Winter's King

by Bryce O'Connor

  “HELP!” he screeched. “HELP! DAHGÜN! DAH—!”

  His last cry was cut off though, as the night seemed to bend out of itself behind him, slamming the Goatman to the ground. The man screamed in terror as whatever it was dragged him backwards, back into the dark, his arms scrabbling at the snow as he vanished once more into the night.

  There was a terrible tearing sound of ripping flesh, and the world stilled once again.

  Bjen stood frozen, riveted by what he had just seen. It had all happened so fast, so suddenly, that he hadn’t so much as had time to tell his archers to draw.

  And the man had said “dahgün”…

  Bjen al’Hayrd was not a superstitious man. He suspected, in fact, that this was one of the reasons Kareth Grahst had selected him to command the new sentries along the foot of the pass. He hadn’t believed a word that the tortured men had screamed about a dragon appearing as though by magic from the trees, tricking them and decimating their ranks. He had seen the aftermath, seen the charred armor of the bodies that had been carted from the steps, but had chalked it up to the profane powers of the Priests and their false god.

  And yet now, while the night held its silence as though intent on swallowing the screams of horror and pain that had just shattered its peace, Bjen al’Hayrd found himself doubting.

  And it only made him angry.

  “Where are you?” he growled, scanning the edge of the light, beyond which the unfortunate Goatman had just been dragged. “Where are you, you conjured bastard?”

  This time, nothing responded.

  Nothing, that is, until a warrior at the left-most edge of their wall howled in fear and agony.

  Bjen and his men whirled only in time to see a shadow that seemed to have come from behind blow past in a blur of silver and black, impossibly fast despite the snow. The Velkrin who had screamed was on the ground, clutching at his left side where a massive, gashing wound seemed to have suddenly appeared, cleaving him half in two. He didn’t take long to die, but even as Bjen and the rest of his sentries watched the man still, there was the wrenching sound of cleaved flesh, and a thump.

  All turned once more to see the massive shadow careen past them yet again, from the opposite direction this time, disappearing into the dark beyond the fires before Vahlen’s head had stopped rolling, the Amreht’s body tumbling at their feet in their midst.

  Bjen wouldn’t have had a chance of keeping his sentries in line if he had been the Kayle himself.

  It was instant chaos, the men howling about “THE DRAGON!” and “DEMONS!” as they scattered and spun, turning this way and that, attempting to guess where the thing would come from next. Bjen kept his head, but couldn’t do more than bellow for order, attempting to shove the nearest men back into some sort of formation.

  In the time it took him to gather even a small group of three about himself, the shadow struck thrice more.

  Bjen watched in horrified fascination as his men fell around him, victim to some great blade he only caught glimpses of as flashes of steel and white wood. Again and again the creature struck, hurtling in and out of the firelight, claiming blood every time. The camp was pure bedlam, the attacks only slowing down when a few of the survivors chose to make mad dashes south through the dark, hoping to reach the safety of the front line beneath the trees.

  None of them had disappeared into the night for more than five seconds before Bjen heard them die.

  Slowly, though no one gave the command, Bjen and his three warriors began to back up the mountain pass, tripping and stumbling as the heels of their boots caught the hidden lips of the steps beneath the snow. They continued to watch, in disbelief, as the twenty men Bjen had started with became ten, then nine, then eight…

  By the time only the four of them were left, they were some twenty steps up the pass, approaching the first curve in the stairs.

  For a long while, nothing happened. The world was quiet, the brutal scene below illuminated in the warm orange glow of the fires still flickering around the ring of cleared snow. Bodies lay scattered, almost ten in all, only a few of them whole. Blood painted the earth and stone like a mad canvas, accenting everything in curved streaks of splattered red. A few of the men were still alive, one or two of them moaning and shaking as they died, another delirious in his pain, pulling himself along on his side as he laughed maniacally, crawling towards the better part of his left arm cast some dozen feet away along the base of the steps.

