Folk song about the military disaster at Faur, Lae Duerna
“It was moving when it fell.” The squad had found the site of the attack. Sage, the group’s scout, walked forward on his haunches and passed a hand over the mud. There was no mistaking the spot where the carriage went down. Terrible gouges had been rent in the soft earth, ripping out the low growth. “Those daisies made a fine mess of the tracks getting that carriage out.” He turned toward the west and walked to the edge of the road, his eyes on the ground. “Lots of people moved into the forest this way. Some weren’t wearing shoes.” He shrugged. “That’s about all I can tell from this mess."
Beldrun Shanks, released from a dungeon to join the squad, clapped slowly. “That’s a fine bit of scouting. Drissdie Hannish could ‘ave told us the same thing.”
“If you get lost in the forest,” Sage replied, “I’ll be sure to send Drissdie Hannish to find you.”
“Eight bodies were found here on the road,” said Grae. “Another was found mangled in the main carriage, and one more body was in the shallow forest. By my list, that leaves forty five people.” He walked to the edge of the forest. “Forty five people disappeared into that forest. Alive or dead, they are in there somewhere.”
“Maybe beast eat the rest.” The Hrethriman, Jjarnee Kruu, flexed his hands on the stock of his largest crossbow as he spoke.
“The Beast doesn’t eat those it kills,” said Lord Aeren. “The bodies of the few victims found over the years show no signs of being fed upon.”
“What sort of Beast does not eat what it kills?” asked their new archer. She stared into the forest warily.
“Man, for one,” said Sir Jastyn. “We kill thousands every year on the Front, with no thought of food.” The soldiers sent narrowed glances his way.
“You have something to say about soldiers, Sir Jastyn?” asked Beldrun Shanks.
“Settle down, Shanks,” said Hammer.
“I’m just asking, Hammer,” said Shanks. He took a step toward the knight. “You saying we’re a mob of beasts? That we’re savage?” He smiled broadly but there was nothing friendly about his posture.
Grae allowed himself the momentary image of Beldrun Shanks pounding Sir Jastyn into mush. The Whitewind knight had forced his way onto the expedition and put himself beyond Grae’s orders. But if Shanks touched the knight it would be a death sentence for the big man. Grae looked to Hammer.
“Shanks, stand down or I’ll put you down,” shouted Hammer.
Sir Jastyn raised his hands, palm outward. “No offense meant soldier. I was making . . . this was more about the . . . ”
Maribrae tapped Shanks on the shoulder. “Start a brawl with Sir Jastyn and you will reap two-fold losses.”
“This ain’t about you, pixie dust,” said Shanks. “Pluck some daisies and leave this to the men.”
Sir Jastyn pulled Maribrae gently behind him. “This is just a misunderstanding, Maribrae.”
“Two-fold losses,” she repeated. “You will corroborate the point you believe Sir Jastyn was making. And you will divest your consciousness. Two-fold losses.”
Shanks finally looked away from Jastyn and blinked at the songmaiden. “What?”
“She said he’d thump you,” said the bearded Lojanite, Rundle Graen.
“Can we please slow this down?” said Sir Jastyn. “No one is going to thump anyone.”
Hammer stepped between the knight and Shanks. “Step back, Shanks. Take five steps back, right this moment. Right. This. Moment!”
Shanks looked once more at Sir Jastyn. “You think your shiny tournaments teach you how to kill? I’ve been on the front. That’s where you learn to kill. I’ve killed a dozen knights. You remember that.” He backed away and bowed with a flourish and a smirk. “M’lord.”
“Point corroborated,” Maribrae chirped.
“You’re insulting me, ain’t you?” Shanks shouted.
Hammer grabbed hold of Shanks’s tabard, but Aramaesia cleared her throat and spoke: “Why would this Beast not kill its prey?”
“Because the Beast has nothing but evil at its core,” said Sage. “They say it doesn’t kill quickly. That it strikes in the most painful places, deals wounds that it knows will kill its prey slowly.”
Drissdie squeaked. He looked on the precipice of tears.
“Clamp your pipes, scout,” said Hammer.
