The Fabled Beast of Elddon (3 page)

Ander
opened his eyes, wincing at the light. His head throbbed and there was a foul
taste in his mouth like old boot leather. He shook his head, trying to clear
the fog that impeded his thoughts. A moment later he realized he was on a horse,
climbing a steep hill at a slow walk. His next revelation was that his wrists
were tied and his arms bound with rope. He raised his eyes to see Elddon’s
soldiers, some riding, others walking. Tristan rode beside him, bound in the
same manner. The youth looked as wretched as Ander felt.

“Welcome
back,” Tristan said, leaning forward and spitting a gobbet of blood and phlegm
onto the ground. He had a black eye, a split lip, and a swollen lump on his
forehead.

“Where
are they taking us?” Ander asked.

“Elddon
Castle,” Tristan said, nodding toward the stone walls at the top of the hill.
The castle was built on a heap of stratified limestone overlooking a wide and
fertile valley, with the mountains behind it providing a suitably awe-inspiring
backdrop. Ander twisted in his saddle so that he could see the village of
Elddon behind them, then turned again, looking west. Just beyond the hill was a
wide lake, and on the other side of it, half hidden by a stand of trees, was a
large stone building. Ander frowned at it, wondering its purpose.

“That’s
Santhebury Abbey,” Tristan said, seeming to read Ander’s thoughts. “Ryia wanted
us to be married there.”

Ander
looked at his friend. He could see the pain in Tristan’s eyes, that sense of
bitter loss and defeat. Ander had some experience with those feelings. He knew
that their efforts to save the girl had been doomed from the start. But there were
some things a man had to do, even if he knew at the onset he would fail. This
was one of those.

“Tell
me about the castle,” Ander said, steering Tristan away from the topics of Ryia
and marriage.

“Oh,
well,” Tristan said, shaking himself. “Before the Dreamland Wars this hill was
called Ayus Shen, the faie hill--”

“Faie,
as in faieries, as in mischievous little people with wings and needles for
swords?” Ander asked.

“Aye,
just so. I’ve always wondered if there were really faie living here once,
slipping through the vale to play tricks on the ancient Anthunians.”

“There
are none here now,” Sir Egan said, riding up beside them. “I can assure you of
that. After the Anthunians left, Ayus Shen became the royal seat for the kings
of Elddon, and they claimed supremacy over this entire region, from the
mountains to the River Blaithe.” The knight shook his head. “But that was a long
time ago, before the founding of Briganthan, when they gave it all away to
Linheath and the other greedy barons.”

“I
don’t think the King of Briganthan would take kindly to such talk,” Ander said.

“I
don’t serve the king,” Sir Egan said. “I serve Elddon. Now, shut your mouths
the both of you or I’ll have your tongues out.” With that, the knight dug in
his spurs and rode on ahead.

Ander
and Tristan exchanged a resigned look. There was nothing they could do now but
bide their time and wait for some opportunity to present itself. Ander thought
about the girl, Ryia. Even now she was on her way to meet some fate he could
only imagine, and there was nothing he or Tristan could do to stop it. She
might be dead before the day was out and they both knew it.

They
climbed the remainder of the hill in silence. The gates of the castle stood
open and the horse’s hooves made a dull clopping noise as they clattered across
the drawbridge, through the gate house, and into the courtyard beyond. They
came to a halt outside the walls of the keep. The soldiers pulled Ander and
Tristan down and cut the ropes binding their arms, although their hands
remained tied.

The
knight waited for them at the top of a narrow staircase, inside the doorway of
an antechamber built onto the side of the keep. Ander and Tristan climbed the
stairs, with four guards behind them, and were steered into a large meeting hall.

The
lord’s great hall was not so grand as some Ander had visited, but it was clean
and bright, aglow with the light of countless candles. Baron Leofrick an Elddon
sat in an ornately carved chair, on a raised dais at the back of the room. He
was surrounded by priests, councilors, and courtiers, all of whom appeared to
be talking at once. A pair of guards stood to either side of the dais, against
the back wall, watching the arrival of the newcomers with wary interest. As the
knight and his prisoners entered, the baron, a tall, slender man in a green
mantle and white linen shift, raised one hand. His courtiers quieted at once,
their attention turning to Ander and Tristan as the guards forced them to their
knees.

“Who
are these men?” Baron Leofrick asked, his voice a dull monotone that conveyed
little in the way of emotion. “And more importantly, what are they doing here?”

“My
lord,” Sir Egan said, taking a step forward. “These men were taken in the
village. They are outsiders who assaulted my men in the course of their duly assigned
and honorable duties. They wounded several of your loyal guardsmen, and all
without provocation.”

“Provocation,”
Ander snorted, “we had plenty of provocation. Loosen these ropes and I’ll show
you how I generally deal with men who put women in cages.” Ander strained at
the bindings around his wrists, causing the men beside him to reach for their
blades. But Sir Egan only laughed.

“A
fine display of bravado, Northman, but pointless. Tell us your name so we can
give it to the executioner when he arrives.”

“I
am called Ander Inenyar,” Ander said. “From Hithgowr.”

“Cold
country, Hithgowr,” Sir Egan smirked. “No wonder your brain works so slowly.”

“M’lord,”
Tristan pleaded. “I am called Tristan, and I grew up here, on a farm near
Elddon. You must hear our side of this tale if you are to pass judgment. We
only meant--”

“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.”

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.

A
sound behind her made her turn, fear and desperation fueling her movements. She
expected to see the beast, to be confronted by a huge, horrific face bearing
down on her with jaws open to rend and tear. Instead two figures approached, each
of them carrying lanterns, large berry-shaped globes of amber light, suspended
from iron rings in their hands.

The
creatures were roughly man-sized, although shorter and leaner than most men she
had encountered. They were swathed in loose-fitting robes, belted at the waist,
with a harness consisting of straps, pouches, and buckles that encircled their
torsos. They each wore a heavy woolen cloak and hood, but the hoods were thrown
back to reveal heads that were not in the least bit human. Their faces appeared
canine with pointed ears, wolfish snouts, and rows of jagged teeth. Each of the
creatures wore a strip of thick leather around its head with two round circles
of glass covering their eyes. The glass lenses glowed with a faint amber
luminance.