The Shapeshifters

by Andrew Brooks

  7

  The Bonekeepers proved to be a quiet lot, keeping mostly to themselves. Except the elder, who sat near me most of the way. I studied him and his kind, wondering if this lizard appearance was their true form. For I was told that, in essence, Shapeshifters look like the elves of Farethfeld. While some believe they are hideous and shelled like the Crab folk from the Hidden Sea.

  ‘We know what you did,’ the elder told me eventually without looking my way. ‘You beheaded Lisbeth Danella Everard, fifteenth Baroness of Hampton. They are calling it the work of a skilled assassin.’ That was about the only time he scrutinised me. Perhaps hoping I would confirm or deny such a report. As he spoke, I eyed the horses awash beneath the swinging lamp light, majestic beasts from Strangeworld lugging without fuss this hefty line of caravans. (You do not often see such wonderful creatures in Skärradness. Only a handful of races and people will use them, or even own them.) He went on. ‘They do not know your identity but say they have an idea as to your appearance. You were spotted by one of the guardswomen. Or so they are claiming.’

  8

  Late morning the lanterns were snubbed out as we skirted the south-eastern boarder of the Dread Forests; a thick stench of salt drifted on the woodland breeze. Directly south, through the trees, I eyed the black pebbled beach and the frothing waves crashing against the gigantic spiralling shells of Greeps. Waves bombed against the jagged striated rock poking through the roiling green seas like the serrated spines of Troolies.

  To the east the shores were replaced by low rocky hills covered in thick grasses. Out there, ditched near a gully, twinkling in the sunlight, lay another of those strange sky-machines the human traders had brought through from Strangeworld five decades ago: a silver fuselage with coach windows dotted along its sides. You’ll not see such relics anymore back in the lands of Palemoth. Most of them stripped for scrap metal.

  We rolled quietly through the woodland and I found my mind turning back to the Baroness’s chamber, relieving her of her head. ‘The Baroness of Hampton sentenced my family to death.’ That was all I could say at first, I hung my chin. I recalled my father’s loving embrace, my mother’s wise words, disclosing the whereabouts of her secret stores of magic bugs and seeds she had somehow obtained from the Crones of Coven City. Seeds that had helped me scale the Hampton castle like a spider up a web, to move without sound, to kill with the strength of a Behemoth. I remembered with tremendous sadness my younger sisters, Marietta and Selena. Aged 21 and 18. Nothing but their long happy lives ahead of them... Except that one dreadful morning at dawn... all their wonderful dreams cut short.

  ‘Baroness Everard declared that all those who had failed to pay her increased taxes would be made examples of. But I do not believe that was the full reason. My parents had been continually harassed, accused firstly of housing Crones. Then Baroness Everard declared my mother a Crone of the Western Witchlands. I was at the market when the Lancers arrived to arrest my family.’ A tear spilled from my eye. I turned away. ‘I hid. But I witnessed their execution. Everard herself oversaw it personally. Lighting the pyre on which they were trussed. Burning each of them alive. If I’d had more time I would have despatched the great Baroness in the same manner. Alas, I did what time permitted.’

  He nodded and smiled and reached over and touched my hand.

  ‘Assassin, murderer,’ he said. ‘That may be what they call you today in the Barony. But in these circles, friend,’ he waved his arm across his caravan and his people, ‘we call you our Varrën. Our saviour, our hero. You are to be revered.’

  9

  We took lunch as we trailed the path along the fringe of the woodlands (both male and female Bonekeepers preparing and serving dishes of frog and vegetable and bug). I was grateful for the sustenance but watched again as smoke flurried into the treetops, hoping that these trees would indeed mop up such stuff. The caravan never halted while we ate, while they cooked and served.

  Beyond the edge of the forest the view remained wonderful. We were at an elevated point. We had left the coast behind and a long valley swept away; endless fields broken by woodlands in the far distance. Beyond those woods lay the beginning of the Great Marshes. My destination.

  The sight relieved me somewhat. ‘Thank you,’ I said to the old one as I ate heartily. ‘For your hospitality and aid. I am in your debt.’

  He waved his scaled, clawed hand, as if to suggest my thanks was unnecessary.

