The Way of the Black Beast

by Stuart Jaffe

  The one in the back, the one Malja now noticed had a red rash around its eyes, shot straight ahead, planted its forelegs on the other's haunches, and leapt over its head. It swiped at Malja as it landed, connected with her shoulder, and threw her into a pile of bricks.

  Which hurt more — the beast's blow or the bricks — she couldn't tell. Both just hurt and made her angry. She scrambled back to her feet and rushed forward, swinging Viper with calculated fervor. Before she could take control of the fight, Red Rash flanked her. She stepped back, parrying horns and claws more than attacking. Each step she tried to reposition for a fairer fight. Frustration and rage played out on the oxters' ugly faces. They wanted to slow her enough for a poisonous tail strike.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Not Red go for a wide swipe meant to finish her. Malja ducked and came up hard, thrusting Viper into its chest. The oxter yelped and yanked back, causing Viper's curved blade to cut more as it ripped out.

  Without hesitation, Malja spun to face Red Rash, but the beast had already attacked. She met the blow full on, taking it on her side, and being thrust into more rubble. Not what she had planned, but in battle, improvisation ruled. At this point, Red Rash made a critical mistake — it should have struck with its tail, but first, it glanced at the other oxter. Malja did not want to miss such an opportunity. She rolled to the left, ignoring her bruised side, and positioned behind Red. It attempted to snap her with its tail. Malja sliced it off. Blood and cries erupted. Malja skewered the barbed slice onto Viper, and armed with the poisonous tail, she slammed it into each oxter. In seconds, they moved no more.

  Panting as sweat dripped from her face, Malja straightened and tossed the bloody tail aside. Before she could face Fawbry, however, she heard him whimper and protest. Though he garbled his words, she understood — the griffle guards would no longer follow him. They would no longer wait.

  They yelled as they charged into battle like a chorus of berserk madmen. Malja sneered, bracing for a tough fight. She did not dream of surviving. She never did in any fight. She thought only of inflicting damage.

  They picked up speed and pointed their weapons at her. Malja readied Viper once more and took slow, controlled breaths. Channeling all her rage, she roared at her stampeding enemy.

  With only a few steps to go before reaching the killing zone, the guards skidded to a halt. Surprise and perplexed fear covered their monstrous faces as they backed up and staggered away. Malja wanted to laugh. Her battle roar never had such a response before.

  Then she heard the tidal wave break behind her. Pressig and his town flooded the square in pursuit of the guards. Pressig glanced over his shoulder and said, "They watched you fight. They wanted to help." He smiled in victory and pressed onward.

  A few townspeople rushed over to free the three prisoners. The prisoners stood with the confused joy of those who had accepted the fate of Death — Malja had felt that way many times. She could not be sure if the newly freed people belonged to the town, but she could tell by their effusiveness that they would probably be joining soon.

  Malja let her body relax for a few breaths. She looked at Fawbry, alone on his throne, yelling at his abandoning guards, reaching out as Tufts scurried away, and she thought of Jarik and Callib.

  * * * *

  The people of Noogruff couldn't hold back their excitement. Three riders galloped ahead to tell the town of their success. By the time Malja, Pressig, and the rest arrived, a full-blown celebration filled the main street.

  Fire pits blazed and savory aromas of roasting meat touched every grumbling stomach. Warmed breads and hot vegetables were doled out to every plate. A handful of men and women brought out patched-together instruments and played one raucous tune after another. Couples danced under torchlight, their bodies shimmering with the flames.

  Tommy showered Malja with hugs. She tried not to stiffen up under his affections, but she had no doubt he noticed her discomfort. He broke away and rubbed down her horse. Later, he played with her hair while she ate. This she handled better.

  A little girl with straight, blond hair looked up at her with eager eyes and asked to hear the story of the battle. "You don't want to hear that," Malja teased before telling the story to the girl's rapt attention. By the time Malja finished, a crowd of children had formed around her.

