The Fabled Beast of Elddon (2 page)

Loth
took a step back, reciting words in ancient Lunovarion. He lifted his hands,
his fingers drawing lumens in the air. The wind rose around him, a moaning
sound that grew into a howl. The rising wind stripped leaves from the trees and
sent them spinning about like a thousand tiny razors. The winds swirled about
the soldiers, kicking up voluminous clouds of dust and causing their mounts to
shy and dance. Two of the panicked horses reared, dumping the riders from their
saddles, including the knight who slid off the back of his horse and struck the
ground with a thunderous crunch of metal. One soldier fired his crossbow, but
was blinded by flying debris so that his shot went wild, sailing off into the trees.
A fourth man’s horse bolted, the soldier clinging desperately to the saddle as his
mount sped off along the road in the direction from whence they had come.

Loth
darted to one side, intent on snatching up his possessions and disappearing
into the woods. He was a master at woodcraft and these fools would never be
able to catch him. But somehow the remaining soldier managed to keep his wits
and his aim. He loosed his bolt squarely and the bolt struck Loth in the back
of the leg. He slammed into the ground with a cry of pain and the howling winds
subsided all at once.

The
three soldiers rushed at him. Loth struck one man and knocked him to the ground,
but the other two fell on him, raining blows on his head and torso. The next
few minutes were a blind confusion of snarling, biting, kicking, and punching.

At
last, Sir Egan, having regained his feet, swept his sword from its sheath and
struck Loth on the side of his skull with the pommel. Stars danced before
Loth’s eyes and the world faded for a moment, only to return in a red haze of
pain. A wad of cloth was thrust into his mouth and he was slammed facedown onto
the ground while someone tied his hands with a length of rope. In the confusion,
the bolt in his leg snapped, sending another white hot surge of pain through
his brain. Loth groaned as he was hauled roughly to his feet.

The
missing soldier returned a short time later, his mount now under control and
leading the other two horses behind him. Loth was dragged unceremoniously
toward the horses and flung over a saddle. He hung there like a slain deer, his
head reeling and agony assailing him from every direction.

“Well
now,” Sir Egan said, breathing heavily, “that was a truly rash and foolish
thing to do, my elluen friend. And what good did it accomplish? Better for you
if you had listened to me.”

Perhaps,
Loth thought, but listening to good advice was not his strong suit, and being
reasonable had seldom gotten him anywhere useful or interesting. Headstrong and
willful his father had called him more than once, but those same traits had
kept him alive for several lifetimes of men. He wasn’t likely to change now.

Loth
turned his head so that he could see the grave of Ella and Hodge. They were
strangers to him, it was true, but neither of them deserved to die in such a
heinous manner. Loth swore a silent oath to himself that he would avenge their
deaths. And he would find their missing sons. Just as soon as he figured a way
out of his current situation.

For
three days the people of Elddon talked of little else save for the beast’s recent
attack. It was widely known that one of the richest families in the region had
been slain and their home destroyed. Of more interest, however, was the elluen,
the tall figure Sir Egan had taken captive and who now languished in the baron’s
dungeon. Some said the stranger had murdered the family and set fire to their home,
others that he had tried to save them, but no one knew for sure.

Regardless
of these speculations a new development arose that had everyone watching and
wondering. A young woman had been arrested, accused by Sir Egan of being a
witch and of summoning the beast to plague the people of Elddon. Some said the
young woman had gone mad after the death of her father. Others said it had
something to do with a jilted lover who had left her for another woman. Another
story had the young man going off to join the border guard when he discovered
she was with child. The details were uncertain. But the fact remained that the
woman was to be sentenced at noon and, in all likelihood, delivered to the
beast as a human sacrifice. Such a thing had not happened in many hundreds of
years and everyone in Elddon planned to turn up, to see what would happen, and
to witness the girl’s fate.

Ander
emerged from the shadows of an alley, turning and moving swiftly along the
street. He was a large man, a head taller than his companion, broad through the
shoulders, and possessed a confident stride and commanding presence. His
companion was a youth of average height, willowy and lean, who seemed to be
half running in an effort to keep up with him. The two men soon arrived at the
market square in the center of the village where a large crowd had gathered to
watch the proceedings.

Ander
slowed his pace and began pushing his way through the crowd, using his bulk to
forge a path, while the smaller man followed close behind, darting furtive
glances left and right. There was some grumbling and cursing, but one look at
the tall, strongly built Northman deterred any outright objection, and no one tried
to hinder their progress.

