The Story of Bat Canyon, part 2

The sheriff and preacher both mounted up, wearing their rain dusters and with their weapons loaded.  The preacher tucked his heavy brass cross into an inner pocket and they set off.  They rode side by side, neither man talking.  The sheriff's eyes were hard as they rode.  The preacher guessed he was having the same misgivings: facing an unnatural creature of ability unknown to them.

The clouds overhead continued to race, but growing thicker and heavier.  The sun had passed the peak of noon and the sky grew darker.  The steady drumming of horse hooves was the only sound for a while.

"If Smith is one of these things," the sheriff said, "how do we kill him?"

The preacher looked up.  "Easiest way is out," he said.  "The other common ways are to put a wood stake through the heart or taking his head off.  I don't know if anything else will work.". He thought for a moment.  "Some stories say the heart thing doesn't have to be a wood stake, but then it won't kill him that case either."

The sheriff twitched his moustache for a moment.  "Reckon we go with the most likely, then.  Take the head off.  That kills most things pretty dead.  Question is, what will do it.". He took a deep breath.  "Maybe he's got an axe for splitting wood."

"You think that he has something around that will be so good at killing him?"

"We own guns, don't we?"

The preacher stopped and smiled briefly.  “I take your point.”

As they rode away from town towards the ridge where Bat Canyon lay, the sheriff started turning north.  The preacher turned to match pace, but turned and looked at the older man.

“It’s been dry, so we don’t want to go straight in.  Dust cloud will be easy to see from miles out.”  The sheriff patted his eight gauge.  “We don’t have the kind of range that we might in that case.  I’m no good shot with a rifle no way.”  They rode on quietly.  “I figure we can come from the edge, where the canyon cuts back into the hills.  It’s surrounded by cliffs and there are spots where we can hide out and watch.”  He paused, rubbing at his chin in thought.  “What about the symbol of faith?  Is that something that seems to work on all of them?”

“So far as I know, yes,” the preacher replied.  “But if I understand right, it’s not just the symbol.  You have to have faith in it.”  He reached inside his coat.  “You want one of the crosses?”

“I figure that’s your job,” the sheriff replied.  “If you can keep him back, I can put some shot in him.  Whether or not it kills him, doesn’t matter, it’s going to hurt.  Buy us some time.”

As they rode on, high winds began to whip around them.  The men’s long coats flapped hard, snapping with each gust.  The sheriff pulled the bandana around his neck up over his mouth and nose almost unconsciously.  The preacher pulled his hat lower and tucked his chin.  Tumbleweed blew by, just barely touching the ground until it caught on one of the scattered cacti.  The wind blew hard enough to howl, making dust rise all around them.  The preacher looked around, his eyes squinted against the grit in the air.  Waves of dust blew by.  He thought he almost even saw a cloud of more concentrated dust in the distance, but it disappeared quickly.

The sheriff reached over and tapped his arm, then gestured ahead to the rising rocks ahead.  They spurred the horses forward into a cleft, finally finding shelter against the wind.  The sheriff pulled down his bandana and dismounted.  The preacher followed suit and the horses whickered nervously, edging into the cleft, away from the driving wind.

“This is where I figured we’d leave the horses,” the older man said.  “We can reach the entrance to Bat Canyon on foot pretty quick from here, and there’s a sharp outcrop on this side.  Get ready, we’ll be heading in.”  He followed his own advice, slipping a round into the empty slot in his Colt and then loading shells into the double barrels of his shotgun.  The preacher nodded, then slipped his .44 from its holster.  He popped the cylinder out and filled into the empty spot.  After thinking for a moment, he holstered his pistol, then pulled off his hat and slipped his cross off from around his neck.  He looped the leather cord around his right wrist and pulled it tight, so his cross would dangle from his wrist.  He then pulled the large, bronze cross from his coat and hefted it in his left hand.  The sheriff nodded, pulled up his bandana and they walked back out into the wind.  

The crept forward, keeping close to the jutting stone of the cliffs.  The preacher felt his hands sweating, felt perspiration on his brow and nerves clenching his stomach.  The sound of their footsteps crunching on rocky dirt was lost to the howling wind, their tracks being blown away behind them.  Each and every turn the rocks took had the preacher holding his breath in anticipation, until the sheriff finally held up a hand and then slipped around the next turn.  The preacher tried taking a calming breath, and instead, uttered the Lord’s Prayer to himself before following.  

