The Red Rider

by Billy Wong

  The Red Rider

  by Billy Wong

  The Red Rider

  Copyright © 2014 Billy Wong

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Credits and author page

  Sample of Iron Bloom

  Chapter 1

  The young wolf stalked towards the dead campfire, nose twitching at the slight whiff of human musk it picked up beneath the stronger odor of ash and burnt wood. His two companions also sniffed—the female's growls eager and excited, the male's more cautious, while they walked beside him. Walked. His feet—clawed, but too long to be canine—carried him silently across the dim clearing. Somehow it didn't feel right to him. He knew he was a wolf, so why did he not go on all fours? Him and his companions... his friends, he thought with a vague image of what that had meant. The three of them, looking forward to his marriage, exploring the familiar wood one last time as when they'd been children. Then the beast, dark furred, tall as a bear but leaner. The fear it'd struck into his heart. Its teeth had wounded them all, and he thought they would die. But his friend blinded it with fire in the eyes, and they managed-

  A strengthening of the human scent brought him back to the present. He had followed it around the campfire, and suddenly found it invading his senses with force. The person must still be close, but where? His taste buds recalled the succulent flavor of belly fat from the last time he'd torn the guts from a rotund farmer, and his stomach rumbled with anticipation. The female was the faster of them, the other male the cleverest, and he could only hope he'd luck out enough to claim the prime cut of meat again. The trio looked around, snouts raised, nostrils flaring in an attempt to determine their prey's location. He glimpsed it first, a flicker of red behind a tree which sprang into full view to reveal a cloaked figure. Something flew shining from the depths of its garment. His friend yelped. He turned to see him thrash upon the dirt, a small hilt protruding from his throat, before lying still.

  The dead wolf's sister dashed towards his killer, the lithe hooded being that impassively stood its ground. The she-wolf leapt. The hooded one spun behind it; if it made an attack, the male didn't see. But the female fell amidst the underbrush, her angry snarls becoming whimpers of pain. The male charged to protect his companion. He drew close to the back of the hooded figure, who raised a silvery long knife. Thinking he could make it if he lunged, he did. The killer's other arm shot up, bringing another curved blade back over its head. The wolf felt a hard, cold thing thunk home between his eyes. His vision dimmed. The person holding the knife that impaled his brain turned their head to regard him. In the moment before his life failed, he realized the cause of his death to be a woman.

  #

  After jerking her knife free from the second male's skull, she turned to dispatch the injured female. The werewolf tried piteously to crawl away, not dead yet though her previous stab to the back had severed its spine. She saw that the first wolf had already regained human form in death and sighed. A youth, not even out of his teens, and she expected the others would be the same. Sometimes she wished she could at least change back wolves who had not yet tasted human flesh, but there was no known way to do so. She stepped over the struggling she-wolf, pulled her head back by the long, coarse mane which might once have been silken tresses, and sliced her throat.

  She sawed off the head and tossed it into a sack before it could turn back into that of a young girl; no need to see that. However, there were two others to be done and at least one had already reverted. She retrieved the males' heads with tightly pressed lips, wiped her knives clean on her blood-red cloak. The kills didn't give her satisfaction. These had just been recent turnings, she knew, not the type of blooded man-eaters she reserved her true scorn for.

  She returned to the nearby settlement, with its dull wooden houses and grim-visaged residents. When she arrived at the mayor's small manor, the mail-clad guards parted for her with a haste that implied a hint of fear. Well, her face wasn't something the likes of which people saw often. She handed over the sack of (former) werewolves' heads and took her reward. A modest sum, though it'd more than suffice to recoat her worn blades with the needed silver. She asked the mayor if he knew where the wolf that attacked the youths had come from, but he said he had no idea. She headed to the tavern in search of information. She'd come after hearing of the turned trio, but her true interest lay with their sire.

  The bar turned out to be not so busy, with less than half a dozen patrons seated on the thick, sturdy chairs at the moment. She put her hopes in the three leather-jerkined men chatting at the center table, who looked well traveled with their old boots and weatherbeaten faces. They all carried weapons, battered and pitted enough to show they had seen use. She chose a table close to theirs, ordered a drink and sipped at it slowly while attempting to overhear them.

  "Did you hear about that freak who came to kill the werewolves?" the youngest of the men, a shade under thirty, said. He looked to be of average height but stocky, with small, dangerous eyes. A mace dangled from his belt, and sheaths strapped to his torso and limbs held many a knife. "Those weird veins in her face, and that she'd face three wolves alone—one has to wonder if she isn't more dangerous than the beasts themselves."

  The eldest man, heavyset and nearly twice the age of the first, nodded his saggy-chinned approval. A tall bow jutted over his shoulder, and an old spear leaned against the table like a cane. "That might not be such a stretch. No sane person would hunt werewolves alone, unless perhaps she's some sorceress needing something from their bodies for her own use."

