Chapter 9
There is a magic about a childhood home, a sorcery that never leaves your bones. The lands claim your soul. Though it rarely enters your consciousness, all that you see for the remainder of your days is compared to the lands that claim you. Every perception of beauty, comfort and safety stems from the land where you grew. You may find yourself in the most exotic and beautiful of lands and kingdoms. But nothing ever will feel as appropriate, as right and proper, as the land that anchors your soul.
-- Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet
Grae and Hammer reported to Daun Kithrey at nine-bells to equip the squad from the garrison’s armory. They waited outside for the stableman to come for their horses and Grae looked to the castle. He wondered, as he always did, at the frailty of its structure. Arched windows lined the six rectangular towers of the curtain walls. The walls themselves were pierced with enormous windows and balconies. Not the most stalwart construction, but it lent a grandeur rarely seen in Laraytian castles.
When he had first come to the city as a child, Grae had asked his father why they would build such a fragile castle. He had asked about the large windows, about the rectangular towers so susceptible to mines and sappers. His father, a hammer with the Standards and the center of Grae’s world, thought about the question before answering.
“If you were a sapper,” his father had asked, “How would you take down one of those towers?”
The castle was surrounded on all sides by water; the Mythaenthys and the Typtaenai rivers formed two-thirds of the moat, and a channel dug between them completed the circle. Only the foremost two towers had enough land to support underground mines. To reach them, attackers had to cross a long stone bridge. If they made it past the barbican and murder holes of the bridge’s gatehouse they’d be under fire for two hundred feet as they approached.
“I understand,” he had replied. “But a handful of mangonels would do fierce damage to those curtain walls.”
His father had laughed. “Aye. They would that. But you’d still have to cross that bridge to get in. You could destroy every wall of that castle and still not capture the keep.”
This was an interesting idea to Grae. He had never considered that you could destroy something without conquering it. That an enemy could tear you to pieces but still not claim victory.
Grae and Hammer spent two hours that night with the choleric arms-master of Daun Kithrey, woken from slumber to give away items from the armory. Despite the note and seal from the Chamberlain he had insisted on speaking to someone about “all of this crockery.” The Chamberlain’s steward had been called for and was icy in his confirmation of the orders.
The quartermaster had relented, but in his eyes was the accusation of a man who thought he was being swindled. And he was right. Grae and Hammer took the armory for everything they could get, necessary or not. They had lurched out of the castle like thieves that night, giddy with mischief and accomplishment. They piled everything onto their horses and a spare pack horse and made their way eastward, laden and stumbling and joking.
They slept in a field against a copse of yew trees well south of Maurai, too tired to make a fire or eat. Too tired to worry about the Beast five miles to the North. As they slept, Blythwynn gazed down on them, her eye more closed than open.
Lojen’s Eye was in the east when they awoke, and they rode toward it. They didn’t speak for a long while. Their thoughts were heavy with the creature they were tasked to kill. When Hammer finally broke the silence, it was to give voice to their thoughts.
“That thing’s a killer, Grae.”
“So are we, Hammer.”
The horses’ hooves thudded against the worn soil of the Old Byway. Crows shrieked from a mist-mantled willow.
“You left pretty soon after that monster got here Grae. You ain’t ‘eard all the stories.”
“I heard its cries time and again before I left for Maulden.”
“Those were the early days. It got worse. Lots worse. It’s a killer, Grae. A seemarken killer, it is.”
“It’s always something in that forest,” said Grae. “One more thing to fear in the haunted wood of Maug Maurai.”
The forest had a pedigree of terror. Stories of Maurai went far back, back before the Larays came to the land, before even the Andraens. It went back to the savage Margils and the haunted, hidden city of CWYNCR. A place where the dead walked and the living killed. A place whose very name could bring children to tears.
“I suppose no one’ll fear that Beast soon,” said Hammer. “We’ll be roasting it in a couple days.” He gave Grae a wink that was so forced it looked more a twitch. The crows scattered as the two horsemen rode past the willow.
“I’ve been thinking ‘bout what you said, Grae. About how they told you to report to the Chamberlain four days ago?”
