Murrogar glanced toward the duke and duchess. Wyann caught his eye and nodded. The knight stood and retreated until he stood directly in front of the two, sword drawn. Murrogar took a step back toward Ulrean. He turned Thantos’s sword so that it pointed downward, both his hands tight on the grip.
The Beast roared again, the massive spines along its head rising and quivering. It shredded the animal in its hands until there were only bits of bone and flesh that drizzled to the muddy soil.
Then it advanced toward Murrogar.
“Wyann, get ‘em out!” Murrogar raised Thantos’s sword so that the hilt was over his head, the blade pointed outward toward the Beast. He held the grip as tightly as he could, the weight of the war sword making his arms tremble. The Beast would kill him, but he’d get one strike at it. And that strike would find the creature’s eye if Murrogar had any say in the matter.
The Beast stalked slowly through the mud, each massive foot squelching into the marsh with the taut gentleness of a hunter on the prowl. Murrogar stepped to one side, keeping himself between Beast and willow.
A low growl was his only warning.
The monster flashed forward so quickly that Murrogar didn’t move until the creature was past him. The Beast lunged at something behind him. Murrogar turned and plunged the sword downward but there was nothing to strike. The Beast had skittered sideways away from the tree. It retreated, coming to rest twenty paces away, holding its prize in long black-talons. The countess of Laudingham shrieked. Murrogar took three bounding steps toward the Beast before it occurred to him that the countess’s screams had come from the willow behind him. He glanced back. She and Ulrean were in the tree. The blond nobleman peered out from behind the trunk.
Murrogar looked back toward the Beast. It raised two clawed hands into the air, revealing another of the animals – the one whose tentacles had been severed by Murrogar.
“Run!” Murrogar shouted. “Run, all of you!”
Ulrean and the countess splashed to the ground and the nobles scampered away, sloshing through the marsh. The Beast twisted the body of the shrieking animal as one might wring out a washcloth. Bones cracked and blood showered out like dirty water.
The Beast flung the body far into the forest and fixed Murrogar with a long gaze before slipping quietly into the deeper reaches of Maug Maurai.
Chapter 22
Lord Mancell struck Sage in the face.
The blow wasn’t a good one, but it enraged the drunken soldier,
so he lunged at Lord Mancell with evil in his heart.
Trenthis, Sage’s friend, tried to leap between the two but
accidentally knocked the lord to the ground.
Two pikemen dropped their polearms with a clatter and ran to the table.
They grabbed Trenthis roughly as he helped Lord Mancell to his feet.
Sage kicked one of the guards backward and tried to leap onto the table for a dash of drama.
He missed his footing and tumbled heavily to the floor, knocking three guests over as he did.
There was a crash of armor and a toppling of chairs. Plates and glasses fell in a jangling downpour as lords and ladies screamed and fled.
And then things got out of hand.
-- Account of Mollingsley “Sage” Tharke’s actions at Lord Mancell’s costume ball
Sage finished his dinner preparations and everyone gathered to eat, except Sir Jastyn who had first watch, and Grae, who recused himself to his pavilion. The rest of the squad toasted Shadow’s Eve and murmured Blythwynn’s Words of Safety in Darkness.
Lokk Lurius ripped off a strand of antelope with his teeth and chewed it. “Sage,” he said, “you ain’t much of a scout, but you can cook.”
Jjarnee nodded his head. “Yes, yes,” he said. “The dinner is delicate.”
“It’s delicious, you pock-minded tewel,” called Shanks.
Jjarnee frowned. “That not good to say, Beldrun Shanks. In Hrethri, you not insult man who make you food.”
“I was insulting you, you lumbering piece of stupidity,” he replied. “You should ‘ave stayed in Hrethri and farmed manure.”
A wolf howled in the distance and Drissdie flinched. He looked at the others and laughed nervously. “Maybe the Beast went away,” he said. “Maybe we won’t have to fight it, d’you suppose? Maybe we can go home tomorrow.”
Shanks wiped his mouth, raised his wineskin. “Too much Blyth . . . ” he shouted.
The rest of the soldiers raised their horns and skins. “ . . . not enough Wyne,” they responded, then drank.
“A toast?” asked Aramaesia.
“A soldier’s toast,” whispered Lord Aeren. “The response to weakne—”
The night shattered.
A sound like ten thousand blacksmith’s hammers striking the great oaken doors of Eleyria at precisely the same time. An echoing blast that sent concussions through the very forest floor and vibrations through Grae’s flesh.
Soldiers leaped to their feet, eyes wide, drawing swords or snatching up spears and turning in the direction of the sound.
“What in Mundaaith’s Quaggy Armpit was that?” Hammer said.
Sir Jastyn leaped into the camp from perimeter, over the low dirt rampart and joined the rest of the warriors. His shoulders rose and fell with each swift breath.
Grae stepped out from his tent calmly and joined the squad. He peered into the darkness, then looked at Sage. “Possibilities?”
