Wendigo Rising: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Three) (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 3)

by James Hunter

  I threw myself into the song, the piano responding like an old friend, driving me onward as the rhythm spilled out in a cloud of golden light like the first rays of a new day.

  My sights shifted to James, who’d positioned himself off to one side and slightly back, his sword at the ready, while staying on high alert for any nasties who outmaneuvered the pair of Sasquatches. He was the least affected by the tunes, his reinforced mental barriers partially insulating him from the melodies floating around.

  He cast a speculative glance at me, surveyed the room with the steady eye of a battle-tested commander, then flicked out his left hand as if he was brushing away a bit of dust. The stone floor quivered and vibrated as chunks of wood flooring and the old stone beneath swelled upward and out, a pair of steeply sloping berms forming on either side of our fighters. A makeshift barrier to guard our flanks while also creating an artificial bottleneck. Now the attacking ground element would have to launch their assault at a single opening—perfect for waging a lopsided war.

  At the same time, a chunk of floor surged beneath James, lifting him high into the air: an observation tower, ten feet high, offering him an unrestricted view of the room. A rain of incoming projectiles tore into the sky: wild black bolts of energy from the unicorn. Elongated spikes of bone from something with too many limbs. Melt-your-face-off acid from the green blob I’d threatened earlier. James handled each attack with ease. A brilliant blue shield—similar to the one I frequently used—sprang to life, contemptuously blocking anything that drew too close.

  The shield dimmed as he held out his sword, tip pointed down toward the battlefield like a machine gun ready to level an army of incoming warfighters. A buzz of energy filled the air, and I felt the pent-up static of Vis brush against my senses. There was a blast of dizzying light as he let loose several watermelon-sized orbs of electric-blue force—the weaves were complex things of air and water, built around a core of earthen power infused with motes of iron.

  The balls lazily swerved and lurched like a drunk after a long night out on the town, thin tendrils of flickering light reaching for the creatures on the dance floor. Not the most impressive-looking constructs on the block—I mean it seemed like a geriatric grandmother with bad arthritis could dodge those suckers—but I’d seen him do this trick before, and the result was never pretty. Concentrated ball lightning.

  The orbs descended into the crowd, bringing absolute chaos in their wake: wherever the shimmering spheres went, creatures fried and died, terrible bursts of electrical energy blackening flesh and charring bodies with the sickening sizzle-snap of roasting meat. What can I say, James is a colossal badass. There was a damn good reason he was the Lieutenant Commander of the Fist and not me. He was better. Stronger. Faster. But let’s not forget he was also a pompous douchewaffle.

  I didn’t have time to watch for long—the creatures were surging now, hell-bent on breaking past Kong and Winona so they could get claws and teeth into James, putting an end to the devastation he was laying down wholesale.

  The Bigfeet held firm—arms and fists lashing out, feet driving into bodies with the force of car crashes as they danced and jived to my tune.

  Greg and Ferraro were doing their fair share of damage, too: bouts of heavy gunfire, interspersed with deafening BOOMS as they lobbed out grenades and flashbangs. They worked well together, one laying down fire as the other reloaded, ensuring there were always rounds headed downrange.

  I’ll tell you this much, those shitheads may have had the advantage in numbers—and had it in spades, no less—but we were givin’ ’em a helluva run for their money.

  The siren song shifted once more, the Stones melody diminishing. The strands of music drifting through the air burned with spectral light as the tune transformed into something new—a gritty number called “Put the Gun Down” by ZZ Ward. The track was a mean blend of blues and hip-hop, equal parts sultry diva and hard-nosed thug, wavering between up-beat and down-and-out—tiptoeing the line like a wide receiver fighting to stay inbounds. The piano man’s fingers flitted over the ivories, doing their own wild dance, as the bass drum pounded out a rock-steady pulse like some colossal heartbeat pushing musical-lifeblood to the fighters on the floor.

