by James Hunter
With my path temporarily clear, I sprinted toward the van. I wasn’t about to let those prisoners get carted away to only God-knows-where, to have only God-knows-what done to ’em. I was their only shot—call me nuts, but I kinda got the vibe that Kong and Winona weren’t too terribly concerned with a few human vagrants … well, maybe Winona would give a shit. Kong, though, would probably just scowl in disapproval while he crossed his tree-trunk arms. Not to mention, the two Sasquatches were still rather busy.
Winona had things more or less in hand, now that it was only two on one. Her primary opponent was starting to lose a step or two, his guard dropping, his shuffling footfalls erratic, clumsy, undisciplined—he was brawling like a boxer on the ropes who knew there wasn’t much juice left in him.
And Kong was still getting the beat down of the century—like watching a bout between Mike Tyson and some kid’s pet bunny. Hell, the Wendigo might as well have gift wrapped Kong’s ass and given it to him in one of those fancy holiday baskets. Just embarrassing.
A variety of cuts decorated Kong’s body like campaign medals, matting down his hair in places and making it spike up in others. His left arm was bleeding massively and hung limply by his side. His right leg, likewise, seemed about ready to apply for a handicap permit.
And the Wendigo? That asshole was doing just peachy—shrugging the tussle off like it was some warm-up stretching before the real workout began. Well, at least now I knew what the Wendigo-tanka was: an offer-no-quarter badass who could probably give a bazooka-wielding Mr. T a run for his money.
The van engine rumbled to life, capturing my attention. The dumpy driver was still down, sprawled up against a tree with his chin resting on his chest, which meant his partner in crime must’ve decided it was high time to haul ass, regardless of whether his partner was on board or not.
Shit, shit, shit.
Help Kong or stop the van? Shit!
I deliberated only for an instant before staying the course and heading for the van. Kong was tough, he’d survive another thirty seconds. Probably. Maybe.
But if I didn’t stop that van, there was a damn good chance those three schlubs chained up in the back were dead souls walking.
Ten feet out, I pulled my pistol, planted my feet, assumed a hasty shooter’s stance, and raised the hand cannon. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, I reminded myself as I inhaled deliberately. The gun barrel came to a steady, natural rest on the exhale. I pressed the trigger as the van pulled away in reverse. There was a soft bark from my revolver, and a breath later one of the van’s front tires damn near exploded in a shower of black rubber.
The van kept moving, creeping back, riding the rim like the driver didn’t have two shiny-shits to give about further damaging the vehicle. I pivoted—slow is smooth, smooth is fast—and aimed in on the rear wheel. We’d just see how far that asshole could get on two blowouts—
A spattering of forest debris blasted me in the face as I pulled the trigger. Leaves, twigs, and dirt hit me in the teeth and scratched at my eyes, and I jerked away on instinct. I tugged at the trigger and the gun barrel veered from true, sending the second shot far off course, burrowing its way harmlessly into the forest undergrowth. I threw out my left hand in frustration, and a bright lance of flame sliced through the gathering darkness like a torch, shearing off the front bumper of the retreating van.
The attack was a knee-jerk reaction—a damn stupid move considering where we were and the serious hazard of throwing around flame here—so I let the beam sputter and vanish before it could do any serious damage.
The van pulled away, limping off, simultaneously triumphant and defeated—it seemed to mock me, to cry out, I will live to fight another day, asshole, hahaha, as it puttered away.
I didn’t watch the retreating vehicle long; I couldn’t afford the luxury.
Rather, I rolled out left, ready to defend against whatever had launched all that debris into my face in the first place.
Off to my right, Winona was duking it out with the third guard and doing a damn fine job of holding the creature at bay. But even a quick glance told me her tank was almost on E; still, though, she fought, employing a conservative defensive strategy: letting her opponent swing wildly while she ducked, dodged, or took the blows on her bulky shoulders and arms. Eventually the guard would tire himself out, and Winona could strike when she was sure she could land a solid, knock-out strike. Good for her.
