The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling

by Roberto Calas

  “Stay in front of us.” Grae said. “I want you ten yards ahead. And if I suspect that you’re even thinking of causing trouble, we’ll drag you back to Froen on a rope behind our horses.”

  Shanks was happy to comply. His hands were still bound, but he was no longer in the dank belly of Geyr Froen. He took in the smells of the shire, listened to the sound of birds and treasured the warmth of the sun on his face. And he chuckled as he recalled the sound of the crossbowman’s helmet crunching beneath his axe.

  Chapter 14

  Children are a woman's domain until they can lift a sword.

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

  Black Murrogar halted when he reached the Typtaenai. A young signet once told Murrogar that the name meant River of Blood in Andraen. Murrogar had wondered how a river took such a name. Now he wasn’t so sure he wanted to know.

  The river was less than fifty feet across here. It raced past, curling to the southeast and out of sight. The lanterns Thantos rescued from the baggage cart had been refilled several times, but only four were left alight now and the oil flagon lay empty on the forest floor miles behind.

  Murrogar waited until everyone gathered at the riverbank then took a head count. Of the fifty-four travelers that left Lae Duerna only thirty three remained. Most of the dead were soldiers. Only three spearmen remained, not including the Eridian, who was already dead in Murrogar’s eyes. The rest were ladies and noblemen, retainers and squires. There was a hard choice to be made and as a soldier, Murrogar was a slave to hierarchy. He thought of Ulrean’s manae and her talk of sunchasers. Tough old woman. He took a hand-axe from the belt of the dying Eridian and tossed it to Hul. “That maple on its side down there.”

  Hul nodded, walked to the fallen tree and hacked at it. Murrogar searched the faces of those left. There would be resistance to his plan. People always resisted death.

  “Did you kill my manae?” Ulrean snuck next to Murrogar.

  Murrogar looked into the boy’s eyes. “Aye. I sent her off. Didn’t see why an old woman should spend her last hours in misery.”

  Ulrean didn’t flinch from Murrogar’s stare. “Did it hurt her?”

  It didn’t seem to Murrogar that the child was asking out of concern, but out of curiosity. “No more than this march we forced her on.”

  Ulrean stared back into the forest as if he might catch a glimpse of her. “That Beast,” he said. “It will kill us all, won’t it?”

  “Not if I have a say.”

  Ulrean rubbed at is arms. “But it is legendary. Grown men tremble when they speak of that monster.”

  “They do,” said Murrogar. “But you know what?” He threw back his shoulders and winked at Ulrean. “Beasts tremble when they speak about me.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Can you be a good lad, Ulrean? Can you tell me which nobles are left? I don’t know who’s who.”

  Ulrean looked to the travelers milling nervously at the river’s edge and nodded. “We lost my cousin, Jervik. He was the Knight Protector of Taur.” He stared at his parents. They were arguing on the riverbank. “Renar Quarenthic as well. And Lord Taryn Cantalian. He was pulled out from the window of the carriage. Some of him.” The boy quieted before continuing and Murrogar could almost see the carnage of the road playing out in his young mind. “I haven’t seen Sir Gorin recently. I imagine he’s gone missing as well.”

  “That’s a lad,” said Murrogar. He wondered again at the life a boy must lead to talk like an adult at the age of eight. “But I need to know the ones who are here. Not the ones we lost. Give me ten names. The top ten ranking nobles among us.”

  Ulrean looked again at the throng of travelers. “My father, Duke Orien Cobblethrie. My mother, The Lady Rhythania.” He pointed to them, as if Murrogar might not know them. The Duchess was being consoled by her lady retainer. The Duke spoke with Sir Wyann. “Indannith Brennariad. He’s the Count of Daendrys. Lady Tyrisia Cobblethrie. She is my cousin Jervik’s wife. His widow, I suppose. The Countess Hiera Brennariad. Lady Genaeve Baelyn. She’s daughter to the Count of Laundingham. After that, the ranks get muddled. The Hilnaent brothers perhaps, but there are two of them, which would make ten and I forgot to count myself. I outrank both of them. I’m the son of the Duke, of course, and a thane by title. Thane of Laundingham. And you, Black Murrogar. You’re important. You’re my friend.” He smiled wistfully. “Besides, I understand that out here, you’re a duke.”

