The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling (3 page)

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From “My Liege, My Life,”
Satirical Writings of Ulber the Ghost

“You’re some sort of hero, ain’t you?”

Grae Barragns met the porter’s gaze
and tried to hide his distaste. “I’m no hero,” he replied.
Hero
. The
word was a fallacy. There wasn’t a man alive who could wear that crown. Who
could fulfill the promise of such a word.

“You sure?” The porter waved a
finger. “I’ve heard your name before. You’re someone important.” The man
squinted as he tried to dredge the memory from the depths of his mind.

It shouldn’t be hard in those shallow
waters
, Grae
thought. He eyed the man’s uniform again. Wrinkled blue silk over leather
brigandine. The leather hadn’t seen an oil rag in years. It was a dry, cracked
thing, the squares curling. The man’s stance was little more than a slouch with
aspirations. To a man like this even a sheepdog could be heroic.

Grae shifted on the wooden bench. He
wished he could slide farther from the porter, but the foyer was tiny; A
carved-wood closet with paneled ceilings, really. It seemed to Grae that a
duke’s chamberlain should have a larger sitting room.

“Did you fight in The Recovery?”
asked the porter. “You helped reclaim Maugna Faur, didn’t you?”

Grae let out a deep breath. In truth,
he was surprised that a porter from Nuldryn had recognized him. Pleased, even.
Grae had been away from Nuldryn Duchy for five years, off in Maulden, on the
Eastern Front. “Do you remember the Battle of Debney?” asked Grae.

The porter squinted again, scratched
at the falcon emblazoned on his tabard. “There was a battle at Debney?”

“Of course there was … Blythwynn’s
Heart, man, it was a major conflict.”

The guard nodded slowly, “Yeah, I
think I remember it.” But his eyes told Grae the truth.

“What about Daulth? The Hill Battles
of Daulth?”

“I think so,” muttered the guard. He
rubbed his cheek.

“Finrae? That one was in Maulden. On
the Eastern Front. It was less than four years ago. We were outnumbered three
to one.” He leaned forward. “We took fifteen hundred prisoners. You’ve never heard
of Finrae?”

“You were in Maulden …”

“Yes, yes,” said Grae.     

The guard’s eyes widened. He snapped
his fingers and pointed. “Cydoen!” And the word twisted into Grae like a
dagger. “The Massacre at Cydoen! You’re the godsmarking Headsman! The Headsman
of Laraytia! I knew I’d heard your name before!”

Grae bit down hard to keep from
speaking. He crossed his arms and shut his eyes.

Time passed in the little room and
the bench became less comfortable. He was sore from riding. Tired and hungry. He
had spent these last two days plodding across the width of Laraytia, from the
active Eastern Front, with its ceaseless war against Gracidmar, to the dormant
Western Front, with its icy stalemate against Durrenia. Back to Nuldryn, where
he was born and raised.

No one told him exactly why they had
sent him home. Underlord Felch had mentioned a new assignment and had given
Grae a list of soldiers. These men, Laraytian Standards, would be pulled from
their units to form a squad. That was it. There was no other information about
the assignment. Felch had ordered Grae to appear at Daun Kithrey, in Nuldryn,
where he was to meet with Duke Mulbrey’s Chamberlain and do as he was told.

Grae’s mind stumbled over the oddity
of it, of meeting with a duke’s steward. Laraytian Standards didn’t answer to
Dukes. Only to the King, and to the king’s representatives in each duchy, the
marquesses.

Bells tolled five times from Daun
Kithrey’s moonhaven and Grae shifted in his seat. The porter leaned against the
Chamberlain’s door and put his ear against the burnished wood. He listened for
a time, then opened the door a crack and peered inside. A line of amber light
split his face vertically, a broad grin split it horizontally. Something lewd
was taking place inside. A sultry female moan. A male grunting. Whispers.
Another female crying out in passion. Wood creaked.

