In The Shadow Of The Beast

by Harlan H Howard

  Sitting at the bar, Jonn Grumble rolled his eyes and put his head in his hands. Now every soul in the place had stopped with their carousing and had turned to watch the unfolding drama with cruel fascination. There was not a sound in the entire place as Sigourd locked eyes with the brute, whose wooden chair creaked loudly as the man slowly got to his feet.

  Rearing to his full height, the brute towered over Sigourd, fully four hand spans taller than the young lord, and easily twice as broad across the back.

  From so close, Sigourd could see the intricate threading of red veins in the cheeks of the larger man, the light sheen of perspiration upon his brow and the glazed, unfocused look in his eyes. It all served to compliment the lopsided sneer upon his mouth.

  ‘And what would a whelp like you know about women?’ snarled the brute.

  ‘I know that bad manners is only ever going to get you into trouble,’ said Sigourd.

  The brute and his cronies burst out laughing. They were like a pack of jackals, gathered around the carcass of their unfortunate prey.

  ‘Crawl back to the dung yard, boy. Before I’m forced to break you in two,’ said the brute.

  Sigourd rocked back slightly, wafting his hand before him and turning up his nose, ‘Judging by your breath, I’d say you’re a fellow that knows all about dung.’

  The sneer upon the brute’s lips abruptly vanished, ‘You’re a ballsy little shit aren’t ya...’

  Sigourd worked quickly to assess the threat potential. He knew from the outset that he was walking into a situation that was only ever going to escalate, his temper had decided that for him.

  But the brute and his cronies had drank themselves way beyond any chance of making a decent fight of it, and besides which, they were in need of a thrashing.

  ‘...especially for someone who looks like he just dropped out of his mother’s--’

  The brute never got to finish his sentence. Without warning Sigourd kicked out, driving his foot squarely between the legs of the much larger man. The brute bent double, his face flushing even more red than it had and his eyes bulging as if on stalks.

  ‘Look out!’ shouted the girl whom Sigourd had rescued from the hands of the brute. Without thinking Sigourd ducked to his side, a heavy studded mace missing the back of his head by a hair’s breadth. One of the brute’s thuggish cohorts had taken the opportunity to swing his weapon clumsily at the exposed back of Sigourd, the force of his swing and the subsequent momentum generated nearly dragging the man off his feet. The barbaric looking device, cruelly studded about its dull surface, slammed into a nearby table, crunching into the wood and flipping glasses and other crockery across the room.

  Someone screamed from amongst the crowd as a drinking stein struck them across the head, and an instant later the entire tavern was a mad, seething mass of flying tables, chairs, fists and feet.

  It was as if some spell had fallen over the patrons of the bar, instantly seizing them with the need to do harm to their neighbor in a mad frenzy of brawling.

  Somebody grabbed Sigourd from behind, pinning his arm to his his back to hold him immobile as the mace wielder came about for another try. Sigourd could only look on helpless as that mace was raised high and swung back far, and knew without doubt that the next object that solid iron ingot would connect with was going to be his head. A direct hit with such a weapon would pulp Sigourd’s skull and whatever was contained within as if it were a watermelon.

  Time seemed to creep to an almost standstill as Sigourd watched that mace rise higher and higher, his world seeming to consist only of that cruel studded iron ingot. He waited for it to begin the inevitable descent toward him, gathering unstoppable speed before the blow landed and banished Sigourd to the after realm. He closed his eyes that he would not have to stare death in the face, and inwardly cursed himself, feeling a coward for not wanting to witness the moment of his own demise.

  The blow never landed. There was a second, softer crunch, followed immediately by a muffled thud as if something heavy had just hit the ground. Sigourd opened his eyes to see that the mace wielder was lying unconscious at his feet. Standing over him was Jonn Grumble, half a shattered ale mug in his hand and a wry grin upon his lips. He winked once playfully at Sigourd before suddenly he was clattered brutally from behind by a stool across his back, driving the wild man to the floor.

