A tiny head poked through the leaves. Then a fat little body. Soldiers grunted and sighed, swords were sheathed. More of the tiny creatures pushed through the hedges and waddled carelessly along the forest floor.
“Birds,” said Shanks. “Stupid little birds.”
They were plump, like chickens, but resembled pheasants in coloring. The birds didn’t fly. In fact, they were slow and graceless, and had no fear of the humans.
“Jurren birds,” said Aeren. He stopped and sketched them into his journal with a splinter of charcoal. “They are rare in Laraytia, these creatures.”
Rundle Graen killed a few and had Meedryk preserve them for the evening’s meal. Shanks killed half a dozen simply because they were easy to kill, and because it amused him. He lopped them in half with his axe, or hurled stones at them, or grabbed them by their feet and smashed them into the trees until Hammer threw one of the dead birds at him and shouted at him to stop.
Daft Dathnien adopted one of the hapless birds. He placed it in the crook between the wooden poles that framed his pack. The bird did not protest. It remained there on Daft’s back, cocking its neck from side to side and staring stupidly. Dathnien named it Bucket.
In the early afternoon Sage found traces of the Cobblethrie family’s passage. Distressed vegetation and tracks in the soft soil. It was the first sign of the travelers since the darkness of the night before.
He led the squad northward with renewed vigor, and as they walked, they found objects on the ground, things that had been dropped by the Cobblethrie party. The first was an empty drinking horn. Fifty yards farther they found a spear. And as they neared the river, the items became more numerous: cloaks bearing the Cobblethrie Sun and Hammer, an empty pack, three breastplates and sets of greaves, several empty leather pouches, a baldric, two more spears.
The first faint gurgle of the river reached their ears and a moment later the squad halted abruptly. Rundle Graen spat. A round steel shield lay on the forest floor. The Cobblethrie’s Sun and Hammer sigil was enameled onto its surface, although the paint was chipping in spots. No one made any move toward it.
Aramaesia leaned toward Sir Jastyn. “What is wrong?” she whispered.
“The shield,” said Sir Jastyn. “Laraytians do not drop their shields. Whoever let that go was either dead or a coward.”
The soldiers would not touch the shield. They left it there on the forest floor, to be consumed by rust and carpet moss.
Sage called a halt a few paces farther and the squad gathered around him. Maribrae gasped. The rest of the squad stared silently. It was another of the desiccated creatures. But this was no deer. It lay face up on the forest floor, dead sockets staring out from what once was a human face.
The clothes were faded and stained. A crimson shawl had been ripped apart, as had the robe underneath it. What skin was left on the body was dried and flaking and white.
Daft Dathnien worked another notch into his shield.
“It was an old woman,” said Sage. He uncapped his flask, filling the air with the powerful scent of wood alcohol, and drank.
“’ow can you tell what that used to be?” Hammer rubbed at his beard.
“Look at her teeth,” the scout replied, wincing at the strength of the wood alcohol. “And the clothing. This wasn’t a lady of court. This was an old servant.”
Grae ran down the names on the Chamberlain’s list. The duke’s son had a manae. The only person who might be an old woman. He scratched her off with a wrapped charcoal rod and they left the old woman’s body where it lay. No one spoke about burying the dried wreck.
After another mile, the earth rolled downward abruptly, six feet to the riverbed where giant oaks and fueryks snaked their roots down the bank to sip from the waters. Piles of clothing lay scattered along the riverbank. Skirts and dresses, vests and doublets. All manner of elegant travel garb. Maribrae ran from dress to dress, sighing and holding them up for Aramaesia to see. Most were filthy and torn, but still possessed a specter of their beauty.
There were tracks upon muddy tracks around the riverbank, as if the Cobblethries had lingered here. Mixed among them were the unmistakable prints of the Beast.
“The tracks are about two days old, I think,” said Sage. “They split into two parties. Or they got attacked and only some of them got away, into the river. It is hard to tell. The ones who went into the river took part of that tree with them.” He pointed to the scarred soil where a log had been dragged into the river. “I think they were trying to circle back to the road.”
