Chapter 48
Without Maulden, Laraytia would fall. A hearty advantage in negotiations with the king.
—Aryll Dantorian, Earl of Taryn
The force of the blast knocked everyone to the ground. A great spout of white flame gushed inward and upward from both the entryway and the escape hole at the structure’s rear, roiling to the ceiling and spreading above the squad. The maurg outside the hall did not have time to scream as the flames shredded them.
Any and all abeyants within fifty yards had spontaneously erupted. As the white flames vaporized everything outside of the hall, and sent a crush of heat into the structure itself, the particles of powder that had drifted onto Meedryk’s tunic while he laid the abeyants also erupted.
Meedryk screamed, but it was like a song, like a high warbly note held by a songmaiden. He fell to the ground and screamed again, clawing at his clothing. Aramaesia picked herself up from the floor and ran to his side. She threw her cloak on the flames and patted him down. Grae threw his half cloak over Aramaesia’s, then hefted the nearest waterskin and dumped the contents onto the mage. The flames, already fading, sputtered and went out after a few more pats.
At the cave entrance, Lokk and Hammer finished off the last of the maurg that had survived the flames. They looked at one other, then peered outside. Blackened debris littered the village center. Nothing identifiable. Bits of metal—some still faintly pink with heat—and an occasional knot of bones was all they could see at first glance. A maurg stumbled past the entrance of their hall, body scorched and melting.
Hammer, leaned his spear against a wall and sat with a groan. “Just like that.”
†††
Drissdie Hannish watched with slack-jawed horror as the hall exploded into flame.
The Netherfire of Mundaaith! He has taken them!
The flames faded after a heartbeat but the white stone of the hall had been scorched. The roof was utterly black, like onyx, and Drissdie at first thought the entire hall had vanished in the flames.
I’m alone now.
He glanced down at the nearest gate, just below him. There were three maurg still standing there. One of them was as big as Beldrun Shanks. He studied the creature closely to make sure that it was not, in fact, Shanks, but the figure was silhouetted by the torches.
He wondered how long he could stay in the tree. If he stayed too long, would he fall asleep? The thought terrified him. He would fall from the branches. He would land only a few feet away from the maurg, his body thumping to the ground for their enjoyment. A memory surfaced of his father throwing down pig heads for the half-dozen dogs they kept on their farm. Drissdie had watched the dogs attack the heads, ripping off ears, savaging the snouts and dredging through to the brains. Little more than skulls remained when his father came back to check on their progress.
He resigned himself to staying awake all night, and prayed to his mother that he didn’t fall out of the tree. Then he had another thought. Sage had spoken of something scouts did when they climbed trees—they strapped themselves to a branch with their belt.
He fumbled at the buckle of his sword belt, unfastened it. The limb he sat on was too thick, but a thinner branch stretched just above him. He held the belt up toward the bough, his scabbard still attached.
Where do I strap it?
The blade, loose in the sheath, slid free, slowly. It stopped halfway out of the scabbard, balanced delicately in the night air. Drissdie gasped. Lunged for the sword with his left hand. But as he reached for it, his right lifted reflexively, the belt rose only a foot or so, but it was enough. The weapon slid free and clanged off a branch, splashed through leaves and landed with a clatter upon roots and stones.
The three maurg below Drissdie turned slowly to look at the sword. The largest one looked at the trunk of the fueryk. His gaze crept slowly up the tree. Drissdie’s breaths came in sharp, silent sobs. He slumped into the tree limbs and shivered. When the large maurg found him, the other two craned their necks at precisely the same moment, until they were both looking at Drissdie as well.
The two smaller maurg, armored in the remains of black chainmail, walked to the tree and began climbing. Drissdie hadn’t known they could climb. The shivering turned to quaking. He sobbed and backed toward the trunk, sliding on the branches. He drew his dagger, then remembered his lucky coin. He fumbled at a pouch, his fingers closing around the coin, then it too was gone, tumbling into the blackness silently.
