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

by Roberto Calas

  Meedryk scrubbed furiously at the mortar in his hands even though the hard-packed chemics had already been stripped away.

  “You know why they lie to us? You know what I think? It’s cause if someone asks us if magic is real, we’ll tell them that it is, and they’ll believe us. Because we believe it.” He leaned back on his elbows. “The best way to keep a secret is to hide it behind a lie. That’s what my father used to say.”

  Meedryk felt the sting of truth in those words, though he tried to ignore them.

  It had been four years since that day with Rudris at the creek, and he was still struggling to ignore those words. But Meedryk’s faith in Transcendence felt more like a wish than a belief these days.

  The soldiers huddled near Meedryk as they walked, trying to stay in the circle of his light. The apprentice held the lantern high and touched the haversack hanging from his shoulder. He stole a look toward the Gracidmarian archer, walking near the front of the column.

  And he made a wish.

  †††

  The squadmates tramped through the dark forest, tripping on roots and rocks, walking into spider webs and briars. They gazed with wide eyes into the darkest parts of the forest. It was one thing to be out on the open moors at night, and another thing entirely to find yourself in the dark of Maug Maurai. Sage, who had sailed the great oceans at night, observed a similar disquiet between the forest and the seas; a suffocating isolation, a sense of being impossibly far from safety, a blindness that made it seem as though death could come from any direction.

  The soldiers tensed at every distant sound. Drissdie Hannish kept his eyes wide throughout the entire march. Sage chuckled at Drissdie’s stare.

  “I don’t think he’s blinked for miles,” he whispered to Meedryk.

  Jjarnee Kruu, near the rear of the column, used a windlass to crank back the hemp cord of his three-foot crossbow as the squadmates drifted past him. When he was done, he jogged back to the squad, the plates of his armor clanking, and kept the weapon leveled as he marched.

  Grae stopped the squad at a cropping of boulders that formed a crude half circle. He set the men to work, digging shallow trenches on the open sides of the camp. He wanted the dirt from the trenches piled up behind to form a rudimentary rampart. The soldiers, weary of digging, set to work in pairs. They shared the squad’s pick to break ground and dug with iron-shoed wooden spades. They added logs and brush to the walls to give them more height, and left openings at either end of the curling ramparts, where the watchmen would post. It was grim work, made grimmer by the terrible darkness that pooled around the camp. But when they finished, the wall and the rise of massive boulders made a complete circle around them.

  Grae forced the men to drill again after the fortifications were set. Afterward, Grae ordered Hammer to assign the watches and commanded Daft Faldry and Rundle Graen to set up the officer’s canopy that Grae had acquired from Daun Kithrey.

  Sir Jastyn’s songmaiden, Maribrae, sat on a haypad and tuned her fiolys while her knight convinced Drissdie Hannish to set up his tent. Jastyn had the only other tent in the camp.

  Lord Aeren watched Maribrae over the edge of his bestiary tome as her bow dragged long, trembling notes from the instrument. After a time, he sidled over and sat by her side.

  “In Havenwood there is a species of dragon that lights itself on fire to attract its chosen mate,” he said. “There is a four-plumed bird in Quon that dances for an entire day to woo his female. And in Annecia, male wukks show their strength by toppling trees with their heads.” He inched closer. “What would it take to draw your attentions, lovely songmaiden? Shall I set myself alight? Shall I dance away the day? Show me the tree you would have me topple.”

  She smiled, still studying her fiolys. “Of you I’ve heard.” She placed the fiolys against her chin and made a test draw. “More precisely, of you and Lady Blythraeny.” She loosened one of the silver pegs. “And Lady Asramae. And Tasny Arlineous. Have I missed anyone? I know you’ve not.” She played a long down stroke on her instrument.

  “It appears I have been called out.” Lord Aeren’s smile held only a trace of humility. “I cannot be blamed. I am a victim of beauty. It takes a hold of me, renders me incapable of restraint.” He leaned forward as he spoke.

  She poked him lightly in the throat with her bow. “Best find yourself capable, or I’ll have you restrained.”

  “Lovely Maribrae, restrain me with your arms,” he didn’t put much into the effort, but pressed on.

