed against the wet leather wrapped around his neck. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision, but not so much he couldn’t make out a lone pair of vultures circling overhead. His lips felt dry and his throat parched, even though it was a cool morning and he had drunk his fill not too long before. The humidity was low, and that was bad because it would speed the drying and tightening of the leather straps, though he wasn’t sure if it might not be better to die of slow strangulation rather than having the vultures and beetles eat him.
Ludwig shuddered when small legs clawed their way up the side of his neck. Black chitin wearing six legs and possessing an unbelievably large enzyme dripping mouth walked across his cheek just beneath his left eye. Making a right turn, the beetle tickled his lips and chin on its journey toward his chest. Several of its brothers followed. One paused to take a sample bite of his chin where Belthethsia had not licked all the honey away.
When acid fire leaped into the bite, Ludwig screamed. Seeming to take this as a positive sign, a vulture plummeted down from the sky.
“Nedross,” Jorge cursed. “We’ll have to listen to his caterwauling for hours.”
“Maybe the vultures will kill him soon,” Harlo suggested.
“Not bloody likely. They go after the dead ones first. Just saw one bite a chunk of sausage casing from Weasel‘s innards.”
Ludwig screamed again when beetles suddenly attacked his left nipple. Seconds later, fire seared into his privates. His screams were loud enough to hurt his ears, and this amazed him since the tightening leather around his neck made it difficult to breathe.
“Looks like the beetles are going to win,” Jorge observed.
“No they’re not,” Harlo answered, and then he stood over Ludwig, stamping, beating, and brushing beetles from his body. Ludwig screeched when several bit his face, neck, and privates in protest. He yelled and thrashed and shouted, and then Harlo leaned over Ludwig‘s bound hands. When Ludwig’s hands came free he sat up and murdered a dozen beetles before Harlo managed to free his feet. Unrestrained, Ludwig lunged across the ground, fell, scrambled, cried, rolled— and then he was away from the beetles, leaning up against a dead man while sobs broke free and his hands pulled and pulled and pulled at the leather wrapped around his neck.
“Hold still and I‘ll cut it off,” Harlo commanded. He approached with his hand outstretched, one wiggling finger extended. “I always knew it would pay to keep a sharp bit of metal glued to the bottom side of my nail.”
“It hurts,” Ludwig moaned, clutching one hand to his chest and the other to his neck.
“It should,” Harlo said unsympathetically. “Fire beetles hurt like Athos’s ass, and it looks like you’re missing half a nipple. On the plus side, you’ve found a way to preserve your modesty. You have enough bits of broken grass and debris clinging to your privates to satisfy the strictest lady’s chaperone.”
“Stop playing with the baby and get me out of these ropes,” Jorge complained.
“Certainly,” Harlo said agreeably just as Ludwig released another scream and grabbed at his sack. Harlo chuckled. “Really, Milord, you should exhibit a firmer hand with your unruly guests.”
Pulling a beetle free, Ludwig crushed it between his fingers. “I want to get a firm hold on the bitch.”
Harlo smiled sardonically, but his eyes were flint hard. “Me too.”
“Here,” a thin voice called out. “I’m over here.”
“Tirelle?” Ludwig called. He stumble shuffled through the thick weeds, following her tiny voice until he found the figurine of a naked fat woman dangling from a broken chain caught on a milkweed’s head. He grasped his amulet gratefully and then shuddered when a sudden rush of beetle poison flushed through his brain. He would be fevered in another hour, and too sick to move for the next several days.
“I bit her,” Tirelle said. She opened her wooden lips to show teeth spotted with blood. Her eyes fastened on Ludwig’s chest, reminding him he bled and hurt and had lost half a nipple. When Tirelle smiled, her red lips glistened. “I wish this blood was yours.”
“I love you too,” Ludwig muttered while picking up her broken chain. Frowning, he studied the tiny figurine of a naked fat woman and wondered where he would keep her with the chain unusable. An obvious thought occurred when he glanced down. Tirelle didn’t have to have a chain. In a pinch, leather would do, and there was plenty of leather lying on the ground.
“Liar,” Tirelle snapped.
“Where the hell is the snow?” Relic demanded. “I swear to the gods, before all this started we were tracking through twelve inches of the shit. Now it’s gone and the temperature is hotter than hell. It looks like summer, and the ground’s iron hard.”
Harlo shrugged. “ Best guess, something’s fucked up.”
Relic snorted. “In other words, you haven’t a clue.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” Harlo looked off into the distance. “Anybody else feel like taking a hike. I’d like to speak with a certain succubus. Hopefully, she will find the conversation both long and painful.”
* * * *
Vultures circled overhead, signifying another meal of raw and possibly putrefying meat from yet another abandoned carcass. Eying the vultures, Ludwig remembered pheasant and quail cooked to such perfection the meat fell off the bone. He remembered decades old wine decanted for his pleasure, and he remembered flute girls playing loin stirring melodies while he dined, knowing the girls were available for any use when the meal was finished.
Gods, he missed those days. If not for Meliandra’s golden thighs...
“May the child she bears wear large horns and razor talons,” Ludwig cursed while walking on a new set of blisters because he wore too small boots garnered from a dead man’s swollen feet. Flies buzzed around his body, enticed by the still weeping wounds where pus and fluid drained from his beetle bites. A week had passed, and yet the wounds still festered. His head swam. His legs wobbled, and he was naked to the waist because it hurt to wear a tunic, but by damn, he would not slow them down. Not when even Charle showed no signs of stopping.
“May her breasts be covered with killer bees, and may her eyes be plucked from her head to feed the fish which live in her guts.”
“His creativity is wearing thin,” Relic observed, “but his curses have developed a certain lovely viciousness.”
The most recent addition to Harlo’s band wore a perpetual scowl and owned a broken arm which nestled in a ma
keshift sling. The sling had once been part of his brother’s pants. Of the original twelve members of the band, only the five survived, and of those five, only Harlo and Jorge remained relatively unscathed. Charle was the worst injured now that Ludwig’s fevers had ceased. His broken ribs were supported by knotted leather ropes wrapped around his body. A slash deep enough to be fearful decorated Charle’s back over his right kidney. Sweat almost leapt from the man’s pores every time Charle took a step, he hurt so much, but the man never complained and never asked for support. His weathered face only grew grimmer while the creases across his forehead became deeper. This new Charle bore little resemblance to the laughing killer Ludwig had known two weeks earlier. That Charle had been light and mischievous. This one was cold and scary.
Tirelle hummed a soft little tune only Ludwig could hear because it vibrated against his skull’s bones. He wanted to order her to stop, but she had become petulant lately and prone to taking on airs. The last time he set her between his teeth and bit down to release her magic she gave him a jolt that made his mouth and jaw ache for two days.
“Gentlemen,” she later said, “do not bite women.”
Which completely bypassed the fact she was not a woman and did not have flesh.
“May Athos burn her for three hundred years in hellfire before he gives her a sweet taste of shade and water,” Ludwig muttered while Harlo trudged wearily up a small swell. Ludwig wasn’t sure if his curse referred to Belthethsia or Tirelle, or maybe even Meliandra. “And then may he burn her for three hundred more.”
Harlo crested the rise, stilled, and raised a hand to stop them. “Belthethsia’s been a busy lady.”
Ludwig struggled up the rise to stand beside his friend. Perhaps one hundred yards away a man lay spread eagle on the ground, lying crosswise to the path with his hands and feet thrust into the weeds on either side. He tossed his head franticly from side to side while a head bobbing vulture walked back and forth beside him.