Here Be Monsters - an Anthology of Monster Tales (5 page)

“So I’ll tell Hyug it’s all right with you,” Ruygret said, bringing him back to the moment.

“Why would he say no? Hyug is our servant, not you his.”

She shrugged. “He worried the noise might disturb you. The creature is not fully trained and it tends to howl at night. But I think having it inside will help.”

“I must attend the warchief,” Krel said absently.

“So I have your permission then.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes, my heart,” Krel said and started to go, but paused at the archway leading out. “Keep it on a leash until it’s domesticated.” He shuddered as he imagined the wolf, or perhaps a werecat cub, clambering around in his gallery.

“Thank you, father,” she called as he walked away.

The conversation was forgotten within moments, and he considered the meeting ahead. The warchief possessed ten of Krel’s orbs. Not his finest. Those, Krel kept for himself. None could match his rate of success or the complexity he achieved in his designs. Reavers were not the only artists of their race, but they were the most sought-after. The powerful wanted soul-orbs decorating their strongholds, reminding visitors not only of their wealth, but of their hand in the subjugation of the indigenous humans.

Krel climbed the long, stone staircase that led into the warchief’s stronghold. Scarred and battle-worn warriors stood guard at intervals, their marred and tangled faces showing that the warchief’s legion was the one to be feared above all others.

The audience chamber had an immense fire burning in the centre of its dome-shaped space. The flames burned blue, fuelled by magic. At the back of the room, the warchief sat on a raised crescent-shaped dais, looking glorious in full battle armour, with his black hair pulled into a top-knot. His face broke into a snarling grin when Krel stepped forward. “There you are,” he said with an excitement that made Krel wary.

The reaver followed the path around the fire and approached the iron throne. He knelt, as was customary in such a formal setting. “Warchief,” he said with a fist over his heart.

“Come,” the warchief replied. “Stand beside me.”

Krel dared not hesitate. He rose and stood to the warchief’s left and slightly behind the throne. “How may I serve you this day?” he growled.

Instead of answering, the warchief bellowed, “Bring the prisoner!” His voice echoed in the huge chamber, and the magical fire leapt and crackled in response.

A grated wooden door on the left side of the chamber groaned as two warriors worked a crank and chain to draw it open. It led to the dungeons many floors below, in the base of the stronghold. A female warrior emerged from behind the rising portcullis. She dragged a small human behind her by one leg. It wore with a filthy satin gown, and its tangled chestnut hair was adorned with sagging ribbons. Its face was purple with bruises, and dried blood caked around its mouth.

The warchief roared. His dark eyes flashed as he extended a claw toward the guard. “I told you to keep it alive.”

The warrior dropped the human’s leg and then prodded it none-too-gently with a toe. “Get up,” she hissed. When the prisoner didn’t move, her green skin flushed darkly. “It’s unconscious. The humans are not strong.” She strode back toward the iron grate and passed through it, returning moments later with a bucket of foul water.

Krel couldn’t take his eyes off the human. He must have been called for a commission. In the past, he’d always chosen the subject for his art. Every human soul had a different quality. Some spoke to his sense of beauty, some did not.

The water splashed all the way to the bottom of the dais. The human choked and spluttered, and the guard grabbed its hair, forcing it to kneel on all fours with its head up. “See?” the guard said. “It breathes.”

The warchief turned to Krel, his eyes shining. “I want the largest globe you’ve ever done. Can you add etching to the glass without ruining the tone? I want it suspended here.” He pointed a gnarled finger toward the centre of the room, above the fire.

Krel stared at the human, entranced, and inched down the stone steps. “A glaze on the glass will give a better effect than etching,” he murmured absently.

“The soul of a princess.” The warchief barked a laugh. “It was captured in Guitanmarsh. A rare find, wouldn’t you say? It will be like a beautiful shining jewel, yet it will strike fear in their rebellious hearts. How long will the process take?”

The human shook, whether from fear or shock, Krel didn’t know. “Stand it up,” he said to the guard as he closed the last few steps toward the pair.

