The Fabled Beast of Elddon

by David Barber

  A kerram sprang at Loth and he dodged the stroke by instinct more than design, slashing his foe across the face with a vicious cut. Loth ran to where Tristan and Ryia crouched, working at the shackles of the chained villagers. At that moment he saw them. Three boys, all of whom looked to be brothers with dirty faces and mops of tangled blond hair. They were cowering next to a wheelbarrow filled with faintly glowing ore. A kerram with a whip was closing on them, spittle flying from the creature’s jaws as it cursed and shouted, trying to restore order. Loth pounced, putting himself in the kerram’s path. The guard drew his sword, but Loth hewed through the kerram’s wrist, severing it. The bloody hand, still gripping the sword hilt, fell away as Loth’s counterstroke tore a bloody swath across the kerram’s torso. The creature staggered, fell, and did not move again.

  “Come with me,” Loth reached for the nearest boy, taking him by his tunic and pulling him to his feet. “I was sent by your mother and I will protect you!”

  “Mama,” one of the boys said.

  “Is father with you?” the second boy asked.

  “Later,” Loth said. “There is no time for talk now. First, we must get you out of here.”

  The beetle-like monstrosity had been going about its business, oblivious to the battle, until a wayward ball of flame burst along the side of it. Ander was using the monster for cover, an obstacle to the kerram’s repeated attempts to incinerate him with their staffs. The beetle shuddered, jerked to a halt, then stilled altogether. A moment later a pair of hatches opened on the thing’s back, and two kerram emerged. They were bleary eyed and disheveled, their fur matted with sweat. Ander pounced onto the beetle, grabbing hold of one of the kerram and tossing him out onto the ground. The second kerram reached for a knife, but Ander split his skull before he could draw it.

  The guards converged on the beetle and Ander found himself surrounded. Fortunately, he had the high ground and he used it to fend off his attackers, blocking with his shield and hewing down at them with his heavy blade.

  “Ander!” Tristan shouted. He scrambled forward and attacked the kerram’s flank. He cut down one of the guards from behind, but two others turned to face him. Ander leaped from the beetle’s back, trusting to his shield and armor, and using his body to bowl over several of the kerram guards. He rolled, sprang to his feet and was beside Tristan in an instant. The two men put their backs to each other, their swords flashing in the yellow glow of the lamps.

  “This is almost as bad as that time--” Ander began, but Tristan suddenly cried out in pain as a sword slashed his arm and his blade clattered to the ground. Ander half turned, but a sword grated against his chainmail and another kerram aimed a cut at his face. Ander narrowly avoided the blow. He ducked beneath it, cutting the kerram across the thigh, then followed up by driving his elbow into the other kerram’s snout, lifting the creature off his feet. The kerram crashed to the floor and lay still.

  Ander raced away from the machine, searching for Tristan, and saw two guards dragging him toward an odd-looking contraption against the back wall of the cave. The thing looked like a wooden box, open on the front, with a collection of wheels and pulleys above it and a track that ran up along the wall, disappearing into the gloom. A third kerram waited inside the box, waving urgently to his companions.

  Ander glanced back to where Ryia stood, surrounded by people from the village, most of whom had been freed from their chains and were now defending the girl with whatever weapons were at hand. Loth was with them, appearing beside the girl with three blond-haired boys clinging to him.

  “Go!” Ander shouted. “Get them out!”

  Loth turned to look at him, his face questioning. Ander nodded, waving him off. He noticed that there were several strong men among the prisoners, all of whom had taken up kerram swords and were now hewing a path toward the entrance of the cave, urging the others to follow. But there was no time to see more. Ander turned away, running after Tristan.

  The Northman ran across the cavern floor, moving as fast as he could. The kerram had manhandled Tristan into the box. The youth’s arm was bleeding profusely but his face was lit with fury as he fought against his two captors. The third kerram began hauling on a rope and the box began moving, lifting up off the floor and climbing up the wall.