  The third man, around halfway between the others in age and the biggest of the group, spoke in a whisper though he might have underestimated how acute her hearing was. The size of his great sword impressed her a bit, and made the crossbow at his hip look pitifully small. "Careful with your words, you two. I think that might be her."

  All three glanced her way, but she kept her head down and pretended not to notice.

  "That hooded red cloak," the oldest man said, "could that really be her? Could that be... the Red Rider?"

  Red smiled a little, and hoped her hood hid it well enough. The Red Rider indeed. She'd slain hundreds of werewolves after that fateful day she visited her grandmother, but the battle never ended.

  "She doesn't look that tough," the youngest man said, "if she is. The methods she uses to hunt beasts are likely specialized... for hunting beasts. I could probably take her."

  His large framed companion pushed him. "Shut up. Anyway, I wonder when the big one that turned those three will attack again. That's the one that needs killing, more than a bunch of unlucky kids."

  Red decided to make her presence known, or rather, official. "Well, it might take a while just waiting for it to come back. I wonder, do you have an inkling of where it comes fr
om?"

  "Red Rider! So it is you." The big man stared, no doubt at the silvery veins which marked her countenance, now that she had looked up. "No one really knows. The young ones were playing in the forest north of here when it happened, so it's possible it came down from there."

  "North, hmm? And what lies that way, besides the mountains I see from here?"

  "The mountains are high and steep, and no men live upon them. But nestled among them is a valley rich with jewels. Perhaps those who mine it are the ones upon whom the great wolf feeds most. Are you going there, then?"

  "It seems like a good place to start. Why?"

  "We're headed that way too. We hear the ruler of the valley is looking to hire more fighting men, and we seem to fit the description. You want to come with us?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know. You might slow me down."

  "A woman on the road might do better with men to defend her than to travel alone."

  "You want her near us while we sleep?" his older companion said. "Might not be such a good idea, that."

  "Oh, quiet. She seems fine. Well?"

  Red admitted it made her feel good, that this man didn't hesitate to welcome her with open arms despite her peculiarities. "I take pretty good care of myself. But since you three might run into trouble of your own, I'll offer you my protection."

  The big man grinned. "Then we're glad to have it. My name's Trent, by the way, and these"—he indicated the younger man, then the older—"are my old comrades Harry and Benson. And what's your name, Red Rider?"

  "Call me Red. I'm used to it."

  He gave a short nod. "We leave tomorrow. Any problems with that?"

  "No. I just need to pick up my blades in the morning, and then we'll have a merry trip."

  #

  She booked a separate room upstairs and met them in the dining area in the morning. Passing by the blacksmith's, she retrieved her re-silvered knives and caught the youngest man—Harry—glancing sneakily at her perhaps as if with disappointment at a missed opportunity. Maybe all her companions weren't so wholesome, but then, even without those knives, she had other weapons and methods with which to ward off overly forceful advances.

  They walked up the drought-cracked road, passing vegetation stunted and shriveled when it should have been in full spring bloom. Trailing behind the men Red listened to them talk, feeling mostly bored aside from her contempt for Harry's constant references to women as whores. Then again, many of the ones he bragged about might have been actual whores... Benson spoke of finally settling down, and raising a new family after the one he'd lost to disease. She wondered if it might a bit late for that, but couldn't fault him for dreaming. She hoped she could continue to set new goals at his age, if she lived that long. For his part Trent listened attentively to whatever his companions said, and responded ever with interest. Red wasn't sure how much of that was real, but he'd probably make a good husband. Well, on the communication side of things anyway. She didn't know about anything else.

  "You're rather quiet," Trent said eventually. "I thought you'd be more talkative, after that spunk you showed in the bar."

  She had little taste for small talk. Her path left scant time for making friends, and she doubted she would see most of the people she met again. "I prefer to listen."

  "An eavesdropper, eh? Anything you hear that interests you so far?"

  Not particularly. But she supposed he was friendly enough that she could indulge him. "I wonder what things were like back when we had a king, instead of every place being ruled by whoever's strong enough to call themselves lord. I was young then and didn't go outside my village, so..."

  "Life was easier for a traveler," Benson said in his mumbly voice, "when you knew at least some of the same rules applied to the whole country."

  She might not be old enough to have experienced such, but she knew at least she would've appreciated not getting a few of the local surprises she had in the past. "I reckon the werewolves used to be less bold, too."

  "Werewolves, bandits, anything," Harry agreed. He grinned and fingered his mace. "Makes work easier to find for the likes of us, though."

  Trent grunted. "Nothing to be proud of. Honest work was easier to find back in the day, you know."

  "What's dishonest about what we do? Can't get more honest than a mace upside a man's head to let him know you don't approve of him."

  "Might be that good work would be a more apt term."

