Beastly

by Matt Khourie

  Meridian’s main gate waited impatiently, covered by murky shadows. The giant grid of wrought iron fit snugly into a fifteen foot high, equally thick, sun bleached stone wall. Braziers were ignited by the City’s Watch as the sun plunged into its watery cradle. The Beast favored caution on approach, hoping to avoid a nervous arrow from one of the many watchmen patrolling the battlements. Meridian’s City Watch was a collection of venerable soldiers and gruff men who had seen their share of the world’s dangers. They would not hesitate to answer any threat.

  The patrolling guards were clad in tanned leather armor, armed with parings of bow and short blades. It was the armament of peace time, but the Beast harbored no illusion that these men were anything less than capable. It was showcased by the precise pattern and timing of their movements, down to the subtle shift of their positioning. Every few moments, a watchman leaned between crenellations, inspecting a shadow or imagined movement. A brief flash of hand code in the brazier light signaled a silent ‘all’s well’ soon after.

  Twenty paces from the gate the Beast halted. Experience preached caution when dealing with members of a usually frightened constabulary. Gaining entrance typically required the cursory attention of someone in charge. He hailed the nearest watchman, ready to issue a formal declaration. The guard waved a torch in the Beast’s direction and waved him through the open gate. Disappointment mixed with surprise. Surely Meridian, despite its magnificence, had never before seen his like?

  The Beast offered a parting salute and marched through Meridian’s fluttering blue-grey banners. The doors were heavy, nearly as thick as the wall. The sharp points of a portcullis caught his eye, each tip thick as a man’s thigh. He flipped up his hood, saddened by a fresh tear in the battered garment. He eased through the thinning crowd, taking great care to avoid any unwanted attention. The movement came easier than he expected.

  Meridian’s promenade failed to notice its giant newcomer and he preferred to keep it so. He scanned dozens of banners and chipped wooden signs hanging from closed shops and rowdy taverns, hoping to pick up Malachai’s wretched scent. The streets remained alive with risqué catcalls of the nocturnal. Vendors pushed rickety wagons into shadowy side streets, emptying the marketplace. The changing energy prickled at the Beast’s skin. He sensed a growing danger lurking unseen.

  Meridian after dark...

  Lamp posts, hidden by day, breached the surface with a grinding vibration that rattled the Beast’s spine. They flashed to life, filling the dark spaces, coloring the city in the grey-blues and gold of Meridian’s banner. The Beast scanned the crowd. No one seemed to notice the sudden intrusion. Parings of men and women, arms interlocked, threaded their way through companies of pirates and peddlers, seeking their entertainment in Meridian’s score of taverns. More than once, they brushed the flap of his cloak. The Beast held his breath, anticipating the inevitable scream.

  But none came. Men and women alike passed by, paying no mind to the horned gargoyle newly affixed to the shop’s wall. He did not understand this Meridian at all. How could he possibly find his way?

  A shard of glass cut through the Beast’s memory. Patience. Discipline. He was on his back, propped onto an elbow. A man with a blurry face and silvery hair, wearing polished armor loomed over. The man’s blade hovered just beneath his chin. An armored hand appeared, deflecting the blade away. The man extended his hand and jerked the Beast to his feet. The man clasped his shoulder Patience, Discipline...

  The memory vanished and the Beast shook free the temporary trance. Remnants of magical current prickled beneath his thick fur, tracing to the amulet. The Beast kept moving, one foot in front of the other, certain a member of the City Watch would soon stop for a friendly word. He looked over each shoulder in turn, searching for their approach. Once more, confusion reigned.

  Such a strange place, he thought. He had entered without incident. He was twice the size of Meridian’s most robust inhabitant. And now he had almost assuredly created a spectacle with his magical delusion. And no one had bothered batting an eye.

  Perhaps here I am invisible.

  A fat man, beard soaked of suds, stumbled out of a tavern, stabbing a sweaty shirt into his trousers. He stumbled a few steps, careening between harsh stares and stiff shoves. After a few slurred apologies, the man tugged on his shirt a second time and broke into a pub song. The drunkard staggered face first into the Beast’s chest, falling away like he had walked into a wall. He looked up, glossy eyed, face ruddied.

