The porter’s smile grew wider as he followed the action in the room. He closed the door when the sounds ceased and sat on the opposite bench, chuckling to himself.
“What sort of guard are you?” asked Grae. “What if the Chamberlain knew you were spying on him? It’s disgraceful.”
“No, no,” said the guard. “It ain’t like that. The Chamberlain don’t mind at all.”
“I doubt that very much,” said Grae.
“You don’t know the Chamberlain, sir.”
“It doesn’t matter. Your duty is to guard his chamber. I could have killed you while you looked away.”
The guard cocked his head. “Why in Eleyria would you want to kill me? You’re an officer in the Standards.”
“That’s not the point,” said Grae. “You can’t peer into the room whenever you’re bored. Stand your post with vigilance. With dignity.”
“Look, sir,” the guard held out a calming hand. “I know you’re upset about the long wait, but he’ll be ready for you soon. Truly.”
The patronizing hand, the disordered uniform, the blasé attitude. It suddenly was too much. Grae stood and took a step toward the porter. The latch clanked and the Chamberlain’s door creaked open, banging into Grae’s boot. The guard made a nervous gesture toward the doorway. Grae took a last look at him and backed away, allowed the door to open.
A thin shirtless man, his eyelids and lips painted, walked past Grae, winking at him. Behind him, a woman with dark, unkempt hair followed, blowing kisses to someone in the chamber. Another man exited, wearing bunched hose and a loose silk shirt. He tipped Grae a mocking salute and exited with the woman. The chamber door opened wider revealing a thin man with a shock of graying black hair. A rich blue shirt was open to his sternum and half tucked into knee-length breeches. He wore no shoes or hose, and Grae was reminded of the bedraggled Kithrey children who fished for trout in the shallows of the Typtaenai.
“Brig Barragns? So pleased to see you. Dreadfully sorry for the wait. Do come in.”
Chapter 5
Headsman, Headsman, what is your will?
Headsman, Headsman, who do we kill?
Cruel was the name of Headsman, and poorly it draped on Grae Barragns.
But the mantle had a better lay, with each and every passing day.
-- From “The Headsman of Laraytia,” (unfinished)
by Songmaiden Maribrae Endilweir
Grae bowed formally and entered the room. The chamber was smaller than he had imagined. It should have been a sprawling room, with a four poster bed upon a dais and stained windows overlooking the rivers. Only the bed at the center of the room was as Grae had pictured it. Enormous and round, ringed by six posts and a clutch of vaporous fabrics. A silk chemise lay beside it, on the floor. The room held the stench of fornication. The freebody stink of careless sex. He turned to the Chamberlain with what he hoped was a neutral expression.
Grae had no direct connection to the man. The Chamberlain could not give direct orders to an officer of the king’s army, and neither could the Chamberlain’s master, the Duke of Nuldryn. But Duke Mulbrey was a powerful man, one who could make Grae’s life more difficult. And Grae’s life was difficult enough.
The Chamberlain studied Grae for a long moment, then padded to the back of the room where an ornate stand of thin metal strips held bottles and lead goblets. He removed a bottle of wine from the rack and studied it. After a thought, he replaced it and withdrew another bottle and two of the elegant goblets, then sat at a table by the fireplace. He motioned to one of the other claw-footed chairs and poured into both glasses, ignoring Grae’s wave of protest.
“Dromese Scarlet. Rare and expensive. I’m afraid you might find it shamefully expensive. But it is the finest wine I have tasted.” The man closed his eyes and sipped, an expression of sublime delight on his face. “My life has been ruined by this vintage. When I drink other wines now I wonder how I could have suffered such slop for so long.” He opened his eyes. “That’s the problem with refinement, isn’t it? It shows you how wretched the common things truly are.” He smiled and motioned for the brig to drink.
“Excellent, sir.” Grae felt the sharp edge of the goblet’s stem and forced himself to loosen his grip.
The chamberlain smiled absently, as if Grae’s comment were superfluous. He took interest in the bruised gash upon Grae’s cheek. “A Gracidmarian soldier?”
“A pig,” Grae replied.
