The Demon Crown and Other Stories
by Anthony Pryor
Copyright 2012 Anthony Pryor
Smashwords Edition
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Preface: The Saga Continues
Welcome to the second volume of the Wulf Archives, the complete collection of the adult swords-and-sorcery tales that I wrote from 1993 to the current day. If you read the previous volume you’ll know that by this time I was busy writing all the backstory that led up to The Demon Crown, the first Wulf story that I actually wrote. For those who are keeping track, the first two stories in this volume, All Souls Night and Night in Vosgraad take place about a year after The Red and the Green, a period of Wulf’s career that I haven’t chronicled yet. After establishing himself as a semi-successful freelancer in the corrupt city of Stoneburg, Wulf journeys to Litharna to seek out the relatives of Sigurd Hillcleaver, who died in battle in the first Wulf story, Heart of the Lion. Along the way he encounters Livia the sorceress and Udo the dwarf, both of whom prove important in future tales.
I have to admit that I never was terribly fond of the first two stories, though of the two I prefer All Souls Night since I was in a serious anti-vampire mood when I wrote it and enjoyed racking up a high bloodsucker bodycount. I also got to write the infamous waterfall scene between Wulf and Livia, a nice little fantasy sequence that would probably have ended in several amputations due to severe cold had it actually happened in real life.
Over the years the stories have grown on me, however, and now I’m perfectly happy with them, or at least as happy as I am with the other tales, all of which have both their own strengths and weaknesses.
The influence of the Warhammer fantasy universe was never far from Wulf either, and I freely admit that the scientifically-advanced but still backwards realm of Litharna is strongly influenced by the human-ruled Empire of Warhammer fame. With its pistols, slashing rapiers, artillery and clanking steam engines, the Empire is, of course, strongly influenced by Renaissance-era Germany and Italy, so I don’t feel too bad for lifting some concepts.
That said, welcome once more to the world of the Wulf Archives. I hope you enjoy your stay, and will carry on with the next volumes in the series, the epic-length Stormking and the even more epic Dark Vengeance saga, so huge that I had to make it into a trilogy. In the meantime, peace and please drop by www.anthonypryor.com and make a comment.
Anthony Pryor
Portland, OR
Winter, 2012
All Souls Night
All Soul’s Night was produced, among other things, to bring Wulf a bit closer to the conclusion of his first cycle of tales, and to introduce the most beloved and frustrating of his various loves, the gorgeous sorceress Livia, bane and boon of our hero’s existence.
The title was lifted from the Loreena McKennit song of the same title, which was popular at the time I wrote it, and the story was inspired by driving through rural Oregon and seeing the pockets of provincialism where the light of modern civilization stubbornly refused to shine. Every land has such places, where surly locals sit silently on their front porches or pump your gas while silently watching your every move, their dark eyes hiding grim secrets. These are the backwoods, where movies such as Deliverance, Southern Comfort and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre take place. They’re also great for storytelling, since you just know dammit — you know — that on certain nights in these places the dead walk and vampires roam the shadowed forests.
So here at last is Livia, and the celebrated waterfall scene (I’ve never had sex under a waterfall, and my guess is that it isn’t really as sexy as I’ve portrayed). She’s an interesting case — physically she resembles an old roommate and friend of my wife and me, of whom we were very fond, and who ended up doing some bad things to us that irrevocably damaged our friendship and contributed to the collapse of my marriage. Fortunately for me I’ve managed to separate the character from the person she was written to resemble, and Livia has had a long, healthy and (to Wulf anyway) alternately stimulating and frustrating life in the series.
Personally, I like her. Thae’lynn is a villain of blackest dye, whose sexual deviance is worn right smack dab on her sleeve. On the other hand, Livia’s sweet and innocent demeanor, as disarming as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, hides the soul of a serious deviant, shamelessly pursuing her pleasure with partners of every race, sex and religion. Contrary to popular opinion (most readers actually don’t like her very much), she really does love Wulf, she just can’t bring herself to admit it, as is later explored in the Dark Vengeance saga.
And of course there are vamps here, too. My future employers, White Wolf Publications, were just entering public consciousness with roleplaying games like Vampire: The Masquerade and Werewolf: The Apocalypse and Noun: The Verb. Bloodsuckers had always been popular, but White Wolf and Anne Rice helped drag them, kicking and screaming, into the mainstream, where films such as Blade and Underworld and TV shows like Buffy and True Blood would further enhance and expose them, after which tripe like Twilight (the books and movies) would defang and emasculate them utterly, until in the end vampires had graduated from their existence as creatures of raw horror and brooding sexuality to become perfect boyfriends for pre-adolescent emo-girls.
It’s a sad, sad fate for one of the world’s most ubiquitous and terrifying mythic creatures, one from which the vampire will hopefully one day recover. In the meantime, I can reprint All Souls Night and hope that people get some enjoyment out of seeing vampires as they were meant to be.
A word to the wise — if you ever happen to be traveling in rural Litharna on All-Soul’s Eve, stop in a podunk little village with a relatively comfortable-looking inn, and a sexy young local woman offers you generous sexual favors, take my experience as an example, and turn the sweet little creature down.
Perhaps I should explain. My name is Wulf and I am what might generously be called a creative freelance contractor. What this means in real terms is that I lie, cheat, and steal (usually from people who deserve it, mind you — I have some integrity) to make a living.
In this instance, I was in Litharna, land of gunpowder, loud noises, clanky machines, and religious fanatics, to gain a little extra income, and to pay a debt to a dead friend (more on that later). The way from the great port city of Helmsruud to Vosgraad, the capital city, passes through some pretty wild country, and I anticipated sleeping under the stars, or sampling the pleasures of various inns of the sort that reputable travel manuals tell you to avoid like a bad case of Crimson Pox. I’d never been here before, though I’d read the people were friendly, if a bit rustic, and still believed in zombies, werewolves, vampires, and other mythical beasts. Of course, unlike the authors of the various travel books, I have actually encountered a number of supposedly “mythical” creatures, and I figured that if the locals believe in something, I should at least give it some marginal level of credence.
