by David Barber
“What you meant is irrelevant,” Baron Leofrick said. “I trust my men, and Sir Egan above all. If he says you are guilty, then you are most certainly guilty. There is no other side to hear.” The baron waved his hand, dismissing them. “You may hang them now or whenever is convenient.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Sir Egan said, stepping back and offering Ander and Tristan a smile that reminded Ander of a cat with a bird in its mouth.
“M’lord, wait, please!” Tristan cried, lunging to his feet. The guard holding him put a boot into the back of his knees and forced him down again. “I am no outsider!” Tristan shouted. “My only wish is to help Elddon and her people.”
“You have a strange way of showing loyalty,” Baron Leofrick said, arching an eyebrow.
“It is true that we attacked your men,” Tristan said, “but only to save the life of a young woman, one who has been wrongly accused of witchcraft and is now in peril.”
“What woman is this?”
“The girl,” Sir Egan offered helpfully, “the young woman I told you about, Ryia, the daughter of Sir Kadis.”
“Ah, yes, the witch. Two hundred acres, was it not?”
“The very same,” Sir Egan said.
“She is no witch, m’lord. I would stake my life on it.” Tristan’s eyes were fixed on the baron.
“I would say you already have,” Sir Egan purred.
“Do you know the suffering she has caused?” Baron Leofrick said, annoyance in his voice. “She has awakened the beast. She has called it down upon us--”
“That wasn’t--” Tristan began, but a clout to his ear by one of the guards silenced him.
“Please try not to interrupt,” Baron Leofrick drawled. “It is a most unbecoming trait.” He dabbed at his mouth with a square of cloth, taken from his sleeve.
“Do you know the story, young man?”
Tristan hesitated, uncertain if he should say more.
“Of course you don’t. Why should you? I will tell it, mostly because it will amuse me. But there are others here who may not have heard the tale told in full.” The baron glanced around him, to ensure that he had the attention of his courtiers.
“There is a ruined city in the mountains to the north of Elddon, a place called Ibridion. It is an evil place. The Anthunians, who ruled this country before us, lived there and they practiced all manner of perversion.
“Some say it was the Apportioners, those beings that once ruled the fates of men, who called upon Sura, ancient god of fire and lord of the underworld, to punish the people of Ibridion. It was Sura who summoned the beast from the depths of his own realm and loosed it upon the city. The beast devoured them all, every last man, woman, and child. And when it was done, the beast slept. For two thousand years it slept, until it was all but forgotten.”
Baron Leofrick cleared his throat. “Bring me wine,” he said to no one in particular. A cup bearer appeared, thrusting a cup of red into the baron’s hand.
“It came to us half a year ago, appearing out of the darkness. At first we thought it a dragon by its size and ferocity, but everyone knows dragons have faded from the world.
“One of the peasants from the valley told me of how his home was destroyed and his family taken. Devoured, he said. Another man told how the beast flew over his fields, setting them ablaze with its flaming breath.” The baron paused, drinking deeply from his cup.
“It could be none other than the fabled beast,” said a priest. The man’s voice was a deep, rich baritone. “Someone had awoken the monster and now it was hungry again.”
“You should have killed it,” Ander snarled. “The thing is made of flesh and blood, is it not? I’m sure some of these fine soldiers of yours know which end of a sword to hold.”
“We tried that,” Baron Leofrick leaned back in his chair and sipped from his cup. “Sir Egan sent five men, five of his bravest soldiers, into the mountains to slay the beast. Three days passed and we had no word of them. Then a single horse returned without its rider, bearing marks of battle and blood on its flanks.
“That night the beast came again. Its rage was terrible. More farms were destroyed, and by morning more villagers had disappeared, along with their livestock.
“We then attempted to placate the monster with gifts. On the first new moon of each month, we left tribute outside the gates of the city. For a while the beast remained quiet, but our coffers were soon bare and so the beast plagued us anew. We must have this sacrifice and who better than the girl who summoned it in the first place?”
