Coyote Chronicles (The Veteran Book 1)

by Anton Le Roy

  “Time to teach lesson,” mutters Loktie from somewhere.

  Gregor nudges me and points. A swarm of large creatures are coming towards us fast. Well, at least we know where all the worm dogs went. I kiss the blade of my sword. Time for you to sing again, Fenix.

  Metal through bone and flesh. Splattering blood droplets spinning through the air in red showers. The screech and wail of dying or attacking monsters. Falling body parts thudding at our feet. Onslaught after onslaught of worm dogs. Mouths open with fangs dripping gunk. Our arms working in windmills. No time for finesse, just keep our weapons moving, continuously arcing this way and that. Shoulder muscles burning. Back aching. Legs buckling. Scratches, bites and bruises from each worm dog. Still we walk forward, never stopping.

  Half of a dead beast thwacks against my ribs, almost knocking me off my feet. Gregor’s axe crushes the head of another worm dog about to strike as I try to regain my composure and when I do I’m immediately back into the rhythm.

  Hack. Slice. Hack. Slice. There’s no stopping me. I’m a machine and until that last creature falls dead, these old arms won’t stop.

  My sword swings through empty air. And again. Oh, they’re all dead. It takes a while to slow down. When I do, the exhaustion hits me and I’m in agony with muscles on fire, back seizing up and many cuts to my skin that sizzle with pain. Leaning against my sword point down on the ground I take a moment to suck up a few ragged breaths. I want to drop onto my knees and vomit but there’s no time for that. Just like my soldiering days; wipe my brow, pack my gear and march into the next battle. Although, I’ll be marching with a bit of a tired limp.

  Gregor is totally covered in green blood, so I must be too, our skin slick with animal blood mixing with our own. With some of his long greying hair having escaped his ponytail he takes a moment to tie his hair back again. I’m happy for the extra breather. Bet he is too: he takes longer than he should. We look at the way we came, some hundred yards, and witness the trail of carcasses in our wake, some still convulsing in death throes. Must have been a lot of nasties we sliced and diced.

  Loktie is nowhere to be seen.

  Ahead, beyond a few more mounds of debris, the temple rests on a tall hill and we trudge slowly towards it. Over the field of human bodies we walk, sometimes stumbling over the awkward surface and after a while we become indifferent to the true horror of what passes beneath our soles. What would those worshippers think of their deity now?

  Onto and up the tall rocky hill we climb, our own bodies relentless in our struggle to overcome the steep incline. Heaving ourselves up vertically via hand and foot holds that are easy enough to find in this rock (even if you’re not a climber, like me) until at last the slope levels out and we’re able to walk onto the summit, with hands on hips while attempting to catch our breath once again.

  The temple. Perched atop a wide set of steps and bordered by a sky gone mad is a twisted old building created from rotting wooden frames and topped with broken old tiles decorated with moss. Hundreds of newer worshippers still ‘alive’ throng the area in static poses on bended knees while facing the temple. All heads are fixed looking up at the altar, eyes unblinking and transfixed and yet the expressions on these faces tell a different tale: jaws are slack and gazes empty. They don’t want this; they’re merely imprisoned within their own minds. These are the captured ones; those that Loktie decided to take by force.

  If we do defeat Loktie and ultimately break the chains that keep these people here, what next for them? Will we really be saving these trapped souls? Will we be freeing them or simply sending them to oblivion? Or perhaps they’ll join mass with the other ghouls that crowd my footsteps?

  At the altar sits Loktie, sucking at his pipe. The real pipe. “You come to kneel at last?” he asks cheerfully. “Kneel, then.”

  Smoke drifts from his pipe. That’s not good. I don’t want us to end up on our knees again, like in the snow. I don’t know where the strength came to lop his head off and I doubt I’ll have it again this time. Gregor improvises.

  His axe slices through the neck of one hapless worshipper and the poor sods head bounces downhill, past our feet. Loktie’s face shifts into an expression of bewilderment.

  “How about we do the same to the rest of your prisoners?” Gregor spits.