I traveled well-armed, and took the precaution of purchasing a brace of pistols in Helmsruud. These were new weapons for me, so rare outside of Litharna as to be virtually unheard of (the Litharnans are nothing short of fanatical when it comes to keeping firearms strictly within their borders), and took some impromptu instruction in their use from a grizzled dwarf at an inn along the way. I also packed a solid cavalry saber with a razor-edge and sharp point, mail-reinforced parrying glove, and, on a whim, picked up a heartcutter (useful against demons), and a silver kris at a waterfront shop. I felt like a landsknecht on campaign, but any werewolves who attacked me would risk getting bloody in the process.
The rural roads of Litharna are both beautiful and disturbing, with vast green farmsteads and meadows interspersed with ancient woods filled with gnarled, black trees festooned with moss and lichen, and deep, quiet rivers which flow so slowly that they seem to move not at all. When you ride along these roads, you pass farmhouses on lots so overgrown and wild that you wonder if anyone actually lives in them, and if they do, what kind of people they must be. Occasionally, you encounter other travelers, who tip their hats or incline their heads solemnly, all the while looking at you as if they expect you to sprout wings and grow fangs at any moment. The people in the towns are a mixed bag — some are friendly and gregarious, while others are quiet, surly, and suspicious. These last invariably sit on front steps, or lean on split rail fences, motionless save for the slow swivel of their heads as they watch you ride past with black, unreadable eyes.
It was a land of contrasts, where science fought superstition, and technology fought to gain ground on magic. These people were on the frontier, between rulers determined to stamp out the pagan beliefs of the past, and the dark, ancient powers who did not want to be disturbed. Needless to say, I traveled in a state of unease, never certain what the next bend in the road would reveal.
As dusk gathered around me, my horse whickered nervously as the wind stirred dead leaves and rushed through twisted branches.
“Time to find some shelter,” I told her. “Hopefully there’s a village with an inn nearby. I don’t relish spending the night out any more than you do.”
She seemed to snort in agreement, and we set off at a brisk trot.
We were lucky. A good sized village lay less than a league beyond. To my relief, it was one of the friendly ones — brightly-lit, bustling even as night fell. Ahead, I saw a large structure, its windows glowing warmly yellow. It had to be an inn; I approached it gratefully.
I noted a certain festive quality in the town. Buildings were decorated with images of what I took to be the local deities — the mother-goddesses and horned green men which I’d seen elsewhere, in the Lastlands, and back in Stoneburg — as well as various abstract wheel-patterns and wildly-capering animals. Many windows, I saw, had lit candles set in them, making the village a wonderland of twinkling lights.
I hailed a man walking down the street, a little girl tagging faithfully along at his heels.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m from out of town. What’s the occasion tonight?”
He frowned, looking at me as if I was a retarded orc.
“All Soul’s Eve,” he said, simply. “The night before we remember the dead.”
I thanked him, and rode on, even as he stared after me, probably muttering to himself about how ignorant foreigners were.
I reached the inn, handed my horse over to a stable boy, and accepted a room from the slender, weasely innkeeper. With a deep sigh, I settled down in the common room, looking forward to a meal and a drink before bed.
Then, she showed up. I’d encountered attractive serving staff before, but this one put all the others in the shade.
Oh, she was lovely. Young (but not TOO young, by the gods...), full-bodied, bright-faced, with a graceful, wavy cascade of ravenswing hair, and dark, wicked eyes that latched onto mine as tightly as a dwarf’s fist around his last gold coin. I was hooked, and I certainly didn’t mind getting reeled in. Shows how much I know...
“I’m Khaera,” she said, breathily, setting down my mug of ale with scarcely a splash. She wore a white blouse, pulled down to reveal her shoulders, and the first voluptuous suggestion of two lovely white breasts, and a long dark skirt and sandals. She moved like a dancer, however, weaving through the crowd, trays carefully balanced, eyes steady. I guessed her at not more than twenty winters, and possibly less, but clearly old enough to know what she was doing.
“Wulf,” I said. “Out of Stoneburg. On my way to Vosgraad. Happy All Souls’.”
She looked at me suspiciously.
“Oh, shouldn’t I have said that?” I said, as pleasantly as I could. “I’m not from around here.”
She smiled, and I would swear the room grew a few degrees brighter. “It’s considered unlucky to actually say it, but no harm done. Besides, it’s only ‘eve,’ not ‘night’“
I indicated an empty chair next to me. “Can you sit for a few minutes?”
She scanned the room with a practiced eye. “Everyone seems taken care of,” she said, slithering down into the proffered seat. “Forgive me if I have to leap up and take an order, however.”
“No problem. As I said, I’m new here. Can you tell me what this holiday is all about, without actually naming it?”
“I think I’m equal to the task.” She settled luxuriantly in the chair, looking for all the world like a very sleek, very sensual cat, bedding down on someone’s chest. “Eve is just the night before. People don’t work — except at inns, of course, we work all the fucking time — and you get ready for the next night. That’s when we sing hymns, and walk through the streets with candles and torches, and leave out food and offerings for the dead.”
“Out of respect for their memories?”
“Hell no — so they won’t rise from their graves and kill us all.”
“How jolly,” I said. “I thought you Litharnans were all modernistic and didn’t believe in old superstitions anymore.”
Khaera chuckled. “That’s how the king and the priests would like it to be. They’d love it if we gave up on all the old pagan holidays, and didn’t do magic, and all used machines and guns, and clanking, smoking things to do all our work, and all quietly filed into church every Godsday and said our prayers to Kybor and asked Saint Orlan to protect us and deliver us, but... Well, the fact is we’re not all like that, Wulf. Old ways die hard.”
“I know,” I replied. “I’ve been to Xesh.”
Her eyes widened. “Really? They say they’re all incredibly decadent there.”
“You don’t know the half of it. I could tell stories.”
She leaned forward, face eager, chin in hands, staring at me with absolute devotion. “Tell me some.”
“I don’t know if they’re fit for mixed company,” I said, cautiously thinking of Mistress Xylara and her whips and dildoes.
“Ohhhh, I wouldn’t be too concerned,” she said. “You probably couldn’t shock me if you tried.”
