Warden (2 page)

Chapter 2

Stanchion Ward, the region that Errol was responsible for as Warden (or rather,
acting
Warden), wasn’t particularly large. It was primarily a farming community of about two thousand people. However, a good portion of it was nestled right up against the Badlands, so the people of the ward were quite familiar with the monsters that lived nearby.

In a perfect world, Errol would have made his rounds in a manner that allowed him to visit every area of Stanchion at least once per month. Thus, his goal was to visit each family and farmstead in his ward about once every thirty days.

Unfortunately, the creatures from the Badlands cared little for Errol’s attempts at organization and scheduling. They appeared randomly and without warning throughout his jurisdiction (although with a frequency that was disheartening), and as a result Errol found himself receiving messages about specific threats every few days.

This morning, for instance, he had visited the aviary and found that a raven had come in overnight from the Anselm farm. Hans Anselm, the current patriarch of the family, had sent word that a bladebeak had killed one of his goats. Thus it was that, shortly after breakfast, Errol found himself sitting astride his horse, headed to deal with yet another threat.

*****

The ride to the Anselm place was essentially uneventful. Errol spent much of the time thinking about the visitors who would be arriving at the Warden Station any day now and what their presence would mean. However, as he got closer to the Anselm farm, he tried to focus on the task at hand: dealing with the bladebeak. Anything else was a distraction, and out in the Badlands distractions could get you killed.

From his own experience, as well as studying the reference manuals, Errol knew that bladebeaks were large, predatory birds. About seven feet tall when fully grown, their underdeveloped wings rendered them flightless. However, what Mother Nature had denied them in terms of aerodynamics she had more than compensated for with respect to offensive weaponry.

First of all, bladebeaks had feet that ended in six-inch, knifelike talons that could eviscerate a man with mind-boggling ease. Also, despite weighing more than an adult human being, they were incredibly fast and agile. Finally, there was the bird’s namesake: a razor-sharp, three-foot-long bill that was as hard as steel, and which the birds wielded as efficiently as a master swordsman. In short, like most other beasts from the Badlands, bladebeaks were inherently and extraordinarily dangerous.

All this and more went through Errol’s mind several times as he approached the Anselm farm. Once there, one of the younger Anselm children – a boy about eight years old – informed Errol that his father was out working at the far edge of their property. Errol thanked him, and then headed in the direction the boy had indicated. A short time later, he rode up on Hans Anselm.

Thin and wiry, Hans was busy repairing a wooden corral fence that currently had a small gap in it. His shirt was off, and Errol noticed that – like many in Stanchion – his generally pale skin sported a generous tan, courtesy of many hours working in the sun. Within arm’s reach of the man, Errol saw a throwing axe, a loaded crossbow, and a quiver full of arrows. This was unsurprising; although most of the Anselm property consisted of land cleared for farming, not thirty yards from where the fence was located the terrain gave way to a dense and unsettling tree line that marked the edge of the Badlands. Anyone working this close to the monsters’ home was wise to have a full stock of weapons on hand.

Noting Errol’s arrival, Hans stopped working for a moment and reached for his shirt, which was resting on a fencepost.

“Warden,” Hans said in greeting, using his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Hans,” Errol said with a nod, unused to being addressed by title rather than name by the people of Stanchion.

Hans, however, was a transplant; he had actually been born and raised in a distant ward. Upon the death of his grandparents (the previous owners of the Anselm farm), there had been some kind of lottery within the family as to who should inherit the place, and Hans had won. Shortly thereafter, he and his new bride had moved to Stanchion and taken over the farm. That had been almost twenty years earlier, but – despite being welcomed and accepted in Stanchion – Hans was still stiff and formal in several respects.

“Come,” Hans said, dismissing with any further pleasantries. “Let me show you.”

Without waiting to see if Errol would follow, Hans grabbed the loaded crossbow, slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder, and then stepped through the gap in the fence and began walking towards the tree line. The Badlands.

Errol hopped down from his horse, hitched the animal to a fencepost, then followed in Hans’ wake. He held his warding wand in one hand and his Wendigo dagger in the other.

“Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered you with something like this, Warden,” Hans said, speaking as they walked. “Bladebeaks are migratory birds; they used to pass through Kaper – the ward that I’m from – all the time, and we rarely had an issue with them.”

Errol nodded in agreement, even though Hans was ahead of him and couldn’t see the gesture. Although bladebeaks might come near populated areas, they usually avoided contact with human beings.

