Maribrae, who had stepped to the side as they pulled the man out, made a sound.
“Oh,” she said.
Grae heard something chilling in her intonation. She said it as one might say “Dear gods above.” The tone that someone who is about to become ill might take. She covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide as bracelets.
He followed her gaze. The man’s foot had come off in the cave. His left leg came to a jagged mess of shattered bones where the ankle should have been. A dark green sludge oozed from the wound.
Shanks shook his head. “There ain’t no way we pulled hard enough for that to happen.”
Sir Jastyn put his arms around Maribrae and led her a few feet away. She turned and buried her head in his shoulder but forced herself not to cry. The Eridian convulsed on the stone and made incomprehensible sounds, somewhere between screams and gags. He tried to sit up, to reach toward the shattered ankle, but Lokk and Shanks held him down.
Aramaesia closed her eyes and chanted quietly.
“Threncannon,” called Grae. “What’s wrong with him?”
Lord Aeren shook his head. “I . . . I’ve never . . . I don’t know.” The color drained from the young lord’s face. Dots of perspiration glistened on his forehead.
“You’re the best we’ve got for explaining this!” shouted Grae. “Is it poison? Was this the Beast? What’s happening to him?”
“I don’t know!” Aeren shouted. He wiped at his mouth with a trembling hand. “I don’t know.”
The Eridian screamed again, a new scream, high-pitched and wheezing, repeated over and over. He thrashed so much that it took four men to keep him down. And as the soldiers put their weight onto him, Grae noticed other terrible wounds on his body. A ponderous cut that ran from just above his right hip, across his stomach, to the ribs on the left side. The chain mail links had been cut through. There was a brutal stab wound in his chest, directly over his heart. And then another deep, clean gash across his throat.
“Blood of Anris!” called Hammer. “Can someone get that mend kit out from beneath his head? And hold him tight, we need to get him to stop bloody thrashing like this!”
Everyone was moving at the same time. Grae, Hammer, Shanks and Lokk leaned into the man, held him down. Hammer had one arm on the Eridian and used his free hand to rub the man’s chest with a dried, green cat’s foot. Rundle and Drissdie, both trying to get the mend kit, had a momentary tug of war until Drissdie let go.
Meedryk stumbled forward. “Brig sir,” he called.
“Put something else under his head!” shouted Grae. “He’s bashing it against the rocks. What is it, apprentice?”
Spittle sprayed from the Eridian’s mouth as he screamed. Maribrae put her hands to her ears.
“Sir, I think I can take the pain away,” said Meedryk, his eyes so wide that he looked mad. “The pain from his . . . foot.”
“Then for the love of Blythwynn, do it!” shouted Grae, bucking on the Eridian as if clinging to a raft in a storm. He had a momentary flashback to the old sow that he’d fought on the Tenyth plains. His face throbbed with the memory of the kick she’d given him.
Meedryk nodded. The Manumission from Torment was a simple spell. Two stigs of froriam gellid, and one of rasvignian serous. Gellid and vig. Simple.
He crossed his arms, inserting them into the meridian cloak as the Eridian screamed and bucked. Meedryk’s fingers searched out the double-folds containing the elements he needed. The metal nubs sewn into each inner pocket identified the integrants as he touched them. Three nubs in a triangle for vig. Six in a circle for gellid. He pinched out the proper amounts of each and focused on the injured foot. He withdrew his hands from the sleeves and waved them over the man’s leg in the long practiced technique, mixing them in the air as they fell onto the wound.
“Renaura Shaleesh,” he whispered. A simple spell.
He forced a confident smile that vanished as the man’s leg blackened and slowly liquefied where the chemics had fallen.
Chapter 19
One should use the Manumission from Torment sparingly. Pain is the voice of a body. And bodies without voices have a unique name in medicine; they are called corpses.
-- From “The Treatise Canalithian” by Sidare Moldrane
“Dari! Dari! Dari!”
