He herded the nobles and servants toward the side of the road. He pushed and dragged and bellowed, unable to identify who was who. He knew there were two counts among them, and two countesses. There was the son of a thane. Several sons and daughters of counts and a Holy Paladin’s niece. Enough titles to rule a small kingdom. But this was Maug Maurai and titles held no sway in this court.
Sir Wyann slashed his sword against the tall grasses and ferns near the overturned carriage, pointing a candle toward the ground and scanning for something in the forest road. Two nobles and three knights were still mounted and hadn’t run off so Murrogar ordered them to dismount. He arranged the horses into a wall in front of the survivors then ordered all of the nobles into the forest. He signaled for Hul to guide them in and ordered Thantos to fetch more lanterns and oil from the baggage car.
“Crossbows and spears, cover,” said Murrogar.
A crossbowman ran to him and turned to cover.
“Get the rest of the bowmen here, now!” shouted Murrogar.
“I … I think I am the rest, sir.”
Murrogar rubbed at his beard. “Then shoot well. You’re firing for four.”
Spearmen formed ranks around Murrogar. Two of the three remaining knights formed up as well, their halberds braced.
Murrogar looked back at the nobles scurrying into the wood. Shoes were falling off, dresses tearing on brambles. It was like a bizarre dream; the kind where fish man battlements, or dogs ride horses. But the forest was the only hope they had.
And then the Beast was in the road.
It padded forward. Six legs. Ponderous teeth. Spines rising from the back of its head, and long tendrils, like roots or vines or massive arteries, snaking unkempt over its body. A green luminescence shone through in ragged spots along its bulk. The creature leaned back on its haunches and let out a cry so powerful that even Murrogar felt a spasm of terror.
A handful of spearmen broke and scattered in various directions. The creature chased after one of them. Sir Wyann gave up his search in the grasses and ran after the nobles.
“The rest of you, into the forest!” cried Murrogar. “Find cover!”
But only Thantos heard. Everyone else had already fled into Maug Maurai.
Chapter 2
As a Trudge I tramped and traveled
Through the sludge of fallen dead
As a Stout I stopped and studied
Let the Trudges go ahead
On my Honors held the banners
To the Standards I was wed
As a Hammer howled and stammered
At the worthless men I led
As a Signet, sad and single
Thanked my father for the stead
As a Brig I bragged and bristled
Marched my men till they were dead
As a Brig-Down drew my drubbing
Spent the months with men I dread
As Commander came and conquered
Never suffered, never bled
As Underlord I roared and whored
With thirty Friends did I break bread
As Overlord I lost my sword
Dined and smiled, forever bored
-- Laraytian Standards Song of Ranks
Thirty horsemen waited with Grae Barragns at the base of the grassy swell. Speed was the most important aspect of the mission, so the soldiers had shed their blackened mail and sallet helmets. They wore padded black vests, and gray tabards with the Black Dragon of the Laraytian Standards upon them. One of the men coughed and Grae wheeled his horse, scowling. No one admitted to it, so he spun the mare back again and waited for the signal.
“We’ll show them pigs,” whispered Braxley Horner. “They’ll think Lojen hisself is coming down on them.”
Grae gave him a long stare. Braxley had been promoted to the rank of hammer two weeks earlier and Grae still couldn’t understand why. Braxley smiled. It was like an ancient, rotted boardwalk between those lips. Grae shuddered and turned away.
An arrow, its tip alight, arched down the hill and fell five paces from the horsemen. The men scattered, then reined their horses and tried to stifle their laughter.
“Lojen’s Heart!” Grae whispered loudly. “They shot it right at us!”
“Wanted ‘a make sure we could see it, I s’pose,” Braxley replied.
Grae silenced him with a stare then raised his hand without looking back at the men. The arrow meant that the other soldiers were in position. He called to Hammer Braxley: “Put out that arrow before the hillside goes up.” Grae swung his arm forward and sent his garron into a charge up the slope. The rest of the men followed, save Braxley who dismounted and stomped on the flaming arrow.
