The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling (12 page)

Shanks dismounted and smiled broadly.
He spit out a half-chewed acorn and wiped his bound hands on his tabard. “Oh,
I’m definitely fighting ‘im.” He looked to Hammer for approval.

Hammer could think of nothing more
satisfying than to have the arrogant Eridian taken to pieces by Shanks, but it
wasn’t his decision to make. He looked to Grae.

Grae met Hammer’s gaze and nodded.
Hammer removed Shanks’ manacles and motioned for him to take a weapon.

“At him then. But if you hit him in
the head or throat, or hit him when he’s down, we’ll have those manacles back
on you and you’ll be drawn and quartered at Kithrey. You un’erstand?”

Lokk Lurius seemed completely
indifferent. He made no move toward the weapons. Shanks pounded scuffle sword
against his shield and called to Lokk Lurius. “You don’t like pretending to
kill, eh? Let’s see how you like pretending to die.”

Lokk Lurius stared at Shanks then
walked away. Grae opened his mouth to shout at him but the Eridian walked to
Lord Aeren’s horse and drew a crop from the rigging dee. Lord Aeren made a
sound as if he wanted to speak, but said nothing. Lokk Lurius walked to within
a few feet of Beldrun Shanks and assumed a loose, almost mocking guard with the
crop.

“I don’t care if you’re foolin’, you
shield-dropping queynt. I’ll drop you with whatev—”

Lurius moved forward and slapped
Shanks in the face with the crop so quickly that the big man never even moved.

“You dirty shit hole …” Shanks was
silenced by another slap to the face. He bellowed and lunged forward. His sword
hummed as it cut through the air. It was  aimed at the Eridian’s head, but Lokk
Lurius stepped to the side calmly and the blade sailed past. Lurius stepped
inside the sword’s arc, flipped the crop in a half circle, and jabbed the hard
end of it into Beldrun Shank’s throat.

Shanks took a grunting step backward,
sent a vicious backhand at Lokk Lurius’ torso. The Eridian slipped out of its
range then stepped in from an angle. He glided behind Shank’s shield and jabbed
the crop under the big man’s armpit.

Shanks swung his elbow and broke away
from the Eridian, then slashed out twice in quick succession. The first swing
missed wildly. Lurius used his off hand to block Shank’s arm on the second
swing. Then the Eridian swung down with the crop, spinning it in mid-stroke. He
smacked downward with the soft end, raking it the length of Beldrun’s face,
from forehead to chin. Then he stepped back.

“I’m gonna pretend to rip your
fucking arms off, you bastard!” said Shanks.

Lokk Lurius yawned, and this seemed
more than Shanks could bear. The big infantryman howled and leaped at the
Eridian. Lokk ducked and whirled. He tripped Shanks, disarming the big man as
he fell. Shanks landed on his shield and the breath seemed to go out of him. He
lay on the ground, red-faced and sweating, grimacing and exhausted. But Grae
saw something dangerous in his eyes.

Lurius threw Shanks’ sword down,
leaving it point-first and wobbling in the soil. He walked toward Grae. Behind
him, Beldrun Shanks rose to his feet sucking deep breaths, his eyes narrow,
hands trembling. Shanks jerked the scuffle sword from the earth, clenched his
jaw and strode after the Eridian. The big infantryman raised the blunted sword
over his head as Lokk Lurius let the riding crop fall. Shanks slashed downward
with two hands on the hilt, his face contorted. Blade and crop fell and Lokk
Lurius’ only warnings were the looks on Grae and Hammer’s faces.

Before the crop could hit the ground,
before the blade could crush his crown, Lokk Lurius dropped to a knee. He
caught the crop. Drove a shoulder into the place where he knew Beldrun Shank’s
leg had to be. The big man toppled onto his side, one of his arms pinned
beneath his body. Lokk Lurius pinned the other arm behind Shanks’ back and
drove the hard end of the crop under the big man’s chin. The calmness drained
from Lokk’s face. His eyes were slits. His teeth bared. Shanks gagged and
kicked and flailed, but Lurius had him pinned. The big man’s face turned red.
The crop went deeper still.

