The Fabled Beast of Elddon (5 page)

He
stood, shaking all over. He ran a hand through his thick hair and took a long,
steadying breath, letting it out slowly. The guards slept on, dreaming their
sodden dreams.

“The
ladder!” Ander’s voice, low and urgent, came to him from below. “Get the damned
ladder!”

Tristan
moved cautiously forward. The ladder was on the floor, leaning against the
wall, just out of reach of the two sleeping guards. Tristan paused, only feet
away from the two men and took hold of the ladder, lifting it. The wood was
heavy in his hands and the length of it made the ladder unwieldy. Tristan took
a couple steps back, and swung it around, watching one end and narrowly missing
knocking the other against the heads of the sleepers. He staggered forward,
managed to slip the end of the ladder into the opening, and shoved it down.

The
shifting weight of the ladder as it slid down through the hole pulled Tristan
off balance. He gave a small yelp as the wrung came loose from his sweat-slickened
hand and clattered along the metal, striking the floor below with a thump.

Tristan
started forward. It appeared the ladder had ended up in roughly the right
position, albeit slightly askew.

“Oy,
what’s all this,” he heard a sleep-roughened voice behind him. Tristan turned
to see one of the two guardsmen rising. The man’s eyes were unfocused, befuddled
by slumber and drink, but the realization that at least one of the prisoners he
was supposed to be guarding was out slowly seeped into the man’s dull brain.

The
guard staggered toward him, shaking off the torpor from which he had just
emerged. Tristan had enough sense to dodge to one side, avoiding the man’s
grasp, but only for a moment. He looked wildly around, searching for some
weapon. His eyes located a collection of tongs, knives, and hammers, neatly
arranged on a far wall. He made for them, but had only taken a couple steps
before a meaty hand closed on the back of his tunic and pulled him away.

A
fist like a sledgehammer smashed into his belly and all the air went out of his
lungs. Tristan staggered back as the guardsman bore him down. He landed on his
back, half sprawled across the metal grate with the guard’s hands closing
around his throat. Tristan struggled to free himself, but the man’s grip was
iron. Tristan pushed a hand against the man’s stubbled chin, trying to force
him away, while his other hand clawed at the man’s wrist. The guard squeezed
and Tristan felt the world going dark. But then a booted foot collided with the
guard’s skull, snapping his head sideways. The grip on Tristan’s neck was
suddenly gone and he sucked in a greedy breath.

Pale
hands lifted him up and Tristan blinked at the elluen who was holding him by
the front of his tunic.

“You
alright?” Loth asked.

Tristan
coughed and nodded his head mutely.

“Good
lad,” Loth said, clapping him on the shoulder and springing past him. The
second guard had awoken as well and was on his feet, reaching for his sword.
Loth fell on the man before he could take a step, buffeting him to the ground.

Ander
appeared at the top of the ladder, gave Tristan a quick grin, then moved past
him to where the first guard was trying to rise to his feet. Ander’s fist
collided with the man’s temple and he went down again, dropped like a felled
bull, and did not rise.

Loth
dragged the second guardsman across the floor to the edge of the pit and, lifting
the limp form, laid him out on the rungs of the ladder and let go. The man slid
a few feet, toppled off the side and struck the floor below with a groan of
pain. Ander picked up the other man and unceremoniously heaved him over the
side. He then grabbed hold of the ladder and hauled it up. He closed the metal
grate and tossed the ladder down on top of it.

“Well
done,” Ander said, putting an arm around Tristan’s shoulder. “Now, let’s get
out of here.”

The
three emerged into what looked like a guard house and barracks on the tower’s first
floor. Tristan stood watch while Loth and Ander searched a small armory, coming
away with their weapons and other possessions. Ander took up a shield with the swan
of Elddon painted on it and they proceeded out into the night.

At
the foot of the stairs a single guard stood watch, warming himself over a
brazier. At the sound of the door opening the man looked up, his eyes going
wide. Loth leapt from the stair, falling on the guard and knocking him
senseless before he could call out or draw his sword.

They
waded into the shadows, carrying the unconscious guard with them. There they
took a few minutes to don hauberks and cinch sword belts. Then they were
moving, sliding through the darkness like shades through a graveyard. The
castle gates were closed, the drawbridge raised. The only light came from
torches along the parapet where a few unlucky guards stood watch.

They
reached the stables without incident. Loth woke one of the grooms, commanding
him to saddle three horses. He paid the boy a silver coin, taken from the
stolen pouch of the guard he had overcome, then sent the youth back to bed.
Holding the coin tightly in his fist the groom swore to remain silent, at least
until they were gone. Loth led the horses from the stable, soothing them with
words in his own language. There he waited while Tristan and Ander made their
way down to the gatehouse.

