The Beast of the North

by Alaric Longward

  ‘Shut up,’ I told her. The familiar rage returned. It was boiling inside me, burning like fire, rolling like a molten stone inside my veins, and I felt the tug of resistance in the ring. I pushed at the resistance, pushed it away with an inhuman growl. Dangerous, Balan had said, for the ring was broken. I did not care. I needed the rage. No matter the price. ‘Let … go,’ I articulated to her and saw her face go slack as I lifted her off of her feet. I grabbed her hand and squeezed. There was a sound of crackling bones, and she flinched. Only flinched. She let go of my hand. I grunted like an animal and tossed her across benches, toppling people. There were screams, but they were mostly aimed at the battle raging below. The Gold Helm team had rounded a corner and faced off against the Red Sashes; both sides were running at each other, shields, swords, spears, and axes held high. They did not see it, but the Silver Fingers were very close.

  I turned to look at the Blacktower man. The burly man who had been with us blanched and took steps away as I exited the booth. I passed him, turned and lifted his cloak. A sword was there, long and broad, and I raised my eyebrow at him. He smiled sheepishly and nodded. I tore the weapon off his belt so hard the belt came off, and he was left grasping his pants.

  Then I ran downstairs.

  I was going to save Sand, and the queen be damned.

  CHAPTER 14

  I ran down the stairs, holding the sword. It felt weightless in my hands. I was not really nervous because the rage made everything clearer. Do or die. Sand could die any moment. I had left him there at the Green Hall, assuming him dead. He had had an arrow buried in his skull. Could anyone survive that? I shrugged; it was possible. It was, as he was there, fighting. I came to the bottom of the stairs, looked around frantically and noticed a way down, not far. I walked that way briskly and pushed open a door. There was a small, circular room where there were men standing around. They were two members of the Mad Watch, both holding spears. Both wore helmets of conical make, skull and sword symbols painted on their shields and pauldrons. I spied the corridor behind them, and it led down. They eyed me curiously. ‘What is ailing you? Drunk?’ the other one asked me.

  ‘No,’ I growled and nodded downstairs. ‘I wish to go that way. Where does it lead?’

  ‘It leads to the fighter’s pits. The Pit’s Edge,’ the other one said with some doubt, eyeing my sword. ‘Silver Fingers’ Pit’s Edge. Their kingdom. What do you want with that place? Go take a piss elsewhere, boy.’

  ‘I volunteer,’ I spat.

  They looked confused, and one stepped forward, holding his spear laxly. ‘It’s too late. Forty is all they take,’ the first one chided me. ‘They chose the fools hours ago. And the volunteers don’t go this way, anyway. You go, and try again next month.’

  ‘Don’t have time to come back later,’ I said and stepped closer. ‘I’ll be going in.’ Their spears came down to point lazily in my direction.

  ‘Get going, you drunken fool,’ the first guard said. ‘Or you will bleed. Don’t want to stench up the place. Go on.’

  I stepped closer, and their eyes went round. ‘What are you—’ the other one blurted, but I was not listening. I smashed their spears aside with the sheathed blade and charged forward. I pushed one guard onto the other, and they fell in a heap. I stomped on the leg of one, and it broke. I blinked as I saw that, but the other guards were getting up. I grabbed his helmet and crushed it on the floor so hard it left a dent, and the man was throwing up, shocked, then unconscious. I gathered their spears and ran down the stairs. The first guard was howling in pain. I was powerful as a bear, and as mad.

  Down the stairs, I found an elaborate iron gate leading to the Pit’s Edge of the Silver team. It was locked, and I cursed. I hesitated, tried to break the gate, but I was nowhere near strong enough to do that. I cursed again, and I ran back up. There I saw there was a chain of keys on the unconscious guard’s belt. The other one was holding his broken leg, his eyes huge with terror. He stopped sobbing as he spied me. He was probably in shock. ‘Just keep your trap closed and you might walk one day again. Scream, and I’ll take it right off.’

  ‘Have fun down there,’ he whispered in his terrible pain and gave me a pale smile. ‘Too bad I can’t go bet on you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ran back down, and opened the gate. I gazed around and heard the people screaming with wonder at something that was happening in the arena. There were doors to the right and left, tables and armory, and beyond the room, there was a doorway. A richly dressed man was leaning on the iron grill, humming, and beyond him, there was the arena. He turned to look at me and froze. ‘Who in the blazes are you?’

