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

by Roberto Calas

  When he caught up to them, he led the nobles eastward for a mile, then southwest again. Back toward Kithrey and Maeris.

  “It didn’t kill no one this time,” said Thantos.

  “Anyone,” said Murrogar.

  “No one got killed.”

  “No. They’re all here,” said Murrogar.

  “It herded us away from the rocks,” said Thantos.

  “Course it didn’t. It’s an animal. It doesn’t think like that.” Murrogar tugged at his beard, his eyes not meeting Thantos’s.

  “I had a dog that could herd,” said Thantos. “Dogs are animals.”

  “It’s not herding us,” said Murrogar.

  A titanic fallen elm, thick as castle keep, had toppled in the forest. Murrogar led the travelers toward it.

  “We can dig a hole beneath that trunk,” Murrogar said to Thantos. “Dig it deep and huddle inside. Maybe the thing will be stupid enough to stick its head into the hole.”

  But the Beast was waiting on the trunk of the tree.

  Sir Wyann screamed at the creature. He dropped the visor of his bascinet and drew his sword. “I’m going to kill it,” he said. “I’ve had all I can take. I’m going to kill it.” He took a step forward and looked back at Murrogar.

  “Go ahead,” Murrogar said. “Kill it.”

  Wyann looked at the creature on the log, then back at Murrogar. “You and Thantos could help.”

  “We’re not that stupid,” Murrogar replied. “It has the high ground.”

  The travelers were already loping toward the east. There were no tears. No sobs. Not even complaints. Only a silent resignation.

  “Bo Laddy,” said Thantos when they had caught up with the nobles again.

  Murrogar shot him a quizzical look.

  “The dog that could herd,” said Thantos. “That was his name. Bo Laddy.”

  Murrogar shoved Thantos forward and growled, but the old hero knew his man was right. The creature was herding them ever eastward, ever deeper into the forest. So Murrogar decided to try something new. He turned the party northwest. Back toward the Maurian Road. He heard the cries of the Beast, short, choppy cries. Perhaps the change in direction had confused it.

  Confound the enemy always. Wound him with confusion and fear will fester in his blood. When you were dying, it was said that you heard the voices of your loved ones, but all he heard these days was Lojenwyne. He wondered if the Beast of Maug Maurai was even capable of feeling fear.

  The long journey eventually took its toll on the travelers. The Lady Genaeve Baelyn fell sobbing to the forest floor every hundred steps or so. She had to be coaxed back to her feet each time. Most of the nobles had no shoes anymore and walked on bloody feet through the forest. It was only Murrogar’s constant snapping and growling that kept them walking. But his voice was hoarse and he was tired of screaming. So, when at Maug-Maurai twilight they came upon a ridge, it was a welcome site.

  The ridge was a solid wall, gray against the darkening forest. Rocky and curling and five times the height of a man. There were crannies and crevices along its length and Murrogar found one that could curl around the entire group. He scanned for the Beast’s phosphors, knowing it would appear. But he saw nothing. He stopped and listened. Heard nothing but tired travelers. Something in his mind screamed a warning, but he ignored it. He felt the weariness in his own bones and nodded. They collapsed at the foot of the ridge, letting the line of stones serve as their fortress.

  Chapter 9

  There’s a great pale stone that stands beside the old northward road, along the south edge of Maug Maurai. A half-mile in the forest is where you’ll find it. Many say that it marks the true border of the forest. The gate of terror. Beyond it lies a kingdom of wilderness that log haulers and furriers won’t dare to enter. The old pale stone marks the place where groups of youngsters, entering Maug Maurai on dares, stop laughing and return quietly to their homes.

  -- From “The Andraen Forest,” by Dallyn Salthis

  Grae spoke to Hammer in hushed, angry tones. Sir Jastyn had wandered away, as if he were on a forest jaunt. Worse, he had disobeyed Hammer.

  “But what can you do, Grae?” Hammer asked.

  “Nothing. There is nothing I can do. And he knows it. He’s mocking me. He’s making a mockery of the entire . . . ”

  Grae broke off as Sage and Lokk returned.

  “Anything?” he asked, a scowl lingering from the previous conversation.

