Stars and Graves

by Roberto Calas

  They danced under the stars, silvered by Blythwynn’s waxing eye. The dying torches along the path provided the only other light—red and orange tongues that danced upon their armor. It was a legendary struggle. Two old beasts locked in a final battle.

  Murrogar had become an unnatural fiend, but he still retained his skills with sword and shield. The memory, the techniques, the lifetime of training and experience—it was all there.

  The old soldier looked vastly different than when Lokk had last seen him. His skin was bulging and thick, almost scaly, and a mottled green. His teeth were jagged and broken in a jaw that seemed far too large. His features bloated almost beyond recognition. And that made it easier for Lokk. He could almost imagine that it wasn’t Murrogar at all. That is was someone else.

  Except no one else could fight like Black Murrogar.

  The two warriors battled on, Lokk stuttering his steps, jumping forward then back, attacking out of line, targeting Murrogar’s hands, his feet. The Eridian made himself impossible to pin down and was able to wear away at the big man. He gave the hero a cut across the hip. A deep wound that would have hampered any human. But Murrogar was no longer human. The cut drew no blood, only a green sludge that seeped for an instant, then dried. Murrogar howled, but the wound didn’t slow him.

  Aramaesia screamed in the distance, and desperation made Lokk rush. He feinted and lunged, swatting at Murrogar’s leg. A move that would have taken the leg of almost any man. But the old hero had been waiting. Murrogar leapt backward and to one side, lashed with his shield, catching the Eridian’s helm.

  Lokk sprawled sideways, his vision jumbled. He rolled onto his back and scrambled away from the old hero, shoving with his feet, preparing himself for a follow-through that never came. Murrogar held his ground.

  The Eridian ran a hand under the front of his helm, felt the blood flowing from his nose, and, for the first time, wondered if he might lose this battle. Murrogar’s swollen lips split into an inhuman smile. The old hero brought his blade up in a mock salute and swished it down and to the side.

  Lokk, mocked the movement, adding two extra flourishes. They stared at one another, until Murrogar raised his sword, fully extended toward Lokk. The Eridian mimicked this too, held one theiyra out, aimed at the big man’s chest.

  Murrogar lowered his sword again, but this time he extended his left arm and drew the heater shield away from his body. He stood completely unguarded.

  Lokk didn’t move.

  Murrogar inched forward. And still the Eridian held his position. The old hero edged closer and closer. Lokk tensed his muscles, preparing for anything. Expecting everything. But Murrogar simply crept forward, until the point of Lokk’s sword was touching his gambeson. And before Lokk could decide to lunge, Murrogar dropped his shield to the ground.

  Lokk stumbled backward, gazed at the fallen shield, then at Murrogar.

  Does he want me to kill him? Is he—

  He never finished the thought. Murrogar lunged forward, twisting awkwardly to one side. The old hero threw himself onto the Eridian’s blade. The theiyra slid between two ribs, plunging to the hilt before Lokk could react.

  He’s killing himself.

  But when Murrogar straightened his body, Lokk realized just how mortally wrong he was. His theiyra was locked between two ribs. Murrogar’s blade flashed in the torchlight. A lunged aimed at the Eridian’s belly. Lokk yanked at his blade, twisted it until it came free, and spun away. But he paid for the moment’s hesitation. The thick sword caught his mail tunic, hitting with astounding power. It punched through the armor and into the Eridian, just above his hip and out again on the other side.

  Lokk hurled himself backward, the blade grinding on bone and mail as it left his body. He stumbled back, roaring. And this time Murrogar kept coming, striking Lokk in the head with a gauntleted fist.

  The Eridian scrambled back again, shaking his head to clear his vision. Murrogar threw himself forward, thrusting the blade forward again. Lokk managed to raise his right arm, catching the blade on his bracer. But the big soldier’s body smashed into him, and both men fell backward. Lokk slash upward with his left arm as they toppled, using the notch on his short sword to cut the straps on Murrogar’s sallet. Lokk hit the hard soil in CWNCR with a deathly rattle. Murrogar’s sword tip shattered the mail on the Eridian’s shoulder and plunged in. Searing pain. And then the bone-crushing weight of Murrogar’s armored body.

