Beastly (10 page)

Malachai raised his weapon and took aim, his target oblivious to the stalking peril. “Foolish girl, I’ve heard your pathetic grumblings for miles. I grow weary of them.”

The barbed wire twanged and the quarrel slammed into the stag’s throat. Malachai slung the crossbow over his shoulder and stalked his kill with a serrated dagger. The dying stag struggled through a death rattle with Malachai looming over, blade readied. Lia’s stomach churned.
He was going to watch it die..
.

Malachai had no right to claim the stag’s life as prize. Though weakened from her attempt to save Cedrik, she would not disappoint her
pafaa
. And that meant acting brave when you really felt small. The Breath sighed through Lia’s body and fresh strength took hold. She would give all she had. Lia bowed her head, whispering an ancient secret she didn’t realize she knew to a lonely wind. Malachai raised the dagger, then
slashed with savage fury.

Lia thrust her hands forward, pushing away at an invisible weight. A ripple of golden light erupted from her finger tips, shielding the wounded stag within a wrought dome of energy. Malachai tried to avert his strike but was too late. The dagger collided with the barrier, exploding into a
flurry of golden snow. The blast sent Malachai reeling, smashing a pair of stout trees to kindling.

A veil of silence smothered the forest. Lia stood motionless. She dared not move, lest Malachai recover and cut her down. The wounded stag struggled to its feet, nodded in gratitude and bound off for the deep woods.

A droning growl rumbled behind her.

Malachai’s crimson eyes narrowed to slits. Lia scrambled back, pressing into a tree. She turned her cheek, flinching, expecting the worst. The gauntlet’s plated fingers clinked as he seized sword from scabbard. He admired the wicked blade’s edge, scraping a thumb down its length, letting the vision settle into Lia’s heart. Her instincts screamed ‘run’, but her feet were stone weights. She silently pleaded with them but the glaring orbs locked her in place. She wanted to cry.

She wanted her
pafaa
.

The whisperer returned. “Be not afraid. He cannot harm you. I shall soon be by your side.” The soft words rang with the chiming notes of a lullaby. The voice was Lia’s only remaining shield.

Lia closed her eyes, clinging to the promise. Malachai closed the gap to a step... With a wild roar he summoned the emerald flame back to his trusted blade. The sword fell with all of the captain’s darkness driving it. Lia flinched.

The blade cleaved reality’s fabric, leaving a gooey purplish gash in the
air by her head. Malachai grabbed the frightened child and shoved her through the portal. Strange magic enveloped the frightened girl, twisting her into shadowy distortions. Her ears popped. The forest was not the forest anymore. The trees and the snow and the sun were all there. And so was Malachai. But everything was wrong. Flawed somehow. A nervousness crept over her skin.

“I think you’ll find your petty Breath has abandoned you here. In this place, I am King.” Malachai’s eyes no longer burned with crimson fury. The spectrum of the world was gone, drained away to drab greys.
The sky, the stream, her hands. Everything.

Lia stared at the stream, hoping the murk would wash away. She crashed in knee deep and began to scrub. She rubbed frantically at her hands to no avail. It took a moment, but she realized the water was as tepid as day old bath water despite winter’s touch. Malachai sheathed his weapon and strolled towards his mount like a nobleman on a pleasure walk. He cradled the dragon helm under an arm, revealing a face untwisted by the Liche Queen’s Wakeful Curse. He stretched his angled jaw and rubbed his eyes. He passed Lia by and to her surprise dropped to a knee in the stream.

Malachai tugged a spiked gauntlet free and splashed grey water onto his face. Smiling, he stripped away the second gauntlet and doused his newly restored black hair. He pushed it back and whistled through a mouth no longer twisted to a slit. Lia clenched her fists and wept into the
stream. She hated this place. It was unnatural, false. Its emptiness left her longing for a home she could never return to. Mostly, she hated Malachai for being able to enjoy such horrible oblivion.

Malachai offered a vindictive smirk. “Does the little abomination have something to say?”

Lia’s eyebrow twitched. Malachai’s voice was changed as well. Gone was the hollow Wakeful drone. In its place was the knavish voice of a common thug.

