In dreaming, the heat of the Błędowska plagued him, and the beating wings of the bewilder beast, the terrible steed of Drago Bludvist, rattled in his ears. His eyelids had been seared by white heat and black flames bathed his skin in blisters. Then gonged the terrible heartbeat. Cello strings made of rasping sinew chords pulled taught and great white wings eclipsed a blue sky. There was only ash, shrouding the world in cold and dusk so that the auburn lad shivered through frozen tears. In dreaming, the memory of the heat took his strength and he could not scream or move for the cold. Instead he stumbled through the night, groping with limp arms yearning to hold onto something soft, and wet with warmth. On he would stumble like a wooden doll, fumbling and clutching to shield him from the pitch that engulfed every breath and taste in tar. When he succeeded, when his failing arms reached vine and whispers of voices crooned in his ears, the throbbing of the bewilder's wings rose to deafening and blood shot beryl bulbs glowed through the darkness. Resounding was tusk tearing flesh. Extinguished were the human voices. The lad would look down, but nothing was left. His legs, his gut and his heart were gone.
With a gasp he awoke, clutching at his midsection to see if it was still all there. It was. With a sigh he groped his head and pulled back the colored hair, grimacing when red sap smeared away with it. The tree that had dyed his fiery scalp dark lay far in the mountains of the Ben Vair. But now, strange trees hung around him, and in his slumber the gold and red landscape surrounding disappeared, shrouded in slick blue blacks. Far above the canopies, a hint of stars and moon shone through the pitch. As the lad looked upon them he kissed his fingers and held them up, hoping that the moon looked the same over the seas. Then with a stagger he stood and supported himself against the pine at his side, patting its strong cork bark as he leaned his cheek to its skin. The trees were molting, once green leaves reduced to browns as they broke and fluttered to the ground. As the auburn lad hovered over them his steps crunched and the bright white light of lanterns rose in the gloom behind. Gritting his teeth, he dashed behind a strong rooted beech with golden leaves and locked himself within the depression beneath its roots. His breath stilled.
Voices passed. There was the huff of two thin stalks, twins with mottled hair, and the growl of a third ten years older than the auburn lad but still young. The three lurched through the dusk together, searching for animals to cook. An unlucky mole was snatched from its den, and with his knife the oldest man sliced into its writhing neck and pulled out its throat. When it stilled, he threw it into his satchel. His companion kicked the trunk of a pine nearby and sent the crows within far into the night sky. Nothing else stirred. Around the men loomed black darkness so that the features of their face glowed gaunt and pale under the lantern light. The youngest hunted without expression. Behind his back the older ones laughed.
"If I find that slimy girl," the youngest snarled, "I will cut her guts out and eat them."
"He is just a little lad, Eret," croaked one of the elders without interest. His companion bounded after a screeching pig ahead of him.
"He lost," Eret hissed in reply. "He ate dirt. Yet by day he rides at the master's back, eats at his side by night. None of us know a fuck about him!"
"He who sits closest, croaks first," warned his companion. The scream of a pig blew by the wind in the distance and in an instant; the lantern light and their men disappeared, leaving the auburn lad to gasp in the dark. Without a sound he slipped from the beech roots and charged back to the camp, panting as warm firelight glowed in the clearing ahead. When he slipped inside the compound, the scent of a warmer southern sea drifted against his cheeks. The campsite sat surrounded by grey bark of strange oak, juniper, and hazel, whose fruit and flower lay dashed to the dirt with the men's supplies. The air hung ripe with the smell of smoking meat and ash, and the lad coughed as he breathed it in. Snickers rose around him, but no owners could be placed. The tribe sat divided in seven circles aged youngest to oldest, with the most important members at the very center in the ring bordering Drago's throne. There, at the head of the circle sat the beast amongst his bones, running his fingers over the tiny fingers that supported the chair's arms. As he stroked their white pores he met eyes with the lad and beckoned.