  Lokk gasped for breath and tossed his theiyras aside, fumbled at his belt. His hands touched the hilt of his dagger. Murrogar rose to his knees and lifted the heavy sword in both hands. He pointed the tip downward for the final stroke. Lokk tightened his grip and lunged upward an instant before the sword fell upon him. It wasn’t the dagger he held, but a slim metal object. He plunged it deep into Murrogar’s torso. The mail and skin had been stripped away here and Lokk’s hand drove through the stitched skin of his belly, past the warm slickness of intestines, until it struck the spine.

  The effect was instantaneous.

  The heavy sword fell, knelling, to the grassy path. Black Murrogar clawed at his abdomen, fell backward, away from the Eridian. He stared dazedly at Lokk’s grimed fist.

  A crossbow bolt.

  Rivers of green froth bubbled from the old hero’s wounds as he stared at the weapon. Parts of Black Murrogar began washing away. The soldier stood and staggered. He lurched forward, searching the grass.

  Lokk picked up one of his theiyras and stood, wincing. Murrogar reached into the grass and lifted his shield, gripped the edges of it with both hands. Green foam bubbled from his mouth. His eyes met Lokk’s, and his head bobbed. Perhaps a nod. Perhaps just a dying man twitching.

  The Eridian swung the theiyra with all of his strength, half expecting the soldier to deflect it at the last instant again. But he met no resistance this time. The blade took off the top of Murrogar’s head, from the eyes upward. The old hero’s body slumped to the ground, foaming and fizzing.

  Lokk stared at the pile that had once been Black Murrogar, and made a clumsy salute with one theiyra. “Maybe…maybe I’m twice as smart, old friend.”

  But it didn’t ring true. And it didn’t feel like a victory.

  Chapter 50

  The Soldiers’ Farewell is as much a ceremony for the survivors as for the dead.

  —Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet

  Aramaesia dove into the darkness of the escape pit. The outside shaft was now a sprawling excavation, wide and sloped like a ramp. The dirt from the Beast’s digging lay in careless piles at either side of the hole. She scrambled out, then froze in place.

  Sage lay on his back, arms covering his face. The Beast towered above him, using its mid-set claws to hold the scout’s legs down and its foremost set to rake at him. Aramaesia howled and reached for her bow, remembered that it was still in the hall, then drew her cousin’s dagger and ran toward the Beast. A spear bobbed slowly past her. Arms clamped around her waist.

  “Do you want to join him?” Grae shouted. He pulled her aside and ran toward the beast, the fake arms jouncing.

  “Hai!” Grae swung his torso back and forth so the spear waved. “Hai! Over here! Hai!”

  The creature growled and turned its black eyes toward the brig. It cocked its massive head to one side, as if in curiosity or humor, then opened the snarling black gates of its mouth and gave a raspy huff.

  “Hai!” Grae bellowed, and the sound burst forth with decades of frustration. Decades of disgust. Decades of shame. The Beast glanced at the scorched walls behind Grae then turned back on itself, like swirling silk, and loped off toward the south.

  Grae ran after it, screaming: “Here! At me! Hai! Get back! Where are you going? Fight me! Fight me!”

  †††

  Lokk Lurius limped back toward the hall. He didn’t notice the movement in the shadows until it was almost on him. The theiyras came up and the Eridian dropped into a crouch, his wounds burning. He could feel the blood oozing from the deep gash at his side, could
taste the copper of it in his nose. The torchlight revealed Ulrean. Lokk straightened, noted the child’s wide eyes and understood that the boy had watched the entire battle.

  “You killed Black Murrogar.” Ulrean’s voice quivered. He held a brooch with a black bear upon it in his hands.

  Lokk nodded. “Twice.”

  He put a bloody hand behind the boy’s neck and pushed him gently into the hall.

  †††

  Aramaesia ran to Sage’s side. There were deep rents in his chest and abdomen. The blood welled through his fingers as he tried to cover the wounds. Tears rose in her eyes again. “Do not worry, Mollingsley. Hammer is here. He will heal you.”

  Sage’s face was white and slick with perspiration. He looked down at his butchered torso. Blood trickled from his nose as he laughed.

