Beast of Zarall Page 8

  Beast didn’t answer. He closed his eyes and willed himself to wake up, despite knowing it didn’t work that way.

  “As long as you have hope, you will not open this cage,” the Demon Lord of Darkhome concluded, thoughtful and annoyed. “I see that.”

  Beast remained silent. The screams went on behind him, then cut off sharply. He glanced over his shoulder to see White Tower disappear.

  “Fine, I’ll help you then,” Keder grunted.

  “What?”

  “I’ll help you talk to her. I’ll give you the right words to choose.”

  Beast was baffled. He scratched his head. He was doing this a lot lately. “Why?” he asked.

  “Because,” the demon sneered, “the sooner you realize they will never give you what you want, the sooner you’ll give up.”

  “Why would I trust you? You... you want me to fail.”

  “Wrong. I don’t want you to just fail. I want you to lose that hope.” The black fog swirled forward; it filled between the silver bars, but couldn’t seep through. “I want you to understand; humans are worse than us. And they deserve everything I will do to them.”

  “I am human too.”

  Keder started laughing and Beast felt blood rushing to his face. He was trapped between embarrassment, annoyance, and lingering fear.

  “No, you’re not,” the demon chuckled. “You’re a beast. A property. You’re a thing...”

  A distant scream made Beast flinch. The ground under his feet turned to quicksand and his weight pulled him down. He lost his balance, stumbled, and fell into the water. The more he flailed his arms and legs to stay afloat, the faster he sank into the quicksand. The scream came louder.

  “When you don’t know what to say, listen,” Keder advised before Beast woke up.

  *

  Beast opened his eyes, and the next second, he was up on his feet. As he scanned his surroundings, trying to orient himself, the faint echo of the demon’s last words still lingered in his ears.

  When you don’t know what to say, listen.

  Shadows were moving around the three horse carts in every direction. The sounds of confusion, frightened horses, steel clashing against steel, and the sour smell of blood could only lead him to one conclusion; there was a fight.

  His blood rushed.

  His eyes hunted for enemies. He neither cared about the identity of the attackers, nor their motives. He just craved to find the nearest enemy and get in the fight.

  He located one just several steps from Olira. She was scrambling backwards on the dirt floor, trying to get away. Her legs were tangled in her skirt and she kept slipping. The enemy, dressed roughly and armed with a short sword, was nearing her.

  Beast’s lips parted with a snarl. He sprinted, crouched down and tumbled forward, finishing it with a kick behind the attacker’s leg. The man went down on one knee. Beast sprang up, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it, forcing him to drop the sword. He caught it in the air with his other hand, and stabbed the man in his abdomen, all in one flowing motion. The attacker was bleeding on the floor within mere seconds.

  Beast shivered with the sense of victory.

  Olira regarded him with widened eyes. Her mouth opened and closed without making any sound, like a fish in a pond. Beast’s head turned from side to side, his eyes scanning for the next opponent. His fingers caressed the soft leather of the sword’s hilt. The weight was poorly distributed, but the weapon felt like a body part he had lost and missed deeply. He bounced on his toes impatiently.

  “Dra...” Olira said, her voice broke and failed her. She took a shuddering breath and tried again: “Drasci...”

  “No!” Beast dropped on his knees, holding out his free hand at her. “Don’t say it! Owner...” He blanched, realizing what he was doing, but continued anyway. “I’ll fight. I’ll fight as myself. Please, don’t say the Word.”

  Olira gave no indication that she understood. She was still blinking rapidly and she flinched away from him when he reached. Beast didn’t wait for her agreement. She had stopped trying to speak his Kill Word and that was enough for him.

  One of Ashin’s employees ran past them, chased by an enemy wearing cheap leather armour that presented plenty of opening. A mercenary - an ally - jumped between them, their weapons met in the air.

  Beast grinned. He stood up and charged to flank the attacker.

