Be sure to read these other works by
Roberto Calas
The Scourge:
THE SCOURGE (Book 1)
THE SCOURGE: NOSTRUM (Book2)
THE SCOURGE: EMACULUM (Coming Soon)
Published by 47North
The Beast of Maug Maurai:
THE CULLING (Book 1)
FEEDING THE GODS (Book2)
STARS AND GRAVES (Coming Soon)
KINGDOM OF GLASS
A Kindle Worlds Novella
Visit Roberto Calas’s website for more information:
robertocalas.com
THE BEAST OF MAUG MAURAI
Part Two of Three
ROBERTO CALAS
Text and Images Copyright © Roberto Calas 2013.
All Rights Reserved.
Roberto Calas asserts his/her moral right to be identified as the author of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
This book is for Cesar and Lucia; my Celusia.
Maps
Chapter 1
Black Murrogar was knighted at Nylvaerian, the famed country palace of House Darmurian. Murrogar never wears the chain of his office, and Blythwynn protect the man who calls him Sir Murrogar.
-- from “A Treatise on the Champions of Nuldryn,” by Jurn Hallion
The forest shook with another howl from the Beast. It was a sound that cut to the soul. A discordant gale that shredded your bones like mid-winter frost. The echoes throbbed through Maug Maurai like the memory of sorrow.
Murrogar spun slowly, tried to determine the direction from which the cry came, but it seemed to resonate from everywhere.
He drove the final torch into the damp soil with a snarl, imagining the head of the beast beneath the sharpened stake. Nine torches ringed the crest of the shrub-strewn hill. Crude torches, made from branches that had been wrapped in birch bark and dry leaves. They were unlit, and they were barely fit for their purpose. Leaves and bark made terrible torches. Murrogar knew the flames would not last long, but he had a greater fear: that the burning torches might outlive the travelers he was sworn to protect.
A dozen of those travelers sat on the hilltop, nursing scratches and blisters and sore muscles. All were nobles except for Thantos, who was Murrogar’s man.
Murrogar had tried to give the travelers work, to make them useful. But usefulness and nobility were traits that seldom coexisted. Only two of the ladies seemed capable of doing anything right. So he dismissed the other nobles and sat with Thantos beside the countess of Laudingham and a thane’s niece, and the four of them wrapped birch bark around thin, sharpened logs. They made thirteen torches in all. Thantos lit four of them and staked them at the center of the encampment. These four torches provided the only light, but already the flames had devoured most of their fuel and the torches guttered.
The Beast howled once more, closer.
It wants us to know it’s coming.
The hilltop plateau was small – scarcely ten paces across before it rolled downward – but lighting all of the torches quickly would still be difficult. Three competent men could do it in a few heartbeats. Murrogar wondered how long it would take three nobles.
“Why don’t we just build a fire?” said Sir Wyann. “It would be easier than . . . ”
Murrogar silenced the knight with a gaze. A central fire would be easier to tend, but the light would shine from behind the travelers. Murrogar wanted the perimeter lit. And he did not want the obstruction of a fire pit if they had to make a swift escape.
A small pile of weapons lay at the center of the hilltop. Murrogar had ordered the travelers to throw anything that could make the Beast bleed onto the ground there. Swords and knives. Metal bracelets that could be twisted and sharpened. Anything at all.
In the darkness, the mound of items had the look of a cairn. A cairn made solemn by the ring of torches. The entire hill had the feel of a barrow. A burial ground.
The Beast howled again, closer, ever closer. It would reach the hill soon. Murrogar took an inventory of the true assets in that cairn. There weren’t many.
The duke’s gilded sword and dagger; a nobleman’s slim featherblade; the axe taken from an Eridian spearman who had been left for dead several times; Sir Wyann’s dagger (the knight had kept his sword); two hunting knives; and a stiletto belonging to the duchess. There were six metal bracelets, two large silver pendants, four brooch pins and two sets of spurs. Thantos had not added his greatsword to the pile, and Murrogar did not ask him to.
