The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling

by Roberto Calas

  The left wall was set up similarly; Dathnien Faldry, the recovering madman, and Hammer were the spearmen. Grae and Beldrun Shanks would be the swordsmen, although Shanks would use the great double-bladed axe of his and not a sword.

  At the base of the V stood their armored crossbowman, Jjarnee Kruu, and their twitchy-eyed archer, Daen Hyell. Meedryk Bodlyn, the magician’s apprentice, took position behind the archers.

  “We will alternate attacks,” said Grae. “When the spearmen on the right strike, the swordsmen from the left will attack. If the Beast turns to attack the swordsmen on the left, then the spearmen on the left will strike to protect them and hold the creature back. The swordsmen on the right will attack while the creature is engaged with the Spearmen on the left. With luck, the alternating attacks will protect us while enraging the Beast.

  “Archers, you will fire at will. I want you to punish the creature. Taunt it into attacking you. Because if the beast lunges into the mouth of the V to get at you, every soldier on each side will get a good look at its flanks. Let’s pray that the Beast goes after the archers. Let’s pray that it goes after them right away.”

  Chapter 21

  Brig Murrogar asked of his signet:

  “We’re not getting on well, are we?”

  The signet replied:

  “You threatened to rip out my bowels with a rake and

  make me to drink my own shit before I died.”

  Murrogar considered this, then replied:

  “Come on, man. I wouldn’t make you drink your own shit.”

  -- from “Tales of Murrogar,” by Terren Hawley

  The maple glided downstream once more, but Murrogar knew that no river current could outpace the monstrosity behind them. He closed his eyes and listened to the rush of the river. He let the clamor of it fade in his mind and searched for other sounds. Sir Wyann’s bevor clicked against his breastplate. The Duke whispered sternly to Ulrean. Lady Genaeve sobbed quietly and interminably. The last healthy spearman, a man named Draek Ralee, thunked his dagger into the maple tree again and again, trying to gain purchase. But Murrogar heard nothing among the trees. No hedges rustled. No leaves crackled.

  Ahead, along the riverbanks, Murrogar’s eyes could just make out the silhouettes of fallen, half-submerged trees and dangling vines. Some of the standing trees leaned and curled over the river, their branches reaching like grotesque arms desperate for sunlight. The thick roots of these trees twisted and coiled like serpents along the banks.

  Somewhere in the darkness a branch snapped.

  Murrogar squinted and searched past the sinuous trees and hawthorn, past the giant ferns with their sword-fingered fronds, and the tangled briars with their hook-dagger thorns. He caught sight of something, but it was not the Beast. Two luminous green eyes watching the travelers. Murrogar watched them back.

  As the log sailed past that emerald stare, something in the forest sounded a faint, rasping cry. Like a muffled, broken sob. And a chorus of those cries rose up from both sides of the riverbank. A patter of barks and subdued whooping. More eyes appeared. Dozens of them. The travelers hunched close against the log and peered at one bank then the next. Then there was silence.

  The dying Eridian spearman raised his head off the maple trunk and his eyes glimmered green in the darkness. The Eridian didn’t scream this time. He opened his mouth and croaked one word: “Pezijo.”

  Murrogar asked Sir Wyann to translate. No one could see Sir Wyann’s expression in the shadow of his bascinet, but they could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “It means… well, I think it means porridge.” He looked at the Eridian. “Maybe he’s hungry.”

  The Eridian began screaming again. Murrogar decided to silence him for good but then the other spearman, Draek Ralee, started screaming too. Murrogar looked from one wailing spearman to the next until the water erupted near Draek Ralee and the Beast was upon them once again. Its monstrous head lunged from under the river. It held Draek’s leg in a thicket of enormous teeth. The spearman howled and held tightly to his anchored dagger as the monster hauled backward.

