Kill The Beast

by Graham Bradley

  “Two men, mademoiselle,” he said. “I shall dispatch them.”

  At this, Gautier’s instincts kicked in, and he had to scoff. He stopped trying to hide himself, and rose up to his full height. “You’ll do what?”

  Charles pointed a finger at Gautier. Unseen objects clicked and pinged around his forearm, beneath his armor there, engaging a mechanical device of some kind. Leroux, who was using Gautier’s trouser leg for leverage to pull himself up out of the snow, was maybe halfway to his feet when Charles fired a projectile from his outstretched hand. Gautier instinctively lifted Leroux and used his body to block the shot.

  Fortunately for all parties involved, Charles hadn’t fired a lethal weapon, but rather one of the metal cables Danielle had described at the tavern. The dart embedded itself in Leroux’s jacket and exploded in a mass of thin wires that rapidly ensnared the petite ginger man, pinning his arms and legs tightly together.

  There was another click, and Charles drew in the slack from the cable. With one deceptively strong tug, he pulled Leroux out of the hands of the stunned Gautier, who watched his friend land face-first in the snow yet again before being dragged through the cold white powder in the direction of the cellar. But Leroux, who had always been as physically awkward as a three-legged newborn foal, didn’t slide through the snow with any kind of ease; rather, his heavy body packed the stuff around him as he went, and he didn’t make it more than a few feet before he was stuck fast.

  Gautier’s mind broke free of the shock-fog that had held him back, and he assessed his new prey: Charles. The steam-engined boy seemed confused by his inability to reel in Leroux. Thus distracted, Gautier leapt over Leroux and charged at the metal boy, bellowing in rage.

  Charles’s eyes widened. He abandoned Leroux and raised his other hand to fire what was probably another cable-weapon. The mighty woodsman brought all two hundred and fifty pounds of his furious French bulk down on Charles like a rockslide. Before the boy had a chance to shoot, Gautier slammed a meaty fist into the side of his helmet.

  This hurt, naturally, and the cold didn’t help. Gautier’s knuckles screamed in pain, but Charles went down immediately, exhaling with a whimper as his blackened eyes rolled back into his head. Gautier punched him again because it felt good, and then he pushed himself up into a kneeling position, breathing heavily. He wouldn’t have been winded if not for that blasted liquor. Zut alors, but it was strong stuff.

  Several meters away, soft snow crunched under padded boots, and Gautier suddenly remembered Robinette was there. He looked up to see her high-stepping through the snow, hurrying to her horse, shoving armloads of who-knew-what into the saddlebags. Some of it was rolled-up paper, like drawings, while the rest was a mish-mash of weird contraptions or their disassembled parts. Gautier pulled himself to his feet and watched in horror as she jumped up into the saddle.

  “STOP!” he cried, raising a hand after her. To his surprise, she did. Panting, Robinette turned and looked over her shoulder at him.

  “What do you want, Gautier?” she demanded.

  He wanted to say something about her beautiful face, about how her natural magnetism was a complement to his own, how they belonged together if for nothing other than that simple fact, but beyond that, he wanted her, and he wanted her to want him in return, and he was beyond perplexed as to why she rejected his proposal over the summer.

  Even on a sober night, Gautier would have struggled to get all of that out in the right order. With the added benefit of inebriation, he boiled all of those feelings and questions into one simple remark: What about us? And he tried to say it.

  “What about me?”

  “Ugh, really?” Robinette rolled her eyes and spurred her horse into movement. In seconds, she was gone from sight.

  Swearing under his breath, Gautier grabbed the steamboy’s helmet and yanked it off. Charles’ eyelids were blackened with some kind of ink that swirled and bubbled as if alive. The normally white portions were likewise blackened, something Gautier

  confirmed by holding the lantern close to his face.

  “Touched by the devil,” he whispered. His heart beat just a little faster when he recalled rumors of such markings years ago, caused by an alleged sorcerer who had managed to gain power over half a dozen people. It wasn’t so much a case of magical puppetry, as it was the breaking of one’s will and reshaping it in the image of the sorcerer.

  Ugly, no matter how it was sliced.

