The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling

by Roberto Calas

  Grae stared at a point far ahead of him as he spoke. “I mean no disrespect, my lord, but why would you want to join this expedition? It would be impossible to vouch for your safety or guarantee your return.”

  “I understand the perils,” said Jastyn. “But this Beast, this terror of Nuldryn, has ravaged my family’s lands for more than a decade. Nearly one hundred of our serfs have been taken by this cruel monster over the last decade. I, myself, hear its cries at night. They echo across my chamber like a personal challenge.

  “My father is the second brother of the Count of Tyftin. I am the third son of a third son. I am dizzyingly far from any sort of meaningful inheritance. There won’t be any castle estates for me. No choice lands in my future. In fact, I stand about as much chance of ruling as you do. No disrespect intended.”

  It was a moment before Grae answered. “Nor taken, my lord.”

  “Do you see where I’m headed, Grae? There is no chance for me to make any sort of name for myself. No chance to show our vassals my worth. To them, I am simply Jastyn the Unknown.” He walked a few steps in silence. “I suppose I could become an officer in the Standards, or perhaps a Lancer if I train hard enough. If lucky, I might scrape out a few victories on the front. Or perhaps I’d die in my first action. A wonderful history for my songmaiden to sing.” He motioned in the air with his hand. “My deathstone: ‘Here be Jastyn the Insignificant. Third son of a third son of someone moderately important. He died in an unnamed field, during an ambiguous battle of a meaningless war.”

  “Begging your pardon, m’lord,” said Hammer, knowing the look on Grae’s face. “But if ya came with us, your deathstone would likely read, ‘ ‘ere be Sir Jastyn Whitewind. Third son of a third son of someone moderately important. ‘e was eaten.’”

  Jastyn laughed. “Well matched, hammer. But that’s a risk I am willing to assume. For the chance, the glorious chance, to hear my name spoken before those of my brothers’ or cousins’. ‘Here lies Jastyn the Mighty. Helped slay the legendary Beast of Maug Maurai. Brought peace and happiness to the people of Nuldryn.” He smiled at the chiseled words in his mind. “Now there’s a deathstone I could live with.”

  Grae looked directly at Jastyn now. What the man said was pure rubbish. His words were those of a man who has never squared off against an opponent whose only goal is to kill you. All the tourneys in the world can’t prepare you for that moment. Sir Jastyn’s presence would make a mockery of Grae’s command. And it would make Grae’s second mission a delicate struggle. That was a certainty. But Sir Jastyn was nobility. The knight’s request merely a formality. And the Duke had already allowed it.

  What’s one more innocent life?

  “Every man must march his own road,” said Grae. “Come if you must, but consider it well. None of the men on this squad have wives, sons or daughters. I don’t believe that is a coincidence.”

  “Thank you, Brig Barragns,” said Jastyn smiling. “I myself have no sons or daughters, so I should fit in well.”

  They had circled back and were nearly at their start point by the fence. Maribrae rose to her feet and looked to Jastyn. Her eyes searched his.

  “Uh … yes, then,” he stammered. “There’s … ah … just one more favor I would ask of you, Brig Barragns.”

  Jastyn is nobility.

  Grae repeated this to himself and silenced Hammer’s furious gaze with a squint. Jastyn was nobility. And the man had Duke Mulbrey’s blessing. If Sir Jastyn wanted his songmaiden to come, there was nothing that could be done. No matter how absurd or dangerous. Or asinine. No matter how much it made a farce of the whole seemarken mission. No matter how spoiled and callow this stupid, self-righteous ….

  Grae let out his breath slowly.

  Sir Jastyn is nobility.

  Jastyn and his songmaiden had not expected to leave until the next day, so they had not yet readied their equipment. He invited Grae and Hammer to the castle for a meal while his squire gathered supplies.

  The four ate a fine meal of duck and venison. The venison was from Maurai, downed on the outskirts of the forest that morning, and it was the most succulent meat that Grae had ever tasted. After they ate, Jastyn and Maribrae excused themselves to finish their packing.

  Maribrae was done first. She sent Jastyn’s servants off to prepare food for the road and slipped quietly into his room. He stood with three suits of chain mail and two helmets before him, laid neatly on the floor. Jastyn’s lips were set tightly as he stared at the chainmail hauberks.