  Aye, that would make him weaker for sure if we killed off his remaining flock. I raise my sword to do the same. Some poor lass barely into her teens. She has no real body anymore because it’s somewhere out there in the real snow, long dead. Better to be free in death or imprisoned alive for eternity? Before I can bring my sword down, Loktie makes an alarming change to his appearance. A brief ripple of the air and the little old man is suddenly, amazingly, a werewolf growing in size with his head smashing up out through the roof of his temple. As he tears himself free from the poor old structure, the whole thing collapses around him and he roars in fury. He must stand about fifty foot high!

  “Oh shit,” groans Gregor, “You went and made him angry.”

  “Me? You went and killed one of his flock!”

  Loktie spreads his arms and his worshippers, as if on wires, slide to either side to form an aisle for him to approach us. Stomp, stomp on big hairy feet. Slobbering canines and lolling tongue and foot long claws on massive paws, while surreally pinched between his great teeth is that pipe, still smoking.

  Those huge paws sweep down and snatch us up with ease, squeezing our arms tightly to our sides until we can barely breathe. Loktie compresses harder and my head wants to pop like a boil.

  His gigantic snout comes close. One breath and he’s blowing pipe smoke all over us until I feel my head spinning, my limbs seizing. It’s happening again. Soon we’ll have no control over our bodies or senses. Soon we’ll be little more than two more drooling worshippers.

  “I say!” says a voice from below. “I think it best you put those two fellows down right this minute, Loktie old chap.”

  We all look down to see Lord Fussby and his cohort Horice and it’s even more of a surprise when Loktie doesn’t stamp on their heads. The old god simply growls and tells them to go away, which they don’t do. “Lord Fussby and his guide. Always pestering like annoying, annoying gnats. Why not join my followers? Join! At last will you have a purpose. No longer drifting. No more drifting. My people give me power and in turn that power flow through you. Power! An eternity at my side shaping the world as we see fit. Is that not what you hunger, Fussby?”

  For a moment it seems Fussby almost considers it. Then, “Or I could just chop your blasted leg off, you crazy goose.”

  Either the man wields considerable strength, his sword is enchanted or that brooch plays its part because his blade does indeed slice through Loktie’s lower leg as if it were butter. As you would expect, with a scream Loktie drops our two bodies from his paws and we land awkwardly amongst the lobotomised parishioners. Green smoke spurting from his amputation, the great werewolf falls onto his already trashed temple in a mighty crash.

  It feels a terrible thing what we four men do next but it’s the only way to further weaken the god. Through the masses of kneeling people we stride as executioners, heads flying like hats thrown in celebration of Loktie’s impending demise while from the temple debris the god howls. Finally the last few are dispatched and we come to the edge of the temple remains. The beast has gone and in its place is a frail old man leaning against a snapped wooden post, the last of his power flickering in his eyes. He is not afraid.

  That’s probably because he still has his pipe. Not the source of his power it’s more of a conduit and with it gone, he would be momentarily defenceless. We watch as a small grin brightens his face and he clicks his fingers over the pipe. Smoke begins to pour forth and our bodies become sluggish.

  “So, I start from the beginning. Again. Again! And you will be the first, Veteran and Gregor the dog. The first. And as follower you find answers. You be saved from that world outside. Saved from phantoms of your past. Saved from futures drowned in death. G
regor’s future bathed in blood. Here with me, you will both know peace.”

  “You forget,” barks Lord Fussby, striding through the already sizable blanket of smoke to stand over the diminutive fellow, “I am immune to your charms.”

  “Yes, the brooch. Hateful brooch,” replies Loktie with a growl, looking up defiantly. “That which keeps you from me. Not nice!”

  He blows into his pipe and two worm dogs erupt from the smoking end, curling around Lord Fussby before he has a chance to react. Arms and legs pinned, the hapless chap falls to the ground immobilised, while his faithful manservant desperately tries to stop those gnashing teeth from ripping his throat out.

  Along with Gregor I would help, but we seem to be rooted to the spot. Try as I might I cannot move my limbs. The smog is filling my brain, travelling through my nervous system, clouding my lungs. Down onto our knees we fall. Helpless. Eyes no doubt wide with fear. Weapons dropped, our arms begin to draw upwards in a state of worship.

