Beastly (11 page)

Vildar.

The Beast crashed down the hillside, grunting and snarling, dodging trees and a crag of icy boulders. He sprung from a downed log, soared through the air, landed in a tight roll,
then
towered over the wolf-pup. The frightened pup stared down its snout at the giant whose shadow blocked out the sun. It bared its teeth with as much menace as it could conjure and uttered a low growl though its fangs.

The Beast admired the fight in the youngling. “You have some fight in you yet. Good, you shall need it.” He regarded the pup with the look of shared pain, offered from a creature whose own life was once shackled. The young wolf read the pained expression. It lowered its head to the
blood stained snow, tired and whimpering. It licked at the Beast’s claws as he pried the trap open.

He tore a scrap from his cloak and carefully bound the wound.
“There now. Find your family. Keep them close.”

The wolf pup limped into a snowy copse of pines and disappeared. A bloody trickle marked a bright trail Vildar would have little trouble following. Adrenaline surged, infusing fury into his bulk. Iron screeched in rusted agony as he mangled the trap into a twisted sculpture of scrap metal.

The hunters required dealing with.

Vildar lead his band though the trees in an ale-inspired totter. The men reeked of the cheap drink and made no attempt to conceal their approach.

“Vildar!” The Beast hurled the twisted trap at Vildar’s bulbous head. The hunter ducked at the last second, narrowly avoiding the heavy projectile. The man behind him was not as fortunate. The trap smashed into his chest, bludgeoning his breath free. The gasping man went down in heap, his battle over before he knew it had begun.

Vildar slurred instruction to his equally inebriated henchmen. Two men fumbled for crossbows and fired wild shots as they staggered. The Beast stood his ground, allowing the quarrels to sail harmlessly by. He closed the gap in a frightening eye-blink, swatting the bowmen away with powerful backhands.

A hunter in a filthy brown cloak slashed at the Beast’s back, tearing
through cloak and fur. The Beast stomped around and roared into the man’s face, shaking free the sword in his grasp. The terrified hunter fell to his rump and clawed at the snow, scrambling madly for escape. The Beast’s jaw clenched. “Coward.”

He seized the man by a handful of tunic, raising him a child’s height from the ground.
The Beast’s gaze locked with the hunter’s, delivering an eternal warning. He tossed the shaking rogue onto his disabled friends. Vildar clutched a throwing dagger, staring at the Beast’s unprotected flank.

“Don’t even consider it,” the Beast called over his shoulder.

Vildar dropped the dagger, turned and ran. He trudged through the snow, stumbled and fell. Warm fluid trickled down his leg. He swam through a drift and ran off into the woods. The Beast picked up Vildar’s shameful scent. His laugh rolled over the tree tops like angry thunder. “Run, you gutless puke!” the Beast roared triumphantly,
“ Run, for the Beast of Briarburn will forever be at your back!”

A calm fell over the forest and the Beast kicked at Vildar’s blade.
Right back where I started
. Out of habit, he reached for the medallion. A soft whisper called out to him. “She needs you now, more than ever.”

The Beast spun to the sound, crouching defensively. He panned around, considering every angle of attack. “Show yourself!” A frosty wind sifted through the tree line, carrying the whisper to his perked ears.

“He has taken her to Meridian...”

Chapter 13

Battle standards flapped with mounting excitement atop the Nekropolis’s shadowy spires. The tattered flags bore the Liche Queen’s sigil: a silver skull impaled by a trio of serrated blades. Where the Pierced Skull went, despair soon followed.

A dense palisade of petrified trees weaved into a perimeter wall that cast perpetual shadow onto the accursed grounds. Five towers snatched at the sky like a twisted, black hand fingering an invisible orb. The bitter wood creaked always, contorted by the painful designs of the castle’s mistress. It was
a blight upon the once living land it occupied. It was the Liche Queen’s most prized treasure.

The Liche Queen herself stood on the peak of the highest tower, surveying her domain. She waved her hand, dragging a patch of dark clouds in front of the sun, plunging the land into shadow. The milky swirl of her eyes relaxed. She disdained the light and all of its pitiful creation.

