The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part Two: Feeding the Gods

by Roberto Calas

  “Laraytia! Laraytia! Laraytia!”

  “Where’s your voice?”

  “Laraytia, Laraytia, Laraytia!”

  “Again!”

  “Laraytia, Laraytia, Laraytia!”

  A quarter mile away the two janissary guards heard the echoes.

  “ . . . Laraytia! Laraytia! Laraytia! . . . ”

  They shook their heads and exchanged wry glances.

  “ . . . Laraytia! Laraytia! Laraytia! . . .” came the echoes.

  “Arrogant pizzles,” one said.

  “You think they can kill it?” the other replied.

  “I think,” said the first, “that we should leave here at once. Those shouts are bound to call attention.”

  Chapter 3

  Men and women toil in the day, under Lojen’s eye.

  They sweat and strive and struggle until his gaze falls away.

  And then at night, under Blythwynn’s soothing regard

  They may rest.

  -- From “The Balance of Gods” by Twilight Man Sudraen of Aultreun

  Murrogar’s hunters stood in a circle at the crest of the hill. The four lit torches guttered and faded slowly. A thick mist had risen around the base of the slope so that it seemed the travelers were defending an island.

  Murrogar stared into the nothingness beyond the mist for a long time. Until the nothingness became something. A glow. A diffused green light. A luminous shark inching through the sea of mist. Gasps rose from some of the nobles. A lady began sobbing quietly.

  “We’re hunters tonight!” he called. “We’re hunters!”

  A faint breeze swirled the mist. A nobleman prayed loudly. Several of the travelers broke into tears. The stench of urine wafted in the wind as at least one of the nobles lost control of their fluids. The glow approached the base of the hill and Murrogar called out again: “We’re hunters!” He waited another three heartbeats then shouted for light.

  His chosen torch-lighters stepped forward but Murrogar stopped them before they could set alight the nine torches ringing the hill. “Wait!”

  There was more green out there. Spots of it to the east. To the west. More appeared as Murrogar watched. There was green everywhere. In every direction. All of the spots moving toward the hill like schools of luminescent fish. Murrogar took a deep breath and dug his feet into the soil. The hilt of the duke’s sword was slick with sweat.

  Gonna be a feeding frenzy.

  “What . . . what are those?” asked Peryn the Swordsman.

  “More prey for us hunters,” said Murrogar. He forced himself to smile, but his eyes danced across the green lights, his breath quickened.

  Soft cries rose up from the base of the hill. Faint gumps and hoots that sounded at random from all sides. The Lady Genaeve Baelyn fell to her knees and shrieked, pulled at her hair.

  “What are they?” she howled. “What is happening?”

  “They’re everywhere,” said the duke. “Murrogar, how . . . how many Beasts are there?”

  Murrogar shook his head. “There is only one Beast.”

  “Then what . . . what is that down there?” The duke pointed a shaking finger toward the base of the hill.

  “It’s them,” said Murrogar. There was a gap in the green lights, to the east, where a ridge sloped away from the hill.

  “Them? What is them?”.

  Murrogar took another deep breath. “Them,” he said, “is not us.”

  The duke frowned, then raised his nose to the air. A stench drifted up to the crest of the hill, mixing with the thick scent of torch smoke. “Do you smell that? What’s that then?”

  “That,” said Murrogar, “is It.” He turned to the three torchbearers. “Light! Light the torches! Light them!”

  But the flames on two of the three torches had gone out. The holy paladin’s daughter had the only flame and it made her glow orange on the hilltop. She ran to one of the staked torches and tried to light it. But a dark shape rose from the mist beside her. It towered silently beside her, a black mountain with spines. The ragged green patches of light on the creature were so dim that they were nearly not there. The girl was so focused on the torches that she did not notice the silhouette. She touched her torch to the dry leaves and the other torch blazed to life. She glanced at Murrogar and smiled bravely.

  Murrogar was already vaulting toward her. She was on the opposite side of the plateau and he knew he would never reach her in time.

  But Peryn the Swordsman would.

