Stars and Graves

by Roberto Calas

  He should have let Drissdie run to his death.

  The mercenary spun again in a slow circle, but the carpet moss was like a green mist, veiling the world in sameness. How did Sage find his way through this labyrinth? How did an Eridian mercenary find himself here, lost in a murderous Laraytian forest?

  Drissdie Hannish.

  The fool had doomed them both. A forest was the only enemy Lokk couldn’t kill. Drissdie had led him into a trap. An unreasonable ambush of grasping branches and slashing thorns.

  “What do you think the trees were firing at us? I think it was snot. Frynn says demons can cover you in snot to keep you from moving. You think they were trying to capture us? So they could bring us to CWNCR, d’you suppose? Maybe they—”

  Drissdie choked back his next words as Lokk grabbed him with both hands and snarled.

  †††

  The two soldiers plodded silently through the endless maze of Maug Maurai. Lokk wore a scowl that grew more profound with each crackling footstep. And Drissdie Hannish wore a gag.

  They waded up a wide stream, thigh-deep, plodding for several hundred paces to avoid a long line of sinister brambles. When they returned to land, it was to clamber over a fallen oak more than ten feet thick. A hundred paces past the tree, they reached a laurel thicket. Drissdie made a series of word-shaped moans.

  “Take it off again,” Lokk replied, “and I’ll have your tongue.”

  Drissdie’s moans grew louder. He jabbed a finger toward the left again and again.

  “If the word demon or snot comes out of your mouth,” Lokk said, “I will tear your guts out your arse myself.”

  Drissdie shook his head, looked toward the left and jabbed his finger again.

  Lokk yanked the leather gag—made from a piece of Drissdie’s tabard—away from the young soldier’s mouth.

  “We walked past that tree, d’you suppose? There was a black bird on that branch. Remember? It had a yellow beak. Really pretty bird. I remember. It was sitting on that branch, d’you suppose?”

  Lokk studied the tree and shook his head. “Different tree. Put the gag back on.”

  “Maybe…maybe we should just stay here, d’you suppose? Until the others find us?”

  Lokk took a long breath, ran a hand over his face. “No one is going to find us.” He turned to face Drissdie. “We’re miles from anyone, in a forest that kills people.” He took a step toward the young soldier. “No one will hear us. No one will see us.” He took hold of Drissdie’s tabard again and pulled the soldier close, their faces inches apart. “Maybe I’ll just kill you now,” he snarled. “Save you from being eaten. Because we’re on our own.” He shook Drissdie and the young soldier’s helm tumbled off and thumped on the moss. “Do you understand? No one is going to find us! No one!”

  A voice called from the forest. “Oi! Someone there?”

  Drissdie and Lokk—faces still inches apart—turned to look. A hulking shape crashed through the laurel thicket.

  “Found you,” said Black Murrogar. He glanced around. “Where are the others?”

  Chapter 8

  Daggerseed is extinct in Laraytia. The pulsing, sack-like growths of daggerseed trees once were seen in wide bands throughout the northern duchies. But King Elmorond I had them hacked down and the land around them burned. No one has missed these trees.

  —Wilfrense Quetan, from “Rare Flora of Laraytia.”

  Grae and Hammer spent most of the morning searching for members of their squad. Sage found them first, and the three of them tracked the others. By noon they had accounted for everyone except Lokk Lurius, Jjarnee Kruu, and Drissdie Hannish.

  “What about Murrogar?” Hammer asked. “Anyone see where he went?”

  Silence fell among the squad mates. A heavy, dreadful silence.

  “We only just found him,” Rundle Graen muttered. “Now he’s lost again.”

  Grae folded his arms. Black Murrogar had brought hope to the squad. If they were to learn of his death, it would shatter that hope.

  “He probably ran off after Lokk and Drissdie,” Grae replied. “They’re likely all together. Jjarnee too.”

  Aramaesia still carried the child. Grae convinced himself that the boy looked worse, that he wouldn’t last much longer. The end was nearing for House Cobblethrie. The last breath for a family of traitors. And that’s what they were. Traitors. The Marquess-in-Harrynsale had stamped his seal on the orders, and that was evidence enough for Grae. They were traitors. And the extinction of their line would secure peace in Laraytia.