  9

  OLIRA

  The slave’s grin froze Olira’s blood. She watched as he charged at two men fighting each other. His steps were light, agile. His sword thrusted low and slashed the bandit’s tendons. The man stumbled, but still managed to parry the slave’s next strike. Master Ashin’s mercenary drove his sword under the bandit’s arm, where the armour did not protect, and the slave slashed his throat open.

  The mercenary hesitated, then gave his back to the slave to face another bandit. Slave pushed the mercenary out of his way and took on the bandit himself. He still had that subtle grin on his face. The mercenary retreated to join his comrades and two more bandits surrounded the slave.

  Olira found herself stumbling towards one of the horse carts. She didn’t remember making the decision to go that way. At one point, she had also decided to stand up and hold her skirt high so that she could run easier.

  Her mind was doing odd things such as not seeing the whole of the battle, but picking out unimportant details; like the grin on the slave’s face. She noticed one of the travellers’ bag lying on the floor, his belongings spread everywhere. She saw a pair of mittens and remembered Andar needed a new pair this winter.

  Master Ashin gestured her to get under the cart. She crawled next to the young mother, who was cradling her baby. The baby was crying, swinging his little fists angrily as if requesting to join the fight. The father was not with them.

  A pile of armour fell in front of Olira with a loud thud and she flinched, almost hitting her head under the cart. The pile had arms and one of them was bleeding. It was the leader of the mercenaries. His arms bulged as he struggled against the bandit on top of him. A string of spittle, mixed with blood, hung on his beard. It was a well-maintained beard, unlike the slave’s. The slave’s beard just looked dirty and rugged. Olira really needed to give him a clean shave. Someone tackled the bandit off the nice bearded mercenary leader and the man stood up, lunging after them.

  “Bandits,” Olira muttered to herself. “We’re ambushed by bandits.” A smug voice in her mind congratulated her for her clever deduction.

  When she raised her head slightly, she could see the slave fighting at the opposite end of the camp. He was surrounded by four bandits now, but he didn’t appear worried at all. He had stopped trying to swallow that creepy grin and was laughing openly now.

  He was moving too quick for Olira to understand anything. She had never seen a sword fight before, so her eyes were not nearly experienced enough to read the fight. All she saw was the slave’s upper body twisting back and forth, and a couple of blurs that were his arms.

  He kicked one of the bandits and lunged at another one. Blood splayed and the second bandit fell. He ducked, turned, slashed back and forth, then back again, and another bandit fell. The first one managed to get up and thrusted his sword at the slave’s back.

  Olira gasped.

  The slave turned sideways. He struck with his elbow and the bandit stumbled backwards, his nose bleeding. He moved forward in a series of rapid slashes, and the other bandit fell. He turned back, slashed, stabbed and fell the other one as well.

  The slave looked around, hunting for the next opponent, but all four bandits were down. His eyes were bulging and his lips were pulled back over his teeth. His face, his arms, and the front of his shirt were covered in blood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and watched as the last of the bandits ran towards the fields.

  The young mother crawled out from under the cart. Her husband helped her up and wrapped his arms around them.

  Olira was still frozen where she lay. She watched as her slave approach
ed, the sword gleaming red in his hand. She now truly understood the meaning of the tattoo on his neck. There was a beast inside the slave, and she had just seen a glimpse of it.

  Master Ashin extended his arm to help her get out from under the cart. Olira patted the dust off her skirt. She had scraped her left elbow at some point, but didn’t remember how.

  “... saw him fight off four of them at a time,” said one of the mercenaries.

  “How many escaped?” The leader of the mercenaries asked. He was supported by another one of his men. He pressed a piece of cloth on his bleeding arm, which quickly turned red.

  “I saw two.”

  “Three.”

  “Bastards never stood a chance. Lady speaks one word, and that purebred...”

  Word, Olira remembered. She never spoke his Kill Word. That was all him.

  “Is anyone injured?” Ashin called. “Everyone, gather here. Randh, I want a headcount. Orad, inspect the goods and the horses...”