  "Tell it again!" they shouted, clapping their hands and banging the ground until Malja put down her plate and described the battle once more. She had never enjoyed trading stories with adults — it was just competition — but with children, the experience took on the purity of inspiration.

  Tommy sat beside her, beaming with the pride of being her trusted ally. As she finished retelling the story, she decided to help Tommy's status a little more. Though they'd probably never see these people again, he deserved at least one night of fun playing the hero.

  "You know Tommy helps me stay sharp, so I'm prepared for whatever threats might come our way," she said to the amazed faces. "We play a game I call The Reflex Game."

  "Show us," the kids cried out.

  Before Malja said another word, Tommy jumped to his feet and put his hands behind his back. Malja laughed and Tommy gave her a rare, genuine smile.

  "Pair off," she said, and the kids rushed around to find their best friends. "Now one person do just like Tommy. The other do as I do." Malja faced Tommy and brought her hands together as if in prayer. The kids followed along. "Tommy's going to try to slap my hand. If he gets me, he keeps going, but if he misses, then we switch and it's my turn to slap his hands. But there are rules. I can only move my hands up or down, and they must stay together all the time. Tommy can try to fake an attack but if his hand comes around enough to be seen, he must follow through. And last, the most important rule — if he fakes a strike, but I react anyway, he gets a free slap. I can only try to evade a real attack. Understand?"

  Some of the children launched right into the game. Others appeared to be afraid. Malja looked at them and said, "A warrior must learn to face down a threat and only react to true dangers. Play this game enough, and you'll be on your way to being a great warrior."

  The little blonde girl had her hands out and concentrated on her partner's shoulders. "Then we can defend ourselves, right?" she said.

  "That's right." Tommy and Malja played a few rounds and soon all the children were giggling, slapping, feigning, and smiling. With a nod, Malja sent Tommy off to play with the others. She returned to her meal, grinning at the playful sounds around her. She swore she even heard a giggle sneak out of Tommy's lips, but when she turned around he was silent. But smiling.

  Later, parents broke up the game to send their children to bed. Though there were many complaints, most of the children were tired and some moved with sluggish steps. A few uttered words of thanks before heading home. With his eyes growing too heavy to stay awake, Tommy curled around Malja's knee. Pressig's wife, however, swooped in and carried him to her house.

  A handsome, young man climbed onto a table. "Drinks for the victors," he said, raising two frothing jugs in the air.

  Malja observed the eager townspeople line up to get drunk on fermented whatever, and she let a new smile drift across her face. She rarely got to see this side of battle. Often while others celebrated, she traveled onward. This time, however, she had little choice. With Tommy asleep in the house and Fawbry locked away, she would have to wait for things to settle down before she could say goodbye.

  Besides, she thought, eyeing the young man doling out drinks, I don't want to leave just yet.

  A rapid-fire giggle soared over the general party noise, and Malja's eyes spotted a young gal being wooed by one of the rescued prisoners. She searched for the others and spotted them standing near the musicians. That suited her fine. It was interesting, maybe even pleasant, to see everyone so happy, but she didn't want to be forced into an awkward bout of praise from those individuals.

  "We certainly owe you a big thanks," Pressig said as he approached Malja. He offered her a cup of the
drink which she took without a word. It tasted sour, but the alcohol kick more than made up for its lack of flavor. "Oh, and don't worry about the ex-Mayor Fawbry," he went on. "He's tied to a chair in the Wilk's house. He won't go anywhere."

  "I'm just glad nobody died."

  "A couple broken bones and plenty of bruises is all. Thank you for everything."

  Malja took another swig of her drink and put her mouth to Pressig's ear. Quiet and cold, she spoke. "You were lucky. You ever send these people into a fight like that again, you'll have nothing but corpses to celebrate with." Pressig tried to pull away, but Malja clamped down on his hand. "And if I ever hear that you let such a thing happen, especially because we both know you did this for politics, I'll hunt you down."

  She released his hand but locked eyes with him until she saw the shock fade into resignation. She had no delusions that her threat would protect Noogruff from Pressig's ambitions for too long, but he would be cautious for a while. He left his cup behind when he made his exit.