  It was he who drew the shadow from the dark.

  As the dying man drew nearer to his lost limb, the fabric of the night seemed to bend inward once more along its southern edge, directly across the firelight from Bjen and his survivors. A part of the black itself broke away from its mother, a massive, winged silhouette that made easy work of the snow on long, powerful legs. In one hand it held a straight sword of some queer kind, and in the other it hefted the most terrifying weapon Bjen had ever seen. It was a great, beautifully-crafted spear, with forked blades, a white handle wrapped with dark leather, and a cruel, pointed tip on its balancing end.

  The four of them stopped abruptly at the creature’s appearance, watching it move. Bjen took in the beast as it made its way slowly across the ring, calm and graceful despite its massive frame. As it moved the shadows twisted around it, splintering when it passed into the fires until six mirroring silhouettes reflected its every step, cast against the mountainside around them.

  When it reached the dying man, who had finally managed to get within reach of his severed left arm, it paused. For a moment it waited, like some terrible raptor studying its prey, watching the laughing man grab his limb and roll onto his back, struggling to reattach the arm to the stump below his left shoulder.

  Then, with the speed of a lightning strike, the great spear whipped skyward, then down, falling like an executioner’s ax to take the man just below the chest.

  Both halves of him were finally still when the beast stood straight again, gleaming eyes looking up the stairs, towards Bjen and his three feeble warriors.

  Bjen heard one of the warriors to his left begin a death prayer.

  He watched, as though in some horrible dream, as the beast stepped over the two parts of his most recent kill, making for the stairs. It took the bottom step slowly, then the second, then the third, climbing upwards with a quiet confidence that was more terrifying than anything Bjen had yet seen. One man lost his head completely, dropping his sword and turning to run, tripping and scrambling up the path as he tried to escape the inescapable. The other two were made of sterner stuff, but their war cries were still shrill with terror as they charged, one lifting a massive two-headed ax over his head, the other a sword and shield. Together they made for the creature, and Bjen saw his only chance. Lifting both axes, he bellowed his own roar of defiance as he plowed forward, intent on taking the monster down. It might have been a danger in the darkness of the night, but in the light of the fires no man had a prayer of surviving a three-on-one engagement with the weathered champions of the mountain tribes.

  But the thing, it turned out, was no man at all.

  The first of Bjen’s survivors went down in a blink, the beast sidestepping the great overhead swing of the man’s ax casually, as though he were politely moving aside to let the man pass. As the weapon completed its arc, the strange sword came around in a blinding horizontally slash, severing head from shoulders. The dance wasn’t done, though, as the creature used the momentum of the strike to complete a spinning turn, lifting the great spear up as it did.

  The second man didn’t even have time to correct his shield placement before the heavy twin blades crashed into his side, cutting through his arm and into his chest, carrying through to slam him against the uneven stone along the side of the stairs.

  It happened so fast, Bjen didn’t have time to rethink his charge. As it was, though, even seeing his men snuffed out before him like candles pit against an ocean wave didn’t shake the resolve of a trueborn Kregoan warrior. Bjen roared again, his cry st
ronger now as he embraced death, seeking only glory for himself and his Gods at his end.

  Mercifully, the end came quickly.

  Bjen barely glimpsed the blow that pierced his heart. All he knew was that whereas in one instant the winged specter was before him, weapons held lazily to either side, in the next it was beside him. In the same moment Bjen felt a searing, numbing pain through his chest, and his breath choked in his throat. As his axes fell from his hands, fingers going limp with the shock of the feeling, he took in the beauty of the craftsmanship of the hilt sticking out of his chest, the care that had been put into the weapon. He lifted his head, finding himself face to face with the sleek reptilian maw of the beast, and he looked into its dead, golden eyes for a moment, witnessing the animal behind them.

