The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling (2 page)

Someone
screamed loud enough to be heard over the rest of the howls and sobs. A girlish
shriek from the soldiers’ cart that made Murrogar spit. Where was the pride
?
Is that the last noise he wants to make in this life?
The spearman hiding
under the bench was gone. Whatever took the soldier was gone again and Murrogar
hadn’t even seen it strike.

Grim, one of
Murrogar’s men, rode back from the vanguard to the fallen carriage. Murrogar
dismounted and ordered him to take charge of the soldiers guarding the fallen
carriage. Then he pulled five spearmen with him to the side-facing roof of the
wagon. Together they heaved and tried to right the wagon, but one of the wheels
snapped and the carriage fell, spearmen dancing away from the falling bulk as
it crashed to the ground. The gentry inside the carriage screamed, though their
cries were muffled by the carved wood. Murrogar called to the spearmen again
but battle cries rang out on the other side of the wagon. The cries became
screams for help. Murrogar abandoned his attempts to right the wagon and
skidded around the coach when he heard Grim roar.

There were
three dead knights and a dying horse on the other side of the carriage. Grim’s
head and torso lay on the grass. There was no sign of the rest of him.

Something
massive and dark tore at the front window of the carriage, the one the old
manae had looked out from only minutes before. The creature tried to pull a
nobleman out through the breach but the hole was too small. Only pieces of the
man made it through. More screams from inside the carriage. Murrogar couldn’t
tell the cries of the noblemen from those of the noblewomen. The monster was
gone before Murrogar could close with it.

Lojen
above, that thing is fast
.

He banged the
sides of the carriage and called inside. “We’re going for a walk. Everyone out!
Out! OUT!”

The words
didn’t have the proper effect so he tore off the remains of the door and pulled
the travelers up and out through the shattered side. By arms, by dresses, by
hair. Whatever he could get his hands on. Most of them got the idea and
clambered out. The old manae hunched in the corner, clutching Ulrean in her
arms.
Poor lad
. He was probably going to die tonight. “You too, old
woman.” Murrogar winked at Ulrean and grabbed the manae under the shoulders,
pulled both of them out. He emerged to screams all around.

Thantos and
Hul each had an iron lantern and were coaxing the retainers from the second
wagon in the same fashion that Murrogar had coaxed the Cobblethries.

The Duke
stood by the fallen carriage, holding his wife’s face and whispering firmly to
her. One of the Duchess’ lady retainers hugged her tightly from behind. The old
manae sat in the ferns with Ulrean and rocked him in her lap, her arms tight
around his chest. The rest of the nobles and retainers were screaming or
holding one another. Some bawled and pointed at pieces of soldiers. A nobleman
in a plumed hat tried to crawl back into the Cobblethrie wagon. They were like
terrified children. Murrogar couldn’t blame them, really. Even he was starting
to feel anxious.

He herded the
nobles and servants toward the side of the road. He pushed and dragged and
bellowed, unable to identify who was who. He knew there were two counts among
them, and two countesses. There was the son of a thane. Several sons and
daughters of counts and a Holy Paladin’s niece. Enough titles to rule a small
kingdom. But this was Maug Maurai and titles held no sway in this court.  

Sir Wyann
slashed his sword against the tall grasses and ferns near the overturned
carriage, pointing a candle toward the ground and scanning for something in the
forest road. Two nobles and three knights were still mounted and hadn’t run off
so Murrogar ordered them to dismount. He arranged the horses into a wall in
front of the survivors then ordered all of the nobles into the forest. He
signaled for Hul to guide them in and ordered Thantos to fetch more lanterns
and oil from the baggage car.

“Crossbows
and spears, cover,” said Murrogar.

A crossbowman
ran to him and turned to cover.

“Get the rest
of the bowmen here, now!” shouted Murrogar.

“I … I think
I am the rest, sir.”

Murrogar rubbed
at his beard. “Then shoot well. You’re firing for four.”

Spearmen
formed ranks around Murrogar. Two of the three remaining knights formed up as
well, their halberds braced.

Murrogar
looked back at the nobles scurrying into the wood. Shoes were falling off,
dresses tearing on brambles. It was like a bizarre dream; the kind where fish
man battlements, or dogs ride horses. But the forest was the only hope they
had.

And then the
Beast was in the road.

It padded
forward. Six legs. Ponderous teeth. Spines rising from the back of its head,
and long tendrils, like roots or vines or massive arteries, snaking unkempt
over its body. A green luminescence shone through in ragged spots along its
bulk. The creature leaned back on its haunches and let out a cry so powerful
that even Murrogar felt a spasm of terror.

