The nightmare knight had seen things both wondrous and terrible in all his many campaigns. But what he saw before him on the breaking of this new day must surely be counted among the most wondrous and terrible of them all.
He looked on as the villagers rushed from the surviving pods. They streamed from their ruined homes in disarray, shouting and screaming. Some ran to the assistance of their fellows who had been caught in the initial blasts, flash burned by the intense heat or else crushed under the tonnage of splintered wood. Women and children wept in terror and their menfolk shouted above the tumult of the crashing trees in an attempt to organize themselves.
Huron was allowed a brief moment to see the effect such destruction had on the humors of the Baratiis. Their faces danced and glowed with a fiendish pallor in the light of the flames, a mad gleam of blood lust in their eyes. He caught the eye of the watch commander, who looked to him expectantly, awaiting the signal to attack. Huron dipped his head once in assent, and with a bestial snarl the commander drew his blade, followed a moment later by the blades of the assault force. Their weapons came free with the collective metallic sigh of steel being drawn across steel. With an ear splitting bellow of rage, the mounted killers of the Baratiis 75th broke from cover, and fell upon the ruined village.
Sigourd rushed through the chambers of the pod as the vibrations that resounded throughout intensified. He and two other wulfen males whom had chanced upon him continued searching in desperation for any means to escape the structure before the inevitable happened.
The vibrations of the massive pod were an indicator that the explosives had done their job only too well. The trunk of the massive tree had been compromised and it would not hold. Shuddering under the weight of its own immense bulk bearing down on a now shattered base, the entire thing was likely to give way and collapse to the floor of the forest with earth shattering finality. Anything inside would be pulverized to dust, or else reduced to a fine red slurry.
One of the males, a stoic figure named Toric, had been introduced to Sigourd during the celebrations. The other male he had also been introduced to, but could not now for the life of him remember the fellow’s name. For some reason, it seemed important to Sigourd that he should. Even as he was running pell mell for his life he felt that in sharing a danger with this man he should at least have the decency to know his name. But Sigourd would never get the chance to ask him for it, for the nameless wulfen was the first to die.
Toric suggested they take a tunnel which would lead to the upper reaches of the great pod. From there he said they would be able to clamber through the interwoven branches of the huge trees into a part of the canopy that wasn’t ablaze, and hopefully work their way down to the ground.
As they ran, it became apparent to Sigourd that the terrible screaming was not coming from within the walls of the pod, or even from outside. The very structure itself was screaming as it burned. Sigourd was horrified at the realization that the bone like substance that wove in and around the trees, that comprised the pods and the structure of the village, must indeed be a living entity in its own right.
Just like it had when the stores at the palace had burned, thick oily smoke, this time heavy with the sickly scent of burned pine and cinnamon, coiled up into the darkened space of the screaming pod as the trio ran.
Without warning the west facing wall of the pod sheared away with a sound like a cannonade unleashed. One moment the wall was there and the next it simply wasn’t, flensed away in the blink of an eye by a neighboring tree that had crashed through the canopy, falling across the side of the pod and virtually bisecting the sphere, leaving it open to the breaking dawn. The nameless wulfen had likewise disappeared.
Cool fresh air rushed in to fill the sudden clearance as the black smoke was released, dissipating almost as quickly as the wall had disappeared. Sigourd could not believe his eyes. The path of the falling tree had cleaved through the great pod merely feet from him. Had he been standing a meter to his left he would have been smote out of this reality just like the wulfen had been.
He looked behind him to see that Toric was stunned to near insensibility by the brutal intensity of the destruction and the death of their fellow escapee.
‘We must keep moving!’ urged Sigourd. He grabbed at Toric, pulling him away from the shredded edge of the opening before them and out of his stupor. They hadn’t even moved another meter when there was another concussive bang, followed by a wave of overpressure that flattened both men.
The remainder of the floor beneath Toric gave way as the pod lurched mightily, throwing him into a great rent that opened up like the mouth of hell.