  “Onar’s balls!” Ander swore. He threw his shield aside, jumped, and caught the edge of the box with one hand. He dangled there for several heartbeats, breathing hard, the weight of his hauberk like an anchor. He threw his sword arm up over the edge of the box and tried to haul himself up. One of the kerram let go of Tristan and reached for him. Ander thrust with his sword, stabbing the kerram in the calf. The creature reared back, howling in pain. Ander swung a leg over, rolled, and climbed awkwardly to his feet as the other kerram, still holding Tristan with one hand, struck at Ander with his sword. Ander grabbed the kerram’s wrist, butted him with his head, then pulled the stunned creature forward and shoved him out the open door.

  The kerram with the bleeding calf wound swung his sword. Ander narrowly avoided the blow, but lost his balance and staggered to the edge of the box, catching hold of the side before he fell. The kerram raised his sword, but Tristan shoved him from behind. The kerram pitched over the side of the box and disappeared. Ander looked down just in time to see him slam into the cavern floor below. The remaining kerram, who had been hauling on the rope the entire time, released it, bringing the box to a shuddering halt, and reached for his sword. But Ander, recovering his footing, drove his sword into the kerram’s belly. The creature squealed, then groaned as Ander wrenched the blade free. The kerram staggered forward and Ander shoved him out of the box with a booted foot.

  “Tristan,” Ander said, moving to his friend. Tristan slumped against the wall, blood dripping from his fingertips. “Half a moment.” Ander tore the opposing sleeve from Tristan’s tunic and used it to wrap the wound, cinching it tightly. The youth grimaced, clenching his jaw.

  “Let’s see if we can’t get this thing back on the ground. Once we’re clear of the cavern the elluen should be able to--” with a jerk the box began moving again.

  Ander turned, reaching for the rope. The kerram had been pulling on it and somehow raising the box. Now it appeared to be moving by itself. Ander took hold of the rope, managing to halt their progress for a brief time, but someone was fighting him from above. He looked up and could see light, a hole in the ceiling. The rope twisted, tearing loose from his hands and tearing flesh from his fingers. They were moving again.

  “Onar and Iden!” Ander swore. He looked down at the cavern floor sixty feet below. It was too far to jump, much too far.

  “Tristan!” Ryia and Loth stood at the mouth of the cave as the prisoners ran up the tunnel. The girl had her hands cupped around her mouth, but Ander could see the worry on her face.

  “Get them out!” Ander called. “Don’t wait for us.”

  “Come down,” Ryia shouted.

  “We can’t!” He looked down at the cavern floor, then back up at Ryia again. “Tristan and I can handle this. We’ll find you, but get them out now while there’s still a chance.”

  A ball of flame hit the wall close to Ryia’s head. Loth shot the kerram holding the staff, then grabbed the girl’s arm, pulling her into the tunnel.

  “Cut the rope,” Tristan suggested.

  “If I do that,” Ander said, still watching Loth, “this thing falls to the ground and kills us both. Just hang on. Wherever we’re going, we’ll be there soon enough.”

  The box reached the hole in the ceiling, traveling through another thirty feet of rock before it finally emerged into a chamber above. As the elevator was drawn up the last few feet and finally shuddered to a stop, Tristan and Ander were confronted by a large group of kerram. Some were similarly dressed and armed liked the ones below, but the majority of these kerram were of a different sort. They appeared older, with dark, intelligent eyes, and wisps of white fur around their muzzles. They were clad in clean robes of a desert tan color and many had belt
s around their waists containing a variety of tools and instruments. Standing with them, in the center of the pack, his irrepressible half-smile fixed on his lips, was Sir Egan Stroud. Despite the smirk, the weariness in the knight’s gray eyes and his disheveled appearance told of the long, sleepless night.

  “I knew I should have hanged you at once,” Sir Egan said. “I might have saved myself a great deal of inconvenience and effort.” He turned to the nearest guard. “Bring them out.”

  Several guards pushed forward and grabbed Tristan and Ander, dragging them out of the box and relieving them of their weapons. The two men found themselves in a cavern, one the kerram had enlarged to accommodate their industry and many devices. The chamber was filled with tables and benches, the walls lined with shelves and cabinets, all laden with boxes, bottles, bags, and chests, containing any number of herbs, metals, powders, and other materials, some faintly glowing in the dim light. There were books and scrolls strewn about on the tables, and kerram crouched over these, reading, writing, drawing, conversing in low, chittering voices. A group of kerram stood at one of the long benches, working feverishly. Here the raw ore from the mines was processed, crushed and sifted, mixed with other substances, and then placed into casks and bags. Other kerram sat at tables or stood at benches, building strange-looking weapons of intricate design, including staffs like the one Ryia had taken from her captors. Weapons were stockpiled in carts and bins, in various unused corners and along the walls wherever space was available. The room appeared crowded and close.

