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NOTE: These stories are
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Final Fights
A Vorare Story
By
Ivan Ewert
Start at the beginning of the Vorare series

"George," said Gordon.

George laughed, delighted. "Yes. My name."

The Ghouls set alight were writhing on the ground, screaming as the flaming gasoline stuck to clothes, melted flesh. With their leader dead and the women and children running for the road, the unholy sight of the burning, barking dogs and the shriek of the winds ? the remainder broke, clutching their guns and racing after their wives and children.

A shrill whistle broke from behind Gordon then, snapping his head around in unthinking reaction. He saw it then, the brightest light in the darkness, a figure so illuminated by his hunger that its starlit glow dazzled him.

Agam's whistle set the hellhounds into crazed motion once more. They bounded after the panicked Ghouls, coursing across the dark fields toward the road, and civilization. The few hounds could not expect to destroy them all, thought Gordon, but he stepped back several paces to keep both Agam and George in his field of vision.

The Master Farmer's body lay slack and soulless as the wendigo spiraled up from between his pale blue lips. No longer so small, the whirlwind seemed to hesitate a moment above its victim, hanging before Agam as if measuring the creature it had feared so before feeding. Agam raised his right eyebrow, shaking his head in condescension, and the wind moved slowly toward George once more.

"Remember being friendless, Velander? Nothing. Nothing but each other." George began walking sideways, to get around Gordon and place him once more in between himself and Agam.

"I remember that you tried to kill me once already," said Gordon. He continued stepping backwards, away from the burning fire. None of the buildings had yet been touched by his makeshift explosives, one of which he still clutched behind his back.

"No," said George eagerly. "Save you."

"By eating me, and going on alone."

"No peace. No joy. No hope. No love, Velander. Nothing worth living for."

"The man makes a point," said Agam. He hadn't moved from his spot above the Master Farmer, allowing George to work at corralling their prey. "There wasn't much to live for, Gordon."

"Yeah? I thought so too, for a while." Gordon turned on his heel and began walking slowly backward as George passed to a point where he could no longer watch both men. George snickered and stepped forward, clearly enjoying the game, the wendigo close behind his left shoulder.

"I tried to kill myself after you failed, George, for just that reason; but I don't believe that's why you made your choice. You were hungry, that's all - hungry and desperate and animal."

"Hungry," agreed George, even as he shook his head in denial. "No animal."

"You were, George. An animal who'd lost its mind and forgotten its duty." Gordon continued to retreat, backing toward the bonfire. He could feel the roaring heat against his back now, felt the frayed rag which dangled from the bottle of gasoline tickle the back of his hand.

"No," said George. He picked up his pace at that, moving in for the fight.

"Forgotten its name," said Gordon, smiling now with the certainty of one who holds all the cards. "Its name."

"My name! George! My name!" George shouted. He broke into a run now, intending to rush Gordon, to throw him to the ground and sink his teeth into the man who taunted him so.

Gordon turned and held the rag to the bonfire, barely catching it before snatching his hand back and twisting his body to throw the bottle at George.

The wendigo howled, and the flames of the bonfire rushed backward. The bottle flew to the side, knocked from its path by the breath of the cannibal wind-spirit, lifted and spun in the air until it crashed against the side of the nearby barn.

Burning gasoline spread across the wooden barn, paint peeling and blistering, and for a moment Gordon wanted nothing more than to halt the fight and simply watch that place burn. He remembered Sylvie kneeling before the chopping block in that barn, remembered being frog-marched into the pen from its doors, remembered the meaty sound of an axe against flesh echoing from its walls.

George would not be denied. His hand grabbed Gordon's collar and pulled him close, his other hand coming to take hold of his hair. Gordon's hands went up instinctively to ward off the attack, a chill trickle of blood beginning to seep from his wound. He blocked the blow to the head and wrenched backward to escape the grip on his collar, tearing the thin material of his shirt.

He reached his own hand forward, and a spray of thin and watery blood gushed from his arm into George's eyes. With a cry of surprise George let go of the shirt, bringing his hands to wipe away the fluid, and Gordon shot his arm forward again to launch a spear of blood.

The wind smashed against the back of his knees, forcing him to throw his weight back and toppling him to the ground. The bloody weapon shot uselessly into the sky before the shrieking of the wind picked up in intensity and then, without warning, ceased.

The pressure of the wind which had held him to the ground was gone, vanished into the air. The sudden lack of noise intensified the roar of the burning barn, allowed them to hear the distant baying of the hellhounds.

"Hey!" George shouted, his face streaked with blood but his vision cleared. "Hey!" He turned in place, looking into the night sky, searching for a sign of his ally.

Agam stepped forward, his jacket now thrown casually over his shoulder. "You wanted him for yourself, George - isn't that what you made me promise? You can thank me later."

George howled at that, an animal sound pealing through the night. "Why? Why?"

The laugh was pleasant enough. "I don't like it when animals get too clever. So go on, George. Kill him."

The bloody spear burst through George's side, piercing him from behind. The howl intensified, edged with pain and fear - and spiraled on, unceasing, without stopping for breath.

Gordon grabbed him and threw him to the ground, standing over him, keeping the body between himself and Agam. George continued screaming, a horrible sound that seemed to have no end in sight. Gordon's face contorted as he lifted his arm to form another spear, and he drove it into George's chest, pinning him to the frozen ground.

The screaming did not stop.

"Die," shouted Gordon, "Please, please ? stop it! Stop it, just die!"

"He cannot," said his Ally, dribbling blood across the ground. "He cannot die, O my child."

"Why not?"

"I don't break my promises," said Agam, stepping forward, "and he made me promise not to let him die." He shook his head. "It's a tricky thing, dealing with our kind. If you're foolish, you're guaranteed to die. If you're too clever, well, things get much worse."

He smiled then, watching the burning building. "And now, we're in a position to find out how clever you think you've been."

"Our debt's over," said Gordon. "I gave you a name, you gave me my papers. That was the deal."

"I wasn't talking to you, Gordon."

The edges of the wound fluttered with agitation, still scattering blood.

"Make yourself useful if you're going to leak, and fill George's mouth, will you? I don't mind the screaming but it's going to make our discussion considerably more difficult than it needs to be."

"I do not take orders from you or yours," hissed the Ally.

Gordon stepped backward as Agam advanced. "Stay back," he said, bringing a chuckle from Agam.

"I certainly don't take orders from hosts."

"Stay back ? Agam," said Gordon, remembering his reaction in the diner. Just as he had then, Agam flinched, but it was a slight movement. When he turned again, the shadows of the fire seemed to extend around him, making him seem somehow taller than the shape he wore.

"Gordon," he said, in a reasonable tone, "that is a single mention of my name today. It is the second time it's left your lips in my presence since our acquaintance. I would not speak it again, because ? for now ? I honestly have less than no interest in you. It's your little friend I want words with, and if you stay out of this matter, you might actually walk away whole. You might even walk away ? alive."

He motioned to George's body, writhing and desperate. "If you insist on pressing the matter, well ? that's your choice."

There was no sign of a lie spoken, no tightening of the forearm, no sign at all from his Ally. But then, Gordon thought, it might just want me to believe this.

Agam moved a single step forward, then stopped again. "As I said, we're in a position to find out how clever you think you've been. Little nameless spirit, little formless wound, little portal of pain, you have overstepped your best interests by a wide margin indeed."

Story and image by Ivan Ewert, Copyright 2008