Kong was on the ground, hands clutched to his head, his breath jagged and labored. The Wendigo was heading right for me, his eyeless gaze like a viper’s tracking a juicy field mouse. He didn’t seem to be in a terrible hurry now that the van had managed to hightail it outta here. No, he was moving toward me at what seemed a leisurely pace, a broad smile splitting his face … well, it was either a smile or a snarl, it’s hard to tell on a guy that ugly.
I hefted my pistol again, took a quick pause to line up a shot, and blasted the remaining four rounds downrange. But instead of trying for a tight grouping, this time I purposely moved the gun in an arc, starting left and sweeping right, spreading the bullets around a bit.
If this guy was half as fast as Kong—which seemed likely considering how he’d just used the chief as a floor mop—then he wouldn’t have much trouble dodging a tight group. There was a distorted smear of white, the Wendigo dodging my rounds, and the whole while he had that stupid grin on his face. A grin like that was a real Screw you. It said, I’m better than you and we both know it, puny, hairless clown. Now I will eat you and make tea cosies from your skin.
Three rounds whizzed by him, chewing through more tree cover, but the fourth round smacked right into his guts with a wet thud, which threw up a spray of sludgy, green blood. The Wendigo faltered, his lips pressing together as one lanky hand reached toward his abdomen, curiously examining the jagged edges of the wound as if he wasn’t quite sure what had happened.
He didn’t seem particularly bothered by this new development, which didn’t bode well for me. Not a bit. After a second, his hand dropped away, and his smile resumed—and this time I was pretty damn sure it was a smile—followed by another burst of crimson light from his sparkly tiara.
I didn’t waste a moment—in the mage business, bright flashes of unexplained light mean trouble. I holstered my weapon and brought both hands up, pulling deeply from my reservoir of power, channeling a nasty construct of air, water, and heat—lots of heat. The energy built inside of me, muscles tightening, pressure mounting in my skull, pressing in behind my eyeballs like a terrible sinus infection. When I could hold it in no longer, I dropped the barrier containing the construct. An orange geyser of Vis erupted like a giant fire extinguisher.
Except this bad boy wasn’t meant to put out flame. No, it was a jet of superhot, high-powered steam fashioned to boil the meat right off someone’s bones. A nasty, bloody construct I rarely used because the results were more brutal than watching a high-speed motorcycle wreck. But if there was ever a guy who needed his skin melted off, it was the Wendigo. Shit, no skin would probably be an overall improvement in the looks department.
Boy did I feel like the smallest fry in the carton when my gout of skin-melting steam slammed into an invisible dome and simply funneled around the Wendigo—wilting leaves, cooking pine needles, sloughing bark off nearby trees. For a long beat I couldn’t see a thing—the orange construct obscured my view completely—but then the construct dissipated. The Wendigo was left standing unharmed, like completely unharmed: even the bullet wound in his abdomen had sealed up good and tight, leaving only a small pink scar of puckered flesh in its place—and even that was fading to white.
Holy shit, but that shiny tiara packed one helluva punch. Not just freaky-deaky compulsion power, either, but Vis shielding constructs and heavy-duty healing capabilities. If that wasn’t a real shitpickle, I didn’t know what was. The Wendigo casually strutted forward, doing his damnedest to make me piss my trousers, and let me just say he was not too far off from getting the job done.
“Hey
there, princess,” I said, putting all the confidence and swagger I could muster into my words. “I’m feeling generous today, so how about I give you a pass? Just grab up your lackeys, agree to quit your evil shenanigans, and get the hell outta here. In exchange, I won’t murder you, take your body to a taxidermist, and have your head mounted in my El Camino. You know, kind of a warning to all future generations about why it’s never a good idea to mess around with a pissed off mage. Sound like a deal, Cupcake?”
“Your words are empty,” he spat. “We will rise up and claim our place.” He snarled, lips pulling back in a rictus as a growl built deep down in his throat, the sound like rolling thunder in the night. He crouched, hands brushing the ground, back arching, long legs tensing. Before I could blink, the hairy bastard was in front of me, one gangly arm swinging through the air, wicked claws aimed right at my throat.
I stumbled back, moving at friggin’ sloth-speed, desperate to get the hell away from this freak show, while simultaneously calling up another construct: a shimmering blue dome, strands of air woven together with faint traces of earth and bound in a column of will, meant to stop incoming objects outright. The shield formed as quick as the thought—the Wendigo’s claws skidded across the defensive barrier with a blaze of red light.