  On his left, Ander could see a short staircase that descended to a lower level where barrels stood in rows along one wall, along with other sundry crates and boxes. A ladder climbed up along the back wall to a stone shelf above, with a system of pulleys and ropes dangling from the beam overhead. The stone shelf was broad and level, thirty feet wide at least. Above it was an opening in the rock, a hole in the mountain that appeared to lead to the outside world. Through it Ander could see stars and the first faint glimmer of morning.

  Occupying much of the space on that shelf was the beast of Elddon. The monstrous thing crouched there, wings furled, its massive head turned away and its long body stretched out on the stone like a favored pet stretched out on a rug. The beast may have been asleep for all Ander could tell, or it might have been dead. There was no movement to it, not even the slow rise and fall of its shoulders as it breathed. Ander had seen numerous animals at rest, the way they twitched and wriggled in their dreams, but this beast showed no sign that it lived. Perhaps the beast of Elddon did not have to breathe. Perhaps it did not dream. Even so, it appeared unnaturally still to Ander’s eyes.

  “The fabled beast of Elddon,” Sir Egan said, tracking Ander’s gaze.

  “Is it dead?” Ander asked.

  “No,” Sir Egan said, laughing. “It never lived. Well, not this one at any rate. There may have been a beast at one time, the great monster that all the stories tell of. But this beast is no creature of flesh and blood. It is simply a machine, a ship, if you will, that sails on wind instead of water. A useful tool if one wishes to inspire fear among the common folk.”

  “But why?” Tristan said. “What is the point of all this?”

  “For the gold, of course.” Sir Egan rubbed his jaw, giving them an appraising look. “Baron Leofrick is a short-sighted old fool and notoriously tight with his coin. Despite my insistence, he could not see the need for more soldiers and equipment.”

  “So, you convinced him there was a monster in Elddon,” Ander said, “one that could only be sated by gold and silver.”

  “Not I,” Sir Egan said, his visage one of innocence. “It was the people of Elddon who cried out for succor. And the priests who remembered the old stories, the tales of tributes and virgin sacrifices.”

  “With a little help, I’m sure.” Ander glared at the knight, his fingers aching to crush his throat. “But to what purpose? Why the charade?”

  “The people love me far more than they do Leofrick,” Sir Egan said with a flourish of his hand, “but I have no claim to the rule of Elddon. Still, he is an old man and a miser. Leofrick would allow Elddon to become a vassal of Linheath without the slightest bit of resistance.”

  “And you think you can do better?” Tristan snarled, his contempt for the knight plain upon his face.

  “I know I could,” Sir Egan’s voice grew cold. “And with the kerram’s help, I will. These weapons will help me defeat Linheath. With only a handful of men, I can subdue an army. There are items here that can take down a castle wall without rams or men to wield them. This is the future of war and I have it in my hands.”

  Ander watched as one of the kerram filled a small clay pot with crushed glow rock, mixed with some other substance, then fit a cork with a bit of fuse sticking out of it over the opening. The kerram added this bauble to a stack of others in a crate beside the bench he was working at.

  “Baron Leofrick will sadly be killed by an assassin from Linheath, whereupon his council will ask me to take his place. My first act as the new baron of Elddon will be to declare war and destroy the Linheathians once and for all. I will take back those lands that once belonged to us, and restore Elddon to its former glory.”

  “What about Ryia?” Tristan asked. “She has nothing to do with this. Why did you send her to Ibridion as a sacrifice to the beast?”

  “Ah, that,” Sir Egan mused. “I must confess to having something of a weakness for the girl. I’ve watched her for some time, but she is slippery as an eel and has managed to repeatedly avoid my snares. I have tried to make her love me. I have given her gifts and favors, but all she talks of is you.” A shadow of anger passed over the knight’s face. “I urged her to forget you, but Ryia is stubborn, and insisted that you would return one day.”

