by Jags, Chris
With all of his strength, he gave his distracted tormentor a violent shove. The wendigo reeled, off-balance, and Simon wriggled out from beneath it. Panting, he gained his feet, only to be faced with four burly members of the King’s armed guard.
Drawn to the very man they were waiting for, Simon thought bitterly, by his own cries.
A bald soldier pointed his blade at the wendigo. “What in blazes is that?”
“Cap’n,” interjected a tall, voluminously bearded guard as he examined Simon. “Ain’t that…?”
“Kill the beast,” the unit’s cold-eyed blond captain said calmly. “Take the lad. Alive if possible, but gut him if he puts up a fuss.”
Simon moaned. He exchanged a glance with the wendigo, whose lip curled sourly as they came to an unspoken understanding. They would put their antagonism on hold for as long as it took to deal with these interlopers.
“Kill the beast,” the bearded man repeated dryly under his breath. “Su-ure.” He and his fellows fanned out cautiously on the quivering ground, circling their prey. The wendigo snarled and grunted, executing darting dashes then wheeling back, just out of range of the blades. Simon wasn’t sure where to put his back. Belatedly he remembered the swortsword Niu had purchased for him and fumbled for it. Producing the lightweight weapon elicited a humorless snigger from the bald man. His confidence in tatters, Simon waved the blade at the men and prayed to Vanyon for a miracle.
“Get this nonsense over with,” the captain ordered lazily, scratching at a disfiguring facial scar. His palm rested on the pommel of a blade he hadn’t bothered to draw. Apparently he didn’t view either Simon or the wendigo as any kind of real threat. His men, while clearly sharing his views of Simon’s competence, took a different view of the pallid creature in the loincloth and hesitated. This proved to be a mistake as the wendigo, initially cautious, sensed their fear. Its elongated face split into a nightmare grin as it hurled itself at the nearest man.
Yelling, the soldier went down beneath the clawing fury of the cannibal. The two combatants struggled for supremacy, rolling over and over, flattening swathes of reeds. The guardsman’s fellows joined the fray, hacking at the wendigo whenever an opportunity presented itself, while the captain, unsheathing his sword, thrust it toward Simon, daring him to make a move with a chilly half-smile. Paralyzed, Simon clung to his own inadequate blade as though it were a lifeboat, edging left then right as the captain calmly kept him pinned against the swamp.
“You aren’t going anywhere, son,” he was told, which seemed an unfortunate truth. Sweat trickled down his forehead and he blinked it from his eyes. Behind him, the guards yelled with increasing confidence. The sick thud of blades in flesh were punctuated by the crunching of bones. The wendigo whined sharply like a kicked dog, then fell silent. The skirmish had clearly gone poorly for the creature; chancing a glance over his shoulder, Simon saw the bald man plant a booted foot on its neck and roll it off his comrade into a stagnant pool. The creature disappeared beneath the oily surface, trailing thick streamers of blood as it sank into the murk.
The bearded man crouched by the fallen guard and put two fingers to his neck. Looking up, he shook his head.
“You’ll pay for that,” the captain told Simon gruffly, as though he’d had anything to do with the man’s demise. “It’s the end of the line for you.”
Simon had come to the same conclusion. If he struggled, he would be killed. If he surrendered, he would be executed. He’d left his allies behind. This was not a scenario he had much hope of surviving.
At least I’ll be able to beg my father’s forgiveness in person, he thought.
“Drop the blade,” the bald man snarled behind him.
Simon’s mind worked furiously. If you surrender, he thought, maybe Niu and Sasha will figure out some way of rescuing you. Fighting these men would be suicide. Surrender is the best option.
He’d very nearly come to the decision to do just that when a sudden truth struck him: these were, no doubt, the very men who’d strung his father up. The butchers who’d hauled him out of his home, in front of his friends and neighbors, and murdered him for an offence which was not his own. A crimson bubble of rage began to swell in Simon’s heart; a fury unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. His hands shook so violently that he could barely maintain his grip on his blade. A powerful sphere of hatred encompassed him, distorting his vision and his judgement. In that moment, he didn’t care whether he lived or died, but he needed these men - who had wronged him so grievously on nothing more than a monarch’s petty whim - to suffer.