  Malja looked about for the handsome man who had supplied the alcohol. Before she could find him, a loud warbling emitted from the trees coupled with a buzzing, electric crackle. The music stopped as all eyes turned toward the forest.

  From the shadows emerged a dirt-spackled, flatbed flyer loaded with salvaged items and things brought from far away. Each corner of the roofless vehicle had a cylinder blazing electric energy that kept it floating on air. At the front sat the magician who supplied the electricity and a filigoto driving.

  The filigoto waved his stumpy hand as he brought the vehicle to the ground. He was short, wide, and bald with no neck to speak of. Another mutated version of humans, the filigoto had no homeland other than whatever they traveled in. They became traders by necessity.

  "Good evening, all. I'm Weyargo. Here to trade," he said with his melodic, lilting voice.

  Many townspeople encircled his flatbed to see what he had brought. Malja knew a few filigoto. They were fine enough creatures. Never bothered her much. And they often brought tales from other countries.

  "Corlin," most would say, "is the only place to be. The others are empty of everything. Towns are so far apart, and there are so few people."

  Indeed, Malja heard Weyargo speaking a similar line to his new customers. He probably praised whatever country he was in. "It's what I've always told those from other lands. You must come to Corlin. It seems most of the people in the world live in this wonderful country. Now, ma'am, doesn't that look lovely? I'll make a fair deal with you."

  While Weyargo made one fair deal after another, his magician rested. Malja watched that one closely. Just in case. He twitched a few times and seemed unsure of his surroundings, but all went well.

  The townspeople were so high on their success that they bought more than they should — fabrics and spices from Penmorvia to the north, shovels and hoes from Corlin towns to the east, and more alcohol from wherever (no one cared). When the last purchase had been made, Weyargo blew kisses to the people as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Thank you all," he said. "Enjoy your new things, and I promise to stop by when I come back this way later in the year. May Korstra and Kryssta smile upon you all."

  The magician concentrated on his tattoo. With a bang, the flyer's engines ignited. The people stepped back, making a commotion of startled laughter as it lifted into the air and flew away.

  To see a working flyer like that had been quite an event. Most people went their entire lives without ever seeing anything move that wasn't hitched up to horses. For these townspeople, this day had become far more memorable than any battle victory in the past.

  Once the trader left, the musicians started up again, and the party resumed with even greater enthusiasm than before thanks to the extra alcohol. Malja surveyed the townspeople, searching for the handsome man. She found him dancing with a plump gal, twirling and laughing and flashing a charming smile. Malja didn't dance which was exactly why he caught her eye and waved her over.

  When she stood, her alcohol-soaked head spun. She played it up and begged off the dancing. To her surprise, and the plump girl's ire, the man left the dance floor and walked over to her.

  "You didn't have to stop dancing for me," she said.

  "Well, you are the guest of honor," he said. Then in a mock-conspiratorial whisper, he added, "Besides, Nalli is a nice girl, but she talks a lot and steps on my feet."

  Malja finished her drink in two gulps. "I'm not much of a dancer. Your feet might be safer with Nalli."

  "You trying to say I should be nicer to her?"

  Malja laced her fingers behind her head and stretched back. She didn't miss his eyes snatching a peek at her breasts. "I've seen a few towns and I'll tell you this much — most are far less friendly."

  "Well, we like being friendly," he said as he stroked her knee.

  "That's a bit bold."

  "You don't get anywhere waiting for things to just happen."

  Malja licked her lips. Traveling such an empty land meant she often went without human contact for long periods, and though she couldn't picture settling down in one town for any length of time, she wondered if a girl like Nalli had it better. Safer, certainly, but safer didn't mean much. She felt far more alive during the dangerous times in her life than the calm ones. Except for sex, nothing quite matched.

  But sex often did. And with the life she led, that kind of contact rarely found her. No way would she miss a good opportunity — especially a good-looking good opportunity. "Let's go," she said, pulling on his wrist.

  "What?"

  "Will we be bothered in the stables?"

