Rogues in the House was founded upon a passion for Sword and Sorcery fiction, among other things. Today, the genre, as has been repeated many-a-time, is swelling rapidly in size. All manner of publications now offer an easily accessible dose of thews. From Crimson Quill Quarterly, to Old Moon Quarterly, Savage Realms to New Edge Sword & Sorcery (to name only a few), there is no shortage of yarns for the avid reader. That said, even with the burgeoning number of markets, competition is tough for writers and editors are often forced to make difficult decisions when it comes to who graces the pages and who does not.
To chip in a bit, Rogues in the House will be posting stories sent to us by authors from around the Sword-o-sphere! By doing this, we hope to get eyes on awesome tales of daring swordplay, cosmic horror, and bloody combat.
Our first story, "Wolves of the Wasteland" by Mario Carić (part of the Marked Mercenary Cycle), is seemingly a tale of tribal survival that brings to mind the setting of the opening scene in Conan 82' mixed with a sort of shamanistic vibe that is present in the "First Americans" series by Michael Gear and Kathleen O'neal-Gear. This makes a lot of sense to me as Mario is also a career anthropologist like the Gears (and myself). In his personal life, he has a deep interest in the human condition and it really shows through the themes present in his writing.
Readers of "Tales from the Magician's Skull", "Crimson Quill Quarterly", "Savage Realms", "Schlock!", and "Sword & Sorcery Magazine" will likely be familiar with Mr. Carić's works. He has also appeared in numerous anthologies including "Malice", "The Hunt", "Apologue of the Immortals", and "Dragon Gems".
Born in 1987 in the ancient town of Sisak, Croatia, Mario Carić has harbored his love for speculative fiction ever since he could read. That love has inspired not only his writing but also his career as a forensic anthropologist, where skulls and skeletons once found only in stories have become his everyday occurrence.
-Logan
"Wolves of the Wasteland" by Mario Carić
The tip of the deer’s nose touched the pristine surface of the water, its tongue lapping up the crystal-clear liquid with haste. Every so often it would stop, crane its neck upward, and—satisfied that there was no danger present—continue drinking.
But this time, its thirst had gotten the better of its zealous caution.
Glain’s thumb drew the bowstring. The strain caused his arms to shake. He tried to steady his grasp on the weapon whilst making sure the bow didn’t brush off a stem of the shrub he was sitting in and thus alert the sensitive prey. The arrowhead swayed from left to right within the opening of the thicket, then set on the target two hundred yards ahead, halfway across the lake.
The young man’s eyes—irises the color of frosted stone wreathing all-white pupils–-narrowed, focusing on the lead-tinted fur below the game’s neck. A thought occurred to him that the reflection from this Lake and others in the vicinity—now semi-thawed in the heart of the sunlit Day Months—might still intrude on his aim, despite his careful pondering on the most suitable position. Besides, the already weak sun warmth of the High North was further made powerless by a dense layer of clouds that had been dominating the skies for the better half of the week.
Glain stopped thinking, exhaled, and released the arrow.
The keen ears of the animal flicked upward, making the deer raise its antlers in attention. The projectile pierced the hide above its right foreleg. A searing pain shot through the cervid as it buckled and reeled and tried to kick it away before its strength gave. In the end it tumbled down onto the hoar-frost.
Glain ambled up toward the prey, noted the meager rising and falling of the deer’s chest. He kneeled before it, loosened the bowstring and placed the bow and the half-empty quiver to the side. He drew out a short knife from beneath the coarse hides that made up his garments. A single flash of the blade caused the animal to let out its last bleat and snort its last breath. The knife continued its trail of blood, separating the still warm fur from the muscles, the hands wielding it a blur. The youth removed the arrow as an afterthought.
A resounding caw shattered the silence. Glain looked up, spotting a single crow land onto the knotted branch of a bare, crumpled tree not far away. It flapped its wings and came to a rest. Its head snapped about, regarding the raven-haired sixteen-year-old.
