The Shrieker

A master and apprentice are practicing together when they are set upon by a monster, prince of his kind.

The Shrieker 

  

                A shrieker is a beast one does not often hear tell of these days, for they are a diminished race of monsters that rarely leave people alive to speak of them. They were once well known to all of earth but they have long ago slunk beneath the surface, to hide from the powers of the Unforgiving Sun and those people they learned to loathe and fear; the humankind. 

                Back when our tale is set planet earth had a different sun, one that encouraged and replenished magic, unlike our sun of today. At that time the shriekers had a vast empire spanning great masses of land, for each of those great beasts required large territories to fit their needs and comforts. As for human civilisation, that was well on its way to becoming an impressive thing. Cities built by their toils were scattered about the lands outside the Shrieker Kingdom, and it was looking possible that the world would prove too small for the two races to share. 

  

* 

  

                That fate filled day was a blustery one, with pure white clouds chasing each across a brilliant blue sky. A master and apprentice were at that point in time practicing their lessons in the great outdoors, a large clearing amidst an endless forest being their training ground. 

                “No no!” cried the Master, currently the exasperated teacher. “That is not the correct way to hold your sword, you need to keep it close to your body, where you can use it to protect. It’s no use all the way out there.” To emphasis his point he slipped his practice sword past hers and slapped her sharply on the thigh. 

                “Ow!” She scowled sullenly. “I don’t see why you’re teaching me the sword anyhow, you said you’d teach me to slay Shriekers, swords won’t be much use against them buggers.” 

                “I’m teaching you the sword-” clack “because when you and your team kill a Shrieker-“clack “-every gang of thieves, murderers and rapists are going to want to steal the carcass. A shrieker’s corpse is a good fourteen hundred coins worth of raw materials, if you know where to sell it.” 

                Randallas was much younger than your average Master. Most folks who go into the trade of hunting shriekers are looking to put in a good six to eight years before they retire rich and happy at the grand old age of twenty five or so. A year or so after the event (when they realize they’ve squandered an upsetting amount of their retirement fund) they rejoin the profession as teachers, looking to find the new net casters, horn blowers and spear casters. They’re then paid a fortune to teach young fools a dream job which will probably kill the youthful idiots within three or four years. 

                But Randallas was different from the rest. He was one of the rare ones who lived up to the songs (and possessed of talents that demanded new songs be written, featuring his name). 

He had completed his casting apprenticeship at seventeen, a full year earlier than the norm. His team had hired him reluctantly, and only as a spare caster. Spare members of a Shrieker hunting party are necessary, because of course there is such a high mortality rate involved in the career. The caster who was number one on the team had just died and they were preparing to return when the group was set upon by two shriekers. 

                It had been Randallas who had not panicked, Randallas who had stood to fight and Randallas who had rallied the others to do the same (a Shrieker will lend no mercy to a fleeing victim). It had been a hard day and though his team did not survive in full, at suns setting there were two dead Shriekers and a team of humans left. From there his brilliant career had involved six successful hunting expeditions within two years and all the gold that he could ever desire. Now at twenty years old he searched relentlessly for the next talented hunter, and when he found someone he thought had promise he trained ‘em up and sold ‘em on for a fortune. 

 

                Clack, clack, clack. The practise swords danced and weaved like drunken lovers. 

                “Not bad he said.” Randallas said, grinning. “You’re not too bad at all when you focus are you girl?” 

                “Don’t call me girl” a furious jab almost got through Rallallas’s defences. 

                “Alright then woman, if that’s what you think you are at seventeen.” He laughed at her. He was having fun. “Don’t overreach.” She had lunged to jab again, but he had stepped to one side and put out a foot to trip her. She stumbled and almost fell, and he gave her a smack to her beautiful bottom with his wooden sword to learn her. 

                She’s right to call herself a woman Randallas thought. Not exactly the girl shaped body I hired a year back, is she? She had a sheen of shoulder length brown hair plastered to her face, a small but determined face. When that face smiled Randallas felt weak within, and he knew he was probably falling for her. The rest of her body did not help the matter, a wonderfully curvy chest featured on a wonderfully curved body, her legs went all the way up to her arse and she had so much muscle. Randallas had something of a weak spot for strong women, and he’d trained this one to be quite strong. 

