The Fabled Beast of Elddon (4 page)

“What
in Aedon’s name?” Ryia said aloud, her fear giving way to curiosity. “Kerram.”
The word came unbidden to her mind. “You’re kerram.” Ryia had heard of the
kerram, heard stories about them at least, but never expected to see one in the
flesh.

“You
come with us now,” said the nearer of the two kerram, his voice sounding
altogether foreign, although he spoke the common tongue well enough. His fur
was the hue of tarnished gold, whereas his companion was a dark tawny brown.
Each of them carried a weapon, much like a sword, with a short, straight handle
ending in a curved blade, like a sickle, only backward. The dark kerram also
carried a stick, a kind of staff, etched with lumens. As he drew closer he
lowered the staff, aiming it at her chest.

“Resist
and we will harm you,” the gold kerram said.

Almost
without thinking, Ryia shouldered her way past the gold kerram and swung the
chain over his head, wrapping it around his neck. The kerram made a strange
gargling noise that Ryia took as an exclamation of fear as she pulled the chain
tight, putting her knee into the creature’s back. Hands, almost like human
hands, only more delicate and covered in soft fur, reached up to grab at her,
but she avoided their touch. She twisted, looking for the other kerram, but was
struck from behind, a blow that landed across her shoulders and plunged a
dagger of pain into the center of her back.

She
staggered and the kerram slipped free of the chain. He struck her across the
face, drawing blood from a torn lip, and Ryia went to her knees. She spat blood
on the stone, tried to rise, her body quivering and her limbs weak. Then the staff
cracked against the back of her skull and she fell into a well of impenetrable
darkness.

Loth
sat in the darkness pondering the particles of dust that floated in a beam of sunlight.
The light came from a small, round hole set high in the dungeon wall that
apparently led to the outside. It was too small to be of any real use, this
hole, but the light it provided was cheering, at least until he considered his
surroundings and whether he would ever see more light than this again.

For
three days he had been a guest of Baron Leofrick an Elddon, with lodging all to
himself in the baron’s dungeon. There was little in the way of furniture here. In
fact, there was only a small weathered bench that might be used as a chair or
table at need. Other than that the room was empty. A surgeon had clumsily
removed the bolt from his leg, binding the wound with a strip of clean white cloth.
Later, when he was alone, Loth had been able to heal the wound completely using
the same spell he had tried on the farmer’s dying wife. But he had no spell
that would open gates or allow him to fly out through a hole in the wall that
was only inches wide.

The
baron’s dungeon was a simple affair, a deep pit, lined with stone and an
earthen floor. Above him, in the center of the ceiling, was an opening large
enough to allow a prisoner to pass through. But the opening was at least
fifteen feet above his head and far out of reach. A latticework of thick iron
bars covered the opening, and this gate was fitted with a lock. The jailer,
whom Loth had seen infrequently whenever he brought the moldy bread and jugs of
tepid water that constituted his meals, carried a large metal key, one of
several on a ring at his belt.

This
was not the first dungeon Loth had been in nor, he suspected, would it be the
last. He had no doubt that he would find a way to free himself, or that the
baron would lose interest in him after a period of time. He did have some
family connections after all and skills he might barter. Being elluen, he was
like a rare bird, a plaything the baron had put into a cage but that he would
eventually tire of. The problem was Loth had made a promise to a dying woman.
He had promised to find her children, and Loth took such oaths very seriously.
He could not find them if he was here, and every moment he delayed increased
the likelihood that he would never find them or, if he did, that they would be
dead.

He
had tried to explain this to Baron Leofrick and to his dog, Sir Egan, although
it was unclear in Loth’s mind which of the two men held the leash to the other.
The mention of Loth’s search for the missing children had been ill received,
and the idea of him confronting the beast of Elddon had stirred the court into
a frenzy. These people had lived with their monster for some months and were
more afraid of inciting its wrath than of living under its yoke. Loth had
difficulty understanding such complacency. It was not in his nature to bend a
knee to anyone or anything. Why would they not fight back? Worse yet, why
prevent him from fighting for them?

The
shuffle of boots and the orange glow of torchlight, filtering down through the
metal grate, announced the jailer’s arrival. But unlike other visits, this time
the man was not alone. In fact, there was quite a large party with him and much
scuffling, shoving, and cursing among them. The grate was unlocked and thrown
back and a rough ladder shoved down through the hole. Then, a ginger-haired
youth was forced to climb down it. He fumbled on the ladder, eventually
reaching the floor, where he stepped back, watching the activity above. For a
heartbeat the youth did not notice Loth’s still form, sitting with his back
against the wall. When he did the youth started, involuntarily reaching for a
sword that was no longer there.