  Then the blade was retracted, and Bjen fell forward down the stairs, tumbling along the steps, numb to the pain as his body died. He landed on his back, looking up the mountain face, and had only one last notion as he watched the creature continue to ascend the pass, hunting the last survivor.

  Dahgün, Bjen al’Hayrd thought, just before the Stone Gods came and lifted him to their halls of laughter and plenty.

  XXXVIII

  “I don’t know if the beast ever came back in truth, after that night. I believe that Syrah calmed the animal in Raz, that she managed to soothe the fire that had burned within him for so long. He will always be a killer, I think. It’s in his blood, in his nature. He is made to fight, made to protect. But I think that was the night Raz i’Syul rid himself of what little of the Monster was left in him…”

  —PRIVATE JOURNAL OF CARRO AL’DOR

  NOT HERE.

  It was the first echo of conscious thought Raz had had in hours, but he didn’t fight to regain control. He needed the Monster, right now. He needed the cruelty, needed the hunger. It was the wakened beast—usually curled up and asleep within him—that had so effectively cleared the mountain pass. It was the beast that had hunted the sentries down to the last, keeping their cries short and their deaths quick.

  And it was the beast that had brought him to this place, drawing forth memories he didn’t know he’d kept.

  Raz sat crouched on the balls of his feet in the low overhang of a thin tent. All around him small boxes with provisions and baskets of wool and cotton were piled high, pushing out the cloth canopy and widening the space.

  Things they use, he thought, not blinking as he stared down at the piled, dirty furs at his feet. She was kept among the things they use.

  And she was here, or at least had been. Raz was sure of it now. He hadn’t doubted in the true sense of the word, hadn’t strayed from the belief that Syrah was alive, but he had wondered. He had wondered in the way a man of faith wonders at times, given no tangible proof of the existence of his gods.

  But now, Raz was certain. He could smell her, could taste her presence in the air, heavy and recent. He hadn’t known that he remembered what the woman smelled like until he’d gotten nearer to the tent, hadn’t thought that he could recognize her in such a way. He’d prayed to the Moon and Sun that she would be where he’d left her, and hadn’t given more than a moment to the fear that she might not be.

  Now I know, though, he thought, lifting his snout to taste the air. Now I can find you.

  There were a hundred scents and flavors to the room, few amongst them pleasant. Raz’s eyes dropped again to the short chains, shackled to the center post of the tent. The woman seemed to have been secluded to the space, allowed reprieve only to relieve herself, though not always. Instead of revulsion, though, Raz felt only rising, unbridled hate begin to build again, the conditions in which Syrah Brahnt had been kept feeding the wrath within him like tinder to a ravenous flame. He battled it back, though, closing his eyes and fighting to find the scent once more through the confusion that assaulted his senses. It took him a moment, but once he latched onto it Raz knew he would never forget it again. It was a clear, calm redolence, bringing to mind wind and dusk and living greenery.

  It was the scent of the Garin at sunset, the sands of the desert lake, when a cool breeze would blow waves across the still waters and tease the leaves of shaded palm groves swaying along its shores.

  Syrah…

  Raz opened his eyes again. He found himself—having not moved his head—staring once more at the cold iron of the chains, limp on the ragged fur blankets she had left behind.

  This time, he allowed the fire within to gain a little bit of a foothold, knowing he would need it soon.

  Turning away from the space Syrah Brahnt had been kept prisoner for the last two weeks, Raz crept over and peered between the entrance flaps of the tent, taking in everything he could see. When nothing moved among the trees in his view he slipped outside once again, standing up and allowing the animal to move his head this way and that, tasting the air.

  Within seconds, it had the scent.

  Silent as a whisper, Raz moved west towards the glow and noise of the camp. He kept to the trees, darting from shadow to shadow and trunk to trunk, Ahna’s gleaming blades held low and clear of the light. Before long the dull thrum of several hundred men became a true roar of noise to his ears, and the animal started being more cautious, peeking out from behind cover before moving.