  The description of the eyes was what stood out in Gautier’s memory. His arteries and veins, visible along his neck, were also blackened. Gautier once would have dismissed this description as fantasy, but now, seeing the boy up close, what else could it be?

  Charles’ mechanical upgrades appeared to have been bolted to his body, through his flesh, probably deep down in the bone. The engine on his back sprouted a dozen hoses and wires of varying gauges that flowed out like vines, connecting to different parts of his armor, and in some places, directly into his skin. It was the kind of invasive surgery that would kill a man, yet the boy lived, thanks to the dark magic that had seized his body in a grotesque violation of nature.

  Gautier examined the bracer on Charles’ forearm, where the snare-cables came out. There was a button on the side, and he pushed it. The cables binding Leroux fell away and retracted into a coiling mechanism inside the armor, ready for use again. It was amazing craftsmanship, if not tremendously unnerving.

  Leroux shook the snow and the cold off of himself, rubbing his chest with the flats of his palms. “What…what happened? What is that thing?”

  “The product of old magic,” Gautier muttered. “Seriously forbidden stuff. If the King didn’t kill you for practicing this, the Church would. This eats men’s souls and spits out a prisoner that must follow your commands. Monsieur Fabrice described something like it a few years back, do you recall?”

  “Oui, something about a count.” Leroux scratched his head absently.

  “He said that the evil Comte de Glanville had summoned up magic that turned the eyes black. He had used it to twist dead animals with dead men, and then make them walk again. Monsieur Fabrice had to lead a small regiment to put them down and kill the count. This boy may not be part animal, but the description fits.”

  “OH! GAU, I just figured something out!” Leroux shouted, in that voice he used when something clicked in his head. This happened so rarely for Leroux that when the occasion arose, he felt it necessary to shout directly in Gautier’s ear.

  “Gah! What?” Gautier snarled.

  “These are the men that Danielle described! Metal men with the cables and what! So they have magic, right? And it can put animal parts on people? So…ugh, hang on.” Leroux spun around and was violently sick for the better part of a minute. Groaning, he wiped his lips on the back of his hand and turned back to Gautier. “Too much to drink. Okay…so they made animal-people, maybe that monster she said she saw…”

  Gautier covered his nose as the stench of the sick reached him. “You really can’t hold your ale!”

  “Did you hear what I said? She wasn’t lying! Probably, anyway,” Leroux said.

  Charles stirred. Gautier narrowed his eyes in thought as he pieced it all together. It made sense, even if it stretched his will to believe it. Nature had told him that certain things were impossible, but it had also taught him that he always had something else to learn.

  Maybe Danielle wasn’t lying about the beast.

  Gautier needed more information. He slapped Charles across the cheek, then again, then a third time, until the steamboy woke up, whimpering.

  “Please, monsieur, no more!” he cried.

  “I have questions, boy! You give me an answer I don’t like, I snap your neck. Got it?”

  Charles nodded, cradling his cheek in one hand.

  “Bon. I know your name is Charles. Where are you from?”

  “I…I don’t know where I was born. Honest! I’ve lived in the castle with my mom since I was a little boy!” He cowered under Ga
utier’s raised hand.

  “And who did this to you? How did you get all of this?” He thumped the metal armor with one heavy finger.

  “I don’t know that either, I woke up like this a few months ago. I haven’t…I haven’t slept since it happened. What day is it?” Charles stared off at nothing, confused, his brow furrowed.

  Gautier and Leroux exchanged a look. Charles was answering him, but not giving any answers. Gautier really wanted to hit him again, and would have, if he’d thought it would work. I must find the right question.

  “Why did you leave the castle tonight? Why come here?”

  “My master commanded it. He is building something. He would not tell us what it was. Promise! He needed some things that were here at Maitre Marcel’s home. I was told to accompany Mademoiselle Robinette, for she knew what things to gather. That is the truth, monsieur!” Charles panted.

  “Your master? Maitre Marcel?” Gautier repeated, his thoughts wandering.

  “Crazy old Marcel,” Leroux said. “He’s in the middle of all this?”