In
the middle of the square was a raised platform, roughly four feet off the
ground. It was open on three sides with stairs on the remaining edge, closest
to a row of shops that stood in the shadow of the wall. The crowd pressed up
against it, some talking to neighbors, others watching a single doorway with rapt
attention. Four guardsmen stood on the platform, one at each corner, and two
more men stood at the base of the stairs, leaning on pikes. A cart stood off to
the right, harnessed to a single fat bay mare. A nervous-looking old man leaned
against the side of it, digging beneath his fingernails with the point of a dagger.
In the back of the cart was a cage constructed of green boughs that had been lashed
together with rope.

“I’ll
say it again, Tristan. This is a truly bad idea.” Ander held his cloak closed
with one hand while he pushed back his hood with the other. He had a mane of
long dark hair, tangled and unwashed, a short beard covering his square chin,
and eyes the color of cold steel. “There’s too many people here, too many
soldiers. We’re outnumbered three to one already and the bloody castle guard hasn’t
even arrived yet.”

“We
can’t just leave her,” Tristan said, pulling back his own hood to reveal a thick
mop of ginger hair and a pale spotted face. “And since when do you care about
odds?”

“This
isn’t a game of Knucklebones,” Ander snarled, half turning. “I know you like
the girl and all, but there are other women in the world--”

“I
don’t like Ryia,” Tristan said. “I love her. I’m in love with her. That was the
whole point of joining the border guard in the first place, so I could raise
enough coin for a wedding.”

“Love.”
Ander spat the word as if it was foul on his tongue. “I know more than a few
dead men that might still be pissing and fighting if it wasn’t for--”

“Shhh!
Too late now,” Tristan said. “Here they come.”

Another
pair of soldiers emerged from a shop door half carrying a young woman between
them. She was small and fair with a stern but pretty face and ash brown hair.
Despite the obvious hopelessness of her situation, she struggled against her
captors and there was a look of defiance in her green eyes. She was clad in a
white shift and sandals, but bore no other ornament.

The
last figure to appear was a knight, tall and resplendent in his green tabard
and polished steel, fair haired, with a smooth boyish face and a cruel mouth.
He followed the girl up onto the platform where he continued to pace back and
forth. He surveyed the gathering, some of whom had begun to cackle and shout as
soon as the girl appeared.

Cries
of “Burn her!” and “Burn the witch!” rose from the sea of dirty faces. Others called
for mercy, and some of the women were in tears.

“That’s
Sir Egan Stroud,” Tristan said, his voice shaking with anger, “the baron’s
steward and master-at-arms. He looks pretty, but he is a foul brute. He’s
always had an eye for Ryia. I wouldn’t be surprised--”

“Keep
your voice down,” Ander cautioned, looking at the people around them. A couple villagers
were now watching them with open interest.

“While
that might well be a fitting end,” Sir Egan said, his voice carrying to the far
corners of the square, “this woman,” he gave the girl a scathing look, “will
not be burned at the stake. Her sorceress arts have indeed brought the beast
down upon us. That much has been proven and, for that crime, her life is
forfeit.” He paused for emphasis. “But,” he continued, “she will instead be
taken to the mountains, to the gates of Ibridion, where even now the beast crouches
in its lair. She will be offered up as a sacrifice and, Aedon willing, her death
shall serve to appease the monster’s wrath.”

“She’s
no more a witch than I am!” Tristan snarled. “The idea is ludicrous. They can’t
have proved--”

“Now
for the sentencing,” Sir Egan announced. The knight moved to within a few feet
of the young woman, eyeing her slim white form as if she were something delicious
that he wanted to take a bite of. He drew a scroll from beneath his cloak.

“Ryia
an Elddon,” he began, unfurling the scroll and holding it in front of him.

“That
is not my name,” Ryia said, raising her voice so all could hear, “I am the
daughter of Sir Kadis Larrel, heir to his lands--“

“Sir
Kadis is dead,” Sir Egan said, “and your lands are forfeit to the barony of
Elddon, as you are well aware.” He touched her cheek, almost tenderly. Ryia
turned her head away, her eyes sharp with anger.

“You
are charged with being a witch, of consorting with devils and monsters--
“ Sir
Egan continued.

“I
am no witch,” Ryia said, “and I haven’t consorted with anyone.”

“If
you keep interrupting me, this may well take all day, and I have other things
to do.”

“Let
it take all day!” Ryia shouted. “You have no proof--“

“You
are hereby sentenced by his royal personage, our most noble and wise lord,
Baron Leofrick an Elddon, to satisfy your crimes by providing virgin sacrifice
to the beast of Elddon. And by your death to preserve the sanctity of this
realm.”

“It’s
barbaric!” Ryia spat at the knight’s feet. “You don’t really think that giving me
to that monster will do any good?”

“Of
course I do. Why else should we all be here?”

