Beastly (3 page)

A family of rabbits bolted from a roadside den, heading for the deeper
woods. Angry birds squawked objections from tree tops before departing like black storm clouds. It was then that the Beast stopped. He cared little for the din and less for his friends being shaken from their homes.

Muffled sounds of plodding boots rounded a drift, followed by their creator. The man staggered and fell, clawing frantically through the snow, trying to rise. He turned over his shoulder to the thundering hooves and cried out. He righted himself and ran at the Beast.

A band of horsemen burst from the trees, trampling the drift, closing on the terrified man in seconds. The doomed man reached desperately for the Beast. The lead dragoon seized a handful of the man’s cloak, jerking him from the ground.

The man’s fingers madly worked the cloak’s clasp, trying to free
himself. “No, please. It wasn’t mine. It was--”

A dagger tore through his back, piercing his heart. He
gurgled a mouthful of blood into the snow. The dragoon wiped his serrated blade on the bloodied cloak. He released the corpse and stared at the only witness.

The Beast regarded the mounted party who in turn slowed to a tentative trot.
Mercenaries by the look of them.
Their horses were chained in heavy plate mail; riders in suits of black armor covered head to toe by twisted barbs and hooks. A singular pauldron forged into a fanged skull skewered by three blades sat on each man’s left shoulder.

The Beast knew of these men. The fanged skulls gave them away.

Tales from the Great Road whispered of these riders in black, said to never eat or sleep. Rumor said they rode under the banner of a powerful sorceress.
A banner usually seeking the capture and trial of a fugitive. The Beast knew that words like ‘capture’ and ‘trial’ were usually euphemisms for kidnapping and murder. And based on what he had just witnessed...

Not my concern
. The Beast resumed his march, ignoring the carnage at his back.

The riders closed to twenty paces. Their captain broke formation and rode ahead until his mount was within arm’s reach. Despite the war horse, the Beast stood at nearly eye level with the man in black. The stallion reared, rattling the armored chains. Thick plumes of steam erupted from its flared nostrils as it shifted its bulk.

The rider removed his helmet and set it on the saddle’s horn. Malachai’s skin was the sickly translucent color of spoiled milk. The Beast’s reflection flickered in the seething crimson of Malachai’s eyes.

What manner of demon spawn was this... thing?

Doubt cared not for lingering in the Beast’s thoughts. These men were most certainly the Wakeful. The muscles of his body tightened, taut as a drawn catapult. Meeting the Wakeful elicited that effect in all living beings. It was as though the waking world knew it was being poisoned by those more at home in nightmare.

“We seek...” Malachai’s voice droned as he struggled with the rigidity of his lips. “We seek the girl.”

“Haven’t seen her,” the Beast
muttered, his tone an overdue volcano. As far as he was concerned the conversation was over.

The hissing sound of swords escaping scabbards countered his defiance.

“We seek the girl. We seek the Gift.” Malachai motioned to the Beast’s chest. Malachai’s armored gauntlet creaked as plates of steel folded into an accusatory finger. The Beast stole a glance at the spot beneath his cloak where the medallion rested.
How had Malachai known?

“I know no girl and have no gifts to offer. Leave me be. Continue your ride.” His blood rolled to a boil and the Beast, very subtly for his size, shifted to a slight crouch.

He liked his odds despite the six on one disadvantage. The Wakeful began a hasty dismount, but were abruptly halted by Malachai’s swift gesture.

Malachai stared long and hard into the Beast’s own savage amber eyes, finding his reflection as the Beast had in his. The battle hardened captain was no fool. Though Malachai was neither sorcerer nor Seer, he recognized the unbridled fury only a beast of the wild could know. It was a primal fury without limit or mercy. Malachai saw the certainty of the battle’s outcome.

There would be no battle here.

“We ride for the village,” Malachai shouted to his men. He waved the Wakeful onward and they surged past at a gallop, leaving the Beast
standing as steadfast as a mountainside beside the road. None looked back as they disappeared around the road’s bend.

