—Excerpt from Report on Beta Cassiopeiae Gamma (local name “Gramarye”), by Rodney d’Armand, Agent for Society for Conversion of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms

Chapter 1

The heavy clinging fog lay dense, nearly opaque, over the heaving sea. The rolling, endless crash of breakers against the headlands at the harbor’s mouth came muted and distant.

High above, circling unseen, a bird called plaintive sentry cries.

The dragon shouldered out of the swirling mist, its beaked, arrogant head held high.

Four more like it loomed out of the fog at its back.

Round, bright-painted shields hung on their sides.

Oars speared out from the shields, lifting in unison and falling feathered to the waves.

The dragon’s single wing was tightly furled around the crossbar lashed to the tall, single mast that thrust upward out of its back.

Squat, hulking, helmeted shapes prowled silently about the mast.

The dragon had an eagle’s beak, and a tall, ribbed fin for a crest. Two long, straight horns probed out from its forehead.

The surf moaned on the shore as the dragon led its mates past the headland.

The child screamed, howling for his mother, thrashing himself into a tangle with the thick fur blanket.

Then the oil lamp was there, just a rag in a dish, but warm and safe, throwing its yellow glow upward on the mother’s weary, gentle face.

She gathered the quivering, sobbing little body into her arms, murmuring, “There now, love, there. Mama’s here. She won’t let him hurt you.”

She held the child tightly, rubbing his back until the sobbing ceased. “There now, Artur, there. What was it, darling?”

The child sniffled and lifted his head from her shoulder. “Bogeyman, Mama. Chasing me, and—he had a great big knife!”

Ethel’s mouth firmed. She hugged the child and glared at the lamp-flame. “The bogeymen are far across the sea, darling. They can’t come here.”

“But Carl says…”

“I know, I know. Carl’s mama tells him the bogeyman will get him if he’s bad. But that’s just a silly story, darling, to frighten silly children. You’re not silly, are you?”

Artur was silent a while; then he murmured into the folds of his mother’s gown, “Uh… no, Mama…”

“Of course you’re not.” She patted his back, laid him down in the bed, and tucked the fur robe under his chin. “That’s my brave boy. We both know the bogeyman can’t hurt us, don’t we?”

“Yes, Mama,” the child said uncertainly.

“Sleep sweetly, darling,” the mother said, and closed the door softly behind her.

The oil lamp set the shadows dancing softly on the walls. The child lay awake awhile, watching the slow ballet of light and dark.

He sighed, rolled over on his side. His eyes were closing as they strayed to the window.

A huge misshapen face peered in, the eyes small and gleaming, the nose a glob of flesh, the mouth a gash framing great square, yellowed teeth. Shaggy brown hair splayed out from a gleaming, winged helmet.

He grinned at the child, pig eyes dancing.

“Mama! Mamamamamamamama! Bogeyman!”

The bogeyman snarled and broke through the stout wooden wall with three blows of a great ironbound club.

The child screamed and ran, yanking and straining at the heavy bedroom door.

The bogeyman clambered through the broken wall.

The door was flung wide; the mother stared in horror, clutching her child to her and screaming for her husband. She wheeled about and fled.

The bogeyman gave a deep, liquid chuckle, and followed.

In another cottage, a bogeyman seized a child by the ankles and swung his head against the wall. He lifted his huge club to fend off the father’s sword, then whirled the club into the father’s belly, swung it up to strike the father’s temple. Bone splintered; blood flowed.

The mother backed away, screaming, as the beastman caught up the father’s fallen sword. He turned to the mother, knocked her aside with a careless, backhand swipe of the club, and stove in the family strong-chest with one blow.

In the first cottage, the oil lamp, knocked aside in the beast-man’s passage, licked at the oil spilled on walls and floor.

Other cottages were already ablaze.

Women and children ran screaming, with chuckling beast-men loping after them.

The men of the village caught up harpoons and axes, rallying to defend their wives and children.

The beastmen shattered their heads with ironbound cudgels, clove chests with great, razor-edged battle axes, and passed on, leaving dismembered bodies behind them.

Then drumming hooves and a troop of cavalry burst into the village; the fires had alerted the local baron. He sat now at the head of a score of horsemen drawn up in the beastmen’s path.

“Fix lances!” he roared. “Charge!”

The beastmen chuckled.

Lances snapped down, heels kicked horsehide; the cavalry charged… and faltered, stumbled, halted, soldiers and horses alike staring at the beastmen for long, silent minutes.

Each beastman flicked his glance from one soldier to another, on to a third, then back to the first, holding each one’s eyes for a fraction of a second.

Jaws gaped, eyes glazed all along the cavalry line. Lances slipped from nerveless fingers.

Slowly, the horses stepped forward, stumbled, and stepped again, their riders immobile, shoulders sagging, arms dangling.

The beastmen’s little pig eyes glittered. Their grins widened, heads nodded in eager encouragement.

Step-stumble-step, the horses moved forward.

The beastmen shrieked victory as their clubs swung, caving in the horses’ heads. Axes swung high and fell, biting deep into the riders. Blood fountained as men fell. Heads flew, bones crunched under great splayfeet, as the beastmen, chuckling, waded through the butchered cavalry to break in the door of the village storehouse.

The Count of Baicci, vassal to the Duke of Loguire, lay headless in the dirt, his blood pumping out to mingle with that of his cavalry before the thirsty soil claimed it.

And the women and children of the village, huddled together on the slopes above, stared slack-jawed at their burning houses, while the dragon ships, wallowing low in the waves with the weight of their booty, swung out past the bar.

And, as the long ships passed the headland, the wind blew the villagers an echo of bellowing laughter.

The word was brought to King Tuan Loguire at his capital in Runnymede; and the King waxed wroth.

The Queen waxed into a fury.

“Nay, then!” she stormed. “These devil’s spawn, they lay waste a village with fire and sword, slay the men and dishonor the women, and bear off the children for bondsmen, belike—and what wilt thou do, thou? Assuredly, thou wilt not revenge!”

She was barely out of her teens, and the King was scarce older; but he sat straight as a staff, his face grave and calm.

“What is the count of the dead?” he demanded.

“All the men of the village, Majesty,” answered the messenger, grief and horror just beneath the skin of his face. “A hundred and fifty. Fourteen of the women, and six babes. And twenty good horsemen, and the Count of Baicci.”

The Queen stared, horrified. “A hundred and fifty,” she murmured, “a hundred and fifty.”

Then, louder, “A hundred and fifty widowed in this one night! And babes, six babes slain!”

“God have mercy on their souls.” The King bowed his head.

“Aye, pray, man, pray!” the Queen snapped. “Whilst thy people lie broke and bleeding, thou dost pray!” She whirled on the messenger. “And rapine?”

“None,” said the messenger, bowing his head. “Praise the Lord, none.”

“None,” the Queen repeated, almost mechanically.

“None?” She spun on her husband. “What insult is this, that they scorn our women!”