Red Creek

Respect the creatures around you, be they wild or tamed. Tend to them as you would the land and care for them as they labor. May your bounty be plenty, and your belly filled with their essence. Even in death, may they sustain you—the Book of Balance, The Sacral Compendium.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, a blaze of beautiful, chaotic crimson. But Maro didn’t care, couldn’t see it, or stand straight either. As tired as he might be, Bastard was far older and shouldered the brunt of the work. He’d alternated between walking and riding, the latter becoming shorter bursts in between long treks afoot. Soreness throbbed from his feet to his hips, and his back and neck ached something fierce from the prominent droop in his spine and lolling head.

That’s what two-days’ worth of sleep deprivation will do to ya.

But it also made staring at the ground easier. You had to find the bright side in the deluge of life.

He gazed down at his latest dilemma, just another trickle of shit in the flood of obstacles in his way. All the wagon tracks leading away from the ambush had used the single file method during their egress. Now, they fanned out and went their separate ways. He glanced at them all, and he could’ve sworn there were twenty wagons.

Damn. Can’t see straight.

Maro swayed on his feet. Though there was still a bit of light left, he could go any further, and he was sure Bastard would rebel if asked to continue. Maro couldn’t help Maribel if he wound up dead, either by stumbling into the gang with bleary-eyed delirium, or if his steed kicked him in the head for being an uncaring prick.

His eyes shifted to Bastard. Maro’s fortunes would sour if the old mount died, and catching the caravan on foot would be improbable at best. He had an affinity with the horse, a bond that got them through the hell of the Barren Frontier, and the dull expression staring back at him now dared him to climb up again.

“You’d mutiny, wouldn’t you?”

His horse didn’t deign to respond.

Damn, that’s how tired he is.

At the caravan massacre, he found a barrel with corn, and he let the horse eat his fill. Maro filled a few rough woven sacks, tied two to each length of rope, and put them over Bastard’s rump. He couldn’t carry more than four, not with all the extra supplies Maro plundered. Such encumbrances would slow them down and deplete his mount’s energy, being used like a donkey, a fair trade considering the alternative was death.

Maro turned, glancing out, but not really seeing anything. That peculiar feeling washed over him, when his eyes glassed over and nothing he saw registered. He shook his head, clearing his vision.

Focus, damn it.

Around them, there was little cover or concealment—the first rule of sleeping out in the wild, and he knew that better than most. A strip of bushes sat to the right, and a half dozen oaks grew clumped together on the left. Before him and to the north, the ground sloped up in a rise, and behind him, sloping away, was wide open, the trail they’d traveled.

Damn.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what to do, but mustering the energy was different. Though he hated to, he’d put Bastard with the trees, and he’d find some way to crawl under the brush and sleep. By separating them, if someone from the Lanton gang returned, they’d go toward Bastard, thinking him there.

Better remove all the goods from him so I can’t be robbed mount and all.

“Come here, Bastard,” Maro called, motioning him forward with a hand.

If his mount could cock an eyebrow at him, he would’ve done so now. But the horse didn’t budge, not an inch, not even a shift in his stance.

“Son of a bitch,” Maro muttered, more to himself. The horse’s ears twitched.

Grumbling, Maro walked over, removed the corn, loosened the girth strap, and pulled the saddle off. He tossed it as close to the bushes as he could, but sapped of strength, it landed a pace away, nowhere near his intended target. Snatching up a brush from the saddle bag, he held it in front of the horse’s face.

“You be a good boy and come with me, and I’ll give you a good brushing.”

An unenthusiastic snort was his only response, as if he didn’t believe the ex-soldier.

“Alright, fine, a half-assed brush. I’m exhausted, too, chap.” He grabbed the reins. “We good?”

Bastard gave a slow, tired bob of his head.

Leading, Maro set out for the cove of oaks. Removing the saddle before had been laborious, and he couldn’t imagine having to carry it the distance between the trees and shrub. The tack would be manageable, though. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Maro registered the heat of the setting sun, and for the first time in years, Maro felt warm, mostly due to his addled mind, something akin to being drunk and lethargic. It was kind of nice, not shivering with the cold chill turning his bones brittle.

He groomed his companion once they stood under the shade.

“I know it’s been a hard road,” he cooed. “And you’ve done a mighty fine job, but tomorrow’s gonna be just as torturous. We’ve got a little girl to rescue. Think you’re up for it?”

The horse’s head bobbed. Maro had no idea if the creature understood him or not, or maybe it responded to tone and not the vocabulary, but after all these years together, there had to be some sort of understanding, right?

A dog understands his master, why not a horse? But if Bastard starts talking to me, I’ll know I’m truly fucked.

After tending to Bastard for five long, excruciating minutes, Maro eyed the distance between the trees and the brushes, a mere thirty paces, but it might as well have been all the way back to Tepress.