Inside the entrance to the canyon, the wind abated, cut off by the step rocks all around them.  The canyon was a box canyon that didn’t go very far back in.  The dim light from the sky was just enough to make out a farmhouse ahead.  Flickering light glowed inside one of the windows, and the preacher believed he saw slight movement.  

A strong hand grabbed him and hauled him aside, pulling him into a split in the rock . The sheriff glared at him.  “Standing in the open defeats the point,” he said in a harsh whisper.  “Now, settle in, we’re going to wait a bit.”

“What are we waiting for?” the preacher asked quietly.

“Not sure,” the sheriff replied.  “I’m thinking he’ll have to come out at some point.  I’ll let you know.”

The two men leaned against the rocks, trying to keep their breathing even.  The preacher felt something tap against his fingers and looked down to see the cross hanging from his wrist where it tapped against his trembling hand.  He swallowed a bitter taste out of his mouth took a deep breath.  The sheriff carefully opened the breach of the shotgun, checked the shells and quietly snapped it closed.  Thunder crashed overhead, making the two of them duck their heads.  

The door to the house swung open just after the thunderclap, and the man known as Mr. Smith in town stepped onto his porch.  The overhead sky was dark, the sun blocked by angry storm clouds.  Smith wasn’t fully dressed, only a pair of denim pants and boots, leaving his upper body bare.  He was wiping at his arms and hands with a white towel, but with streaks of red in the fabric.  He was tall and broad shouldered and walked with an air of strength about him.  However, his body was not heavy; it looked almost emaciated and thin, as if everything that wasn’t muscle or sinew had wasted away.  His skin had a sickly pale color to it.  His dark, stringy hair clung to his head and his eyes gazed out towards the mouth of the canyon from sunken depths.  

“I know you’re there,” he called out in a heavily accented voice.  “I guess the day finally came.  Let us finish this.”

The two men looked at each other, startled.  They were certain they hadn’t been seen.  The preacher swallowed again, even though his mouth had gone dry.  The sheriff looked at him and nodded.  They both shifted to step out and meet this creature.

Lightning crashed at the top of the cliffs overhead and thunder slammed down around them.  When they lifted their heads, they saw a figure walking to the mouth of the canyon from the winds and now-driving rains.  Night Sky emerged from the cacophony, his dark eyes glaring hate at Smith.  “Very well,” he said.  His voice seemed to carry like Smith’s, audible despite the storm.  

Night Sky took long, springing steps, moving forward.  The sheriff and preacher watched, their eyes wide.  Night Sky had come to face Smith?  And Smith knew?  That’s when things changed again, and more questions arose.  Night Sky’s steps ended in a leap and his form shifted, flowing smoothly.  His dark hair lengthened and his body elongated, growing longer and heavier.  His hands turned into almost large claws and fur covered his body, almost like it was meant to be there.  His face lengthened and white teeth flashed.  A large creature of canine overtones landed, slashing its clawed hands at Smith.

Smith had moved to meet the rush, and as Night Sky landed, Smith had lunged, shoving his shoulder into the other man’s gut and wrapped his arms around the body.  With a heave, he lifted and turned in a throw that rotated them both all the way around and slammed the hairy creature to the ground with a shout.  They landed hard, Smith on his knees and Night Sky on his back, yelping at the impact.  The indian didn’t waste time, lashing out with teeth and claws.  His right hand scored a slash across Smith’s collarbone, causing deep gashes.  Smith leapt back, a snarl contorting his sunken face.  The gashes didn’t bleed, and he paid no attention to them.

Night Sky had already rolled to his feet and dashed forward again.  Smith met this charge, too, going low and thrusting his hands at the indian’s body and upward.  The hairy creature went up with his own momentum and Smith’s strength, being slung over Smith’s head and thrown away, again crashing to the ground.  Smith followed and raised a boot to stomp, but Night Sky rolled away again and came to his feet.  

Smith snarled and spat in the dirt.  “You think to drive me out?  We are coming, and the likes of you will not stop us.”

“Come,” Night Sky replied, barely understandable through the long jaws.  “Come, and be prepared to die by the score.”

Again, they clashed.  This time, Night Sky had come in low.  He had his left hand on the ground, his right extended and caught Smith across the body.  Then, with a savage snarl, his jaws snapped, catching Smith’s right arm, just above the wrist.  Smith cried in pain, then gripped the back of the shaggy head with his other hand, pivoted smoothly and slammed Night Sky into the ground, head-first with the rest of his weight falling on top of his head.  There was a distinctly canine yelp of pain and Night Sky crumpled on the ground.