Without thinking Sigourd dived at the edge of that temporary crevasse, his hand shot out to grip the wrist of Toric who slipped over the lip of the rent and toward his doom.
Sigourd’s hand closed around Toric’s, both men struggling with the immense effort of keeping the larger wulfen from falling into the murderous flames that roiled beneath him. Toric’s legs dangled uselessly over the precipice, and he looked up at Sigourd with solemn understanding in his eyes.
‘Hold on to me,’ shouted Sigourd, desperation edging his voice. He began to pull, but had barely the purchase with his free hand to keep himself from going over the edge.
Toric spoke then, his voice calm and reassuring, ‘It is my time young lord. I accept this with the grace of the All-mother.’
‘All-mother be damned!’ cried Sigourd, ‘get your other hand around mine.’
Toric looked at Sigourd then, their eyes meeting in a moment of serenity within the madness of the raging storm fire around them. ‘You are the one who will heal the wounds in the hearts of both our peoples,’ said Toric, ‘and I am content to lay down my life for you and for the good of all.’ Sigourd’s eyes went wide in horror as Toric relaxed and his hand and slipped from Sigourd’s grip. He disappeared into the roiling smoke and fire of the hellscape beneath without uttering a single sound.
Sigourd lay there, stunned at the sacrifice he had just witnessed. It spoke not only of great personal bravery on the part of Toric of the wulfen, but of the depth of belief these people held in the hope Sigourd represented.
As the remainder of the pod shook to pieces around him, Sigourd pulled himself to his feet, a bitter oath upon his lips. He vowed that he would survive, and that he would see through to the very end this madness. He would see it out in the name of those that had sacrificed their lives to bring about his emergence.
Sigourd looked to the great tear in the side of the pod and the scene beyond. The rest of the forest canopy lay just beyond the screaming skin of the pod. It was open to him if only he could jump far enough to reach it.
The floor beneath Sigourd lurched again, and he had to brace against a strut of the bone tissue to keep his balance. Tongues of ravenous fire were reaching up to him from the lower levels of the pod, the heat from the roasting structure was intense, and that sickly scent of burnt pine and cinnamon rose cloyingly to stifle Sigourd’s breathing. He pushed off from the wall as hard as he was able, sprinting towards the massive tear in the wall as another concussive bang clobbered him and the floor beneath his feet began to drop away. Sigourd leapt.
Isolde’s heart was racing, thundering so fast she thought it might burst from her breast and dance upon the floor. She had never been so terrified in all her life. Woken from a deep sleep by the terrible explosions, she had been consumed with a wave of panic to see that Sigourd did not lie next to her. She rushed from her chambers to the great central pod, her jaw falling open in disbelief when she had lain eyes on the flaming ruin that her home had become. The central pod, where only hours before their community had danced and sang and reveled in the joy of their new found hope, was now a blazing pile of slag which lay shattered upon the forest floor a hundred feet below her. All around the great reds of the forest were ablaze, the fierce heat causing her to step back, an arm raised to shield her face.
Attack, they were under attack! How was this possible, they had
always been so careful to watch the passes and cover their own tracks.
Far below, armored cavalry was streaming into the village from all sides, slaughtering the community as it descended from the trees in an attempt to escape the flames.
She joined others who were running in the direction of Arook’s household. One of the few remaining pods that was not ablaze or had been dashed to splinters by falling trees.
Arriving at her leader’s chambers, she was not surprised to find that many of the menfolk had assembled there to receive orders and arm themselves.
Isolde smiled at what a cruel hand fate had dealt them. Had this attack taken place during the course of the night, when her people were able to effect The Change upon themselves, the invaders might find themselves sorely wishing they’d left the wulfen well alone. Now, during the dull light of the emerging day, Isolde and the rest of her kind were locked in their daywalker forms and must arm themselves for the struggle with whatever crude blades or tools they had to hand.
