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NOTE: These stories are
intended for a mature audience.

Second Round
A Vorare story
By
Ivan Ewert
Start at the beginning of the Vorare series

Gordon's head shot up at the howls from the wood. "What's that?"

"The hounds," said the Ally. "They have a scent and a sound."

"It can't be the Hand. We set it off less than ten minutes ago."

"The howls come from the other side of the forest. Listen," said the Ally with a hint of satisfaction, "listen to them! Like wolves, or children . . . such love in those voices."

"Don't get sympathetic."

"I am anything but."

Gordon stared into the darkness, watching as the lights of Ghoulish hunger remained still and steady. "They're not following. None of them."

"It is a small pack as well. Far from its full complement."

"All right. If there's something else getting in their hair tonight, so much the better for us." He descended from the branches of the old moss-covered oak and took up the four kerosene cocktails at the base, then ran in a crouch toward the direction of the Farm.

***

Agam and the hounds trailed behind George, the dogs setting up brief whines of protest whenever the tiny wendigo rustled beneath the upturned collar of his jacket.

"Shut them up."

"They're quiet enough, George. I wouldn't worry too much about them."

"Don't worry about near enough. Quiet now. We're close." The wind-spirit crawled to the front of his neck and lifted its insubstantial hands, jets of cool air playing across George's chapped lips. With a smile, he opened his mouth and allowed the creature to crawl inside, curling in endless motion like a shrew within its nest. It purred quietly, sensing all that was to come, and watching for its first chance to taste the soul of one departed.

Agam nodded, stroking the neck of the lead dog and scratching at the spot where its collar had been. They'd removed them all, left them beneath the tree where their former pack leader lay in bloodied pieces, sending their false and meaningless songs back to the tracking station at the Farm.

***

"Send the rest of them out," said the Master Farmer, staring into the bonfire.

"Don't know that's a good idea." Brother Andrew put his hands into his pockets. "Least not alone."

The Master Farmer turned slowly and raised one calloused hand, placed it on the back of Andrew's neck. "Listen. We don't eat until the time is right. We're no more than men now. That means we use what we've got, hear? That means the dogs."

"Six of them dead already, I don't know what another eighteen will do."

"Six is nothing. Nothing. Eighteen makes a pack. They can do more than you think, Brother, and they will. We need these things gone."

"Send some of us behind them, then. We've got the hunting goggles - night vision's covered. We've got the guns and the ammunition to spare. Whatever did for the first six dogs isn't using none such."

"How do you know?"

"Didn't hear a shot fired."

"But how do you know?" The Master Farmer tightened his grip. "Might not need guns for the dogs. Might be happy enough to use them on you. No. We stay here and the dogs do their work. Every man I lose in those damn woods is a man who don't stand to defend the women here."

Andrew looked as if there was more say, but he nodded slowly. "All right," he said. "I'll send them out. More collars?"

"All of them. Quick as you can, now."

***

"That way," whispered the Ally, "bring the Hand - over by those toadstools."

Gordon stopped where he stood and whistled softly. The Hand crawled toward him, moving more quickly now, as though it had learned the art of locomotion or somehow understood their urgency. It lifted two fingers and hooked into the cuffs of Gordon's pants, sending another shudder through him.

"On? Good," he whispered, "I can't carry it and the bottles alike."

"This will suffice."

"Glad to hear it."

He continued to run, bearing one demon beneath his skin, another clinging to his leg. Though it no longer referred to him as a host, it was a role Gordon now had to accept. No other title would be fitting for him any longer, not after the events of the evening.

"We're close - I see the edge of the woods."

"Good. Release it," said the Ally, and the Hand leapt of its own accord from its perch, racing to the wooden rail fence which marked the boundaries of the Farm, the edge of the wilds they could never trust.

***

"Master Farmer!" The call came from the second story of the farmhouse, where a woman leaned from the window. A pair of headphones sat askew atop her pelt-brown curls, and she waved a hand quickly to attract his attention.

"Fence?" The Master Farmer strode toward the house, watching the light of the bonfire play across her rounded cheeks, turn her tanned face ruddy in the darkness. Will she survive, he wondered, if this plays out?

"Yes, Master Farmer." She pointed toward the east. "Something's there, maybe squirrel sized. Another one man-sized behind it. I wouldn't mention the first, only ..."

"Doing fine, Sister Marjorie. Good work. Back to it now." He moved toward the kennels, calling out, "Brother Andrew! Hold the dogs!"

***

"Hold the dogs," growled George.

"They're fine."

"Not f'r long," he muttered, the wendigo impeding his speech. "Hold 'em."