  The strands of music rolled out, stronger than before, a wave of purple washing over the monsters filling the hall, but refusing to stop there. Splashes of hypnotizing light bled onto our side of the battleground, swirling around the Kong and Winona, constricting about Greg and Ferraro, probing at eyes and ears, burrowing into mouths, barbed hooks of emotion digging into flesh and muscle. The Sirens weren’t pulling any punches now, and they weren’t merely commanding their own invading force. Instead, they were bringing in the air support. Dropping firebombs on our team. Breaking down our side’s will to fight, to live, to survive.

  And it was working. The Sirens’s down-and-out song shoved my flows of music away, beat them back even as they fed despair and death into my friends, turning their minds against each other. Even surrounded in my shield of memories, I could feel the music working at me, beating to get inside my head. A soft voice, lingering beneath the music itself, whispered in my ear …

  Why keep fighting? The end will be quick, far more merciful than living. You’re homeless. You’ve abandoned everyone you ever loved. The Guild hates you. Your family hates you. Even your best friend has betrayed you. Give-up, give-up, give-up, give-up. I could only imagine what Ferraro, James, Greg, and the Sasquatches were hearing … I strained my ear—I could almost pick up the words, or at least the sense of them …

  Kong: Your people are dying, all but extinct. You’ve failed them. Failed your charge as a Seal Bearer. Failed your daughter and yourself … Give up.

  Winona: The man you loved is a murderer and a monster. You’re doomed to inherent madness and anger. Better to die now, quickly … Give up.

  Ferraro: You’re weak. Helpless. Worthless. Out of your league. You should’ve left this fight to your betters … Give up.

  Greg: You’re an old man—Yancy might have another two hundred years, but your days are numbered. How long before your old bones get someone killed? … Give up.

  James: You’re a monster, working for monsters. And, for all of your cocksure attitude and fancy clothes, you are a lonely man who will ultimately die alone … Give up.

  On and on the words came, a swirl of pain and discouragement, a knife in the back, an icepick jabbing into the most tender places in our souls.

  Kong and Winona still resisted, hooking and jabbing with the best of ’em. James unleashed otherworldly destruction while Ferraro and Greg sent lead downrange, but it was a losing battle. I could see that realization dawning in each of them, manifesting in the way they moved and fought, as the music whispered its insidious lies into their minds.

  Each fist flew a little more slowly.

  Each shot came less often, and the reloads were more sporadic and infrequent.

  They were all slowing down, losing hope. Crushed by the impossible onslaught of music and the press of incoming bodies.

  And the army of nightmares, by contrast, was gaining ground, surging forward in spurts, closing the gap an inch at a time. A group of kobos had even maneuvered around to one side, their band preparing to scamper up the right berm: a flanking tactic, which would enable them to drop down onto the exposed backs of our team. If those shitheaded kobos pulled off the attack, it would be game over for our side. It’d be a slaughter. First Greg and Ferraro would fall—buried under a mountain of flesh and talons and teeth—and then the creatures would spill over onto Kong and Winona, swarming them like an army of murderous ants.

  Sure, the Chiye-tanka seemed like elephants compared to the tiny kobos. But there’s an old African proverb, “All the ants weigh more than all the elephants.” With enough numbers, even Kong and Winona would fall. It was becoming increasingly obvious we weren’t gonna win this fight the ol’ fashioned way—playing by the rules—so it was time to cheat and go with the backup plan. Time to lay it all d
own on the table, for better or worse. Sometimes, the only way to win is by going all in.

  I let out a roar, drawing in more Vis, holding nothing back, power seething like a thunderstorm as I became a conduit—letting raw energy flow through my fingers and into the golden piano. The glorious instrument, the massive glamour machine, amplified that power, summoning a host of ghostly instruments to accompany me. “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” fell silent, reborn as Eric Clapton’s “Everyday I Have the Blues.” I aimed the infectiously upbeat tune not at my friends, but at the insidious siren song beating at their minds. My music shot out like a fog bank of colored light, strobing between fiery orange and coppery red.

