by C. M. Lance
Grampa Thor had Sig intensify his martial arts workouts in both forms. “In my experience, you may have more need for martial arts than magic, and it’s a good way to get used to your new body.”
“Grampa, I’ve been practicing for years. I’m ready.”
“Your movement and reactions must be automatic. Unless you practice, the differences will make you hesitate. You can’t afford that at a critical time.”
In his last semester of high school, Sig needed one class to graduate. He made time for the intense training by dropping the three optional advance placement classes he had started at the local junior college.
After several weeks, Sig increased his proficiency in both forms. Some of the differences were significant. He could fell an eight-inch diameter tree with one sweep of Aðalbrandr. When Grampa Thor caught him at it, he made Sig trim the tree and haul it to the barn. “Don’t waste. That’s a good oak tree. After you’re done, find four seedlings and plant them here. Practice sustainable harvesting.”
Embarrassed at being caught exuberantly trying out his new power, he knew Grampa was right. That made it worse.
Sig reported for training sessions, under Grampa’s less than gentle ministrations, in the wooded area of the farm. They called it the hundred-acre wood, although it encompassed 500 acres of pine, oak, beech, birch and maple trees on the slopes of three rocky hills laced with a meandering stream. The wood provided shelter for local wildlife. Family and friends harvested turkey and deer during hunting season.
It also provided a haven from prying eyes while Sig trained with Grampa Thor.
Performing kendo kata, practice exercises, in his normal form under Grampa’s watchful eye, Sig faltered to a stop in the middle of a drill and stood with his head cocked as if listening for something. The smell that wasn’t a smell, again. It was the scent of evil, worse than garbage or disease, like old death and ancient anger. It reeked worse than the stink of hot tar with an overlay of fury.
Grampa Thor called out. “What happened, did you pull something?”
Eyes narrowed, Sig raised a hand. “It feels like the Watchers, coming closer.” Dark clouds now filled the sky in the same direction.
Grampa slid off the boulder on which he sat while watching Sig practice. “Where?”
Sig pointed with his practice sword downhill along a game trail. “That way.”
“You say it feels like the Watchers - zombies?”
“The same but different. There’s something else with them.” He shivered with the familiar tingle that made the hairs on his neck stand up.
Grampa stepped next to Sig to get a view in the same direction. Through the tree trunks, barren of leaves, they saw movement in the shadows, and then saw it again. Down the hill, a bright light flared. “Holy shit, down!” Grampa shoved Sig in one direction and dove to the ground in another.
A lance of fire flashed down from the sky to the bottom of the hill, and then changed direction to fill the space he and Grampa had occupied. A hissing sound grew into a roar as it rocketed past. It radiated heat like a furnace. A loud crack snapped from behind. From his prone position, Sig swiveled his head in the direction of the noise. A tree fell into the small clearing where he and Grampa had stood.
The lightning bolt had carved a hole through the trunk before it passed on to catch other trees beyond on fire. The flames spread to the branches as the tree fell.
Over the noise, Grampa Thor hollered. “Change, change, Aðalbrandr!”
Sig smelled sulfur as he dropped his practice sword, reached into his shirt, clasped the amulet and whispered “Aðalbrandr.” The now-familiar feeling overcame him. It felt like everything around him shifted but he knew he changed. He sheathed Aðalbrandr over his shoulder, getting ready to move.
The tree landed on the rocky ground with a crash. It sizzled in snow that lingered in shaded areas. A figure dove through the flames and rolled across the ground toward Sig. Grampa Thor stopped rolling and batted at flames on his clothes. He turned his smoke blackened face to Sig. “That was lightning driven by hellfire. Use the sword when it comes again. You can block it. Swing at it like it’s a baseball. Deflect it.”
Sig rolled onto all fours and looked around the tree to see what else might be coming up the hill at them. Forms flitted from tree to tree. Watchers. This time the rotting forms weren’t disguised behind simulacra spells. He grasped the handle of the sword and pulled it from the scabbard on his back.