  “Yes,” he said. “Where… Where’s Hammer with that mend kit. A couple of stitches, eh?” He gave a chuckle that turned into a cough. His body shivered and Aramaesia embraced him, took one of his hands.

  “I’m right here, old friend,” said Hammer at his feet. “Did you get stung?”

  Sage shook his head. “No sting. Although... belly… stings a bit.”

  “You are going to be fine, Mollingsley.” Aramaesia’s voice was pitched too high.

  “Sweet lies… from… beautiful lips.”

  Lokk Lurius limped toward them. “Sage?” He saw the scout and something tightened in his jaw. Something in the Eridian’s confident posture fell away. He removed his sallet and knelt next to Sage. It was several heartbeats before he finally spoke. “Who’s going to cook now?” His voice was softer than Aramaesia had ever heard it.

  “Lokk?” Sage studied the Eridian. “Looks like …” he winced with a shock of pain. “Someone gave you… thrashing. Good for them.” Lokk flexed his smiling muscles, but couldn’t manage a grin. Sage spasmed. “Just… just finish me already… you senseless bastard.”

  There was silence. Lokk stood and drew his theiyras. Aramaesia sobbed and covered her mouth. Sage’s winced, spasmed. “No tears, Ara. I’m... soldier. I know where I am… where I’m going.” He looked at her and a tear rolled down from the corner of his eye. “You… so beautiful, Ara.”

  Aramaesia pursed her lips so they wouldn’t tremble. She took a deep, rattling breath and untucked her hair so that it splashed around her shoulders. Then she leaned forward, as Maribrae had done for Jjarnee, and kissed him. It was tentative at first, then warm, then passionate. It was the first man Aramaesia Charai had ever kissed, and it tasted of blood.

  “Lojenwyne will be ten times stronger with you.” She handed him Hammer’s shield. “And twenty times smarter.”

  Sage smiled through the pain, gripped the edge of the shield tightly with one hand. “…already in Eleyria.” He gazed at her, then his eyes found Lokk’s. Nodded.

  “Good bye, Sage.” Lokk Lurius stepped forward and killed the only true friend he had ever known.

  †††

  The sobs wracked Aramaesia’s body with such force that she vomited. She prattled in Graci, by turns angry and mournful, staring into the skies and holding her arms out. Hammer tried to comfort her, but his broken shoulder didn’t allow him to hold her. So Lokk took her in his arms and held her stiffly as she cried.

  “Aramaesia?” Ulrean stood beside her, touching her arm.

  The sobs stopped immediately. She rubbed at her eyes with a sleeve. Nodded her thanks to Lokk and broke away from him, knelt beside Ulrean.

  “It is all right,” he said. “He was called in for supper. He’s with his family now.”

  Aramaesia didn’t speak, looked on the verge of tears again so Ulrean continued. “Everything will be fine. You will see. You and I will live in my castle. Lokk will be the captain of my guards. Hammer will be our garrison commander. Meedryk will be our court magician. And Lord Aeren– “

  He stopped speaking as Grae returned to camp, the words drying up. The brig looked at Sage’s body, dropped Jjarnee’s crossbow. He closed his eyes and knelt next to the scout, the fake arms stretching over Sage like a canopy. The brig reached for the scout’s forehead, to touch his friend one last time, but the spear dipped into the ground and kept him away. He stood and tried to work one of the buckles on the harness, couldn’t unfasten it. He tried a different buckle behind his shoulder but couldn’t reach it. In his frustration, he yanked at the fake arms, shook them violently up and down, tugged at them madly but they wouldn’t release. He gave up with a loud cry into the skies.

  Aramaesia turned him toward her. She unbuckled the first strap, under his arm. Then the one under his other arm. She went through each of the straps. Grae tossed the fake arms away, slamming them into the side of the hall, and knelt next to Sage. He took the scout’s hand, studied his old friend, then slumped over the lifeless body and lay there silently.

  †††

  Beldrun Shanks crept through the forest, circling the village. Drissdie Hannish had screamed near the western gate.

  Maybe the imbecile is still alive.