It took Grae and Hammer and Sage and
Rundle Graen to pry Lokk Lurius from Beldrun Shanks. When they were separated,
Lokk Lurius staggered a few feet away and gasped for breath. He brought the
heels of his hands to his eyes and leaned over. He stayed in that position for
a dozen heartbeats. And when he finally moved, his breath was ragged. He walked
to Lord Aeren’s horse and replaced the riding crop in the saddle, patting it
with his hand in a reassuring fashion. He took another deep breath and
approached Grae and Hammer as if nothing untoward had occurred.

“You wart-brained lunatic!” screamed
Hammer. “You could have killed him!”

Lokk Lurius glanced at Beldrun, still
rolling on the ground.

“No,” said Lokk Lurius. “I was just
pretending.” He turned and walked toward Lord Aeren’s tent. “I’ll get my
things.”

--
From “One Hawk for
Mollie.” Laraytian Folk Song

Grae stopped the procession at Fulyn
Avaeron, a Hallowed-Union Temple, shared by the clergy of both Blythwynn and
Lojenwyne. It was divided so that enforcers, the priests of Lojenwyne, and the
chimes, priestesses of Blythwynn, could not see one another.

“Grae, we won’t make Kithrey if we
dawdle,” said Hammer. “Alive or dead, there’s a heap of nobles in the forest
waiting on us.”

Grae dismounted silently and walked
toward the temple. “And there are ten Standards here risking their lives to
find them. Bring the squad,” he called back. “I’ll not have them facing the
Beast without a blessing.”

The main structure, like all union
temples, was circular and capped with a dome of white stone. A brass sun and a
silver moon, both staked to a weathervane at the crest, revolved endlessly
around one another. The eastern wing, to Grae’s left, was devoted to Lojenwyne
– to Justice and War and Death. The western belonged to Blythwynn – to
Forgiveness and Light and Life.

Grae entered the central chamber, the
domed structure. There was a faint swishing sound to the right, but Grae walked
toward the left.

An old man hobbled towards him from
behind an altar, one foot dragging, a worn broom in his hands. He was an old
man, dressed in a simple yellow robe of a Lojanite clergist. “The chimes are
asleep. Don’t like Lojen’s Gaze. Harsh, his light. Asleep ‘til sunset.” He
kissed the broomstick and smiled toothlessly. “I seen the boobies on one ‘a ‘em
chimes once,” he whispered. “A chantress. She didn’t think no one was here.
Watched her change her robe right where yer standin’. Tits like scoops ‘a
butter. Delicious. Delicious.”

An Lojanite enforcer rose to his feet
by the eastern door. He’d been kneeling and scrubbing at the base of the carved
oaken door. “Sweep, old man! Sweep!” he shouted. “Leave our guests alone.”

The old man shuffled away and the
priest motioned for Grae to join him by the door. Grae glanced at the squad,
gathered uncertainly at the foyer, then walked to the great wooden door.

The enforcer was past his prime, but
still a powerful man, thick neck girded with a steel bevor. A vertical scar
glistened on his forehead. He wore a golden tunic over padded jacket. Lojen’s
orange sun embroidered across the silk. A livery collar proclaiming his station
draped his shoulders. Grae knelt before him.

“Rise, Brig, Rise!”

Grae stood. “I am Brig Grae Barragns,
master.”

The priest pointed at Grae with a
scouring brush and smiled broadly. “Grae Barragns?  I knew your father. And
I’ve followed your deeds closely, son. You’ve done great work for Lojenwyne.
Great work.”

“Have I, Master?”  There was
something in Grae’s tone, a quiver that made the priest grow somber. He stared
at Grae, then knelt before the door again. There was a pail by his side, and a
bag of lye. The priest dipped the brush in the water, then the lye, then
scoured at the base of the door.

“Mold,” he mumbled. “An enforcer’s
life isn’t all glory. But cleaning keeps one humble. Keeps the muscles strong. Maybe
you’ll be an enforcer someday.” He brushed for a time without speaking, his
teeth clenched. “Remember always who you are, Grae Barragns.” He didn’t look at
Grae as he spoke. Just kept brushing. “You are a soldier. And a soldier’s work
is always Lojen’s work.” He touched the door with a finger, frowned. Looked
down at the brush and tapped the bristles. He called to the old clergist. “Old
man! A new brush! The bristles on this are soft as feathers!” He looked at
Grae, pointed one calloused finger at him. “You are justice, Grae Barragns. And
justice is never fashionable.”

