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Dinner was a surprising affair. The great hall remained nothing but shadowy, cold and draughty. But the food served was excellent. An array of roast meats succulently prepared along with big bowls of vegetables, fresh baked bread and a moreish chive butter. All washed down with the Baron’s quaffable mead.

The ladies of the Keep fluttering about like brightly coloured garden flits in their best frocks, hair intricately coiffed. Intent upon proving they could be both gentle and demure. Though when the dinner gong had sounded, the race to the seats situated on either side of Brandth at the long dining table almost undid all their efforts. The two victors proving to be both the fastest and with the sharpest elbows. The lady seated on Brandth’s immediate left having to work hard throughout the meal at pretending her left eye was neither blackening nor swelling.

It was interesting for Talac to note that the servants rarely refreshed the ladies’ mead, whilst those visitors of a male persuasion had their goblets kept full to overbrimming. Turning his own goblet upside down, Talac had glared down anyone who tried to right it.

His female dinner companions seated on either side, had initially thought they might pump him for information regarding Brandth, the Prince and the Palace. But Talac’s monosyllabic responses and shrugs soon dissuaded them of that fact.

Whilst his own forays in questioning the ladies about the notorious Gloomenthrall Beast were met with nothing but blank looks, polite smiles and artful, regretful shakes of their heads. Eventually both ladies turning to the dining companions seated on their other side in order to practise their demure smiles and not too clever conversational skills. Leaving Talac to eat in peace, whilst he surreptitiously observed the intriguing comings and goings of the servants.

Several mysteries immediately becoming apparent.

Only one easily solved. Keeping the gentlemen’s glasses constantly refilled kept the guests happy, content, and meant they would sleep well and deeply. But why anytime a suitor rose to their feet, did a servant trail behind them? Generally, it was only so the man in question could visit the closest facilities to relieve himself. But if anyone chose to rise to wander about to idly stretch their legs, they were quickly, yet politely, led back to their seat.

Keeping them corralled? But why? For safety reasons? Or to prevent them from wandering somewhere they shouldn’t and discovering something his Lordship would prefer they not know?

Intriguing, and then there were the three servants who didn’t fit. All were diligent in their duties. Dressed exactly like the others, yet something set them apart. Tweaking Talac’s instincts.

There was an older man, thin yet wiry with a limp, who was a little slow when it came to his duties. Often earning him a rebuke or a negligent slap from one of the gentleman suitors. His ability to roll with the hits too professional. Clearly having had training in how to minimise physical damage.

The next was a lad barely out of short pants, a mop of overlong dark hair covering his eyes, his nose long, his lips always tightly clamped together. He was gangly, looking like he’d recently just undergone a growth spurt, but he moved like quicksilver, reminding Talac of the street thieves he’d observed doing a brisk pickpocket trade amongst the crowds that lingered on the St Minoit docks.

The lad never spoke, and when he used his hands to communicate with others, it became quickly apparent he was incapable of speech. A mute. For the most part the suitors ignored him. So much so that the lad’s habit of lingering near tables for long stretches of time went unremarked upon.

The third servant that caused Talac’s instincts to clamour was a woman. Short, bosomy, middle-aged, her cheeks bright red, matching her greying red hair pulled up in a bun. Carrying a water urn, she was constantly on the move, only stopping when someone gestured they would like their water freshened. Often the person asking was one of the young ladies, though there was a cluster of older women up one end of a table, presumably Lord Gloomenthrall’s sisters, who often called for the servant to approach them.

It wasn’t the servant so much who aroused Talac’s suspicions. It was the behaviour of the ladies. The overly emphatically casual way in which they gestured for the water carrier to approach. Followed by some fumbling as they - it took him a little while to work out – placed a folded note in the large front pocket of the maid’s apron when she leaned forward to pour more water. Secret messages? Instructions? All the while the maid looked like she had no knowledge of the communications and continued about her business. Disappearing occasionally back to the kitchen to fetch more water and probably empty her apron pocket Talac suspected.

Curious and curiouser.

Talac’s job was to ferret out secrets but he couldn’t do that trapped here in the great hall. Time to go to work.

As everyone rose upon completion of the meal to split up into smaller informal groups to chat or play dice or cards, Talac tripped one passing gentleman, giving his arm a little added push so that the contents of his full goblet splashed five other gentlemen. There was much complaining. No one wanted to sit in the cold draughty great hall in damp garments, the five insisting upon returning to their rooms. Five Keep servants dutifully accompanying them to ensure they wouldn’t stray on their way there or back to the great hall.