“Indeed,” said the Chamberlain. “Those swine won’t be so feisty when we retake Feuringham, eh?”
Grae nodded, too tired to clarify.
“You have an exemplary record in the Standards.”
“Thank you sir. I’ve had some good fortune in the past.”
“Good fortune? Nonsense,” he said. “Luck grows in fertile soil. Isn’t that what Lojenwyne tells us?” he smiled again. Proud of himself for speaking the warrior’s language to a soldier, no doubt. “You rose from nothing. Nothing at all. A trudge with common lineage. And look at you now. An officer in the King’s Army. A Brig no less.”
Grae set the goblet back on the table.
“Finrae!” The Chamberlain practically shouted it and Grae started, overturning his goblet and spilling the wine. “That was your greatest victory, was it not? Two thousand men faced more than six thousand. I can’t imagine luck had much to do with that victory.”
“It wasn’t exactly like that, sir.” Grae righted the goblet. “It was closer to five thousand. And there were –“
“Ah, the modest commander. Don’t hide your accomplishments, Brig, revel in them! We have so few chances to bask in glory during this life.” He stood up, searched absently for something to sop up the spilled wine. Spotted the chemise by the bed and picked it up. “I understand they are teaching that battle at the War Guild. That’s what we want. That’s the sort of commander we need for this assignment.”
Grae thought back to Finrae, back to the pinnacle of his life. Most of his best battles had been fought in the West, in Nuldryn, or in the Durrenian mountains. Finrae was the only great battle he’d had in the East. He could hear the ovation from his soldiers. The shouts of “Laraytia!” echoing across the valley as his men bound the hands of each prisoner.
“A sad waste,” said the Chamberlain. He gazed at the spilled wine then threw the chemise over the table. Grae watched the wine soak through the silk. The sight gave him the unpleasant impression of a murder taking place.
“Finrae,” said the Chamberlain, refilling Grae’s goblet. “In all honesty, Finrae was all I needed to know. Finrae. And of course, Cydoen.”
There, thought Grae. There it is.
“Yes,” said the Chamberlain. “Finrae exemplifies your brilliance. And Cydoen shows your strength of character.”
After thinking back on the heights of Finrae it was a spiteful thing to be dashed upon the rocks of Cydoen.
“Those were some dreadful orders at Cydoen,” The Chamberlain said softly, perceiving something jagged in Grae’s expression. “But you didn’t flinch.”
Grae struggled to keep from downing the contents of his cup, made himself sip. Cydoen. “This assignment,” he said. “Is it to be like Cydoen?” I won’t do it, he thought. If it’s like Cydoen, or Thaulot, or Vantreu, or that other village … what was the name of that other village… I won’t. I’ll herd orchard pigs for the rest of my career. I won’t do it. I can’t. But he knew he would. He would do it because they would order him to.
The Chamberlain walked to a small writing desk in the corner of the room and gathered several documents. He sat again, holding the letters flat against his chest. “The night before last, a caravan carrying most of House Cobblethrie disappeared on the forest road through Maug Maurai. They were headed here, to Kithrey, for the festival. Two of their carriages were found upended and dead guardsmen scattered everywhere.”
“Yes, sir,” said Grae. “I heard the story from a cider vendor at the gate. I understand Black Murrogar was with them.”
; “A cider vendor!” The Chamberlain slammed his goblet on the table. “Why must news flow like a gushing wound through this fief?” The Chamberlain took some wine and savored it. He drew a breath then shrugged. A slow, dramatic gesture. “If a gate vendor knows then every soul in Kithrey does. We have far less time than I had hoped. You must leave tonight. As soon as we are finished here.”
“If that is your wish, sir,” said Grae. “But I was planning on riding to Furin Tahl to take some equipment.”
“Not at all. I’ll have Berryll take you to the armsman. He’ll get you whatever you need from the armory.”
“From the garrison’s armory?”
“Your Standards are doing the Duke a favor. It’s the least we can do.”
“Thank you sir, that’s very kind.” Grae sipped at the wine, waiting to be told where it was that he was to go. The Chamberlain drank in distracted silence. Grae cleared his throat and spoke awkwardly. “I wanted to speak with you about the soldiers that have been assigned to the squad. I would have preferred to select my own men.”
