The Beast of Finger Wood - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

    Two days later the party was making their way along the winding road that led northwest to the Finger Wood. Although it was the primary source of local timber, the Finger Wood was not extensively logged – for the most part, groves of rare trees were carefully maintained and managed along the fringes, with only a few cut down each year.
    There were other groves within the wood, of course, but beyond the fringes the wood was full of monsters that had been forced from the duchies over the centuries. Many of the monsters that plagued the southern duchies emerged from the Finger Wood, as the lands to the south east were empty and barren – and the wood grew along a mountain range that separated the duchies from the Dread Blight.
    Sparrow walked alongside Graeme’s warhorse, and Annette rode behind upon her smaller riding horse, leading the two pack mules. “I used to scout a day ahead, sometimes, when there were two of us to fly ahead. Sleeping alone makes you a target along that route,” she said to Graeme. “But I can’t carry everything I need (and own) when I fly, so I need a pack animal to get around.”
    “Seems a shame,” replied Graeme. “You could get a lot further in one day if you could just fly there.”
    “Back in the mountains the Winged Guard can get away with it. Two days, from one end of the range to the other, stopping at a base midway between. I don’t think I could manage it if I tried, but apparently it’s common. Our history is fairly exhaustive on the advantage moving our army from one end of an inhospitable mountain range to the other in two days is.”
    “There’s a topic I’d like to hear the tales from,” said Graeme. “I have no idea of the history of your people, or much more than hearsay about a lot of things, to be honest.”
    Sparrow chuckled. “I had to come down here to find out about the rest of the world, but I guess I can spare you climbing the mountains. One of my favourite tales, that you might enjoy, is about the defeat of an army that came from the valleys between the mountains to exterminate all the Winged Ones.”
    “Really? I heard that only small groups of savages lived in the valleys.”
    “With the exception of Tenmen Vale, more or less. But this was a long time ago, when the valleys were less overgrown and were instead full of fertile fields. My people kept away from the valley dwellers, as we could easily avoid them and our culture used to be far more afraid of those without wings.
    “They developed legends about us, the story goes, asserting that we held the riches of the mountains, and that we knew the secrets of them – for how else could we survive at such heights?”
    “Actually,” Graeme interrupted, “That is a pretty good question. How do you survive?”
    Sparrow smiled, and said “We have a wide selection of crops that grow on snow, and others that grow in very cold climates. One of these crops can be refined to create keshen, which as you might know provides very good insulation without being bulky.”
    Graeme nodded. “It’s pretty expensive down here, however. Little demand and it needs to be brought all the way from the northern mountains.”
    “Ahuh. To continue the tale, eventually a leader appeared amongst them, who decried us as monsters who were keeping those in the valleys from their true potential, hording the secrets and treasures of the mountains for ourselves. We had little contact with them, and this was cut off with only a few whispers reaching us; so we did not notice.
    “They assembled an army and swept up one of the mountains, destroying our lower lying villages and killing all they could catch. They hunted down those who did not have true wings like mine, which disappear after about twenty minutes of use. Few escaped, but they brought word to the Winged Guard. Marked, the leader of the guard, mustered them and they flew all day to reach the village at the top of the mountain before the army reached it.
    “The next morning, as the army approached through the cold, growing angry with their leaders as they had found no treasure and only useless ‘secrets’, Marked stood high above them, staring down from a high rock. ‘Send your leader to fight me!’ he called, ‘Or a champion!’
    “Now, the leader of the enemy was old and wizened, but rather than choosing the strongest of his men he sent his son, who was a coward. As he and Marked approached each other in the snow, he pulled out a crossbow and took aim. Marked, seeing this, unslung his bow – but before he could fire, the coward’s bolt slammed into Marked’s arm, crippling him.
    “Yet Marked held onto his bow, and let loose an arrow that pierced the coward’s throat, slaying him quickly. Marked took flight as the enemy army charged – angry, and ignoring the duel of archers – to attack the Winged Guard.
    “The guard took flight with their leader, and from high above peppered the enemy with arrows until they broke and ran; fleeing down the mountain. With his army broken and his only son dead, the enemy leader surrendered, and was slain by Marked’s lieutenant.
    “In the years that followed, the valley people faced tragedy after tragedy, and lost many of their people and land; but never again attacked us. They feared that doing so would only increase their troubles; as they felt that their woes came from a curse upon them – as they had dared to steal our secrets.”
    “Your people weren’t responsible for these ‘woes’ at all?”
    “We’re not sure, actually. Our historians think that we probably were, as in the past our culture was vengeful when forced into conflict against our will.”
    “A pretty good story, friend. Perhaps tonight I’ll recite one of the epic knight-poems, if I know one you haven’t heard.”
    Annette, who had drawn up along-side the pair to listen to the story, added “You better not recite the one ‘nobody knows’ because it’s poorly written and about your father again!” As Graeme frowned at her, she said to Sparrow, “It’s a thinly veiled joke that’s actually about a goat. Trust me.”
    “Annette!” said Graeme, with frustration.

