Please mummy, don’t let me die here, thought Drissdie Hannish, rubbing at the strange coin he had found on the Maurian Road. He’d been told once by a fellow soldier that the gods did not exist. He didn’t believe this, but when he felt that his prayers truly needed to be heard he prayed to his mother, just in case. He knew his mother was real.
Mum, I promise I won’t do any more bad things. Please, please don’t let me die here. I don’t want that thing to kill me. I don’t want to go to the Dark Place. Mother of Light, protect our children.
The last sentence was the only snippet of actual prayer that he remembered from his childhood. It was just one line from Blythwynn’s Chant of Protection for the Family. His father had spoken the chant every night at dinner. Drissdie ended all of his prayers with this sentence, assuming that its presence somehow legitimized his invocation.
His thoughts turned again to CWNCR, the cursed Margil village in Maug Maurai. CWNCR. Kwin-car. Mundaaith’s outpost. The very doors to the Dark Place. CWNCR waited somewhere out there. In this very forest. Smoldering in its evil rot. He drew out the coin that he had found on the Maurian Road. His new lucky charm. It was caked with dried mud.
Please Mum, keep me safe.
He looked up toward Beldrun Shanks, lying on his back, apparently sound asleep.
If I could be tough and brave like him, thought Drissdie . . .
. . . Shanks lay on his back, enjoying the smells of the forest. The scents so vivid, so different from the stale odors of his cell at Gaer Froen. He breathed deeply and thought about the Beast.
Let’s hope Murrogar killed that thing. Maybe they killed each other. Maybe that’s why we don’t hear the Beast.
Once again he cursed the brig for bringing only a handful of soldiers to fight such a monster. The stupidity of it smelled of suicide. He debated running away. Deep in the night, while everyone slept. He could make it to the road quickly. Be out of the forest while it was still dark. He could cross into Galadance, maybe make it to Dromic.
He thought about the possibilities, knowing that he could never run. Deserters were treated to the greatest of all punishments in Laraytia. By law they were tortured for three days before being buried alive. The Crown offered good money for captured deserters, enough money to make it a good bet he would be found no matter where he ran.
He turned restlessly to face the two women. They were hidden by wool blankets. Makeshift tents made for their privacy. He tried to imagine what they looked like under those blankets. How they slept. What they wore.
Maybe they sleep naked.
And this idea set his heart racing. He drew his own blanket up slowly and reached his hand down, under the waist of his wool leggings, groaned softly as he imagined Maribrae straddling him . . .
. . . on most occasions, Maribrae Endilweir did sleep naked. But traveling with a group of soldiers through a remote forest called for a change in this tradition. Tonight she wore a silk chemise, and jasmine scents along her neck. She had told the soldiers to set up her makeshift canopy next to Jastyn’s tent. This would allow her to steal inside with him during the night. Her intentions were to do this every night out here in the forest, to make the most of her lapsing time with him, away from the eyes at Daun Sanctra. Away from the slow advance of time and the Troublesome Witch to come.
She waited for the rhythmic breathing of the men, the sound that would tell her it was safe to make the trip to Jastyn’s tent. She thought briefly about the Beast. It was a terrible creature. She had heard the stories. But she would be safe with a dozen Laraytian Standards around her. And with Jastyn by her side. Her Jastyn, who had unseated Maegrus Lochlyrei and taken third in the tourney of Shaen not two months ago. Jastyn, who had taken fourth place in swords at the Fenrivyn Tourney of Caustrefey. Jastyn the Indomitable. Jastyn, the sun and the moon and the seas and the skies. Her Jastyn.
She turned her anxious eyes to the men, lying in various configurations of haypads and blankets. Sleep now, she pleaded. Dream of saucy steaks and saucier women, but sleep. Sleep...
. . . but the men would not sleep that night, not to any great extent. For most, it was the thought of the Beast that drove rest from their minds. But it was Maribrae that kept the crossbowman Jjarnee Kruu awake.