The clergist brought him a new brush
and the priest scrubbed again. He cleared a section at the base and smiled.
“Beautiful. See how that shines?”

The enforcer gave the soldiers a
blessing,
The Invocation of Courage and Strength
. He painted the back of
each man’s neck with the blood of an ox and spoke the words in a booming voice.
Grae thanked the priest and the squad returned to the Old Byway.

They passed a score of caravans
lumbering toward the festival. Chandlers and saddle makers, furriers and
herbalists, all with the best of their wares, hoping for a prosperous year at
the fair, complaining of the worsening roads, or the lack of inns, or the rise
in tolls, or whatever proprietary grievances they suffered in their particular
craft. The squad passed a horse dealer leading a train of fourteen handsome
geldings. Shanks, whose horse had begun making periodic choking noises,
glowered at the animals as he rode by.

The squad rode past a wagonload of
freebodies traveling from Invaurnoth. The women  smiled and waved at the
soldiers, blew kisses and lifted their shirts. They caused a stir among the
squad until Hammer reminded them that they were in fair and noble company.
Maribrae insisted she didn’t mind. She launched into a bawdy version of
One
Hawk for Mollie
on the fiolys. The men smiled at one another and a few sang
along. The freebodies they had left behind joined in as well.

A troop of cinders from Greystone
watched the squad go by from the roadside, They looked identical to one another
with their shaved heads, orange cloaks and tall brown hats. Each of them
carried the staff and buckler of a Lojenite Wardsman. They were no doubt headed
to the festival as well. Grae nodded to them.

The Lojenites had been the highlight
of the many festivals of his youth. Dancing and spinning their bucklers,
twirling their staffs in unisons. Afterward, they paired off for demonstrations
of Loja, the Wardsman fighting art. The Master Wardsman would perform as well,
taking on the rest of the Lojenites in a choreographed final battle. How many
times, as a child, had Grae left festivals imitating their moves?

A mile farther on Grae spotted a pair
of chimes walking side by side on the road, wrapped in tight swathes of
soft-woven white linen that clung like bandages over every curve. It was rare
to see Blythwynn’s priestesses out in the daytime. Both of them had pulled down
the unkempt halo of silks and gauzes from beneath the brim of their white hats.
Grae could just make out their eyes behind the translucent fabrics. The chimes
always pulled down these fabrics when walking in the day, so that the violence
of Lojen’s Gaze might be softened.

The soldiers leered as best they
could without appearing to leer. Chimes came from the shires, chosen every
other year, one from each shire in the kingdom. They were chosen at age
thirteen for their beauty and singing voice. Grae had asked his father once why
they always took the prettiest girls away. His father had smiled.
They serve
as examples of Blythwynn’s beauty
.
They lift our souls, like stained
glass or cathedrals.

Grae dismounted and greeted the
chimes. “My men are journeying into Maug Maurai,” he said. “I would be grateful
for a blessing.”

The chimes were difficult to tell
apart through the mist of fabrics over their eyes. One of them stepped forward
and nodded. “Even sons of Lojenwyne need Blythwynn’s protections.”

Everyone dismounted and led their
horses off the Old Byway, except for the mercenary, Lokk Lurius, who stayed on
his horse. The chime raised her hands over the group and the two priestesses
sang the benediction. Half of a chime’s training was in singing, in creating
pathos with their voice. Grae closed his eyes at the harmonies and felt a stab
of remorse somewhere in the desert of his soul. Drissdie Hannish wept next to
him.

When Grae opened his eyes he stared
at the flawless faces of the singing priestesses. At the ivory skin, at the
eyelids and lips painted in hues of blue. And then at a drop of red above the
lips of one. And then another drop. Blood.

The priestess didn’t notice the
nosebleed until the trickle of it rolled off her lip and splashed onto the
white silks on her breast. She tried to go on with the chant, but the blood
flow grew stronger and the splatters on her garb too serious to ignore. She
stopped singing and the second chime finished the benediction alone.

Grae gave the bleeding chime a
kerchief for her nose and thanked the priestesses. None of the soldiers spoke
for a long time. When they were back on the road, Dathnien Faldry, the
recovering lunatic, shook his head and broke the silence. “It’s an omen. A
terrible omen.”

