The man lifted his leather jerkin, showing four long scars that reached from his waist to his neck. “He gave me this that day.” His smile turned wry, rueful. “It was a gift I did not want. Many braves died that day. The wendigo feasted well and grew even more powerful.” He cleared his throat, a harsh sound that echoed around the circle. “Bleeding, torn, near death, those who survived stumbled back here. Many wanted to leave, to go north across the Beautiful Water, but we did not want to leave our home.
“The wendigo came to us the next day. He spoke to us in our own language as if he had been raised to it. His yellow eyes glowed with his magic as he threatened to kill us all unless one of us came out to face him. He said he wanted a good fight. I was weak from my injuries, but I was always a crafty fighter.
“With a straight back, I walked out to meet him. I took only my war club. As I approached, he used his magic to gain the powers of the wolf. He grew before my eyes. Fur sprouted from his arms. His face grew a snout, and the snout grew long fangs.” He grinned and shook his head. “I went to die, but I hoped that I could win the lives of the people in the village.
“I walked up to the beast and looked into his evil face. He was twice again as tall as I was, his arms as long as my legs. He growled and snarled at me, mocking me. He pointed at the spike on my club and made a strange sound. I think it was laughter.
“I stood before him, drawing on the power of my ancestors. I stared up into his maw and demanded that he promise to leave our lands if I gave him a good fight.”
“And you did,” boomed a voice.
The Onondowaga reacted to the voice with panic.
A tall man dressed in buckskins of a similar cut to those worn by the Onondowaga walked into the center of the circle, bold as brass. He was thin—so thin his bones jutted from his skin like rocks peeking out from under water. John had expected a native, but the wendigo was a white man. He had long, light-brown hair.
The man strode up to Achak, looking him up and down. He towered over the old man—a foot and a half taller if he was an inch. “Time has not treated you well, my old enemy. My magic would stop the ravages of time. I can teach you how. You fought so well that day that you have but to ask me.”
Achak shook his head, stoic and unmoved by the offer.
The man shrugged and smiled. “Stubborn,” he said in a lilting voice. His accent was strange, singsong. “Still, you are a brave man, and I honor the memory of the warrior you were.” He turned. His eyes swept the Onondowaga, meeting John’s briefly before moving on.
His eyes were sunken into his face, his eye sockets filled with shadow, making his face look like a naked skull.
“But,” he said, holding up a hand as if anyone dared to interrupt him. “That was more than forty years ago. I have honored my promise to you, old man, but enough is enough. That bargain has run its course.”
There were gasps of fear from the Onondowaga. The man only smiled.
Donehogawa stepped forward. “Will you leave us in peace? Will you leave the whites in peace?”
The tall man threw back his head and laughed. His laughter sounded like the cawing of crows and vultures.
“Then make the same promise you made Achak.”
The man stopped laughing and looked at Donehogawa with grudging respect. “You are the man from the clearing.”
It wasn’t a question, but Donehogawa nodded. “I am.” His voice was calm, steady. “Donehogawa, He Who Guards the Gate of Sunset.”
The man looked him up and down. “I have no doubt it would be interesting to fight you, but entertainment is not my purpose this day.” He turned his head and looked into John’s eyes. “I am interested in something else.”
“Then what?” asked Donehogawa, but the tall man shook his head.
“Tell us,” said John, his voice ringing through the air.
The tall man turned to face him, and he cocked his head, smiling an evil smile. “It is a waste of breath, I fear. You are not yet ready.”
“Me, sir? What do you want with me? Why did you come to my house this morning?”
“As I said then, you amuse me.”
Anger snapped in John’s veins like sails in a fierce wind. “Is it me you want to fight? Will that satisfy you?”
“Will we fight? Perhaps. Will it satisfy me? Never.” The man shrugged.
“Then what?” snapped John. “Shall I be eaten, too?”
The tall man sobered. “No. I will not kill you unless you force me to.”
“I don’t understand. What am I to you? Why should you care what I do? We’ve never even met.”
