Then there was the boy. Grae took a deep breath and put the child out of his mind.
“I have an idea,” said Grae. “If it works properly, I believe we can kill the Beast tonight.”
Everyone stared silently at the brig. He certainly had their attention now.
“Meedryk,” he said. “Do you remember when you tried to heal that Eridian we met, the one… the one with the foot problem?”
“Aye, brig, sir.” A flush crept across Meedryk’s cheeks. “He had a sort of… reaction to the spell. As if acid had been poured on his foot.”
“Lord Aeren,” said Grae.
“Aye, brig, sir?”
“Is it possible that the Beast may have the same reaction to the spell?”
Aeren looked pensive. A grin spread slowly. “It’s certainly possible, sir. The fluid in the Eridian came from the Beast.”
Sage stood and trotted off.
“Excellent,” said Grae, ignoring Sage’s departure and turning to Meedryk. “Magician, can a crossbow bolt be… enchanted with that spell you cast on the Eridian?”
Meedryk ran a hand along his temple. “I’m not… I don’t have the authority to—”
“Stifle that,” said Grae. “I think we’ve moved past that, don’t you?” He softened his tone. “Meedryk, we all know that you have enormous talents. You have learned things that a man of your rank has no business knowing. And I’m glad for it. Out there, in the world, the guild would probably have you encased if they found out. Or worse. But in here, there is no guild. There is no hierarchy of knowledge. The more knowledge we have, the better the chance that we’ll walk out of this forest. No one will report you to the Magician’s Guild. We need everything you have.” He let the words sink in, then asked again. “Can you enchant a quarrel with that healing spell?”
Meedryk nodded his head once. “I think so.”
Grae raised his voice. “Can you enchant a quarrel with that healing spell?”
“Yes,” said Meedryk. “Yes, I can.”
Grae made a fist and pumped it softly toward Meedryk, turned again to Aeren. “Is there any way to make certain the spell will have the desired effect?”
“If we could acquire some of the Beast’s fluid,” said Lord Aeren. “We could put the liquid into one of Meedryk’s jars and have him cast the spell. With luck, the fluid won’t have emulsified or become inactive and we can look for a reaction.”
Sage came back and tossed the monster’s vine-laced paw into the ashes of the fire pit. “I have a better idea.”
†††
Meedryk waved his hands over the monster’s foot, over the exposed bone and muscle where it had been severed. He spoke the words of healing: Renaura Shaleesh.
Nothing happened. They stared at the paw and Grae’s shoulders sagged.
An instant later the appendage moved. The foot seemed to twitch, then rustle, as if something underneath the skin was moving. The part of the foot closest to the wound seemed to sink into itself. Grae smiled broadly as the foot slowly liquefied and foamed.
Lord Aeren smiled broadly. “I would say that answers your question, brig, sir.”
“Thank you Lord Aeren, thank you Sage,” said Grae. “And thank you Meedryk. I think this will work just fine.”
“It would work just fine if we were fighting an army of severed Beast feet,” said Sage. “But we’ve still got to place that spell in a lethal spot. Hitting a leg won’t make much difference. Even a chest hit is not likely to kill it. The eyes would be the likeliest place. Or the mouth. But not even Aramaesia has been able to place an arrow where she wants on this creature.”
“Right,” said Grae. We will have to get very close to it. We’ll have to touch a crossbow to its eye and fire.”
“Just like that, eh?” said Sage.
“Just like that,” said Grae, and he gave them his finest half smile.
†††
They worked hard and long into the afternoon. Lokk slaughtered six of the jurren birds and Meedryk plucked the feathers and preserved the bodies for later use, then spent an hour enchanting two crossbow bolts. Sage found four logs, straight and smooth, and used Shanks’ spare axe to trim them into poles, each about the length of his forearm. Lord Aeren and Drissdie braided leather cords. Even Ulrean worked, helping Sage and Lokk punch holes into the ends of each log.
Everyone threw themselves into the project. Everyone except Beldrun Shanks, who sat quietly, concentration sharpening his features.
