Stars and Graves

by Roberto Calas

  Sir Jastyn slammed the guard of his sword against his bracer and stepped forward. Shanks advanced, whirling the axe in side-to-side arcs. Jastyn avoided these strikes, or fended them off with slaps from his free hand. He timed one of the arcs. When the blades swept past him he sprinted forward at an angle and slashed up and outward in a backhand strike. The blade caught Shanks on the jaw as the big man lunged forward, tore through skin and cut the strap on his sallet. Shanks grunted and swung the axe back toward Jastyn, but the knight’s sprint had carried him out of range.

  The infantryman leaned over and put a hand to his face, stared at the massive wash of blood on his palm. The sallet wobbled on his head and he felt for the strap, realized it had been cut and tossed the helmet aside.

  He nodded toward Jastyn and resumed his stance. But Jastyn didn’t return to his crouch. The knight stood straight and reached for the buckle of his sallet. He raised a hand toward Beldrun as he set his sword down and removed the helmet, casting it aside. Then he picked up the sword and faced his opponent with bare head.

  “Mundaaith shit on us,” said Hammer. “What is he doing?”

  “Fighting his fight,” said Lokk, spitting. “And not Shanks’. It’ll be his death.”

  The men stuttered forward again and clashed; slashing, circling, feinting, striking with fists and elbows. Jastyn took to grabbing the haft of his opponent’s axe whenever he could. He didn’t hold it for long, just enough to disrupt Shanks’s timing, or to get a slash in, or to vex the big man. Shanks put a shoulder into Jastyn or slammed chests whenever he could.

  Fatigue settled on both of them. Their attacks grew sloppy. Their confrontations were, more and more often, ending in body contact and blows exchanged with fists or haft or pommel.

  The two warriors came together and Shanks inadvertently stepped on Jastyn’s foot. Both of them swayed off balance. Sir Jastyn tried to retreat but had to pull his foot hard to unfetter it. The motion made him a stumble backward.

  Shanks recovered his balance and pressed the attack. He swung with a groan, a rising strike aimed at the head. Sir Jastyn arched backward again. Watched the axe come closer. Then felt a rush of wind as the axe head disengaged from the shaft and soared elegantly into the darkening forest.

  Shanks hustled backward, stared with curled lip at the wooden haft of the axe. Sir Jastyn recovered his balance. He looked at the wooden shaft in Beldrun’s hand, then into the forest where the axe blade had disappeared. The knight took three deep breaths then straightened his back and stood with his sword fully extended. Beldrun threw the axe shaft at him. The knight knocked it out of the air with his free hand and kept his sword extended. The big man crouched, hands clawed and ready. Jastyn, sword still raised, called out,. “Lokk, give Beldrun his spare axe.”

  No one moved.

  “The gods-buggering fool!” spat Hammer.

  “This is Sir Jastyn’s dream,” said Sage. “His opponent loses his weapon during a duel to the death. Lojen protect you, you brave, honorable, stupid knight.”

  “Someone get him his seamarken axe!” shouted Sir Jastyn.

  Lokk walked to Shanks’s bedroll and found the single-bladed war axe that Shanks kept as a replacement. He removed the leather blade cover and walked to the big infantryman, extended the axe toward him.

  The knight backed up three paces and lowered the sword, down and to the right. Shanks grasped the shaft of his spare axe warily. Lokk Lurius didn’t release the weapon and Shank stumbled as he tried to pull it free. The big man glared at the Eridian. Lokk gave sir Jastyn a stern look, then released the axe.

  The duelists took up again. Shanks wielding the lighter axe with a renewed energy, striking with both the blade and the cruel spike on the opposite side.

  Shanks mistimed a strike. Jastyn, pulled up short and let the big man’s axe swing past, then lunged forward, swinging high from left to right. Shanks tried to duck under it but only leaned his head into the strike more profoundly.

  The blade caught the infantryman in the temple and carved a line across the eye and the bridge of the nose before Shanks could pull himself away from it. Blood erupted from the wound, spraying in thick clumps as the big man spun his head from the blade.

  Shanks howled and stumbled backward and put a hand to his right eye, knowing that he would never see through it again. But his battle juices were flowing, and he lived still, and that was the only thing that mattered. He raised his axe toward Sir Jastyn and screamed.