“Now,” said the sheriff.  They stepped out from their hiding spot together, as they had discussed.  The preacher stood in the front, holding the large cross and holding the pistol at his side.  The sheriff stood slightly behind him, to one side, with the barrel of the shotgun pointed forward.  The sound of their footsteps were lost to their own ears, but Smith lifted his head to look towards them.  He looked confused at first, then snarled.

“What do you want?” Smith said.  He turned to face them, his hands curled but not closed to fists.  He was leaned forward, bent slightly at the waist.  “You have ensured your death, coming here.”

“We do not fear you, undead!” the preacher shouted, walking forward at a steady pace.  “The Lord has sent a reckoning!”

“Brave words,” Smith said, moving in a circular motion.  “Yet, neither of you are close enough for the sheriff’s shotgun to reach me.”

“Watch it,” the sheriff muttered.  He’s circling, trying to keep you between him and me.”

“Isn’t that good for you?” the preacher muttered back.

“I can’t shoot him that way.”

The preacher stopped his movement, then headed back towards the mouth of the canyon, blocking the way out.  The vampire tilted his head slightly at the action, then moved laterally, trying to create another arc.  The preacher moved laterally to match him, but instead moved forward, drawing closer to Smith.  The preacher felt his nerves fade away.  The Lord was with him.  This creature would not harm them.

Smith took steps back, slowly, assessing the situation.  Then, in one fluid movement, he reached back to the pile of split wood he’d moved towards and flung one of the pieces at the preacher.  The sheriff hauled the other man down and the wood shattered loudly against the canyon wall.  Smith moved towards them in an instant, closing the distance since the preacher had dropped the big brass cross in his fall.  So instead, the preacher raised his pistol.  Smith smiled, then stopped, his eyes widening.

Beneath the preacher’s hand hung the other cross, dangling below the butt of the pistol.  Smith’s head turned, realizing how close he had gotten.  That’s when two barrels of 8 gauge buckshot hit him squarely in the chest.

Smith flew backwards and landed, tumbling over his shoulder to lay facedown on the ground.  The preacher and sheriff, both still seated on the ground let out low sighs of relief.  That is, until Smith pushed himself upright.  His chest was a mass of ruined flesh that still didn’t bleed.  The muscles were torn to shreds and Smith’s arms didn’t seem to hang quite right, but he still raised them and came forward.  The sheriff scrambled, trying to get two new shells into his shotgun.  

But Night Sky had recovered and dove on Smith’s back.  His long, canine jaws clamped down on Smith’s neck and his talon hands wrapped over the vampire’s shoulders.  Smith’s eyes grew wide just before Night Sky began to thrash his head back and forth.  Smith stumbled, staggered and turned, trying to slam his back, and Night Sky, into the canyon walls.  He slammed once, twice, three times, but grimly, the indian held on.

The preacher hadn’t wasted his time.  While the sheriff was finally sliding fresh shells into his shotgun, the preacher had grabbed one of the long shards from the wood at the canyon wall.  As Smith slammed Night Sky into the wall again, the preacher stepped forward, raised the wood and drove it through Smith’s ruined chest.  The sheriff’s shotgun hadn’t just shredded muscle, it had shattered ribs as well, and the improvised stake dug home easily.  

Smith went suddenly still, then began to pitch forward.  Night Sky hopped back, away from the vampire.  Even as he did, his body began to change again, turning back into the lean indian.  Smith’s body withered quickly, fading to grey dust.  Soon, a pile of pale ash lay on the canyon floor.  The preacher sighed, then lifted his eyes from the deceased Smith.  Night Sky met his gaze steadily.

“So,” the preacher said.  “It seems there’s more going on.”

“Yes,” Night Sky said.  

“I’ve heard of that before, being able to turn into a wolf.  Some call it a curse.”

Night Sky shrugged.  “Curse or not, it is who I am.”

“Have you fought one of these before?” the preacher asked.

“Yes,” came the simple reply.  After a moment, he continued: “I watch over this land against things like this.  Smith was stronger than any of these creatures than I have ever heard of, and a skilled fighter.”

“You could have told us,” the preacher said quietly.

