A thing of despair fashioned in a shape of utter horror descended from the sky. Wings a full fifty feet in width flapped lazily as it dropped down to where the old monk stood. It was a twenty-foot-tall composite of everything loathsome to sane beings. Black talons extended from grotesque parodies of bird claws, atop which rose legs reminiscent of a goat’s. But where haunches should have been, only great wattles of fat, huge rings of blubber, shook and quivered, hanging impossibly down from below a manlike chest. Over the body a thick wet-looking substance oozed downward in rivulets. In the center of the thing’s chest, a blue-colored but otherwise normal-looking human face stared out in wide-eyed horror, constantly twitching and screaming in gibbering counterpoint to the thing’s own loud bellows. Each arm was powerfully fashioned, long and apelike. It shimmered in faint light, rapidly changing, first red, then orange, yellow, and onward through the spectrum until it was again red. And from it emitted a mixture of foul odors, as if the vile smell of every decaying and festering thing in the world had been distilled down and infused into the creature’s being.
Most horrid of all was the head, for in supreme cruelty, whatever or whoever had fashioned the misshapen monster had adorned it with a woman’s head, large to fit the body, but otherwise normal. And the ultimate jest was in the features of that face, for, in precise imitation, the thing bore the likeness of Princess Anita Wild tresses seemed to blow in all directions, framing her features in a cloud of red hair. But its expression was one of a street whore, lewd and wanton, as the thing salaciously licked its lips and rolled its eyes toward Arutha. Blood-red lips split into a wide grin, showing long fangs in place of human eyeteeth.
Arutha looked on the thing with a disgust and loathing that rose up to banish any thought save to destroy this obscenity. “No!” he shouted as he began to pull his sword.
Gardan was instantly upon him, driving him to the floor of the building, bringing his strength to bear to hold him down, yelling, “That’s what they want!”
Martin lent his strength to stop Arutha, and he and Gardan pulled the Prince away from the door. The creature turned to look at those within the door, absently flexing its claws. Pouting like a little girl, it suddenly leered at Arutha, then stuck out its tongue, wiggling it suggestively. Then with a bellowing laugh, it rose up to its full height and roared at the stars, arms stretched high overhead. With a single step, it moved toward the doorway where the Prince waited. Then suddenly it rocked forward, shrieked in pain, and turned around.
Arutha and his companions looked past it to see a blue-white bolt of energy returning to Brother Micah’s hand. He had struck the first blow while the thing had been distracted. Again he cast his hammer. In a blur it flashed to strike the thing in its huge stomach, bringing another bellow of pain and rage, as a trickle of steaming black blood began to flow.
“My, my!” came a voice from behind Arutha.
Laurie saw that Brother Anthony had come up from some deep vault beneath the abbey and was peering intently at the creature. Laurie said, “What is that thing?”
Showing no emotion except curiosity, the archivist said, “I believe it to be a conjured creature, something fashioned by magic means, brewed up in a vat. I can show you some references in a dozen different works on how to create them. Of course, it could be some rare natural occurring beast, but that seems highly improbable.”
Martin rose, leaving Gardan to restrain Arutha. He unlimbered his ever present bow, quickly strung it, and fitted an arrow to his bowstring. The creature was advancing upon Brother Micah when Martin let fly. The archers eyes widened as the arrow seemed to pass through the creature’s neck without effect.
Brother Anthony nodded. “Yes, it is a conjuration. Notice how it is impervious to mundane weapons.”
The creature swung one of its mighty fists down at Brother Micah, but the old fighter simply raised his hammer as if to block. The creature’s blow halted a full foot above the monk’s upraised hammer, recoiling as if it had hit stone. It bellowed in frustration.
Martin turned to Brother Anthony. “How do you kill it?”
“I don’t know. Each of Micah’s blows draws energy away from the spell used to create it. But it is a product of tremendous magics, and it might last a day or longer. Should Micah falter . . .”
But the old monk was firm on his feet, answering every blow with a parry and wounding the creature, seemingly at will. While it seemed pained by each wound the hammer made, it gave no sign of being weakened.
“How do you make one?” Martin asked Brother Anthony. Arutha was no longer struggling, but Gardan still knelt with his hand upon his shoulder.
Anthony, caught up for a second in Martin’s question, said, “How do you create one? Well, it’s rather complex . . .”
The creature became increasingly enraged by Micah’s blows and hammered uselessly at the monk. Tiring of this tactic, it dropped to its knees as it leveled a blow at Micah, overhand as if driving a spike with a hammer, but at the last instant it shifted its aim and slammed its massive fist down on the ground next to the monk.
The jolt caused Micah to stumble slightly, which was the only opening the creature needed. Instantly sweeping its hand sideways, it knocked Micah across the courtyard. The old monk hit the ground heavily, rolled awkwardly, and lay stunned, his hammer bouncing away from him.
Then the thing was again moving toward Arutha. Gardan leaped to his feet, pulling his sword as he dashed forward to protect his Prince. The veteran captain stood before the thing, which grinned hideously down at him, the terrible parody of Anita adding a sickening element to the confrontation. Like a cat playing with a mouse, the creature pawed at Gardan.