The Way of the Black Beast (5 page)

Some of those in line snickered. The stocky griffle snarled at them. They quieted down. With a snort as if to say, "Watch this," he broke into a full-on charge at Malja.

She stood ready with giddiness. Drink closed in and swung his sword. Malja met the clumsy attack, locking his blade in Viper's crescent. As he strained to free it, Malja kicked his kneecap. She heard the bone crunch. He fell to the street, his sword clattered next to him, and Malja sliced open his belly.

"Is that it?" she asked to the stunned enemy on the mound.

Tufts climbed Fawbry's robe and shivered on his back. Fawbry's eyes shared the same fear. One of Fawbry's griffle guards stepped forward. With a stoic face, he raised his blade and brought it down on the chains that kept the oxters at bay.

"No," Fawbry said, panic edging into his voice, but nobody listened.

It took the guard four sparking hits, but the chains broke. Like dogs let out of a kennel, the two beasts stampeded towards Malja.

She could never withstand such a blow, so holding her ground was not an option. Instead, she brandished Viper, let out a fierce battle cry, and charged. She had hoped to startle them. Such a move might have confused a human, but the raging animals stayed their course. As they neared Malja, they lowered their snouts, positioning their horns at deadly angles.

Malja sprinted on, the adrenaline rush boosting her speed. She could feel the thunderous vibrations of the beasts trampling the ground. She heard the griffles cheer and holler from the safety of their rubble mound. She focused on the oxters' legs. Timing would be crucial. She blocked out all distractions as she closed in. The moment had come.

Malja slid low.

One oxter had lifted its head, expecting her to vault upward. The other had barreled forward. Neither anticipated her sliding underneath.

Malja's assault suit eased the friction with the street, letting her slide as if on ice. She resisted the urge to cut the oxters open from below. She couldn't risk one of the enormous beasts collapsing and clipping her in the head as it fell. She popped to her feet behind them and dashed to the right.

The oxters spun, croaked their anger, regrouped, and observed her while hissing and displaying their yellow-black teeth. She moved fast, trying to keep one oxter between her and the other at all times. This way she only had a single opponent to deal with directly, and the other oxter had to work hard to get around its peer — exhausting work that Malja planned to take advantage of later.
If I make it that far.
The oxters, however, had other plans.

The one in the back, the one Malja now noticed had a red rash around its eyes, shot straight ahead, planted its forelegs on the other's haunches, and leapt over its head. It swiped at Malja as it landed, connected with her shoulder, and threw her into a pile of bricks.

Which hurt more — the beast's blow or the bricks — she couldn't tell. Both just hurt and made her angry. She scrambled back to her feet and rushed forward, swinging Viper with calculated fervor. Before she could take control of the fight, Red Rash flanked her. She stepped back, parrying horns and claws more than attacking. Each step she tried to reposition for a fairer fight. Frustration and rage played out on the oxters' ugly faces. They wanted to slow her enough for a poisonous tail strike.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Not Red go for a wide swipe meant to finish her. Malja ducked and came up hard, thrusting Viper into its chest. The oxter yelped and yanked back, causing Viper's curved blade to cut more as it ripped out.

Without hesitation, Malja spun to face Red Rash, but the beast had already attacked. She met the blow full on, taking it on her side, and being thrust into more rubble. Not what she had planned, but in battle, improvisation ruled. At this point, Red Rash made a critical mistake — it should have struck with its tail, but first, it glanced at the other oxter. Malja did not want to miss such an opportunity. She rolled to the left, ignoring her bruised side, and positioned behind Red. It attempted to snap her with its tail. Malja sliced it off. Blood and cries erupted. Malja skewered the barbed slice onto Viper, and armed with the poisonous tail, she slammed it into each oxter. In seconds, they moved no more.

Panting as sweat dripped from her face, Malja straightened and tossed the bloody tail aside. Before she could face Fawbry, however, she heard him whimper and protest. Though he garbled his words, she understood — the griffle guards would no longer follow him. They would no longer wait.

