By Ben Lathrop and Michael Gernes
“What’s the name of this village again?” asked Julien, idly strumming his gittern.
“I don’t think it has a name,” replied my brother, not taking his eyes from the road. “My father’s manor maps only marked it with a number.”
That’s not entirely true. I’ve spent many long hours in our father’s study, both before and after he disappeared, and I know his maps well. This village does have a number, sixteen, the same age I turned this winter when my older brother, Lohier, now Le Marquis du Bois de Bruiere, told me “Well, Ysolt. Now that you’re old enough to marry, you may finally be worth something to this family.” Ironically, this is also, in a way, what brought us here. The young King Roul was hosting a grand fête and tourney to mark the occasion of his first royal progress. My brother was invited, as were the heads of all the named houses, and it had become fixed in his mind that this was his opportunity to reverse our family’s fortunes in one fell swoop.
“It's a ruin!” whined Henri. ”We wasted two day’s ride for this?”
“We invested one and one quarter day’s detour because this ruin hasn’t paid its rents for nearly six seasons,” Lohier corrected his armiger. “These peasants have forgotten their obligations. Or their loyalties. Possibly both.” He turned in his saddle to look back at the two hitched tending wagons bearing our family’s great harness, Prowess. “I think an extra day’s journey to remind them will be well worth the cost.”
I guided my horse gently to the side of the road so I could see around my brother and his retinue. The village was a cluster of squat, grey-daubed cottages nestled in a fog-shrouded meadow. Pitiful smoke writhed from chimneys to merge with the mist, which blended the sky and the earth into a single ghostly blur. The only other things visible were the shadows of trees, looming behind the buildings like the teeth of some great leviathan poised to breach the surface and swallow up the very memory of this place. It called to mind the old words scrawled in my father’s careful hand next to the number on his map. Le Cuer del Briel—The Briar’s Heart. The vast and wild woods that mark the end of the known world.
No one came to meet us as we rode into the village. My brother’s jaw pulsed as he ground his teeth at the perceived insult, but he maintained an image of lordly authority. Cool eyes the color of a cloudy sky, the same as father’s. A nose broken years ago during training, then poorly set by Gaspard’s clumsy hands, which somehow did not make him less handsome. And a bush of fair hair that curled just as our younger brother’s had—before Premontan rioters stole him from us. “See to the horses,” he barked at no one in particular. “Henri, Gaspard. With me.” As they rode off and the servants busied themselves, I was, as usual, left to my own devices.
It felt good to stretch my legs on solid ground, even if the muddy slop beneath my feet only barely qualified. The village looked little different from up close. Roofs of wet thatch and soggy moss. Walls made of mud-covered and rain-soaked boards leaning against each other like my brother’s cronies leaving a tavern. Every structure bore an exhausted air of helplessness and defeat, except one.
The well was huge. The base of it was at least as wide as twice my length and crafted around hulking black stones which rose from the earth like claws. Every village has a well. For water of course, but more so for the God Beyond to watch from. Wells are a place of reverence, a source of pride and solace. Since Father vanished, I have visited many, but felt nothing. Perhaps it is as the doomsayers claim, that the waters under Occhien are drying up and the wells have become too shallow for the God to see us properly. This place felt different.The well itself was in the same style and mode as the ancient well at the center of Chastel Bois de Bruiere, but the massive stones that circled it were clearly older. They were worn smooth where the regular masonry still showed the mark of a chisel. I peered over the edge and could not see the bottom.
Something tugged at the hem of my skirt and I spun around. It was a waif. A peasant girl of no more than seven. She dared to catch my eyes with hers, flashing deep black pools sunken into bloodless cheeks, before flinching her face into her shoulder. Then she ran into the village, her tattered grey dress dragging in the mud behind her. “Wait!” I called, and the girl froze in place, then turned and gave me the same awful, pleading look. In a heartbeat, she had run off again. This time, I gave chase.