                “You b*****d!” She fumed. She was red faced and panting from exertion. “That’s cheating! You used your legs!” 

                “Don’t be silly!” he laughed. “You can’t cheat in a fight to the death. You can win, or you can die. That is all.” 

                Clack clack clack. 

                “We’re not in a goddamn fight to the death though, are we?” she insisted, searching for an opening. She’d been with Randallas for a year now, and not once had she managed to beat his stupid face in a duel. She was determined to beat him, his winning every time was becoming quite unbearable. Plus to add insult to injury he insisted on being charmingly handsome as he was doing it. 

                “Yes, but we’re practicing for a duel to the death.” He grinned cheekily at her. “I’d be a pretty poor master if I trained you badly, wouldn’t I?” He poked his tongue out at her. 

                And all of a sudden the seventeen year old apprentice had an idea. It was an exciting one, and a risky one. If it went wrong he’d mock her for weeks, and that could be quite intolerable. 

                “You’ll never beat me you know.” He told her cheerfully. “You’re only using the moves I taught you, you need to put your own imagination into the duel. Otherwise I’ll always win.” 

                Stupid face she thought. I’ll show him my imagination. 

                She took a step back and quick as she could, she whipped her shirt off. 

                Randallas the slayer was so amazed (and a little bit delighted) that he didn’t even parry the first blow. It came hard and fast at his sword arm and wrung a yelp of pain from him. He raised his sword. 

                “Interesting tactic.” He said, admired the two perfect naked breasts. “Not sure you’ll be able to use it when you’re clad in armour, but still "“ 

She didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence; she had ducked under his defences and brought her sword sharply up between his legs. She was slightly wide of her target, but nonetheless she had still imparted a shocking amount of pain onto Randallas. 

Poor Randallas. It is said that the male human is incapable of multitasking at the best of times and he was in a considerable amount of pain at this point. He tried to duel her in return, but she was putting up too strong a fight for him. He probably could still have won, but unfortunately he was still massively distracted by the two pale b***s, covered in a film of sweat. The way they bounced about was just so "  

Thwack. He’d seen the blow coming far too late, raised his sword to defend... And her sword struck him hard on the skull. 

Randallas dropped to his knees and let go of his sword. The world was slightly spinning. 

“Mercy my lady” His hands were held above his head, and his cheeky grin was back. “I have but one weapon and you seem to have three. I could not possibly win.” 

She smiled, a smug and happy smile, because victory was truly hers. She was wonderfully proud of herself, for finally beating stupid face in a duel. She was also very happy with her breasts, if Randallas’ reaction was anything to go by she must have a fine pair. Well done you two she thought to herself I’m sure you’ll win me many fights to come.   

“Now when I’ve got my breath back, we’ll move to the next lesson.” 

“Oh yeah?” she smiled at him mockingly. “You ready to lose horribly again?” 

“Quite ready.” He said, wearing a serious face. “The next lesson is kissing.” 

She pretended to consider this. 

“And why should I kiss you sir?” she poked him playfully beneath the chin with her practice sword. 

“Because-“he brushed the sword aside and pulled her towards him. “I am still the master here, and you are still the apprentice.” 

They fell to the ground together, she on top of him, laughing. She leaned close to him, pressed against his chest and sharing his warmth. 

“I’m going to kick your arse all over again Randallas.” She whispered to him. The kiss was soft and sweet and long. It was full of all his warmth and joy in life and it was... 

It was suddenly still. 

She leaned away and looked at him questioningly. He was focusing intently, his eyes had a faraway look in them. 

“It can’t be...” He murmured. “Not this far north...” He climbed to his feet, gazing at the distant horizon. 

“Randallas?” She whispered. “What’s wrong?” 

“Put your shirt on.” He said quietly. “A Shrieker is coming.” 

“What?” She gasped. This was not Shrieker land. They should not have come across one of the beasts for many miles south; they were only here in these wilds for training away from city distractions, this was way too close to human civilisation. 

“What’s it doing here? What can two of us do against one shrieker?” 