  My swell of music slammed into the Sirens’s elegant threads of song with a violent explosion of light and the crack of thunder. The Sirens’s dreary tune retreated at the onslaught, leaving my fighters in momentary and tenuous peace. The two separate streams of music twisted and churned in a vortex of light and power—high- and low-pressure systems wrestling for dominance, kicking up a tornado of force in their wake.

  “Now! Do it now!” I screamed into the air, amplifying the words with a thin stream of fire and air so they’d carry even over the din of battle.

  James glanced my way, our eyes meeting for a split second. This was a dangerous game we were playing at, and it required James to put his life completely into my hands. A bit of a role reversal after our tussle at Harold’s pad.

  The complicated working he was about to do would require every shred of his concentration and skill, which left no room for personal defense. That’d be up to me. He compressed his lips into a tight line and turned back to the fight. A heartbeat later a flare of light erupted like a lightning strike, exploding out in a wave, blanketing our fighters in a blinding nimbus of light, temporarily concealing them from the enemy.

  When the light receded and cleared, everything looked more or less as it had before, except now Kong had taken point—his massive body crowded the entire makeshift bottleneck—battling off the advancing horde all by his lonesome. He fought with the renewed fury of desperation, knowing the contest was almost over, one way or the other. Winona had moved to the rear, taking up a defensive position near the berm, standing guard against the flanking kobos only a heartbeat away.

  Meanwhile, James stood entranced, his concentration completely fixed on the fighters below, his arms swaying back and forth as his hands flicked through the air in a series of rapid, precise patterns—the conductor of an orchestra, a painter slashing furiously away at a canvas.

  The horde sensed our growing desperation and responded in kind: The creatures at the front threw themselves at Kong with reckless abandon while the kobos hastily clawed their way to the top of the berm. A renewed wave of projectiles torpedoed through the air—a hail of gleaming bone—all aimed at James. I split my flows of power, drawing energy away from the piano, my music faltering as I conjured a hasty shield of reddish light, which wrapped around James in a haze. The bone spurs dissolved on contact, broken down into a harmless cloud of slow moving dust as they passed through the friction shield.

  The kobos crested the berm and the first few threw themselves toward Winona, Greg, and Ferraro. I redirected even more energy, pushing out a wave of silver force which scooped up the incoming beasties and swatted them away, a backhanded slap from some giant hand. I hammered away at the piano, but the music no longer carried the umph it had a few moments ago. I needed more power and I just didn’t have enough. Stinging sweat trickled down into my eyes. My heart pounded against my ribs like a jackhammer. Still I played on, fighting for every possible second I could lend to James and the others.

  The next wave of kobos crested the berm and threw themselves through the air. Once more I knocked ’em away, the effort a crushing weight, like trying to juggle a trio of tubby Shetland ponies.

  A flash of movement from behind the kobos caught my eye: that asshole Dullahan—the headless wonder—was, no shit, riding the evil unicorn. The two of them lumbered through the amassed ranks of kobos, crushing any too slow to make way. It took all of five seconds for the pair to eat up the distance to the berm. The unicorn hurled its massive weight into the earthen wall protecting our right flank. Its horn blazed with a deathly black light, which rolled into the impromptu defensive barrier like a Mack truck, blasting it into a spray of so much rubble.

  There was a howl of victory, the sound picked up by dozens of throats as the kobos sprinted around the unicorn’s bulky frame, pouring past the rocky debris like inrushing tidal waters. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop them, not this time. I needed all the power I had left to protect James and keep the music going. Eight of the oddly lopsided, blue-skinned creatures fell on Winona …

  Or rather they fell through Winona as though she were no more than a walking dream, which was damn close to the truth. The kobos scampered to their feet, raised malformed faces, and let out another collective howl, this one of impotent rage. They turned, locking sights on Greg and Ferraro, launching themselves at the humans.

  Except Greg and Ferraro were no more substantial than Winona had been.

  All three were stunningly crafted simulacrum, perfect illusionary copies, created and controlled by James. Just to give you an idea of how difficult that was: I can create a single simulacrum, as in one. It needs to look like me. And all it’s good for is sitting perfectly motionless and doing approximately nothing.

