In The Shadow Of The Beast (3 page)

The current regent of Corrinth Vardis, the
Lord Horix Fellhammer, was a man both feared and respected by those
in political circles not only in the council chambers of Corrinth
Vardis or the disparate townships of Atos, but more further afield
also.

Atos was but one of several principalities
sharing the same land mass that had been vying for dominance since
the time of Fellhammer’s great, great grandfather. Other noble
houses in neighboring lands would occasionally war abroad or seek
retribution for attacks made upon their own territories, overtures
of war that led to outright conflict were an expected part of the
development of these lands. It was a constantly shifting malaise of
border disputes and confrontations over hereditary titles,
punctuated by the occasional lull in hostilities afforded by either
careful diplomacy or continental exhaustion as the nations healed
and licked wounds in the wake of the last major conflict.

For nearly four years the borders of Atos
had remained relatively unmolested, save for the occasional
incursions by nomadic tribes of Goethe or Urutal, and the populace
had enjoyed this time of relative peace. Now however, there were
rumblings of bordering houses readying for invasion.

It was time again for gentle diplomacy, and
if that was unsuccessful, then The Regent Fellhammer was prepared
to break the fury of his armies over the heads of those who
threatened the sanctity of Atos.

Of course, The Regent being a man well
schooled in the arts of both diplomacy and war understood the need
to impress upon his enemies the depth of his own resources. He also
understood that Corrinth Vardis was not as strong as it had been in
the time of his boyhood. Famine and conflict had led to the
decimation of his western armies, and his position was not as
secure as it once might have been. Alliances would have to be
formed, and how better to strengthen a bond than by forging it in
blood.

His only son and heir, Sigourd, was
approaching the age of ascension, the time when a boy would become
a man and strike out to forge his own destiny. It was also the time
when, as tradition had it, that that boy man might take a wife.

Marriage between the houses had been a time
honored way to strengthen ties that might come easily unravelled in
the absence of responsibility to one’s own family. If Sigourd were
to wed the daughter of a rival ruler, and produce an heir of his
own it would immediately position Corrinth Vardis as a far less
attractive target to those that would see the family Fellhammer
unseated.

So it had been declared that Sigourd would
choose from the prospective daughters of several other great
houses, and a union would be made and sealed tight with the
consummation of that ritual. However, there were two minor
impediments to the plan. The first was the question of which house
to tie the proverbial knot with. Several viable options presented
themselves equally as opportunity and risk. Then of course there
was the issue of the young heir himself.

Much to The Regents displeasure, his son had
proven less than amenable to the idea of having his ‘future
bartered for the sake of political leverage’, or words to that
effect.

The throne room was as large as any audience
chamber in any kingdom this side of the Atos’halla, and almost as
old as the city of Corrinth Vardis itself. Stone masons had labored
for months to erect the great stone walls and pillars that
supported a roof nearly fifty feet high, with an interior support
lattice of wooden beams that was so geometrically marvelous as to
be something of a work of art in itself. Radiant daylight beamed
through a vast circular, stained glass window that was easily the
span of five men of the realm laid end to end. The multi faceted
glass spearing the light into various rays of amethyst, gold,
spring green or aquamarine. That radiance was designed to fall upon
and illuminate the great central dais, where steps carved from
marble led to the hallowed Throne Of The Regent. Hanging from that
lattice work at semi regular intervals, great banners that ran the
height of the chamber from ceiling to floor depicted the deeds of
heroes of the realm and regents past. Horix Fellhammer was depicted
on one such banner himself, in a scene from his boyhood made famous
by the awed whispers of those present to witness it. At the age of
thirteen summers, while on a hunting expedition the young Horix had
single handedly slain a wild tarnoc that had miraculously turned
the tables on its hunters. The detail of the embroidery on the
hanging was quite breathtaking, the artisan had captured the rabid
essence of the beast, its fearsome tusks and shaggy hair. To look
upon the tapestry you could almost hear the thing’s savage
bellowing, smell its fetid breath coming in great noxious clouds.
Captured equally well was the stoic heroism of the young Lord Horix
himself. Spear in hand he faced down the tarnoc, his face a mask of
hardened resolve.

