In The Shadow Of The Beast

by Harlan H Howard

  The wild man released an ululating war cry as he leapt into the air, bringing his blade down across the skull of the third wulfen, shearing his head into two separate parts before spinning and ducking under the clumsy sword thrust of another and coming up in a pirouette, following through with his dagger which he buried in the unfortunate wulfen’s stomach.

  Bael was no swordsman, and realized soon enough that his cohort had not the skill with their own blades to stop the wild man. He backed toward the entrance to the chamber, using the distraction to slip away as Jonn Grumble fell upon the hapless bodyguards.

  Jonn Grumble was already pirouetting again, whirling his sword staff around and bringing its razor edge to bear even before the last wulfen had hit the floor, dead.

  He stopped the the blade short, a hair’s breadth from Isolde’s neck.

  ‘Where’s the lad?’ asked the wild man.

  Sigourd wheeled his horse about, and charged again at the knight. Huron raised his great war axe to fend of another blow from the relentless attack of his liege lord. Their blades flashed in the light of the inferno, sparks flying like dancing fireflies each time the two weapons met with a sound like a smith’s hammer falling upon the anvil.

  Sigourd rained mad blow after blow at his adversary, for in the grips of a vile rage, all his skill was forgotten. He could not and would not attempt to stem the tidal wave of emotion that poured from him now. Finally, he had a focus for all of his rage. All of his pain.

  For his part, Huron was less interested in taking the head from the boy king before him as he was in preventing his own head from being taken off his shoulders. He blocked and parried, utilizing every trick and counter to keep Sigourd from slipping inside his guard.

  As their blades met in a dance of death, so to did the horses beneath them move and jostle for position. The animals had far from an easy time of it, the flickering fires growing ever nearer, the uneven ground beneath their hooves making their quick stepping treacherous work.

  Huron’s great battle steed, an animal that had seen him through countless engagements and had more experience of battlefield situations than a good number of the Baratiis fighting around them, lost its footing amongst the tall grasses of the forest floor, stumbling as its hoof was tripped by an unseen root or depression in the ground.

  The animal lurched forward suddenly, falling face first into the dirt beneath it with a grunt, and sending the knight Huron head over heels over the top of it.

  Huron himself grunted with the excessive impact, his armored form clattering heavily into the ground. Cursing as he got to his feet, he lashed out at his steed, catching the animal with a brutal back hand across its maw. The creature reeled away, stunned with the force of the blow.

  In an instant Sigourd was bearing down on his enemy, eager to press the advantage presented him. The young lord spurred his own mount into another charge, his blade raised high for the killing stroke as he attempted to ride down Huron from his elevated position.

  The knight recognized his disadvantage and in a move that was as much battle instinct as it was any conscious skill, he leveled the odds in the time it takes for a swift sword stroke to sever a head. As Sigourd was about to ride his prey down and run him through, Huron dodged the headlong charge, sidestepping into a body spin that put his full weight and momentum behind an axe swing straight from the bowels of the underworld.

  Carving an arc through the acrid air, the mighty war axe bit deeply into the thickly muscled neck of Sigourd’s mount, cleaving through flesh and bone as if it were little more than a whisper of gossamer. That tremendous blade stroke took the animals head clean off in an explosive geyser of crimson that spattered the face and chest armor of the knight.

  Bereft of a head, the unfortunate animal’s body tottered for a few gruesome moments as that torso struggled to fathom the horrific damage wrought upon it. Then it simply crumpled, taking Sigourd down with it.

  Huron took a moment to spit upon the ground, before taking the few steps over to where the headless animal lay draped heavily over the struggling Sigourd, who was now pinned beneath its ample weight.

  The young lord of Corrinth Vardis looked up into the black eyes of the nightmare knight, and inwardly, Sigourd readied himself for the death blow that was surely coming. He closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer to his gods. But the axe never fell.

