Stars and Graves

by Roberto Calas

  “Steady!” Hammer called.

  Grae inspected the men. They had only six warriors—not even enough to form the Northern V formation. How had everything gone wrong?

  A stand of thick juniper hedges quivered. Aramaesia’s bowstring creaked as she pulled back the arrow. The hedges shook more violently. A snout pushed through. Then a head. It took a moment, to make out what it was—perhaps the tallest wild boar Grae had ever seen. The animal tilted its head to one side and made a sound:

  “Quack.”

  A silence settled. The soldiers looked at one another, then at the boar.

  Bellowing laughter rose from the hedges. Jjarnee Kruu pushed through the junipers and tossed the dead boar at the soldiers’s feet. “Now I am have to share with you this food.” He laughed again. “Quack! Quack!”

  The others laughed, too, except for Hammer, who shouted that the Hrethriman could have been killed. Grae couldn’t hold back a half-smile despite himself. He was glad to have the crossbowman back. The warriors now numbered seven, but it was more than that. Jjarnee Kruu was a light in the darkness. And, in Maug Maurai, they needed all the light they could find.

  Chapter 13

  Commander Durren won the Battle of Glynn Elks, but lost his shield.

  Never did he recover his honor

  —Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet

  Murrogar watched the glowing orbs in the distance and thought about the stand he attempted with the Cobblethries. Up on the hill where Peryn the Swordsman died, and the holy paladin’s daughter was carried away.

  “They’ll come from every side,” Murrogar barked. “We gotta be a tripod, understand? Shoulder to shoulder. Back to back.”

  Drissdie whimpered, tried to secure the strap under his chin while holding his sword, and nearly gashed his throat. Murrogar took the blade from him.

  “Lost your bevor? Not to worry. Fasten your helm good and tight. There’s a lad.” He handed the sword back and looked into the dark visor of Drissdie’s sallet. “Don’t let your shield droop. Keep it at forty-five, yeah? If you keep your shield up and arse down, ain’t nothing you can’t kill.”

  Drissdie nodded violently, his breath coming in quick bursts. His mouth was stretched into a silent sob.

  “You gonna tuck him in tonight, too?” Lokk called.

  The glowing orbs drew nearer.

  Murrogar slammed Thantos’s sword against his shield twice, faced the approaching creatures, and gave a low growl. Lokk flipped one short sword so that the unsharpened spine ran along the inside of his wrist and forearm, raised the other blade high and snarled. Drissdie cried quietly.

  The creatures drew closer. Humanlike forms with eyes that shone a sickening shade of green. Their movements were unnatural—jerking and swaying, heads tilting awkwardly from one side to the other like marionettes. Lokk realized instantly what they were.

  “Maurg,” he called. “Don’t let them bite you.”

  “Wasn’t in my strategy,” Murrogar replied. “What are they?”

  “Thought you fought these before,” Lokk called.

  “Seen ‘em,” Murrogar replied. “From a distance.”

  The first fiend slipped one leg over the low rampart and planted it on the other side, but came no closer. More of the creatures walked quietly to the shattered walls and paused. The maurg rolled their misshapen heads. Hissed softly and twitched.

  “Why... why are they waiting?” Drissdie bawled. “Why are they waiting?”

  “’Cause they realize they’ve walked into a trap,” Murrogar said.

  “T... trap?” Drissdie glanced back, his voice tinted with hope.

  Murrogar slammed Thantos’s sword against his shield twice, again. “Aye. We ambushed them.”

  Drissdie shook his head and sobbed. “Why are you saying that? You gotta... you gotta surprise them for an ambush!”

  “Too right,” Murrogar replied. “And they’ve got a big surprise coming when they get inside my sword arc.”

  The fiends raised their eyes to the canopy—every one of them at precisely the same time—and shrieked. Their cries were like daggers drawn across glass. Like dying dogs or burning pigs. Drissdie clapped his wrists on either side of the sallet helm and screamed.

  As one, the creatures vaulted the walls and charged the three soldiers.

  Murrogar took down the first with a heavy downward hack that split the monster’s skull from crown to upper lip. “Surprise!” the old hero roared as he pulled his sword free.

