The Way of the Black Beast (4 page)

"Absolutely not," she said in a low growl. "You don't understand anything about this, and I don't want you to start. You will stay here, and I'll come back for you. Now get off that horse."

With a dirty look, he climbed down. He lifted a defiant chin and crossed his arms.

She drew upon all her will not to shout at the boy. "Stay here. If you disobey me this time, if you come after me—"

She didn't have to finish. Tommy rushed towards her and gave a short hug. She stiffened at the embrace but also warmed inside. Something told her she should kiss the top of his head, but she held back. Thankfully, he did not cry.

Later, astride her horse and moving with the small force, she hoped Tommy believed she would come back. She should have been gentler with him; however, things had been moving too fast. That was her life. Always too fast. Except if she wanted to be honest, she preferred the fast pace. The slow times, like marching hill after hill towards battle, these were the times she dreaded — stuck with only her thoughts and the faces of those she had killed.

Paying them their honor,
Gregor had called it.

Ever since he found her alone and half-wild in the woods, he wanted her to slow down, to think about the lives she touched, to consider her place in the world. Most mornings he would wake early in their two-room shack, take a walk amongst the pines, and pick a choice vegetable from their small garden. He'd prepare breakfast while she set the table or played war with her doll (its left leg missing), and he would talk in his rich, booming voice. She didn't understand back then, but these morning talks were his way of sneaking in an education — a little history, a lot of agriculture, some math and reading, and endless discussions of philosophy.

"You're a tough girl," he said while cracking a korkor egg he had filched from a nearby nest. "You've already been through more than many seasoned soldiers experience in a lifetime." She could hear his concern, but also detected a touch of pride. "So I want you to learn something right now. You may not understand it all today, but you learn it, you remember it, and that'll be enough."

"Okay, Uncle Gregor," she said, setting her doll on the wood-plank floor.

"This is a dangerous world," Gregor said, chopping the onion he had picked and tossing it in with the eggs. "It's a violent world. With what those bastard magicians did to you, I don't think you can expect a quiet life. But that doesn't mean you've got to embrace it either. It doesn't mean you've got to find pleasure in killing. If you do that, you may well lose your soul. I don't want that to happen. So when you kill, I want you to remember to pay them their honor. Anything living that falls at your hand — good, evil, whatever — anything once living deserves at least a moment of thought — calm, peaceful, sincere thought. Pay them their honor, sweetheart, and you'll find the dead won't haunt your dreams."

But it wasn't her dreams that troubled her. It was the quiet moments with nothing to occupy her mind that brought back the ghosts. Thankfully, her most recent kill, the Bluesman, didn't trouble her. She could honor his skill and gracefulness without guilt. However, thinking of those she had failed to save — the Bluesman's victims who died because of her — these ghosts haunted her thoughts like stingbeetles swarming over their disturbed nest.

And then there was Tommy. She could still smell the brine that tainted every inch of that thief's ship. Brine and blood. She felt the storming sea roll her stomach one more time, and she heard the begging as she pressed her foot down, sending the ship's captain under. He had been an bestial man who had harmed Tommy for no other purpose than turning the boy into a battery. But no death could be worse than drowning. The slow helplessness of it.

At the front of the line, Pressig raised his hand and everyone halted. He gestured for Malja. Before them, a wide hill rose. "Other side of that," Pressig said, "is Terrgar. Any suggestions on the best way to do this?"

"You don't have a plan of attack?" Malja whispered so as not to worry the tired men and women — calling them
troops
did not feel right to her.

"To be honest, I didn't think it'd get this far. We're just a bunch of farmers. I knew people were mad, but this is more than I expected. I thought I'd stir up their anger and we'd, I don't know, protest. Maybe get a little something."

"And then what? They'd elect you to run the town? Give you a stupid title like Mayor or Duke? I once met a fool who called himself President. Is that what you want?"

At least Pressig had the brains to look ashamed. "Please believe me, I care about these people. I don't want them hurt. I was going to call the attack off. I was. Except you showed up, and then it all just, sort of, happened. I guess I thought with you, maybe we'd actually win."

With the disapproval of a parent forced to clean up her child's mess, she said, "Stay here. Order your people to rest. I'll scout and when I get back, I'll have a plan."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you so much."

"Stop it. Act like you're in control or you'll lose them."

"Right," he said, regaining his composure.

"Does that thing work?" She pointed to the handgun.

"Not even if it had bullets." He turned away, and as Malja headed up the hill, she heard him barking out commands.

Near the crest, Malja tethered her horse to an oak and crawled on her belly to get a closer look. She pulled out her spyglass — a reward she had taken from a pompous fool in the Freelands. He had thought magicians conjured the object. She knew better. It bore the marks of being hand-made — the imperfections and artistic flourishes of a craftsman at work. However, since the spyglass came from the ruins of a pre-Devastation town, she would have to admit that, at the least, magic-powered tools may have played a part in its creation.

Peering through the cracked eyepiece, Malja gazed upon Terrgar — empty Terrgar. A few barricades had been erected at the obvious entry points and sniper nests had been set up in the two tallest buildings. But no people manned either location. Four main roads wound through the town to form a large square in the center. There she spied a crude throne atop a mountain of rubble. A man sat on the throne — presumably, Mayor Fawbry. Twelve griffle guards surrounded the rubble pile, each armed with a sword, pike, or an improvised weapon.

Griffles were once human. The Devastation had destroyed more than just the land. The mutations to the living were numerous. Those who survived often did so because their mutations provided advantages in such a harsh world. For the griffles, this meant strength and speed. They were short, muscular, and ugly — mottled skin, stringy hair, and flattened faces. Fawbry must have hired them cheap — griffles weren't known for their brains.

