Stars and Graves

by Roberto Calas

  Jastyn twisted his body, arched toward the rocks, grinning wildly.

  Jastyn the Champi—

  The crack of the spear resonated across the plain. Jastyn tumbled backward, bounced once off the creature’s spine and fell with a grunt and clatter to the mossy soil below.

  “Jastyn!” Maribrae’s scream was a razored blade.

  The knight flattened himself to the ground as the creatures head swung for him. The bony beak grazed the top of his helm.

  “Help him!” cried Grae. The squad advanced and the creature turned its head to challenge them.

  Sir Jastyn scrambled to his feet. The broken spear tip was still lodged in the armored neck. He timed the monster’s dipping head and leaped. Grabbed hold of the shattered shaft then drew his dagger as the beaked head rose once more.

  Jastyn the Persistent.

  The knight jabbed at the creature’s eye, but was swinging so wildly that he couldn’t strike true. The spearmen jabbed as one.

  “Jah!”

  But the creature lowered its head again and swung sideways, crashing into the line, shattering two spears and hurling Sage and Jjarnee to the ground. Shanks leaped backward as great jaws snapped at him.

  “Mundaaith have this all!” the big infantryman shouted. He climbed to his feet and sprinted into the forest.

  “Shanks!” Hammer bellowed. “Shanks, get back here!”

  “Jastyn!” said Grae. “Jastyn, get down and take Shanks’s spot. Jastyn!”

  The knight was still dangling from the creature’s neck. He thrust his dagger toward the creature’s eye again but the massive head swung upward and Jastyn was flipped up and over to the opposite side.

  “Jastyn!” Maribrae howled. “Come down, Jastyn!”

  The knight’s gauntleted hand still held the spear shaft. He planted his feet and took short hops back toward the creature’s eye.

  Aramaesia fired. She used the last of the raven-feather arrows then continued with armor-piercing bodkins. Jjarnee rolled to his feet, his armor rattling, and fired three bolts, from three different crossbows. None of the bolts made it past the armored plates. Grae was the only soldier still holding an unbroken spear. The creature swung its head violently. Flipped Jastyn from side to side like the ball of a flail.

  And then Beldrun Shanks was on the ridge, level with the creature’s head, axe held in both hands and high over his head. Suddenly, the animal made a strangled, wheezing call, then reared unsteadily. Shanks paused, then hurled the axe-head down with a wild cry, twisting his wrists to strike his mark. The blade slid down one plate and into the junction of another, bit deeply. The entire length of one blade disappeared.

  The creature shuddered. It staggered to one side, taking Shank’s axe with it. Soldiers scattered as the creature stumbled sideways. The massive animal slowed, swayed, then toppled sideways, its body striking with a thump that shook the forest floor.

  Shanks clambered down the rocks laughing. “Ol’ Beldrun Shanks were too much for it!”

  Hammer raised his sword in the air and let out an echoing howl. Shanks and Drissdie and Jjarnee howled back. Even Lord Aeren screamed into the canopy and laughed.

  Sir Jastyn lay a dozen paces from the creature, shaking his head slowly and taking deep breaths. Sage helped him to his feet. The scout glanced over the knight’s shoulder at the creature’s head, at the Whitewind dagger buried to the hilt in the monster’s right eye. “Nice dagger work.”

  Maribrae sprinted toward the knight and threw herself into his arms.

  “Jastyn the Magnificent!” she cried.

  Grae and Hammer ran to check on Rundle. The soldier lay on the grass a short distance away. Lord Aeren draped a blanket over his legs. The infantryman nodded curtly to the noble.

  “A few ribs,” said Rundle. “I’ll live.”

  This proclamation set off another round of celebrations. Shanks and Jjarnee Kruu leaped into the air and crashed shoulders, their metal spaulders clinging. Hammer bashed his shield against Sage’s. Jjarnee sent a long, melodious hoot into the air.

  As the soldiers celebrated, Aramaesia skipped through the ranks, clapping and giggling, making certain that no one else was injured. Grae was sore and bruised, nursing a gash on his arm, but he was sound. As was Sage. As was Jastyn. Everyone had been battered, but no one badly wounded.

