The Black Beast

by Nancy Springer

  Tirell and Frain broke through almost to the bridge. I believe they could have fought their way over and been gone if they had cared to leave the rest of us. But they set themselves to back and side in the midst of the press and fought foes at every hand. Frain fought splendidly. I was not born to the sword, myself—my people joke that I use it like a hammer—but I know a swordsman when I see one. Tirell was no swordsman, but more like a reaper at harvest. He had a great iron blade that bit into everything for a lance’s length around him. Boda screamed to escape him.

  The battle is all bits and pieces in my memory; they always are. We seemed to do well at first, but then it became harder. I remember Frain bearing a man down, then turning his sword and stunning the fellow with the hilt—it was Guron. Tirell shouted constantly, cursing Abas and all his adherents. Once he bellowed, “Fabron!” and lunged to my side; someone was coming at me from behind. The Boda had outflanked my end of the field and had us surrounded. Tirell and Frain positioned themselves by me, fighting off foes all around, and Tirell cracked out a curse that made me shudder, swore by the blood bird, his own dying soul.… Then the man I was facing screamed and fled. I almost did the same. The black beast had joined the battle.

  Not many of the Boda cared to withstand the force of jet-black, pawing hooves, a stabbing horn and vast, beating, thunderous wings. But even more than its power, I think, the sheer strangeness of the beast unnerved them. Another strange thing was happening as well: from time to time the river Elsans would reach out with a soft, uncanny grip and pull a man in. Six Boda were swept down the swift current, screaming, and the others fought desperately to get away from the brink. My men cheered and pressed them back.

  “The bridge!” Tirell roared.

  He leaped his horse onto the stones of the arch. Frain and I flanked his sides; there was no room for more than three abreast. The dozen or so men who held the bridge shrank back. They had been watching their comrades bleed for some little time by then, and that is enough to give anyone second thoughts. In the first rank stood an officer. He faced us pluckily and went over the stone railing with Tirell’s first blow. Two more went more painfully, and then the rest broke and ran, all nine of them, into Selt.

  Behind us, the battle was over. Shamarra joined us, picking her way down the hill on her white mare. “Well fought, Prince!” she called to Tirell, her eyes sparkling.

  “Were you meddling with the river?” Tirell demanded.

  “I have some small power over water,” she answered coyly.

  He snorted and turned away without a word. I set to gathering my men, and in a few moments I could have wept. Only a dozen were left, and some of those were too badly wounded to ride. Tirell stood checking his black horse and the black beast, running his hands over their limbs. Frain was sitting his horse rather stupidly, looking at Shamarra. But he shook himself out of his trance and came to me before I had to call him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked me.

  “Well enough.” I had taken a few cuts, but those of us who had been under the special protection of Tirell’s iron sword had gotten off lightly. Three of my men lay groaning. “Frain,” I asked, “can you help those fellows?”

  He knelt, took his iron dagger, and passed his hands across them. No human healer can return the hurt instantly to health, but everyone who watched could see how their pain lessened, their bleeding stopped, their hope and strength increased. My men glanced at each other in wonder. Two of them stood with hacked and useless arms. Frain touched them also, then turned to his brother. “Are you all right?” he called softly.

  “I am,” came the curt reply, “and the beast also. We had better be riding.”

  I left one man who was well with the five who were hurt, to catch horses for them and help them back to Ky-Nule. The other six prepared to come with us.

  “This is a paltry force, my prince,” I mourned.

  “No help for it,” Tirell said brusquely. “It would be well, perhaps, to slit the throats of these Boda. Some of them may yet live to trouble us.”

  “No!” said Frain sharply before anyone could move. He and his brother matched stares for a moment, and then Tirell turned away, expressionless.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let us ride.”

  We clattered across the blood-splattered stones of the bridge and into Selt. Shamarra went readily, not seeming to mind the gore, close behind the princes. The beast snorted at the bridge and then lunged across.