The men crested the hill and thundered into the grassy bowl below. There were perhaps seventy-five of them milling upon the plain. Grae and his squad were a hundred yards away before the first of them looked up. A shriek tore through the morning air, then they were running, fleeing the rumbling death that approached from the east. Grae watched them run.
A hundred squealing orchard pigs – Old Spots they were called. Their hooves left divots in the damp soil.
Underlord Harryn Felch had given Grae the orders himself. The underlord understood the insulting nature of the assignment. Had laughed good-naturedly as he explained the problem. “The quartermen had a byre go up in the storm two nights ago, Grae. Lightning. A stableman opened the door. Saved most of the drove, but the pigs kept running. They never stopped running. Those Old Spots out there represent a fair investment.” He had sipped at his ale and smiled. “Lot of bacon on those plains.”
Felch had bought dinner and left enough coin to cover Grae’s drinks for a week. Felch was a good commander. But it was obvious why they had chosen Grae for the assignment. Why they chose Grae for all the sour assignments. Grae’s father had been a hammer in the Standards. Not a burgher or nobleman or even a landowner. Just a hammer.
On the plain, three soldiers leaped from behind a line of low shrubs northwest of the pigs and shouted, smacked swords together and ran at them. The herd turned to the south so quickly that several of the pigs went down and were bruised by the hooves of their companions.
The horsemen drove the pigs toward a rudimentary pen Grae had helped the men build. Soldiers rose from the grass to keep the herd on course. The pigs were funneled into the pen by scarecrows -- converging rows of breastplates with helmets balanced on them. A group of the animals broke away at the last moment and escaped the trap, but a soldier swung the crude gate closed locking the bulk of the pigs inside.
Grae ordered his riders to chase the stragglers. Each man held a wooden shaft with a loop of rope on the end instead of a spearhead. Grae watched as the men ran down the stray pigs then he searched the meadow, holding his own rope-looped shaft.
He found her to the north. Three hundred pounds of spotted ham. She was the largest of the drove and he was in full charge before the pig saw him. She bolted, running much faster than a three-hundred-pound sow had any right to. Grae dropped the loop toward her head four times before he finally snared her. He reined in and yanked, hearing her grating squeals, feeling the enormous pull of her weight. She tried to keep running and he tried to pull her back and the rope couldn’t take the strain. One end of the loop snapped and she ran free with a shriek
Grae cursed and gave chase. When he was by her side he slid one leg over the saddle and leaped at her. He knocked her down. She wheezed like a drowning fat woman as they tumbled then she flipped to her feet. Grae lunged at her from behind and fell onto her rump. Dragged her back legs to the ground. She squealed and freed one leg then kicked. Grae’s cheekbone seemed to explode with pain. Dazed as he was he kept his hold on one of her legs. Buried his face in her back to keep from being kicked again. She shat on his arm, the fear emptying her bowels, but still he held her. They struggled for what seemed an eternity before Grae was able to smother her with his body and stay on her until she stopped bucking. He took a deep breath, then heard applause.
A handfu
l of his men had watched the entire exchange. Braxley was there with his decaying smile. An officer, a brig like Grae, sat on a horse next to him.
One of the men roped the great sow as Grae stood and brushed himself off. Pig shit was smeared across one arm of his dropshirt. Blood ran from a gash on his cheek where the sow had kicked him. He glanced down and winced at the muddy shamble of his uniform as he approached Hammer Braxley and the officer.
“Brig Barragns, sir,” said Braxley. “This here’s Brig Throen. He rode out to speak with you, if it please you, sir.”
Grae nodded to Throen, who looked at him the way most high-born officers looked at Grae Barragns, only more so.
“Underlord Felch would like a word with you,” said Brig Throen. “If you’re finished raping that sow.”
Grae was too flustered by the condition of his uniform to think of a response, so he simply stared until the man looked away. Grae didn’t own land, nor was he graced with wealth, but there were few in the Laraytian Standards who could challenge that gaze. He nodded and fetched his horse and thought of a dozen clever retorts on his way back to camp.
