New World: a Frontier Fantasy Novel

by Steven W. White

  "We're safe now," Oliver said, leaning against the door just as Simon had. He nodded his head and closed his eyes, and his spectacles slipped down to the end of his nose.

  "Who are they?" Simon asked.

  "I've no idea."

  Everything was different now that his father was here. "But what can we do?" Simon said. "They--"

  "Calm down. We shall stay right here."

  Simon's fear had left him, but its restless energy remained in his limbs. "Shouldn't we help?"

  "Be still!"

  The noises from outside faded. After a minute of silence, Oliver said, "There, you see? Just be still."

  Something struck the door with a deafening crack. The blow shook the door so violently that Oliver was thrown to the floor, along with the door's upper hinge. It lay there beside him, dented, oak splinters clinging to its broken bolts.

  In the door, where the hinge had held it, protruded the blade of an axe. It glinted, dark with blood, turning this way and that, until the door split and gave way. Oliver scrambled clear as the lower hinge bent and cracked, and the door fell.

  The red-headed warrior -- the one called Cadogan -- stepped proudly into the little house, laughing and shaking his braids. His shield, with its blue unicorn, hung casually from his left forearm so he could swing his axe two-handed like a lumberjack. "You again!" he said to Simon. "I thought I saw you dart in here."

  Oliver and Simon scrambled away from him. Oliver crossed the room in a flash and pulled the firelocks from their brackets on the stone mantle.

  Cadogan dropped his axe and snatched up Simon in both hands. Just as Oliver aimed the weapons at Cadogan, Cadogan held Simon up between them, in Oliver's line of fire.

  Simon stared at the iron barrels of the firelocks leveled at him, as Cadogan's powerful hands squeezed his ribs. His feet kicked empty air, and the grim determination in his father's face melted to quivering terror.

  "Go ahead and shoot." Cadogan's breath was hot and foul on the back of Simon's neck. Simon was being squeezed so hard that he couldn't draw a breath.

  The barrels leveled at him wavered. Oliver swallowed. "Damn you."

  "Make no mistake!" Cadogan barked. "It's not a suggestion. Shoot!" He laughed and shook Simon's body. "I insist!"

  The agony in Simon's ribs was more than he could bear. Tears welled in his eyes, and his arms and legs went limp.

  "Simon," Oliver whispered. "Make yourself small."

  Simon drew on the last of his strength and pulled his knees to his chest.

  Oliver spread his arms, aiming one firelock high and the other low. "Your shield is insuffient." Rage shook his voice. "Now you choose, fiend. In the leg? Or between the eyes?"

  Cadogan's grip weakened. Simon wrapped his arms around his knees and ducked his head as much as he could. Cadogan snarled and took a step back toward the door.

  A man's voice in the distance, stern and commanding, called, "Cadogan?"

  "Duty calls." Cadogan flung Simon at Oliver and darted out the door.

  He was gone! Simon collapsed at his father's feet. He felt his father's arms around him, and all the horror and pain in him fell mute.

  The same man's voice, outside. "Where is your axe?"

  Simon lifted his head and turned. The monster's axe still lay beside the broken door. A shadow passed over the threshhold. Simon felt his body tense.

  Another man in chain mail appeared in the doorway, slow and lionlike. Brown hair, straight and thick, fell past his shoulders. His face was tan, his jaw square and his nose like an eagle's beak. His eyes swept the room, narrow and piercing. He showed no alarm at the two firelocks now pointed at him, and didn't bother to raise his wooden shield, with its blue unicorn. Over his shoulder gleamed the golden pommel of a broadsword sheathed on his back.

  "Get out!" Oliver demanded.

  "What village is this?" asked the man.

  Oliver didn't answer. His firelocks tracked the man as he stepped from the doorway to the pantry. The intruder's head nearly brushed the beams in the ceiling. He reached for a loaf of bread on a shelf.

  "Stop!" Oliver's arms flexed, and Simon knew he was about to fire.

  The man seemed to be waiting for it. Simon opened his mouth to call a warning, but it was already too late -- the man snatched the lead plate off the paper stack and raised it as Oliver's firelocks boomed and threw sparks that lit the walls.

  The firelock balls rang off the lead plate in the stranger's hands. The burning stink of gunpowder smoke filled the air and two shining dimples now appeared in the plate, in front of the stranger's chest.

