The Black Beast

by Nancy Springer

  Back in camp, I reported to Fabron as if he were my superior. He sat with Oorossy and the others in his tent, waiting.

  “We had better attack at once if we are to find Frain alive,” he said shakily when he had heard my tale.

  “With what?” Oorossy demanded. “Where the hell is Raz?” He was right, of course; we did not have sufficient force to take the castle. But I only shrugged at him.

  “Forthwith,” I promised Fabron. I ordered the necessary preparations.

  Things could not have been much worse, or so I thought. But before we could move, scouts brought news that sent the outlook even deeper into dread. The King’s forces from Vaire were approaching. That would have been all right if we could have fought them on our own terms, but we had to try to take Melior. Abas held the advantage for a certainty. Muttering curses, I ordered my army into action.

  We had no plan and almost no hope.

  We took the bridges. They were fortified, of course, and the few Boda who held them took many of my men away. But in the end they also left for the regions of Vieyra. I set troops of picked men to guarding the bloody spans against the enemy approaching from southward. Then I mounted my black charger, and with the black beast at my side I led the rest of my diminished force up the hill to assault Melior.

  “We will be put to rout almost before they have had time to mock us,” Fabron said hollowly.

  I knew that, but we had to try. I could not leave Frain without even a try.… Abas’s defenders greeted us with jeers and a shower of arrows. No wonder they laughed. We had no proper equipment, no siege towers, no shelter of any kind, no sappers—only a tree trunk we had cut by way of a battering ram and a few scaling ladders, which were quickly knocked to bits. We swarmed and pounded at the gates and walls while they dropped things on us. If they had not been too amused to properly defend themselves, I doubt if any of us would have survived. And Fabron was right; within the hour I was forced to lift the assault and march to the aid of my men at the bridges. Abas’s army had arrived. After a few more hours we had been pushed back beyond the summit of Melior to the valley between the paps. There we stuck, fighting for our lives.

  “If we can hold out till Wayte comes—” Fabron panted beside me. I had kept my mount, but he had lost his. He fought afoot by my forequarter and I defended his back with my long iron sword. Wings sounded overhead, those ugly Luoni, flapping about and staring as they loved to do, waiting for my soul to stoop on. I ground my teeth in despair. The vicious things—

  Then larger wings, brighter wings—the dragons! Down from the north they soared, half a dozen of them, with golden light flashing from their scales. My mouth hung speechless, but Fabron had the good sense to cheer, and my men took it up, glad to know that the apparitions were on their side. Over the ranks of the enemy the dragons raked, puffing flame—mostly at air, I must admit. They do not like to scorch living things. But the assault threw the men of Melior into a panic, and we surged forward.

  “Courage,” said a quiet voice. The brown man of Eidden Lei took his place by Fabron’s side, swinging a great mace, and not a warrior in the field would face him.

  “Now look who comes,” he added.

  I rose on my steed to scan the distance. Flash of metal by Melior stone.… I knelt there quite silent while the battle shouted below me.

  “What is it?” Fabron questioned eagerly. “Wayte? Raz?”

  “No,” I said. “Abas.”

  Chariot after chariot wheeled through the gates of the castle and down the hill. These were the great golden chariots of Melior with slashing knives on their hubs! Streams of footmen followed them under a glittering forest of lancetips. Abas drove his own chariot. I singled him out even at that distance and sat my black in a trance of admiration and—and hatred, of course; was it not hatred that I felt for him? Had I not come all this way to fight him? Odd.… He led the rest, set apart from them by his chalk-white lotus helm, the black and white fur that dripped from his blood-red tunic, the moon glow of his brooch. He stood at his full height and lashed his horses madly, sending them surging ahead of his warriors.

  “He has been eating the red mushroom of Morrghu.” It was Sethym, speaking to me in a tight voice. The king of Selt had fought well and bravely, facing rabbits or whatever came his way, but he evidently did not like the look of those villainous chariots. Oorossy came up beside me as well.

  “I have closed my line,” he told me, “but those damned reaping machines will make mincemeat of us.”