Glain’s fingers slid an arrow from the quiver in one swift move. He left the knife in the animal and sought the bow. Replacing the string, he placed a projectile onto it and once again fought to balance his aim.
The motion caused the five crow skulls on his necklace to rattle.
Low growls broke his concentration. Glain swung his head to the right.
His jaw dropped.
The hulking frames of the dire wolves blended in with the all-encompassing whiteness. Only the ice-blue sheen of their irises stuck out, meeting Glain’s own ghost-stare. They had already formed a semi-circle around him and were inching ever closer.
Glain scanned the area in haste. All the routes to the other lakes were closed off except for a small opening, which followed the shore and led into a brush.
The snarls got louder and the forms bigger. Glain’s arms trembled. No one among the wolves seemed to be a clear pack leader, since they stood in a single file. Despite the freezing surroundings, the youth felt himself sweat under his furs. His thumb slipped on the bowstring. The beast to his far-right curled the skin of its mouth and lanced at him.
The arrow flew. Glain did not wait to see whether it hit the target; he let go of the bow and bolted up the shore as fast as his legs could carry him. He wasn’t sure if he heard a wounded yelp or if it was nothing more than wishful thinking. What he did hear was the fast-paced padding of paw-falls behind him.
With the joint effort of all his limbs, Glain braved the slight slope that marked the beginning of the brush in several bounds. He allowed himself a single glance back, but the reflection of dozens of Frozen Lakes blinded him. He snapped back and tried to make up for the lost millisecond.
The wolves were there, he knew, relentless and gaining. Their sharp breaths were low, conserving energy, concentrated, their killing instinct almost palpable.
One beast overshot the others. The drumming sound of its stomps overpowered Glain’s own heartbeat. He broke the rhythm of his run as his foot caught a tangle of a shrub. He tripped and flew over the plant, skidding across the virgin snow. Yet his mind did not even register the fall; the only thing that concerned him was to get up and keep running. He wrestled up from the ground, but before he could do anything else, something heavy slammed him back into the frost. Growls exploded in his ear.
His breathing stopped.
A high-pitched yelp shook him to the core. The weight lifted from him. Eyes closed shut,
Glain tried to claw himself away. Then, he hit something in front of him. He dared a peek.
The weak sun outlined a broad set of shoulders topped by a wolf’s head. The creature stared into its four-legged versions ahead. Glain traced its gaze.
The beasts once again stood in a single row. They were silent, but the blood-lust burned in them.
A violent growl broke from the wolfman, and Glain shuddered.
Jolting in surprise, the dire wolves retreated. A moment later, they scattered about the brush.
Something flashed in the corner of Glain’s eye. He gulped and followed the gleam.
The slight curve of the slender blade reached its end in an all too human hand.
Now harmless, the dead head of a wolf stood above the hard lines of a face half-hidden by a tangle of beard. They were the lines Glain knew well, for they were of his kin.
***
“We’re close,” said Keim in a flat voice, walking five or six feet in front of the boy.
From behind, with the thick wolf pelt slung across his back and smeared with the blood of Glain’s deer he carried on his shoulders, he still looked like a monster. At least that was how Glain saw him as he minded his step on the treacherous terrain of frost-covered rock. The bow and the quiver were back in his possession; it took some effort from the youth’s mysterious benefactor to urge him to retrieve them, along with the knife.
Glain had never visited this part of the Wasteland before and was surprised at the noticeable difference in the surrounding vegetation. Here, the tundra was more luscious and vivid and almost hospitable. He found it curious how in all the years of exile a thought to venture beyond the Lakes in this particular direction had not crossed his mind.