Hmmmm. I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I was willing to find out. “I’ve met a dark elf woman who has rings in every part of her body,” I said, quietly.
“Every part?” she asked, incredulous.
I nodded. “Just what you’re thinking.”
“How did you manage to find that out?” Her curiosity was building, and I noted that she was beginning to breathe a bit heavier.
I raised my eyebrows. “The usual way,” I said, in as off-handed a fashion as I could manage.
“Really?” It was a taut stage whisper. “How was she?”
I shrugged. “All right, I guess. I really don’t remember much, since she tried to kill me immediately afterwards.”
It impressed her. “You get around, don’t you?”
“It’s not as romantic as it sounds, believe me.”
“Oh, it’s romantic enough for me,” she said, voice dropping even further. “Wulf, I’ve a feeling about you.”
I swallowed. “I’m... glad… to hear that?” I felt nervous; why I couldn’t say.
“Go up to your room, Wulf,” Khaera whispered. “Wait for me there.” She leaned forward, warm lips brushing my ear. “I want to come up and fuck you.” With that, she rose, and returned to her work.
Now, my whirling brain said, logic flickering and fading, there is an invitation you don’t get every day...
I finished my drink and went, unsteadily, to my room, casting a surreptitious backward glance across the crowded room. Khaera’s black eyes met mine once more, and she gave me a saucy wink.
Well, I thought, what to expect? I’d had barmaids give me come-ons before, and it usually wasn’t worth the silver they asked for. Then again, Khaera was probably the most attractive woman I’d seen since arriving in Litharna, and a little innocent recreation never hurt anyone.
You know, for someone who’s been in as many scrapes as I have, and has been betrayed so often, I can be incredibly naive sometimes...
The soft rap on my door came a couple of hours later, as I lay dozing, shirt and boots off, breeches still on. I hadn’t decided whether to believe Khaera’s proposition, but figured if it was honest, I might need some rest.
I padded quietly to the door and opened it.
Yes, she was there, ethereal and darkly gorgeous in the light of a single candle which she held on a stand. She wore a light sleeping shift, and I could see the dark silhouette of her body beneath it.
“I’m here, Wulf,” she hissed. “Going to invite me in?”
I stepped back silently and let her enter, light and quiet as a ghost.
She turned and faced me, setting the candle down on the nightstand. She moved closer, eyes bright, and twined her arms behind my head.
I took a deep breath, consciously willing my heart and breathing to slow, and my bestirring cock to wait a moment.
“No offense, Khaera,” I whispered to her, “but is this going to cost me?”
She shook her head, black tresses quivering. “Not a thing, Wulf. I just want you. Now.”
As I said, this isn’t something that happens very often, and when it does I usually suspect the woman involved of having a hidden agenda, but I was willing to batten down the hatches and ride out the storm. Our lips came together by mutual consent, and in an instant I felt her long, flexible tongue caressing the inside of my mouth. I tried to return the favor, but she overwhelmed me.
“Take me,” she whispered, kissing the sides of my mouth, tongue slipping sloppily out, covering my face with hot moisture. “I want it.”
With that, I figured there was no going back (and besides, I was hard as a rock). I bent down, lifted her bodily, and carried her to the bed.
“Oh... Wulf,” she gasped as I moved atop her, pushing her shift up, revealing the soft contours of her rounded, fleshy body.
“What do you want?” I asked. “Tell me.”
“Everything. Whatever you want to do to me. Kiss me.”
I complied, once more uniting my lips with hers, tongues thrusting and intertwining, her sweet spittle mingling with mine. I kissed my way across her cheeks and jawline, up to her ears, where I nibbled, then bit at the fleshy part of her ear, feeling her go rigid as I did so.
“Yes, Wulf. Yes.”
I took this as encouragement, and moved down to her shoulders, licking and biting, sliding my teeth across her warm skin, feeling it yield before me.
“Suck my nipples, Wulf. Please. I love that.”
I had been on my way there in any event, so I didn’t change my pace, letting her anticipation build as I kissed down her arms, lingering at the back of her elbow, sliding my tongue along her palms, kissing and lightly biting fingertips.
“Wulf... Suck me. Suck my nipples, Wulf.”
“I will,” I said. “You have to be patient.”
A sensuous whine entered her voice, a strained longing. “I don’t want to be patient. I’ve waited for someone like you, Wulf. I’ve dreamed of him. Please do what I want.”
“I promise,” I replied, once more, feeling the exultation of being in control, dictating the pace of lovemaking (I think I understand why Xylara liked it so much, now, the horny little vixen...). “I’ll suck whatever you like.”
With that I moved back down her arm, licking and squeezing her soft bicep, tongue flicking across her shoulder, finally moving to the pale mound of her breast, rising and falling with her increased excitement, surmounted by a stiff, pink nipple, hard and swollen in the slightly chill air.
“Please...” Khaera’s voice dripped with absolute, slavish devotion, and I couldn’t bring myself to keep her in suspense any longer. I moved up to the thick, swollen pink prominence, encircled it with my mouth, and sucked, pausing occasionally to lick and bite lightly. Her breast was like a vast, whisper soft globe of flesh, larger than I could encompass with both hands. I wanted to bury myself in the warm, white flesh, lose myself completely...
“Ahhhhhh...” She breathed out, and I saw her fingers busy between her legs. I reached down and deliberately pulled them away, and was rewarded by a moan of frustration.
“Don’t worry,” I told her, “we’ll get to that soon enough. Patience, remember?”
“I don’t want to be patient...” It was what I wanted to hear.
I toyed with both nipples for a time, moving from one to the other, fingering and pinching one while I licked and sucked at the other. Beneath me, I felt Khaera’s hips begin to rotate, and watched her smooth white thighs rub together slowly, but with increasing fervor.
Finally, I let one hand wander down across the gentle curve of her belly, hot to the touch now, and stroke at her thighs, moving briefly to touch her pubic thatch, then lower to brush the softness of her cunt. Another moan escaped her lips, and her legs moved apart almost involuntarily.
She was soaking by this time, to no surprise at all. Her pussy was soft and fleshy, and I felt heat radiate from it as she opened up for me.
