Zombies, Werewolves, & Unicorns

by Stephen D. Sullivan

  “I’ll be upstairs,” Roj grumbled. “Call if you need me.” Kyra nodded, and the ginger-haired young man limped up the stairs to one of the empty bedrooms.

  The fire guttered as Volstag, Lanna, and Santos opened the inn door and crossed to the stables. Stan shut the door behind them, closing out the wind, and the fire blazed up again.

  Kyra let out a long sigh and slumped into a chair by the fireplace. She gazed at Janise, who slept restlessly nearby.

  Stan flopped down on the floor next to Kyra, feeling the warmth of the fire against his skin. Irresistibly, the boy found his gaze drawn toward the ceiling. Before Elder Bev arrived, the cavalry riders had stowed Wilfred’s body upstairs.

  “Won’t he . . .” Stan began. “Won’t he become one of them?”

  Kyra shook her head. “No. Sergeant Volstag will have staked a silver knife through Fred’s heart. That, a few prayers, and some holy water should keep Wilfred from troubling us.”

  “Was he your friend? Wilfred, I mean?”

  Kyra ran her hands through her silvery blond hair, closed her eyes, and let her head slump back. “They were all my friends: Lieutenant Grimshanks and Clementine, Fred and Fiona, Vinson and Prys, West, Permichael . . . every one of them, friends as well as comrades. That’s the way it is here . . . the way it is for all of us. The Atrian Cavalry isn’t just a job, you know—it’s a way of life.”

  “You’re not much older than me,” Stan said. “You can’t have been at it very long.”

  “Long enough,” Kyra replied. “You’d be surprised how long.” She slitted her eyes open and looked at Janise. “I pray to the gods that we don’t lose anyone else today.”

  Stan’s eyes strayed from the wounded rider to the door. The storm hissed as wind spattered big snowflakes against the swirled panes of glass set into the wooden portal.

  “What happened to your patrol?” he asked. “I thought unicorns could heal from any wound. I thought their riders were invincible.”

  Kyra chuckled ruefully. “It’s nice that some people still believe those myths,” she said. “We’re better trained and equipped than most warriors, but in the end, we’re just as mortal as anyone else—as you’ve seen.”

  “Yes.” Stan said. It was more a sigh than a word, and his head sagged with disappointment. “So, what happened? Did the Enemy take you by surprise?”

  Her blue eyes stared off into an uncertain distance. “They caught us in the pass as we were returning from patrol. There were hundreds of them, thousands maybe, concealed in the rocks. They pulled Lieutenant Grimshanks and Clementine down almost before we realized what was happening.

  “The rest of us fought like hell, but it was all we could do to break away and save ourselves. The others—the ones we lost—bought our escape with their lives.” She glanced toward the door, and, at that moment, a high, keening wail pierced the snowy darkness.

  “What’s that?” Stan asked, jumping to his feet.

  Kyra quickly knelt at Janise’s side. The unconscious girl writhed in her chair. It was all the blond rider could do to hold her wounded friend down.

  “Percy’s gone,” Kyra explained. She bowed her head and tears dripped down her face.

  “How do you know?” Stan asked. “Do you have some kind of telepathic bond with your unicorn, like that elf girl does?” He was guessing about Lanna’s power, but, given what he’d seen, it was a reasonable surmise.

  “I don’t need telepathy for this,” Kyra snapped. “Can’t you hear it? That’s the unicorn’s death song. They only sing it when they’ve lost one of their own.”

  “I’m sorry,” Konstantine said. He felt a fool—completely inadequate next to this strong, brave, beautiful girl.

  Kyra’s expression softened. “Just help me to hold Janise down until the fits pass,” she said.

  Konstantine knelt beside her and helped keep the wounded rider in the chair. Janise was surprisingly strong, given her condition. “Will she be all right?” Stan asked.

  “Losing a unicorn is like losing part of your own body,” Kyra replied. “Some people never recover from it. If we can get her through the night, she might stand a chance.” In Kyra’s startling blue eyes, Stan saw determination and just a hint of fear. But was it fear for herself, or for her friend?

  “How long do you think we have?” he asked quietly.

  “How long until Janise is okay?”

  “No—how long until the enemy comes.”