The Chamberlain’s eyes focused on Grae. “Each man was hand-picked for this assignment.”
“Of course, sir,” said Grae. “But I was hoping I could make a few additions. Men I have worked with before who have proven themselves capable and– ”
“Heroes, all of them I’m sure,” the Chamberlain interrupted. “But these men were hand-picked. We have allowed your choice of a scout and your own hammer. More than this we cannot do.”
“As you say, sir.” Grae sipped at his wine. “It would be easier to equip the squad if I knew what was required of me. Am I to understand that my team is to search for the Cobblethrie family in Maug Maurai? If so, I should think you would want me to head into the forest at once. Not ride across Western Nuldryn for a day gathering the men from their units.”
“Yes, I suppose it is time to address it,” exclaimed the Chamberlain. “What is it that the Duke of Nuldryn needs from the Standards?” He took a breath, as if steeling himself. “No sense mincing, eh? We need you to kill the Beast, Brig Barragns. We need you to slay the Beast of Maug Maurai and bring back its head.”
A profound silence settled in the room. Grae studied the unkempt bed. When he looked back toward the Chamberlain he was calm again. “You assigned me only seven men,” he said quietly.
“Seven Laraytian Standards,” said the Chamberlain. “And then there’s you and your hammer and your scout. That’s ten Standards. A formidable force.”
“Knights have gone into that forest with dozens of men,” said Grae. “An entire company of Janissaries was lost in there.”
“Bah! Knights who don’t know how to fight outside of tourneys. Provincial forces with rudimentary training. You’ll have ten Standards. True soldiers. Professional soldiers.”
“Perhaps,” said Grae, “we should find another ten.”
“Brig Barragns,” said the Chamberlain. “You of all people must understand the dearth of Standards in the West. The marquesses are cycling them to the front faster than new ones can be trained. We need someone to slay the Beast now, this very moment. So that when the lords of Lae Duerna Duchy start asking questions and pointing fingers, as they most certainly will, Duke Mulbrey can look properly despondent and apologize to them with all his heart, and then show them the head of the Beast.”
Grae fought down a handful of questions. There were a slew of inconsistencies in the Duke’s statements. Grae was being lied to. But he was a soldier, and being lied to was an integral part of soldiery. The idea of the assignment settled onto him slowly. The importance of such a mission. It was suicide, of course. Certain death.
And it was the best assignment he’d had in years. He fought down a smile.
The Chamberlain cleared his throat.
“Oh, and there is one more thing we require of you. A minor detail, really.”
But the intensity in the Chamberlain’s eyes betrayed the lightness of his voice. Grae looked into those steel blue eyes and saw Cydoen. There, reflected in those eyes was not Grae’s own image, but that of The Headsman of Laraytia.
Chapter 6
Trust in Lojen, but carry a shield.
-- From “The Arms,” Book II of Lojenwyne’s Words
The whip of a crossbow’s hemp cord knifed through the silence and brought the travelers to their feet. The crossbowman’s dying scream sent them running.
They fled toward the west, stumbling over stones and fallen logs. A dozen lanterns jangled in the night, bubbles of light in the forest crypt. Murrogar let them run. West was the best direction for now. He sent Thantos and Hul along the ragged flanks to keep the gentry together and ordered the four remaining spearmen to stay close to the Cobblethries. Three of the spearmen ran off toward the Duke and his family. The fourth looked at Murrogar, his brows furrowed, then walked after the other spearmen, casting backward glances.
There were only three knights left and Murrogar kept all of them with him. Even Sir Wyann. The knights had shed the long, cumbersome halberds when they had stepped into the forest. They waited with drawn swords and lanterns at their feet.
Murrogar pointed to a massive elm “Sir Gorith, take position behind that.”
“Gorin,” said the knight. “It’s Gorin, not Gorith.”
“Truly?” said Murrogar. “Fascinating. What sort of name is Gorin? Andraen? Nox?”
“It’s Embryan sir. My family was—“
Sir Bederant shoved Gorin toward the elm. “He doesn’t care, you fool.”
