Grimoire 1: Sheep's Clothing

Grimoire 1: Sheep's Clothing

By Nathan K.O. and Clint Looney

Prologue

Two men skulked on a high, moonlit crag, plotting murder. A wagon trail wound through the boulder-strewn valley below them, and wind scraped through jagged slopes of scree. The first man, tall and wiry, bent his wide-brimmed hat against the wind, striking a match to light his pipe. The orange flare glinted off his spectacles and lit his face in profile. Grey strands flecked his brown hair, and telltale lines of hardship etched his features. A long scar skipped from his cheek to his eyebrow like a sword wound, sealing his left eyelid shut.

The second traveler spoke in a weighty rumble. Careful, Jerry. A good sniper can see a hot cherry for miles. Crouched down, Jeremiah's companion looked more boulder than human. A thick neck and massive shoulders topped his barrel chest. Pock marks ravaged his features—mementos of a childhood struggle with plague. He wore a permanent scowl and kept his trench-knife moving from hand to hand.

Jeremiah puffed on his pipe. Relax, he told Ichabod, and flicked the match spinning into darkness. We'll see the caravan long before they see us. For now, there's not a soul around to notice.

Unless they sent advance scouts in on foot.

Reckon they would?

Hell yes, I do. Call me a pessimist.

With a damn anxiety complex, Jeremiah said.

Shut up. Ichabod gripped Jeremiah's arm and sat motionless, listening. I hear carriage wheels.

Told you they'd come. Jeremiah sighed and clamped the pipe between his teeth. He retrieved a long rifle and brought his good eye to the scope, tracing his sights up the mountain path. Yep, he said. I see a lone four-horse carriage, moving in quick. I don't see anyone else with 'em.

Then they brought a light guard complement, said Ichabod. Good.

Jeremiah set the rifle down, frowning. I got my doubts about your action plan.

Ichabod grinned. Don't you trust me?

Should I?

No. Gimme your pipe.

Jeremiah took one more puff, then held the stem out to his friend. You don't smoke.

Of course not. Ichabod waggled a stick of rough dynamite at Jeremiah. Tobacco'll kill you. Down below, the carriage approached their position. Ichabod cracked his neck, pressed the fuse into the embers, and stared at the hissing explosive. Seven, he muttered. Six.

Ichabod? Jeremiah said. The dull thunder of horse hooves pounded up the valley trail. If you'd toss the damn stick, I'd feel better.

Shut up. Four. Ichabod flicked his wrist, and the dynamite sailed out over the slope. Let's move.

Jeremiah rose, patting his holstered guns. One at his hip, one at the small of his back beneath his coat. Ready, he said, and slung the rifle's strap over his shoulder.

Me too. Ichabod stood, shotgun in hand. A massive revolver, the big man's weapon of last resort, hung at his side.

One.

The dynamite went off, and the valley below them erupted. The first blast set off four more explosives Ichabod planted beforehand. The rocks underfoot trembled, and a towering dust cloud choked the wagon path. Carriage horses screamed in mad panic. Dust-blind and deafened, they ran the cart off the road and went tumbling in a mass of flying manes and broken legs. The cart's wheels burst into splinters as the carriage rolled end over end. Animal screams ripped the night.

Let's go. Ichabod hopped down the seven-foot cliff and landed on the boulder-strewn hillside, descending into the dust shroud. Jeremiah took the long way down, picking his footing with care. Wooden splinters and torn earth marked the coach's path. Ichabod moved through the haze like a tomcat, silent despite his bulk. A man lay injured, flung against a boulder by the crash. A tangle of woven tattoos covered his pale skin, and long, blonde hair hung wild about his face. He tugged at the broken wheel-spoke rammed through his thigh, chanting to drive back the pain.

Kipu on vihollinen…valistunut sielu. Kipu on vihollinen— The blonde man spoke in deep, broken gasps. He looked up as Ichabod approached and raised a coach gun in shaking hands, but Ichabod got the first shot off. The bullet shredded the blonde man's lungs, and he slumped dead.

