“We need to give him a Farewell, Grae. It’s Black Murrogar.”
“We’ll go back when the mission is complete.”
Hammer turned to him, eyes glossy. “There are animals, Grae. Kreech and other things.” He wiped at his eyes and sneered at the trees around him. “Damn spores make my eyes sting.”
“We’ll go back for him later, Hammer. With any luck we’ll be done with our task before the day is through.”
“We should give him the Farewell,” Hammer replied. “Even just you and me, Grae. Black Murrogar deserves that.”
Grae spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “After our task is finished, Hammer.” He snapped the sleeve of his dropshirt and stared at the squad. Hammer let out another rattling breath.
Neither of them noticed Maribrae Endilweir, who stood behind the tent holding a handful of ribbons and staring at them, eyes wide.
Chapter 17
The Beast is like a mountain.
The Beast is like a lake.
The Beast is like the rolling plain, and clouds before the rain
You cannot slay a mountain. You cannot harm a lake.
You cannot bleed the rolling plain, nor cut apart the rain.
So why, why, why,
Dost thou think It might be slain?
—from “The Black Beast of the Forest,” writer unknown
Piles of shattered maurg lay scattered around the ruined campsite. Black Murrogar lay on his back among them. Eyes staring vacantly into the forest canopy.
“If you stare long enough at the trees,” he said, “it’s like you’re looking down at them. Like you could let yourself go and fall up and out of the forest.”
Lokk Lurius walked among the maurg, searching for any with life left in them. Drissdie Hannish sat with his legs folded beneath him. The lower half of his face—the area left bare by the sallet helm—was drenched in dark blood. His eyes stared into the forest without emotion, and he whispered a lullaby to himself. Murrogar craned his head back to look at the young soldier.
“You did a fine job, Hannish,” he called.
Lokk hacked down with one of his theiyras, splitting a man’s head in half. “The Beast gonna come for us, now?” he asked.
“Fucked if I know,” Murrogar said. “Every time I figure that monster out, it changes the rules. Chased us for three days, pushing us further in. Thantos said it was like his sheepdog.” Murrogar’s laugh trailed off as he thought of Thantos in that cave. Snapped in half by nightmare fiends. “Don’t much like dogs. Lot of soldiers love dogs. Not me. I grew up on a farm with a dozen cats. Had lots of time to study them. Dogs, they’re servants. Slaves. Dogs have no honor. If they see a bigger dog, they’ll tuck their tails and run. Or go belly up. Not cats. Cats understand honor. They won’t never back away, no matter how much bigger the other cat is. Had one on the farm. Big grey striped thing. The thing was like... was like...” He shook his head.
Babbling like a trudge.
But his mind wouldn’t leave the farm. The sun on the pond. Mud-caked cows. He closed his eyes and had the sensation of flying. Flying through the forest. Skimming branches, feeling the cool leaves slapping at his face. He opened his eyes again. Jammed his broken finger into the soil until tears rose. The farm faded.
“Three or four hours until dawn,” he said. “I’ll watch for the rest. You two get some sleep.”
Lokk cleaned his swords on a dead man’s surcoat. “You sure you didn’t get stung?”
“You start with that again and we’ll have a reckoning.” Murrogar sat up. “I didn’t get stung. Wasn’t time. Thing didn’t even pause. Just cut me open and threw me back.”
Drissdie stopped singing and looked at them.
Lokk sat down and drew out strips of dried antelope from his pouch. Handed one to Murrogar. “You said you fought it. Stabbed it. What’s it like?”
Murrogar took a bite of the antelope. It tasted of boiled shoes. He staggered to his feet. “Fast. Faster than anything I’ve ever fought. Deadly. It thinks. It learns. It’s... it’s magnificent. Huge and powerful. Twisted through with vines. Teeth curved like a giant’s ribcage. Beautiful thing. Beautiful.” The farm was back. His father gutting a lamb. Blood washing down like a waterfall. Blood pooling on the floor. Glistening blood.
“You fight it or fuck it?” Lokk snapped.
