Blood Moon Rising - John Stormm (top rated ebook readers TXT) 📗

anticipating fighting faeries with swords, are you?”

“Well, son, it was with cold steel that the early Irish settlers drove off the Tuatha Danaans from Ireland,” the old man lectured. “To be sure, the rifts also are known to open into darker planes on other times of the year, like Samhain, for instance. The Blood Moon occurring as it does, within a few nights of Halloween will make for a very potent energy to draw dark things through. You know full well that the faeries can be dangerous and not just cute. There are terrible creatures in the faery world that hate humans with an unholy passion. Should some fool warlock feel led to open such a door, all hell would literally break loose. Just in case I’m right about this, you and I will be on the welcoming committee, waiting with swords drawn.”

Jon had been taught at an early age that fear had no place in him. When he began to feel the icicles forming in his gut, he employed the discipline his father taught him. He slowed his racing heart and his breathing and expelled the fear for his enemies to breathe in. Sword practice continued for the remainder of that morning until his muscles burned from the exertion. The old man still showed no sign of weariness.

The Blood Moon would happen an hour before midnight on Wednesday night. The old wizard determined that if the rift would be opened, that it would happen in one of two places locally. The Devil’s Bathtub in nearby Mendon, New York, where Sundog came through, was less than an hour’s drive away, However, it was in the midst of a deeply wooded park, far away from where any humans might be. These creatures would want human blood upon crossing over. The better choice was a wooded portion of Cobb’s Hill park, in the midst of metropolitan Rochester. There would be hapless victims aplenty within blocks of the rift. Old Storm was certain that it would happen from this point. A survey during the daylight hours revealed occult symbols scrawled as graffiti in various points around the park. Witchcraft was being worked in the area and it was being prepared for a visitation this night.

About ten o’clock on Wednesday night, Melanie and James loaded the twins into the four-by-four. Jon put his battle bag with his swords and equipment in the back and climbed into the rear seat next to the boys. In spite of all the jostling, they were fast asleep. Melanie was virtually dripping in silver jewelry. James and the babies also were wearing silver charms of one sort or another.

“I take it that the swords won’t be enough for tonight,” Jon observed worriedly.

“Dad has something special for you two,” Mel replied from the front seat. “We won’t be going into the woods with you, but our prayers will. Dad’s more experienced at this sort of thing. Take your cues from him.”

They pulled up to the wooded section on the eastern end of the reservoir. The well used, old Chevy van sat like a squatter just under the trees. There was no sign of the old man, but with his predilection for wearing nothing but solid black on black, Jon anticipated not seeing him until the wizard wanted to be seen.
He climbed out of the vehicle and grabbed his gear from the back. Melanie got out and sprinkled salt on the vehicle and him as she prayed. He strapped his swords crosswise over his shoulders and buckled on shin and arm guards.

A looming shadow caught his attention. Startled, he looked up. The old man stood beside him looking intently from under the broad brim of his black leather hat. Silver bosses circling the hatband gleamed whitely in the moonlight. In his long, black leather duster he looked like a highwayman of old. Ominous protrusions over each shoulder shown that he, also, was literally dressed to kill. He laid out on the hood of the four-by-four the large bundle he carried.

 

“It’s going to be unnaturally cold in these woods tonight, son,” the old man explained, “so you’ll want to wear these too.”

The bundle consisted of an old trench coat his father used to wear when Jon was a little boy. It had been mended a thousand times and been around the world in his father’s travels almost as many times. A silver medallion with mage runes etched into the metal lay on top of a pair of black leather gloves with silver plates riveted to the backs of the hands. A black felt hat with a silver studded hatband completed the ensemble.
Jon chuckled.

     “What’s so funny, son?” the old man asked.

“It’s just that, if we get stopped by the police, we’ll never convince them that we are not pimps from hell.”

“No cop in his right mind will want to go where we are going tonight,” said the wizard, “so that won’t be a problem.”

Mel kissed them both, and tossed salt on them before they left into the darkness of the woods.

“Give ‘em hell, guys,” she called out. “They asked for it.”

Dressed and ready for battle, they turned as twin towers and strode quietly down the path that led into the woods. In the dappled light of the full moon, strange silvery sigils seemed to flicker across his and his father’s coats. God alone knew how many times the old wizard had charmed them, . Prominent amongst all the runes was the upward pointing spear of Tyr, the rune of the spirit warrior. It took on a significant meaning at this point in time.

“Tonight, I am my father’s son,” he said quietly to himself.

The time of the Blood Moon was fast approaching. Already, a tinge of red was showing on the moon as the earth moved between it and the sun. It was confusing in these woods at night. Trails wound and turned back on themselves, and the sounds of whispered chants came from all directions.