“One of us” Randallas spoke calmly, reaching for the packs. “You’re not ready for this. Run for those trees, now.” 

“But "” 

“Do it” his tone allowed no argument. A low buzzing was audible now coming across the leagues through the air. Randallas had his true sword now, and he was screwing it to the end of a massive pole to make an enormous spear. 

“RUN!” he roared at her. She sprinted for the trees. Randallas looked about despairingly. Their tents were standing pitched a few yards away, and a black circle marked where they’d made the cooking fire. There was no way he could conceal their presence. And a Shrieker would not suffer a living human within its domain; it would not rest until the trespasser was utterly destroyed. 

With a dull click the spear was successfully assembled. It was a good nine fight long and it was heavy and unwieldy. But if you knew how it was balanced - and if you’d spent years practicing with the damn thing " then it was a simply a mortal wound waiting to happen. 

But Randallas was still afraid. He would usually want to have at least seven spears with him on a hunt, all ready assembled available for usage. They’d only brought one. They’d also brought a bow and a quiver of arrows (which he was now strapping tightly to his back) but that would not serve him well against the Shrieker unless the beast was a particularly young one. The younger shriekers did not yet have the toughened skins of their parents. 

I’m a fool Randallas thought to himself angrily coming out here with just the two of us, not taking all the proper precautions. He told her that she needed to learn how to live off the land, how to survive without other humans to trade with, but the reality was probably that a subconscious part of him wanted her alone and to himself. 

Am I in love? The miserable thought did not bring him comfort. Is that why I’m acting like such an idiot? 

The ominous buzzing was getting louder now. Randallas squinted at the growing shape in the windswept sky, trying to discern the age of his foe. Please be young. Please don’t be old and gnarly and cunning. He wished his apprentice was still at his side, she was slightly better with the spear than he was, if truth be told (he never did tell her that particular truth, the apprentice who thinks she’s better than her master is a poor pupil). 

But he could not risk it. Who knew how she would react to the terror of her first sighting? Some trained for years only to find that when they confronted their first Shrieker they were wet with terror and frozen dumb. 

The thing was visible now. Its horrid wasp-like wings were thrumming furiously on its back, tearing through the air towards Randallas. Like all of its race it was a skeletal thing, tough cream coloured reptilian skin stretched over a powerful frame. Its head most closely resembled the crocodile of all the things in the animal kingdom. It had huge heavy claws on the end of its sinewy arms, ideal for gripping the side of mountains, the habitat where they would usually belong. Those claws were also excellent at smashing human bodies into a bloody pulp, when the need arose. Witnessing such incidents had taught Randallas a healthy respect for those murderous hands. A massive tail trailed in the creatures wake, bony as the rest of it and just as deadly. 

Oh God it’s bigger than I thought. It landed on all fours thirty feet from Randallas with a heavy thud, and the earth shook and trembled. It reared up to the full thirty feet of its height and gave the ear splitting shriek-roar that the Shriekers were famous for. Randallas felt his whole body shudder and jar as shockwaves tore through the air. He grimaced, imagining his ears were probably bleeding. 

“Shrieker!” He roared backed. “Be silent creature!” 

That worked. The sunken eyes of the great monster blinked in surprise. 

“Who dares to speak thus to me?” the voice of the beast thundered incredulously. “Know ye not who I am, little mortal?” 

Now Randallas was in a tough spot. The Shrieker had entered into a conversation, which was good (some of them will simply kill you on the spot without having a chat, preferring not to “take any chances” as it were) but he still had to find the right combination of audacity and flattery to make the conversation go long. Ideally he was looking for the thing to rise up on its hind legs again, and present him an opportunity to strike at the heart. 

“I do not know who you are.” Randallas shouted. “Of all your mighty people I have ever met I slew every one, so I definitely know we’ve not met before.” 

“Slew was it?” The Shrieker was interested, despite itself. “You jest at me, little monkey creature, how could you hurt one of my brethren? Or even as much as scratch one of my sistren?” 

“Clearly it is you sir, who has not heard of me.” Randallas said, loud and clear. “My name is Randallas, who some have called the Shrieker’s Woe, who others dubbed the Bane of Beasts. I leave my foes with more than scratches.” 