One griffle, though, looked oddly small. The runt of the litter. It had little tufts of white hair growing from its joints and it followed Fawbry's every step. She even watched it climb upon his back. He must have a serious hold on the griffles if they allow one of their own, even the runt, to be treated like a pet.

None of this posed a problem, though. The problem sat a few sword-lengths in front of the griffles and the Mayor. Two oxters. Large, brown beasts with four muscular legs — excellent for farm work except for the forked tail lined with poisonous barbs. Usually the poison glands were removed at birth. Malja suspected that was not the case with these two. Their faces were smudged, bumpy things like the patterns in a muddy footprint. Just to make matters more interesting these oxters were female — highly aggressive and armed with two sharp horns curving out of the snout. They struggled against thick chains.

By the time Malja returned to the group, the situation had worsened. Half of Pressig's mini-armed force had run off. Those remaining looked as if they just waited for an excuse to leave with a clear conscience. Two angry oxters could rip them apart with ease. She needed a better plan than relying on numbers.

With a resigned sigh, she nodded to herself. Deep within, she had known her real plan all along. The sight of the oxters made her wish for another route, but so be it.

"Look here," she said. She didn't need to. All eyes already watched her. "I am a true warrior, and a true warrior walks the path of death. When I set out for this Mayor, I did not expect you people. So, I have a plan, and I want you to do as I say. Follow me, and I might live another day. I assure you, though, you all will."

Pressig frowned. "I don't understand. What's your plan?"

"There are two oxters protecting the Mayor." Before the worried moans died down, she raised her voice. "I'll handle them alone."

When it came to fighting, Malja preferred it this way — alone. She had hoped to convince Pressig's people to provide support, but after learning of the oxters, they just wanted to crawl home. Fine by her. They would've been a hindrance. It was better this way. No concerns but for her own skin. It felt good for a change.

A long time had passed since she traveled without another. Though she enjoyed Tommy's quiet companionship, she also worried about him whenever danger threatened. She told herself not to — after all, she had been two years younger than him when she had to survive on her own in the wild. And she couldn't defend him all the time. He had to learn to survive. That's why she left him back in town. Still, walking along Terrgar's empty streets, only having to care about herself — the corners of her lips raised a fraction.

As she came closer to the town's center, a strange tingling crossed her skin. At first, she thought of it as anticipation, but each dirt-crunching step dispelled this idea. It hit her like a sudden blast of air — the town was empty. Not just of people, she had expected that, but empty of all signs of life.

Terrgar had been built among the ruins of an ancient town, yet no sign of rebirth existed. Broken doorways rotted. Burned-out windows sagged. The remnants of grounders and flyers, transports that once ran on magical power, rusted under the elements. She had seen more evidence of life in the desolate Freelands. That thought resonated strong — this Mayor was little more than a failed Freelands warlord. He had no town here. He had no base of power. He only had his griffle guards and his oxters. He just wanted to bully the weak for easy food or women or whatever pleased him.

As she approached the town square, she heard an oxter bellow its deep, croaking moan. Malja unsheathed Viper and cleared her mind. She kept expecting an ambush from the empty buildings, kept expecting her assumptions to be wrong, but nothing challenged her progress. The shadows remained dark and empty. Nothing dared to pop out at her. She didn't even need to look for an escape route (not that she expected to use one) because every direction provided escape. Of course, that meant that every route could also be used to attack. Further proof that Mayor Fawbry had no tactical sense at all, that he was just a fool making a pompous stand.

She stopped at the square's edge. The animals' musty odors reminded her of mucking out Gregor's stables. A cool breeze blew by — a cue of the changing season, the passing time, the need to find Jarik and Callib.

From atop his throne, Mayor Fawbry said, "Are you serious? This is all they're sending? One little woman?"

"I'm not from Noogruff," Malja called back.

Fawbry sat forward and the runt griffle peeked over his shoulder. "Oh, really? Then what do you want?"

Attempting the most businesslike posture she could manage while still holding Viper, she said, "Ms. Nolan would like to speak with you at her residence."

Fawbry stroked his wiry, unkempt hair like a crazed teacher. He wore a tattered but colorful robe that rippled as he paced. "You hear that, Tufts? Ms. Nolan would like me to visit her? Well, Ms. Nolan can rot," he said and Tufts let out a high-pitched laugh. "I'm not leaving here."

At least he knows her.
With a shrug, Malja said, "Then I'll have to come up and get you."

One griffle, stockier than the rest and wearing a breastplate (really a piece of metal with the faded words THE BEST DRINK painted sideways), broke ranks and whispered to Fawbry. Fawbry's face dropped as he shook his head. The griffle pushed Fawbry toward the ground. The other griffles stayed silent and Tufts scurried to hide amongst the ranks.

Fawbry protested once more, but the griffle growled and pointed off to a red-brick building. Fawbry nodded as if it hurt his heart. Satisfied, the griffle returned to his place in line as Fawbry stood and brushed off his robe.

"Go away. Tell Nolan I'm not interested," he said, and Malja swore she heard pleading in his voice.

"I can't go without you."

Fawbry's shoulders drooped as he let out a dismayed breath. Two griffles emerged from the red-brick building, leading two men and a woman — all three were bound and wore square cloths covering their faces, each secured with coarse twine. They were lowered to their knees.

A sickly quiet overtook the square. As if to shut out the world, Fawbry closed his eyes. The griffle who appeared to be in charge, Drink, stepped out once more and walked toward the condemned. The soft clicking of his armor echoed across the open square. He slid out his sword.

Too far away to strike, Malja could think of only one thing to do. She shouted. "Hey. Moron. Oh my, look. The squat griffle is going to be tough killing defenseless people."

Drink watched her. She couldn't be sure he understood her words, but he clearly comprehended her tone. "Poor baby. Did I make you feel sad?"