  Sir Jastyn saluted the infantryman with his sword and again they came together, Shanks’s blood washing over the both of them. The knight ducked and aimed a cut at Shanks’s left leg. The big man hopped backward and struck at Jastyn’s sword. The inner curve of the axe became tangled in the sword guard and the blade was wrenched free.

  And then it was Jastyn who had no weapon.

  The sword lay at the big infantryman’s feet. Both men looked at it. Shanks seemed almost as surprised as Jastyn. The two stared at one another. Jastyn noted the peculiar look in Shanks’s face. As if some complex struggle was playing out beneath it. The infantryman stood in place, seething and pointing his axe. “Pick it up,” he said.

  Jastyn didn’t move at first. After a few heartbeats he took a step, glanced at the sword, then at Shanks.

  “Pick it up!” Shanks screamed.

  Sage shook his head. “Don’t do it,” he whispered. “Don’t do it.”

  Jastyn reached toward the sword, his gaze fixed on Shanks.

  “Lojen smile on his stupidity,” said Hammer, wincing.

  Aramaesia turned her head away and covered her eyes with one hand.

  Jastyn’s fingers touched the grip of his sword, brushed the worn leather wrap, felt the studs set into it. Shanks waited, his body shaking almost imperceptibly. Jastyn’s hand wrapped around the hilt and he drew the sword back. The two combatants nodded at one another. They each stepped back a pace, then continued the fight.

  “Rip off my arms and call me a tree,” said Hammer. “What was that?”

  “Shanks,” said Lokk, “is fighting Sir Jastyn’s fight.”

  †††

  The end came swiftly.

  They struggled with their blows, unable to muster much strength. Jastyn took a deep breath, gathered his strength, and baited the infantryman toward him. Shanks was panting, but he saw the opening and attacked. The knight crouched, ready to sprint past him with another backhand stroke. But before he could launch himself, the forest shuddered with the cry of the Beast, shrill and echoing and mightier than anything in the forest.

  For an instant, Jastyn froze.

  And Shanks did not.

  The big infantryman drove the haft of his axe into the knight’s chin. Hard, with his weight behind it. Jastyn stumbled, his knees wobbling, Shanks pounded him on the opposite side, using the flat of the axe blade.

  The knight dropped to the ground, shaking his head, his body moving awkwardly. Bells sounded in his head. A thousand church bells ringing at once. He fell to all fours and staggered away from Shanks. Clawed his way toward the edge of the camp, not sure what to do, knowing only that death approached from the other direction.

  The spike end of the battle axe drove into the back of his breastplate with a dull clunk. It pierced the metal as it was made to do, drove deep into Jastyn’s right flank. The knight grunted, but kept scrabbling away from Shanks. The spike came down again. Then again. And one more time. Blood spouted from the holes in his cuirass like tiny fountains each time Shanks withdrew the axe.

  It was strange, thought Jastyn, that he could be so disoriented, and yet focus on certain details so clearly. Aramaesia’s screams. Stop him! She shrieked. Stop him! He’s going to kill him! The feel of the sticks beneath the underleather of his gauntlet. He could feel every knob of every sliver of wood. He noticed the carapace of a dried and dead beetle not far from his fingers. A shiny, noble adel nut lay beyond that. Funny, there are no adel trees nearby. The spike drove into him again and he felt something precious rupture in hi
s body. It came down four more times, the spike, but those were superfluous. The earlier stroke was the mortal one.

  Rundle and Lokk pulled Shanks away. The rest of the squad ran to Jastyn’s side. Grae and Sage turned the knight’s body so he was on his side. Sage unfastened the breastplate buckles and together they pulled it off. Hammer used snips from the mend kit to cut through the metal rings of the knight’s hauberk. He cut through the gambeson as well and finally got a good look at the mess of the knight’s back. Grae noted the look in Hammer’s eyes, the curt shake of his head.

  Jastyn squinted his eyes, cocked his head. “How… how did I die?”

  No one spoke. Aramaesia sobbed quietly.

  “How did I die?” said Jastyn. His voice grew weaker as he spoke. “My marker. My deathstone.”