She had selected the location of the castle herself, inspired by the sprawling decay of the
petrified forest covering the country-side. So moved by the deathly spectre, she had summoned forth from the rock a fortress built in their image. The Nekropolis’s main gate faced west, in
firm defiance of the sunrise. A deep chasm stretched for miles into the horizon, offering protection beyond the formidable walls.

Spanning the gorge was a bridge renowned for inspiring as much fear as the twisted walls of the castle itself. The dracoliche’s skeletal tail provided the precarious passage and was wide enough for five men to take at once. The dreadful beast’s carcass reared at an unseen foe, guarding the castle’s gate. The mighty bones of its wings were tucked in close to its tail and stretched nearly to chasm’s opposite side. The Liche Queen glided from her tower perch, descending to a seat upon the dracoliche’s shoulder. She caressed the skeletal shoulder with a slender alabaster finger.

“Keep watch for me, my love.”

The Liche Queen conjured an image of her throne room and disappeared into a flash of black light. She arrived in the cavernous hall smiling at the towering dais of polished skulls. At the dawn of her power, the dais was but a single layer of empty eyed bone. With each conquered kingdom the column enhanced itself, reaching upward to the vaulted ceiling. The morbid structure was of Her Majesty’s own design, an atrocity fashioned from the skulls of slaughtered mounts. It was a most enjoyable, postmortem swipe at her mother’s memory.

A pool of water, serene as a mirror’s surface, dominated the room’s heart. Braziers clinging to six petrified oaks painted Wakeful flame onto the still water, giving it an eerie emerald glow.

Her heels clicked hard on the stone floor as she circled the pool. Ten paces from the dais, a staircase of skulls mirroring the grisly column erupted from the floor. The Liche Queen took the steps two at time, skulls exploding into dust behind her. At the peak of the skull stairs, she whipped free the black cloak at her shoulders and claimed the newly materialized throne of skull and bone.

All round her, the halls of the Nekropolis brimmed feverish. Rumors passed freely among the slaves that Malachai had found ’
her’
. Scouts returning on weary mounts provided fiery confirmation of Sensheeri’s fall. But she would hear the news from her favorite. She would hear it from Malachai. That she was unable to reach Malachai’s mind through the Wakeful curse was a manor of small concern.
Perhaps the little wretch was that powerful?
No matter. There were other ways...

“Bring me the Echo.”

Two giant hooks descended from the darkened ceiling on chains thick as a giant’s forearms and splashed into the water, shattering the calm surface. A moment later a muffled clunk
and more
ratcheting sounds. The hooks re-appeared carrying a ring of roiling magma, a wagon’s length across. Steam hissed from the enchanted artifact as it became fully exposed to the cool air.

“Malachai, my most favored. Heed your Queen’s call.”

The ring of molten rock brightened, illuminating the hidden corners of throne room, revealing a number of hidden Wakeful guards. The Echo
reached across the void of space and time voicing the Liche Queen’s call. Malachai’s visage appeared in the circle soon after, painted in the same rolling volcanic shades. His fiery silhouette stepped down from the Echo, walking onto the pool’s boiling surface. Malachai’s image genuflected and steam sizzled from his knee. “What is thy bidding, Highness?”

“You disappoint me, Captain,” the Liche Queen said, “Was I not clear on my orders? Were you not to contact me the instant you had the girl?”

Despite the great distance separating them, a shiver climbed Malachai’s spine. “Highness, I have the abomination in my presence as you’ve commanded. There were... complications.” He bowed meekly, hoping to soften whatever blow came next.

She brushed a raven colored lock from her lips and smiled.
“Complications?”

The fiery silhouette softened, relieved by the smile. Malachai started to explain. The Liche Queen was on her feet in a second, running down the staircase of skulls. She seized Malachai’s blazing image by the throat, impervious to the scorching heat. “Complications like burning one of my villages to the ground? Fool! You may be Captain, but I am Queen!
Queen
, Malachai! Do you understand? Or has that Wakeful brain of yours rotted to nothing?”