“Shut your mouth,” said Hammer. “It
ain’t no omen, it’s just dry air.” But he touched the pendant hanging beneath
his tunic and, with as much subtlety as possible, sprinkled a white ash into
the air in the four cardinal directions.

“There are no such things as omens,”
said Grae. “You lot are too old to be– ” Beldrun Shanks’ horse staggered
sideways into Grae’s. The sickly beast snorted twice then fell to its knees and
died there on the road.

Dathnien Faldry began marking every
bad omen. He carved a slash into the metal of his shield for the chime’s
nosebleed, and another for Shanks’ dead horse.

Lord Jastyn bought the squad a
chestnut gelding from the horse dealer they had seen earlier on the road and
they set off again toward the north. Three miles west of Kithrey the Old Byway
ran past a series of steep, compact hills. Sage, their scout, said that the
hills were barrows, but most of the squad mates already knew. It was said that
ancient kings of the perished Margil civilization were buried within them, but
tales of savage curses kept even the most desperate of grave robbers from
seeking the truth. Grae studied the hills as they passed, imagining treasure
hoards and armored skeletons buried beneath a thousand years of Nuldryn dirt.

Five horsemen rode into view at the
crest of the closest barrow. Grae didn’t need to see the blonde braid to know
who they were. He looked to Hammer. The old soldier gave a long low cry and
stopped his horse. He whisked off his kettle helm and touched the back of his
head, where the Andraen had grabbed him in the tavern.

“Hammer?” Grae turned his mare to
face him.

Hammer pointed at one of the
horsemen. It looked like a boy. Grae recognized the young man who had been
beaten in the
Happy Pig
. The boy held a staff in one hand. An elaborate
wicker box dangled from the end of it. Grae could just make out feathers
sprouting from the edges of the box.

“It’s a bane box, Grae.” Hammer’s
voice was mournful.

A bane box. An old Turae hex. Grae
had heard of them long ago. The boxes were filled with raven bones, and hair or
blood from the victim of the curse. A ritual was performed on the whole
assortment to activate the dark magics

“We ‘ave to get it,” said Hammer.
“It’s the most powerful hex they can cast. It’ll doom the mission.”

“Hammer, that’s ridiculous,” said
Grae “There’s nothing to it.” He ignored the scratch of Dathnien Faldry’s
dagger blade as the soldier carved another notch upon his shield. “It’s a box
with bones in it. Nothing more.”

“That ain’t true, Grae.” Hammer
lowered his head, his fists clenched. “They got my ‘air. They weren’t out to
‘urt me at the tavern. They just wanted my ‘air. We gotta get that box, Grae.”

Grae took a long look at Hammer’s
face and let out a breath, long and deep. “I’m going to go up there and talk to
them, and you will remain here. I don’t want to hear a word of argument from
you.”

Hammer tried to offer a word of
argument but Grae’s warning finger silenced him. The brig turned and studied
the squad. “Lokk Lurius, you’ll come with me.” Grae unbuckled his sword belt.
“Leave your weapons behind.”

Hammer tried to object again but
Grae’s glare cut him down. Lokk Lurius sat motionless on his horse, the two
thick short swords hanging from the tooled double belt at his waist.

Grae, still holding his own sheathed
sword, pointed to the weapons. “Your swords, Lurius. Leave them behind.”

Lokk Lurius’ horse turned restlessly.
“I went through too much to get these swords,” he said, his Eridian accent
thick. “No one else touches them. Ever.”

Hammer made a sound but Grae shushed
him and rode forward so that he was beside the Eridian. He held up his own
sword in its scabbard so that Lokk Lurius could see it.

“This is my father’s sword. It has
been owned by four generations of Barragnses. My father’s father broke it
during the Darmurian Revolt and had the blade reforged from the same steel. It
has been re-gripped twice and has known three different scabbards. It is all I
have left of my father.” He tossed the sheathed sword to the simple-minded
Drissdie Hannish and leaned closer to Lokk Lurius, so there was a space no
wider than the width of a sword blade between their faces. He spoke with the
voice of The Headsman. “You will leave your swords here.”

There was a granite silence as the
two men faced one other. Lokk Lurius’ jaw tightened and his hands slipped to
the grips of his swords. He turned his head to the side, his eyes still on
Grae, spat on the road. Then he quietly unbuckled the double sword belt. He
allowed Sir Jastyn to take the weapons.