Chapter 27. Don’t look at it.

  Sid didn’t even stop for a look back. He ran into the woods, shouting that name over and over.

  “Fenrir! Fenrir! Fenrir.”

  “Sid wait!” Abram shouted behind cupped hands.

  “Fuck!” He kicked a clump of grass. Ripping the roots and dirt with that kick.

  “God’s damn it Arieo.”

  He looked at his fuzzy buddy laying on his side. Those big full brown eyes looked up at him. The chest he keep in the back of the wagon was laying only a short reach from the bed—where was his mortar and pestle.

  “Haw-Haw.”

  Arieo asked for some help.

  Abram, however, was searching the area for his mortar and pestle. A beautiful bowl and tool he used every day, if not more. Because without them he was doomed. Yeah, he could get a new one, but how would he get back? Sure, Arieo could lead them, had he the willpower to walk that far. Without that mortar and pestle to crack the shard, this journey was impossible. Abram had forgotten his principles long ago.

  “HAARRRR-AAHHH!”

  Abram looked up from his position. An all-fours position. The man was now on his hands and knees searching through the taller grasses. That blood chilling howl was louder than earlier. It was getting closer. It would be coming here, and his scent was all over the grounds.

  “Shit.”

  He cursed, scrambling to a stand. He rushed over to Arieo, who was still braying with annoyance.

  “Ouch god damn it Arieo I’m tryin to help ye.”

  Arieo had kicked his master while he unfastened the traces. His master finished and Arieo could feel looseness. He kicked to stand, breaking one of those shafts. He didn’t mean too, but that howl out there was scary, he hated vampires. Never has he had the pleasure of meeting a Butcher. It must have been a blessing upon him by one of the Stallitusks.

  Not only that but he just got into a fight with a wolf. It was a close fight too. He couldn’t believe the teeth that little thing had—and Sid the sick bastard was just sitting there with it. Honestly if that wolf didn’t distract him with that wimpy scream, he would have kicked Sid’s ass too. How dare that man intervene with his with fight.

  Arieo shook his mane with fury. That black silk bloomed with a wave while the donkey shake.

  “I knows it Arieo.”

  Abram strained lifting the cart back to its upright position. Leaning against the railing he caught his breath, before looking at his ungulate pal.

  “He bes the one though buddy. We gots to awaken him.”

  Abram added with a bend. It was horrible posture for lifting, and he let the forest know when he straitened. Groveling to himself about his back pain, he hoisted that chest into the bed of the wagon. It was awfully heavy for such a little box.

  “C’mon buddy yer the captain of this vessel.”

  Abram said with a hand wave.

  Arieo hated the feeling of just the single shaft. He was a big boy. He liked having two long firm shafts at his sides. He liked the way those hard things slammed against his curvy hindquarters. Oddly two shafts were a far better experience than just the one, in his opinion. One shaft was just too uneven, there was no balance, just a single pulling at his shoulder while that shaft rode him. This was definitely going to ache in the morning.

  “C’mon Sid ran this way.”

  Abram tossed the broken shaft in the bed of the wagon. Grabbing the jagged splinters of what was still the speed wagon, Abram endured the splinters so his pal wouldn’t.

  “Haw!”

  Arieo was right. Sid did leave his sword and axe.

  “I knews yed come around Arieo. Lakora says he’s a good guy. Just give it time.”

  His master said, reaching for the axe and sword. He placed them in the bed of the speed wagon and studied the woods. Arieo flicked his tail with a woosh of satisfaction. His master nodded at the gesture. Again, that hand gripped those splinters, providing a barrier of self-damaging protection.

  Hooves caught the earth with a stiff thud. A quick placed trot. Finding that solid stance of grounding. Assessing the area with light stamps of confirmation.

  Soft hazel eyes confined with those of bold brown. It was a subtle glance. No danger. No threat. Just a curious look of concern.