  Black Murrogar’s sword was still strapped to the log. The old hero drew it from the sheath with the smoothness of a lifetime trade and slipped along the maple toward Draek Ralee. The spearman sobbed and fought to maintain his hold on the log. The Beast paddled backward and heaved and tossed its head side to side. The log slowed as the massive creature fought against the current. Murrogar ducked under the trunk. He swung at the Beast when he surfaced, but he was off balance in the water and the sword did nothing but splash water. He swung again but the dagger that Draek clutched pulled free from the maple. Murrogar’s blade fell short as the Beast yanked the soldier away. The old hero kicked toward the Beast and made one last desperate swing, this time at Draek’s throat, but the log and the monster separated too quickly and Murrogar’s blade gashed the man’s head instead then clanged off the soldier’s kettlehelm.

  Murrogar had a last look at Draek Ralee’s face. The man’s eyes were full moons. His hands swatting at the water. Then Draek’s head went under and he and the beast disappeared into the Typtaenai.

  Murrogar swam back to the log, hearing the screams of the other spearman, the Eridian. Sir Wyann slammed a fist against the log and swore. “Damn the world. Pezijo doesn’t mean porridge. It means, danger.”

  Black Murrogar looked Thantos in the eyes and nodded toward the Eridian. Thantos, a dagger between his teeth, made his way toward the screaming spearman. Sir Wyann didn’t try to stop him. Somewhere upriver the Beast huffed and Murrogar heard it dragging Draek Ralee into the forest.

  And as the Eridian’s screams ended, Draek’s cries began anew.

  Chapter 22

  And he spoke, saying where art thou, Blythwynn? Why art thou silent? And Blythwynn spoke to him: ‘Listen for me in the song of birds. Hear me in the falling rain and the flute of the wind.’

  -- Blythwynn’s Melody, The Illumination, Book I, Paragraph 12

  Hammer woke the squad before dawn and had them geared and mounted as the first shafts of Lojen’s Gaze lit the skies. They had spent the night in Kithrey again, at the castle barracks. Except for Sir Jastyn and Maribrae who had slept in a tavern in the town proper.

  The knight and songmaiden arrived back at the castle a half-bell later than Grae had asked them to, Sir Jastyn spouting apologies for his tardiness. Grae didn’t look at them as the squad set out toward Kithrey’s Maurian Gate. West, toward the Kithrey Trail and the village of Maeris and the forest of Maug Maurai. The iron shoes of their horses clopped against the cobbled stones as they rode.

  They were a sight as they left the castle: Ten black-clad and brooding Laraytian Standards; a knight in white cloak and breastplate; a songmaiden in skirts and corset, legs dangling to one side of her pony. They navigated to the gate, crabbed past the vendors and the hordes of merchants and travelers filing into the city for the fair. A thousand odors crashed together at that gate. Cider and smoking lamb. Garlic and lye. Flower wreaths and scented oils. The smells of Kithrey at Festival.

  When they were free of the crowds they rode swiftly toward the forest, curling north along the Kithrey Trail. They rode upon the grass of the moors to avoid the pilgrimage of carts and pack animals headed to the Festival of Garrelane, a festival named after a man dismembered for refusing to turn against his liege lord. A martyr made an immortal by the Holy Receiver of Light one hundred and thirty years ago. A man who had joined the rest of the immortals in the night sky, his lantern lighting the skies for Blythwynn.

  Less than a half-bell into their journey, when the fields swelled into low hills, they were flagged down by a sun-darkened warrior on a spotted charger. He wore a rusted chainmail hauberk and two shortswords on his hips. Odd swords. Slightly curved and thick, the scabbards burnished with images of ivy and oxen and lilies. A blackened sallet helmet hung from his saddle. A thick braid of black horsehair had been affixed to it. The braid ran the length of the helm -- from just above the eye slit to the sloping rear ed
ge -- and dangled from the back in a two foot tail. The man crabbed his horse toward the brig, strands of black hair falling across his eyes.

  “You Brig Barragns?” The man’s voice was thick with an Eridian accent. Grae picked up the minty scent of chuffa root, an Annecian leaf popular with Eridians. It was said to heighten alertness, but those who chewed it were always spitting. The Eridian warrior eyed the assortment of travelers around Grae with the hint of a smirk and spit. Grae nodded.