Chapter 3
If youth is wasted on the young, then nobility is wasted on the noble.
-- Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet
Murrogar herded the scattered mass of nobles, servants and soldiers behind the trunk of a massive blue feuryk. He listened for the Beast but heard only the blubbering of travelers, and Sir Wyann shouting at everyone to go back to the road.
Murrogar closed his eyes and strained to hear past the din. He heard the Duke’s buttery voice calling for composure. The Duchess stood next to him shrieking, asking if anyone had seen her nephew, Sir Jervik. Murrogar heard the retching of a soldier. A squire sobbed. A nobleman slapped a hysterical lady and she clawed at his face, screaming. It was impossible to listen through that cacophony. But Murrogar tried.
“Murrogar, these people don’t stand a chance out here.” Sir Wyann held up a lantern. “I’m bringing them back. Taking them from the carriages was a terrible idea.” He turned to the crowd and shouted, “Everyone, with me! Everyone, follow me back to the road. Everything will be fine.”
Murrogar studied the immediate surroundings. They would need to find something defensible. He looked up at the great blue feuryk, then at the mossy soil. He thought about Maug Maurai, about the topology of it. “Thantos, get me a log.” He held his hands apart roughly the length of one of his arms. “’bout that big.” Murrogar turned to the lone crossbowman. “Take position twenty-five paces out. Shoot anything that moves.”
The Duke approached. “Murrogar, are you certain that—”
The old hero held a hand up to the Duke because Thantos had returned with a log. Murrogar hefted the piece of wood and shook his head. “Too big.” He turned his attention back to the Duke. “We’re out here ‘cause we’ll die on that road, my lord. You saw how it tore the wagon. We need better shelter.” Murrogar walked a few paces away and listened again.
Sir Wyann, who had half of the travelers back on their feet, strode over. “We’re leaving now. Those carriages are our only hope of getting out of this forest alive.”
Thantos arrived with the new log. Murrogar hefted it and nodded, then pounded Sir Wyann in the head with it. It was a powerful blow. It struck the knight in the basinet with enough force to dent the metal. Sir Wyann fell to the forest floor. The vicious clatter, the sudden violence of it, quieted the crowd. Everyone stared.
Murrogar put a forefinger to his lips. He cocked his head and listened. He couldn’t hear the Beast but the utter silence around the feuryk told him the monster wasn’t far. “They’re wagons,” he said to Sir Wyann, then tossed the log back into the forest. “No one goes back to that road. No one does anything without me telling ‘em too. You wanna piss yourself, you ask me first. Are we clear on this?”
Murrogar listened again. In the distance a man screamed, his voice hoarse with terror. There were other screams out there. Fainter. Farther away. A chorus of agonized souls. The Beast had left many of them alive. Alive and suffering.
The Duke stepped forward and helped Sir Wyann to his feet. Wyann said nothing, but his eyes burned into Murrogar.
“What is your plan?” asked the Duke.
“To stay alive,” replied Murrogar. “As long as we can.”
Chapter 4
As a courtier, it is best to meander along the course of your intent. In this fashion it is possible to swerve from one opinion to the next, from one viewpoint to its absolute opposite, should your original implication show signs of a poor reception from your lord.
-- From “My Liege, My Life,” Satirical Writings of Ulber the Ghost
“You’re some sort of hero, ain’t you?”
Grae Barragns met the porter’s gaze and tried to hide his distaste. “I’m no hero,” he replied. Hero. The word was a fallacy. There wasn’t a man alive who could wear that crown. Who could fulfill the promise of such a word.
“You sure?” The porter waved a finger. “I’ve heard your name before. You’re someone important.” The man squinted as he tried to dredge the memory from the depths of his mind.