  Murrogar clapped the boy on the back and laughed, a belly laugh that drew everyone’s attention. “Zoop, zoop! Listen now,” shouted Murrogar. “If I call your name, step forward.”

  The travelers gazed at him with the eyes of startled cattle. And Murrogar called out the names of those who might live.

  Chapter 15

  The birth of ballrooms in Dromic and Gracidmar was met with such scorn, such derision, that for many years Emperor Beringham forbade them within the Galadane Empire. Ballrooms were symbols of inequity. It was a godless kingdom that grew so hungry for society and pleasure that entire chambers were required to feed its appetites. Like so many similar concepts of morality and progress, that sentiment is equal parts hyperbole and truth and is still debated by scholars at colleges and old men in taverns alike.

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

  There was only pain for Mollingsley Tharke. No light, no sounds. Just the cry of agony from every muscle in his body. The smell of alcohol and vomit mingled in the air, creating a third odor that sent convulsions through his stomach.

  It smelled like a dungeon or a cellar. Cramped and grimy. Wooden handles and heavy metal objects poked at him. A cellar then, he surmised. There was no telling how long he had lain there. Hours. Days. With no light, there was only the pounding in his temples to keep time. He had only one thought, a dilemma really: If he retched again he felt certain the shuddering in his stomach would settle, but he was in such pain everywhere that he felt retching might kill him. He was still working through this problem when a vertical band of light seared his eyes. The band grew wider, becoming a rectangle of torment as cellar doors were opened. He curled into himself more tightly and retched. It was one of the most painful experiences of his life, but he was pleased to discover that it didn’t kill him.

  Grae and Hammer gazed into the keep’s supply cellar with a mixture of concern and amusement. They watched as the creature huddled between broken plows and scythe handles simultaneously retched and screamed. The smell of vomit and wine wafted from the cellar like a cloud. It certainly looked like Stout Mollingsley Tharke, the man everyone called Sage. Thin, wispy blonde hair, pale blue eyes. But he looked worse than Grae had ever seen him. And he had seen him look plenty bad in the past.

  The skin around both eyes was bruised black and yellow. The white of his left eye was entirely red. One cheek was monstrously swollen and a gash ran from his forehead to his right temple. He was dressed in loose fitting yellow robes. A tall, cylindrical brown cap – similar to the ones worn by the Cinders of Lojen – was secured to his head with cords. The cap was a stroke of genius as it truly made the difference between a man dressed in yellow and a man dressed as a banana.

  “What’s this now?” called Hammer. “A squash?” He and Grae laughed. The two Daun Braeth garrisoners with them didn’t show any emotion.

  Sage lifted a hand weakly toward the doorway. “Squash,” he croaked. “Yes. Someone has squashed me … my … head at any rate. Please. If there’s any mercy in you sir, shut the door and leave me be.”

  “Leave you be?” asked Grae. “You’re to be hanged. Something about threatening the Count’s brother in the ballroom last night.”

  “Hanged?” asked Sage. “Yes. All right. Truth be told, I’m looking forward to it.”

  Grae and Hammer laughed again. “You’re looking forward to being ‘anged?”

  “Aye,” said Sage, sighing deeply. “A merciful elixir for the pounding in my skull.”

  “Get u
p and get outta there or I’ll strangle you myself,” said Hammer.

  Sage made a gradual movement toward the door, knocking over a few of the wooden handles and wincing at the clatter.

  Grae offered him his hand. “Banana, eh?” He pulled Sage limping from the cellar and marveled at the blood and swelling on his face.

  “Yes,” said Sage. “The reasoning escapes me this morning, but I’m sure it was quite amusing last night.”

  “It’s amusing right now,” said Hammer.

  “They certainly did a thorough job of it,” said Grae.

  Sage ripped the hat from his head and looked at it, then handed it to Hammer, the cords dangling. “Truly,” said Sage, touching his left eye and wincing. It was nearly swollen shut. “Fortunately I lost consciousness after they decided I needed bruising for authenticity.”

