Midnight Riders

by Pete Clark

  “Wendigo,” shrieked the Wendigo as his hand rapidly grew back.

  “That sucks,” Dawes muttered, helping Boone up onto his horse. They all pulled back from the rampaging beast. “Where the hell are Prescott and Hannah?”

  The answer to that question could be found along the ridge of one of the Heights. They were busy trying to eliminate de Lavoir for good.

  “How can you be out in the day?” Prescott asked. “Vampires can’t survive sunlight.”

  de Lavoir only smiled and trotted lightly along the earth, attempting to get himself into position to attack. It was Hannah who answered. “The same reason I can. He has my blood in him. The Croatoan blood must be strong enough to cancel the curse.”

  “Indeed it is,” said de Lavoir. “And once I’ve won the wars here and own this country, I will return to France and share this gift with all of the creatures of the night.”

  “Why exactly did you feel compelled to tell us your plan?”

  de Lavoir did not answer. He didn’t want to look all supervillainy, but it was probably too late now. He looked over his adversaries. Prescott was dangerous and clever, but still just human. It was the descendant he had to be careful of. She was nearly as fast as he was and too close in strength to be comfortable. He had to eliminate her. The Wendigo would help, but he didn’t want to risk her getting near enough to the beast to inject her blood into it. He had to go with Plan B. Plan B was solid. It involved ogres. He pulled a small horn from his belt and blew into it. The sound it produced was rather lacking in harmonic value but it had the desired result. A few dozen ogres began charging out of the nearby woods.

  “Kill the humans,” de Lavoir commanded. It wasn’t really necessary. They were ogres; they pretty much knew what they were here for. Between them and the few remaining giants, this was getting to be one unattractive battlefield.

  Feeling left out, a small herd of unicorns came trotting onto the battlefield as well. “This is just getting obnoxious,” said Prescott, as he shot an ogre in the leg, causing it to spin through the air and crack its head open on a large rock. He turned his aim toward the closest unicorn, but stopped when he saw it pierce the heart of one of the ogres.

  Hannah laid her hand upon his arm. “Not all creatures are against us.” The unicorns and ogres collided in a mass of impaled flesh. The ogres, although large and powerful, could not keep up with the speedy and deadly unicorns.

  de Lavoir was peeved. Giants and ogres and still nothing was working. Perhaps he could drag them toward the battle that still raged between the patriots and the Brits. Maybe she would get killed by a stray bullet. He ran off toward the larger fray and they followed.

  Meanwhile, Marchand was riding hard through the ever-thickening forest in an attempt to escape the Wendigo charging after him. Dawes and Boone were behind the beast and taking ineffectual shots at it on the run. The Wendigo seemed really focused on smashing Marchand for that hand cutting off thing.

  Marchand looked over his back shoulder and saw that the Wendigo was getting closer. He swung right and headed down the ridge, unknowingly toward the larger battle. He was hoping the beast might trip while heading downhill. But it turned out the fuzzy ball of whiteness was rather nimble for a rampaging beast. It was nearly on top of him when he heard a voice call out. “Jump, you retreating Frenchman. Jump!”

  The voice’s location was unclear but the message wasn’t. Marchand eyed several lines of twine stretched across the path in front of him. At Marchand’s urging, his horse leapt over the wires and, driven by fear for its own safety, galloped powerfully on. The Wendigo either did not hear the voice or care to listen. It trundled right into the wires, which caused a domino effect of collapsing trees to come down on top of him in a cataclysmic roar of splintering wood. The beast was buried and had disappeared beneath the woodpile.

  “Who?” Marchand asked, as Dawes and Boone joined him. They shrugged as a man came out from behind the shattered forest.

  “Who else but the Swamp Fox?”

  “Who?” Dawes asked.

  “Me. Come on, guys. You have to give it to me after this,” Marion whined.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in the Carolinas?” Boone asked.

  “Shut up,” he said.

  “How did you pull this off? How did you know which way we would come?” Marchand wondered.

  “Seeing as you’re French, I knew it would only be a matter of time before you ran away. And downhill makes more sense than up. Also, I’ve had a lot of spare time lately. I have about ten of these setups.”

