The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling (5 page)

Alianne said nothing. The young girl
giggled again. “A real hero. How much ‘as that fool given you already?”

“Fuck off.” Alianne didn’t turn
around. There were tears in her eyes.

--
Elendyl Bask, Warrior
Poet

Death cried out from the black
tangles of Maug Maurai. The Beast was behind them. Lurking. Stalking. Black
Murrogar caught its stench when the wind was right. It hadn’t attacked again,
but its cries were an unrelenting threat.

Murrogar turned the party northward
after what seemed three or four miles. Time and distance were tenuous things in
Maug Maurai, marked by bogs and thickets, by the soreness of feet or the burn
of straps against shoulders. There were eight lanterns left among the
travelers. Feeble comfort against the smothering darkness.

The nobles complained often at first.
Murrogar was hard on them when they did. Such things were contagious. So the
travelers stopped talking altogether and the only sounds were the crunch and
snap of leaves and branches underfoot, the clank of armor, and a constant,
muffled weeping among many of the travelers.

Ulrean’s manae lost her footing on a
root-rippled patch of soil and fell. The child stopped for her. The Duke and
Duchess tried to goad the manae to her feet, but the old woman insisted she
would go no farther. The other travelers didn’t stop to look. They shuffled
past, bone-weary and cold.

Murrogar stopped when he reached her.
“This a picnic?” He forced himself to smile, sat beside the old woman.

“She can’t walk any more, Murrogar,”
said the Duke. “We shall make camp here. We can use logs and stones to create a
--“

“We ain’t stopping, my lord.”
Murrogar studied the manae. She was shivering.

“I’m old, you monster,” she snapped.
“Someday, you’ll be old too. You’ll understand.”

Murrogar rubbed at his lower back.
“That day ain’t far.”

He looked into her eyes and knew that
she would go no farther. He turned to the Duke. “She’ll be fine in a bit. I’ll
wait here with her.”

The Duke exchanged a glance with the
duchess. “We will wait as well.”

Murrogar shook his head. “The Beast
ain’t far behind.” He gestured to Ulrean. “Think of the child.”

The Duke put a hand on Ulrean’s
shoulder. “You’ll get her on her feet again?”

“I’ll take care of her,” said
Murrogar.

The manae beckoned Ulrean and gave
him a long hug. And then Murrogar and the old woman were alone.

“You think I’m stupid?” she said.

“I know you’re not,” he replied.

“Give me a moment,” she said, her
teeth chattering. “I’m not ready.”

“As much time as you need.”

Even if she could stand, could
continue, the river would kill her.

Sir Wyann and Sir Bederant lumbered
past, the dying Eridian still dying, his face twisted with pain, one arm on
each of their shoulders. They didn’t even glance at the two seated figures as
they passed. A hanging branch knocked the Eridian’s shield from a hook on his
back and it fell to the ground.

“I used to play in the forest when I
was a girl,” said the Manae. “Used to bring polished platters out and tease the
sunchaser flowers. I’d reflect sunlight onto them and watch as they wriggled
and shoved. Until they came to an understanding, each one finding its place.
Each one catching a little sunlight. Then I would move the platter and watch
them do it again.”

“We all played with the sunchasers in
our youth,” said Murrogar. He leaned in close so she couldn’t see the dagger
slip from its sheath.

“What a damned nuisance I must have
been to them,” she said. “Shaking their world like that.”

“Worlds need shaking, sometimes.”

“You keep an eye on Ulrean.”

“I’ll do my best for ‘im.”

She reached out and took his hand,
held it tightly. Tears came to her eyes as she nodded. She gave a faint sob.
Black Murrogar leaned forward and kissed her forehead as he slipped the dagger
through the nape of her neck.

--
Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet

Grae and Hammer reported to Daun
Kithrey at nine-bells to equip the squad from the garrison’s armory. They
waited outside for the stableman to come for their horses and Grae looked to
the castle. He wondered, as he always did, at the frailty of its structure.
Arched windows lined the six rectangular towers of the curtain walls. The walls
themselves were pierced with enormous windows and balconies. Not the most
stalwart construction, but it lent a grandeur rarely seen in Laraytian castles.

When he had first come to the city as
a child, Grae had asked his father why they would build such a fragile castle.
He had asked about the large windows, about the rectangular towers so
susceptible to mines and sappers. His father, a hammer with the Standards and
the center of Grae’s world, thought about the question before answering.

“If you were a sapper,” his father
had asked, “How would you take down one of those towers?”

The castle was surrounded on all
sides by water; the Mythaenthys and the Typtaenai rivers formed two-thirds of
the moat, and a channel dug between them completed the circle. Only the
foremost two towers had enough land to support underground mines. To reach
them, attackers had to cross a long stone bridge. If they made it past the
barbican and murder holes of the bridge’s gatehouse they’d be under fire for
two hundred feet as they approached.

“I understand,” he had replied. “But
a handful of mangonels would do fierce damage to those curtain walls.”

