A hand lain gently across his chest, a soothing voice in his ear gives him pause, ‘Lie still Sigourd, you’ve been through much. Your wounds are not grievous. They probably trouble a concerned mother more to witness than her bruised son to bear’
Sigourd’s head was filled with a splitting ache. He struggled to focus on the person the voice belonged to, realizing before long that he is in his bedchamber surrounded by familiar faces. The voice is his mother’s. She sits beside him, a look of grave concern upon her face. That look is shared by The Regent, who stands next to his wife, his hand resting upon her shoulder, his expression like thunder.
Standing quietly and attentively in a corner of the room is a housemaid, one that Sigourd knows has been in the service of his family for many years, and someone else is there too. Someone that he cannot see but knows is standing in the shadows at the edge of his sight.
‘What happened my son?’ asked theRegent, his voice leaden with concern.
‘I-I’m not sure. How did you know to look for me?’ came Sigourd’s pained response.
‘You were missing most of the day. We used hounds to track your scent, they discovered you lying unconscious in the catacombs beneath the castle. What were you doing down there Sigourd?
Sigourd was slow to respond, he felt like he’d been asleep for a hundred years.
‘They snatched her father,’ said Sigourd..
‘Who son?’ asked Veronique.
‘There were three of them, hooded and cloaked. That smile, it glittered like moonlight.’
‘What was that?’ asked The Regent.
Suddenly, another memory flashed through Sigourd’s mind’s eye. Cal, his blade dancing before him.
‘Cal was there too, he engaged one of them. Is he....’
The Regent shook his head, a great sorrow darkening his aspect, ‘Cal is dead, son. We found him lying near you with his throat torn out.’
Sigourd settled on his bed, allowed his head to fall back upon the pillow as the heavy pressure of those words settled upon him like the weight of all the heavens combined.
‘What happened down there, Sigourd?’ asked Veronique again, urgency in her tone.
Sigourd didn’t take his eyes from the ceiling of the old chamber as he spoke, ‘Cal and I went looking for Isolde. We tracked her into the catacombs and when we caught up to her she was being hauled off by men whose identity I could not guess at. I made to set her free but something came out of the darkness....so quick, it moved like an animal. It hand the fangs and talons of something from a bad dream. It had shape of a man but was more beast in aspect.’
Across the room, the house maid knocked over a pitcher of water which clattered across the table where it had rested, spilling its contents over the floor.
She cursed quietly to herself, clearly embarrassed by this slip she turned and curtsied low by way of apology for the noisy interruption. Quickly she worked to clear up the spillage.
Frowning, The Regent turned back to his son, ‘come Sigourd, what’s all this talk of monsters that walk as men. The intruders must have had a dog or tame wolf shadowing them. There is no other explanation.’
‘Can a dog speak? Can a dog threaten in the language of men?,’ exclaimed Sigourd.
At this The Regent fell silent, and a look of the utmost concern crossed the face of Veronique. She hoped to all the gods that Sigourd or her husband had not seen the expression her face wore, so telling it must surely have been. She worked to compose herself, was about to speak again when the figure standing in the shadows of to the side of Sigourd began to stir.
Stepping into the half light of the chamber The Baron Mortaron spoke at last.
‘The boy has been through much. He cannot be certain of anything he saw, and neither can we.’ The old baron moved to the foot of Sigourd’s bed, studying the young lord with his piercing, cold eyes, ‘but it seems to me obvious that the root of all this is the Morays. They have cast the first stone, they seek to provoke us into attack by destroying our weapons stores and invading our lands to snatch and murder our subjects.’
‘Why should the Morays wish to abduct a serving girl?’ asked The Regent.
‘Who can fathom the minds of our most hated foe?’ said Mortaron.
‘This was not the Morays,’ stated Sigourd flatly, ‘this was like nothing I’ve ever seen or heard of before.
‘As I have already pointed out lord,’ said Mortaron, addressing The Regent, ‘the boy has suffered much. He is confused.’