  ‘You Hammar?’ I asked him. ‘The owner of the team?’

  ‘Tergil!’ he yelled, and a tall, gaunt man came out of one of the rooms, holding a dirk. ‘Tergil is the trainer of the team, and you should leave now,’ Hammar explained confidently.

  I twisted the spear in my hand, grunted as I threw it, and Tergil shrieked as the spear impaled him to the door. The spear shaft shattered with the power of the throw. I turned my face to Hammar. ‘Where,’ I began, ‘is the Silver Brother’s gear?’

  ‘What? You would not dare touch it!’ he breathed and saw I would indeed. He pointed his finger towards a large door to my right. I started that way, hesitated and walked to Hammar.

  ‘Open it up,’ I told him and indicated the door to the arena.

  ‘Never! You will not go in there! They will blame me if you ruin this event! I’ll lose my commission!’ I grabbed him and thrust him at the grill so hard he made a huffing sound as his ribs broke. The gate swung open; the lock was broken.

  I walked over to the dressing rooms, saw Falg’s robes and cloak on a peg and heaped on the side was the fabulous armor of the White Brother, the horsehair long and winding. I grunted happily and pulled the door closed. I locked it with the keys, and then I turned and eyed the open door, heard the screams and yells of the crowd, the tumultuous echoes of excited howls and disappointed booing of those who lost money. I stared at the face of the trainer who was bleeding on the door, dead. I had killed him. It had been easy. And I didn’t care, I realized. The rage changed me. My face melted and broke into his angular looks, my nose flattened, my eyes grew thinner.

  Then I walked to the table, hefted a discarded chainmail and pulled it on with difficulty, cursing as my hair caught on the chain links. I pulled on thick gauntlets and stopped to consider Larkgrin. I placed it on my fist, under the gauntlet, grabbed the sword and the spear, and took a deep breath.

  And stepped out.

  I heard the crowds take note of me. I ignored them and tried to remember how the maze had been placed. I ran forward, heard the tumult of the battle ahead and came face to face with five members of the Red Sashes. They were pushing their swords and spears at a Golden Helm and a volunteer pair of women. One Red Sash charged the Golden Helm soldier, thrusting with his spear, but stumbled on the sand, and the Golden helmeted warrior hacked down with his scimitar, carving at the neck of the enemy. The two volunteer women pulled one Red forward by his careless spear and stabbed him in his gut, but it cost them dearly, for the three remaining Red Sashes ran forward, brandishing tall spears, and should anyone think a spear is an inferior weapon to a sword, then they are wrong. The women dodged, danced away, but got punctured and wounded and herded into a corner. One died with a spear in her heart, the other one was pleading with a raised hand.

  And so I charged.

  My remaining spear flew in the air. The Golden Helmet turned to stare at the specter of death, and then it pierced his chest, and he fell away. The crowds went wild, and I felt a mix of glee and rage as I happily charged to attack the three reds. The sword’s blade came off the sheath easily; I loped their way, balanced on my toes and carved one of the men to the neck so savagely his head flew to the wall. I roared and raged and pummeled into the two others, both of whom were turning. I grabbed one’s sash as I pulled him to the blade so hard his spine broke. I blocked a spear thrust with his corpse an
d pushed the dead man on the red team’s remaining member. They fell hard in a jumble of limbs, and I jumped after, landing next to the last thrashing man. I had few skills with the sword, but I needed none, for the weapon was weightless in my hand, and as I slashed it at the man’s face, the weapon split his helmet with a jarring sound. It was like carving bread. It was so natural. There was more to it than Taram’s training. I felt born to use a sword. Any weapon, in fact.

  The crowds screamed. The dome rippled with cries of joy, and then I received accolades. They were the strange, black flowers raining down on me. I spat and felt like a small god. I pulled the spear from the chest of the Golden Helm, spattering myself with gore and held onto the notched sword. The one surviving volunteer female was holding her hand up in supplication. ‘I needed the money. Please,’ she begged, and I doused the red voice of an evil spirit whispering to me of her death. With difficulty, I nodded at her and went on.

  I ran forward to the next room and found a man sitting in a corner, waiting to ambush anyone passing by, but not from my direction. I rushed him, he turned, and I kicked him through the wall. His neck broke, and he died in an eye blink, but the wall behind him fell with a rumble.