  Sigourd drove his elbow into the sternum of the assailant still gripping him from behind, noting with satisfaction the sound of something cracking deep inside the man’s torso as the point of his elbow was driven home. The assailant staggered back, allowing Sigourd to spin off the balls of his feet and drive a thundering right hook into the side of his face, dropping the man instantly.

  Sigourd pushed his way through the press of heaving, brawling bodies and managed to look back at the madness that had engulfed the tavern. From where he stood he could see Jonn Grumble, fending off one of the working girls with an oversized turkey leg as the woman set about him like a banshee, trying to tear strips off the wild man. They were but a pair amongst dozens, wildly throwing themselves and each other about the place.

  And then it happened again, the same as before. The sudden rush of warning, flooding Sigourd’s awareness like ice in his veins. The sense of immediate danger ringing within him.

  Sigourd’s reaction was instant, and so blindingly quick it surprised even him. He twisted, his hand darting out to catch the wrist of the brute who was in the act of stabbing downwards with a curved dagger, attempting to catch Sigourd unaware with his vicious attack.

  Sigourd held that wrist immobile for long moments, even as the brute, much taller and broader than his young opponent, struggled feverishly to bring the blade down. The two men stood immobile, locked together in the middle of the tavern as all around them the brawling raged on.

  The brute was hardly able to believe his astonished eyes as he looked on at the boy before him, fully half his size yet seemingly possessed of a strength far greater than his own. Try as he might he was unable to either force the blade into Sigourd’s chest or pull his wrist free.

  And then, with a sound like eggshells cracking the brute’s wrist snapped like matchwood in Sigourd’s hand. Both men looking up in horrified amazement at the sickening occurrence.

  It took Sigourd a few moments to realize fully what he was seeing, and instantly snatched his hand away in shock. It had never been his intention to cause so grievous an injury to the malodorous brute, even if he had known he was capable of such inhuman strength.

  The shattered wrist flopped back against the forearm, the hand dangling at an unnatural angle quite beyond that which nature had intended.

  The brute clutched his shattered forearm to his breast, almost as if he were afraid that if he did not his hand might fall off entirely. He was too shocked by the suddenness of what had happened that he didn’t even have wit enough to cry out.

  Not another soul in the tavern had witnessed the aberrant feat of strength, except one. Still sitting in his relatively quiet corner of the tavern, the only oasis of calm amongst the greater madness within the establishment, the old man sat beneath his cape and hood, still taking the occasional sip from his tankard of mead.

  He had observed with great interest the entire exchange, and had raised an eyebrow at the youngsters strength and considerable impetuousness.

  For his own part, Sigourd’s head was swimming with his immediate concerns. How was it possible that he suddenly possessed such power that he could shatter a man’s forearm with his bare hands? And what of the strange sensations warning him of imminent danger? It was all too much for Sigourd to conveniently dismiss as mere happenstance. Something was happening to him that he could no longer deny. He just had no idea what it was.

  Suddenly, the brute let out a protracted wailing, the sound cutting across the din of the tumult in the tavern and causing all within to cease the attempted maiming of their fellow patrons and turn in surprise to see whom had cause to make a sound of such anguish.

 
; That wailing brought Sigourd out of his reverie instantly, and he realized that he and Jonn Grumble aught not to linger here a moment longer. Jonn was right. This was not the sort of attention that they neither wanted nor could afford.

  Diving back into the crowd, Sigourd caught Jonn about the belt buckle, tugging him backwards out of the melee as he valiantly fought off two drunken sailors who had apparently mistaken him for someone they believed owed them money.

  Sigourd pulled both Jonn Grumble and himself through the crowd as the brute continued to wail.

  From across the room there came a tremendous bang as the front door to the tavern came crashing in. The door went flying off its hinges, allowing not only the weak sunlight from outside to wash suddenly in, but also the half dozen or so members of the city’s soldiery who streamed in through that shattered doorway. Their staffs and batons fell mercilessly about the hastily scattering patrons of The Dirty Dog.

  Sigourd and Jonn Grumble wasted no time in heading toward the back of the tavern. Finding there a back door which they didn’t hesitate to kick open, they emerged into an alleyway behind the place.