  "That was a mistake." The man flung the plate at Oliver. It struck him in the stomach, knocking him down and sending the empty firelocks spinning.

  Simon scrambled to Cadogan's axe and heaved at the handle, but it was too heavy. The blade clung to the floor.

  The man siezed the loaf, tucked it under his shield arm, and drew his sword. Oliver lay stunned at his feet.

  "No!" Simon raised the axe a few inches and took a step toward him. Panic coursed in his veins, and he wished for the strength to bury the axe in the stranger before he--

  But it was too late. The sword hovered over Simon's father for just an instant before it flashed down on him.

  Simon screamed and swung. The man didn't even parry with his sword. He simply caught the axe in his shield hand and lifted it out of Simon's grasp. With his boot, he kicked Simon out of his way. As he strode out, Simon lay on his back, lacking even the strength to crawl to his father's side.

  #

  Inside the shelter, Simon didn't move. His leg ached and felt swollen. The rain stopped. Smoke from the fire, white and heavy, hung in the air like fog and burned his eyes.

  He wondered if there was a dead animal in Bogg's snare outside. There was nothing else to think about. The call of a single lonely bird sounded persistently in a tree high above him.

  #

  Chapter 19

  Tyrus and his four men marched among the pines.

  They trailed behind him. Zane stayed closest, his sharp eyes narrowed and scanning, his nimble blue-gloved fingers ready to draw string and drive an arrow through any creature he saw.

  Next was Uilleam, leaning heavily on lumbering Yolaf. Uilleam's shoulder was worse, his chance of survival dwindling. Yolaf's stomach growled loud enough for all of them to hear.

  Cadogan the Red was last, well back. Tyrus could feel his beady, unbalanced eyes on the rest of them.

  There was no snow on the ground yet, but the air was heavy with cold, and their breaths came out as thick clouds of mist. They would see snow before the day was over, Tyrus felt sure.

  Tyrus turned and waited, to give his men time to catch up and tighten ranks. The treed slope dropped away behind him, wild, green, and desolate. Through breaks in the pines, he could see down to the hills they'd climbed the day before. There, beyond an outcropping of dark, wet granite, gray smoke rose from the trees, tiny, but standing out clearly against the green background.

  A small campfire. One or two men. Tyrus's stomach clenched in hunger. What food might they have down there? It would be a simple raid, good for morale--

  No. Tyrus wouldn't double back. He wouldn't delay his escape from this place.

  The smoke curled up slowly above the treetops and faded in the breeze. Tyrus wondered what sort of hopeless Miran reprobate would choose to live so deep in the wilderness.

  "My lord!" came Zane's nervous voice.

  Tyrus's eyes lingered on the smoke. "What is it, Zane?"

  "Don't you hear it?"

  Tyrus's attention snapped to his immediate surroundings. Everything was deathly still. Green needles trembled as the wind moved through the highest branches over their heads. A single pine cone, far off, fell to the wet ground with a gentle tap.

  Tyrus couldn't hear anything.

  But he could smell. And the heavy, dank animal smell that found his no
strils chilled his spine.

  "To arms," he whispered. He slipped Blodleter free.

  Zane quietly strung his bow and nocked an arrow.

  Tyrus heard a strange sound that called to mind a galloping horse. But its hoofbeats were lighter and faster than any mortal horse, as if they barely touched the ground. He had no doubt that it was some indescribable Miran creature, beyond compare to anything seen by Algolan eyes, and he steeled himself for a monster.

  Yolaf rubbed his bald head. "I hear," he rumbled. "But I don't see."

  "Avaunt!" hissed Cadogan. Even he looked nervous.

  A blast of wind tugged Tyrus's brown locks and threw leaves and dead needles in the air.

  "Something passed me," croaked Uilleam, his tired eyes darting.

  Too fast, Tyrus thought. Too fast to see.

  Twenty yards beyond Uilleam, the thing struck a tree and blew its bark to splinters. The crack was loud as a cannon shot, and the pale wood of the tree's core showed bright in the dark forest. The thing that struck it was gone, never more than a blur, black and shapeless as tar.

  "Zane," barked Tyrus. "Let fly!"

  "At what?" The glinting head of Zane's arrow trembled, whipping back and forth.