Whatever power that tiara possessed pushed back on my shield, a rippling wave of force pounding into my chest, scooping me up off my feet and tossing me back a good four or five feet. I coughed and sputtered, clutching at my belly. Holy shit, felt like getting slammed in the stomach with a mallet. Hey, at least my shield managed to stop the Wendigo’s claws from tearing my throat out and splashing my blood all over the ground like bad abstract art. Small victories.
I reinforced the shield, pumping in ever more energy, solidifying it into a nearly impenetrable wall, before pushing my Vis-imbued senses out into the world, searching for something, anything, I could use as a weapon.
There was a ginormous boulder, speckled with green moss, peeking up from the ground not far away. Thing had to weigh a good half ton.
Yeah, that’d work. I wove bands of earthen power and will down into the ground, dislodging the rock from its ancient resting place. It was slow going—the damn thing practically seemed rooted in place. Sweat broke out on my brow, dripping into my eyes as I wriggled and worked the boulder free. The Vis was becoming slick and wily, difficult to bend and manipulate. I was pushing things to the limit—I’d already done some substantially heavy lifting—and my body was losing the focus I needed to safely handle my power.
The Wendigo approached more slowly this time, circling cautiously as he moved, hands lashing out and brushing up against my shield in curious examination.
The rock was almost free, but I needed a little more time and a good distraction for my plan to succeed. The Wendigo shifted his weight, sliding in between a pair of towering fir trees, their trunks mostly bare of branches or needles. He was preparing to attack, to throw his weight against the shield and smash my will into pieces, like a ship crashing against the rocky shoreline. I could read it in the lines of his body, in the way he hunched his shoulders and dropped his snout. In the way his hands brushed at the ground.
Inspiration hit me in the face like a sucker punch: I couldn’t use fire here, but with a little deft maneuvering I could turn this whole forest into an armory. I’d had a remarkably good hand here, if only I’d been playing things right. I’m so used to just bashing the crap out of any opposition that I rarely take the time to focus on my surroundings. But now that I saw it, I realized I could give this shitbag a run for his money. Work smarter, not harder, right?
First, I pulled the same cheap trick the Wendigo had used on me. Left hand outstretched, I channeled another wave of silver force, but instead of aiming for my Vis-protected enemy, I aimed at the forest floor, kicking up dirt, pebbles, and pine needles into a mini dust devil of inconvenience. Sure, once my construct washed up against the Wendigo’s shield, it fizzled and died, but all the shit it’d been carrying kept right on going, a brown cloud swirling around that pale bastard.
Okay, so I couldn’t directly hit or effect the Wendigo with any Vis workings, but his shield wouldn’t stop natural things from passing through.
I could work with that, too. And thankfully, the dust cloud—though little more than a nuisance—bought me the time I needed to unleash my next pair of attacks. As the dirt swirled and battered against the Wendigo’s pale skin and fur, I wove another construct, this one a liquid beam of purple with three slithering prongs. This was a tricky bit of work—a pairing of water and radiant heat, married by a dump truck of willpower to make the opposing forces play nice together.
I lifted my hands into the air, manipulating the prongs like a puppeteer, forcing two of the three strands into the trees to either side of the Wendigo while roughly shoving the third into the ground near the Wendigo’s clawed feet. The previously solid forest dirt turned into a stew of muck and mud, a quagmire drawing the hefty Wendigo downward, knee-deep into the earth as he struggled fitfully to free himself. All the speed in the world wouldn’t do him much good if he couldn’t move.
As the Wendigo fought, my two other beams seeped into the trees, the water and heat absorbing into the bark and sap. I ripped the heat away in a frantic, sudden jerk, directing that energy into the ground, dispersing it into the stony soil below. The rapid heating and cooling flash-froze the water and sap in the trees, causing it to expand and explode outward with an accompanying gun crack of noise, propelling shards of bark and wooden shrapnel through the air like a pair of claymore mines.