“You killed him,” he snarled, spitting into the reeds at the captain’s feet. Was that his own voice, or that of some wrathful stranger? “You killed my father!”
“I’ve killed a lot of people’s fathers, son,” the man returned, that infuriating smile broadening. “And I’ll drop you here, in the mire and filth, if you refuse to…”
The bubble burst. Pounding red waves washed consciousness clean from Simon’s mind. When the world came unsteadily back into focus, the captain’s face was ashen; his threats terminating in a strangled squawk as he dropped his sword, clutching at his chest. Bewildered, Simon gaped as the man tottered three steps, fell to his knees, croaked like a frog and collapsed face-first into a shallow pool. Whirling, he was astonished to find the other two soldiers suffering from a similar affliction. Their faces grey, they crumpled, gasping like landed fishes, eyes bugging with astonishment and terror. Within moments the swamp had fallen silent; Simon was alone with the twitching dead.
Disbelief cloaked Simon like a shroud. Had these men suffered from heart attacks? Had they fallen victim to some poisonous vapor from the swamp? If so, why hadn’t he? Could it be that Vanyon himself had struck them down, answering Simon’s silent cry for vengeance?
Whatever had occurred, he knew it wasn’t wise to wait around. He didn’t know how many soldiers had been deployed to Brand, but he couldn’t count on these men being the only ones. Further, he couldn’t be sure the villagers themselves would take his part. Vanyon had blessed him a second shot at life; ignoring the god’s boon fell somewhere between sacrilegious and stupid.
You can’t leave your father without so much as a burial marker, he told himself. A stone or a branch. He deserves that at least. He died for you.
Casting about for a suitable monument, Simon nearly failed to notice the disturbance in the water of the nearest pool; the faintest ripple across the oily surface like the tremor in a spider’s web. Heart in mouth he stood rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the murky darkness. Was he about to witness a second miracle; his father returning from the depths? From the dead?
Simon cursed himself for an idiot as a long white hand broke surface, groping for solid ground. The head and shoulders of the wendigo followed in short order, matted with mud and crawling, slippery things: white worms and blind bottom-feeders, skating bugs and larvae. The creature blinked muck from its eyes as it hauled itself out of the sludge and onto the spongy ground, trailing strings of pondweed. Tilting its chin, lips curling, it stared death at Simon.
Simon didn’t wait for another instance of divine intervention. He waved his sword unsteadily at the beast only for the briefest moment before common sense kicked in and he turned and fled. A low growl from behind him chilled his blood, while the sound of wet slapping - bare feet in mud - set fire to his heels.
Claws raked his back, rending cloth. Simon yelped and ducked behind a straggly tree, stumbling forward as a second swipe sent leaves shivering into the air. He kept to cover as he zig-zagged, the creature close on his tail. Wet warmth blossomed between his shoulder blades and trickled down his spine. Paying scant attention to direction – his concentration consumed by avoiding his pursuers slashing talons – he blundered out of the swamp and into the outskirts of Brand.
Few folk were out and about this late in the evening, but those who were froze, startled, as the wild-eyed Simon sprinted through an untended yard, vaulted a low wall with more agility
than he would have possessed in cold blood, leapt a ditch, and stumbled flailing into the road. Had the wendigo not been wounded he could not have outrun it. Every so often, it was forced to stop and marshal its ebbing strength, clutching at injuries which would have felled a human. The rage which had lent it temporary strength was ebbing. Fumbling its way over the wall, it blundered into the ditch, landing awkwardly. A bloodcurdling scream of rage reverberated throughout the village as it yanked its twisted ankle free of clutching weeds and scrambled up onto the street, hobbling after Simon.
Simon, who could now only regret the blind flight which had led the monstrous cannibal into the heart of his childhood home, waved his arms and screamed for the villagers to retreat into their homes as the wendigo stalked him down the main thoroughfare. Some locals complied immediately, while others stood gaping blankly. Grent, the miller, disappeared into his cottage to return, grim-faced with an axe with which he guarded his rickety porch. Widow Oakland, pulling weeds in her yard, hurled verbal abuse at both Simon and his pursuer.