  Lokk reached out with the inside of his forearm and one of the fiends drove itself into the blade waiting there. The Eridian slashed his arm upward, slicing through the maurg’s throat, and drove his second blade down into its skull.

  “That was a Cobblethrie!” Murrogar called. “The one I killed was a Cobblethrie!”

  “The Beast,” Lokk called. “Makes... ” He grunted and cut another one down. “Makes ‘em like that.”

  Murrogar drove the thought out of his mind. Now was the time for brash confidence. Now was the time of killing.

  Drissdie sobbed and shoved with his shield at a maurg that wore a long leather coat and silk vest.

  “Sword arm jabbing!’ Murrogar shouted to him. “Never stop jabbing!” The old hero thrust his blade into the stomach of a heavy-set man. Not a Cobblethrie, this one. He drove the blade all the way up until the tip emerged from the man’s throat. “Surprise!”

  Some of these were the Cobblethries. People I swore to protect.

  Lokk spun in a compact circle, falling to a knee and cutting off a female’s leg at the thigh. She swayed and toppled. The Eridian rose, took three steps forward. Cleaved the top corner of another one’s head.

  Drissdie stabbed and stabbed with his sword, making animals sounds. Mad sounds. Sounds of fury. Dark blood spattered his helm and mail.

  “That’s the way!” Murrogar shouted. “Atta boy! Look lively, another one!”

  Drissdie raised his shield and roared at a half-armored maurg.

  “Wait!” Murrogar called. “Everyone step to the right. I know that one!”

  They pivoted and Murrogar slammed the armored maurg backward with his shield. “How you been, Wyann?”

  He swung Thantos’s sword up at an angle, with such power that it sheared the knight’s left arm off and took a large chunk of his chest with it. Sir Wyann staggered back, then collapsed sideways. “Surprise!” Murrogar spat. “Been wanting to do that for days.”

  But the old hero’s victory didn’t last long. “Lojen’s Bloody Arse Wart!” he cried. “They’re getting back up! They’re not dying!”

  Lokk slashed down with a short sword. Glared back at Murrogar with a snarl. “Surprise!”

  Chapter 14

  The language was dry and abstruse and made for painful reading, but Meedryk relished it. Every word. The book listed exercises and chants to help mages attain Transcendence. He understood that it could be a hoax. That it could have been written by mages to convince the world that Transcendence existed. But Meedryk memorized each of the exercises, anyway, before his father took the book away. He practiced the exercises whenever he could, when no one was around to see. And he promised himself that, one day, he would find the book again and read the entirety.

  —From “The Headsman of Laraytia,” by Jurn Hallion

  Night looped in though the tangles, fed the shadows and slowly strangled Maug Maurai. Shanks and Rundle wiped their muddy arms with birch leaves the size of small tapestries, and fell beside the fire with the others. There was no music, nor much laughter. Not even Jjarnee Kruu could find anything to laugh about.

  There were no haypads that night, either, only holes dug for hips and shoulders. There were no bowls or pots. There was only Grae’s canopy, and he gave that to Aramaesia and Maribrae to share with the dying child.

  Sage made a stew from shreds of antelope, cooked in Hammer’s kettle helm. The scout made burn-bowls for each of them by placing coals at the center of split logs. The coals scorched cavities into the logs, and Sage pu
miced the cavities to remove the burned wood.

  Grae sat a short distance from the rest of the squad, eating from one of the burn bowls and wondering if it wasn’t worth it to return to the camp. The soldiers would see Murrogar’s dead body. And that would hit them like a hammer blow. Shanks and Rundle were already on the precipice of breaking rank. Who else would break when it was discovered that not even Black Murrogar could survive in Maug Maurai?

  Something dripped on his trouser leg. Stew. He inspected the bowl. The coals had burned too far on this one, and had cracked the wood. He tried holding green leaves against the seam but he couldn’t keep a tight enough seal, managed only to spread the drips out along the length of the log. He set the bowl down and undid the cord from one of the pouches at his belt.

  “Brig Barragns?” Sir Jastyn approached him. “May I have a word, sir?”

  Grae held the leaves against the bowl with one hand and tried to loop the cord around them. “What’s on your mind, Sir Jastyn?”

