The Fabled Beast of Elddon

by David Barber

  Chapter 2

  For three days the people of Elddon talked of little else save for the beast’s recent attack. It was widely known that one of the richest families in the region had been slain and their home destroyed. Of more interest, however, was the elluen, the tall figure Sir Egan had taken captive and who now languished in the baron’s dungeon. Some said the stranger had murdered the family and set fire to their home, others that he had tried to save them, but no one knew for sure.

  Regardless of these speculations a new development arose that had everyone watching and wondering. A young woman had been arrested, accused by Sir Egan of being a witch and of summoning the beast to plague the people of Elddon. Some said the young woman had gone mad after the death of her father. Others said it had something to do with a jilted lover who had left her for another woman. Another story had the young man going off to join the border guard when he discovered she was with child. The details were uncertain. But the fact remained that the woman was to be sentenced at noon and, in all likelihood, delivered to the beast as a human sacrifice. Such a thing had not happened in many hundreds of years and everyone in Elddon planned to turn up, to see what would happen, and to witness the girl’s fate.

  Ander emerged from the shadows of an alley, turning and moving swiftly along the street. He was a large man, a head taller than his companion, broad through the shoulders, and possessed a confident stride and commanding presence. His companion was a youth of average height, willowy and lean, who seemed to be half running in an effort to keep up with him. The two men soon arrived at the market square in the center of the village where a large crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings.

  Ander slowed his pace and began pushing his way through the crowd, using his bulk to forge a path, while the smaller man followed close behind, darting furtive glances left and right. There was some grumbling and cursing, but one look at the tall, strongly built Northman deterred any outright objection, and no one tried to hinder their progress.

  In the middle of the square was a raised platform, roughly four feet off the ground. It was open on three sides with stairs on the remaining edge, closest to a row of shops that stood in the shadow of the wall. The crowd pressed up against it, some talking to neighbors, others watching a single doorway with rapt attention. Four guardsmen stood on the platform, one at each corner, and two more men stood at the base of the stairs, leaning on pikes. A cart stood off to the right, harnessed to a single fat bay mare. A nervous-looking old man leaned against the side of it, digging beneath his fingernails with the point of a dagger. In the back of the cart was a cage constructed of green boughs that had been lashed together with rope.

  “I’ll say it again, Tristan. This is a truly bad idea.” Ander held his cloak closed with one hand while he pushed back his hood with the other. He had a mane of long dark hair, tangled and unwashed, a short beard covering his square chin, and eyes the color of cold steel. “There’s too many people here, too many soldiers. We’re outnumbered three to one already and the bloody castle guard hasn’t even arrived yet.”

  “We can’t just leave her,” Tristan said, pulling back his own hood to reveal a thick mop of ginger hair and a pale spotted face. “And since when do you care about odds?”

  “This isn’t a game of Knucklebones,” Ander snarled, half turning. “I know you like the girl and all, but there are other women in the world--”

  “I don’t like Ryia,” Tristan said. “I love her. I’m in love with her. That was the whole point of joining the border guard in the first place, so I could raise enough coin for a wedding.”

  “Love.” Ander spat the word as if it was foul on his tongue. “I know more than a few dead men that might still be pissing and fighting if it wasn’t for--”

  “Shhh! Too late now,” Tristan said. “Here they come.”

  Another pair of soldiers emerged from a shop door half carrying a young woman between them. She was small and fair with a stern but pretty face and ash brown hair. Despite the obvious hopelessness of her situation, she struggled against her captors and there was a look of defiance in her green eyes. She was clad in a white shift and sandals, but bore no other ornament.

  The last figure to appear was a knight, tall and resplendent in his green tabard and polished steel, fair haired, with a smooth boyish face and a cruel mouth. He followed the girl up onto the platform where he continued to pace back and forth. He surveyed the gathering, some of whom had begun to cackle and shout as soon as the girl appeared.

  Cries of “Burn her!” and “Burn the witch!” rose from the sea of dirty faces. Others called for mercy, and some of the women were in tears.