Turning a bend in the road, Simon sprinted past the modest hut he’d once shared with his father. The sight of the thatched straw roof, crooked chimney, and ramshackle fence enclosing the property stole his breath. He longed to eat at his own table and sleep in his own bed, such as it was, or at least to stop long enough to collect some memento of his father. Who would lay claim to the property now? Neither Simon nor Veter would ever till the fields which stretched out behind it ever again. And where was Adelaide? Had some kind or opportunistic soul rehomed her, or had she filled the soldiers’ stew pots?
Heart aching as his feet steered him away from the shell of his home, Simon’s blood began to boil as he realized guardsmen were spilling out over the threshold. The remaining soldiers stationed in Brand had commandeered his home after murdering his father! The thought of these butchers desecrating his sanctuary made him murderous, but what could he do? With a wendigo snapping at his heels and no chance of defeating nearly a half-dozen armed men, his only option was flight. That, and perhaps to hope for another miracle from Vanyon.
Oaths and exclamations burst from the soldier’s lips when they caught sight of Simon’s ashen shadow.
“A demon!” roared one, tossing his blade from hand to hand.
“Vampire?” gasped another.
“Destroy it!” shouted their commanding officer, brandishing his sword but showing no inclination to lead the charge.
“Where’s Cap’n Feldmann?” wondered one ratty little fellow, clearly hoping for a counter-order.
“Kill it!” the senior officer repeated, red-faced and furious in the face of tangible reluctance. “And take the lad!”
Simon didn’t wait to see whether the soldiers followed their orders. He kept running, even though his legs were now burning beneath him and wouldn’t hold him long. He angled through the small, empty marketplace. Shutters flicked open as curious eyes watched him pass. As to whether the stares of his former neighbors were sympathetic, hostile, or just interested, he didn’t have time to speculate. Panting hoarsely, he passed beneath the long, murderous shadow of the gibbet where his father had died, and veered uphill toward the cornfield. He was rewarded by the sound of cries behind him: shouted orders and clanking armor, piercing yowls. The wendigo had been forced to engage the guards.
He was going to get away.
Slowing, Simon dared to peer over his shoulder. The king’s men had encircled the snarling creature, which was clutching an arm, freshly torn from its luckless host. Two soldiers lay dead in the street.
Good, Simon thought fiercely. Let them rip each other into chunks.
Violence and confusion were his last impressions of Brand. Instinct told him he would never see the only home he had known ever again. This was not how he would have hoped to remember it, but there was nothing for that now. As viewing the corpse of a loved one could stain even the fondest living memories, he knew that this one afternoon would blight his nostalgia until the end of his days.
With a silent farewell to his father, his home, and his life, he slipped into the cover of the cornfield.
IX
Prince Anton Stallix of Quell was passably easy on the eyes, Tiera decided, but he was exceptionally tedious. He had little on his mind save for hunting, boars specifically, of which he claimed to have singlehandedly slaughtered a great many - despite the fact that he looked like he’d have difficulty bending a willow branch without assistance. Having been obliged to tolerate his vacuous rambling at a number of feasts since his arrival, and now again, she now leaned upon the parapet and fantasized about a gust of wind strong enough to sweep him off the great Vingate Bridge and into the tepid, filthy waters of the channel below.
Diamond mines, she reminded herself before she could substitute herself for the imaginary wind and perform the deed herself. Think of Quell’s diamond mines.
Prince Stallix was just nervous, she told herself, which didn’t improve matters as anxiety was hardly what she looked for in a mate. Still, the man hadn’t left his isolated hermit kingdom in years; he had no idea how to behave in Cannevish society. Twitchy and introverted, he clearly expected betrayal at every turn. His wilderness adventures were undoubtedly designed to boost his sense of machismo, as he seemed more likely to belong to a quilting circle than the brotherhood of hunters he described over and over and bloody over.