  Before I could reply, a nightmare blot appeared. A deathly, inky, goblin-grotesque thing bore down on Abas with a rattling shriek. I watched, feeling the rage, feeling that shriek rip my own throat; it was the beast. I waited, gloating, for Abas to cringe. I knew his terror and loathing of the beast, for I had felt it myself. But he must indeed have been eating the fungus that gave men mad valor in battle, as Sethym had said. He turned headlong to meet the rearing menace that towered over him, raised his sword, and stabbed as the beast crashed down on him and splintered his chariot to ruins. Black wings lay beating, fluttering amid the shards.

  Like a storm wind rage tore out of me, hurtled me out of my trance, found voice in a shout that must still echo somewhere, a madman’s roar of sorrow. By blood, if he had slain the beast now—Heedless of the army in my way, I spurred toward vengeance, toward Abas the killer, he who had slain my love, imprisoned my love, spurned my love! Men, mine and his, scattered before me.

  He crawled from the wreckage of his chariot and ran to meet me, waving his dripping sword. I sprang down from my horse, scorning to fight my standing enemy from horseback, scorning to take any advantage. Let him have the run on me! Come hither, Father, come to your death.… I held the dark sword of Aftalun and waited for him, feeling years of hatred rise to a peak. My time for revenge had come at last.

  He bore down on me, panting and glaring like an animal, without even a flicker of comprehension in his crazed blue eyes. He would not even know that it was his son who killed him, or why, or remember what he had done to earn it. He had fed to satiety on Morrghu’s food and his own poisonous hatred; how I loathed him for what he had made me! And I knew quite suddenly, as clearly as if his sword already pierced my vitals, that I could not kill him. I hated him too dearly. Slay my own beloved anger? I might as well slay a part of myself. My mountain peak of rage crashed down all in a moment and trapped me in the rubble. I could not move. I had never felt so helpless, not by my dead mother’s side, not even when Mylitta fell. Abas faced me scarcely a yard away. I watched without stirring as he raised his sword to strike. Battle frenzy had turned his face to a pulsating flame. Fire and blue, blue ice.… There could be no doubt of my death beneath that blow.

  I watched. And from beside me another sword flashed, lifted, and struck Abas squarely in the throat. He gurgled and fell, splattering me with his blood, shuddering and squirming a moment before he lay still. In that moment I knew how much I had loved him, how much and how hopelessly I had wanted him to love me. I screamed a long, wailing shriek like no sound I had ever known was in me, like the cry of harried souls that ride the wind. All of life had betrayed me by the hand of the one who stood, swaying and panting, by my side. I turned on him in blind, maniacal fury and lunged at him, still screaming; he had killed my father! My iron sword struck through flesh and crunched deep into bone. I tugged it free for another blow, and then skies and towers and all the ramparts of earth fell down upon me. It was Frain, my beloved brother, whom I had struck.

  His eyes met mine with something more than pain—I could only call it love. He had not raised a hand against me. If there had been time I think I would have killed myself then and there. But there was no time; I had to catch him before he fell. Chariots and trampling horses and desperate men churned all around us.

  I held him to my chest with one arm, felt his face resting against my own. I slashed my way out of the battle, struggling along, hating myself, swinging my sword and roaring and caterwauling while tears streamed down my face s
o that I could hardly tell friend from foe. Fabron joined me, hurrying along at my side, shouting anxious questions. I did not answer him. I carried Frain to the sacred grove. The goddess was good for something after all; no one would fight there if they could help it. The goddess preferred innocent blood of sacrifice, which was very nearly what I was bringing her.

  I laid Frain down. He could not speak, but he touched my hand. Then he faulted. I ripped the tunic open and found the wound. It was his left shoulder I had struck, through flesh and bone, a terrible wound, a crippling wound, but it appeared no vitals were hurt—I tried to bind it up, but my hands shook, I could do nothing right. Fabron pushed me aside.

  “Sit there,” he told me.

