Fairly Wicked Tales
Page 24
***
The unmistakable snapping of twigs sounded somewhere in the forest.
“Boy! Boy!”
The villagers came running again, fangs and claws ready to rip apart human flesh.
“Where?” the old were-woman asked, teeth clacking in anticipation. “I haven’t had a fresh one in far too long.”
“Yeah, we get the leftovers, once the young ones return,” an old were-man chimed in. “It would be nice to chase one down and smell its fear before ripping its throat out and watching the human die.”
“You haven’t done that in ages. Heck, you might never have done that,” the old were-woman said and laugh-snarled. She turned back to the sheepherder. “Well?”
He pointed into the forest. “I saw one, right there! He came to attack me and get the sheep. I swear.”
The villagers, mostly those too old or too young to be out hunting, climbed over the fence and began searching through the trees.
The sheep, driven crazy by so many werewolves so close, wouldn’t be quiet. The were-boy started to get a headache.
“Nothing,” one of the were-men said as they started to return. “I didn’t catch the scent of anything at all.”
The old were-woman sighed loudly.
“I’m not lying, I heard him.”
Some of the villagers snickered at his comment.
“You do realize the seriousness of what you’re out here for, right? These sheep are the only animals we have in the village. We’re entrusting you to tend the flock and make sure nothing happens to them. Since you aren’t going out with the hunters, your job is to make sure none of the sheep get out and nothing gets in to take our sheep. I don’t think it’s a hard job, do you?”
The were-boy shook his head. “I understand how important this is. I did hear something.”
The old werewoman sneered at him and growled, but walked away without another word. As a group they left him, going back to the village. He watched them go in the moonlight and wanted to cry.
He’d heard something. Something skulked beyond the fence.
***
He must have fallen asleep leaning against the fence from sheer boredom. The wind stirred and some of the sheep started making noises again, but the sound of footsteps, crunching through the leaves near the tree line, pulled him from his sleep. Whatever made the noise was big.
The sheep kept braying and he wanted to scream at them to be quiet, but decided against it. What if a boy really was sneaking up on the flock to steal or hurt them? The sheep knew a predator was out there, and at least the humans couldn’t sneak up on him without the sheep crying in fear.
A shadow pulled itself from the forest backdrop and the were-boy held his breath.
It was a wolf, a large specimen with dark shaggy hair and glowing red eyes.
He watched as the wolf slithered over the fence and into the field. It ignored the sheep and looked right at him.
“Don’t come any closer,” the were-boy yelled to the wolf. “I’m here to guard the sheep from outlaws and thieves like you.” He had a shearing blade on his person, which he took out and let shine in the moonlight.
“I’m not here to steal lousy sheep,” the wolf said with a sneer. “I’m here to make contact with you and your people. A small enclave of my family lives just over the hill and through the woods. We’ve been decimated by the humans hunting us and need some help. They seem to think we’re just like you, which is ridiculous. They’ve been destroying us because your people are attacking them every full moon. We need either protection or to ask you to stop starting trouble.”
He pondered the words for a moment before waving his blade. “Get out of here before I use this.”
“But …”
“Tell your family, if I ever observe them around these parts again, I will hunt them myself. It’s your own fault the humans are destroying you. Learn to defend yourself, and learn how to hide better.” He took a swipe with the blade from several feet away. “Don’t make me get any closer to you. You won’t like that.”
The wolf put its head down and reluctantly jumped back over the fence and disappeared into the forest.
“Why didn’t I call the villagers?” he suddenly asked himself. He understood why: he had been scared. He’d done a good job masking his fear and making it appear he would kill the wolf, but if push came to shove he realized he would have run away—a disgrace to his village, while the evil wolf killed all the sheep.
***
“Human! Boy! Help!”
He noticed the lights of the village blinking on, one by one, and he frowned. He was sure he’d heard something, and it wasn’t the wolf again. Would they trudge all the way back to the field?
The answer was yes.
“This had better not be another false alarm,” the werewoman said. “Do you know how late the hour is? How many times you’ve pulled us from our sleep? We need our rest, because soon the real hunters will return and they’ll need help with the humans they’ve captured. But we’ll all be too tired to help, because we’ve been up and down this hill so many times.”
“I’m not kidding. I glimpsed a face in the darkness.” It had been the face of a small boy, he was sure. He stood just past the tree line, staring at the sheep with his weak human eyes.
“We’ll search the forest yet again, but if you are playing some kind of joke on us … I don’t find your pranks funny. And your father will hear about this when he returns. Trust me.”
“It’s all true.” He considered telling her about the wolf from before but decided against it. They wouldn’t believe him anyway. Not now. He watched expectantly as they moved into the forest, making plenty of noise.
“Maybe if they were quieter …”
The old were-woman scoffed. “You’re the one screaming and yelling, not us.” She fixed him with a squinting eye. “If the human was really here … and I don’t think he was ever here … you scared him off. With all your carrying on and being afraid of your own shadow. No wonder you haven’t been chosen to go on the hunt yet.” She spit on the ground. “You’re doing the work of a were-girl, you know. Watching fenced sheep isn’t a real job, especially for a were-man or were-boy. Everyone knows why you’re here, and now you’ve proven the point. It really is sad.”