  Loktie cackles with glee, as all mad evildoers are wont to do. He begins to raise his hands to bless us. “Yes, yes my first.”

  We can't let this happen again, can’t let him regain his power, otherwise he can use our souls to entrap more unsuspecting victims! I try to will my right arm to grab my sword, picturing Fenix in my hand. It doesn’t work. Then, I see the Coyote, sitting with ease amongst the rubble. In its eyes is a cold green glow and the sparkle of etched symbols like those on the black rocks out in the real world. The beast charges forward with a growl that surprises Loktie. The impact sends Loktie flying and with a flash of angry magic the Coyote is sent spinning to one side. However, my limbs suddenly feel free and I spy the pipe fallen on the ground. The spell is broken. Loktie can only scream in abject terror as I bear down on him, sword swinging down until he’s dead.

  *

  Nothing happens for a while, bar the green smoke drifting from Locktie’s second body to dissipate in the air. Like a painting the sky freezes in its strange movement. The worm dogs once attacking Fussby have gone limp and disperse into fading smoke and the nobleman gasps for air while Horice helps him to his feet. I pick up the pipe, the real one this time. Funny that such a little thing could store immense power even with its maker dead. It thrums in my pocket when safely stowed away. Job done.

  Gregor grunts.

  Ah yes, the Coyote. It pads towards the corpse and begins to tear at the flesh quite violently, chomping down the meat. Gregor gives me an inquisitive look and I just shrug. I don’t know why Loktie’s emissary helped us to destroy its master but I’m grateful for it. What it does now is no concern of ours.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” I tell Fussby.

  “Bah, it was the very least I could do. Now, shall we leave this…” an almighty bang ripples through the realm. The land slants to one side. Lighting tears through the sky or is it that the very sky is actually tearing? “If you ask me that sounds somewhat unhealthy!”

  “We have to leave, now,” I insist. “With Loktie dead his realm is collapsing!”

  Running down the slope at full pelt. Before we reach the steeper incline the rocky ground beneath our feet shatters and we’re sliding on scree. The valley floor whizzes towards us as if the human bodies down there are reaching out to embrace us. Making sure to land and keep moving so that the falling layer of rock doesn’t bury us, we hit the floor running or rolling. The human floor bows and splits in various areas, as if any earth beneath this once living crust has disappeared and there is nothing left to give this world foundation. The whole realm is slicing up, shredding. Bridges and mounds of broken islands drop through the opening holes. We’re mostly jumping now, over rocks, ridges and holes. The Coyote races past us, tongue lolling from open fanged mouth. My body had wanted to give up ages ago, my heart is hammering out of my chest and my lungs burn like fire, but I'll be damned if I surrender now in this dying place, my soul lost forever.

  Ahead is the portal. By the time we’re a hundred feet away, the place where the remains of Loktie's body rests erupts in a great ball of green flame obliterating its surroundings and then collapses into a deep black void. The cracks in the sky are like rivers of nothingness. The holes in the ground lead nowhere and dropping into one would mean plummeting for eternity. The island that the portal sits on is still there until it fragments into a billion shards that slice through the air. Shrapnel skims past us, slicing into any available flesh. The ground buckles and sinks and I almost stumble as I jar my poor old knees. We’re suddenly running up an ever increasing gradient, fighting against gravity, clambering, climbing, jumping and grabbing handholds, desperate not to follow the sinking world.

  The realm of Loktie descends and disintegrates before our eyes and with it tumbles the portal, spiralling towards us. As the world screams to a crashing end we all jump towards that doorway of hope and then plummet into darkness.

  The few seconds I’m within that blackness I wonder if I’m instead lost in the void consuming Loktie’s realm and then I’m falling, with my companions and the Coyote, onto cold snow. We made it! Behind us, fissures slice through the gateway and it collapses into fragments soon lost to the wind.

  Me and Gregor drop to the floor from wobbly legs while lungs desperately suck at the air. Annoyingly, Fussby and his manservant seem to be coping much better than us. Once we recompose ourselves there is a moment of mutual exultation and Lord Fussby eagerly shakes our hands while even Horice musters half a smile.