“Could I?”  Night Sky’s eyes were hard.  “No matter.  You and the sheriff... I’m glad you were here.”

The sheriff walked up to them, shotgun still in his hand.  “He said there would be more coming.”

“He did,” Night Sky replied.  “That is why I’m glad you were here.  Not only for helping me, but now you know what is coming.”

The Story of Bat Canyon, part 1

“No, I don’t reckon I’ve seen this before,” the preacher said, standing up and slipping his broad brimmed slouch hat back on.  “This cow’s been drained.”  The carcass laying on the ground in front of him was freshly dead, but hadn’t started to smell yet.  The neck was open in a ragged wound, and there was blood on the hide around it, but not near enough to account.  

“See, preacher?” the rancher said to him.  “It’s unholy!  What kind of monster would do this?”  The older rancher stood there with his ranch foreman, pale and sweating more than the cool of the morning would have caused.  He’d sent his foreman to come get the preacher when the carcass had been discovered a little after dawn.  It was far enough out from the ranch house to not be seen easily, but close enough to scare folk.  

The preacher stepped back, reciting a prayer to himself.  He turned his head, looking out over the flat land in the cool of the morning.  The sun hadn’t risen very far, and the sky was a patchwork of heavy clouds breaking the clear blue sky.  “Reckon it’d be unholy,” he said quietly.  “But we also need some more to go on.  I can’t track worth a lick.  I’m thinkin’ we ought to rustle up the Sheriff, maybe even Night Sky.”

The two ranchers looked at each other.  The Sheriff wouldn’t surprise them, but Night Sky was a gruff Comanche.  He lived in the area, working as a tracker and hunter, selling pelts or helping find stock that had been stolen or people that had gotten lost.  He was unpleasant, but good at his craft, and his attitude rubbed some people the wrong way.

“Preacher,” the foreman said.  He had a carefully blank face, obviously holding up better than the rancher.  “What do you think did this?”

The preacher turned to them and considered.  He knew what it pointed to, but these men didn’t and he wasn’t about to frighten people.  “Not sure,” he allowed.  “But we’ll find out.”  With that, he walked back to his horse and swung into the saddle.  “We’ll be back in a while.  Have one of your boys make sure no coyotes or anything mess with it.”  He turned and rode off before he saw them nod.  Granted, he wasn’t very old, just shy of thirty, but those men were scared and wanted someone to tell them it would be alright and that they’d be taken care of.  

His horse’s easy trot back towards town gave him time to think.  He absently tucked his cross back into his shirt, thinking about what to tell the Sheriff.  Yeah, this seemed like a vampire.  He knew they existed back in Europe, and had an older clergyman tell him back East about a fight he had with one.  Tough creatures, fed on blood, other abilities depending on lineage or some such.  The older clergyman had told him bits and pieces, but he wasn’t sure himself.  From what he’d been told, some were like regular folk but stronger and faster.  Some could change into bats.  This was all based on what kind of vampire they were, being cursed into it, being changed by another vampire or something else.  Apparently these were all possibilities.  But why not say anything to the ranchers?  If they didn’t know what they were, they sure weren’t going to be settled after the explanation they’d demand.  What was for certain was they couldn’t handle displays of faith or sunlight.  You could kill them, but again, that was tricky.  These different types all had different ways of being killed for good.

He let these thoughts bounce around in his head as he rode up to the church and the house next to it.  He wasn’t married yet, so he tried to keep things as clean as he could.  He had a handful of sheep to keep the grass down, and he didn’t bother with planting anything.  He swung his door open and walked into his bedroom.  He pulled open his nightstand and pulled a heavy .44 revolver and holster.  After a moment’s consideration, he walked back into the living room, opened his rolltop desk and reached into the back, pulling out a large, bronze cross.   The old clergyman had admonished him to always keep something like that around.  He couldn’t say why, but he followed that advice ever since.  If the legends about vampires were true, his pistol wouldn’t do much good, but it would make him feel better.  As he headed towards the door, the clouds overhead rumbled, looking darker.  He stopped and sighed.   Then, he reached behind the door and pulled his long rain duster off its peg.  On reflection, he was glad for an excuse.  If people saw the preacher around town with a gun on his hip, they’d get nervous, too.

He swung back up on his horse and touched heels to flank, heading towards the jail at a brisk trot.  The rain clouds overhead rumbled menacingly as he rode up the main street of the town, but held off their impending storm.  The horse’s hooves beat a steady rhythm up to the door of the jail.  The preacher hopped off, looped the reins over the hitching post and went inside.  