He shivered from exhaustion. Gods, why was he so tired?

Maro hoped to find a better coat than his own among the wreckage, but he couldn’t lay claim to any of them. Most were either soaked in blood or too tattered to be of use, and the former was of much higher quality than his own threadbare cloth.

He blew out a breath.

Might as well get this over with.

He toted the bundle of tack he’d removed from Bastard to the bushes and dropped it, then hurried over to the saddle and corn and dragged it close. By the time he finished moving everything, his breathing had turned ragged, and blood pulsed behind his eyes.

You’re a damn fool, Maro. Running after this girl, and you don’t even know if she’s dead or alive.

More than anything, that told Maro how exhausted he was, the self-doubt. Maro didn’t doubt, he questioned. When he woke up to the tactics used by the army, what their commanding officer ordered, he still obeyed, but not without reservations. When those inquiries went from ‘is this the right thing to do,’ to ‘how can this be justified,’ it was time to leave. And he did.

But now wasn’t the moment for reflection and self-recrimination. Sleep called to him, exhaustion caressed him, and both touches were more erotic than a topless woman sitting on his lap.

And it costs nothing, too!

He glanced back at Bastard who stood motionless in the trees.

Poor beast’s probably already asleep.

He hadn’t tied the steed up. He wouldn’t run. Bastard was trained to charge into battle, not flee in fear, so if any coyotes came sniffing around, they’d get their skulls kicked in and trampled underfoot. The problem: scavenging predators roved in packs, but Bastard would make a ruckus so large, even Maro couldn’t sleep through it.

By now, the sky had darkened in rapid succession, the stretch of space above the horizon turning a steely gray. With a sigh, Maro shoved his possessions through the tangle stumps between ground and leaf, then crawled in after it. He might have to rough it, but with the use of a little ingenuity. Using a bag of corn for a pillow and making sure at least two of the pistols were within reach, he wrapped his thin, meager coat around him and drifted off.

When he awoke, he froze in place, his skin prickling with anticipation. Darkness greeted his eyes, and while that hampered most, the boon of fire was his since birth, allowing him to see in darkness as most folks in the day. Something lurked beyond the bushes, sniffing, growling.

Fuck.

Though groggy and tired, he remembered the pistols sitting beside his head. He’d shoot whatever came inside, but at night, the sound would carry for a long way and alert the Lanton gang—if they lingered nearby—that they had a close neighbor. If any grew suspicious, and Maro guessed they would, they’d come to investigate. But he couldn’t do nothing. He was at risk, and so was Bastard.

He wondered why whatever animal lurked beyond his sight came to him before Bastard. Maro glanced down, eyeing his possessions. Maybe the open bag of meat, or him? He probably stunk more than his steed.

Maro closed his eyes, focusing on part of his boon. While fire and heat played the largest role of those who had his gift, a smaller aspect was the manipulation of light—or the lack there of—and he shrouded himself in deeper shadows. He tugged on the darkness, swallowed up his supine form, sheathing himself in a tenebrous blanket. Then, carefully, and as quietly as possible, he reached for his flint and steel in the saddle bag.

It’d be the understatement of the century to say his affinity with the fire boon was weak, unable to call flame. If he stared down the barrel of a gun, and the only means to save his life was to blind the shooter with dazzling light, he’d be on his way to meet the Almighty Autarch.

And though he couldn’t call forth flame, the sparks were his to control. He slipped open the clasp, an almost whisper-soft of leather, and reached in. The contents shifted inside.

Damn it.

The beast outside stopped, having heard him, and the growl came back stronger. The sniffing breaths started again, and this time more eager, as if a tasty meal lay within.

Shit.

Maro almost grew frantic in his search. He didn’t care how much noise he made now. The animal knew something was in here, and the eagerness, the sniffing, searching, and burrowing deeper inside left him precious seconds. The bubble of darkness kept the creature from seeing its quarry, but it did nothing to muffle the sound or hide Maro’s scent. With a final effort, Maro jerked the fire starter free and up near his chest as a massive head pushed through the darkness.

Glistening fangs like ivory knives filled Maro’s vision, the dark lips peeling back to show a massive mouth. The growl returned, and Maro’s eyes tracked up the long, furry snout and into the luminous eyes glowing like embers.

“Shit.”

The growl tumbled out from somewhere deep in the creature’s throat, its lips parting, the teeth yawning open. Hot, putrid breath washed over him, and he fought the urge to gag. The fur rippled around the neck and shoulders, and death was only moments away.

He struck the starter, flint grinding against steel, and a few stray sparks illuminated the night, but that’s all he needed. Reaching for his control, he engorged the sparks. One obeyed his command without delay, the others dying a silent death. Flame shot out and engulfed the creature’s head.