  “And here I am.”

  “Yes, so you are. When you joined the border guard, I thought us rid of you for good. I should have handled things myself, like I did with her father. He was meddlesome too, but I will soon correct that mistake. You will never see the outside of this cave. You and your Northman friend will be just two more victims of our fabled beast.”

  “Ryia knows what you are,” Tristan snarled, his voice tinged with imminent threat. “She knows what you have done. She will never love you, never accept you. She knows you are a villain.”

  “Ryia doesn’t have to accept me,” Sir Egan said. “With you gone, there will be no one to protect her and no one to stand in my way. She will be mine, one way or another, whether she will it or no.”

  Tristan tore his arm free from the guard holding him, and launched himself at the knight. Sir Egan struck him across the jaw, knocking Tristan to the floor. He stood over him then, his fists clenched and his face lined with fury.

  “Insolent pup!” Sir Egan shouted. “I have put up with your childish efforts to play the hero for long enough. I will kill you right here and now.” He drew a dagger from his belt, holding it up in the torchlight so that the blade gleamed red. “And you can do nothing to stop me.”

  All eyes were on Sir Egan as he raised the knife. Ander’s first thought was to throw himself at the knight, get his body between Stroud and Tristan, but then another idea occurred to him. Ander snatched a torch from one of the slack-jawed guards and with an almost casual gesture, he flung it, up over the heads of the kerram engineers and into the crate beside the bench, the one filled with little clay pots.

  There was a pregnant pause, a moment that seemed to last for an hour, as all heads turned in the direction of the crate. Sir Egan’s head snapped around, young Tristan forgotten, and he locked eyes with Ander, the knight’s open mouth showing horror and disbelief.

  One of the kerram guards, braver than his fellows, hurled himself forward, grabbing for the torch while the engineers squealed in panic, knocking over stools and benches, abandoning tools, and running for an arched opening at the far end of the cave, the only visible exit.

  The kerram guard got hold of the torch, but not quickly enough. There was a sizz
ling sound and then the world disappeared in a wave of fire and white noise. The concussion from the blast hurled Ander through space. One moment he was standing, surrounded by foes, and the next he was flying through the air. He was suspended, as if in a dream, then he struck the stone floor, hard, his ears ringing, his lungs full of smoke. He coughed, shaking his head, as he rolled over and tried to lift himself off the floor. His skin was black with soot and the hair along his forearms had been singed off. There were patches of red on the backs of his hands and a dull throbbing behind his eyes. He staggered to his feet, looking around him. There were bodies everywhere and parts of bodies, detached arms and legs strewn here and there like the cast-off toys of a reckless child. The violence of the explosion had reduced one side of the cavern to rubble and the cold morning air wafted in through the breech where there had been a wall of solid rock. Ander found that he was looking out across the mountains, across the city of Ibridion, to the south, toward Elddon. The arched opening through which some of the kerram had fled was gone, as if it had never been, and what remained of the workshop was in flames. The fire appeared to be spreading, climbing up along the beams to the rafters above.

  Ander stumbled forward, trying to see through the smoke. Where was Tristan? He had been right beside him, but now Ander couldn’t see him anywhere. But he did see his sword. It lay on the stone at the base of the stairs next to a severed arm. Ander reached down and picked it up, feeling better with the weight of it in his hand. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. He could see no means of escape, no egress from the burning cauldron the cave had been reduced to. He realized that he was on the lower level, some distance from where he had stepped out of the box. Behind him was the ladder that climbed up to the stone shelf where the beast sat, undisturbed by the tumult.

  A sound, like a knife against bone, made Ander turn. A shadow emerged from the swirling smoke at the top of the stairs, a tall form silhouetted by the orange glow of the flames. And then Sir Egan Stroud appeared, dragging his sword along the floor. The side of the knight’s face was raw and bleeding. His hair was tangled and his eyes wild. He too was covered in ash and portions of his cloak and tabard appeared to have been badly burned. Seeing Ander, the knight bared his teeth and started toward him, raising his long sword.