“Put your finger in,” she said. “Stop touching the outside. Play with me. Please play with me, Wulf.”
I had to admit that this was all exciting me enormously, and I was forced to break off for a moment while I freed myself of my breeches, letting my cock free from its uncomfortable prison. Then I renewed my attention to her pussy, positioning myself between her raised thighs, admiring the soft pinkness, surrounded by dark hair, glistening in the candlelight. I stroked lips and slowly spread them apart, revealing the naked bud of her clitoris, large and prominent, swollen to bursting.
“Touch it...”
I did, moistening my fingers and stroking the exposed prominence, listening to her voice trail off into soft, squealing, uncontrolled cries. At length, I slipped a finger between the wet lips, feeling the bare interior of her pussy yielding for me. Then I put in another, and touched her clit with my tongue, sending her into another paroxysm of ecstasy.
“Lick me... Please, lick it, Wulf...”
As I continued to thrust in and out of her now fully-open cunt with two, then three fingers, I encircled her clit with my lips, licking, sucking, and biting lightly, the same way I’d dealt with her nipples.
It worked. Her groans grew deeper, fainter, and finally vanished altogether. She toyed with her own nipples, occasionally stopping to lick a finger and rub the moisture across her own swollen flesh. At last, I saw her grab a breast and bend her head forward, long pink tongue caressing her own nipple.
Okay, it turned me on. I like to watch women play with themselves (and each other, for that matter, but since I’m a man, you probably already know that), and the surge of passion I felt made me redouble my efforts on her. My fingers and tongue moved faster and I would swear the juices flowing from her cunt grew sweeter and hotter as I did so (then again, maybe it was just me...)
“Fuck me now,” she demanded. “Put your cock in me.”
“Ask nicely,” I cautioned, pulling back, saliva trailing from my tongue to her swollen clit.
“I’m not asking,” she said, firmly, “I’m telling. Fuck me now.”
By the way, I also like a woman who knows what she wants. I moved up, holding my cock against her straining cunt.
“Want it now?” I asked. I couldn’t resist a little more teasing, bastard that I am...
“Now!” she said in a voice I was afraid would wake up the inn’s other occupants. “Fuck me now.”
I thrust in an inch or so, feeling her go rigid once more.
“Fuck me,” she gasped. “Make me come. Make me come and I’ll take you in my mouth, Wulf. Do it for me.”
I complied, thrusting the rest of the way in, tight box closing around me. It sent Khaera into another frenzy of passion, silence giving way to sudden contractions, and a babble of promises, pleas and demands.
“Take me with you, Wulf... Take me with you when you leave...” Her eyes pinned me once more, hard and determined. “I’ll fuck you every night, Wulf. You can fuck me any way you want.”
Passion had pretty much seized me and run away by this time, so I was willing to listen, and my logical mind even considered taking her up on the offer, even as she went on, meeting my thrusts with grinding hips, grabbing my buttocks and pulling me into her again and again.
“You can fuck my mouth, Wulf. You can come all over me. You can fuck me between my breasts...” She gasped, and it felt as if she was coming again. “I love that. I love to feel come all over my skin... I love to rub it all... over... me...”
Damned hot stuff, and it certainly inflamed me. Maybe, I thought, feeling boiling lust race through my veins, and wondering if I’d make it long enough to come in her mouth, maybe I COULD take her with me...
“I’ll do anything for you, Wulf. You can fuck anyone you want. You can fuck another woman and I’ll watch, and I’ll fuck her, Wulf. I’ve never fucked a woman before, Wulf, but I’d do it for you... I’d do it for you. Oh, yessss...” Another silent orgasm, and she collapsed into a sweating, fleshy puddle beneath me. “I want to go with you, Wulf. Please take me.”
I was silent, pulling my cock free, watching her writhe and stare up at me from sweat-rimmed eyes, black hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks.
“Let me show you,” she hissed with a level of lewdness that would do a daemon proud. “Let me show you what I’ll do for you...” She moved suddenly atop me, hands encircling my wet cock, stroking. Her lips moved along it, tongue flicking.
“Oh, I can taste myself,” she said. “I can taste my come on your cock, Wulf. Yessss...” Then she was quiet, lips surrounding and engulfing me.
I’ve raved about the skills of the various women I’ve met in my adventures, and I won’t go into the same thing here. Suffice to say, she knew what she was doing — it made me wonder what she’d been up to in this little farm town all these years. Her mouth was a slippery furnace, wet and blood-hot, her eyes were fixed on mine, and I could feel her desire, and her urgent desire to make me come. I was already three-fourths of the way there simply from fucking her, and it wasn’t going to take much to push me over the edge.
It was her eyes, more than anything else that gave me that final push — black, probing eyes like bottomless, gleaming wells of desire, longing, devouring passion... Damn, but these country women concealed a hell of a lot more desire than city gals, or else terminally horny from the long days their husbands spent in the fields... I met her gaze and felt her eyes surround and consume me, the same way her sucking, pliant mouth swallowed up my fevered cock, and then I knew I was over the precipice, and there was no going back.
“I want to come for you,” I said, feeling the onrushing explosion. “I want to come in your mouth.”
She released me and once more whispered, “Come, then. Come in my mouth.” Then she swallowed me again, the burning black eyes seized me once more, and I felt the first contraction rage me. Hot come erupted from my cock and into her willing mouth. Her eyes widened, then closed hard as she sucked and swallowed, stroking my balls with her fingers, squeezing gently, prolonging the wracking convulsions that still tore at me. Eagerly, she continued to suck, moaning with apparent pleasure, even as my pumping subsided into weak aftershocks, and a tiny trickle of come. She let my slick, softening cock go, and looked up at me, eyes still hot, stabbing through me like twin lances.
“You come so much,” she said, wiping her mouth. “I like that.” She paused, gazing at me with a strange expression. “So will you take me, Wulf? I want to leave this place. You’re the one I want to go with.”
I was about to say yes, of course, when all hell broke loose.