  How could he speak to me, how could he not kill me? Surely he did not understand. “I gave Frain that wound!” I shouted at him. “I, the great Prince of Melior! Oh, Fabron, I am a wretched, hateful thing.…” My voice broke. I sobbed, and he reached over to pat me absently.

  “I know,” he said, humoring me.

  I wept—it seemed like hours that I wept. I hope no one ever has to weep like that again. I wept until I could scarcely breathe, until I thought I would die. Fabron tended to Frain, then put his arms around me; I shall always love him for that. But no one could help me much. Years of weeping were in me, for Mylitta, for Mother, for Abas whom I had loved, for Frain though he was still living, for myself.… I felt adrift in fate, floating in wells of sorrow, spun and eddied by a stream I could not direct, dark water—the world was dark; even the sky had gone dark while I wept. Great storm clouds had moved in from the Perin Tyr, and the battle clanged beneath them.

  And Frain moaned and stirred by my side. And the brown man walked toward me. He came slowly into the grove with the beast following him as he led and urged and encouraged it toward me. It left a trail of red all the way, red running down from slashes on its shoulders; its wings hung limp and tattered and one leg dragged the ground, nearly severed. It fell at my feet and lay in silent agony. The brown man stood watching me weep.

  “Accursed, the Whole line of Melior is accursed,” Frain cried aloud. “I might as well be dead.”

  They would die, they would all die and leave me living and in such misery—

  “Hush,” Fabron soothed him.

  “Accursed!” Frain insisted. He spoke thickly, half delirious with pain. “I might as well go mad. The Luoni will come for me. I am a parricide.”

  “You are not,” Fabron told him quite levelly.

  “I killed—”

  “You slew a madman. You have not killed your father. I am your father.”

  I turned to them, my tears suddenly abated, my tangle of emotions in abeyance. All of the world seemed caught in calm that moment in spite of the battle uproar out beyond the grove. Frain lay gazing up at Fabron suddenly quite lucid, though pain pulled at his face. “What?” he whispered.

  “I am your father. I sold you, in my greed and to my shame.”

  “But—how—” Frain lay stunned, uncomprehending. Fabron caressed his forehead with a trembling hand.

  “Never mind. You are my son whom I love,” he said, though he could scarcely speak. “Let suffering go awhile.”

  And suddenly Frain moved as if to get up. The color came back into his cheeks. “The pain,” he said, amazed. “It’s gone.”

  One step took me to his side, hoping—no. The wound was still there; my guilt would not so easily disappear. Frain looked up at his father in wonder, then at me. I pillowed his head on my lap.

  “The healer has come out of shame into truth at last!” It was the brown man, his deep voice booming. “The beast, Fabron, help the beast! Come over here. Bring that great Sword.”

  None of us would have dreamed of questioning his command. Fabron picked up my heavy iron sword and walked to where the beast lay, walked as if in a trance. The creature still breathed, but barely. Fabron knelt between its sprawling legs and laid the sword of Aftalun full length down the prone, heaving ribs. On it he placed his muscular hands. And slowly, softly, he recited the healer’s chant. I had heard it many times as a child, but only this time did I comprehend it. The words echoed and magnified in my mind, and I waited, holding on to my brother as if he were the only solid thing in my world.

  Black and white,

  Day and night,

  Darkness and light

  Can be one.

  Moon and sun

  Meet in the halls

  Of Aftalun.

  A shock of blinding bright power, a huge splinter of sunlight, burst through Fabron and into the still form beneath his hands. I should have known better than to think that a gentle healing could come to the beast! Fabron fell back with a cry of pain and the beast leaped up with a cry, I think, of exultation. Aftalun’s sword lay melted and shriveled on the ground, and the beast took wing. The beast took wing!

  We all watched, stunned, breathless as Fabron who had been hurled to the ground. The brown man went to him and held him half sitting so he could watch the beast fly. The beast took flight! Straight up through the trees it burst, its broad wings rattling the branches, and out it shot into sunset light, riding the rising wind beneath the rain clouds, thunder god.… Three times it circled above us with soaring joy in every curve of its wings and high-flung head. It shone like a black jewel—lovely. And oh, the light on its wings, and on the dragon wings, and on the clouds.… It gave tongue, a deep, belling call I can hear even now, and an answering call tore from me.