“But
what if it’s not enough,” Ryia protested. “What if by sending me you simply
enrage the beast? It could destroy all of Elddon. Not just a few farms and
fields. It could lay waste to the village and castle as well. Hundreds might
die.”

“Nonsense,”
the knight said. “Virgin sacrifices have long been proven to placate monsters,
demons, and dragons of all sorts; back when there were dragons, of course. The beast
of Elddon is no different.”

“But
I’m not even a virgin,” Ryia countered. “I have been with lots of men, more than
you could count.”

“Can
you prove such claims? Well, I suppose you might, but we haven’t the time.
We’ll just have to risk it.”

Sir
Egan turned to address the crowd, raising his hands as if offering a blessing.
“Sentencing is over. Take her away.”

“We
have to help her!” Tristan gripped the edge of the platform, his cloak falling
away to reveal chain mail and leather beneath. The people nearest him pulled
back, sensing danger.

“Tris,
wait!” Ander growled, taking him by the shoulder. “Wait until she’s on the
cart. We can follow them out of the village, take them on the road--”

The
two soldiers took hold of Ryia by her arms and shoulders, forcing her to walk. The
girl fought against them, biting and kicking, until the two guards at the base
of the stairs took hold of her legs, lifting her off the ground and carrying
her. She was hauled, thrashing and cursing, and tossed none too gently into the
cage on the back of cart. Some of the villagers began throwing rotten
vegetables at the cage, clearly enjoying themselves.

The
driver climbed up onto the wagon, ducking his head to avoid a flying cabbage as
he took the reins. The soldiers, having finished their work, moved away, while
Ryia reached for them through the bars. Sir Egan gave the driver a nod and the
old man flicked his whip, causing the fat mare to jump. The cart jolted
forward, and the crowd roared.

“Ryia!”
Tristan shouted, pulling free of Ander. He tugged a short sword from the
scabbard at his waste and ran toward her. At the sight of him the crowd’s
catcalls turned into cries of fear and astonishment.

“Onar
take me for a fool.” Ander snarled, heaving off his cloak and letting it fall to
the ground. “We did come here for a fight. I suppose now is as good a time as
any.”

Beneath
the cloak he wore a hauberk of chain mail that fell to his knees. He roared as
he drew the broad sword and ran toward the cart. A wide-eyed guard on the
corner of the platform stabbed down at him with his pike. Ander caught hold of
the shaft and pulled the man off his feet before that guard had the sense to
let go. The man tumbled into the crowd with a surprised yelp.

Ander
knocked a second guardsmen to the ground and sprang onto the cart. The startled
driver stood, reins in one fist while he reached for his dagger. Ander caught hold
of his arm and hurled the man into the street, then took the reins and snapped
them hard. The bay mare bellowed and rolled her eyes, surging forward, but two
of the soldiers had taken hold of the harness.

Tristan
climbed onto the back of the cart. A guardsman reached for him, but Tristan
caught the man across the nose with an elbow. Blood sprayed and the guard
staggered back, cursing.

“Ryia!”
Tristan shouted again. Ryia found his face, her hands reaching through the
wooden bars. “Tristan! What are you doing here? You can’t--”

The
crowd shouted their appreciation for the added spectacle, although they were
careful to stay well away from the fighting. This was more than they had hoped
for, and they quickly chose sides, some cheering for the soldiers and others
rallying behind the brave newcomers who were obviously about to die.

“We’re
here to rescue you. My friend and I--” Tristan began, but a wooden shaft broke
across the back of his head. Tristan’s forehead struck the wooden bars with a
meaty thwack. He rebounded, eyes vacant, and fell away, hitting the ground as
more guards fell on him.

“Tristan!”
Ryia shouted, tears filling her eyes.

Ander
snapped the reins again and again, trying to get the horse moving, but the
soldiers held her fast. A guardsman grabbed hold of his leg, and Ander swung
his sword, catching the man on the side of his helmet and sending him reeling.
More soldiers came at him from the other side, and Ander hewed down at them,
shearing through a leather pauldron. Blood spattered the ground and the wounded
soldier fell back.

Ander
looked to Tristan and saw him on the ground, unmoving. Ander twisted, seeking
some means of egress, but there was none to be found. He had been right all
along. This was a bad idea and they had been fools to try it.

He
caught the edge of a blade on his broad sword and kicked the man in the stomach,
doubling him over. Ander raised his sword, but the butt of a spear came out of
nowhere striking him on the forehead. He saw a brilliant flash of light, then
felt a sudden jolt of pain as he hit the dirt next to the cart. He tried to
rise but was thrown down again by angry soldiers who now crowded around him. He
struggled up, pummeled by fists, swords and daggers grating against his
hauberk. Then a sharp blow to his head sent him down into the darkness.