The Way of the Beast

***

  The residents of Bruvaal village were enjoying a beautiful mid-summer morning. The refreshing weather brought a sense of hushed tranquility. Cool breezes from the shady Cragwood wafted through, carrying the scents of pine cones and earth. In the trees around the square, birds sang and squirrels chattered. Two toddlers laughed as they clumsily chased after an escaped chicken.

  As usual, some neighbors who lived over or behind their shops met in the village square, most with the intent to gather water from the community well. They greeted one another and chatted in friendly tones of familiarity. Even the normally reserved bailiff, Movik, nodded hellos and offered honeyed walnuts to the merchant's children as he leisurely milled about.

  The serenity of that morning was disturbed by a low but increasing rumble from an unknown source. Frowning villagers warily gazed about, searching for the cause of the echoed sound as they murmured amongst themselves. As rustic folk, they were superstitious and distrustful of any strange event.

  The noise grew until, suddenly, the jarring thunder of shod hooves pounding across the Scroll Bridge destroyed whatever calmness that remained.

  Alarmed, the unsuspecting villagers looked west and mutely gaped at the scene before them. More horses and metal than any of them had ever seen before rode into Bruvaal. At least twenty iron-helmed men in chainmail over black leather armor sat atop the saddled steeds, hurrying them into the square.

  Villagers scattered in fear, snatching up any nearby children as they ran for the safety of the nearby shops or behind ox troughs. They peered through the thin cloud of dust and saw that the horses had been reined to a halt near the bailiff's small compound.

  Movik stepped further out in front of the women he was shielding as the commotion and dust settled. He noted that the horsemen's armor and weapons nearly matched that of the guards who accompanied Maker Winter-hand when he visited every year.

  Three of the riders in the center of the group wore no armor, only robes of similar pattern to each other. The colors differed for each, and one of them was a woman with auburn hair and fair skin. She remarked to her two cohorts, "The air is cool for now, but I expect another warm day. I hate sweating."

  "You can thank the council for that as well," one of the others replied with a bitter tone. "If they hadn't procrastinated with sanctioning my quest petition and supply requisitions, we would have arrived here in the spring. I realize that the current climate is not to your liking, but your incessant whining will not assist in completing this mission." Those angry words quieted the woman, and created an uncomfortable moment of silence.

  Quickly making sure that the kingdom insignia stitched onto his vest could be seen clearly, Movik moved out toward the horsemen. Some of the guards saw his cautious approach. One of them called out to the three robed ones, "Here is the local bailiff, Makers."

  Movik froze when nearly all of the strangers looked down at him. More distressing to him than the imposing guards was to have three Makers visiting the village. While old Frimgar was a happy and genuine sort, the three before him seemed the opposite.

  One of the Makers goaded his horse through the group of guards and came forward. His robes were red and black, colors that added to his imperious manner. He was clean-shaven, with cropped hair and an intense glare. Adding more menace to his presence was a sword he wore across his back. Nonetheless, Movik held his ground.

  Disregarding any pleasantries, the Maker brusquely said, "I am Kauldur Night-heart, Inquisitor of the Order of Makers. Do you speak for this village, or should I have the local elder fetched?" His tone was edged with impatience, and his scowl added to the tension of the moment.

  Movik shook his head once. "The elder's mind is pruned. How may I help you, Maker?"

  Kauldur leaned over in his saddle and asked, "The Oma-Krin estate is nearby, yes?"

  Pointing to the east, Movik said, "Further along the South trail a piece, Maker. Not too far." He hoped the Makers and guards were simply asking for directions. He wanted them gone, and far better for the Lady Krin to deal with dangerous mystics; she used to be one, after all.

  The grim Maker nodded, and then asked, "Where can I find a young man - a hunter - named Stenhelt, the son of Halivik?"

  Frowning, Movik replied, "I'd heard that he built a home somewhere to the south, out in the Cragwood. I don't know where." The bailiff was confused as to why more than one Maker and a large number of guards were searching for Sten, who was never one to stir trouble.

  "How well do you know this young man, bailiff?"

  "Not well at all. He's seldom in the village." Movik was becoming defensive; he didn't want any decent folk to be harassed without good cause. Makers were powerful, though, and in more ways than one. There was little he could do. "I've never arrested him, if that's what you mean. His kin are good people. His father is highly respected in these parts. What's this about?"

