Lady One Horn’S Champion

By Pat Rogers

Tris Carter Horne had dreamed of a beautiful girl with hair like flame and eyes of emerald green all his life. When he had grown, the dreams became nightmares so horrifying that he was afraid to sleep. Then the dreams became real, and he found himself battling a creature so savage it was beyond belief. Suddenly, he found himself falling down a brilliant corridor and heard the creature scream in pain. Then there was nothing but darkness. When he woke, he found himself in a strange land. What had happened, and was he safe? Would he see more of the creatures that attacked him? Suddenly, he was afraid. Very afraid.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546215929

Pat Rogers

Patricia Rogers is a seventy-six-year-old woman who is just now finally getting the gumption to venture into publication. She has written stories, poetry, and songs (not music, because she doesn’t know beans about writing the music, even though she knows what the songs sound like in her head) for years now. Her stack of notebooks could keep her busy for a long time. She has been handicapped since she was five, but she’s never let that get her down. When the local kids played baseball, she used her crutch as a bat. She graduated from college and she worked almost eighteen years as one of the first two handicapped people in the nation to work as an officer in a county jail. She’s lived an interesting and busy life. She’s a needle crafter, makes jewelry, crochets, tats, embroiders, and loves learning to do new things. She has three things on her bucket list: to ride in a hot-air balloon, to swim with dolphins, and to see the Earth from outer space (that one she probably won’t make).

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

O OOH, HE WAS tired! He couldn’t remember ever being so tired before. It wasn’t because his class schedule was too heavy; it was those terrifying dreams he’d been having for the past two months. He never remembered what they were about, but they always left him in a cold sweat and with a feeling of horrifying danger that slowly faded with his waking. If only the dreams were about the lovely red-haired, green-eyed girl he’d fantasized about all his life.

Nothing seemed to help, either. He tried pills, booze, and even meditation. But they just seemed to make matters worse. He was beginning to wonder if he was going crazy.

He made a half-hearted attempt to bring some semblance of order to his unruly hair and then stood staring at himself in the mirror. Tristram Carter Horne, he muttered to himself, you look like an old, mangy dog. Indeed, he bore little resemblance to the young man who had looked back at him a little more than two months before. That man had been of average height and slight of build. He had clear blue eyes, an unruly mane of golden blond hair, and the kind of flawless complexion most people would kill for. His smile tilted up on one side and down on the other, giving him an air of charm and innocence that made people forget that behind that smile was a brain that stored memories like a computer. He had a photographic memory and total, though not instantaneous, recall.

The man who looked back at him now seemed to have shrunk. Long, sleepless nights had left him looking bruised and ill. They even dulled the bright gold of his hair. As for his sharp mind, well, it was about the consistency of marshmallows.

He pulled down his lower lids and examined his bloodshot eyes. At least they’re patriotic—red, white, and blue. He started to giggle and then suddenly silenced himself as he realized how close to hysteria he was.

Gotta get to class! he rasped. I’ve got too much to do to stand around here all day. He grabbed his books and notebooks with no idea whether he had the right ones. When he got to the door, he stopped and looked around in puzzlement, trying to remember where he was going. Then, noticing the books in his arms, he shook his head and continued on his way.

Fortunately, he’d only just stepped out the door when he realized he wasn’t wearing shoes, socks, or a jacket on a cold November day. With a sigh, he went back inside and finished dressing. Finally, he was on his way, fully dressed and with the right books. He had just started down the stairs when the overhead lights flickered off, suddenly sending a deep shadow over him. With an inarticulate cry, he recoiled, sending everything in his arms flying, rolling, and clattering down two flights of stairs. Rats! And double rats! It is gonna be one of those days! After several minutes spent picking up everything, he finally made it to his car—where he found his left front tire flat as a glass of stale beer.

This can’t be happening to me, he groaned. Then he looked up and groaned again as he saw the city bus pull away from the curb. Wait! Wait! he yelled as he sprinted across the parking lot after the bus. All he succeeded in doing was sinking his left foot in a puddle of muddy water clear up to the ankle.

