The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part Two: Feeding the Gods

by Roberto Calas

  Then a glimmer.

  Something paused in the darkness. The lantern-light flashed red from a pair of sunken eyes. Something growled. Low and rattling. A noise that dashed any suggestion of humanity.

  Grae drew his sword and clambered slowly over the wall. The soldiers followed him, slipping quietly into the darkness like swimmers into a lake. At their approach the thing in the forest growled again. Grae stopped and pushed his lantern past leaves wet with dew. The light glimmered back from dozens of needle-like teeth.

  “A thrull,” whispered Sir Jastyn.

  The soldiers crouched low and waited. The thrull stared at the gathered squad, then looked back the way it had come. No one spoke. No one moved. After a dozen heartbeats the thrull looked once more toward the squad. Then it turned and continued its march into the darkness of the forest.

  “What’s all that?” said Hammer. “Just walked off.”

  “Keep your eyes open. There may be more around,” said Grae. He called Lord Aeren forward. “Have you ever heard of thrull walking off like that? Without attacking?”

  “Never,” whispered Lord Aeren. He cleared his throat. “Even wounded thrulls fight to the death. Always. That creature looked terrified. I didn’t think they were capable of fear.”

  “Maybe it had the frothing madness,” said Drissdie.

  If it hadn’t been Drissdie, Grae would have sworn it was sarcasm.

  †††

  Grae set the men to drilling again. The exercise was difficult with the sloping pit and the multitude of roots, and nobody wanted to play the part of the Beast which required turning your back to the forest. Grae forced them to move quickly, pivot much faster than they ever had. The Beast was a real thing now, palpable.

  While the squad drilled, the magician, Meedryk Bodlyn, worked furiously. The looming threat of the monster spurred him into a frenzy of crafting. He wanted five good pellets before he slept. Paroxic pellets. They weren’t complicated things, not in theory. Just a bit of aurum fulnastium layered with igneous eliciam. But crafting them was a terrifying process.

  The magician donned a pair of thick, fingerless gloves and a rugged leather blanket that he laid upon his lap before he started. He also set out a wineskin filled with liquefied animal fats, and poured vinegar into a wooden bowl for washing his fingers. He should have been in a meridian tent – a small leather pavilion that protected the others from any possible blast and hid his activities from curious soldiers. But he had left the tent behind the first night after trying to set it up. The endless loops of cord had gotten tangled so badly that he had hurled the entire thing into the forest. So instead he sat at the edge of camp with his back to the other soldiers.

  Pellets provided a magician with range, and Meedryk wanted to be as far from that monster as possible when they faced it. He started with sheep bladder, which was cut to form the body of the pellet. He would have to use wet animal gut to stich the bladder skin into a ball around the chemics. It was slippery work. Meedryk recalled the stories of an orphist in Wyvern Company who had dropped a bag of unprotected aurum fulnastium Rudris Howett told him about it, his voice a whisper. All they found was the top of his head.

  Meedryk was only working with six drams of it, but he could feel the sweat blossoming across his back. Enough to blow a foot off, he thought. He looked down at the ground between his thighs, followed the possible path of an explosion upward. Or worse.

  He sprinkled the aurum powder on the left side of the flattened circle of sheep bladder then rinsed his fingers in the vinegar bowl. Next, he laid a tiny piece of leaf-thin parchment to the right of the aurum powder. Igneous eliciam tended to eat through the bladder, so it had to be reinforced with the expensive sheets of the parchment.

  The slip of parchment stuck to his wet finger. He poked it too hard with his other hand and the leather pad dipped into the space between his legs. Meedryk gasped, then forced himself to relax, pulled the pad tight across his legs. He measured out two drams of the eliciam powder onto the leather, using his finger to flatten the pile. The eliciam wasn’t vital to the process— the pellet could explode with only the aurum. But the eliciam provided fire to the explosion. More satisfying and deadly. And it provided a bit of showmanship that magicians were trained to exhibit.