  ‘No, I want it to be clear,’ I stressed. ‘Gladly I am indebted to you. I owe you much.’

  He ate and watched me. ‘I would ask then only one thing.’

  ‘Anything, if it not be too grand, for other than what I carry, my homely possessions lie far behind me now.’

  ‘All I ask is the name of our guest,’ he said. ‘So that I may address her more respectfully.’

  Instead of offering an immediate answer I scoured the winding leaf laden path stretching out behind us into the woods. For always on the lookout for my Hampton pursuers I was. So far, it ran empty save for our cart tracks and the leaves fluttering down. If the Lancers braved the woods then unfortunately we had left much evidence of our course. I tried to ignore this. Told myself the Lancers may skirt the woods and await our exit but they would never dare venture within.

  ‘Arrabel of Raethgar,’ I told him eventually. ‘Eldest daughter of Lanson Grean the pigger.’

  He sat back then as if finally satisfied. ‘Ah, as I suspected, you are no assassin. You are of the Greans, a family line of generous hearted folk. I am most pleased to meet you. My name is Hillod.’

  I watched him curious, intrigued. ‘Do you profess to know many Greans?’ I squinted at him with one eye shut. Recalling those long ago nights peering through the window at my father beyond the garden fence as he chatted with peculiar folk who had lizard eyes and rough skin and a long caravan of mysterious coaches parked in the lane under the pale glow of the moon.

  ‘I have met many folk on my travels, young Arrabel. Many of the Greans of Raethgar. I may have even met your kin. Although I cannot say that I recall such a specific encounter if I did. But our days passing through the town of Palemoth, well the Greans of Raethgar I recall with great fondness. For always did they welcome us warmly and always went beyond themselves to extend their hospitality.’

  The sun filtered through the trees and swam warm against my face, the soft breeze drifting up from the fields below in the valley lifting my long dark hair. ‘Would you answer a curiosity I have? If you think my question not too rude?’

  ‘Ask it and I will tell you whether I deem it so or not,’ he said.

  I did not know how to begin. But I said, ‘They say your kind heralds from ancient souls known as Shapeshifters.’

  He watched me but would not speak.

  ‘Is this so? And if I may, would this be your current form?’

  The searing look in his eye... I expected an angry retort. But he smiled. ‘Rumour has done us much ill-favour, Arrabel Grean of Raethgar. But it has also served us well.’ He laughed. ‘You may yet live to see our secret.’

  I had little idea what that meant. But I did not press him further. Yet, for the first time in days I felt blooming a renewed sense of hope. That with Hillod’s aid I might actually escape the tendrils of the Barony.

  10

  The first sign of the mayhem and death that was to follow happened after we had left finally the wood for the grasslands and the Bone Ravens began dropping from the sky. The first one smashed through the third carriage in an explosion of splintered wood. There were gasps and screams as more whistled to earth, thudding like rocks into the ground about us. I thought we were under siege by cannons or catapults until I trailed the eyes of Hillod and saw high above us large crimson attack falcons.

  ‘Barony Red Birds,’ Hillod grunted angrily, and yet unsurprised did he sound, and almost as soon as he had spoken there came the pounding of thunderous paws around the edge of the Dread Forests. When I turned my head and saw it I froze.

&nb
sp; The Barony Hound.

  Charging, howling. And if that had been all then I would have been left truly terrified for my life. And with them went my hope.

  I expected Hillod to promptly order his caravan into a gallop, to flee for the hills. Attempt to lose the Hampton Lancers. But he did not. Instead, and to my shock, he ordered the caravan to halt.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I seethed, my skin turning cold. ‘Get us moving!’

  Yet Hillod simply turned his face to the heavens. As if praying. Yet, from his pocket he pulled what looked to be miniature a sun dial. And seemed to measure the position of the sun.

  I struggled to my foot, standing there awkwardly with my ruined leg suspended off the deck. ‘Get us moving damn you!’

  But the caravan remained halted as the Lancers bore down on us, surrounding us, their horned Geloths gnashing fangs as long as sabres, snarling, hissing. The mighty Barony Hound circled us hungrily, snorting, hacking, spitting. Hillod watched me from the corner of his eye. ‘Brace yourself, Arrabel,’ he whispered.