  “That’s Sir Egan Stroud,” Tristan said, his voice shaking with anger, “the baron’s steward and master-at-arms. He looks pretty, but he is a foul brute. He’s always had an eye for Ryia. I wouldn’t be surprised--”

  “Keep your voice down,” Ander cautioned, looking at the people around them. A couple villagers were now watching them with open interest.

  “While that might well be a fitting end,” Sir Egan said, his voice carrying to the far corners of the square, “this woman,” he gave the girl a scathing look, “will not be burned at the stake. Her sorceress arts have indeed brought the beast down upon us. That much has been proven and, for that crime, her life is forfeit.” He paused for emphasis. “But,” he continued, “she will instead be taken to the mountains, to the gates of Ibridion, where even now the beast crouches in its lair. She will be offered up as a sacrifice and, Aedon willing, her death shall serve to appease the monster’s wrath.”

  “She’s no more a witch than I am!” Tristan snarled. “The idea is ludicrous. They can’t have proved--”

  “Now for the sentencing,” Sir Egan announced. The knight moved to within a few feet of the young woman, eyeing her slim white form as if she were something delicious that he wanted to take a bite of. He drew a scroll from beneath his cloak.

  “Ryia an Elddon,” he began, unfurling the scroll and holding it in front of him.

  “That is not my name,” Ryia said, raising her voice so all could hear, “I am the daughter of Sir Kadis Larrel, heir to his lands--“

  “Sir Kadis is dead,” Sir Egan said, “and your lands are forfeit to the barony of Elddon, as you are well aware.” He touched her cheek, almost tenderly. Ryia turned her head away, her eyes sharp with anger.

  “You are charged with being a witch, of consorting with devils and monsters--“ Sir Egan continued.

  “I am no witch,” Ryia said, “and I haven’t consorted with anyone.”

  “If you keep interrupting me, this may well take all day, and I have other things to do.”

  “Let it take all day!” Ryia shouted. “You have no proof--“

  “You are hereby sentenced by his royal personage, our most noble and wise lord, Baron Leofrick an Elddon, to satisfy your crimes by providing virgin sacrifice to the beast of Elddon. And by your death to preserve the sanctity of this realm.”

  “It’s barbaric!” Ryia spat at the knight’s feet. “You don’t really think that giving me to that monster will do any good?”

  “Of course I do. Why else should we all be here?”

  “But what if it’s not enough,” Ryia protested. “What if by sending me you simply enrage the beast? It could destroy all of Elddon. Not just a few farms and fields. It could lay waste to the village and castle as well. Hundreds might die.”

  “Nonsense,” the knight said. “Virgin sacrifices have long been proven to placate monsters, demons, and dragons of all sorts; back when there were dragons, of course. The beast of Elddon is no different.”

  “But I’m not even a virgin,” Ryia countered. “I have been with lots of men, more than you could count.”

  “Can you prove such claims? Well, I suppose you might, but we haven’t the time. We’ll just have to risk it.”

  Sir Egan turned to address the crowd, raising his hands as if offering a blessing. “Sentencing is over. Take her away.”


  “We have to help her!” Tristan gripped the edge of the platform, his cloak falling away to reveal chain mail and leather beneath. The people nearest him pulled back, sensing danger.

  “Tris, wait!” Ander growled, taking him by the shoulder. “Wait until she’s on the cart. We can follow them out of the village, take them on the road--”

  The two soldiers took hold of Ryia by her arms and shoulders, forcing her to walk. The girl fought against them, biting and kicking, until the two guards at the base of the stairs took hold of her legs, lifting her off the ground and carrying her. She was hauled, thrashing and cursing, and tossed none too gently into the cage on the back of cart. Some of the villagers began throwing rotten vegetables at the cage, clearly enjoying themselves.

  The driver climbed up onto the wagon, ducking his head to avoid a flying cabbage as he took the reins. The soldiers, having finished their work, moved away, while Ryia reached for them through the bars. Sir Egan gave the driver a nod and the old man flicked his whip, causing the fat mare to jump. The cart jolted forward, and the crowd roared.