“Yes. Four days ago.” He knew what Hammer was working out. Grae had done the same calculation last night, after he’d left the Chamberlain’s room.
“And the Cobblethries … when did their caravan get attacked?”
“Two nights ago.”
Hammer scratched at his beard.
“I don’t know either, Hammer. I didn’t think of it when I was talking to him.” Grae thought of the Dromese red the Chamberlain had pushed on him. “They must have wanted to send a squad even before the Cobblethrie incident.”
“Maybe.” Hammer shrugged and noticed the new pendant hanging from the brig’s neck. “That’s very pretty. You got earrings to match?”
Grae fidgeted with the pendant. “The Chamberlain gave it to me. It’s a symbol of the King’s Authority.”
“It looks real nice,” said Hammer. “Brings out the brown in your eyes.”
Grae ignored the needling and stared at the pendant. It was just larger than a mollie coin but made from silver or platinum, with tiny studs of gold around its thick edges. The studs gave the medallion the look of a tiny sun. A crude image of an animal skull was etched onto one side. And what looked like circular water ripples on the back. The pendant was primitive and terribly out of place dangling below his officer’s bevor. He considered tucking it into his tabard, but resisted. The Chamberlain had insisted he keep it visible at all times on this assignment.
Grae let the pendant drop. He cleared his mind and breathed deeply, taking the Nuldish moors into his lungs. He spotted a group of horsemen behind them, far toward the west. Five or six of them. He could just make out the long blond braid on one of the riders.
“Hammer.”
“I know sir. Persistent buggers.”
“Are you planning on telling me what they want?”
Hammer touched the wide brim of his kettle helm absently. “They’re Andraens. Odd folk. Shouldn’t we be ‘eading South, sir? Toward Tiftyn?”
Grae glanced back at the riders. They were moving slowly, content to keep pace. “We have to make a stop first,” he replied. “Daun Sanctra.”
“Daun Sanctra? What’s at Daun Sanctra?”
“Sir Jastyn Whitewind. The Chamberlain said he wants to speak with us.”
“Why would a Whitewind wanna meet with us?”
Grae shook his head. “Who knows? One more curiosity in a mission defined by curiosities.”
Hammer glanced backward with as much subtlety as he could manage. “Maybe Lord Whitewind wants to loan us some men. That would hit the spot. Garrisoners or not, we could sure use more soldiers.”
Grae said nothing. Another dozen standards would have made a sizable difference. But commanders did not have the luxury of questioning orders.
Hammer persisted. “Did the Chamberlain mention why ‘e’s sending ten men to kill the most dangerous creature in Laraytia?”
“He obviously doesn’t know much about Laraytian Standards.” Grae flashed a half smile. “I told him we only needed four, but he wouldn’t believe me.”
Chapter 10
“It is far more difficult to be named one of Blythwynn’s immortals than one of Lojenwyne’s primes. The Holy Receiver
of Light, Her Luminance Evra Fannent, spoke once on this subject: “To be a great warrior and commit courageous deeds in battle takes but a few reckless years of youth. To become an immortal is to have lived an entire life for humanity.” It is an eloquent explanation, but I would amend it thus: Those wishing to be immortals must live their life for humanity. Those wishing to be primes must be willing to end their life for humanity.”
-- Overlord Pheadrie Cantalian, 3rd Brigade, Laraytia
“I am nothing.” The silks and linens that draped the canopy’s frame dampened the sound. Sir Jastyn Whitewind’s voice sounded small and flat.
Maribrae, awake by only the thinnest of threads, stirred and mumbled. “You are the blazing star of my heavens.”
It always surprised Jastyn that she could speak like this even at the edge of sleep. The layer of poetry that surrounded her rarely fell away.
“A star,” he said in the monotone of impending sleep. “That’s the right of it. I am nothing but …” He wasn’t at Maribrae’s level, he had to search for the correct words. “I am nothing but a distant star, a winking light in the distance … something interesting to look at, but providing nothing, doing nothing. Being nothing. What will be my title when I am dead? Jastyn the Irrelevant.” He let the words rest in the silks for a time, considering them. “If I were a candle, I could give light to those in the darkness. I could … I could bring day to the night. Even a touch of heat. I could re-light the hearth fire, illuminate a room, help magicians reach great heights. But a star … a star does nothing. Is nothing. Can do nothing.”
