In The Shadow Of The Beast

by Harlan H Howard

Something was suddenly amiss, the quiet stillness of the forest had never been truly quiet at all. There was always the distant chirruping of birds in the trees or the sounds of insects scurrying about their business or buzzing through the magnificent sunlight like embers from a wood fire floating on a gentle breeze.

  Now all of that delicate background noise had seemed to disappear completely, even the gentle soughing of the wind in the trees had evaporated entirely. In its place there was an absolute silence, as if the surrounding forest was holding its breath in anticipation of....something.

  Sigourd looked about him for the nightingale, but the bird had gone too, swallowed up by the un-noise that permeated the old forest.

  A sense of great foreboding crept upon Sigourd.

  Drawing his keen blade, its tapered length glittering like a sun ray in the morning light, Sigourd settled into a combat stance. His right foot planted before his left, his weight settled evenly upon the balls of his feet should he need to move quickly in either direction. He turned his body to present the slightest possible target, rolling his torso so that his right shoulder came to the fore, the sword held loosely in a hand over hand grip, its lethal point angled up and out ahead of him.

  The absolute silence of the forest was so unnerving, and in such strange contrast to the peaceful vibrancy of only moments before.

  Long moments ticked by, their passage seeming to take ten times as long to Sigourd who stood stock still, tensed and ready to react to whatever it was that might be coming his way.

  Ahead of him the trees seemed to crowd in on the dusty track he’d been following, leaning in like silent sentinels to observe his disquiet from their great vantage point.

  And then it came, crashing through the underbrush, parting the foliage ahead of him by only thirty or so paces, the grasses and scrub along the densely crowded forest floor disturbed in the wake of something moving toward him at great speed.

  Sigourd readied himself, his muscles tight with the anticipation in spite of his best efforts to remain calm and composed in the face of...whatever this was.

  Twenty paces, fifteen, ten. The thing was so close so quickly it would be upon Sigourd in a matter of seconds. He held his breath, his knuckles white around the hilt of the sword gripped now more firmly in his hands.

  And then it exploded from the cover of the foliage, squealing like a banshee in a pitch so high it could almost have made Sigourd’s ears bleed.

  A forest pig, some fifteen to twenty pounds, its coarse matted hair caked with mud and other debris, its four short stubby legs carrying it full pelt in his direction.

  The creature hadn’t seen Sigourd until it was almost upon him, and looking up to see the heir to the realm of Atos looming before it, the pig squealed again in some surprise, digging in its feet to arrest its headlong charge through the scrub of the forest floor.

  In an instant it broke to the right, scrambling for purchase in the soft earth before finding its footing again and darting around an astonished Sigourd and back into cover.

  He watched the the creature disappear from sight as quickly as it had appeared, the foliage parting around its charging bulk as it raced away.

  Sigourd released a sigh of relief, laughing to himself at the absurdity of the scenario.

  But his good humor was short lived. The forest still retained that eerie total silence, and something else now bothered him. A strange insistent prickling along the back of his neck, that quickly grew into something primal and instinctive that warned him of peril as yet unrevealed.

  The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced, it was so immediate, like the tolling of a warning bell deep in his being. Like a rush of adrenaline suddenly released to course unchecked through his blood like a raging torrent.

  Sigourd instinctively knew the feeling for what it was, a warning of impending danger that was far beyond the normal sense perceptions of a mortal man.

  It was that sixth sense that saved his life.

  Sigourd ducked as an arrow thumped into the bole of a tree where his head had been only an instant before, his momentum carrying him into a dive he tucked and rolled as the ground rose to meet him.

  Even as he was rolling to his feet, his sword coming around into the guard position, the as yet unseen assailant was ululating a nerve shattering war cry that resonated unendingly around the forest canopy high above.

  Sigourd had spent most of his life on the practice mats with his combat instructors, being schooled in the arts of single combat.