  “Follow me.” The warrior wheeled his horse toward a canvas tent down an embankment, not far from the road. Grae and Hammer followed and dismounted near the tent. A thin young man ducked out of the pavilion wearing a white shirt with a high collar that hugged his throat. He had a handsome, aristocratic face, pale, with delicate lips.

  “Brig Barragns?” he asked.

  “Aye,” said Grae. “What’s this all about, then? How did you know I would pass through here?” The boy was obviously nobility, but Grae was in no mood for nobility.

  “Thank Blythwynn. We’ve been here for a day and night. I thought I had missed you. My mistress, The Erudite Lady Wyel, heard that you were venturing into Maug Maurai. Is it true? Are you hunting the Beast?”

  “My apologies,” said Grae, his voice thick with irony. “To think that I failed to share my orders with The Erudite Lady Wyel. Whoever she may be.”

  The boy’s jaw tightened. He took a breath, then spoke in sharp tones. “How dreadfully rude of me. I have failed to introduce myself. I am Aeren Threncannon. Lord Aeren Threncannon. My father is the Count of Invaurnoth. I am the--”

  Grae wasn’t listening. He stared at the mounted warrior next to the young man. The man was thick chested and scarred and held himself with poise. In his years of service Grae had learned to read a man’s posture and physique. This was a true warrior. “Who’s this?” he asked interrupting the young man.

  “That?” Lord Aeren frowned and waved his hand dismissively. “That’s a mercenary I hired for protection on the road. Lokk Lurius. I had to ride here from the Blythallow of Durryn Phask where I live and work. There are bandits on the road, especially around festival time.”

  Grae inspected the Eridian. Fingers calloused and dry from daily exercise with swords. Dagger worn horizontally on his belt for a quick draw during close combat. Slashed leather bracers that had stopped a dozen strikes. Eyes inspecting and noting every detail.

  Yes, this is a warrior.

  “My mistress, The Lady Wyel Metharyn, has received word that you are entering Maug Maurai to slay the Beast,” said Lord Aeren. “She has sent me to document your journey.”

  Grae looked back at the young nobleman. “We already have a songmaiden.”

  “I’m not sure you understand my meaning,” said Lord Aeren. “My lady concentrates her studies on animals and beasts.” He withdrew a folded letter with the Moon and Stars seal of Durryn Phask and handed it to Grae, who had tired of letters and seals. He opened it and read quickly.

  Dearest Brig,

  May the Lady of Forgiveness carry you and your men throughout this quest. It is a most disquieting assignment, but I am certain that you shall prevail.

  I pray that my assistant has found you and your men in good health and better spirits. My name is Wyel Metharyn, and I am a Lady of Erudition at Durryn Phask. I have spent the last twenty years studying and cataloging animals and beasts of every sort. If you will allow a moment of immodesty, I am likely the supreme authority in Laraytia on this subject.

  Please excuse this supreme impertinence, but I have an unusual favor to ask of you. My boy, Aeren Threncannon, is an apt pupil and servant. He has agreed to represent me on your quest, documenting every aspect of the monster for our bestiary. I realize this is quite a mountain to ask of you, but please consider it well. The entire kingdom could benefit from the information that he gathers.

  I send my blessings and good wishes on your journey. Know that I will spend an hour of each night praying for you and your men until I hear of your safe return from the forest.

  Your devout servant,

  -W

  “I appreciate the importance of her request,” said Grae. “But no.”

  “Brig, please,” said Lord Aeren. “Listen to me for a moment. I can be a valuable addition to your squad.”

  “Valuable?” said Grae. “Hammer, this man will be valuable to us.”

  “Fills me brim with joy, brig sir,” Hammer replied.

  “Thank Lojen,” said Grae. “Are you better with spear or sword? Truth or silence, I could use another spearman. Fetch your armor and we’ll leave immediately.”

  Lord Aeren stared at a patch of heather on the embankment, waiting out the insult.

  “What?” asked Grae. “Not coming? He doesn’t seem to be coming, Hammer.”

  “Oh, the anguish,” said Hammer, chewing on a husk of bread.