That encounter had been thirty five years
ago, but the boy in the tapestry and the man sitting upon the
raised dais that overlooked a throne room alive with the dancing
and merriment of a court in full celebration, was unmistakably the
same person. That same hard resolve was set into the stiff jaw line
and unflinching eyes of The Regent as he was now. A taciturn man
not given to easy familiarity, but whose sense of duty was second
to not another sole. Dedicated to his family, his people and his
kingdom he was a man loved and loathed in equal measure for those
very reasons.

Seated beside her husband, was one of the
beauties of the land, the Lady Veronique Fellhammer. Herself the
daughter of another king from a land bordering Atos to the east,
their marriage had been arranged to end the unrelenting conflict
between the two nations. At first, the union had simply been a
necessity of state, but Horix had quickly fallen in love with the
beautiful princess from the west, as had his people, for hers was a
gentle if troubled soul. The marriage had lasted well, and so had
the peace.

Before them, the people of the court danced
and swirled to the music of the bards, who played their instruments
with great vigor as plates of smoked meats and gloryberries were
brought before them, and great quantities of fine ales and dark
wines were quaffed in the flickering glow of the many candles that
burned brilliantly around the vast chamber. The sound of the
merriment floated up into the vault like ceiling of the throne
room, lost there amongst the shadows that nestled amongst the fine
latticework.

Sigourd sat beside his mother and father,
his expression one of forced levity. Standing beside Sigourd, Cal
looked out at the crowd with an almost mercurial glimmer in his
eyes, ‘You don’t look too impressed by all the finery on display,
lad,’ he quipped quietly to Sigourd, who snorted derisively in
response, ‘They’re just here to eat and drink at my father’s
expense.’

‘
They’re here for you,
lad,’ said Cal. ‘One day you’ll lead these people. They have as
vested an interest in your affairs as you do. Besides, a bit of a
drink and a dance is good for everyone. Spirits need to be lifted
in times like these.’

‘
The only spirits getting
lifted are the ones that come out of a cask,’ replied Sigourd
glumly.

At that moment, the music suddenly died
down, and from the crowd stepped forward a courtier, who bowed
theatrically before The Regent and his family before turning to
address the assembled court.

‘
On this great day the
house of Fellhammer would welcome you to join us as Master Sigourd
begins his journey of matrimony. Today, we celebrate our land’s
heir to be, and would bid welcome to those guests that have
traveled here to share in this joyous occasion.’

With that, the courtier withdrew from his
robes a parchment which he deftly unraveled, began to read aloud;
‘From house Cordovo, the Lady Magritte. A beautiful girl in her
late teens stepped forward, her fair hair framing an oval, freckled
face. She moved to the dais and cAtosseyed before Sigourd and his
family.

‘
Her father’s in bed with
the shipping cartels out of Andulasia,’ whispered Cal into
Sigourd’s ear, ‘and apparently she’s in bed with all the
rest.’

Sigourd looked up at Cal, his expression one
of mild annoyance.

‘
From house Grenstien, the
Lady Aubal’, continued the courtier, his voice echoing into the now
quiet assemblage. Another attractive young lady stepped forward and
curtsying at the foot of the dais before moving back into the
crowd. She caught Sigourd’s eye as she turned to leave, and he was
surprised to see something like an animal avarice there, decidedly
out of place on so pretty a face. Again, Cal leaned froward to
offer commentary, ‘This one’s a dab hand in the kitchen so I
hear.’

‘
How so?’ asked Sigourd
skeptically.

‘
Makes a bloody good spit
roast,’ sniggered Cal, barely able to hold his laughter in
check.

‘
You’re an incorrigible
rogue Whiteheart,’ scolded Sigourd.

‘
Aye, lord. It’s one of the
things your father pays me for,’ said Cal, ‘the other is to make
sure you receive sound council in all matters.’

‘
That could be the future
queen of the realm you’re talking about so lewdly.’