Standing at the centre of the maelstrom of heaving bodies was Arook, a figure of measured calm in a sea of madness. Isolde rushed to his side so that she could relay to him the news that Sigourd was missing. Whatever happened here today, he must be found and kept safe, and Arook must be made aware of his disappearance.
More and more of the others were filing out of the chamber to join the fight. They rushed to take up positions and hold objectives that might buy their families more time to escape into the safety of the forest. Isolde struggled past them, reaching Arook just as he took up his own curved blade and made ready to meet the foe.
‘Sigourd is missing!’ she called to him.
Arook looked up, his face twisting in dismay at this news. He was quiet for a moment as he considered their options before finally answering, ‘Get to ground level and into the forest to see if he is amongst the survivors. I will hold the village for as long as I can before falling back behind you. We will search for Sigourd when we have secured the safety of the community.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Islode, ‘why are they attacking us?’
Arook smiled down at her, and she noticed a serenity to him that she had rarely seen, ‘They are men, child,’ he said, ‘just men.We have no time to waste, go now, do as I have asked Isolde.’
‘But what if he’s out there, what if they have Sigourd already?’
Arook placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder, ‘Fear not. The All-mother did not place Sigourd in our hands only for him to be stolen from us by man or death. We will find him.’
The quiet reassurance in his tone lifted Isolde’s spirits immediately, she smiled, ‘I believe we will.’
‘Father!’ The voice was loud, rising brazenly over the crashing and booming of the destruction being wrought around them, and both Isolde and Arook turned to see who it was that had spoken out. Striding into the chamber ahead of four of his men, Bael wore his customarily brooding scowl.
‘Bael,’ cried Arook, ‘take your men to the northern slopes and try to push around behind the invaders.’
‘I will not,’ came the younger man’s terse reply.
Isolde saw Arook’s jaw tighten in response, but he retained his composure in the face of his son’s insolence. ‘This is no time for petty bickering. We must organize ourselves or the community is doomed.’
A strange, blank expression came over Bael’s face,‘Yes. It is.’
As understanding dawned on Arook, his eyes went wide with surprise, ‘You and your men were supposed to be guarding the approach to the village. What have you done?’
‘Only what you were too weak of heart to do, father,’ said Bael.
Arook could hardly believe what he knew to be true, ‘You allowed them to pass!’
‘Great All-mother!’ exclaimed Isolde in horror.
‘I have given our disparate peoples a reason to unite,’ said Bael, his voice rising in fervor as he continued, ‘I have given them a chance to take back a world that is theirs by right!’
‘You have destroyed us boy! All of us!’ shouted Arook, for the first time all trace of his usual stoic demeanor vanished in an instant, replaced by a red tide of bloody fury and sorrow.
Arook made to draw his blade, but before he could even clear the sword from its sheath, Bael had uncovered his own wicked looking dagger, and punched it into his fathers heart.
There was a moment of silence, as if every soul in the room stood in momentary shock at what had just transpired. Arook blinked in surprise as a single bead of blood ran over the hilt of the dagger, tracing a carnelian line along Bael’s closed fist.
That tiny droplet became the focus of Isolde’s whole world. The moment seemed to drag on for an eternity and then....the droplet fell to the ground, hitting the floor of the chamber in perfect silence and all the life and sound and color and horror flooded back in to assail her senses. Isolde was screaming then. Screaming Arook’s name as he slumped forward onto his son, who lowered him gently to the ground. She was still screaming Arook’s name as Bael’s men took hold of her.
Sigourd lowered himself from the branches of the canopy. After narrowly escaping being dragged to his death along with the great chamber as the entire structure had disappeared from beneath him, he had climbed through the canopy to reach a point where he might be able to drop to ground level.
Durning his descent he had had time to take account of their attackers. He recognized them immediately as a company from one of his uncle’s proud regiments, and knew that The Baron was responsible for this bitterly heinous massacre.
Sigourd could feel his stomach churn with anger. That his own family could be responsible for such horrors beggared belief, even considering recent revelations about his past.