  Countless hours under Cal’s watchful eye, drilling the proper blocks and ripostes, attacks and counters, footwork and feinting that had turned Sigourd into a formidable student.

  Hour after exhausting hour learning how to throw, to strike, to kill. Blades and staffs and knives and fists, he’d been taught how to survive when faced with any number of attack possibilities.

  Cal had been an exacting tutor, demanding that Sigourd master each and every aspect of his training, and Sigourd had been a willing student, quick to learn and gifted with a strength and grace that was uncommon to one of his young years.

  But that had been in practice, and drawing his blade against a genuine threat was something that had, up to this very moment, been only a theoretical experience for Sigourd.

  His blade came up instinctively to deflect the sweeping arc of a long handled sword staff that sliced through the air toward his exposed neck. The two weapons rang off each other with a sound that cut the silence like a knife through flesh.

  Sigourd barely had time to recover his senses and deflect the sudden follow up strike, and the next and the next. That whirling sword staff was a blur of motion, its user relentlessly pressing Sigourd into a defensive posture as he rained mad blow after blow at the young lord, who was kept on the back foot in a desperate attempt to keep from getting caught with cut or thrust.

  In a flash of desperate inspiration, Sigourd managed to trap the blade of the sword staff behind the hilt of his own sword, turning it with a flick of his wrist so that the two weapons were locked together for the briefest of moments, and allowing Sigourd to tug his would be killer off balance.

  The maneuver had been a particular favorite of Cal’s, and he’d made certain to impress its value upon a young Sigourd.

  The attacker was no slouch when it came to blade work however, and was able to quickly regain his footing and slip under Sigourd’s return blade stroke and hand spring out of range of the next, where he came up ready in a fighting stance, the tip of his long handled weapon aimed squarely at Sigourd to prevent his further pressing that briefest of advantages.

  The two men stood apart, weapons at the ready and primed to resume the combat in the blink of an eye, both of them panting hard with the exertion of their encounter.

  For the first time Sigourd was able to get a clear look at the person who had attacked him.

  The man was a shaggy haired brute, large in the back and shoulders with tough leathery skin that was no doubt the product of a life spent living in the wilds. His face was framed with a mane of dark knotted hair that for all the world looked like it had never had the privilege of meeting a comb, and a matted beard to match.

  Pelts of leather and fur hung to lap his shoulders and torso, and various offerings and trinkets of small animal bones rattled about his neck and waist.

  The long handled sword staff he carried looked like something he might have found on the wastes of some battlefield, procured in the wake of great slaughter by a chancer picking through the remains of the dead. Its long blade curved wickedly, and more trinkets of bones dangled from the leather strapped handle.

  His most striking feature was his dark eyes, which glittered with a fierce primal intelligence from behind that lank mane of filthy hair.

  Sigourd puffed out his chest, tried to hide the tremor of nerves that coursed through him from showing in his voice, ‘I am Sigourd Fellhammer, on a mission of rescue into the Eastern Fringes. I mean you no harm, so do me the courtesy of standing aside
and allowing me to pass.’

  The wild man’s response was a low rumbling snarl that built steadily until , without warning he pounced again, his blade raised high to split Sigourd’s skull with a thunderous down stroke that would have cleaved his adversary in two.

  In a flash, Sigourd raised his own weapon to deflect the blow and once more the two blades rang through the quiet of a forest holding its breath.

  The combatants were locked together, Sigourd grunting with the effort of holding his larger opponent at bay, before he allowed his sword arm to crumple so that he could slip inside the guard of the other man, hugging him close in a bear hug and kicking his legs out from under him.

  The wild man’s immediate reaction was to snatch a hold of Sigourd’s belt as he toppled in an attempt to regain his footing, his heavy frame dragging them both over the edge of an embankment that they had dallied too close to as they struggled.

  In an instant both men disappeared from the path, through the thicket and scrub that had blinded them to the presence of the steep drop.