  “You need a hobby,” Dawes said.

  “This is my hobby,” Marion pouted. “I’m the Swamp Fox.”

  “Fine, fine, you’re the Swamp Fox. Look,” Boone pleaded. “Now that we have it trapped, we need to get that girl here, so she can do the old blood-swap thing and get rid of the rippers.”

  “Sounds good. Where is she?” Marion asked. But nobody knew.

  Several hundred yards away, de Lavoir was running. But he was running slow enough so that Prescott could keep up. He was so busy trying to make it look like he was escaping while also letting the hunter chase him that he completely forgot about Hannah and how fast she was. He checked on Prescott behind him one second and the next, when he turned, he saw Hannah directly in front of him. Her hand soared forward and rocked his head back before he could move. She was strong, too strong. Somehow, her body had adapted to the blood mix faster than his had. He was now realizing the significance of his earlier error.

  Prescott arrived behind de Lavoir and drove his sword down at the vampire’s chest. de Lavoir rolled out of the way and was up and kicking Prescott in the ribs before he had even finished his attempt at a killing stroke. Prescott once again felt himself flung through the air and landing on the ground. He sure was getting sick of this. As he staggered to his feet, he was stunned motionless as he observed the dazzling display of speed and ferocity that was taking place between Hannah and de Lavoir.

  de Lavoir was using his two clawed hands to strike out repeatedly as Hannah’s curved blade sang its dangerous song, flying up and down in a rhythmic pattern of near death. Prescott realized that he was no match for either one of them. As their movements blurred and Prescott struggled even to see what was happening, a new epiphany hit him. Hannah was better. It was a slight edge, but slowly growing. She was faster, possibly stronger, and her graceful power would, Prescott believed, inevitably overcome de Lavoir.

  Hannah caught de Lavoir with the whisper of her blade. It just scratched his skin, but it staggered him. Seeing that he had lost the advantage, he turned to bolt. Hannah reached out with her empty hand and caught him around the back of the neck; she dragged him screaming to the ground. Hanna pinned de Lavoir face down in the bone and crimson fettered earth and pointed her sword at the back of his skull.

  “Now, you plague of nature,” she seethed. Even from his distance, Prescott could see the pulsing fury in her eyes. “Your sad existence ends here.” She flexed for the killing strike when a cannonball struck next to them, kicking up dirt; the concussive force of the blow knocked her off of him. de Lavoir was off in a second, streaking into the forest. Hannah, after taking a moment to register what had happened, sped off to follow. Prescott got a hold of a stray horse, mounted, and charged off in third place.

  Dawes, meanwhile, was sick of trees and ogres. A few ogres had managed to escape the unicorn onslaught and came across Boone, Marion, Marchand, and Dawes in the woods. They had formed a square and were keeping the large creatures at bay, even killing one here or there.

  “We need to get past these guys and find Hannah before the Wendigo wakes up,” Marchand suggested.

  “Good idea. Why don’t we just explain that to the ogres and maybe they’ll leave us alone?” Dawes countered.

  Marchand took a second to decide if Dawes was serious. “Oh, that is a joke.”

  “Can’t get anything past you.”

  Boone let his musket blaze and it tore out the innards of the cl
osest ogre. It still staggered forward; he flipped his weapons barrel, exposing the second load, and finished it off before reloading both sides. “What if we try to advance while holding form?”

  “Could work,” said Marion, hacking away with his sword. “But we don’t even know which direction to go.”

  “I think there.” Dawes pointed toward the southeast, where most of the battle noises could be heard. A blur of smoky movement shot past them; seconds later came Hannah.

  “Stop,” yelled Boone. “We have the vertex and it’s trapped.”

  Hannah heard the words, but they took a moment to register. As they did, she slid to a stop, kicking up rocks and broken branches as she did so. “Where?”

  “Follow us.” Boone was off and they all followed.

  A minute later, Prescott found himself dodging angry ogres, with no idea where everyone had gone. He noticed that a few of the ogres were staggering off toward the northwest so he figured that was as good a choice as any. He drew both pistols and decorated the forest with ogre brains on his way through.

  They arrived at the pile of decimated wood together.