“Apologies, Hammer,” Sage replied. “Just stories. It is an animal. Nothing more.”
“Sage,” said Grae, “take Lokk Lurius into the forest, not too deep. Have a look and see if you can find any tracks. The rest of you, I want this road scoured for any trace of the Cobblethries.”
They split up, eyes scanning the shrubs and ferns on the road. Drissdie Hannish spotted something shiny in the high grass. A muddy coin with a hole at one end. He picked it up before anyone else could claim it, studied it surreptitiously, and tucked it into a pouch at his waist.
Sir Jastyn whispered something to Maribrae and the two of them walked toward the eastern edge of the road, then began climbing a steep bank into the forest.
“M’lord,” called Hammer. “Apologies, but it ain’t safe to go off the road. The brig would prefer if you stayed down ‘ere.”
“No apologies needed, Hammer,” said Sir Jastyn. “We’ll head down presently. We’re just taking some food. Famished, really.”
“With respects, sir,” said Hammer, “It’s best if we stay together.”
“Of course,” said Sir Jastyn. “Very wise. But I hardly think a few minutes will imperil us, do you, Hammer?”
Hammer watched them go, bowed with a flourish and spit. “M’lord.”
†††
Sage and Lokk shuffled sideways off the road. There was an incline and the slick grass made the going treacherous. After a few sliding steps the scout knelt and shifted some hawthorn with his hand. “One of the bodies was found here,” he said. He dug at something with his hands and uncovered a crossbow bolt. He held it up and spoke wryly. “Three ales if you guess what type of soldier it was.”
“Probably a scout,” Lokk replied. “They’re usually the first to die.” He looked from the bolt, to Sage, who chuckled.
The scout drew a flask from his belt and swigged deeply. He hissed at the taste of the wood alcohol and wiped his mouth with his tabard. “You don’t strike me as someone who has a lot of friends,” said Sage.
“Not a one,” Lokk said. “Not a living one, anyway.”
“That’s not entirely true,” said Sage.
Lokk studied him warily.
Sage extended a hand. “Mollingsley Tharke. Very much alive.”
Lokk Lurius shook the extended hand hard enough to bring tears to Sage’s eyes. The Eridian shrugged. “For now.”
Sage laughed. “I knew a soldier who used to say goodbye to his friends before every battle, in case they died. Just before the action started, he would look at me and say, ‘Goodbye, Sage.’ It was quite unsettling.”
“Sounds like a fool.”
“Yes,” Sage handed Lokk the flask. “You remind me of him.”
Lokk gave a short laugh and sniffed. “Wood alcohol?” The Eridian took a draw from it and handed it back. “Peasant drink.”
“I suppose so, but I like to think that this particular batch was made from royal oak.” He grinned, drank from the flask and capped it, then noticed a glint a dozen yards farther into the forest. He walked toward it, using his hands to keep the wet branches from his face. But on his way to investigate the glitter, he found something in the mud; crushed vegetation and a deep imprint. There were more imprints farther in. Many of them. Large and ominous and unmistakable. He pointed them out for Lokk Lurius.
“Our beast has six legs,” said Sage.
Lokk studied the prints as well. He placed his hand in one of the impressions. The footprint was almost three times as large. Sage caught the flash again not far ahead. He spotted the source of the reflection and sighed.
Chapter 6
I seen Blac
k Murrogar wield a mace in battle once. He struck a man a sundering blow! So powerful that the man’s brother, three ranks away, he died as well.
-- Trudge Orton Panak, Griffon Company
The night run became a flash of sounds and images for Murrogar. Whooping shrieks. Seething eyes of green. Nobles screaming and falling. He ran behind the duke, the duchess and Ulrean, keeping them in sight always, and ignored the others. The royal family was the priority now. Murrogar would keep them alive until the last possible instant – until the green-eyed horde overtook him and finished this pointless flight through Maug Maurai.
The darkness hid all clues as to the identity of the hunters. They were a curtain of beaded emeralds glittering in the trees, a swarm of green, hooting locusts drawing near.