The door exploded inward as if a White Empire battle wizard was behind it, and through it charged a gigantic bull of a man, his face contorted, eyes wild, clutching what looked like an oversized pair of ragged-edged pliers, and bellowing like a dragon in heat.
“Mother-grabbing foreign bastard!” he roared. “Get your filthy hands off my wife!”
Even as I leaped to avoid him, stumbling into my breeches, I got the sickening feeling that I’d been had.
“Wife? I didn’t know —” I squealed, ducking a ham-sized fist which crashed down where my head had just been. “She didn’t say —”
“I told her!” the human minotaur roared, even as Khaera screamed at him to stop. “I told her the next time she seduced some damned foreigner and tried to run off with him —”
“The next time?” I demanded. “She’s done this before?” He aimed a kick at my head, and I scrambled out of the way once more. Damn, he was slow, but if he ever connected...
“She does it all the fucking time, you foreign idiot!” He brandished the strange device he carried. “I told her the last time that I’d cut the next fucking bastard’s balls off!”
The purpose of the item suddenly became horrifyingly apparent, and my pure self-preservation instinct took over. I grabbed the rude chair which sat beside the bed and held it threateningly.
“Think that’s gonna help you, city boy?” he snarled, advancing on me. “It won’t do shit.”
“Hey, look!” I said, glancing at a point just over his shoulder. “A little monkey!”
“Huh?” he said, thickly, turning around for an instant.
I let him have it, splintering the chair into matchsticks — dammit, the rubes fall for that one every time... Gods only know why.
He went down with a thud, and I bashed him a few more times to make sure, then looked up, panting, at Khaera. She sat, pale and wide-eyed, sheets drawn modestly up around her.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“I certainly hope not,” I said. “In fact, I doubt it. His skull felt very thick.”
“I’m sorry, Wulf.”
I glared. “I value honesty in all my relationships, Khaera. You disappoint me.” I paused, and drew a breath. “On the other hand, I’m something of a chump. Do you still want to go with me?”
She looked down, fearfully, at her husband. “He’d hunt us to the ends of the earth.”
“I seriously doubt that, love. His kind thinks ‘the ends of the earth’ lie just past Uncle Elmo’s dairy farm.”
“I have to stay,” she said at last. “Gods, I want to get out of here, but...”
“But?”
“He... he needs me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay,” I said, firmly, gathering up my clothes and getting dressed, utterly disgusted. “If you ever get up the courage to actually leave, Khaera, look me up in Stoneburg. Just ask for Wulf in any bar. Mind you, I may not be around, I may not be alive, and I may be enjoying carnal relations with another woman, not even of the same species, but I will help you if I can. I’m funny that way.”
The husband moved and moaned fitfully.
“You’d better go,” she said, sadly. “He has friends in town. They’ll kill you if they catch you.”
“Or worse,” I muttered, glancing down at his castrating tongs, and jamming stuff into my knapsack. I looked up. Her eyes were fearful and full of mixed emotions, and I wished I could say something to get her out of this town, but there wasn’t time. “Goodbye, Khaera,” I said. “It would have been fun.”
She nodded. “Goodbye, Wulf.”
* * *
Now, I was forced to ride the roads of rural Litharna on a windy All Souls’ Eve, never certain whether Mr. Minotaur and his thick-necked farmboys were hot on my trail or not. This, I reflected, was scarcely the way I’d wanted to spend my visit to Litharna.
Then again, it was typical. I think the gods must be punishing me for something, but I’ve yet to discover exactly what it is...
The night was the sort you read about in those copper dreadfuls they crank out by the zillion in Litharna and the White Empire — you know, dark and stormy. The wind howled, the trees tossed and clutched at the sky, debris blew into our faces as my horse and I tried to ride at speed and find some kind of shelter or town we could stay in. I didn’t dare camp considering the fact that Mr. Bullneck and friends might be in hot pursuit, coupled with the possibility that I might have a tree fall on me during the night, so our search for civilization went on.
Now, I know what you’re saying. You’re probably saying, “Gee, I bet that stupid idiot takes a wrong turn in the darkness and wind and blowing shit.”
Well, the fact is that you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking so little of me and my navigational skills. Then again, maybe not, since I DID, indeed, end up taking a wrong turn.
But shut the hell up anyway.
I’m not entirely sure what happened. Perhaps the trail forked and I didn’t notice. Perhaps it forked several times — who can say? The fact is that I found myself guiding my poor mare down a treacherous, rocky slope, clinging to what appeared to be the granite wall of a deep valley or ravine. The wind howled particularly loudly here, and I realized that, what with the noise, treacherous footing and the fact that the road was wide enough only for a single horse, I wouldn’t be able to turn around until we reached the bottom.
It seemed to take an eternity to actually get to the end of the slope. My mare slipped a couple of times, but proved herself to be a real trooper, remaining relatively calm and undisturbed as we rode lower and lower.
When we at last got to the bottom, lost in windy, howling darkness, I actually reconsidered turning around, for a few hundred paces distant, I saw the lights of a village, flashing and twinkling behind tossing branches.
I paused, pulling my cloak shut against the incessant wind. I had definitely strayed from the main road, but my error might prove a blessing in disguise, for Farmer Biff and his Castrating Funsters were unlikely to find me here, and besides, I had no guarantee of finding anything like this nearby. I tugged at the reins, and guided my horse toward the lights.
To my surprise, the plucky mare, who had thus far remained unfazed by the terrors nature had thrown her way, reared and screamed, fighting my best efforts to urge her forward. Of course, I should have trusted her instincts, but I was so far gone by this time that I only wanted to find a place to hide, and go to sleep.
At length, I got the mare calmed down, and resumed our way toward the lights, though she whinnied in fear, tossed her head, and rolled her eyes just the same.
The village was smaller than the one I’d left, but it seemed to have the usual collection of thatch-roofed, half-timbered houses, barns, sheds, and — to my infinite relief — a public house which appeared to harbor a couple of rooms in its upper story. Most of the glass windows showed All Soul’s Eve candles, though at this hour they burned low and guttered ominously.
I dismounted outside the tavern’s door, glancing up at the weathered sign, which flapped and squeaked in the wind. A skeleton holding a candle. Reassuring image, that.