Murrogar shook his head until the farm receded again. “It’s fast. And it’ll have you. Only way to kill that thing is to take its seamarkin’ head off. And then burn it. Maybe sink the ashes in the Sea of Arren. And pray the currents run south. Just stay away from it. Try to get out of the forest as fast as you can. If that monster’ll let you.” His stomach rolled. Warm bile rose and he swallowed it down.
“Can we all go?” Drissdie’s voice was strained, too high pitched, too loud.
Murrogar grinned at him. Spit to one side. “Glad you made it home, Hannish. Thought we’d lost you for good.” He spat again, but the bile wouldn’t stop flowing.
“We’re split from the others,” Drissdie replied. “Maybe we can wait for morning, and just go, d’you suppose? Find a surgeon for Murrogar? We’re split from the others. There ain’t nothing wrong with us leaving.”
“You leave this forest without your brig’s say so,” Murrogar replied, “and you’ll wish the Beast had got you. Three days torture, before they bury you alive.”
Drissdie rubbed at his forehead. “You said the Beast can’t be killed.”
“It can’t,” Murrogar said. “But it’s your duty to try. Plague here is a mercenary. He can turn tail like a dog and run. But you, your fate was sealed when they threw you onto this squad.”
Drissdie covered his face with his hands. “I heard it ain’t even alive. My mate, Frynn, said it’s a pet of the Andraen gods.” His next words came out as a sob. “And it can’t be killed! Cause it’s already dead! D’you... d’you suppose?”
Lokk shrugged and pointed with his chin at Murrogar. “He’s already dead. And I could kill him again without much thought.”
Murrogar tried to respond, but he couldn’t hold back the surge from his stomach any longer. He leaned to one side and vomited.
Lokk studied the old hero. “I might not have to, though.”
“I’m fine. Just making room for more of that antelope.” But he wasn’t fine. He glanced at the Eridian, and a thought came to him. It was a long time before he finally spoke again. “The boy. The Cobblethrie lad. He gonna live?”
Lokk sat on a haypad and drew out another strip of antelope. Broke it into three. “Don’t think he will. But then again, he wasn’t breathing when we found him. And then he was.” He handed Murrogar one of the strips. “He might live. But don’t think so.”
Murrogar brought the strip to his mouth, smelled the tang of salted meat and nearly vomited again.
Lokk rose to his feet and cocked his head. “More.” He pointed into the forest. Faint green lights bobbed in the distance.
“No!” Drissdie shook his head from side to side. “No. There can’t be more! How many... how many are there?”
Lokk stretched his arms to the sides and upward, swung them in circles. “Don’t know. How many people in Nuldryn been taken by that Beast?”
Chapter 18
Love is simply selfishness, honed to a razor-fine point.
—Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet
The morning sun made the canopy glow. Sir Jastyn helped to bury the fire, then walked to his sleeping hole, where his sword belt and shield lay. He removed the Whitewind Boar brooch from his shoulder, stroked it with his thumb, then tucked it into his pouch.
“Sir Jastyn,” Maribrae’s voice was fragile. “I would speak with you, if I may.”
“Hello, Maribrae.” He noted the look in her eyes and frowned. “What is it?”
“Only the trees should bear witness,” she whispered.
“Maribrae,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.” He leaned in toward her, whispered. “We can’t sneak away anymore on this journey.”
Maribrae shook her head as if clearing a vision. “I don’t know what you say,” she whispered. “You speak of nonsense, of cruelty.”
Jastyn pulled her to the edge of the ramparts, stepped over the wall and helped her over.
“I am sorry my dearest sky, my moon and stars,” he said. “The brig had a talk with me about my role in this hunt. I promised him I would be the very example of a loyal soldier for the rest of the journey. I am nothing but a common trudge now. Jastyn the Trudge.”
“A common trudge?” her whisper was fierce. “You are a prince of Laraytia! Example of a soldier? Why not example of a spouse?” She looked away and clenched her fists. It was only when she could unclench her hands again that she looked back. “Jastyn, no longer will we be together after Maurai. The Terrible Wound,” she bared her teeth. “That Whore, comes in two circles.”