The sheriff looked up as he walked in.  His gray eyes matched the iron of his mustache, but he was still of sharp mind and quick, steady hands.  Folk in town knew better than to push the sheriff too far, ever since about five years back, a gun thug had drifted into town.  The sheriff had come to tell him to move along with an 8 gauge shotgun in his hand.  The thug had tried to draw and ended up dying in the street.  The sheriff had gravel in his guts, but was fair.

“Preacher,” he said, standing up from his chair by his desk at the front of the jail.  “Don’t reckon I’ve got many sinners here for you to talk to today.  Night Sky and I were just havin’ us a chat.”  The preacher started, just noticing the other man sitting on the bench by the door.  He just sat so still.  

“No problems, I take?” the preacher asked.  “Mornin’, Night Sky, sheriff,” he said, touching the brim of his hat to them both.

“Good morning, preacher,” the indian replied.

“And to you, preacher,” the sheriff said.  “Naw, we were just havin’ a chat about the rustlers from last week and when the reward would be comin’ in.  Stage in a few days is supposed to have Night Sky’s payoff.  Reckon they’re goin’ choke when they see it’s going to him, so he came to make sure I was there.”  The sheriff looked intently at the preacher, noting the iron on his hip, but saying nothing.

“Ah, I see,” the preacher replied.  “It’s just as well.  I was asked out to the XK Ranch this mornin’, and there’s something I’d like the two of you to see.”

The sheriff and Night Sky looked at each other quizzically, but didn’t waste time getting saddled up.  As they rode out back to the ranch, the preacher gave them the bare bones description of the cow and what had looked to happen.  Neither of the other men commented, but they rode on.  He watched the sheriff lean down and slip the strap off his shotgun’s sheath on the saddle.  

When they rode up, the sky overhead had changed.  The heavy, dark clouds were racing overhead, still breaking up the sunlit sky, but rumbling with thunder.  A young ranch hand sat atop his horse near the dead cow, a rifle slanted across his saddle.  He waved when the three rode up.  “Mornin’,” he greeted them.

“Mornin’, son,” the preacher replied.  “I reckon you’ve got work to do.  After we have a look, we’ll let you know and you can do whatever you want with the carcass.”

“I’d let it rot, myself,” the young man said, turning to spit tobacco on the ground.  “No way anyone’s eatin’ that meat.”  With that, he tipped his hat to the three of them and rode back towards the ranch.  

Night Sky swung of his mustang and passed the reins over.  The preacher took them and stayed atop his own mount, offering to take the sheriff’s as well.  The older man obliged absently, his eyes intent on the body.

“You were right,” said Night Sky in a rough voice.  “The blood is all gone.”  He was carefully poking at the body with the stock of his rifle.  “Like something sucked it out.  There are stories in Mexico of some creatures that do this, but they mainly attack goats.”   He leaned down, his dark eyes suddenly intent.  “But those do not have human hands.”

The sheriff carefully walked up, walking a wide circle around to where Night Sky stood.  Night Sky was pointing at the ground where three fingers and half a palm had been pressed into the soft dirt by a patch of touch prairie grass.  “It looks like something with human hands pushed it to the ground and caught itself.”  He turned and looked, taking careful steps in his soft moccasins.  “Wait.  No, the cow wasn’t pushed over.  These footprints shift and smudge, like it grabbed and threw it to the ground.”

“How do you mean?” the sheriff asked.  “Like, what kind of motion?”

Night Sky stood up and took a few steps back.  “Something like this motion,” he said, planting his feet, then pivoting them, which caused his body to turn.  

“Hrm,” the sheriff said.  “I saw a wrassler in a show a few years ago did a throw like that.  Grabbed the other feller and turned, threw him down hard.  Said he was German or something like that from Europe.”

Night Sky examined the ground more.  He pointed out where the cow had been standing, how it had tried to start running when the throw happened.  The preacher silently considered this.  A blood drinking creature that had the strength to throw a big longhorn cow.  He sighed to himself.  He’d half hoped that Night Sky would mention it being something some animal like a cougar might do if it were too thirsty.  