“No, we’ve never met, and it is true that at present your mind is small and narrow.” The man’s smile was derisive, scornful. “You are, however, interesting to me. There is something in your blood that pleases me.”
“My blood?”
“Are you of Viking descent?”
John shook his head and shrugged. “I was born on the shores of Seneca Lake, that is the extent of it.”
“And your parents?”
“English.”
The man nodded, smiling, eyes twinkling. “It is possible, then,” he murmured.
“What is possible?”
“Your blood may be pure enough. Never mind that for now.”
“What must I do to make you stop your rampages?” John demanded.
“I’ve said you aren’t ready.” The man shook his head. “More death is required. Perhaps one of your brothers or nephews.”
“No! Just tell me what you want of me.”
“I want you to join me. Let my magic transform you. I will take you places you can’t imagine. You will live—”
“No.” John’s voice rang with conviction. “I will not become one such as you.” John had expected the man to grow angry, be offended, but he just smiled and nodded.
“You see?” he asked. “I said you aren’t ready. Pity, though. It is not often we come across one with the blood of the Isir in his veins.” The man glanced at Donehogawa and then back at John. “You are not ready, but you will be.”
As the sound of the last word faded, the man looked up at the sky. “Oolfur!” he shouted. The air crackled with power, and he began to grow before their eyes.
“He summons the power of the wolf!” shouted Achak. “Get your weapons!”
The smell of putrescence flooded the air, turning John’s stomach. The gangly man grew taller by the second, his skin stretching and thinning. His shoulders ripped the buckskin to shreds. His skull pressed against his skin as if it would split his face down the middle. As his body continued to stretch and distend, a thin, light-brown fur spread across his shoulders.
“This time, Achak,” the man said in a voice filled with gravel—his changing mouth hampering his ability to form the words, “the fight is to the death.”
Achak looked up at the man and nodded without expression. “I have lived a long life.”
The man scoffed. “You have lived for a mere instant, and your life is now at an end.”
The man’s voice had become almost unintelligible and he struggled to make is changing mouth form the words. He stood half again taller than Achak. His body continued to stretch and distend, more fur sprouting across his chest and upper arms. His jaw had elongated, taking the form of a wolf’s snout. Fangs sprouted from his gums, pushing his human teeth out of his mouth.
A young brave ran to Achak, carrying his war club—a two-foot length of wood carved to look like a snake with a ball in its mouth. From the ball depended a four-inch spike. Achak accepted the club, running his gnarled hands along its length. “I’ve grown slow and weak with age, beast, but what I’ve lost has been replaced with wisdom and guile. I hope to give you a better fight today than I did all those years ago.” He swung the club in an arc that swept upward, the spike pointed at the wendigo’s neck.
The club whistled with speed and murderous intent. Even so, it was far too slow. The wendigo batted the club down and away with disdain. He raised his muzzle to t
he sky and howled like a wolf.
Achak recovered his swing and brought the club whistling up, reversed so that the spike pointed straight up, aimed at the beast’s groin. Thick blood splattered the ground at the beast’s feet.
The wendigo made a sound like water flowing over a stony creek bed. John thought it was laughter. The beast grew taller still, hunching down to leer at Achak. Achak tried to wrench the club back and away to ready another swing, but quick as lightning, the wendigo’s hand shot down and grabbed the haft to hold it in place. Achak struggled to pull the club away, driving his shoulder into the wendigo’s gut, but he might as well have been trying to pull a tree from the ground.
The wendigo—still growing—growled, his mouth gaping wide to show the array of his teeth. Saliva and purulence from the beast’s maw dripped onto Achak’s upturned face.
Donehogawa sprinted toward the beast, holding his own war club over his head. He was chanting the medicine of the Society of Mystic Animals. He called on the spirit of the bear to protect him. He called on the spirit of the cougar to lend him speed and courage. Last, he called on the spirit of the wolf to lend him guile.