  “No way of knowing. Not tonight, I hope, but anytime in the next few days. We dealt them a blow, though it cost us dearly, but we haven’t delayed them for long. I hope this magic ritual your elders are planning to protect the town works.”

  “I . . . I hope so, too.”

  “How are they going to do it? Do you know?”

  Konstantine squirmed and turned away from her piercing gaze. “I really don’t know anything,” he said. “I’m not old enough, you see. That’s what they think, anyway.”

  Janise’s struggling had lessened, and Kyra put a steady hand on Stan’s shoulder.

  “I was younger than you when I joined the cavalry,” the girl with the silver-blond hair said. “There’s more in you than your elders give you credit for.”

  “It might not be so bad if my parents were alive,” Stan said. “But Nikolas ... my brother ... he likes to treat me like a child. It makes him feel older, I suppose.”

  She bobbed her head sympathetically. “I lost my parents, too. What can you tell me about this hero your town is named after?”

  “They say that on the day of Nyarra’s Rebirth, Olen Wolfnacht made a pact with the gods. The gods gave him the power to protect the village from its enemies,” Stan replied. “They say Wolfnacht drove the bandits back into the mountains and killed their chief. Then he tamed all the surrounding countryside and made Wolfnacht safe. At least . . . until the war.”

  “Is that what the elders are going to do tomorrow? Are they going to renew the town’s pact with the gods?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. The temple in town is deserted.”

  Kyra frowned.

  “The priest died a few years ago, and they never sent a replacement,” Stan explained, feeling the paucity of the excuse as he said it. “I heard my brother say, ‘The gods abandoned Wolfnacht long ago.’” He took a deep breath. “I heard other people say the same thing about the Atrian Cavalry.”

  “We didn’t abandon you,” Kyra said. “If we had, we wouldn’t have been riding patrol in the mountains.”

  “Maybe it would have been better for you if you had abandoned us.” He hung his head.

  Kyra put her hand under his chin and lifted his face to hers. “We will never desert those in need,” she said. “I promise you.”

  Konstantine turned away. He believed her, but he also knew that sometimes people couldn’t help breaking well-intended promises. Sometimes circumstances intervened, and people didn’t have any more choice than his parents—or the town priest—had.

  Janise had ceased struggling, so Kyra had Stan fetch down some clean bedding and pillows from the guest rooms. The two of them fixed up a makeshift bed near the fireplace and gently lowered the wounded girl onto it. Kyra tucked up the covers tight around Janise, wiped the sweat from her friend’s face, and kissed the unconscious girl on the forehead.

  “You sleep now,” the silver-haired warrior said gently.

  Just at that moment, the door blew open and the other riders entered. They slammed the door shut, stomped the snow from their boots, and stripped off their sodden cloaks.

  “You heard?” Volstag asked.

  “Aye,” Kyra said.

  “We have a difficult decision to make,” the sergeant said.

  “What decision?” she asked.

  “Roj and Lanna are pretty badly hurt—” Volstag began. When Lanna started to protest, he cut her off. “—Even if our half-elf friend here won’t admit it. She and Roj need rest—a lot of it. Apollonia shouldn’t be traveling, either. You, Santos, and I are pretty banged
up also, as are our mounts.”

  “We’re well enough to ride,” Kyra said. “We could go for help.”

  “Yes, the three of us are well enough to ride,” Volstag admitted, “but we’re not going to leave without our comrades. And we can’t stay in this doomed village any more than the townsfolk can, not with the Enemy surging through that pass at any moment.”

  “Maybe the magic spell the villagers are planning will work,” Santos suggested. “Maybe it will keep the undead at bay.”

  “Are you willing to bet your life on that, Santos?” Volstag said. “Because I’m not.”

  “So, what can you do?” Stan asked. Everyone but Kyra jumped; they’d forgotten the boy was in the room.

  “Yes,” Kyra said, “what can we do?”

  “We can try to make a potion from Percy’s horn,” Lanna said wearily. “He had the gift of healing. Even in death, he could pass it along to us.”

  “But Permichael and West are dead,” Kyra said. “None of us have the skill to brew such a potion.”

  “I can try,” Lanna replied. “I’ve seen it done before—once.”