The Hrethri had been smitten by the lovely songmaiden on his first glimpse of her. The way her playful braids curled around her head, studded with ribbons and flowers. Her flowing maiden dresses, the jingling bells on her ankles. And her voice in song. That voice had opened something in him that he found impossible to close again. As if some great tapestry had been moved, revealing a hidden window that opened onto landscapes so lovely it hurt the eyes to look upon.
Lord of Heaven, he thought in his native tongue, one kiss is all I ask. One kiss and I die a man fulfilled.
His view of Maribrae’s makeshift tent was obscured by Daft Dathnien. Jjarnee studied the man’s back, wondering why everyone called him mad. Daft was odd, but he was quiet and respectful. A pleasant enough fellow. He did not seem mad at all . . .
. . . Daft lay on his side, his eyes focused on a stone beside his haypad. He stared at it without really seeing it, his thoughts focused. He had spent an hour thinking about the same thing. Wondering if it was possible to pluck your eyes out and to replace them with someone else’s eyes. If he were careful and methodical, and if he made sure that the entire root came out with each eye; if he was delicate and precise in placing the new ones into his own sockets, would the eyes grow into his head like transplanted trees? Would he see things differently? He tried to access every scrap of meager education he had received. He tried to determine if he possessed the knowledge to answer such a question. He didn’t stop thinking about it until hours later, when the thick and bearded Rundle Graen shook him for second watch.
Chapter 13
The arms of House Cobblethrie bear the sun and hammer, but I say the former should be stricken from them. The Faur Folly was a result of the family’s weakness and Lojenwyne himself has cursed them for it. How many Cobblethries must die before they pay heed to Lojen and remove the sun from their shields.
-- Farryk Marlagaen, count of Harrynsale
When he could no longer shout, Murrogar rolled onto his side and scoured away the tendrils of blackened bones from his legs. He rose gingerly to his feet, gazing at Thantos’s sword, which lay abandoned just outside the cavern. The remaining nobles huddled a dozen paces from the cave entrance. There were six of them, not including Wyann: The duke and duchess, Ulrean, the countess of Laudingham, a thane’s niece, and the nephew of a baron’s sister or some such person. Their faces held no expression. None of them sobbed. None spoke. They stared at him with the eyes of frightened children.
He glanced back into the cave where Thantos’s battered shield lay. Murrogar had seen too much of human nature to believe in unsinkable friendship, but Thantos had served him for a decade. Seeing the man’s sword and scarred shield lying unattended filled Murrogar’s chest with cold lead. He closed his eyes and whispered the Soldier’s Farewell, and Sir Wyann chose the wrong moment to approach.
“I suppose you were right ab—”
It wasn’t much of a fight. Men in the wrong seldom fight well, and Murrogar struck so quickly that Wyann didn’t even have the chance to struggle. Steel plates clattered as the knight fell to the bare earth. Murrogar followed him down and pounded the man’s soft face with a second strike.
He mocked the knight as he struck each subsequent blow, repeating the words Wyann had spoken when they found the cavern: “That cave is safety!” His fist glanced off the blood upon the knight’s cheek. “The first decent shelter we’ve seen!” The back of the knight’s head bounced against the dead earth outside the cavern as Murrogar struck again. “We can hold the Beast off in there!” Murrogar’s fist struck Wyann in the temple and the knight went limp. “Why? Why can’t we go into the cave?” He raised his fist to strike again but hands tugged at his shoulder from behind.
“Please . . . you . . . you will
kill him.”
Murrogar yanked his arm away from the soft embrace and turned on the noble. He drew his arm back to strike before realizing it was Ulrean. The boy flinched away, then peered back when the blow didn’t come.
“I . . . I suppose Sir Wyann should not have questioned you,” Ulrean added, swiping at the tears on his cheeks. “But we might . . . perhaps we . . . ” He sniffled and shrugged. “Perhaps we will have need of his sword arm?”
Murrogar drew long breaths and stared at the boy.
“I grieve for the loss of Thantos.” Ulrean spoke quickly, the words tumbling out. “I am truly sorry. But only you and Wyann are left to protect us. We have no one else.”
