The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling (4 page)

The whip of a crossbow’s hemp cord
knifed through the silence and brought the travelers to their feet. The
crossbowman’s dying scream sent them running.

They fled toward the west, stumbling
over stones and fallen logs. A dozen lanterns jangled in the night, bubbles of
light in the forest crypt. Murrogar let them run. West was the best direction
for now. He sent Thantos and Hul along the ragged flanks to keep the gentry
together and ordered the four remaining spearmen to stay close to the
Cobblethries. Three of the spearmen ran off toward the Duke and his family. The
fourth looked at Murrogar, his brows furrowed, then walked after the other
spearmen, casting backward glances.

There were only three knights left
and Murrogar kept all of them with him. Even Sir Wyann. The knights had shed
the long, cumbersome halberds when they had stepped into the forest. They
waited with drawn swords and lanterns at their feet.

Murrogar pointed to a massive elm 
“Sir Gorith, take position behind that.”

“Gorin,” said the knight. “It’s
Gorin, not Gorith.”

“Truly?” said Murrogar. “Fascinating.
What sort of name is Gorin? Andraen? Nox?”

“It’s Embryan sir. My family was—“

Sir Bederant shoved Gorin toward the
elm. “He doesn’t care, you fool.”

Fifty yards away, the crossbowman
moaned and begged for death. The four warriors hunched down as leaves crackled
somewhere in front of them. Sir Bederant held three fingers to his antlered
helmet in a silent plea to Lojenwyne.

Murrogar whispered loud enough for
all three knights to hear. “When it shows itself, I’m going to go at it from
the front with Bederant and Wyann. Gorin, you get behind it and drive that
sword up its arse so deep that I’ll be able to read the inscription.” He
pointed to a clump of birch trees. “Bederant, strike from the left, over there.
Wyann, from the right, behind that rock.”

Sir Wyann donned his battered helmet
and hissed at Murrogar, “I don’t take orders from a soldier.” He sloshed
through dry leaves to the clump of birches and took position on the left,
beside Sir Bederant. Murrogar spared a moment to decide how he would kill the
knight when this was all over.

The crossbowman cried out again, his
voice pitched high and breaking. Murrogar wondered if he could get to the man
to end his suffering. He glanced back toward the west, toward where the nobles
had run. If the creature got past him now there would be carnage. But a score
of dead branches splintered and cracked not more than thirty yards in front of
him. The air fouled with the odor of rotting flesh. Then glowing green patches
moved in the darkness, the suggestion of a creature rising onto its haunches.

A silence thick as murder settled
between the warriors and Beast.

Black Murrogar howled, shattering the
silence, and charged. The monster dropped to all six legs. It howled back, and
Murrogar’s cry became a chirp by comparison. The creature coiled all six of its
powerful legs, lowered its spined head and leaped from more than twenty yards away.
It was all Murrogar could do to throw himself to one side.

Nothing is that fast.

Sir Gorin charged from behind the elm
shouting, then fell quietly, blood spurting from beneath a shattered
breastplate.

But it is
.

Sir Wyann and Sir Bederant leaped
from behind the birch trees. The creature knocked them backward and they
tumbled like dice. It leaped after them and snatched Sir Wyann off the forest
floor.

 Murrogar ran at the Beast, knowing
he wouldn’t be fast enough to save the knight. But a shape lunged from behind
the creature. A spearman.

One of them must have come back
.
Brave lad
.

The spearman, less than five feet
from the monster, thrust his greatspear toward the creature’s flank. The
monster whirled out of reach an instant before the spearhead struck home. It
hurled Sir Wyann toward Murrogar and scooped up the spearman with a hiss.

Murrogar spun away from Sir Wyann’s
airborne body. The knight’s plated leg crashed against Murrogar’s arm and the
old soldier’s sword tumbled to the leaves.

The Beast  clutched the spearmen in
the long hands of its foremost limbs. The spearman’s arms were held high and
his legs low so that the spearman was stretched taught like a string before the
creature’s jaws. The Beast’s tail swept forward. A stinger the size of a dagger
punched through the leather armor and into the spearman’s abdomen. The man’s
screams trailed off into gurgles.

Black Murrogar couldn’t find his
sword so he picked up a loose stone and hurled it at the monster. The Beast
avoided it with a shift to one side. It left the stinger in the spearman’s
abdomen for another heartbeat. Then it dropped the soldier with a hiss, it’s
breath a gust of decay.

Sir Bederant returned Murrogar’s
sword to him. One of the antlers on the knight’s helmet was broken. Sir Wyann struggled
to his feet a few yards behind them.