Oh, mum, don’t let them hurt me! He prayed. Mum, I didn’t want to go past the walls. I was forced! Mother of Light—
He broke off the prayer as the first maurg hand grabbed hold of the branch he was on. The creature pulled itself upward. Its face still held a trace of humanity. But the eyes… and the mouth…
†††
Grae toppled sideways, caught himself on one knee. The straps of his sallet were a riddle. His fingers fumbled with the buckle until he could solve it, then he tossed the helmet to the side and sucked in the acrid, smoke-thickened air.
Meedryk’s groans echoed softly in the stone hall. Aramaesia bustled from Lord Aeren, to Meedryk, to Sage, the boy watching her every move.
Hammer held his left arm against his chest. A maurg axe had pounded his shoulder. Grae had seen it. The old soldier’s chain tunic had kept the blade from biting, but Grae suspected that the bone of his collar had been broken.
“We need…to splint that arm,” Grae called.
Hammer shook his head. “Just a nasty bruise is all.”
Lokk Lurius stood at the wall, leaning through the opening, shoulders tensed. If it wasn’t for the sweat that trickled down his jaw, Grae would have thought the Eridian hadn’t even been winded by the battle.
“How’s the apprentice?” Grae called back.
“He’s looked better.” Sage leaned against a wall, the top of his head rolling against the gray stone. He too favored one of his arms. A maurg bite had deadened it. Blood seeped from his back, near the shoulder blade, where another maurg had punched through the mail with a rusted stiletto.
“And Lord Aeren?” Grae glanced over. The young scholar held a stack of Aramaesia’s fabric squares against his cheek. A wash of blood had reddened his chin and neck.
“Alive but in a little pain,” Aeren replied. “Going to be a good story, this scar.” His chuckle masked a sob. “What’s the expression? Fucking arse…” he took several deep breaths, his eyes welling with tears. “Fucking arse nipples.”
“Hammer, you got anything in the kit for the pain?” Grae asked.
“You do not need to bother,” Aeren groaned. “The poison will work its way through my face and the pain will fade. I should close my eyes.” His words became thick, slurred. “It will be better that way, when my muscles freeze.”
Grae regretted not having given the lord a sallet. But fighting effectively with a helmet was a learned skill. Aeren had been told to stay back and work overflow, but he had moved up to the line when things had started to go badly. Damned respectable decision.
Meedryk had the most serious wounds of the group. Severe, bubbling burns had seared the skin along his chest and stomach. Hammer sat beside the apprentice and cleaned away the burned fabrics as best he could. The old soldier drew out a small skin filled with dreamlily and offered it to Meedryk. “Drink this, boy. It’ll help with the pain.”
Meedryk pushed the spout away. Reached into his sleeves clumsily, waved his hands over his chest. “Saulisia mendura.”
A moment later his groans faded.
Hammer touched the mage’s cheek with the back of his hand. “That may ‘elp the pain, but it ain’t ‘elping the heat. You’re burning up.”
Grae’s inventoried the squad and came up with some difficult numbers. Of the soldiers, only Lokk was in shape to fight. Sage was at less than half capacity. Hammer not much better. Aeren was already having difficulty speaking. Their proud fighting force of fourteen was now three. Grae, Lokk and Aramaesia. Three warriors to kill the Beast of Maug Maura
i. To think he had cursed at having less than twenty when they entered the forest.
He looked at the mock arms.
Maybe it won’t matter.
Distant screams from outside shredded the night’s silence. There was little doubt as to whose screams they were. No one spoke. Aramaesia covered her face as the screams went on. Ulrean cried quietly in a back corner of the hall.
“Get some food and water,” Grae said to no one in particular. “Rest.” He sat against one of the walls. “I imagine the Beast will be here before long.”
Aramaesia wiped at her eyes and fed Meedryk. Lord Aeren lost his ability to talk, so the archer threw a blanket over his legs. “All will be fine, Lord Aeren,” she said. “All will be fine.”
†††
Some of the maurg bodies in the hall still twitched. Ulrean rocked back and forth, staring at the convulsing maurg. He wondered what would kill him this time. Perhaps the Beast. Or maybe it would be one of the soldiers again, knife in hand. Sir Wyann had crept up behind Ulrean, last time. The boy couldn’t remember much about his death. The blade missed its mark the first time. Had carved a gash into Ulrean’s chin. He remembered the cold sting of it. It took a heartbeat for the pain to reach him, and by that time Sir Wyann’s knife had found the tender flesh of his neck. No more air made it into his throat, only blood. Had he tried to scream? He imagined he must have.