He tensed as he rose to his feet and stepped from behind the tree. Eager to see what Aðalbrandr could do to a zombie; his adrenaline raced. Before he could close with the one, another fire bolt redirected from the sky streaked toward him. Raising the sword into a kendo defensive position, he swung to block the bolt. To his amazement, it split and passed on either side of him, doing no damage, except to the trees behind.
“Watch it. You’re not the only one around here. Try not to deflect fire into me.”
Sig looked back. Grampa stepped out from behind a large smoking tree.
Sig asked, “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, but remember I’m here.” He nodded down the hill. “Keep an eye out for our friends.”
As Sig scanned the hillside, six ragged figures shambled out of the woods. Stepping forward, he raised Aðalbrandr and sliced through the first two at waist height with a single sweep. The next two he sheared from shoulder to opposite hip, each with a single blow.
Sig parried a pitchfork thrust at him by the next zombie. Then he thrust Aðalbrandr completely through the zombie. Instead of dropping, it continued trying to walk at Sig along the sword stuck through its chest. Sig whipped the sword to the side and slung the zombie into the woods.
The last one had an ax. Sig caught the handle when the zombie swung it and ripped it out of the zombie’s hands. Then just to see if he could, he grabbed the zombie’s head and ripped it off its shoulders, slinging it into the woods. The zombie shuffled about, groping with his hands, trying to find Sig.
Disgusted, Sig quartered him, out of a sense of mercy, to stop the aimless rambling. He dispatched the other the same way when it shambled out of the woods.
Grampa Thor limped up to stand beside Sig. “Damn, this seems familiar. There’s a black magician hiding somewhere out there, sending zombie troops. Smell the hellfire? That’s how he got me. Distraction, then demons. You can’t see all of them. Crap, hope I have enough left to create a visibility field.” He muttered an incantation and drew figures in the air. Light streaks hung in the air, tracing the movement of his hands, and sparks drifted down. He finished the spell, dropped to his knees, and then rolled onto his side with a groan.
Sig started toward him and then stopped and looked around. He sensed another presence nearby. Ten feet away, a gnarled, scaly, green creature with dagger-long teeth, oversized pincers for hands, and slanted red eyes appeared out of thin air, as if it had walked through a curtain. It scurried toward him on four crab-like legs. He heard Grampa croak, “Kill the demon. Use your sword.”
Remembering how ineffective it was to staba zombie, Sig whirled his sword and sliced off a pincer that reached for his face. The other pincer grabbed his leg, slicing into his thigh, just above the knee.
He severed the pincer from the demon’s body, but it continued to grip his leg. A backhanded swing of his sword sliced the demon in half at the midpoint. Its glowing, red eyes grew large and it made a sound like “Uurkk” as the two halves fell to the ground. The appendages on the upper half continued to twitch as the lower half scratched at the ground, pushing itself toward the head. A trail of yellowish slime leaked out as it crawled. Sig pried the pincer from his bleeding leg as the demon pulled the two halves together, then he leapt forward and began to chop it into smaller pieces. After he chopped four more times, severing it into six pieces, it disappeared, with an audible pop, as quickly as it appeared.
Stunned, Sig stared at the place where the creature had been, and then spun around, searching, expecting it to appear again. He couldn�
��t sense it anymore, so he turned and dropped to his knees next to his great-grandfather. “Grampa?” Grampa Thor appeared to have shrunken further. He looked as pale as a ghost. Sig reached out fearfully and felt his chest. It barely rose and fell, but it moved.
He looked around again but didn’t see more threats except for burning trees. His leg had stopped bleeding. It throbbed and burned, but he wouldn’t bleed to death. No telling what kind of infection he might get from a demon.
He picked up Grampa Thor in his arms and ran down the hill to the pickup.
Chapter 12
While running he noticed that his leg still throbbed but the burning sensation diminished. When he glanced at it, after he laid Grampa in the bed of the truck, the wound had almost closed.
He searched around for further danger, before he grasped the handle of Aðalbrandr, sheathed on his back, and changed forms. He didn’t fit in the pickup cab in battle shape.