As
Ander and Tristan approached the gatehouse, a guard appeared in a doorway. He
challenged them at once. Tristan, playing for time, launched into a sordid tale
about the baron’s missing chamber pot and the unhappy life of a squire. The
puzzled guard was still trying to work it out when Ander knocked his head
against the wall.

Ander
entered the gatehouse, climbing to the upper floor while Tristan waited below. Two
more of Elddon’s guards called down, wanting to know what the noise was. Ander
was almost to the top of the stairs when he met them. Both men reached for
their swords, but Ander was on them before they could draw. He punched one man,
breaking his nose. The guard staggered back, blood pouring out between his
fingers. The second man had his sword half out of its sheath, but Ander used
his borrowed shield to knock the man senseless. The guard with the broken nose
launched himself at Ander, cursing and swearing oaths. Ander used the shield
again, battering the guard and laying him out across the floor beside his
fellow.

Ander
listened, but heard no one else approaching. He went into the wheelhouse,
moving swiftly as he pulled the pin to free the drawbridge chain. The bridge came
down with a chattering of chain links and a resounding thump. Ander sprang to
the narrow window, sliding through it, and climbing hand over hand down the chain.
He dropped cat-like onto the end of the open drawbridge, and there he waited.

At
the sound of the drawbridge coming down, Tristan ran to the gates. He lifted
the heavy cross bar and threw them open. At the same time Loth flung himself
into the saddle and rode across the yard, dragging the other two mounts along
behind him. Ander and Tristan waited on the drawbridge as angry shouts woke all
around them. But the castle was in confusion, with many thinking the beast of
Elddon had returned. Ander and Tristan climbed up onto the horses and the three
dug in their heels, riding for the mountains, leaving Elddon castle in a state
of panic and disarray.

As
her senses returned, Ryia realized she was being carried. She was slung across a
kerram’s shoulder like a sack of grain, the length of chain swinging between her
shackled wrists. Without turning her head, she tried to see where she was. The
yellow light from the kerram’s lanterns swung back and forth, revealing walls
of stone and a floor covered in centuries of dust. She realized, with a jolt of
fear, that they were somewhere inside the city.

At
almost the same instant, a door opened and the kerram moved outside. The smell
of lavender and wild flowers filled her nostrils, clearing the fog that shrouded
her thoughts. The cool touch of the midnight air revived her even more. The
kerram paused to adjust his grip, then stepped out onto a narrow walkway. Ryia
was suddenly looking down into a chasm, a deep ravine with a dry river bed
running through it. Her stomach lurched and she had to close her eyes, fighting
against the vertigo that threatened to overwhelm her as she waited for her
courage to return.

For
some reason it seemed important that they were outside and not confined behind
walls of stone. The need to do something rose in her like a wave. If there was
any chance of getting away, it had to be now.

“I
give to the sea, may her waters run deep...” Ryia whispered the words to a song
she had heard Tristan sing once long ago, “...all thoughts of the past, to lie
there in sleep...” She kept her voice low, so low that it could barely be
heard.

The
second kerram, the one with the dark tawny fur, said something in his strange chittering
language, and the one carrying Ryia, the tarnished gold kerram, stopped walking.
Ryia’s hair was suddenly grasped, hard, and she stifled a cry of pain as her
head was jerked up. She found herself looking into the fierce brown eyes of the
dark kerram. The lenses he wore had been pushed back, and the whiskers on the
creature’s muzzle twitched as he bared his fangs.

“Stop
talking or I’ll...” he began in the common tongue. Ryia spat in his face. The
reaction was more than she could have hoped for. The kerram gasped in surprise,
shook his head violently and staggered back, dropping his lantern as he wiped
frantically at his muzzle with one furry hand. The lantern shattered against
the stone, a sharp report of breaking glass, as a noxious cloud of pale smoke
rose from the interior of the globe.

“Ach!
The foul creature has soiled me!”

The
gold kerram said something unintelligible, swinging around. Ryia heaved herself
off his shoulder, twisting out of his grip, and landing in an awkward stance.
She took a step back to restore her balance. The gold kerram reached for her
and she swung the length of chain. It smashed against the kerram’s skull. The
surprised creature gave a high-pitched squeal as he fell sideways and disappeared
off the bridge.