    The group made their way through the farmlands, a few hills dotting the mostly flat plains. It would take them roughly five days to reach Perring, the town plagued by the monster; though only three would be spent in the farmlands. The last two would be spent following woods trails through the edges of the Finger Wood, going from town to town along the trade routes.
    They spent two days moving between towns, getting to know each other and resting at well stocked inns before anything interesting happened.

    As he rode over the crest of the hill, Graeme spotted a destroyed wagon lying alongside the road. He reined in his horse, and said, “Annette, Sparrow, have a look at this.”
    Sparrow used her wings to propel herself up enough to reach the top of the hill, and spread them to glide gently to the ground. “Is that a body lying underneath it?” she asked, spotting the wagon.
    “It looks like it,” replied Graeme. “Annette, hold the horses. Sparrow, get in the air and look around. Whoever did this might still be around.”
    As Sparrow took flight, a woman’s voice came from the wagon. “Help! I’m stuck! Help!” she said.
    As Graeme approached the caravan slowly, sword drawn, Sparrow looked down from above. The small copse of trees the wagon was alongside was empty; and she could see no signs of civilisation nearer than a farmstead a fair way to the south.
    Sparrow dropped down beside Graeme as he neared the woman, and said “It’s clear, unless something’s underground or invisible.”
    Graeme kept his sword drawn as he approached the woman, who was looking at him pleadingly. “Hurry up and help me!” she said, “I’ve been stuck here for hours!”
    Graeme moved his sword as if to sheath it, but instead of sheathing it he swung it in an arc, beheading the woman in one stroke. As thick, turquoise blood dribbled from the stump, Sparrow looked at Graeme with respect.
    “Annette, come down here. I can finally show you what a finger-siren looks like,” Graeme said. He turned to Sparrow, saying “When I lift the wagon up, can you pull the body out?”

When Annette reached them, he tapped his sword on what looked like a shard of glass. “This is how I knew what she was. Normally a damsel in distress around here should be completely suspect; possibly even if you know them. This is, luckily, a poor hunter.”

Graeme heaved the wagon up to reveal the lower half of the woman – three long tentacles, each ending in a large, vicious, glass-like claw. Sparrow quickly pulled the body out, and Graeme dropped the wagon with a grunt. “They’re not particularly dangerous if you’re armed, as they have trouble balancing on one tentacle. This one is likely young and inexperienced, as this trap is fairly simple. Some of them go to great lengths to kill people.”

“Why does it want to kill people?” asked Sparrow, “It’s obviously sentient.”

“I don’t know,” said Graeme, shaking his head. “But they’re not particularly sentient. They breed in a strange way – and often; they spread like rabbits – in which their offspring have the minds of the parent. I saw a captured one once; it copied phrases that it heard but never actually ‘talked’ like you or I would. I think that with several millennia worth of phrases they know enough to successfully draw victims in.”

Sparrow sighed, and looked over the wagon. “This looks like it’s been here for months, not hours. What are we going to do with the body?”

“Burn it,” Annette said. “It’s a waste of ground to bury something like that, and we can’t just let it rot.”