  “The nobleman mistakes me for a doe-eyed tavern girl,” she said. “Like the mountain wolves of Doezyn, I mate for life, and already my mate is chosen. Peddle your wares elsewheres.” She played a few sad notes, frowned and tightened a string.

  “You leave me no option but to go to the Gracidmarian maid,” he said. “Do you really wish that?”

  “Ha!” she laughed. “Your waves will crash upon that fortress.”

  “You think so little of me, do you?”

  “Enough of her I’ve seen to know.”

  “You have apparently not seen enough of me, then.”

  “Too much, perchance,” she said smiling. “The redhead won’t yield. You should as soon pry open the gates of Egyn Thoel.”

  “Very well,” he said. “A wager.”

  “Would thou wager with hearts?”

  “Or parts thereabout,” he smiled. “A kiss. If I can . . . break through her fortress . . . then you will give me a kiss upon the lips.”

  “That which you ask may not be given.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “For what you ask belongs to another.”

  “Who could possibly hold such sway over you that not even here, in the heart of this black forest, could you spare one kiss?”

  Maribrae’s gaze flicked toward Sir Jastyn Whitewind. Lord Aeren followed her gaze and everything fell into place.

  Jastyn has made a blood-wife of his songmaiden.

  There were clues, so many clues he and the rest of the squadmates had missed. It seemed so obvious now.

  Jastyn caught Maribrae’s glance, noted Lord Aeren sitting beside her. The knight’s eyes flashed as he stomped toward the two of them.

  “Lord Aeren,” he called, his eyes still blazing. “A word if you would.”

  “I assure you that none is necessary, Sir Jastyn,”

  Maribrae shrugged, as if implying she had warned the young scholar. Sir Jastyn walked with Lord Aeren away from the fire. “Aeren Threncannon,” said the knight. “Are you aware that I have faced your brother four times in the tilts?”

  “That many?” asked Aeren.

  “Four times,” replied Sir Jastyn. “I unhorsed him each time. Beat him in swords twice, as well. And once with maces.”

  Lord Aeren smiled. “I do seem to recall something of the sort.”

  Sir Jastyn made a show of looking Aeren up and down. “You seem . . . quite a bit smaller than your brother.”

  “Aye, Sir Jastyn, I am,” said Lord Aeren. “But I make up for it in other ways. I learn quickly, for one.”

  Sir Jastyn smiled and thumped Lord Aeren on the back causing the noble to stumble forward. “You seem a very bright sort of fellow.”

  “Sometimes not bright enough,” said Aeren.

  Sir Jastyn put his arm around the younger lord. “I am very happy that we spoke.”

  “You really unhorsed him all four times?” asked Lord Aeren as they made their way back to camp. Sir Jastyn smiled.

  “Violently.”

  Chapter 11

  If an enemy takes your allies

  Then fight him alone

  If an enemy takes your sword

  Then fight him with fists

  If an enemy takes your shield

  Die.

  -- From “The Arms,” Book II of Lojenwyne’s Words

  Murrogar already had a fire going when Lojen sent his gaze through the gaps in the forest canopy. The old hero been up an hour earlier, chasing the fat, waddling birds in the pre-dawn dar
k and slaughtering four of them. A party that had required five boar and three stags to feed could now feast comfortably on four plump birds.

  He had slept fitfully, expecting an attack during the night. An attack that never came. It was the first night without a death. He should have been pleased, but he felt only a vague sense of dread. He ran a whetstone over the duke’s sword.

  After the meal, Murrogar got the nobles moving. It was hard work. They were in agony, every one of them with sore muscles and many with gashed, blistered feet. But Maeris was somewhere to the south and Murrogar wanted to get to Maeris more than the travelers wanted to complain.

  The duke approached. “I’d like you to speak with the others about decorum.”

  Murrogar grinned. “Decorum?”

  “Yes. The others are not addressing me as Your Grace anymore. And they are being sloppy when they eat. Wiping their hands on their clothing and such.”

  “You’re right, without question.” Murrogar laughed. “They’ll be chewing with their mouth open before long.”