He drove carefully, to avoid jolting Grampa Thor. At the farmhouse, he ran inside shouting. “Mom, Grampa Thor has been hurt. He needs to go to the hospital.”
His mother hurried out of her study. “What happened? Where is he?” She followed him outside and climbed into the pickup bed to examine Grampa Thor. “Where is he injured?”
“He didn’t get injured. Watchers and a green demon attacked us. Grampa collapsed after he used magic to help. We have to get him to the hospital.”
“Watchers.” Her lips tightened as she looked in the direction of the farm across the road. She turned her attention back to Grampa. When she didn’t find any injuries she said, “He told me not to bring in local doctors if he’s not injured. He gave me contact information if something happened to him, said they’d know what to do. Let’s get him to his bed. Grab his arms and I’ll get his feet.”
Sig held up his hand. “I think I can handle this.” He changed into Battle form and easily lifted Grampa out of the pickup and walked up the steps. Meredith ran in front of him to open the doors. “Who needs a forklift when I’ve got you?”
Sig had to bend over to get Grampa through the doorway. She shook her head ruefully. “I guess getting a forklift through these French doors would be a problem, too.”
Sig shot her a pained smile as he straightened up under the tall family room ceiling. He maneuvered again as he worked Grampa down the low ceilinged hallway into the bedroom. This part of the house had an eight-foot ceiling and Sig had to crouch. He changed back after he laid Grampa Thor in his bed.
When they finished settling him, Meredith said, “I’d better call the number Grampa gave me.”
“While you’re doing that, I’m going to visit the farm across the road and check for more Watchers.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Don’t worry; I’m not going like this. I’ll change.”
She frowned and looked at Grampa. She pressed her lips together before she said, “OK, wait a minute.” She ran downstairs and returned with two shotguns and several boxes of ammunition. “I’m going with you.”
“No. I’ll go alone.”
She looked up from loading shells into a shotgun. “I’m the ladies skeet and trap champion at the shooting club. I can handle it. You had Grampa with you when the Watchers attacked the farm.”
“I wasn’t in Battle configuration last time and we’re not going after skeet or trap.”
She held up boxes of shotgun shells. “This isn’t bird shot, it’s buckshot. I’m coming to watch your back. If you go, I go.” She stared defiance at him.
Sig shrugged. “OK, if you think Grampa will be alright here by himself, but stay behind me. That’s where you’ll find my back.”
With a sour smile she said, “Funny. I don’t think Grampa will go anywhere. I’m more concerned about you poking the Watchers nest. Lead the way, big man.”
Sig didn’t change until they crossed the road and climbed the wood fence. After he changed, Meredith said, “Damn, I’m still not used to that. It’s eerie.”
“I’m not used to it either. What’s with the potty mouth?”
“Your great-grandfather must be rubbing off on me, just like I’ve overheard he’s been rubbing off on you. Don’t call the kettle black young man.”
Sig carried his shotgun, but couldn’t get his finger into the trigger guard. Until he changed back, the shotgun would be as useful as a club. Nevertheless, it was an extra gun if his Mom needed one or if he had to change back.
Sig led the way to the the barn. He opened both large barn doors for light before he ventured in. Mom searched for the light switches and turned them on. The left side of the barn had farm implements, a tractor, a backhoe, a hay rake, and other assorted items. No one was in the barn. On the right side, instead of animal stalls, a flat wall extended the length of the barn. A large padlock secured the single door in the middle of the wall.
Sig looked around. Meredith asked him, “Should I check the hayloft while you try to open that?” She looked toward the ladder leading to the loft.
“No. We need to stay together. I feel something very bad behind that wall.” It felt/smelled different, but the same, as what attacked him and Grampa.
He hefted his sword and swung at the hasp. It sheared with ease. “That’s better.” He held up his shovel-sized left hand. “I don’t think this is designed for lock picks.”
A pull on the door didn’t elicit the scary movie creak he expected. It opened soundlessly. He ducked and squeezed through into the room it hid, and then stopped and looked for danger. The room emanated a foul sensation like the demon he had chopped up.