Murrogar took the duke’s sword from the pile. It was a well-made weapon, even with the gaudy gold inlay and the silver wire grip. He looked to the sword’s owner. The duke cleared his throat as if he would speak, then nodded. Murrogar strapped the sword to his waist. He pointed at the pile of weapons. “Anyone know how to use these? And I mean the swords and knives. I know you are well trained with jewelry.” He grinned at the crowd, tried to calm them with his demeanor. Only silence greeted him.
Ulrean looked at the faces of the other travelers, then stood and shrugged: “I’m familiar with the concept.”
Murrogar laughed. “You’ll be a fine warrior one day, young master. But I have a special job for you.” He pointed his bearded chin at one of the nobles, a young man. Was he son to the count of Bra Kareyn? Murrogar thought he might be. “That your featherblade?”
The count’s son nodded.
“You got a voice? What’s your name?”
“Per . . . it’s Peryn.”
“Well Per-its-peryn, you know how to use that twig?”
“I ...I’ve had some rudimentary training.”
“Rudimentary training,” Murrogar mimicked the man’s highborn accent. ”You learned the positions, then? The Charge, The Challenge, Sticher Stroke . . . all that sort of training?”
“Yes. Precisely that sort of thing.”
“Good. Forget all of it.” Murrogar picked up the slim sword in its sheath and tossed it to Peryn. “All I want you to do is hold it out in front of you. Your arm as straight as possible. And if that purring kitty out there comes near you, I want you to make a pretty lunge and stick the sharp end into its foodsack. Nothing fancy. Just stick it hard. You think you can do that?” Peryn nodded and strapped the sword around his waist. “The rest of you, grab a weapon and do the same. If the creature gets near you, I want you to put metal inside it. No running. That understood? Only prey runs. And we’re not prey. Not tonight. Tonight, we’re hunters.”
The men took weapons from the pile. Murrogar yanked the count of Daendrys away from the pile. The man had broken his arm on the rocks in the Typtaenai River and wore a sling made from the finest dress silks in Lae Duerna. He cringed from Murrogar.
“You ain’t still angry about the river, are you?” Murrogar had punched the count in the mouth to stop the man from screaming. “I need you and Ulrean to light the torches.” He pointed to a noblewoman who was shivering in the night’s chill, wearing only a chemise like the rest of the women. Was she the daughter of a holy paladin? Pretty thing. “You too. I want the three of you to take a lit torch from the center, and when I yell ‘light’ I want each of you to light four of those torches on the perimeter, as quickly as you can.”
The Beast cried out again. The holy paladin’s daughter covered her grime-stained face and sobbed.
Murrogar tugged the girl’s hands away. “There’s time for cryin’ later, love. Right now, the torches will
be your only thought.” She nodded and wiped at her eyes with the back of a wrist, leaving swaths of clean skin beneath her lids. “There’s a love.”
Murrogar looked at the young girl, at Peryn the swordsman, at the count of Daendrys and his wife. He looked at the duke and duchess, at the boy, Ulrean Cobblethrie. And when he couldn’t bear it any more, he turned away and stared at the ring of torches.
The entire hill had the feel of a barrow. A burial ground.
Chapter 2
Blythwynn’s faithful at night pray
Lojen’s sons the same at day
What of the shores, twixt moon and sun?
The time when night and day are done?
At dusk and dawn, who worships then?
The learned few, the twilight men.
-- From “The Balance of Gods” by Twilight Man Sudraen of Aultreun
Drissdie Hannish stared into the forest of Maug Maurai and trembled.
The darkest fears of the young man’s childhood were no doubt born in that forest. Grae noted the anxiety and knew what it was that Drissdie feared. In peasant families, you didn’t study literature or numbers or history. You learned to read the clouds, to write upon the soil with picks and plows. You learned to count your herd. And, in Western Nuldryn, you learned the stories of Maug Maurai.