Murrogar stared at the boy for a long time. Ulrean squirmed under the inspection, shrugged. “I’m just . . . just speaking tactically.”
The old soldier felt the smile long before it split his lips. It formed in the deep reaches of his belly, like a spark beneath stacks of dry leaves, burning its way through anger and sorrow until he coughed out a chuckle. He rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll be king of Laraytia one day, you will. Wait and see.”
Ulrean blushed. “That’s not . . . not likely to happen. Eighteen people would have to die before I even had a chance to claim the crown. Nineteen if Lady Easa Darmurian gives birth to a boy.”
Murrogar clapped Ulrean on the back and winked. “When we get out of this forest, I’ll see what I can do.”
It took a long moment for Ulrean to work out the joke and smile. “I don’t thin—”
“Murrogar!” The duke’s voice broke as he shouted.
Murrogar was on his feet before Ulrean had even turned his head. Nobles backed quickly from the duchess, who fell onto the damp earth and whimpered. The duke held her shoulders. “Murrogar!” he shouted. “Murrogar!”
The duchess sobbed and covered her eyes. Her bare legs were soaked in blood. Two of the noble women watched with hands over mouths. Murrogar scooped up Thantos’s sword and ran past the ladies. He whipped his head from side to side, his eyes searching out the enemy.
“Where?” he shouted. “Where is it?” The duke looked at him quizzically but Murrogar was not in the mood for cultured uselessness. “Where is it?”
“Where . . . where is what?” the duke said.
“Why is she on the ground?” Murrogar continued his search for enemies along the stony ridge. “Why is she covered in blood?”
The duke cleared his throat. “It’s . . . ” He shrugged. “Her . . . time has come.”
“Her time comes when I say it comes,” Murrogar replied. He looked at the duchess. She didn’t seem to be in pain.
“No.” The duke shook his head. “Her time has come. Her womanly time.”
Murrogar looked at the duke, then back at the duchess before realization dawned. “Oh.” He nodded politely and averted his eyes. Cleared his throat. “Apologies. She doesn’t need my say for that.”
“She has nothing to staunch it,” the duke’s voice trembled, his breath coming quickly. Murrogar studied the man. “This is undignified. Something must be done. Undignified. Absolutely undignified.”
Murrogar tried to grin, spoke in a light tone that he had to force. “Her time has come. And when a person’s time has come, there is nothing to be done, m’lord.”
“This is a serious matter, Murrogar,” the duke snapped. “This is undignified. Something must be done. Do you hear me? We must resolve this.”
The duchess spoke in a trembling voice. “All we need are strips of linen, Orien.”
Murrogar looked down at himself. Blood from Sir Wyann’s face was spattered on his fists and chest. More blood, from a dozen other people, stained his mail, boots and leggings. “What we need,” he said, “is to get moving.” He swept his hands forward several times. “Move! Move!”
The travelers marched forward slowly, glancing back toward the duchess and frowning at Murrogar. He took a deep breath to summon patience and continued waving his arms. “Fifty people killed in this forest and it’s a woman’s cycle that makes you frown?”
The sound of tearing fabric made the travelers stop. The duke ripped a long strip of the duchess’s silk chemise and turned it into history’s most expensive blood-staunch. “Undignified,” he mumbled again and again. He pulled the duchess to her feet and the two of them strode solemnly behind a gatehouse-thick hickory. They held their chins high as they walked, as if they were participating in a coronation and not seeking a crude privy to apply the wadding. More fabric ripped. The duke and duchess quarreled behind the tree, their voices lashing and snapping as they tried to manipulate the fabrics to suit their purpose.
The humor bone in Murrogar twinged, but he did not laugh. Thantos had been broken in half and crushed by demons. There would be no laughter today.
Sir Wyann stirred, turned delicately to one side and vomited as more fabric ripped and the voices from behind the tree grew louder and more incisive. It took far too long, but the duke and duchess finally stepped from behind the tree with polished smiles.