  A gentle black leather nose tested the wind. There was a particular beauty within that sniff of air. The way those kind nostrils widened. Making quick marks along with the notes of unpleasantry. The delicate pink under that friendly white fur twitch with grace.

  There was even a glimmer of bliss captured in her batting eyes. The crusted goo that build-up and trail. It held a touch of poetic texture. That crunchy trail told of countless encounters. Narrow escapes. Even a memory of loss.

  The deer gave a brief study. None that required revision. She was well studied in the practice of flight or fight. Her ancestors fabricated the principles of the art.

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  There was a lingering aroma that would without a doubt flunk. A crud odor that would be a rising nuisance from the start. It could have gone without being said, but I’m going to anyways. It was hands down a failed exam.

  Tender breaths heave with distraught. This would have to be a quick lesson. Supplying the forest with rips of caution, each surge with elated indication. A white tail flagged with a vivid flash. A harsh release of air whistled, and the deer gave warning.

  Two smaller bodies emerged from the brush. Peaceful, soft and delicately tan. The two jumped from beyond that bush. Adorable little bodies. Each with four wobbly legs. Cute white spots freckle the backs of those tender babies. Each beckoning a precious bright white tail.

  Those delicate bodies pranced with a spring of fret. Dancing through the trees with an escape of true elegance. Singing that gospel of elusion.

  That mother could only hope they took note.

  This odd display of beauty calmed neither Arieo nor his master. If anything, it cranked on that lever of torture. More so for that cowardly donkey. It wasn’t his fault he was spooked so easily, it ran in the family.

  Mom was a scaredy cat. Dad was a chicken. His pappy, well I don’t think it be necessary repeating that word in this kind of context. Specifically more so in memory of such an old work mule.

  Actually—let’s all just dip our heads for a moment. Just a brief recognition of honor for Arieo’s pappy. That old thing just worked himself to death in those fields. Every day he wore that harness and iron plow.

  Some say he might have just been a descendant of the legendary Stallitusk. The old thing could plow fields over fields in a single day. Raising lush areas of wheat. Sugarcane. Potatoes.

  Whatever the hell needed a plow one was better off to believe it was that old mule that started the first field. Shoot he just may have pioneered the original star in plowing. He worked those fields until the moment that old soul was used to fertilize them.

  That was a different day though. Back before certain terminology depicting destruction of another had to be formulated.

  A tall, all that was left ear. Heavy emphasis on the left because it was all that remained. It quivered alone with panic. Nothing besides it to share that shake of terror. Only a nubbin with scab.

  That tall ear held a rippling chill. That nubbin scab vibrated until it bled. Dread pressured an icy sense over that mahogany head. An internal argument began to roil. Voices said look, while imagination took shape.

  Beautiful brown eyes wanted to peek behind. With each passing blink of time, the debate grew louder. Assumptions, anxiety and paranoia begged not too. While a mental battle of overthinking hypervigilance gave good reasons as to why not.

  Arieo held a flat stare with those demonic eyes behind the veil. Settling with a tight swallow. Before a new mental uproar started the next debate.

  Obsessive shadow-chasing that constantly put him on-edge. Compulsive overthinking that made him a jumpy boy. Was he schizotypal? Did his fixated thinking feed the echo of suspicion? Hysterical, or just mentally encased? Why did he let the whispers in the walls of his mind get to him? They could be walking with Sid right now.

  That big man ain’t scared. He ran into the wood. Dressed in only a single boot. Armed with only the most powerful mustache ever grown. Running for a ferocious wolf with big sharp teeth. Actually, that man’s thread of sanity was probably unraveling more than his own.

  A fraying string with loose withering ends. Diminishing that fragile twine holding the grip with reality.

  His master though. He must have acquired a new shiny star in unhinged, deranged or just bonkers, as he was the one chasing for Sid. Supposedly he could be a umm, …a Bear-King. Unlikely. His master says the bears is all hunted. How could one be the king of what wasn’t?

  Something moist tainted the air. Not just smell, but sound.