  The Beast said nothing. Waited.

  The man flashed a toothless grin, then staggered away, picking up the tuneless song where he had left it. A trio of City Watchmen approached, hands resting on their swords. The middle watchman took the lead. “Stay where you are.”

  The Beast froze. This was the moment he had expected. Tension surged to his shoulders. His eyes darted for the best escape route. The watchmen closed to an arm’s length. The Beast shifted his weight, readying to explode into an alley.

  “Mermaid’s bollocks, it’s just Tram, drunk as usual,” said a wiry watchman.

  His comrades chuckled, relaxed their readied weapons, and broke into a trot. The City Watch caught up to the drunk, hoisting him upright. The lead watchman patted Tram on the back, dusting him off. “Gone off and found the bottle’s end again, have you?”

  “No worries, old boy. We’ll see you home to the missus.”

  Tram stuttered his gratitude. His body slackened soon after. The watchmen gathered him up, laughing alongside the inebriated fool while leading him off.

  How odd that the man, an obvious miscreant, was treated with such kindness. The Beast quickly chided himself for the notion, knowing his own callous philosophy was responsible for such a thought. Perhaps in Meridian, full of light and shadow, room for mercy existed.

  “He’ll be fine. They’ll even feed the lucky bastard,” said a man with a square jaw shaded by a day’s stubble. He pulled a shop’s door closed behind him and stepped down into the street. The Beast looked down at him, stunned that someone finally acknowledged his existence.

  The man brushed wavy dark hair behind his ears. A fine cutlass with a twisting hand guard was pinned behind a thick leather belt. At his other hip, a dagger with a grip carved in the image of a grim reaper, resided in easy reach. The man’s wrists were adorned by the traditional bracers worn by the freest of the free.

  Pirate.

  “You can see me?” the Beast asked.

  The man snickered. He donned a thin cloak, concealing his armaments. “Of course I can see you, you dolt. Did you really think something as big and, well, as fuzzy as you would go unnoticed?”

  The Beast’s muscles tensed and he loosed a low growl. Locking a penetrating gaze onto the soon-to-be-pummeled man, he balled two fists of iron and squared off.

  More laughter. The pirate dared to even slap at a knee. He wiped away a phony tear and rubbed a spasm in his side. “My friend, I meant no offense. An off-colored joke, in poor taste at your expense. Come, let us share stories of adventure and glory! What is your name?”

  The tension in the Beast’s shoulders twitched. “I do not have one.”

  “Ah, no worries. We shall find one for you by night’s end!” The pirate brushed at his cloak and made for the adjacent tavern. The Beast had never before met a man so free with his tongue. The urge to flatten the pirate’s rudeness was undeniable, but his gruff honesty stayed the Beast’s hand. “What are you called, pirate?”

  The man shoved the Rusty Rudder’s door open, inviting the Beast in with a sweeping bow. A devilish grin painted his face from ear to ear.

  “Captain Poogs, at your service.”

  Chapter 16

  Malachai’s fiery wrath threatened to consume all of creation. How the little abomination had managed to do it was unclear. Such a thing was impossible. He had been guaranteed as much. Yet the evidence to the contrary, though beyond belief, was equally beyond reproach.


  The girl had breathed life into the Gloom.

  That was hours ago. Malachai had slung his prisoner like baggage over the saddle, taking the road to Meridian in a fury. Now, returned from the Gloom, the mocking obsession of ‘how’ remained. Malachai glared at the door across the room.

  “The Gloom is my realm. Mine,” Malachai spat, anger steadily rising with each breath, like a volcano. The words crashed inside his skull like falling rocks, so deafening the black rider struggled to keep focus on the road. His jaw clenched. “I will have my answers.”

  He stormed to the door, knocking aside the table and chairs. The two officers of the City Watch wisely stepped aside. Malachai obliterated the door with a savage kick, leaving little more than a pair of rusted hinges. He stepped through the splintery wreckage, quaking like a rabid dog with bared teeth. The armored plates of his gauntlets screeched as black steel awakened at his side.

