My Black Beast by Randall P. Fitzgerald

Author:Randall P. Fitzgerald
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: urban fantasy, fantasy, tattoo, fantasy contemporary

Chapter 8

The deep, warm hum of the stone door brought Lowell back from the edge of an uncomfortable sleep. The idea of moving to sit up sounded painful and impractical so he just shifted his head. First through the door was a guard carrying a simple wooden chair. The color was striking in a world that had only been stone from the moment he’d stepped in. Behind the guard was the old man from before and then another guard.

The chair was placed on the floor a few feet from the doorway. The old man made his way around and sat, adjusting his robes as he did, before motioning for the guards to leave him. Lowell hadn’t paid the man’s clothes much mind before. Robes of a heavy linen make that ran in a gradient of deep blue to dark grey at the bottom. The bottom was frayed where it had dragged the ground for a time but otherwise it looked plush and comfortable.

“I have the name Degoed and the title of Elder Werra. I would make apologies for any, eh… roughness.”

His accent was strange, like a French person trying to speak English with a German accent. The voice itself was slow and gave the impression that he didn’t tend to speak without giving considerable thought to his words.

“Can you sit?”

Lowell wasn’t sure if this was meant to be a command or a question raised out of concern. The guards all seemed to pay close attention to the old man which spoke to his station. It took effort, but sitting was achieved. Lowell rubbed a hand over the area, lamenting how resting seemed to have given his body permission to make things hurt worse somehow.

“I again say, I make many apologies. Violentness is not our way.”

The old man did what Lowell thought was surely meant to be a kind smile but it still seemed disingenuous.

“Please, though, I would know what to call you?”

“Lowell.”

Talking hurt. Everything hurt. Laying on the concrete was stupid. He was stupid. The old guy was stupid. That stupid glass up there was stupid. This totally wasn’t a tantrum.

“Yes. Good. Lowell—” He’s not pronouncing it right. “— you have made for us a bad time. You cannot be put to fault, I think. Not so much. More Marka. She is trouble.”

“Because she brought me here? It’s not her fault. I followed her down so don’t do anything to her. I’m to blame.” He pointed to his chest. “I followed her.”

The old man sat in silence for a short while, processing the unfamiliar words and then spoke again.

“No. There is difficultness with your understanding of us. Marka is Brant. She must go with her Brant so the other may come.”

“The other?” He thought hard. “You mean the boy?”

“Boy! Yes! Brista. Is Brista. Of his Brant. Marka must go with her Brant.”

The words all meant nothing but Lowell guessed there was some group that Marka must have been a part of. He’d already assumed as much from the tattoos but the old man at least gave some broken context to the idea.

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