  “This is a serious matter, Murrogar. Decorum must be upheld. When we get back to Lae Duerna I plan on giving a speech on this subject.”

  “Are you truly speaking to me about manners?” Murrogar asked. “Here in Maug Maurai?”

  “Decorum must be upheld,” said the duke. “It is the soul of nobility.” He leaned forward and, with a sideways glance, whispered, “I saw one of the ladies spit. Can you imagine? She spat like a sailor. No. We won’t tolerate this. We cannot. We cannot.”

  Murrogar stopped walking and stared at the duke for a long time. The man didn’t meet his gaze, only shook his head and glanced back at the others. “Decorum must be upheld, Murrogar. Without it, we are nothing but savages.”

  “Of course, m’lord,” Murrogar spoke slowly.

  “You’ll take care of it?”

  “I will,” Murrogar replied. “We’ll get those bastards in line.”

  The duke nodded and walked off after the duchess. Murrogar watched him go and exchanged a look with Thantos.

  “I think this forest has knocked a couple gems from his crown,” Thantos said.

  They followed the great stone ridge for fifty yards, the nobles without shoes stepping from stone to stone to save their bleeding feet from the twigs and burs of the forest floor. The ridge curled to the right and when the group turned the corner Murrogar stopped so quickly that Thantos, who was talking to him, spoke into mid-air for two more steps. Everyone fell silent, except for Sir Wyann, who laughed and took off his helmet.

  Yawning against the curve of the ridge was a cave. A gaping, ten-foot-high, toothless-mouth of a cave. For Wyann, no blythallow or palace had ever looked so beautiful as that crude, dark cave there in Maug Maurai.

  Murrogar looked closely. No vegetation touched the rocks. He scanned the forest. Every other inch of Maug Maurai was covered in green. But the rocks of the cave were untouched by grass or ivy. Not even the carpet moss wanted that cave.

  “Safety!” cried Sir Wyann. “We can hold off the Beast in there.” He had taken one of the birch torches they made on the hilltop two nights earlier, and he drew it out now, struck it alight while Murrogar studied the cave.

  Murrogar shook his head. “No. We keep moving.”

  The nobles hesitated, their gazes creeping toward the cave. Sir Wyann turned on Murrogar, his face creased so tightly that his eyes were nearly lost beneath the blond brows. “Are you mad?” He pointed to the cave. “That’s shelter! The first decent shelter we’ve seen.”

  “Yup,” Murrogar motioned to the nobles with his hands, ordered them to continue walking. He eyed the cave again. There were no tracks outside. No leaves disturbed.

  Sir Wyann stepped closer, grabbed Murrogar’s arm. “Why? Why?”

  Murrogar grabbed the knight by the top of his breastplate and shook hard. “Because that Beast cuts us off from every hill, ridge or hole that we’ve seen. Because it let us come here. Because that cave don’t look right. Because I don’t like it. And we’re not going in.”

  But someone had already gone in.

  A scream echoed from the cave. Murrogar tore the torch from Sir Wyann’s hand and ran toward the sound, the flames fluttering in the wind. The cavern was tall and deep and he climbed inside without a thought. But what he saw in there stopped him instantly.

  Lojen above.

  It was a scene from the vilest of nightmares. Black oozing monstrosities, veined in streaks of green and red, writhed and filled his vision. The entire cavern rippled with them, as if the cave were made from the sludge of their bodies. Some were vaguely humanoid. Some walked on two legs. Others on four, but most slid and undulated on a floor made of layers and layers of black writhing flesh. They pulled themselves along with misshapen, black appendages, their eroded faces breaking open at points to release hisses and groans that echoed like a hymn of the damned across the cavern.

  The stench almost made him gag. Foul, fecal and likely poisonous. Five feet away patches of a nobleman were just visible through a mountain of the horrible creatures. They surrounded the man from every side, reaching for his face, tendrils of them hanging from him like thick strings of tar. The nobleman tried to scream again but the oozing creatures reached for his face and his scream turned to coughs. The noble vomited but hands covered his mouth so streams of it sprayed in random directions, glistening in the torchlight. A hot spatter of it struck Murrogar’s forehead.