“No human stands before the warchief,” the guard growled.

Krel glanced over his shoulder at his patron. “The time required depends how complex its strands are. I need to examine it.”

“Do as the reaver wishes,” the warchief said, leaning forward on his iron throne, watching eagerly as the guard lifted the young human to its feet.

Krel began his inspection. With a ceremonial knife he kept on his belt, he cut away the filthy fabric wrapped around it, baring the skin down to its navel. The human trembled, but held itself as still as it could as long as the blade was next to its pink flesh. Krel slipped the knife back into its sheath.

Something wet hit his face. He looked up in disbelief. The thing had spit in his face. It began a stream of the high-pitched babble language the primitive creatures spoke. Its legs flailed forward, tiny kicks landing on Krel’s hardened muscles like the slaps of an infant. “Restrain it,” he said.

“Does it need to be conscious?” the guard said, sounding hopeful.

Krel shook his head. “Just alive.”

The guard delivered a heavy blow to the side of the princess’ head, and its movements stopped immediately. Green hands as hard as steel held the human upright while Krel continued his examination. He retrieved a thin glass bar from his belt-pouch. He had created the divining rod with the same enchantment he would use to make the orb. Running it along the path from the chest bone down to the navel, he began to delve, looking for the seat of the human’s soul. The strand presented itself quickly. There was only one.

Krel shook his head with disappointment. The creature’s soul was simple, plain, uninteresting. Worse than that, it was unworthy. He sighed.

“There is a problem?” the warchief asked.

“I do not think this subject will yield an adornment worthy of your hall.”

The warchief’s fist banged against the arm of his throne. “It is a princess. It is adored above all other humans. It is my prize,” he shouted.

“It is ugly,” Krel said, looking deeper, hoping against hope his first inspection would have proved wrong.

“Of course it is ugly,” the warchief grumbled. “It is human. It’s the soul orb I want.” He paused. “Eight thousand crescents.”

Krel glanced up. Eight thousand was ten times more than he’d been paid for his best piece. He could see the warchief was determined to have his way. Krel would have to do it. He could extract and preserve such a simple soul in less than an hour, but he had to find a way to craft it into a piece worthy of the clan leader. “I need four days,” he said, looking at the frail pink creature in front of him.

“Good!” The warchief bellowed a laugh. “Take the human to my reaver’s work chamber.” To Krel, he added in a low voice, “A delegation from the Grem clan will be here in three days. I want the orb ready before they arrive.” His eyes glowed yellow, and his teeth bared into a menacing smile. “For eight thousand crescents, I expect miracles.”

Krel thumped his fist to his chest and lowered his eyes with respect. But his thoughts were tortured and dark. He didn’t know how he could deliver what was required, but he had no choice. The last one to disappoint the clan leader ended up hanging on a row of spikes while ravens picked at his body for the five days it took him to die.

The guard dragged the human behind Krel, and they walked together in silence to his workshop in the lower floor of his home. The guard waited until Krel strapped the subject to a stone table in the centre of the room before taking her leave. Krel stared at the tangled mess of humanity and sighed. His divining rod in hand, he ran it over the princess’ body again, looking at the pathetic, simple, muddy soul. He didn’t know where to begin.

A screech like that of a demon harpy startled him out of his reverie. It came from above.
Ruygret
.

Krel left the unconscious human and ran up the stairs. His daughter was the only thing that kept him from becoming completely lost in his own mind. If anything happened to her…

The thought was lost as soon as he got to her chamber door.

In the corridor stood Ruygret, holding a chain. At the end of the chain was a collared, naked, well-muscled human female. Ruygret had a pointed stick in her right hand and the leash in her left. The human had several small gashes and thin welts on its back and thighs, and it paced back and forth like a caged panther.

“What in the name of Brogdell are you doing?” Krel roared.

“This is my new pet. Remember, father? We talked about it earlier,” Ruygret said with a tone seemingly full of patience.