With a silent apology to the building’s inhabitants, I pounded heavily on the door, hoping they’d hear me over the rushing roar of the wind. It took several tries before I felt the vibration of movement from within, and the “thump” of bolts being pushed back.
The door opened a narrow crack, revealing a dim sliver of yellow light. A fearful, wide eye looked out at me through the opening.
“I need a room!” I yelled. “I’m sorry to disturb you so late, but I’ve lost my way, and need a place to stay tonight! I’ve got money! I’ll pay!”
“Are you... alive?” quavered the voice, cutting though the noise of the wind.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Yes, I’m fucking alive. I’m not an All Soul’s Eve spirit wandering the mortal world in search of victims, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I guess the person on the other side of the door figured that a real ghost wouldn’t be so bloody sarcastic, and opened the door enough to look out. He was a wizened, old man, with white hair and a trembling chin. He was dressed in a nightshirt and cap, and carried a candle.
“I need a place for my horse,” I said. “She’s exhausted.”
He nodded. “Bring her around to the stables. I’ll meet you there.”
I sighed deeply once more as I led my mare around toward the back of the building. Safe again. For the moment, at least.
Shows how much I know...
* * *
I don’t remember much after stabling my horse. I vaguely recollect the wrinkled innkeeper leading me up the stairs and showing me to a ratty little room with a straw mattress, then leaving as I collapsed into virtually dreamless unconsciousness.
When I awoke at last, I had to double check to make sure it wasn’t still night. A single, dirty window, high up on one wall, admitted a feeble stream of light, barely lighting the dusty, filthy room where I’d spent the night. I got up, feeling joints creak and snap, and hobbled down to the common room.
It was about as pleasant and welcoming as the cadaver room back in the Necromancy Department at the Imperial Academy. The little old guy who’d let me in served as desultory, surly barkeep, wiping down the counter with obsessive zeal. Several patrons sat around in the light shafts and whirling dust motes, hunched over tables, glancing up at me with unabashed suspicion, then returning to their mugs of Ol’ Grandad’s Bitter.
Not all, however. A couple of reasonably personable-looking rural types noted my entrance.
“Good morning,” one said, in a surprisingly quiet and reserved fashion, gesturing with his mug. “We don’t get many strangers here. Care to share breakfast with us?”
At that point, I was ready to kill for the company of a civilized human who wasn’t intent on sexually mutilating me, so I gratefully sat down, accepting handshakes gratefully.
“Name’s Wulf,” I said. “Out of Stoneburg. On my way to Vosgraad.”
“Karl,” said the first, a burly but intelligent-looking man in a plain smock and trousers.
“Helgrun,” said the other, taking my hand in the firm kind of grip that I have come to associate with manual laborers, farmers, and other salt-of-the-land types.
“I got in late last night,” I said. “Didn’t catch the name of your town.”
“Guldensburg,” said Karl. “I’m surprised you found us. You must have strayed from the main road.”
I nodded. “Damned storm last night,” I said. “Couldn’t see for horse manure. I’m glad I found the place.”
“Your alternative was falling off the cliff,” observed Helgrun, the jolly fellow. “We find one out there every year or two. Damn city-bred fool thinking he can travel in pitch black. “Then he caught my eye and realized what he’d said. “No offense meant, mind you.”
“None taken.” I decided that it was best to avoid any direct mention of the previous night’s adventures, in case Bobo the Castrator had relatives in town. “I misjudged how fast it gets dark in these parts.”
I scanned the room once more. I saw that its occupants had, if anything, even less life and enthusiasm than they’d shown before. I was also alarmed to note a rather frightening apparition, sitting alone at a table in a shadowed alcove. She was female, but so ancient and wrinkled as to be nearly unrecognizable as human, her hair a greasy grey-white snarl, her eyes thick with cataracts and as expressionless as a dead fish, her trembling hands holding a cup of tea in a death grip, her toothless mouth moving silently as she muttered aimlessly to herself. I tore my eyes away, and returned to Helgrun and Karl, easily the most interesting people in the room.
“So why’s everyone so glum?” I asked. “Isn’t it supposed to be All —” Remembering Khaera’s admonition, I stopped myself. “Isn’t this a holiday or something?”
Karl looked nervous and lowered his voice. “All Soul’s Night,” he whispered. “It’s bad luck to mention it openly.”
“Yeah,” Helgrun said. “Used to be a real festival. Day off of work, feasting in honor of the departed, singing and drinking late into the night...”
My ears pricked up. “What do you mean, ‘used to be’? I note a distinct lack of festivity in the breakfast crowd.”
Karl sighed. “We’ve been forbidden from practicing most of the yearly rituals.”
“Forbidden? By who? It all seems perfectly harmless to me.”
Helgrun picked up the thread (they seemed to be alternating, I noted; perhaps they were brothers, or lovers, or — given the rustic locale — both...). “The new mayor. We didn’t choose him, of course; the nobles in Vosgraad appointed him and sent him here to oversee their ‘modernization’ program.”
I made a contemplative noise. “So, I would guess that, in the new mayor’s opinion, ‘modernization’ means giving up what he considers outdated, pagan rituals like All S... that is, the current holiday.”
Helgrun nodded and Karl continued. “He’s forbidden us from laying out food for the dead, saying prayers in public, the bonfire, the processional, and most of the religious services, except those certified by the Kyborists back in Vosgraad.”
“So you people think the dead will rise up and devour you without the rituals?” I asked, quietly. It certainly explained the innkeeper’s weird question of the night before.
Karl shrugged. “Perhaps,” Helgrun said, “perhaps not. Most of us realize that the rituals were just old traditions, but there’s always that nagging thought in the back of your head that maybe, maybe...”
“I hear you,” I replied with sympathy. I’d seen enough in a decade and a half to make me very reluctant to dismiss the local practices as mere superstition. I suspected that a quick exit and resumption of my journey was in order, whether or not the castration squad was waiting for me on the cliffs above.
“We’re not a large community,” Karl said. “We mostly mine coal from the valley wall. We’re apparently important enough to their imperial majesties to meddle in our affairs, however. Doesn’t make them any more popular out here, I must say.”