  Over and over they crashed through bush and branch, snapping wood and scattering the loose leaves of plants that were splintered beneath their headlong tumble.

  Sigourd hit the ground at the bottom of the embankment with a painful thud, his breath knocked out of him by the sudden impact.

  He rolled over and scrabbled to his feet, knowing that he only had moments to recover his position. His sword was long gone now, lost somewhere amongst the scrub during their jarring tumble. Of the wild man, there was no sign whatsoever.

  The forest was once more settled to its natural quiet, the insects buzzing here and there as the gentle wind took up the low hanging boughs of trees that listed to drape themselves over a forest floor once more set in a disquieting serenity.

  Sigourd was alert in spite of the calm, he knew that the wild man was out there watching him, awaiting the time to strike again.

  Sigourd had no idea why this creature had decided to attack him. The only thought that occurred was that he had unwittingly traveled through a part of the old forest that the wild man deemed to belong to him. Either way it seemed apparent that Sigourd was not going to be able to talk his way out of this testing situation, and would be called upon to utilize every fighting skill he had at his disposal. Thanks to the demanding stewardship of Cal, he had many.

  Then it came again, that strange and overwhelming sensation, as if Sigourd could feel the very blood rushing in his veins. His head swam with the unfamiliar sensation, flushing hot like the blast from an open furnace. He became aware of a strange noise as of tiny feet pattering across dry ground, and searched about him for the source of the sound.The pattering became louder and clearer to Sigourd the more he strained to hear it.

  Then another sound came to his ears, like the buzzing of the tiny insects zipping about in the shafts of sunlight. But more than a quiet buzz this time it was a definite hum, and Sigourd realized with stunned fascination that he was hearing the wing beats of those tiny insects as if they were a hundred times their actual size.

  He looked to the ground, and knew without doubt that the sound of scraping, pattering feet was the sound of small beetles scattered about the ground, going about their own strange routine amongst the dry leaves bedding the forest floor.

  Sigourd marveled at how this could be, at how he was hearing things that no ordinary person would be able to her with a clarity that defied comprehension. Was he going mad?

  The sudden sound of rushing water flooded his senses, and he looked up terrified that he was about to be crushed by an inexplicable deluge falling from the heavens, but there was nothing there but the leaves of the trees stirred by a gentle breeze. He understood that this too was the innocent noise of the forest around him, amplified to a level he’d never dreamed possible.

  Sigourd had almost forgotten about the peril he was in, so complete was his amazement.

  And then another strange sound, a constant and insistent thump. Over and over again, rhythmically like the steady double beat of a war drum...or a heart.

  It was impossible, but Sigourd knew without doubt that he was listening to the heart beat of something out beyond the wall of green that was the forest line. The pounding heart of a creature on the hunt, the wild man. The resonant thump, thump, thump of lifeblood hammering in his chest.

  Sigourd was able to discern the direction of the sound, and knew that the wild man had circled around behind him to launch another surprise attack from the cover of the heavy foliage.

  The young lord pushed aside all wonder at the bizarre happening that was taking place within him, turning instead so that he could present his back to the hiding wild man. A target he knew would be too tempting to resist.

  He strained to listen to that heartbeat, which would have been as loud and clear to him as the sound of the absent nightingale, if it were not for the distraction of his own racing heart. What Sigourd planned was as risky a gambit as anyone had ever chanced to undertake, and against an opponent as formidable as the one he now faced, he risked nothing short of his own life.

  The heartbeat began to thump more insistently, the sound moving steadily closer. It seemed to grow and throb between Sigourd’s ears, inside the space of his skull. It was there to the exclusion of all else, as if his brain had filtered the unnecessary noise of the forest at large.

  Thump, thump, thump. Closer. Louder.

  Sigourd tried to appear relaxed, as if he expected nothing. He had to convince the other man that he was oblivious as to how close to peril he was, and therefore lure the wild man into making his attack.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump.

  That racing heart was now hammering so fast in Sigourd’s ears that the beats were almost running together in one long percussive drone.