    As the makeshift fire burnt the finger-siren’s corpse, Sparrow asked Graeme why he’d made Annette watch the animals.
    “Someone needed to in case thieves were nearby, and I needed you in the air. Normally she comes with me when I take a risk – but normally we’ve left the horses and mule in a town,” Graeme replied.
    “I don’t mind, anyway,” said Annette, “I’ve learnt my ‘doing what Graeme says is usually a good idea’ lesson several times now.”
    “There’s a good story to one of those, too,” said Graeme. “I’ll tell it if you don’t, Annette.”
    Annette sighed, and said, “When I was younger, my father bought some spark stones from a travelling merchant. If you held them near metal, sparks would leap from the stone into the metal with a fizzing noise. I had one that made green sparks, and my brother had one that made blue sparks.
    “Graeme visited shortly after we got them, and when he saw the stones, asked if he could see them. After sniffing them a couple of times, he said we should never touch both stones to the same piece of metal at once. So, that very night, I did exactly that.
    “The two stones exploded with a massive bang, turning into clouds of incredibly foul smelling smoke. I was unharmed, but Graeme used the fright to smugly tell me to listen to my elders – especially if my elders were as well travelled as he.”
    Sparrow chuckled and Graeme smiled. “You should mention that you smelt of the smoke for about six months afterwards, Annette. You even got nicknamed Stinker for a while!”
    Annette turned red, and quietly said “I didn’t know you knew about that.”
    Sparrow doubled over with laughter, grinning widely. “I think we should continue on, Graeme, Stinker,” she said, pointing to the fire as it guttered and died.
    Annette shot a glare at Sparrow as she hopped on her horse, but Sparrow had already taken flight to check the path ahead.

    The rest of the trip was uneventful. The group traded stories and got to know each other – although despite her friendliness, Sparrow was avoiding becoming too close to with the pair before she had seen them in combat, and the threats they fought. As they secured the abandoned house they had been lent by the mayor to use as a base, Sparrow thought of the Winged Guard.
    The Knights – at least those like Graeme with a low profile and overwhelming positive reputation – seem to be treated more or less like the Winged Guard. Protectors of the land, given aid and shelter, Sparrow thought. She smirked, Although the Winged Guard don’t have to deal with monsters very often, and always pay eventually, even if they can’t up front. All sorts of differences, really. But it’s the same kind of respect. And a little hero worship.

    Late that night they sat in the dining room, planning their next move over a map of the local area. Graeme had marked all the reported attacks and sightings of the monster, along with places people who had gone missing had been seen. All in all, three attacks, seven disappearances and twenty odd sightings dotted the map.
    “From what people have seen, I think it’s a Midevor. It’s dangerous, but not too bad if you can get a bolt or some arrows into it from a distance. So, we’re going to track it to its lair, then lure it out. We’ll borrow a couple of crossbows so we can try and stick a bolt each in it, Annette, and hopefully Sparrow can get a few arrows in it before it reaches us. Hopefully it will stay out and fight us or be too injured to escape; otherwise Sparrow will need to track it down. When we fight it, I’ll stand in front until it focuses on me. Annette, as I block try and sneak around to its side. If you can, good. If it notices you, even better. It’s not likely to know how to deal with a foe who can drop in from above, so if it’s very distracted Sparrow should be able to get behind it and attack. Worst case, it hears, spins, and leaves itself open to the two of us on the ground as Sparrow gets back into the air.” Graeme looked at Sparrow and Annette and said, “Any questions?”
    Annette shook her head, saying “None,” softly.
    “What does it look like, exactly?” Sparrow asked.
    “Something like this,” replied Graeme, flipping a witness account and starting to draw. The finished sketch showed a large mouth crowned by two oversized eyes, with four spindly, three-clawed legs stretching out from the oversized head. “It’s stands about as high as Annette’s shoulder, although it can straighten out its legs to stand a good few heads over me. If it’s fully grown, mind.”
    “It sounds like it is, from these accounts Graeme,” said Annette.
    “With any luck it’s not.”
    “I guess I should aim for the eyes,” said Sparrow.
    “Don’t bother. The eyes are the strongest part, strangely enough. They’re not true eyes, see – no pupils, no iris. They’re a dark greenish or brownish colour, and made of very tough, leathery flesh right through. Aim for the underbelly, if you can get to it, or just its back. As a last warning, the legs are wicked fast. Thankfully, it won’t rush you with all four – they know that their belly is their weakpoint, and avoid exposing it to swords.”
    Annette sniffed the air as Graeme leaned back in his chair, yawning. “I think your pie is done, Graeme,” she said.