  He stumbled into Grae and hugged him as best he could. He’d known Grae for years. Since long before they had turned him into The Headsman. “I suppose saying it’s good to see you is a bit understated?”

  “It’s good to see you alive,” said Grae. “Cut it a bit close there. They were going to do the job in another few hours.”

  Sage shuffled to Hammer and hugged him as well. The old soldier stiffened at the embrace and made sounds of protest but allowed it.

  They led Sage toward six waiting horses. Beldrun Shanks was with the horses, his hands still manacled. He laughed when he spotted Mollingsley. “Sage!” he called. “What a lovely dress. I always knew you’d end up in a rich man’s harem. How’s cock taste?”

  Sage closed his eyes and shook his head. The motion made him stumble. “Beldrun Shanks,” he said. “And here all this time I thought … sorry … hoped you had died.”

  “Why not come ‘ere and try to make it so.”

  Grae and Hammer exchanged glances.

  “You two know each other then?” asked Grae.

  “Aye,” said Sage. “I knew him when he was just a little turd. I always suspected he’d grow into that pile of horse shit.”

  “That’s enough out of both of you,” said Hammer. “You’re to be squad brothers for the next few days, so start acting like it.”

  “Squad brothers?” asked Sage. He silently swore to Blythwynn that he would never touch drink again. Not for a long time. A day or two at least. “I’m being transferred then?”

  “Sage,” said Grae, “We’re hunting the Beast.”

  “I assume,” said Sage, “that you’re not speaking of Beldrun’s mother?”

  “There’s only one true Beast in Nuldryn,” said Hammer.

  Sage snatched the brown hat from Hammer’s hands and mashed it onto his head, a cord curling under his nose. He walked back toward the cellar, stumbling on the loose folds of yellow fabric.

  “Sage!” called Hammer. “Sage!”

  Sage turned to face them, but walked backward toward the cellar. He tripped and almost fell. “I’m going back to my cellar prison,” he said. “Hanging’s a quicker death.”

  “You’re daft!” shouted Hammer, smiling his toothy smile.

  “Besides,” continued Sage. “It was warm in there. A veritable womb, really. And I love to get into a good womb when I can. The thought of it, hunting the Beast with Beldrun Shanks. That’s rich. I’ll meet you in Eleyria. You can tell me about your horrible deaths. I’ll be in the room with all the virgins. There’ll be bowls of bananas all around. It’ll be like …”

  His voice became inaudible as he backed up the hill. Grae smiled. The Chamberlain had allowed Grae to choose his own scout, and Sage was the obvious choice. He was one of the best trackers in Laraytia. But that competence hadn’t been Grae’s first consideration. He had picked Sage because he missed him.

  Chapter 16

  The Typtaenai. A branching finger of the massive Mythaenthys; a drowsy little sister stream born at Kithrey. It spans seventy miles, most of that in Maug Maurai. Deep and swift at times but never wider than three-score feet. Mud and stone at its feet. Fronds and petals on its back. Lightermen could pole a decent living ferrying from Kithrey to Maul Kier. Until the Beast ended commerce in Maug Maurai.

  -- From “The Lands of Nuldryn,” by Dystil Herrick

  Black Murrogar spoke slowly to avoid confusion, although he knew confusion was inevitable. Even the simplest of commands were difficult to understand when minds were turtled with fear.

  “Those whose names were called are to take off any loose or heavy garb right now. Ladies, I want you in chemise and hose. No skirts. No dresses. Men, breeches and tunics only. We’re going into the river. We’ll drift downstream ‘til we reach that last bridge we crossed when we were in the wagons. Then we’ll run – and I mean run – down the road, back to the wagons. If any of the horses are still alive, we’ll hitch ‘em and go full-draw ‘til we get to Maeris.”

  Most of them stared at him with the same oafish expressions they had worn for hours, as if he was speaking another language. The Duke stepped forward, his voice hoarse but sharp. “And what of those whose names you did not call? What happens to them?”

  “They get to stay dry and warm. They’ll follow the river to the west until they’re outta the forest. Should put ‘em near Thraen.”