  But I was furious with this capitulation. And terrified.

  The captain of the Lancers laughed when he saw me. He, the despicable Captain Rolonder, the brute who “borrowed” the young women of Raethgar for his pleasure on their wedding nights before their newlywed husbands had had a chance to love them. Calling them skanks and half-trogs and slag-homps when he was done with them. All in the name of the Great Barony, he would claim, all in the name of servitude and good grace. A fate that would surely have befallen myself and my dear sisters if our destinies had not veered along this path. ‘Ah ha!’ he laughed. ‘The Snake of Raethgar cornered at last!’

  11

  I had Nuukwood in my satchel. (Another plant-based implement devised by the Crones.) I had provisioned it for such an occasion. All I had to do was tear its bark, scratch my nail into its porous wood and it would ignite and incinerate everything, myself included, in a radius of a hundred feet. It would turn us all into soft mounds of white ash but at least I would leave this world on my terms. And take Rolonder and his hateful men with me. Yet, what of the Bonekeepers? I had never expected to make new friends on this journey. They did not deserve such a fate. Or did they? If Hillod and his nomads would not fight, if they preferred to give in to such aggressors as the Lancers of Hampton then perhaps they all needed to perish.

  ‘Arrabel,’ Hillod murmured to me, ‘stand down. There is nothing you can do.’

  Around us the Lancers began dragging Bonekeepers from the safety of the caravan, hauling them into the grass.

  ‘We can flee, is what we can do!’ I hissed. I made to leap from the caravan. I would run, I would fight. I would not sit here and give in. Hillod gripped my arm. ‘There are other ways than fleeing.’

  I frowned at Hillod’s comment. He had obviously forgotten the hate and tenacity riding within the blood of the Hampton Lancers. After all, it was his own darned people who had been ridiculed and banished from Hampton. Chased out. Hunted down and slaughtered after the expulsion deadline. His very own kin! And by the likes of the great and feared Captain Rolonder. My father had explained to me that Bonekeepers were essentially pacifists and I sensed the fool Hillod trusted Rolonder to take pity on him and his fellow people in light of this silly ideal.

  ‘I guess only fools die today then,’ I seethed, reaching into my satchel, feeling for the Nuukwood wrapped in its bundle of deer velum.

  Lassoes from every direction snagged about our chests and dragged us heavily into the dry grass where small lizards scampered every which way. And my satchel was snatched from me by one of the Barony’s good men, confiscated, stolen, looted.

  Rolonder, laughing, slid from his steed, his eyes on me. He heaved me against the side of the caravan, pinning me there. ‘The Baroness’s husband wants your head, m’dear. Wants it hanging from his pike in the town square for all to throw their faecal at and spit on.’ His mouth was an inch from my own, his breath hot and fetid. ‘So shall he have it. But I am to spoil myself with your body in whatever way I wish.’ He lifted the hem of my dress. I felt his wrist weasel down the waist of my woolskin pants, felt his rough hand worm toward my groin, felt his fingers pushing against the soft flesh of my cunnus, fingering its tender folds. I snorted and spat in his face.

  He stood back and punched me square in the jaw. I slumped to the earth, my head ringing, numb, my dark hair tumbling across my face. He stood back again and booted me in the ribs. All breath expelled from my lungs. I gagged and spluttered for air. But braced myself. For there would be more. I had observed him and his kind. There would be a boot to my face, another to my head, another to my womb. He would stomp my skull to scrape off my scalp. He would crush my nose, pulverise my jaw, my cheeks, he would crunch his heals into my spine to crack vertebrae. He would flop out his todger and gush me in hot piss, stinging my wounds. He would tear off my woolskin pants, rip off my underwear, pull my legs open wide and jam himself into whatever port he found first. The whole contingent of Lancers would go through me. I would become their ‘jizz-jug’ as they fondly liked to call the whores and wenches that they raped, become their skank, their half-trog, their slag-homps.

  But then... ‘Ahrg! Get this slut away from me! Look at her, dirty slag!’ Someone hefted me from the ground and groggily I watched the heel of my remaining foot scuff through the grass as I was dragged away, watched the stump of my bad leg bounce in the tussocks. ‘Skank’s got the Wasting in her she has! Look at her leg. She’s got the cursed Wasting, borne of Garkhorst! Dirty stinking trog!’ Wiping the fingers he had used to touch me, on his pants.