  “It’s not much of a chance,” Volstag admitted.

  The half-elf corporal sighed. “It’s the only chance we’ve got.”

  “Unless the villagers’ ceremony works,” Santos put in. All of the riders stared at Stan, as though expecting him to know about the planned ceremony.

  The adolescent squirmed under their gaze. “I don’t know,” he said. “I-I hope it will work.”

  “The elders haven’t let him in on their plans,” Kyra explained.

  “We have to try using the horn,” Lanna insisted. “I don’t like desecrating Percy’s body any more than the rest of you do, but. . . .”

  Slowly, Kyra bowed her head. “We’ll need all our strength if we have to fight to protect the villagers.”

  “You’d do that?” Stan said. “Even after the way they treated you?”

  “It’s our duty, boy!” Santos replied.

  Volstag crossed his arms over his barrel-like chest. “We’ll have to keep our mounts calm while extracting the horn,” he explained. “They understand the necessity of it, but it still won’t be easy for them.”

  “No easier than cutting up Wilfred would be for us,” Lanna added. Stan shuddered at the thought.

  “What about Roj and Janise?” Kyra asked.

  “Gods willing, they’ll sleep through the whole thing,” Volstag replied.

  “How can I help?” Stan asked.

  Volstag glowered at him. “Just keep out of the way,” the leader of the unicorn riders said.

  “And tell us if there’s any change in Janise or Roj,” Kyra said, flashing Stan a sympathetic smile. “Please.” She donned her cloak and the others did the same.

  “How long will . . . extracting the horn take?” Stan asked as the riders opened the door. Outside, the wind howled hungrily.

  “Hours, probably,” Lanna replied. “If the magic is to work at all, the extraction has to be done correctly.”

  “Don’t wait up,” Santos added grimly.

  The riders went out to the stables, pulling the door shut behind them. Outside, the blizzard howled and scratched at the windowpanes.

  IV. Into the Cold

  Konstantine bundled a soft quilt around his shoulders, settled back in a big wooden chair, and stared into the fire. He wished he could assist the riders in some way—they were trying to save his people, after all—but what else could he do? He didn’t know what kind of spell the elders were planning for Nyarra’s Rebirth, and he certainly didn’t know anything about unicorn horns or potions.

  He glanced at Janise, slumbering next to the hearth. She looked terrible. Even in sleep, worry furrowed her pale, sweaty brow. Every now and again, she twitched and groaned softly. Stan wished he were a healer, or, at the least, that he’d taken lessons in palliative herbs from Elder Bev.

  Outside, the wind continued to wail, and snowflakes scraped and spattered against the inn’s windowpanes. But inside, by the fire, the room was warm and the air close and comforting. As Stan waited for the other riders to return, exhaustion took him and his eyes slowly drifted shut.

  He dreamed he was sitting in the common room of the inn, just as he had been when he fell asleep. Outside, the blizzard still raged, but there was a new noise, too. The howling that filled the inn wasn’t just the wind anymore, it was hungry wolves, prowling outside—the Enemy’s corpse wolves, looking for a chink in Wolfnacht’s defenses.

  But hadn’t wolves been the totem animals of Olen Wolfnacht, too? Stan thought so, though his sleep-beclouded mind couldn’t be sure. He thought he remembered stories of the town’s founder wearing wolfskins and leading twin gray wolves into battle.

  Perhaps that’s what Stan was hearing; perhaps it wasn’t the Enemy outside, but Wolfnacht himself coming to rescue the people of his village.

  As Stan stared at the window, hoping beyond hope that the ancient hero was arriving, something stirred by the hearth. Stan swiveled in his chair just as Janise rose from her bundled blankets. She was tall and fair, naked—her skin pale and her brown hair golden in the firelight. She didn’t seem wounded at all; she looked like a shimmering goddess.

  Stan made to stand up and help her, but she shook her head and put a finger to her lips. Wordlessly, she walked across the common room, opened, the door, and vanished into the snowy night. Outside, the wolves howled more loudly—apparently overjoyed to see her.

  Konstantine smiled, glad that Janise had recovered. He pulled his quilts around him and settled back to sleep. But, oddly, he felt cold.

  Why was it so cold here by the fire?