Grae gripped the bench tightly. That
an emissary of the Duke’s could engage in something like this while an officer
of the King’s Army waited outside was a dreadful confirmation of the state of
the nobility in Laraytia.

They’re rotting from the top
, his father had told him when he was
a child.
Do you know what happens when the roof of your home rots, Grae?
”
His father hadn’t answered the question. He never did. Always let Grae pick out
the solution.

Grae knew what had happened when
Laraytia’s old roof had rotted. When the Laray family, founders of the kingdom,
had grown soft and unsavory; The war had lasted two years, and after the rubble
of the old regime was cleared, House Darmurian built a new roof. Forty-one
years had passed since that war. The Darmurians were on their second king now.
And already the rot was taking hold.

It happens in the Standards too
, his father had said,
but the rot
comes from the bottom there. You have to watch for it, Grae. Discipline is the
only varnish against moral decay.

The porter’s smile grew wider as he
followed the action in the room. He closed the door when the sounds ceased and
sat on the opposite bench, chuckling to himself.

“What sort of guard are you?” asked
Grae. “What if the Chamberlain knew you were spying on him? It’s disgraceful.”

“No, no,” said the guard. “It ain’t
like that. The Chamberlain don’t mind at all.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Grae.

“You don’t know the Chamberlain,
sir.”

“It doesn’t matter. Your duty is to
guard his chamber. I could have killed you while you looked away.”

The guard cocked his head. “Why in
Eleyria would you want to kill me? You’re an officer in the Standards.”

“That’s not the point,” said Grae.
“You can’t peer into the room whenever you’re bored. Stand your post with
vigilance. With dignity.”

 “Look, sir,” the guard held out a
calming hand. “I know you’re upset about the long wait, but he’ll be ready for
you soon. Truly.”

The patronizing hand, the disordered
uniform, the blasé attitude. It suddenly was too much. Grae stood and took a
step toward the porter. The latch clanked and the Chamberlain’s door creaked
open, banging into Grae’s boot. The guard made a nervous gesture toward the
doorway. Grae took a last look at him and backed away, allowed the door to
open.

A thin shirtless man, his eyelids and
lips painted, walked past Grae, winking at him. Behind him, a woman with dark,
unkempt hair followed, blowing kisses to someone in the chamber. Another man
exited, wearing bunched hose and a loose silk shirt. He tipped Grae a mocking
salute and exited with the woman. The chamber door opened wider revealing a
thin man with a shock of graying black hair. A rich blue shirt was open to his
sternum and half tucked into knee-length breeches. He wore no shoes or hose,
and Grae was reminded of the bedraggled Kithrey children who fished for trout
in the shallows of the Typtaenai.

“Brig Barragns? So pleased to see
you. Dreadfully sorry for the wait. Do come in.”

Grae bowed formally and entered the
room. The chamber was smaller than he had imagined. It should have been a
sprawling room, with a four poster bed upon a dais and stained windows
overlooking the rivers. Only the bed at the center of the room was as Grae had
pictured it. Enormous and round, ringed by six posts and a clutch of vaporous
fabrics. A silk chemise lay beside it, on the floor. The room held the stench
of fornication. The freebody stink of careless sex. He turned to the
Chamberlain with what he hoped was a neutral expression.

Grae had no direct connection to the
man. The Chamberlain could not give direct orders to an officer of the king’s
army, and neither could the Chamberlain’s master, the Duke of Nuldryn. But Duke
Mulbrey was a powerful man, one who could make Grae’s life more difficult. And
Grae’s life was difficult enough.

The Chamberlain studied Grae for a
long moment, then padded to the back of the room where an ornate stand of thin
metal strips held bottles and lead goblets. He removed a bottle of wine from
the rack and studied it. After a thought, he replaced it and withdrew another
bottle and two of the elegant goblets, then sat at a table by the fireplace. He
motioned to one of the other claw-footed chairs and poured into both glasses,
ignoring Grae’s wave of protest.