  As Malja led the way, the man's face shifted from confusion to excitement. "By the way," he said, "my name is —"

  "Don't care."

  The closer they came to the stables, the hotter Malja's blood burned. The second they stepped inside, she wrenched him around and pressed her lips against his. They stood and kissed while music played in the distance. But her mind refused to shut off its game of remembering horrors. She saw the bleeding head of Duke Brotta as she tossed it into a swarm of hungry konapols.

  "Something wrong?" the man asked.

  "Harder," she said, smushing her mouth into his. She grasped his body, squeezing and rubbing. She leaned back, letting him lick her neck. But she saw the emaciated magician Lexip as she burned him alive.

  She ripped open her lover's shirt and fumbled off his pants. She heard the wet slush of the Bluesman's sliced body. With a push, she sent her man to the ground. The scent of seawater and bile attacked her nose. She slipped out of her assault suit, straddled her partner, took hold of him and thrilled to his startled gasps as she guided him inside.

  For a few minutes, her drunken mind shut down. The flashes of her violent past went dark and only the rough pleasure between her legs remained. She lifted slow and dropped hard, grinding her pelvis toward the ground, trying to think only of her technique and the sheer delight of skin on skin.

  She had no illusions of a grand climax. For all his bravado, she could tell her lover lacked experience. The man tried to say something, but she ignored him. She simply took what he could offer and collapsed when he had nothing left.

  With her head on his chest, she listened to his heavy breathing and pounding heartbeat. Those memories itched to return, but she refused to give in. She rolled onto her back, pulled her man on top, and pressed down on his head until he got the message. She would not let him come up for air until she had her release.

  * * * *

  Malja woke to the sound of a horse being saddled. The rider shushed and cursed and snapped at the horse. With her head throbbing, Malja sat up, careful not to disturb the man next to her, and investigated the noise.

  Fawbry.

  She sneered as she pulled Viper from her clothes pile. She walked straight into view, letting Viper lead as her threat. Fawbry startled at her approach. His face dropped in disbelief.

  "You're naked," he said.

  "And you're trying to escape. Q
uestion is — will you sit down and let me tie you up or are you going to do something stupid and let me kill you?"

  Chapter 5

  The first cool day of the Postkryssta season had arrived. It wouldn't be long before the mornings began with a light frost and the chilly Korstraprime rains would follow soon after. Tommy nestled in front of Malja as she guided the horse back to Ms. Nolan's mansion. A second horse trailed behind with Fawbry bound in rope. She had intended for Fawbry to walk but the people of Noograff wanted to give her the bay in thanks. She still considered making Fawbry walk — especially after his attempted escape; however, she succumbed to the lure of faster travel. Especially with colder weather coming.

  "I ought to thank you," Fawbry said. He had a north-country voice now that he wasn't playing Mayor — a slight accent as if educated from an early year. "Really," he continued. "I wasn't very good at that Mayor-leader thing, but I couldn't get out of it. I thought my incompetent leadership would've ended it, but those griffles refused to go and I didn't want them angry with me. They would've torn me apart. Literally. But they're loyal, I guess. Anyway, they probably think I'm dead now. By Kryssta, I would've been dead, if not for you."

  Tommy pressed against Malja, trying to sleep despite Fawbry's ramblings. She rested a hand on the boy's thin shoulder.

  "Anyway, thanks," Fawbry said. "And I'm sorry about this morning. I'm sure you understand. I've got to take the opportunities as they come. Nothing personal. So tell me about Ms. Nolan. You work for her long? What's she like?"

  "Fawbry."

  "Yes?"

  "Stop talking."

  As they traveled on, Malja fought against her mounting excitement. She had explored too much of the Corlin countryside, battled too many of its inhabitants, and suffered too greatly at its callous hand — all just to find Jarik and Callib. She had never felt closer. Yet she had grown accustomed to her best leads drifting into the air like dust. Fawbry, though, seemed to be the right kind of coward — the kind that worried about an immediate threat more than one far away. She expected her pressure on him to bring results.