Next Talac discreetly bumped a table, he was already several steps away when the picked over meat platter that had yet to be collected went crashing to the floor. Spraying several ladies clustered nearby with cooking juices and scraps.

They had to work hard to switch their initial cries of surprise and outrage into more modified lady-like demure expressions of dismay as Brandth descended into their midst to ensure they were all safe and well. His friend was good. Creating even more drama as he insisted the ladies would need escorts to their rooms to change. Selecting volunteers from amongst the nearby gentleman. More servants splitting off to trail behind them as they ascended the stairs.

Numbers were thinning fast of available servants to keep watch and corral the remaining guests. And Brandth, Gods love him, moved erratically about the hall diligently checking on the welfare of all the remaining ladies, young and old.

Talac seizing the opportunity to slide stealthily backwards into a deep shadow. Pausing, taking a moment to consider where he should head first. The Baron’s private suite perhaps. Or… suddenly he became aware of a strange rhythmic drumming sound… the noise growing louder, closer. His attention immediately switching to Baron Gloomenthrall, observing him make a quick gesture for his steward to approach. His Lordship giving the man rapid emphatic whispered instructions. His shaggy eyebrows so lowered by the scowl clinging to his forehead his eyes had all but disappeared. His words accompanied by a stabbing finger pointed in the direction of several groups of guests. The Keep’s master was not happy.

The steward nodded quickly, bowing low, hurriedly heading off, snapping his finger for several guards to accompany him. Talac noting the mute servant boy trailing closely on their heels. Ah, decision made. He too moved off in the same direction, making good use of the abundant available shadows.

For his efforts Talac found himself back in the dimly lit entrance foyer. The arched entrance doors to the muddy courtyard beyond wide open like a maw revealing a dark wet throat. Talac didn’t hesitate, slipping outside, staying close to the building, taking advantage of the limited protection the jutting decorative stonework above provided from the pouring rain.

The drumming was louder now, closer, and accompanied by the pounding of many hooves hitting the ground. Across the hellishly muddy space Talac noted the wide portcullis of the large looming fortified mystery structure was in the process of being opened. Flickering flames emanating from brasseries lit up a brick pathway but everything beyond that was nothing but darkness.

The steward of the Keep stood on the lowest stone step, surrounded by four guards, all of whom had their hands resting on their sword hilts. Their body language growing more and more tense as the rhythmic drumming and sound of pounding hooves striking the ground grew louder and louder. Until finally a group of riders burst out of the eastern woods as if the hounds from the nine circles of hell were on their heels. Mud splattering as they sped past, the earth trembling slightly under their impact.

The steward nudged one of the guards, who raised a lantern, waving it back and forth. Whilst a large number of the new arrivals had already disappeared through the portcullis across the way, those at the tail end of the party drew their horses, along with a wagon, to a halt. The drumming abruptly ceasing, and other than the heavy breathing of the horses, and the pouring rain, the mounted riders were eerily silent and so very intriguing to Talac.

Their horses for one, were almost twice the size of those he and his men rode. Their hooves the size of dinner plates. Their snouts wider than normal, displaying large sets of prominent teeth. They came in a variety of colours but three of them were nothing but the colour of pitch night. It was the riders of these three animals who split off from the group, bringing their mounts to a halt some ten feet from the steward and the waiting guards.

They were big men, the riders, what little Talac could see of them in the dark, and pouring rain. Their clothes obscuring their shapes and features even further, as all wore dark hooded capes, well oiled, as the rain ran off them like they were made of stone. Beneath the hoods they appeared to have scarves or rags wrapped around their lower faces, perhaps shielding them from the mud thrown up by the massive hooves belonging to their mounts.

They waited silently, those three, and the seven behind them that guarded the wagon. A vehicle fitted with over large thin wheels, looking specifically designed and built to travel fast. Thanks to the two dimly lit lanterns tied to the back of the wagon, Talac noted it was full of animal carcasses. And not just any dead animals, keymoats.

Which should have been impossible. Everyone knew the rare reclusive keymoats lived in the Green Hills Realm located across the treacherous seas to the North.