“Aedon’s
mercy,” the youth said, “I did not think--” but his attention was drawn away again
as a second man, a Northman by the look of him, slid down the ladder, landing in
a heap on the uneven floor. The man surged to his feet, snarling and cursing as
the ladder was hastily withdrawn.

“Onar’s
balls!” the man swore. “The next time I see you bastards, I’ll rip your hearts out
and feed them to you while they’re still beating!”

The
grate slammed shut and the lock turned. “Keep your threats to yourself,
Northman. You’ll have a hard time keeping those promises with a broken neck.”

“The
hangman is coming for you,” said another voice, “and it’ll be him as has the
last word.” The jailer chuckled to himself as he turned away, following the
rest of the party and taking the torchlight with him.

“In
my experience,” Loth said, “executioners seldom speak at all. I sometimes
wonder if their tongues are not removed as part of their induction.”

The
Northman turned, eyes blazing. “Who in seven worlds are you?” he snarled, chest
heaving as if he had run a long distance.

“I,”
Loth said, rising and wiping the dirt from his hands, “am Lothanarion Tharthian
Filanderan Aquillean, a wanderer and--”

“And
an elluen,” the Northman said.

“Yes,
I am elluen,” Loth sighed, “and you may call me Loth if you like. Why is it
that the first thing humans take notice of is my race? They do not comment on
my height, the color of my eyes, or the extraordinary cut of my cloth, but they
do take note of the color of my skin. It is all they seem to care about.”

“We’re
pig-headed that way,” the Northman said. “If it wasn’t your race, it would be
your gods, or your tribe, or what king you serve. Men will always find
something to fight about.”

“So
it would seem.”

“Not
to mention that your people are responsible for the breaking of the dream gate,
for opening the Dreamland and freeing every nightmarish creature ever imagined
upon Kirion.”

“Actually,”
Loth said, raising an eyebrow, “it was your people who broke the gate and attacked
us. We merely reacted in an appropriate manner.”

“I’ve
heard it both ways.” The Northman said, shrugging his broad shoulders. “But I’d
hardly call five centuries of war an appropriate response.”

“That
was not our fault either,” Loth said.

The
Northman looked him over, then he grinned and extended a hand. “I suppose not. I’m
Ander Inenyar, from Hithgowr.”

Loth
hesitated, somewhat taken aback by the Northman’s sudden change of mood. After
a moment’s consideration, he took the offered hand and shook it. “Well met,
Ander of Hithgowr.”

“I
wouldn’t say that,” Ander said. “I’d prefer we were meeting at an inn with beers
in front of us as big as barrels and a couple of soft-skinned maids beside us. But
then I didn’t pick the spot. This here rogue tossed in with me is called Tristan.
He’s better with a lute than a sword, but he’s a good fellow despite that.”

“Thanks
for that ill-favored praise,” Tristan said, taking Loth’s hand in turn.

“So,”
Ander said, folding his massive arms across his chest, “what brings you to
Elddon’s fine dungeon?”

“A
misunderstanding,” Loth smiled ruefully.

“Ah,
misunderstanding is it?” Ander laughed. “We have some experience with that,
don’t we, Tris?”

“Aye,”
Tristan said simply.

“I
stumbled upon a farm that was being attacked by the fabled beast of Elddon,”
Loth said, “and tried to help.”

“You’ve
seen it then?” Ander said, his face growing serious.

“I
put two arrows into it,” Loth said, “but it didn’t seem to matter.”

“Perhaps
you missed.”

“I
don’t miss.” Loth said, giving Ander a disapproving scowl.

“At
any rate, I pulled a woman from the ruins of her cottage. She died soon after,
but before she did I swore an oath to find her three sons, who she told me had
been taken by demons.”

“Demons,
aye,” Ander shook his head, turning away and beginning to pace, “devils and
monsters is all I’ve heard of since we came to this backward village.” He put a
hand against the wall, feeling along it as if hoping to find some flaw in the
stone work.

“Tris
and I have been fighting in the Dark Lands. He received a letter from his betrothed,
a girl called Ryia, telling him of the strange happenings in this wretched
kingdom--”

“I’m
from here,” Tristan added. “I grew up here. The only reason I joined the border
guard was so we could marry.”