I gestured subtly at the bag of bones sipping tea in the corner. “Who’s the hag?” I asked. “Local wise woman?”
“Don’t know,” said Helgrun. “I’d heard she was here to visit her grandson for the festival, or something.”
“Looks awful, though,” Karl observed, darting glances at her. “How the hell did she travel in that shape?”
Given the possibility of a night of horrors ahead, I could tell that the crone’s arrival had raised suspicions. Using the magical senses which had been imperfectly and inadequately trained during my brief stay at the Magic Academy, I sent a tendril of sensation toward the woman, searching for magical emanations or any sign of sorcery. To my intense relief, I found absolutely nothing, only the stale and thin energies of a very, very old woman.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I said. “I’ve dealt with necromancers and their friends before. She doesn’t seem the type to me.”
“Well, she sure as hell does to me,” Helgrun commented.
I let the matter pass, and finally ordered eggs and ham when the doddering innkeeper finally acknowledged my existence. We shot the breeze, exchanging meaningless pleasantries, my companions glared with open suspicion when the old woman hobbled out of the common room and up the stairs, and we sipped our own cups of tea after the meal. It was then that Karl decided to shoot the onager.
“I certainly hope you’re enjoying your stay, Wulf,” he said. “If anything is going to happen tonight — gods forbid — you will probably get to share it with us.”
“Huh?” The comment had come from a completely unexpected quarter, and riveted my attention. “What do you mean?”
“The road,” Helgrun said, calmly blowing and sipping. “The one you came down to get there. It’s the only way in and out of town. There was a landslide last night —”
“And, of course, you can’t clear it today,” I said, “it being a holiday and all...”
“Correct,” Karl said, brightly. “Don’t worry, Wulf. There’ll be some feasting, and we’ll probably get together here tonight and drink our troubles away ‘til dawn. Then, we’ll troop up with picks and shovels and get that road clear for you.”
I sighed. My rational mind told me that there was probably nothing to worry about, and that another day’s delay down here in coal digger-town would probably put my jealous friend off the trail, but like my two companions, a nagging concern remained buried deep in my mind.
“Oh, well,” I said, simply. “I was hoping to continue on today, but if I’m stuck here, I’m stuck here.” I tend to be fatalistic when I have no other alternative.
My new friends rose and said their good-byes, claiming family commitments, then departed, leaving me to contemplate an uncertain and likely boring day in an isolated village best known for its coal products, and the specter of a bloodthirsty horde of shambling undead creatures looming, misty and threatening, in my feverish imagination.
I scouted around that day, trying to find some other way out of town. As Karl and Helgrun had so aptly noted, there was none. Guldensburg lay at the bottom of a deep ravine, with the single precarious trail, which I had so fortuitously found the previous night, apparently right before the fatal landslide. The mines lay at the northern end, while the southern end was a tangled wilderness of stunted trees, underbrush, narrow streams, talus and various other debris. I surmised that the local cemetery, the source of considerable unease, lay in that direction as well, and few really wanted to tell me anything about it.
Well, gods damn it, I wasn’t about to be frightened by a bunch of ignorant peasants and their bloody superstitions (or so I told myself). For some reason which I am still at a loss to explain, I threw back my cloak and marched south, along the single narrow trail, with an air of determination and damn-your-eyes obstinacy.
A few moments later, I began to wonder if that had been such a good idea. If the ancient, gnarled forests and their inbred inhabitants had been bad, this grim, lifeless wilderness was infinitely worse. Poisoned, I guessed, by generations of mine tailings, it was a place of dark unease, where the trees were either long dead and wasting away, or gnarled and twisted, like a man writhing in the grip of fever or poison. A few ugly birds, their feathers molting, their eyes sick and glassy, flitted here and there, but beyond that I felt as if I was the only living thing here. Some unknown motivation kept me going, however, if for no other reason than to see the place which the locals feared so much, and to prove to my own satisfaction that its occupants showed no signs of irritability.
Mind you, my desire to keep going grew less and less compelling the farther I went, and the later in the day it grew. I was well ahead of sunset, but afternoon was already casting slanting shadows when at last I emerged from the tangle and into the graveyard itself.
I gazed around in distress. Gods only knew how they managed to convey the corpses here through that nightmarish maze, or why they even wanted to. Had I been a corpse, I’d have risen from my grave simply to get out of that damned place.
They say that cemeteries are for the living, since the dead are generally beyond caring, despite what the Litharnans say about All Soul’s Night. Staring back and forth, my unease growing deeper and less easy to ignore, I wondered at that. This was a place of the dead, clearly, and one in which the living were only barely tolerated.
It had obviously been here for a long time, perhaps even before Guldensburg’s founding. Ancient stone markers lay scattered about, some tottering, others completely fallen. All were weathered almost to the point of illegibility, though a few still bore their markings — disturbing images of skulls, grim guardian spirits, swords, scythes, and antique knotwork of a sort that had all but died out since the new, forward-looking rulers of Litharna took charge.
There were easily hundreds of mounds here, ranging back as far as I could see, into shadows where tangled, twisted, tortured trees once more leaned and stretched crabbed claws toward me, and grey undergrowth lay thickly, obscuring the burial mounds, making me uncertain exactly where it all ended.
The place had a sick, poisonous feel to it, even the relatively recent graves which lay nearby, with freshly-carved headstones, now bearing sharp, angular, geometrically perfect images of angels and saints in the currently popular, Kyborist style. Dark weeds sprouted everywhere, and clouds of gnats swirled up where I walked. Overhead, grey-black clouds gathered, and a drizzly splatter of rain began to patter down. I swallowed hard. This place did little to reassure me.
A flash of movement near one of the older headstones caught my eye. Involuntarily, my hand leapt to my sword hilt, and I abruptly wished I’d brought my pistols (they were safely hidden in my room, and their absence was now sorely felt). A dark grey shape moved suddenly, leaving a low-hanging, lichen-laden branch waving behind it.