Ichabod swept forward, scanning for new targets. A slug clipped the side of the big man's ballistic vest, spinning him around. He hit the ground and rolled, ducking in behind a boulder. Bullets chipped away at the gray stone.

Coward! A deep voice bellowed. Show yourself!

Uh-huh. Ichabod picked up a rock at his feet and felt the heft. Granate! he yelled, lobbing the stone toward the gunshots. His enemies panicked, diving from cover to escape the supposed explosive. Ichabod rose and squeezed the trigger. His shots cut one man down cold, and hamstrung another as he fled.

A third foe came in screaming, mouth dribbling white froth. Ichabod's first shot missed, and the second blasted flesh from the attacker's ribs. The crazed man charged on, brandishing an iron-shod cudgel. Ichabod's shotgun ran dry, and he back-pedaled, fumbling for his big revolver.

Heads up! Jeremiah shouted from the cliff's foot. His rifle thundered, sending echoes through the frantic valley. Two shots caught the screaming man from the side and sent him stumbling. The third made a wet mess of his skull.

Fucking berserks. Ichabod said. I almost shit my pants.

Jeremiah worked the rifle's lever, then blasted the hamstrung man where he lay. You see any others? he asked.

I counted one more, then lost sight of 'im.

Both men took cover to reload. Jeremiah scanned the dust-choked ravine for survivors and shrugged. I don't see any—Gah! The wiry man winced, clapping a hand to his scarred eye as the world took a deep breath and whispered. The rocks around them hissed foreign words too soft to make out.

The fuck? Ichabod backed up to a boulder, head on a swivel. Jerry, what are we dealing with? Tell me where to shoot!

Toward the cliff, trying to flank us! Jeremiah spun and fired upward into the crags. Ichabod followed his gaze. A bare-chested skirmisher, tattooed from waist to hairline, barreled through the rough terrain with pistol in hand. He dove and leapt, exchanging shots with the pair until his gun clicked, then cast the weapon aside. The skirmisher swept his hands over his skin as he sprinted, tracing the runic curves of his tattoos. He chanted, chanted, chanted a deep-bass malediction, and his right arm changed shape. The shoulder joint ripped and reformed, bones lengthening to grotesque proportions. He loped on, lopsided, as his fingers grew chitinous claws. The man's skin boiled thick with tumors, clustered black pustules bursting through his skin and sprouting hair.

Jeremiah aimed, slow and steady. He winged their attacker, and the skirmisher charged on, heedless. His chanting rose into screams, then a mangled animal howl, as his vocal cords mutated. He continued tracing the runes inked on his skin, and his new claws dug gouges in his flesh. The tattoos writhed and crawled at his touch.

Ichabod bellowed and fired. Slugs peppered the charging beast-man as he closed the gap, lashing out with claws and human knuckles. Jeremiah dropped his spent rifle, drew a revolver with lightning speed, and caught a backhand to the throat. His shoulder joint took the brunt of the next razor-clawed swipe, and the force pitched him head over heels.

The beast knocked away Ichabod's shotgun, and the pockmarked man swore, dancing backward from death's reach. His back hit a boulder, and he rolled—too late. The skirmisher's human hand gripped Ichabod by the throat, hoisting him aloft. Ichabod's knife came up as the clawed hand came down, and the impact sunk the blade deep, wrenching and shattering warped metacarpals. The skirmisher screamed, eyes dilated to full bore. He slammed Ichabod against the boulder, skull-first. Jeremiah's revolver pounded the beast's back, six swift shots center-mass, grinding up muscles and kidneys. No time to reload—he pulled out his backup pistol and aimed.

Ichabod got his revolver out, managed two wild shots and lost the weapon in the struggle. His vision went dim as the slamming continued. Weaponless, he rammed fingers into the beast's eyes. Another five bullets hammered the monster's back, and Ichabod felt the impact on his vest as they over-penetrated. Up close and personal, the pock-scars on Ichabod's face burned like plague—he felt the skirmisher's disease. The life-ending claws pulled back for another blow. Ichabod rooted one foot on the boulder and swung the other up