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  "Nibelung," Emmett invoked the name in a whisper that held more power than the loudest war cry.

  The slivers of starlight that had managed to force their way into the building now began to change direction. Several different beams met within the center of Emmett's circle. At the point where each beam of light departed its natural course, they had transformed into tight rays of brilliant shifting colors. Tiny, terrifying rainbows in the darkness, they illuminated the icy void beneath the circle and drew out the thing that Emmett had summoned.

  And so Nibelung rose from the circle, pulled up by prismatic bonds. Its body was humanoid, enormous but stout. Its ten-foot height was matched by the width of its shoulders. The creature’s nightmare features and frostbitten skin were only partially illuminated by the shifting axis of light. Still Emmett knew it was the creature from his dream—the dwarf who had beckoned him greedily while he thrashed in the river of slush. The light reflected off of the riches worked into the dwarf's beard and the gaudy rings that bit into its meaty, calloused fingers.

  Incomprehensible words, the sounds of breaking ice and something being dragged through gravel, erupted from the lips of the thing that Emmett knew as Nibelung. Sane words—words in Emmett's own tongue of Americanized English—echoed through the circle, following the dwarf's guttural barks like some sort of audial Rosetta Stone.

  "He who summons Nibelung the betrayer best do so with good reason." The speech had a metallic quality to it, as if the metal shavings that made up the circle had affected the tone.

  More barking leapt from the dwarf's mouth—cracking ice and breaking glass and gravel crunching under foot. The alien words were followed immediately by the metallic voice of the circle.

  "It was I who first betrayed this world for the lords of Utgard. For that treachery I have eternity at my fingertips and riches more vast than all of the gold created from every star that has ever died."

  The barking paused first, then the echoed speech.

  After the space of ten seconds the dwarf croaked his inarticulate voice once more, and the surrounding voice followed suit.

  "What could one such as you possibly offer one such as me?"

  THE

  DEVOURED

  Curtis M. Lawson

  THE DEVOURED

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Epilogue

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Preview- It’s A Bad, Bad, Bad, Bad World

  Other Works by Curtis M. Lawson

  DEDICATION

  The Devoured is dedicated to Gary and Tristan,

  the man who helped make me what I am,

  and the boy who made me better than I am.

  Special thanks to Christine for putting up with my neglect

  and fits of indecision while writing this, to Josh and Jack for beta-reading,

  and to Monique and Brad for their help with the first edition.

  ***

  A WYRD HORROR BOOK

  THE DEVOURED

  First edition published by Winlock Press, 2015

  Second edition published by Wyrd Horror, 2017

  © 2015, 2017 by Curtis M. Lawson

  All Rights Reserved

  Edited by Monique Happy Editorial Services

  Cover art by Angel Aviles

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Join Curtis’s spam-free mailing list to find out about the latest releases, appearances, and giveaways.

  Please visit Curtis M. Lawson’s official website.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The old man could evoke no mystic powers, nor weave hexes of his own. Months spent scouring the most forsaken regions of the southwest had armed him with enough knowledge to disrupt the magic of others, though. With strong hands the color and texture of rawhide, the old man popped the iron cap off of one of his rounds. In a careful, deliberate manner, he poured black powder from the bullet, tracing a portion of the blood-etched circle that guarded the shack.

  He pocketed the empty round for reuse later and withdrew a box of matches. There was a fair bit of wind that day, cold fronts from the east dancing violently with warm, native air, so the old man knelt down close to the powder before striking his match. With a hiss and a puff of smoke, the gunpowder dispelled the ward so that he could safely cross.

  The old man stepped over the scorched blood and moved toward the decrepit, one room shack. Early morning sunlight streamed through the canopy of leaves above, hitting the broken facade like a sepia tone kaleidoscope.

  The door was uneven in the frame and didn't close correctly. A nauseating stench, that of gangrenous flesh, wafted out from the shack, mixed with the pleasant smells of spices and broth. Like farmers and apothecaries, witches tended to be fine cooks.

  The porch protested with a loud creak as the old man stepped up to the entrance. An even louder screech came from the rusted hinges of the shabby door. The witch slept soundly through the warnings that its abode issued, much to the old man's relief.

  The old man placed his pack on the floor and surveyed the witch's home. A large, black pot was propped up over a makeshift fireplace, the remnants of a hearty rabbit stew from the night before still lining it. Bones of rabbits and squirrels lay in one corner, mixed with poorly skinned hides waiting for repurpose. An old board propped up on two wooden crates held leaded bottles and burlap pouches full of oils and spices. Rooted deep within the dirt floor, right in the center of the room, was a massive tree stump, a yard and a third across. It looked to serve as dinner table, work desk, and altar. The old man guessed that the stump had been key in deciding where to build the shack.