“That is all I can tell you,” Night Sky said quietly.  “Now, I must go.  I have other work to do today.”  With that, he swung onto his mustang and lit out across the range, away from town.  The preacher and the sheriff turned back towards town, riding briskly to try and beat the rain.  Along the way, the preacher outlined what he knew of vampires and his suspicions.

“Did you mention this to the folk at the XK?” the sheriff asked.

“No, I didn’t,” the preacher replied.  “Didn’t think it right to get them all scared up.”

“That’s smart,” the sheriff said.  As they turned up the edge of the street, the racing clouds created wildly shifting patterns of shadows of the buildings across the street.  It looked like the dark figures were almost running from something.

“So, where do these vampire things come from?” the sheriff asked in a quiet voice as they walked back into the jail.  

“They seem to come from Europe,” the preacher replied.  “The stories come out of the areas near the Mediterranean.”  

“Now I know what it is,” the sheriff said.  “Did you ever meet the feller that settled out in Bat Canyon about a year ago?”

“No, I never did,” the preacher replied.  “Name was Smith, right?”

“That’s what he said.”  The sheriff sat down at his desk.  “Never thought of it ‘fore, but he’s right peculiar.  Speaks with this thick accent, can’t hardly understand him.  Only comes into town after dark or on days when it’s all overcast.  Bat Canyon ain’t a fit place to grow nothin’, walls are so high that the sun don’t shine in there unless it’s right overhead.  Fresh water spring, though.  But let’s consider what you said.  No surprise you ain’t met him if’n he is one of these things.”

Story of William, section 6

"Look alive, lads!" came the bellow from the rear deck.  "We have incoming!"

William and the other Andoly on the deck turned their heads not back, but to the prow of the ship.  Ahead, the other ships in the fleet were cutting through the choppy seas on the high winds.  But then sounds of metal ringing and shouts began drifting back.  

"Fishmen have attacked the lead ships, more on the way!"

William straightened his leather armor and grabbed his sword and shield.  The short blade he’d brought as a spare weapon felt strange to him.  But, he had heeded the older sailors.  No man in his unit wore heavy armor now, but some had adopted long weapons like polearms or even harpoons since stabbing wouldn’t catch in the lines.

And, with only the sound of splashing as their introduction, fishmen clambered over the sides of the ship.  Their armor glittered like opalescent shells and their weapons seemed to be fashioned from living coral.  Their gills flared out, creating crests around their necks.  But their stench waved over the deck, souring in William's nose and making his stomach churn.

He bit back the bile rising in his throat and stepped to meet the attackers.  He swatted aside a thrust from a spear and slashed across, cutting through the scales on its upper arm.  The creature's grip went slack and William drove his blade up and under the bottom edge of the creature's breastplate.  He pulled the blade free and turned as another fishman moved to strike at his back with a wavy-bladed sword.  

That's when Detrious' massive mace took the creature on the side, filling the air with cracks and pops as it flew into and overt the railing.  William stepped beside the big troll and they set about grim work.  William cut the leg out from inert one as Detrious swung high, turning the thing laterally before it every touched the deck.  Detrious smashed the neck of another as William trapped its axe with his shield and sword.

William noted the Jenar sailors around the deck fighting as well.  They favoured one of two styles: fighting with a pair of short weapons like William's sword, or weapons with long reach like polearms, halberds or even harpoons.  The other thing he noticed is that they fought together, in coordinated pairs or groups.

More of the creatures hauled their way up the sides of the ship.  William turned his body so the swing of a large coral axe sliced only leather and kicked the fishman in what he took to be its inner.  He assumed he was right when it gurgled in obvious pain.  That's when William ducked and Detrious unleashed a full-armed swing directly overhead and into the face of the creature, cruising the bony ridges of its face back into its head.

William turned, looking for the next threat.  Some remaining attackers were leaping over the side and into the water.  Their shop had held, by and large.  Men nursed wounds, but the warning had been enough.  That wasn't the case on other ships.  Some ships had rigging collapsing and one was ablaze.  The ship dashed forward into the fleet.  Jenar sailors threw lines to pull men aboard while William and his men stood sentinel against more attacks.

"Sir?" A quiet voice cut through the fog.  William blinked.  Anton was leaned forward.  "Are you alright, sir?"

William shook his head.  Why had he...  As the carriage moved, he brushed aside one of the curtains.  The coach was rolling past the fish market.  "The smell," William said, "reminded me of something."

