“Yesss,” the basilisk hissed. Somehow, Brak had survived his plunge through the palace window.
Well, Rik himself had a similar fall, so why not? Brak hadn’t had a tapestry to help him, but then, Rik didn’t have the lizard-man’s naturally thick hide and stout bones.
“Thank you for pulling me out of the surf,” Rik said.
Brak nodded.
The two of them were in the sampan, the former pirate realized. The basilisk must have taken the small boat from shore, thinking the rest of his companions dead. Brak had very nearly been right.
“Where’s the ship?” Rik asked. “Where’s Chun Ping’s junk?”
Brak pointed to the ocean nearby. Only a mast and a few tattered sheets remained above the waves. Apparently, the blast from the green magic had swamped the larger ship while the much smaller sampan rode out the turbulence.
Rik gazed back toward the island. In a flash of lightning, he saw the jungle, green and verdant, running from summit down to shore. Not a trace of Sanguinarre’s palace remained.
The former pirate shook his head. He’d risked life and limb and lost close to a dozen comrades, and all he had to show for it was a gold and pearl arm band. He turned from the island and gazed out to sea. In the west, the storm was abating, and the moon’s rings were just peeking above the horizon.
“It’s a long way home,” Rik said, mostly to himself.
“Yesss,” Brak agreed. “’Specially without supplies.”
The basilisk looked at Rik and grinned, showing row upon row of knife-sharp teeth. “Fresh meat always best.”
* * *
FESTIVAL AT WOLFNACHT
I. Intruders at the Gate
Konstantine crept up the stairway and peered over the spikes topping the wooden palisade. Falling snow made the nighttime countryside around Wolfnacht a blur of gray and white. The young villager could barely see the Timberline Mountains—though their peaks loomed just beyond the forest trail. He wiped several large, wet flakes from his eyebrows and stared into the gloom. He’d heard a sound, but what was it? What kind of man or beast would be out on a frigid night like this?
Normally, the village guard would have investigated such noises, but Wolfnacht’s guard posts remained empty, and snow covered the catwalks atop the surrounding wall; no one patrolled the palisade tonight.
The sentries are all safe in their homes, Konstantine thought. Or maybe they’re busy with the town elders. The adults were always busy nowadays, and, as usual, they hadn’t seen fit to tell “Stan” what they were up to. Konstantine fumed about that. He was fifteen, and nearly in his majority, but no one had seen fit to tell him the purpose of all the hushed meetings.
Melting snow dripped down Stan’s hair and splashed into his eyes. He pushed the sopping black locks away from his forehead. “Fool!” he muttered quietly to himself as he continued peering into the storm. “If you had any sense you’d be inside with all the rest!”
But, despite the wet and the cold, he didn’t want to go back inside. There was something about the storm that had compelled him to venture into the night, something he’d felt even before he’d heard the muffled chimes.
This blizzard was different. Something about it was making the coarse hair on the back of Stan’s neck stand on end. If he could figure out what, then he could go back inside where it was safe and warm.
He heard the noise again—a tinkling, bell-like tone, cutting through the hissing of the wind.
A flash of movement drew Stan’s eyes to Wolfnacht Pass, barely visible through the snow. Dark shapes lurked at the base of the mountains, trudging away from the rocky cleft, heading toward the city. Konstantine strained his eyes, but he couldn’t make out what the shapes were. He turned toward the alarm bell, dangling from a scaffold on the parapet a dozen yards away. Should he ring it?
No, he thought. No sense stirring things up. Not on a night like this with everyone so busy. Those shadows could be just a trick of the light and the snow. We’re not expecting visitors. And, besides, no one ever comes to Wolfnacht anymore—not unless there’s a festival.
The idea struck a chord within Stan. Could the elders be preparing for a festival?
Konstantine didn’t remember any festivals being at this time of year—though Wolfnacht had a very long history, and sometimes an ancient remembrance would catch him unaware.
If they’re preparing for a festival, where are the tourists? Stan thought. He tried to find the shapes again, but they’d vanished like specters amid the blowing snow.
