Tooth and Blade

by Shad Callister

  Cormoran sat down across from Fieron, his chair creaking ominously. “Well, Fieron. Do you have any money left on you?”

  “Maybe I do,” Fieron said. He eyed the older man suspiciously. “Why?”

  The veteran smiled. “I only ask because there’s a few lugs back of the tavern there that look as if they’d be happy to relieve you of your purse if you stagger away this drunk. As a brother in arms, I thought I’d better intervene, whether or not you rejoin the company.”

  “That’s good of you. You’re really good,” Fieron replied. “Let me tell you why I got sent over here in the first place. Mother’s a saint, but father just wouldn’t see it the way—”

  Four young men walked out to the front of the tavern, boots thumping heavily. People scooted their chairs quickly to let them pass. Fieron, happily babbling away, barely noticed them, but Cormoran’s instincts woke.

  He eyed the four as they veered from the door and approached the table with the cocksure deliberation. When they reached the table they stopped, flushed with drink and sullen energy, and the one in front addressed the drunk spearman.

  “We didn’t like what you said, trooper. About Ostora.”

  Fieron paused in his recital of woe. He looked up at the four men, brow furrowed, at a loss to understand what the problem was.

  “You called it the back end of the world,” the speaker continued. He was a brawny youth, with hair and beard cut short in the local fashion. “And my friends and I are wondering why we should have to listen to a washed-up Kerathi pig who can’t even stomach his ale.”

  Cormoran shifted almost imperceptibly on the bench, easing his weight forward. “Watch yourselves, lads,” he said softly. “If you’re looking for trouble, you’ll find no better place to get it than a pair of the king’s finest.”

  “Finest?” the young man echoed in a loud, mocking tone. “Finest? A pig’s still a pig, even if he can march in step and salute. You can tell a pig every time, right, boys? If the slop-stains on his face don’t give it away, the stench sure does!”

  Cormoran had just risen to his feet when the door suddenly swung wide. A few heads turned to look, and then froze

  A creature stood there.

  It held itself upright on long, ungainly legs. One clawed hand clutched at the doorjamb, and razor claws popped and scratched the wood into slow splinters. The other paw reached out into the tavern, slowly moving in the air, gripping and flexing like a cat stretching.

  And the thing was, indeed, catlike. Burning golden eyes glared balefully. The contrast of coming into the well-lit tavern from the darkness outside had narrowed the thing’s pupils into needled slits of jet. A long black tail lashed between the creature’s rear legs.

  Worst of all was the head. Like a cat in shape, with pointed ears and short muzzle, but eerily humanoid around the low-slung jaw. The eyes were too intelligent, the mouth too sensual. The lithe body was long and roped with rangy muscle, barely concealed beneath short black fur.

  Standing erect as it was, in a horrible pantomime of humanity, it seemed wrong—against nature, somehow—a beast attempting to pass itself off as a man, unaware that it was a twisted mockery.

  Fieron felt himself sobering by the second.

  The cat-thing was staring at the platform where the girl still played her lyre, oblivious. It seemed entranced, and every hair on its nightmarish body fairly hummed with tension.

  Cormoran began to move, but the young Ostoran with the thin beard slowly held out one arm to halt him. “Banshee-cat. Biggest I ever saw. If it screams, we’re all finished.”

  Cormoran swallowed hard, glanced at Fieron. The young trooper might have enough sense to stay put, but then again, he was very drunk. Cormoran breathed a question out the side of his mouth at the local tough.

  “What’s it doing in here?”

  Just as softly the youth replied. “Dunno. Pray to your gods, Kerathi.”

  They followed the eerie cat beast’s intense gaze from the door to the girl on the stage, who still plucked at her strings and sang in a lilting voice. Others in the large room were beginning to take notice, and the hubbub gradually died. In his rapidly clearing mind, Fieron wondered what would happen when the girl saw the creature.