  Grae led his squad to a cluster of waist-high boulders and they sat upon them while Hammer checked Lord Aeren’s arm. Dozens of hooked black barbs had driven themselves into the noble’s skin. Each barb was, at its thickest point, as big around as Grae’s little finger, tapering where they entered. Each was about as long as Grae’s thumb, and many bore a cluster of seeds that dangled from the thicker end. Grae had several of the barbs jutting from his boots and tabard, as did most of the other soldiers. But Lord Aeren wore no armor, and the barbs had torn through his fine clothes like daggers through spider webs.

  “They hurt!” Aeren shouted. “They hurt like a demon’s cock!”

  “Why haven’t you taken them out?” Sage asked.

  Hammer yanked one from the Scholar’s arm. Aeren shrieked, startling Maribrae.

  “Because taking them out hurts even more!” the nobleman shouted.

  “Take them out,” Grae ordered. “Best to do them all now.”

  “All of them?” Aeren yanked his arm back, wincing. “No. Absolutely not! We can take them out slowly. One every hour or so.”

  “Take them out, Hammer. All of them.”

  Hammer grabbed the scholar’s arm again.

  “Not so hard! Wait, wait, I’m not read—”

  Hammer yanked another barb out and Aeren howled.

  “I said I wasn’t ready!”

  “No, you didn’t,” Hammer replied. “You said you weren’t red. And you’re not.”

  “Let go!” Aeren shouted.

  “What happened back at the camp?” Grae asked. “Those trees. Why did they explode?”

  “Seed delivery,” Aeren replied. His voice was suddenly confident again. The scholar’s voice. “Quite interesting actually. The trees develop the seeds internally and—Lojen’s cock, Hammer, I need time!”

  “The seeds are inside the tree,” Grae prodded.

  Aeren held up a warding finger toward Hammer. “Wait. I need a moment.” He looked back at Grae. “The trees build up some sort of fluid in the trunk as the seeds develop, I think. More and more of the fluid builds, until the wood of the tree is under tremendous pressure. Those limbs are thick as courtyards, so you can imagine just how—”

  Hammer pulled out another barb, Aeren shrieked again. “You thrull-blooded dwarf! Stop it!”

  Hammer scowled, squeezed the scholar’s arm. “I’m a what?” He squeezed again. “What am I?”

  “I’m... I’m sorry. Please... just let me rest.”

  “Fucking arse-nipples,” Sage said.

  Grae stared at him.

  “Fucking arse-nipples,” he repeated. “That is what you say when you are angry, or feel like insulting someone. The sounds complement each other when you roll them together. Fuh-king-arse-nih-pulls.”

  “Fucking arse-nipples!” Maribrae called from a half dozen paces away.

  “Maribrae!” Sir Jastyn scolded.

  “Fucking arse-nipples!” Meedryk said, laughing.

  “That’s enough of that,” Hammer barked.

  “You were talking about the pressure in the tree limbs.” Grae said. “Pressure so great that even sound will cause the limb to burst, correct?”

  Aeren nodded. “Sound. Movement. Anything an animal might make.”

  “Why animals?” Hammer asked.

  “Because the trees need them,” Aeren replied. “The seeds are fired down in a hard shell, toward whatever made the noise, or the vibrations. If the animal is struck, it dies, an
d the seeds can use its corpse as fertilizer while they grow into small trees. That’s the best result for the seedlings.”

  Grae saw Black Murrogar’s lifeless body on the ground. Felt the shredding conflict of sorrow and relief. Black Murrogar was dead.

  “And if the shell misses,” Aeren continued, “the barbs—fucking arse nipples, Hammer!”

  “See?” said Sage.

  “Surprisingly... effective,” Aeren replied, gasping.

  “If the shell misses?” Grae asked.

  “If it misses, the shell buries itself into the ground. Many of the seeds stay there, in the hole, where they have soil. Not as good as if they have an animal corpse to grow in, but not terrible. And the rest are flung outward and attach themselves to the animal that caused the explosion.” He gestured to his arm. “The animal then runs wildly, dropping seeds far and wide.”

  Sage chuckled. “Reminds me of my adolescence.”

  Aeren chuckled, until another barb came out and the young lord’s laughter turned into a high-pitched scream.