  Using a small knife he drew off any excess eliciam powder, leaving only a thin layer. He curled the parchment and sealed it with a touch of sticky mucilage, then washed his fingers again. The wineskin with the animal fats in it had a narrow opening, allowing him to squeeze out small droplets of fat onto sheep bladder. He layered the fat globules between the parchment pouch and the aurum powder. Sometimes the thin parchment holding the eliciam tore while the pellet sat in a wet-pocket of a magician’s sleeve; the animal fats provided a second barrier to make sure the integrants wouldn’t touch until the pellet struck something with force.

  Meedryk sprinkled tiny bits of crushed glass into the mixture, to ensure that the pellet would rupture when it struck. The he held the entire assortment on the leather pad while he administered the Kraugh Stitch that bound the pellet into a ball. The Kraugh Stich had to be executed precisely or the pellet could fall apart when stored in one of the two wet-pockets of his meridian cloak. The vinegar and animal fat in the pockets usually prevented chemic reactions, but they weren’t infallible.

  When the pellet was finished, Meedryk held it up between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting the stitching to make certain he had left no gaps.

  “What’s that?”

  Drissdie’s voice startled Meedryk and his wet fingers slipped on the slick bladder-skin. The pellet jumped from his hand. Meedryk spasmed toward it but only managed to knock it further into the air. He watched it tumble through the night sky. The pellet spun lethargically, beautifully, graceful in the direst of ways.

  They only found the top of his head.

  Meedryk lunged forward again, stretched for the ball of lethal chemics. And watched as it fell into Drissdie’s cupped hands.

  “Feels icky,” Drissdie said. He tossed the pellet high into the air and held out his hands to catch it again.

  “Drissdie don’t!” Meedryk shoved Drissdie out of the way and reached up with both hands, caught the pellet gently, wincing against the potential blast.

  They’ll only find the top of my head.

  But there was no blast.

  Meedryk’s knees felt warm and weak, so he sat down, cradling the pellet in both hands. He let out a long breath.

  “You don’t have to push me, d’you suppose?” Drissdie said.

  “I’m sorry,” Meedryk replied. “It’s just . . . components of magic are not to be played with.”

  Drissdie gasped. “That’s magic?”

  Meedryk nodded curtly. “It’s a pellet.” He took another breath then blurted out the lie that all mages were trained to speak when asked about pellet. “They contain chemics that assist us when casting spells from a distance.” He wiped his hands again. “We throw them at our target as we cast a spell. When the pellet breaks on the target, it releases a chemic that binds magic. In this way, our spell will only affect our target and not the rest of the squad.” The words were spoken mechanically, but Drissdie’s eyes were wide as he quaffed the lie. Meedryk felt a moment of pity for the trudge. But deep down, he envied the simpleton. For Drissdie, magic was still magic. It was something mysterious. Anything was possible with magic. It was how Meedryk had felt long ago.

  †††

  When he finished the pellets Meedryk rummaged through his haversack. His hands found the stack of weathered pages again and he carried them once again to Aramaesia.

  “Hello Meedryk,” she said. A pile of goose feathers and a spool of fletcher’s silk lay before her. Meedryk held the pages in both hands, his fingers tight on the stack, the tiny scars shining white on his fingers.

  “I heard that you have a camp in a forest. That you help people.” He cleared his throat. “I can help too. It would be good to have a magician in the camp, wouldn’t it?”<
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  She sighed and looked at the pages in his hands. “Yes. It would be wonderful.”

  He held the pages out toward her. “These pages . . . they could help me be better. I could help you more.”

  Aramaesia put her hands under the pages and pushed them gently back toward Meedryk. “And if someone finds out that I had read this to you? What would happen to you? Or to me? What is the punishment for such a crime?”

  Meedryk didn’t speak, but the look on his face told her everything she needed to know. “I am sorry Meedryk. Perhaps you should wait until you are a master. Then you will be able to read it, will you not?”

  “I won’t be allowed to read it for years,” he said. “Years, Aramaesia.”

  “Meedryk, I am sure there is a reason for the laws,” she said. “They do not feel you are ready for this knowledge. You chose to join the magicians. Perhaps you should choose to follow their rules.”