As those who have read my other memoirs are probably aware, I am not an especially brave man. My favorite pursuits include stealing from people who can afford the loss, eating fine food, and making love to as many attractive women as will have me. My current situation afforded no such opportunities, but even as my heart hammered with fear and my breath came in short, tension-laden gasps, I wondered what the hell I had just seen.
Fighting my better instincts, I drew my sword and parrying dagger, and stalked slowly forward, feeling stiff grass and weeds crunch beneath my heels. The air was deadly still, save for the off-key cawing of one of those diseased crow-creatures, sitting dejectedly on a tombstone, lamenting his lot in life.
I approached the place, both weapons trembling in my grip, and stepped forward, around the base of a sizeable burial mound.
What I saw made me recoil in shock and horror. It was the crone from the inn, crouching in the lee of the mound, staring up at me with rheumy, filmed eyes, toothless mouth drawn up in a ghastly grimace.
We probably scared the hell out of each other, for with a thin cry, she leapt up and dashed back into the forest, branches and undergrowth crashing behind her. I didn’t bother pursuing, or even remaining in the area, but turned tail and fled myself, back toward the trail, back toward Guldensburg, and away from this place of death.
The farmers and their castrating tools seemed almost welcome in the face of the horrors I imagined. Something was up, no question — I wasn’t certain that the dead would rise and kill us all this night, but neither was I inclined to find out. Dashing through the muddy streets of Guldensburg, heedless of the stares I gathered in my wake, I determined to leave my noble horse behind, and climb out of this trebly-damned valley alone (I was also leaving my expensive and probably indispensable pistols behind, as well, but as noted, I wasn’t being completely rational). Then at least it would all be behind me, and the only foes I was likely to face would be living, and would bleed if you shoved a dagger into them. I almost relished it...
Of course, in my agitated state, I wasn’t as careful as I could have been. I raced up the trail, toward the landslide, intending to simply scramble over the thing. It wasn’t that easy; once I reached it I discovered it to be a slippery, treacherous pile of rubble. I launched myself onto the obstruction just the same. It was muddy, wet, and I found myself unable to maintain any kind of purchase. Bull-headedly forging ahead like an ogre mercenary at the mess table, I kept trying to scramble up. Finally, a stone slipped under my foot, and I felt myself falling. I scrabbled for purchase, and succeeded only in dislodging more stones, which cascaded down with me in another, smaller, avalanche, sending me tumbling over the edge, slipping and sliding down the canyon wall, rocks and gravel pouring after me.
I hit bottom hard, fetching up against a twisted pine tree. Then a dozen stones cascaded down upon me, one hit my head, and I crashed into darkness, neither blissful nor restful.
* * *
When I awoke, my head hurt as if a demon whip-master and his beast pack were chasing each other inside my skull, all singing dwarf love ballads with the chorus “Brace yourself, Helga!” After a brief moment of disorientation, I realized that some kind soul had transported me back to my room at the Skeleton-and-Candle. I further realized, with rapidly growing dread that the feeble ray of light from my dirty window was almost entirely absent. I’d managed to kosh myself around mid-afternoon; given a couple of hours of insensibility on my part, it was probably almost sunset.
A million horrible thoughts raced through my fevered mind, not helped by a sudden commotion of voices from the common room below. Forcibly calming myself, I inventoried my weapons — dagger and saber still there (my benefactors had, at least, been honest), and looking under my bed I found my brace of pistols safe in its case. I took a deep breath, and very deliberately loaded both pistols, ramming home cap and ball, then packed up a dozen more charges and stowed them in my belt pouch. Although I knew that the forces which controlled these pistols were entirely natural, and based in science rather than sorcery, the primitive side of me still saw them as something magical, which could shoot fire and make thunder, and drive off the creatures of the night.
Silly primitive side...
I made myself as presentable as possible, and headed for the stairs down. There, a crowd was engaged in what seemed a lively debate.
“No!” shouted a red-faced, well-dressed man with a city-bred look about him. “I am mayor of this settlement, appointed by this nation’s legal authorities. I have been charged with overseeing modernization of Guldensburg, and by Saint Orlan, I will do it!”
A man in rough garments, who looked as if he should be chewing on a stalk of wheat, protested.
“The ceremonies don’t do no harm!” he shot back. “They keep the dead at rest, and keep the rest of us happy! It’s time! We gotta have the ceremonies!”
The mayor shook his head vehemently. “The authorities have forbidden it! Any of you who participate in any procession to the cemetery will be arrested for sedition! I have my orders!”
Another villager, somewhat less of a hayseed, with a look of some intelligence about him, spoke up.
“You may have your orders, mayor, but we have ours as well,” he said, in a quiet voice, which somehow seemed to quiet the unrest around him. “They are orders far older than anything from your masters, and we will follow them, whatever the consequences.”
“Silence, Gustal!” barked the mayor. “You’ve been a troublemaker ever since I came here! I forbid you from going to the cemetery!”
“Silence, yourself, city-born fool,” Gustal replied. “We didn’t want you here. We didn’t ask the noblemen in Vosgraad to send you here, telling us to forget all the old ways. If you don’t want us to go to the cemetery, ‘Mayor’ Ulfred, then you’re welcome to stop us. For my part, I’m going. Who’s with me?”
With that, Gustal turned, and strode for the door, most of the room’s occupants following him, despite Mayor Ulfred’s blustering and bellowing. Outside, they shouted for fellow celebrants, and were joined by more, singing and laughing. Torches were lit, and the procession moved noisily out of the village. The old innkeeper shuffled in, barred the door, and returned to work.
As the crowd departed, leaving the room virtually empty save for a couple of villagers, hunched over their mugs, drinking in grim silence, I walked in, and sat down next to Ulfred, who looked for all the world like a punctured bladder in the process of collapse.
“It’s hard to enforce the rules when you’re the only one doing it,” I said, as sympathetically as I could. “Still, you can’t blame them. They’ve been doing it this way for generations.”
Ulfred looked at me, and took in my rugged traveling clothes, swords and pistols.
“Not from around here, are you?” he observed.
“Neither,” I said, tartly, “are you. How the hell did you get involved with these rubes?”
“I never wanted to,” he said, voice plaintive and tired. “I always wanted to be a lumberjack.”