  Everyone looked to Grae. The brig cleared his throat. He tried to sound confident. “Sir Jastyn Whitewind,” he said. “Died honorably, defending the lands and people of Nuldryn from the Beast of Maug Maurai.”

  Sir Jastyn stared upward. The sky was visible from the clearing and stars were coming out, a few brave ones here and there. He turned to Grae and shook his head. “No,” he replied, his voice a whisper. “No.”

  He shook his head again and died.

  †††

  They would bury Sir Jastyn next to Maribrae, but not that day. Night was flooding the forest, and time was running short. They lay Jastyn’s body next to her cairn and gave him The Farewell in the dark green sunset of Maug Maurai. The men stood in a circle, the left hand of each warrior on the shoulder of the man next to him. They spoke the words of the Soldier’s Farewell, their heads bowed.

  A strip of Jastyn’s tabard, hacked off in the duel and tossed into the camp, blew past the soldiers in a sudden gust. It drifted past Lord Aeren, who sat a short distance away from the warriors, head in hands. Then past a sobbing Aramaesia, who lay on her stomach, facing away from the ceremony, one hand on the earthen ramparts. The scrap of silk fluttered into the air past Beldrun Shanks, who was bound at the ankles and sat eating jurren meat with a delicate savagery. Then it soared high into the air and into an adel tree just outside the ramparts. Ulrean sat in a fork of that tree, knees tucked up. The silk caught on a branch below him. He reached down and took it, stared at the trimmed edge. He wondered when everyone would stop dying. He wondered if his parents would call him to dinner soon.

  And as the soldiers spoke their sacred words, the Beast cried out again. And at that moment, it wasn’t the most frightening thing in the forest. And no one paid it heed.

  Chapter 40

  Apologies are the signal-fire of failure.

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

  The Beast cried out again, closer. The soldiers didn’t look at one another. It was as if they had all conspired in some dreadful crime. They moved listlessly as they tightened bracers and greaves, secured sallets and drew weapons.

  “We are going to try something different tonight,” said Grae, his voice scraping from a gravelly throat. He hadn’t yet developed a strategy, but an idea had come to him during the duel. “I hope we have time to set it up.”

  He had Sage place the metal cuirasses belonging to Sir Jastyn and Beldrun Shanks on the ground, at the edge of the camp. Sage balanced the breastplates so that they stood erect and placed sallets on top of them. It had the look of two soldiers who had been vaporized on the spot, leaving only their armor in place. Grae stared at the mock soldiers and marveled that it had been only a week since he had set up similar scarecrows for a wayward drove of orchard pigs.

  “What are those for, brig, sir?” asked Drissdie.

  “Decoration, mostly. Just testing a thought. Hammer, how many spears do we have left?”

  “Eight, brig, sir.”

  “We’re going to change our formation,” said Grae. “Lokk Lurius will be the only swordsman. He’ll stay in the center, with me. The rest of us will have spears. Except I want a firepit at each side of the formation. And I want all of the spearheads held over the flames until they are red hot. Lord Aeren, I’ll need you to make sure that everyone has a hot spear head. Keep heating them and replacing the cold ones.

  “I want the Beast to feel it each time we strike.” He turned to the magician. “Meedryk, we need more involvement this time. Give it everything you have. And if someone goes down, or it does something unexpected, buy us time.”

  Meedryk nodded, his eyes low. “It will know I’m here this time,” he said. “I swear it.”

  “Zoop, zoop, then!” Grae shouted. “Let’s get those fire pits ready. Move! Move!”

  Shanks shouted from the forest edge. “Lo!” He wore thick bandages over his eye. “What about me? You can’t just leave me tied up here!”. Grae and Hammer stepped over the rampart and walked across the clearing to the big infantryman, together.

  “Would you prefer to be tied up somewhere else?” asked Grae.

  “Aye!” Beldrun replied. “How about Maeris?”

  “How bout in the Typtaenai?” asked Hammer.

  “Listen, this ain’t right,” said Beldrun. “I’m a pig on a spit. That monster’ll slurp me up like a pastry.”

  Grae circled the tree onto which Shanks had been bound, inspecting the ropes. “Perhaps the Beast will eat you and leave the rest of us alone tonight,” he said. “We can put lanterns around you. Make a blood trail in your direction. You can be our offering.”

