by Matt Khourie
“I shall love you always, star-shine.” Adella’s body dissipated into a translucent cloud of sapphire fireflies and then faded away.
The Once Kingdom, home of Adella’s proud palace stood eerily silent, absent any traces of its former family.
Save for a furious Pandora, whose glowering eyes continued to burn.
Chapter 2
The Beast of Briarburn awoke hungry as usual. He rolled from a spongy bed of moss, patting the pangs away. He yawned until something popped, then massaged his smarting jaw with a plate sized paw that ended in coal black claws.
He brushed a blanket of fluffy snow from his shoulders and shook his mane clean. He stood on thickly muscled legs like those of a lion king. A stout pair of ram-like horns added a further foot, ensuring the Beast was taller than any man of the realm. He fastened a dingy pair of breeches over an even dingier loin cloth and arched his back like a rustled feline. More popping. The price of sleeping on the ground.
The setting sun bequeathed swathes of mingling oranges and creeping purples. A canopy of snow-laden branches struggled under their added burdens. Despite obstructions of snow and ice, the Beast quickly located a princely tapestry of constellations glistening like diamonds. It was an appreciated comfort. But for the stars and the solitude, there wasn’t much that was comfortable in the Beast’s world. He could not even recall the last time he gazed upon a rising sun.
The Beast waited patiently for families of foxes and rabbits to drift off to slumber before lumbering about. After all, they afforded him the same courteousy during the day. A badger quipped a goodnight and then disappeared into the hollow of a nearby fir. A moment later, its tiny yellow orbs were swallowed by the darkness. He wished them all a peaceful night, then heeded the second rumble of his hungry belly.
He cinched a hunter green cloak whose faded tattered edges had seen better days. Still, it was all he needed to face winter’s bite. His own coat of chestnut brown fur was ample enough. A walnut sized ruby hung from a preposterously thin necklace of golden spider silk. He pawed at the jewel, vying for a better look. After a curse best reserved for a tavern brawl, he managed to grasp his most treasured and frustrating possession.
In a bath of starlight, he pored over the jewel. By his count it was the millionth such inspection. The Beast grunted his frustration and let the medallion slip through his claws. Such a delicate bauble for such a crass being. It must have been crafted by a powerful sorcerer, the Beast reckoned. He often sensed power emanating from within, whispering in the stillest of nights.
The Beast ran a claw over the medallion’s reverse, feeling the familiar grooves of the impeccable inscription etched by a forgotten author. The words were as foreign to him as his own origin. His heart sank a hair as it often did when he tried to force the memory free.
Sometimes he thought the inscription was mocking him. Other times he imagined it was the forgotten incantation of an ancient spell. Perhaps a spell to remove a curse or to turn water into ale? He cared little for magic or for curses. In truth, the Beast of Briarburn would have given anything for the medallion to merely reveal his name.
Frustrated, he pulled the cloak closed, burying the firestone in his mane. He flipped up the cloak’s cavernous hood. At night, but for his massive build, he would travel unnoticed. That suited him just fine. At the onset of his lonely march, the Beast had tried consorting with the world of Men, but found it more frigid than the bitterest winter. Even within the kindest of company, a cast of worthwhile comrades was rare in the finding.
The Great Road was teacher of a great many lessons. Painful lessons the Beast had little intention of repeating. Lesson number one: Trust No One. It was far better to rely on oneself than to trust in another. For bread or for blood, there was only a man for himself.
The Beast was no fool, however. Occasional cooperation was not without merit. But it was meant to be just that, occasional. And preferably short-lived. Things may have worked out for the better had that always been so.
Shouldering a worn pack, he contemplated lesson number two. The penalty for forgetting lesson number one was usually a stiff one; such as being chasing by an angry mob wielding rusty farm tools. Or being shackled and caged. The Beast shuddered at that last thought.
There was nothing worse than chains.
He put the memory aside and started for the road, careful to avoid the slumbering critters. Vapor escaped from his snout in large plumes and snow crunched underfoot, while the winter wind whistled through the trees. The Beast preferred the season. He found it had a unique pace that suited him. In the wild, winter was able to freeze time itself, making things serene.
The Great Road remained where he had left it the night before. Wagon tracks in the knee high snow had been freshly filled by the morning’s storm. He stared down the lonely stretch of cobbled stone. The snow covered road rolled through a serpentine series of gentle curves before disappearing behind a drift horizon of ivory. In the still of the spreading night the strange words returned, dancing amongst his skulking ruminations. In my heart, I know you’re there... He knew not from whence the words came. The mysterious voice chanting them in was ever changing, distorted like an echo in a cavern.
With a huff he buried the strange voice and trudged off, leaving behind a trail of prints the size of foxholes. East had been his heading since autumn’s end. Tales from a score of inn keepers and pilgrims had provided countless leads, each one naming a wizard or shaman who may possess the skill to translate the mysterious inscription. The Beast snickered. The intellectual types never could resist the urge to prove how much smarter they were than everyone else.
The moon finally appeared and began its nightly journey. Drifts of snow at the road’s shoulders glistened, mirroring the starry sky. Fox tracks dotted the land in the strange crisscrossing pattern they were notorious for. He would have appreciated the company of foxes tonight. He could have used one of their famous riddles to help pass the time. What was that last riddle? They have not flesh, nor feathers, nor scales, nor bone. Yet they have fingers and thumbs of their own. The Beast considered it for another moment and then moved on. “Stupid foxes,” he grumbled.
All remained quiet long into the night until the thunder of hooves disturbed the golden silence. The vibration perked his ears up. Riders in the night were almost never a good thing. Madmen and marauders and things much more vile readily preyed on road weary travelers who found themselves caught out in the dark.
No panic crept upon the Beast’s heart, however. The local gangs of rabble knew better than attack the Beast of Briarburn. His own reputation as something not to be trifled with was a common place story, carried on the wings of ravens, and sung by bards in taverns far and wide.
The Beast had little desire to fight, but had no intention of fleeing. The road was free to travel. And since he had traveled its windy worn out stretches for so long, he had come to consider it home. No, there would be no cowering this night. If the road were to be all the home he had, than he would not abandon it.
The hooves thundered closer. As a minor concession, the Beast moved a step closer to the shoulder, before resuming his journey. Confrontation would not be necessary unless the horsemen desired it. The Beast did not even bother to turn his cloaked head to the noisy intrusion.
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-siz
ed 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.”