  “Ryia!” Tristan shouted, pulling free of Ander. He tugged a short sword from the scabbard at his waste and ran toward her. At the sight of him the crowd’s catcalls turned into cries of fear and astonishment.

  “Onar take me for a fool.” Ander snarled, heaving off his cloak and letting it fall to the ground. “We did come here for a fight. I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

  Beneath the cloak he wore a hauberk of chain mail that fell to his knees. He roared as he drew the broad sword and ran toward the cart. A wide-eyed guard on the corner of the platform stabbed down at him with his pike. Ander caught hold of the shaft and pulled the man off his feet before that guard had the sense to let go. The man tumbled into the crowd with a surprised yelp.

  Ander knocked a second guardsmen to the ground and sprang onto the cart. The startled driver stood, reins in one fist while he reached for his dagger. Ander caught hold of his arm and hurled the man into the street, then took the reins and snapped them hard. The bay mare bellowed and rolled her eyes, surging forward, but two of the soldiers had taken hold of the harness.

  Tristan climbed onto the back of the cart. A guardsman reached for him, but Tristan caught the man across the nose with an elbow. Blood sprayed and the guard staggered back, cursing.

  “Ryia!” Tristan shouted again. Ryia found his face, her hands reaching through the wooden bars. “Tristan! What are you doing here? You can’t--”

  The crowd shouted their appreciation for the added spectacle, although they were careful to stay well away from the fighting. This was more than they had hoped for, and they quickly chose sides, some cheering for the soldiers and others rallying behind the brave newcomers who were obviously about to die.

  “We’re here to rescue you. My friend and I--” Tristan began, but a wooden shaft broke across the back of his head. Tristan’s forehead struck the wooden bars with a meaty thwack. He rebounded, eyes vacant, and fell away, hitting the ground as more guards fell on him.

  “Tristan!” Ryia shouted, tears filling her eyes.

  Ander snapped the reins again and again, trying to get the horse moving, but the soldiers held her fast. A guardsman grabbed hold of his leg, and Ander swung his sword, catching the man on the side of his helmet and sending him reeling. More soldiers came at him from the other side, and Ander hewed down at them, shearing through a leather pauldron. Blood spattered the ground and the wounded soldier fell back.

  Ander looked to Tristan and saw him on the ground, unmoving. Ander twisted, seeking some means of egress, but there was none to be found. He had been right all along. This was a bad idea and they had been fools to try it.

  He caught the edge of a blade on his broad sword and kicked the man in the stomach, doubling him over. Ander raised his sword, but the butt of a spear came out of nowhere striking him on the forehead. He saw a brilliant flash of light, then felt a sudden jolt of pain as he hit the dirt next to the cart. He tried to rise but was thrown down again by angry soldiers who now crowded around him. He struggled up, pummeled by fists, swords and daggers grating against his hauberk. Then a sharp blow to his head sent him down into the darkness.

  Chapter 3

  Ander opened his eyes, wincing at the light. His head throbbed and there was a foul taste in his mouth like old boot leather. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that impeded his thoughts. A moment later he realized he was on a horse, climbing a steep hill at a slow walk. His next revelation was that his wrists were tied and his arms bound with rope. He raised his eyes to see Elddon’s soldiers, some riding, others walking. Tristan rode beside him, bound in the same manner. The youth looked as wretched as Ander felt.

  “Welcome back,” Tristan said, leaning forward and spitting a gobbet of blood and phlegm onto the ground. He had a black eye, a split lip, and a swollen lump on his forehead.

  “Where are they taking us?” Ander asked.

  “Elddon Castle,” Tristan said, nodding toward the stone walls at the top of the hill. The castle was built on a heap of stratified limestone overlooking a wide and fertile valley, with the mountains behind it providing a suitably awe-inspiring backdrop. Ander twisted in his saddle so that he could see the village of Elddon behind them, then turned again, looking west. Just beyond the hill was a wide lake, and on the other side of it, half hidden by a stand of trees, was a large stone building. Ander frowned at it, wondering its purpose.