  “We’ve got to kill it before it can let out a scream,” the bearded young man murmured, keeping his voice in a soft sing-song that might have been wind through leaves or a brook over stones. He was slowly reaching for a heavy knife sheathed at the small of his back. Cormoran cursed under his breath as his sword-hand groped aimlessly at his own empty belt. The locals at the nearby tables were almost trembling with fear and pent-up energy, but none moved. They knew now the thread on which their lives hung.

  The monster began to move. Long hook claws ticked against the wooden floor. It walked upright, like a man, but its hind legs were not meant for such a gait and so the walk was a bobbing, swaying affair that only added to the insane wrongness emanating from the creature. It ignored the men by the door entirely, its attention fixed solely on the girl and her lyre. As it drew nearer Fieron caught its scent, a sharp, burnt odor. Sweat trickled down his face.

  And then, as it passed Fieron, the banshee-cat uttered a tentative moan, starting low and ending surprisingly high, almost at the edge of hearing. There was a throaty intensity to the sound; a vibration, a frisson.

  Everyone in the tavern who had not already seen the monster now stopped what they were doing and looked.

  There was a flurry of movement from those who did not recognize the threat or were too startled to keep their wits and hold still. The lanky innkeeper ducked behind the bar and began stuffing rags in his ears before fumbling with an unstrung bow. The young tough next to Cormoran unsheathed his big knife and crouched to lunge.

  The lyre girl, focused on her craft, was the last of all to notice. When she did, she stopped playing and stood up, face turning white. She knew.

  Almost against her will, the primal fear welling up from somewhere deep inside, the girl opened her mouth, filled her lungs. Fieron saw her white teeth flash.

  “No, please Mishtan lord of heaven,” Fieron heard Cormoran mutter next to him, “don’t let her—”

  The girl screamed, short and sharp and full of mortal fear.

  That did it. The howl that burst suddenly from the beast’s jaws was beyond ear-piercing: in the enclosed space of the tavern’s walls, the ululating sound that could stun a rabbit at twenty paces in the open air now proved more than human ears could bear. Everyone clapped their hands to their heads, but too late. A few, the weakest and most sensitive, dropped to the floor semi-conscious. The rest squeezed their eyes shut and screamed for relief from the agonizing pressure.

  It was unbearable. Fieron found himself on the floor, thrashing wildly, almost sobbing in pain. He was vaguely conscious of Cormoran next to him doing the same thing, with the local boys who’d approached them nearby.

  When the creature stopped, Fieron was barely aware of it; his hearing was gone. There was a buzzing, ringing in his head and all else was utterly silent. One man nearby had blood running from his ears. Next to him, Cormoran was gasping.

  The banshee-cat bounded forward to the stage where the lyre girl huddled, slavering jaws hanging open, sleek head thrust forward. Arms wide, claws out. Hunger and rage, torment and fury—

  An arrow buried itself in the creature’s shoulder, driving the thing back just as its claws touched the fabric of the girl’s dress. It snarled, though few could hear.

  Fieron lurched to his feet and saw the innkeeper standing behind the bar, holding a small bow. The weapon’s power was compromised by its size, however, and the creature was far from incapacitated. Already it was reaching for the girl again, blood dribbling down its side.

  Men rose staggering to their feet, reached for weapons, mostly knives—the bigger weapons were all stacked on the racks by the door. Cormoran picked up a bench and made ready to hurl it at the creature.

  The young man with the beard was the readiest of the
m all, having covered his ears somewhat. Dashing toward the stage, he put one foot atop a table and took a flying leap through the air, knife in hand.

  His equilibrium had been upset by the damage to his ears, however, and he crashed onto the wooden steps right behind the monster. So Fieron caught up an oil lantern from a wall mount and flung it without even waiting to calculate his action. It was a move based on instinct, all he was capable of in his semi-drunken, ears-ringing state.

  He missed his target more widely even than the local boy, but the virtue of his projectile was that it shattered and spread flaming oil all across the stage. The banshee-cat snarled again and shrank back from the licking flames, pausing for a moment in its progress toward its prey.

  The young bearded man took the moment and made use of it. He rose quickly to his feet and ran up the steps onto the burning platform, ignoring the flames. Catching up the girl in his arms, he jumped off the other side of the stage and took refuge in the crowd of milling patrons.