The man’s screams were like flames. Like lightning strikes or scalding oil, and Grae just wanted them to end.
The Eridian bucked and arched. Six soldiers tried to hold him down. Meedryk stood with hands frozen in final flourish, his face slack, a flush rising. The man’s leg was bubbling a putrid green at the ankle and shin, as if the flesh were being eaten away by acids. Pale wisps of vapor rose from the bones beneath.
“I don’t . . . I don’t understand,” he mumbled, though no one could hear him under the Eridian’s howls. “It’s a simple . . . incantation. This shouldn’t . . . ”
“Hey, ‘prentice,” shouted Shanks. “Why don’t you do that on your head and save us your stupidity.”
“Somebody knock him unconscious,” yelled Grae, gesturing toward the Eridian to make sure that no one thought he meant Meedryk. “I can’t believe he’s awake through all of this.”
Maribrae, who had taken her hands from her ears, looked back just as Beldrun throttled the man with his fists. He struck again and again but the Eridian wouldn’t lose consciousness. Maribrae lost her fight against tears.
“Don’t kill him!” Shouted Grae.
“Kill ‘im? I can’t even knock him asleep,” said Shanks.
The Eridian howled with no reserves. He screamed as long as his breath held, then took a breath and screamed again for as long as he could again.
“Make him stop!” Drissdie shouted. “Make him stop!”
Beldrun Shanks raised his fist as high as he could for one final blow. And then, without warning, the man fell silent. His struggles ceased. Beldrun struck him anyway as the other soldiers slowly rose from the Eridian’s body.
“Sterling,” said Grae. “We killed him.”
“No, Brig sir,” said Meedryk. He stood beside the Eridian’s head, his hands spread over the man’s face. “I put him to sleep.” As he spoke, he looked at the man’s body. It was motionless. There seemed no life in him. “I . . . I think I did.”
†††
Hammer poured water over what was left of the Eridian’s leg and bandaged it as best he could. The wound had stopped bubbling, although everything below the knee was gone. The flesh and muscle and even the bone had liquefied, leaving only a misshapen stub.
Hammer drew out a needle and a spool of silk thread and told Grae he was going to stitch the wound at the man’s throat.
“Don’t waste the silk,” said Grae. “This man won’t live past sunset. I can’t imagine how he’s made it this long. At least two of those wounds would have killed any man.”
“Grae,” Hammer said softly. “We should do all we can for ‘im.”
“Leave him.” Grae turned to Meedryk. “How long will he be asleep?”
“Not very long,” Meedryk mumbled. “I . . . I didn’t put him down very hard. I think . . . I’m certain he will wake up soon.” He looked at the man’s bandaged leg. “Although The Manumission from Torment incantation didn’t work as it was supposed to.” He took a long look at the throbbing blood vessels, the swollen green skin. “I think . . . well . . . there’s something very wrong with him.”
Shanks laughed. “Is that so, ‘prentice? You cast a spell to learn that?”
“Seal it, Shanks,” said Hammer.
“All of you, go somewhere,” said Grae. “Find some ground and put your arses on it. Lord Aeren, Sage stay here. Apprentice, don’t go anywhere, either.”
Those whose names were not called moved off and found stones to sit on. Grae waited until they were out of earshot. “Sage, do you have any ideas on this? Have you ever seen anything like it?”
The scout shook his head slowly. “I don’t know if anyone’s seen anything like this. It’s as if
his body is decaying while he’s still alive.”
“No.” Lord Aeren cleared his throat. He didn’t meet their gazes and Grae remembered the scholar’s panic as the Eridian screamed. “It’s . . . as if something is keeping him alive though his body has died. Blood has stopped flowing from his wounds. Even the new wounds are not bleeding much. Examine that gash on his stomach. You can see his entrails. That gash in his neck? I’m sure you all understand. They slit his throat and left him as dead. And yet he lives.” He looked up, his confidence growing. “How many strikes could you take from Beldrun Shanks’s fist before you lost consciousness? How many could any of us take? I saw this man take eight blows to his head without even appearing dazed. Something is keeping him from dying. Keeping him awake.”