Grae nodded. “A clever plan.”
“Not clever enough,” said Sage. “Or they would have made it out.”
The Cobblethries were dead. They had to be. Their bodies were scattered somewhere in the forest.
Feeding the Gods.
It was Daft Dathnien’s belief that the purpose of life was to feed the gods. That humans were machines that converted meat into something edible for the Gods. That they were all simply stoves used by the immortals to prepare meals. Maybe Dathnien was right. Maybe it didn’t matter what humans did to one another on Celusia, as long as the Gods ate well.
We are the mortar. We are the pestle.
The squad travelled eastward for three miles until they reached the Maurian Road again. The Typtaenai narrowed and flowed swiftly under a sparse wooden bridge here.
“Grae!” Sage waded a few yards into the river, just under the bridge. He pointed to something that hung down from the bottom planks. Grae and the rest of the squadmates walked to the river’s edge.
“Must have been short of nails when they built this one,” said Sage.
A sword of blackened steel was buried between two of the wooden slats. Grae rubbed his cheek and frowned as he tried to imagine how Black Murrogar’s blade could have ended up in a bridge. He looked to Sage, but the scout shrugged. There was only one thing they were both certain of; they were closing in on the Cobblethries. There might be nothing left of the noble party, but they were getting closer.
Chapter 15
Soldiers are as mysterious as they are simple. Simple in that they always do what they are asked. Mysterious in that they are strong, yet rely on others to tell them what to do. Simple in that they focus upon brutality and conquest and not much else. Mysterious in that they sprint into battle, shattering their bodies upon forests of spears and pikes and swords without a thought.
-- Mulbrey Arlineous, duke of Nuldryn
Sage led the squad nearly two miles east, to a long, stony ridge. A good, defensible ridge. Grae studied the crooks and niches as they walked past. They came to a sharp bend in the ridge and there, yawning between earth and stone like the open mouth of a sinking giant, was a cave. It was enormous and entirely clear of vegetation and Grae didn’t like the look of it.
“Why isn’t there any moss on it?” he asked. “Why aren’t there any weeds or brush?”
Sage shrugged. “I don’t think anyone is pruning, if that’s what you mean.”
“No tracks around here?”
“There are tracks. Lots of ‘em. The Cobblethries were here. I think a few of them went in.”
Grae walked toward the cave entrance. “So why aren’t they in there right now?”
“Caves are so drafty and dark,” Sage replied. Grae gave him a look and the scout snapped, “How should I know?”
Grae stopped five feet from the entrance. He cupped his hands around his face and shouted into the cave. “Hellooooooo.” There was no response. Grae hated the cave. Hated everything about it. There was a terrible stench of death. Of rot. He drew his sword, hearing the echo of the blade’s hiss in the cave. The timing of the echo was off. He sheathed the sword then drew it again. No echo. Something rustled in the cave. “Apprentice, I need some light.”
Meedryk’s lantern roared to life with a gesture and a word. The craggy ceiling rose five feet over Grae’s head and he estimated that three men could enter without touching shoulders. The cave extended into the ridge, narrowing and angling
back past the limits of Meedryk’s lantern.
Clinging to every inch of the floor and walls was a lumpy black substance that glistened in the light. Ten feet into the cave, half submerged in this black substance, lay a heater shield with a black dragon emblazoned on the front. Grae stared at it until he felt the other soldiers shuffle up beside him. A crow calling far overhead broke their silence.
Hammer whispered: “Were there Standards in the Cobblethrie party?”
“One that I know of,” said Grae. He heard the scratch of Daft’s dagger behind him.
Hammer removed his helmet slowly, held it in two hands. “Black Murrogar.”
Grae studied the shield, then shook his head. “Murrogar left the Standards as an officer.”
The soldiers moved in closer. “It’s a standard-Standard,” said Hammer. He cracked a smile and donned the wide-brimmed kettle helm again, turned to the other soldiers. “It ain’t Murrogar’s. It’s an earth rank shield.”
Grae thought about the list of the Cobblethrie party. Murrogar had three retainers with him. His own men. Most likely the shield belonged to one of them.