  Of the four fighters, only Kong was the real deal, the last line of physical defense holding back the tide of battle, buying Winona, Greg, and Ferraro a little extra time. As soon as James had launched his flashy light show, Winona had scooped up Greg and Ferraro, whipped up a top-shelf veil to hide them all, and zipped up over the berm. A little sleight of hand, followed by the bait and switch—a classic con that’s fooled folks a helluva lot brighter than kobocks.

  The invisible trio would either try to end the fight for good or—if that seemed impossible—would flee the Black Lodge, trigger the portal coin Harold had given us, and get the hell out of Dodge before Arawn could unleash the hunt. Sure, Kong, James, and I would all die horrible, horrible, gruesome, horrible deaths, but better a few of us than all of us. Plus, someone still needed to put the smackdown on the Wendigo.

  A small platoon of the gangly, scarecrow Bubak rushed over the still-standing left berm. Most glared toward Kong while the others turned steely gazes in my direction, fury painting their disfigured visages as they realized our deception. The creatures broke into a mad frenzy, half flinging themselves at Kong, letting out dusty cries of glee as their teeth and bony fingers found purchase in his flesh. The other half streaked toward the stage, dragging their gangly torsos up onto the platform. A moment later, kobo reinforcements flooded in, bolstering the ranks of the approaching Bubaks.

  I pushed myself away from the piano, hustling to my feet and scooting back as far as I could manage. My shoulders pressed up against the wall. Nowhere left to run with my back literally against the wall. Since I was no longer feeding energy into the piano, however, I had a small reserve to drawn on. I thrust out my right hand, and an invisible javelin of force collided with the piano, hurling the glorious machine into the oncoming throng like a gold-plated meteor, crushing bodies and breaking limbs in a jangle of noise.

  A genuine tragedy, to see that baby go. Better it than me, though.

  Something grabbed at me from the right—

  I spun, ready to unleash a spear of flame, only to find James at my side.

  He’d dismissed the illusion, now that it’d served its purpose, and stood with the weaves for ball lightning ready and waiting. “It was a good plan, old boy,” he said through a movie star grin. “It’s been a pleasure—now let’s make them pay for every inch. I, for one, don’t intend to be alive for the hunt.” He turned, his hands pumping in rapid succession, tossing out baseball-sized globs of blue ball lightning which devastated the approaching ranks of monsters; bodies were flipping and flying, smoking and blackening at the s
lightest touch.

  I joined my force to the fray, tossing out a barrage of frozen ice-spikes, followed by a wall of green flame which burst from the floor in jagged fissures, separating us from the murderous crowd of killers, even if only for another few moments. I tapped into the Vis-saturated ground of Annwn itself, using the latent energy to power the wall.

  But even with the extra help, the Vis was starting to grow slick and wily as I tried to manipulate it, a sure sign I was approaching my own personal limits. To be frank, I was surprised it’d taken this long. That damned music had taken boatloads of energy, and holding up the flame wall was sapping everything I had left. We had another few seconds before the defensive barrier faltered, and then the creatures would trample us. I pulled my pistol from its holster and slid the K-Bar from its sheath, flipping it over so the blade ran up the outside of my left forearm.

  Having the weapons in hand was a small measure of comfort, but only a small one. Unfortunately, both the whip-wielding Dullahan and the My-Little-Pony-reject he was riding were now leading the pack, patiently waiting just on the other side of the blaze. The pistol might put the headless rider down, at least temporarily, but a fat lot of good it would do against that unicorn—the ugly son of a bitch had already brushed off a direct hit from James’s ball lightning.

  The wall of flame cutting across the floor fizzled and shrunk, dropping down from a roaring inferno of green death to a slash of flame about as intimidating as a Bunsen burner. I leveled the pistol, taking aim at the Dullahan’s face, my finger curling around the trigger. Even if I died a horrible death, I could rest easy knowing that trash-talking asshole would have the headache of a lifetime.