Their large curling horns were much sought after by artists who carved intricate designs and scenes on them. Turning around and selling them for an even more obscene amount to wealthy collectors. Whilst the hooves and spurs of the keymoats were in much demand amongst doctors and apothecaries. Ground down, the bone was considered a vital ingredient in elixirs that helped the heart beat strongly. And many rumoured that it blessed older men with more vigour when it came to the ladies. As a result, measures of keymoat ground bone were as costly as gold dust.

And then there were the keymoat skins. Deemed precious by many dressmakers and armourers, as it was supple, flexible, took dyes well, and most importantly, was considered, after tanning, to be all but impervious to any blade not made of keymoat bone. Brandth owned three such coats, and swore they had saved his life more than once.

From his position in the shadows Talac counted eight, no, nine hides. Perhaps this answered the question as to how Baron Gloomenthrall was funding the Keep and able to drum up dowries for his plethora of female kin.

The three riders on the massive pitch black mounts remained silent and incredibly still. Even their horses frozen in place as if they were statues. The steward yelled something, but over the pounding rain Talac could not make out the words. The riders gave no response, but the steward had their attention, they didn’t move away.

Finally, the rider in the middle, the leader, Talac presumed, raised a gloved hand holding their palm up, and then swishing it sideways, as if to brush away whatever words the steward was continuing to yell. Though now the fellow was also banging his staff on the stone step in clear frustration. The silent riders appearing impervious and unimpressed.

Suddenly the mute servant boy shot out of the shadows to Talac’s right. His mop of dark hair plastered to his head in mere moments, making that large nose of his look even more prominent. He ran down the steps past the steward and guards, sinking into mud up to his shins. Raising his hands, he started to quickly move his fingers and hands in an intricate fashion. Some of the movements reminding Talac of how he and his men communicated silently when they needed to pass brief instructions or information. Yet a whole conversation appeared to be happening in this format. Fascinating.

And what a damn useful spy the kid made. Few would measure their words around a mute boy, thinking him no threat of passing on any information.

Funny, the boy got results where his Lordship’s steward did not. The three riders dismounting in eerie perfect unison, though Talac saw no signal given. They were tall, broad figures, the hoods and capes making them look like shadows come to life. The leader striding over to the wagon, easing their way through the mud as if they walked on cobblestones. At the wagon they shoved aside two carcasses before hefting a third over their shoulders in what looked like a much practised move.

It was the smallest of the keymoat carcasses, but still an impressive size, looking both heavy and awkward, given the enormous curling precious horns encircling either side of creature’s angular head. Turning, the leader stomped towards the Keep, their two companions falling into flanking positions on either side, making the trio look like a moving wall of shadows.

The steward scrambled back up the stone stairs. The guards parting to allow the trio past. The servant boy trailing closely along behind the group, whilst Talac slipped from shadow to shadow, following them inside.

In the entrance area no one stopped to help the trio off with their capes, or request they remove their muddy boots. They didn’t appear to care they were spreading muck, and leaking puddles of water and now blood. Their boot heels striking the stone in loud unison. And the closer they got to the double doors leading to the great hall, the faster they moved, until they passed the steward. The flanking riders slamming their weight against the doors, sending them crashing open.

Gasps and cries of surprise and shock from within the great hall were silenced almost before they could escape. And it was into this hushed expectant moment that Talac eased himself through the great hall doors, moving sideways until he could find a heavily shadow filled spot to lean against a wall and watch the action.

The steward, breathless, sodden, his lips blue, finally caught up, coming to a skidding halt beside the three black caped mystery figures whose deep hoods and wrapped lower faces made their features impossible to glimpse. The steward banging his staff twice to needlessly garner everyone’s attention. There wasn’t a person present not already fixated upon the newcomers. One of the ladies fainted. Though Talac noted she did so gracefully down onto a waiting chair.

“Tribute, your Lordship. Tribute.”

The steward’s words echoed and resounded for an annoyingly long time.

Baron Gloomenthrall stomped forward. It was impossible to tell under all that hair, beard and eyebrows whether he was pleased or enraged. He faced off with the trio, silently staring up at the leader. There was a good half a foot or more difference in their height but he seemed unfazed. A pointed minute passing when neither moved or spoke, enough so their audience began to grow restless and shift in place and speak in whispered tones to those nearest them.

Finally, the leader strode three feet forward, dumping the carcass they were carrying at his Lordship’s feet.

“Tribute.”