  The nobles murmured and exchanged glances. The Duchess’ retainer stifled a sob and clutched at her mistress’ arm. “I wasn’t called,” she said. She looked to the Duke, then to Murrogar. “I’ve been with my lady since childhood. You didn’t call my name. You didn’t call my name, sir. I can go with my lady, can’t I?” Murrogar stared into her eyes and said nothing. She turned and hugged the Duchess.

  Sir Wyann scoffed. “I think what you mean to say is that we who weren’t called will be the decoy. Isn’t that right, Murrogar?”

  “The Beast’ll go east or west,” Murrogar growled. “It can’t chase us both.”

  “I find it interesting,” said Sir Wyann, “that the most important people are in your group. Tell me, Murrogar, which group do you think has the best chance of survival?”

  “Everyone in both groups will likely die,” said Murrogar. “Tell me, Wyann. Who’s idea was it to take the Maurian Road? Who convinced Duke Orien that it was safe?” His voice rose. “Who wanted to save three days by taking a fucking wagon-train through Maug Maurai?”

  “The Nuldryn Duke, Duke Mulbrey … he said it was dead.” Sir Wyann shifted. “I told you what he said. How could I have known?”

  Murrogar turned his back on him and roared at the nobles. “How come nobody’s taking nothing off? I said STRIP!” The nobles in Murrogar’s party began removing their clothing. Murrogar called down to Hul. “That tree cut apart yet?”

  Hul had cut off most of the larger branches from the downed maple and was hacking a fifteen-foot length of the trunk from the rest of the tree. “Few more swings.”

  Sir Wyann spoke to Murrogar’s back: “You can do whatever you want, Black Murrogar. But I’ll not leave the Cobblethries while I breathe.”

  Murrogar very nearly killed Sir Wyann there on the river’s edge. But killing the old woman had taken something out of him. He looked at the half-naked nobles huddled on the riverbank. The women tried to cover as much of themselves as they could with their arms. He looked at Sir Wyann. Another good swordsman would be helpful in the river. Sir Wyann couldn’t chop a melon in half on his third try, but he seemed quite loyal to the Cobblethries, and that was something. “You come, you don’t open your mouth again.”

  Sir Wyann opened his mouth then closed it. He looked to the Duke and Duchess.

  “You come, you are under my command,” said Murrogar, letting his fingers brush the pommel of his sword. “Or we settle our debts here and now.”

  Sir Wyann looked to Sir Bederant, then to Murrogar. The travelers watched the spectacle silently. Someone’s bowels seemed to have loosened and the air was full with the odor. It was a long time before Sir Wyann nodded. “Very well. But I want Sir Bederant with us as well.”

  Murrogar worked himself up to bellow at the knight but one of the trave
lers screamed.

  The Beast was upon them again. A hulking blackness against the forest night. Green phosphors glowing along its body. Curved teeth catching glimmers from the dying lanterns. It held a nobleman in its claws, in the same fashion as it had held the Eridian. Front claws holding the man’s arms and legs, stretching him taught. The second set of claws ripped at the man’s torso with a lethal efficiency, shredding clothing and skin.

  The spearmen ran from it. Murrogar spat in their direction and drew his sword. Thantos, Hul, Wyann and Bederant took places by his side and the five of them ran shouting at the monster.

  The creature buried its stinger in the nobleman’s chest then let him fall to the forest floor as the warriors approached. Once again the Beast fled into the darkness before the warriors could attack. Murrogar didn’t waste his time chasing. He ran to the fallen nobleman but there was too much blood for any hope. The man grabbed Murrogar’s arm and coughed. Murrogar slit the nobleman’s throat and held the dying man’s arm until the life was gone, then stood and surveyed the scene. The travelers were screaming and clinging to each other.

  “Thantos!” he called. His man nodded and sprinted to the river’s edge. Hul fell in step beside him and the two dragged the hacked maple tree half into the water.

  Murrogar called out to the nobles: “Those who were called, come with me!” He shoved anyone in underclothes towards the river. But a throng of other travelers joined the sprint for the maple log. Murrogar knocked them down and struck a few with his fists but there were too many. He ran with them to the river.

  Thantos and Hul stood with swords drawn and shields locked, guarding the maple. They allowed anyone in underclothes to get past. A nobleman splashed into the river upstream. Hul turned and kicked the man away from the log and the noble was swept downriver.