He took a step into the cave. “Meedryk, stay with me. I need the—”
And the past rose up before Grae Barragns.
A welling of countless black souls. They lurched toward him. Some crawled, some slid, some dropped from the ceiling onto him. The tarred, glistening remnants of his sins. The souls of Cydoen and Thaulot, of Vantreu and that village whose name he could never remember. They rose like dark specters, the tortured souls of those he had massacred. Black and mournful, hissing with hatred, moaning with wounds he and his men had given them. They were hideous and rotting and he had made them so. He imagined Aramaesia’s cousin among them. Seeking retribution with the rest.
There were too many. How many was he responsible for? They rose on all sides, stole his breath and clutched at him. Darkness came for him as they pressed against his body, and despite his terror Grae found that he couldn’t resist. They would exact vengeance by taking his soul. And it won’t be enough. Nothing will ever be enough. The light faded as they piled onto him, their bodies pulpy and oozing and hot. Let them have me.
But the darkness lifted. The creatures shrieked. Dying again. He shook his head violently from side to side and they were no longer the massacred souls of Gracidmar, but black demons in a soulless forest. And Grae was dying with them. He gasped but no air reached his lungs. Hands pulled him backward, half out of the cave. Swords flashed in the dim light. Soldiers screamed. Some in anger. Some in horror. Beldrun Shanks was in the cave. He stopped swinging his axe and screamed and clawed at something on his back, then swung his arms backward as he tried to flee the cave. He shoved Daft Faldry farther into the cave, using the leverage to propel himself. Daft disappeared soundlessly in a spray of black. Grae watched it happen.
We are the mortar.
He saw Meedryk Bodlyn crawling out toward sunlight, demon tendrils pulling at his legs. Lokk Lurius was a blur of slashing blades. Sage shoved at the creatures with his shield. Some of the monsters had fallen out of the cave, into the sunlight. These writhed and burned on the ground.
We are the pestle.
A spot of light moved through the cavern. It drew screams from the creatures when it touched them. Grae followed the beam and saw Aramaesia, arms over her head, a shield in her arms.
She summoned Lojenwyne.
A ray of sunlight shone like a lance through the forest canopy and bounced from the shield into the cavern. The monsters howled and writhed, and fled as Lojenwyne fed upon their bodies.
Grae was pulled from the cave gasping. He tried to stand. To return to the cave. To save Daft. To help his soldiers. But he could only cough and retch. They took Daft; the darkness swallowed him whole and left nothing behind.
Grae looked at the lifeless gray cave, at the sizzling demon flesh just outside the doorway.
It should have been me, he thought. I led the massacres. It should have been me.
Chapter 16
They kept saying I had a dead Durrenian in me. But how would he fit? That’s a joke we tell in Onaraen. They tell everyone there that they got a dead Durrenian in them. Or a dead Gracidmarian. Something dead inside them. They told me they had to get him out so I could get better, but I got worse. So I guess he’s still in there.
-- Trudge Dathnien Faldry
Grae and his soldiers stood several paces from the cave, showering lantern light into the darkness and calling again and again for Daft Dathnien Faldry. No one called back. The half-mad soldier had vanished into the murderous black pulp of those caverns. He had gone to the Dark Place, to be crushed and shredded and to feed the gods no more.
Rundle Graen rescued Daft’s shield from the cave and placed it against a tree far from the cave. Grae ordered the men to build an empty cairn for the soldier, then led them through the Soldier’s Farewell. Another innocent life taken under Grae’s command.
Maribrae sat next to Dathnien’s shield and carved one last notch on it with a paring knife, then she laid the shield gently on the cairn. Grae nodded to her and led the squad away from the black cavern. Sage scooped up Dathnien’s pet bird, Bucket, and carried it for a few paces before setting in on the crook of his pack.
“What were those things?” Drissdie asked as they marched.
No one answered him.
“Those things, in the cave, what were they?” he asked again.