  “Yes, the middle,” Gautier said, realization dawning on him. “And I bet I know who’s at the bottom of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think, Leroux! Who would want to use dark magic and crazy tinkering to attack travelers on the road, and steal the heart of ma chère Robinette?” Gautier said.

  Leroux wrinkled his nose, thinking about it as hard as he could. “I really don’t—”

  “Prince Aubrey, you lout! Don’t you see? Marcel went to work for him almost a year ago. Then Robinette rejects me and disappears, only to return in search of things for Marcel, who is still working for the prince.” Gautier pounded a fist into his palm. “He’s building an army. A new batch of thugs to do his bidding. And for the icing on the cake, he wants to take my dear, sweet Robinette. Oh, the fury I shall rain down upon that man! No one does this to Gautier Lesauvage!”

  The steamboy Charles suddenly bucked under Gautier’s weight, trying to dislodge himself as he fired one of his grappling cables at a thick tree several meters away. Just as the reeling mechanism took hold, Gautier punched Charles once again in the head, this time without the benefit of the helmet, and not even the dark magic in his eyes could shrug off the damage. He again went limp, and Gautier cut the grappling cable with his hunting knife. The cable was sturdy stuff; he’d have to sharpen the knife blade later.

  “What are we going to do, Gau?” asked Leroux.

  Gautier opened his mouth to speak. Just then, one of Madame Ésprits’ sons came running up the road with another lantern, panting and calling after them. His name was Laurent, and he was scarcely twelve.

  “Gautier, Gautier, come quick! There’s been an attack at Mom’s tavern! She needs your help! Zut alors, what is that?” Laurent asked, pointing at Charles.

  “Evidence of terrible crimes,” Gautier said. “Tell your mother that I am en route. Off with you! Leroux, I will take Charles back to the tavern and tie him up. Go to my armory and grab everything. All of it. Meet me at the tavern. I’ll see about this attack.”

  Leroux set off right away. “This night keeps getting better,” he said with a hiccup as he disappeared into the dark.

  ~3~

  The walk back to the tavern took twice as long for Gautier with the added weight of the steamboy, and by the time he got there, he thought for sure that he’d sweated every drop of booze out of his body. Despite the cold, and the damp that clung to his skin, his throat was parched. This quickly left his mind when two dozen lanterns came into view out front of Le Chambellan, and the dull clamor of angry voices penetrated the chilled night.

  “Gautier! He’s back!” someone shouted. Padded footsteps replaced the clamor as the villagers ran over to him, then stopped when they saw a body in tow.

  “Is that Leroux?” asked Olivier, a shepherd.

  “No. His name his Charles. I think he is—”

  “He’s one of them!” said Pierre Rainier, the rancher. “Look at the armor! And the mechanisms!”

  “One of what?” Gautier asked, perplexed.

  “We just got attacked,” said Madame Ésprits, pushing her way through the mob with a lantern in one hand and a stout wooden stick in the other.

  “In there?” Gautier’s eyes darted to the tavern.

  “Everywhere,” she said. “Men like this, larger, and fast, they swept through and captured our wives and daughters, even some of our sons! They hit us like the wind, Gautier! Then they turned and ran into the night!”

  “They made off with a dozen of my pigs!” said another.

  “Where’s my mom?” cried a young boy.

  “It was swift and thorough—never seen anything like it,” said Pierre.

  “Look, we’re getting horses and weapons and we’re keen to go after them. Lot of ’em are jumpy, though. Scared, inexperienced, and such. They could use a standard-bearer, woodsman.”

  Until Pierre had said those words, Gautier hadn’t realized that his mind—passing from the inebriation stage to the hangover stage—was trying to piece together a puzzle without his help. Then it all clicked. Clarity came to him, and like the tracks of an injured stag, the path to Gautier’s quarry was manifest before him, promising a grand prize if he would but take up the trail and plunge into the brush. Everything he wanted was within his reach.

  He could rally the villagers, get them to raise up arms and charge into the forest. They would hunt the steam-powered men, perhaps even overtake them en route to Aubrey’s castle, for surely that was their destination. Robinette would be there, as would the evil prince. No doubt he would have dark magic at his disposal, but Gautier would have fifty strong Frenchmen at his back and the righteousness of his cause to spur him. He would defeat the prince, slay him if necessary, and break the spell that bound Robinette’s heart.