Some of the villagers disappeared deeper into the forest, going further than they had before. If the human remained out there, someone might get attacked and viciously killed …
He wanted to cry when everyone came back from the woods empty-handed. They all stared at him with anger, while the sheep screamed and he contemplated crawling under a rock.
“You think this is funny. You think you can mess with us and have a laugh when we go back to our homes. There is something wrong with you,” the old were-man said. “Something not quite right in the head with someone who would waste our time and try to make fools of us.”
“It isn’t true, I swear. I did see something in the woods. Maybe you took too long to get up the hill.”
“Maybe you should have acted like a were-man and killed the boy.” The old were-woman laughed. “If it really is just a boy, you should have no problem taking care of him. Heck, any of the little were-girls here could take down one lousy boy.”
Everyone laughed at him.
“I swear,” he said quietly. He put his head down in shame. He had nothing else to say, and wanted to cry. He knew crying would only make them think even less of him, if possible.
They all made comments about him, taunting and laughing as they made their way back down the hill to the safety of the village and their beds.
He went back to watching the sheep, as if they were going anywhere.
***
When he heard the crashing through the forest he sighed. Here I go again, he thought. By the time I call for help, whatever is out there will be gone.
He thought about simply ignoring the sound and going back to staring at the sheep. Why not? What was the worst that could happen at this point?
He blinked in disbelief when he spotted the six human boys, all leaning on the fence and staring at him with wonder in their eyes.
“Look at how weird they look up close,” he heard the lead boy say quietly to his three companions. “All that fur must be itchy.”
“And he probably smells bad,” one of his comrades said, “like a wet dog.”
“Or like the wolf we scared back there near the road.”
They all stopped and spread out on the other side of the fence.
“Do you think it talks, or will it growl at us? Like the old dog my mother feeds near the dump? I bet it’s not at all scary. I thought I would be frightened by one so close. I don’t see what all the fuss is.”
“It’s a child, probably younger than you. It might even be a girl.”
The were-boy wanted to scream and call on the villagers but he couldn’t catch his breath. He needed to warn the village they were under attack. These vile creatures were going to kill everyone.
“Come here, dirty dog,” one of them called to the were-boy. “We aren’t going to hurt you. Much.” The boys laughed.
The were-boy tried again to scream but the sound came out as a squeak. His mind reeled with visions of the villagers slaughtered in their own beds while they slept, the humans setting the homes on fire, and killing everyone. He was going to fail at the one task entrusted to him, bringing shame to his family. He couldn’t let this happen.
“I think she said something,” one of the boys added.
The boys hopped over the fence and one of them walked up to a sheep. The were-boy was waiting for the sheep to go crazy, but the ewe only stood still while the boy petted it.
“How did you do that?”
The boy smiled. “Animals aren’t scared of us. They are our friends. It makes it easier for us to raise them, feed them, and then kill them so we can get some nice lamb chops for dinner.” He looked around. “This will feed our village for a few days.”
“These are our sheep,” the were-boy said.
“No, actually, they were stolen from us months ago. The one closest to you has a dark black mark under its left ear, a brand from my family. They all have the mark. Not only are you were-wolves monsters, you are thieves. We’re going to take them back with us. If you try to stop us, we’ll have to hurt you.”
No! This was not happening! The were-boy found his full voice, and began to scream. “Boy! Boys! Help! We’re under attack!”
The humans looked like they were about to climb back over the fence and retreat to the woods, but after a minute of the were-boy yelling and no lights coming on in the village, they relaxed.
“Is there anyone home, or are they all out trying to kill us?” their leader asked. “We’ve set a trap for them up the road. Wait until our father’s spring it on them. No more being hunted by you creatures.”
“We only hunt you because you hunt us.”
“No way.” One of the boys put his hands on his hips. “We were minding our own business when you werewolves showed up and began turning innocent people into monsters.”
Were-boy knew he was lying. He had to be. It didn’t make any sense. “We only started hunting you because the humans were hunting us. They killed many of our villagers. We just want to live in peace.”
“Ha,” one of the boys said.
Were-boy began calling out again. “Boy! Boy! Help!”
“I don’t think anyone is coming, to be honest.” The lead boy turned to his companions. “Let’s get these sheep back to my farm before any of the real werewolves come back and give us trouble.”
“Hey! I’m a real werewolf.”
“If you were, you’d be out with your hunting party, trying to eat my family. You’re here doing girl’s work.”
“I can’t let you take the sheep,” were-boy said indignantly. He moved to the gate to block them.
The boys laughed like the villagers laughed at him.
“Should we beat you up first? Would that make you feel better?”
“Not really. I’d rather you just left,” were-boy said.
“We are leaving and taking our property with us. Do us a favor and open the gate and step aside. The sheep don’t like you.”
“But …” he turned to glance at the sleeping village. “Promise me you’ll only take the sheep and not kill the women and children.”