The courtiers murmured their agreement, and all began talking at once. Baron Leofrick turned a disapproving scowl on them. “Be silent, all of you, or I shall have you removed.”
“My lord,” Tristan said as the conversation stilled. “You have a chance here. We can help you.”
“And just how do you think you can help?” Baron Leofrick intoned, his voice like that of a petulant child.
“My friend, Ander, is a great warrior, m’lord, a fierce Northman who grew up with a sword in his hand. He is brave as an eagle and fierce as a lion. He has fought many battles. I have witnessed his prowess first hand.”
“Very poetic,” Baron Leofrick said, clearly unimpressed. “What of it?”
“M’lord, he is the champion you need to slay this beast, to put an end to it once and for all.”
Baron Leofrick smiled, a swift, mirthless expression that was quickly replaced by his more permanent look of sour discontent. “You must be mad. This Northman is no champion.”
“My lord,” Ander said, swallowing his anger and speaking slowly, “we only want to save Ryia, and she is with the beast or will be soon. Let us go and you have my word that we will face this monster of yours. If we fail, you are rid of us, but if we succeed then Ryia will be saved and your kingdom set free.”
“We can end all this,” Tristan added, “if you will but give us a chance.”
“No,” the baron said without consideration. “I think not. I do not believe you and your friend can destroy the beast, and you would only bring its wrath down upon us. It is better that you die here, and that will be an end to it. For you at least.”
At these words, Ander leapt to his feet, stomping on one man’s foot and shoving a second soldier out of the way. He lunged forward, but Sir Egan was there to trip him up, driving a fist into his belly and knocking him to the floor.
“Enough of this nonsense,” Baron Leofrick said. “I’ve had quite enough excitement for one day. Take them away and throw them into the dungeon.”
Chapter 4
The road from Elddon into the mountains was little more than a goat track, meandering back and forth as it climbed up through the trees. Ryia slumped against the bars of her cage, feeling wretched and more afraid than she cared to admit. The infuriating part was that she knew these men, had known them for much of her life, but now they were like strangers to her, cold and distant, and seemingly without remorse.
She wondered what had become of Tristan. The last view she had of him he was on the ground, bloodied but alive. For nearly a year she had thought of him, wondered how he was faring on his adventure, longing for his return. She had begun to wonder if she would ever see him again and then, on arguably the worst day of her life, there he was. It was not the reunion she had hoped for. Worse than that, it was her fault. He might never have come had she not written to him to tell him about the beast and all the terrible things that had happened to Elddon during his absence. Writing that letter had been a terrible moment of weakness, and now she regretted it more than ever.
When her father died, it had been a terrible blow to her, but Tristan had been there, as always, to see her through the worst of it. Her father had left her his lands and the small house they had shared, along with a few horses and some sheep. Most of it had been sold to pay debts, even the house, but she had kept enough to open a small shop in the village, selling herbs and poultices, offering advice on healing and caring for wounds. It was something she had always been
good at, something that interested her. She had managed to hang onto the land as well and hoped that she and Tristan would be able to live there one day. Maybe start a farm and raise a few pigs. It would be a simple life, but rich enough if they had each other. But now she had lost everything, her father’s land, her freedom, Tristan, and soon enough her life as well.
Two soldiers rode along behind the cart and another pair were out in front. The driver was only a few feet away, the reins clutched in his big hands, casting wary glances at the trees around them. He had a clay jug beneath his bench seat and drew it out now and again to take a long swallow.
“Could I have some of that?” Ryia asked. “I think I need it more than you.”
The old man glanced over his shoulder. He licked his lips and ran a hand over his mouth. “I’d give you some if I could.” He frowned. “But I don’t believe this here jug will fit through them bars.”
“You might have brought a cup with you,” Ryia said.
“Aye. I didn’t think--”
“You could just let me go. Stop the cart and let me out.”
“I’ve nothing against you, miss,” the driver said, “nothing personal like, but I think these fellas might object.” He nodded his head in the direction of the guardsmen. “And I’ve my own skin to think about.”