  Robinette. Yes. Gautier could do this. He had to do this. He just couldn’t do it alone.

  “Step aside, mon ami,” he said to Pierre. “My people! Calm your hearts and lend me your passion, for there are foes afoot in our lands this night. You have seen them, and I have seen them. While the invaders were kidnapping your families and plundering your livelihood, this garçon was pillaging the farm of Marcel Reynaud, on the eastern edge.” He grabbed the unconscious Charles by the engine on his back, which had a convenient gripping place on the exhaust pipe, and lifted him off the ground. “I don’t know what he was after, but I thwarted him and got some answers. I’m afraid there is good and bad to come of it.”

  The crowd gasped, and murmurs arose, but Gautier held up a hand to silence them. “The good news: I know where they have taken our loved ones. The bad news: we will have to pursue them, run them down, and defeat them in the dark of night if we are to take back what’s ours. And it won’t be easy, as the offenders are in the employ of Prince Aubrey himself, and mostly likely have fortified their position inside his castle in the woods.”

  More murmurs, louder this time, and he silenced them yet again. “It is natural to fear this prospect! But consider this: today, it’s one boy wrapped in copper and laced with magic. Tomorrow’s it’s a hundred chevaliers with swords and spears and ropes, come to take what’s left of us by force! That is, unless we bring the fight to them and beat them there. Once all of their armor is melted into coins and baubles, we’ll have secured our safety. Yes, they have their tricks and toys. But deep inside, they are still men, and they can still be beaten.”

  Even the most frightened among them listened with rapt attention now. It didn’t take much for his fellow villagers to trust him. He was Gautier, after all. If he thought they could do it, they wouldn’t argue.

  Then Danielle pushed her way through the crowd and nearly ruined it all.

  “What of the beast, woodsman? What of their patchwork monster that took my brother? Whether you believe me or not, it’s out there, and it is far more terrible than one single steam-boy wrapped in metal,” she said.

  “And I am more than just a woodsman, mademoisell
e,” Gautier replied, a little testily. “I am the greatest hunter in all of France, and if this beast worries you so, then I shall make him my personal hunt. Though it will make an unconventional trophy, I’ll take his head and mount it above the mantle on Madame Ésprits’ hearth, a permanent reminder of the end of this nightmare. What say you all?”

  “Aye!”

  “Oui, oui!”

  “Allons-y!”

  And the cries kept pouring in. He had them. He had his army.

  He gave them thirty minutes to arm up, measured by Madame Ésprits’ hourglass. When they came back, most of them were on horses in varying quality, and each man carried at least one weapon or farm tool for the fight. Several of them had rifles or flintlock pistols, and two of them even had pointed helms that had to be fifty years old, family heirlooms from a forgotten war.

  Leroux had also arrived, weighed down with powder and ball and no fewer than eight firearms, plus a longbow and a quiver of fourteen arrows. He almost fainted at Gautier’s feet, weighed down by the arsenal, and was down on all fours, about to be sick again, when he finally admitted that he should consider drinking in much smaller quantities.

  “Now there’s a surprise, you daft lout,” Gautier said. Even so, he helped his friend to his feet, and slowly transferred the arsenal to his own person. A pair of rifles, one with a flared muzzle to spray a load of pellets; four identical flintlocks; a fifth pistol with two large-bore barrels; and last, a miniature pepperbox with five tightly clustered barrels that fired special exploding musket balls. Additional powder and balls were secured in moleskin pouches on Gautier’s heavy belt, which also carried the pistols, and had suspender straps that ran over his shoulders to keep it all up. He couldn’t remember ever having put it all on at once, and it was heavy, reminding him suddenly how tired he was, and how late in the night they were about to be getting on.

  There were people out in the woods that needed to be rescued. Robinette needed to be rescued. Gautier’s village needed a hero, and more importantly, Gautier needed his village to need him to be that hero. He could bear that burden, and he could surely bear the weight of his weapons. It was time to step up.