  And then there were cold hands and bodies closing off the world and smothering Murrogar's torch, reaching toward him with twitching, dripping limbs, curling around his legs like soft shackles. He felt more of the creatures thrusting against him, felt cold, soft, wet things pawing at his face and he found it hard to breathe. He swung his sword at them. It was like slashing at wineskins filled with thick mud. He shoved at them, sucked for breath. He called to Thantos but his cry became a wheeze as he struggled for air. Something in these abominations kept him from breathing. He could not move his legs, felt something crushing his thigh. There were too many of them. Precipitating from the ceiling onto his shoulders, his back, his head. He braced his legs against their weight. Felt other creatures pulling themselves onto him from the floor. The cave went dark as the fiends gouged at his eyes. More and more of them fell upon him from all directions. Hands tried to pull Murrogar backward out of the cave, but he was anchored by the fiends.

  The creatures in front of his face fell away and Thantos stood before him. Murrogar’s man had his back to the depths of the cave, ripping the creatures away, using fingers to pry them from his master. New monstrosities rose like tendrils of living tar to grab at Thantos. Others lurched from deep in the cave to smother him with the filth of their bodies. There was no end to the creatures.

  Murrogar tried to tell Thantos that it was no use. To escape while he could. But Thantos jammed his shield against Murrogar and shoved. Murrogar fell backward. He felt the jab of stones against his back then warm air on his neck. Shrill cries rang out, like children on fire. Murrogar could breathe again. He scoured the traces of slime from his eyes.

  He was half out of the cave. A black, melting, skeletal torso was next to him, clawing across the rocks, back toward the cave, high pitched animal cries spilling from the slit of its mouth. Smoke rising from its body. There were others. The creatures that had held Murrogar. A sludge of ghouls bubbling back to the darkness of the cave, crying out in pain as the diffuse sunlight seared their bodies.

  Sir Wyann stood dumbfounded at the cave entrance, his sword in hand. The nobles were a safe distance away, gaping in horror. Ulrean looked as if he were trying to run to Murrogar but the duchess held him tightly.

  Murrogar sat up on elbows and dragged himself completely out of the cavern. He craned his neck forward and looked inside. Thantos was there. Almost completely covered in black horrors. They ripped the shield out of his hands. Murrogar tried to stand but his legs were tangled in dying demons and he could only meet Thantos's gaze as pulsing red fingers reached into th
e man’s eyes and gouged them out, as a wave of darkness folded him backward in half, and the shattering of his spine cracked out like massive crab shells split apart. Murrogar screamed and pounded the soil and screamed again.

  Thantos was dead, and it was Wyann’s fault.

  Chapter 12

  And so be it decreed that, henceforth, death will be the penalty for ecclesiastical degradation. The bartering of authority positions among the clergy; promiscuity among the priestesses of Blythwynn; the selling of holy lands; the creation of false land deeds and grants; forcing acolytes into prostitution; buggery.

  -- Proclamation Regarding the Reformation of Blythlojean Clergy, King Berrent I

  Grae’s soldiers dropped by the fire with groans. The makeshift ramparts were only three feet high and the trenches stopped and started wherever large stones couldn’t be moved. But to soldiers, ditches and walls meant safety, no matter how slight.

  Sage relieved Drissdie of the unit’s kettle. The scout had brought a handful of seasonings: pepper and salt, galangal, a trace of zesty haera. The spices were worth more than his shortsword, but he shared them with the squad. He took possession of the antelope meat they’d received in Maeris and sliced one of the loins into cubes. He seasoned the cubes and impaled them on wooden stakes with onions, leeks and currants.

  It was a fine meal. Grae and Hammer took it in Grae’s pavilion, the rest of the squad sat in a circle around the flames and ate. Drissdie, who had never tasted pepper or haera, thanked Sage again and again.

  “Don’t accustom yourself to it,” Sage replied. “The fine meals will end quickly. Meedryk was kind enough to preserve the antelope in its soft form, but that doesn’t last more than a couple of days. After that, it gets stripped, salted and eaten dry. Which reminds me of a girl I used to know . . . ”