"Drago wants the cubs," he growled. Before the lad could comply, Eret materialized from the forest depths and threw the pig they had butchered at Drago's side. Then he trundled to the ash smeared teal and gold carriage at the camp rear, wrestling a three compartmented box clothed in burlap from within. Beneath the fabric rose woofs and moans. When the burlap lifted, the silhouettes of three black, grey muzzled bear cubs came into view, their jet fur shivering as little blue eyes glanced from one side of the camp to the other.
Eret set the box gently in his master's lap and Drago unlatched the first cage compartment himself, drawing out the biggest bear cup with his metal hand. As the animal's neck was pinched, it howled and whined, scraping at the metallic appendage clinging to it with frightful intensity. As he called into the sky Drago drew his tartan cloak around the bear cub's back. Two black wings stamped out the moon's light. With a whistle Drago swung the bear cub back and forth. Then, he pitched the creature up. The camp's firelight illuminated the bewilder beast's pink scarred belly. Then the bear cup was gone. For a while the bewilder beast circled the campsite with rumbling snorts and purrs. But when the remaining cubs had been shoved back within the ash-smeared carriage, moonlight returned and the beast disappeared. In the following quiet the lad searched the stars. Behind him Drago growled with pride.
"Drago shall give him second treat if he destroys Corona," murmured the beast. Then, sighing, he lumbered back to the bone throne and heaped himself into its cavity, glancing upwards just as slime from the mouth of one of the three decaying heads plopped against his shoulder. As the pus sloped down the collar of his tartan cloak, the men surrounding collapsed in a riot of laughter, causing Drago to stand and stick his jaw out in rage. Flinging the tartan to the side, the master slipped the broad sword from his belt and cracked it into the skull of his nearest man. The ring was bathed in sprays of red. When silence returned, Drago looked from one man to the other and beat his breast.
"I am king!" he howled. The heads of his men bent, but their bodies nodded with vigor as he called upon them to answer him. The heat in Drago's cheeks died to a ruddy brown once more, and in exhaustion he demanded that the heads be taken from the seat and carried to his tent. In disgust Eret slipped them from their spikes. Then, balancing them atop one another, he averted his nostrils and stumbled with them towards Drago's lodging, a large black-leathered tent decorated with bone knives and dark furs. Without thinking the auburn lad followed them both, and held the entrance flap open as they slipped through. When all three were within, the heads were set atop the small bench facing the bed, and Eret was commanded to leave. The auburn lad felt his opponent's glare against his back. But the flap door slipped shut once more, and Drago and the auburn lad were alone. Without turning, Drago beckoned for the lad to pick a rag from the water bucket at the bench's side.
"Cleansing herbs in packages," he muttered. With a sigh the beast slumped onto his fur mattress and removed the tartan cloak from his back, setting it with childlike care atop his pillow. The auburn lad found one paper wrapped box. Slipping it into his lap, he broke open the wrapping and emptied the spices from within, nuzzling his nose into the crook of his arm to keep from breathing the smell of the minerals. As Drago watched he chuckled. Then, slipping off his boots so that his scarred feet lay bare, the master set to removing his arm, unbuckling the strap across his chest so that the device slipped off of him. A foul smell came from the battered appendage, which was covered in blisters and red puffy flesh. Without expression Drago peeled the dead skin away and rubbed soap into the bleeding wounds, cleaning out the puss with clear water. Then, from a bottle under his pillow he drew a package of cream and smeared it generously against his stump, sighing in contentment as the cool ointment drove into the raw skin.
"Do you know why Drago lost his arm?" murmured the man. Behind him, the auburn lad shook his head. His wiry hands did not tremble as they bathed the three heads. The smallest had begun to lose its hair. Its red locks fell in large clumps of curls, and as the auburn lad pressed the tresses against his bare fingers, the smell of decay wiped into his skin and made his lips curl back. Now, any memories of what were once human beings were stamped with the stench of death. With slumped shoulders the lad commanded his arms to rise and press the mineral solution into the sagging flesh that was left.
"Soon they will go," Drago tried, leaning back against his tartan-cloaked pillow with a huff. "Drago must show them first, show that the job is done."
"Job?" the auburn lad snarled, his breath muffled by the crook of his neck.