The driver turned away, resuming his vigil, and Ryia slumped once more against the side of her cage. She suddenly felt like crying but refused to let the tears fall. She would not give these men the satisfaction of seeing her weep. She had to be strong, no matter what happened next.
Sir Egan’s treachery had been a surprise. She had always known the knight was half in love with her, or that he wanted her at least, the way that men do. She had caught him on many occasions admiring her in a very unscrupulous way. He was too old by far. He was handsome enough, perhaps, but not as handsome as Tristan. The thought of Sir Egan touching her made her skin crawl. Still, she had tried in subtle ways to encourage him, just enough to keep her safe from harm. But somehow she had miscalculated.
The afternoon was wearing on toward evening when they emerged from the woods into a barren landscape of broken stones and jagged rock. The road disappeared altogether, but the cart continued on, moving toward a cleft between two massive angles of rock.
The cart passed through the cleft and for several minutes all she could hear was the sound of the wheels crunching over loose stone and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves. The sun was gone and the long shadows enveloped them, obscuring the details of the mountain and the men who road beside the cart. They appeared like wraiths on shadowy steeds, following along in the gloom.
They emerged on the other side of the cleft, coming out onto a wide plateau of naked stone and there, ahead of them, was the ruined city of Ibridion. The city was built from the same stone as the mountain, so that it was all but invisible until one drew close. At a glance, the lines of the city appeared too straight to have been made by human hands, the arches too perfect. She could see a fair number of square cut windows in the faces of broken towers reaching up into the paling sky. There was an eerie silence about the place, a sense that it was holding its breath, waiting for something or someone. Perhaps it was merely waiting for her. The thought sent a chill down her spine.
The wagon came to a halt at the edge of a wide courtyard, surrounded by pillars of rock. At the far end of the courtyard, two great wooden doors, twice the height of a man, were set back into the surface of a stone wall. The doors were old beyond measure, the wood aged until it appeared like iron, each door a patchwork of smaller squares with a metal stud at the center of each. In the middle of the courtyard was a circular depression, and there was set a thick column of oak, the top of which had been carved in the likeness of a beastly face with a beak and curved horns.
The driver turned the wagon so that the door to the cage faced the courtyard. A breeze wafted through the space, moaning softly, sounding to Ryia like the voices of the dead. She felt the hairs along her arms prickle and her flesh grew cold. This was not a good place. This city had seen evil beyond imagining. This was a place of beasts and monsters.
Two of the guardsmen approached the cage, unlocking the door and reaching inside. Ryia tried to pull back but the effort was futile. The two men took hold of her shift and dragged her out onto the ground. They lifted her as easily as if she were a child and bore her to the post. Another soldier came up from behind, carrying a pair of heavy shackles connected by a length of chain.
“No,” Ryia pleaded, pulling away, but the soldiers were far stronger than she and there was little she could do to prevent them from doing as they pleased.
“Hold still,” one of the men said, his voice betraying a hint of fear. But his hands worked deftly as he clamped the shackles onto her wrists, snapping them closed with a harsh metallic sound. Another man lifted the chain and Ryia could see that there was a hook high up on the post just below the demonic face. The guard used the end of his sword to lift the chain over the hook, seating it, and Ryia was left dangling like a slaughtered hog with her feet barely touching the stone.
“Ryia an Elddon,” the soldier said.
“Larrel,” Ryia corrected him. “I keep telling you I’m from Larrel--”
“No one cares where you’re from or who your daddy was. I’m just the delivery boy. You have been convicted of witchcraft, and here you shall wait to face the beast of Elddon. May Aedon have mercy on your soul.”
“And yours,” Ryia said, doing her best to maintain her courage despite the trembling in her legs.
“Come on, men,” the soldier said, looking away. “Let’s get outta here. This place makes my skin crawl.” All of the men seemed nervous, hands on swords, watching the faded walls and empty windows as if expecting to see devilish faces looking out at them.
