Stars and Graves

by Roberto Calas

  “Well Shanks,” hissed Sage. “The thrulls must have stolen that from you before they raped and killed her.”

  Jastyn shrieked and lunged at the big infantryman. The soldiers held him back. “Shanks!” He screamed. “What did you do? What did you do?”

  “Calm, Sir Jastyn,” said Sage. “Calm.”

  “Shanks?” Grae gave the faintest of nods to Lokk, who released his grip on Sir Jastyn, edged toward the big infantryman. Sir Jastyn lunged again, but was pulled back by Rundle and Sage.

  “You shield-dropping, brainless animal! I will tear your limbs from your body! I will give you a thousand times the pain you gave her!”

  Shanks looked confused. Touched the spot where the boss should have been. “I… I gave that to her,” he stammered. “For good luck.”

  “Because you cared so much about her,” said Sage.

  “This is shit,” muttered Shanks. “I didn’t kill no one.” He made as if to go back to digging the grave then, in one smooth movement, drew Sage’s dagger and slashed at Lokk’s face. The Eridian dodged the wild swing almost lazily, grabbed Beldrun’s hand and twisted it so that the blade was pointed at the infantryman’s face. Shanks grunted and fell to one knee. Lokk bowled him onto his side and pushed the knife forward. The dagger inched toward Shank’s left eye.

  “Lokk, stand down,” said Grae. “Just restrain him. He’ll have justice soon enough.”

  But Lokk didn’t stand down.

  He pushed the dagger forward, adding a second hand to the effort, no emotion on his face. There was a tightness to the Eridian’s jaw, though. An intensity in his eyes that Grae had seen too many times in too many soldiers.

  “Let him go, Lokk!” he shouted, suspecting that the Eridian couldn’t hear him anymore.

  The dagger tip moved past Beldrun’s eyelashes. The big infantryman was sweating, making high-pitched sounds of exertion. Lokk pushed forward methodically against Shank’s right hand. It became more a side-to-side struggle. Beldrun’s left arm was pinned beneath him. He knew he couldn’t stop the blade with one hand, so he simply tried to divert it.

  Grae and Hammer pounced on the Eridian, but before they could move his arm, they heard the ringing sound of a sword being drawn.

  Sir Jastyn, still held by Sage and Rundle, had reached forward and pulled one of Lokk’s theiyras from its sheath.

  “Stout Lokk Lurius!” Jastyn shouted. “Do not dare take my vengeance. If anyone kills him, it will be me. His is my life to claim.”

  Lokk glanced back at the knight holding his theiyra, then back at Shanks. The Eridian made a subtle motion with one wrist and the dagger blade skimmed past Shanks’s eye and cut deep into the infantryman’s cheek. Shanks howled. The dagger dropped to the ground. Lokk stood, kicked it away. His face was locked in a scowl, but his gaze was wild and ragged. He walked away from the group and knelt by the ramparts, put one hand against the earthen wall and took deep breaths.

  And while everyone stared at Lokk, Sage punched Shanks in the face with all of his strength.

  Chapter 37

  Every one of Underlord Felch’s men had heard about the Beast of Maug Maurai, and the fear of that monster had already defeated them.

  — From “The Andraen Forest,” by Dallyn Salthis

  They tied Beldrun Shanks to an oak outside the earthen walls of the camp, and finished Maribrae’s cairn, together. When the last stones were placed, they stared in weary silence.

  “Sage,” said Grae. “Will you send her off to Blythwynn?”

  Sage nodded. He took a breath, then sang the song of Faur—the same ballad Maribrae had sung for the unnamed noblewoman they had buried near the Maurian Road. Sage sung softly, his voice raw and cracking. He stopped a few times to gather himself, and finally stopped altogether. Lord Aeren picked up where he left off, and the other soldiers joined in, finishing the final verse of the song.

  Far away

  To Faur away

  I’ll never sleep again

  The hateful, wicked Western War

  Has left its bitter stain

  Upon my grieving soul it has

  Upon my fettered heart

  Far away

  To Faur away

  I’ll never live again.

  †††

  Shanks rubbed the ropes on his wrists against the bark of the oak. He slid his hands furiously, until skin caught under the ropes and he cried out.