‘
I doubt it, she is far to
well manicured to suit my lord’s fancy,’

Sigourd sat back and studied the old war
dog. Could he know? But how? Sigourd had been so careful. There was
not a trace of anything other than enjoyment at his own crude humor
on Whiteheart’s face, and Sigourd decided that he was being overly
sensitive. His secret had to be safe.

He chanced a glance across the throne room
to a far corner where a serving girl tended table, pouring a
generous measure of the local tipple for an overly loud and
particularly odious noble from one of the city’s merchant
families.

The serving girl was a beauty beyond all
compare in the eyes of Sigourd. The pale skin of her face, almost
the color of fresh snow, was framed by hair so raven dark it seemed
to enhance the wild glitter behind her eyes.

Even to look upon her from such a distance
was to set Sigourd’s heart a’flutter, like a humming bird caged
within his chest. It was all the young noble could do to stop
himself from calling to her, so powerful was his yearning.

‘
From house Encarnadine,
the Lady Morova.’ the booming voice of the courtier snapped Sigourd
from his reverie. He looked quickly toward the next young hopeful
to stand before the dais, a fair haired thing with an unappealing
pout set into her expression, something Sigourd found distressingly
commonplace amongst the young ladies of the court. A pronounced
sense of entitlement worn like a token of status. It seemed to
Sigourd that no one had noticed his momentary lapse in
concentration, or the root of it. He would continue to play the
game his father and tradition had laid out before him, stalling the
betrothal until time had finally run out. At least his secret was
safe for now, or so he believed.

The Regent was not pleased. He followed his
son’s eye line to the thing that had so ensnared the young lords
attention. That damned serving girl. Sigourd thought that his
secret rendezvous with the girl had gone unnoticed. Oh she was a
pretty thing to be sure. Polished and pampered she’d be more than a
match for any of the young debutantes parading before them. A darn
sight less concerned with the cut of her dress or the expense
spared for the jewels around her neck than those others too most
probably. But as pleasing a prospect as she may be, there was not a
chance in all the seventy seven heavens that Sigourd would be
permitted to continue his trivial dalliances with her. The son of
The Regent of the great city of Corrinth Vardis could not be seen
to fraternize with those so low born that they could not even be
counted amongst the registry for the city’s official census. The
girl had seemingly appeared from out of nowhere, her employment
within the halls of the city being granted only recently and there
being little to no trace of her origins prior to that time. No
doubt she was one of the numberless orphans churned out by the last
great conflict between the houses, and therefore certainly not
someone to whom a prince should be seen to have become romantically
involved with. Sigourd’s betrothal to one of the daughters of these
neighboring houses hinged upon the sanctity of the union, and
everything else hinged upon the betrothal. He could bloody well do
as he pleased after an heir was produced. He could pack his
bedchamber with harlots from the south lands or pretty painted
ladies from the circus tents of the Harrubah hives, it mattered not
so long as there was a child produced that would seal the political
rift.

But of course Sigourd, the romantic, had
gone and fallen in love with the girl. So typical of the boy he had
always been, that he would be ruled by his heart when matters of
state so dearly needed him to retain a more taciturn aspect. It was
his mother’s influence of course. He was ever his mother’s son and
The Regent was surprised to find a twinge of...what was this, a
small chink in the armor of his pride, to know that his son was
almost totally unlike him.

The Regent pushed the errant emotion aside.
He should have sent the bloody girl away, had her re-assigned to
another house or sent her from Corrinth Vardis altogether. But he
was not so cold hearted himself after all to deny his boy in so
cruel a fashion. Cursed distractions, cursed youth. Just one more
headache to keep the old man up at night, staring into the dark for
answers that weren’t there.

Sitting beside her son, Veronique wore a
pleasant smile upon her face as the debutantes paraded past. She’d
been there herself once, as tradition had demanded, and had been
fortunate enough to have been chosen by The Regent as his bride to
be. That all seemed so long ago now and whenever Veronique tried to
think back to that time of her life, which was as infrequently as
possible, she was overcome with a wave of anxiety that for all the
world seemed like it might submerge her.