  “Galarion couldn’t find a blackened suit,” he said glumly. “Or a sallet helmet. I’ll stand out sorely among the soldiers.”

  “My love would stand out among them if every one of you wore turnip sacks,” she said, walking between the suits and Jastyn. He slipped past her and selected a mid-length coat, lifted it over his head. Maribrae helped him into it, but not before trapping his arms high in the sleeves and kissing him. When the mail was fitted, he stroked her cheek and turned away again. She tried to follow him but he held her off with one hand as he examined the two helmets. One was a dog-faced basinet. The other a simple nasal helm with a chain aventail draped around the back.

  “Neither of these fits as well as my tourney helm. Or even my scrap tilter,” he said, and Maribrae stifled a giggle at his pout. “But I would look a fool among the other men wearing a tourney helm out there.” He lifted the nasal helm and stared at it glumly. “I suppose this one is the least conspicuous. Lyndis Immortal, I wish Galarion had found me a sallet!”

  Maribrae sighed. She embraced him from behind, breathing in the scents of oil and steel. Jastyn’s scents. He turned and kissed her briefly, and she could feel the excitement through his lips.

  “This is going to be a terrific adventure,” he said. “You’re going to have quite a story to tell. I know it!”

  The four of them left Daun Sanctra without fanfare. Jastyn, astride a monstrous destrier, had finally settled on his gear. He wore an engraved breastplate over a chainmail haubergeon and white bracers and greaves etched with the Whitewind Boar. An engraved nasal helm hung at his horse’s side, the aventail scrishing against the helm as he rode. He had left his lances behind knowing that he would have to dismount onc in the forest, but he brought two broad-headed spears and a decorated arming sword. His shield, hanging on his back, was a brilliant white, painted with the arms of the Whitewind family.

  Maribrae had thrown an orange cloak over the lively skirts and bodice she had worn earlier. She also bore a woolen-broadcloth pack that she slung across her shoulder and a small eight-string fiolys that she placed into a velvet coverlet that hung from the saddle, beside her pack.

  The four travelers left Daun Sanctra and traveled south to gather the first of the Standards for their squad.

  Chapter 12

  Leadership demands vision and blindness.

  -- From “The Arms,” Book II of Lojenwyne’s Words

  Murrogar stripped off his crimson tunic and let it fall to the ground. The old manae’s blood was on it. He considered shedding his hauberk too. The river ran deep and fast in stretches west of the Maurian Road. It could suck down the thirty pounds of chainmail and leave Murrogar at the bottom. But he left the armor on. If he was to die, he would die a Standard. He caught sight of Sir Wyann and Sir Bederant ahead, still carrying the dying Eridian. He wondered how the knights would react to their part in the plan.

  Somewhere behind them the Beast howled. It was different this time. There was something mocking in it. The travelers were too weary to even cringe. They had walked for hours through the tangled mess of the forest. Their garb, once regal, was in tatters. One woman, the Duchess’ retainer, walked with a hand across her chest, holding together a dress that had no longer had straps. Another woman was in little more than a chemise, her dress shredded into strips by brambles.

  Murrogar walked fifty yards behind the crowd, staying out of sight until he was certain the river was close, then he strode forward into their midst. “Zoop zoop! Start shedding
anything not needed. Pouches. Extra weapons. Loose clothing that’ll tangle in water. Everything. We’re going in the river, so prepare yourselves.”

  The nobles turned to him with blank expressions.

  “Murrogar, where’s the manae?” The Duke stumbled toward the old soldier, looked past him. “Where’s Ulrean’s manae? You said you would help her.”

  “I did help her.” He pointed to the Duke’s long traveling cloak. “You’ll wanna take that off. It’ll try to take you down in the water.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Ulrean, can you swim?” called Murrogar.

  The Duke shoved the soldier. “Murrogar, I asked you a question!”

  Murrogar shoved the Duke backward, hard. The man fell to the ground, his mouth open. Sir Wyann and Sir Bederant set the Eridian down and drew their swords. Thantos and Hul drew their swords as well and took position on either side of their master. The five warriors stared at each other for a long moment, then Sir Bederant sheathed his sword. Sir Wyann hesitated then did the same and both knights ran to the Duke.