  “It seems a silly thing, really. But it has been bothering me more and more.”

  Grae gestured to the cord with his chin. “Would you, please?”

  Sir Jastyn held the cord in place while Grae tied the ends.

  “Brig, it seems as if you are purposely trying to keep me out of harm’s way.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, well, on that last action, against the... the maurg... you set me on the far right of the formation,” he replied, “by the archers. And Maribrae. And Lord Aeren. You set me on the weak side.”

  “Every station needs a man.” Grae stood, lifted the bowl over his head and looked up.

  The knight folded his arms. “I am a better fighter than Rundle or Drissdie. And my footwork is more technically sound than that of Beldrun Shanks.”

  “So, you feel you should be on the point?”

  “I suppose I do,” said Jastyn. “I put myself under your command. I want you to utilize me as you would any of your soldiers.”

  “I see.”

  “Is that not what you thought?” asked Sir Jastyn.

  “Truth or silence, Sir Jastyn,” said Grae, “I am not entirely sure what to think.”

  “You aren’t? I thought I was clear back at Daun Sanctra. I am under your command, to be used in the most effective way possible.”

  “I thought so too, my lord. But once we got moving it seemed… not so clear anymore.” The bowl was still leaking.

  Jastyn cocked his head. “What… what was it that confused you?”

  “The moment we left Daun Sanctra, you began having quiet meals off in the woods with your songmaiden.”

  “Oh, that?”

  “You haven’t offered to assist with any of the menial tasks. You have challenged my authority several times. You haven’t offered to take any of the watches. You don’t sleep with the rest of the squad. You don’t carry any of the squad equipment. You brought a canopy with you to sleep in and you don’t even set it up yourself. You make one of my soldiers to do it for you.”

  “I just... I don’t... ” Jastyn raised a hand, as if to ward off the accusations.

  “Everyone on this mission must be under my direct command,” said Grae. “No soldier can be above the others, or dissent breeds.”

  Jastyn’s eyes were wide, his gaze distant. “I... I have been a complete and utter arse.”

  “Well,” Grae shrugged. “Not... not completely.”

  “No, you are quite right about this. I suppose I have lived in court so long that I can’t even imagine what it is to be a soldier. I’ve been following the squad around as if on a pleasure tour of Maug Maurai.” His eyes flashed and he knelt before Grae. “Brig, sir, I beg your forgiveness. From this moment, I shed all traces of my nobility. I will be nothing more than a trudge in the Laraytian Standards for the duration of this mission. Jastyn the Trudge. You will find me to be your most loyal and hardest working of soldiers.”

  Grae tried to get Sir Jastyn back to his feet. “Sir Jast—”

  “No, brig, sir,” Jastyn replied, refusing to stand. “No more titles. From now on, I am Trudge Whitewind. Nothing more.”

  Grae sighed. “Very well. Then rise, Trudge Whitewind. I have a mission for you. Your first as a trudge.”

  “I await your command.”

  Grae handed him the log. “Tell Sage to make me another bowl.”

  Jastyn grinned and rose to his feet. “It’s not exactly the glamorous start I was hoping for.”

  “If you want glamour, join the Lancers.” said Grae. “This is the Standards. We barely understand that word.”

  †††

  Four explosions sounded in the night. Like thunder across a lake. But the blasts were far away and their mystery had been solved, so no one paid them much attention. Even the threat of the Beast seemed a distant thing; they had not heard its cries for two nights.

  Shanks and Rundle sat alone beside the campfire. The flames had flittered down to nearly nothing. Just coals gasping for breath. Rundle knelt and blew at the ashes but the flames had dwindled too far.

  “Where’s that apprentice?” Shanks asked.

  Rundle shrugged. “He went into the brig’s tent with the others. The singing girl, the archer, the boy, Lord Aeren. Having a festival in there or something.”

  “Seamarkin’ apprentice. What’s he got to do? One thing. Keep the fire going.” Shanks peered into the darkness. “Some birch bark would bring those flames back.”

  “Go get some,” Rundle replied.

