Free Beastly by Matt Khourie Page A

much too strong. Lia clawed for the big body lying in the snow. The Beast gave chase, running hard for the Wakeful captain. A flurry of green meteorites blotted the morning sun, then pounded the earth, trapping him behind a wall of undying flame. He sprung back, watching helplessly as Malachai took his mount and slung Lia across his lap. The dark horse wheeled in place, then bolted for the cairn.
    In two blinks they were gone, disappeared down the road. Faint groans interrupted his pursuit.
    “Lia ..”
    The Beast knelt by Jack’s side. The burly man was badly burned. Clothing and hair were singed to flakey ash. The Beast was no medicus. He knew Jack’s moments were fleeting. His tongue fumbled, lacking the comforting words of a cleric’s offering. He silently chided himself for not acting sooner. A voice from the forgotten part of the Beast’s heart told him to take Jack’s hand.
    Sensheeri’s dying sheriff’s eyes glossed with tears. Burned fingers tugged at the Beast’s cloak. Jack shook as the World After beckoned. His eyes widened and with the last of his strength he pulled the mammoth figure closer.
    “You must find her.”
     

Chapter 10
     
    The Beast closed Jack’s eyelids with a gentle paw. He was no stranger to the cruel bond of death and desperation. The grim scene had been played out for his benefit many times over. In the wild, Death hunted with any number of masterful techniques: exposure, starvation, combat. Survival was, at its core, merely a struggle to delay the inevitable.
    Sensheeri burned all around; a doomed village beyond saving. Most of the villagers had fled the terror. Some lingered about, skulking through rubble, salvaging what they may. Their ash covered faces mirrored Jack’s grim mask. The Beast knew as they did: winter was young and yet had long to reign.
    A woman carrying an infant scurried to Cedrik’s body. Trembling sobs and prayers parted her lips. The Beast gestured for her to pay her last respects. He stepped back, affording her a measure of privacy. The woman’s eyes pulsed wide. She pulled the baby closer and fled for the safety of her neighbors.
    The Beast of Briarburn was unsurprised by the woman’s fear. His earliest memories conjured angry mobs and sleepless nights. The villages were seldom a place for a being such as he. On the Great Road, he had found sanctuary and lived amongst others chased from hearth and home. Such men were happy to have an intimidating companion. It was then the chains found him.
    The woman ambled up a gangplank and disappeared onto a waiting barge. Several such boats remained, singed but spared by the Wakeful fire. Their crews shouted instructions at the growing crowd of refugees lining the wharf. By twos they ordered aboard, carrying the salvaged pieces of their world. Moments later, the last of the boats slipped between the lake’s mists and vanished. The Beast pitied the refugees, knowing they left behind more than burnt buildings. They sailed away from festivals and autumn harvests. And from the camaraderie of drunken brawls and friendships renewed in their tavern. The bell tower snapped and collapsed, falling with a splat and a clang. How many weddings and births had the bell chimed? In the span of a single morning, the whole world had burned.
    Scorched by one man’s brutality.
    Those unable to book passage, slogged away in a trundling caravan of charred ox carts. The Beast pitied them even more, understanding the dire straits of the perilous journey ahead: able bodied fighters numbered few, their armaments little better than rusty hand tools, and winter’s own biting unpredictability. It was unlikely they would reach any destination save for ruin.
    The Beast considered burying the dead men, but a scrape at the icy ground denied such sentiment. He recalled that it was sometimes the way of men to set their departed ablaze, allowing the wind to carry souls to the World After. He cobbled a makeshift pyre and placed the frost covered