Maybe the shapes are tourists on their way to town, Konstantine thought. Maybe it’s some kind of snow festival, and they were waiting for a blizzard.
The idea seemed unlikely. Few tourists visited Wolfnacht nowadays, and even merchant caravans had become a rare sight. The remaining villagers refused to leave their decaying town, despite the struggles of daily life. Wolfnacht had been a thriving city once, before the Third Wizard War, and none of the remaining elders were willing to admit that those glory days had long past.
Stan knew his people would hang on as long as they could, eking out a marginal living by hunting and farming, rather than retreating to the safety of the Atrian Plains. Stan didn’t share their devotion. As soon as he reached his majority, he would leave Wolfnacht and never look back.
“Those shapes aren’t tourists,” he muttered, not caring that there was no one around to hear him. Not even the bravest merchant or the rowdiest tourist would venture through the mountains during a snowstorm like this.
A chill, entirely unrelated to the weather, ran down Konstantine’s spine. Would a blizzard bother the Enemy?
Stan didn’t know. The elders of Wolfnacht seldom mentioned the supernatural threat lurking beyond the Timberline Mountains, and when they did speak of it, it was always in hushed and furtive tones.
Could this be the Enemy, looking to catch Wolfnacht unaware?
The shapes emerged from the snow again, but this time they weren’t at the foot of the mountains—they were much, much closer.
How can anyone move so quickly through this kind of weather? Stan wondered.
The shadows resolved themselves into mounted figures, moving in single file, plowing rapidly through the fresh-fallen snow.
Konstantine hurried toward the alarm bell, near the main gate. He wrapped his hand around the cold, wet pull-cord, but then hesitated.
Maybe it’s not the Enemy, he thought. Better to get a good look at the intruders before stirring up the whole town. The adolescent took a deep breath to steady his nerves.
Gradually, seven figures emerged from the storm. Clouds of breath and steam rose from the riders, only to be whipped away by the snowy wind. The riders appeared human. They were dressed in heavy cloaks, wearing armor, and carrying weapons. Dirt and blood stained the travelers’ clothes; they looked as though they’d been through a war.
Konstantine gaped and his arm dropped away from the alarm bell. It wasn’t the warriors that riveted the young man’s attention, though; it was their mounts. Though one of the steeds was a simple pack horse, the remaining six animals were unicorns.
Stan had never seen anything like the unicorns before. Three were brilliant white, nearly invisible in the storm, save for the blood staining their coats. The fourth was dappled gray, and the fifth shone like gold. Ahead of the rest came a magnificent silver mare with a long, spiral horn protruding from her forehead. The unicorn stopped a respectful distance from the gate, and the lead rider—a big man with a serious face and a drooping moustache—called up to Konstantine.
“You there!” the man said, glowering. “I am Lance Sergeant Carl Volstag of the Sixth Atrian Cavalry, and this is my mount, Stardust. Your village is in dire peril, and my company needs rest and healing. Open your gates and let us in!” The sergeant wore tarnished and dented plate armor and carried a spiked mace.
“Please,” added the rider of the gold unicorn, waiting just behind the leader. She shivered slightly as she spoke; she appeared barely older
than Konstantine.
Stan couldn’t seem to find the words to reply. He gazed at the strange visitors, one after another. Despite their wounds and their weary faces, he had a hard time believing the riders were real. He’d heard tales of the Atrian Cavalry, of course—everyone had—but he’d never seen so much as a single cavalry trooper before in his life. He noticed for the first time that there was a body, bloody and unmoving, slung over the back of the pack horse in the middle of the group.
“Stop gaping and let us in, boy!” Volstag commanded.
“I-I’ll have to ask the elders,” Stan called back. The riders didn’t seem evil, and he’d never heard of the Enemy using unicorns before—Could unicorns even become undead? But the arrival of a patrol of Atrian Cavalry in the middle of a blizzard was unlikely as well. Perhaps it was some kind of Enemy trick.
Stan couldn’t leave the palisade unmanned with intruders at the gate, so he grabbed hold of the wet, chilly bell cord and pulled. He beat the alarm in a clear, steady rhythm—hoping to convey a sense of urgency, rather than panic, to the people of Wolfnacht.