  The forest was so dark, so isolated that Shanks would have welcomed even Drissdie’s company. He held a thick branch for protection, but knew it would be useless against maurg or Beast. Each step he took sent out sharp crackles of leaves or breaking twigs, so he held a wince the entire journey. But his luck held and he saw neither. What he did see, when he reached the western gate, made him catch his breath. It seemed like a hallucination. Like a gift from the gods above.

  Drissdie Hannish’s sword lay glittering in the moonlight at the base of a tree. Shanks nearly cackled.

  When you follow the right path, the world is your servant.

  He stooped to pick up the sword then saw Drissdie Hannish lying in a heap at the foot of the tree. Something had sucked out most of the blood and had gnawed at the body. Shanks fought down a gush of pity.

  The Outlaw Beldrun Shanks don’t feel pity. Pity’s for the weak.

  Instead, he used the sword to pry out the coin from the dead soldier’s head. It was hardly recognizable as a coin anymore, but the Outlaw Beldrun Shanks didn’t care. The Outlaw Beldrun Shanks had another hawk.

  Chapter 51

  Not even the faintest glitter of light exists in The Dark Place.

  But darkness can be found everywhere.

  —Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet

  “Grae, it’s coming back,” Hammer said.

  The brig glanced sideways. A shape defined by rippling patches of green lights approached slowly. He looked down at Sage’s body. In death, the scout’s smile had tightened into a smirk. Grae gave a half-smile back. “Look at you,” he said to the corpse. “Even in death you have more life than me.”

  Hammer cleared his throat. “Grae, it’s coming back.”

  The patchwork of glowing lights came nearer, but slowly. There was no urgency in its movements.

  The brig patted Sage’s shoulder and stood, stretching. The harness of arms lay in a jumble a few paces away. He studied the Beast’s approach. It wasn’t rushing, but there wouldn’t be time to don the harness. He picked up Jjarnee’s crossbow, cranked the braided drawstring into place. He drew the quarrel from the nock at his belt and set it in place.

  “Get in the hall,” Grae called. “All of you.”

  “Aye, we should all get in the hall,” Hammer replied. “Get you suited up in there, Grae.”

  “I’m not going,” said Grae. “Get them in the hall, now, Hammer.”

  The old soldier waved the others toward the escape pit. Lokk, holding his bleeding hip, patted Grae’s arm before sliding down the ramp of the escape pit.

  “Grae, it will kill you,” Aramaesia said. “This makes no sense.”

  “Get into the hall, Aramaesia. Now.”

  The archer’s shoulders slumped. She shook her head softly and walked to the escape pit with Ulrean. She helped the child down the ramp and crawled backward after him.

  Hammer drew his sword, kicked his feet into the ground. “One last stand for Grae and Hammer, eh?’r />
  The Beast was a dozen paces away now. Grae could make out its shape now. Shoulders hunched. Cage of teeth glimmering in the torchlight.

  “No, Hammer. One last stand for Grae Barragns. Get in the hall. I have one shot and I intend to make it count.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Grae.”

  “Hammer, I order you to get into the hall.”

  “An order don’t make something right, Grae. I’m not going.”

  The Beast padded to a halt less than ten paces away. It huffed a deep breath.

  “Come and get me, you rotting piece of fruit,” Grae muttered. “I have something for you. Come closer.”

  Hammer raised his shield, groaning with the effort, extended his sword to the side. “I got something for you, too.”

  The creature stared at Grae, then Hammer, then cast a quick glance at the hall. It padded forward, taking a circuitous route toward the two men, giving the stone structure a wide berth.

  “It don’t like that hall,” Hammer whispered.

  “Maybe Meedryk’s fire,” Grae replied. The brig kept Jjarnee’s hand crossbow low against his leg, hoping the creature’s eyes could not distinguish it as a weapon.

  The Beast crouched.

  Grae didn’t get a chance to even raise the crossbow. The Beast was on him before he knew it had moved. The first set of talons knocked him off his feet. The second slashed at him. He raised a leg and kicked. Felt the claws rake his thigh. Hammer lunged forward. The Beast knocked the old soldier sideways in a shiver of chainmail, then turned back to Grae. The brig rolled to his feet, and in one motion aimed and fired Jjarnee’s crossbow. The weapon was a foot from the monster’s eyes. He couldn’t miss.