The girl darted between silent buildings and mouldering wood piles. Untilled gardens and empty animal pens. She stopped without warning and I saw what she had meant to show me. It lay in the field between the rear of the village and the timberline of the vast forest. At first it looked like the cracked and blackened bones of some enormous creature laid to waste. I soon saw that it was, or had been, a great building, possibly even the village hall. Its timbers had been completely sundered. Even the rude masonry of its foundations had been strewn and scattered. I took a step closer, but lost my footing and suddenly fell awkwardly to the sodden earth.
“Damn it, Ysolt…” sighed my brother, offering his hand. “Stupid—Clumsy, girl. Not enough I have to go chasing after you like a child, but now look at the state of you.”
There was a time, brief as it may have been, when Lohier and I were nearly the same height. Father insisted on us both learning the sword and many—many—a time it was Lohier who found himself splayed in the filth of the practice yard at my feet. Has he forgotten, or is it that he remembers too well? I couldn’t say as I pulled myself up without his help.
“They’ve no inn, so we’re billeting among the villagers,” he said, turning his back to me with another weary sigh. “Half the bloody village has fallen down. Apparently they’ve been bedeviled by some rogue animal. Probably a boar from the sounds of it. That’s their excuse for being late on the rents, anyway.”
My traveling clothes were completely spattered with mud, but it was nothing my maidservant couldn’t brush out after it had dried by the fire. When I looked up, the waif was gone, and Lohier was striding back to the center of the village. I started to follow, then paused when I saw what had tripped me. An indentation shaped like a horse’s hoof but the size of a wagon bed, pressed at least a foot deep into the earth and hidden by the tall grass.
“Come on, Ysolt!” said Lohier. “I pray the God Beyond grants you the grace to at least pass as a lady long enough for me to secure you a half-decent match at the tourney.”
***
“They say it strikes at night,” said Henri. “Charges anything that stands, even buildings. On the rare occasion when the beast doesn’t raid their stores or fields, they still never fail to hear it passing in the woods after dark.”
“Sounds exactly like a boar to me,” said Lohier. “ We used to hunt them after the Shatters rose because that was when the gamewarder said they were most active. And they’re known to claim a territory and fight for it.” We had taken residence in the largest of the homes the village had to offer. Lohier and his men had helped themselves to the contents of the cellar, but the house’s owner did not protest. In fact the family that lived there was nowhere to be found.
“You know what it sounds like to me?” said Julien, plucking a soft melody on the strings of his gittern.
“A child from the village showed me what it had— “
“Hush, girl,” interrupted Henri.
“Ah ah,” chided Lohier. “Lady Bois de Bruiere if you please. It's high time you louts started practicing your manners.” Lohier grinned easily, and refilled Henri’s cup. “Remember, our fortunes are tied. My family’s name has not completely fallen, and should it rise again, so too will your own stations. All people, noble and common alike, believe what they can see. At the tourney I plan to show them a great and lordly harness-bearer, a fine lady open to noble suitors, and a grand retinue of fearsome and loyal gens d'armes.” He is a brute in the way all older brothers are, I thought, but Lohier can be quite charming when he chooses to be. These men would follow him anywhere. “Now if there are no further outbursts from Lady Bois de Bruiere, perhaps my Master Bard may honor us with his words?”
“The honour is all mine, Marquis,” smiled Julien with an exaggerated bow. “I was saying this all sounds like something from the old songs and stories of the Briar-Heart Forest. A terrible beast at large. A brave nobleman, charged with defending the marches and upholding the Virtues of Arms. I can’t help but imagine how a new song such as this might be received at court?”
Firelight twinkled in my brother’s eyes as a broad smile slowly spread across his lips. “Henri,” he said, toying with the large gold signet on his finger. “Gather the men and make ready Prowess.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Henri, “We’ve already lost two days, at this rate we’ll be lucky to arrive at the tourney in time to actually enter. And if anything were to happen while you were out in the dark trifling with some boar—” But he was drowned out by Julien’s excited strumming.
“Have the villagers prepare torches,” said Lohier to one of the servants. “And find— something. A goat, or pig. Any of their stock that isn’t sickly. Tonight, we’re going on a boar hunt!”