He stopped crying. Felt no desire to cry again.
Sir Braneth of Daendrys had told him that men held a quarter of an amphora of blood in their bodies. Ulrean wondered if it might be the same with tears, if there might be a finite amount of them in a body. Had he spent all of his? Would he never cry again?
†††
Grae sat against the wall and thought about Ulrean Cobblethrie. If the Beast killed them all, the boy would die. So at least one mission would be accomplished. But a thought gnawed at Grae. A terrible parasite that ate at his confidence.
The boy was dead when we found him.
He had never applied much effort to solve that riddle. It had seemed superfluous, considering Grae’s orders. What did it matter why he had lived, when he was destined to die? But perhaps he should have considered it more carefully. If the child lived through the Beast the first time, why wouldn’t he survive it again? A chill darted up Grae’s spine. Could another expedition find the boy? Everything Grae and his squad had done would be for nothing.
Civil war. The end of Laraytia. The Beast still roaming. Both missions would fail.
Don’t slay the Beast. Don’t save Laraytia.
All of it for one gods-defying little boy.
He looked sidelong at the child. With one act, Grae could alter history. He could divert the mighty river of destiny. Aramaesia’s inspired destiny. Here was power! Here was change! It was the greatest of ironies, he thought, that now, when he had the choice, when finally he had the ability to make change, he found that he did not have the taste for it. He touched the officer’s bevor on his neck, felt he coldness of it.
Chapter 49
May you die with shield in hand.
—Laraytian blessing
“Why am I doing this?” The fake arms were braced on Grae’s shoulders. “How can this possibly work?”
“Nonsense,” Hammer replied. He stooped to reach for a strap under Grae’s leg, paused, cleared his throat. Grae reached down and pulled the strap up. Hammer fastened it to the buckle at the brig’s waist. “This is your best plan yet.” Hammer had wanted to wear the arms himself, to fire the bolt, but Grae had refused him.
“My best,” said Grae. “Or my last.”
Lokk Lurius approached the two of them. He gestured toward the Northern gate.
“Aye,” said Hammer, glancing toward the three figures. “We seen ‘em. They’re probably the ones that finished Drissdie.”
“Just those three left,” said Grae. “I imagine they must fear Meedryk’s fire.”
“Don’t think so, sir,” said Lokk. “They never came in.”
“Let them wait,” said Grae. “They can’t harm us from out there.”
“They can break up the plan,” said Lokk. “Come in when the Beast does.”
“That’s where you come in, Lurius. If they come up here, you and Aramaesia will have to—” As Grae spoke the figures walked forward. They had a relaxed stride, purposeful but loose. It was more unnerving than the frothing charge of the other maurg. They strode past the walls and torchlight glimmered off the black mail of Laraytian Standards.
“Two of them are Standards,” Hammer said.
“Best get Aramaesia,” said Grae.
“Let her rest,” said Lokk. “I know who that is. And it’s my fight.”
The Eridian grasped the hilts of his short swords and strode forward to meet Black Murrogar in battle.
†††
Sage leaned against one of the ancient stone walls, the links of his mail scraping quietly with each movement. The rank smell from earlier was rising once more in the hall, despite Meedryk’s magic. In the scout’s right hand was the blade of his dagger. He swung it lightly, again and again, tapping the pommel against his crippled right arm. Meedryk and Lord Aeren lay near Aramaesia. She held Meedryk’s hand and hummed softly.
“How do they fare?” Sage asked.
Her humming faded. “Meedryk is asleep. And I think Lord Aeren also is.”
Sage wanted to continue the conversation but could think of nothing to say. It was an odd moment for him. He snuffled a few times trying to clear the scent from his nostrils. Ulrean pinched his nose and made a face.
“Don’t look at me,” said Sage, and he smiled for the boy. “I barely ate. And—”
He stopped mid-sentence and cocked his head. The smell. He pushed his back against the wall and slid to his feet, grimacing at the pain. The terrible odor was worse the farther back he walked. He stopped beside Ulrean and sniffed.