  The mercenaries and the travellers made way for the slave as he walked up to his Owner. He stood next to Olira, his chest out and his shoulders back. His eyes darted vigilantly. He still had a wolfish expression on his face.

  “Aralian is in bad shape!” one of the mercenaries yelled. “He needs help.” Ashin and several others rushed towards the injured man.

  “Drop the sword,” Olira demanded quietly.

  The slave cocked his head. His eyebrows drew together. “Owner,” he stammered. “If they come back.”

  “Drop it.” Olira kept her voice stable, but her heart was pounding. She wiped her palms on her skirt. The next sound to come out of her mouth was going to be his First Word.

  The slave complied reluctantly. The sword fell with a dull thud. He hunched his shoulders and brought his hands together in front of him.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, Owner.”

  Olira turned away from the smell of blood and sweat. It was hard to believe none of that blood belonged to him. “Bring me my bag. And then go get cleaned up.”

  “Yes, Owner.”

  When the slave trudged away, Olira relaxed her shoulders. People were moving around the camp; some with purpose, others without. One of Ashin’s employees was lighting a fire. Olira straightened her back and walked over to Ashin.

  “Master Ashin, have you got any moon roots? Or urrioley leaves.” She kneeled beside the injured man and swatted others’ hands to see the wound clearly. “Scrap that. Dried oxtail leaves would do. I will need hot water and bandages too.”

  Ashin clapped his hands. “You heard the lady. Go.” He rubbed his chin. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he questioned quietly.

  “I need help to take his clothes off.”

  Ashin grunted. He kneeled on the opposite side and helped her take the mercenary’s armour off. The man cried in pain as soon as they moved him. Olira asked for water to clean up the excessive blood on the man’s stomach. The stab wound was deep, but narrow. The man was taking rapid, shallow gasps, but Olira didn’t hear anything in his breathing to worry her.

  “Is he gonna live?” the neat bearded mercenary leader asked.

  “Depends on how quick I can get those dried oxtail,” Olira replied calmly.

  “Twice the hero, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  The man nodded towards the slave, who was bringing Olira’s shoulder bag. “If you hadn’t let loose that beast of yours on those bastards, we would have been worse.” He pointed a finger at Ashin. “The lady gets free meals.”

  “I’ll give her yours, considering she’s just done your job.”

  Olira listened to them with disbelief. Hadn’t any of them noticed the grin on the slave’s face as he butchered those men? Why were they congratulating her for the massacre the slave had done?

  The slave left the bag at Olira’s side, turned, and walked away. She rummaged through the bag to find her herb pouches.

  Ashin’s employee named Randh came back with the news that everyone was accounted for. They discussed if they should send men after the bandits who managed to escape, and decided against that.

  Olira tended to the injured mercenary. Ashin’s female employee -her name was Didem- followed Olira’s instructions to brew some tea with the dried oxtail leaves. Olira added a pinch of asennamon root from her pouch and asked the man to drink it. She used the leftover oxtail leaves to make a paste and covered the wound with it.

  Once the man was bandaged and asleep, she tended to the mercenary leader’s -Talvus was his name- arm.

  “I’ll get your slave a sword,” Talvus said. “He can keep it. I doubt they would try again, but I didn’t expect to find this many of them, this close to town either.”

  “No,” Olira said rather sharply.

  Talvus looked surprised. “I know he doesn’t really need it, but Master Ashin thinks he should carry a sword. And the folks would sleep better too if he did.”

  Olira looked up from her work. The slave was sitting nearby, with a damp cloth in his hand. He was scrubbing his face and had managed to get most of the blood out, but his shirt still looked like a butcher’s apron.

  “Keep your sword,” she said firmly. She didn’t care how well others would sleep; she never wanted to see the slave with a sword in his hand again.

  10

  BEAST

  Attlecana Grove was a small cluster of trees grouped between the two roads that separated from the main road. The trees were barren and the ground underneath was covered in rough patches of bushes. A wooden sign stood where the road forked, pointing in both directions. The road to Kilrer was curving around the grove, heading North West. The other continued towards East. The words Kilrer and Coldpost were written in bright, freshly painted letters on the sign; an indication that the roads were well-maintained after this point.