Across the void, she knew Malachai’s lungs burned as she tightened her grasp on the illusion’s throat.

“Your majesty is unquestioned, Highness,” Malachai’s illusion gurgled,
“I thought only to honor you by destroying the coven of heathens.”

Won over by the expected flattery, the Liche Queen released her grasp. “You will bring the girl to me, Captain. You will not delay. You will not assume. You will do as commanded.”

“Of course,
your Highness,” Malachai muttered. “Always as commanded.”

The silhouette retreated back into the Echo, massaging its throat.

“And Captain... You are being followed.”

Pandora waved her hand, severing the mystical connection. The Echo went cold and fell from the hooks, crashing into the depths. The water’s mirror-like surface rippled once and then was still. The walls cringed with mortal dread as the Liche Queen’s furious scream rattled the throne room. Blasted Malachai had once again overstepped his boundaries and required punishment. She would deal with him later; a fact he should count on. Still, that she had been unable to sense the petulant Captain’s whereabouts disturbed her. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the child after all?
Had he found a way to obscure the tie? A place to hide?

The twisted branches of the floor circled up and encapsulated the seething Queen. The chamber’s large branches spiraled away, allowing her descending passage into the heart of the dark castle.
The Hollow.

Pandora dismissed the branch-lift with a wave. The cradle separated into singular pieces and rejoined the chaotic tangle of the wall. From floor to ceiling, a sophisticated layout of breakneck walkways and narrow
tunnels crisscrossed the Hollow. The armory, barracks, throne room, and even her private chambers were all within reach. She threw open the heavy door to her War Room, smashing it into an unfortunate goblin slave. The frail creature, who looked on the brink of starvation, tumbled head first into a shelf, dumping stacks of parchments and dusty tomes to the floor. The goblin picked itself up, eyes bulging, certain its life was to be gruesomely interrupted.

The Liche Queen said nothing and walked by the trembling slave without
so much as a customary backhand. She stepped over the scattered mess, taking a place by General Thraal’s side at a monstrous triangular table. The goblin sighed all the relief it dared and began returning the shelf’s contents.

“Out.”

Slaves and minor members of the War Council hastily filed out. Few spoke, none established eye contact. All knew the penalty for dawdling. The clumsy goblin was the last in line. Until the Liche Queen commanded the contrary, freezing the creature in place. The goblin’s knobby knees knocked, echoing the chatter of its teeth. The Liche Queen sliced at her throat with a pale bony finger. She regarded the doomed creature with a mask of stone as a thin, oily line seeped free of his scrawny throat. She blew a kiss...

Its head tumbled free.

The goblin’s eyes bulged as his head bounced, smearing blood onto
the fallen parchments. Its body twitched once and slumped to the floor. A coil of branches peeled away from the floor, wrapping around the corpse like the tentacles of a squid, claiming the carcass for the Nekropolis. The Liche Queen turned to her top advisor and the strange artifact recently delivered on the table.

She beamed like an excited child. “Now, where were we?”

Thraal drummed his fingers on the table’s edge, pounding like miniature hammers. The grizzled veteran cut an imposing figure at over six feet tall. Dressed in casual garb, evidence of a lean body hardened by decades of combat and discipline were abundant. Thraal’s dark hair was touched with gray and cropped close to the scalp. Two ghostly scars carved jagged ravines up from his throat clutching at his temple. Thraal gestured to the strange object centering the table. “Your Highness, our scouts bring word of triumph.”

Two twisted dowels of petrified wood were secured to a simple base, an arm’s length apart. A simple spiral of spider’s web connecting the dowels swayed on a cold draft.

“Show her majesty,” Thraal said.

On command, a nightmarish horde of tiny spiders crept up from between the floor’s spaces. They scaled the table’s legs and swarmed the cobweb. Immediately they went to work, crisscrossing, jumping,
spinning thousands of silk threads. A moment’s worth of feverish effort passed. The spiders disappeared back into the dark gaps, leaving the Liche Queen astonished.

Try though she may, she could not help but to be impressed. A corner of her mouth curled. “Remind me to thank Arak’Jai.”