  Angry and confused at the sudden turn of events, the banshee-cat found itself surrounded by threatening tavern patrons and flames. It began to howl again, but Cormoran’s bench came hurtling through the air and dealt the creature a crushing blow across the shoulders, cutting the howl short just in time. Other missiles flew from the ring of angry, desperate men, driving the beast back from the platform stage and onto the floor. Stools, tankards, and drinking horns thudded into its flesh. Whatever force had drawn the thing towards the girl and her lyre had now dissipated, and the monster sought only to flee. But men with bronze knives as sharp as its claws barred the way. It snarled frantically.

  Another arrow from the innkeeper’s short bow took the thing in the throat, and thick dark blood began to run onto the floor. The banshee-cat turned and leapt over a table to gain the door, but several men were already there. They beat savagely at the creature with chairs, a fire poker, and a mop handle, and the dark shape slithered away, hissing.

  A knot of men converged on the thing, and there were shouts and snarls that seemed merely muffled groans to Fieron’s slowly recovering eardrums. One man lurched out of the melee clutching at a shredded shoulder, and another staggered back with half his face torn free. Fieron saw the banshee-cat on all fours, a large knife blooming from the creature’s ribs. It struggled toward the door, spitting and snarling at those around it. The locals seemed to know the signs as the monster attempted to utter its immobilizing howls and always attacked anew when it did, halting the auditory barrage. The creature slipped on a bloody floorboard underfoot, and found itself surrounded by men at the door who were none too eager to let the thing escape to fight another day.

  Someone ran from the back of the hall bearing a hunting spear with hooked flanges for piercing boar-flesh. Before he got to the fight at the door, however, the young bearded man grabbed it away and leaped onto the platform. Taking aim in the flickering firelight, he hurled the spear directly at the cat, taking it at a downward angle through the back and into its vitals on one side of its body. The beast went down hard, but Fieron still could not hear a thing.

  Cormoran seized the opportunity before him and grabbed the spear handle that flopped toward him. Wrenching the weapon from its victim, he plunged it twice into the exposed belly and throat of the monster with all the skill and force of a veteran spearman.

  The thing rolled half-senseless on the floor. Blood flowed outward in a pool, and then it lay still.

  Gradually Fieron became aware of cheering, a welcome noise that replaced the ringing in his skull. He thought for a brief, inebriated moment that it was all for him (and perhaps a few shouts for Cormoran as well). But he looked up and saw the young man on the platform grinning widely as men all around raised drinks at him, sloshing all over the tables.

  The lyre girl, supported by the innkeeper’s wife and some other women, smiled gratefully at the lad who had thrown the spear. Her face was still white as snow. In the background, the barkeep and several bystanders were desperately beating at the flames with sacking and damp cloths.

  Cormoran appeared in front of Fieron again. His lips moved, but Fieron had to ask him to repeat himself until he could finally understand.

  “Let’s get out of here,” the veteran said. “Before the locals remember what they were doing when the monster came, and who threw the lamp that started the place on fire.”

  Fieron tried to tell Cormoran that he was perfectly ready for more trouble, but the older man hauled him toward the door, pausing only to grab their weapons from the racks. In moments they were filling their lungs with the damp, cool night air, the older man half-supporting the younger.

  “What was that?” Fieron asked.

  “Banshee-cat.”

  “By all the gods… what’s a banshee-cat?”

  “Dunno, lad. Another Ostoran surprise.”

  “What’s the matter with this place, Cor… Corfor… what’s your name?”

  “Cormoran. Come, help me march. Walk, lad.”

  “Cormoran,” Fieron said, as he staggered along. “What’s the matter with this country?”

  The older man shrugged in the darkness. “Ostora has fangs.”

  Fieron shivered, and lengthened his stride to catch up.