  The young nobleman was next to her. He took one long stride and made a magnificent lunge. A thing of beauty, back foot firmly on the ground, chin up, arm straight.

  And he missed.

  The Beast swirled aside with astounding speed, then seemed to twitch in the young man’s direction. Peryn fell groaning to the shrubs as Murrogar finally closed the distance.

  The Holy paladin’s daughter rose into the air, clasped in one of the creature’s taloned claws. Her mouth sprang open but no sound escaped. Murrogar leaped into the air. A young warrior’s leap. A leap he might have made when he was ten years younger. His body writhed with the effort, his sword whipped through the night, singing as it cut through the forest air. And that was all it struck. Forest air. The Beast lurched aside before the blade could fall.

  The holy paladin’s daughter found her voice. The scream trailed behind her as the Beast whisked her into the darkness.

  Murrogar rolled to his feet and took three blind strides down the hillside after the girl before he understood that she was gone. A sea of green surged upward toward the travelers. There would be no rescue attempt. He fought back an almost unquenchable urge to charge down the slope screaming and swinging his sword. Returned to the hilltop instead.

  Peryn the Swordsman was on his back making soft grunts and extending his neck as if he might vomit. One of his arms was clasped to the bloody wreck of his stomach. His eyes searched for Murrogar’s, but Murrogar did not want to see the accusation in them. The old soldier rolled the young man onto his side and slit the nobleman’s throat swiftly from behind.

  “What are you looking at?” he shouted to the wide-eyed travelers. “Go!”

  There was more hooting. Louder now. Like savage hunting calls. The green glowing lights were more clearly defined. They were orbs. Orbs bobbing upward. Eyes of simmering malachite. The screams from the nobles joined the rising cacophony.

  There was only one path to safety.

  “Run to the ridge!” he called. “Run to the ridge!”

  And Murrogar’s hunters became prey.

  Chapter 4

  The most difficult aspect of governance is learning to believe the lies that you tell.

  -- Mulbrey Arlineous, duke of Nuldryn

  The tangled snarls and spires of Maug Maurai waited for Grae Barragns and his patchwork squad. Grae studied the darkness of the forest and wondered how many people were buried in that emerald crypt.

  He thought of the two assignments that led him now into that graveyard. His first assignment was to slay a beast. His second, to become one.

  May the Gods curse the Chamberlain to an eternity in the Dark Place for this.

  The Chamberlain’s room in Daun Kithrey was also a place of tangles and spires. Of dangerous webs and dark corners. The room had been cold as a crypt, and Grae wondered now how many soldiers had been buried because of ruthless decisions made there. Decisions made over expensive wine and cheap whores. Grae’s own death had been sealed in that room. He had walked blindly into the webs.

  “What would you say if I told you civil war was brewing. Right now. This very moment in the Duchy of Lae Duerna?” The Chamberlain held a stack of yellowed papers against his chest. His voice had been mellow in the stone chamber, but there was a glint of steel to his tone.

  “That would surprise me, sir,” Grae had replied.

  “Of course it would,” said the Chamberlain. “But you are a soldier. Lojenwyne tells us that ‘surprise doubles your numbers’ does he not? Someone is counting on surprise,
Grae Barragns. But King Tharandyr is never surprised.”

  “No king is ever surprised,” said Grae. “Until someone surprises him.”

  The Chamberlain studied Grae for a long moment. An inventory took place in that stare. A re-assessment.

  “It is our job, Brig Barragns, yours and mine, to make certain that he is not surprised.”

  “And who do you think is trying to surprise him?” Grae asked.

  “I always assume that everyone is trying to surprise him. That is why he is still alive.”

  Grae thought about mentioning that the Standards had something to do with the King still being alive but it would only lead to more clever remarks from the Chamberlain. Grae didn’t want to spend any more time in the chamber than he had to. “Who is it that you assume is trying to surprise him now?”