  Shanks rubbed a hand along his back. “Back’s throbbing from the digging. It’s all we do, is dig. Might as well have stayed in the dungeon. Least I didn’t have to dig.” He threw some leaves onto the coals, was rewarded with nothing but smoke. He sighed and kicked with his heel at one of the stones around the fire. Then he noticed Meedryk’s haversack. It was rare to see the bag without Meedryk near it.

  He drew the sack toward him with one foot and rummaged inside. A velvet pouch lay near the top. He drew it out, untied the drawstrings, and stared at a fine red powder inside. He tapped a pile of it onto his hand, grinned, then blew the powder at Rundle. Some of it drifted into the fire.

  A geyser of flame erupted into the night sky, making daylight around the campfire.

  The soldiers fell back as the flames vanished, then leaped to their feet. Shanks laughed and pointed at Rundle’s face. “Your beard and eyebrows are singed!” Rundle pounded him on the chest.

  They sat down again and Shanks returned the red pouch to the haversack. He looked farther into the case and noticed a thick stack of papers. The pages were bound with yarn, stained and water-thickened. He lifted them out and studied them. “These look important to you?”

  “Important papers got covers,” Rundle replied. “Or seals.”

  “You’re right,” said Shanks. “I don’t see any seals.”

  The top page was already half torn out from the stack. Shanks ripped it free, paused, then threw it onto the fire. The smoldering coals licked at the page, then bit, then feasted on the parchment. Shanks smiled. “See? I can do magic too.” He tossed another page into the fire, making gestures with his hands. The two of them chuckled as the fire devoured the velum.

  Shanks tossed a sheet to Rundle, who crumpled it into a ball and threw it into the flames. “I’m a mage too.”

  They fed the fire five more pages before a thick moan sounded behind them. Meedryk Bodlyn stumbled toward them, lunged at the pages in Shank’s hands.

  The big infantryman stood and pulled the loose book away. “About time you got he—”

  Shanks would never have thought the boy could hit so hard.

  The sound of the blow rang out like cracking wood. Shanks staggered backward. Shook his head and dropped the book to the ground. He turned slitted eyes toward Meedryk. Advanced, expecting the mage to cower. But Meedryk stood his ground, rubbing at his knuckles. For the briefest of moments Shanks thought perhaps it wasn’t Meedryk; that in the dim light of the fire he had made a mistake. T
he young magician lunged past him, and stooped to grab the stack of pages.

  Shanks caught the mage a glancing blow on the cheek with one of his beefy fits. Meedryk collapsed, still reaching toward the pages. The big infantryman kicked the stack away, the pages fluttering like bird wings.

  “Don’t!” Meedryk rose to his hands and knees and scuttled after the pages. “Please.”

  Shanks grabbed the mage from behind, on arm locked around the young man’s throat. “Hold ‘im,” he shouted to Rundle.

  “He hit you, not me,” Rundle replied. “Is your fight.”

  Shanks threw Meedryk sideways. The mage tried to scramble toward the soiled stack of pages again but Shanks flipped him onto his back and set his knees on the mage’s arms. “A blow for a blow,” said Shanks. He pulled back his elbow as far as it would go. The fist hung in the air, a suspended boulder. “Bet mine’ll hurt more.”

  Meedryk felt only an instant of pain. Then a blinding white light. And the beating of a drum. A pounding rhythm in his head.

  His sense of smell returned first.

  The acrid smell of burning paper.

  His vision returned, but the world looked hazy, as if wrapped in oiled linens.

  Through the gauze of half-consciousness he saw the entire stack of his pages on the fire. All of them. The entire book. The realization that he should be horrified by this played across his thoughts. But he couldn’t muster any emotion at all. His eyes tallied the event. The book that had scarred his hands and taken his breath was burning. It was a fact.

  A moment later, his hearing returned.

  There came a trickling sound. Beldrun Shanks was urinating on him.

  †††

  Aramaesia sat beside Meedryk and scrubbed at his meridian cloak with latherworst. They sat by one of the rampart walls, away from the fire and the others.

  “The urine will not stain,” she said. “As a fact, it will clean the jacket.”

  Meedryk didn’t speak. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest. His eyes were closed.

  “Sometimes,” said Aramaesia, “We mix the urine with goat gall. It is wonderful for taking blemishes from fabric.”