He squished his way back to his apartment to change his socks and shoes. He had almost decided to crawl back under the covers and stay there for the next century or two and see if things had improved when he came up for air. He remembered the dreams and hurriedly changed his mind. Once again, he gathered his books and made his way the three blocks to the next bus stop.

It was one of those crisp November days when the sky is an incredible shade of blue, and the sun is warm, but the breeze nips at your nose and turns your cheeks cherry red. As he sat waiting for the bus, with the fragrance of sun-warmed pine in his nostrils, he felt safer than he had in weeks. It was as if whatever had been threatening him couldn’t stand the light of day. He even found himself dozing, with only the tiniest hint of uneasiness nibbling at the edge of his dreams.

In the shadowed interior of the bus, the uneasiness was a little sharper. But it was more a background annoyance than an actual threat.

He felt pretty good by the time he reached campus. He went to a couple classes and his concentration improved. He had lunch with some of his friends and found himself laughing at their jokes.

Whistling softly, he headed for the first of his afternoon classes. He trotted up the steps into the old building and then stopped and stared down the corridor. It was funny, but he’d never noticed how long, narrow, and dark that corridor was. He took a step or two, and the shadows seemed to deepen and thicken until he felt he could reach out and touch them. Another step, and he could no longer see the walls. There was only a blackness that squirmed and gibbered and reached to snare him with icy talons. In the heart of that darkness was an even deeper darkness that stank of blood and decay; he sensed a horrifying hunger.

If he could have made any kind of sound, he would have screamed. But his voice seemed locked in his throat as he turned and fled in sheer, heart-pounding terror back to the safety of the sunlight. He ran until he was well out of sight of the old building. Then he dropped to the grass and sat there, gasping for breath and shivering as if from a hard chill. Gotta pull myself together, he muttered through clenched teeth. There’s nothing there. It’s all in my head. If I could just get some sleep, everything would be all right.

He was huddled on the cold ground with his head on his knees when a deep, familiar voice reached him. Hey, bro. What’s with you?

He looked up into the smiling black face of Nathaniel Alexander Hamilton, his best friend and the only person he’d ever been able to share his problems with. Hi, Nate, he said, feeling his fears lighten at the sight of his friend. Pull up a hunk of dirt and sit down.

Nate dropped to the ground and tucked his long legs under him. Hey, man, you look like crap.

That’s how I feel, too, Tris answered, grinning at his friend.

Nate grinned back. Where you been the last two, three weeks? You got yo’self some hot little mama been keepin’ you up nights? Maybe that green-eyed, red-haired little fox you used to always be dreamin’ about. What ya say, man? She the reason you got those suitcases under yo eyes?

I wish that was the problem, Nate. Lord, how I wish it was. He rubbed his eyes, which felt like they were filled with sand.

Nate chattered on. Tris sat and let it flow over him like a soothing balm. He even found himself laughing as his friend’s voice took on an exaggerated drawl.

Nate, Nate, Tris scolded gently. When are you going to stop trying to convince everyone you’re just a piece of dumb old black trash when everyone knows you’ve got enough brains for three people?

What? Moi? Nate exclaimed, looking shocked. You mean you don’t think this is the real me?

If that’s the real you, then I’m the Easter Bunny, Tris said with a chuckle.

Well, at least you look a little better. Nate eyed him critically. Now I think it’s time we went to my place, so you can tell Old Uncle Nate what’s bothering you.

There’s nothing you can do about it, Nate. I just haven’t been able to sleep lately.

Nate wasn’t about to listen to any protests. He lifted Tris to his feet, took a firm grip of his collar, and marched him to the car. When they got to the apartment, Nate marched him inside, pushed him down on the couch, and made him put his feet up. Then he went into the bathroom and came back with a thermometer.

I don’t have a fever, Tris protested.

Nate stood over him, the thermometer firmly gripped in his hand. You’ve got your choice as to which end this goes in, he said meaningfully.

With a sigh, Tris shut up and submitted.

Well, you’re right. You don’t have a fever. But when did you last eat?