  The witch itself lay deeply asleep on a small cot with its matted, white hair covering much of its face. The cot was the kind used for battlefield surgery, and it bore the stains of many a soldier's blood. The pillow that lay under the witch's head had at one time been a fine, frilly piece with golden tassels and embroidery. It was the kind of thing the old man had seen in the brothels of his youth. Now the pillow was stained and frayed. Its once deep burgundy tone had bleached over time into a dull, reddish gray. A reflection of the witch's own heart, perhaps.

  The old man unsheathed the sword that was strapped to his back. The blade was a Confederate artillery sword, the last-ditch weapon of gunners who fought for the stars and bars. Modeled after the Roman gladius, it was a hefty weapon, thick in the middle. A design that had proven itself for millennia. Some didn't like its weight. The old man, however, was accustomed to heavy burdens, and it felt comfortable in his hands.

  He positioned the sword's tip above the witch's belly. Taking a deep breath, he looked down upon the mangy, gangrenous wretch with its sunken eyes and matted hair. Its chapped lips parted, revealing its white tongue and rotted teeth. As he had done with every tainted thing that he had killed over the past months, the old man took a moment to see the woman beneath. It was important to the old man that he recognize that every witch had once been something more than a vessel
of chaos. They had been soldiers and farmers, mothers and fathers. At one point in time, each was a child whose smile meant the world to someone. Or perhaps some were the unwanted offspring of degenerates, making them easy pickings for the Devourers. Whatever their history, there was something human in there. Something more divine than any god or devil. For every evil thing he had crushed, the old man knew that he had also murdered the human left inside. He never wanted that to become easy.

  With strong arms and steady hands, the old man drove the blade through the witch's belly and into the cot. He was careful to avoid any vital organs. It was important that the creature face a slow and painful death. The old man needed time to negotiate, and he knew pain to be a powerful tonic for loosening lips. The foul stench of infection escaped the witch's belly wound, just as a discordant howl of pain leapt forth from its chapped lips. Black ichor bubbled out around the blade, popping and splashing the old man's cracked hands. The touch of the blood felt like hot ash on his skin. The thing was sick and by all rights should have been already dead. This wasn't the first time the old man had seen death staved off by dark magics.

  The dark eyelids of the diseased, backwoods sorceress shot open. The yellow orbs in its eye sockets were riddled with crisscrossing veins—tiny red tributaries leading toward the black oceans of its pupils. There was a deep and complex madness in the witch's gaze, though it did not mask the fear or pain that it felt.

  "Shallow breaths might be best," the old man stated in a calm and even manner. ”Breathe too heavy or get all cantankerous and this here blade might serrate more o' them rotten, squishy bits inside you."

  A wicked sneer crossed the witch's mouth, revealing black and yellow teeth in various states of decay. Pain and fear were displaced with an unholy rage—an urge to destroy that outweighed self-preservation. With its left hand, the thing that had once been a woman bent its middle finger, so that its filthy tip touched the first bloated and arthritic knuckle on its index finger.

  Before any ancient word could lend power to the witch's gesture, the old man's hand struck out with a speed that seemed at odds with his age. Hands like iron crushed the feeble digits of the dying sorceress. Bones cracked beneath diseased skin, leaving the witch's hand like a pouch of crushed stone. The pain caused the witch to involuntarily screech and squirm, which in turn caused the confederate gladius to tear at its insides. Before the creature could recover from the agony of its broken fingers, the old man grabbed its other hand. With one swift motion he bent the witch's fingers back until they snapped into a backward fist. Some more powerful sorcerers, those more thoroughly possessed by the Devourers, could manifest terrible feats at will. Intuition and experience told the old man that this witch was not of that caliber.

  "Go on then," spat the witch. "Git it done, then."

  "The rules here are real simple like. Tell me where my boy is and I let you die."

  The witch tried to spit blood. In its weakness it mostly drooled down its own chin, but the sentiment was clear. She would need more persuasion. The old man twisted his blade, shredding the witch's intestines more thoroughly.

  "You dodged me in Emerald, bitch, but I’ve got you now. I’ve spent the last month tracking you down. I got no qualms about spending a few more days twisting answers outta you."

  The old man's words were true. For months now he had been tracking down and slaying witches and native shamans. Even suspect members of the proper clergy had met his blade. Any poor bastard with a tie to anything occult drew the old man's attention and his wrath.

  Impotent rage filled the witch's bloodshot eyes. The old man imagined that his victim's mind was calling out to those that came before. This thought didn't scare him, as experience had taught him that prayers were a one-sided affair.

  Not foolish enough to turn his back on an enemy, the old man took a few backward steps and knelt by his pack. Eyes still locked on the witch, he reached into his bag, retrieving his papers and tobacco.

  "What's your name, witch?"

  "... Fiona," the witch whispered, after a pause that was caused by either pain or reluctance.

  “The name your folks gave you. Not your whore name, or your witch name.”

  “Fiona’s my born name. I ain’t ashamed. Got no need to hide who I am.”

  "Well, Fiona, believe it or not, I don't much like hurtin' folk. I'm an old hand at it, and I'm good at it. Don't take no pleasure in it, though. And I reckon you don't much like the feeling of that steel in your guts. So let's make this easy, huh?"