As they walked, Errol noticed that there weren’t many trees between the fence and the Badlands. However, there was an inordinate amount of high grass that whipped back and forth like land-bound ocean waves.

At about the midway point between the fence and the tree line, Errol saw what appeared to be a small red mound of earth lying on top of the grass. As they grew closer, however, he was forced to retract his original assessment. It wasn’t red dirt that he was seeing; it was a carcass.

This was obviously the slaughtered goat that had been mentioned in Hans’ message. There was enough of the animal left for Errol to determine what it had been, but its death had clearly been gory.

The goat’s head had almost been completely severed from its body. Parallel claw marks showed where its belly had been viciously ripped open. Finally, huge chunks of flesh seemed to have just been yanked out of the poor beast. All in all, it appeared to have been the victim of a butcher gone mad.

Oddly enough, there were no flies or other vermin buzzing around the carcass. Normally, Errol would have expected a huge swath of insects to be incessantly droning and flying around as they attacked the goat’s remains. Even more, he couldn’t find the telltale signs of a struggle that would typically have accompanied this kind of altercation between predator and prey. Then the answer dawned on him.

“
It wasn’t killed here,” Errol said. It was more of a statement than a question.

“
No,” Hans responded.
“
I dragged it out to this spot.”

Errol nodded in understanding. A fresh carcass was likely to attract all kinds of nasty visitors from the Badlands. Hans had moved the goat’s remains out here in an attempt to keep additional predators off his farm.

Noting the ground around the goat for the first time, Errol suddenly had an inkling as to why no insects had come near the carcass yet. Etched into the dirt around the remains were some symbols that he recognized. It was clear to him what it happened.

Not only had Hans dragged the carcass from his property (a wise move under any circumstance), but he had also, as an extra precaution, traced a crude ward around it to prevent insects and animals from detecting it.

This wasn’t completely unusual. Most residents who live near the Badlands were familiar with warding to some degree. You couldn’t live that close to living nightmares and not know it. Still, Hans was to be commended for the actions he had taken.

“
Can you show me where you found it?” asked Errol.

Hans nodded and started walking, again assuming that Errol would follow him. A few minutes later they were back inside the fence, with Errol studying a well-trampled area of ground not too far from where Hans had been working.

“I was making some repairs nearby when I heard the goat bleat,” Hans said. “It sounded distressed, so I came running over. I arrived just in time to see the bladebeak carve it up. I hit the ground and didn’t move until well after it had fed and left.”

Errol listened to Hans’ story dispassionately. His attention was focused on the wide expanse of grass stained a rusty, reddish-brown by dried blood. This was certainly where the goat had met its end. And, as if he needed additional evidence, he could clearly see the tracks made by the bladebeak’s feet. Naturally, they led straight back towards the Badlands.

Errol sighed. It was time to go to work.

Chapter 3

Errol moved swiftly and silently through the heavily-wooded Badlands, following the bladebeak’s trail. Being trained as a Warden meant that he was a master tracker, and to Errol the route the monster had followed couldn’t have been clearer if it were marked with road signs.

For weapons, Errol had brought along his mainstays: his warding wand and Wendigo dagger. The wand was a tool that helped Errol focus his magic, whether in crafting wards or blasting monsters. The dagger, made from the bones of a legendary monster, was a magical item itself, and unlike any other blade in existence. Errol had come to possess it under unusual circumstances, and – although it had proved itself to be invaluable – it was still something of a mystery, even to him.

In addition to his wand and dagger, Errol had also brought a longsword with him, which was currently sheathed at his side, like his dagger. While his preference was actually for ranged weapons (crossbows and such), he had actually been trained in the use of a wide variety of arms and was proficient with virtually all of them, including swords. From Errol’s perspective, the bladebeak would already have a height advantage; with any luck, the sword (should he have to use it) would offset the monster’s reach.

Finally, Errol carried a bola – three heavy, metal balls attached to a thick cord. Along with his wand, it was one of the weapons that he currently carried in his hands at-the-ready.

As he advanced, warily noting every movement and sound, Errol tried to decide what would be the best way to deal with the bladebeak after he came across it. The bird hadn’t yet attacked a person, and his brother Tom had always been lenient under those circumstances; rather than kill such a creature, Tom would usually place a magical impulse on it – a desire to stay away from areas populated by people. It wasn’t until a person was injured that Tom would feel compelled to kill even the most dangerous of monsters. Errol, following his brother’s example, tried to operate in the same manner.

