In The Shadow Of The Beast (33 page)

The knight recognized his disadvantage and
in a move that was as much battle instinct as it was any conscious
skill, he leveled the odds in the time it takes for a swift sword
stroke to sever a head. As Sigourd was about to ride his prey down
and run him through, Huron dodged the headlong charge, sidestepping
into a body spin that put his full weight and momentum behind an
axe swing straight from the bowels of the underworld.

Carving an arc through the acrid air, the
mighty war axe bit deeply into the thickly muscled neck of
Sigourd’s mount, cleaving through flesh and bone as if it were
little more than a whisper of gossamer. That tremendous blade
stroke took the animals head clean off in an explosive geyser of
crimson that spattered the face and chest armor of the knight.

Bereft of a head, the unfortunate animal’s
body tottered for a few gruesome moments as that torso struggled to
fathom the horrific damage wrought upon it. Then it simply
crumpled, taking Sigourd down with it.

Huron took a moment to spit upon the ground,
before taking the few steps over to where the headless animal lay
draped heavily over the struggling Sigourd, who was now pinned
beneath its ample weight.

The young lord of Corrinth Vardis looked up
into the black eyes of the nightmare knight, and inwardly, Sigourd
readied himself for the death blow that was surely coming. He
closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer to his gods. But the
axe never fell.

From high above, there was a great
thundering roar as one of the mighty reds crashed through the
canopy. It cannoned through the surrounding foliage, smashing
boughs and branches to kindling as it fell to the earth, itself a
flaming ruin.

That mighty tree collided with a cluster of
pods that lay within its path, shattering them like clay pots pole
axed by a length of lumber, and bringing further blazing ruin down
upon the forest floor. Trapped beneath the headless corpse of his
horse, Sigourd could do nothing but watch as that flaming wreckage
came crashing down about him.

Isolde ran through the inferno of some of
the lower level pods with Jonn Grumble hot on her heels. Behind
them was a squad of the Baratiis, chasing them on foot through the
smoke filled corridors.

The soldiers had been pushing through some
of the few ground level dwellings, and had chanced upon the pair as
they were descending from the structure above. Of course, they’d
given chase to Isolde and Jonn, who turned like hunted foxes and
scampered in the opposite direction, trying to loose the pursuit
amongst the carnage.

Swords and axes jostling amongst their
number, there were far too many of them for Jonn Grumble to handle
alone, and even if Isolde had joined him they’d have wound up on
the executioners block even if they did manage to avoid being run
through.

Jonn Grumble hadn’t had the luxury of
interrogating the girl further. She’d prattled on about how the lad
was ‘The one the prophecy had spoken of,’ or some such nonsense,
and had promised under pain of death that her people had no wish to
harm Sigourd, and that on the contrary they’d set the whole thing
up just to get him out here to this god forsaken place. Jonn
Grumble had quipped that a painful death was exactly what she’d be
in for if it turned out she was lying.

After that there hadn’t been much
opportunity to talk further. The soldiers had come bustling through
the smoke ahead of them and they’d been obliged to leg it.

A fine bloody mess this whole thing had
turned out to be. Jonn Grumble cursed himself for sticking with it
so far. The last thing he was up for was a slow death at the hands
of the brutes chasing him, or for that matter a quick death at the
hands of a rowdy bunch of half-wolves. He didn’t much fancy at all
the idea of the freaks sitting around after a long nights howling
at the moon, nattering about which tree was best for relieving
yourself against as they picked bits of him out of their teeth.

But Jonn Grumble was a man of his word. He’d
agreed to shepherd the lad for as long as it took to repay the debt
he owed Sigourd for saving his life. Besides which, he’d become
quite fond of the young lord. The lad was a little stiff when it
came to having a knock about and an ale or two, but he was good
people, and Jonn Grumble couldn’t have lived with himself if he’d
just walked away. Even despite what he’d seen that night in the
forest. He owed it to Sigourd and himself to stick around.

So he’d done just that. Jonn Grumble had
gone and found himself a cosy spot in the woods to hunker down .
He’d kept his head low and his eyes on the village in the hopes of
getting in to rescue Sigourd. He’d been out scaring up a little
light supper for his breakfast when he heard the first explosion,
and had returned in time to see the inhabitants being put under the
knife.