He considered the wild man anew and realized that the wolf skin and his own initial fear had made Keim appear larger and more menacing than he was. Now, upon a second look, the outcast of the Crow People Glain had once belonged to himself looked gaunter. But his movement was far from fragile; he advanced through the harsh land with tenacity and lifelong experience of a true Crow. The lean sword at his side—the kind Glain had heard from his late father, only their people knew how to craft thanks to the unique properties of Frozen Lakes’ crystal-clear water—removed all doubt about Keim’s origins. However, the outcast’s dark glare had nothing of the haunting presence of Glain’s own, which had been the principal reason for his banishment. Thus, the reason for Keim’s exile—provided there was any—eluded the boy.
A pair of ice-blue eyes pierced by ink-black dots glinted from one of the thickets. Several more flickered along the path. Ghostlike, the dire wolves shadowed them without a sound. Glain froze, but then noticed that even Keim’s lack of interest in the matter did not encourage the beasts to attack. The young man kept close to the hermit, glancing from side to side in the manner the deer on the wild man’s back had done a short while ago.
“They’re following us,” dared Glain.
Keim maintained his stride. “Don’t mind them. They’re just following the pack leader.”
Glain’s face contorted. Then realization hit him, and he inspected the stranger’s pelt.
“I had bigger fangs,” added Keim.
Glain lowered his spectral stare to the blade sleeping in the black leather scabbard. Keim’s eyes traced the youth’s. “I call it Fang because it doesn’t deserve to be called Talon. Besides,” he smirked at Glain’s necklace of crow skulls, “I see we share the sentiment.” He resumed his pace.
The young man picked up the pace, so they now walked side by side.
“Why did they banish you?” asked Glain, thoughts ensnared by the mysterious outcast.
“While the reason for your exile lies in our Elders’ ignorance,” said Keim, “mine is a product of my doing. And of their fears.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a hunter, like my pack. It’s in my nature to hunt and expand.”
The shadows of the dire wolves kept to the brush. Glain fought to hold his focus on Keim.
The hermit inhaled the crisp air. “I wanted my tribe to spread out southward, into Winterwood. And I wanted others to follow.”
Glain’s brow furrowed again. “Why?”
Keim gave him an exasperated smile. “Their seclusion is making them weak and stale and narrow-minded. They’re even discarding those like you with the gift to see the Beyond, and it’s leading them to extinction. That’s nature’s way of showing that change is an unavoidable part of life. Whether we wish it or not.”
“But we’ve . . .” stuttered Glain. “They’ve been living here since the First Dawn.”
“Indeed. But if you don’t move along with the sun, the night will eventually swallow you.”
***
The cabin sat in the center of a small basin. Shrubs of various types and shapes and colors served to further accentuate its uniqueness in the desolate landscape. The cold sun pierced through the thin layer of perpetual mist that dominated the place, giving the lone building a dreamlike quality. Heavy logs interlocked at the edges with crude proficiency. A low, wide roof that capped the abode was a perfect shield against the massive snow drifts created by the ever-present blizzard of the High North.
Glain regarded Keim’s home with a certain elation, the kind he had experienced eight years ago, when he had last seen his own house. Besides that, a sense of kinship formed in his mind whenever he laid eyes on the wolf-clad outcast. Keim was the same as him. They were of a different tribe, but the same blood—tainted by the Beyond or not—coursed through their veins.
Same fate.
With a simple shrug, the Wolf-that-was-a-Crow discarded the deer’s corpse into the snowbank at the cabin’s entrance.
“It’ll be fine here,” he said.
Glain looked around in semi-worry. The silent ghost shapes prowled among the brush.
As if reading the kid’s mind, Keim spoke, “They won’t dare touch it before I take my bite.”
The robust door creaked open.
A gust of soothing warmth hit Glain, going through his furs and into his skin and veins and bones. Only then did the sense of exhaustion become apparent.
“Come on in.”
The young man rushed inside after the host, shutting the door in a hurry so as to not let more glorious heat escape. The audible slam the next moment brought an instantaneous sense of safety. Glain took some time to bask in it before noticing the room proper. His arms fought to liberate his body from the weapons, letting them fall to the floorboards.