“I know, my love,” he replied. “But I gave my word to the brig. Perhaps I can arrange another outing after—”
“Mundaaith shred the brig’s heart!” she cried. “Time is our enemy. Give heed, my Jastyn. This hunt is doomed to failure. The Beast will destroy us, one and all! Break from this. Find your glory elsewhere, or nowhere, or find it somewhere with me.” She took his hand and placed it over her heart, her eyes pleading. “Jastyn the Husband.”
He coiled his arms around her, squeezed her softly. “Do not fret my little lark. Nothing will harm us.” She didn’t reply so he hugged her more tightly. “I love you, my little sprite. More than anyone has ever loved anyone or anything.”
“And I love you,” she said, her voice hollow, her shoulders slumped. “More than that.”
He smiled and touched her chin with his fingers. “Listen to me, love. All will be fine. Black Murrogar is out there somewhere. He may well be killing the Beast himsel–”
“Murrogar is dead!” Tears flowed from beneath her painted lids.
Jastyn shook his head. “No… no my sweet bard,” he said. “The brig saw him leave the campsite. He lives still. He is invincible. He is like the Mighty Ravenscar of the old legends. Like Tanner Andyll. Murrogar’s out there somewhere. Avenging the Cobblethries.”
Maribrae grasped both sides of Jastyn’s face, looked into his eyes. “Murrogar is dead. The brig and hammer spoke of it not a hundred breaths past.” She let the words settle. “The brig lied. He wants Murrogar in the soldiers’s hearts, not their thoughts.”
“No, my love. You misheard.”
“I missed nothing. I heard everything. If the Beast lives still, it is because Murrogar could not destroy it. Why would all the Cobblethries be dead if Black Murrogar could prevent it? And Murrogar himself is dead now, so his sword is lost to us.”
Jastyn pulled her hands away slowly and shook his head again. “That’s… not possible. Nothing can kill Murrogar. And if something did, the Brig would have told me. They would have said something. They would never have kept such a secret from me.”
Maribrae tilted her head. “My muse. My stars. Why would they speak such things to a common trudge?”
“Ranks up!” shouted Hammer from the distance. “Ranks up, you beef-witted brownfingers!” The soldiers rose slowly, took their places in the formation.
“They call,” said Jastyn. “I must go”
“I call,” begged Maribrae. “You must stay.”
Jastyn kissed her and pulled free of her clutching hands. “I must go,” he repeated softly.
I won’t scream. Maribrae thought. Some day he will see it. But I won’t scream.
Jastyn scooped up his sword belt and shield and ran to the formation, taking his place beside Rundle Graen.
“Fucking arse nipples,” Maribrae muttered. She wandered back to the fire, watching him go, wiping at her eyes. The tears wouldn’t stop now, try as she might to stem them. Jastyn took his mark and cried out “Laraytia!” with the other men, held his sword high and smiled.
Aramaesia approached, dragging Ulrean in a makeshift litter. She noted Maribrae’s tears and the direction in which she looked. The archer studied the soldiers, thrusting and pivoting, shouting and shuffling. “Men and their battles,” she said.
Maribrae sniffled. “Women and our battles.”
Ulrean stared at her from the litter. She smiled back at him. “A flower blooms in the cesspool! You are the finest thing in this forest, little lord.”
The boy wrinkled his nose. “I’m not a flower. My name is Ulrean.”
“Of course it is,” Maribrae replied, her voice quivering, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Lord Ulrean Cobblethrie, Thane of Laundingham, crown prince of Lae Duerna.”
Ulrean nodded. “Yes. Precisely. Why is it that you cry?”
“Cry? I cry not, seedling.” She stroked his hair.
Ulrean knitted his brows, traced lines down from his eyes and pointed at her face. It took an effort to do so.
“What then?” she asked. “These? Not tears, little mouse.”
“Not tears?”
“Blood,” she replied. “The blood of a wounded soul.”
Urean looked to Aramaesia.
“A play of words,” she explained. He accepted this and turned his attention to the soldiers. Aramaesia reached into a pouch, offered a square of fabric to Maribrae. The songmaiden took it and dabbed at her eyes. She looked at the fabric, held it to her waist.
“How stylish, this kerchief.” She smiled. “It matches my skirt.”
Chapter 19
In Maug Maurai, even the trees serve Mundaaith.
