“Forget it,” said Grae. “Rest. We’ll need to ask you some questions about the Beast later.”
The boy clung more tightly to Aramaesia’s neck, buried his face in her shoulder. “Grae… Brig Barragns,” she said. “Things are changed now. The child is improving. Perhaps it would be best to take him back. If he has the importance that Sage says, I think it is our duty to bring him to safety. Not into the way of harm.”
“I have to say I agree with her, brig, sir,” said Sage. “We hold perhaps the last breath of a royal family. I think it best to secure the child and then return for the Beast.”
Murmurs of agreement.
“Do all of you think so, then?” asked Grae. The murmurs of agreement grew louder. “Maybe we should discuss it. Why don’t we sit and have a discussion on the merits of that idea. What do you say? Let’s forget about rank and have an honest discourse. Come on.” He waved them forward. “What? No one? No one wants to help lead this squad?” He gazed at each person, then spoke with the razored voice of The Headsman. “The next person who crosses rank will find their naked body tied to a tree for the Beast.” He scanned the averted faces. “I will not be questioned again. Is that understood?”
Mutters of “Aye, brig sir.”
“Is that understood?” His shout made Meedryk jump.
“Aye, sir!” the soldiers shouted in unison.
Grae turned to the scout. “Sage?”
“Yes, Brig.”
“Look to the ground,” he replied. “Find me my men.”
Chapter 21
When Murrogar dies, black silk will drape across Laraytia for a decade.
—Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet
The three warriors pushed through the forest, blinded by darkness and deafened by the explosions behind. Murrogar kept his arm around Lokk’s shoulder. The Eridian was all but carrying the old hero. Drissdie groaned with every step until even Murrogar told him to shut up. Some sort of thick barb had been driven into the young soldier’s neck.
“Gag’s going back on,” Lokk called.
“It hurts!” Drissdie shouted. “You got no pity because it ain’t you got hit! It hurts!” Lokk glanced back and Drissdie stammered, spoke in a much lower tone. “D’you…d’you suppose?”
Murrogar didn’t speak. He stared at the silhouetted forest and tried to focus. The trees were whispering. They wanted something from him.
“Tree on the ground over there,” Lokk said. “We can shelter there.”
Murrogar looked where Lokk had pointed. The trees whispered again, more loudly. Angry whispers. Was it Lojen? Was the God of Justice speaking through the forest
“You ever…” Murrogar cleared blood from his throat and tried again. “You ever yearn for something, but don’t know what?”
Lokk helped Murrogar over a tangle of vines, kept driving toward the fallen tree. He grunted as more and more of Murrogar’s weight fell onto his shoulders.
“Like a call. Like an old friend calling you.”
Drissdie moaned again.
“Hannish!” Lokk’s shout startled Murrogar, who shook his head and glanced around as if unclear of where he was. “Take his other arm. Help me get him to the tree.”
The young soldier took Murrogar’s right arm and the two of them dragged him toward the tree. Murrogar had seen this before. Had others carried him through the forest? A river. Something about a river.
They lowered his body to the ground. The protruding bones of his shoulder blade scraped the bark and the pain brought tears to his eyes. He shook his head. Took deep breaths. The haziness faded.
“You know,” he stared into Lokk’s eyes. “I think maybe I lost my wits for a few moments. After the Beast cut me open. I fell against a tree. Don’t remember a lot.”
Lokk stared at Murrogar silently.
The old hero chuckled. “You’ll be insufferable if I say it, so I won’t.”
The Eridian fell back against the wall of bark behind him. He nodded. “Those wounds would have killed anyone. Even you.”
“Had a word with Lojen.” Murrogar winced, placed a hand on his stomach. “I understand what he wanted from me, and I’ve done it. Mostly.”
Lokk stared into the forest and nodded.
Drissdie looked from Murrogar, to Lokk, and back again, eyes glittering in the first blush of dawn. “You’re... you’re not saying... ” He shook his head, the loose strap clanging off the metal. “You ain’t gonna die, Murrogar. Nothing… can...” A sob cracked his voice. He wiped tears away with one hand. “Nothing… can kill Black Murrogar.”