"What makes you so ?" Agam raised an eyebrow as the lead dog set up a strained whine of excitement. "All right then. Down, boys. Good boys." He crooked a finger, motioned for them to lay down. The hounds obeyed, but all had now picked up that same soft whine which threatened to erupt at any moment.

"That's how it is," sighed Agam. "All right, boys. Home. Home!"

"What?" George turned to watch as the dogs coursed past him, parting around his legs like a river around jutting stones. "Why?"

"Chaos," said Agam with a smile. "You'll love it. Let's go."

***

The Master Farmer saw them first, watched their dark shapes bound toward the bonfire.

"Andrew! Hold the kennel!"

It was too late. The kennel had been opened, Andrew and two others collaring the final dog, when they streamed out of their den to greet their returning mates. The two streams clashed briefly, as the five who obeyed only the song of Agam streaked toward the bonfire with nothing else in their minds.

Confused, the remaining pack set up loud barks which drew the attention of the entire Farm. All eyes watched in fascinated horror as the five dogs raced directly into the sacred bonfire, their howls an insane counterpoint to the joyful barks of puppies at play. They seized sticks ablaze in between blistering lips, raced from the fire and chased one another through the crowd of Ghouls, now racing backward from the spectacle and the heat.

"Shoot them!" The Master Farmer called out with all the strength in his lungs. "Shoot the dogs! Everybody back!"

The first shot went low, scattering dirt and leaves from the side of the house - the second was wide and splintered the wooden frame of a first-story window.

"The dogs! Get in close, damn it!"

***

Gordon vaulted the fence and sprinted toward the bonfire, his face set, the edges of his wound now seeping that strange blood in its excitement. The Ally was laughing beneath the skin, making more noise than Gordon had ever heard before, more than he had thought possible. The words were unintelligible, the sounds of a storm brewing in treetops and carrion birds gathering to a battlefield.

He saw the figures drawing back, saw that two of them held rifles, facing the bonfire as the women and children drew further away. Gordon threw up his arm and let the Ally's voice drown itself in a stream of blood, solidifying into a spear as it pierced both the darkness and the rifleman on the right.

The scream of the dying rifleman brought his partner whirling around, firing blindly into the darkness at the unseen threat. Gordon lowered his shoulder and checked the man in the chest, feeling the heat from the gun barrel beside his cheek. The rifleman fell to the ground and Gordon lifted one hand, hurling the first of his cocktails into the fire.

The explosion sent the Ghouls running. Those who had lived through the last fire knew the drill - women and children toward the road, men to the defense of the Farm. They raced forward with rifles and pistols, a line behind them carrying fire extinguishers to serve as a brigade against the spreading flames.

"Right," sang the Ally.

"I see them." Gordon reached down and snatched a burning brand from one of the coursing hellhounds, held the second of his cocktails to its fire and hurled the bottle at the ground just ahead of the advancing men. The bottle exploded, sending a shower of burning kerosene across the Ghouls in the lead.

From the second story of the farmhouse came a cry. "Master Farmer! Nobody behind him - he's alone!"

"Hear," roared the Master Farmer, "Shoot him down! Shoot him down! He's alone!"

His eyes went wide then, and a grunt of shock escaped him as a sharp pain burst in his upper back, just below the ribs on his left side. He felt the warmth of trickling blood against his shirt.

A gentle voice came at the back of his ear. "No," said Agam, "there's nobody behind him, but he's never been alone." He withdrew the stiletto and wiped it clean with his handkerchief, allowing the Master Farmer to fall to his knees.

"Who ..."

"Don't worry too much about it," smiled Agam. "It was a lot of responsibility to put onto you. Now you get to rest, and won't that be nice?" He leaned forward and tousled the Master Farmer's hair as he had done with the dogs, then stepped back into the darkness.

"Now?"

"I think so."

George took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and prodded the little wendigo. It shot from between his lips and coursed over the Master Farmer's face, drinking in the dying breaths, devouring its first human soul.

The winds picked up, sharing in the scavenger joy, whipping at the bonfire and sending it toward the farmhouse. Sister Marjorie screamed, her round face vanishing back into the house in an attempt to escape.

Gordon turned at that, blinking against the whipping winds. "What's happening?"

"Loose ends, O child of mine, and wicked birds come home to roost."

George strode into the light, arms wide, the wind lifting his hair in a witches' nest. The hellhounds raced to his side, still bearing the flames in their blind skulls, their eyes having charred away in their mad play.

"Hello, Velander," he said. "You still owe me a meal."

Story and image by Ivan Ewert, Copyright 2008