It wasn’t just the Beast that struck terror into Drissdie Hannish. There were other things in that forest. Ghuls that shambled on dead legs and stole your soul. Trees that ate humans. Villages that sucked you down into the Dark Place. Things Drissdie likely had feared since his first lessons in the lore of Maug Maurai.
Grae marched onward, dismissing the young soldier’s fear, dismissing his own fear. Eleven men followed him. Eight were soldiers, Laryatian Standards like Grae. One was a magician’s apprentice, and though he was officially a Standard, the term “soldier” was a kindness.
Of the non-soldiers – the daeryns – one was a freeblade mercenary from the kingdom of Eridia. One was a knight from House Whitewind. And one was a noble scholar.
Two women followed him as well. A female archer from the enemy kingdom of Gracidmar, and a songmaiden traveling with the Whitewind knight.
The squad marched on, ever closer to the mouth of the forest. Three-hundred-foot yew trees loomed at the edge of Maug Maurai, like armies of giant, spined warriors. The grassy road passed between the yews, then curved gently and disappeared into a fog that rose thick as smoke amid the sizzling rain.
Two janissaries, provincial soldiers, stood guard at the foot of the forest, veiled by mist and looking inadequate against the monolithic wardens behind them. The men wore the blue tunics of Nuldryn, Mulbrey’s Soaring Falcon stitched on their breast.
Grae and his squad, their boots thick with mud, made their way through the drizzle toward the Falcons. The two guards, stouts in rank, smirked. The approaching men and women must have seemed an odd assortment. Soldiers, women, scholars.
“This a performing troupe?” asked one of the guards, chuckling.
Grae’s men had all donned black traveling cloaks when the rain started. The cloaks were issued to every soldier. Standard-Standard. That was the name given to equipment common to all Laraytian Standards. A blackened chainmail tunic was standard-Standard. A crudely forged sword and dagger as well, and an iron-rimmed heater shield. Each man was issued a wool tabard, gray and emblazoned with the black Laraytian Dragon, calf-high leather boots, leather leggings, a black bevor for the neck and a blackened sallet helmet that covered everything from the ears up. All of it standard-Standard.
Grae pulled the cloak back from one arm revealing the twin eagles of a brig. “Yes, a performing troupe” he said. “We perform reductions in rank. Are you interested in a show?”
Both guards stiffened. Grae couldn’t really demote them – he was a Standard and they were janissaries. But he could certainly make their lives miserable.
“Sorry sir,” said the guard. “We didn’t mean nothin’ by it, sir.”
“We’re here to slay the Beast of Maug Maurai.” Grae said, wincing at the drama. The second guard, a man whose face was riddled with pox scars, smirked. “Is something I said funny to you, stout? Do you still think we’re a performing troupe?” He let The Headsman into his voice and both soldiers winced.
“No, sir,” said the pox-scarred stout, sobering. “So sorry sir. I just . . . Black Murrogar . . . the Beast is . . . ”
“Black Murrogar is no doubt in a cave somewhere protecting the Cobblethrie family from the Beast. It would be honorable for the two of you to go in and look for him.”
“We been ordered to stay outta the forest,” said the first guard. “We’re to watch for anybody leaving.”
“So what is the current situation?” asked Grae. “What have you heard?”
“Not much, sir. A squad came in yesterday to retrieve the wagons. And some bodies. The squad went off the road a ways, into the forest to search for the Cobblethries. A very short ways. But they didn’t find nothing, brig sir.”
“Where was the wagon found?”
“About six miles from here, sir. They said they thought the caravan was attacked three nights ago.”
Six miles? Anyone could travel six miles in three days. The Chamberlain was right – the Cobblethries were dead.