  Hannah looked around wildly. “Where is it?”

  “Here,” Marion jumped from his horse and ran to the woodpile. “He’s buried underneath this.”

  Boone looked at the trees with uncertainty. “Can we dig him out? Or should we see if Hannah can climb in there?”

  Marion started poking around the pile. “It’s pretty tangled up in there. I think we’re going to have to pull off one tree at a time.”

  “That will take forever,” said Marchand. He looked around nervously. There were still giants and werewolves and ogres, oh my, lurking in the near distance. “We need to get him out before he wakes up.”

  Marion pulled gently on one of the larger trees. “Hmmm.” He was considering their options when the trees were thrown upward. A trunk struck Marion, knocking him to the ground unconscious. From out of the pile leapt the Wendigo.

  “I guess that solves the problem,” said Dawes.

  de Lavoir was watching from the secure height of a nearby tree. He saw the Wendigo emerge and he saw Hannah prepare to engage it. He knew he should try to stop her, to get involved. But he felt something. Something he could never remember feeling before. He was afraid. Afraid of the last descendant. He had to master his fear.

  Hannah was trying to move in close to the Wendigo in order to somehow mix their blood and start to end the curse, but the Wendigo was not cooperating; instead, it was swinging wildly and blasting trees to splinters.

  “We need to distract it,” Boone shouted to Marchand. “Come on.”

  “No need to shout,” he responded. “We’re on the same horse.”

  “Right. Charge him but keep moving.” Marchand charged his steed forward. Boone blasted his rifle, swung his barrel, and fired again. Marchand took his great sabre and gashed the beast deep into its side. It turned quickly and caught them both with a backhand, knocking them to the Wendigo’s feet.

  Hannah was on its back in a second, but just as quickly, it grabbed her and tossed her aside. Boone staggered to his feet. His gun was empty and his legs weak. The Wendigo turned and bore down on him. He drew his knife and prepared to die. As the Wendigo went for him, he was knocked aside by Marchand, the flying Frenchman. They were safe for the moment, but the Wendigo was still within arm’s reach.

  “Thanks for the save, my cross-Atlantic friend. I would have expected you to be running away by now,” Boone said with a smile.

  “Yes, well, as I have said,” Marchand winked. “I am not your average Frenchman.”

  Marchand’s sardonic sneer was erased in a splattering of blood as the Wendigo brought his fist down upon his skull. His body erupted outward from the force and Boone was covered with Marchand’s ichor. Marchand’s bravery did him no good and was only about to buy Boone a minute of life as the Wendigo was on him now as well.

  “Not today, you fuzzy bitch.” Dawes rode hard at the beast with a large branch that he had apparently been sharpening while everyone else was fighting. He speared the Wendigo in the chest. The branch snapped in half and the torque sent Dawes sailing over the creature’s head; he landed with a thunk. Part of the branch remained lodged in the Wendigo. The monster pulled it out with a howl. A large hole, gushing red, remained. Boone could see that the hole was already starting to close itself.

  Prescott finally arrived on the scene and saw the roiling gash in the monster’s chest. Hannah saw this as well. She knew this was her chance. The Wendigo was distracted and wounded. Its heart was pierced and bleeding. She ripped at her own hand and arm. She tore deeply so that the true blood of her veins began to spill. With that, she sprinted toward the Wendigo and leapt, sailing through the air with her usual deadly grace. The monster wheeled and swung hard, trying to shatter her spine with his fist. But Hannah moved as one untouchable. She seemed to slide out of the way of the strike as if she were liquid. She slipped around and landed, clinging to the Wendigo’s shoulders. It roared. Its rage shook the mist from the air. Hannah dug her left hand into his shoulder and held fast as the Wendigo writhed in a frenzy, trying to tear her off. She raised her free hand, the one drenched in the blood of the Croatoan curse and stained with the taint of the vampire. She plunged her hand, arm and all, into the closing hole in the beast’s chest. She bore through the flesh and bone until her hand closed upon the very heart of the monster. She used her fingers to rend the muscle; the blood of the vertex and the last descendant mixed in a moment of destiny.