“Sorcery?” asked Grae.
Lord Aeren shrugged. He drew out a wax tablet and wrote in it with a stylus. “That might be a question for our magician.”
They turned to Meedryk, who seemed to wilt under their gaze. “I . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose . . . I . . . ”
“Take your time,” said Sage. He drew his flask, uncapped it, took a long swig. Grae watched him closely as the scent of wood alcohol drifted in the thick air of Maurai.
“I didn’t see a magician on the list of people traveling with the Cobblethries,” said Grae.
Meedryk cleared took a deep breath and spoke. “If . . . this is magic, then it’s . . . well, necromancer magic. There are no spells in the Canalist Guild that would do this to a man. Even if a casting were botched, nothing that I have studied would have this effect.”
“You’re an apprentice,” said Grae. “There’s bound to be quite a lot that you haven’t studied.”
Meedryk opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. He wanted to tell them that he had read every curricular volume in the Canalist Guild at least once. Not just the ones he was allowed to read. He’d read every single one. He’d probably read more than some his masters. But to admit it was to admit to a crime. So he licked his lips and nodded.
“I am a good student,” he said finally. “It was no magician that did this to him.”
†††
Grae sent everyone away except for Sage. He sat on the ground and gestured for the scout to join him. Sage sighed deeply and spoke before the brig could. “Am I in trouble?”
“Should you be in trouble?” asked Grae.
“I shouldn’t,” said Sage. “And yet, I always seem to be.”
“You’re not in trouble,” said Grae.
“You’re just saying that to prove me wrong.”
Grae flashed a half-smile. “We haven’t had a chance to talk since you joined us. How have you been?”
“Between hangings and suicidal missions, I’ve been well, thank you.”
Grae looked him over carefully, noting the changes from the last time he had served with the scout. Had it been seven years ago? Sage had lost a bit of weight, but he still looked youthful. He must be near his thirtieth year. And yet he was still a stout-with-honors. Grae knew that he would never reach hammer. It was likely the scout didn’t want to rise any higher. Sage was high enough to outrank most men, but not high enough to hold true responsibility. He wore the circle-within-a-circle proudly on his shoulders.
The scout took a swallow from his flask. Grae waited until he was finished, then took the flask from him gently. He sniffed at the contents and recoiled from the smell. “I don’t remember you drinking this much before.”
“That’s alright,” said Sage. “There are times when I don’t remember my drinking, either.”
“Sage,” said Grae. “I need you to stop” He looked at the scout, but Sage wouldn’t meet his gaze. “For the next few days. Just until the end of this mission.”
“Oh, for the rest of my life, then,” said Sage.
Grae didn’t smile. “I need you to stop, Sage. It’s important. For me. For you. For Nuldryn.”
Sage looked into Grae’s eyes and the smile vanished. He held the flask up to the canopy, as if making a toast, then dumped wood alcohol into the earth. Grae placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Thank you, Sage.”
Sage stared at the wet soil. “Drink up, gods. It’s not much, but surely it’s better than piss.”
†††
The Eridian awoke shortly after that. The whites of his eyes were almost completely green now, a pale, sickly green.
“Threna mulia,” he whispered. “Nanta hussia.”
“He says he’s dead,” said Lokk Lurius.
“Don’t bother telling him the truth,” said Grae. “He’s more right than wrong at this point. Ask what killed him.”
Lokk Lurius asked. The man spoke a few words.
“Says it was the Black Spider,” Lokk translated. “In Eridia, it’s the creature that tries to eat the world.”
“Ask him if he was stung,” said Grae. “Ask him what happened to the Cobblethries.” Lokk turned to the dying man but Grae spoke again. “Ask him why they didn’t go back to the Maurian road.” Lokk nodded, opened his mouth but Grae interrupted again. “And ask why they took the Maurian Road in the first place.” Lokk studied Grae for a long moment. The brig made hurrying motions with his hands.