The beast yelped and pulled back. Maro gave chase, the fire following the monster as it pulled free of the shrubs. Holding his control over the now writhing flames, he stretched it out to form a barrier between him and the animal as he crawled out, chasing the creature. There weren’t many options to ensure the beast didn’t come back, only fear or death.

Clear of the tangle of trunks and limbs, Maro stood to his impressive height, and for the first time, he witnessed the monster in its entirety. It was massive, all muscle and fur, and menace oozed from it like piss from a terrified soldier. Maro’s bowels turned watery, fear running through him like white water rapids.

Well, I’m fucked.

And that was enough. A dam slammed across his rushing terror, and years of training, detachment, and the will to survive clad him in armor.

I can do this, I can do this…

The beast took the form of a massive wolf.

It ain’t no wolf.

Nor was it a dire wolf, and both were bad in their own right. He stared across the flames, noting the subtle differences. Its long claws were hooked like a hawk. Black fur started at the feet and turned smokey gray at the spine. At the shoulder, the monster reached Maro’s stomach, but the long neck and glowing eyes gave it away.

A warg.

Once the realization set in, the terror returned, causing Maro to lose his control; the flames faltered, sputtered out and died, cloaking them in darkness. The eerie glowing eyes moved in the night, dropping lower to the ground, telegraphing the impending attack. Maro clicked the fire starter again, and he reached for the sparks, but it eluded him.

“Fuck.”

He clicked once more, and the embers faded before he could grab hold. Maro’s bowels quivered, and he almost ruined his britches. All went quiet, the moment when a hunter pounced on its prey.

Fucking Autarch!

Maro struck the flint and steel again. In panic, in desperation, he pushed with all his might, demanding, willing the flame into existence. It answered his call, and Maro flung the flame up, a towering wall stretching wide and high as the warg leapt. He ducked and rolled out of the way; the beast missed him, but its fur caught fire, enveloping its stomach.

Maro came to his feet, his pulse pounding, his breathing hard and sporadic. The warg thrashed in the bushes, yelping and rolling as the flames licked its underside. Maro had half a mind to kill it, to roast it alive, but he wasn’t cruel nor sadistic. Reaching out for control of the fire, he called it to him. The blaze leapt from the beast and into Maro’s waiting palm. A glowing ball formed in Maro’s hand, and he watched the warg.

Your move buddy. Run along.

Self-preservation was an instinct so ingrained in creatures, impossible to overcome. No matter how much training men had before they went into battle, some turned and ran, others huddled in frozen horror, and some hid. Now was one of those times where survival should manifest. Pain was a lifelong and instant motivator.

The warg made its feet, jerking in the direction of Maro, its glowing eyes low to the ground, its hackles rising, the rumble in its throat returning.

“Son of a bitch.”

The warg shifted, its paws facing him.

“I won’t be kind this time around.”

The warg’s shoulders trembled.

“Really?”

It leapt, claws extended, mouth open.

Maro flung the ball of fire in an underhanded toss and leapt to the side. This time, he engulfed the beast. When he made his feet, he poured his will into it, intensifying the heat. When the warg hit the ground and rolled to a stop, only a charred, smoking husk remained. It didn’t even whimper, dead before it came to rest.

“Damn it,” Maro said as the stench hit his nostrils. Its fur would’ve made a fine pelt and kept him warm at night. And the meat could’ve given him strength and several meals without digging into his reserves.

A tingling shot through the fingers of his right hand, and he jerked them up to inspect them. The tips under his fingernails turned the familiar blue-black of the curse. It was expected, but still, every time it happened, it always took him by surprise. He’d used his boon, more than what was natural, and he’d start to pay the price.

But he wasn’t worried, not yet.

In the past, he’d let the curse stretch to the middle knuckles before cleansing. No matter how much or little the curse spread, you didn’t turn your nose up at it, uncertain where the point of no-return came, where you’d become one of the Cursed. Now manifested, it’d spread quicker with each use of the boon.

He sighed, a breath escaping from his nose, and he let his hand fall to his side. Too awake to go back to sleep, he glanced at the eastern horizon, which glowed a fainter color than the sky above.

Dawn. Damn, it doesn’t feel like I slept at all.

Maro turned to the oaks. The whine of a terrified horse hadn’t awoken him, so either Bastard never saw the attack coming, or he slipped away like a greased pig squirming through the hands of a butcher.

Maro made it to the trees, and to his relief, he didn’t find the gnawed remains of his companion among the dirt and roots, but he also didn’t see Bastard.

Too dark to find him now.

While Maro’s sight was enhanced at night, it wouldn’t allow him to see as if through a spy glass. Maro wanted to call him with a whistle, but he still didn’t know how close the Lanton gang was.

Sighing, he returned to the bushes to pull out his possessions. Bastard was well-trained, and he’d come for the food. He’d return, or he wouldn’t, and fretting about it wouldn’t change anything. If he hadn’t come back by full light, Maro would have some tough choices to make.