Murrogar pointed his chin toward Lokk Lurius. “He can.” The old hero winced, arched his back and a groan escaped him. A tiny sound that silenced Drissdie Hannish.
Lokk kept his eyes on the forest. Lojen’s gaze was lightening the darkness. He shook his head, the barest of movements. “You in pain?”
“Ain’t so bad,” Murrogar replied.
Lokk stared at him. “You in pain?”
The old hero let out a long breath. “There’s a war in my belly, and all the horses have broken-glass hooves.”
Lokk nodded. His hands touched the hilts of his short swords.
“Who are you, Plague?” Murrogar slid Sage’s hunting horn out of his belt and tossed it toward Lokk.
The Eridian picked up the horn and ran a finger along its curves. “I’m the Black Spinster’s lover.”
Murrogar let out a breath. “And you kill for money?”
Lokk shrugged. “Can’t make shoes.”
“You kill only for money?”
Lokk glanced at his theiyra. “I’ve killed for every reason there is.”
“Something bad’s happening in this forest, Plague. And I ain’t talking about the Beast. There’s worse evil in man than in any other creature. Lojen put you on this earth to kill, but you ain’t a plague. You’re a stiletto. You understand? Pick your targets. And your reasons.”
Lokk drew one of his short swords. The metal rang and hummed in the still air of Maurian dawn. “I’ll start with the Beast.”
“You’re not... listening. Leave it alone.” He winced and stared up into the canopy, took deep breaths. “It can’t be killed. You want advice? Take your men and run. Come back with a full cluster. A god-smiling brigade. You might have a chance with a brigade.”
“I’ll have it.”
“That so, Plague?”
“That’s so.”
Murrogar took a long, shivering breath. “You still think you’re better than me?”
Lokk nodded.
The old hero grinned. “Well, I imagine you’d have to be twice as fast as me to have a chance against that monster. You think you’re twice as fast as me?”
Lokk held up his blade, ran his gaze along the edge and shrugged. “Maybe I’m twice as smart.”
Murrogar laughed, made choking sounds and spit out another globule of phlegm. His body shuddered and convulsed and he howled into the sky.
Drissdie sobbed quietly, the barb in his neck forgotten. The old hero nodded to him. “Keep your shield up, Hannish.”
The boy nodded, a wracking sob hunching him.
Murrogar looked to Lokk Lurius.
Nodded.
The Eridian held his sword out to one side. “You want to say words?”
“Yeah, make it quick, you cock. Lojen needs a new field marshal.”
Lurius lashed his sword at Murrogar’s throat, the blade a silver blur. At the last instant, the old hero lifted his own weapon and the Eridian’s blade deflected away with an echoing ting. Murrogar laughed, carefree and confident, as Lurius drew his second blade and finished the task.
As the life flowed from Black Murrogar, he looked at the Eridian and managed to nod. Lokk nodded back. Lojen’s light set Maug Maurai on fire as they watched the spark fade from the mighty warrior’s eyes. Drissdie covered his mouth, and cried, silent sobs wracking his body.
Chapter 22
Sage often found himself in places from which he was forbidden. He had a casu
al, witty style. Ageless good looks that opened many doors for him. And a searing tongue that closed just as many.
— From “The Headsman of Laraytia,” by Jurn Hallion
Sage once again found tracks belonging to Lokk and Drissdie. He followed them for a full bell, with the squad trailing behind. Ulrean sat on his shoulders for a time. The child couldn’t stand, but was fascinated by the scout’s skills. Sage prattled to the boy as they walked, showed him how to spot the subtle damage left behind by people walking.
“You must understand,” said Sage, “that anyone who walks through a forest changes it in some way.”
They cleared a line of boulders and came to a vast clearing. The squad mates paused at the edge of the field, eyes darting to the sides, soldiers gripping hilts or hafts. A falling tree thundered in the distance. Rundle started and drew his sword.
“Calm yourself, Graen,” said Hammer.
The treeless expanse stretched for thirty paces or so. An island in the green sea of Maug Maurai. Tree stumps poked from the moss like skeletal fingers rising from graves.
“Why are there no trees here?” Aramaesia asked. “What made this clearing?”
“The power of nobility,” said Sage. “I think it’s part of Myndraed Chase, the old hunting encampment of the Dryne family. Back before the Beast started its own hunt.”