As the peals echoed above the storm, the doors of Wolfnacht flew open, and the villagers spilled out into the snowy streets. Some people pulled on clothes as they ran, others hefted weapons or buckled up ancient armor. Many of the townsfolk appeared frightened, others seemed curious, and some looked annoyed at being called out on a snowy evening. Many of the townsfolk carried torches and lanterns as they bustled toward the gate.
Berman, the chief elder, spotted Konstantine standing atop the wall and glowered at him. Many of the other villagers glared, too.
“What is it?” Berman called. He finished buttoning his trousers over his large belly and slogged up the palisade stair.
Nikolas, a rangy man with scruffy black hair and a stubbly face, laughed. “It’s just my little brother, Konstantine,” he barked as he followed Berman up. “Stan’s a bit daft. Just havin’ some fun with us, I’m sure.”
“Well, Konstantine will find I don’t have much of a sense of humor on a night like this,” Berman said.
“I swear, Elder Berman, this is no jest,” Stan said. The wolfish look on his brother’s face made Stan’s stomach twist.
Sweat dripped down the adolescent’s brow and mingled with the melting snow. “I-it’s important,” he stammered. “We have visitors. Look!” He pointed toward the cavalry below.
Berman frowned and peered over the pointed tops of the logs. When he saw the patrol, his eyes narrowed.
“Hail and well met, Elder Berman,” a dark-haired woman on a white unicorn called before the gruff sergeant could speak. “I am Corporal Lanna of the Sixth Atrian Cavalry, rider of Helios. And this is my commander, Lance Sergeant Carl Volstag, rider of Stardust. He would like to speak to you about a matter of great import.” Her tones were compelling, almost musical.
She flashed Volstag a slight smile, and the sergeant’s stern expression softened. He straightened regally in his saddle, brushed the snow from the shoulders of his cloak, and said, “Indeed, sir. It is urgent that we speak.”
“What do you want?” Berman called down curtly. He didn’t look very happy to see either the riders or their unicorns.
“My patrol is in difficult straits,” Volstag replied. “We need shelter from this storm and a medic.”
“I thought all unicorn riders had their own healers,” Nikolas put in suspiciously.
Volstag glowered at Konstantine’s brother for a moment before glancing toward an unsteady white stallion. A bloodied young woman wobbled atop the unicorn’s back, looking as though she might fall off at any moment.
“Our healer is gravely injured,” Sergeant Volstag explained, “as is his rider. Others of our company are wounded, too.”
Konstantine’s eyes fell on the body slung over the back of the pack horse. Was the man dead? If not, he soon would be.
Elder Berman remained unmoved. He folded his flabby arms across his chest.
“Please,” the rider of the golden unicorn interjected. “We need your help!”
“We also bring news about The Enemy,” Corporal Lanna added, “intelligence vital to the survival of your people.”
Konstantine noticed that she, too, was bloodied and unsteady in the saddle. The dappled unicorn was also hurt. Occasionally, the third white unicorn rider or the golden rider would move close and steady one of their injured comrades.
By now, more villagers had made their way to the top of the palisade. Many of them jostled past Stan, pushing the youngster back so that he could barely see over the parapet.
“Turn them away,” urged Mapes, a newly arrived elder. Her steely blue eyes glistened in the lantern light. “We can spare neither the time nor the supplies to take care of lost sheep—or unicorns.”
“She’s right,” Nikolas agreed. “We’ve got too much to do. They’ll only get in the way.”
“But we are Atrian Cavalry!” the young woman on the golden unicorn blurted. “We protect this village and every part of Atrios!”
“The only thing we need protection from is vagabonds like you,” Mapes shot back.
“I agree,” added Zurko, the butcher. “The cavalry’s done nothing for us. Now, suddenly, in the dead of winter—the day before the anniversary—they appear on our doorstep asking favors? Outrageous!”
“Aye,” Nikolas sneered. “They may ride unicorns, but they’re still just beggars. We should turn them away.”
Volstag reddened, about to give an angry reply, but Lanna cut him off.