‘The boy knows exactly what he saw!’ protested Sigourd angrily. The Baron turned to cast that withering stare over his nephew.
‘Father, we must find Isolde. Her life is in great danger.’
‘You must rest Sigourd,’ said The Regent, ‘be assured we will not allow this transgression to go unanswered. But I will not move hastily.’
‘The longer we wait, the further away they will get with her,’ argued Sigourd, his voice cracking with desperation.
‘I understand your concern son, but these are treacherous times. We must tread carefully.’ said The Regent.
‘Damn you father, if you will do nothing then I shall take up arms and find her myself!’
In an instant, The Regents stoic demeanor was flensed away as his temper flared white hot, ‘I have more pressing concerns than the disappearance of some serving wench at the hands of a fantastical man-beast! Your place is here, leading your father’s armies in the defense of their realm. You will rest, and then you will report to your post as is your duty!’
‘And what of Cal?’ replied Sigourd coldly, ‘will you so casually disregard the murder of a man that has served our family for two generations?’
The fire in The Regents eyes died back, something like sadness moving mournfully behind them. After a moment he spoke again, and this time his voice was quiet thunder, ‘No crime that has occurred here today shall go unpunished. But you will remain within the city until I deem otherwise.’
With that, The Lord of Corrinth Vardis turned and stormed from the chamber without another word.
No one spoke for long moments in the uncomfortable silence that followed the departure of The Regent, until Veronique leaned forward to kiss Sigourd tenderly upon the brow.
‘Do not be angry with your father Sigourd, he has much to contend with of late. But we will search for your friend as soon as it is possible to do so.’
Sigourd, his face set like thunder, did not respond. His sat staring silently ahead, his eyes burning with a fierce defiance that Veronique knew only too well.
‘Rest Sigourd,’ she said, ‘I fear there are trying times ahead for us all, and we shall need all our strength to see them through.’
Veronique stood and made her way from the chamber, her face a mask of great sorrow, for she knew that for all Sigourd’s reluctant dedication to duty, his affections for the serving girl were strong enough to overrule it all.
She passed by The Baron, not deigning to look upon him as she did so.
The Baron, his head bowed only low enough to satisfy protocol did not raise his eyes until the Lady Veronique was out of the chamber. Finally he looked up to cast a dark look at Sigourd, their eyes meeting briefly.
Sigourd and his uncle had never been close, far from it in fact. There had always been a vast gulf between the two as long as the young heir could remember, and Sigourd felt sure that The Baron, who was not a man given to close acquaintances at the best of time, had made special effort to keep his nephew at arm’s length. It had bothered Sigourd greatly as a boy, but as he’d gotten older he’d concerned himself with it less and less.
This time however, when Sigourd looked into the eyes of The Baron, there was something more there than the casual distaste he’d always know. There was malice.
Their eyes had met for only the briefest of moments before Mortaron himself turned and stalked from Sigourd’s bedchamber, but the enmity in that glare was undeniable.
The Baron closed the chamber door loudly behind him, leaving Sigou
rd alone with the house maid, who fussed about Sigourd, setting out a tray of foodstuffs consisting of broth and bread for him.
Sigourd knew that his mother was correct. Trying times lay ahead for both Sigourd and Corrinth Vardis. He knew without doubt that Isolde was alive somewhere, felt that knowledge burning in his soul, and promised himself that he would stop at nothing to find her. Not fear, nor duty or the commands of his father.
Veronique walked along the darkened corridor leading from her son’s bedchamber. Candles in sconces spaced along the wall flickered feebly, casting a sombre light that gave Veronique the uneasy feeling of being caught underground in some subterranean warren. The same kind of place where poor Cal had met his end. She could smell faintly the aroma of gunpowder and charcoal, carried on the light winds from the site of the explosion.
Things were indeed in motion that would unsettle the very foundations of her world. The fear that rose up in Veronique at this thought was like some growling monster ascending from the depths of her soul, eager to consume her.