Malachai nudged his horse to a trot. He hadn’t gone far when he pulled on the reigns, bringing the mount to a halt. “I should hope we don’t meet again on the road,” Malachai called back over his shoulder.

The Beast dashed two lengthy strides in less time than most folks needed to rise from a comfortable chair and was once more eye to eye with the Wakeful captain. His eyes burned a
hole straight through whatever black heart Malachai had left.

The Beast whispered, forcing Malachai to truly hear him. “You should hope we don’t meet again anywhere.”

Malachai twisted the remains of his partially frozen mouth into a painful slit of a smile. “Indeed.” With a savage kick, Malachai’s horse broke into gallop.

A gust of wind sliced his cloak, cooling some of the rage gifted by the Wakeful. He knew he would see them again. He knew it as certain as he knew the stars would shine.

Chapter 3

While the world slumbered, the ratty doors of the Troll’s Breath tavern remained open for business. It was an ugly squat building known for its terrible food and the cursed odor of its namesake. The tavern’s pitiful thatched roof was notorious for leaking onto many an unsuspecting traveler just as they settled in to their lumpy bed.

The bronze light struggling to escape from the dirty windows was an easy spot for the Beast of Briarburn. A faint trace of cooked meat filled the Beast’s nostrils. Stomach rumbling, the Beast made straight for the inn. He cut an arrow’s path through the woods, bypassing the final mile of the Great Road’s curves.

Loud music split the night with each drunken fool staggering through the door. The noise may as well have been a moat filled with burning pitch; merriment did not suit him. He much preferred the song of wilderness silence. He shrugged off a wave of broken chords and gripped the door’s handle.

There was the small matter of the medallion... And the larger matter of hunger.

The Beast shouldered the moldy door, nearly bludgeoning a plank free. He bent to avoid catching his horns on the lintel. A modest crowd eyed him suspiciously as he twisted through the narrow doorway.

Hamish slouched over the bar, swabbing at a stubborn clean spot with
the corner of his apron. His bald head shined with a tinge of red like a festival ornament. He chuckled at the arrival of his newest, largest customer and returned to his swabbing. His patrons turned back to their drinks, following the old bar keep’s lead.

The air reeked of dried urine and rotten meat. The stench worsened at each step. The Beast navigated the room, carefully avoiding the lanterns dangling from rusty chains. The floor was a carpet of dead insects and nut shells. Puddles of spilled drink tugged at his paws. He located a lone table in a shady corner and seated himself back to wall. The spindly chair protested, unaccustomed to such bulk.

A roaring fire crackled under a mural of the tavern’s framing. Heads of fanged and horned beasts were mounted in a macabre ring around the walls.
Such a shame to be made a trophy of. To what end? For whose benefit?

A troupe of bards strummed off-key, stumbling about in search of alms and ale. Out-stretched legs earned fits of laughter as the drunken performers periodically
fell
face first to the floor. Hamish masterfully ferried endless trays, too dexterous to suffer the bards’ fate. The Beast struggled with the commotion. Tension knotted his shoulders. There were too many people doing too many things.

The Beast quickly noted the band of huntsmen dominating the room. He was familiar with their type: rough cut and cock sure.
Men with look of haggard wolves. They circled a long table, numbering just shy of a dozen. The table was a mess of chipped plates and trails of flung food. Fresh blood pooled around a dagger driven home; remnants of a round of Bishop. A single moll with ginger hair worked the rowdy troop, slapping away roving hands.

The Beast resolved to maintain his guard, keen that trouble often joined pairings of liquor and lust. A nearby rack of swords offered little reassurance. No matter. He would not seek trouble out. But should it come calling...

A woman with ample crow’s feet and jet black hair streaked with silver nursed a drink at a small table by the hearth’s side. She tapped her foot mindlessly against a brown trunk. Through the haze the Beast read “Madame Urda” scrawled on its lid. Around her head, three apple-sized crystal balls danced playfully, flying at impossible angles and sliding through one another. The Beast snorted. He had seen this type of trickery before.