The soldiers withdrew. Ryia twisted around so that she could watch them. The driver of the cart gave her a nod, touching a fist to his forehead, then snapped the reins. The cart moved away, the empty cage teetering in the back. The soldiers mounted their horses, digging in their heels, and rode away without a backward glance. In a matter of minutes, they were gone, the echo of shod hooves disappearing down the mountain. She was alone in that awful place, with the darkness slipping like a thief into the square.
Ryia bowed her head. She could feel her pulse in her temples, a dull throb of pain and fear. Her arms and legs were already starting to ache and the oppressive gloom that seemed to emanate from the ruined city was beginning to seep into her bones.
A sudden sound drew her attention and her head snapped up, eyes wide, mouth gaping. It had come from inside the city, from somewhere behind those ancient doors, a low, rumbling sound that went on for several minutes before fading into silence. The ground beneath her feet began to vibrate. Something was moving inside Ibridion. She could feel it against her toes. The beast was coming.
Panic gripped her like a cold hand on her throat. She jerked at the chains. The shackles twisted and scraped against her skin. Think, damn you, think! Her mind raced. She was alone. No one was coming to save her. If she was to survive this, she had to do it by her own wits, her own courage. But she had no courage. She was suddenly whining like a trapped animal, desperate and afraid.
Another sound, much louder than the first, like the braying of a horn, only not a horn, issued from behind the doors and she could hear the tread of heavy feet, the thump, thump, thump of some impossibly large creature moving along a passage she could not see, coming for her.
Ryia’s legs still trembled, but a desperate resolve woke in her breast. She felt anger, and she stoked the flames of that anger until it was seething. She thought of Sir Egan’s mocking face. She heard again the voice of Baron Leofrick, her father’s patron and her supposed protector, pronouncing her doom. Liars. Thieves. Even Tristan and his Northman friend. Their blundering rescue attempt had only succeeded in landing them both in a dungeon--or a graveyard. Men. All of them utterly useless.
Ryia set her sandaled feet
against the post and hauled herself up, pulling on the chain, working her way up the length of it until her hands grasped the hook above her head. The metal felt rough against her fingers. She gripped it with one hand and with the other managed to lift the chain over the sharp protrusion at the end, letting it fall as she dropped lightly to the ground. Her wrists were still shackled, but she was free of the pole. She could move. She could run.
That unearthly trumpeting roar came from within the city, closer now, and the drum-like rhythm of the beast’s legs seemed to be coming faster, growing closer. The stone throbbed beneath her feet. Then the doors of the city began to open and a massive cloud of smoke and steam rolled out across the square. Ryia did not wait to see more. She darted to one side, running between two columns of pale rock. The courtyard was surrounded by pillars of this sort, of varying sizes, some broken stumps, others rising like trees. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of something moving, something big, with eyes that burned like yellow lanterns.
Ryia ran, ran as if all the devils of Isod were at her heels. She snatched up the heavy chain, gripping it in one fist. The rock faces around her went by in a blur. It was almost fully dark now and difficult to see very much in front of her. She stumbled and cursed, her toes bruised on the stone, but she could not stop, could not look back. She was too afraid of what she might see behind her.
Ryia ran headlong into a wall, coming upon it before she even realized it was there. She let out a cry of pain as she staggered and fell. She shook herself, touching arms and legs, moving her limbs to see if anything was broken. Nothing was. She scrambled to her feet, breathing hard, one hand pressed against her chest, trying to stifle the thundering of her heart.
Ryia took a few steps forward. She had stumbled into a blind alley with no sign of door or window anywhere near. The only way out was to turn around, go back the way she had come. But the beast waited in that direction. Death waited there with those baleful eyes.
A thin trickle of sweat ran down her face. She wiped it away angrily. She just had to rest and to think. She crouched, leaning her back against the stone wall. If she could not go back or go around, then she would have to go up, but there was no way to do that either. She stood, searching the wall, looking for some handhold, some way to climb, but the wall was infuriatingly smooth and unbroken.