Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 23)

Here is serial 23 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


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He wasn't believed by his comrades, for Paj--very unfortunately--was known among them as being overly superstitious, a religious zealot, and a "jumper-at-shadows". In spite of his vehement ravings, Brol, Tauos, and Rew--who were in spirit the leaders of the caravan--disregarded him. They demanded that he sleep off whatever lunacy the night fog had inspired in him.

They were concerned, however, when Paj pointed out that the one of them, the youngest--his name was Munish--was missing. Brol, Tauos, and Rew, after a quick search of the camp, could not deny this. The young ones were indeed missing. And so they called everyone together, threw stones, and, in this way, enlisted the help of two of the younger merchants, Theis and Farard. They would go out and search for Munish, but they weren't to go out very far. If they could not found the boy, then they were to return to the camp and to call for help if they needed it. They gave them short-blades of Tabunian make and had them march into the darkness looking for their lost comrade.

"It was directly after this that we knew something was wrong, that Paj had been speaking something of the truth about a horror out there in the darkness--though we thought it more likely an animal at this point," said Tauos. He tugged nervously on his long, thin, tightly braided beard.

After Theis and Farard left, bearing trembling blades, it was not long before they heard them gargle screams and their moans began emanating from the fog. Screams and moans became gurgles and then hacking and then became screams again--a perpetual, staccato of hoarse howls. This horrible orchestra of death sounds seeped into the entire camp, and so all of the merchants--the ten who remained--issued from their tents to stand, eyes wide with horror, gazing into the fog, muttering questions to themselves and wringing their hands as the screams went on. None could tell what had happened but all were frightened.

Brol was the only one who shook off his fear and began to organize them. He commanded them to arm themselves, although the two blades they had given to Theis and Farard were their only swords. They had daggers and skinning knives and two bows and some arrows, but no swords. He ordered others to secure the horses, who were, by this point, neighing as loudly as Theis and Farard were screaming in the fog. And they were kicking and stamping and going crazy and threatening to break their reins. After a few moments, when the horses were settled, the moans of pain and screams ceased. Silence lay about the camp.

Brol whispered orders to the merchants. He had them bear torches and to circle themselves around the central fire of their camp, where there was the most light. Something deep within him stirred and he knew an attack was inevitable. And he was right.

Swooping out of the fog were dozens of those read beasts, tongues waggling, monstrous grins on their toothy faces, their many-knuckled fingers dancing with delight. They raked over the merchants with long claws dripping tar, and they cackled evilly: a shrill, razorish laughter.