When the work was completed, Sage recovered the personal effects of the dead—Maribrae’s journal and fiolys, Jjarnee’s crossbows, Sir Jastyn’s signet ring and sword, Rundle’s Sun-of-Lojen pendant—and the squad bid farewell to the clearing. It was a bittersweet parting; the field had been home for nearly three days. Four of their friends were buried in that clearing. But Grae wanted a more defensible campsite. It was too easy for the Beast to get behind them here.
When the last haypad had been rolled, and the last plate stowed, Grae turned to Beldrun Shanks. He would cut the man’s throat himself, as a commander should.
Had Jastyn not dueled, Shanks would have been taken back to Arraey and tortured for three days before his death. By defeating the knight in combat, Shanks avoided that fate. He would still die—his crimes against Maribrae and his attack on Lokk ensured that. But it would be a quick hanging death. Best he die now than be dragged back to Tyftin for the same. There was, of course, only one real problem.
Beldrun Shanks was gone.
Chapter 43
In Maug Maurai, one must fear those places that promise safety. For there is no safety in the forest. And the lies of Maug Maurai are murderous.
—From “The Andraen Forest,” by Dallyn Salthis
“Are you completely incompetent?” Grae’s screams echoed across the clearing. “You had one assignment. One task! Watch Beldrun Shanks! Lojen’s Heart, he was tied to a tree! How hard was it to keep track of him?”
Drissdie sat quietly on a fallen log staring at the tree where Shanks had been tied. Empty coils of rope lay on the grass. He thought that perhaps he had made a mistake.
“We don’t have many soldiers left, Hannish,” Grae softened his tone. Shanks’s disappearance was as much the Brig’s fault as it was this poor trudge’s. “Every one of us needs to perform to the best of our abilities if we are to succeed.”
“Shanks’ll run for the Maurian Road or the river if he’s smart,” said Hammer. “But he ain’t smart. Most likely he’ll get lost. Get turned into one ‘a them maurg. So it may not matter.”
“What may not isn’t my concern,” said Grae. “What may is. We may have to face a murderer out there in addition to the Beast. Shanks may try to ambush us. He may decide to ruin our strategy out of spite. The Beast may chase Shanks instead of us, and we could sit for days waiting for an attack that doesn’t come until much later. Which may put us off our guard. Or, something else we had not planned on may happen as a result of this. A Beldrun Shanks on the loose introduces untold uncertainty into our lives. It complicates things.” He threw the sharp stone they had found near the ropes, sending it spinning into the trees. “And I think things were complicated enough.”
†††
Sage tried to track Shanks, but it proved difficult. The infantryman had known he would be followed. He had tread softly, walked in circles, doubled back and walked on stones. Sage was optimistic that he could find the man in time, but Grae wouldn’t allow it. They needed to find a fortified campsite, and quickly.
I hope Hammer is right, Grae thought. I hope he makes for the road, or the river. Away from us.
And then a thought of such dreadfulness struck him that he stopped moving.
I never took the letter back! Shanks still carries it.
Grae consoled himself with the fact that Beldrun Shanks wouldn’t make it out of the forest alive. He had at least a two-day journey, no matter which direction he took. And two days was an eternity in Maug Maurai.
He still has my letter.
“A warrior cannot achieve victory while planning for defeat,” he said, quoting Lojen’s Arms. “There’s bound to be cover to the east. We head east.”
They walked for another hour through the lush forest before the landscape changed. The group found themselves marching through acres of burrow-wood—massive vines, thick as the ancient trees—that sprouted from the ground, looping like sea-serpents into the air and back into the soil again. The vines formed colossal arches in the forest, like gates to a world where natural laws were suspended. As if a mad smith had worked the wood like metal, heating and curling titanic tree trunks back into the forest floor.
As they walked they became aware of an unpleasant odor. At first Sage dismissed it as skunkweed, or the decaying carcasses of jurrens. But the smell did not fade with time. It hung in the air, growing stronger and fainter, but always present. It was not the Beast’s smell, but it wasn’t all that different. They moved forward warily, picking their way ever eastward. A crow landed on a branch nearby and screamed, its black head cocking to one side then the other, as if sizing up the squad.