The wendigo heard his song and made the chuffing laugh sound again. He swept a gangling arm downward and sent Achak spinning to the ground, bleeding from a long gash on his forehead. He pulled Achak’s war club from his groin, grabbing it with both hands, and twisted it to splinters. Then he took two great steps forward, covering at least ten feet, and met Donehogawa’s charge head-on.
John raised his musket, aimed, and sent a fifty-caliber ball of lead into the beast’s exposed back. The wendigo shuddered and snarled over his shoulder at John. The beast started to turn, but as he did so, Donehogawa swept his war club into the monster’s knee. The wendigo stumbled and went down on one knee. At the same time, with a movement that seemed aimless, an afterthought, he backhanded Donehogawa, sending the brave flying through the air.
The men standing with John fired at the beast, but most of the shots went wide. One shot, however, was true. Victor Cross’ ball slammed into the chest of the beast, splattering his red blood through the air in a high arc.
Roaring in pain and anger, the wendigo bunched its legs and leaped. In a single bound, he crossed the twenty-yard distance to the knot of musket men. The beast landed with a grunt of pain and the knee Donehogawa had struck buckled a little. Still, he grabbed Victor Cross’ and heaved him up. The wendigo’s lupine features twisted with fury, and he gnashed his teeth in poor Victor’s face. With a ferocious growl, the beast’s head darted forward. Victor shrieked.
John worked like the devil to get powder, wadding, and a new ball into his musket. He was sweating but felt a horrible chill sweeping from his feet to the top of his head and then back down. The sweeping chill cycled over and over, growing more rapid with each repetition.
The wendigo jerked its head back from Victor’s with the horrid sound of rending flesh. The skin and muscle of Victor’s face hung shredded from the beast’s jaws.
Victor continued to screech, his lidless eyes rolling. John slammed his ramrod down the barrel of his rifle, moving as fast as he could, but despair for Victor yawned within him. He’s dead already! a panicked voice inside his head shrieked.
The huge wolf-man shifted his grip to hold Victor Cross by each wrist, his furred and clawed hands at shoulder width. With a ferocious bark, he pulled his hands apart, twisting Victor’s arms, as though butchering a chicken for dinner. There was a terrible wet popping sound, and Victor screamed louder still. The beast kept pulling until Victor’s arms separated from his shoulders with a sound like a bucket of water hitting the ground.
Now armless, Victor fell to the ground, unconscious and pouring blood. The wendigo flung the amputated limbs away and howled. Then the beast stooped and grabbed Victor by each ankle.
John jerked the ramrod out of his musket and flung it away. He shouldered the wooden stock, lined up his shot, and pulled back the hammer.
The wendigo’s wolf-like ears perked up at the sound, and he swung Victor Cross like a club into John’s side, driving John to the ground. The beast took two hopping steps and stood over John. He growled with vicious abandon and then stretched his mouth wide.
John turned his head away, and the beast barked with amusement.
With another wet, tearing pop, Victor’s legs dislocated from his hips. The wendigo made the strange, savage barking laugh sound and twisted his hands. Victor’s torso fell on top of John, armless, legless, faceless, driving John’s wind away.
The beast flung Victor’s legs high into the air and made his peculiar laughing bark again. With a last leering snarl at John, he turned and leaped to the other side of the village center. The beast landed in a group of fleeing women and children. He flung them into the air, some toward the center, some away. Shrieks and screams filled the small village.
Donehogawa staggered to his feet, bleeding from one ear and shaking his head like an angry bear. He screamed his defiance and charged toward the wendigo, who continued to pitch women and children into the air.
John rolled to the side, gasping for breath, and forced himself to his knees. He’d lost hold of his musket. The remaining men with him had reloaded, but after the mess the beast had made of Victor Cross, none of the men had fired.
With a growl of his own, John lurched to his feet. He staggered to the knot of fearful men and grabbed the musket of Ben Bowers. For a brief moment, Ben looked at him with empty, staring eyes, and then let John take his weapon.
John spun to face the wendigo, but the beast was no longer there. John sucked in great wheezing breaths and swept the village center with his eyes.