  But Meedryk wasn’t listening. He was already stomping back to his haypad. Aramaesia knitted her fingers and frowned as she watched him go.

  †††

  Rundle Graen tracked Lord Aeren’s movements throughout the camp. The thickset soldier clenched and unclenched his fists as he thought about the previous night. The night when the nobleman had blasphemed Lojenwyne. There was much that Rundle could allow to pass unanswered. But what the nobleman did that night was not one of them.

  He watched Lord Aeren try to get Aramaesia to lay with him. Watched him scribbling in one of the wax tablets and loaning his book on beasts to the apprentice magician. He waited until the young nobleman stood and walked out past the perimeter wall, then Rundle rose to his feet and followed him into the forest.

  Lord Aeren fed the gods for a long time. The young scholar had quaffed half a wineskin of Jjarnee Kruu’s Eridian wine in one sitting. He hoped the gods appreciated the vintage.

  Rundle Graen approached silently so that Aeren wasn’t aware of him until the thickset soldier was directly behind him.

  “You don’t know nothin’ about justice,” said Rundle Graen.

  Lord Aeren jumped, struggled to focus on his task. “Rundle. You . . . you scared the life out of me.”

  “No,” said Rundle. “You still got life in you. And so do I.”

  Aeren finished quickly and tied the cords that held his britches together. He edged to one side and glanced toward the camp. “Did you drink Jjarnee’s wine, too? It travels straight through, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” said Rundle. “I didn’t drink no wine. I came for you.”

  “For me?” Aeren’s heart thundered in his chest. He reached back and steadied himself against an ash trunk, looked once more toward camp.

  “Yeah.” Rundle drew a steel-hilted dagger from a sheath at his side. “For you.”

  “Look Rundle, I know we have our differences but I respect—”

  “Shut your mouth,” Rundle growled.

  Aeren shut his mouth. He tensed his legs. He could shout, but he would be dead by the time the others reached him. Best to run into the forest and lose Rundle in the darkness.

  Rundle raised the dagger. Then he flipped it so the hilt was extended toward the young nobleman. “What do you think of this?”

  Aeren glanced at the dagger. “Wh . . . what?”

  “The dagger. You like it?’

  When a religion-crazed soldier followed you into the forest and asked if you liked his dagger, there was really only one thing a man could say. “Yes, Rundle.”

  Rundle held the weapon up and angled it so light from his belt lantern caught the blade. Someone had carved a sun and scratched words into the steel. “See what it says there? I can’t remember what language it’s in, but it says, ‘Justice is your shield.’”

  “It’s masterful, Rundle.” Lord Aeren ran his finger along the carved letters.

  “See the stone in the pommel?” Rundle held it up so Aeren could study the orange jewel. “It ain’t real. Just glass. But when the light hits it, it shines real nice.”

  “I’ve not see a more beautiful weapon.”

  “Really? You ain’t seen a lotta weapons then. Isn’t worth much, but it ain‘t bad.” He extended the dagger again. “Take it.”

  “Take it?”

  “Take it,” Rundle barked.

  “I cannot take your dagger, Rundle.”

  “You could have had me swinging,” Rundle replied. “You didn’t even let ‘em chaff me. Lojen demands justice. And justice means I give you this dagger. Then we’re even.”

  “I couldn’t take it, Rundle. It is your dagger.”

  “It’s your dagger now, fool. Take it. Don’t make me hit you again.”

  Aeren smiled. “When put in those terms, how can I refuse such kindness? Thank you, Rundle. I have never owned a dagger.”

  “Yeah, I figured. That’s why you don’t understand Lojenwyne.”

  “I’m beginning to understand him more intimately.”

  Rundle nodded and turned back toward camp. He stopped at the rampart and looked back. “If you ever blaspheme again I’ll tear out your guts and squeeze your own shit into your mouth.”

  Lord Aeren smiled. “I’m sure you’ll do Lojen proud.”