Story of William, part 5

The ship slowly drifted up to the dock, the timbers creaking and the chatter of the crew drowning out other noises.  William stepped up on the deck, again fitted in his plate armor with his longsword at his hip.  He looked around, his dark eyes looking for familiar faces.

"Sir?" Anton's voice interrupted his train of thought.

"Yes, Anton?"  William turned to face him.  Anton was dressed in a vest and bracers of studded leathers.  He had an emblem of William's elk sigil on a strip of cloth tied around his forehead.

"What are you looking for?"

William took a deep breath.  "Friends, Anton.  People I know should be meeting us here." His gaze swept back to the crowd, scanning for people he knew.  But it wasn't a person that he saw, rather a familiar coach sitting at the end of the dock.  The emblem of his mother's thornes rose was set in the doors in bright enamel, unmistakable.  He turned to see Detrious lumbering up from below decks with chests in his arms.  Leaf came along behind, much happier to be docked.  The older elf disliked the sea, and had remained in the cabins.

"Leaf," William said.  He gestured to the coach.

"Yes, sir," Leaf replied with a smile.  "We will have the chests loaded shortly.  Why don't you go have a seat in the coach?"

William smiled.  Leaf would not hear otherwise, so he headed towards the gangplank.  Adovan had already disembarked, and stood at the base of the plank.  He wrote his plate as well, but had an emblem of William's elk pinned to his tabard.

"You don't have to wear that," William told him as he marched down to the dock.  "Neither of you," he said, turning to Anton.  “You’re very publically aligning yourself with me, and you don’t have to.  You’ll be able to go wherever you’d like once we get things sorted out.”

Anton looked at William, his young face puzzled.  “Sir, why would I not want with you?”

“If you hadn’t saved me from that camp, I’d be dead now,” Adovan said quietly.  “I owe you my life.”

William looked at the two of them, his throat feeling thick.  He couldn’t find the words, and nodded to them instead.  He turned and headed towards the coach.  He had only made a handful of steps when a hand took his elbow.  

He turned, finding a matronly woman with stately bearing glaring at him.  Her imperious nature immediately soured his opinion, but he strove for respect.  “Milady,” William said politely.

“You are William of house Stotts, yes?” she asked in impatient tones.

“I am,” William responded.  His desire for respect was waning quickly.

“You aren’t married yet.”  This wasn’t a question.  The way she said it was an accusation.  “That is a neglect of your duties as a nobleman and a disgrace.”

William saw Anton and Adovan start to step towards the woman and waved them back.  This wasn’t a fight to be settled by strength of arms.  “I have no neglected my duties,” he responded curtly.  “I’ve been fighting in the Army of Unity for the last several years.”

“Do not make excuses,” she responded.  “You should be married.  I am Lady Elaine of the Dentral.  My niece is of your age.  You will find her appropriate.”

William felt his hackles rise in anger.  This was the return he got after everything he’d been through?  “I do not find her appropriate by virtue of being your niece,” William responded.  He couldn’t resist the urge to be uncouth, and spat at her feet.  “You are unwelcome.”  

With that, he turned and strove for the coach.  He angrily threw the door open and stepped inside.  He was surprised to see it empty, but took the seat and unclipped his scabbard from his belt.  He leaned his head back and sighed.  

Footsteps and the creak of the coach’s steps caused him to open his eyes.  Anton carefully took a seat opposite him, looking hesitant.  “That... lady...” he said slowly.  “Her face turned dark, sir.”

“I expected as much,” William replied quietly.  “I insulted her and her niece very intentionally.  I doubt she’ll think much of myself or my family for the rest of her life.”  He looked around.  “Where is Adovan?  He’s not...”

“No,” Anton said.  “He’s at the door.  He won’t let anyone in.”  The young man fidgeted uncomfortably.  “I don’t understand.”

“I know,” William replied.  “I may have been a good soldier, Anton, but this world of polite society and politics is something I’m not good at.  That’s why I asked about wearing my emblem earlier.”

Anton looked back, meeting William’s eyes.  “I’m your man, always.”  There was iron in the young man’s voice that made William smile.  He looked around the inside of the coach and found the hangers beside the doors.

“In that case,” William said, “if you’re going to be an Andolman, you need to have a full uniform.”  With that, William pulled the two curved fighting knives with blades the length of his forearm from their sheaths, where they were kept in case of emergency.  “We can’t have a man of our entourage go out underdressed.”  William smiled as he handed the two blades to Anton.