Instead of dirt, dark shiny wood covered the floor of the room. In the center of the floor, a complex gold inlaid form caught his attention. The figure, composed of an outer circle and two increasingly smaller inner circles, spanned at least ten feet. A pentagram, also inscribed in gold, occupied the middle. Other figures outlined the edges.
A variety of animal carcasses hung on the wall across from the door.
His mother poked him from behind. “Move it. I can’t get by with you plugging up the door.”
He stepped into the room and felt like he’d pushed through an invisible spider web. Thirteen tall black candles around the room provided limited illumination in the windowless room. Meredith stepped into the room and gasped. “This doesn’t look like any farm I’ve seen. What’s hanging on the wall over there? It looks like bats and chickens … and cats and dogs.” She walked in further. “And frogs and snakes.” A hiss from the corner caused her to jump back and swing the shotgun to bear. A large cobra reared its head as it slithered toward her.
Sig stepped forward and sliced its head off as it struck. Blood sprayed briefly. The head landed inside the inlaid figure on the floor.
In a shaky voice Mom said, “Shit, I hate snakes.”
“I know you do. Now it’s a good snake. Nice snake.” He nudged the head with his sword and its mouth opened and closed. Mom jumped back.
A large rectangular stone table or altar rose from a raised dais on the left side of the room. A workbench stretched across the right wall. Bins hung on the wall above it and several large cauldrons sat in front of it. He turned back to the wall with the door they had entered through. Shiny black spiders, bigger than tarantulas, with long, curved green fangs skittered down from the ceiling.
“Sig, there are more snakes!”
“Mom, you take care of these spiders. I’ll get the snakes.”
She looked to him and he motioned upwards. She raised the shotgun and blasted the spiders, while Sig separated three more snakes from their heads. More snakes emerged from behind the altar and spiders descended from all four walls. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” He opened the door and held it for his mother. As she dashed through, he swept two spiders off the wall directly above the door. Then he ducked through.
He shut the door and used a shovel to prop it closed. “Good idea to keep that place locked.”
He climbed onto the ladder to the hayloft, but its rungs broke as he s
tepped on them. “What crappy construction. They obviously don’t build these to hold over seven-hundred pounds.” He pulled the ladder down, broke it in half over his knee, and threw it on the floor. “If anyone’s up there, they can stay up there. Let’s check out the rest of the place.”
Outside, around the side of the barn, a small corral held three frightened looking baby goats. Sig’s lips tightened. “Grampa said necromancers sacrifice goats to raise the dead. I should kill them to keep him from using them.” He felt the sense of anxiety that comes with knowing you should do something, but questioning whether it was right.
“No. I’ll set them free. Maybe they’ll run away.” She opened the gate to the corral.
“OK. I didn’t think I could kill them.” He shooed them out of the corral.
Next stop - the tool shed. He treated its lock the same way as the one in the barn. Neat and clean, the tool shed held a standard complement of farm implements. Several shovels sported fresh dirt and shiny scuffmarks. He and his Mom exchanged glances. “Shovels for finding Zombies”, she said before they shut the door.
The farmhouse looked unlived in. Dust covered sparse furniture, empty cupboards, and a musty refrigerator. Closets held only a few items. A single set of recent foots prints coming and going through the house showed in the dust on the floor
They headed to the bunkhouse. Sig opened the door to an overwhelming smell of putrefaction. His Mom grimaced, “What is that smell? It’s like something crawled in and died, or the zombies stayed here.”
“Why don’t you watch for trouble out here while I explore inside?” The bunkhouse showed signs of recent tenancy but appeared unoccupied now. He held his breath while he confirmed it. Back outside he let his breath out in a whoosh. “Someone or something was here, but they’re gone now.”
“No movement out here either.”
“Let’s get back to Grampa. Maybe the ones that attacked us were the last of them.” Sig changed back and picked up the shotgun he’d leaned against the wall of the bunkhouse. “I wonder if that green monster I saw is like the demon stealing Grampa’s magic.”