  The Wendigo howled a throaty roar of despair. Hannah, not wanting to miss the opportunity, pulled the heart of the creature out of its ribcage and held it aloft for the beast to see. “Here is the price you pay, beast. As your life passes away, so does the curse.”

  The Wendigo convulsed and fell to the ground, dragging Hannah down beneath it. For a moment, she was pinned beneath the dead monster, one leg bent back awkwardly beneath its bulk. But she was able to pull herself free. Her leg was badly broken and she could not put any weight on it. Her eyes, though, were clear. Sharp and dangerous as ever, they locked onto the eyes of Samuel Prescott and, for a second, they softened. The second was short lived as they then widened in confusion; the hand of the vampire ripped into her flesh and pulled her spine from her body.

  de Lavoir, too afraid to confront Hannah face to face, had wisely bided his time and, when she was hurt and distracted, he struck with all the power at his disposal. He gave a final mighty pull and the snapping of bone and muscle created a symphony with the agonized screams of Prescott. Hannah collapsed next to the Wendigo, where neither would rise again. de Lavoir stole a quick glance and saw that Dawes, Boone, and Prescott were closing in. The fiery glare of Prescott convinced him that it was time to flee. He turned to mist and once more drifted away. A cowardly monster, the leader of the rippers.

  Prescott ran to the body of Hannah. He had known her only a short time yet he felt the loss deep within himself. A leaf blew quietly past him and landed on her chest. He was hoping for some last words, a final goodbye, maybe even a cliché kiss to send her off into the next world. But there was none of that to be had. She was already dead and the final caress of her living self had gone to de Lavoir. Bitter rage coiled around Prescott. The monster hunter would hunt.

  ****

  As the steps toward ending the Croatoan curse were falling into place, the Continental Army, in no small part due to Arnold’s ability to ignore orders and proceed with his own plans, had surrounded and captured Burgoyne’s forces. 5000 men were captured. The war for independence had turned. The Americans had done what the world thought was impossible, and now allies would be quick to join. Arnold, despite his injury and Gates’ condemnation, was a hero among his countrymen. Yet the prophecy dictated that he must become hated. And with many of the patriot hierarchy against him anyway, he would have just such an opportunity.

  Yet while the eyes of the world saw many of the events of Saratoga, the largest moment went unnot
iced on a small bank along Bemis Heights. As evening darkened, a handful of men, men whom history does not even realize had attended this battle, stood in a semicircle around the bodies of two fallen friends. One a man who defied expectation and risked himself to save a land that was not his and the other a young woman of legend whom history was doomed to forget.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  Gang Aft Agley

  1780

  Arnold had a difficult decision to make. After his success at the Battle of Saratoga, he had petitioned for a generalship and his own army. Gates had been borderline inept in the battle; however, it was Gates’ report that was submitted. In it, little to no credit was given to Arnold. Gates kept the credit mostly for himself and only mentioned Arnold as a disruptive force. Regardless, Arnold still had tremendous support from the soldiers and many other officers who knew the truth. Still, Washington rejected Arnold’s petition for his own army. The move burned Arnold. He was still committed to the cause, but he had been constantly overlooked despite his superior battlefield acumen. What was he to do? The prophecy, as Prescott and Dawes explained to him, had several parts that needed to be completed for the rippers to finally stop spawning.

  At Saratoga, several steps had been taken. The descendant mixed her blood with the vertex and the vertex was killed for good. A hero performed a miracle. This concerned Arnold directly, as he was the hero. But the prophecy did not end there. For the hero had to betray those who had respected him and brand himself a traitor for all time. Such was the heavy cost of the spell. To save his country, he had to make the people hate him forever. Arnold had the means to do this, but not the will. Sadly, his duty was to betray his will. His heart bled with anguish, but his course was clear.

  It had been several months since Saratoga. Prescott had gotten even quieter and more brooding, if that was possible. His only words were about finding de Lavoir and having his revenge. This was sort of a plus as the final piece of the prophecy involved the ripper leader being killed by someone with a just cause for revenge. Prescott surely qualified. Washington’s army, still the major military power on the American side, had holed up for the recent winter at Valley Forge. They heard that it was tough, but it was tough everywhere.