I don’t know. I just, I just haven’t been hungry.

He started to get up, but Nate pushed him back and waggled a finger under his nose. Stay put, or I’ll tan your backside, he said, leaving no room for argument.

Tris settled back down and grinned. Did anybody ever tell you have a lousy bedside manner?

Sure, all the time. Now, I’m going to make you some soup, and then you’re going to spill your guts.

When Nate was satisfied he had Tris fed and comfortable, he sat down and ordered him to start talking. At first, Tris was reticent. Then it was as if the dam burst, and the words came spilling out. As he talked about the nightmares and the fear, it was as if a dark cloud was being lifted from him. Finally, he ran out of words. He lay back, exhausted but feeling free. You were right, Old Uncle Nate, he said with a sigh. Talking did help. I think everything’s going to be all right now.

Nate smiled and pulled a blanket up over Tris. When we find out what’s causing these nightmares, that’s when things will start being all right.

I know you’re planning a career in psychology, but is this how you’re planning to drum up patients? Tris asked with a grin.

Hey, you take ’em where you get ’em! Now, I want you to get some sleep.

Tris turned pale, but Nate laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Don’t worry, he said. I’ll be right here, and if you have any trouble, I’ll wake you up.

Tris tried to fight sleep, but exhaustion finally won out, and he slept long and deep. There was a brief period of discomfort and some muttering, but his rest was otherwise uneventful.

Nate was worried. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with Tris, but he had an uncanny ability to sense the unknown. —that was why he had decided to become a psychiatrist—and he sensed something evil haunting his friend.

Something bad wants you, my friend, he murmured softly. Something real nasty and mean! He sat watching over his friend and wondered if he hadn’t imagined what he sensed.

It was almost six when Tris woke. He lay there awhile with a look of drowsy contentment. How are you feeling? Nate asked.

I feel a hell of a lot better than I did this morning! Tris answered. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, stretched, and got to his feet. You know what I think I’ll do? I think I’ll go home, take a shower, and see if I can’t catch up on some more sleep.

Why don’t you just stay here? Nate asked. I’ve got a couple of classes this evening, but I’ll be home by nine. We can talk some more. Nate was reluctant to let Tris leave. He felt there was grave danger lurking in the darkness.

Thanks, pal, but I think I’ll be better off at home in my own bed.

Nate draped his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. All right, he said, but I’ll drop you off. Nate wanted to take him right to his door, but Tris convinced him that he could walk the two blocks from the bus stop.

It was dark when Nate left him at the bus stop. The air was chilly, but a full moon made it almost bright enough to read the face of his watch. The street was deserted and quiet, the only sound the distant barking of a dog.

As Tris walked along, he noticed a sudden strange feeling in the air, and a thick, gray fog rolled in, obscuring everything around him and muffling sounds until all he could hear was his own footsteps. Then, he sensed a presence and knew that the shadow of his dreams had taken on deadly substance. Heart pounding, he walked faster, and the thing that pursued him hurried also.

There was a streetlight just ahead. If only he could reach it in time. He ran and felt a wave of rage batter him like a strong wind. It seemed like an eternity before he reached the blessed safety of the light, and he leaned against the post, gasping for breath.

As he stood there, the fog crept closer, but it was as if the light was a wall it couldn’t pass. Gray tendrils writhed and curled, thrusting at the light and then recoiling, as if in pain. And in that gray thickness, he knew it lurked. He knew that if the light failed, the thing would be on him, teeth and talons ripping him to bloody shreds.

The air grew bitterly cold, and he hugged himself and ground his teeth to keep them from chattering. Then, dirty tendrils of fog slowly rose and thickened above the lamp, and the cold grew even more intense.

Oh! Oh, no! he moaned. Please don’t break! Even as he watched, thick frost began to form. There was a crack and, suddenly, he was plunged into darkness.

A shriek of savage triumph echoed through his mind, and then he saw it. It was a boneless thing, all fang-filled, gaping maw and razor talons, and it was as black as the pits of hell. It held his gaze with eyes like smoldering embers, and then it was on him, talons slashing and jaws gaping to tear his throat. Its breath was cold as death and reeked of corruption.

