Fairly Wicked Tales (31 page)

“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?

The noises grew louder and he reluctantly turned to discover what made the sound. Perhaps the wolf had come back for more.

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
[email protected]
.

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.

“Grup!”

“Man the Bridge. Protect the …” His mumbled words faded.

“I’ve got you, little brother.”

Mort tried to lift his hulking brother, but Grup was too heavy. He attempted to drag Grup by his one arm, then his legs, and finally by rolling Grup’s body over the bridge. Nothing Mort did to move his wounded brother worked. Instead, he tore strips from his own, mildly clean tunic and used them to form a tourniquet around Grup’s bloody stump. He struggled to remember what little he’d been taught of battlefield medicine. He quickly covered the cuts and gashes. Once he staunched the blood, Mort grabbed Grup’s sword and stood guard. The battle moved off the bridge and into the fields. More screams echoed into the night to replace the dwindling sounds of ringing metal. Soon only moans from wounded soldiers resonated under the grotesque crunching of the creature feeding on younglings. The world grew fuzzy and distorted. Mort’s vision swam as the sounds of the creature’s slurping greed continued to attack his psyche. The point of the sword fell to the ground as he tried to keep the images of the field being devoured out of his head. No matter how hard he tried, unconsciousness crept up on Mort until oblivion took him.

Day 2:

After what seemed only an instant, a booted foot gave Mort a stiff kick to the gut. Mort still held the hilt of the sword in an iron grip. A second kick brought all the terror of the night to the surface. Wild eyed, Mort growled as he arced the blade in the direction of the kicking boot.