  “Quite a bit,” Sage replied. “They definitely entered the forest in a hurry.”

  Grae smelled alcohol on the scout’s breath. Strong alcohol. “Can you track them?”

  “I think even Shanks could track them. They weren’t exactly taking care to hide their passage. We found some other tracks as well. Beast tracks.”

  “Excellent. Hammer, gather the squad.”

  “Sir,” Sage interrupted. “There are a few sleepers in there.”

  Grae looked past Sage’s shoulder, as if he might see the bodies from where he stood. “How many?”

  “A soldier, a knight and a woman,” said Sage. “Woman was lady retainer I think.”

  “Lojen’s bones,” said Hammer. “What in Mundaaith’s Bollocks were them janes doing when they came in for the bodies?”

  “Getting away from here as fast as they could,” said Sage.

  Grae nodded. “Hammer, gather the men. Let’s send those two warriors off properly.”

  “Aye sir,” replied Hammer. “Lojen’s waited on ‘em long enough.”

  Sage cleared his throat. “Ah, there’s something else out there too.” He glanced at Lokk Lurius, then back at Grae. “Something . . . out of the ordinary.”

  †††

  Perhaps it had been a deer once. It possessed what, with a little imagination, might have been a tail once. And hooves. But the skin had shriveled back from a skull that was stripped and mangled and sucked dry. The dead jaws were fused open cavernously, the joints torn out of hinge. The animal’s dried fur was white, almost translucent, and flaky as ancient parchment. There were no entrails. Nothing soft remained except skin, and stains on the forest holly that lay beneath. The creature was little more than withered, deer-shaped detritus, its skeletal limbs curled into positions that implied agony in death. Daft Faldry scratched another notch into his shield. One more bad omen.

  “Fulgris Immortal.” Hammer’s face was crags and riverbeds as he studied the doe. Grae called Lord Aeren forward. The scholar knelt beside the remains and held his nose, anticipating foul odors, but realized halfway down that anything capable of creating odor was missing from the heap before him.

  “Seems completely desiccated,” he said, poking at it with a stick.

  “Yes,” said Grae. He looked to hammer and raised one eyebrow. Hammer nodded

  “Dessi . . . desicuted?” asked Hammer.

  “Desiccated,” said the young lord. “It means completely dried out. Every drop of fluid has been removed.”

  “The Beast?” asked Grae.

  Lord Aeren moved the bones with the stick and studied the remains closely. “No,” he said. “This is a deer, Brig Barragns. The Beast is much bigger.” Grae opened his mouth to reply, then shut it and shook his head at the scholar.

  Lord Aeren smiled wryly. “I don’t believe the Beast did this.”

  “Then what did?”

  Aeren stood and brushed his hands against one another. He turned to Grae and shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest notion.”

  †††

  The men placed the final stones on the cairns they had built for the two fallen warriors and the lady retainer. There were three mounds. The first was for the dead knight they had found. Maribrae had identified him by his shield. He was Sir Gorin of Creshalla, one of the duke Orien’s men. The second mound was for the unknown crossbowman. And the third for the lady retainer. Grae scratched all three off the list that the Chamberlain had given him. Even if all the Cobblethries were dead he doubted they would find the bodies of everyone on the li
st. Much could happen to bodies lying in any forest, let alone in Maug Maurai.

  Outside the forest, Grae guessed that Lojen’s Eye was half a bell from the horizon. But the forest kept its own time. Night had fallen in Maug Maurai.

  The soldiers fetched belt lanterns, adjusted wicks and lit them, hung the lanterns at their waists.

  Aramaesia, walked toward one of the burial plots. In her outstretched hand she held a copper amulet. Three curving lines, each like a flattened S, were set into it, the center line longer than the flanking ones. Her lips moved rhythmically, the sense of a chant to them.

  Beldrun Shanks stepped in front of her and she almost ran into him.

  “Get gone, grack whore,” he said.

  Aramaesia started. She opened her mouth halfway before she realized that she had no words. She looked to Grae but he was huddled in the distance with Sage and Hammer, deep in conversation. Rundle Graen stepped forward, standing at Shanks’s side and holding his sallet helm. An image of Lojen’s Eye was enameled onto the entire surface of the helmet, in yellows and oranges.