  Lia sat cross-legged on the damp planks of the cell’s floor. With delicate grace she gently wove slivers of warm light into a luminous fabric. The bundle floated above her lap, slowly spinning as she worked her hands back and forth on an invisible loom. Her button nose scrunched, further tightening her concentration. Through pursed lips she puffed a lock of hair from her squinting eyes. She beamed at her latest attempt. “Almost finished.”

  “How dare you,” Malachai droned.

  He swung his wicked sword high overhead. The sword flashed like an obsidian lightning strike, slicing within an inch of Lia’s face, close enough that she felt the malice of its hateful hunger. The vicious slash cut through Lia’s handicraft, banishing the light back to shadow. Malachai twisted the muscles of his pale face into a grin. Look at her, he thought, sitting there alone on the floor. Pathetic. Defeated. He sheathed his sword, certain that the little abomination’s rebellious spirit was crushed once and for all.

  Lia regarded the fading remnants of spell craft in her lap. She plucked a strand of light like it was yarn, watching it waver in the drafty room. The light dimmed and then died into nothingness. She sighed a child’s sigh. Malachai turned for the demolished entrance, savoring his victory.

  “Oh well. Looks like I’ll have to start over.”

  Malachai froze dead in his tracks, snared by Lia’s gleeful defiance. He pivoted on a heel to face the challenging taunt. Searching for bluster, Malachai found his tongue felled. All he could do was stare. Lia was already fast at work, mending and shaping new fibers of light. The colors were brighter than before, fuller. Alive. The dark of the empty room was aglow in shifting pigments as she worked, crafting the strands into ribbons. Then ribbons into patches...

  Malachai’s sword instantly flashed back to life, tearing at the fabric, cutting the deviant heresy to pieces. Lia only smiled and began again. Another fabric of light formed, this time bearing shape: A flower, petals blossoming in a violet that had only before existed in Lia’s imagination. Malachai’s drone burned at his throat and lifted to a roar. He slashed at the flower with sword and dagger alike in a flurry of wild strikes. Unfamiliar fatigue burned at the Wakeful Captain’s shoulders as he hacked away. What was the strange power this girl had to defy him?

  Lia climbed from the dank floor, hands weaving wildly. Her fingers, too stubby to learn Cedrik’s lute had found an instrument all her own. She hummed Polaris’s tune, Cedrik’s tune. She threw her shoulders back and chin up, increasing her pace to match Malachai’s slashing. A dozen swathes of luminous fabric appeared, each larger, more magnificent than the previous. Sweat trickled from Lia’s brow as she directed the pieces into fusion. The patches stitched together in shades of Lia’s violet. A pattern emerged; a wondrous design born of the child’s dreams.

  The patchwork unicorn reared majestically, filling the room with the intense blast of dawn’s light. It scraped at the floor, lowering its spiraled horn. Malachai’s pale head tilted to one side. He could not believe the sight. Would not believe. It could not be...

  Malachai lunged into a twin strike of sword and dagger shaped like an X at the illusion’s throat. The majestic beast parried the strikes and Malachai’s blades clanged harmlessly away. It neighed and reared, nearly connecting a pair of trampling hooves to Malachai’s skull. He dodged swiftly aside, then retreated for the safety of the doorway. He snatched a halberd from a wall rack and leveled it at the gaping door, hoping to impale the charging beast. A tense moment passed. The Wakeful captain approached cautiously, halberd raised. Malachai leaned around the doorway, finding darkness had reclaimed ownership of the small room. Slowly he peered inside.

  The unicorn had vanished. All that remained was a sleeping girl, curled into a ball, murmuring a lullaby.

  Malachai stared through the bars of emerald flame cast onto the empty door. His shoulders ached and his head pounded. That he fatigued at all was cause for concern. Did the little abomination’s blasphemy know no limit? How could this have happened? Doubt started seeping into his mind through a tiny crack threatening to burst. I should feel nothing at all. Not soreness, not fatigue. Certainly not fear. Yet the child’s blasphemy chipped away at the Wakeful Curse, robbing him of strength.

  Malachai felt a sudden charge of rage. He regarded the green flame once more, then conjured additional cross bars for good measure. The wooden frame hissed wisps of grey smoke. He stepped back, armored boots clunking, pleased with his work.