  Louder, closer, louder, closer.

  And then it happened, a rush of displaced air in Sigourd’s ears as the wild man broke cover, springing from the foliage of the forest canopy like a cat. His sword staff raised above his head, its lethal tip aimed squarely at the space between Sigourd’s shoulder blades ready to be thrust viciously through the hardened leather bodice, through flesh and muscle and soft tissue to pierce the organs beneath.

  Just as Sigourd had predicted, the wild man had assumed he’d taken possession of the element of surprise, and had deemed his opponent’s exposed back as an opportunity not to be squandered.

  Sigourd pirouetted to his left, twisting into his opponent’s headlong leap and chopping down with his forearm, the ornate vambrace that sheathed it thunking off and deflecting the blade of the sword staff with a piercing ringing. Following up, Sigourd’s other hand clamped around the haft of the staff as he drove his weight, shoulder first, into his silent attacker. The wild man was sent sprawling to the forest floor.

  Rotating the blade expertly between his hands Sigourd brought its spinning tip to a sudden halt barely inches from the face of the stunned wild man, who’s eyes crossed as he focused on the narrow blade hovering dangerously close to the end of his nose. Upon his face he wore an expression of disbelief.

  ‘You broke me bloody toof!’ spat the man incredulously, a piece of cracked enamel flying from his bloodied mouth.

  ‘I am Sigourd Fellhammer, heir to the land of Uthura. Why have you attacked me?’ demanded Sigourd, who kept the tip of the sword staff leveled directly at the muttering wild man.

  ‘My breakfast,’ snorted the wild man glumly.

  ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘Tha bleedin’ pig. You scared it off didn’t you. Coming bumbling along the garden path like a poxy circus clown, making as much racket at a box full of mad chickens!’

  The wild man felt at the stump of yellowed tooth protruding from his gob, before throwing his arms up in frustration, ‘I was looking forward to a bit of bacon for my brekkie, and now I’ll have to go without thanks to you.’

  Sigourd hesitated, but held the weapon ready, ‘ I apologize, sir. I had no id--

  He never got to finish h
is sentence, as just then an almighty braying as of some great and terrible beast, shattered the calm of the forest. The sound was seemingly never ending, echoing around and between the ancient trees like the foreboding blast of a war horn before the charge.

  Such was the terrifying force of the sound that flocks of birds, nesting high in the forest canopy, took flight in a flurry of beating wings and scattered feathers.

  Sigourd and the wild man both looked up, casting about for the source of the sound which seemed to come from everywhere at once.

  And then they saw it. Emerging into the scattered sunlight that fell here and there about the forest floor, a creature that matched in appearance almost exactly the small boar that had bolted terrified past Sigourd earlier.

  Coated in thick tufts of dirty fur, and snorting through a large snout set brutal looking tusks undoubtedly near the foot long mark, the only significant difference between the first boar and the one standing not twenty yards from the pair was the rather unsettling matter of around four hundred pounds of lean muscle and a maddened glaze to the eyes.

  There was a moment between the two men and that mad boar. A moment of clarity twixt man and beast. There were to be no amicable agreements here. The boar wanted blood.

  ‘Mummy’s pissed...’ muttered the wild man.

  The boar eyed Sigourd and the wild man a moment longer, as if measuring their potential threat, and from behind big black eyes glazed with fury, something ticked over.

  The boar bellowed once more, the sound thrumming in Sigourd’s bones. It lowered its head before springing forward into a headlong charge.

  The impact alone from such tonnage, moving at such speed, would pulp any man unlucky enough to be caught in the beast’s path. But that was of course not before those dirty great tusks would have eviscerated such an unfortunate individual.

  The wild man rolled to his feet and began to sprint for the cover of a nearby tree. Sigourd, not being slow on the uptake himself, had already lowered the sword staff so that it would not impede his ability to pick up his legs as he ran for his life in the opposite direction.