  Kauldur straightened. "You only need to concern yourself with leading me to this supposedly 'highly respected' father. I'm sure he knows the location of his own son's abode. Get your steed ready and show us the way, bailiff. Make haste."

  "I don't - I don't have a steed."

  "Then if only for your own sake, bailiff, I hope you're fleet of foot. Being trampled can be fatal. Now start running."

  A short time later, Movik was winded and slowing. Halivik's home wasn't far from the village, but the middle-aged bailiff had to keep a fast pace to keep ahead of the riders that followed him. He was humiliated by being made to run like a whipped ox, and was angry with Maker Night-heart for abusing his privilege.

  The cabin that they all first came to was Tull's, Movik knew. Not far beyond it and tucked deeper into the woods was Halivik and Baraide's home. The bailiff stopped to catch his breath, hating the situation he'd been put in.

  "Is that where Stenhelt's father resides?" Kauldur asked from atop his dapple-gray horse.

  Movik shook his head while inhaling deeply. "No, this... This is his son's home. Halivik's eldest son," he quickly corrected, "Tullgar."

  "Ah, a brother," Kauldur commented with mock emotion. "Perhaps he also knows the location of Stenhelt's new residence. I imagine he would."

  "Not to be rude, Maker," Movik said, "but I wouldn't wager on that." He took another deep breath and let it out before explaining, "Tullgar is simple-minded. He means well, but I wouldn't trust him to lead people off into the forest."

  Kauldur turned when someone behind him barked a laugh. "By the Triad, the groundwater here must be poisoned," Rhone Shade-smith commented, still chuckling. "The elder is useless, this poor bailiff doesn't have the sense to request a horse from the nearest kingdom stable, and the brother of the wolf hunter is a dullard! I wouldn't be surprised if the village cleric was illiterate."

  Oradna and some of the guards smiled, but Kauldur was not in the mood for levity. He turned his gaze back to the bailiff. "Fetch me this simple brother," he ordered.

  "But... he's of no use to you..."

  "Bailiff, your loyalty to your flock is noted. It is also irrelevant. I am not fond of the concept of a stone left unturned, no matter how diminished its mental capacity is. Get the brother - now."

  Movik nodded reluctantly. He walked toward Tull's cabin, silently offended by the bearded Maker's glib insult. The bailiff actually did request a horse ages ago from the Breskallin militia, and was denied. His thoughts then went back to the regrettable task at hand, and hoped the gentle woodworker wasn't at home.

  Only a few paces along, Movik saw Tull come around from the back of the cabin. The big fellow had a roughly-hewn staff in one hand, a small stone blade in the other, and a puzzled expression on his face. Movik sighed sadly, but said, "Ah, there you are, Tullgar. Good to see you again."

  Tull glanced at Movik before his confused stare went past him to the Makers' large party. "Hello, bailiff," he replied slowly. "Who are all the wealthy people?"

  "The three without helmets are Makers, like old Frimgar."

  Tull grinned slightly. "Fat Fr
imgar; I like him, he's a nice man." His grin turned into a frown as he scratched his short beard. "Those new Maker people don't look very nice," he whispered.

  "I'd wager they're not," Movik whispered back. "But Makers are high-ranking folk, and by the King's law we have to do what they say. They want to talk to your father."

  When Movik and Tull came back to the trail, Kauldur took in the young man's size and brawn. "You are a son of Halivik, and the brother of a man named Stenhelt?" he asked skeptically. Tull only nodded nervously. "Hmm," Kauldur observed, "I was told the hunter was barely of average stature. Ah well, no matter." He then glanced down at Movik standing next to the big simpleton. "Bailiff, your duty here is done," he stated dismissively.

  Movik's jaw muscles flexed with the effort of biting down on angry words. He instead said, "No, Maker Night-heart, it's not. My duty, passed down by royal decree, is to be the upholder of law and fairness for the good folks of Bruvaal. I intend to make sure those edicts are followed, and by everyone."

  Kauldur leaned forward in his saddle and replied with a cold smile, "And hopefully your edicts will not conflict with my own. Carry on."

  ***