The steward reminded everyone, as the whispers, especially those amongst the visiting gentlemen increased, edged with excitement, all recognising the type of animal that lay at his Lordship’s feet. A keymoat. The whispers grew, edged with greed now, most trying to gauge how much such a carcass was worth.

Talac wondered how much more excited they’d be if they knew about the eight even bigger carcasses lying in the back of that wagon?

Still, neither his Lordship nor the hunt leader made any move to converse… or to move. It seemed there was more to come but one or either was being obtuse or stubborn. The steward clearing his throat softly, and then a moment later more urgently and louder.

The hunt leader waved a gloved hand at their companion on the left, who stepped forward quickly, yanking down the scarf covering his mouth.

“Tomorrow, we ride!”

His words cracking like a whip, once more the great hall was hushed and silent.

“Tomorrow, we hunt!”

The trio turned abruptly in unison to depart, as they did so, the hunt leader’s head swivelled slightly, their face hidden by deep shadows and cloth but Talac could have sworn they were looking his way. Impossible. He was one with the shadows. Yet, he felt the weight of that gaze, as if he were being assessed and judged.

The stare down broken after what seemed like an age but probably only lasted seconds before the trio exited the great hall, servants hurrying in their wake now with buckets and mops to start cleaning up the mess they had made. Talac surprised to find he’d been holding his breath.

Baron Gloomenthrall turned to the room, raising his arms.

“Did you hear that, lads? I suggest you put down the mead and make use of your beds. You’ll want clear heads at first light if you intend to seek and win your lady love and your fortune. Tomorrow, you hunt!”

A handful of men hooted and hollered in excitement. Several others looked nothing but grim and intent. Whilst the remainder stared long and hard at the carcass of the keymoat, their faces pale, their eyes wide, blinking too much in fear.

“Tomorrow, we ride.”

Greasley’s heir raised his goblet, draining the contents dry before slamming it down hard on the nearest table. Several of his chums mimicking him.

The Baron raised his goblet in their direction, acknowledging the toast, draining his own cup.

“Tomorrow, you ride with the Beast of Gloomenthrall!”

Intoned his Lordship before laughing heartily at the number of suddenly very pale faced guests, as the realisation of what they had agreed to finally began to sink in.

An almost visibly trembling short statured greying sandy haired man with glasses, sitting only feet away from Talac, pushed away his still full goblet of mead suddenly.

“Gods help us all.”

Brandth sauntered over Talac’s way, his light blue silk tunic reflecting nearby candlelight, making him look like a beacon.

“So that was the legendary Beast?”

Looking over as four servants lifted the keymoat carcass, each taking a hoof and shuffling awkwardly away.

“One who hunts and kills elusive vicious creatures. I could sense your intrigue from all the way across the hall. I posit that you will insist we be up at the crack of dawn to observe the proceedings.”

“Oh, I think we shall be doing a little more than observing.”

“You wish to join the hunt?”

Brandth shook his head, pursing his lips.

“Is that wise?”

“Wouldn’t you like some answers? How can there be keymoats here?”

“One stray that perhaps bolted from a cargo ship and ended up here in the woods is hardly worth my while enduring hours of sweat, mud, and rain.”

Talac leaned closer to his companion, ensuring his voice was low.

“That was the baby of the litter. There were eight more carcasses in the wagon I observed arriving here this evening, only to disappear into the depths of the mystery fortification across the way.”

“Interesting, that at least explains how Gloomenthrall is able to keep his people fed and dangle dowries in front of desperate fortune seeking gentlemen. But I could just as easily stay behind tomorrow in the… relative warmth of the Keep and subtly question the ladies and servants.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to do both during the coming days, but it doesn’t seem like there are many opportunities to ride with the Beast of Gloomenthrall.”

“Honestly Talac, sometimes I question if you took too many hits to the head during training as a youngster. You’ve seen him now in this hall, he walks on two legs, has a head. Clearly the Beast is nothing but a mere man. A mortal, like you and I. Yet you insist upon pursuing the subject further. I suspect boredom is what motivates you this time. Get a hobby, I say. Or a warm willing woman. Not here though… I fear you’d be forcibly wed before the sweat of passion dried on your skin if you were to choose that option.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed how closely we’re being watched. That’s another reason to go on the hunt. In all that chaos it will prove fertile ground for the two of us to ferret out more information from our fellow hunters. You say he’s a mortal man. But those pilgrims on the road spoke of the Beast as part saviour, part judge and jury. And you witnessed the faceoff, just what leash does his Lordship hold on the Beast? To me it looked like the restrictions chafed. If something happens to Gloomenthrall and he has no male heir, what will a freed Beast do?”