  Hammer and Sage laughed, and even Grae smiled his half-smile. He gestured to Lord Aeren. “When Hammer’s done with the songbird we’ll head back to the camp. Sage, you can find the camp again?”

  “Shouldn’t be hard.”

  “We’ll find Lokk and Drissdie,” Grae said. “Then we can begin our search for the Beast.”

  Beldrun Shanks’s voice rose from behind them. “We ain’t doing that.”

  Grae spun, but Hammer was already roaring “You lost your senses, you pile of twisted rat shit? You’re wanting to lose a tongue, speaking to the brig like that, Shanks!”

  The big infantryman stood with his arms folded, Rundle Graen at his side.

  “Rundle and I’ve been talking,” Shanks said. “And we’re not sure that staying in the forest is what we want to do.”

  Sage breathed out a long sigh. “Fucking arse-nipples.”

  Chapter 9

  Armor your mind as you would your body.

  —From “The Arms,” Book II of Lojenwyne’s Words

  Black Murrogar stepped forward, put his back against a tall, white cedar, and breathed deeply. “Where’s your squad?”

  “Murrogar!” Drissdie shouted.

  Lokk Lurius rubbed at his cheek. “You died.”

  “That so?” said Murrogar.

  “That’s so,” Lokk replied. “I saw it.”

  “He couldn’t have died,” said Drissdie. “Look, he’s talking.”

  “What more evidence you need?” Murrogar coughed so hard that his mail shivered. He set his shield down and wiped at his mouth, glanced at Lokk. “You Eridian? A damn plague of you in this forest.”

  “Plague?” Lokk replied. “I’m deadlier than a plague.”

  “You two are dumber than a plague,” Murrogar replied. “I asked where your squad was.”

  “I saw you die,” Lokk said.

  Murrogar turned to Drissdie. “Is he simple?”

  “He put a gag on me,” Drissdie replied.

  “You simple, Eridian?” Murrogar stooped and spit a stream of blood. “I ain’t dead.” He touched the sword dangling from his belt. “You want proof?”

  Drissdie nodded. “He ain’t dead. He’s talking and everything.”

  Lokk touched his two theiyras. “You’re not dead. But you’re wheezing like an old man with—” His eyes fell on the gashed mail that had come open, and the crude stitches holding the old hero’s belly together.

  Murrogar pulled the flapping mail over the wound. “A little quilt I’m working on. Are we gonna have a picnic or we joining the rest of your squad?”

  “We can’t find the squad,” Drissdie said. “We lost them when the demons attacked.”

  “Demons?”

  Drissdie nodded. “Yeah. You were there. The ones throwing snot at us when—”

  “Fool ran the wrong way,” Lokk said.

  “And what about. . . ” Murrogar winced, took several deep breaths. “And what about you, Plague? Did you run the wrong way, too?”

  Lokk stared at Murrogar, but didn’t reply.

  “We’ll have to go to the camp then. The trees have stopped... ” he glanced at Drissdie, “. . . throwing snot. Should be safe now.”

  “How do you know the trees have stopped?” Drissdie asked.

  Murrogar laughed. “You take a mace to the head boy?”

  Drissdie pulled his helm off and drew back his long hair to show the mass of scars. “It was a war hammer. The surgeon put a coin in the hole, a silver hawk. And it’s still there. My skin grew right over.” He grinned, rapped on his temple as he always did when he told this part of the story. “I’ll say this, though, no bandit will ever steal my last hawk, d’you suppose?”

  Murrogar stared at the young soldier for a long moment, then clapped him on the back. “Tough as steel, you are,” he said. “I don’t hear the explosions anymore. That’s why I know the trees have stopped.”

  Drissdie nodded, tried to hide his grin.

  “Your squad here for the Cobblethries?” Murrogar asked.

  “Aye,” Drissdie replied. “And we’re here to kill the Beast, d’you suppose?”

  “I do suppose you’re here for that,” Murrogar said. “I don’t suppose you’ll do it. How many men you got?”

  Drissdie squinted, counted on his fingers. “Eight. And Lokk. And a knight. And some women.”

  Murrogar let out a sigh. “That’s not a squad. That’s an offering.”

  “But we got the Headsman leading us, d’you suppose? And we got some good swordsmen. And a knight.”

  Murrogar didn’t speak for a time. “The Headsman. Yeah, figures they would send him.” He nodded toward Drissdie. “You seen any of the Cobblethries?”