  When he reached the edge of the camp, he stopped, and cursed.

  Syrah’s trail led right into the lines of two hundred some-odd tents, staked out wherever there was space among the trees.

  Without hesitating Raz moved north, around the camp, dashing through the underbrush. He saw men as he moved—though he made sure they didn’t see him—patrolling about in pairs and trios. Despite the later hour it seemed most of the Kayle’s warriors were still awake and active, and Raz cursed again, wondering if he might have been able to brave slinking through the tents if more had been asleep. He blamed the Arocklen for it, blamed the ice and piled snow overhead that had made it hard even for Talo and Carro to sometimes tell the difference between night and day as they’d steadily made for the Citadel.

  Fighting back the fear that he wouldn’t be able to get to Syrah before the massacre at the base of the path was discovered, Raz kept moving.

  For a long time he made a wide circle west among the trees, keeping to what darkness he could find and pausing when he needed to. Three times Raz was almost caught, twice by camp patrols whose eyes he managed to avoid only at the last second, and once by a large man with red paint across his face that had been off among the Woods, relieving himself against a tree.

  This one Raz had killed, coming up behind him and crushing his forehead against the trunk for no other reason than to relieve a little of the anger that was threatening to pour out of him every time he allowed himself to dwell on where Syrah might be.

  It seemed, however, that the Moon was not finished in blessing him this night. About five minutes into circling the camp, Raz stopped dead, flattening himself against the tall roots of a great fir as the animal found what he was seeking. The scent of the desert shores caught him almost off guard, and he slowly eased himself down onto all fours to sniff at the ground. It was another fifteen seconds or so of scrounging around, backtracking and searching the snowy brush, before Raz found what he was after.

  A trail—strong and no more than a few hours old—pulling him further west than the tents, back into the trees.

  The woman had been dragged through the camp, then out the other side and into the Woods. Raz didn’t allow himself to wonder as to what reason there might be for this odd occurrence, but he moved with all haste as he ran, faster and faster as he got further and further away from the dangerous light of the cooking fires.

  With Syrah’s scent, after all, had come the reek of at least a half-dozen men.

  He didn’t have to run long. Soon after, Raz found himself breaking through the greater body of the forest and sprinting out into a semi-open space, a wide, natural clearing crafted by the Sun-choking branches of the most massive tree Raz had ever seen. Even with only the dull light of the Moon
coming through the canopy, he couldn’t help but pause and stare up at the monolith, following the dark outline of its trunk up and up and up into the spidery branches far above.

  But the Monster growled within, unimpressed by the scene, and took hold once more.

  Her scent led Raz forward, over the frozen ground and dead leaves, directly up to the tree, where it was suddenly much stronger. Raz sniffed around the base, assuming she’d been kept there, among the roots for a time, though again he couldn’t guess to what purpose. He followed the trail sideways, staying close to the ground, wincing as he came across the scattered hints of iron in the smell of moss and loam.

  She’d been hauled over the ground, skin to frozen earth, without a care as to what it did to her body.

  For a few seconds he continued in this fashion, paralleling the steep banks of a stream to the right. Eventually he overshot the trail, losing the scent and having to backtrack several steps before finding it again.

  As he did, something caught his sharp eye, pale and distinct even in the dim Moonlight. Raz paused and knelt down, resting Ahna’s point in the earth as he reached with his free hand to pluck something from the ground, lifting it close to his face.

  There, pinched delicately between the steel tips of his thumb and forefinger, was a single strand of fine, ash-white hair.

  Found you, Raz thought, lifting his eyes as the scent dragged his attention eastward once more, their amber glare settling wrathfully on a pocket of firelight that seemed separate from the rest of the camp, removed from the common foot soldiers.

  Pulling himself slowly to his feet, Raz let the strand of hair fall from his hand.

  By the time it came to rest among the dead, frost-tipped leaves, the Monster was no more than a deadly flicker among the trees, moving in the direction of the light.