  CHAPTER 9: A CALL FOR KILLERS

  The twelfth day of the Month of the Oak was a warm one. Although Belsoria’s shop district had closed with the sun, and the city gates as well, the evening streets were slow to empty and revelry spilled from the taverns into the alleys and byways. Rats crept into the market squares to gorge as thieves began their night’s work, avoiding the city watchmen with their lanterns and spears. Near the docks, sailors swaggered and roistered, bellowing sea chanteys and swilling grog.

  Belsoria had energy enough to best any of the ancient, proud, languorous cities across the sea. Something of the wildness of the frontier permeated it, brought out a kind of brash exuberance that was infectious. Visitors from Kerath often remarked, somewhat disparagingly, on the general mood of the city: venturesome, querulous, inventive, restless, willing to risk all on long odds. There was money to be made here, to be spent, to be hoarded. It was a city to dream with, to conjure with, unknowing of limits, restless and wild and young. Fortunes could be made or broken in mere weeks. Thus the merchants of Belsoria had stake in the free companies, and for this reason had offered one of their largest warehouses for the meeting of the nascent free companies.

  Within the designated meeting place, many lanterns had been lit, yet shadows persisted. It was a sprawling place, where the merchants kept their goods until shipment, stacks of hides (still reeking of mammoths’ blood) sat drying near piles of tusks. Ingots of ore spilled from great sacks piled next to raw lumber rough-cut into beams and planks, ready to fill the holds of merchantmen for the long voyage east. But a large portion of the place lay empty, and there chairs and benches had been gathered.

  Two or three score men sat talking as new arrivals sauntered in. A few of the chief merchants held council at their own table against the wall, sampling some wine stores. Deputy Governor Lofeg sat with them, his mustachios gleaming in the lantern-light. Four guards in the livery of the royal marshals served as his escorts.

  Pelekarr and Damicos entered the warehouse as the sky turned from purple to indigo and the first stars appeared. They’d gathered what men they could in the day they’d had to prepare. Their company, such as it was so far, wasn’t the most battle-hardened or proudest—most of the veterans and renowned men had signed on with captains that had more of a reputation already.

  Most of the recruits were former Cold Spears and Storm Furies, with some from other units gathered in as well. The uniforms were still those of their former units, for the captains didn’t have coin enough to clothe everyone and in any case they still had not agreed on what their colors, standard, or even name should be. And yet the mix of men had coalesced and adapted to their new situation more quickly than anyone expected, and there was an air of excitement among them to explore the unknown potentia
l of the uniquely blended group.

  Keltos Kuron and Makos Vipirion had been selected to escort the captains to the meeting, and both troopers swelled with pride at the assignment. The city gates had closed for the evening, leaving the rest of the company in the camp outside the walls in the loving care of the sergeants, who were enforcing a curfew with cudgels to ensure the integrated men wouldn’t spill each other’s blood with the captains away.

  The new company’s representatives found places near one of the walls, some sitting, some leaning against bales of wool and other stacked goods. A cask of ale had been broached, and pewter cups were passed around. Men drank and carried on myriad conversations, waiting for the meeting to begin. The crowd was varied; newly unemployed Kerathi sergeants and enlisted men rubbed shoulders with civilians.

  The latter were mostly caravan and mine guards, although there were a few hunters and masterless men as well: drifting soldiers of fortune, former members of barons’ garrisons. The rakings of the frontier. Armor of all kinds was in evidence, pieces and scraps of bronze, studded leather, some scale shirts. Everyone wanted to show themselves as warriors ready for action, though it wasn’t the most comfortable way to spend an evening.

  The weapons they carried were as varied as the men, and no one tried to collect them even though the merchants eyed the forest of blades nervously. This was a meeting of rivals, hardened men, and the remote warehouse had been selected because none of them were willing to walk unarmed into a gathering they couldn’t control. Not after what had happened on the beach.

  The room soon grew crowded as more arrivals pushed their way in. Here and there a woman could be seen, as rough as the men and cradling javelins or unstrung bows. These were Ostorans, one or two generations distant from their Kerathi roots at least, and unafraid of taking a place at the table with fighting men. Word had spread quickly and far, and there were many to answer the call.