“Him
and the girl, that is. Not he and I,” Ander added helpfully. “We traveled for
three weeks to get here--”

“And
when we arrived, we discovered that Ryia was on trial for witchcraft, accused
of summoning the beast to Elddon. Her father is dead and there was no one to
defend her--”

“So
we tried,” Ander said, rubbing at his bearded chin with one hand. “And you can
see how that worked out. The girl is gone, taken as a sacrifice, and the village
is no closer to being rid of its monster than it was before.”

“Ryia
is alive,” Tristan said, gazing up at the barred grate. “We have to get out of
here. We have to save her.”

“Aye,”
Ander agreed. “I’m in favor of getting out, but how?”

“It
appears,” Loth said, “that we have a common purpose. It is said that the beast
has its lair in the mountains--”

“There’s
a city up there,” Tristan said, “a ruin. I have never been there, but I know
the road well enough, if only we can find a way to escape. It is said the
elluen are masters of magic. Can you not free us?”

“Sadly,
no,” Loth said. “All elluen know a little magic, but I am no magician and my
spell craft cannot help us here, unless...”

“Unless
what?” Ander said.

“Do
either of you know how to pick a lock?” Loth asked.

“I’m
a fair hand,” Tristan said. “If I have tools.”

Ander
turned to the bench. Without preamble he picked it up, twisting the wood until
it broke. Wrenching one of the legs free he extracted a long iron nail.

“Will
this do?” Ander asked

“Aye,”
Tristan said, smiling. “It just might.”

Loth
watched as Tristan took the nail and tucked it beneath his belt. “Alone, I
could do nothing, but with your help we might accomplish a great deal.” He
gazed up at the cross hatch of bars above them. “I believe I have the makings
of a plan, but first, I’ll need to get up there.”

“You
sure they’re asleep?” Tristan whispered. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he
was going to poke his arm out between the bars only to have it crushed beneath
a boot heel or, worse yet, lopped off by some overzealous guardsmen.

“Yes!”
Loth’s voice came up from below. “But you best hurry. I’m getting a cramp in my
leg.”

“Get
on with it,” Ander’s voice snarled, lower down, and louder than Tristan would
have liked. “I feel like I have a couple of pack horses on my shoulders. Onar’s
beard, but neither of you is as light as you appear.”

Tristan
gripped the bars with one hand, raising his head just enough that he could peer
between them. The entrance to the dungeon pit was near the back wall of a
larger chamber beneath the west tower, and across the way he could see two men
seated at a table. The men had been playing knucklebones and drinking, their
raucous jokes and loud conversation like the gurgle of a nearby stream. Now the
two were slumped across the table, snoring contentedly.

“I
only calmed them,” Loth whispered, “so it is a natural sleep they are in. Try
not to make too much noise if you can help it. They could still wake at any time.”

Tristan
felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of his face. He glanced to his left
to where the lock was, then lowered his head. Carefully, he reached down and
pulled the nail from beneath his belt. He reached through the bars, gripping
the slim piece of metal tightly, praying he would not drop it. He slid his
fingers across the cold iron, probing the surface until he found the slot in
the center of the lock. Slowly, carefully, he maneuvered the nail, sinking it
into the opening. He pulled back on it, bending the nail slightly. He fumbled
it and a jolt of panic surged through his frame like a lightning bolt. But the
nail did not fall and his fingers closed around it once more.

Tristan
took a breath, steadying himself, then held it as he began working the lock. He
could hear Ander groaning and grumbling below, could hear the elluen’s steady
breathing, could hear the snoring of the guards and somewhere, far off, the faint
echo of dripping water. The seconds rolled by, becoming an eternity as Tristan
focused on his task. But then he was rewarded by a small sound, a faint metallic
click as the lock snapped open.

“Got
it!” Tristan whispered urgently.

“Well
done,” Loth said. “Now see if you can lift the grate, but be careful not to let
it fall or the game is up.”

Tristan
tucked the nail away beneath his belt, then took hold of the grate and pushed
it up. The aged hinges groaned, but he moved it slowly, taking his time despite
the urgency of the blood pulsing through his veins. After what seemed like an
hour, the door settled back and he was able to pry his numb fingers off the
bars.

Tristan
gripped the edge of the opening with both hands and pulled himself up, feeling
another surge of panic as his feet left the elluen’s shoulders. He swung there
for a moment, feet kicking as he struggled to throw an elbow up over the edge
of the frame, but he finally managed it. Grunting softly, he hauled himself up
out of the dungeon pit.