  “You’re right, of course,” said Lord Aeren. “I have never been strong at arms. And I have no armor. My values are those that a common soldier might not understand.” He whirled and stomped into his pavilion.

  Grae gave Hammer a half-smile. “Pushed it too far?”

  “Bah. A touch, per’aps, but it weren’t as if ‘e didn’t ‘ave it coming. No is no.”

  Lord Aeren dashed out of the tent holding a leather-bound manual in his hands. He opened it and flipped to a page marked by silk ribbons. He read loudly:

  Loro Haulyn: Acreman. Survivor;

  …And the thing appeared afore us, black as a dog’s nose. It had many eyes and an horrible spiked tail. The body was full with green lumens and it had a mouth like a fiery green cave. It were the Beast of Maug Maurai and it killed all me mates.’”

  “That’s completely fabricated,” said Grae. “No one survives the Beast.”

  “Truly?” Asked Aeren. “Then what about this one:

  ‘Yarin Halcome. Bell Founder. Survivor;

  We could smell it before we saw it. The creature smells as if it died already. As if it has been rotting for days. Jalek went to see what it was. Sometimes two boar will have at one another and both’ll die and will lie stinking for days. He uses their tusks on his knives, so he was hopeful. We heard him scream like I ain’t never heard no one scream. I didn’t think people could make that sort of noise. He kept making it behind us while we ran. Shame eternal to me for running. I know I should ‘a stayed and fought. But I didn’t want to make those noises. I didn’t want to scream like Jalek. Then the creature howled, and I started thinking Jalek’s noises weren’t so bad a’tal. Kurren running next to me dropped dead when he heard the creature scream. He died right there, and I kept on running. Lojen forgive, I kept on running.’

  “There’s more in here,” said Lord Aeren. “There are also descriptions of the creature, known patterns of its killings and a list of its known victims.”

  “You’re saying there are people who have seen the Beast and lived? I don’t believe that.”

  “Honestly, Brig,” said Aeren. “Which is harder to believe? That I, a servant of Blythwynn, would lie to you, or that there are people who have seen the Beast and lived? Do you truly think that no one has ever escaped it? Is it a shadow? An evil wind from which none can run? The Beast lives and bleeds, as do all other creatures of this world. Please say that you don’t traffic in these tales of evil gods and foul curses.”

  It was a canny point. Powerful enough to silence Grae. The brig had indeed listened to the tales. Local legends were the only source of information that he had. Of course there were survivors. How else would they know for certain that it was a beast? A chilling thought surfaced in Grae’s mind.

  How could the Duke not know about the survivors?

  If there were survivors, if the Erudite Ladies knew about the survivors, how could the Duke not know?

  Of course the Duke knows, said a bitter voice in his head. But they want you to fail. There is only one reason for sending you into Maug Maurai, and it has nothing to do with the creature that lives there.

  Lord Aeren stud
ied him with hopeful, guarded eyes. Grae cleared his throat. “It would be a great favor if you would allow us to read those descriptions.” He paused, then added, “My lord.”

  Lord Aeren was gracious enough to hide his smile. “Of course, Brig,” he replied. “But I know you are in a great hurry. We should read these on our way. Or perhaps by the fire tonight.”

  That was how it would be. Grae found himself in the position of needing the young noble more than the noble needed him. Lord Aeren eased the sting of it by handing over command of Lokk Lurius to Grae.

  “If you’re going to fight a beast,” said the nobleman, “then there’s no better man to have than Lokk Lurius. He’s paid for another week, and he’s all yours. Lokk, from now on, you will obey Brig Barragns. You are no longer required to protect me.”

  Grae studied the warrior. Lokk Lurius returned the favor. “Both of you will have to follow my orders if you come,” said Grae.

  “Of course,” said Lord Aeren. “We are at your command.”

  The look on the Eridian’s face didn’t convince Grae, but he was excited to have the warrior in the squad. “Hammer, did we bring scuffle swords?”

  “Got two bent ones,” Hammer replied.

  “Lokk Lurius,” said Grae. “Have a spar with Rundle Graen there. I’d like to see how you fight.”