After about half an hour, Errol began to hear several odd but distinctive sounds, including a low-level droning accompanied by the cry of several species of bird. He knew almost instinctively what it was, and wasn’t surprised that the bladebeak’s trail led in the direction of the noise. And, as if he needed further assurance that his assumption was correct, his nose was assaulted by a scent he was all-too familiar with: the smell of decaying flesh.

After a few minutes, he came to a small clearing and saw, at least in part, exactly what he expected: insects buzzing ceaselessly around animal remains, along with crows and other carrion birds noisily trying to score a meal. What took him by surprise, however, was the sheer number of carcasses. There had to be at least a dozen of them, including deer, a dog-sized reptile, and even a wolf.

This was clearly the work of the bladebeak, as its tracks were all over the place. Even more, it was obvious that many of the animals had been dragged to this spot. The question was why.

From what he knew of them, bladebeaks didn’t operate like this. They were predatory birds, so killing was definitely in their nature, but they were – as Hans had said – migratory. Staying in one spot and accumulating kills like this was far out of character. Was the animal sick in some way? If so, was it contagious? Could it spread to humans?

Errol took a deep breath, trying to make sure that he remained calm. Whatever was causing the bladebeak’s aberrant behavior, worrying about it wasn’t going to make things any better. He needed to focus on the things he could control. With that in mind, he concentrated on what he’d have to do to eliminate the bladebeak as a threat to his ward.

Ordinarily, once he found a path or trail frequented by quarry he was pursuing, Errol would etch an immobilization ward on the ground. The next time the creature came along and stepped on it, the ward would activate, essentially paralyzing it. At that juncture, Errol could safely place the necessary impulse upon it. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure if the same
modus operandi
would work in this instance.

For starters, the bladebeak’s tracks were all over the place. It didn’t seem to have one set trail that it followed, so there was no surefire place to draw a ward where he’d be certain the bird would come into contact with it.

In addition, the carcasses in the area had attracted innumerable vermin. Without special preparation, which Errol didn’t think he had time for, any number of the scavengers might trigger the ward that was meant for the bladebeak.

While Errol took a few moments to consider his options and contemplate the best course of action, the decision was actually taken from him. Without warning, the air was suddenly thick with bodies as the crows and other carrion birds took flight, cawing madly. Likewise, many of the earthbound scavengers fled as well, scurrying away into the dense foliage of the forest, burrowing underground, etc. It only took Errol a second to realize what it all meant.

The bladebeak was approaching.

Errol quietly retreated from the clearing back to the cover of the trees. Crouching down behind dense foliage, he watched the clearing intensely, holding his breath so as to avoid making any sound. A few moments later, he was rewarded with his first glimpse of the bladebeak as the monster bird stepped into the open from the dark recesses of the forest on the opposite side of the clearing.

As expected, the bird was tall – at least a foot-and-a-half above Errol’s own six-foot height. Its plumage was a mixture of fiery red and snow-white feathers. Finally, its beak – all three feet of it, attached to a head that was as large as a human being’s and which sat atop a long sinuous neck – was both beautiful and terrifying at the same time. All in all, it was a magnificent creature.

The bladebeak lifted its head, seeming to sniff the air. For a brief moment, despite the pungent aroma coming from the animal carcasses in various stages of decay in the clearing, Errol worried that it might be able to smell him. He breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when the bird stepped over to one of the fresher carcasses and began feeding. Apparently it had been sniffing to determine the decomposition of its meals as opposed to looking for an enemy.

The bladebeak placed a foot on a deer carcass and bent down, hacking at the animal with its beak before grabbing a strip of flesh and ripping it loose. As the bird fed, Errol slowly rose up from his hiding place. He raised the bola up, inadvertently causing the metal balls to clink together softly but audibly. He winced at the noise, fearful that the bladebeak had heard it.

He need not have worried. Although the birds and animals in the forest canopy were being particularly quiet, at ground level the incessant buzzing of insects effectively masked any nearby noises.

Confident that he couldn’t be heard, Errol began to twirl the bola above his head after stepping out into an area where he had a clear line of sight to the bladebeak. After a few moments, he felt that he had the right rhythm and momentum; he released the bola.

As a weapon, the bola was essentially designed to wrap around the limbs of one’s quarry, entangling their legs and making it impossible for them to run. In this instance, Errol’s primary goal was to remove the bladebeak’s talons as weapons, as well as limit the bird’s mobility.

