Chapter 28. The Butcher.

  Ripples of terror raced along Arieo’s body. Each ran parallel with those noises back there. It was a blood-soaked noise. Grotesque. Spongy. Unpleasant lips, cheeks or some sort of skin undulated. Slapping with each release of that putrid hot breath.

  It was a heavy creature. The footsteps were pounding. They were bare feet. No protection at all. He could tell by the thump they produce. It was a slow and taunting walk. Gradual pacing, the kind of walk that likes to wait to attack. Tasting the air. Really detecting its prey. It was stalking them. It was him.

  He was a gassy boy, bloated by paranoia; and it would be the downfall of his master. He would be the reason for their weathering end song. That nasty ripple was getting closer.

  It was a steady stalking. One that lets the glutamate build. Growing an appetite with the taste of that rising fear. Muscles will always tense with adrenaline. Norepinephrine just tasted better with tension. Serotonin tried to play a role, and when it did, that was when the meal was best. Once that cortisol just couldn’t compute anymore, it was time to strike. Victims were just too tired to run any longer. Their bodies physically couldn’t produce chemicals to respond. No flight or fight. Just the unheard call of a dinner bell.

  “Arieo listens closely now buddy.” His master let go of that broken section of shaft.

  The jagged splints dripped with a fine cerise. He most definitely acquired a handful of splinters. Hopefully that pun was embedded upon the first reading.

  His speed wagon came to a saggy limp. He hated that uneven balance. Oh, how he missed that second shaft. The traces just didn’t hold the same with only the single one. That squeaky wheel shushed awaiting instructions. Full suspicious brown eyes tried for a peek. Only seeing that crimson finger pointing ahead with a soft demand.

  “No, no. Keep lookins straight ahead, just listens.”

  That goofy body quivered to the echoing churr and dripping noise. A slick rolling smack of predatory instinct was still trailing behind.

  That noise became steady. Supplying his heart with an erratic beat of fright. Like a metronome from hell. That growl even had a steady click of lip snarls.

  His mind's maze of assumptions began to perform a lovely pirouette of imagination. While paranoia supplied a beautifully haunting rhythm. It was a wonderful dance of delusion. Perfectly timed jete twirls of menace landing with thoughtfully placed balance. It was a beautiful act. Masterfully choreographed with toe points full-eyed shock. It was blue ribbon material, had he a taste for the art.

  That something back there though. Probably safe to assume it’s a Butcher. It had a nasty set of stars in fear. Polished sets in Terror. Buffed sets in Dread. Hell, maybe even the most flawless, glossy lustrous set available in Trepidation.

  Whatever it was it gave Arieo a chill. True jitters that rattled his legs. All four of them quake right to the bones. Knees wobble and click. Honestly those knees of his chittered with an odd reminder of a familiar trap.

  That shake of apprehension rippled his guts. Really gripped his bowels and shook them like an icy hand. It was an aggressive shake. The kind that was uncalled for. One that was borderline assault.

  He tried to fight it with a hip wiggle. Shifting those curvy hindquarters with stamps on anxiety. Flexing those unseen muscles. The ones that deserve more praise than what was given. Muscles that saved more egos and self-confidence than should be allowed. Amazing tight little muscles folks might not even know about.

  It was a strong effort, and a forceful squeeze to match. That handshake of worry though. It was too much. The grip was too tight. That bubble of concern popped.

  Motions were put into action. Gurgling. Sloshing? And a deep guttural rumbling. It was an internal change. A delicate movement that requires privacy.

  A pinch of nervous air squeaked pass.

  No, it wasn’t a pinch. That tight squeak of air had a moment in its own, and oh—how it sang.

  It was a high note. The kind turns heads before fading with a dramatic ripple. Like the squelch of boiling mud along a hot geyser. Arieo whipped his tail, embarrassed and ashamed. Attempting to hush that noise that continued to trail with a soft deflating whimper.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “I know yas just scarred buddy. Now listen. Yer going to run when I says so. Yer gon—for Sevens sake—Arieo P. what was ye eating?”

  Abram coughed. He could hear his master’s arm clearing the air. Subtle hand motions that fanned the stink.

  The fine leather of his masters’ boots stepped gently. Casual steps walking for the back of the speed wagon.

  There was a clicking of miniscule gears. Itty bitty springs popped and coiled. The sound of tiny mechanics were put into motion. Miniature teeth rotated with a grinding of aged clacks. The scrape of worn pegs slid into the correct positioning. There was a dull metallic release. That correct positioning caused an unlocking.

  Arieo was too frightened to watch his master. But he knew the sound of that lock anywhere.

  His master was fetching a relic.