“Will you be here all night?” asked Grae. He toyed with the pendant around his neck, presenting it to the men with as much subtlety as he could manage. It was given to him by the Chamberlain, who said it represented the King’s Authority.
Wear it openly at all times, the Chamberlain had told him. And all will recognize that you have been commissioned by the king himself.
But if the two men recognized the King’s Authority, they didn’t seem impressed. Neither gave the pendant so much as a glance.
“No sir,” said the first soldier. “We pull away from the forest at dusk. Two miles out. All of us do.”
“Both of you?”
“All of us, sir. There are soldiers at every mile for thirty miles. We’re to keep an eye out for anyone from the caravan.”
“What for?”
The guard shrugged. “In case they need help. We’re to escort them to a camp that’s been set up three miles southwest of here.”
Of course, thought Grae. A camp far out of the way. Where no one will see what becomes of the Cobblethries that leave the forest.
And what would happen to the guards who escorted the Cobblethries to the campground? Would the duke allow them to live? Men who had proof that the family lived? Grae recalled the Chamberlain’s words.
. . . Every man who is hanged in Kithrey is also beheaded. He wants to be certain. He always wants to be certain.
Grae thought about the safety of his own soldiers. They were Standards. King’s men. Only the king could order the death of Standards, and even then, the man had to be tried. And a spiteful Standard could say a lot at a trial. Best to swear them to secrecy and dismiss any leaks as rumors. Grae looked at the two men in front of him. Janissaries did not have the same protections as Standards. They were at the mercy of their lord.
Grae’s spoke more gently. “What happens if the Cobblethries come out during the night?”
The two guards exchanged looks. “Sir,” said the first, “ain’t but one thing come out of Maug Maurai at night.”
The second guard spoke: “I’d be careful sir. The Beast is ranging tonight.”
“Not for long,” said Grae. “Good day, soldiers.”
Both guards saluted – open left hand at sternum, palm inward, forearm at forty five degrees as if a shield hung from it. They were crisp salutes, for janes. Grae returned the salute and the squad marched forward, between the glistening trunks of Maurian yew.
Grae glanced back and saw Drissdie Hannish go to one knee on the mud, curl his hand into the shape of Blythwynn’s crescent moon and place it on his forehead. The soldier’s eyes closed, his lips moved in a silent prayer.
Poor boy. He’s about to become a part of Maug Maurai’s lore.
/> †††
Grae had hoped to say something inspirational to the men at this point. Something exciting and brash and clever. But now that he was here, now that the forest was a reality, he could find no words.
He whispered to Hammer: “Get them going. Make it loud.”
On the off chance that the Cobblethries were out there, Grae wanted the family to hear him coming. And if the shouts drew the Beast, then so much the better.
“Alright boys,” Hammer yelled. “From ‘ere on, we go with nothin’ but what Lojen gave us. Feet to chase, eyes to search, and ‘ands to kill.”
“Aye sir!” shouted the men. They were Standards, and Standards were trained to respond. Even the criminal, Beldrun Shanks. The others, Jastyn and Maribrae, Lord Aeren, Aramaesia and Lokk Lurius drifted backward, perhaps sensing the ritual energy of the moment.
“They say few ‘ave seen this Beast and lived,” Hammer continued. “That no one knows nothin’ about it. But that don’t matter none. What matters, what truly matters, is that this thing, this puppy, this little kitten inna woods, ain’t never seen Laraytian Standards before! What matters is that it don’t know nothin’ about the real soldiers of Laraytia!” The men raised their spears in the air and cheered, whistling and whooping. The chant was coming. It had been drilled into them since their first day of training.
“But we’re not just soldiers, are we?” said Hammer. “What are we?”
“The Shield!” Their voices rang in the tight corridor of the Maurian Road.
“What are we?”
“The lance!”
“Let me ‘ear you!”
“The shield, the lance, the eyes, the hands! Laraytia! Laraytia!”
“What’s that you say?”
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part Two: Feeding the Gods Page 1