“I thought not.”

In the forgotten ether of the Gloom, a lost realm remembered by legend only, Malachai was safe. Sworn to secrecy by his Lord, Malachai could only pierce the Gloom’s veil as a last resort. Lia’s outburst had more than qualified.

Lia stomped out of the stream and flung herself to the ground. She picked at the rubbery stones by the brook’s edge. “I hate this place.” She whispered to the Breath, hoping for reply. None came. Malachai had been telling the truth...

The black rider continued his ritual cleanse, stripping away pieces of armor, massaging murky water onto his skin.

“Why? Why did you ruin everything? Why did you kill Cedrik?

Malachai ignored the question. He extravagantly splashed another armful of water onto his face, enjoying Lia’s torment.

Anger flushed Lia’s face. “Tell me!” She flung the biggest stone she
could find, striking between Malachai’s shoulders. The petty stone bounced harmlessly from the plated armor, plunking into the muck. Malachai stood without turning and gave the only response worse than silence.

Laughter
.

Terrible, evil laughter that rolled over the smudged tree tops.

“Was that the old fool’s name?”

Lia screamed and charged
, certain Malachai’s smug face would find mud. Malachai spun away and Lia crashed face first into the water. Again came the laugh. This time louder. “Pitiful.”

Lia quickly scrambled to her feet, covered in grey sludge. She saw only red and charged again. Malachai casually side stepped. His sword flashed and slapped Lia across the rump. Malachai sheathed his weapon.

“Finished?”

Lia puffed an exasperated sigh and wiped away the disgusting sludge. The muted tones of the forest snickered, cheering Malachai’s victory. “This is a secret place, little abomination,” Malachai chided, “Few living beings know of it.” He pinched Lia under the chin.

“And no one of this world knows of its entrance.”

His words punched savagely at Lia’s resolve. Had it not been for the whisperer’s assurances she would have collapsed, resigned to her fate. Instead, her posture softened as she took comfort in the promise.

Malachai released the child’s face and grabbed the horse’s reigns,
quickly taking to saddle. “We ride for the Nekropolis. Home of my Queen, mistress of Blight.” Malachai scooped Lia onto the saddle. He leaned down, brushing his helmet’s jaw against Lia’s ear.

“Your new home, little abomination.”

Chapter 12

The Great Road stretched for thousands of miles across the sprawling continent. Its cobbled stonework, once renowned for masterfully crafted intricacies, was now little more than a broken trail of crumbling gravel. In Queen Adella’s
absence the realm’s magnificent works had fallen to disrepair. The once proud highway fared worst of all, remembered only by the rogues who plundered it.

The stones blurred into streaking slates as the Beast ran. Malachai’s lead was substantial, but the Beast was confident he would catch him by nightfall. The road reeked of the Wakeful’s evil and left a trail fit for the most inexperienced ranger. The Beast felt it simmering in his breast like a shadowy twin pulse, beating alongside his own. He slowed to a trot. The trail’s pulse intensified to
a fervor. Silence reigned, forcing bird and beast into hiding, trapped by Malachai’s echo. The Beast’s ears perked and he readied for the inevitable ambush. A jumble of foot prints danced beside a stream ten paces ahead.

The Beast studied the tracks, mentally measuring spacing and depth. Tracking and stalking were traits acquired of necessity in his lonely world. One could not survive relying on the charity of a world fearful of appearances. Hunger was an unrelenting demon that had forced selection of a number of regrettable paths, the last of which provided fodder for nightmares of chain. The Beast dropped to all fours, sniffing at the prints.
A large impression marked the trail’s origin.
Deeper than the others
.
Someone small, dumped from a mount
.

The smaller prints scampered to the pebbled stream that listlessly carved the forest floor. The tracks did not reappear at the other side.
She ran to the stream but did not cross. Thirst... not escape
.

The puzzle pieces were falling into place. The Beast regarded the large trampled mess of snow and mud.
The stallion
. The trail’s pulse bounded and began to thump in his temples. Two sets of foot prints, one large, the other child-like, trekked side-by-side into the woods away from the stream.
Why would both enter the woods?
The Beast followed, brushing aside frozen branches. Sunlight broke through, shining a golden invitation into a clearing. The Beast’s skin crawled the closer he neared it.