***
I’ve been around the great harness my entire life. I’ve watched it be hoisted onto the wagons we brought it here with us on. Seen how the clever scaffolding can unfold from the wagons’ walls, and how only the strength of a few aides are needed to hoist Prowess to its full height, thanks to the genius work of pulleys. I’ve watched my father’s body move more elegantly than any dancer as he worked the cables and gears, which allow Prowess to walk and move almost as gracefully as a living knight on foot. I’ve seen all of this countless times, but it never fails to fill me with awe. The harness is a marvel. A pure marriage of man’s knowledge of the mechanical arts and the unfathomable mysteries of the plinth stones. What’s more, Prowess is a symbol. It is my family’s legacy and holy mandate made real. Seeing it this night, standing in defense of our fief, made me forget my brother’s callous treatment earlier and for the first time in a long time, I felt something close to pride.
“Bleh-aat!” A goat, little more than skin and bone, had been placed a few yards from the tree line and tied with a rope that was held to the ground by a stake. Lohier had made a few light cuts in its flesh with his arming sword so that the scent of blood would catch on the wind. Henri and a few of the other men waited on horseback with torches, hidden on the other side of the nearest buildings. Prowess stood by the road, far enough from the goat to remain out of sight, but close enough to reach it in only a few of the harness’s long strides.
“Lured by the distressed animal,” Lohier had explained “The beast will emerge from the forest hoping for an easy meal. When it does, Prowess will raise its sword. At this signal, you men will ride out in front of the tree line and block the beast’s escape. Then Prowess will come forth and put an end to the thing.”
The plan had sounded good, but that was hours ago. Now it was seeming like a better plan would be to forget the whole thing and go to bed. It was so dark, I was certain there was no way for Lohier to see more than the grass at Prowess’s feet. What if the beast crept from the woods quietly to retrieve its prize? It may have come and gone already for all we knew. But the echo of a heavy branch snapping pushed these thoughts from my mind like a chill breeze snuffing a candle.
I crept closer from my hiding place between two houses and strained to see anything in the inky blackness. Another branch cracked and the goat made a fearful sound. I could only make out Prowess’s silhouette in the bluish nimbus glowing from the harness’s reliquary as its massive sword rose into the air. Suddenly the night was ablaze as streaks of torchlight galloped towards the field. Prowess charged into battle with a mighty swing of its two-handed greatsword, recovering into an over-hand guard. I could just make out the silhouette of the beast. Larger than a prize bull, with cruel tusks and an arched back crested with bristles that came to a point like the razor sharp blade of an axe. The boar snorted and charged. Prowess struck and turned, always moving the blade just as our father had taught us. The thing lunged with its tusks, and I was sure at that moment it had breached Prowess’s armor. But Lohier had shifted at the last moment, positioning himself for the killing blow. In a heartbeat, it was over.
“Piss from the Well! Look at the size of this bastard!” Gaspard exclaimed. With the beast felled, the men excitedly gathered in for a closer look. A handful of the bolder villagers began to emerge from their homes to join them, and I too made my way over. The boar was the largest I had ever seen. Surely, the largest anyone there or anywhere had seen. It was as big as an ox and seemed to be made of pure muscle. The four gnarled tusks which curled in two pairs on either side of its mouth were each longer than my forearm but half again as thick.
“Voyez-moi,” gasped Julien, touching his Well pendant to his lips. “Perhaps it is true what the old songs say? The heart of the deep woods is where monsters are born?”
The hatch on the back of Prowess’s fauld skirt sprung open. “Well, I say get this monster on a spit so we can have a feast!” said Lohier, emerging from within, slick with sweat and radiating glory. The men cheered, their love for him renewed. He made it look easy.
I watched as the servants field dressed the carcass and then tied ropes to the thing so they could drag it back to the village. I watched as my brother and his men congratulated each other on their way back to borrowed homes to resume their drinking of other people’s wine. I watched Prowess stand vigilant, but empty. And I watched the villagers cast nervous glances at the woods as they snuck back to where they had been hiding.