  “Tyr!” I cried. I scrambled up and ran out of the grove. The world was caught up in waiting. Even the battle seemed to have quieted, and instead of battle noise there sounded other noise now, thunder noise.

  “Tyr!”

  He came down at once, landed lightly on deft black hooves, folded his sleek wings and stood at a little distance, meeting my gaze. “Tyr,” I whispered. He was a person to me now, an ancestor, an other, and he looked to me for what only I could grant him. I swallowed and shook my head, closed my eyes against prickling tears. All around me rang a profound, waiting silence. How could he wish to leave me, after all the miles? Yet how could I deny him? He had served the line of Melior long enough.

  “All right,” I said. “Go. Be at peace.”

  He sprang up, bugled, and shot off westward, where orange light blazed between dark rain clouds and dark mountains and where the altar loomed, the White Rock of Eala. The sun had become a pulsing blood-red ball that rested on it and sent its shadow edging toward me.… Over the Rock the beast skimmed, let out his harsh cry, then spiraled, closing and closing, higher and higher, until he disappeared into the black clouds above.

  And a roar of thunder came that shook the ground, and a mighty flare of lightning. And with a crack like the thunder the altar split and toppled in upon itself and stood there broken, and the sun hung free.

  Then silence, utter calm except for the voices of frightened men. Tyr drifted out of the clouds, dipped in a sort of salute—to whom?—and flew away, over the mountains of Acheron and into the arms of his father Aftalun—into sunset glory. I watched until that glow embraced him, and I never saw him again. I stood staring after him with quiet, easy tears dropping down my face. Then the rain began, rustling like a living thing, sending up little spurts of dust from the dry earth as it fell. I stood in it, letting it wash me, understanding vaguely that something vast had changed.

  “It’s the doom, of Melior!” someone cried.

  “Deliverance!” came a deeper voice.

  I had forgotten about the brown man until he hugged me. Instinctively I returned the embrace, laying my head for a moment against the flat, coarse hair of his neck and shoulders, feeling warmth and strength creep through me. Afraid? Why should I be? I had been a beast, too, or I had loved one.…

  “Doom and deliverance,” he averred. “Tirell, can you see what marvel you have done? The beast is gone, freed and vanquished by your love. Altar, beast, blood bird, and madness—gone for all time! Melior as men have known it will never return!” His
voice trembled with feeling, and he brushed my face with his mouth in a gesture I did not at first realize was a kiss. I stood dazed.

  Then Oorossy and Sethym were kneeling before me. “King of Melior,” they said, “claim your throne.”

  The throne! A pox on the throne! Frain was wounded, my father dead, the beast gone, and the altar destroyed; the whole world had turned upside down and now they wanted me to take a throne! “Why?” I challenged them.

  “Abas’s captains have surrendered,” Oorossy explained patiently. “Their King is dead—”

  “That is the least of it!” Sethym bleated. “The true King stands here! Look, the whole sky hails him!” The rain softly fell.

  “Frain will do better in the castle,” Fabron said wearily from behind me, and then I moved. Fabron looked none too hearty himself. I signaled the captains, Abas’s and mine. The dragons soared off northward, and we all packed up our wounded and went home to Melior. I put Fabron on my black steed and carried Frain myself; he had settled into a deep swoon and the jarring did not trouble him. The brown man walked by my side, and the rain poured down, cleansing the dead and the living, enriching the earth. All along the way to the castle people stood cheering and dancing in the rain. Sethym tried to give me his horse. He would have it that they cheered for me, for a victory. I thought he was mad. I continued afoot, cradling my brother.

  We toiled up the hill to my home, and there at the gate stood Daymon Cein. “All powers be praised, lad, you have done it!” he exclaimed, embracing me. I could not understand his happiness.

  “Frain is wounded,” I told him.

  “I can see that,” he snapped, but he sobered just the same. “How badly?”