  Aramaesia laughed and threw her arms around Grae. He embraced her, feeling the softness of her body against the leather of his gauntlets, then pulled his hands away and gave her a half-smile.

  She beamed a smile. “We leave immediately, no?”

  The soldiers quieted.

  “We killed it,” she said, trying to hold her smile. “We will leave the forest immediately, yes?”

  Hammer and Grae exchanged glances.

  “Maid Aramaesia,” said Hammer “This... uh... ”

  “That wasn’t the Beast,” Grae said.

  Her smile faded. “What? How is… what?”

  No one answered.

  “What was it we fought?” She pointed at the twitching bulk on the grass. “What is that? What did we kill?”

  “Was a cire hulk,” said Hammer quietly. “A chunky one, too. I seen thirty men struggle to take one down. And Grae did it with nine.”

  Aramaesia closed her eyes, her fists clenched. She whirled on her heel and stalked off toward Ulrean. “Kon’sha mulior!”

  Jjarnee peered over Hammer’s shoulder. “What she say?”

  “Don’t know,” said Hammer. “Was Graci.” He tossed his broken spear to the ground. “But I think we just heard Maid Aramaesia’s first curse.”

  Chapter 23

  Lojen gives his warriors a new body when they arrive at his hall—a body cured of all sickness and damage. But the scar of every battle-wound shines brightly on the new flesh. The warriors spend eternities telling tales of how each scar was earned.

  —From “A Treatise on the Champions of Nuldryn,” by Jurn Hallion

  Lojen’s gaze woke Lokk Lurius from his slumber. The Eridian sat up from the forest floor. Bits of wood and moss fell from his cheek. It was past mid-day.

  Drissdie Hannish snored on the ground next to him. Lokk kicked him, hard. The young soldier woke with a start and a shriek.

  “Wh—what?” Tears had carved riverbeds into the dried blood upon his face.

  “You had watch!” Lokk shouted. “You couldn’t stay awake for one bell?”

  “I—I didn’t even know I fell asleep, d’you suppose?”

  Lokk stood and stretched. He stared at the body of Black Murrogar. “We’ll bury him.”

  “We don’t have any shovels,” Drissdie replied.

  “There’s shovels at camp.” Lokk set off in the direction from which they had come, making certain to walk in a straight line. He paused and fumbled at his belt. Drew the hunting horn and blew three long blasts before marching forward again. Drissdie scrambled to his feet and followed.

  They walked for a half bell before spotting the campsite again. The exploding trees surrounded the camp for a dozen paces in every direction. He held a forefinger to his lips and scowled at Drissdie, who nodded. They crept quietly into the small clearing and gathered the iron-shoed wooden shovels. Lokk rummaged through Sage’s pack, found the leather-bound pack of preserved antelope meat, and a flint. He re-set the stones of the campfire, added wood and leaves.

  “What are you doing?” Drissdie pointed upward, to the web of massive tree limbs overhead.

  “Give me your dagger.”

  Drissdie unsheathed his dagger and handed it to the Eridian. “Why aren’t we leaving?”

  “Because I’m hungry,” Lokk struck the flint against the dagger blade, wincing at the sound and glancing up at the trees. “We’ll wait for the others before we bury Murrogar.”

  “What about the trees?” Drissdie asked.

  Lokk shrugged. “The trees aren’t dead. We don’t need to bury them.”

  “I mean—”

  The Eridian silenced him with a look, then struck the flin
t against the dagger blade again and again until the sparks caught on the leaves and tinder.

  “We should wait for the squad away from here, d’you suppose?” Drissdie whispered. “Our voices could set the trees off again.”

  “That’s why we’re here.” Lokk placed three branches across the fire with a finger-width gap between each and set the antelope meat on them. “Every word you say puts your life in danger.”

  Drissdie opened his mouth, shut it. Lokk blew on the faltering flames.