The revels outlasted the cellar’s wine and also the coming winter’s beer, and still on until after the hexing hour. Julien in particular was in high form, composing an epic ballad of Lohier’s triumph verse-by-verse as he strummed. Singing his praises and embellishing the story with inspired fervor. I couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement. There had been precious few things to celebrate at Chastel Bois de Bruiere of late. Julien is a cad, but he is not without talent and the song he had crafted was infectious and easy to sing along with. Our voices joined and grew louder and louder.
So loud that we almost didn’t hear the building next door being smashed to pulp. The muffled calamity gave us all pause. But only just long enough to cast a curious glance at one another before the back wall of the house disappeared and the roof caved in on top of us. Everything went black for me then.
***
After a time, cracks appeared in the blackness. From those cracks came screams. Of pain. Of terror. And another sound. Primal and furious. It rumbled through the earth and caused the very air to vibrate. I managed to push my way free from the rubble somehow and stumbled away towards the only structure still standing. The ancient well.
A horse galloped past bearing only the lower half of its rider. The air was thick with the iron stench of blood and reek of bile. Streaks of stray torchlight cast flitting shadows through the smashed timbers and ruined planks where houses and barns once stood. I spun around, wildly searching for my brother. My eyes landed on Prowess hefting its twenty-foot blade into a defensive stance. I followed the length of the steel to its tip, then along the invisible line which pointed at its adversary. I looked. And saw. But I could not believe.
It was Prowess’s match in height, but at least twice as broad. Despite its size, its figure was lithe with corded muscle like a lion, save for the knotted hunch that ran from its neck to the middle of its back. This was a swollen mass of flesh resembling a spoiled pumpkin. Sickly lesions wept across its surface, matting the thing’s fur with oily musk. Its head was long and pointed. Bristled with cruel-looking black barbs so prodigious I couldn’t see its eyes. Perhaps worst of all, so strange I was convinced it must be a trick of the firelight, were its mouths. Two long, ragged slits ran parallel to its jaw, one above the other like the gills of a fish. These made an unwholesome motion not unlike a cow chewing cud, but each to their own rhythm. It was a living nightmare. A true beast ripping itself free from legend.
Prowess moved forward with slow, halting steps while the monster held its ground. The harness had been outfitted for sport, not for true battle. Lohier had only a meagre tourney shield and none of the doubling-plates for the chest and legs. To make matters worse, the awkward gait could only mean that my brother wasn’t properly set to all the points. In the chaos, he must have climbed into the harness unaided and done his best to lace and strap himself. All terrible disadvantages, but Father taught his children well. “Prowess” is more than just a name among la lineage du Bois de Bruiere. To us it is a sacred virtue. Part of the oath sworn by all who carry on our family’s name.
In a flash, the great harness swept into a symphonie of motion. Stepping to the side and arcing its long blade down in a huge sweeping cut, then pivoting and slashing again with its upward stroke. Both strikes landed, opening gleaming wounds in the beast’s flesh. The thing bellowed a furious cry, as Prowess drove its sword down, thrusting deep into its gruesome hump; but then the beast lowered its head and charged like a living battering ram, knocking Prowess off balance.
“No!” I cried. But it was too late.
Before Lohier could reset Prowess’s foot, the monster had thrown open both of its mouths, creating a perverse and enormous maw, and then thrust itself into the center mass of the harness. The boney lance that served as its middle jaw pierced the light fauld plates covering the harness' groin and then the mouths snapped shut like a pair of hunter’s traps. It only took a moment for our family’s namesake to collapse under its own weight. Only the blink of an eye for the creature to crush it into the mud with the force of its unholy girth. I heard the sounds of splintering wood and snapping bone. I saw the blazing nimbus of the plinth stone gutter out like the snuffed flame of a candle. The beast pounded the harness with punishing blows, trampling its rival with animal ferocity before raising its obscene head and releasing a triumphant squealing roar.
Then as swiftly as it appeared, it vanished into the darkness of the woods.
End of Part I