Jagged pieces of tree bounced into my shield with hurricane strength before toppling to the ground. A damn good thing I had the blue dome in place as a safeguard. The asshole Wendigo didn’t have any such protection. The wood tore into his flesh, carving away chunks of skin and ripping hair off in great swaths. He howled and clawed at the ground, crazy with rage and eager to free himself so he could turn me into an afternoon snack. Eventually, his claws found purchase in solid ground, and his arms flexed and strained as he began to winch himself free, despite my best efforts.
I put an end to that shit a heartbeat later when I whipped the half-ton boulder through the evening sky, smashing it into his arms and torso with a sickening squish, which might’ve been mud or which might’ve been a body exploding. I was praying for the latter.
The Wendigo’s howl died away in defeat, which was pretty convenient for me, since the shield protecting me faltered and died at the same time. The Vis slipped through my fingers, unruly and fighting against me, no longer bound by my intent. With one last effort of will, I pushed the power away and shut myself off from the well of energy before the Vis could burn me up from the inside out.
My legs gave out beneath me and I crumpled to the ground. I lay in the dirt, staring up at the darkness overhead, watching stars twinkle as my chest rose and fell. Not to brag or anything, but they don’t call me the Fixer for nothing. Assuming that hairy creepball survived, this little lesson would teach him why it doesn’t pay to take advantage of the homeless: we stick together and will bury you in mud before crushing you with a giant rock.
I lay there for another minute, just breathing, trying not to move, when a faint whisper of movement drifted to my ears. Probably Kong or Winona.
I pushed up onto my elbows. Shit was I tired. My mouth fell open as the boulder I’d tossed onto the Wendigo rose into the air and sailed through the night, crash landing deep in the tangles of greenery. The Wendigo hauled himself from the ground, a zombie newly back from the grave. From the moonlight shining overhead, I could tell he was covered in mud and blood, but I could also tell his wounds had all knit together, closing up nice and tight, leaving him good as new.
Well, shit. I had about ten seconds before he was on me, I could barely move, and I couldn’t use the Vis to save my life. In this case literally. Great.
SIX:
Apeshit Crazy
“Now let’s be reasonable about this, Princes
s,” I said, scrambling back, unable to gain my feet. “You gotta know that if you punch my ticket, the Guild will come for you—they’ll bring the fire. I’m talkin’ scorched earth, Hairball. They’ll drop the Vis equivalent of a nuke on your nasty ass. Turn this whole forest into a parking lot if they have to—you and all your buddies will be dead.” Lies, lies, lies. Shit, the council might throw a party for this clown, maybe award him a medal. Hopefully he didn’t know that.
My shoulder blades brushed up against the rough bark of a tree—I scooted back a little more and used the trunk to prop myself upright, then I dug my iron out of its holster. It was empty, and he probably did know that, but at best, it would cause him to hesitate, and at worst, I could use it as a club when he started mauling me.
He slowed and stopped short, eyeless gaze locked on me. Weighing me, measuring me, trying to decide whether or not I needed killing. Deciding whether or not I was bluffing through my teeth—a terribly stupid idea on his part. If I’d been in his shoes, I would’ve smashed me flat like a cockroach under the heel of my boot the second I had an opportunity. No thought, no consideration, just smash, smash, smash. Dead. But not this guy. No, he craned his neck forward, inhaling deeply, his pink nose flaring in and out as he breathed. Finally, he nodded his head as though he knew my scent, or maybe was acknowledging some unheard set of instructions.
He turned away from me.
Something flew through the air like a circus-grizzly launched from an oversized cannon: a flash of reddish hair, thick muscle, and blunt teeth. Winona, pulling my bacon out of the fire. She smacked into the Kinslayer’s ribs with the force of an actual cannonball. The Wendigo lurched and swayed as Winona slid beneath one of his gaunt arms and shimmed up onto his back, one of her arms snaking around his throat in a modified sleeper hold.
Though, truth be told, the way her muscles strained made me think she was actually trying to pop his head right off his neck instead of merely trying to incapacitate him. The Wendigo moved again, this time scary-fast, digging claws into her forearm—blood welled up and spilled into her hair from the puncture wounds. He pried her arm away with a jerk and whirled simultaneously, grabbing her by the neck with his free hand and hefting her into the air, where she dangled helplessly.