“Sir Bederant,” called Murrogar,
unslinging his shield, “you ready to die?”

“No sir,” said Bederant.

“Too bad.” Murrogar ran at the Beast,
his blackened longsword held high, his eyes smoldering above the shield’s rim.
Sir Bederant and Sir Wyann followed, screaming “Lae Duerna!”

The Beast didn’t meet their charge
this time. It whirled and flashed out of sight like a fish darting to deeper
water. The battle cries of the three warriors trailed off into groans. They
looked to one another. Their shoulders rose and fell with great breaths.

The spearman on the ground stirred
and moaned.

“He’s alive,” said Sir Wyann. The
knight fell to his knees next to the spearman. “He’s still alive, Murrogar.”

Murrogar stared at the shambles of
the man’s torso. “No. His wagon’s packed. Send him off and let’s go. The Beast
may be looping around to the easy prey.”

Murrogar sheathed his sword in its
back mount, verified that Sir Gorin was dead, then ran westward toward the
fleeing nobles. Sir Wyann struggled to lift the wounded spearman. He called to
Sir Bederant. “This man saved me. Help me with him.”

Sir Bederant’s antlered helmet shook
to the left and right. “He’s dead, Wy. Leave him. Or give him the mercy.”

The wounded spearman looked from one
knight to the other. “Krit hezina.”

Sir Bederant unstrapped his helmet
and tilted it up and back against his forehead. He held it on his head with two
fingers. “That’s the Eridian one. I don’t think he speaks any Galadane. Send
him off to Lojenwyne.”

But Sir Wyann knew a few words of
Eridian. “Krit Hezina. He’s saying he’s alright. Help me with him.”

Between the two of them they got the
Eridian to his feet and the three of them stumbled after Murrogar.

“Krit Hezina,” said the spearman as
they walked. “Krit Hezina.”

--
From “The Headsman of
Laraytia” by Dannyek the Sensible

The Happy Pig
was a soldier’s tavern. It was
spacious, rugged and dark. Ancient beams ran along the edges of the building.
The air smelled of dried ale. Of sweat and leather and steel.

Grae noted the details absently
because the brunt of his attention was drawn almost immediately to a man trying
to blend in with the crowd. A tall man, broad shouldered and muscled. A blond
braid of hair tumbling over one shoulder. There was a stiffness to the man’s
posture and an intensity to his gaze that made him stand out like a pine among
brambles. Grae took note of the man then scanned the rest of the tavern.

The Garellane Festival of Kithrey
wouldn’t start for another two weeks but already the
Happy Pig
was
brimming. Every spot on the benches was claimed. A scattering of freebodies sat
on the tables, brandishing flesh, hawking their time.
Hourglass wives.
That’s what his father used to call the freebodies. His mother had a different
word for them.

Nothing had changed here. Grae had
grown up in Maentrass Barony, a half day’s ride from Kithrey. The smell of
drying honey mead, the particular vintage brewed only here at
The Pig
,
brought back memories. Laughing with his friends. Laughing with his cluster
mates. Laughing with Kithrey girls. He always laughed back then. The memory of
it was flat and bitter, as if that past had been sold to someone else.

He searched the benches for the man
who had laughed with him the most in those days. It took a long time to find
him. A freebody in bushy skirts sat on his lap, veiled him in a thicket of linen
and satin and gibbous flesh. The two of them, hammer and whore, were jammed on
the bench among a group of Duke Mulbrey’s janissaries.

“Is there a hammer under those
skirts?” called Grae.

Mullin Haerth peered over the girl’s
shoulder and showed off two dozen gleaming teeth. “Grae Barragns, the legend ‘o
Nuldryn!” He stood, dropping the freebody gently onto her feet. “On your way
now, luv. We got man business to discuss.” He turned and gave Grae an ogre hug,
smacking him on the back with a beefy hand.

Hammer looked the same as always. His
uniform was clean but the black dragon on the tabard had faded to dark grey.
Hair equal parts brown and silver. Sloppily trimmed beard. Thick shoulders and
turnip nose. Same quick smile and flashing eyes. All thunder and sunshine and
nothing in between.

He was at least ten years older than
Grae and had been in the Standards for twelve years before Grae joined. Mullin
had been a hammer back then, too. He would probably die as one, so soldiers had
stopped calling him by his name ages ago. He was simply Hammer.

 “I ‘ope the man did that to your
face is in a cairn now,” said Hammer.

“Wasn’t a man Hammer.” said Grae and
Hammer laughed.