  The wind tousled Beast’s hair and caressed his neck as he stood behind Olira. He snuck his hand under his shirt and scratched distractedly. They were going to follow the North West road to Kilrer.

  Beast closed his eyes, imagining Late King Leonis’s throne hall; more specifically, the floor of the hall. He had memorized every single detail of the map of Chinderia depicted on that floor. Attlecana Grove was too small to be recorded on the map, but he remembered where the roads of Kilrer and Coldpost crossed. He tried to recall what else lay between this place and Kilrer, but there was nothing significant enough to be painted on the King’s floor.

  He narrowed his eyes as he scratched another spot. Thinking about the maps gave him a faint idea.

  “You sure I can’t convince you to come to Coldpost with us?” Ashin bargained. The convoy had paused on the road going East, to say goodbye to Olira. “Talvus is one man down. We could really use your beast.” He lowered his voice. “I can pay you a silver a day.”

  Talvus heard him anyway and shook his head in disbelief. Beast wondered how much Ashin was paying him. Not a silver a day by the look on the mercenary’s face. His left arm was still bandaged, but he could move it without screwing his face. It had been nearly two days since Olira treated him, and he hadn’t stopped trying to remove the bandages since then. Beast had no doubt the leader of the mercenaries could still earn his pay though.

  Olira bit her lips. “Thank you for the offer, Master Ashin, but I’m not flexible with time.”

  “You could make good money off him,” Ashin insisted.

  “In the arenas,” Talvus scoffed. “Where he belongs.”

  Beast’s heart skipped a beat. He watched Olira’s face eagerly. Olira fidgeted with her shoulder bag and avoided eye contact. “Yeah, umm, I should go. Thanks for the company, Master Ashin. For the clothes and the food as well.”

  Beast’s bag was heavier with the new ration the merchant gave them to show his gratitude. Ashin also gave them spare clothes for Beast, after Olira failed to remove the blood stain off his shirt. His new pants were long enough to cover his ankles, and his shirt was made of an uncomfortable, rough material. He took his hands out of hi
s shirt and resisted the urge to scratch any more.

  Ashin bid her goodbye with a sharp nod and returned to his cart. Talvus shook Olira’s hand. “Thank you for what you’ve done for Aralian.”

  The injured mercenary was making a steady recovery after Olira’s treatment. He was travelling at the back of one of the horse carts. Olira had left Ashin’s employees instructions to assist the man’s recovery until they reached Coldspot.

  “You’re most welcome, Master Talvus.” She pointed a finger at him. “Bandage on your arm stays for another two days.”

  Talvus rolled his eyes and waved a hand as he hurried to catch up with the convoy. “Be safe, lady.”

  Olira waved at a couple of other travellers and watched the convoy gain distance. She rearranged the straps of her bag, dusted off her dress, and set out towards Kilrer, with Beast at her heels.

  *

  Cold wind snuck through the folds of Beast’s borrowed travel cloak. His ears had already gone numb. His breath was forming a small, misty cloud in front of his mouth. The sun had nowhere to hide in the cloudless sky, yet it felt like its warmth never reached the ground.

  The dirt road they walked on was clearly well-maintained. It was wide enough for two horse carts to drive past. Undergrowth on either side of the road was cleared regularly. Beast guessed they were no more than two days from the city of Kilrer. His stomach twisted. His time was running out.

  Olira left the road without uttering a word. Beast followed her to a small cluster of trees, no more than a dozen. Their naked branches clawed at the sky. Their trunks and the undergrowth that was allowed to occupy here provided a degree of protection against the wind.

  “Put the bag down,” Olira gestured without looking at Beast. He put the bag at her feet and sat down on one of the large roots sticking out of the ground.

  Despite the extra food Ashin gave them, Olira was still thrifty with their rations. She gave each a roll of stale bread and dry cheese. She sat on another surface root and ate in silence.