    As they ate and relaxed happily into the night, the discussed how they would track the beast. Sparrow would fly high above, searching for any sign of the beast, while Annette and Graeme would work with a local hunter and his dogs to try and track the bloody trail left by a recent attack.
    With the fire crackling, the three enjoyed the comforts of a warm homestead – a great difference from an inn, and a greater difference from the ground they had enjoyed twice. Sparrow wrapped herself in her wings, and, smilingly, stared at the fire as she dozed off.

A spiral capped tower stood before Annette, lesser towers surrounding its base, giving the appearance of a short, long-spined animal. The sun shone from behind it, a brilliant glow accenting the structure’s outline. I’m kind of big compared to it, thought Annette to herself, and suddenly she was smaller – far smaller – and standing before a giant door.

It stretched high above her, grey weathered wood look ancient and tired as it sat, forever closed, never to be opened again. Only to fall, to old to stand, one day so long away. A bird above caught her eye, and suddenly she was in the air, birds flying in a flock beneath her, Sparrow at their head.

Annette watched and followed as they soared, wandering the sky in a great migratory adventure. Annette smiled in her sleep, enjoying her dream.

Sparrow stared at herself in the mirror. Her shoulder length hair wasn’t pinned back, and it lay gracefully on her shoulders. She wore a gown of the palest blue, her wings clean, brown and neat, framing her. She turned, and sighed. Her village – in fact, almost all of the Winged Ones – never wore nice things. Nor pretty things. Agriculture and pretty trinketsthings, sometimes artists, but never any ‘high culture’.

No balls, no dances, just the occasional fair. No courts, no sophisticated and great men; just the occasional hero. She often thought herself weird for wanting something that she had had no true contact with until travelling the world, but she wasn’t really surprised.

She liked pretty things. And though she didn’t really think she’d like it much, she wanted to, one day, try living a life in a court somewhere. In her dream, she pushed open the door, and her entrance was announced by the youth by the door, his wings quivering nervously. Smiling happily, she walked into her dream court of the Winged Ones.

When Graeme dreamed, he usually dreamed of what he had lost, or left behind. He preferred when he dreamed of strange nonsense – non-existent monsters, magics he had once heard stories of, or merely of milking a rock to make cheese. But often he was haunted by Janice, or by Melody, the women he had left behind.

He never had any hope of truly settling down; or, at least not settling down to start a family. He would fight until he was too old to, or die doing so. He might go back, and see if one of them would take him. He doubted it. He had broken their hearts, just as they had his. They would not come with him; and he would not stay with them.

Other times he was haunted by lost friends, or comrades. His childhood friend, Nick, who was killed by a rampaging monster his father had lost many men stopping. Sir Victor and Sir Morris, who had died as they fought beside him to slay a great, flying terror; indescribable in its terribleness. Paul, his first squire, who had died from the chill pox.

The worst dreams were the faces – the people killed in front of him, the monsters that had once been people, twisted faces screaming, and the people he had killed himself. A woman impaled by falling rubble, the undead of the village Huthill, Sir Miles, face pale as he bled out from the blow from Graeme’s lance.

But Graeme did not of bad things that night. Nor did he dream of nonsense. He slept peacefully by the fire, his mind creating dreams from his good memories. First meeting Janice, and years later Melody, and falling in love. His father, returning home safe from another hunt – and being by his father’s side when he died, peacefully and surrounded by family. Saving what remained of Huthill. Aiding the escape of Annette’s parents from the Greater Kingdom.

That very night, and good friends and companions of the past.

Far off, in the woods, the monster slept, and dreamed as well. Or perhaps, not quite. It did not have a human mind – nor, in fact, the mind of an ordinary animal. Instead, it is best to say that it remembered.

It thought over what it had done that day – stalking the few villagers who dared brave the woods, getting to know their patterns, their scents. Observing the village from afar, to assess whether it could destroy it. The arrival of several new scents intrigued it – one smelt like something it had never smelt itself, though one of its ancestors had.

It thought over what it had done that week – killed a few animals, and two humans. It gloried in the rending it had done, the blood it had spilt, going over each moment in exquisite detail. It thought back to great kills it had made – a knight sent to kill it chief among them. In fact, one of the new smells was quite similar, it realised.

Its mind stored this fact away, and it grinned in its reverie. It thought of how it might kill this new knight, and of how it would kill the villagers, and of how it might kill the other two scents, whatever they were.

Its last thought, early in the morning before it started its hunt, was of its young.