The
dark kerram swung his staff, catching Ryia on the shoulder and staggering her,
but it was only a glancing blow and she was able to keep her footing. Ryia
swung the chain again, aiming at the creature’s knee, but missed completely.
The kerram danced back, crouched, and lowered his staff, aiming it at her head.
The staff was unusually straight and the lumens along its length glowed as if
lit from within. The kerram twisted the wood and a ball of fire shot from the
end of it, streaking at Ryia’s eyes.

She
ducked and the fire ball whistled past, disappearing into the darkness. She
lunged, desperate, angry, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She grabbed
hold of the staff, trying to wrench it away. The kerram snarled at her, oaths
and spittle flying from his lips as he tried to free the staff from her hands.
She clung to it, refusing to let go.

Assuming
the anatomy of the kerram was much the same as men, she brought up a knee,
slamming it into the creature’s groin. The kerram fell back, wheezing in agony.
Ryia tore the staff out of his hands, smashing it against his head and knocking
him sideways. One foot slipped off the side of the bridge. The kerram howled,
reaching for her, trying to find purchase, and then he was gone.

Ryia
stood for a long time, sweat trickling down her face and stinging in her eyes.
Her hands shook so that she could barely maintain her hold on the staff. The
fear that had gone unnoticed a minute ago, washed over her. Gradually it
receded and the trembling in her legs eased. She breathed in the night air and looked
around.

The
stone bridge ended at a door set deep in the rock. A sheer cliff face rose up
in front of her and she could see balconies, windows, and ledges above. Behind
her the bridge stretched back to the first door, through which they had come. Above
that door, higher up on the cliff wall was another bridge, wider than this one,
but only a broken end. She turned to face the wall in front of her. She was
suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was. She moved to the door the kerram had
been making for, hiding herself in the shadowed alcove that surrounded it.

She
looked across to the first door again, uncertain what to do next. That was the
way out, but what was behind it? Her mind had been in a fugue, somewhere
between delirium and unconsciousness as they passed through that part of the
city. She had a vague recollection of descending, of going through doors and
moving along passages, but nothing was clear. And she still remembered the
beast, the sound of its footfalls, the trumpeting of its voice, the glow of its
eyes. She looked down at the broken shards of the kerram’s lamp. Perhaps she had
not seen the beast at all, but only these two emerging from the smoke filled
passage. But then, what had she heard?

She
placed a hand on the door in front of her, the ancient wood rough against her
fingers. What terrors lay beyond that portal? Where had the kerram been taking
her? And why? She knew she should run back to Elddon. But what then? Tristan
was in a dungeon and there was no help forthcoming from Baron Leofrick or Sir
Egan. She would likely end up back here or on a pyre of burning branches.

Ryia
shook herself. She was no adventurer, no hero or great warrior. But she was no
timid damsel either. All arguments aside, she simply wanted to know. She had to
find out what lay behind that door. She had to know what mysteries Ibridion held.
Ryia gripped the kerram’s staff in one hand and reached for the heavy iron ring
on the door with the other. It opened easily, groaning slightly as it swung
back to reveal only darkness and silence. Ryia gritted her teeth and plunged
into the black.

Ryia
wandered for a time, clutching the kerram’s staff as if her very life depended
on it. The shackles on her wrists felt heavy, the weight of the chain beginning
to make her arms ache again. She could hear sounds, what even sounded like
voices, but they were distant and of no immediate concern.

She
had not gone very far before she entered a part of the city that was lighted by
a series of oil lamps set on shelves along the walls. She took one of these
down and snuffed out the flame. Then she poured the oil over her wrists and
hands. By twisting and pulling ferociously she was at last able to free herself
from the shackles. The skin on her wrists was raw and she had scrapes and
abrasions on both sides of her hands, but the pain was worth it. Free of the
restraints, she continued her exploration with renewed confidence.

The
sound of approaching footsteps alerted her to danger and she had just enough time
to slip into a shadowed alcove before two more of the kerram appeared, hurrying
along the passage. The creatures each carried one of the strange curved swords
and seemed to be in a great hurry. They had only just passed Ryia’s hiding
place when she heard them stop.

“Well,”
said a man’s voice, “have you found her yet?” The voice was terribly familiar. Ryia
felt her skin prickle.

“She
is here, in the city,” said one of the kerram in the common tongue. “We found
these.” Ryia heard the clink of chains and cursed herself for not thinking to
hide the shackles. She had left them in the open where anyone might stumble
upon them.

“Find
her,” the man commanded, “or you will pay dearly for your failure.” It was then
that she recognized who the speaker was. Sir Egan Stroud. Sir Egan was here and
he was working with the kerram. It seemed impossible, but she was sure it was his
voice she had heard. But why? To what end? She felt a sudden stab of anger in
her chest and wanted more than anything to step out from the alcove and demand
an explanation. But that would only put her in peril again.