It shouldn’t be hard in those shallow waters, Grae thought. He eyed the man’s uniform again. Wrinkled blue silk over leather brigandine. The leather hadn’t seen an oil rag in years. It was a dry, cracked thing, the squares curling. The man’s stance was little more than a slouch with aspirations. To a man like this even a sheepdog could be heroic.
Grae shifted on the wooden bench. He wished he could slide farther from the porter, but the foyer was tiny; A carved-wood closet with paneled ceilings, really. It seemed to Grae that a duke’s chamberlain should have a larger sitting room.
“Did you fight in The Recovery?” asked the porter. “You helped reclaim Maugna Faur, didn’t you?”
Grae let out a deep breath. In truth, he was surprised that a porter from Nuldryn had recognized him. Pleased, even. Grae had been away from Nuldryn Duchy for five years, off in Maulden, on the Eastern Front. “Do you remember the Battle of Debney?” asked Grae.
The porter squinted again, scratched at the falcon emblazoned on his tabard. “There was a battle at Debney?”
“Of course there was … Blythwynn’s Heart, man, it was a major conflict.”
The guard nodded slowly, “Yeah, I think I remember it.” But his eyes told Grae the truth.
“What about Daulth? The Hill Battles of Daulth?”
“I think so,” muttered the guard. He rubbed his cheek.
“Finrae? That one was in Maulden. On the Eastern Front. It was less than four years ago. We were outnumbered three to one.” He leaned forward. “We took fifteen hundred prisoners. You’ve never heard of Finrae?”
“You were in Maulden …”
“Yes, yes,” said Grae.
The guard’s eyes widened. He snapped his fingers and pointed. “Cydoen!” And the word twisted into Grae like a dagger. “The Massacre at Cydoen! You’re the godsmarking Headsman! The Headsman of Laraytia! I knew I’d heard your name before!”
Grae bit down hard to keep from speaking. He crossed his arms and shut his eyes.
Time passed in the little room and the bench became less comfortable. He was sore from riding. Tired and hungry. He had spent these last two days plodding across the width of Laraytia, from the active Eastern Front, with its ceaseless war against Gracidmar, to the dormant Western Front, with its icy stalemate against Durrenia. Back to Nuldryn, where he was born and raised.
No one told him exactly why they had sent him home. Underlord Felch had mentioned a new assignment and had given Grae a list of soldiers. These men, Laraytian Standards, would be pulled from their units to form a squad. That was it. There was no other information about the assignment. Felch had ordered Grae to appear at Daun Kithrey, in Nuldryn, where he was to meet with Duke Mulbrey’s Chamberlain and do as he was told.
Grae’s mind stumbled over the oddity of it, of meeting with a duke’s steward. Laraytian Standards didn’t a
nswer to Dukes. Only to the King, and to the king’s representatives in each duchy, the marquesses.
Bells tolled five times from Daun Kithrey’s moonhaven and Grae shifted in his seat. The porter leaned against the Chamberlain’s door and put his ear against the burnished wood. He listened for a time, then opened the door a crack and peered inside. A line of amber light split his face vertically, a broad grin split it horizontally. Something lewd was taking place inside. A sultry female moan. A male grunting. Whispers. Another female crying out in passion. Wood creaked.
Grae gripped the bench tightly. That an emissary of the Duke’s could engage in something like this while an officer of the King’s Army waited outside was a dreadful confirmation of the state of the nobility in Laraytia.
They’re rotting from the top, his father had told him when he was a child. Do you know what happens when the roof of your home rots, Grae?” His father hadn’t answered the question. He never did. Always let Grae pick out the solution.
Grae knew what had happened when Laraytia’s old roof had rotted. When the Laray family, founders of the kingdom, had grown soft and unsavory; The war had lasted two years, and after the rubble of the old regime was cleared, House Darmurian built a new roof. Forty-one years had passed since that war. The Darmurians were on their second king now. And already the rot was taking hold.
It happens in the Standards too, his father had said, but the rot comes from the bottom there. You have to watch for it, Grae. Discipline is the only varnish against moral decay.
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling Page 2