“Brig Barragns.” Aramaesia walked to his side, Ulrean next to her. “What happens if our plan does not work?”
Grae pulled a branch aside and held it until she and Ulrean walked past. “Then I will come up with another plan.”
Aramaesia lifted Ulrean high as they crossed a stand of briars. Grae wanted to help her lift him, but couldn’t bring himself to touch the child. He didn’t want to feel the warmth, the life inside that boy.
“Do you think we will have time for another plan?” she asked. “Will there be enough of us left?”
Grae stopped, his expression growing colder. “What are you asking, Aramaesia? What is it you want?”
“The creature is wounded,” she said. “Perhaps it won’t attack for a time. A few days or a week. Maybe longer.”
Grae shook his head and began walking again. “It won’t stop. It consumes fear. It subsists on terror. It will never let us know that we hurt it. It wants us to be so scared that we will barely put up a fight when we see it.”
Aramaesia walked quietly with him, then changed her tack. “Then perhaps it will be angry. What if it simply strikes to kill? What if it doesn’t do as we expect it to?”
“Your enemy has his kingdom, and you have yours. Rule your kingdom, and think not of his.”
“Lojen?” she asked.
“Bryn Barragns,” he said. “My father.”
“He sounds like an intelligent man.” She made a motion towards the squad. The soldiers were blood spattered and breathing hard. Drissdie jumped at every sound in the forest. Sage walked with his head low. Even Lokk Lurius walked with slumped shoulders. “Your kingdom is not looking very well at the moment.”
Grae stopped, blew out a long breath. “Are you finished? Or do you plan to hound me for the rest of this adventure of ours?”
“Adventure of ours? This is your adventure. Look at your men. Look at their faces. No one wants to be here. Every one of them wants to leave this forest. But you drive us deeper still. Every one of them faces death, but they—”
“Enough!” shouted Hammer, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Silence that grack mouth!” Ulrean placed himself between Hammer and Aramaesia. Grae waved Hammer down and turned to the archer.
“Life ends, Aramaesia. Life always ends. The true tragedy is when it ends badly. A man in fear will end his life like an animal, desperate and unseemly. Discipline is the only thing that makes a life worth living. A disciplined man can be destroyed, but he will never be defeated.” He stared until her eyes dropped. “That monster has taken hundreds of innocent lives. It will continue to take innocent lives until it is stopped. I have a duty. I have a responsibility. But you don’t understand that, do you?”
She looked up and for the first time he saw true anger in her yes. “Your Galadane is not my born language,” she spat. “But I understand the words duty and responsibility very well. I understand that there is a difference between the two.”
She took Ulrean’s hand and walked to the back of the unit, her hair billowing in a rare breeze.
†††
They stopped for a meal at mid-day. Grae walked down a small embankment and sat between two nubs on a fallen oak. Something in his body language kept even Hammer away.
He watched Aramaesia with the boy.
Slay the Beast and save Laraytia, the Chamberlain had said. Not a bad draw of assignments, is it?
The Beast was Grae’s mission. The boy, that was the Chamberlain’s mission. A mission for the kingdom itself.
Slay the Beast and save Laraytia.
It had a symmetry to it. If he killed the Beast, he had to end the Cobblethrie bloodline. Each was payment for the other. No matter how distasteful, Grae had to make certain that Ulrean did not leave Maug Maurai.
That was a true test of discipline. A true test of your worth. To do that which every fiber of your being tells you is wrong; that is strength.
They moved on, pushing through runty, gnarled trees and thick undergrowth. The land continued its gentle upward slope and then, abruptly, leveled off. They spied a tiny ridgeline in the distance. Not high enough for proper cover, but possibly an indication of more such geography to come. They made toward the ridge.
As they marched the rank odor in the air grew worse. No one said anything, but Drissdie sniffled perpetually, breathing great pulses of air from his nostrils as if he might expunge the scent from his body. When they neared the ridge they noted a uniformity to the rise. It curved away from them with a precision that did not seem natural, maintained a consistent height of four feet or so. When they were within a fifty yards Grae realized that it was a wall overgrown.
