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

by Roberto Calas

  Meedryk Bodlyn, the apprentice, walked near the rear of the column, pushing through scrub and getting caught on hanging branches. His pack rattled and jangled and he panted as if he had been running a sprint. There was no end to his equipment and so his pack was half again as large as those of the others. The noise it made drew glares from the other soldiers.

  “Didn’t they teach you to wrap the metals?” yelled Hammer. “You sound like a seamarken festival with all that clangin’.”

  Meedryk drifted back, away from Hammer, and put a hand on the haversack hanging at his side. He lifted the flap surreptitiously and checked the pages inside. His eyes drifted up the column to Aramaesia. He closed the flap and sighed. After a few more steps he took a deep breath, drew the pages out and quickened his pace. He clanked swiftly past Hammer and worked his way up to the archer.

  “Hello, Meedryk.” she said.

  “Good evening, Maid Aramaesia.” He felt a flush at his cheeks, glanced down at the pages in his hand. Aramaesia glanced down at them, but her eyes shifted to his hands, which were marred by dozens of white scars. Meedryk rubbed at the scars and held the pages up. “I . . . I’m sorry . . . these . . . ” Meedryk cleared his throat. She took the pages from his hand and made to open them, looked to him for permission. He nodded and she flipped from page to page.

  “This is written in Graci,” she said.

  Meedryk nodded. “You can read?”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling. “My father is a priest.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Meedryk, his face growing a deeper shade of red. “I didn’t mean to imply . . . ”

  “I think you apologize too often,” she said.

  “Yes, I .. I know. I’m sorry, it’s just . . . ”

  She laughed and Meedryk caught his error, smiled, covered his eyes with one hand.

  “You have a happy smile,” she said. “You should smile more than you apologize.”

  He found he could not stop smiling. He gestured toward the pages. “I don’t know Graci. I can only read a little of this. That word in the title . . . Subrevain. It means . . . I think it means to transcend. Is that correct?”

  She thought on it for a span, then nodded. “To make or do better,” she said. “To go past what is mortal.”

  He tried to meet her gaze. “Doesn’t it also mean, ‘that which can’t be done?’”

  She considered. “More closer is, ‘that which shouldn’t be done.’”

  Meedryk licked at his lips. “Would you . . . I would . . . I would be so very grateful if you would read it for me. I know it’s a terrible favor to ask of someone and I—”

  “Of course I will,” she said.

  “You will?” He licked at his lips. “I’m sorry I—”

  She covered her smile with her fingertips. Meedryk looked skyward with a chuckle.

  “I will read it tonight,” she said, flipping through the pages.

  “Tonight?”

  “It is important to you,” she said. “Or you would not have asked.” Her eyes scanned the first page. “Could your master not provide this for you in your language?”

  He gave the rest of the squad a wary glance. “I .. ah . . . my master did not give this to me. And . . . well, if you didn’t mention the pages to anyone I would be grateful.”

  “Oh,” she looked at him, tilted her head.

  He felt his heart quicken at her reaction. He hadn’t thought this through. “I’m . . . ” He leaned toward her and whispered, “Well, it’s not really sanctioned. For a mantic. Me. An apprentice. But I’ll be tested in two months.”

  “Oh,” Aramaesia said again.

  “Truly, it’s not a bad thing.” Meedryk spoke quickly. “I mean, it’ll help the squad. And no one would ever know. It’s just a book. And anyway, I read a copy of that once . . . well, the first five pages. A copy written in Galadane.”

  Aramaesia cleared her throat delicately, looked at the pages once more, then extended them toward him. “I am so terribly sorry Meedryk. I am a guest in this kingdom. And I am considered enemy to it. If I break its rules I give them reason for mistrusting me.” She gazed at him and there was sorrow in those half-lidded eyes. “Do you understand, Meedryk? I cannot breach the codes of this land.”

  Meedryk took the pages. His mind buzzed with reasons why she was wrong, why she should read them. Why it wasn’t actually breaking the King’s Law. But the thoughts wouldn’t form words and his mouth wouldn’t open. He nodded several times.

  “I am sorry, Meedryk,” she said again. “I am truly sorry.”