“I’m supposed to care? Gloomenthrall is a long way from Pallene. What occurs in this backwards wilderness will be no concern of mine.”

“No?”

Talac smirked.

“So, when the supply of skins to make your favourite coats run out, will you just brush it off? And as you get older, what about your heart, and other more… treasured parts of your anatomy? Without the aid of the vital ingredient, all those elixirs the doctors prescribe are going to prove less than invigorating.”

“I hate you sometimes. And I know Raschion will despise you when it comes time to clean the mud, sweat, and probable blood from my hunting clothes once we’re done with this ridiculous quest of yours.”

Talac looked around at the all but suddenly empty great hall. His Lordship had retired for the evening. And his latest wife was still recovering from childbirth. The gentleman suitors had disappeared off to find their beds. Whilst the ladies had been escorted upstairs to their chambers under the watchful gaze of their more elderly relatives. Leaving only a few servants behind to clear away the mess and right the hall in readiness for tomorrow morning.

Slapping Brandth on the back, Talac motioned him to start for the stairs.

“Best we seek some rest, my friend. Come tomorrow, we ride with the Beast of Gloomenthrall.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this excited in years. What is it about the Beast that has you so enthralled?”

“Just a feeling. I’ve always enjoyed unravelling mysteries and my gut is telling me that this one will prove…”

He meant to say interesting, but his mouth had other plans.

“… life-changing.”

“Ah, your famous, never been wrong gut, huh? I have a six inch scar across my back thanks to your gut. How could uncovering the mysteries entrenched in this dank pile of stones surrounded by nothing but endless woods, hills, and bottomless caves have any impact upon you or I?”

“I don’t know. But my gut is telling me that it’s vitally important we delve further into the secrets of Gloomenthrall.”

“Please, I think your ego just wants to match your skills against the revered Beast.”

Talac couldn’t hide his grin. Yes, that’s exactly what he yearned for, a challenge. The circumstances of his birth had meant he’d had to work harder and train longer than any other to earn his position and the respect of his men. On his travels with Brandth, Talac acted the stealthy spy. Fought off bandits. Actively sought out and vanquished any potential threat to the Vallas Realm’s peace and prosperity. All in the name of the King.

Just once, right here, right now, Talac intended to do something for himself. Unmask the Beast. Uncover all the secrets surrounding the legend. And most importantly of all, discover why his gut was insisting that if he failed in his endeavours here, he would rue it until the day he died.

Crud, it seems this place was insidious, the gloom sinking into his thoughts and turning them fancifully dark and foreboding. Enough. Talac wanted nothing more than to seek out that lumpy sofa Brandth was insisting he sleep upon, dawn could not come soon enough.

Following Brandth into their shared room, Talac paused, stepping back out into the shadow infested long dark corridor. Looking first one way, then the other. The heavy floral scents giving them away. If he didn’t do something about it now, they would be in for a long night of young ladies knocking at their door, wishing to have a private and heartfelt chat with Brandth, with a view to getting ahead of their competition.

Issuing a low growl before snapping his teeth loudly, Talac scowled menacingly in both directions.

“Trust me, Ladies. My bite is much, much worse than my bark, and I guard the door this night.”

Brandth laughed under his breath as Talac entered the room.

“Perhaps this mysterious Beast is in need of a good and loyal guard dog.”

“My loyalty is to the King.”

Talac growled, heading for the sofa.

Brandth chose to make no response as he began shedding all his hidden weapons and changing for bed. Talac had been the one to mention his instincts were firing. He’d even said his encounters here would potentially prove life-changing. For too long his friend had been stuck in a rut, but it appeared that would soon be a thing of the past.

Hhmmm, suddenly Brandth was a little more invested in this Beast, and helping his good friend expose all of Gloomenthrall’s secrets.

Gods help him, tomorrow, at the crack of dawn, they would hunt with the Beast of Gloomenthrall. Brandth prayed it didn’t turn out to be half as nightmarish an experience as it sounded. But he didn’t hold out much hope, making a mental note to ask Raschion to pack him an additional flask of mead. Brandth’s own gut instincts warning him he was going to need it.