Fear and desperation drove him to batter the thing and gave him strength beyond anything he felt he was capable of. He was beginning to think he might defeat the ravening creature when, suddenly, a burst of light caused it to shriek in agony and jerk away, dragging him with it. Then, he felt himself falling.

Nate had sensed the danger at the same time Tris did and, hurling the car into a savage U-turn, he raced back the way he had come. When he hit the fog, it was as if he were being smothered in its density. Then he was through it, and there, pinned in his headlights, was Tris locked in the embrace of a horror beyond imagining. There was a blood-chilling feral scream, and they were gone. All that remained was the glitter of headlights on shattered glass and mournful shadows on scattered books and a scrap of torn and blood-stained cloth.

Nate sat behind the wheel in shocked disbelief and then, dropping his head into his hands, he bid his friend a silent goodbye.

CHAPTER 2

H IGH IN THE Cloud’s Home Mountains, shrouded by that eternal misty veil that gave the range its name, stood a fortress. Carved deep into the very backbone of the world, it lurked like some dark and brooding beast.

Once the home of dwarves, from the highest watchtower to the storage rooms carved deep in the granite bowels of the mountain, it still showed evidence of their handiwork. Thick stone pillars carved with an intricate tracery of vines and flowers supported the ceilings of vast meeting halls. Small side chambers made snug, happy homes for the industrious little folk. Along the upper levels were gardens and lovely little pathways where fountains had once bubbled merrily and where small birds had sung from the branches of specially bred fruit trees. The upper levels had once been domed by a clear, glassy substance that allowed light in but kept the cold out. Now, the domes were broken, the gardens withered and brown. Only darkness and gloom shone where the domes had been.

Once, there had been happy laughter, and then a man, sick and hurt, had come among them, and they, being the kind and gentle people they were, had taken him in and cared for him.

Then men, women, and children began to disappear, and before they realized what was happening, it was too late. Having consumed the life force of the children, the Dark Lord stole the souls of the others, leaving only mindless bodies. These he filled with blind obedience and the lust to kill, and with them and his army of Helhounds, he set out to drive the dwarves from their home.

They fought hard and retreated slowly, triggering deadfalls as they went. They had no qualms about killing the Helhounds, but hesitation at seeing the mindless faces of loved ones cost many lives.

Finally, herding the women and children through the last exit, the doughty little warriors turned their tear-soaked faces back for one last look at their beloved home and, triggering the last mighty deadfall, sealed the way forever. Then they fled in sadness, a people in exile.

With his slaves, the Dark Lord caused a throne of gold and gems to be erected in the Great Hall, and there he began to gather about him an army of those creatures who were, by their very nature, cruel and brutal: Orcs and Ogres, the massive Rock Trolls (called Stone Men), and humans more savage than Helhounds.

His minions murdered and plundered, spreading fear like a loathsome sickness upon the land. And his power grew as men, women, and children were brought to him.

He savored the life force of the young ones, consuming that fresh, clean essence as if it were some sweet, rare wine. Then, when he had drained them to the dregs, he threw their shattered little bodies to his Helhounds. The anguished cries of mothers as their children were torn from their arms, and the pain and terror of young men and women tortured again and again until their spirits fled, were meat and bread to him. And when he was done with them, they too joined his army of the damned. Filled with power from his victims, he played with life, molding and shaping flesh as if it were clay. Most of his creations were so grotesque that even those brutal and debased beings that willingly followed him blanched and turned away at the sight. Perhaps they saw themselves in those poor, miserable creatures. And, if his playthings died, what did it matter? They existed only for his pleasure, and there were always more for the taking. Surrounded by his vast stone walls and guarded by his ever-growing army, he felt himself safe and secure.

Then something happened that shook him to the core. From the island of Arkonos came a prophecy of a man, young and fair, who would defeat his army and who would challenge him to the death.

Using the head of a child ripped from its mother’s womb, he slit its throat, and drank its blood for his wine. Then sent his mind searching