“How many times I gotta tell it,
Grae?  Take girls from behind!”

“I did,” said Grae. “That was my
first mistake.”

Hammer laughed again and called to a
serving maid. He asked for two tankards of mead and two plates of hog roast.
When she was gone Hammer spoke in a different tone.

 “How ya been, Grae?”  It was asked
with such genuine concern that Grae gave him a smile. Not the typical
half-smile, but a true smile, warm and wide. Hammer sighed. “I’ve seen steamin’
horse piles that look better than you.”

“Truth or silence, I’ve been better,”
said Grae. “I think someone’s cursed me.”

“Go see my mum. She’ll set you
right.”

Grae called up a fuzzy image of
Hammer’s mother, a red-faced, heavyset landscrubber heavily invested in Turae,
the old Andraen religions. He remembered the packets of strange artworks that
she gave Hammer at every visit. Strange concoctions of feathers and pitch, of
painted bones, or dried body parts. It was a bit ironic as she was also a pious
follower of Blythwynn; The two disparate beliefs lived harmoniously in her mind.

“Did you get a look at the list?”
Grae asked.

“Aye, I got your message. Made the
scribe read it ten times I could memorize the names. I dug up what I could on
the men.” He shook his head. “The worst sorts of scoundrels they could ‘ave
found. I mean it, Grae. Some real gut-huffers on there.” He looked over his
shoulder, searching for the serving girl, then turned back with a thoughtful
look. “There’s something odd ‘bout this assignment Grae. Something real odd.”

“You have no idea,” said Grae. “I
just met with the Duke’s Chamberlain to discuss it.”

“The chamberlain? What’s ‘e got to do
with this?”

“Nothing,” said Grae. “Everything. It
doesn’t matter. He told me what we have to do.”  To slay the Beast of Maug
Maurai. There was something provocative about it. Something heroic.

A damnable pity about the second
assignment.

Hammer leaned forward, curious at the
reflective expression on Grae’s face, but the serving girl arrived. Hammer gave
the spindly child a “there’s a luv” and took the tankards, handing one to Grae.

Grae’s gaze slipped past the serving
girl into the crowd. The man with the blond braid was staring at them.
“Someone’s taken an interest in us.”

Hammer nodded and drank. “There’s two
more of ‘em around. Got into a scuffle with ‘em and their friends couple days
ago.”

“A scuffle?” Hammer wasn’t one to
brawl. Not anymore. “What sort of scuffle?”

“Just a scuffle, Grae. Nothing
serious. Words. Fists. A scuffle.”

“And what brought on this scuffle?”

Hammer shrugged, stared deeply into
his mug. “Don’ know. They’re Andraens. Crazy folk.”

The Andraens had been conquered by
the Galadane-Laray more than three hundred years past. The wounds of the
conquest had healed for most, and the blood of Andraen and Galadane had merged
in Laraytia. Grae, himself, had Andraen blood on his mother’s side. But there
were pockets of full-bloods who would mate only with other pure Andraens. Men
and women who could not forget that Laraytia once was theirs, four generations
back.

“I thought you liked Andraens,” Grae
rose. “I think we should have a talk with them.”

Hammer hauled him down. “Talking
won’t ‘elp.”

Grae met Hammer’s stare and found
more resolve in it than he cared to fight.

“Huy then, you heard the news out of
Maurai?” The tone of Hammer’s voice turned chatty again.

“Yes I did.” Grae scanned the room
one last time but the Andraen had faded behind the ranks of other patrons. “The
Cobblethries got attacked on the way to the fair.”

“Aye. You ‘ave to wonder what
someone’s done to bring a curse like that down on a family. A long shadow lies
over that brood.” He swigged again, foam catching in his beard. “Ya ‘ear that
Black Murrogar was their warmaster?”

“Yes. I imagine he’s dead now.”
Grae’s voice was crisper than he intended. He stretched his arms high overhead
and tried to put it out of his mind. With food and mead in his body he was
winding down. “Interesting you should mention Maug Maurai.” He put a hand on
Hammer’s shoulder. “Hammer, my friend, there’s bad news and worse.”

“Sterling. You can share it over
another pint.”

“No more mead,” said Grae. “That’s
the least of the bad news.”

“No mead? What could be worse?”

“Worse?” He cleared his throat. “Our
assignment is to kill the Beast of Maug Maurai.”

Hammer’s body tightened. Only for an
instant but Grae noted it.

 “The Beast, eh?” Hammer smiled
grimly. “Then you’re wrong. We’re going to need a whole lot of mead tonight.”