  Drissdie glanced at Lokk, then back at Murrogar. “We found their... we found their bodies.”

  Murrogar folded his arms, jaw clenching. “All of them?”

  Drissdie nodded, then shook his head. “No. There was a boy. He was still alive. But the brig said he was gonna die, d’you suppose?”

  “The boy was alive?”

  Drissdie shrugged. “He was, but he didn’t look like he’d stay alive.”

  Murrogar nodded. “Not with The Headsman commanding. Take me to that formidable squad of yours.” He swept his hand toward the forest. “Lead on.”

  Drissdie licked at his lips, looked to Lokk.

  Murrogar swept his hand again. “You want fanfare? I left my trumpet at home.”

  Lokk stared into the forest, first one way, then the other.

  Murrogar grinned. “You don’t know how to get back to camp.” He laughed, winced and clutched at his stomach. “You’re deadlier than a plague, just so long as someone points you in the right direction.” He hefted his shield and took a rasping breath. “I can backtrack. Follow me.” He set off toward the west.

  Drissdie gasped as the old hero walked past him.

  Murrogar’s back was a mangled mess of crushed mail and torn gambeson and dried blood. Bones from his left shoulder blade shone white among steel and padded linen. Lokk and Drissdie exchanged a swift glance, then looked again at the savaged mess.

  Murrogar called to them without slowing or looking back. “Won’t get there if you stand there gaping.”

  Chapter 10

  For many years, those branded with the C-mark took to wearing bandages and hoods, and living among leper colonies. But it was seen as an insult to the lepers, who took to beating these C-marked men.

  —From, “A Modest History of West Nuldryn,” by Yurik Bodlyn, Historian and Scribe

  Beldrun Shanks folded his arms. “Going back to camp is death. Those seeds were making holes in the ground. Big holes.”

  “I’m gonna put a hole in you if you don’t stand down and shut your cave!” Hammer roared. “You think you can talk to the brig like this?”

  “All I’m saying is we should go back and get more men,” Shank continued. “There ain’t no shame in that. We’ve lost nearly half the squad and
we ain’t even seen the seamarkin’ Beast. Black Murrogar? He wouldn’t have run the wrong way. If he’s not here, it’s ‘cause he’s dead, too. No sense all of us dying for nothing. We need more men. We always needed more men. Bloody apples, I’ll lead the fucking charge when we have a full squad.”

  “We lost three men to trees,” Rundle Graen mumbled. “Trees.”

  “Three days of torture,” Grae said.

  “Yes!” Shanks replied. “Exactly.”

  “Three days of torture before they put you in a wooden box and bury you alive,” Grae clarified. “Is that what you want, Shanks?” His voice was calm, measured, but a fissure had opened deep in his mind. A crack in the wall of the great stone fortification he had spent years building.

  “We ain’t breaking rank,” Shanks replied. “We’re making a suggestion.”

  “You’re addressing an officer,” Grae said, his voice low and rasping.

  Shanks’s lips twisted. He glanced at Rundle, then back to Grae. “We ain’t breaking rank, brig, sir.”

  “Then what is it you’re doing, trudge?”

  Something in his voice seemed to stay Shanks’s initial reply. He licked his lips. “We’re making a suggestion.”

  “I’m not presently accepting suggestions.” Grae’s voice trembled.

  Shanks’s chest rose and fell with quick breaths. Rundle’s fingers twitched at his side.

  “I think maybe you should accept this one,” the big infantryman replied. “We got five soldiers left, and an apprentice who lights lanterns. Five soldiers to kill a Beast that destroyed an entire company.”

  Sir Jastyn took position next to Hammer. “Six soldiers.”

  Shanks glanced at the knight, then back at Grae before speaking. “This ain’t your concern, silver. You and your songbird should get out now. This forest has killed enough knights, don’t you think?”

  “I’m a member of this squad,” Sir Jastyn rested a hand on his sword grip. “So perhaps it is my concern.”

  Shanks’s gaze smoldered on the knight for a long moment. The big infantryman held his hands up, palms out, and spoke to Grae. “All I was saying is we should think this through. That’s all. But you’re the brig. And I’ll follow any order you give. I wouldn’t break rank. You know that.”