  From high above, there was a great thundering roar as one of the mighty reds crashed through the canopy. It cannoned through the surrounding foliage, smashing boughs and branches to kindling as it fell to the earth, itself a flaming ruin.

  That mighty tree collided with a cluster of pods that lay within its path, shattering them like clay pots pole axed by a length of lumber, and bringing further blazing ruin down upon the forest floor. Trapped beneath the headless corpse of his horse, Sigourd could do nothing but watch as that flaming wreckage came crashing down about him.

  Isolde ran through the inferno of some of the lower level pods with Jonn Grumble hot on her heels. Behind them was a squad of the Baratiis, chasing them on foot through the smoke filled corridors.

  The soldiers had been pushing through some of the few ground level dwellings, and had chanced upon the pair as they were descending from the structure above. Of course, they’d given chase to Isolde and Jonn, who turned like hunted foxes and scampered in the opposite direction, trying to loose the pursuit amongst the carnage.

  Swords and axes jostling amongst their number, there were far too many of them for Jonn Grumble to handle alone, and even if Isolde had joined him they’d have wound up on the executioners block even if they did manage to avoid being run through.

  Jonn Grumble hadn’t had the luxury of interrogating the girl further. She’d prattled on about how the lad was ‘The one the prophecy had spoken of,’ or some such nonsense, and had promised under pain of death that her people had no wish to harm Sigourd, and that on the contrary they’d set the whole thing up just to get him out here to this god forsaken place. Jonn Grumble had quipped that a painful death was exactly what she’d be in for if it turned out she was lying.

  After that there hadn’t been much opportunity to talk further. The soldiers had come bustling through the smoke ahead of them and they’d been obliged to leg it.

  A fine bloody mess this whole thing had turned out to be. Jonn Grumble cursed himself for sticking with it so far. The last thing he was up for was a slow death at the hands of the brutes chasing him, or for that matter a quick death at the hands of a rowdy bunch of half-wolves. He didn’t much fancy at all the idea of the freaks sitting around after a long nights howling at the moon, nattering about which tree was best for relieving yourself against as they picked bits of him out of their teeth.

  But Jonn Grumble was a man of his word. He’d agreed to shepherd the lad for as long as it took to repay the debt he owed Sigourd for saving his life. Besides which, he’d become quite fond of the young lord. The lad was a little stiff when it came to having a knock about and an ale or two, but he was good people, and Jonn Grumble couldn’t have lived with himself if he’d just walked away. Even despite what he’d seen that night in the forest. He owed it to Sigourd and himself to stick around.

  So he’d done just that. Jonn Grumble had gone and found himself a cosy spot in the woods to hunker down . He’d kept his head low and his eyes on the village in the hopes of getting in to rescue Sigourd. He’d been out scaring up a little light supper for his breakfast when he heard the first explosion, and had returned in time to see the inhabitants being put under the knife.

  Isolde and Jonn reached the mouth of the tunnel down which they were sprinting and dived into a clearing. The very clearing which only the night before last had been the sight of Sigourd’s transformation form human prince into howling beast. Waiting around the edges of the clearing were a handful of wulfen armed with bows and spears. Upon seeing Jonn Grumble, they held up their weapons, ready to unleash death at the wild man. Jonn came skidding to a halt before the tips of those spears.


  It was Isolde who threw herself between Jonn Grumble and the poised weapons of her brethren, urging them to hold fire until the true threat emerged from the tunnel behind them.

  As Isolde pulled Jonn out of the line of fire, the squad of Baratiis came out of the tunnel mouth, and were met with a barrage of spears and arrows that punctured and pierced their bodies, driving them screaming to the ground.

  But even those wulfen in the clearing were soon on the back foot as more of the Baratiis, mounted upon their armored steeds, emerged from the forest and fell upon them. They carved bloody swathes through all that were driven before the thundering hooves of their horses.

  ‘We can’t stop,’ shouted Isolde above the death throes of those in the clearing, ‘we must find Sigourd.’