His father had laughed. “Aye. They
would that. But you’d still have to cross that bridge to get in. You could
destroy every wall of that castle and still not capture the keep.”

This was an interesting idea to Grae.
He had never considered that you could destroy something without conquering it.
That an enemy could tear you to pieces but still not claim victory.

Grae and Hammer spent two hours that
night with the choleric arms-master of Daun Kithrey, woken from slumber to give
away items from the armory. Despite the note and seal from the Chamberlain he
had insisted on speaking to someone about “all of this crockery.” The
Chamberlain’s steward had been called for and was icy in his confirmation of
the orders.

The quartermaster had relented, but
in his eyes was the accusation of a man who thought he was being swindled. And
he was right. Grae and Hammer took the armory for everything they could get,
necessary or not. They had lurched out of the castle like thieves that night,
giddy with mischief and accomplishment. They piled everything onto their horses
and a spare pack horse and made their way eastward, laden and stumbling and
joking.

They slept in a field against a copse
of yew trees well south of Maurai, too tired to make a fire or eat. Too tired
to worry about the Beast five miles to the North. As they slept, Blythwynn
gazed down on them, her eye more closed than open.

Lojen’s Eye was in the east when they
awoke, and they rode toward it. They didn’t speak for a long while. Their
thoughts were heavy with the creature they were tasked to kill. When Hammer
finally broke the silence, it was to give voice to their thoughts.

“That thing’s a killer, Grae.”

“So are we, Hammer.”

The horses’ hooves thudded against
the worn soil of the Old Byway. Crows shrieked from a mist-mantled willow.

“You left pretty soon after that
monster got here Grae. You ain’t ‘eard all the stories.”

“I heard its cries time and again
before I left for Maulden.”

“Those were the early days. It got
worse. Lots worse. It’s a killer, Grae. A seemarken killer, it is.”

“It’s always something in that
forest,” said Grae. “One more thing to fear in the haunted wood of Maug
Maurai.”

The forest had a pedigree of terror.
Stories of Maurai went far back, back before the Larays came to the land,
before even the Andraens. It went back to the savage Margils and the haunted,
hidden city of CWYNCR. A place where the dead walked and the living killed. A
place whose very name could bring children to tears.

 “I suppose no one’ll fear that Beast
soon,” said Hammer. “We’ll be roasting it in a couple days.” He gave Grae a
wink that was so forced it looked more a twitch. The crows scattered as the two
horsemen rode past the willow.

“I’ve been thinking ‘bout what you
said, Grae. About how they told you to report to the Chamberlain four days
ago?”

“Yes. Four days ago.” He knew what
Hammer was working out. Grae had done the same calculation last night, after
he’d left the Chamberlain’s room.

“And the Cobblethries … when did
their caravan get attacked?”

“Two nights ago.”

Hammer scratched at his beard.

“I don’t know either, Hammer. I
didn’t think of it when I was talking to him.” Grae thought of the Dromese red
the Chamberlain had pushed on him. “They must have wanted to send a squad even
before the Cobblethrie incident.”

“Maybe.” Hammer shrugged and noticed
the new pendant hanging from the brig’s neck. “That’s very pretty. You got
earrings to match?”

Grae fidgeted with the pendant. “The
Chamberlain gave it to me. It’s a symbol of the King’s Authority.”

 “It looks real nice,” said Hammer.
“Brings out the brown in your eyes.”

Grae ignored the needling and stared
at the pendant. It was just larger than a mollie coin but made from silver or
platinum, with tiny studs of gold around its thick edges. The studs gave the
medallion the look of a tiny sun. A crude image of an animal skull was etched
onto one side. And what looked like circular water ripples on the back. The
pendant was primitive and terribly out of place dangling below his officer’s
bevor. He considered tucking it into his tabard, but resisted. The Chamberlain
had insisted he keep it visible at all times on this assignment.

Grae let the pendant drop. He cleared
his mind and breathed deeply, taking the Nuldish moors into his lungs. He
spotted a group of horsemen behind them, far toward the west. Five or six of
them. He could just make out the long blond braid on one of the riders.

“Hammer.”

“I know sir. Persistent buggers.”

“Are you planning on telling me what
they want?”

Hammer touched the wide brim of his
kettle helm absently. “They’re Andraens. Odd folk. Shouldn’t we be ‘eading
South, sir? Toward Tiftyn?”

Grae glanced back at the riders. They
were moving slowly, content to keep pace. “We have to make a stop first,” he
replied. “Daun Sanctra.”

 “Daun Sanctra? What’s at Daun
Sanctra?”

“Sir Jastyn Whitewind. The
Chamberlain said he wants to speak with us.”

“Why would a Whitewind wanna meet
with us?”

Grae shook his head. “Who knows? One
more curiosity in a mission defined by curiosities.”

Hammer glanced backward with as much
subtlety as he could manage. “Maybe Lord Whitewind wants to loan us some men.
That would hit the spot. Garrisoners or not, we could sure use more soldiers.”

