Beastly Read Free Page B

famous riddles to help pass the time. What was that last riddle? They have not flesh, nor feathers, nor scales, nor bone. Yet they have fingers and thumbs of their own . The Beast considered it for another moment and then moved on. “Stupid foxes,” he grumbled.
    All remained quiet long into the night until the thunder of hooves disturbed the golden silence. The vibration perked his ears up. Riders in the night were almost never a good thing. Madmen and marauders and things much more vile readily preyed on road weary travelers who found themselves caught out in the dark.
    No panic crept upon the Beast’s heart, however. The local gangs of rabble knew better than attack the Beast of Briarburn. His own reputation as something not to be trifled with was a common place story, carried on the wings of ravens, and sung by bards in taverns far and wide.
    The Beast had little desire to fight, but had no intention of fleeing. The road was free to travel. And since he had traveled its windy worn out stretches for so long, he had come to consider it home. No, there would be no cowering this night. If the road were to be all the home he had, than he would not abandon it.
    The hooves thundered closer. As a minor concession, the Beast moved a step closer to the shoulder, before resuming his journey. Confrontation would not be necessary unless the horsemen desired it. The Beast did not even bother to turn his cloaked head to the noisy intrusion.
    A family of rabbits bolted from a roadside den, heading for the deeper woods. Angry birds squawked objections from tree tops before departing like black storm clouds. It was then that the Beast stopped. He cared little for the din and less for his friends being shaken from their homes.
    Muffled sounds of plodding boots rounded a drift, followed by their creator. The man staggered and fell, clawing frantically through the snow, trying to rise. He turned over his shoulder to the thundering hooves and cried out. He righted himself and ran at the Beast.
    A band of horsemen burst from the trees, trampling the drift, closing on the terrified man in seconds. The doomed man reached desperately for the Beast. The lead dragoon seized a handful of the man’s cloak, jerking him from the ground.
    The man’s fingers madly worked the cloak’s clasp, trying to free himself. “No, please. It wasn’t mine. It was--”
    A dagger tore through his back, piercing his heart. He gurgled a mouthful of blood into the snow. The dragoon wiped his serrated blade on the bloodied cloak. He released the corpse and stared at the only witness.
    The Beast regarded the mounted party who in turn slowed to a tentative trot. Mercenaries by the look of them. Their horses were chained in heavy plate mail; riders in suits of black armor covered head to toe by twisted barbs and hooks. A singular pauldron forged into a fanged skull skewered by three blades sat on each man’s left shoulder.
    The Beast knew of these men. The fanged skulls gave them away.
    Tales from the Great Road whispered of these riders in black, said to never eat or sleep. Rumor said they rode under the banner of a powerful sorceress. A banner usually seeking the capture and trial of a fugitive. The Beast knew that words like ‘capture’ and ‘trial’ were usually euphemisms for kidnapping and murder. And based on what he had just witnessed...
    Not my concern . The Beast resumed his march, ignoring the carnage at his back.
    The riders closed to twenty paces. Their captain broke formation and rode ahead until his mount was within arm’s reach. Despite the war horse, the Beast stood at nearly eye level with the man in black. The stallion reared, rattling the armored chains. Thick plumes of steam erupted from its flared nostrils as it shifted its bulk.
    The rider removed his helmet and set it on the saddle’s horn. Malachai’s skin was the sickly translucent color of spoiled milk. The Beast’s reflection flickered in the seething crimson of Malachai’s