Lost in these troubling thoughts she did not hear the quiet approach of the person who loomed behind her, his voice coming suddenly out of the murk gave her a jolt that snatched her back into the gloomy corridor.
‘The boy will go to look for the dammed harlot,’ said Mortaron.
Veronique turned suddenly, her pulse racing. She tried to fight down the churning in her belly, refusing to give her brother the satisfaction of seeing her in any state of emotional vulnerability. With a man like Mortaron, showing weakness would be a grave error.
‘I know,’ said Veronique, ‘we must stop him.’
‘Ha, was I ever able stop you coming and going as you pleased? The best we can hope for is to keep him under watch, make sure that he doesn’t come into contact with anyone he shouldn’t.’ said Martaron.
‘And if he should leave the castle? He’ll be vulnerable out there, they’ll be able to reach him!’
‘They’ve already shown that they can reach him whenever they please,’ Mortaron scowled, ‘but recent events have given us an excuse to increase the defenses of the city and my men are stalking the shadows to root out our special concern. I will ensure that the secret is kept.’
Veronique looked at her brother, studying his face as realization dawned on her.
‘That is all you care about isn’t it? Keeping your precious secret!’
Mortaron raised his eyebrows archly, and in an almost quizzical tone inquired, ‘Why, what else is there?’
Before Veronique could frame a response The Baron had turned and was already moving off down the corridor, leaving his sister alone with her fears.
The old house maid set out the bowl of broth on a tray before Sigourd, arranging the utensils for him neatly by the bowl. Her hands were worn from her years in dutiful service, but the fingers retained a nimble grace that belied their wizened appearance.
Sigourd knew that she had been in the service of his family since before the time of his birth. If memory served she had been a senior maid in the household of Sigourd’s uncle before being transferred to the castle when his parent’s were wed.
He studied her as she continued to move about the room making things as comfortable as she might for her charge. There was something in her manner that betrayed a fear, hidden deeply within her. She had barely looked up since Sigourd had spoken of his near fatal encounter in the bowels of the palace.
Finally she turned to him, her eyes cast at the floor. ‘Is there anything else before I take my leave, lord?’
‘Only that you tell me what has scared you so, Mathilde.’
The maids face flushed, her thin skin reddening at the prospect of answering Sigourd’s question.
‘I don’t know what you mean my lord.’
‘I saw how disturbed you were when I spoke of my attacker. If you know something then I beg you to tell me of it.’
‘Lord, I was merely shocked by the things you described. They sounded frightful to my old ears.’
Sigourd sat up in his bed, taking hold of the tray of soup and bread before him he struggled to lift it from his lap, the old maid moved quickly to assist him, she settled the try upon the small table beside the bed.
‘You must eat to restore your strength, lord,’ she said, eager to divert his attention.
Sigourd took her hand, looked into her eyes, ‘Tell me what you know Mathilde. The life of someone very precious to me may well depend upon it.’
She hesitated, her eyes darting again to the floor, ‘I daren’t speak of it lord, for fear of my life.’
‘You have my word that none of what passes between us will ever leave this room. I swear it upon my own life,’ he said.
‘Your account reminds me terribly of something I heard many years ago,’ said the maid.
She settled herself on the edge of Sigourd’s bed, took a moment to compose her thoughts before continuing.
‘When I worked in the household of The Baron, shortly before your birth, I had a girl named Beth that worked under me. She’d spoken to me quietly of an intruder in the castle that had attacked the lady Veronique. She described him much as you did, a beast that walked as a man but moved with inhuman quickness.’
The maid’s face tightened as she recalled the memory, ‘Beth was bloody useless when it came to dinner service, but she never suffered from an overactive imagination as far as I could tell.’
Sigourd was quiet for a moment, considering this information.
‘Where is Beth, I would speak to her,’ he asked.