  “Now that ain’t near funny, sir,” said Shanks. “Let me loose. I swear on Lojen I won’t do nothing. I can help fight it. Then, when it’s dead, you can tie me up again.”

  “He’ll run,” said Hammer. “He’ll run like a frightened goblin.”

  “I won’t run!” Shanks shouted. “Where would I go? You think I want to be out there alone with that thing?”

  The thought of Shanks fighting with them was too good to consider. Without Sir Jastyn and Jjarnee Kruu and Daft Dathnien they were almost helpless in the formation. Take away Shanks, and it was not much more than a chain of human sacrifice. But Shanks had killed two members of the squad; that made him more dangerous than the Beast.

  “I’ll have Drissdie bring you some water.” Grae walked back toward the camp.

  “Water?” yelled Shanks. “Lo! You can’t leave me here! It ain’t right! It ain’t right! I’ll be torn apart! Brig! Untie me! Listen, you horse-faced dough minder! You can’t—”

  Hammer slammed Shank’s head with the pommel of his dagger. The infantryman stopped shouting, blinked a few times. Hammer brought the pommel down again and Shanks slumped.

  †††

  “Lord Aeren,” called Grae.

  “Aye sir?”

  Grae handed him Jjarnee’s crossbow. “Do you know how to use this?”

  Aeren took the weapon and examined it. He plucked the string. “It seems out of tune, but I might coax a song or two from it.” His smile came and went.

  “Let’s hope it brings tears to the eyes of that Beast. Take a shot when you can. Every bit helps.”

  “Aye sir,”

  Grae handed him a belt strung with quarrels and Aeren strapped it to his waist.

  “Sir,” said Aeren before Grae could walk away. “I think I know what you are doing with the breastplates.”

  “Good,” said Grae. “I’m glad someone does.”

  On his way to his pavilion, Grae passed Aramaesia and Ulrean. The boy was playing listlessly with two horse figures she had carved for him. Grae tried to meet her gaze, but she wouldn’t look at him. It was only after he passed, when she was certain that he was in his tent, that she looked back. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  †††

  The soldiers sat in formation, lanterns set around the clearing. The light from these—and from the three fire pits—bathed the clearing, casting manic, flickering shadows. The Beast howled. Then howled again. The stench of death drifted into the clearing.

  Foliage rustled west of the camp, like wind through the leaves. Ulrean made a squealing no
ise in his throat. Drissdie sucked in fast, deep breaths. Something pushed from forest into clearing, branches snapping like brittle bones.

  Green glowing patches defined a monstrous shape. The Beast padded forward silently, through the expanse between forest and ramparts. Halted two dozen paces from the soldiers and surveyed the camp. The great, bristling jaws opened and the monster roared. Not a roar, Grae thought. An attack. A cry that seemed twice as loud as they had ever heard it. Drissdie Hannish burst into tears. The creature leaped forward ten feet, lithe as a feline, and pounded the dummy breastplates and sallets with its foreclaws. The cuirasses rattled across the clearing, and into the forest.

  Aramaesia let arrows fly. Four in quick succession. Her bowstring whipping with each shot. The Beast dodged the first three, struck the last from the air. Lord Aeren fired one shot from Jjarnee’s crossbow and missed.

  The monster advanced, and when it was within twenty feet, Grae called the attack. His soldiers vaulted the rampart, mail scratching against shields. They advanced swiftly. Rundle and Hammer ran forward and thrust with their spears, the tips searing hot.

  “Jah!”

  The Beast hopped back from the spears. It growled and grabbed at Rundle’s weapon with one of its claws. One taloned hand grabbed the spear-head, released it immediately with a hiss.

  Drissdie and Sage lunged from the right.

  “Jah!”

  The creature scuttled away from them. Flinched in Rundle’s direction and the bearded infantryman fell to his knees, sun-blazoned sallet leaking blood. Hammer and Grae lunged forward from the center.

  “Jah!”

  The Beast backed away from Grae’s weapon, but Hammer’s jammed his spear into the creature’s side, drawing a howl and a lash from one of the midlegs. The old soldier flew a half dozen feet and landed with a clan a short distance away. The Beast backed again, pulling Rundle with it, raking at the bearded infantryman.