A handful of
spearmen broke and scattered in various directions. The creature chased after
one of them. Sir Wyann gave up his search in the grasses and ran after the
nobles.

“The rest of
you, into the forest!” cried Murrogar. “Find cover!”

But only
Thantos heard. Everyone else had already fled into Maug Maurai.

--
Laraytian Standards Song
of Ranks

Thirty horsemen waited with Grae
Barragns at the base of the grassy swell. Speed was the most important aspect
of the mission, so the soldiers had shed their blackened mail and sallet
helmets. They wore padded black vests, and gray tabards with the Black Dragon
of the Laraytian Standards upon them. One of the men coughed and Grae wheeled
his horse, scowling. No one admitted to it, so he spun the mare back again and
waited for the signal.

“We’ll show them pigs,” whispered Braxley
Horner. “They’ll think Lojen hisself is coming down on them.”

Grae gave him a long stare. Braxley
had been promoted to the rank of hammer two weeks earlier and Grae still
couldn’t understand why. Braxley smiled. It was like an ancient, rotted boardwalk
between those lips. Grae shuddered and turned away.

An arrow, its tip alight, arched down
the hill and fell five paces from the horsemen. The men scattered, then reined
their horses and tried to stifle their laughter.

“Lojen’s Heart!” Grae whispered loudly.
“They shot it right at us!”

“Wanted ‘a make sure we could see it,
I s’pose,” Braxley replied.

Grae silenced him with a stare then
raised his hand without looking back at the men. The arrow meant that the other
soldiers were in position. He called to Hammer Braxley: “Put out that arrow
before the hillside goes up.” Grae swung his arm forward and sent his garron
into a charge up the slope. The rest of the men followed, save Braxley who
dismounted and stomped on the flaming arrow.

The men crested the hill and
thundered into the grassy bowl below. There were perhaps seventy-five of them
milling upon the plain. Grae and his squad were a hundred yards away before the
first of them looked up. A shriek tore through the morning air, then they were
running, fleeing the rumbling death that approached from the east. Grae watched
them run.

A hundred squealing orchard pigs –
Old Spots they were called. Their hooves left divots in the damp soil.

Underlord Harryn Felch had given Grae
the orders himself. The underlord understood the insulting nature of the
assignment. Had laughed good-naturedly as he explained the problem. “The
quartermen had a byre go up in the storm two nights ago, Grae. Lightning. A
stableman opened the door. Saved most of the drove, but the pigs kept running.
They never stopped running. Those Old Spots out there represent a fair
investment.” He had sipped at his ale and smiled. “Lot of bacon on those
plains.”

Felch had bought dinner and left
enough coin to cover Grae’s drinks for a week. Felch was a good commander. But
it was obvious why they had chosen Grae for the assignment. Why they chose Grae
for all the sour assignments. Grae’s father had been a hammer in the Standards.
Not a burgher or nobleman or even a landowner. Just a hammer.

On the plain, three soldiers leaped
from behind a line of low shrubs northwest of the pigs and shouted, smacked
swords together and ran at them. The herd turned to the south so quickly that
several of the pigs went down and were bruised by the hooves of their companions.

The horsemen drove the pigs toward a
rudimentary pen Grae had helped the men build. Soldiers rose from the grass to
keep the herd on course. The pigs were funneled into the pen by scarecrows --
converging rows of breastplates with helmets balanced on them. A group of the
animals broke away at the last moment and escaped the trap, but a soldier swung
the crude gate closed locking the bulk of the pigs inside.

Grae ordered his riders to chase the
stragglers. Each man held a wooden shaft with a loop of rope on the end instead
of a spearhead. Grae watched as the men ran down the stray pigs then he
searched the meadow, holding his own rope-looped shaft.

He found her to the north. Three
hundred pounds of spotted ham. She was the largest of the drove and he was in
full charge before the pig saw him. She bolted, running much faster than a
three-hundred-pound sow had any right to. Grae dropped the loop toward her head
four times before he finally snared her. He reined in and yanked, hearing her
grating squeals, feeling the enormous pull of her weight. She tried to keep
running and he tried to pull her back and the rope couldn’t take the strain.
One end of the loop snapped and she ran free with a shriek

Grae cursed and gave chase. When he
was by her side he slid one leg over the saddle and leaped at her. He knocked
her down. She wheezed like a drowning fat woman as they tumbled then she
flipped to her feet. Grae lunged at her from behind and fell onto her rump.
Dragged her back legs to the ground. She squealed and freed one leg then
kicked. Grae’s cheekbone seemed to explode with pain. Dazed as he was he kept
his hold on one of her legs. Buried his face in her back to keep from being
kicked again. She shat on his arm, the fear emptying her bowels, but still he held
her. They struggled for what seemed an eternity before Grae was able to smother
her with his body and stay on her until she stopped bucking. He took a deep
breath, then heard applause.