“Dromese Scarlet. Rare and expensive.
I’m afraid you might find it shamefully expensive. But it is the finest wine I
have tasted.”  The man closed his eyes and sipped, an expression of sublime
delight on his face. “My life has been ruined by this vintage. When I drink
other wines now I wonder how I could have suffered such slop for so long.” He
opened his eyes. “That’s the problem with refinement, isn’t it? It shows you
how wretched the common things truly are.” He smiled and motioned for the brig
to drink.

“Excellent, sir.” Grae felt the sharp
edge of the goblet’s stem and forced himself to loosen his grip.

The chamberlain smiled absently, as
if Grae’s comment were superfluous. He took interest in the bruised gash upon
Grae’s cheek. “A Gracidmarian soldier?”

“A pig,” Grae replied.

“Indeed,” said the Chamberlain.
“Those swine won’t be so feisty when we retake Feuringham, eh?”

Grae nodded, too tired to clarify.

“You have an exemplary record in the
Standards.”

 “Thank you sir. I’ve had some good
fortune in the past.”

“Good fortune? Nonsense,” he said. “
Luck
grows in fertile soil
. Isn’t that what Lojenwyne tells us?” he smiled
again. Proud of himself for speaking the warrior’s language to a soldier, no
doubt. “You rose from nothing. Nothing at all. A trudge with common lineage.
And look at you now. An officer in the King’s Army. A Brig no less.”

Grae set the goblet back on the
table.

 “Finrae!” The Chamberlain
practically shouted it and Grae started, overturning his goblet and spilling
the wine. “That was your greatest victory, was it not? Two thousand men faced
more than six thousand. I can’t imagine luck had much to do with that victory.”

“It wasn’t exactly like that, sir.”
Grae righted the goblet. “It was closer to five thousand. And there were –“

“Ah, the modest commander. Don’t hide
your accomplishments, Brig, revel in them! We have so few chances to bask in
glory during this life.” He stood up, searched absently for something to sop up
the spilled wine. Spotted the chemise by the bed and picked it up. “I
understand they are teaching that battle at the War Guild. That’s what we want.
That’s the sort of commander we need for this assignment.”

Grae thought back to Finrae, back to the
pinnacle of his life. Most of his best battles had been fought in the West, in
Nuldryn, or in the Durrenian mountains. Finrae was the only great battle he’d
had in the East. He could hear the ovation from his soldiers. The shouts of
“Laraytia!” echoing across the valley as his men bound the hands of each
prisoner.

 “A sad waste,” said the Chamberlain.
He gazed at the spilled wine then threw the chemise over the table. Grae
watched the wine soak through the silk. The sight gave him the unpleasant
impression of a murder taking place.

“Finrae,” said the Chamberlain,
refilling Grae’s goblet. “In all honesty, Finrae was all I needed to know.
Finrae. And of course, Cydoen.”

There
, thought Grae.
There it is
.

“Yes,” said the Chamberlain. “Finrae
exemplifies your brilliance. And Cydoen shows your strength of character.”

After thinking back on the heights of
Finrae it was a spiteful thing to be dashed upon the rocks of Cydoen.

“Those were some dreadful orders at
Cydoen,” The Chamberlain said softly, perceiving something jagged in Grae’s
expression. “But you didn’t flinch.”

Grae struggled to keep from downing
the contents of his cup, made himself sip.
Cydoen
. “This assignment,” he
said. “Is it to be like Cydoen?” 
I won’t do it
, he thought
. If it’s
like Cydoen, or Thaulot, or Vantreu, or that other village … what was the name
of that other village… I won’t. I’ll herd orchard pigs for the rest of my
career. I won’t do it. I can’t.
But he knew he would. He would do it
because they would order him to.

The Chamberlain walked to a small
writing desk in the corner of the room and gathered several documents. He sat
again, holding the letters flat against his chest. “The night before last, a
caravan carrying most of House Cobblethrie disappeared on the forest road
through Maug Maurai. They were headed here, to Kithrey, for the festival. Two
of their carriages were found upended and dead guardsmen scattered everywhere.”