  Chapter 24

  Grae Barragns spent his childhood within ten miles of Daun Sanctra.

  He had known little about the Whitewind family except that, for a reason never explained to him, they were said to be better than the Barragns family.

  They had a castle, so as a child he had always supposed this to be true.

  -- from “The Headsman of Laraytia,” by Jurn Hallion

  The first light of the morning reached Maribrae and Jastyn. The lovers lay on a blanket forty paces from the camp. The confines of the root-pit encampment had been too tight so they had waited hours, sleeping on and off. When they were certain the camp was asleep, they slipped away, past Drissdie Hannish on perimeter, and down the length of the great fallen tree for their meeting.

  Their union was desperate and silent. Lips open, breathing one another’s passions, hands clutching and stripping fabrics, warm flesh against warm flesh, bodies pulsing together. Jastyn lay her down and Maribrae let out a long, low hiss as he entered her, curled one leg around his back. She tried to look into his eyes but his gaze swept over her flesh, his hands grasping her breasts. He slipped her leg back toward her, until it rested on his shoulder and they rocked together, her nails gouging the skin of his back. They panted and moaned in unison. Stars and castles. Heavens and earth. Maribrae took Jastyn into the universe, into the soft glow of Blythwynn’s light. Into the darkness of eternity where the immortals held lanterns against the clawing black night of Mundaaith. “Come with me,” she gasped. “Come with me to forever.”

  And for a moment, that moment they shared once a day, that moment Maribrae cherished more than anything in the lands and skies, Jastyn did.

  When the morning light found them, they lay side by side, naked and spent. Jastyn let Maribrae doze for a span as Lojen’s first glance broke through the canopy in golden lances. He reached for his tunic, a simple one of roughspun wool, and slipped into it.

  “They’ll wake soon and notice us gone,” he said, shaking her gently.

  “What care we,” Maribrae stared at the rising trunks around them, their tops converging somewhere high above.

  “Come, my goddess,” he whispered. He looked at her on the blanket. Her skin was a pale gold in the light, goosefleshed with morning chill. Slender legs crossed at the ankles. “You know why we care.”

  She sighed and sat up. “I know why you care.”

  “Such accusation in your voice, my hummingbird.”

  She shrugged into an underdress and lifted a square of linen that was tied at the corners. She sniffed at the sweet scent of confections. Perhaps the finest sugared pastries in all of Laraytia, baked for Maribrae personally by Hulberth the Patissier. She drew one out. It was mashed and crumbling but still made her mouth water. She slipped it into Jastyn’s mouth and he closed his eyes.
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  “Blythwynn herself could not serve better confections,” he said.

  Maribrae took another out, but stopped before placing it into her mouth. A shaft of sunlight pierced the canopy and fell on Jastyn.

  “Wait . . . “ She leaned forward and pushed him gently to align his head more crisply with the light. “There! Now up with your head, just a breath, chin up . . . There! Stop!” She gazed at him, her eyes glittering, one of her hands still resting on his chest. The sunbeam caught him from behind, the backlight setting him aglow. Thousands of tiny motes spiraled around him in the cone of yellow seawater that surrounded his face.

  “With a hundred canvases and a thousand pigments, I could not hope to paint such a sight,” she whispered.

  He remained motionless for a time, then slowly moved out of the light with a smile and donned leather trousers. She leaned back on her elbows and noticed that she still held the confection. She slipped it into her mouth, closed her eyes and sighed with an almost carnal satisfaction. “Eating these drops of Eleyria is the nearest thing in all the world to being with you.”

  He grinned and fastened his belt. “We should return from opposite sides of the camp, at different times.”

  “I present you a scene from our future,” she said idly. “Describe your reaction for me.”

  “One moment, my fluttery finch,” he said. “This is important. I will circle around the camp and enter from the East – ”

  “You walk with that Tainted Witch, your wife, in the ward at Daun Sanctra,” she continued. “And you encounter your songmaiden, your bloodwife, Maribrae, approaching from the opposite direction.”

  “Maribrae, please, I need you to listen to this.”