  “Konstantine! Konstantine, wake up!”

  Kyra stood over him, worry etched across her young face. She stepped nimbly out of the way as Volstag’s strong hands reached past her and seized Konstantine by the shirtfront.

  Volstag lifted Stan out of the chair and shook him. “Where’s Janise?” the sergeant demanded, his face purple with rage. “Where is she, you foolish boy?”

  “I . . . I don’t know!” Stan gasped. He glanced toward the fire; the wounded girl was gone, just as in his dream. Volstag dropped him back into the chair.

  Near the door, Lanna bent low to the floorboards, examining some dark, wet stains on the wood—blood or melted snow. “She must have gone,” the half-elf said. “She must have walked into the storm while we were . . . working.”

  “She’s delirious,” Santos put in. “The loss of Percy must have unhinged her. Better riders than Janise have lost their minds when their steeds died.”

  “Damn it to the abyss!” Volstag cursed.

  “We have to find her,” Kyra said urgently. “She won’t last long in this storm.”

  “I-I’ll help,” Stan said. The thought of the injured rider wandering alone in the blizzard twisted his stomach into worried knots.

  Volstag, Lanna, and Santos glared at him. “You’ve already done enough,” Santos snarled.

  “It’s not his fault,” Kyra said, stepping between her friends and the young man. “You told him to get some sleep, Santos. How could he know Janise would wander off? Besides, Konstantine knows this area better than we do. Maybe he can help.”

  “Yes,” Konstantine said. “Yes, I want to help. Please!”

  “He’s your responsibility, then,” Volstag said, thrusting his index finger toward the silver-haired girl. “You, Lanna, and I will mount up. Santos, you administer the potion to Roj and Apollonia. Then you and she will follow us. Cherish can stand guard outside the inn and make sure Roj doesn’t wander off before he’s fully healed.”

  The other members of the patrol saluted and said, “Yessir!”

  Kyra took Stan by the elbow. “Grab your cloak,” she said. “You’ll be riding behind me on Rigel. He’s strong, and the extra weight won’t bother him.”

  Stan fetched his cloak and boots from where they’d been drying by the fire. In less than two minutes, he and Kyra were out the door and in
to the blizzard.

  Riding a unicorn was a lot like riding a horse—though Konstantine didn’t have much experience with that, either. The unicorns didn’t have saddles, so Stan perched himself on Rigel’s back, just behind Kyra, and locked his arms around her waist. Pressing against the quiver of crossbow bolts strapped to the girl warrior’s back was uncomfortable, but she felt very warm, and the strength of her body reassured him. Riding with Kyra of the silvery hair, he would be safe.

  Kyra, Rigel, and Stan formed up outside the stable with Volstag and Stardust, and Lanna and Helios. Cherish went to stand guard in front of the inn, while Santos—having administered the potion to his steed, Apollonia—headed inside to heal Roj.

  Lanna checked the snow for tracks and led the other riders toward Wolfnacht’s main gate.

  “Are you sure she went the way?” Volstag asked, peering into the snowstorm.

  “With the wind blurring the tracks, I can’t tell for certain,” Lanna replied. “Where else could she be, though? If she were wandering in the village, someone would have found her and brought her back to us by now.”

  “The villagers haven’t been very helpful so far,” Kyra noted.

  It’s that damn festival! Stan thought, feeling deeply ashamed. Everyone in Wolfnacht is too busy preparing for the Nyarra’s Rebirth. A wounded girl is wandering alone in the snow, and none of my people have even noticed!

  As the riders approached the gate, a lithe shadow appeared out of the snowy darkness and blocked their way.

  “Nikolas!” Konstantine said, recognizing his brother.

  “Where do all of you think you’re going?” Nikolas asked. “Sneaking off like thieves in the night?” He scowled at the three unicorns and their riders from beneath his thick, dark brows.

  “One of our riders has gone missing,” Volstag said gruffly.

  “She was injured,” Lanna explained. “Delirious. She’s wandered off into the storm.”

  “Did you see anyone leave, Nikolas?” Kyra asked.

  Nikolas’ eyes narrowed. “We heard a commotion and the elders sent me out to check,” he said. “I found you prowling around. I haven’t seen any girl.”