Knight from the Ashes by Shari L. Tapscott

1

Henrik

When I look backon this night, one thing will stand clear in my memory—the morning is blasted cold for early autumn.

Sharp, dead weeds find places to jab between my leather tassets as I sit in a dark field, waiting for the creature that’s been terrorizing the small village of Danmire to grace me with its presence. Sunrise is still a few hours away, but the grass is already stiff with frost. Clouds have settled along the nearby river, spreading fog throughout the field.

I rub my gloved hands together, trying to work feeling back into my fingers. My knees ache from crouching, my ears are frozen, and I’m starting to question the villagers’ sanity.

Every night, they told me.

Just after dark, they told me.

A wise man would have given up hours ago, admitting the creature wasn’t going to make an appearance. But no one can blame me for sitting here in the cold of night, not with my knighthood so close.

I’m going to slay the monster when it finally decides to make an appearance, bask in the villagers’ praise, and then carry its hide back to Cabaranth.

And finally, after all these years of training and mucking through dozens of ridiculous, mundane tasks, I’ll have earned my seal.

It’s not just any seal—it’s a badge of golden honor. It declares the man who wears it is no ordinary mounted knight. Only a step under the Royal Class, answering to the king directly, there is no greater position for a man of common or even noble birth. A sealed knight is the best, one of the king’s elite. The envied, respected—

I curse low and leap from my crouch, grasping the hilt of my sword.

Not far away, a shadowed creature creeps through the field, keeping low in the late wheat. Somehow, it slipped past me and now heads in the direction of the silhouetted cottages.

There aren’t many houses in the village—only seven in total, along with a tavern that doubles as an inn. The people who live here are simple folk, all farmers and a bowyer who used to own a shop in the capital before he retired to the country. The old crafter is half-blind now, which is a shame considering he’s the only man who might have had a chance to take on the beast and live to tell the tale.

But instead of facing the monster themselves, the villagers requested the king’s assistance, telling him a jacquesalaupe is wreaking havoc in his fair province. And for once, His Majesty sent me on a task worth completing.

And now here I am, five bloody seconds from botching up my chance at knighthood.

I hurry after the creature as silently as possible, imagining it in my mind. I have no memory of the beast, no remembered pen-and-ink illustration to pin to its name. It’s an elven word, something rare.

Jacquesalaupe—terror of the night, beast of nightmares. Key to obtaining my seal.

I creep along, staying low. It’s impossible to discern the monster’s size as it remains close to the ground in the cover of the wheat. I don’t dare get too close, not until we’re clear of the field and in the open.

Adjusting the grip on my sword, I wait for the creature to reach the edge of the field. The wheat stirs as the beast briefly hesitates before leaving its protective cover. Finally, it darts into the open.

I murmur a string of curses, resisting the urge to plunge my blade into the frosted field.

The creature wasn’t slinking. It wasn’t hiding most of its bulk in the wheat—it’s merely small. Small enough, in fact, that it’s only the size of a rabbit. With the body of a rabbit. And a white cotton tail…just like a rabbit.

But this is no bunny.

The jacquesalaupe went still the moment I cursed, and now she tilts her pink nose in the air, taking in the scents on the breeze. An obscenely large rack of antlers tilts back with her head, and the tips nearly brush the ground.

Fortunately, I’m downwind, and she can’t catch my scent.

But I don’t dare move a muscle lest I startle her. After several long, cautious seconds, the antlered rabbit hops to the closest vegetable patch and begins sampling the green cabbage before helping herself to a few peas.

I watch as she moves onto the lettuce, wondering what in oblivion I’m doing here.

I shake my head, livid. It’s the most ridiculous-looking creature, and there’s not the slightest chance its hide is going to secure my seal.

With a sigh, I shove my sword into its sheath and pull the bow from my back. I don’t use it often, preferring to feel the weight of my blade, but it will do for this.

The seldom-used weapon creaks as I nock an arrow. Instantly, the jacquesalaupe freezes. She turns my way, and though her body goes still, her nose twitches.

And then she spots me.

It’s too late. She’s going to run, and that’s the last I’m going to see of her. I’m going to end up sitting in the frigid field again tonight.

But she doesn’t run. No…

She grows.

I blink at her, and my mouth falls open. As the jacquesalaupe becomes larger, wicked fangs descend from her mouth. Talons sprout on her once dainty front paws, and her awkward antlers become deadly weapons glinting in the starlight, ready to impale the idiot soldier who dared interrupt her feasting.

I’m just wondering why no one thought to mention the monster’s affinity for shifting before they sent me to sit in the field when she charges. Or rather, leaps.

Tossing the worthless bow on the ground, I grab the hilt of my sword and run toward the demon rabbit, preparing to finish the battle before it has a chance to begin. Satisfaction swells in me as I realize my first assumption was wrong—slaying this jacquesalaupe might be enough to earn my seal after all.

But just as I lunge, the jacquesalaupe leaps back and bounds away. I circle with her, watching as she bounces about on muscular hind legs, studying her moves. Several times, the beast leaps forward, meaning to gore me with her antlers. Every chance I have to stab the creature, she hops to safety.

Several minutes pass, and then several more. The jacquesalaupe continues to evade me, and I realize her game. She’s toying with me—playing cat and mouse, hoping to finish me with one deadly attack of her sharp antlers the moment I tire.

Breathing hard, no longer bothered by the chill of the early morning, I watch as she lines up for another attack. Her wild eyes meet mine, and I sense the finality in her gaze.

This is it.

I tighten the grip on my sword and lower into a crouch, preparing for her to charge. My breath steams in front of me, joining with the shifting fog. I wait, fighting for patience. One, two, three…

Just as she leaps, I heave myself back upon the cold, prickly ground, avoiding her antlers. My shoulders press into the dirt and frost-covered weeds, and I thrust upward, into the jacquesalaupe’s soft, unprotected belly.

She lets out a piercing, shrill cry that echoes throughout the night, and then she stumbles forward, eventually falling to the ground. Her leg twitches for several seconds before she goes completely still.

A nearby cow bellows, disturbed by the sound of the creature’s death, and then silence falls over the valley.

After a moment, I pull myself up, satisfied with the outcome of the fight but irritated it took as long as it did. I scowl at my blade, which is now slick with demon bunny blood, and step forward to wipe it on the creature’s hide. I’m just about to commence the unpleasant task of skinning the beast when it begins to shrink.

To shrink.

Before my eyes, the jacquesalaupe returns to its original, harmless size. Her fangs disappear, as do her claws. The only remnants of her grotesque appearance are the antlers, but even they look less than impressive on the rabbit-sized creature.

I prod the beast with the toe of my boot, hoping it will miraculously turn back. But the creature’s magic has faded and sunken into the earth, leaving nothing but its lifeless, harmless, and most unimpressive self behind.

My hopes of trading the beast’s hide for my seal blow away in the frozen breeze.

Growling, I sheath my blade and toss the rabbit over my shoulder, wondering how much a person can hope to fetch for a rack of jacquesalaupe antlers.