“A human?” Krel stood stunned. This was worse than a werecat cub. “But…what’s wrong with another wolf?”

“Father, I’m not twelve any more. Humans are more intelligent than wolves. Pryshaq has one that can dance, but mine will be even better. Watch.” She put the stick in a loop at her waist and clapped her hands. The human’s attention snapped to her immediately.

“Up!” she said sharply.

The human eyed her warily, but stood upright.

“Good. Now flip!” Ruygret gave a quick hand signal.

It hesitated only a second before leaning forward and touching the ground. Krel stared in amazement as it shifted its balance and put its feet in the air. It kept its balance admirably for a moment before toppling back to an upright position. It looked at Ruygret hopefully, and she smiled and petted it affectionately. “It took me four weeks to get it to do that well,” she said with pride.

The sweet moment was ruined, however, when the human lunged for Ruygret’s training stick. Fortunately, she got the creature under control with a sharp yank on the leash and a hiss. “I still have a lot of work to do,” she said apologetically. “But, father, it’s wonderful. So smart and adaptable. It’s a spirited beast, but we have a connection. I can feel it. It just needs more time. Now that I have it inside with me, I’m sure our progress will be even more remarkable. It’ll be fit to entertain a warchief by winter.”

Krel had heard of human pets, but the idea turned his stomach. He would sooner invite a troll to dinner. “But they’re dangerous,” he said.

“I know.” Ruygret looked delighted. Krel had to admit, her determination made him proud.

Suddenly, Krel realised his divining rod was thrumming. He pointed it at Ruygret’s pet. The sensation intensified.

“What is it?” Ruygret asked.

“Hold it still.”

Ruygret gave another yank to the chain, and said, “Up!” As before, it stood still, shoulders back and chin up.

Krel admired how well she handled the creature. But his thoughts for his daughter disappeared when he glanced the pet’s skin with the divining rod. The soul practically leapt out at him, dancing and shining with furious light. It had at least a dozen soul-strands, all varying shades of greens and pinks—wide ribbons of shimmering beauty. This, he lamented, was a soul worthy of the clan chief, not the festering sludge down in his workroom.

“I want it,” Krel said.

“What?”

“The warchief has commissioned a new piece, but the subject he gave me to work with is inadequate. Ugly. This one’s soul, though, is magnificent. The most beautiful I’ve seen in my life.”

Ruygret loosened her grip a little in her shock, and the pet began to fight again. It took her a moment to regain control. “If I give you its soul, will it live?”

“You would have to feed it, clean it, and it would not speak, but if you cared for it, it would live.”

“Would it be trainable?”

“No,” Krel said. He knew from experience it would be little more than a shell, and although tempted, he would not lie to his daughter.

“No,” she said. “It is mine. I chose her for her spirit. I’ve slaved over her for months. It’s the best pet I’ve ever had.”

“If I please the warchief, we will receive eight thousand crescents. I can buy you another one. I can buy you ten pets as strong as this one.”

“How do you know it is not her soul that makes it special? You said yourself it was the most beautiful you’d ever seen. You wouldn’t be able to replace that, and all my work. Father, please.”

“Ruygret,” he said firmly. “I must take its soul for this commission. Come. I’ll show you.” He led his daughter down to his workshop, the pet in tow behind her. The creature’s eyes widened when it saw the princess strapped to the table, and it began to yelp. “Control that thing. There’s delicate equipment in here,” Krel scolded.

He stood over the princess and, with his divining rod, tapped the seat of its soul. Intoning a well-practiced enchantment, he teased the ugly brown strand upward and let his magic do its work. A crystal casing formed, and he coaxed the mire toward it, taking his time with his art, as he always did, even though he knew this subject was unfit. The resulting glass was small and thick, and the soul measured barely the size of the human’s eye. Krel had seen horse droppings more pleasing to look at. He spoke the words to suspend it in the air, but sent it flying to an upper corner of the workroom. He didn’t even want to look at it.