  Murrogar let his gaze sweep over the travelers, then bellowed at them. “You think we’re on promenade? You think we’re taking in the sights? We will die out here! Every one of us! Get used to the idea!” He glared at them. “If there’s a way I can save even one of you, I’ll do it. But I’ll not bear questions. I’ll not be challenged. Out here, I’M THE DUKE! You understand that?”

  They stared at him silently, faces blank.

  “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

  There was a general murmur of affirmation so Murrogar let it be. He unslung his drinking horn and let it fall to the ground then pushed through the crowd to the north, toward the river. The others turned and followed him listlessly, letting their useless items fall to the leaves and ferns. Murrogar looked once over his shoulder. He counted the party and realized that he would have to send most of them to their deaths.

  Chapter 13

  Like many prisons in the Galadane Empire, Geyr Froen was erected on an island. The lake which surrounds it once was stocked with great brasomeurs, nurtured to extravagant size by beast handlers. The great monsters perished from a waterborne pestilence, so the lake now is stocked with slitworms, which form a more potent deterrent. A desperate prisoner may risk monstrous water lizards, but not even a lunatic thinks slitworms are worth the gamble. Not even the most deranged criminal will risk dying in the terrible pain that only slitworms can induce.

  -- From, “A Modest History of West Nuldryn,” by Yurik Bodlyn, Historian and Scribe

  Their first soldier, a man named Beldrun Shanks, waited at Geyr Froen. Hammer had spoken to the man’s former commander, who had nothing good to say.

  “This fellow, Beldrun Shanks,” said Grae. “I have trouble believing he’s as bad as his commander said. He must have some good qualities if he’s stationed at Geyr Froen.”

  “Trudge Beldrun Shanks,” replied Hammer. “‘Grew up in Hrux Barony. Earned quite a reputation. Big as an ogre, but meaner. ‘e’s a fine fighter. But ‘e’s been disciplined for everything from lewdness to murder.”

  “Murder?” Grae glanced back at Jastyn and Maribrae, who had stayed behind to picnic on the Byway while Shanks was retrieved from Geyr Froen. Grae was glad they weren’t near enough to hear Hammer’s description.

  “Here’s a little morsel,” Hammer continued. “Apparently ‘e finds it funny to get drunk and find a cow or an ox. Then he tries to take a leg off clean, with one axe stroke.” He lifted a wineskin from a hook on his saddle. “Don’t that paint a dainty portrait?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Grae. “Sour fellows like that aren’t chosen to guard Geyr Froen.”

  “I don’t recall saying nothin’ about guarding.” Hammer took a long draw from his wineskin and rode on ahead.

  The prison of Geyr Froen was nothing more than a massive granite keep and four towers. There was nothing pleasant about the curtain wall; anyone who looked on it knew that it was meant to keep people in, not out. The battlements were on the outside, facing in. The towers had arrow slits facing the keep.

  When they brought Shanks out, he was in leg irons and manacles, escorted by three Standards who aimed crossbows at him the entire way across the bridge. He was a hulking figure, easily six inches taller than the tallest guard. A ragged dungeon-beard partially obscured the conviction brands of rape, robbery and murder on his neck. He had the bulging brows and sloping forehead of a brute and the powerful, pouting lips of a bully. His eyes spoke of something different. Light blue and expressive, they held the lie of kindness.

  The guards dragged four stumps out from the gatehouse and Beldrun Shanks sat, still in manacles and irons, with Grae, Hammer and the Geyr Froen Wardmaster outside the fortress. The crossbowmen stood a short distance away, arranged in a semi-circle to avoid crossfire, their weapons held low but ready.

  Shanks was the only soldier in the squad that hadn’t been told of the mission beforehand. He had received no letter from the Chamberlain, as the other soldiers had. He listened to Grae with a smirk on his face.

  “Once the mission is complete, you will serve two more years of regular duty,” said Grae, summarizing the terms scrawled on the writ from the Chamberlain. “If you are charged with any moderate infraction during that time, you will once again be encased. If, however, you serve the two years honorably, you are free to drop out of the Standards, or continue to serve, at your pleasure. All previous crimes will be forgotten”

  “What’s a ‘moderate’ infraction?” asked Shanks, still smirking.