  Strewn high with the waste of the tavern and other buildings that lined the alleyway, there was an almighty stink about the place of rotting garbage and animal waste. Both men held their hands up to their faces to cup their mouths and noses so that they might filter some of the wretchedness from their nostrils.

  ‘What happened back there?’ asked Jonn Grumble through his hand mask. ‘That great lump was screaming like a bloody stuck pig!’

  Sigourd shook his head, giving the only answer he honestly could, ‘I don’t know. He was behind me and then...’

  Sigourd was at a loss to explain what was happening to him. He could barely reason it to himself let alone a relative stranger, even one as stalwart as Jonn Grumble appeared to be. Sigourd’s heart hammered like a drum in his chest, the intensity of the last few minutes in the tavern still churning inside him.

  At that moment more of the soldiery came around the side of the building, three or four of them, weapons drawn. Undoubtedly they had been set the task of ensuring that none of the brawling patrons escaped the city’s justice, and here were two of them in the act of fleeing the scene of the disturbance.

  ‘Stop, or you’ll hang!’ shouted one of the soldiers as they rounded that corner and laid eyes on Sigourd and Jonn Grumble at the other end of the alley. The companions didn’t need further encouragement to pick up their heels and make a break for the main street.

  Sprinting between crooked buildings and over collections of filth piled high, the cobbles that lined the alley beating painfully against the soles of their booted feet, Sigourd and Jonn Grumble hit the main street and dived amongst the bustling throng of the market stalls.

  They ducked and wove between patrons, and it was back to shouldering and barging their way through the browsers and barterers, who would shout foul obscenities at the fleeing pair.

  Sigourd hoped they might loose the soldiers amongst the crowd, but turning to chance a glimpse at their pursuers he was dismayed to see that the soldiery had stayed with them. He could see the ripple of disturbance traveling through the crowd where the determined city guardsmen were ploughing through the press of bodies in the wake of the men they hunted.

  The main street was really more of a large thoroughfare through which there seemed to be no easy way to circumnavigate the crowd. No way to quickly duck out of sight and allow the soldiers to pass them by.

  ‘There, up ahead!’ Cried Jonn.

  Sigourd looked to where His companion had indicated, to the mouth of a small street only slightly larger than the alley into which they’d originally emerged. They picked up their pace, hoping to hit the street and round the corner to get out of sight, or at least to use the opportunity to put even more distance between themselves and those in pursuit.

  They darted around the bend and into the mouth of the small street, where only a handful of people walked, going about the function of their daily concerns. About halfway down the street there appeared to be a small bakery, sweet smelling rolls and hot breads piled high on shelves outside, and not too much else. The walls of the buildings to either side of the street were high, and here just as everywhere else in the city they seemed to hunch arthritically over the street below.

  Sigourd noticed how Jonn Grumble looked wearily at those near buildings. It was the second time since they’d entered the city that he’d seen the wild man looking to his surroundings with an almost tangible apprehension.

  The street itself curved around in a sharp bend, keeping from immediate sight the secret of where the other end let out.

  Again, Sigourd chanced another look over his shoulder to see how far behind the soldiers were, and caught sight of them emerging from the crowd, weapons ready in their hands. It was clear that they’d caught sight of Sigourd and Jonn Grumble, but instead of charging into the alley in hot pursuit, they slowed to a brisk stroll.

  Sigourd wondered why they were not pressing themselves to charge after the pair, and had his answer soon enough. As he and Jonn Grumble rounded the bend in the street, he was dismayed to see that the road terminated altogether in a dead end consisting of high wooden fencing stretched between the twisted facades of two crumbling buildings. There would be no escape.

  Sigourd and Jonn Grumble turned to face the approaching soldiers, who were now sauntering casually down the alley. They wore wicked looking smirks on their faces, obviously content in the belief that their prey was cornered.

  Sigourd and Jonn Grumble drew their blades, ready for the seemingly unavoidable combat that was about to take place.

  ‘You’ll lower your weapons or you’ll meet a grisly end, to be sure!’ shouted one of the guardsmen, a burly man with a mustache as thick as his guttural accent.

  ‘We did not start the trouble at the tavern. We were merely defending the honor of one of the serving girls employed there,’ said Sigourd.