  That tiny mysterious box held hundreds of them, maybe even more. His master had been filling that box since he was a child. Not a child as in Arieo’s youth but his masters.

  His master didn’t like to return the faith for the Seven. He would keep the items. Locking them away in that chest. Tampering with prophecies in the doings.

  Sometimes though, sometimes he just had to return one. He had no choice but too. Trading those mystical items for shards. It always filled his master with remorse, contrition, even a taste of penitence was there. Feelings he couldn’t really collect back.

  Sure, he could change, but ‘does it change the fact?’ His master would always argue.

  He wanted to save the items he found for ‘a better day,’ he would always say.

  Arieo never understood what he meant by that. Because eventually he would return to a town he was registered. Locating the church.

  Arieo would wait outside spitting on the children that ran by. Until his master collected payment for his find. Shards. Those were the typical quests they completed. Simple deeds. Things of request.

  Master collected ancient legends of faith and took shards as payment. Occasionally they would help the locals, and Arieo would get a bright and juicy apple, while his master received true necessities for survival.

  It was those communal deeds of decency that help polish the stars. But to continue, his master would have to trade that aura. A negotiation of astral diplomacy. Aura for sense. It was a poor use of aspiration, but it pushed his master. ‘It just be quicker this way.’ He could hear his masters words.

  That odd little chest though, it held so much more than just relics and deities. His master says it can hold everything. Even has room for the moon out there. It was possible.

  It was a mysterious chest. Completely looking to be crafted from driftwood and forgotten technique. Soft to the touch not just the skin but visual too. Looking to be sanded with scars of pure lore. Smooth like the weathered river stone and just as wise as the currents above.

  The breathing moss that bound its edging held soft whispers of fading legend. Inhaling new myth with each swallowed relic. Hell, even the seeping light that was exhaled. That glow drifting from the cracks radiates with the remnant of fable.

  One could practically see the sparks between a magicians’ duel. Listen in closely. One could essentially hear the clash of iron while a dance of blades echo inside. There was even a warmth to that glow.

  Not a burn, but a steady heat. Like a hot pan at the end of a bed. Warming the toes and feet. It was a sheltering heat. I know that’s a poor comparison, but it was a cozy glow. Nothing hot, nothing burning, just enough. Probably the most comforting thing about the wood right now.

  That rippling sound was drawing closer. Those heavy steps. It walked like Sid. Hard heels pounding into the earth. Like he was mad about the fact that he had to move those legs.

  This thing was not him though. It held a different sound. It truly was an ugly sound though. Right up there with Sid’s sleepy growl.

  Oh—how Arieo wished he hadn’t lost control. If that big guy really did take on all 6 of those vampires, he bet Sid would have challenged this thing too.

  Those big steps were so close. What was taking his master so long? What special item could he be seeking in that powerful little box.

  Arieo remembered what his master says about Butchers.

  ‘They gots no head either Arieo. Just flabby shoulders with outs their neck. It’s stomach be split from heres to here. Like some damned irate doctor gots ahold of its. Great saggy things, justs like Fannon himself. It’s chest. It be opening right downs the middle, like the maws into hell. They is a slow mover. They be persistent and that’s what makes em scary. Once they get a taste of yer scent… well shit ye might as well lay down and wait.’

  Arieo indulged in the mental showcase he baked up himself. He was already a bloated boy, but perhaps another wouldn’t hurt.

  It was a repulsive collection of thoughts. Coated with a rich icing of anxiety. So fluffy and airy. Each its own color of dread and worry. The awful flavor of that fright spread with ease. Gliding this way and that, directing a baleful wave of distasteful vision with each passing. It was a delightfully sour sensation that danced through the palate of imagination. Pulling on each chord of delusion. Each of those yanking strings hummed with a new vibration of thought. Dense beliefs of disfiguration. Like the crumbling mind of a mad man. Arieo fed into every bite of the echoes haunting his mind.

  The lid on that mysterious box came to a soft shut. There was a metallic bite, and that old lock was tight again. He was curious as to what his master had pulled. What kind of weapon did he wield. What was it he was going to slay this Butcher with. Sharp precision of the blade. No he would have used Maybel for that. Perhaps it would be the solid impact of a hammer. Maybe even the piercing of a true arrow. Or the repeating bolts of a Threading-Crossbow.

  “Arieo when I says sos, yer goin to run straight aheads. Keep the way ye was walkins already. Stallitusk is around the mountain. Just follow the mountain buddy. I’ll find yas. Ye knows I will. I finds everythi--"

  “HAARRRR-AAHHHH!”

  “Nows Arieo! Go! Go! Gets outta here!”

  “Haw!”