  The main room opened up before me.

  The huge melee in the next room paused for a moment as they all consider the unexpected event of a falling wall and the dead man plastered on it.

  I stepped on the corpse and looked around frantically.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Sand was alive. He and three volunteers were fighting near a corner of the main hall, and there were two Golden Helms dying at their feet. Sand’s scimitar was dark with blood, and he was eyeing the ring of the Silver Fingers team surrounding them. On the side, the Feathered Sisters had butchered the last of the Red Sashes, but there were only six of the sisters left. Their spears turned towards the other two groups.

  Falg was alive. White Brother as well.

  They turned and saw my face, and their eyes enlarged with surprise. ‘Tergil?’ Falg asked, utterly mystified. ‘You are not allowed here! You’ll ruin this!’

  ‘Forget him,’ the White Brother said, his chin tight. ‘Kill the lot, then ask questions.’

  And they did. The Silver Fingers tightened ranks and turned towards Sand’s group. The Silvers linked three huge shields, their metal was gleaming red and they went forward. The White Brother flicked his whip up and brought it down. ‘No!’ I screamed, but it was hopeless. The whip was aimed at one of the remaining volunteers, who blocked it with his shield. The deadly whip went through the shield, of course, and tore open his shoulder and neck. He fell wordlessly as the White Brother retrieved his whip with a savage pull. Sand and the two others charged forward, aiming at the huge man, blades coming from all directions, hammering at the shield wall desperately. They were held easily. Falg danced to the side and ran a man through very expertly. The White Brother’s blade dug into the chest of his enemy as Sand pushed past a shield of one man. His brawling madness, his wild swings, his enraged strikes drew blood, and a man fell, holding a hole in his side. Falg appeared in front of Sand, his ax and sword blocking my friend’s hits, sparing White Brother a wound. A man blocked Sand with a shield and kicked him down on his face.

  This all happened so fast I could barely move.

  But there was more.

  The Feathered Sisters charged, their extra long spears and hooks probing ahead, the crowds roared, and it was because they had seen something we could not.

  The sauk sprung up from behind me, having hidden in the shadows.

  I felt a hot intake of breath, saw movement and fell flat on the corpse. Seemingly endless sets of claws tore at the rock around me, one claw caught on my chain mail and dragged me along as the bellowing, enraged creature sprung to the back of the Silver Finger group. The man carrying their pennant went down under the savage claws and fangs; the Feathered Sisters stopped their charge just shy of the Silver Fingers, but the beast rolled through the Silver group and stopped before the women. The crowds roared as the sauk’s jaws clamped down on one of the hesitating Feathered Sisters and threw the remains into the wall. ‘Kill it! All together!’ The White Brother screamed ,and his men turned to fight it. They charged the beast as I got up. The Feathered Sisters did as well, and the sauk banked and reared. Its claws were slashing in the air, its teeth chomped savagely, turning a man into red ribbons. Then the tail slashed a woman in half. It ran around and scrambled for Sand. He saw me coming as he was getting up. I waved him back and pushed him away as the sauk’s tail sailed by his face.

  He snarled at me and pushed his scimitar to my side, his eyes wide with fear.

  He didn’t know it was I.

  I rolled away from the hit, my face melting to my own. His eyes grew wide in shock, and he bent down to grasp me. There were surprised screams as people witnessed the change. ‘Sorry! Maskan! I didn’t know!’

  ‘My fault,’ I spat, feeling blood trickling to my side. The sauk bleated in pain. It was stamping in rage, and a Silver Finger fell on our side, his head gone. I glanced at the beast that was missing two of its legs and part of its snout. It was having trouble maneuvering as two Feathered Sisters had impaled it to keep it still. ‘There is a door. It’s open. We can escape from it,’ I told him, as I got up.

  ‘I won’t leave until he is gone. He killed my Father,’ Sand said sadly. ‘I won’t. I have nothing left.’

  ‘You died,’ I whispered and did not see the arrow wound in his face. ‘How—’

  ‘I am here now,’ he growled and pointed at the White Brother. ‘We cannot go before he is gone. We must not!’ he yelled, and there was mad intensity in his eyes.