The fireplace was nestled in a carved, rectangular opening of a gray slab of stone that looked like a dais. It shone with a vigorous orange hue. Suspended above it was a small cauldron, the steam of its contents ascending to a simple wooden exhaust protruding down from the ceiling. The heat then dissipated beneath the roof, thus creating a continuous thawing process for the snowdrifts that threatened to bulk up on the top of the cabin.
A low bed stood in the right corner. Several shelves decorated the left wall. Stacked on them were all kinds of stone and bone and animal hide tools used in everyday survival. At the far end, a bulbous skull of a snow lion reigned supreme. Its gaping maw exhibited the glistening, twelve-inch fangs that still looked as dangerous as the day the beast had drawn its last breath. Below it was a spread of a thick white fur, a kind Glain found easy to connect to the trophy whose eyeless sockets observed him from the Beyond.
Taken by the sheer massiveness of the beast’s head, he was startled by Keim’s sudden presence beside him.
“Sharp sons-of-bitches,” said the outcast and removed the part of the pelt that ran the length of his arm. A deep scar appeared, etched into the muscle. He grasped the sword’s handle, snickered. “But mine was sharper.”
“You built this?” asked Glain, gazing at the room.
“Sure did.”
“How long have you been here?”
Keim smiled. “Long enough to build something else as well.”
Puzzlement fell across the boy-man’s face as Keim motioned him to the back and then crouched, took hold of one end of the fur, and drew it to the side.
The outline of a man-sized trapdoor caused another grin from Keim. “If you thought that was impressive,” he nodded at the skull on the wall and then down at the door, “wait until you see this.” He grabbed hold of the nooks on the sides of the hatch and pulled. It came off with ease.
Darkness gaped up at Glain. A wooden ladder led into the unknown. Keim placed the hatch on the floor. With no further explanation, he lowered himself into the hole.
Glain could do nothing else but follow.
***
After his eyes adjusted, he still could not count all the crow skeletons.
Made to stand on rooted out tree stumps in various positions of everyday life, from preparing to take flight to descending or doing something so mundane like striding or sleeping, they were scattered throughout the basement lit by two weak torches hung on the sides. Wherever Glain turned, he was met with the same blank stares the snow lion had given him. He moved with caution, as if not to disturb the silence of the strange gallery. At first, he tried to piece the story out of the grim sculptures, but then came to a rather obvious conclusion that the place served as a shrine dedicated to death. Up ahead, he spotted a simple blanket covering the wall.
“We’re doing the same thing, you and I,” said Keim, and Glain became aware of holding onto a beak on his necklace.
“I saw you at the lake,” continued the host. “You tried to take out another one.”
Without waiting for Glain’s reply, Keim started for the hanging blanket. “But we’re doing it out of different convictions.” He turned back to the guest. “You seek to soothe your rage, while I seek to force the tribes to expand. I want our kind to live. To flourish.”
Glain shook his head. “They’ll never agree to what you’re proposing. They’re too headstrong.”
Keim gave him a knowing nod. “I know.” He grabbed the blanket and pulled it away.
“That’s where the wolves come in.”
Mouth agape, Glain staggered.
Padded by a thick layer of black feathers, human skulls stood stacked on the two levels of massive shelves. They glared at the young Crow with the same desolation found in the stilted bird skeletons.
Memories of exile swarmed Glain’s mind. The faces of the Elders and—of course—the ancient shaman Tolzen, appeared before him. He remembered his father, who had been forced to stay in the village, but who sacrificed his life to help him build a cabin out here in the Wasteland. Witnessing his execution from the hands of Tolzen’s dogs that called themselves warriors had fanned his rage. His helplessness had steered the hatred toward the totems of their people to prevent himself from going mad.
But this, Glain realized, was something else.
He felt himself shaking. His gaze soon met Keim’s. Motionless, the outcast regarded him with a glazed expression and pointed at the skulls. “This is what will befall our kind if we don’t make them act.”