They yelled as they charged into battle like a chorus of berserk madmen. Malja sneered, bracing for a tough fight. She did not dream of surviving. She never did in any fight. She thought only of inflicting damage.

They picked up speed and pointed their weapons at her. Malja readied Viper once more and took slow, controlled breaths. Channeling all her rage, she roared at her stampeding enemy.

With only a few steps to go before reaching the killing zone, the guards skidded to a halt. Surprise and perplexed fear covered their monstrous faces as they backed up and staggered away. Malja wanted to laugh. Her battle roar never had such a response before.

Then she heard the tidal wave break behind her. Pressig and his town flooded the square in pursuit of the guards. Pressig glanced over his shoulder and said, "They watched you fight. They wanted to help." He smiled in victory and pressed onward.

A few townspeople rushed over to free the three prisoners. The prisoners stood with the confused joy of those who had accepted the fate of Death — Malja had felt that way many times. She could not be sure if the newly freed people belonged to the town, but she could tell by their effusiveness that they would probably be joining soon.

Malja let her body relax for a few breaths. She looked at Fawbry, alone on his throne, yelling at his abandoning guards, reaching out as Tufts scurried away, and she thought of Jarik and Callib.

* * * *

The people of Noogruff couldn't hold back their excitement. Three riders galloped ahead to tell the town of their success. By the time Malja, Pressig, and the rest arrived, a full-blown celebration filled the main street.

Fire pits blazed and savory aromas of roasting meat touched every grumbling stomach. Warmed breads and hot vegetables were doled out to every plate. A handful of men and women brought out patched-together instruments and played one raucous tune after another. Couples danced under torchlight, their bodies shimmering with the flames.

Tommy showered Malja with hugs. She tried not to stiffen up under his affections, but she had no doubt he noticed her discomfort. He broke away and rubbed down her horse. Later, he played with her hair while she ate. This she handled better.

A little girl with straight, blond hair looked up at her with eager eyes and asked to hear the story of the battle. "You don't want to hear that," Malja teased before telling the story to the girl's rapt attention. By the time Malja finished, a crowd of children had formed around her.

"Tell it again!" they shouted, clapping their hands and banging the ground until Malja put down her plate and described the battle once more. She had never enjoyed trading stories with adults — it was just competition — but with children, the experience took on the purity of inspiration.

Tommy sat beside her, beaming with the pride of being her trusted ally. As she finished retelling the story, she decided to help Tommy's status a little more. Though they'd probably never see these people again, he deserved at least one night of fun playing the hero.

"You know Tommy helps me stay sharp, so I'm prepared for whatever threats might come our way," she said to the amazed faces. "We play a game I call The Reflex Game."

"Show us," the kids cried out.

Before Malja said another word, Tommy jumped to his feet and put his hands behind his back. Malja laughed and Tommy gave her a rare, genuine smile.

"Pair off," she said, and the kids rushed around to find their best friends. "Now one person do just like Tommy. The other do as I do." Malja faced Tommy and brought her hands together as if in prayer. The kids followed along. "Tommy's going to try to slap my hand. If he gets me, he keeps going, but if he misses, then we switch and it's my turn to slap his hands. But there are rules. I can only move my hands up or down, and they must stay together all the time. Tommy can try to fake an attack but if his hand comes around enough to be seen, he must follow through. And last, the most important rule — if he fakes a strike, but I react anyway, he gets a free slap. I can only try to evade a real attack. Understand?"

Some of the children launched right into the game. Others appeared to be afraid. Malja looked at them and said, "A warrior must learn to face down a threat and only react to true dangers. Play this game enough, and you'll be on your way to being a great warrior."

The little blonde girl had her hands out and concentrated on her partner's shoulders. "Then we can defend ourselves, right?" she said.