  Grae Barragns left Hammer in charge of the squad and stepped out past the camp’s ramparts, across the field to the edge of the forest. When he reached Shanks, he struck the big man in the jaw. Shanks’s head snapped sideways, blood spraying from his mouth.

  “You had a new beginning,” said Grae. “You could have had a new life.”

  Shanks leaned over and spit a stream of blood onto the ground. “I like the one I have.”

  “Don’t get attached to it,” Grae snapped. “Sir Jastyn will be claiming it when we get you back. And he won’t do it quickly.” He shook his head. “Why, Shanks, why?”

  “’Cause of what I did to his woman.”

  “Are you a child?” said Grae. “Why did you do it?”

  The infantryman smiled distantly, shifted his jaw from side to side and winced. “A man’s got needs.”

  “No, Shanks.” Grae squatted and rubbed at his eyes. “Animals have needs.” He stared back toward camp. “Men have weaknesses.”

  Shanks opened his mouth to speak but shouts rose from the ramparts. Hammer and Jastyn were arguing.

  “Plant your stompers right there and I’ll go talk to ‘im,” said Hammer. “And shut down your bellows, for Lojen’s Heart!”

  Hammer approached Grae and Shanks, cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said. “Permission to speak?”

  Grae nodded.

  Hammer walked forward. He gave Shanks a hateful glance and spoke so that only Grae could hear. “Sir Jastyn is back there. ‘e’s… ‘e’s got a request. I told ‘im no, but ‘es a little worked up.”

  Grae nodded and walked away from Shanks, toward Sir Jastyn. Hammer watched him go, then stooped and picked up a rock. He threw it, glancing the stone off Shanks’s forehead, then walked away.

  †††

  “Trudge Whitewind,” said Grae. “I understand you’re giving the hammer a hard time.”

  Jastyn stood rigidly, his face impassive. “Sir,” he said. “I demand the right to preserve my honor and that of my wife.”

  “Denied,” said Grae.

  “Why?” Jastyn shouted.

  “Because you have so many wild emotions in your head right now you’ve no idea what you are saying. You’re washed out on grief. Give it time.”

  “I know exactly what I am saying, brig, sir. I have never had a more lucid thought in my head.”

  “Be that as it may,” Grae responded, “I’ve already lost Shanks through his own cruelty and stupidity. If I lose you, I am down to five men. Five men to lead against the Beast. I need you right now. So squeeze your head together and get ready for tonight. There’ll be plenty of opportunity to release your anger.” Grae turned and walked toward his pavilion.

  “You can’t prevent me from doing this,” called Jastyn. “It is the King’s Law. Any man with a worthy claim may challenge another. It is my right.”

  Grae turned to the knight. “It is the law for citizens of the Kingdom of Laraytia. This is the Laraytian Standards. We don’t have a right to do anything except what our commanders tell us.”

  “That’s not true,” said Jastyn.

  “It is categorically true,” said Grae. “Dueling was banished in the Standards by order of King Bask II. And I can’t say I disagree with him. If soldiers dueled every time one of them was wronged, we’d be fighting the war with three old deaf men and a couple of priests. Get harnessed and ready. We have two hours of light left.”

  “If that is the case,” said Jastyn. “Then I resign from the Standards.”

  “Resign?” said Grae. “You can’t resign from the Standards. You have to be releas
ed.”

  Jastyn stared at his boots. “Then I order you to release me. As a lord of Nuldryn.”

  Grae and Hammer exchanged glances. The fatigue, the emotions, the violence of that last few days had wrung all concern from Grae. He was a walking suit of mail. Nothing more.

  “Trudge Jastyn,” he said. “Are you certain that is your order? If you resign now, I will not allow you back into this squad. You will remain an outsider.”

  Jastyn nodded, his head still lowered.

  “You can always take him back to Daun Arraey,” said Grae. “You can kill him at your leisure. You can torture him for days if you want. Why a duel? Why risk it?”

  Jastyn looked up. “I spent the last ten years of my life trying to find something that I already had. Something more valuable than any title or castle or property. Something I valued more than my life. And do you know something? It came to me absolutely free.” He drew his sword, pointed it at Shanks, tears in his eyes again. “It has come time to pay for that which I did not deserve. Win or lose, a price must be paid.”