"You do not think that Drago is killing these useless nobles for nothing," the beast of a man burst out. When the auburn lad did not respond, he cackled. Then the master mumbled to himself, "no".
"Drago has been promised a special gift."
The auburn lad was silent. As Drago watched him his beady black irises narrowed to slits.
"Drago has been promised a beast constructed from the heart of darkness."
"What if your flying mammoth eats it," whispered the auburn lad in reply.
"Heart of darkness is too fast for bewilder beast," snapped Drago in return, his eyes glazing over with imagination. "Bewilder beast is mindless flesh. Heart of darkness has mind for night. Breath of lightning, voice of thunder. Eyes like ground up stars. Playful like child yet destructive like creature."
When the auburn lad glanced towards Drago, the beast's face was free of wrinkles. Instead, the soft pink indentations of his scars glowed unperturbed by the light of the lantern overhead.
"Did Drago tell you how he lost his arm?" the man repeated. The auburn lad shook his head, and Drago chuckled.
"Drago was like you as a boy- soft, but not as smart," he murmured, his eyes still closed. His breathing had become even and gentle, in the way of one half asleep. Every few phrases held a long sigh. His stump of an arm twitched as it lay suspended in midair, away from the fur covered mattress and the tartan pillow. "Father did not approve. The arm that fell too close was the one... very painful..."
"Who did it fall close to?" asked the auburn lad, rubbing the remaining minerals in the package against the third head, the one of the man with broad skull and scruffy beard.
"What?" growled Drago groggily, opening one dangerous, beady eye. But the lad shook his head without expression so that the master plopped back against the tartan pillow. With a chuckle he continued, "Father took manhood away from Drago so that Drago had to find it. Drago found bewilder beast. And Drago came back, and made his tribe know what king is. Not crown, not manhood, not blood. Fear. Fear is king."
"Fear." Whispered the auburn lad. Behind him the sound of snoring echoed throughout the tent, and when the lad glanced over his shoulder, he saw that Drago was asleep. Soon, the snoring too died to nothing, until the soft chamber lay in complete silence. The world outside was quiet as well. The men were asleep. All that seemed alive in the whole universe was the auburn lad, and the beating of the heart inside his chest, flattened with coils of linen folds.
With a longing glance, the lad moved back to the heads and reached out his hand to stroke the second. It was a woman. A mother, who had not been very smart or brave, but was pleasant. The shining blue eyes that had held tears of happiness were gone, and the fiery red hair that had sloped around her cheekbones and down her collar was wiry and cut to the root, or fallen away with the flesh. The once pink skin was purple and filled with rotting puss. The smell of jasmine was replaced with salts and blood. But still, the auburn child reached out to touch its cheek.
"Mother," the child whispered. "I am sorry I ran away." Then, bending her head, the child's arms pressed against her breast. When she looked upon the youngest head, the one with frizzy red locks cut short as well, a sob caught in her throat and turned to a hiss of anger in its passage. Whipping her head around, the false lad stood and slithered towards Drago, looming over his sleeping form like a long shadow. In his belt was her rapier. On the wall beside him was his broadsword and dagger. With yearning the false lad reached out for it, the oceans of her eyes churning and twisting black as hell. But before she could lay her fingers upon the blade, she faltered and turned. Suddenly the shadows within the soft chamber seemed to breath. From the false lad's memory sounded the beating of hoofs, and glowing yellow eyes. It was as if a person were awake and there with her.
"Fear is king," whispered Drago. Whether the sleeping master had said it or not, the false lad did not know. But still, though Drago's lips did not move, the words reverberated in the child's mind.
"A beast constructed from the heart of darkness."
In fear the lad glanced around her, looking for the beast in every nook and corner. But there was nothing. Soon, the shadows returned to normal, and the strange breath and the beating of hoofs passed. The lad was alone once more. The memories of when she had been a girl, practicing with her rapier and listening to the stories of her cousin in Dun Broch's fresh night were gone. Now she was nothing, and no one. Until Drago was dead, her womanhood was lost.