The Fabled Beast of Elddon Page 4

  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.

  “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.

  Chapter 5

  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.

  He stood, shaking all over. He ran a hand through his thick hair and took a long, steadying breath, letting it out slowly. The guards slept on, dreaming their sodden dreams.

  “The ladder!” Ander’s voice, low and urgent, came to him from below. “Get the damned ladder!”

  Tristan moved cautiously forward. The ladder was on the floor, leaning against the wall, just out of reach of the two sleeping guards. Tristan paused, only feet away from the two men and took hold o
f the ladder, lifting it. The wood was heavy in his hands and the length of it made the ladder unwieldy. Tristan took a couple steps back, and swung it around, watching one end and narrowly missing knocking the other against the heads of the sleepers. He staggered forward, managed to slip the end of the ladder into the opening, and shoved it down.

  The shifting weight of the ladder as it slid down through the hole pulled Tristan off balance. He gave a small yelp as the wrung came loose from his sweat-slickened hand and clattered along the metal, striking the floor below with a thump.

  Tristan started forward. It appeared the ladder had ended up in roughly the right position, albeit slightly askew.

  “Oy, what’s all this,” he heard a sleep-roughened voice behind him. Tristan turned to see one of the two guardsmen rising. The man’s eyes were unfocused, befuddled by slumber and drink, but the realization that at least one of the prisoners he was supposed to be guarding was out slowly seeped into the man’s dull brain.

  The guard staggered toward him, shaking off the torpor from which he had just emerged. Tristan had enough sense to dodge to one side, avoiding the man’s grasp, but only for a moment. He looked wildly around, searching for some weapon. His eyes located a collection of tongs, knives, and hammers, neatly arranged on a far wall. He made for them, but had only taken a couple steps before a meaty hand closed on the back of his tunic and pulled him away.

  A fist like a sledgehammer smashed into his belly and all the air went out of his lungs. Tristan staggered back as the guardsman bore him down. He landed on his back, half sprawled across the metal grate with the guard’s hands closing around his throat. Tristan struggled to free himself, but the man’s grip was iron. Tristan pushed a hand against the man’s stubbled chin, trying to force him away, while his other hand clawed at the man’s wrist. The guard squeezed and Tristan felt the world going dark. But then a booted foot collided with the guard’s skull, snapping his head sideways. The grip on Tristan’s neck was suddenly gone and he sucked in a greedy breath.