  Chapter 17

  The boundary between the world of the gods and the

  world of men is never closer than when you sleep.

  -- Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet

  East was nothing but a slow death. East led deeper into the forest, and east was where the Beast wanted the travelers to go, so Murrogar turned South. If he was going to die, he would die facing home.

  He counted heads. There were six nobles left, not including Sir Wyann. The duke and duchess were the highest priority. Ulrean, too. And after them, the countess of Laudingham. Then a thane’s niece. And last was the half-brother of a baron’s nephew, or whatever the young blond nobleman was. Three lords and three ladies. That was all.

  A shallow slope rolled down through the leering teeth of ash trunks, the carpet moss gathered around the base of the trees like foaming gums. The travelers squeezed past the slender trunks and into a spongy marsh where short reeds poked from the wet earth every few paces. Midges swarmed, humming like monks at work.

  “We should have stayed at the ridge,” Sir Wyann stalked up from his post at the back of the formation. The knight’s voice was sullen and his cheek looked like an over-ripe plum. One eye sagged shut beneath a gash on his brow. The result of Murrogar’s beating. “We could have defended it. Held out until help arrived.”

  Murrogar turned his head quickly to spook the knight and it worked. Wyann flinched, his boots spattering mud.

  “Those things in the cave,” Murrogar said. “Light hurts them. Burns them up.”

  “I am aware of that,” Wyann snapped. “I was there. I saw it.”

  “And are you aware that Lojen’s Eye closes once a day?”

  “Don’t talk to me like I am a child,” Wyann replied. “I . . . ” He shut his mouth as Murrogar’s words settled in.

  “At night, the whole forest is a cave, ain’t it?” Murrogar said.

  Their feet sloshed through the sodden earth. The lords and ladies behind did not speak. They simply trudged along. The forest had broken them, and Murrogar held their reins.

  “We should split up,” Wyann said. “How far are we from the southern edge of the forest? Five miles? Ten? That monster can’t get us all.”

  “Go,” Murrogar replied. Wyann didn’t understand the rules that the Beast had set. “Split off from us.”

  “I’m trying to find a solution. We can’t simply—”

  “That creature killed half our party in seconds,” Murrogar snapped. “Seconds. Go on. Split off from us and see if the Beast will let you leave.” He jabbed a finger toward the knight. “But if you stay and question me on one more thing—”

  A short, powerful burst thundered through the forest. The nobles splashed a few steps to one side, away from the distant sound. Their eyes were wide but still they didn’t speak. Sir Wyann gasped, his hand darting to the hilt of his sword. “What in Blythwynn’s Crown was that?”

  Murrogar shrugged. “Something else that might kill us.”

  “Probably just a tree falling,” Wyann’s fingers opened and closed on the sword’s grip. “One of those four-hundred footers.”

  Murrogar didn’t reply. It wasn’t a tree. Trees fell slowly, growling and snapping all the way down. He had no thought as to what the sound could be, and didn’t want to devote the energy to wonder. The edge of the forest was less than ten miles away, and everything outside was home. That was where his energy was focused. Home. He walked on and the others followed.


  No one saw the thick, curling stalks that rose behind the thane’s niece. She was the farthest behind and they fell on her with a precise and savage speed, pulled her silently into the mud.

  “I need to speak to you about something important, Murrogar,” Wyann’s voice was defiant again.

  There were more reeds. The ground became soggier.

  “Then speak,” Murrogar reached over his shoulder and touched the hilt of Thantos’ sword. “Is this a conversation I should have my sword out for? Are you going to question me?”

  Wyann narrowed his eyes and didn’t speak for a moment. He took a deep breath. “You had no right to attack me like that at the ridge. I was trying to apologize. You acted like a savage. Animals act like you did, not humans. Animals.”

  Murrogar kicked at one of the reeds with his foot. It tilted to one side then straightened slowly. Odd seamarken reed. He glanced at the knight. “You talk too much, Wyann. Get to the back of the formation where you belong.”

  “I’m sorry if I do not have your divine powers of ascertaining danger,” Wyann continued. “I know that it’s impossible to surprise the legendary Black Murrogar. But anyone else would have seen that cave as shelter. Anyone. And I didn’t go in. I was only asking about it, nothing more.”