  Grae nodded. Jastyn would be useless as a soldier until he got this out of his system. And it would make things simpler if Shanks were dead. He didn’t dare think what would happen if it went the other way. “I’ve had it. Kill each other if you want. Do as you like. Damn us all. But I want a written statement from you explaining your decision and absolving my squad from any blame. I want no questions as to what happened if you don’t survive.”

  “You shall have it,” said Jastyn. He lowered his sword. “And a large donation to the Laraytian Standards, and to your family, if I live or die.”

  “I don’t want your money, Jastyn.”

  “Neither do I,” Jastyn replied.

  Chapter 38

  Two things must a man see ’fore he may rule:

  A human brought into the world, and a human taken from it.

  —Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet

  The first signs of the setting sun were visible in the pockets of the forest. The dark green nooks of Maug Maurai were now pools of black. Sir Jastyn stood in the clearing, just outside the camp ramparts. Sage worked the straps on the knight’s breastplate.

  On the opposite end of the clearing sat Beldrun Shanks, sharpening his axe blades. Drissdie Hannish pointed Jjarnee’s crossbow at him, and Lokk Lurius stood a few paces away, arms folded.

  Grae, Hammer, Lord Aeren and Meedryk stood side by side, just inside the earthen walls. The three of them watched the preparations without expression. None of them heard Aramaesia until she was almost on them.

  “Have you lost your senses, Grae?”

  When last he had seen her, she and the boy were using crushed berries to dye a wooden horse figurine she had carved. He had hoped she would stay out of the way.

  “You are not going to let them kill each other like this!”

  Hammer maneuvered between them. “I’d keep that Graci tongue in check, young maiden.”

  Aramaesia ignored him. “Brig Barragns?”

  Grae met her gaze, found that he couldn’t maintain it, looked back toward the combatants. “Jastyn is a lord of Nuldryn,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do”

  “Nothing?” shouted Aramaesia. “There’s nothing you can—”

  Hammer put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her away. She tried to resist, but he was firm. “You’re his brig! You’re his brig!” she shouted.

  Hammer put both arms around her waist and pulled her away screaming. Grae kept his eyes on Sir Jastyn, not daring even a glance in her direction. Bile flooded his throat.

  †††

  Sir Jastyn raised his arms as Sage fiddled with the straps on his spaulder.

  “He angers quickly,” said Sage, pulling the belt tight. “Get him angry and he’ll make a mistake.”

  Lokk walked across the clearing to them. He watched Sage fumble with the buckles, then stepped in and took over. “I’ll take him, Sir Jastyn,” said the Eridian.

  Jastyn’s eyes were wide and darting. “Thank you, Lokk,” he said. “If I needed a champion, I would not have challenged him.” He looked into Lokk’s face and nodded his thanks once more.

  Lokk noted the fear in those eyes. He secured the first buckle and smacked the spaulder. His hands found the second strap and worked with it, taking his time. “He won’t fight like a tourney knight,” Lokk said. “He’ll try to distract you. He’ll do everything he can to hurt you.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” said Jastyn.

  “He’s in fair shape for a big man,” said Lokk. “But he’ll tire if he goes long. Give him hard blows at the base of the breastplate. Steal his breath. Don’t try to match hits. He’s bigger and stronger. He’ll topple you if you let him.”

  Jastyn nodded, his breath coming in rhythmic bursts now.

  “You’re fast and well trained,” said Lokk. “You’ll do fine. Just remember, it ain’t a tourney. There’s no rules. Honor’s an anchor here.”

  †††

  The two fighters walked toward one another, their helmets off, Sage next to Jastyn, Lokk next to Shanks. They stopped a foot away from one another. The rest of the squad looked on from inside the camp walls. Except for Aramaesia and Ulrean. She had taken the boy to the opposite side of the camp and was singing to him, trying to block his view. The boy leaned to the sides, straining to look past her.

  “Now you answer for what you have done,” said Sir Jastyn. “Know this; every warrior, singer or servant in Eleyria will be warned of your approach. Your death cries will sound with such agony that they will echo through Lojen’s Hall long before you arrive.” He turned and spat before meeting Shanks’s gaze again.

  Shanks smirked. “Yeah? Well, I fucked your bloodwife.” He smiled, then spoke in a silly, mocking voice. “Killed ‘er too!”

  Jastyn howled and lunged at Shanks, his hands clawing for the man’s throat. Sage and Lokk drew the knight away, pulled him to his starting position, twenty yards from Shanks. The knight’s face was still twisted with anger.