As luck would have it, he spied now from his concealed vantage point amongst the trees a lone cavalryman who had taken up post nearby. The soldier had clearly been assigned the role of keeping watch to make sure none of the fleeing villagers got past him. Sigourd could make out the frustration in the soldier’s expression, and mused that the conflict was momentarily going to get much closer than the fellow expected.
Swinging down from the branches in which he had crouched, Sigourd struck out with his foot, feeling with great satisfaction the jaw of the Baratiis crack beneath the heel of his boot. Such was the force of the impact that it snapped the man’s head back on his shoulders. His crested helm was sent clattering to the floor as the cavalryman himself toppled ungraciously from the saddle, crashing to the cold floor of the forest with a brutal thud where he lay unmoving.
Sigourd dropped into the saddle and took up the reigns. Wheeling the horse about to once more face the blazing village, he sighted the man he was looking for.
Huron sat upon his war horse, a beast as black as coal, at the centre of the chaos. All around him fires raged as he swung his mighty death axe, cleaving the heads and torsos of those foolish enough to try to unmount him.
Sigourd spurred his horse into a gallop, the animal leaping into a headlong charge as the heir to the realm of Atos drew his blade. The knight Huron paused in his dealing of death, perhaps detecting the sound of the thundering hooves behind him over the tumult of the carnage, or maybe it was some innate sixth sense that cause him to turn to raise his axe in time to deflect the murderous blow that Sigourd swung at his neck.
Sigourd’s blade rang off the heavy steel of Huron’s axe, the sound cutting across the din like a banshee crying out in surprise.
‘My lord!’ exclaimed Huron as he wheeled his steed about to face his attacker, ‘I would see you returned safely to the palace.’
‘And I would see my uncle damned for sending his butcher to fetch me home,’ exclaimed Sigourd, unbridled rage rising in his throat like a wave of nausea.
‘The Baron’s damnation has never been in doubt. Nevertheless, I am tasked to this endeavor,’ said the knight.
‘What endeavor would that be, the murder of innocents?’
‘I am tasked to return you to safety, and to
annihilate the foes of The Baron,’ stated Huron matter of factly.
Sigourd kicked his horse into a gallop once more, leveling his blade for the high pass, ‘I deny you the first priority,’ roared the young lord, ‘so try me on the second!’
Huron raised his axe, and gouged his spurs into the side of his steed, sending the beast flying. The two men charged toward each other, racing to doom or glory as the village of the wulfen burned around them.
Isolde dropped to her knees beside Arook as the life bled out of him. All he could manage was a weak smile as she looked upon him, before his eyes fluttered once, and the light went out of him forever. She dropped her head to his chest and wept as Bael looked on, his face an impassive mein, ‘Would you ever weep so for me Isolde. I know we have had our differences but...’
Isolde looked up slowly from Arook’s corpse, ‘Bastard.’ She almost spat the word, her contempt for the traitorous Bael was so great.
‘A pity,’ said Bael, ‘get her up.’
His men moved to obey, hauling Isolde roughly to her feet where she stood defiant before Bael’s cruel gaze. He had the wicked looking dagger in his hand, his father’s blood still warm upon its length, and now he held it up level with Isolde’s face, the point aimed toward her throat.
‘You will be as exquisite in death as you are in life,’ he said, that playful, contemptuous sneer upon his lips. He leaned in closer to her tear streaked face to better savor her fear. Isolde held firm, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing the fear she felt.
With a sound like an egg cracking, an arrow slammed into the throat of the wulfen holding her left arm. He barely had time to register his own death as he dropped to the floor. An instant later the wulfen in front of her went down clutching an arrow that pierced his chest above his heart.
They all turned in surprise to see where the projectiles had come from, and were shocked to see the wild man Jonn Grumble sprinting at them from across the chamber, dropping the bow with one hand as he reached over his shoulder to draw his deadly sword staff with the other.
In The Shadow Of The Beast Page 23