Murrogar heard them snarling and crushing leaves behind him. Heard the cries of nobles and the sounds of feeding. The duchess tripped and fell to the ground with a scream. Murrogar shoved Ulrean and the duke forward, helped the woman to her feet. He thought of running with her again but the green death was almost upon them. His death. Their death. He would die never knowing what it was that killed him. Just silhouettes that glared with simmering green eyes. He shoved the duchess behind him, drew the duke’s sword, and waited for death.
But the green avalanche slowed, then stopped. It was like the sudden end of a downpour. The hooting, the crashing feet, the snarls, all of it faded to nothing. Hundreds of green eyes stared at him like so many malevolent fireflies, like will-o-wisps, like a demon army called to halt.
Murrogar counted four heartbeats – his sword drawn, the duchess clinging to his waist – then the green eyes faded. Whatever they were, they simply turned and walked back into the forest.
“What . . . what happened?” Thick tears streamed down the duchess’s jawline as she spoke, still holding Murrogar tightly. “Why did they leave?”
Murrogar made sure the retreat was not a feint, then shrugged. “They must have realized it was me.”
The duchess stared at him and he saw the confusion in her eyes. He flexed for her and gave a growl. She smiled in spite of her tears, wiped at her eyes. “You’re mad, Black Murrogar, do you know that?”
She burst into tears again and Murrogar let her bury her head in his chest.
Chapter 7
The Soldier’s Farewell is the most sacred of observations in the Laraytian military. Every soldier, no matter his standing, takes part. It transcends grudges, arguments, vendettas and differences of philosophy. Janissaries, Standards, garrisoners, porters, cellguards; they form a brotherhood that rises above philosophy, upbringing, duchy, morals or personal opinion. The soldiers honor this brotherhood because without it many would have no families at all. And because every soldier knows that they too, one day, must leave.
-- from, “A Modest History of West Nuldryn,” by Yurik Bodlyn, Historian and Scribe
A stately cedar rose majestically from a hilltop, just east of the Maurian Road. Enormous, moss-gowned boughs sprouted from the thick trunk and kept the rain off a circle of heather below. It was a hidden-nook of a clearing that beckoned to the poetry in the songmaiden, Maribrae. Just the place to spread a blanket and enjoy Daun Sanctra’s honey biscuits and a hunk of Thournish cheese. Sir Jastyn set them out and loosed a drinking horn from his shoulder.
“The biscuits taste better just out of the oven,” he said, “but it could be worse. It’s the best we can do outside the castle, I suppose.” He took another bite and gazed at his songmaiden. She sat quietly, staring at the grass. “Silence from my songmaiden? A voice like yours must be heard often in this world. Surely you will be Lojenwyne’s songmaiden in Eleyria. Your songs will be the inspiration for endless victories against the Mundels.”
Maribrae smiled, but it was a brief thing. Jastyn stroked her hand.
“I love you, Mari” he said. “More than anything in Celusia.”
“And I love you,” she replied, “more than that.”
He kissed her lips and when he pulled back her gaze fell to the heather.
“I fear this to be one of our last meals together,” she said. “I try to draw my thoughts away from lowly speculation, but the fear drags me downward. These past days my chin has been kept skyward by will and want alone, the great lie kept at bay. But this quest has started in earnest. So the end is near, in truth.”
“Mari,” he said to her. “We are in very good hands. Brig Barragns is a famous officer. No harm will come to us. We will have glory! We will have a grand tale. We shall lose ourselves, for a time, in the adventure of Maug Maurai.”
“We shall lose ourselves in Maug Maurai,” she repeated slowly. She raised her eyes to his. “Jastyn. Is there love for me in your heart? Love true and wild and unquenchable?”
“Boundless and eternal.”
“Then find me, Jastyn Whitewind.” She pointed skyward. “There, in the stars I live. If ever you wish to find me, seek me there.”
“Sometimes you are truly a mystery, my golden butterfly,” he chuckled.
Maribrae sighed and leaned back against the cedar.
“We will be safe on this journey, my love,” Jastyn said. “I do not lie when I say that.”
“Death is not my fear,” She gazed mournfully to the side, drew a string of grapes from a pouch. “If I were a woman of less optimism, I might welcome it.” She lifted one of the grapes to her lips, stared at it, then sighed and tossed it into the forest. “You know where my meaning lies. You know what lies I mean. Terrible Winter approaches, my love.”