  We rode for the rest of that day and well into the night, constantly mindful of the nine Boda who were roaming somewhere about; we wondered if they would join with more. We knew we must make our way to Sethym’s court city of Gyotte as quickly and secretly as we could. I kept a watchful eye on Frain, for healing saps the innermost strength. He rode stubbornly, his eyes vague and glazed with weariness. By moonrise he was ready to fall from his horse. Though I did not like to speak before the men, I called to Tirell.

  “Have a care for Prince Frain, my lord. He is spent. We had better stop and let him rest.”

  “Healing is wearier work than battle,” came Shamarra’s clear voice across the night. “It is all giving, no taking of prizes.”

  Tirell did not reply to either of us. He merely got down from his own horse and got up behind Frain on his, taking the reins from his brother’s limp hands. I led the black, and we went on.

  “There’s one vow broken!” Shamarra cried happily, with her rippling laugh. “I thought you were never to mount any horse except a black!”

  “I may break more vows before I am done,” Tirell retorted grimly. “But in the night all horses are black, lady, and every queen a whore. Remember that.”

  We rode in silence. In the frosty light of a half moon I could see Frain’s head nod back to rest against his brother’s neck.

  In the morning Tirell went back to his black. For the next few days we all rode in a close group, for I did not have enough men to scout for us, and we breathed in fear of the Boda. Shamarra and the black beast no longer gamboled off to one side. I could see that Frain was tormented by the lady’s closeness. I worried about him, for he had not had enough rest to restore his strength, and I wondered if he could defend himself. But when he took leave of the van and dropped back to the rear of our little cavalcade I could not deny him, even if it had been my place to do so. He rode beside the black beast, and my men felt easier for his presence; the creature made them shudder.

  Gyotte is a hilltop fortress with two great painted eyes staring from its gates, ever watchful for approaching enemies. After three long days of riding we had it in sight, stare and all. The sun dipped low as we toiled up the stony road to the gates.

  The Boda came at us from behind, out of the shadow of trees and the glare of the opposing hill. We all swung around with startled shouts at the sound of their clattering charge. But they closed with us almost before we could draw weapons. The force of their attack was lessened by the slope, praise be, but Frain bore the brunt of it. He put up his sword and fought—if I had not seen him fight so splendidly a few days before, I would have said he fought well. The black beast interceded for him fiercely, and Tirell surged to his side, cursing and pushing my men out of his way. We were hard beset. It was a full troop of Boda, nearly a score, and they had us on three sides. Only the height of the cobbled road helped us withstand them. Tirell raged and foamed and fought like—like a very madman. But even so he had the sense to see that we must not be surrounded. The lady Shamarra had galloped the small distance to Gyotte and was pounding on the gates. We followed her, carefully retreating, fighting all the way, and set our backs to the wall with the lady in our midst. I fought with sweat and blood running into my eyes, and I could hear Tirell all the time, roaring and snarling like a great cat. I could not look for Frain. After a hazy time I began to realize that I might never see him again, and a squeezing fear turned my stomach against me. I felt old and doomed, and the Boda seemed as many as ever.

  I did not understand when Tirell shouted the
retreat. I had nowhere to retreat to, backed up against the wall of Gyotte. But then his long iron sword cleared away the foes that faced me and his hard hand propelled me toward the gates. The gates! Sethym had opened Gyotte to us, and a swarm of his retainers poured out; he wanted to make sure no Boda lived to bring Abas’s vengeance down on him.

  I found Frain within the courtyard, resting his head on his horse’s mane, deathly pale and making the red steed’s neck redder than it had any right to be. Shamarra stood beside him, and then she turned to me with real sorrow on her face; I am sure of it. Tirell had me by the elbow. The gates clanged behind him. We were safe. But I stood watching Frain bleed onto his horse, and I suppose I must have fainted.

  Chapter Four

  I awoke in a kind of sickchamber, much later. Frain was sitting beside me with his auburn hair curling over a bandage and his face still too pale for comfort beneath. Tears came to my eyes as I reached out to him.

  “By Aftalun, lad, I feared you were dead!”