  Chapter 24

  The typical Standard is not endowed with a strong intellect, nor any wealth of peacetime skills. They subsist from payout to payout, most of them. But their lives hold a richness that few can match. Even the lowliest of Standards is rich with tales of travel and violence, of danger and camaraderie. Some of the tales are even their own. Stories are the lifeblood of the soldier. They are the literature of their existence, entertainment in a world of relentless boredom and mind-scarring misery. There is nothing more appealing to a Standard than a new tale.

  —Hallek Darbignion, from “The Standards of Laraytia.”

  The soldiers used swords and axes to trim the high grasses of the clearing. Grae had them form a large camp around the boulders at the northern end, though it was not even mid-day. Meedryk helped the other men build ramparts in a thirty pace diameter.

  The squad was almost out of spears; they had only the eight spares. But the group had performed flawlessly and Grae felt a tingle of hope.

  “All of you deserve a rest,” he called to the soldiers. “Relax and eat for a bell, then we’re going to continue to search for our men. This clearing will serve as our home until those men are found.”

  †††

  Ulrean jerked awake with a snort.

  “There, my little sparrow, there.” Aramaesia, wrapped her arms around his head. “All is well. All is well.”

  The boy clamped his fingers onto Aramaesia’s arm. He stared at the forest around him as if dismayed that he was still there, and cried.

  “My little piconsi,” she whispered, holding him close. “My poor little sparrow. There is nothing to fear, my lord. You have the strongest warriors in your kingdom to protect you.”

  Ulrean rubbed at his eyes. “That’s what they said about Black Murrogar.”

  “Black Murrogar is only one man,” she replied. “We have Grae Barragns, and Hammer, and the famous Sir Jastyn Whitewind. How can anything defeat those men?” She hugged the child.

  Maribrae plodded over. “Is there room for me in this hug?” Ulrean opened one arm and let her in. “I fear the tale I will tell at the end of this journey. If I live to tell it.”

  “It will be a wonderful tale,” said Aramaesia.

  “So thought I, when we embarked. But I fear we share the fate of the Raging Eight.”

  “The Raging Eight?” asked Aramaesia.

  “Have you never heard the tale of Aerys’s Amber Ewer?” asked Maribrae

  “That tale... is a fabrication,” said Ulrean, sniffling.

  Maribrae tore herself out of the hug and looked at him with open mouth. “You should not speak such things!”

  “It’s true,” he said. “How would anyone know what happened? Tanner Andyll was the only survivor from The Raging Eight. And he died not long after they found him.”

  “The story of the journey did he relay before his death.”

  “Yes, but he was feverish and weak. They said he could scarcely speak. My father told me that the stories were created after he died. To make the men seem more heroic.”

  “What is this Amber Ewer?” asked Aramaesia.

  “’Tis only the most sacred relic of Laraytia. The Ever-Full Ewer of Aerys Laray. Bottomless vessel of nourishment. Aerys Laray shepherded the first Galadane settlers into the lands that one day would comprise Laraytia. And when the first winter settled on the land, from the Amber Ewer did Aerys sustain her followers. It was said that Blythwynn herself gifted the Ewer to Aerys.”

  “And this ewer was lost?” asked Aramaesia.

  Maribrae frowned. “The Durrenians stole it. Took it by force from the Padruis Blythhaven, and absconded it to their heathen lands. And so The Raging Eight was forged, to take back the symbol of Laraytian hope.”

  “I would love to hear the story.”

  “For you I would tell it, Aramaesia. But I fear Ulrean doesn’t fancy the tale”

  “I think I will fancy it when you tell it,” he said.

  “Heaven’s no,” she said. “I wouldn’t subject your blossoming mind to such fabrications. I will tell you a story of Pinkle, the Dancing Ox, instead.”

  “Pinkle the Dancing Ox?” His lips curled with distaste.

  “A tale of love and misunderstanding and a little girl’s favorite bovine.”

  “I want to hear about The Raging Eight! You will tell… ” He broke off, noting the look on Aramaesia’s face. “Please,” he said. “I would like to hear the story of Aerys’s Amber Ewer.”