In Maug Maurai, even the trees can kill.
— From “The Andraen Forest,” by Dallyn Salthis
There were fewer maurg this time. Eight or ten, perhaps. The fiends stopped at the edges of the camp, as they had the first time, and howled. Their cries rang with fury. A palpable anger in their postures.
Drissdie held his good luck charm up to the canopy and prayed to his mother. Lokk took three deep breaths and set his hands on the hilts at his side. Black Murrogar struggled to his feet and stood, swaying.
“We keep... ambushing them,” Murrogar said with a grin. “You think they’d learn.”
The creatures howled a second time. But at the pinnacle of their cries, they stopped. The howls ceased abruptly, as if cut off by a choirmaster. One by one the creatures turned and slipped back into the forest.
“They’re going,” Drissdie said, and he made a sound that was equal parts sob and laugh. “They ain’t fighting.”
Lokk watched them go, shook his head slowly. “That a good thing?”
Murrogar coughed, looked at the glob of blood in his hand, then flicked it to the ground. “They did that before. It’s a good thing.” His knees trembled, so he tried to sit down but ended up falling sideways with a thump. Lokk and Drissdie knelt at his side.
“Stay with us, old man,” the Eridian said.
“Not going anywhere,” Murrogar rasped. “Just trying to get some sleep. Stop coddling me.”
Something crackled in the darkness. Impossible to pinpoint the direction from which it sounded. The three of them gazed into the forest, searching for the foul glow of the fiends.
Lokk jumped to his feet and pulled on Murrogar’s arm. “We have to go. Now.”
He and Drissdie helped the old hero stand.
“What’s wrong?” Drissdie’s voice trembled again. “Why do we have to go?”
Lokk pulled one of Murrogar’s arms around his shoulder and helped him toward the forest. “I know why those things left.”
“You do?” Drissdie replied. “Why?”
A deafening explosion sounded from above them. The soil next to them erupted in a spout of earth and stone. Drissdie howled and grabbed at the back of his neck.
Murrogar shouted for them to run, to leave him and run, but not even he could hear his words. Another explosion sounded. Another geyser of dirt fired into the sky. Falling earth pattered onto their helms like rainfall.
Lokk grabbed Drissdie with his free arm and slung him toward the west. Pointed westward v
igorously and helped Murrogar run from the murderous trees of Maug Maurai.
Chapter 20
Brig-down is perhaps the most unusual rank in all Celusian military. Laraytian brigs who are promoted to brig-down must spend one year among the common soldiers before attaining the rank of commander. Their position, during this time, is lower even than a trudge. Anyone can command a brig-down. But few soldiers dare. Because no one wants to make an enemy of a commander in the Standards.
—Hallek Darbignion, from “The Standards of Laraytia.”
After the drill, the soldiers collapsed by the fire, sweating and laughing, drinking and roaring. Aramaesia walked Ulrean—in his litter—to the center of camp where Grae Barragns stood.
“Do you see?” She smiled brightly. “He is awake, now. Fully awake. He has drunken water, and is speaking.”
“Well,” said Grae, “That’s something.”
“Is it not wonderful?” she asked.
He tried to match her smile, nodded his head. “It’s something.”
The rest of the soldiers walked over a few at a time.
“His name is Ulrean,” said Aramaesia.
“His name is Duke Ulrean,” Sage corrected. “And he’s the lord of Lae Duerna.”
“This little thing is a duke?” asked Shanks.
“He is now,” said Sage.
Grae knelt beside the boy, looked at him as one might examine a clay jug that has fallen ten feet without breaking. “Boy,” said Grae. “How is it possible that you are alive? A horde of those maurg sucked the blood from your veins.” He pointed to Sage. “That man was bitten by just one of them—just one—and he still has trouble walking.”
“Sage probably ain’t the best example of health, brig, sir,” called Shanks.
Ulrean cringed under Grae’s inspection, grabbed at Aramaesia and rested his head against her arm. As he did so, his bangs rose upward, revealing the bottom third of the gem. Shanks and Jjarnee saw it at once and caught each other’s eyes. Shanks looked to Sage, motioned with his chin toward the stone. Sage noted it, raised one eyebrow.
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