  “You were questioning me.” Murrogar stopped walking and glared at the knight. “Out here, people who question me die.”

  Sir Wyann returned the stare then dropped his gaze. He glanced back at the lords and ladies and sighed, cocked his head. “Is someone missing? Maybe we should make them walk ahead of us.”

  Murrogar looked back and counted heads. The girl was missing. The thane’s niece. He stopped walking and listened. Heard nothing but Wyann’s breathing and the wet, plodding footsteps of the lords and ladies behind him. Saw only fern and scrub and those short . . . reeds. He studied the reeds. A few swayed almost imperceptibly in the breeze.

  What breeze?

  He inspected one of the stalks jutting from the mud a few feet from him. It wasn’t swaying. It was trembling. Murrogar drew his sword slowly and looked at Wyann, spoke each word clearly and slowly. “Draw. Your. Sword.”

  Wyann shook his head and waved his hands at Murrogar. “I wasn’t questioning you!” he shouted. “It was just a suggestion. So we could keep an eye on them. Put your sword away. I won’t question you anymore.”

  “Wyann,” Murrogar whispered. “I’m not going to kill you. Not at this moment, anyway. I just need you to draw your sword. Draw it now, before I get angry.”

  Wyann drew his sword immediately. Murrogar shifted his own weapon so that it pointed downward, both his hands on the hilt, and gestured with his chin to another reed a few paces from the knight. Wyann took two slow side steps. He raised his own sword high, one eye wide, the other struggling to open.

  “Is something wrong?” the duchess called.

  Murrogar silenced her with a glance, raised the hilt of Thantos’s war sword high over his head. He waited until Sir Wyann did the same, then took a breath, and drove his sword into the wet earth with a howl.

  Mud flew. The sword sank halfway into the soil with a metallic grate. Then there was silence.

  Sometimes even he was wrong.

  Murrogar shrugged. “My mistake.” He peered into the forest, searched again for the thane’s daughter.

  The duchess turned in a slow circle, clasped her hands tightly. “Where’s . . . Where’s Lady Nyaelin?”

  “Probably in a patch of fern resting her feet,” Murrogar said. It was a lie. The girl was likely dead. “Let’s have a look for her.” The travelers sent frantic glances into the forest, spinning and calling for the thane’s daughter.

  Wyann sighed and plunged his sword downward half-heartedly, buried it in the mud with a squelch.

  And the forest floor erupted.

  Chapter 18

  The famed Tornati of Eridia fight beasts from across Celusia, using their fabled short swords and a skill unmatched in the Old Kingdoms. They dance with their prey, a glorious display of style, strength and prowess. But the dance is an unpredictable one. A missed step often leaves their partners to finish the dance alone.

  -- Her Erudite Lady, Wyel Metharyn

  Sage found more Beast tracks as they marched, but no bodies. For Grae, this was a mixed blessing. He spent much of his time on their journey praying that the Cobblethries were dead. Better that they died on the claws of the Beast than the swords of their rescue party. Better they should die with no hope at all than to feel the exhilaration of relief only to be cut down by The Headsman. The morality of it – the lack of morality – stung.

  There is nothing more immoral than a soldier who picks and chooses which orders he will follow.

  The proverb from Lojen’s The Arms did not wash away the guilt, but it provided a wall to lean against, a crutch to prop his battered conscience upon. He wondered how the men would react when he ordered them to slaughter the surviving Cobblethries. They wouldn’t disobey him. He was fairly certain of that. Disobeying orders was a death sentence. But they would hesitate.

  Bird wings fluttered. Daft Dathnien’s pet bird, Bucket, had sat on the top edge of Sage’s pack for miles. But now it burbled loudly and fluttered from its perch, tumbling to the ground.

  “Bucket!” Sage called.

  The jurren bird sprinted back the way they had come, scuttling through the underbrush, its gray-blue feathers flashing. Sage chased the bird for a few steps but there was too much underbrush to follow.

  “I ain’t never seen one a them birds run like that,” said Shanks.

  And then there was a new sound in the forest. Sharp and echoing from the direction in which they had marched.

  SPAT, SPAT, SPAT.

  It sounded like metal. Metal on metal, or on stone.