  Red nodded her appreciation of his words. She had killed people before, but could never do it for a job. It was hard enough telling herself the werewolves she slew were not human anymore so she'd sleep well at night. She could be friends with him for now, she supposed, even if he might hardly remember her in a few years or months. "I imagine it is. So you all fought during the Upheaval? He seems a bit young for that."

  "Harry?" Benson asked. "He was but a lad, but oh, he fought. When enough of their grown men die, what lord doesn't have use for lads."

  Maybe, just maybe, Red had jumped too quickly to judge him before. Possibly. "So you've been working as hired swords all the way since then, and survived this long? You must be pretty good."

  "We're smart," Harry said.

  Benson exhaled. "Aye, and lucky. Having the calmest head I've seen on a battlefield with us don't hurt, either."

  "Oh?"

  Trent chuckled. "He's referring to me, I suppose. I'm not that calm. I just pretend to be."

  "Naw," Benson said, "that's the calmest soldier... ever!"

  "I bet that's an exaggeration." Red smiled. "But I bet there's something behind it, too."

  "I try," Trent said with a shrug. He paused. "I don't mean to offend you, and I'm sorry if I do... but I've been wondering, what's with those veins?"

  She pointed at her face. "You mean these? I'm not offended. They're from eating silver."

  Harry's eyes widened. "Eating silver? Wouldn't that make you sick?"

  "I underwent a magic ritual that lets me store it in the veins under my skin, instead of being poisoned. And since you're sure to ask why, I have to eat it when I get bit. To avert the transformation."

  "You've been bitten by them?" That he showed the most fear made her inclined to feel a bit warmer towards him, though Benson too wore a tense expression.

  "Quite a few times. Don't worry, I haven't turned. The silver is pretty effective."

  Trent nodded. "You're tough. I like that."

  "But you already knew that."

  "I have more details now. It could've been that you always lure the werewolves in a trap and never get a scratch."

  "If that was the case, changing my appearance would have been rather pointless." Besides, she had her share of scars, on her face and elsewhere, to show that wasn't the case.

  "Could be just to scare people," Benson contributed.

  She grinned. "I hardly want that. I do set traps sometimes. Usually only when I think there's a lot, though. Otherwise I just use my knives."

  "So, are you strong?" Harry asked. "They say a werewolf is stronger than a man, but you fight them close up."

  "I'm not as strong as a werewolf. But with a blade in my hand, I'm strong enough."

  They continued north, breathing in dust and coughing when wind blew it up from the dry dirt underfoot. When they stopped to camp, Harry challenged her to arm wrestle. She didn't dislike him that much anymore. She sensed something like a innocent naivete to him, even though she knew he'd killed. He might still be dangerous to others, but as long as he didn't trouble her...

  She slammed his hand down in under five seconds, wanting to show him the strength a woman could have. Benson mocked him as he complained about his elbow slipping, and Trent suppressed a laugh.

  "Strong enough, huh?" Trent asked, walking over while she returned to eating a biscuit by the campfire and Harry nursed his sore arm. "You don't look so big. Where do you hide all your muscles?"

  "I don't. They're not that big. Just efficient." And she knew that most people, even trained fighters, couldn't
regularly tap into their bodies' full potential. She, having been through so many desperate encounters against foes no human was designed to face, had gotten used to doing so.

  "Think you could take me on?"

  "In armwrestling? You might still be a little too big for me."

  He gave her a dubious look. "So, what do you plan on doing when this quest of yours is over? Ever think about settling down?"

  "I don't know if it's ever going to be over. There'll always be werewolves, won't there? So no, I haven't thought about it."

  Trent put an arm around her shoulders and sipped at the wineskin in his other hand. "It's not good for anyone to grow old alone."

  "I'm young. I still have plenty of time to think about it. What about you? You're not that young and I don't see a woman with you."

  "I try. Things just haven't worked out yet. So what happened to set you on this mission of vengeance, anyway? I've heard that your grandmother was killed—sorry—but a lot of people lose family members and don't become werewolf hunters. And how did you survive?"

  "I survived by bashing the wolf's brains out with a silver candlestick after I found it munching on my grandma's guts. I was small, so that was the first time I learned how vicious I could be. My village was... very old-fashioned, and believed me to be tainted even though I didn't get bit. I did get clawed up a little. So even though my mother begged and pleaded for it not to happen, my father cast me out. My mother decided to go with me, only to fall ill and die soon after. So, it's become everything to me to make these monsters pay for what they did to me and my family."

  He tried to wipe tears from her face, but she brushed his hand away. She wasn't ready to let him touch her yet. "So you're an only child?"

  "No, I have a sister. But my mom figured I wouldn't be able to take care of myself, so she went with me and left her with him. She shouldn't have, though..."

  "What about your father? Do you blame him?"

  "I did. But not anymore. Why blame him, if he didn't know any better? My village's beliefs were idiotic—don't know if they're still that way now—but they didn't want to kill anyone. The beasts are the ones who murder and should be made to pay."