“Yes, sir,” said Grae. “I heard the
story from a cider vendor at the gate. I understand Black Murrogar was with
them.”

“A cider vendor!” The Chamberlain
slammed his goblet on the table. “Why must news flow like a gushing wound
through this fief?” The Chamberlain took some wine and savored it. He drew a
breath then shrugged. A slow, dramatic gesture. “If a gate vendor knows then
every soul in Kithrey does. We have far less time than I had hoped. You must
leave tonight. As soon as we are finished here.”

“If that is your wish, sir,” said
Grae. “But I was planning on riding to Furin Tahl to take some equipment.”

“Not at all. I’ll have Berryll take
you to the armsman. He’ll get you whatever you need from the armory.”

“From the garrison’s armory?”

“Your Standards are doing the Duke a
favor. It’s the least we can do.”

 “Thank you sir, that’s very kind.”
Grae sipped at the wine, waiting to be told where it was that he was to go. The
Chamberlain drank in distracted silence. Grae cleared his throat and spoke
awkwardly. “I wanted to speak with you about the soldiers that have been
assigned to the squad. I would have preferred to select my own men.”

 The Chamberlain’s eyes focused on
Grae. “Each man was hand-picked for this assignment.”

“Of course, sir,” said Grae. “But I
was hoping I could make a few additions. Men I have worked with before who have
proven themselves capable and– ”

“Heroes, all of them I’m sure,” the
Chamberlain interrupted. “But these men were hand-picked. We have allowed your
choice of a scout and your own hammer. More than this we cannot do.”

“As you say, sir.” Grae sipped at his
wine. “It would be easier to equip the squad if I knew what was required of me.
Am I to understand that my team is to search for the Cobblethrie family in Maug
Maurai? If so, I should think you would want me to head into the forest at
once. Not ride across Western Nuldryn for a day gathering the men from their
units.”

“Yes, I suppose it is time to address
it,” exclaimed the Chamberlain. “What is it that the Duke of Nuldryn needs from
the Standards?”  He took a breath, as if steeling himself. “No sense mincing,
eh? We need you to kill the Beast, Brig Barragns. We need you to slay the Beast
of Maug Maurai and bring back its head.”

A profound silence settled in the
room. Grae studied the unkempt bed. When he looked back toward the Chamberlain
he was calm again. “You assigned me only seven men,” he said quietly.

“Seven Laraytian Standards,” said the
Chamberlain. “And then there’s you and your hammer and your scout. That’s ten
Standards. A formidable force.”

 “Knights have gone into that forest
with dozens of men,” said Grae. “An entire company of Janissaries was lost in
there.”

“Bah! Knights who don’t know how to
fight outside of tourneys. Provincial forces with rudimentary training. You’ll
have ten Standards. True soldiers. Professional soldiers.”

“Perhaps,” said Grae, “we should find
another ten.”

“Brig Barragns,” said the
Chamberlain. “You of all people must understand the dearth of Standards in the
West. The marquesses are cycling them to the front faster than new ones can be
trained. We need someone to slay the Beast now, this very moment. So that when
the lords of Lae Duerna Duchy start asking questions and pointing fingers, as
they most certainly will, Duke Mulbrey can look properly despondent and
apologize to them with all his heart, and then show them the head of the
Beast.”   

Grae fought down a handful of
questions. There were a slew of inconsistencies in the Duke’s statements. Grae
was being lied to. But he was a soldier, and being lied to was an integral part
of soldiery. The idea of the assignment settled onto him slowly. The importance
of such a mission. It was suicide, of course. Certain death.

And it was the best assignment he’d
had in years. He fought down a smile.

The Chamberlain cleared his throat.

“Oh, and there is one more thing we
require of  you. A minor detail, really.”

But the intensity in the
Chamberlain’s eyes betrayed the lightness of his voice. Grae looked into those
steel blue eyes and saw Cydoen. There, reflected in those eyes was not Grae’s
own image, but that of The Headsman of Laraytia.