  “What is—” Drissdie was silenced by a chorus of shushes and Shanks’s meaty hand smacking his forehead. They waited, then heard it again. Fainter.

  Spat, spat spat.

  “Archer’s forward,” whispered Grae. “Everyone else into position.”

  The squad slipped into motion, efficient with the relentless practice of the last few days.

  “Move on me,’ said Grae. His sword gleamed green in Maug Maurai, his shield held high. The spearmen handed their extra spears to Meedryk and Lord Aeren and even Maribrae. Grae and his men marched forward, doing their best to keep the formation tight despite the trees and stones and brambles.

  Spat, spat.

  It was weaker now, a fading pulse in the distance. The group walked faster, shields up. They crested a rise. Another long ridge of stone rambled from west to east ahead of them. The ridge rose twenty feet and disappeared eastward into the forest.

  Spat.

  “We are Laryatian Standards,” shouted Grae. “Is someone there?”

  spat.

  Grae angled the squad toward the noise. “If you are incapable of speech, please continue to signal as loudly as you are able so that we might establish your location.”

  Despite the urgency, Hammer grinned. “A simple ‘keep tappin’ woulda worked too.”

  Grae waved him silent.

  Spat, spat! Louder this time. Spat, Spat! and then a faint moan.

  The group broke into a jog, leaping over rocks and fallen trees, slender branchlets clattering against their shields. There was a glint between two leaning stones at the base of the ridge. A man lay belly down in the space between the two rocks, his feet pointing to the ridge so that the squad could only see his head and shoulders. The remains of shredded chain mail hung off him, partially covered by a filthy crimson cape. He held a dagger blade in his hand, was banging the blade against a rock, slicing his hand with each rap.

  “Hammer, get the mend kit,” Grae called. But he knew there was nothing in the mend kit that would heal this man. Nothing in any mend kit or integrant jar anywhere.

  The man’s skin had a putrid cast; a shadowy green color that was natural only around grievous wounds. The veins and capillaries beneath the
skin were visible, black, like countless roots of some ebony tree. The blood vessels throbbed beneath the skin. Numerous large gashes were visible on his hand where he held the dagger blade, but there was little blood. The man gazed at the soldiers and Grae noted a green tinge in his eyes, a lime jaundice.

  “Moonlight descend!” Drissdie fell back. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Krit mognios . . . ” gasped the man, breathing heavily. “Krit mognios . . . grenossa.” He set his head down, then raised it and bellowed, “Damarra ul tando!” He rolled his forehead against the stone.

  “That Dromese?” Hammer held the mend kit in his hands. “He’s only got one ear.”

  “It’s Jara,” said a thick voice from behind him. Lokk Lurius stepped forward. “He’s from Eridia.”

  “Nott thelisia,” said Lurius without emotion. “Aj Galadria?”

  “Krit hezina,” said the man, his eyes unfocused. “Krit hezina.”

  “He wants us to kill him.”

  “I think he’s already dead,” whispered Shanks at Hammer’s side.

  “Let’s pull him free,” said Grae. “No man should die in a hole.”

  Lokk and Shanks each grabbed an arm and pulled. The dying Eridian let out a howl and sobbed, but didn’t budge.

  “Krit hezina! Krit hezina!” he shouted, closing his eyes and sobbing again.

  “He’s caught on something,” said Shanks. They circled the rocks but there was no way to look in from the back. The stones sank into the earth making a perfect mausoleum. Grae studied the soil around it and determined that the man had backed himself into the stones on his own. Probably to die. He noted the rust in the janissary chain mail, estimated the size of the man and mentally compared him to the impression Sage found in the mud by the Typtaenai.

  “Try to wriggle him free,” said Grae. “Let’s see if there’s anything to be done for him.”

  Lokk and Shanks grabbed the man’s arms again and pivoted side to side as they pulled. Hammer took hold of the man under the armpit and did his part. They swung him back and forth then pulled again. The Eridian howled and cried and came suddenly free. The men stumbled and Shanks fell to one knee, his vambrace scraping loudly against a stone. He stood and they hauled him out the rest of the way. The man screamed as Lokk and Shanks set him on a flat stone and flipped him face up. Hammer used the mend kit as a pillow.