  “These men died Laraytian warriors,” said Rundle. “They’ll go to Lojenwyne.” The Eridian mercenary, Lokk Lurius, drifted toward them and watched from a short distance away.

  “It is but a blessing,” said Aramaesia. “I do not claim their souls or send them anywhere else. It is a service.”

  “How ‘bout you send yourself somewhere else?” said Shanks. He smiled and touched her chin with two filthy fingers. “Or maybe you’d like to do us a service.”

  She recoiled from his touch, her eyes narrowed. Shanks took a half-step toward her. She sputtered, took a back step, sputtered again, then stormed away. Shanks nudged Rundle and chuckled, then smiled broadly at Lokk Lurius.

  “If you smile at me again,” said Lokk, his voice thick with the accent of Eridia. “They will be digging one of those for you.” The mercenary nodded toward the cairns and gave Shanks a long look before walking off.

  †††

  The soldiers sent wary glances into the darkness of the forest then took their places in a half-circle around the burial mounds. The grimy, damp stones glistened in the lantern light. Burning fish oil scented the air. Each soldier cast his gaze downward and gripped the shoulder of the man to his left. Grae began the chant and the rest of the men joined in.

  “Rest now, guardians of Laraytia. Though you have fallen, you will rise in Eleyria, to defend the halls of Lojenwyne and the lands of Laraytia. Look upon us from the heavens and give strength to our shields. Join us on the stage of war and give strength to our hearts.”

  They ended the ritual with a long span of silence.

  “Brig, sir,” said Lord Aeren. “Is there nothing we can say for the woman buried there? It seems a discredit to leave her without mention.”

  Grae studied the mound. “Songmaiden,” he called. “Is there something you can say for her?”

  “Yes, Mari,” said Sir Jastyn. “A song of mourning, perhaps?”

  Maribrae cleared her throat delicately. She dismissed the normal funeral dirges, and the lament that she’d sung at her mother’s burial. Chose instead a song about the Faur Folly, Laraytia’s greatest military tragedy. Maribrae’s mother, also a songmaiden, had died at Faur with her knight.

  The first note cut through the twilight, a high alto, childlike and strong.

  The night before my love was called

  Was called upon to war

  A feast of love I offered him

  To ease him off to Faur

  The morning next, Black Dragons came

  And took my love away

  Away to Faur, away too far

  They led my love astray

  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

  Chapter 10

  Anris the Tolerant was the weakest of the three kings of what would become the empire of Galadance. His kingdom of Noxley had less than three thousand men to defend its borders from the forces of Embrya and Waryn. But Anris made a wish upon a flint thrown into Effley Lake. Blythwynn arose from the ripples and granted his wish. She appeared to him on the fourteenth day of Alveria, the day we now celebrate as Promulgation, and told him he would unite the three kingdoms under one banner.

  -- from “The History of Galadance” by His Lordship, Terrent Hallsey

  Meedryk Bodlyn, the squad’s apprentice mage, unhooked a ponderous lantern from the frame of his pack. The forest was dark and the soldiers complained that their belt lamps gave too little light. Meedryk’s lantern was a clumsy, frail looking thing, bulky and plated with crude glass.

  “Your nan give you that?” asked Shanks.

  Meedryk kept his eyes on the lantern, opened the hinged compartment that gave access to the wick. Shanks kicked at the magician’s heel as he walked and Meedryk stumbled, nearly dropping the lantern.

  Shanks laughed and rapped the rippled glass with his knuckles. “Somewhere in Kithrey there’s a lamp post with no head.”

  Meedryk clutched the lantern to his chest and seemed to collapse into himself as he walked. Shanks grabbed hold of the oversized pack that Meedryk wore and pulled him backward.

  “Leave him alone Shanks,” said Sage.

  “You defending your maiden’s honor?” Shanks puckered his lips and made kissing sounds.

  Hammer looked back through the trees at them. “Keep your hands off his pack, Shanks. Unless you want to carry it for him.”