  “It was close for all of us.” He took my hand absently. “Some did not live. Your men, I mean. They all died of wounds, within or without the walls. I could not help them.” He tried to speak collectedly, but pain tightened his face, and I loved him for it. Some kings spend soldiers like coin, but we had eaten and ridden with mine; they were comrades to us.

  “We only lived who were under the protection of Tirell’s long sword,” I murmured.

  With a slam of the door, Tirell strode in as if he had heard his name. One hand was bandaged, but otherwise he looked whole and as irascible as ever. “Get in bed!” he barked at Frain. “Blood of Eala, brother, he’ll mend without your help.”

  “No fear,” Frain replied. “I don’t have strength to lift a finger on his behalf.” He stayed where he was.

  “See that you don’t!” Tirell scoffed stormily. He turned to me. “My lord Fabron, if you are feeling well enough, would you please tell me: what manner of fool is this Sethym?”

  I had to smile. Sethym was rather a fool. He was a good neighbor for all that, though we skirmished from time to time just to keep our men mettlesome and ourselves respectful.

  “A ceremonious fool,” I said. “He lives for ritual. He cloisters his men before a battle, and he will not eat anything red—he says that is the food of the gods. He claims that a fate is laid on him that he may not eat the meat of a rabbit, lest he die. The sight of a white rabbit or a white bird would kill him. He scarcely ever goes out, for fear of seeing rabbits or omens. He devoutly worships the goddess, and he pays mighty tribute to the Sacred Kings.”

  “I thought so,” Tirell growled. “He and Shamarra are two of a kind. He has a sort of den here, a temple of the goddess, barred to men on pain of death. Maidens on the rugs, fancywork on the walls. She is housed there, looking down her long beak like a proper bird of prey. Sethym loves me because I am wearing a torque.” Tirell paced the room in quiet fury as he talked. “He would be delighted to see Abas slain, but he wants him to go to the altar. I had not thought to give that satisfaction to the priestesses.”

  “Have you thought,” Frain asked in a low voice, “that it may not be well to be a parricide? I cherish no fondness for the priestesses, but I believe their hands are better suited to such blood than yours.”

  Tirell snorted. “You have taken a blow on the head,” he retorted, not too harshly. “Get to bed, will you, so we will be able to ride within a few days! This Sethym makes my flesh crawl with his ghoulish hospitality. I believe he’s already envisioning me as altar meat in my turn!” He left the room as ungently as he had entered, slamming the door behind him. Frain winced, because his head hurt, I suppose, and sighed.

  “Sethym is not a bad king, for all that,” I said cautiously. “His many fears force him into worthy deeds that he hopes will earn him the smile of the goddess. And he makes a fine war leader. His men follow him with awe. They think he is touched by the wing of Morrghu because he is so—strange.”

  “A fitting comrade for Tirell,” Frain muttered, lying gingerly down on his bed, which stood not far from mine. “Yet madmen can’t agree, it seems. How could he liken Shamarra to a bird of prey?”

  I gave no answer, since he expected none. I suppose I have not said in so many words that Frain was in love with the lady. He had not told me so, but I had eyes to see, and he often looked at her with his heart in his face. At mealtimes he would sit by her and try to pass a few courteous words, though her eyes flashed in reply. I would have hated her for her coldness to him if she were not in herself such a marvel. With Tirell she seemed quite different, her eyes deep pools of meaning, though her head rode as high as ever. But, so strange is the world, he would hardly speak to her except in cold, insulting tones, or even look at her if he could avoid it, and she scorned Frain in like wise. Swans and serpents! I wished she could have at least more gently refused him. I knew she was not for him, manly and fair though he was; she was ancient in spite of her lineless face, and he was all ardent youth. But I could not tell him that. I had lived long enough to know the fate of the meddler.

  We lay and drowsed through the day, talking now and then. Servants tended us and fed us well. When our room darkened we drowsed more deeply. But sometime when everything had gone black as a pit and silent as the stalking of owls I realized that Frain was gone.