“Looks like an old fortification,” said Hammer without conviction.
No one responded. Only Aramaesia considered his words. Everyone else knew the truth. They gazed at one another silently.
“That is good, then?” asked Aramaesia. “If it is a fortification, it will provide protection?”
“It’s not a fortification,” said Lord Aeren. “They are the ruins of a village. CWNCR. Perhaps the most haunted ruins in all of Laraytia.”
“With respects, Lord Aeren,” said Hammer. “Shut that fancy mouth of yours.”
“You are right, Aramaesia,” said Grae. “It is exactly what we need.” And he walked toward the village.
Drissdie stood in place, his arms crossed tightly. “We can’t go in there,” he said, his voice unnaturally high. “It’s the Village of the Dead! It’s cursed. A horrible curse.”
“A curse would be a step up from the last three days,” said Sage. He followed Grae.
Aramaesia looked to Lord Aeren. “Kwincar? Curse?”
“CWNCR,” said Aeren. “An ancient holy village of the Margils. A savage people. They were here long before the Andraens.” He removed his pack and untwisted the straps. “CWNCR wasn’t just a village, it was a temple to their gods. A sacred site where enemies were tortured and sacrificed. It was also the last refuge of the Margils before the Andraens conquered them. The last temple. I guess you can say it is the place where the Margil gods died.”
“The Andraens killed the Margils in here?” asked Aramaesia.
“No,” said Lord Aeren. “When the Andraens found the city, everyone was already dead. There was nothing but bodies rotted to skeletons. They lay on the streets, at tables, in their temples.”
“The scyllhing killed them.” Meedryk stared at the ruins and cleared his throat.
“The what?” Hammer pulled a red velvet pouch from his pack and opened it.
“The scyllhing. Demons that served the Margil
priests. They killed everyone in the village.”
“How do you know that?” Hammer dipped two fingers into the pouch and picked out a pinch of grey powder. He closed his eyes and sprinkled it on his left wrist.
“My father wrote a book on the history of Western Nuldryn. Well, he’s been writing it for a while.” That fool’s farce. Meedryk’s mother despised that book. It was one of the many targets for the scorn she heaped at her husband.
“Why did the Margil gods want them people dead?” asked Hammer.
Meedryk shrugged. “I don’t know. It wasn’t in my father’s book.”
“So what does your father say about the curse?” asked Lord Aeren.
“That those who enter CWNCR will be dragged to The Dark Place and spend an eternity in agony.” He shrugged. “The usual.”
Drissdie covered his face and wept.
Lord Aeren re-slung his pack and walked toward the ruins. “It is only a curse if you believe in it. That’s what I will tell myself.”
Aramaesia turned to Ulrean. “Do not worry, my sparrow. Nothing will happen to us in there.”
“I know,” he replied. “My family bears a curse already. You cannot be doubly cursed. Besides,” he held up the pendant she had given him. “I have this.” He took her hand and they followed the other men.
Drissdie stood rooted as he watched them go. He bunched his hands into fists and held them against his ears, rocking back and forth. He considered the freakish series of events that had led him here, to the one place on Celusia that he would rather die than enter. This was punishment. He had done bad things, and now he would pay.
Chapter 44
Cowardice is the mind’s armor. And though it protects, it is a terrible, terrible weight to bear.
—Drenyk Leaurange, priest of Ja’Drei
The ruins were not what any of them had expected. CWNCR had lain abandoned for nine hundreds of years. Most of them had pictured a city completely overgrown, stones barely visible through moss and trees and thick undergrowth. But, other than stone walls—which were wreathed in ivy and moss and grasses—no greenery existed in the village. Few trees rose from the dark soil, and those that remained were dead, blackened things, warted by fungus. Wild grasses grew inside the city, yellow and dry, growing to knee-height. Snarls of thickets sprouted as well; black writhing vines that were more thorn than stalk. Nothing had life. Everything green stopped at CWNCR’s walls.
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