Isolde and Jonn reached the mouth of the
tunnel down which they were sprinting and dived into a clearing.
The very clearing which only the night before last had been the
sight of Sigourd’s transformation form human prince into howling
beast. Waiting around the edges of the clearing were a handful of
wulfen armed with bows and spears. Upon seeing Jonn Grumble, they
held up their weapons, ready to unleash death at the wild man. Jonn
came skidding to a halt before the tips of those spears.

It was Isolde who threw herself between Jonn
Grumble and the poised weapons of her brethren, urging them to hold
fire until the true threat emerged from the tunnel behind them.

As Isolde pulled Jonn out of the line of
fire, the squad of Baratiis came out of the tunnel mouth, and were
met with a barrage of spears and arrows that punctured and pierced
their bodies, driving them screaming to the ground.

But even those wulfen in the clearing were
soon on the back foot as more of the Baratiis, mounted upon their
armored steeds, emerged from the forest and fell upon them. They
carved bloody swathes through all that were driven before the
thundering hooves of their horses.

‘
We can’t stop,’ shouted
Isolde above the death throes of those in the clearing, ‘we must
find Sigourd.’

Jonn Grumble looked about at the pitched
battle that was taking place. The wulfen were making a valiant
effort of it, but in sort order they would be totally overrun.
Those that didn’t make for the cover of the forest would be
butchered where they stood and fought.

‘
We’re no good to him
dead,’ said Jonn Grumble, ‘we must find cover first, and if Sigourd
is here at all we’ll find him when the dust settles.’

Isolde cast about her, clearly unwilling to
leave either her people or Sigourd to an uncertain fate.

‘
If you’ve got a better
idea...’ said Jonn Grumble, his gruff voice resonant with
urgency.

Isolde hesitated for a moment longer, before
her better judgement decided the matter for her. She turned, and
with Jonn Grumble following, she made her way into the roiling
smoke that choked the forest.

Huron looked down at the smoldering wreckage
before him. He’d been obliged to dive for cover as the skies had
fallen, only narrowly escaping a similar fate to that of the young
prince Sigourd.

Somewhere under all of this wreckage, the
boy lay entombed. It was an ignoble end for someone whose heart was
so full of the valor which had given him madness enough to charge
the nightmare knight. Ordinarily a suicidal maneuver for any
man.

Huron felt something twinge in his guts.
What was that strange sensation? Surely it wasn’t remorse? Guilt
even? Certainly, the knight had not wanted to fight Sigourd. His
hand had been forced and he’d done his level best to ensure that he
didn’t damage the boy. Perhaps it was apprehension at the prospect
of delivering the news of her sons demise to the Lady
Veronique.

Enough. Sliding his war axe into the sheath
at his back, Huron swung his great armored leg up over his dazed
mount. The animal was waiting patiently, if in somewhat subdued
character, under the skeletal cover of nearby dwellings that had
been blown wide during the initial blasts.

Huron wheeled his steed about, and bellowed
to his men, ‘Seventy Fifth! Our work here is done.’

With that the nightmare knight galloped from
the scene of the massacre, the Baratiis streaming from all corners
of the ruined village to follow in his wake.

CHAPTER 18

War host...

Oriflammes danced and fluttered in the
steady breeze. Their regal tones of claret and gold giving them the
appearance of hungry flames, trapped as if by a conjurers spell on
the ends of serried lances raised high above the created helms of
the assembled war host.

Over a thousand knights and footmen of The
Regent’s finest soldiery were assembled in the main courtyard of
the palace at Corrinth Vardis.

The terror of that hateful night when the
weapons stores had been reduced to a smoking ruin had dissipated
now. The only fires burning hereabouts were those brightly colored
pennants dancing in the stately wind, and the glimmer of the high
morning sun on the burnished armor of the warriors assembled
beneath it.

The Regent, mounted upon a white mare and
resplendent in his own ornate war plate, waited at the head of his
army. His aspect was dour, more so than his usual stoic demeanor
permitted. Lately, his brows were knit in a frown of perpetual
concern for his mood was as dark as the encroaching clouds that
threatened to steal the glorious sun from the sky.