Mere carnival deception
.

Behind Urda’s table, a rickety staircase climbed to the inn’s shabby bed chambers. Nailed to the side was a collection of “Wanted” posters offering pittances for a gallery of common rogues. One in particular, caught the Beast’s eye, causing him to squint. The poster read:

“Wanted: Dead or Alive”

Marrock of the Woodland realm

For crimes against the township of the most

heinous type and degree including murder

most savage.

REWARD: 1000 Gold Pieces

A long face with a pointed nose and narrow jaw was crudely etched below the reward. He studied the image from across the room. Three scars slashed the face’s left side, marring cheek and eye. The scars were telling. Only a lord of the wild could have survived such grievous wounds. But what manner of monster had carved them? Intrigued by the bounty, the Beast dodged a parade of swinging lutes and plucked free Marrock’s poster.

“You’d best put that back and forget it,” Hamish called over the din. His greasy rag streaked the bars lone clean patch.

The Beast fought to maintain a hushed tone; despite the
bar keep’s advice. “And why is that?” he tersely replied.

Hamish waved the Beast to an empty stool. It was closer to the huntsmen than he preferred, but he accepted. He flattened the notice on the sticky bar, struggling to balance
himself
on the stool. He muttered a curse and subtly kicked the infernal seat aside.

“I meant no offense, stranger. I was merely
offerin’ up some advice. Plenty of huntsmen and even some mercenary types have gone lookin’ for Marrock.” Hamish’s mouth went dry and his beady eyes flickered to the boisterous table. “We usually find pieces of them come spring, sometimes not at all.”

The Beast followed the bar keep’s gaze. The wolf pack was still hard at work, clinking steins and groping at unfortunate women as they happened by.
They appeared capable enough,
the Beast thought. He looked down at the sketch. The scarred eye and gouged face refused to give up its secret.
What sort of query could challenge such a party?

Hamish swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Lord Marrock once owned himself a fine manor not too far from here. He was a good man, fair to his people.”

“What happened to his face?” The Beast tapped the picture.

Hamish frowned. “Hey now, I’m running a reputable business here, not a university.”

“Reputable?” The Beast nodded to a hunter being lead upstairs by a buxom consort. In his haste the young man forgot to unsling his crossbow. He tripped over an errant boots lace, nearly stumbling back down the stairs.

The Beast produced a single gold piece and, with a toothy grin, placed it on Marrock’s charcoaled nose. Hamish snatched it up with a wry smile and disappeared under the bar. He re-appeared with a bucket-sized stein, filled with frothy ale. He nodded appreciatively and slid the monstrous drink in front of the Beast. The Beast returned the gratitude and drained half of the ale in a single pull.

“I had that made as a joke,” Hamish chuckled.
“Never thought I’d actually pour in it.”

The Beast took a second swig, finishing the ale off.
Not the worst, certainly not the best, but good enough
. He pointed at the empty cup.

“Fill it again, and tell me Marrock’s tale.”

Hamish happily obliged and returned with
a fresh ale. He wiped his hands dry, then
tossed the apron aside in a ball.

“I’ll tell you what I know, lad. But like anything, there’s more than one side to a tale,” the bar keep cautioned. “Marrock was a good man, I told you as much already. He took a wife.
Pretty thing. Big brown eyes. Anyways, they say one night she noticed his Lordship sleep walking. Walked right out of the house and into the forest, he did. Opening doors, not falling down or nothing funny. She followed him a ways into the woods, she did. A mile in, Marrock entered a clearing.”

Hamish glanced at the handbill, then quickly away, trying to avoid Marrock’s etched gaze. “And then things became... peculiar.”

The Beast leaned in, taking another monstrous pull of his ale. “I’ve seen my share of peculiar, bar keep.”

Hamish regarded the Beast’s monstrous features. “Not like this you haven’t, lad. There in the moonlight, she watched as Lord Marrock stripped down to his starkness. Starts howling at the moon, he does. And then in a burst of silver fire he disappears!
Burns up!” Hamish threw his arms up.