Grae said nothing. Another dozen
standards would have made a sizable difference. But commanders did not have the
luxury of questioning orders.

Hammer persisted. “Did the
Chamberlain mention why ‘e’s sending
ten
men
to kill the most
dangerous creature in Laraytia?”

 “He obviously doesn’t know much
about Laraytian Standards.” Grae flashed a half smile. “I told him we only
needed four, but he wouldn’t believe me.”

“I am nothing.” The silks and linens
that draped the canopy’s frame dampened the sound. Sir Jastyn Whitewind’s voice
sounded small and flat.

Maribrae, awake by only the thinnest
of threads, stirred and mumbled. “You are the blazing star of my heavens.”

It always surprised Jastyn that she
could speak like this even at the edge of sleep. The layer of poetry that
surrounded her rarely fell away.

“A star,” he said in the monotone of
impending sleep. “That’s the right of it. I am nothing but …” He wasn’t at
Maribrae’s level, he had to search for the correct words. “I am nothing but a
distant star, a winking light in the distance … something interesting to look
at, but providing nothing, doing nothing. Being nothing. What will be my title
when I am dead? Jastyn the Irrelevant.” He let the words rest in the silks for
a time, considering them. “If I were a candle, I could give light to those in
the darkness. I could … I could bring day to the night. Even a touch of heat. I
could re-light the hearth fire, illuminate a room, help magicians reach great
heights. But a star … a star does nothing. Is nothing. Can do nothing.”

Maribrae’s hand found his and she
sighed, forcing herself away from the banks of sleep, fighting the panic that
rattled her heart when Jastyn spoke like this. “Fuel of my heart’s fire. You
are the brilliant Western Star. Everyone who looks upon you knows where they
are by your greatness. Your shining example is a guide to peasants and kings
alike.” Jastyn smiled and nudged her playfully. She continued. “The world would
grow colder and darker without Jastyn Whitewind.”  She draped her arm across
the firmness of his chest. “What is a candle, that can be destroyed by breath
or gust? That relies on the frailest patch of wax and thread to live? Even a
distant star blazes eternal, outstaying mountains and civilizations. A candle
brings light to naught but a tiny corner. A star gives its light to the world.”
She kissed his ear gently. “Do they not say that stars are the lanterns of
Eleyria? Do not the immortals hold these aloft to lend light to Blythwynn’s
vigilance?” She rose from the bed, parting the silk canopy and taking his hand.
“Come my love.”

The two walked across the floor of
the tower, the stones still warm from the dying hearth fire, the faint light
from the sconced candles casting an orange hue on their naked bodies. They
passed the wafting wall hangings depicting the heroes of myth that Jastyn
adored. Past a tapestry of Roebi and Ynnebelle, legendary lovers of Laraytia’s
past. Past wooden plates bearing the images of The Forgotten Heroes and the
Raging Eight. She brought him to the unglazed window, out onto the meager
ledge. There were few lamps or torches on this side of the castle, so on that
clear spring night the sky was absolutely powdered with stars. The moon,
Blythwynn’s Eye, was a smudge in the southern skies.

“Stare upwards,” she whispered.
“Ignore everything but the canopy above.”

He stared upward, distractedly at
first, longing for the warmth of his bed. He gazed at the familiar
constellations. The Spike. The Witch. Homunculus. He knew each of the immortals
that made up the points of each constellation. They were as familiar as his
room, or his armor. As familiar as the woman at his side. The peppering of
stars so similar to the dappling of freckles across her body, her face.

But as he gazed at the dark roof of
the world, he noted new details in those old stars. Shapes and subtleties that
he had never seen, or had seen once and forgotten. Stars that were not
immediately visible appeared. Like tiny forest creatures that peek out
when observers are still and silent.

He noted the beautiful chalky veil.
The faint smudges and specks that grew brighter when examined, that made the
enormity of the night sky seem even larger, infinitely layered. It was endless.
One could disappear among those stars, lost in a stormy sea of light and
darkness. Murdered by the magnificent beauty, by the mystery and complexity of
it all. Somewhere in the west a streak of light arced across the sky, burning
for a moment, then fading to nothing.

Maribrae’s touch pulled him away from
the black swirling sea, away from the ungraspable sophistication of the
universe. Away from the power of those stars. Back to the cool stone balcony of
Tower Duleun. To the simplicity of the castle called Daun Sanctra.

“I love you Mari,” he whispered.
“More than Roebi loved Ynnebelle.”

“And I love you, Jastyn.” She stroked
his face. “More than that.”

The smell of perfumed herbs upon her
neck was more powerful than he had remembered. In her eyes he could see the
night sky, the scattered stars spilling onto her nose and cheeks in reverse,
white skies and dark stars. Her lips parted in a look of such vulnerable
beauty, such heartbreaking innocence, that he had to fight off tears. There was
expectation there. A query. He took her chin in his hand and kissed her then,
closing his eyes and falling into the sweetest darkness he could imagine.