Fifty yards away, the crossbowman moaned and begged for death. The four warriors hunched down as leaves crackled somewhere in front of them. Sir Bederant held three fingers to his antlered helmet in a silent plea to Lojenwyne.
Murrogar whispered loud enough for all three knights to hear. “When it shows itself, I’m going to go at it from the front with Bederant and Wyann. Gorin, you get behind it and drive that sword up its arse so deep that I’ll be able to read the inscription.” He pointed to a clump of birch trees. “Bederant, strike from the left, over there. Wyann, from the right, behind that rock.”
Sir Wyann donned his battered helmet and hissed at Murrogar, “I don’t take orders from a soldier.” He sloshed through dry leaves to the clump of birches and took position on the left, beside Sir Bederant. Murrogar spared a moment to decide how he would kill the knight when this was all over.
The crossbowman cried out again, his voice pitched high and breaking. Murrogar wondered if he could get to the man to end his suffering. He glanced back toward the west, toward where the nobles had run. If the creature got past him now there would be carnage. But a score of dead branches splintered and cracked not more than thirty yards in front of him. The air fouled with the odor of rotting flesh. Then glowing green patches moved in the darkness, the suggestion of a creature rising onto its haunches.
A silence thick as murder settled between the warriors and Beast.
Black Murrogar howled, shattering the silence, and charged. The monster dropped to all six legs. It howled back, and Murrogar’s cry became a chirp by comparison. The creature coiled all six of its powerful legs, lowered its spined head and leaped from more than twenty yards away. It was all Murrogar could do to throw himself to one side.
Nothing is that fast.
Sir Gorin charged from behind the elm shouting, then fell quietly, blood spurting from beneath a shattered breastplate.
But it is.
Sir Wyann and Sir Bederant leaped from behind the birch trees. The creature knocked them backward and they tumbled like dice. It leaped after them and snatched Sir Wyann off the forest floor.
Murrogar ran at the Beast, knowing he wouldn’t be fast enough to save the knight. But a shape lunged from behind the creature. A spearman.
One of them must have come back. Brave lad.
The spearman, less than five feet from the monster, thrust his greatspear toward the creature’s flank. The monster whirled out of reach an instant before the spearhead struck home. It hurle
d Sir Wyann toward Murrogar and scooped up the spearman with a hiss.
Murrogar spun away from Sir Wyann’s airborne body. The knight’s plated leg crashed against Murrogar’s arm and the old soldier’s sword tumbled to the leaves.
The Beast clutched the spearmen in the long hands of its foremost limbs. The spearman’s arms were held high and his legs low so that the spearman was stretched taught like a string before the creature’s jaws. The Beast’s tail swept forward. A stinger the size of a dagger punched through the leather armor and into the spearman’s abdomen. The man’s screams trailed off into gurgles.
Black Murrogar couldn’t find his sword so he picked up a loose stone and hurled it at the monster. The Beast avoided it with a shift to one side. It left the stinger in the spearman’s abdomen for another heartbeat. Then it dropped the soldier with a hiss, it’s breath a gust of decay.
Sir Bederant returned Murrogar’s sword to him. One of the antlers on the knight’s helmet was broken. Sir Wyann struggled to his feet a few yards behind them.
“Sir Bederant,” called Murrogar, unslinging his shield, “you ready to die?”
“No sir,” said Bederant.
“Too bad.” Murrogar ran at the Beast, his blackened longsword held high, his eyes smoldering above the shield’s rim. Sir Bederant and Sir Wyann followed, screaming “Lae Duerna!”
The Beast didn’t meet their charge this time. It whirled and flashed out of sight like a fish darting to deeper water. The battle cries of the three warriors trailed off into groans. They looked to one another. Their shoulders rose and fell with great breaths.
The spearman on the ground stirred and moaned.
“He’s alive,” said Sir Wyann. The knight fell to his knees next to the spearman. “He’s still alive, Murrogar.”
Murrogar stared at the shambles of the man’s torso. “No. His wagon’s packed. Send him off and let’s go. The Beast may be looping around to the easy prey.”
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling Page 3