  Jonn Grumble looked about at the pitched battle that was taking place. The wulfen were making a valiant effort of it, but in sort order they would be totally overrun. Those that didn’t make for the cover of the forest would be butchered where they stood and fought.

  ‘We’re no good to him dead,’ said Jonn Grumble, ‘we must find cover first, and if Sigourd is here at all we’ll find him when the dust settles.’

  Isolde cast about her, clearly unwilling to leave either her people or Sigourd to an uncertain fate.

  ‘If you’ve got a better idea...’ said Jonn Grumble, his gruff voice resonant with urgency.

  Isolde hesitated for a moment longer, before her better judgement decided the matter for her. She turned, and with Jonn Grumble following, she made her way into the roiling smoke that choked the forest.

  Huron looked down at the smoldering wreckage before him. He’d been obliged to dive for cover as the skies had fallen, only narrowly escaping a similar fate to that of the young prince Sigourd.

  Somewhere under all of this wreckage, the boy lay entombed. It was an ignoble end for someone whose heart was so full of the valor which had given him madness enough to charge the nightmare knight. Ordinarily a suicidal maneuver for any man.

  Huron felt something twinge in his guts. What was that strange sensation? Surely it wasn’t remorse? Guilt even? Certainly, the knight had not wanted to fight Sigourd. His hand had been forced and he’d done his level best to ensure that he didn’t damage the boy. Perhaps it was apprehension at the prospect of delivering the news of her sons demise to the Lady Veronique.

  Enough. Sliding his war axe into the sheath at his back, Huron swung his great armored leg up over his dazed mount. The animal was waiting patiently, if in somewhat subdued character, under the skeletal cover of nearby dwellings that had been blown wide during the initial blasts.

  Huron wheeled his steed about, and bellowed to his men, ‘Seventy Fifth! Our work here is done.’

  With that the nightmare knight galloped from the scene of the massacre, the Baratiis streaming from all corners of the ruined village to follow in his wake.

  CHAPTER 18

  War host...

  Oriflammes danced and fluttered in the steady breeze. Their regal tones of claret and gold giving them the appearance of hungry flames, trapped as if by a conjurers spell on the ends of serried lances raised high above the created helms of the assembled war host.

  Over a thousand knights and footmen of The Regent’s finest soldiery were assembled in the main courtyard of the palace at Corrinth Vardis.

  The terror of that hateful night when the weapons stores had been reduced to a smoking ruin had dissipated now. The only fires burning hereabouts were those brightly colored pennants dancing in the stately wind, and the glimmer of the high morning sun on the burnished armor of the warriors assembled beneath it.

  The Regent, mounted upon a white mare and resplendent in his own ornate war plate, waited at the head of his army. His aspect was dour, more so than his usual stoic demeanor permitted. Lately, his brows were knit in a frown of perpetual concern for his mood was as dark as the encroaching clouds that threatened to steal the glorious sun from the sky.

  The Regent mused that perhaps those dark clouds, so conspicuous in an otherwise clear sky, might be a bad omen. A portent of the bad things that would follow if he were to see through the regrettable course of action he was set to undertake.

  Horix Fellhammer was not a man given to easy superstition. But in times as conflicted as these, when the weight of all his troubles bore down heavily upon him, even the most taciturn of men might find himself questing for divine inspiration.

  Mortaron emerged from the press of soldiers, and moved to stand before his liege lord, reaching up to stroke the white mare. The creature snorted once, and turned her head from the old baron. Seeing this, The Regent smiled to himself. He supposed it must be true what they said about animals being able to sense the shadows in men’s hearts.

  ‘What news of my son, Vincenzo?’ asked The Regent.

  ‘There is none so far my lord, ’ replied The Baron, ‘but do not let doubts assail you.’

  ‘Doubts,’ chuckled The Regent without a trace of mirth, ‘I’m full of them.’

  ‘Pursuing war with the Morays is the only viable course of action my lord. It is unfortunate, but it is also necessary.’