“Why would we do that? We’re not animals.” The lead boy shook his head. “Like you werewolves. We just want our sheep back.”
The were-boy justified opening the gate wide and stepping aside with the fact he’d saved innocent villagers from the monstrous humans.
The sheep taunted him as the boys led them into the forest.
About the Author
Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he exacts revenge on his enemies and neighbors alike by writing them into his Dying Days zombie series. And not in good ways. He has over 120 releases to date, with more coming. He is also a radio and internet DJ and runs Arm Cast: Dead Sexy Horror Podcast, with interviews from the best authors, etc. in horror. He loves talking in third person. You can find him at www.armandrosamilia.com and armandrosamilia@gmail.com.
It Comes at Night
A reimagining of “The Billy Goats Gruff”
JP Behrens
Day 1:
“Brother, I need to go on guard duty soon; the Bridge is the only access to our youngling patches. Please try and clean up some of this mess.”
Mort looked up at his younger brother, Grup, a towering definition of Troll Knighthood, and smiled. “Of course. I’ll get this all cleaned before dinner.”
“I know this guard detail is difficult, but this patch is the only one to survive the drought this season. The Kingdom needs this generation of younglings to sprout or we will be too few to defend against the other clans of creatures moving in the west.”
Mort’s natural smile remained. “I’ll get this all cleaned.”
Grup nodded. He marched out of the barracks and up into the moonlight. Mort wished to follow his brother out into the field, to be a hero. Considered a runt to the other trolls, he stood barely taller than a human. Only his brother’s influence as the Captain of the Troll Bridge regiment allowed Mort to stay at the barracks employed as cook and servant.
Ever since the death of their Father, Grup looked after Mort. Never embarrassed that his younger brother took care of him, Mort accepted the way of things. The other soldiers were not friendly, but they never abused or ridiculed the Captain’s brother, at least not in the Captain’s presence. Mort set out to clean the table, then the kitchen. He needed to make things presentable for dinner when the first of the guards returned.
While cleaning the wooden bowls and cutlery, he dreamed of life as a valiant knight, defending the Kingdom of the Troll Lord. Mort worked throughout the morning. Dusting, mopping, washing, and cooking. His whole life consisted of monotonous drudgery. Every day he polished away the residue left behind by brave Knights, heard their armored footsteps patrolling above him, but never experienced that honorable existence.
As he prepared their evening meal, a thick potato and steak stew, he wielded a tarnished, chipped knife like one of the swords he polished every night after the Knights fell asleep. Each chop was a downward stroke, every slice a parry. He prepared the meal and battled evil simultaneously. Mort had just finished setting the table when someone’s muffled shouts bled through the walls of the barracks. The thunderous pounding of feet rained dirt onto Mort’s tidy domain.
He glanced at the door leading out to the Bridge and the precious youngling fields. Maybe the guards needed help. A spare suit of armor and a rusty, old sword coated in cobwebs hung nearby, whispering the promise of glory and honor.
The sounds of battle grew in intensity. Mort attempted to ignore the impulse to run out and fight. A break in discipline would
disappoint Grup. Instead, he decided to clean the accumulating dust and dirt, but no matter how fast he cleaned, the room never seemed to get any better. When the screaming started, Mort froze in terror. The scream was alien, but didn’t take him long to recognize the agonizing howl.
“Grup!”
Mort threw aside all his cleaning tools, crashed through the furniture, and pawed at the door. Panicked, Mort struggled with the door, too confused to remember whether to push or pull. Once outside, he clawed his way up from under the Bridge. The Bridge spanned a massive riverbed, dried out for centuries. At the base of the bed sat the barracks dug into the earth, hidden by the Bridge and close enough to defend the youngling fields. Without starlight to guide him, Mort slipped and scrambled up the steep, jagged riverbank. He emerged over the edge to see the thing that had come to claim their young.
It wasn’t large, maybe the size of a small goat, but formed of a roiling darkness. Not a creature but a walking void. Short curling tendrils whipped out, slicing and batting at the regiment. The entire garrison attempted to surround the monster. High-pitched squeals like the wails of a terrified infant exploded from the beast. Only the blood pooling around its feet told a different story.
Mort gagged on his own fear, unable to tear his eyes away from the roiling void trying to cross into the fields. Mort marveled that something so small could keep pushing through the troll defenses. Despite the soldier’s tireless efforts, the monster crept forward.
Mort caught a glint of moonlight off a sword stabbed into the ground. The sword belonged to his brother. The sight shocked Mort out of his daze. He lunged forward, maneuvering through the tangle of death. Other trolls screamed at him. He ignored their insults and shouts. Only his brother mattered. He passed within arm’s reach of the strange monster. The stench of the creature suffocated Mort. Wooziness made the world seem stuffed with cotton. His legs turned to jelly. Pushing through, Mort focused on his brother. Grup lay on the ground just outside of the fighting. His one arm torn away, leaving behind shredded muscle and gore. Blood pulsed from a gaping wound on his head.