  The monster collided with Yolaf and he spun through the air, massive arms and legs flung wide and reaching. He crashed to earth a distance away with a helpless grunt and didn't move.

  For an instant, a shadow had hung beside Yolaf, barely long enough to leave an impression in Tyrus's mind. An animal's glossy black coat. Triangular ears folded back on a wedgelike battering ram of a head, burning yellow feline eyes.

  The image vanished in a gust of wind.

  "Gods, no," muttered Zane. "Not Yolaf."

  "Courage!" snapped Tyrus. "Eyes wide."

  "If it can do that to him," Zane went on, "we don't stand a chance."

  Uilleam took tentative step toward the fallen giant. "Yolaf?"

  The giant didn't move. Uilleam's javelin hung low and hopeless.

  Cadogan roared in frustration, mad eyes searching. "What is it? Griphon? Centaur? Some drow-elf spell? What can it be?" He swung his axe randomly, left then right, slicing the air.

  Tyrus knew it was none of those things. It was some Miran beast, native to this land of horrors. It was something none of them had seen before, something none of them knew how to fight.

  What chance did they have? How could they ever reach home again?

  Tyrus didn't know... but he believed.

  He might not know how to fight, but fight he would. No matter how odd or alien, how hideous or baffling. He would slash and stab and butcher this whole continent if that's what it took. "Stop your mewling, you cowards! We'll kill it, do you hear? We'll roast it on a spit and feast on it. Form up, brace yourselves!" Tyrus gripped Blodleter in both hands and pressed the pommel against his chest, so the blade stood straight out. "This need not be difficult. Let it come, and impale itself."

  Uilleam dropped to one knee and held his javelin low, bracing it to receive a charge. Cadogan widened his grip on his axe, ready for impact. Zane set down his bow and held an arrow extended in each hand. They stood with their backs to each other, forming a loose circle around Yolaf.

  The wind came again, and that galloping sound drew nearer, light as a fairie's wingbeats.

  The creature struck Zane from the side, too fast for him to cry out. As his body pitched through the air, a glossy shadow appeared where he had stood.

  Tyrus saw its long catlike body, oily black, muscled legs stretched broad and reaching, talons on wide paws seizing the earth. He knew it was his moment, and he swung Blodleter down on the creature's neck.

  But it was too fast. It sprung, and the sword struck its spine at its hindquarters. Its body flexed, yielded, and a screech from the animal cut the air. It sprawled under the blade for an instant before those paws found the earth again.

  Then it was gone.

  The wind blew fast, then faded. Dead leaves settled back to earth. Tyrus ran a gloved finger along the flat of Blodleter's blade. Clean and dry. The creature had not been cut. It was the first time this sword had failed him.

  He wondered at the skin of such a creature, as the forest fell silent.

  Cadogan grumbled and nudged Yolaf with his boot.

  Uilleam made his way to Zane, but weakness seemed to overtake him and he stumbled. Tyrus caught his good arm and helped him up. Together they found Zane stirring but senseless, his eyes darting under half-closed lids.

  "Zane?" Uilleam knelt heavily beside him and said to Tyrus, "He's alive, but I'll say no more than that. I doubt he can travel."

  "No, he's too young and limber. Too green, like a sapling. He'll bend before he breaks." Tyrus grabbed Zane's chin. "Zane! Your rest is over."

  Zane's eyes snapped open. He groaned, turned, and pitched bile on the ground.

  Behind them, Yolaf sat up, his head weaving slightly on his thick neck. "Did I fall down?"

  Tyrus surveyed his four men. Worn, beaten, exhausted, starving. And their supper just vanished with a gust of wind. Tyrus felt his molars pressing together. There was nothing to do but try to keep their feet under them and march them on.

  #

  At last, as twilight descended, Bogg's heavy tread came to Simon's ears. "Good work," Bogg said. "You kept the fire going."

  Simon was so happy to hear his gruff old voice that he nearly cried. "Bogg! You're back! Hey, Bogg, did we catch something? I heard a snare."

  "Huh? Oh! Well, no. Looks like the rain set it off. Such things happen. That's all right." Bogg poked his head inside the lean-to, and a smile brightened his hairy face. "I've got something better."

  Simon gently propped himself up on an elbow. "Better?"

  "Eel!"

  Simon let himself back down. "Sounds lovely," he muttered.

