The Three-Beast of Mooregardia: Part 2

New to the story? Read Part 1 before diving in.

“Our paths crossed in Marygeld,” Denault began. "After a long day's ride, we stopped to quench our thirst in that sleepy little pub — the one with the antlers. Deer-something. Happy — Deer?"

"Hart," said Robson in a voice as flat and dry as a desert riverbed. "The Merry Hart."

"Right, Merry Hart," Denault continued. "We'd barely settled into our pint and potatoes when we overheard a table of locals swapping stories about the Three-Beast — how it gobbled up Old So and So's prize sheep and scared the piss right out of Auntie Beatrice and other lies. Then —"

He held up a finger and took a long gulp of his ale.

"A mysterious little person sitting alone at the bar spun around on his stool and joined the conversation. He said that the beast had burned his uncle's farm to the ground, and killed his beloved nephew. The locals rapt by the tale invited the Halfling over."

Denault took another swig.

"That Halfling was, in fact, you, dear Whelm. You shared how you were selected to represent Stone Gate and surrounding communities on a special council convened by the Crown. You conveyed how it was a great honor to negotiate the apportionment of aid and military resources to —"

“Really, Denault, at the rate of your storytelling the beast will have died of old age," said Abrion. "And we of boredom. Just give him the bottle."

Denault stared at him for a few seconds, making no effort to hide his irritation. "You wound me, brother. Fine. Abscond with my joy. Deny me the simple pleasure of a tale well-woven."

He fished in a pouch at his belt, withdrew a small corked vial the size of my little finger, and held it up for me to see. The liquid inside was dark through amber glass.

"This, Whelm, will bring your memories back," he said, setting it down on the table before me.

"You had a run-in with a mage last night," Abrion interjected. "Crazy old coot magicked your memories away. You're lucky that's all he did."

I eyed the vial warily. "A gods damn mage? That — what now?" My brain reeled and throbbed and ached.

"Indeed. Before leaving, whether pity or attack of conscience, he gave me this antidote," said Denault, nodding at the tiny bottle.

"We really are on a schedule here," said Abrion. "Please drink it."

"How do I know it's not poison?"

"He could have exploded you or boiled your flesh — and none would've dared challenge him. He was Seventh Order," Denault said gravely. "Instead, he favored a more creative response."

"A mage of the Seventh Order here, in Draff? And I crossed him?"

Denault, nodding, finished his ale and slammed the tankard on the table in triumph.

"This day is shit. Truly. I hate everything about it," I said, picking up the vial. The knights, even Robson, stared at me eagerly. I popped the cork and drank it.

"There we go," said Denault. "Bravo."

It tasted familiar. Too familiar, in fact. My stomach turned. "It's just brandy. It's not —"

"Ten. Nine. Eight." Abrion counted down.

"Why are you doing that?"

"Four. Three. Two. One."

"I don't feel —"

A ringing obliterated my senses — like Zin himself had swung his war hammer against the Gong of the Gods. Only I was both gong and hammer. My entire being vibrated and pulsed until the sensation of falling. I fell from the heavens — twirling and tumbling in every possible direction, forces pulling me in all directions at once.

Suddenly, everything stopped. I stood on the edge of a great canyon of consciousness, empty and black. On the horizon, approaching at great speed were waves like on the sea. Wave after wave struck me. Memories, complete and perfect, formed with every crest and crash. Every sight, sound, taste, smell, thought, word, and feeling smashed me relentlessly. They crashed against me, again and again — then fell into the deep and dark void before me.

There was Marygeld, Brayburn, Draff. Brayburn on horseback, Draff on foot. The Merry Hart, Brayburn Tavern, Drake's. Talk with townsfolk, meeting the knights, learning of their quest, fast friendship, rounds of drinks. A sloppy telling of my story — my rebellion against the priesthood, my work as an undertaker, and the devastating attack of the Three-Beast that killed young Galt. Big, brave, and foolish talk that spiraled out of control, and into a signature on parchment. A drunken knighting ceremony, cheers of the crowd, riding on Drake's shoulders as he danced and sang. The joy, the elation, the warmth, the camaraderie.

Suddenly the waves stopped. Everything slowed and congealed. I was thrust headlong into a moment, but from a different perspective. I was no longer me. It wasn't just that I saw myself. The thoughts I thought and the feelings I felt were very different from my own. They stretched far beyond the boundaries of myself. I experienced someone else's memory. I sat puffing a long pipe of herbs in deep thought, interrupted by an obnoxious Halfling. He spoke of how he would smite the Three-Beast, how the devilish Chimera would rue the day it ever met Whelm the Under. What started as mild amusement evolved into sharp irritation. The sensation amplified until I was fully them.