Maribrae’s hand found his and she sighed, forcing herself away from the banks of sleep, fighting the panic that rattled her heart when Jastyn spoke like this. “Fuel of my heart’s fire. You are the brilliant Western Star. Everyone who looks upon you knows where they are by your greatness. Your shining example is a guide to peasants and kings alike.” Jastyn smiled and nudged her playfully. She continued. “The world would grow colder and darker without Jastyn Whitewind.” She draped her arm across the firmness of his chest. “What is a candle, that can be destroyed by breath or gust? That relies on the frailest patch of wax and thread to live? Even a distant star blazes eternal, outstaying mountains and civilizations. A candle brings light to naught but a tiny corner. A star gives its light to the world.” She kissed his ear gently. “Do they not say that stars are the lanterns of Eleyria? Do not the immortals hold these aloft to lend light to Blythwynn’s vigilance?” She rose from the bed, parting the silk canopy and taking his hand. “Come my love.”
The two walked across the floor of the tower, the stones still warm from the dying hearth fire, the faint light from the sconced candles casting an orange hue on their naked bodies. They passed the wafting wall hangings depicting the heroes of myth that Jastyn adored. Past a tapestry of Roebi and Ynnebelle, legendary lovers of Laraytia’s past. Past wooden plates bearing the images of The Forgotten Heroes and the Raging Eight. She brought him to the unglazed window, out onto the meager ledge. There were few lamps or torches on this side of the castle, so on that clear spring night the sky was absolutely powdered with stars. The moon, Blythwynn’s Eye, was a smudge in the southern skies.
“Stare upwards,” she whispered. “Ignore everything but the canopy above.”
He stared upward, distractedly at first, longing for the warmth of his bed. He gazed at the familiar constellations. The Spike. The Witch. Homunculus. He knew each of the immortals that made up the points of each constellation. They were as familiar as his room, or his armor. As familiar as the woman at his side. The peppering of stars so similar to the dappling of freckles across her body, her face.
But as he gazed at the dark roof of the world, he noted new details in those old stars. Shapes and subtleties that he had never seen, or had seen once and forgotten. Stars that were not immediately visible appeared. Like tiny forest creatures that peek out when observers are still and silent.
He noted the beautiful chalky veil. The faint smudges and specks that grew brighter when examined, that made the enormity of the night sky seem even larger, infinitely layered. It was endless. One could disappear among those stars, lost in a stormy sea of light and darkness. Murdered by the magnificent beauty, by the mystery and complexity of it all. Somewhere in the west a streak of light arced across the sky, burning for a moment, then fading to nothing.
Maribrae’s touch pulled him away from the black swirling sea, away from the ungraspable sophistication of the universe. Away from the power of those stars. Back to the cool stone balcony of Tower Duleun. To the simplicity of the castle called Daun Sanctra.
“I love you Mari,” he whispered. “More than Roebi loved Ynnebelle.”
“And I love you, Jastyn.” She stroked his face. “More than that.”
The smell of perfumed herbs upon her neck was more powerful than he had remembered. In her eyes he could see the night sky, the scattered stars spilling onto her nose and cheeks in reverse, white skies and dark stars. Her lips parted in a look of such vulnerable beauty, such heartbreaking innocence, that he had to fight off tears. There was expectation there. A query. He took her chin in his hand and kissed her then, closing his eyes and falling into the sweetest darkness he could imagine.
Chapter 11
The Eastern Front, the border between the kingdoms of Laraytia and Gracidmar, is a shore of violence; wave upon wave of enemies pound forward at high tide, only to be chased back by the Laraytian Standards at low. There are no clear delineations of territory. Mines in the Green Mountains become battle-mines. Slaves dig for precious metals as soldiers fight around them, the daily treasures going to the army that owns the mine at day’s end.
-- Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet
Grae and Hammer presented themselves at the tiny castle’s gate and were told that Sir Jastyn was on the upper tiltyard. One of the guards pointed it out to them, on a hill about a quarter mile from the castle.
At the tilting field, two mounted men faced each other, thin lances held high. Both wore tilting harnesses and high-beaked tourney helms. As Grae watched the two chargers sprang toward one another. One of the men, dressed in a white tabard, set his lance on his shoulder as he rode so that it pointed upward in the Laraytian Lancer style.
The horses’ hooves rumbled upon the field, divots of grass kicking up like splashed water. A moment before the two men came together the man in white lowered his lance crisply. The spear struck and shattered with a crack that echoed across the field. The man’s opponent took the blow on the grand guard upon his shoulder and crashed back against the cantle of his saddle. And then the two were past, their horses slowing with quick jumps and lowered heads.
A squire near the fence noticed Grae and Hammer and ran to their side. He took their names and bustled out onto the field toward the two jousters.
“Which one do you suppose is Sir Jastyn?” asked Hammer.
Grae shrugged. “I’ve never met him.”
As they waited, a woman wearing day lilies in her braided hair walked forward and leaned against the fence a few paces from them. She placed her elbows on the beam then reached out with one pale arm. A dozen bracelets jangled as she pointed to the knight in the white tabard.
“Jastyn is there,” she said, not looking at either of the soldiers. “The boundlessly handsome one on the left.”
Grae nodded to her “My lady…” he paused as he spotted a song charm on her forehead, held in place by a delicate circlet of silver. “Maiden,” he said, correcting himself.
Hammer spoke to cover the fumble. “Are you Sir Jastyn’s songmaiden?”
“I am many things,” she said. “But at the moment I am surprised. Brig Barragns has outrun our expectations. By a day at least.”
“My apologies, maiden. Duke Mulbrey’s Chamberlain had a change of heart and sent us early.”
“A change of heart is a splendid start,” she said. “That is the Chamberlain’s most deficient part.”
On the field, the squire spoke with Sir Jastyn, who l
ooked toward the fence and nodded. The knight dismounted and removed his helmet, gave it to the page. The boy set the helmet down gently and helped Sir Jastyn shrug out of his spaulders.
Sir Jastyn was young. Scarcely twenty if Grae had to guess. He was average in height, strong of build and had swirls of brown hair that curled down into his eyes. That he was handsome was indisputable. Expressive brown eyes, high forehead, narrow cheekbones. He was the very symbol of nobility. Grae hated him immediately.
“Hello Maribrae.” Sir Jastyn’s voice was one that had been nurtured on the finest that the world had to offer. The Standards officer corps was full of men like Sir Jastyn. “Brig Barragns? So sorry for the cold welcome. We were not expecting you until tomorrow or the next.”
“The welcome was warm enough,” said Grae. “Your songmaiden made us at home.”
“Shall we walk for a moment?” Sir Jastyn put a hand on Grae’s shoulder and Grae did his best not to flinch. “There are things I would discuss with you, if you’re agreeable to it.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“No need to stand on tradition. Please, call me Jastyn. Come.” He motioned for Grae to follow him. They fell into step beside Sir Jastyn, as did Maribrae. Hammer and Grae stopped and glanced at her. The young noble turned to his songmaiden. “Mari, would you excuse us for a bit?”
“I would,” She sat down cross-legged on the grass and began plucking at clovers. She looked up with a smile. “I excuse you for not allowing me to walk with you.”
Jastyn chuckled and started off again with Grae and Hammer beside him. Grae motioned back toward Maribrae. “Is your songmaiden always so brash, my lord?”
“No,” Jastyn answered. “Sometimes she’s asleep.”
The wistful smile on the knight’s face turned guarded after a few paces. “I must apologize for the abruptness of what I am about to say. I have asked Duke Mulbrey to include me in your expedition.” Neither Grae nor Hammer spoke, so he continued. “The Whitewinds have had their differences with the Duke, but he is our liege. He understands that much of this Beast’s hunting grounds are Whitewind holdings. So he said I was welcome to join. But I would ask your permission. I do not want to do it if I do not have your blessing.”
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling Page 5