Lurius began translating Grae’s questions but the man’s eyes rolled back into his skull. The dying Eridian made a terrible moan, a rising croak that grew louder and louder. The sound became so powerful, so foreboding, that the soldiers rose to their feet and backed away from him. The man’s groan reached a pinnacle, so loud that Maribrae and Drissdie covered their ears and shut their eyes.
And then it stopped abruptly.
The stones sent back echoes of the sound, then there was silence. The Eridian’s body convulsed and grew still. His eyes were open, orbs of unbroken, pale green. The squadmates looked at one another, then back at the body. No one approached it.
“Well, that’s that,” said Hammer. “Guess you were right about the thread.”
They shoved the body back under the stones and blocked the opening with piled rocks. Grae spoke of coming back later to bury him but he didn’t really believe it. The stone mausoleum was as good a place as any for his final rest.
After the Soldier’s Farewell they lit their lanterns and moved eastward along the stone ridge. No one wanted to sleep near the dead Eridian. They walked for an hour before finding a colossal oak that had fallen long before, its roots torn half out of the ground. The upended base of the tree rose to a height of almost thirty feet and left a massive pit in the ground with the same diameter. They chose this as the best site possible under the circumstances and set up hasty fortifications and a hastier fire.
Though the soldiers couldn’t see the sky, they knew it was empty. Shadow’s Eve. Blythwynn rested this night. Her eye was closed, her protections gone, and they were deep in the black heart of Maug Maurai.
Chapter 20
What sorrow Shadow’s Eve!
What atrocity!
I begrudge not your sleep, fair Blythwynn
But nourish us when you wake
Forgive us the horrors of Shadow’s Eve
Heal the damage of our mistakes
Sweet Blythwynn
Every twenty-eight days do we part
Every twenty-eight days breaks my heart
-- From “The Laments of the Wicked” by Twilight Man Suldraen of Aultreun
The squadmates collapsed around the fire, except for Sage, who stepped past the short ramparts and swept his lantern along the ground. He walked the perimeter of the camp, outside the pit made by the massive upended tree.
Grae strode out to him. “Something wrong?”
“Most likely not,” Sage replied.
“Don’t be mysterious.”
“You cannot escape mystery, Grae. It’s everywhere.” He tilted his lantern revealing a hole about as wide around as a sallet helm in the forest floor. “Take for example this hole.”
Grae kicked his foot into the depression and couldn’t feel the bottom until he s
tepped down. He sank almost to his knee. “There are lots of holes in the forest.” Grae pulled his foot out quickly.
“Indeed there are,” Sage replied. “Nothing to worry about then.”
Grae crossed his arms and waited.
“It’s just that . . . well,” Sage raised his lantern and extended his arm. Scattered within a few paces were a dozen more shadowy depressions. “Holes are solitary creatures. Territorial, really. They seldom gather together like this, don’t you think?”
Grae stared at the holes and rubbed at his neck. “Any thoughts?”
“Yes. I have heard of this. The great hole migration. Every fifty years or so holes from around the world gather and travel eastward to a land called Arz, where The Great Mother lives.”
“Sage, be serious.”
“I am being serious. The Great Arz-hole Dispersion is something I never dreamed I would witness. And yet, here we stand, Grae. I imagine Beldrun Shanks will have a great interest in this.”
“So you have no thoughts at all about these holes? Could an animal have made them?”
Sage shrugged. “It’s possible. But the holes are rather large. So the animal that made them would be uncomfortably large as well.”
Grae walked back toward the fire. “We’ll make it even more uncomfortable if it comes near us.”
†††
The squad sat in small groups near the fire. Jjarnee Kruu, their armored crossbowman, stole away with helmets belonging to Rundle Graen and Drissdie Hannish. He filled them with mud as a Shadow’s Eve prank and returned them quietly, then sat chuckling beside Sage.
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part Two: Feeding the Gods Page 10