The Shrieker laughed an awful laugh, loud and terrible. 

“So you are then one my people complain to me about!” it roared in mirth. “You and all the others! Melberoth the hornblower, Dalanian the snarecaster! I’ve eaten so many little Shriekers on my lands squealing that their petty kingdoms were robbed by the likes of you!” 

Randallas did not reply, he was still poised, waiting intently for his opening. 

“Well my little walking legend.” The beast rumbled. “Let me tell you my name and reputation, and we shall see if the name has any familiar ring to it!.” The Shrieker reared up on his hind legs “My name is Prince Mortmanger and I have slain a thousand-” 

Randallas let fly his spear, swift and fast. He’d been aiming for the projectile to smash in between two of the large ribs that were clearly visible jutting out of the creature’s chest. But Mortmanger the shrieker had moved slightly at the last moment, and the missile buried itself with a dell thud in the rib itself, too close but too far from the vulnerable organs. 

Mortmanger shrieked in pain and rage. Grunting furiously in its discomfort it pulled the spear out from its rib (unlike human culture where a heavy focus of the culture is on healing, Shriekers are all about the killing. So unlike you or I Mortmanger had not been taught that when you’ve been stabbed by something it’s probably best to leave it in) he threw the javelin back at Ranadallas. 

But shriekers can’t throw worth a damn, and besides Randallas was already on the move. His bow was in hand he was running fast and nocking one of his seven arrows. Just seven he thought miserably what am I to do with just seven? He turned sharply about to face the shrieker, and loosed an arrow at the brute. And another. But it was no use, they could not penetrate that thick bone coloured hide. Which was no surprise really. If Mortmanger was indeed a prince as he claimed to be, his skin would probably be old and tough. 

Randallas charged straight for the fiend, gracefully leaping in the last moment to dodge the snapping jaws. He’d tried to bury an arrow in the things eye as he passed but that tactic proved to be optimistic, (turns out running and shooting at the same time is a devilishly tricky manoeuvre that requires a good deal of practice).  

Mortmanger snarled in fury and tried to hurt the warrior running between his legs, but the little bugger moved so bloody fast. And now that it was running around beneath his own magnificent body Mortmanger could not even see Randallas. Then there was a sudden intense pain near his belly, and Mortmanger took to the skies bellowing in pain. 

Randallas had been desperate, so when he had run beneath the massive torso he had placed his bow so that the arrowhead of the weapon literally touched that toughened skin. Then he’d  pulled and loosed with all his available strength burying the shaft up to the feathered fletching. Mortmanger retreated to the skies, and Randallas was permitted a breather. 

He had but three arrows left. 

Breathing heavily from his exertion, he glanced at the skies. His enemy was flying about, clawing at its stomach in an attempt to remove Randallass’ sting. Randallas glanced about himself, looking for the spear. He was exhausted, hurt and dizzy (that blow from his apprentice to his head was beginning to hurt). He saw it, several hundred yards away, shining dully and beckoning him. Then he saw a sight that absolutely stunned him. 

His apprentice was striding towards the spear, calm as you like, from this distance she genuinely looked like she had not a care in the world. She’d even taken the time to put some light armour on, boiled leather and lightweight chainmail. Well he thought this one’s a keeper. Most folks are a nervous wreck when they meet their first shrieker, but she clearly had her fears well under control. She picked up the spear and shouldered it in the ready to cast stance. 

“Nice one.” Randallas hollered. “I’m definitely going to need that!” He was grinning again, exhilarated by the hunt and the thrill of a pretty girl. 

“Look out!” She screamed at him, pointing. 

His bow was loading as he looked to the skies, and for a nanosecond he froze in sheer terror. Randallas had never met a shriekerprince before, so he was not to know that the princes, kings and emperors of the shrieker lands won their crowns by killing the previous owners. Mortmanger had decided to take the warrior seriously at last, and so was attacking in the way he attacked all the shriekers he personally had killed. 

He’d dragged himself up to the perfect height. He could barely see Randalla, but he could remember the position he was aiming for. Then Mortmanger folded himself up like arrow, stopped beating his wings, and plunged to the earth, with his jaws held wide for the kill. 