  I felt myself being hoisted from the ground then and thrown. Landing face-first on hard steel. Watched bars close around me, my head still ringing. I struggled but a voice were at my ear: ‘Arrabel, sit fine, you do well, now sit fine.’

  Hillod there, leaning over me, holding me. I acknowledged now where I was. Trapped in the hold of his prison cart. All of us. Myself and every last Bonekeeper. The door was rammed shut, and distantly I acknowledged the metallic click of the hefty padlock close us in. Hillod held me and once more he peered at the sky. The sun was directly overhead, our shadows mere puddles beneath us.

  ‘Remember what I said. You may yet witness the truth of our Shape-shifting. Brace yourself.’

  ‘You shut your trap before I lop it off yer stinking abominable face!’ yelled Rolonder. ‘You cunted! Harbourer of murderers!’

  I sat there against the bars, stealing my breath back, my face and belly throbbing with pain. I eyed Hillod wondering if the years drifting to and fro in the wilderness had left his brain ragged. We were trapped, caged, hemmed in. Now we would ferried back to the Barony and tortured.

  I watched through the bars as the Lancers raided the caravans, laughing victoriously, derisively, as they hurled out the treasured possessions of the Bonekeepers. Scattering them across the grass as if detritus, as if trash from a rat den. ‘A fine execution awaits you stinking Drifters,’ Rolonder yelled. ‘All of you. Garrotted, beheaded, faecal stuffed in your bellies. Apt punishment for the dastardly crime of harbouring this trog and murderer!’

  And that is when it happened.

  Firstly there came a bizarre screech. Like a squealing pig.

  Alarmed, I clawed my way off the steel floor, propped myself on my foot. Yet, all the Bonekeepers sat there, unmoved. Looking grave but unmoved. Some in strange poses, as if praying. As if they knew of this sound. Knew of its coming. Hillod simply kept his eye on me.

  Rolonder and his men suddenly stopped their ransacking. All eyes directed now toward the front of the caravan. Mystified eyes. Confused eyes. Cautious eyes...

  …all trained upon the horses.

  12

  I watched, disbelieving...

  The horses, every one of them, began to shift, to change. Stretching growing, howling like animals in terrible pain. Jaws began to elongate, skin turned black and bristled with fur, and there grew horns and fangs and razored claws where only moments before there had
been hooves and smooth snouts. Limbs stretched, lifting those beasts to double their original height, perhaps triple.

  The Geloths, the cat steeds of the barony, mewled and whined. The Barony Red Birds stopped circling, suddenly fleeing, soaring off into the skies.

  And suddenly these new beasts, these altered horses, tore free of their harnesses and Rolonder and his men, screaming now, ran blind for their steeds.

  But they had not a chance. They were ripped to shreds in their efforts and Rolonder himself swiped almost clean in half, his belly gushed open, ropey intestines flung into the blue sky; his last sight was me watching him die.

  13

  I knew then why we had been left alone in the Dread Forests, why the Greeps and the Gookas, the Troolies and Wraithbies, the Gingerbreads and the Joo Joons had afforded us easy passage: fear. They must have known, sensed, that some of their kin, their brethren, monsters like them, (monsters of far greater evil and strength than themselves) were passing through. And had thus slinked back into the shadows, hidden themselves in the dark wardrobes of the thick tangled foliage, and remained ever so still and silent, content to simply watch us roll by.

  The massacre of Rolonder and his men was over in a matter of minutes. But after the mysterious shape changing horses had done what they hungered for, chewing and tearing every last Barony Lancer and their steeds to shreds, they chased down and tore up the Geloths and then the Barony Hound. Then charged into the Dread Forests to run their curse out rampant. The howls, squeals, the hidden terror went on in there for the most part of an hour. Hundreds of birds, bats, flying-wolves swarmed for the safety of the skies. We watched Sixlegs, and Bearlings and Joo Joons run clear of the woods, into glaring sunlight that singed them to charcoal. And once the hour of mid-day had swung past, the region again fell to silence.