  Guttural. Intestine twisting sounds. Trembling with soggy flappy breaths. It was a saturated skin rippling sound that held a low roll. It was a gross drippy growl. Like a hungry stomach that was never satisfied.

  A hellish sound. Like a predatory croak. There was even an inflation of pure alarm in its breath. He remembered the stories his master told.

  ‘Its stomach be split from heres to here.’ Those words echoed like rust.

  Disfigured and scared. Ruining the fine polish of what once was. Just like that to the mental imagination of what was once an innocent mind.

  Underbrush thrashed, while low limbs snapped. Producing sounds comparable to the cracking of brittle bones. Crunching teeth. Or the chewing of a helpless donkey.

  Wings caught the moonlight while they lifted with a brisk beat. Others supplied a dreaded kraa. Filling the timbers with skin prickling anxiety.

  Insects chirped with menace caused by the movement of unknown. It was an awful rhythm that grew and grew. With each irritated chirp of the bug. To each snap of a limb. Nerves lift with each passing beat of the heart. A heart that was nearly stuck in the chest.

  He might have just generated a new dull star. A star he would have to name. Perhaps something along the lines of: thoughts stampeding in the corral of paranoia.

  His silky mane caught a rigid breeze of fright. That cool spook wriggled betwixt each fine strand. Leaving a brisk stroke in its wake, making that hair feel hollow.

  Shivering with a touch of the creeps. That lurching presence lumbered along. Continuing down through that stout neck. The chill ricochets from bone to bone. Forcing those muscles to tense with a tight lock. The tiptoe of demise snuck further down his spine. Cutting nips of panic prickled. Needling with promise for the long fade.

  His skin has never felt so clenched. That sharp skin made his harness uncomfortable. This is not how he wants to enter the pale crossing. His speed wagon was not ready. His traces were uneven. His harness didn’t have the padding he was working towards. And his shaft. Gods his broken shaft. Would the great Stallitusk even accept such a speed wagon.

  Arieo whimpered at the thought. It was a short pondering. Something in the distance was stalking them.

  It was moving not far behind them. Or to the left of them. His missing ear made his depth perception a little wacky.

  He could smell it though. It was purely that of an ugly aroma. Like a wound left open, only to fester and leak. Sour and gamey, it was a stench that bruised the lungs.

  Not just bruised but carved. That smell took its favorite dagger and etched a quote.

  ‘Here lies Arieo. A delightful snack. I used his broken shaft to pick my teeth.’

  Each scratchy cough he produced would refresh that scent. Musty and rancid this would most definitely be a smell that stitches a memory.

  A memory he would never fall back on, but one he could never forget either. It was a disfigured potency. One that would remain and remind with each coughing fit. A pungency of foul dripping decay. And right now it wanted nothing more than to beat that honker. So, it did.

  Jabs of macabre forced a cutting eye wince. While hooks of repulsive odor caused the nose jerks. Even an uppercut of malicious stank broke through. It was the grapple of miasma that got him though. It was a fetor lock that made those full eyes come to a bulge. He wanted to tap for submission. That spoiled suplex was far to much. He resisted though; he played it bravely for his master. Actually, fear had him in a panicked choke hold. He tried to look back for assistance. Hoping his master would call the match a draw.

  “No, no.” His master said. Pushing that nose forward again.

  It was a soft touch, a moist one but soft. There was a calming sense in that saturated motion though.

  His master always had that about him. He might have had a star in serenity. That couldn’t be true. His master could whip some ass when needed too, and not just his.

  Still—that sheltering touch held a nervous finger of guidance. His hand was clammy. Dripping with anxiety. Leaving behind a moist residue. A cooling reminder to stay true with their direction. It was a humid stain that never seemed to dry. Arieo felt that handprint linger with a chilling hold. It was a hold that kept his pace forward.

  “Ye don’t be needins to look at it.”

  That wet disturbance was literally only paces behind now. The sound—oh how it rolled. Shallow. Taunting. And deep with manic treble.