The wendigo was locked in a relentless, brutal battle with a group of braves led by Donehogawa. The braves kept circling the beast, darting forward to attack it from behind with clubs and flint knives. The wendigo snarled and growled, whirling ever faster to meet the attacks from behind.
Donehogawa was chanting death medicine and attacking twice as often as the other braves, swinging his club with abandon. Blood flowed from his ear in gouts, and new gashes had appeared on his chest and arms.
John shouldered Bowers’ musket, taking aim at the beast’s head. His vision was blurred, and his breathing was too hard for a good shot, but he squeezed the trigger anyway. The ball went high, and the wendigo turned his shaggy head to glare at John.
While the wendigo’s head was turned, Donehogawa leaped forward, savage club lifted high over his head. As he approached the zenith of his jump, the brave brought the club whistling down with wild fury. The club slammed into the wendigo’s neck, the four-inch spike piercing the beast’s throat. The wendigo yelped, and his blood flowed free and quick.
The great beast turned back to face Donehogawa. John dropped Bowers’ musket and held out his hands. Another musket fell into his grasp. In a sweeping rush, John shouldered the weapon, aimed, and fired.
The ball nicked the wendigo’s lupine ear, tearing out a chunk. The wolf-man yowled and spun to face John again, fury and malevolent intent burning in the beast’s predatory gaze.
As soon as the beast’s back was turned, Donehogawa motioned to his fellow braves. They attacked as one, raining blows down on the wendigo’s back. John dropped the spent musket and again held out his hands. Another weapon slapped into his palms. John brought it to his shoulder, aiming again at the wendigo’s head.
The murderous beast was glaring at him, ignoring the braves smiting him from behind.
John drew back the hammer.
The wendigo growled a vehement warning and held up a clawed hand.
As calm as a spring shower, John slowed his breathing and steadied the stock against his shoulder.
The wendigo snarled.
John squeezed the trigger, and the musket bucked.
The wendigo howled but sounded more angry than hurt. He raised a long, lean arm and shook his clawed finger at John like a schoolmarm scolding an errant child.
John dropped the musket, sweeping hi
s arms to the side. As the weight of another weapon fell into his hands, the wendigo roared loud enough to rouse the deaf. As John brought the musket up to his shoulder, the monster’s eyes narrowed with hate. The skin on the top of his snout bunched as he drew his lips back from his teeth. John recalled what the man had said to him: I will not kill you unless you force me to. As the thought spun around his mind, his aim wavered.
The beast barked and swept around in a circle, arms outstretched, claws bared. The braves surrounding him fell back, bloodied. The wendigo stopped his spin facing John, who still hadn’t fired.
Again, the beast shook his long, clawed finger at John. Then, the creature howled with ear-splitting volume and rose out of its fighting crouch. Sounding miles away or more, an answering howl echoed through the air. With that, the wendigo leaped across the village center to land a stride away from John.
John swung the musket to point it in the wendigo’s face. With a snarl, the wolf-man swept the rifle from John’s grasp and broke it over his knee. He threw the pieces at John’s feet, his contempt and derision for the device evident in his haughty manner. He tossed his great head like a dog ridding its coat of water.
The monster placed his massive clawed hand flat on John’s chest and, with a low growl, pushed John away. The beast’s gaze swept the Onondowaga and the small band of whites from Geneva. His lip curled with a savage growl. Then he flung his shaggy head back and howled, long and loud.
To John’s shock and terror, another howl split the air, sounding much closer than it had before. The wendigo leered at John and then ran from Ganundasaga at a speed no human could hope to match, shoving men, women, and children from his path.
An eerie silence fell across the village, broken only by the sound of small children crying.
John walked to where Donehogawa kneeled, thinking his friend’s injuries were more severe than they looked. As he approached, though, the brave threw back his head and rent the air with a loud ululating cry. Beyond Donehogawa, Achak’s bloodied, broken, lifeless form lay.
Blood of the Isir Omnibus Page 51