The maid’s expression dropped, sadness dragging at her features, ‘She died lord. Shortly after the incident she was taken by a sickness. We never learned what the malady exactly was, but it took her awful sudden.’
Sigourd was downcast at the realization that this one clue to Isolde’s whereabouts had disappeared as quickly as it presented itself.
The old maid could see the despondency in the face of her charge, and after a momentary hesitation she spoke again.
‘There was another who witnessed the break in that night. A guardsman named Brodus Klay.’
‘Where is he, I beg you not to tell me that he too has passed on!’ said Sigourd, hope returning to him suddenly. The maid leaned back, fixing Sigourd with a measuring stare, ‘No, he lives. But I don’t think you’d wish to find him.’
‘I wish it more than anything.’
She paused before continuing, seeming to measure the honesty of Sigourd’s claim, ‘he’s resides in the Eastern Fringes. He’s been out there for many years wandering those dark places.’
Of all things, Sigourd had not expected to hear this. The Eastern Fringes were an unexplored territory beyond the vast mountain ranges of the Ash’harad. They were a place that held much fear in the hearts of mortal men, where foul sorcery and dark magics were concentrated. There, creatures of an otherworldly design roamed unmolested to maraud down from the mountain ranges into the dwellings of menfolk, crusading abroad for blood and slaughter. They said that to cross over the Ash’harad was to journey into madness.
Sigourd had always thought such tales to be utter nonsense, the superstitious ramblings of some stupefied village shaman, superstitions that had been given far too much credence through the passage of time.
‘Why would a guardsman in the house of my uncle find himself wandering so far afield?’ asked Sigourd.
The old maid shrugged, ‘I cannot say lord. It was never my place to learn such things.’
Something about this whole scenario tugged at Sigourd in a most insistent way. He couldn’t help but feel that conspiracies drawn up before he’d even been conceived were now resurfacing. Their great import as yet to be revealed, but their looming presence felt nonetheless, like darkened storm clouds pregnant with the threat of a torrential downpour.
Sigourd could not understand why he’d never heard these tales from his mother nor anyone else for that matter, a fact which troubled him more deeply than he would have cared to admit.
&nbs
p; The maid pulled her wool shawl about her as if to ward off a chill, despite the ample warmth coming from an open fireplace near the center of the room, ‘I have nothing more I can tell you, lord. I must go now.’
She stood and made to leave, but stopped short at the doorway. Hesitating there for a few moments she turned back to Sigourd, that fear still in her eyes.
‘It always seemed to me Beth was more afraid of what might happen if she ever spoke of what she saw that night than any creature that might have entered The Baron’s residence. And then she died so suddenly...’ the maid didn’t finish the sentence, instead turning quickly and disappearing from the chamber as fear overcame her.
Sigourd’s mind raced, his thoughts churning with confusion at the import of what the old maid had told him. There suddenly seemed to be much that had been kept secret from him, and he wondered just exactly who was keeping these secrets, and how much of it was tied to Isolde’s kidnapping.
He was torn between the loyalty he felt for his father and his realm in a time of crisis, and the love he had for a woman whose life could very well depend on his actions.
There was so much to consider, he felt that the pressure of these events might crush him like an insect. His body ached, his head throbbed unrelentingly and he lay back on his bed to allow himself a moments ease while he considered his options. Before long exhaustion claimed Sigourd once more, and he fell into a deep sleep.
Hours later, he rose from his bed, swinging his feet over the side he sat there for a few moments contemplating the cold tiles on his bare feet, the simplicity of the sensation.
Oh to be filled with innocent wonder once more. To be troubled with only the trivial concerns of a young man free of the cares of the world at large. But he was no longer innocent. Sigourd had experienced a brutal lesson in the matters of life beyond the safety of his sheltered upbringing.
Such thoughts Sigourd was having when a twinkling caught his attention.
Lying there on the tabletop where he had left it before the explosion had razed part of the castle to the ground, the ornate vambrace that Cal had gifted him.
In The Shadow Of The Beast Page 6