  “That won’t help,” said Sage.

  “What?” snapped Jastyn.

  “The anger. It’s what he wants. He wants you to charge in blindly. It’d be best if you didn’t.”

  Jastyn took a breath, closed his eyes and leaned over, hands on thighs. When he opened his eyes he was calm. “Sage… Mollingsley... I want to thank you. You’ve been a good friend to me. You were one of the first to accept me as part of the squad. You are a—”

  “Save that for later,” said Sage. “Plenty of time for that sort of thing when Shanks is dead.”

  Sir Jastyn nodded. He closed his eyes tightly, whispered Maribrae, then hardened his expression. His eyes were slits as he raised the sallet and yanked it down on his head. Sage buckled the strap, made sure that it was secure.

  Beldrun Shanks, on the other side of the clearing, tugged his helmet on and allowed Lokk to fasten the buckle. When the Eridian left, Shanks bobbed up and down in place, swinging his axe with a casual precision.

  Lokk joined the rest of the squad, glanced toward Aramaesia and saw Ulrean trying to peek around her. “Let him come,’ the Eridian called. “Let him watch.”

  Ulrean rose. Aramaesia grabbed his hand and held him in place. “Are you mad, Lokk?”

  “I agree with Lurius,” shouted Hammer. “That boy’s learned enough about Blythwynn. It’s time he learned about Lojenwyne.”

  Ulrean looked up at his guardian, his eyes pleading. “I want to see it, Ara. This is honorable.”

  The archer shook her head slowly. “Ulrean, there is nothing honorable about killing.” But she let go of his hand and he ran to Lokk’s side. Hammer put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Aramaesia breathed a long sigh, then joined the soldiers at the wall. She sat a few feet away, her half-lidded eyes distant and dreary.

  Chapter 39

  Dueling is the justice of tyranny.

  —Her Loving Grace Agnaria Fenrivyn, Holy Receiver of Light

  (May the Light Shine Always Upon Her
Face)

  “Shanks ‘as the right of first strike,” Hammer told Ulrean. “Because ‘e’s the one was challenged.”

  Ulrean nodded, holding tightly to Lokk’s sword belt.

  Shanks circled, seeking out the best moment for a first strike. The soldiers matched footsteps, bodies tensed. Shanks broke the rhythm with a lunge and a shout. Sir Jastyn tried to retreat and stumbled backward. Shanks pounced on the knight’s misstep, swung the axe down with all of his strength. But the break in Jastyn’s footwork had been a ruse. The knight hopped backward letting the axe swing past him, then sprang forward.

  Sir Jastyn hacked at the mail just beneath the big man’s breastplate. The sword rang off the mail before the knight retreated. The blow didn’t have a great effect, but it wasn’t meant to. It was the first of many such blows that Sir Jastyn hoped to land. With each one, Shanks’s breath would grow shorter.

  The warriors circled one another again. And the battle settled into a pattern. Shanks would charge forward and swing for the kill. But Jastyn’s footwork was meticulous. The knight was always just out of reach. Sir Jastyn took every opportunity to hammer at Shanks’s stomach, or his mailed arms and legs.

  After several iterations of this same pattern the two men paused, both breathing heavily, and Sir Jastyn broke the lull with a rare advance. Shanks tried to retreat but he clipped one of his massive boots against the other and stumbled. The knight lunged forward and drew his sword back for a head strike. But Shanks’s stumble suddenly wasn’t a stumble. Another ruse.

  The knight tried to back away but he was committed to the attack. Shanks ducked under Sir Jastyn’s sword and swung his axe high into the air. Then downward. Downward toward the knight’s belly. Jastyn swung his sword in a circle. Twisted his body to parry the falling axe.

  But Shanks shifted his wrists in mid-swing. Changed the trajectory of his weapon.

  The axe hurtled toward Sir Jastyn’s head, not belly. One corner of Shanks’s blade struck the knight’s bevor, tinging like a dinner bell. The blow was like a punch to the throat. Jastyn stumbled backward, not graceful now, just scrambling. Shanks did not follow. The big infantryman watched, smiling, as the knight retreated. Jastyn touched his bevor, felt the new furrow in it. Shanks nodded his head, chuckling, then pointed at Ulrean and flashed him a smile.