  “Truth or silence, moderate infractions are probably things you do for entertainment,” Grae responded.

  “Well then,” said Shanks. “That takes a bit o’ fun from life, don’t it?” He met Grae’s gaze. “What if I say no?”

  “Then Geyr Froen swallows Beldrun Shanks. You’ll rot in there until there’s nothing but scraps of flesh left. Then you’ll be hanged when they need the space.”

  “Rot first, then hang?” Shanks laughed. “That don’t leave much choice. I s’pose I’ll throw my lot in with the Beast. It’ll be quicker that way.”

  Grae unlatched Shanks’ manacles. He gave the keys to Hammer to unlock the leg irons because it would be unseemly for a brig to kneel before a trudge. When the prisoner was free Grae nodded to Hammer, gestured toward a pile of scuffle weapons that the guards had brought.

  “Right,” said Hammer. “Before we go, let’s ‘ave a look at your fightin’ form. They say your handy with an axe.”

  “No,” said Shanks. “They say I’m a terror with an axe.”

  “Sure.” Hammer pointed toward the sparring axes. “Grab one of those and terrify us. Have a go with that stout over there, if he’s agreeable to a spar.”

  Shanks looked at the stout. “Him? You take me for a glassman? He ain’t nothin’ but two layers ‘a skin and a helmet.”

  The stout, a tall man with red hair, dropped his crossbow and hefted a shield and sword from the stack. “I’m more than agreeable to it.”

  Shanks made a great show of walking to the stack of weapons, stretching his fingers, rolling his shoulders. He compared the weight of two axes, dropped one. He pulled a dented shield from the pile and then pointed with the axe toward the guard. “You ready, bones?”

  “I’m ready, princess.” The stout tightened the strap on his helm and trotted at Beldrun Shanks. When the two were within range, the guard swung twice with his sword. Fast and crisp. Shanks jumped backward out of range and swung the axe low, his face contorted with the effort. The guard set his shield to ward the blow, but halfway through the stroke Shanks shifted his hands. The axe’s arc changed. The dull iron blade skimmed just over the guard’s shield and shattered as it struck the man’s helmet. The blow crumpled the steel and took the light from the guard’s eyes. The man collapsed.

  Shanks cackled and dropped the axe handle. He stepped forward and kicked the man’s unconscious body hard. Bent down so that his mouth was inches from the man’
s face. “I don’t think you were ready, princess.” He kicked the man again.

  Hammer screamed and shoved the big man backward. Grae and the Geyr Froen Wardmaster checked the fallen stout. The man’s head was gashed and bleeding under the helm, Grae looked back at Shanks, who was chuckling at Hammer’s screams.

  The wardmaster followed Grae’s eyes and cleared his throat. “I could … I could just … throw him back in the dungeon if you want, sir.”

  Throwing Shanks back in the dungeon wasn’t an option. The Chamberlain had been quite specific about the squad. It would have been awkward to explain why they had chosen to leave one of the best fighters behind.

  “You hit ‘im in the head!” Hammer was angry enough that he could only yell at Shanks in spurts. “You don’t aim fer the head when sparrin’!”

  “I wasn’t aimin’ for his head,” said Shanks.

  “Oh, you weren’t were you?”

  “No, Hammer,” said Shanks, laughing. “I were going for his throat.”

  Grae calmed Hammer and ordered him to put the manacles back on Shanks’ wrists. “They come off when you’re ready to be a soldier,” said Grae.

  The writ from the Chamberlain included an allowance for a horse from Geyr Froen, so the stablemaster gave them a thin, runny-eyed draught for Shanks. The garrison released all of Shanks’ belongings, including his hauberk, sallet helm, a breastplate, and a double-bladed battle axe with elaborate etchings on both blades. Grae examined the armor and the axe. “Your mail will need a good scrubbing,” he told Shanks. “And that axe head is loose. Best tighten it.” And with that the three soldiers rode north, to reunite with Sir Jastyn and Maid Maribrae.