“Move!” He grabbed Ulrean by the arm and yanked him hard away from the wall.
Aramaesia gaped at Sage, as if he’d gone mad, so he pulled her to her feet as well.
“The scent... it’s coming from outside.” The scout peered into the escape pit. Tiny green lights glimmered in the shaft. Sage bumped Aramaesia away with his hip as a monstrous claw squeezed up from the pit. The talons clamped around Sage. The scout grunted, slammed to the cold earthen floor.
“Sage!” Aramaesia’s scream echoed around the hall. She dove forward and grabbed the scout’s deadened left hand. But the Beast’s grip was relentless. Sage drew his dagger and plunged it into the dirt floor of the hall. The Beast backed and strained, huffing from the pit. Sage was yanked from the archer’s grip and disappeared into the darkness. The trail his dagger made in the soil was the only evidence he had been in the hall at all.
Aramaesia screamed for Grae and dove into the hole without a thought.
†††
Grae ran to the hall. The fake arms and the spear made it tricky to get through the gap in the wall they had made. Hammer had not tied the slit in the mail yet, so the brig’s real hands peeked out, seemingly from his stomach.
Ulrean stared at those peeking hands and screamed. Lord Aeren rose to his feet, his body lurching with alarm. But his face was passive. Almost serene. His mouth open just the slightest bit. Ulrean looked into the frozen, silent face and screamed again. The child backed away from Lord Aeren and sprinted past Grae. Hammer reached for him, grunting with pain. But Ulrean slipped past and ducked through the gap in the fortified wall. He ran from the hall, toward one of the sealed structures, crying and hugging his elbows.
“Leave him be.” Grae pivoted through the gap in the wall and dashed back outside, looping toward the back of the hall. He felt like a fool running with those stick arms bobbing up and down ahead of him. Hammer followed as fast as he could, each step jarring his collar.
†††
Lokk Lurius touched the hilts of his theiyras as he approached his enemies. One of the figures carried the dragon-blazoned shield of a S
tandard, held his sword low and away in the fashion of the king’s army. The other wore a chain coat and held a spear in both hands.
Murrogar stood between the two, towering above them. The old hero strode forward, a leisurely gait, shield low, sword perched on one shoulder. Lokk studied the confident stride, the matted remains of a thick beard. His features were different. Odd curves and angles in the silhouette of his face. His shoulders were more hunched. A growl came from the hulking figure and Lokk understood that no humanity remained in Murrogar. But he was here, walking. How was it possible? He’d all but cut the man’s head off in the forest. Severed his spine. He was certain of it. How could any creature survive such a wound?
There was no time to dwell on it. Lokk spat to one side and drew his theiyras, the steel ringing softly in the night. Only two things mattered now: Black Murrogar was back again. And he was an enemy now.
Lokk ran off the path and looped toward the three figures, the long grasses swishing against his legs like the waters of a stream. The three maurg slowed at his approach. They crouched and raised shields.
The Eridian picked up his pace so that he was sprinting toward the leftmost of the three, the spearman. He approached directly but an instant before engaging, when the other two tried to close on him, Lokk threw himself out-of-line. He lunged at the unarmored creature from the right. The maurg had committed to the initial charge and had no time to adjust to the Eridian’s quick shift. Lokk struck but did not stop. He continued his sprint, circling only when he knew he was well out of range. He turned in time to see his victim fall, the head and shield-arm tumbling away from the rest of the body.
The remaining maurg did not look at their fallen companion. They pivoted and pursued, spreading out to flank their foe. Lokk backpedalled as they neared. When the two soldiers closed, the Eridian reversed direction, sprinted between them, then stopped short and scrambled backward again, veering toward Murrogar’s remaining companion. The man hesitated for an instant and Lokk’s theiyra made him pay for it. The first blade took the man’s leg off above the knee, the other cleaved the head diagonally, from temple to lower jaw. It took an instant for Lokk to pull the theiyra out of the man’s head. And in that instant, Black Murrogar closed. The old hero struck the Eridian with his shield. Lokk crashed to the ground and rolled smoothly back to his feet. He shook his head. The shield strike was far stronger than any such blow he had ever felt. This was not Black Murrogar. This was something even more dangerous.
Stars and Graves Page 25