Unfortunately, just as Errol threw the bola, a mangy crow dropped down from the trees directly in its path. The bird didn’t get entangled, but it clipped the weapon, throwing it off-target and sending it tumbling into the grass just before it reached its mark. As it hit and rolled along the ground, the bola’s metal balls clanged together, sounding as loud as cymbals to Errol’s ears.

The sound made the bladebeak look up, screeching in alarm. It looked at the bola coming to rest on the ground near its feet, then scanned the area looking for the source of the weapon. It was only a moment before its gaze landed on Errol, who knew exactly what that menacing stare meant. A second later, the bird gave an earsplitting scream and charged.

Errol raised his warding wand, pointing it at the bird and at the same time muttering a word of power. A blue spark of light shot out from the wand, heading straight for the bladebeak.

It wasn’t a powerful spark – nowhere near what a Warden was truly capable of creating – but it was strong enough. It struck the bladebeak in the breast, knocking the wind out of it and filling the air with a barage of crimson- and snow-colored feathers as the animal went flying backwards. The bird went tumbling through the air, flung back across the clearing and into the trees, where it crashed through some mid-sized shrubs and hit the ground with an audible thud.

Errol raced over to where the bird had gone down, determined to press his advantage. But when he got there, he saw…nothing. Errol glanced around; he hadn’t actually seen the bird hit the ground, but he was certain that he was in the right spot. However, the bird wasn’t there.

Suddenly, Errol had a very bad feeling about the situation he was in. He put away his wand and drew the longsword, needing both hands to properly wield the heavy blade. The act came not a moment too soon, because the next moment he was fighting for his life.

It seemed like he’d barely cleared his weapon from its scabbard when the bladebeak, surprisingly quiet for such a large animal, stepped from behind a nearby tree and swung its namesake weapon at his neck. Errol barely got his own sword up in time to parry, and the sound of their impact as blade met beak was a ringing that reverberated through the forest, like metal on metal.

The bird’s neck swayed suddenly, and it stabbed its beak at Errol’s chest. He was only just able to deflect what would clearly have been a killing strike.

What followed next was an unrelenting flurry of thrusts and strokes on the part of the bladebeak. Jeez, but the thing was fast! In addition, it handled its weapon like a trained fighter – as if it had taken lessons from a master swordsman at some point! Moreover, the bird had practically taken Errol by surprise. As a result, he’d never really had a chance to properly set his feet and had been giving ground, retreating, from the first swordstroke as the bird pressed its advantage.

As bad as all that was, it wasn’t the worst part about this particular battle. What was far more frightening than the simple fact that the bird was a fast, fearless, and skilled fighter was this: Errol was getting tired.

The longsword was nowhere near his weapon of choice; while he had certainly trained with it (as well as innumerable other blades), he’d always found it to be somewhat cumbersome, with the advantages that it provided, such as reach and deadliness, greatly offset by the loss of speed and endurance. Thus, it was no surprise that – a mere thirty seconds into his battle with the bladebeak (which was probably ten seconds longer than he would have preferred) – Errol realized that he was in serious trouble. His defensive strokes (which were all he’d been able to manage) were getting slower, and it wouldn’t be long before he failed to stop a killing blow.

Suddenly, the bird changed tactics. Errol, wearily keeping his sword in position to ward off an attack from his opponent’s beak, was caught off-guard (and almost eviscerated) when the bladebeak’s foot shot out towards his midsection. He instinctively hopped backwards, contorting his body in the process in an effort to avoid the bird’s deadly talons. As it was, he was almost too slow; razor-sharp claws sliced through his shirt and scraped agonizingly across his belly. Errol grunted in pain, but stayed on his feet. However, the bird followed up its claw attack with a swing of its beak. This time, Errol – exhausted and hurting – didn’t even try to raise his own sword. Instead, he simply gave ground, shuffling his feet backwards.

At this point, Errol’s steady retreat had brought him almost back out into the clearing. Unfortunately, he was paying more attention to his assailant than his environment, and a moment later his right heel smacked up against a sturdy root sticking up from the forest floor. Errol went to the ground backwards, limbs flailing.

The bladebeak screeched in triumph, rushing forward and stabbing down. Errol abandoned his sword, rolling swiftly to the side to avoid the bird’s attack. He felt, rather than saw, that terrible beak slice into the ground where his chest had lain a moment before. He rolled again as the bird continued its attack, and – although the beak missed him as before – this time he felt excruciating pain near his spine as the bladebeak, employing its claws again, raked its talons along his defenseless back.