The Regent mused that perhaps those dark
clouds, so conspicuous in an otherwise clear sky, might be a bad
omen. A portent of the bad things that would follow if he were to
see through the regrettable course of action he was set to
undertake.

Horix Fellhammer was not a man given to easy
superstition. But in times as conflicted as these, when the weight
of all his troubles bore down heavily upon him, even the most
taciturn of men might find himself questing for divine
inspiration.

Mortaron emerged from the press of soldiers,
and moved to stand before his liege lord, reaching up to stroke the
white mare. The creature snorted once, and turned her head from the
old baron. Seeing this, The Regent smiled to himself. He supposed
it must be true what they said about animals being able to sense
the shadows in men’s hearts.

‘
What news of my son,
Vincenzo?’ asked The Regent.

‘
There is none so far my
lord, ’ replied The Baron, ‘but do not let doubts assail
you.’

‘
Doubts,’ chuckled The
Regent without a trace of mirth, ‘I’m full of them.’

‘
Pursuing war with the
Morays is the only viable course of action my lord. It is
unfortunate, but it is also necessary.’

The Regent narrowed his eyes at the other
man, regarding him in a not wholly flattering light, ‘Your
eagerness for war might be the cause of some alarm for those that
did not know you better, Vincenzo.’

‘
But you do know me better
my lord. What is your estimation of the situation?’ asked
Mortaron.

The Regent looked about at the thousand plus
men and their beasts assembled for war, and felt the nag of
uncertainty at the edges of his reason once more, ‘My estimation is
that right or wrong, I pray history judges me with an even hand for
what I am about to undertake.’

With that, the lord of the realm of Atos
flicked his reigns, and spurred the mare beneath him into a trot.
With a sound like a wave crashing against a rocky shore, the war
host shouldered their weapons as one, and began to move off behind
their lord.

From a lancet window high above the
courtyard, Veronique looked down on the shimmering sea of moving
men and metals. As she watched, a single tear fell from her eye. In
that gesture was contained all of her sadness for the upheaval that
had passed and was yet to pass. There would, she thought to
herself, be many more tears to shed before events had run their
course.

All around him fires raged, blazing through
the gnarled and twisted trees of the old forest. The eyes in the
dark had fled when the fire came. Sigourd hadn’t witnessed their
mass exodus, or even how the fire started, but he knew that he was
all alone in the midst of the inferno.

In desperation he scanned the area for a
means of escape, looking for anything that might lend itself to his
survival. But all he saw was the wall of flame creeping closer.

High above, the blood red sky churned and
lurched, clouds that swirled in the fading light of the sky like
oil poured into water.

Below Sigourd, beyond the edge of the forest
which fell away to nothing, a black sea roiled furiously. It broke
itself unendingly upon the rocky shores, the thunderous sound
reverberating through Sigourd’s diaphragm in nauseating waves.

Above it all, a full moon, creamy and bright
it stared back at him through the gathering flames that overtopped
the tree line.

How was he back here, in this strange place?
Back in the nightmare dreamscape that was precursor to The Change.
He was trapped again in a feral dream with no means of escape.
Sigourd tried to steady his breathing, tried to calm his heart’s
thundering pace, but it was of little use. His heart beat as loudly
in his ears as did those crashing waves. It hammered out a staccato
rhythm in his chest so powerfully that he felt he was shuddering in
time with each thudding beat.

There came a crashing then. Not more waves,
throwing themselves carelessly against that rocky shore, but the
sound of the trees about him falling as their ancient bases were
consumed by the ravenous fire. Like dominoes the trees began to
cascade down around him, like frail old men whose hearts give out
moments before they topple to the ground clutching at their chests.
The trees were coming down around him so fast, so unnaturally fast.
One after another in quick succession, boom, boom, boom, in time
with his racing heart. Surely one of those giant trunks must
flatten him sooner or later. His luck would run out and he’d be
smashed into the earth. Mashed like overripe fruit. As he’d done in
all of his dreams lately, Sigourd began to run. Terror overtook him
and he ran for his life.