"That's right." Tommy and Malja played a few rounds and soon all the children were giggling, slapping, feigning, and smiling. With a nod, Malja sent Tommy off to play with the others. She returned to her meal, grinning at the playful sounds around her. She swore she even heard a giggle sneak out of Tommy's lips, but when she turned around he was silent. But smiling.

Later, parents broke up the game to send their children to bed. Though there were many complaints, most of the children were tired and some moved with sluggish steps. A few uttered words of thanks before heading home. With his eyes growing too heavy to stay awake, Tommy curled around Malja's knee. Pressig's wife, however, swooped in and carried him to her house.

A handsome, young man climbed onto a table. "Drinks for the victors," he said, raising two frothing jugs in the air.

Malja observed the eager townspeople line up to get drunk on fermented whatever, and she let a new smile drift across her face. She rarely got to see this side of battle. Often while others celebrated, she traveled onward. This time, however, she had little choice. With Tommy asleep in the house and Fawbry locked away, she would have to wait for things to settle down before she could say goodbye.

Besides,
she thought, eyeing the young man doling out drinks,
I don't want to leave just yet.

A rapid-fire giggle soared over the general party noise, and Malja's eyes spotted a young gal being wooed by one of the rescued prisoners. She searched for the others and spotted them standing near the musicians. That suited her fine. It was interesting, maybe even pleasant, to see everyone so happy, but she didn't want to be forced into an awkward bout of praise from those individuals.

"We certainly owe you a big thanks," Pressig said as he approached Malja. He offered her a cup of the drink which she took without a word. It tasted sour, but the alcohol kick more than made up for its lack of flavor. "Oh, and don't worry about the ex-Mayor Fawbry," he went on. "He's tied to a chair in the Wilk's house. He won't go anywhere."

"I'm just glad nobody died."

"A couple broken bones and plenty of bruises is all. Thank you for everything."

Malja took another swig of her drink and put her mouth to Pressig's ear. Quiet and cold, she spoke. "You were lucky. You ever send these people into a fight like that again, you'll have nothing but corpses to celebrate with." Pressig tried to pull away, but Malja clamped down on his hand. "And if I ever hear that you let such a thing happen, especially because we both know you did this for politics, I'll hunt you down."

She released his hand but locked eyes with him until she saw the shock fade into resignation. She had no delusions that her threat would protect Noogruff from Pressig's ambitions for too long, but he would be cautious for a while. He left his cup behind when he made his exit.

Malja looked about for the handsome man who had supplied the alcohol. Before she could find him, a loud warbling emitted from the trees coupled with a buzzing, electric crackle. The music stopped as all eyes turned toward the forest.

From the shadows emerged a dirt-spackled, flatbed flyer loaded with salvaged items and things brought from far away. Each corner of the roofless vehicle had a cylinder blazing electric energy that kept it floating on air. At the front sat the magician who supplied the electricity and a filigoto driving.

The filigoto waved his stumpy hand as he brought the vehicle to the ground. He was short, wide, and bald with no neck to speak of. Another mutated version of humans, the filigoto had no homeland other than whatever they traveled in. They became traders by necessity.

"Good evening, all. I'm Weyargo. Here to trade," he said with his melodic, lilting voice.

Many townspeople encircled his flatbed to see what he had brought. Malja knew a few filigoto. They were fine enough creatures. Never bothered her much. And they often brought tales from other countries.

"Corlin," most would say, "is the only place to be. The others are empty of everything. Towns are so far apart, and there are so few people."

Indeed, Malja heard Weyargo speaking a similar line to his new customers. He probably praised whatever country he was in. "It's what I've always told those from other lands. You must come to Corlin. It seems most of the people in the world live in this wonderful country. Now, ma'am, doesn't that look lovely? I'll make a fair deal with you."

While Weyargo made one fair deal after another, his magician rested. Malja watched that one closely. Just in case. He twitched a few times and seemed unsure of his surroundings, but all went well.