A shadow fell upon the two soldiers.
Grae glanced up in time to see something flash through the air. He called a
warning but Hammer was already ducking low. Something hard swung past Hammer’s
head and crashed into the table, dimpling the pale wood. Making the tankards
clang and jump. Grae caught site of fabric. A crude flail made from a heavy
object wrapped in cloth. Grae rose, drove his shoulder into the assailant. A
red-bearded Andraen. As the man fell back a second Andraen, the one with the
blond braid, lunged from behind Hammer. The man grabbed Hammer by the hair and
yanked back hard. The old soldier’s chin rose into the air. Then, as suddenly
as it began, the attack ended. They released Hammer and fled, knocking patrons
to the floor and spilling trays of ale and beer.

But The Happy Pig was a soldier’s
tavern. When the cry went up that a hammer had been attacked, every soldier
rose to his feet. Two of the Andraens squeezed through the door in the
confusion, but the third, not much older than a boy, was slammed to the sticky
floor by a thick-shouldered garrisoner wearing Duke Mulbrey’s falcon. A crush
of soldiers fell upon the Andraen, kicking and striking with fists or mugs.

            Grae pushed his way through the crowd and used
his battlefield voice to stop the men, but it was a long time before the
commands registered. They pulled away from the young man, a few at a time. The
Falcon who had taken the boy down gave him one more blow then backed away
reluctantly. He smiled at Grae. “Got ‘im fer ya, sir.”

            Grae helped the young Andraen to his feet. The
man’s upper body was drenched in blood. As if he’d been caught in a thick red
thunderstorm. He didn’t speak. He scrambled toward the door but fell sideways,
as if he were drunk. He tried to stand but slipped on his own blood and fell
heavily to the floor again. Grae tried to help him rise again but the Andraen
regained his feet on his own. He groaned as he staggered out of the tavern.

     Grae watched him go, feeling a
surge of pity as the other soldiers laughed. He glanced at Hammer. The old
soldier put a hand to his head where the second Andraen had grabbed him.

 “You all right?” asked Grae.

Hammer touched the back of his head
and nodded. He stood and looked toward the door. “Andraens,” he said. “Crazy
folk.”

Hammer begged off for a half-bell to
ready himself and gather his belongings from the room on the tavern’s second
floor. He also asked to borrow two drakes. It was a good deal of money, but
Grae knew his old friend wouldn’t make such a request lightly. Grae fished out
three drakes instead and handed them over. Hammer looked at the three gold
coins and hesitated, but he kept them all and nodded with thanks in his eyes.

The old soldier walked up the open
staircase, past two freebodies who smiled at him. He pushed through the cloth
hangings in the upstairs doorway and into a creaky little room. His equipment
sat by the door. It had been stacked and ready since the morning. He looked
toward the bed. Alianne waited for him, brushing out her hair. The backlight
from the porthole window rendered her little more than a silhouette, but there
was beauty there. A grace that he’d never seen on a freebody. He smiled, but
she saw through it, stopped brushing. “My love?”

“You’re a princess. You musta been.
They set your crib in a stream when your castle was overrun. But I can see the
royalty shinin’ in you, I can.”

“Come ‘ere, love,” she replied, arms
out. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Hammer let the smile fall away and
allowed the embrace. Alianne felt the stiffness and backed away, her eyes
narrow. “Darling?”

Hammer wouldn’t meet her gaze. He
fished out the coins that Grae had given him, added the eight hawks that he
carried in the lining of his boot.

“You remember where I put the rest?”

“Mullin…”

“Under the blue feuryk. The field
with them flowers you liked. You remember?”

“I remember,” she said, biting her
lip.

He made her take the coins. “With
this, and the rest, you can pay it off in a month or two.”

“Where are they sending you, my love?
What are they doing to you?”

 “You know that’s all I ever wanted.
To pay off that debt. To get you home.”

She put a hand to her mouth. “You’re
not coming back.”

He smiled at her, let his eyes burn
her image into memory as the bells of Kithrey’s moonhaven tolled eight times.
She threw her arms around him, then pulled back and unclasped the necklace she
wore. It was a finger bone, covered in wax. A Turae charm of protection. Hammer
smiled. His mother would like Alianne.

She fastened the necklace around his
throat. “Anthus guard you, my love.”

Hammer touched the pendant, took her
chin in two fingers and kissed her.

When he left, Alianne watched from
the top of the open stairs. He gave her a nod and made his way through the
tavern. A young whore walked behind Alianne and watched the two soldiers as
they left. The girl giggled.

“’e still think ‘e’s payin’ offa debt
for you?”