  Maribrae shrugged and sat cross-legged. “I am bound to obey my lord.” She cleared her throat delicately and leaned forward, her face somber, her fingers splayed in the air. And she told him the tale, her voice rising and falling to create tension. He hands swirling always in front of her, creating the landscapes and fortresses that she spoke of. Ulrean listened raptly, but it wasn’t just the child. The soldiers grew silent and listened, as well. And when she reached the end of her tale, no one spoke for a long time, as if the entire camp had fallen under a spell.

  Aramaesia studied Ulrean’s face. No trace left of fear was left. If only Maribrae could tell him stories forever, keep him—

  Inspiration struck.

  “Ulrean. I have something to show you.” Aramaesia reached into her pack and withdrew the necklace that Grae had thrown to the ground when they had found Ulrean. “Do you know what this is?”

  Ulrean studied it, shook his head.

  “Do you remember what Tanner Andyll carried?” She asked.

  “Tanner Andyll.” He studied the pendant. It took only a moment for him to come to the proper conclusion. “He carried…” the boy gazed at the necklace with reverence, searched Aramaesia’s eyes. “...The Nightjar Pendant?”

  Aramaesia smiled and held it out to him. He took the charm. It was just exotic enough to be anything. Maribrae’s eyes widened too. She spoke with reverence. “It is said the pendant protects its wearer. Tanner Andyll turned an enemy into a frog once-ago by closing his eyes and speaking the magic words, Suhira Suenath.”

  “How did you get such a thing?” Ulrean asked.

  “A great military leader gave this to me,” said Aramaesia. “I keep it near me at all times. But I think, after what you have been through, perhaps you need it more than I.”

  Ulrean studied the pendant, then screwed his face into a mass of wrinkles. “This isn’t the Nightjar Pendant.” His voice was downcast but his eyes sought Aramaesia’s. “There is no real Nightjar Pendant. It is a story, nothing more. Isn’t that right?”

  “If you don’t want it…” Aramaesia reached for it and he drew it back.

  “I’d like to keep it anyway, if I could.” He studied it, slipped it over his head. “I wish there were a landscrubber near. I could use those words and see if they turned him into a frog.”

  Aramaesia grew silent.

  “What… what is it?” asked Ulrean.

  “Peasants are as important as lords.”

  “Peasants?” he smiled, as if perhaps she were having fun at him. “Black Murrogar said something similar. But peasants are a base people.”

  “Without them, you have no one to work your land, or feed your animals, or build your fortresses, or clear your forests.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But we provide them with protection, and land. We are their rulers.” He toyed with his ring. The heir-apparent signet with its Hammer and Sun. Leather strips had been wrapped around the base of it so that it could fit his tiny finger. “Besides, they are uneducated. They would be lost without us. An
d they smell bad.”

  “Every life was once part of the same great fire, Ulrean,” she replied. “We are sparks from that flame. A landscrubber is as much a part of you as your fingernails, or your hair. Or your heart.”

  Ulrean stared at the pendant in his hands for a long time. “What is this fire that we were all a part of?”

  “That is a long, long conversation,” she replied. “If you want respect from your subjects, Ulrean, then you must show respect toward them. As a fact, you should show them more respect than they show you. They follow your example. And the more noble and respectful you are, the more noble and respectful they will try to be.”

  Ulrean lifted the necklace, stared at the cryptic inscriptions on its surface. “I will be the most respectful lord in all of Laraytia.”

  Aramaesia smiled. “I do not doubt you will.”

  Chapter 25

  On that day, two hundred Durrenians ambushed a squad of Standards who were guarding a mine just outside of Maugna Faur. The Standards routed and were chased toward the fortress. Jurthys Cobblethrie was on the battlements of the fortress that day. He saw the Standards falling and ordered two clusters out of the fortress to destroy the savages. He opened the gates out of kindness. Out of shocking stupidity. He had the best of intentions, but the gates of Maugna Faur were never to be opened. Not ever.

  —Bervyl the Hawk, from his historical account, “Faur from Home.”

  The squad set off again, into the forest, Sage searching for any sign of the lost warriors.

  “We have to make concentric circles,” he mumbled. “Ever larger circles, until we find their tracks again.”

  A horn sounded in the distance. Three long blasts.

  “Sage, your horn!” Sir Jastyn shouted.