  The Regent narrowed his eyes at the other man, regarding him in a not wholly flattering light, ‘Your eagerness for war might be the cause of some alarm for those that did not know you better, Vincenzo.’

  ‘But you do know me better my lord. What is your estimation of the situation?’ asked Mortaron.

  The Regent looked about at the thousand plus men and their beasts assembled for war, and felt the nag of uncertainty at the edges of his reason once more, ‘My estimation is that right or wrong, I pray history judges me with an even hand for what I am about to undertake.’

  With that, the lord of the realm of Atos flicked his reigns, and spurred the mare beneath him into a trot. With a sound like a wave crashing against a rocky shore, the war host shouldered their weapons as one, and began to move off behind their lord.

  From a lancet window high above the courtyard, Veronique looked down on the shimmering sea of moving men and metals. As she watched, a single tear fell from her eye. In that gesture was contained all of her sadness for the upheaval that had passed and was yet to pass. There would, she thought to herself, be many more tears to shed before events had run their course.

  All around him fires raged, blazing through the gnarled and twisted trees of the old forest. The eyes in the dark had fled when the fire came. Sigourd hadn’t witnessed their mass exodus, or even how the fire started, but he knew that he was all alone in the midst of the inferno.

  In desperation he scanned the area for a means of escape, looking for anything that might lend itself to his survival. But all he saw was the wall of flame creeping closer.

  High above, the blood red sky churned and lurched, clouds that swirled in the fading light of the sky like oil poured into water.

  Below Sigourd, beyond the edge of the forest which fell away to nothing, a black sea roiled furiously. It broke itself unendingly upon the rocky shores, the thunderous sound reverberating through Sigourd’s diaphragm in nauseating waves.

  Above it all, a full moon, creamy and bright it stared back at him through the gathering flames that overtopped the tree line.

  How was he back here, in this strange place? Back in the nightmare dreamscape that was precursor to The Change. He was trapped again in a feral dream with no means of escape. Sigourd tried to steady his breathing, tried to calm his heart’s thundering pace, but it was of little use. His heart beat as loudly in his ears as did those crashing waves. It hammered out a staccato rhythm in his chest so powerfully that he felt he was shuddering in time with each thudding beat.

  There came a crashing then. Not more waves, throwing themselves carelessly against that rocky shore, but the sound of the trees about him falling as their ancient bases were consumed by the ravenous fire. Like dominoes the trees began to cascade down around him, like frail old men whose hearts give out moments before they topple to the ground clutching at the
ir chests. The trees were coming down around him so fast, so unnaturally fast. One after another in quick succession, boom, boom, boom, in time with his racing heart. Surely one of those giant trunks must flatten him sooner or later. His luck would run out and he’d be smashed into the earth. Mashed like overripe fruit. As he’d done in all of his dreams lately, Sigourd began to run. Terror overtook him and he ran for his life.

  A great howling rent the sky just then. Its source was distant, but the noise was carried to him crisp and clear on the night air. A tortured animal sound filled with rage, filled with bloodlust.

  He looked up, directing his sight to the source of the sound, and--

  Sigourd’s eyes flickered open, fluttering and squinting into the bright light of the morning sun as it shafted down upon him. He was back in the village of the wulfen. Back in a strange bed with Isolde mopping attentively at his brow and Arook standing hidden in the shadows. And there was the other as well. The one who called himself Bael. He was there too watching from the doorway. The bastard responsible for Cal’s murder. Sigourd would open his eyes fully and they would all be there, looking down at him with their varying expressions of concern and expectation and loathing.

  Except when he did open his eyes to look upon the new day they weren’t there at all. That moment had already passed. Looking about, Sigourd discovered that he had awoken in a make shift lean to. Constructed very recently of sticks and branches to keep him sheltered from the elements. He rested on little more than a bed of leafy branches piled atop the naked earth. The the iron rich tang of damp soil, and the heady aroma of smoke from a nearby fire crept upon him.