  “Oh, it’s not an assumption this time. It is House Cobblethrie. Led by the duke himself, Orien Cobblethrie. Do you know that Duke Orien has travelled to Durrenia at least twelve times in the last five years? Why do you think he would do such a thing? Tell me, Grae. Why would a duke who once fought against his current king visit the Durrenian savages?”

  “There could be many reasons,” said Grae.

  “There could, and yet, there are not. There is only one. He is seeking allies. Gathering forces. Preparing for rebellion against King Tharandyr.”

  Grae took a long moment to respond. “Your pardon, sir, but that is utter nonsense.”

  The Chamberlain’s top lip twitched. It was a subtle thing, and the only sign of emotion. The buttery smile returned swiftly. “My apologies,” he said. There was no warmth in the statement. “You are a common soldier. Things beyond your understanding must always seem like nonsense.” He drank from his cup. “Do you suppose I would say such a thing idly?”

  Grae weighed the facts as he drank. He set the cup down and wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. “If such a thing were true – and I don’t believe it is,” said Grae, “then King Tharandyr would be trapped in a vice. He can’t move against Lae Duerna and the Cobblethries without angering Maulden Duchy and the Inverians.”

  Tangles and spires. Webs and darkness.

  “Bright fellow,” said the Chamberlain. “They told me you were clever for a soldier.”

  House Inverian, of Maulden, and House Cobblethrie, of Lae Duerna, were thickly intermarried. Both had fought for the Laray family – the previous rulers of Laraytia – when House Darmurian had rebelled against the crown. The uprising had been successful and the Larays were swept from the kingdom. King Tharandyr Darmurian, the current monarch and the second Darmurian to hold the throne, never forgot where the Cobblethries and Inverians had put their loyalties during the war. And neither had the Cobblethries and Inverians. Tensions always simmered between the two northern duchies and the southern ones. But a civil war? No one wanted that. Maulden held the northern border against Laraytia’s eastern enemy, Gracidmar. If Maulden and the Inverians rebelled . . . Grae couldn’t allow himself to think on the possible repercussions.

  And yet, with one violent coincidence, the King’s problems had been solved. If the Cobblethrie family expired in that forest, then Mulbrey was free of them, and House Inverian could do nothing to retaliate.

  It was a complex and fragile mesh of webs that held the kingdom together. And Grae saw, finally, the crux of those webs. The junction of the conversation. Grae found the shadowy intersection the Chamberlain was dragging him toward. The point where the Laraytian Standards and the duke of Nuldryn collided. The place where The Headsman lived.

  He struggled uselessly against it, a midge in the web. “You realize that it is against the charter of the Standards to raise arms against Laraytian nobility.”

  The Chamberlain paused mid-sip. He placed the goblet down gently on the table and ran his finger over the edge. “Clever man.” He cleared his throat. “You rode past the carriage on that one, did you?” He chuckled, then his expression hardened. There was steel in his eyes, a cruelty of superiority that left no room for misunderstanding; Grae was nothing more than a mule – an instrument to be used as he saw fit. “The Cobblethries are dead. All of them. I am certain of it. But the duke is a man of caution.” He sipped again at his wine, but his eyes never left Grae’s. “Do you know that every man who is hanged in this city is also beheaded? No? It is true. He wants to be certain. He always wants to be certain.”

  “The Standards is the King’s army,” said Grae. “We do not raise arms against the nobility.” He let his gaze smolder. “Nor do we take orders from dukes.”

  The Chamberlain smiled. “Ah, so the brig has claws. A lovely show of defiance.”

  “It is not defiance,” Grae said. “I am pointing out a flaw in your plan. Neither I nor my soldiers can harm anyone from a noble family of Laraytia.”

  “I see.” The Chamberlain wrung his hands dramatically. “What a terrible stroke of misfortune. Why didn’t we think about this more carefully? Everything is ruined now. Ruined.”

  Grae felt the flush rise in his face. Mockery was a constant in his life these days.

  The Chamberlain chuckled at Grae’s expression. “I’m only having sport with you,” he said. “Tell me, brig, if a member of the Cobblethrie family ran toward King Tharandyr with a raised dagger, would you be powerless to stop him? Would the charter stop you from saving your king?”