Grae stopped at a hickory tree. He used his feet to pound at a low branch that was thick as his arm. He thrashed the limb again and again, barking with each blow, until it snapped and bent downward, hanging by fibers of wood that he twisted and jerked violently until the branch broke free. He hurled the branch with a snarl, sending it spinning, deep into the forest and splashing down into dead leaves. And when he was done, Grae curled his fists and stared out into Maug Maurai and Drissdie Hannish didn’t ask about the cave anymore.
They followed the river eastward, deeper into Maurai, for no other reason than Sage’s premonition that the Cobblethries would have kept the river close. That they would have needed it to navigate the forest, or possibly to ride the stream out of Maug Maurai.
A mile down, the Typtaenai flexed northward and they were rewarded with markings along the mud of the riverbank. Footprints, handprints, drag marks.
“These look older than the tracks by the . . . ” Sage cleared his throat. “By that . . . cave.” He fidgeted with his hands for a moment. The nightmares of the cavern flashed in Grae’s mind. Lurching, groping horrors.
Sage spotted something along the riverbank and frowned. He knelt beside an impression in the mud, looked off toward the east, then back at the impression. “This is odd, here.”
They crowded around the scout and studied the imprint. Only a portion of the indentation was on land, as if whatever made it had been partly in the river. It looked as if a large sack of grain had been dropped at the point where soil and water met.
“Is that the Beast, d’you suppose?” asked Drissdie.
“No,” said Sage. “Unless the beast has taken to wearing chain mail. They dragged a body onto the shore here and left it. Only, it doesn’t seem as if the person was quite dead. Lay here for a long while, then got up and wandered away.”
“How can you possibly tell that from a hole in the ground?” asked Shanks.
“Because I wasn’t born to your mother,” said Sage, “Look at the mud. There are faint patterns of mail in it. And rust. A lot of rust. The armor was wet and it rusted as he lay here. I figure he would have had to lie here for at least a day to make it to rust like that. And there’s blood mixed in on the left side, here.”
“The man was wounded, then?” asked Grae. “He became too much of a burden and they left him?”
Sage shrugged. “I haven’t a thought,” he said. “He lay here for at least a day, then decided that he wasn’t as bad off as everyone imagined. Doesn’t make much sense at all.”
“Maybe it Black Murrogar,” said
Jjarnee.
Sage shook his head. “It’s not Murrogar.”
“You know everything, do you?” asked Shanks.
“This isn’t big enough to be Murrogar,” said Sage, “And this is janissary chainmail. See the pattern there? It’s a four-in-one weave. Janes use four-in-one in both Nuldryn and Lae Duerna. We Standards use a six-in-one pattern.” he stood and grabbed a few links of Shank’s chainmail at the shoulder. “One little ring here, and how many little rings go into it? Come Beldrun. I know numbers and letters are hard for you , but we can count them togeth—”
“Seal it, Sage!” Hammer shouted. “Let him go, Shanks!”
Shanks shoved Sage backward. The scout brushed himself off. “Regardless of the details, the group went that way,” he said, gesturing eastward with his head. “Whoever this man was, after he got up, he travelled east as well, albeit more slowly.”
“East it is,” said Grae. He looked upward. There was a richness of color beyond the canopy that spoke of late afternoon. He estimated three hours until dusk. Two in Maug Maurai. “Let’s keep our eyes open for shelter as we go.” He couldn’t help thinking of the long stone ridge and the demon’s-mouth cavern inside. Dathnien Faldry would shelter within it for an eternity.
We are the mortar. We are the pestle. He ran a hand over his eyes. And we are what gets ground into pulp.
They marched eastward, deeper into forest. Maribrae unslung her fiolys and played as they walked.
Somewhere, deep in the forest, something heard the music and stirred.
†††
The soldiers stopped every quarter mile to shout for the Cobblethries. Maribrae sang war songs and the men sang with her when she found one that they knew. Aramaesia had cut down the songmaiden’s skirts with Sage’s hunting knife, stripping the fabrics and leaving layers of linen and wool that fell just above the knee. Shanks and the other men still stole glances at the white hose she wore, and the skin that flashed out from the holes torn in them, but none dared risk Hammer’s walking stick by commenting out loud.
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part Two: Feeding the Gods Page 8