  ‘Gods cursed fool,’ I yelled at him as I pulled him away from the thrashing sauk and the last three Silver Fingers, all hacking at the beast. The two Feathered Sisters were still keeping the beast still, but they were struggling with fatigue. The whip went up, then came down and blood flew high, the sauk shrieked. The crowds cheered as the sauk shuddered in pain as one of the Feathered Sisters tore her spear out and stabbed it repeatedly.

  ‘They will win, Maskan,’ he spat. ‘We should act!’

  ‘Wait,’ I told him desperately but saw he was right. ‘Fine. We will try it.’

  Falg bashed his ax on the head of the lizard, and it finally died very slowly, shuddering and still dangerous as its claws raked the sand. The Sisters pulled out their tall spear and turned to look at us. White Brother lifted his eyes at me and saw my face. His eyes grew huge. ‘You? You are free!’ he yelled. ‘Listen—’

  And then, the Sisters attacked. They came at Falg and the Brothers with a savage charge. One was red headed under her tall feathers and tall and lithe, the other one was short, sturdy, and blonde and the two beautiful creatures were still fully able to fight, even after the terrible battle with the sauk. Falg pulled the White Brother around as the women came to them. The feathers waved, Falg blocked one hooked spear, but the other spear came at him. The White Brother cursed and charged, but Sand ran at him at the same time and the Brother lost a precious second as he looked at Sand. I grabbed my friend as a whip slapped where he had stood and the Brother kept moving for Falg, but it was too late. The spear pierced cursing Falg’s belly, and he hung on to the spear shafts desperately as the White Brother went to the attack. He snorted and grumbled and cursed like a mountain as the whip went up again. ‘Pretty. But not so pretty in a bit!’ he yelled and went at the women. The tall one, whose spear was lodged in Falg’s belly cursed bitterly and fell back, but the deadly whip came down and ribbons of blood and feathers flew high in the air, mixing with the dark flowers raining down from the spectators. Then, the sword stabbed at the dying red mass. The other’s hook got ripped from Falg’s grip, and then it was coming for the White Brother. She had jumped forward to gain momentum, and the sharp blade tried to lodge itself under White Brother’s helmet. The Knight moved like a wraith; the hooked blade turned red as a wound opened up in the man’s chest, but his sword sna
ked in under the hook, and the short woman was impaled brutally. The crowds cheered wildly, enjoying the kill. More and more dark flowers rained down on us.

  Sand cursed, pushed me off, and tore off in a canter for the man.

  ‘Sand!’ I shrieked and ran after him. He was dodging the twitching tail of the sauk, vaulted over some of the dead Silver Fingers, and charged the White Brother, his scimitar held low. The Brother turned, saw him coming, smiled and the whip struck Sand’s shield.

  Then it curled around it, tore around his hand and arm, and the man tore the whip off, tore off skin, meat, and Sand’s shield. Sand fell on his face.

  I roared and the White Brother stared at me strangely. He shook his head and raised his sword. ‘Wait. Maskan? You have to—’

  But I didn’t listen. I roared again and made my way forward, struck the blade on his blade, and we both grimaced as the lumps of steel shuddered in our hands. ‘My family. Sand.’

  ‘Your family?’ He laughed gutturally, dropped his whip and grabbed my throat. He pulled me close. ‘You care for your family? You should. But—’

  I let go of the sword. I grabbed his temples.

  ‘Larkgrin,’ I whispered, and the staff grew into my hand, ripping through the gauntlet. The weapon glowed wildly, the runes glittered and then turned into a red hued shade, as the end of the staff—the bird—was inside White Brother’s thick skull, then past it. ‘Larkgrin,’ I whispered, and the weapon shrunk as we fell. There were screams of despair and shrieks of triumph, many more dark flowers rained down on us, blocking the light. I pushed at the White Brother’s shattered helmet and saw a look on his broken face that was very surprised by his grizzly death. I spat, felt my rage disappear, replaced by fatigue, and I ran to Sand. He was conscious, his eyes wide. There were bones showing in his mess of flesh in his arm, nasty abrasions running up and down his side. He was very pale and sickly looking; the arrow wound showed in his face, dark red and polluted. He was very severely injured. I cursed and grabbed the whip and the Brother’s splendid sword, picked up Sand and ran amidst falling flowers for the doorway. It took time; I could not see very well, and my ears were thrumming as the crowds cheered us wildly. I passed the wounded woman, who blanched as she saw me approaching.