Ryia
swallowed her anger, pushing herself deeper into the shadows and waited. She
heard the sound of boot heels on stone, moving away, and the kerram scurried
past, searching for her along the corridor. She waited, waited for what seemed
like a long time, then slid from her hiding place and hurried down the passage
in the direction she believed Sir Egan had taken.

In
a short while, she came to a large chamber. At the center of the chamber was a great
pillar with an arched opening in the center of it. Through the arch she could
see a spiral staircase. As she moved closer, listening for the sounds of
approaching enemies, she saw that the stairs climbed up to another level as
well as descending to some deeper part of the city. Ryia hesitated, thinking.
On an impulse she went down, her heart pounding, afraid that at any moment she
would come upon more of the kerram.

The
stairs went down a long way, terminating at another arch in a room very similar
to the one above. As Ryia stepped out into the chamber, she could see that the
far wall and part of the floor had been removed. In the opening where the floor
ended a broad staircase descended to a tunnel twenty feet below. She paused,
listening, and heard shouting and the sharp crack of a whip, somewhere off in
the distance. The floor trembled beneath her feet and there was a low grumble
of sound. She remembered again the way the ground had trembled at the beast’s approach
and felt the cold touch of fear along her spine. Taking a deep breath, she summoned
what little courage remained to her and started down.

She
held the staff before her, gripping it the same way that the kerram on the
bridge had. She had seen how the kerram twisted the wood and how the staff had
spit fire. Ryia was fairly certain she could duplicate the effect. The staff
was a weapon and she would use it to defend herself if need be.

At
the base of the steps was a long, crooked tunnel, the roof of which was
supported by posts and heavy beams. Lamps, like the ones her kerram captors had
carried, were set on the floor at intervals, lighting her course. At the end of
the tunnel was a huge cavern, a vast space lit by a thousand lamps set in
niches along the walls. Ryia paused, remaining in the shadows near the entrance,
afraid to go any farther lest she be revealed in that sea of illumination.

The
size of the cavern was such that the entire village of Elddon could easily have
fit inside it. It was a honeycomb of misshapen alcoves and blind tunnels
beneath a crude dome. Portions of the ceiling were held up by an elaborate
framework of wooden timbers and sagging arches, the joints of which were
pinioned with thick cords of rope. A wooden walkway had been built thirty feet
above the floor and several kerram walked along it, watching the activity
below.

Some
distance from where she stood, Ryia caught sight of a monster the like of which
she had never seen. The thing looked like a gigantic beetle and it appeared to
be chewing a hole in the cavern wall. Smoke billowed out of a pipe in the
center of the monster’s back and steam issued from narrow fissures along its
body. The lower portion of the creature consisted of countless wheels and pulleys,
odd protrusions and leather straps, all heaving and twisting, moving in a
coordinated effort. The monster inched forward, ingesting large chunks of earth
and stone and expelling smaller sized rocks behind it.

A
dozen or more people, clad only in soiled rags and with shackles binding their
ankles, scrabbled through the rubble in the beetle’s wake, filling wheelbarrows
with pulverized rock. When the wheelbarrows were full, they were pushed out of sight,
somewhere deeper inside the cavern.

More
kerram guards, some with curved swords and others carrying lumen-etched staffs,
monitored the prisoners’ efforts. Several of the kerram bore coiled whips.
These they used from time to time, lashing the prisoners into greater activity.
Ryia recognized some of the people’s faces. Here were those taken by the beast
of Elddon. Not devoured as many surmised, but deposited here in the bowels of
the earth and forced into labor by the kerram.

Ryia
took a step back, stumbled, her foot slipping on the gravel strewn floor. The
sound drew the attention of one of the guards who turned to look in her
direction. The kerram began moving toward her, coming to investigate, but then
some commotion drew his attention away. The kerram paused, then turned back,
uncoiling his whip. Ryia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
She retreated quickly along the tunnel to the stairs, then to the room above.
She darted through the arch and began climbing the spiral staircase, moving
swiftly and trusting to luck that she would not encounter anyone coming down.

When
she reached the passage where she had heard Sir Egan’s voice, she stopped, her
pulse racing. She listened and watched, but the passage remained empty. Ryia
knew now what she must do. There was a mystery here, some plot involving the
kerram and Sir Egan. The missing villagers were still alive and for their sakes
she had to tell someone. She had to find help, even if it meant going all the
way to Linheath.