A handful of his men had watched the
entire exchange. Braxley was there with his decaying smile. An officer, a brig
like Grae, sat on a horse next to him.

One of the men roped the great sow as
Grae stood and brushed himself off. Pig shit was smeared across one arm of his
dropshirt. Blood ran from a gash on his cheek where the sow had kicked him. He
glanced down and winced at the muddy shamble of his uniform as he approached
Hammer Braxley and the officer.

“Brig Barragns, sir,” said Braxley.
“This here’s Brig Throen. He rode out to speak with you, if it please you,
sir.”

Grae nodded to Throen, who looked at
him the way most high-born officers looked at Grae Barragns, only more so.  

“Underlord Felch would like a word
with you,” said Brig Throen. “If you’re finished raping that sow.”

Grae was too flustered by the
condition of his uniform to think of a response, so he simply stared until the
man looked away. Grae didn’t own land, nor was he graced with wealth, but there
were few in the Laraytian Standards who could challenge that gaze. He nodded
and fetched his horse and thought of a dozen clever retorts on his way back to
camp.

--
Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet

Murrogar herded the scattered mass of
nobles, servants and soldiers behind the trunk of a massive blue feuryk. He
listened for the Beast but heard only the blubbering of travelers, and Sir
Wyann shouting at everyone to go back to the road.

Murrogar closed his eyes and strained
to hear past the din. He heard the Duke’s buttery voice calling for composure.
The Duchess stood next to him shrieking, asking if anyone had seen her nephew,
Sir Jervik. Murrogar heard the retching of a soldier. A squire sobbed. A
nobleman slapped a hysterical lady and she clawed at his face, screaming. It
was impossible to listen through that cacophony. But Murrogar tried.

     “Murrogar, these people don’t
stand a chance out here.” Sir Wyann held up a lantern. “I’m bringing them back.
Taking them from the carriages was a terrible idea.” He turned to the crowd and
shouted, “Everyone, with me! Everyone, follow me back to the road. Everything
will be fine.”

     Murrogar studied the immediate
surroundings. They would need to find something defensible. He looked up at the
great blue feuryk, then at the mossy soil. He thought about Maug Maurai, about
the topology of it. “Thantos, get me a log.” He held his hands apart roughly
the length of one of his arms. “’bout that big.”  Murrogar turned to the lone
crossbowman. “Take position twenty-five paces out. Shoot anything that moves.”

     The Duke approached. “Murrogar,
are you certain that—”

     The old hero held a hand up to
the Duke because Thantos had returned with a log. Murrogar hefted the piece of
wood and shook his head. “Too big.” He turned his attention back to the Duke.
“We’re out here ‘cause we’ll die on that road, my lord. You saw how it tore the
wagon. We need better shelter.” Murrogar walked a few paces away and listened
again.

Sir Wyann, who had half of the
travelers back on their feet, strode over. “We’re leaving now. Those carriages
are our only hope of getting out of this forest alive.”

Thantos arrived with the new log.
Murrogar hefted it and nodded, then pounded Sir Wyann in the head with it. It
was a powerful blow. It struck the knight in the basinet with enough force to
dent the metal. Sir Wyann fell to the forest floor. The vicious clatter, the
sudden violence of it, quieted the crowd. Everyone stared.

Murrogar put a forefinger to his
lips. He cocked his head and listened. He couldn’t hear the Beast but the utter
silence around the feuryk told him the monster wasn’t far. “They’re wagons,” he
said to Sir Wyann, then tossed the log back into the forest. “No one goes back
to that road. No one does anything without me telling ‘em too. You wanna piss
yourself, you ask me first. Are we clear on this?”

Murrogar listened again. In the
distance a man screamed, his voice hoarse with terror. There were other screams
out there. Fainter. Farther away. A chorus of agonized souls. The Beast had
left many of them alive. Alive and suffering.

The Duke stepped forward and helped
Sir Wyann to his feet. Wyann said nothing, but his eyes burned into Murrogar.

“What is your plan?” asked the Duke.

 “To
stay alive,” replied Murrogar. “As long as we can.”