  “I was just checking it were secure, Hammer,” said Shanks. The big man shook the pack vigorously. Meedryk nearly toppled over, and had to clutch the lantern tightly to keep from dropping it.

  “You gone deaf?” Hammer strode back and cracked Shanks’s arse with a branch that served as a walking stick. The wood clattered off the mail harmlessly but it was enough. Shanks let go of the pack and stomped toward the head of the column, but he shoved Meedryk sideways as he passed and this time the magician did fall. He went down in a clatterous heap as Shanks chuckled.

  Sage helped Meedryk to his feet. “Don’t pay him attention. He’s terrified of you.”

  “Terrified of me?” asked Meedryk. “I . . . I don’t think so.”

  “Shanks has always been afraid of magicians. Since we were kids. Just cast a spell near him next time. Give him a scare. He won’t bother you again.” Sage drew his flask and drank deeply.

  Meedryk watched Shanks for a time, then slipped his hand inside the lantern casing. He made a flourish over the wick and spoke words: “Suhira suenath.”

  A sudden flash brought daylight in a small circle around Meedryk, doubling the dark trees with shadows before the light faded. But a flame remained on the lantern’s wick and a new, softer glow lit their path.

  Jjarnee Kruu and Drissdie Hannish stared back at Meedryk with a combination of awe and fear. Shanks, up near the front of the column, also stared, and licked at his lips. He laughed, but it was a short bark of a laugh. “That’s child magic,” he said. “Barely even magic at all.”

  “Maybe magician grant us wishes,” said Jjarnee with a wistful smile.

  “Can you wish us out of this forest, Meedryk?” Sage asked with a grin.

  Meedryk’s gaze dropped to the forest floor.

  “I’m not having fun at you,” said Sage. “I’m impressed. I find sorcery fascinating.”

  Meedryk shook his head. “It’s nothing really. Shanks is right. It’s just child magic.”

  And it was.

  A little dryflan powder on the wick, a sprinkle of eliciam oil from his fingers. To the soldiers, it was sorcery. But to Meedryk, it was a ruse. A childish trick.

  He had grown up reading books about real wizards. About magic. True magic. Not this second-rate alchemy. His childhood was spent play
ing mage and wishing for magic. Dreaming of the powers he would wield one day. When he began his apprenticeship he did so with the notion he would discover the secrets of sorcery. Secrets that allowed the magicians of old to fly. The ancient magics that enabled men to move objects with their minds, or destroy mountains with a wave of the hand. Transcendent magic. That’s what the masters called it.

  But not everyone believed in Transcendence.

  Rudris Howett was a fellow apprentice. He and Meedryk had been Orphists, first year apprentices, both learning under the same master. It was Rudris Howett who taught him about the darker side of magery. Meedryk wished he had never met him.

  “We ain’t magicians,” Rudris had muttered. “We’re showmen. Magic ain’t real.”

  “Transcendent magic is real,” Meedryk argued.

  “There ain’t no such thing as Transcendent magic. It’s a lie. We’ve all been gamed.”

  Meedryk didn’t argue. The two of them had been scrubbing out ceramic mortars at a creek and Rudris stopped scrubbing while he spoke. “Mages want everyone to think what they do ain’t natural. That it’s mysterious. But it ain’t. It’s just mixing chemics. Add dryflan to eliciam in the right proportion and you make flame. Emulsion and pumor soften stone. Vig, gellid and effluvient heal wounds. You know ‘em better than I do with all your reading. It’s mechanical. There ain’t no mystery.”

  Meedryk wished that Rudris would stop talking. The walls of disappointment rose around him, but Rudris Howett wouldn’t stop. “If everyone knew what magic really was, then everyone would want to learn it. You want Tiena the scullery maid trying to incinerate something? You think everyone would memorize the proportions like we do? Or add pigments to the chemics to tell them apart? You think they’d be as careful as we are? Half Laraytia would burn. So the mages tell the world that chemics are just a supplement to the magic.” Rudris leaned back and stared at the mortar in his hands. “They tell us that some day, if we work hard, we can learn to do it without the chemics. That we can learn Transcendence. But it ain’t the truth. It’s a ruse.”