  The City Watchmen pressed against the jailhouse wall, watching Malachai’s every move. Castiel was more than slightly unnerved. His thick fingers cramped around his sword’s hilt: they had been wrapped around it the moment Malachai had splintered the door. In all honestly, he knew little could be done if Malachai turned the wrath of his crimson eyes onto him. Nothing in Castiel’s meager experience with the City Watch had prepared him for such dealings. He snuck a look to his sergeant for reassurance, but found no aid.

  Dacian joined Malachai with a lingering sneer of his own. His rat like face, pockmarked and picked at, was devoid of compassion. He knew Malachai’s Queen would honor the arrangement as brokered. He gestured to the newly resettled chairs.

  “Captain, forgive me but there is much to discuss, preparations to make. The dauntless men of our City Watch stand at the ready to apprehend your fugitive,” Dacian continued with a sardonic grin. He hated the City Watch, thought his comrades less than rubes. If not for the opportunities wearing the uniform provided, he would have abandoned the post long ago.

  Castiel levied a disgusted look. When he had joined the Watch a summer ago he could have never have imagined such corruption. Paid to detain a child?

  Malachai gave no reply. He twisted in the chair, drawn again to the darkness behind the emerald blaze. How had she made the tree blossom? Dacian boldly tapped Malachai’s forearm. “Captain...”

  Malachai’s dagger sang out, slicing through the tip of Dacian’s index finger. He howled and jumped from his chair, cradling the wounded digit to his chest. Castiel quickly wrapped the shortened finger, tying the bandage tight. Both men knew Wakeful swords were often enchanted to cleave wounds unable to cease hemorrhaging. Dacian hope their daggers were neglected in that regard.

  Malachai finally regarded the frightened pair. His dagger dripped a pitter patter of Dacian’s warm blood. He wiped the blade at the flimsy, yellowed table cloth and sheathed it. He gestured to the chairs, commanding more than requesting. “Come, we have much to discuss and many preparations to make.” The watchmen nervously lowered themselves into chairs at the table’s far end.

  “And you, you diseased pizzle,” Malachai said to Dacian, “If you touch me again, more than a fingertip will roll.”

  Neither watchman dared to move, let alone speak. Or breathe. Dacian clutched at his bandaged wound grateful that the bleeding had stopped. Both men stared at the table’s center. Malachai drummed his fingers. The clawed gauntlet gouged away flecks of wood with each impatient strike. Soon, the table looked like a savage pet’s used play thing.

  “I do not know w
hat manner of fool pursues me. I presume they mean to claim the abomination for their own,” Malachai said, gesturing to the cell. “Someone on a fool’s quest destined for a fool’s painful end.”

  The last of Malachai’s cold words froze the room like winter’s frost. The watchmen knew of the Liche Queen’s proclamation and ban of magical practice. Few in Meridian were foolish enough to dabble in even the smallest of magical feats. Indeed there was little desire to do so. Meridian was well served by the technocratic alliance fostered by the grand twin cities of Neverdawn and Dayscape. Simply put, Meridian had no need for magic.

  “Your men are stationed? Well-armed?” Malachai asked.

  “As you’ve ordered, captain,” Dacian blurted. The weasley watchman’s gaze bored a hole through the battered table top. “They are quite capable, equipped to handle any opposition.”

  The hollowness of Malachai’s voice returned. “We shall see about that.”

  “It would be the City Watch’s great honor if the Captain would allow us the pleasure of apprehending this criminal antagonist on her Majesty’s behalf,” Dacian said, flourishing a wide bow.

  The watchman’s shameless ploy at currying favor went unnoticed. Malachai neither wanted nor required his ego stroked. He needed an end to this fool’s errand, an end to the heresy. His Queen would see to it. And if she did not...

  ***

  Lia stirred from her slumber, chilled by a sudden draft. She sat up in a panic, forgetting where she had fallen asleep. It was a small room, even for her. The glow of night time trickled in from a single barred window. Her stomach soured at the sight of Malachai’s ugly barricade. Its roiling emerald flames offered no warmth and familiarity with the terrible blaze encouraged her distance.