“Had you not been there, you could scarcely imagine the size of the brute,” the prince was saying, peeling a colorless wisp of ethereal hair from his forehead and tucking it into his hideous conical hat. Whatever else came of the proposed partnership between Cannevish and Quell, Tiera had decided, an exchange of fashions was not in the offing. “Enormous! Hair like a porcupine’s quills! Tusks which could choke a shark! He was backed into a corner… you never saw such hate in a beast’s eyes!”
Tiera yawned. She made no attempt to disguise it. Even the peasants scurrying along the edges of the canal below were more intriguing than this man.
The prince carried on unruffled. “Even with the certain blessing of Avana, I knew my skills would be put to the test.”
Avana was the goddess of the hunt in Quell, Tiera vaguely recalled; a false deity, as any true-blooded Cannevishite knew. She said nothing, allowing the man the silly foreign delusions he would be forced to repress once their union was sealed. Tiera was no devout worshipper of Vanyon – she didn’t see the point. As royalty, she imagined she was guaranteed access to his Hall without any great effort on her part. The Cannevish clergy would never accept the prince’s blasphemous notions, however, and nor would the masses.
“Fortunately, I had my father’s spear, the same legendary weapon that…”
“Fortunate indeed,” Tiera interrupted, smiling coldly. “And I’d love to hear all about it, but we have more pressing concerns.”
Prince Stallix drew himself up indignantly, pursing his lips. Tiera thought he might burst out of his tights, which left so little to the imagination that they were hardly necessary in the first place. Her first thought had been that, no matter what his failings, her lover-to-be was at least well-endowed. Further introspection had led her to consider that if he stuffed his tights the way he padded his hunting tales, she expected to find very little down below.
“And these concerns?” Stallix asked stiffly.
Tiera waved a hand dismissively, frowning. She’d momentarily forgotten that the prince’s concerns were not aligned with her own. The transgressions of the insolent peasant dragonslayer didn’t interest him, save of course as the catalyst for the politics which would allow Cannevish and Quell to unite. He could not comprehend why Tiera was so upset at having been rejected by a commoner.
“You must put aside this rustic’s ill manners,” he said, as soon as he’d figured out what was preying on her mind. “His short-sightedness is typical of the common folk. The man was a lack-wit , and it is not seemly to allow one so lowborn to prey upon your mind.”
Tiera smiled tightly. She said nothing. P
erhaps the prince’s words were well-intentioned, but that didn’t matter. No one – no one – rejected the hand of Princess Tiera Minus. No one found her lacking in comparison to her own handmaiden. And, if she was honest with herself, any man capable of slaying a dragon – which the foppish Anton Stallix most assuredly was not – was a man who piqued her interest, even if that man was a peasant.
“My concern,” Stallix continued, brushing invisible lint from the sleeve of his red velvet jacket, “Is the sword. I can hardly be expected to be seen in public with an item of such shoddy, vulgar craftsmanship.”
Tiera’s left eye twitched. “You’ll only be seen with it once, my prince, at the ceremony. Further, you’ll be some distance from the crowd, and our metalsmiths can affix a more suitable pommel to it.”
“Unacceptable,” Stallix returned rigidly. “My entire legend hinges upon this moment. Shall it be spoken far and wide that Prince Stallix of Quell slew a dragon with a blade that a common guardsman would disdain?”
Prince Stallix of Quell is astonishingly fortunate that it will be said that he slew a dragon at all, Tiera thought, but she did not say so. “Father’s heart is set upon the blade being used, as it bears the scars of such use. The authenticity of the sword’s scars cannot be disputed; only dragon’s blood could have caused such damage. Perhaps father can be talked into allowing a more pristine blade to be presented, but know that skeptics will mutter.”
Stallix snorted. “Let them.”
“Perhaps while locked in mortal combat with his foe, my prince had his own blade struck from his hand and was forced to snatch up another from the bodies strewn about,” Tiera suggested.
Stallix’s eyes lit up.
“Yes,” he mused, scratching his beardless chin. “Yes! That would do nicely. A dramatic flourish. The public would love that. I shall work it into my narrative.”