  Probably he felt restless after a day in bed, like myself, I reasoned, and he had gone to find some fresh air, or perhaps to find his brother, for Tirell often wandered in the night. I tried to go back to sleep. But obstinate distress nagged at me, and after a while I got up and set out to look for him.

  I had visited the castle of Gyotte before, but I had never become accustomed to its many eyes. Every surface of the place was covered with charms of protection, many of them demon faces with startling eyes made out of clamshell from the Chardri—expensive stuff gathered at a high price of lost slaves. Doors and corners and all the furnishings were bordered with monotonous designs. Red tassels clung to the corners of all the hangings, and on every door gleamed a spiral with a bit of mirror at the center to send an enemy’s curse back at him. The glimpse of my own reflected eyes was enough to make me jump, amid all the other ones. At every doorway, even serving ways, stood guardian pairs of carved beasts: dogs, griffins, swans, stags, man-headed horses, many more. Their blank white eyes watched me pass. Carved, glaring cats stood in frozen leaps above the archways, and from everywhere the many forms of the goddess stared down. All the corridors were lit day and night by the flickering, dusky glow of many little lamps with shields of rosy glass, each with its own red tassel hanging down. They filled the place with a heavy scent. Sethym must have spent a fortune on oil and perfume.

  I walked the silent hallways, flinching. I cower in Gyotte even when I am invited; I would hate to have to invade it! I met no one except a few surly guards of human variety and the many lifeless ones. Trying to think where Frain or Tirell might go, I left the keep for the courtyard. The night was raw. I saw a few guards moving on the wall, but no one else. I made the circuit of the place, feeling foolish, and I was just about to return to my room when I heard soft voices. I stepped into an archway, instantly embarrassed by my own presence. Frain and Shamarra were talking somewhere close by.

  “No men are allowed here,” said her cool voice, “but you may pass, I suppose. Do you like it?”

  “Your bower by the lake does you better honor than these hacked walls,” he answered curtly. “Have you seen Tirell, my lady?”

  She laughed the low laugh of wintertime water under ice. “You know Prince Tirell does not come to me, and certainly I do not seek out his lodgings! No, I do not know where he is.” Her voice took on a wry tone. “What is it that you want of me, really, Frain?”

  “A touch of your hand,” he said quietly, “or, failing that, a smile. But mostly I wanted to look on your face and see that you were well.”

  “Look your fill,” she said in a tone I could not read. “But see these so-called maidens here, pretending to sleep a
nd peeping at you through half-lidded eyes, smiling behind their soft hands? They have you undressed already in their minds. Any one of them would give you a touch and more to make a man of you.”

  “They will have to forego the pleasure for the time,” he said bitterly. “Have you no thought for love, Lady?”

  “In my house we love by different rules. Here comes someone to show you how.”

  One of the maidens was rising from her place. I had found the door by then, a heavy metal door hidden down a passageway with stairs, and I was looking in through the bars. The maiden was just a dusky, dark-haired movement in the ruddy lamplight, her eyes pools of deep shadow. She walked boldly and gracefully up to Frain and placed both her hands on his neck just above the torque. Her soft clothing fell back from her breasts.

  “There is a touch for you, Frain,” Shamarra said blithely.

  “You mock me,” Frain replied without moving.

  “Take her!” Shamarra urged delightedly. “She likes you. Or would you rather hurl her away?”

  Frain did neither. He spoke to the girl, not even loudly. “Go.”

  She stepped away from him and stood at a little distance, staring. He was a prince, as I have said; he knew how to command. But she was puzzled, I suppose. She gazed at him, bare-breasted, for the space of a few breaths, and then the night was broken by a shriek. A wiry, gesticulating figure bounded out from behind the altar draperies, and all the girls scrambled to attention at the sight of him.

  “Churl!” he screamed. “No man is allowed in this most holy retreat of the goddess!”

  “I am no man, but a pup,” Frain shot back. I had never heard such bitter anger in his voice.

  “He is a warrior, a healer, and a most esteemed prince,” stated Shamarra perversely to Sethym. “But do you not count yourself man, my lord, that you are here?”