He shot towards the earth like the twenty tonnes of death and fury he was. 

Randallas barely had time to raise his bow. He fired off an arrow into the tender flesh between those murderous teeth. Mortmanger smashed into the ground with an explosion of mud, blood and noise. He lifted the bruised and broken Randallas, tossed him into the air and caught him in his mouth, crunching then chewing and swallowing. 

  

  

* 

  

Our poor young apprentice was at this point was quite terrified. She had literally watched the Shrieker consume her mentor, the man who had taught her everything she knew about how to kill shriekers. If she was honest with herself, a small part of her had believed Randallas was invincible, just like the songs said. 

And of course she’d like him. She’d felt a little something that she’d wanted to explore further. A vague desire for revenge drifted around the pit of her stomach, but it didn’t make much headway against the overwhelming terror in her heart. She wanted to run away. 

No. She knew her lessons too well. A shrieker will suffer no living thing upon its territories. As far as a shrieker is concerned any land that falls within their eyesight belongs to them. I’ll have to fight. 

Or maybe she wouldn’t. 

Mortmanger, after the initial exalting sense of victory was starting to feel his sores. There was an arrow buried in his stomach and he could feel a horrid barb buried somewhere within his voluminous mouth. Black blood was dripping from both wounds and he even felt a little lightheaded. He hadn’t even spotted the young girl with the large weapon striding calmly towards him over the field. He was busy feeling sorry for himself and wondering how he was going to deal with all the shriekers who would try and steal his crown in his weakened state. 

The woman warrior-to-be was not in truth as calm as she appeared, but she knew a shriekers eyes are drawn to rapid movements, so she was walking slowly. She wanted to take full advantage of his distracted state and get as close as possible before the throw. 

Softly now she told herself. Don’t startle the brute... 

And then his gaze was upon her. Such was her panic that the spear left her hand before she’d even realised. Luckily her instincts were fight based rather than flight focused, so she realized she’d hurled the spear towards him without even thinking about it. 

It whistled through the air and tore through the slimy insect-like wings. If the cries of pain had been loud before it was nothing to the noise that came from those awful lungs right now. The ground rumbled, such was the force of his howl and the apprentice fell to her knees clutching her ears. 

Mortmanger belched black darkness. 

This is the shrieker’s last defence. They have the ability to create an unnatural darkness about themselves, smoke to look upon but in truth it was a magical thing. It was impossible to pierce with mortal eyes, and it would burn your lungs to death if you breathed it for more than a few hours. 

Now traditionally, I’m sure you’d agree, this is the point where a normal human being would have walked away. The nemesis was wounded beyond hope of repair and escape would have been the easy option. But she was not a one for the easy option, and she wanted the deed done with no maimed being coming back from the brink, seeking revenge. 

She strode into that Darkness, rolling up her sleeves. 

She almost met an untimely end as a tail whipped through the black towards her. She threw herself beneath the bony spine and scrambled to her feet. 

Can he see through this? Does he have that power? 

“Be gone little vermin thing!” Mortmanger roared. “Leave me this day, and I may be merciful to you in days to come!” 

She smiled grimly to herself.  His tone was bold and mighty, but the words told the true tale. 

“Are you afraid of a little apprentice Mortmanger?” She spoke with confidence. “Why else ask me to leave? You are scared to share even your bloody darkness with my presence!” 

His ugly head lunged at her through the black, but she’d been expecting it. Too swift for the wounded foe, she was already stepping aside. As he moved past her she leapt over his back, reaching out blindly, hoping - 

Yes. Her arm found her spear and she wrenched if from his wings. Another bellow of pain. His arm flicked out at her, and she was thrown away and out of the darkness. 

She tumbled across the grass, hurting with every bump and turn. Mortmanger was behind her, and limping her way. She was ready and standing by the time he reached her. 

“Who are you, apprentice?” he whispered, fear and fury in those enormous eyes. 

“My name is Kéla Detora.” She said. She thrust the spear into his socket, burying it deep in the evil brain. “And I am apprentice no more.”