Jastyn rubbed at the corner of his eye. Terrible Winter. Trissis Wyldfourge. The woman who would marry him in three months’ time. A real marriage. Sanctified by Blythwynn, scrawled into the heraldic ledgers, memorized by songmasters throughout the kingdom. Maribrae herself would be forced to scribe it into the journals of Daun Sanctra.
He took her left hand and lifted it to his lips. Kissed the palm where a gnarled scar ran its length, then raised his own hand, his right. A similar scar ran the length of it. He placed this scar against the one on her hand and wove his fingers into hers.
“Is our marriage a lie then? Do you think so little of your husband? Do you believe I spoke those words without conviction?”
“Guardian of my heart,” she replied, “Our marriage is of blood and shadow. A secret that lacks the weight of moon and crown. The Tragic Wound will claim a true marriage and ours will become the lie.” She stroked his palm. “She will know whence came the scar you bear and will shackle you to her side. She will imprison you and never shall we steal another moment alone.”
“I am master, Mari. She must do as I command.” He set the cheese down and drank from the wineskin. “At any rate, it is likely that she is as angry about this marriage as I am. Perhaps she will welcome our arrangement.”
Maribrae hated tears. In her years as a songmaiden she had battled for respect among her male counterparts, the songmasters. She had memorized every crest, every family member and every castle of the Laryatian nobility. She knew nearly all the songs penned by the relevant songwriters of the realm, and had written a handful of important works herself. She traveled where she willed, never allowing her gender to keep her from places where the best stories lived. She did everything she could to banish weakness that could be seen as inferiority. But tears . . . tears damaged her argument. Tears separated her from her male peers, tore down the illusion that she was no different, and so she hated them, the salty traitors. She looked into his eyes and one of the watery turncoats escaped, fled down her face.
“My dearest love,” she said, and she stroked his face. “Can the doe slay her hunter? Does the trout snare its net? She, That Woman, could never welcome our arrangement. She will gaze into those crystal blue lakes beneath your brows and fall like a stalk in harvest. She will sacrifice her life, her loves, her dreams, for each fleeting moment she can spend in your presence.” She rubbed the rogue tear away with the palm of her left hand. “Like I have. Like always I will.”
Chapter 8
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The Beast possesses the speed of gods. Its movements are like fish in the sea.
Like sparrow flocks changing direction in flight.
-- Yarin Halcome. Bell Founder. Survivor
Murrogar and the duchess cupped hands to mouths and shouted for the other travelers. They shouted until everyone that was going to find them did. The countess of Daendrys did not find them. Nor did the brother of Peryn the Swordsman. Four travelers slaughtered in a quarter bell. Two on the hilltop cairn and two in the blind flight from the mob of green-eyed death.
The travelers clustered in silence, except for the count of Daendrys, who walked in wide circles calling for his wife. Most of the men and women were slumped against the base of a gnarled oak. Of the fifty-four travelers in the caravan that had left Lae Duerna, only eight were left. Murrogar lit a fire with a flint and Sir Wyann’s dagger. There was no sense hiding their presence. Best they die warm.
He stayed up as long as he could then woke Thantos and slept deeply.
He awakened in a foul mood as the first shafts of Lojen’s Gaze pierced the canopy, and he kicked at the travelers until they rose. He ignored the tears and the complaints, set off toward the southwest, back in the direction of Kithrey and Daun Sanctra. The Beast cried out as soon as the group started moving, just once, low and distant.
Two hours into their march Murrogar spotted a pile of colossal stones in the misty distance.
“We’ll fortify that outcrop,” he said. “If we can move some of those smaller stones we can make a stone shelter. Leave one side open. If the Beast wants us, it’ll have to stick its head in. And we can all say good morning with steel.”
But as they moved closer to the stones a familiar shape climbed from behind the formation onto the tallest boulder. It didn’t even have to howl. The green fires that speckled the Beast burned through the morning mist and sent the nobles running back toward the north. Murrogar sighed and ran after them.
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part Two: Feeding the Gods Page 3