Grae watched Sage run his hands over the carpet moss. The scout stared up into the trees, then down at the earth, but he didn’t enter the clearing. “Sage,” he called. “I’m growing tired of the periphery evidence. When do we see more tracks?”
Sage raised one hand, flat with the thumb on top. He sighted along the thumb. “Soon, Brig, sir,” he said. “The Beast is walking very lightly. Leaving faint impressions only.”
“I don’t see any impressions,” said Hammer, taking a pipe from his mouth.
“Well of course you don’t,” said Sage. “You haven’t been trained to see them.”
In the distance, another tree cracked and groaned, taking down saplings and branches in a crackling crash.
“Blyth’s cunt!” shouted Beldrun. “I am finished with those stupid excuses of yours! There’s nothing here. There ain’t been nothing for miles! We been walking without aim for bells. And you know what? We ain’t gonna find the Beast. Not with you leading the way!”
Sage held a finger to his lips and shushed Shanks.
“Quiet your chickens!” said Shanks. “Don’t you shush me! I’ll—”
“Shanks, shut it!” Hammer cocked his head and listened.
Two ash trees, thirty paces or so from the squad, cracked loudly and toppled to one side, chittering through leaves and catching in a tangle of other branches. Another crack rang out, and a large cedar split, tumbled, pulled smaller trees down with it. Men and women scattered as the massive trunk pounded the earth, bouncing twice and sending clouds of dust into the air. A rain of branches and moss fell. Hedges and saplings shook in the distance, one section at a time, crushed under the weight of something immense. The line of toppling vegetation drew closer and closer.
“Into the clearing!” Grae called. “Into the clearing!”
“Form up in the clearing!” called Hammer. “Get your quivering twigs in formation!”
A wagon-sized branch dropped from the canopy, clipping Jjarnee and sending Shanks diving to the ground. A mountain pushed through the brush.
“Fucking arse nipples!” Sage shouted.
It was fifteen feet high, and likely three times that in length. But the density impressed Grae the most. Like a walking boulder. Squat, elephantine legs carried the massive bulk through the brush. The back and flanks and belly were armored with thick, jutting plates. The head was bony, angular, with short, flat horns that jutted out to either side, and a jagged beak, similar—if a hundred times larger—than the ones seen on pond-dwelling clip-turtles.
Aramaesia handed Ulrean to Lord Aeren and strung her bow.
“Hammer, keep that thing back!” called Grae. “The rest, pivot on me!”
The monster bellowed—blocks of granite dragged over cobblestones—and snapped at Jjarnee who was still rising to his feet. Hammer stabbed at the great chiseled head with a spear.
The right side of the line pivoted toward the creature’s left flank. Sage and Rundle thrust with all the strength they could muster. Rundle’s spear shattered on the monster’s side. Sage’s slid off the armor-like plates. The creature wheeled, so that its back was to the stone ridge behind the camp. It howled again, its breath smelling of loam and wood shavings
“Left side, Hammer!” Grae called.
Shanks, his sallet upside down on the ground, swung his axe in a two-handed strike, wincing at the shock as it rang off the creature’s hide. “It’s like ironwood!”
“Left spears!” Grae thrust against the monster’s chest. His spear tip left a long gouge, but sank no deeper.
“Lojen’s Shithole!” Hammer shouted. “Is like stone!”
Two arrows flashed through the air. One snapped on the bony head. The other glanced off the plates on its back. One of Jjarnee’s bolts followed, bouncing off the creature’s brow like a cork arrow.
Soldiers took turns lunging and thrusting, as they had drilled countless times in the forest. The creature rolled its head to one side, tiny eyes squinting against the sharp spears. It bellowed once more, then dropped its head low and charged.
The horns struck the line and sent soldiers into the air like thresh before broom. And while the soldiers recovered, the creature snapped its massive beak around Rundle Graen. The jagged bones clamped down, drawing a howl from the infantryman.
“Everyone up!” Grae shouted. “Attack the neck! Get him out!”
“He sure coulda used a shield there!” Shanks snarled.