I startled as Whelm grabbed his mace. The massive barkeep nonchalantly yanked it from his hands before he could swing, a maneuver he'd undoubtedly had many occasions to master over the years. I looked on as one of the knights handed over a rucksack with a nod and a promise of silver for safekeeping. The Halfling then swung an imaginary mace accompanied by a war cry. I jerked away as he knocked my full goblet of brandy down the front of my robes. I looked down as the crimson blotch soaked into the fine gray fabric of my robe, and all seven of the braided cords at my waist. The symbols of my life's work and sacrifice, stained by a fool.

I burned with anger and felt a great heat rising — the power of flame billowing within begged to be released. The imbecile issued a bumbling apology and tried to embrace me, at which point I held up my left hand to repel him. I closed my eyes briefly and resolved that the fragile peace between the Order and the Crown was not worth disrupting over this idiot. I willed the anger away — a cold clarity settling on me once more.

I whispered sacred words. Tendrils of silvery light streaked from my fingertips and splashed into Whelm, who staggered backward at the impact. My hand became ice cold and a prickling sensation traveled up my arm, shoulder, and neck before reaching my mind.

I thought that he should climb onto the bar. He did. I thought that he should cluck like a chicken. He did. I thought that he should speak freely. He did. He walked atop the bar, flapped his arms, and made chicken noises. "Look at me, everybody, I'm a chicken. I am the most wonderful chicken. I am the Wonder Chicken — the Wonder Chicken of Draff! Bow before my clucking greatness."

As the chicken routine dragged on — to the amusement of some and the agitation of many — perspective shifted back as I stumbled out of the tavern door and collapsed to the ground like a bag of rocks.

I snapped back to the present to find myself curled on the floor, screaming like a madman. The screams turned to sobs as reality took hold, and the sobs to embarrassment as I realized that I'd soiled myself.

"Nine Hells, Whelm," said Denault, kneeling beside me. "Oh my little friend, I think you might've filled your britches."

He stood up, holding his index finger under his nose.

After some time, I collected what scraps of dignity I had left and pushed myself to my feet. The three knights and Drake stared at me in concern. "That sadistic bastard."

"So you remember then?" Denault inquired. "The totality of our escapades."

"Yes," I grunted, wiping spittle from my mouth and chin.

"Then you no doubt remember that you are now in our service," he said.

"I wasn't in my right mind."

"Ink is ink," he replied. His words carried a bite of cold. "We will have your help in slaying the Three-Beast."

I stared at him for a long moment, doing my best to recompose myself, and finding it very difficult. "How could I possibly help you?"

A lopsided grin formed on the knight's face. "An encore of that chicken performance should suffice. Such a tasty little morsel flopping and clucking outside its lair would be too much to resist.”

“You expect me to be bait?” I demanded.

Denault frowned. "You will be bait, by order of the King, whose full authority I carry, and you —“

“Easy brother,” Abrion interjected, turning to look at me. “No need turn magistrate on our friend.”

“We do need your help,” he continued. “And yes, you will draw it out. But we will protect you. Once you've done this — once you've helped us, you will be released from your service."

Thoughts fell like a tree of ripe apples in a tempest. I had no words. I glared at him, my vision blurring around the edges from my rage.

"Forgive me, Whelm, for speaking harshly. I did not escape the penalty of our revels, it feels like my head is about to burst," Denault said, more calmly. "Not only will you be released from service, but you will return home with a once in a lifetime tale of glory. You will also be weighed down with coin for your trouble — enough of the King's gold to rebuild your uncle's farm and more."

"I — understand," I said, surprised by how quietly the words came out. There was nothing else I could say. Nothing that would matter. Dark thoughts swirled about my head. I was trapped. I wanted to run. But I couldn't. I had to do what they instructed, or I would die by their blade for treason. I am many things — but I am no traitor.

"We depart late afternoon. If you'd like, head over to that inn across the way," Abrion said, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb. "Have them draw you a hot bath, launder your clothes, give you a fresh shave, and make you a proper meal. Tell the inn-keep to charge it to our account."

"Alright," was all I could muster. I shouldered my backpack and walked out of the tavern.