  The old man rolled a cigarette as he spoke, but stayed vigilant of the witch.

  "Where's my son, Fiona?"

  With much effort, the witch forced a smile and glared right into the old man's eyes.

  "Thurs done took your boy. Ain't no getting him back."

  "Getting him back is my concern. You just tell me where to find Thurs."

  "Thurs walks the road to the future. The path paved with blood and gold."

  One weakness the old man had noticed in most "learned men," be they witches or lawyers, was they all fancied themselves more clever than everyone else. And while Fiona had tried to hide the truth in a vague puzzle, the old man at once understood. It made perfect sense.

  Satisfied with Fiona's cooperation, the old man removed the gladius from the witch's gut, allowing diseased, black blood to bubble out from the wound. With the sword now free, he delivered a fierce chopping blow that severed the witch's head from its body and ejected its corrupt spirit from the empirical world.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dark thoughts enveloped Emmett's mind, like devouring shadows consuming all light. His mother's hollow cough, that persistent and slow rattle of her inevitable death, seemed as loud and real in his ears as if he were at her death bed rather than a quarter mile from home. He could see her ashy, sunken eyes and her taut cheeks—the stretched parchment cheeks of a mummy.

  Set just beneath and parallel to his sorrowful preoccupation with his ill Ma, anger bubbled and roiled. Emmett's anger was powerful and deep. It was an emotion far more pronounced than any sixteen-year-old boy should have to contend with. The causes of his inner rage were legion, but this day his anger was focused on a single source. Mackum.

  Mackum was an orange farmer who owned several acres a few miles out from town. The farmer had found use in Emmett's strength and size. The kid was not just big for his age, he was a monstrous boy who towered nearly a head above anyone in town now that his Pa was gone. Despite Emmett's usefulness to Mackum, the farmer made no secret of the fact that Emmett's very existence offended him. This never stopped Mackum from hiring him in harvest season. If Emmett wanted his five cents per sack, though, he had to listen to Mackum's bullshit about how he was an abomination and how no white man in his right mind would bed an Injun.

  Somewhere below the ethereal coughing of his mother Emmett could hear Mackum calling him redskin and savage. The farmer’s disgusted, judgmental gaze burned from behind the mental images of his mother. His mother's loving gaze dissolved into Mackum's hateful, baneful eyes. This mental imagery angered Emmett even more, reminding him on some unconscious level that a bastard like Mackum would continue to live and prosper, while his kind-hearted Ma would die in pain. All the worse, she would pass on without seeing his Pa ever again. Unless the war were to end in the next week perhaps.

  ***

  The ragged breathing from the other room, while barely audible, struck Emmett's ears like the most ominous thunder. He tried to focus on his task, cooking up a chicken soup to ease his mother's discomfort, but all he could think was that each weak cough and labored breath was another clomp of the pale horse's hooves. While Emmett's mind was captured by the fear of his mother's impending end, his soup began to boil over, spilling broth into the flames below.

  Emmett shook the thoughts of doom from his mind and focused on stirring the boiling soup. The consumption, if that’s what it was, may have been taking his mother away soon, but he had to focus on how he could make her comfortable today. Wi
th his father on the other side of the country, nearly a continent away from Affirmation, California, it was his job to take care of his mother, their home, and the family business. Emmett was nearly sixteen, a grown man by the standards of the west, but he knew he wasn't ready to be the man of the house. Sure, he was strong enough, a bull for his age, and he could handle himself in a brawl, but tending to the needs of a dying woman was beyond his skill set. With his mother too sick to take on any seamstress work, the weight of financial responsibility lay solely on Emmett as well.

  When his father had left for the war, their family gunsmithing business had been lucrative and bustling. California knew no shortage of people looking for quality iron. Things this far west weren't quite as civilized as in the soft-bellied east. A man couldn't depend on the law out here. He had to have the means and will to take care of his own. Unfortunately, Emmett lacked the level of skill that his father had with firearms. He knew the basics well enough, and kept a minimal amount of cash coming in, but he was incapable of creating the deadly works of art that had earned his father such respect. Men would come from miles around to commission one-of-a-kind pistols, uniquely named in the tradition of ancient smiths. That part of the business had dried up after Emmett's few failed attempts to recreate his father's work. Now he mostly made ammunition for folks, and worked part-time picking oranges for that obnoxious bastard, Mackum.

  Emmett pulled the pot away from the fire and placed it on a stone slat in the middle of the kitchen table. He picked a bowl out from the cupboard, a plain clay piece adorned with orange and brown designs of the Paiute tribe. He smiled, remembering painting the bowl with his mother as a child. She would tell him the legends and tales of her own father's people, while they painted in the angular style of her ancestors. Emmett's father would grumble his disapproval, but never actively tried to stop it. His mother's interest in the native side of her ancestry had always been too intertwined with superstition for his father's liking. Emmett's old man had always cautioned against belief in anything greater than black powder and American ingenuity.