  “Bravo, bravo!” delights Fussby. “Finally free!”

  And then his face falls and a look of concern clouds Horice’s expression.

  They both look at their hands. Slowly the skin is going grey and peeling. I feared this would happen. We can only watch, including the Coyote, as the two men become decrepit in the space of seconds. Hair thins and falls to the floor, joints crack and skin splits while faces drastically age and sag.

  In horror Fussby splutters, “Oh my. Oh my, this is not pleasant at all. What ails me?”

  “I'm afraid you've been missing for about three hundred years now, Fussby. Yours is a well-known tale of mystery. At least now we know how it ends.”

  “Then that means…”

  “You’re both dead.”

  He watches rotten flesh flake from his bones like ash. “Very, very dead it seems.”

  “Aye, I'm sorry.” While they escaped Loktie’s power they could never escape the ravages of time.

  “This is very troubling…” His body collapses onto its haunches. As does Horice. “At least…” teeth start to fall from his mouth, “At least we went out on one last great adventure. Horice, it has been a pleasure.”

  “Likewise,” Horice replies, before his jaw drops off.

  “Chaps,” Fussby finally manages to say, “Should you ever pass the town of Mazo… be sure to pop in and see my kin.” His words are difficult to decipher as his face falls apart. “And perhaps pass on my rapier… to a worthy recipient.”

  “Aye, we will. That’s a promise. Goodbye now,” I say, genuinely sad.

  And then they both crumple, finally lifeless, their corpses as one would expect after three hundred years. Oddly though, many of their belongings still appear new.

  After a while Gregor says, “I’m sure we’ll visit Mazo one day, wherever that is. He's got some other nice stuff too though.”

  “Indeed. I'm sure they wouldn’t want it all just lost here. Best we look after them.”

  “In memory of our friends.”

  I make sure I at least get Fussby’s rapier and I let Gregor take the brooch – might help his nausea when he’s near any magic. Our horses are still here and we pack the few treasures and mount up (a little slower than usual), turning towards where we think civilisation should be.

  To one side, the Coyote casually skips up out of the hollow and once at the top of the ridge, turns to regard us for a moment. It stares intensely and I feel a shiver despite the cold. Then it’s bounding out of sight.

  “Strange one that,” Gregor remarks.<
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  I say nothing and gesture my horse to walk and once again we are just two weary old travellers disappearing into the distance, our recent adventure unknown to any observers. I pull up my hood and settle into my furs while chewing on some Redleaf. Fatigue suddenly grips my body and I drift into a doze, a soldier’s slumber that’s always on the brink of awake and asleep.

  Let my horse take me where we need to go.

  Chapter 4

  They call me Veteran and I guess I've seen enough and lived through enough to accept the name. Even as a youngster new to the army they used it from time to time: ‘has the mind of a Veteran who’s seen far too much,’ they used to say, although back then I was much more of an optimistic soul. Fearless too. ‘Fights like a Veteran,’ they also used to say until, eventually, I was a Veteran. That didn’t take long. And here I am, this vaguely illustrious man of adventure and war riding a stolen horse through the freezing mountains in the middle of yet another pointless contract, earning just enough to get by. One of countless jobs I’ve had during my meandering adventures on the road.

  I have no fancy clothes, no grand estate, no safe filled with piles of gold. No wife and children to go home to or dozens of pampering servants and maids. Maybe it's not meant to be like that. Maybe that wouldn't be right. Would I really be able to sit there, supping on expensive wines, spitting out grape or olive seeds and chatting politics with a bunch of pompous pansies? Oh, the women and the money and the luxury home, that's something I could happily do for a while and then my feet would itch, my eyes would stare at the sword on the wall, my guts would churn and Gregor would give me that look and I would be out here again, risking my neck for a sense of exhilaration and a pouch of reward money. To feel young and carefree again or to shake off the spirits of the past settling about my feet like dust. And then when I finally return home my wife and children would be gone, tired of the life I lead. And part of me wouldn’t care.