“You killed them,” managed Glain, spotting several child heads among the rest. Breaths came and went with effort.
“No,” said Keim. “Their recklessness and narrow-mindedness did it. They preferred to stay after countless warnings. They could’ve let me lead them to a better world.”
“Y-you let the wolves . . .”
Keim seemed oblivious to Glain’s words. “It can be different now. We can join all of them together. Become Wolf People and storm Winterwood and the south. You can be what you were born to be. Use your power to lead them into a new tomorrow. I will help you.”
In the boy’s mind’s eye, Tolzen’s old face was replaced by his own. Disgust crept into him.
“You’re insane,” said Glain, and headed for the ladder.
The grasp on his shoulder almost made him lose balance. Before he knew it, he was flung into the crow skeletons. Keim’s eyes bulged at him, the false equanimity gone. He jumped at Glain’s neck, cutting off his air. The boy’s heart raced, pressure clogging his ears. He saw the outcast’s other hand reach for the sword.
“Then you will also serve as an example,” gritted Keim through wolfish teeth. The slender blade signaled its presence with a rasp as it left the scabbard.
Steel fingers bit harder into Glain’s flesh. He scratched and clawed without success. The sword rose, the embers on the side glistening off its polished surface.
Glain found the miniature skull on his chest once again. Newfound strength bubbled as he tore off the necklace and drove the crow beak into the mad eye.
A bone chilling howl sucked up the energy from Keim’s grip. He dropped the sword and went for the gash, thrashing about like a wounded beast. Blood poured in torrents. Howls increased.
Glain slid to the side and—without a moment to think his next course of action through—went for the blade.
Fang was light; lighter than Glain could have ever imagined it to be. He had thought the boasts of the Crow People’s swords being the most dreaded weapons in the world to be mere child tales, made up to rouse allegiance in the young warriors. But now he had come to know them as true, for the blades’ nigh-weightlessness served the primary purpose of making killing as easy as breathing.
Keim’s right palm kept the pressure on the eye whilst his left flayed at the few totems that had remained upright. The crimson-stained crow skull poked from the wound. His knees buckled, entire body convoluting in pain.
Sword in hand, Glain regarded the mad outcast with pity. A simple downward slash of the terrible weapon would have saved him from the unspeakable torture.
The youth’s phantom stare locked onto the human skulls on the wall.
He clenched his teeth and sped up the ladder.
***
Glain stormed out without bothering to pick up the bow and the quiver. He would return for it later, perhaps, but right now the sword was more than enough for him now and would be for as long as he could hold on to it.
Despite the frigid air and the bitter coldness that set in his skin, a sense of relief washed over him as soon as he stepped into the snow.
Glain choked and stopped dead in his tracks.
Ears low, snarls escaping from curled lips, the white shapes of the dire wolves formed a tight circle around the cabin entrance. Keim had been right—the beasts had not touched the deer that had by that time gotten a thin coat of frost over its exposed hide.
Solid as statues, they waited for the leader of the pack to make the first move.
Glain straightened, weighted the weapon to check whether it was still in his grasp. He found himself bound to the coldness of the sword. It surged through his bloodstream, sweeping away all emotions and leaving only clarity.
Recognizing Fang, the dire wolves turned silent.
The young warrior started toward them and kept his stride. He didn’t look back, not even when he had his back against them.
Ice-gazes remained locked on him until he disappeared in the sparse woods.
Once certain he was gone, the five shadows prowled inside the house.
Thank you for reading "Wolves of the Wasteland" by Mario Carić. If you are an S&S author, be it fiction or non-fiction, Rogues in the House is interested in your writing. Please send all submissions to roguesinthehousecast@gmail.com with a short bio and the attached manuscript. Shunn format is preferred but not necessary. Rogues can only offer a token payment of $10 at this time. Inquire for further questions and details.
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May your swords always remaind sharp!