  ‘Then more fool you,’ spoke the guardsman, ‘those little trollops generally don’t have much in the way of honor to defend,’ replied the guardsman. ‘Lower your blades and come quietly, and we’ll see what can be done about sparing your hides.’

  Some malicious glimmer in the eye of the mustashioed guard told Sigourd that the man had no intention whatsoever of bringing either Jonn Grumble or himself in for questioning.

  ‘I cannot,’ said Sigourd, ‘for I am about the business of the prince of the realm himself, and command that you stand aside.’

  The guardsman and the rest of his group laughed boisterously at this as if it were the most amusing thing they’d heard in all their days.

  ‘...and we’re about the business of cracking troublemakers skulls,’ said the guardsman, smiling all the while. At this the other soldiery raised their blades and lowered their spears, advancing steadily toward Sigourd and Jonn Grumble, who held their own weapons at the ready.

  Just then a strange sound began to echo around the small street, a sound as of hooves beating against the surface of the rough hewn streets.

  Sigourd and Jonn Grumble and the guardsman as well all began to look about themselves for the source of the sound, which was growing louder by the second. They could see no horses nor much of anything else that could be responsible for the echoing, and confusion began to descend upon both groups.

  Suddenly there was a tremendous noise as of lumber splintering. Crashing through the high wooden fence that formed the terminus of the alley came a pair of magnificent horses, drawing behind them a two wheeled cart of quite sturdy design.

  The horses were dark, their lustrous coats almost seeming to shimmer in light of the day, and their bodies were powerfully built in the fashion of animals well used to physical labour.

  Sitting atop the cart, his head hunched low and his gnarled old hands tight around the reigns as the cart careened through the fence, was the old man.

  Sigourd and Jonn Grumble dived to either side as the horses and cart passed them by, the m
ighty animals barreling into the group of astonished guardsmen who scattered like chaff before this terrifying prospect.

  The old man turned quickly in his seat, and shouted down to Sigourd and Jonn, ‘You can come with me or you can hang. Your choice gentlemen.’

  Sharing a brief look of total amazement, both men quickly clambered aboard the cart. The old man wheeled the horses about, aiming them squarely at the gap he’d put in the fence only moments before.

  By now the guardsmen had recomposed themselves sufficiently, and one of them foolishly threw himself at the cart. His efforts were rewarded with a solid boot in the face, courtesy of Jonn Grumble, as the cart swept by.

  With a powerful leap the animals dragging the cart bounded back through that gap, the little cart not managing to clear the splintered edge of the gap quite so gracefully. It connected with that fence jarringly, shearing off more of the splintered wood with a loud crack.

  The rest of the guards attempted to give chase, but it was a futile gesture. They had no way of catching the cart as it sped across a tract of open land and into a parallel street before disappearing from sight.

  The late afternoon sun was warm on Sigourd’s face as he sat under the shade of a small tree far to the south east of the city of Yarneth Vardis.

  The old man had taken Sigourd and Jonn Grumble far beyond the city and its watchmen. They had managed to loose the half-hearted pursuit of the soldiery amongst the warren of back streets that comprised the slums within the city walls. Their savior had known a secret route out of the city that took them through the wall and out into the wilderness that bordered the lands of Sovisland.

  They had traveled all that morning to come as far as they had, pausing only to rest now that they were sufficiently beyond the care or concern of the soldiers that had pursued them.

  Behind Sigourd, Jonn Grumble was busily cramming the small delicate plum like fruits of the tree into his mouth, eating as if he’d never seen food in his life.

  Sigourd studied the old man, who was tending the magnificent cart horses as they grazed peacefully by the tree. He was a peculiar sort of fellow. His small frame, hidden mostly behind a dark felt cloak, seemed to be so worn with age that it appeared as if even a sudden breeze might blow him apart, scattering his component elements like leaves upon the wind. But there was a spirited constitution within that belied his fragile appearance. Certainly, anyone willing to come to so dramatic a rescue of two men whom he’d never met, at the risk of possible execution by city authorities, must certainly be made of stern stuff.