“We’ve got to find the rift area and contain the dark fae before they start for the city streets,” the old wizard stated as he pulled out a small crystal orb, about an inch and a half across. Standing in a crossroad clearing, and using his silver medallion to shine the moonlight into the crystal in his fingers, he called out,

“Sundog, we’re going to need your assistance if we hope to stop this abomination in time.”
Like a trick of the eyes, a blue glint of light shot out of the crystal and into the woods to their right. As they followed, the moon grew increasingly red. Their silver accouterments gleamed an angry red in response to the Blood Moon. Whispered chants grew louder just up ahead of them. The woods were beginning to feel very crowded.

 

The odor of an acrid, metallic incense wafted from a glowing brazier in the small clearing ahead. Upon hearing the soft “shshing” of his father drawing his swords, Jon likewise drew his own. Tonight, they chose the short, leaf shaped, double edged Celtic war swords that would suit the close contact fighting in the woods. The twin blades gleamed red in the tainted moonlight.

“If you leave the door open like this,” the old wizard called to the shrouded figure standing at the brazier, “you can never tell who will show up.”

“No worries,” a sibilant male voice rasped and the figure gestured broadly. “I was prepared for uninvited guests.”

From around the clearing, figures moved towards them, barely discernable in the dimness of the available light . There was something wrong with the large man sized silhouettes that Jon couldn’t pinpoint.

“Dog soldiers!” exclaimed the old man at his side.

“No werewolves?” Jon quipped nervously.

“I would have preferred werewolves, “ the old man grumbled. “They aren’t as organized as these. It’s going to get hairy. Be sharp.”

An ominous communal growling came from all around them. Into the red light of the full moon stepped the first dog soldier. It appeared humanoid in general configuration, but the similarity ended there. Its furred body stood seven feet tall, with the strange shaped legs and feet of a large hound, and it’s head looked like a collie with the mange. Further, it was dressed in a leather jerkin with brass plates attached The creature’s large clawed hands extended to grapple or rend flesh.

The old man whirled under its hands and slashed at its midsection twice. As the fur and flesh parted from the blades, a greasy, almost liquid smoke oozed out and the figure collapsed in on itself.

“At least they can die,” Jon said, and then he was too busy to talk.

The creatures encircled them and tried to grab at them from all directions at once. The whirling techniques the old man had stressed so much proved to be the bane of the dog soldiers. The filthy smell of dog smoke filled the woods. When the beasts got past their guards and swiped with razor sharp claws, the slashes in their coats smoldered as if sprayed with acid.

One creature managed to grab the old man’s arm and bit him as he was dealing a death blow to another. The scratches were deep and blistered immediately, and the bite festered ominously. Howling with pain, the wizard hacked off the monster’s arm at the elbow. The clinging claw dropped to the forest floor and smoldered. From his pocket, the old man tossed a hand full of salt in a wide arc at the hounds. Where the salt touched them, it set them to smoldering and bawling from the pain of it. He quickly slapped salt into the wounds on his fore arm and roared his own pain.

Jon was avoiding the claws of the dog soldiers and hacking at anything they shoved in his direction. His blades whirling in a continual stroke, he waded into the biggest concentration of the creatures he could find. He paused only for a second, checking his father’s location, when both wrists were caught by a hulking brute with the head of a mastiff. The claws cut through his arm guards and into his wrists. The pain was like searing hot knives cutting through his tender flesh. He kicked at the creature grabbing at him from behind, while the mastiff suspended him by his wrists. The old man looked at him and barked. Without thinking, Jon reversed both blades in his grip, cutting through the forearms of his captor. The claws fell loose. Jon howled and dealt ruin to the hounds within reach of his deadly blades.

The old man had finished off his canine goons. Leather gear hung in shreds on his heavily panting, powerful frame. Searching desperately, he looked for the shrouded man that called the hounds to this plane of existence. The warlock had obviously fled during the melee. With a sharp downward stroke, he clove the foul smelling brazier in half and stomped out the smoldering coals on the damp forest floor. Leaning heavily on the makeshift altar with muscles bunching in his neck and shoulders, he gave a mighty heave and toppled it. Gasping, he took a moment to catch his breath, and crouched with his hands on his knees. From out of nowhere, a large log hit him squarely between his shoulders and dropped him, face first into the forest loam.
Seeing his father go down, Jonathan resumed his whirling attacks with renewed zeal. He couldn’t get past the cautious mutts who were staying just out of reach of his blades and attacking his exposed sides. His father was trying to get up, but the creatures were closing in on him before he could regain his feet. What if he couldn’t reach his father in time to save him?

It was then a curious sight revealed itself in the eerie red moonlight. All the silver charms and bosses on his father’s accouterments began to gleam with a blue-white light and glowing runic sigils wrapped his duster. From out of the woods, a brilliant blue-white globe the