  "There's a little pond downstream about four mile. And even the eel ain't the best part. I didn't want to tell you, on account of you wouldn't believe me. It was real lucky." Bogg's face disappeared.

  "What?" Simon carefully turned and peered outside.

  Bogg had gathered firewood on the hike back. He dumped logs on the coals, and they hissed and sizzled. "I was realistically expecting bass or something. You know, regular food. Still, I knew there was a chance."

  Simon leaned out a little farther, and his leg shot jabs of pain to his hip. "Bogg -- ow -- what did you find?"

  Bogg grinned. "I caught us a fur-bearing trout."

  Simon shook his head. There was no way he could have misheard that.

  But it was a myth!

  All the same, Simon didn't think that telling Bogg he was being ridiculous would have any impact. Simon tried anyway. "Bogg... there's no such thing. I know about this one. An early explorer sent back a report from Mira, describing 'many fur-bearing animals and fish.' It was a misinterpretation, probably a joke from the start."

  Bogg reached into his saddlebag. "Tell me if this looks like a joke to you."

  He hauled out a trout, maybe a six-pounder -- and it wasn't like in the stories.

  Flowing from gills to tail were fine, long, snowy white hairs, making the trout look like it had a wolf's winter coat. The silvery scales showed through, the hair was that fine -- in fact, the hairs didn't quite look natural.

  "It's diseased," Simon said.

  Bogg lopped off the head and descaled it, shedding the white fur into the fire, where the fine strands twisted and flared. "That's true. Algae, fungus, some kind of parasitic unpleasantness. Makes certain trout grow fur." Bogg scraped out the entrails and stabbed the fish on a spit. "It's darn rare."

  "Why would you want to catch one of those?"

  Bogg propped the trout over the fire. "Because whatever the little nasty is that infects the trout and makes the fur, it also changes the meat."

  Simon swallowed. "Changes it how?"

  "You'll see."

  Simon watched th
e orange flames flicker at the trout. "May I pass?"

  "You're eating it. A few bites might be enough. I'll smoke the rest. Fur-bearing trout is too precious to waste." Bogg got up to reset the triggered snare.

  It will be fine, Simon reasoned. Roasted clean by the fire and safe enough. Just the same, he wondered if he would be sprouting a wooly coat after eating it. Simon struggled up to a sitting position, and persuasive jabs of pain shot through his leg. If sick fish made his leg feel better, so be it. He didn't want any more days of lying in the tent in agony.

  Of course, there was a more likely outcome of eating diseased meat in the middle of the wilderness. Namely, death from gastrointestinal distress.

  "I reckon it's ready." Bogg broke a little fish into Simon's bowl and handed it to him, and began cleaning the eel for pan-frying.

  "What about you?" Simon asked. "You're not eating any?"

  "Eel for me, pup." Bogg sawed off the eel's head. "Medicine for you."

  Simon picked up a bite of trout in his fingers. It was greasier than any fish he'd ever eaten, and smelled musty, like fresh mushroom. "Not a good smell for a fish."

  Bogg glared at him, his bushy chin jutted out. Eat it, kid, said that look.

  Simon held his breath and popped it in his mouth. It tasted rotten. He swallowed.

  Bogg kept staring at him until he ate the rest.

  "There, now," said Bogg. "Not so bad."

  Simon's tongue was numb. He waited for his stomach to cramp up.

  Bogg scraped guts from the eel into the fire and lay the pan on them. Simon kept waiting.

  Bogg cut some six-foot stakes and tied them to make a tripod over the fire. Once the eel was done and Bogg ate it, he let the fire burn low and hung some of his rain-soaked clothes on the tripod stakes, enveloping the trout in a Bogg-style smoker.

  "Bogg," Simon said. "I don't feel any--"

  #

  The sun was setting, streaking orange through the clouds overhead, and the sudden sight of it startled Simon out of speaking. He hadn't expected to see any sunlight at all, not even this. The light was as orange and radiant as glimpses of the campfire though gaps in the lean-to, and it shifted over the clouds as they flowed across the sky.

  The sight was gorgeous and captivating. Simon could watch it forever.

  The orange streaks spread and flooded the entire sky with firelight, and new streaks curved down and weaved between the trees. Simon almost warned Bogg, but he couldn't find his voice.