Something terrible happened here
...

The meadow lived in a circular patch guarded by a copse of ancient trees. Angular branches saluted the sun in perpetual reverence, offering praise throughout the day. Drifts of
snow,
weary and wind beaten, rested peacefully at the feet of their rooted guardians. Their slumber glistened undisturbed, but offered no advice. The Beast shuddered that such perfect serenity had been tainted by Malachai’s violence. He abandoned the tracks and searched through nearby thickets, hoping for another bread crumb.

The sullen hunter resumed the original trail and paced back to the road. His nerves flared. Only one set of tracks returned.
Malachai’s
. Had Malachai done the unspeakable?

A sudden bolt of brown fur erupted from a nearby drift, nearly bowling the Beast over. A stag baring a brace of mighty antlers stared up at the other horned visitor to the meadow. A scar at its throat indicated a grievous wound. The Beast made several skittish attempts to pass the bold animal, but was each time countered its magnificent crown. Annoyed, he finally gave in to the stubborn request for audience.

He growled, certain his tone would drive the stag off. “I’ve no time for your foolish games.”

The stag paid the Beast’s command no mind and started sniffing around the larger footprints. Its eyes sparkled and, like a flash of lightning, it charged though the meadow, interrupting the peaceful snow drifts. Finally understanding, the Beast followed suit, tracking the snap of twigs. He found his guide frantically nipping the bark of a withered tree. The decrepit pine was unique among the ring of wooden guardians. It was darkened and hollow, dying in the presence of its brothers. The Beast gratefully
pet the stag’s head and then gently brushed him aside. A twisted crossbow quarrel was buried deep in the decaying tree’s side. An oily liquid dripped from the fletching and sizzled through the snow.

Poison
.

The Beast rested a paw on the tree trunk. Agony swept through his arm as the
tree silently plead for him to remove the insidious thorn. He grabbed the quarrel and yanked it free. The Beast snarled at the despicable missile. What manner of coward poisoned his weapons? Malachai had shot the stag, that much was clear. But how had it survived the poison? A creeping suspicion came over him, followed by a wry smile. Lia was alive and had most likely intervened on the stag’s behalf. The Beast felt an unlikely surge of pride in the young girl. If she had found the courage to resist, he would champion her freedom.

But the trail had gone cold, died by the clearing.

The Beast haphazardly kicked a tree stump. Wet snow plopped to the ground. He kicked the stump a second time, feeling the familiar flame of rage rising. He kicked again and again, mood festering into full blown hatred. Razor sharp claws dug into wood. The Beast roared and flung the stump high over the tree tops. A strong urge to slip into the shield of trees ebbed through his veins, replacing the rage. He focused intently on his breathing, slowing the rise and fall of his chest until he needed little breath at all. His focus tightened further until it cheated the earth’s pull on his massive frame and he was moving between the trees as light on his feet as a wraith. It was an old technique, mentored by a stealthy former accomplice.

The Beast tread no particular path, leaving the clearing and cold trail behind him. The forest’s even grade rolled beneath his paws, steepening a mile later into a robust climb. He left no trace, made no sound. Each stride coaxed tension free until the fury was no more.

A sharp metallic clang, followed by a pitiful yelp echoed through the forest. The Beast rushed up the next hill in great bounds, hoping to find
Malachai. Sounds of drunken men chased the clang, dimming his hopes of confronting the black rider. It seemed that would be a meeting for another day. The Beast stood still as a stone totem on the hill’s peak, flanked by a canvas of snowy pines. Below, a wolf, no more than a pup, tried in vain to free itself from the iron jaws of a hunter’s trap. The Beast was no shaman but was quick to judge the grave injury. A spatter of scarlet blood stained the snow, ruining the field of perfect ivory. A spatter, fast spreading into a puddle...

The boisterous laughter grew louder. Taunts and promises of torture replaced the drunken revelry. The wolf-pup quaked, straining against the trap, as if its wild ears had somehow translated the threats. The Beast singled out a familiar voice from the crowd.