Aramaesia aimed carefully and fired another arrow. This one struck inches away from the creature’s left eye and deflected into the forest. She scowled, blew a breath upward and nocked another arrow—one with a longer shaft, fletched with raven feathers.
She drew the bowstring back, shut her eyes and chanted quietly. When her eyes opened again, her expression was relaxed, focused. She drew the arrow back farther, let out her breath, then released the bowstring. The arrow struck the animal’s neck and sank to the feathers.
The monster’s cry was muffled by Rundle’s body. The creature rocked backwards on its haunches and lifted its head to the sky, shrieking. But it did not drop Rundle Graen. The jaw and beak closed more tightly around him and the bearded infantryman gave a weak cry.
“We’re gonna lose ‘im!” Hammer jabbed with his spear as he shouted. “Strike! Strike!”
Grae glanced around the clearing, noted a small ridge a hundred feet back, at the edge of the clearing. It was almost as tall as the creature they fought.
“Jastyn!” he called. The knight glanced at the brig, his jaws set, his skin flushed. He had carved scratches into the armored plates, but nothing more. Grae motioned with his chin toward the ridge. “You want glamour?”
Sir Jastyn stared at the ridge, squinted, then grinned. “Aye, sir!”
“Jastyn, no!” Maribrae shouted.
“You have to push it back, brig, sir!” Sir Jastyn called.
Grae nodded. “Shift!” he shouted. “Form left! Form left! Drive it back toward that ridge! Meedryk! Meedryk, we need to scare it back!”
The lines merged into one solid wall on the left side. The remaining spearmen thrust as one, shouting together as they did.
“Jah!”
Shanks lunged forward and brought the axe down in an overhand swing that bounced off the creature’s side and sent the big infantryman sprawling. The spearmen struck again.
“Jah!”
The creature took one step back, lifted its front legs and slammed them down with a thud that resonated in Grae’s bones. The line of soldiers scattered momentarily, then reassembled and continued to drive it backward.
Grae stifled a half-smile. Lojen’s heart, but they look sharp.
Meedryk stepped forward slowly, until he was only a few paces behind the soldiers. He took a long, deep breath and closed his eyes. Let his fingers run along the charms of Aramaesia’s bracelet. Ignored the shouts and roars.
He heard nothing. And listened to everything.
Ethereal drums pounded somewhere deep in his mind. In his heart. Perhaps in his very soul. He’d heard those drums before, but never quite so loudly.
He pocketed the bracelet and dug into the sleeves of his meridian cloak. Took four cints of eliciam powder and one sildar of dryflanuerian powder. He didn’t have to look at his hands to know he had the perfect ratio of the two chemics.
The spearmen jabbed at the creature.
“Jah!”
Meedryk took two steps forward, so that he could almost touch the hulking monster. He waved his hands in a complex pattern, flinging the chemics as he did so. “Fathfer dynaria!” The two powders came together in the air.
A spout of flame erupted like a blazing cyclone on the creature’s chest. The soldiers fell back from the heat of the flames. Sulfurous smoke drifted, turning the air acrid. The monster shrieked. It dropped Rundle Graen. Fell to its haunches and roared into the sky. Drissdie and Sage lunged forward to grab Rundle by the arms and haul him back behind the battle line.
“At him!” called Grae. “Drive him to the rocks!”
The spearmen jabbed at the same time, aiming for the creature’s smoldering chest. The animal roared, but walked backward toward the ridge. Spearmen lunged again. The creature turned a shoulder toward them. Backed more quickly. When the monster’s armored back was almost even with the rocks Grae shouted, “Jastyn!”
Sir Jastyn nodded and sheathed his sword. “Sage, spear,” he called. “When I’m ready.”
Sage raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Sir Jastyn took a few deep breaths, mouthed a silent prayer to Lojen and waited for the creature to lower its head. When it did, he sprinted forward.
Jastyn the Foolhardy.
“Now!” he shouted. Sage tossed him the spear. With a shout, the knight jammed the weapon into the creature’s lowered neck. The spear tip found a slot between two of the thick plates and lodged there. The animal raised its head and howled again as Jastyn leaped into the air, still holding the spear in both hands. The knight carved a graceful arc as the animal’s neck rose. His body was compact, his limbs rigid. Every soldier stopped to watch, breath held.
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