  “Of course not,” he replied, knowing where this thread of conversation would end. “My first duty is to protect the king.”

  “Ah.” The Chamberlain held up his finger. “So the Standards must protect the king at all times. If you found a conspiracy to kill the king, would you not be obligated to stop it any way you could?”

  “There would have to be no doubt,” Grae replied. “None whatsoever.”

  “And it is you who decides whether there was doubt or not?”

  “Me, or my commanders.”

  The Chamberlain set a stack of papers on the table, nudged one of the calf-velum sheets toward Grae. One of the corners rolled upward, so the Chamberlain weighted it down with the wine bottle. The brig knew what it would say. He could see the Bull and Star of House Marlegaen stamped brazenly on the bottom. The crest of the Marquess-in-Harrynsale.

  “Agor Marlegaen is still the supreme commander of the Standards here in Nuldryn, is he not?”

  Grae forced himself to unclench his jaw. Lord Agor was the king’s man. He could order Grae to kill the Holy Receiver of Light (May the Light Always Shine Upon Her Face) if he wished and Grae would have little choice in the matter.

  “The king is in danger,” said the Chamberlain. “Agor Marlegaen has decided that there is no doubt about the threat from House Cobblethrie. He is a good friend to duke Mulbrey, Agor, and he has put you in our charge. This document states, quite emphatically, that you are to follow any order I give. Do we have your permission now? Is that enough for you?” The Chamberlain stared into Grae’s eyes until the brig turned away. “End the threat. Find the Cobblethries and confirm that they are dead.”

  “And if they are not?” asked Grae, knowing the answer, needing to hear it from him, from this man who hid in the soft folds of his chamber while soldiers died for him.

  “Don’t be coy,” replied the Chamberlain. “Do what you do best.”

  Grae finished the wine in his goblet, felt the flush of it fogging his mind. He held it out for more, but the Chamberlain corked the bottle. Grae turned his goblet upside down and set it down, the sound echoing solidly.

  “Don’t pout,” said the Chamberlain. “They are dead. We just want you to see the bodies with your own eyes.” He walked back to the wine rack and replaced the bottle.

  His voice grew warm again, his demeanor brightened. “Slay the Beast and save Laraytia. Not a bad draw of assignments, is it? And it’s not as if you won’t be rewarded.” He returned to the table and lifted another calf-velum sheet. Coiled the last loop of web around Grae Barragns. “Do you know what this is?”

  The stamp on the sheet was the Soaring Falcon of duke
Mulbrey. Grae skimmed the words and felt the beat of his heart quicken. “It is a grant. For a title.”

  “No,” said the Chamberlain. “It is refinement, Grae. It is respect. It is your future.” He downed what was left in his cup and flashed wine-reddened teeth. “Grae Barragns, Champion of Nuldryn. How does that sound? Succeed in both missions, and it is yours.”

  Grae shifted in his seat.

  Champion of Nuldryn.

  The things he could do with such a title. His sons would be princes of Laraytia. He could raise his own army of provincials. Choose his own missions. He thought of all the wrongs that the slip of parchment could right.

  Champion of Nuldryn.

  The Chamberlain gave him another sheet of parchment with a list of everyone in the caravan, and another listing the family relics and items of value to be recovered if possible. “If you can recover nothing else, get the gemstone.”

  “Gemstone?” Grae scanned the list.

  “A stone that was fitted into the head of the duke’s boy to keep him healthy. duke Mulbrey has a special interest in it.”

  Grae nodded and rolled the two parchments into tubes. He thought about the noble title again and felt guilty for the thrill of possibility. The Chamberlain was right. No one survived in that forest. The Cobblethries were dead.

  He thought again of all the good work he could do as Champion of Nuldryn. Wrongs committed against him. Against Laraytia. He thought of five thousand civilians in the towns and villages of Gracidmar, massacred under his command.

  So much to make up for.

  Champion of Nuldryn.

  Chapter 5

  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 sleep again

  -- Refrain from “The Folly of Faur.”