Murrogar had imagined that the deadly journey through Maug Maurai would have stripped false modesty from these people. But a noble lady’s menses was enough to delay them for a quarter-bell. And a quarter-bell in Maug Maurai was a decade. A century. They had no hope of escaping the Beast at this pace. He took more deep breaths and waved the travelers onward.
Our time has come.
Chapter 14
Murder is a location. It is a place you go that has nothing to do with reasons or excuses. Once you’ve been to murder, you never return.
-- Mandrik Freyn, shire reeve of Maulenfyrth
Maug Maurai was primarily an oak-fueryk forest. Towering oaks, their boughs hidden by lush cloaks of ivy, fought for light and space on the dark, fertile battlefields of sky and soil. They warred against great blue fueryks. Against maples and hickories, and papery birches that fought in compact white squads. The oldest trees were thicker than castle towers and soared hundreds of feet into the Nuldryn skies. At the bases of these royal hardwoods, in the dark foot of the forest, lay all manner of common scrub. These and more battled their own skirmishes, for dirt and water and sunlight. Black wyldenberry and mountain laurel crashed against buckthorn and lady ferns, against yilberry brambles and mushrooms the size of wagon wheels. But king of all the underlings was the carpet moss. It marched over everything. Over stones and dirt and fallen logs. Over tree trunks and jutting boulders. The carpet moss devoured without mercy, a green inferno that softened every surface in the forest.
Overhead the canopy was thick, but there were intermittent gaps where the sky pried apart the leaves. Sunlight streamed down in misty shafts so bright that they seemed solid things, things that could be grasped and carried.
The squad marched on through the dark mélange of the forest with difficulty. Branches and thorns grabbed at the longspears, the sword belts, and the sallet helmets strapped to the soldiers’s hips. Maribrae, who had insisted on wearing a traveling gown with layers of skirts over her kirtle, struggled the most. The skirts were lush targets for brambles and reaching limbs. In the end, she tore away the outermost fabric and tied the rest of the skirts into a lump at the back of her thighs. The front of the skirts fell just above her knees and the white hose she wore did little to hide the curves of her legs.
Beldrun Shanks slowed so that he could walk behind her and leer. “Those skinny little sticks belong on my hips,” he called to her.
The songmaiden slowed turned sideways and drew a polished silver stiletto from her boot. “I’ve another skinny little stick for your hips.”
“Shanks!” Hammer called. “Get up on point. Now.”
The big infantryman grinned at Maribrae and, with astonishing speed, snatched her wrist. He pulled her hand out to the side and stepped in close, until his chest brushed against hers. “I got a stick of my own for your hips.”
“A skinny little stick, I’m certain.” Her voice was defiant, but her eyes searched for Jastyn. The knight s
napped the branches of a young ash tree in his haste to reach her. But Hammer was there first. And so was his walking stick. The stave whistled through the air and cracked Shanks in the back of the head. The big infantryman toppled to one knee, grunting and grasping his head with both hands. His eyes found Hammer, his lips curled into a snarl. He snapped to his feet and bulled forward into the old soldier.
“You ever . . . ” he sputtered, unable to find words, his fists clenched so tightly that the veins stood out on his forearms. “You try that again . . . ” Grae, Lokk Lurius and Sage took positions at Hammer’s side and the anger drained from Shanks’s eyes. The big infantryman rubbed at the back of his head. “That ain’t no way to treat your soldiers.” He brushed past the assembled soldiers, giving Lokk Lurius a wide berth, and took his place on point.
The squad marched on.
Swamps manifested from nowhere to suck at their boots. Musklillies belched fluorescent fumes upward, setting the air alight with their fetid scent. Futterbugs ripped individual hairs from their heads and buzzed away to make nests of the prizes, or to feed them to their larva. And the maddening, ever-present buzz of mosquitos resounded in their ears.
They moved into thicker underbrush again and Sage stopped and backed away from a quivering hedge. The soldiers drew weapons as another shrub trembled.
“Steady,” Grae called. “Formation.”
The warriors slipped quietly into the V formation, weapons bristling, muscles tensed. They watched the shrubs and prepared themselves for whatever came out.
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part Two: Feeding the Gods Page 7