  “That’s Santhebury Abbey,” Tristan said, seeming to read Ander’s thoughts. “Ryia wanted us to be married there.”

  Ander looked at his friend. He could see the pain in Tristan’s eyes, that sense of bitter loss and defeat. Ander had some experience with those feelings. He knew that their efforts to save the girl had been doomed from the start. But there were some things a man had to do, even if he knew at the onset he would fail. This was one of those.

  “Tell me about the castle,” Ander said, steering Tristan away from the topics of Ryia and marriage.

  “Oh, well,” Tristan said, shaking himself. “Before the Dreamland Wars this hill was called Ayus Shen, the faie hill--”

  “Faie, as in faieries, as in mischievous little people with wings and needles for swords?” Ander asked.

  “Aye, just so. I’ve always wondered if there were really faie living here once, slipping through the vale to play tricks on the ancient Anthunians.”

  “There are none here now,” Sir Egan said, riding up beside them. “I can assure you of that. After the Anthunians left, Ayus Shen became the royal seat for the kings of Elddon, and they claimed supremacy over this entire region, from the mountains to the River Blaithe.” The knight shook his head. “But that was a long time ago, before the founding of Briganthan, when they gave it all away to Linheath and the other greedy barons.”

  “I don’t think the King of Briganthan would take kindly to such talk,” Ander said.

  “I don’t serve the king,” Sir Egan said. “I serve Elddon. Now, shut your mouths the both of you or I’ll have your tongues out.” With that, the knight dug in his spurs and rode on ahead.

  Ander and Tristan exchanged a resigned look. There was nothing they could do now but bide their time and wait for some opportunity to present itself. Ander thought about the girl, Ryia. Even now she was on her way to meet some fate he could only imagine, and there was nothing he or Tristan could do to stop it. She might be dead before the day was out and they both knew it.

  They climbed the remainder of the hill in silence. The gates of the castle stood open and the horse’s hooves made a dull clopping noise as they clattered across the drawbridge, through the gate house, and into the courtyard beyond. They came to a halt outside the walls of the keep. The soldiers pulled Ander and Tristan down and cut the ropes binding their arms, although their hands remained tied.

  The knight waited for them at the top of a narrow staircase, inside the doorway of an antechamber built onto the side of the keep. Ander and Tristan climbed the stairs, wi
th four guards behind them, and were steered into a large meeting hall.

  The lord’s great hall was not so grand as some Ander had visited, but it was clean and bright, aglow with the light of countless candles. Baron Leofrick an Elddon sat in an ornately carved chair, on a raised dais at the back of the room. He was surrounded by priests, councilors, and courtiers, all of whom appeared to be talking at once. A pair of guards stood to either side of the dais, against the back wall, watching the arrival of the newcomers with wary interest. As the knight and his prisoners entered, the baron, a tall, slender man in a green mantle and white linen shift, raised one hand. His courtiers quieted at once, their attention turning to Ander and Tristan as the guards forced them to their knees.

  “Who are these men?” Baron Leofrick asked, his voice a dull monotone that conveyed little in the way of emotion. “And more importantly, what are they doing here?”

  “My lord,” Sir Egan said, taking a step forward. “These men were taken in the village. They are outsiders who assaulted my men in the course of their duly assigned and honorable duties. They wounded several of your loyal guardsmen, and all without provocation.”

  “Provocation,” Ander snorted, “we had plenty of provocation. Loosen these ropes and I’ll show you how I generally deal with men who put women in cages.” Ander strained at the bindings around his wrists, causing the men beside him to reach for their blades. But Sir Egan only laughed.

  “A fine display of bravado, Northman, but pointless. Tell us your name so we can give it to the executioner when he arrives.”

  “I am called Ander Inenyar,” Ander said. “From Hithgowr.”

  “Cold country, Hithgowr,” Sir Egan smirked. “No wonder your brain works so slowly.”

  “M’lord,” Tristan pleaded. “I am called Tristan, and I grew up here, on a farm near Elddon. You must hear our side of this tale if you are to pass judgment. We only meant--”