“We will gladly pay for the services you render,” she offered.
“Pay with what?” Zurko asked. “Promises you won’t keep? We know about cavalry promises. The mountains are littered with dead villages promised much by the cavalry.”
“We’ll not be taken in by such tricks,” Mapes added.
“We’ll pay with gold!” Volstag bellowed.
“Or silver, if you prefer,” Lanna added calmly.
II. Welcome to Wolfnacht
All at once, the villagers began babbling excitedly. The five elders—Berman, Mapes, Zurko, Bev the herbalist, and Thynes the scribe—huddled together, whispering to each other. Nikolas stood at the edge of the group, listening attentively, his dark eyes darting from the elders to the unicorn riders and back.
Stan strained his ears, trying to overhear, but he only caught a few snatches of conversation.
“Real money could be useful . . .”
“. . . so close to the ceremony . . .”
“. . . the anniversary is for us, not outsiders . . .”
“. . . a sign from the gods . . .”
“. . . no reason to turn them away . . .”
“. . . might be exactly what we need.”
As the elders conferred, Volstag leaned over and said something to Lanna. Her face remained impassive, but she nodded as he whispered. Konstantine wondered what the riders would do if Berman didn’t give in. The golden stallion and his female rider kept moving around the edges of the group, supporting first one of their comrades and then another. Konstantine caught the young rider’s eye; she looked as nervous as he felt.
The elders broke their huddle. “Open the gates!” Berman announced.
As the huge wooden doors swung open, the battered cavalry members let out a collective sigh of relief. Stan, who didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath, exhaled also.
Berman and the others made their way down from the wall and greeted the riders as the cavalry entered Wolfnacht. Stan followed and pushed to the front of the crowd as the villagers made way for the unicorns.
“You mentioned gold,” Berman said, stepping boldly in front of Volstag’s mount, forcing the unicorn to halt.
The sergeant pulled a small pouch from his belt and tossed it into Berman’s hand. Mapes took the bag from Berman, opened it, and dipped her head in approval. Berman bowed and stepped out of the way, though Stan thought the elder’s smile disingenuous.
The townspeople walked ahead of the ride
rs, leading the cavalry through Wolfnacht’s winding streets.
“We can put you up in the inn,” Berman said, “though I’m afraid it’s rather dusty. We don’t get too many visitors this time of year.”
The rider on the dappled unicorn—a man with curly black hair and a moustache—shook his head. “It’s a wonder you have any visitors at all, if this is how you treat them.” His unicorn neighed in agreement, but stumbled slightly in the snow. A white unicorn with an injured rider on her back stepped forward and propped up the dappled rider.
“We’re sorry to appear so suspicious,” Thynes, the scribe, said rubbing his bony hands together. “But tomorrow is an important anniversary for us, and outsiders are not allowed at the Festival of Wolfnacht—not usually, anyway.”
As the group continued toward the inn, Konstantine pressed closer. So there was a festival! One he’d never heard of. That explained the elders’ furtive preparations.
Volstag seemed unmoved, but the golden unicorn rider asked, “What is the Festival of Wolfnacht?”
“It celebrates the savior of our village, Olen Wolfnacht,” Elder Bev explained. “He was a great hero who slew the mountain bandits threatening our people.”
“With the Enemy skulking nearby, the festival is very important to us,” Elder Zurko added, “and we can only celebrate on the anniversary of Wolfnacht’s victory.”
“The Enemy is closer than you know,” Volstag said grimly. “An army of zombies and fell creatures ambushed us on the other side of the Wolfnacht Pass.”
“We barely escaped with our lives,” added the curly-haired rider of the dappled unicorn.
The townspeople stopped suddenly, hemming the riders in. For a moment, the only sound was the howling of the wind.
“So you’ve led the Enemy here?” Mapes shrieked.
“The dark forces were coming anyway,” Lanna told her. “Tomorrow is the Vanishing Eclipse—one of the times the Enemy is strongest. We believe that they will storm the pass and sweep through the mountains into this land, if not during tomorrow’s eclipse, then very soon.”
Zombies, Werewolves, & Unicorns Page 6