“The end of the world?” Sage replied. “Shanks’s fat sister ate one too many pastries?”
“Lord Aeren,” Grae said loudly, cutting off Shanks’s response. “Thoughts?”
“The priests say the end of the world won’t come for another eighty years,” he replied. “So I’m tempted to go with Shanks’s sister.”
“Apprentice?” Grae called.
“Sir?” Meedryk clasped his trembling hands.
Grae turned his head slowly until his gaze was on the mantic. He bit off each word. “Any thoughts on what that noise was?”
“Oh . . . I . . . no, brig sir . . . it . . . it sounded like . . . well, some sort of explosion.”
Shanks laughed. “I coulda been a magician. You’re dim as driftwood, you are.”
“Sage, has anyone ever heard these sounds? Anyone talk about them in Maug Maurai?”
“Lots of sounds come out of Maurai,” Sage replied. “People have been hearing all sorts of things in this forest for years and years. But we’re pretty deep now. I don’t know if that sound would travel to the villages, loud as it was.”
“It’s too dark to explore,” Grae said. “I think it’s probably just a limb from one of those four-hundred footers snapping.”
“As you say sir,” Sage replied.
“That ain’t a limb, brig sir,” Shanks said. “Ain’t no way that was a limb.”
“You think the brig wants your opinion Shanks?”
“Return to your meals,” Grae said. “Sir Jastyn, keep your eyes open on the perimeter.” And with that Grae returned to his tent.
The soldiers returned to the fire, casting glances into the darkness and keeping their weapons close at hand. They had all heard stories of Maug Maurai. Of Mundaaith’s demons. Of the savage Andraen gods that rose from the earth and hunted the living. Of CWNCR, the village of torment, where souls were torn from bodies and devoured by the dead.
No one spoke. There was only the clack of knives on wooden plates and the popping of wood in the fire. The silence grew thick and then men glanced more and more often into the forest.
Maribrae drew out her fiolys and played a gentle tune that drifted in the night air. She caught Jjarnee staring and smiled, played a few bars of a Hrethri battle march, solemn and austere. Then she returned seamlessly to the lighter melody.
Conversations began again. Short exchanges between the men. They looked into the forest less often. Shanks rose and walked toward the perimeter. “Time to feed the gods,” he laughed. Word of Dathnien’s philosophy had spread, and the act
of defecating or urinating had a new name among the soldiers.
Maribrae stopped playing after a time and stood, stretched delicately. The men drew deep breaths as her skirts rose and the corset stretched across her slender body. She handed the fiolys to Sage.
“I wish to dance,” she said. “Play for me, fool. Something wild and romantic, fast and melancholy.”
Sage took the instrument and plucked a few strings. “Any suggestions?”
“Yes,” she said. “I suggest you play well.” She stepped closer to the fire. The soldiers shifted backward to give her room. Sage put the fiolys to his chin. He sounded a few test draws then began his tune: The Maiden So Fair.
Maribrae, arms up at the ready, smiled at him. “A most sagacious selection, Sage.
“If that’s a compliment,” he said, “I thank thee.”
Maribrae smiled as she danced, twirling and coiling her arms. The fire bathed her slender form in orange at times, created bright halos around her silhouette at others. She moved with the grace of one who had been taught by a master, like one of the Moonladies performing the Presentation Dance during Promulgation. Her posture was perfect, her movements precise, but unlike the solemn Moonladies, Maribrae laughed. She was playful, sometimes flubbing or exaggerating movements merely for the pleasure of breaking the form. The men followed her every step. Their breaths coming more swiftly with each rise of her skirts.
She offered her hand to Lord Aeren. He took it and stood, bowed formally and joined her in a Mauldish Lentric Dance. He held her right hand and they circled one another, keeping eye contact, then circled in the opposite direction, then held both hands and brought their faces together, then apart again and spun around each other. Maribrae laughed and then twirled over to Hammer.
She beckoned the old soldier upward. Hammer stood reluctantly and joined her, their dance nothing formal, just holding hands and swaying. And after Hammer she took Drissdie’s hand. The young soldier’s face was frozen, his eyes wide, as they moved to the music. “I ain’t never danced with a girl, d’you suppose?” he whispered to her.
“And I’ve never danced with such a handsome man,” she said.
Shanks, who had returned from his god-feeding, put his hands to his mouth and hooted. “You ain’t danced with any man till you dance with Beldrun Shanks!”
Hammer watched, as entranced as the other men. But in his heart he knew he should put a stop to it. The girl’s intentions were innocent, but at its core, her dance was a sensual thing. These men were soldiers. A primal, savage spark smoldered in each one of them. And it didn’t take much to set that spark ablaze. He eyed the men, searching for any sign of danger. Their expressions where wistful and mild and surprised. He saw no danger, until his gaze found Beldrun Shanks. A single-minded intensity blazed in his eyes; a reckless avarice that told Hammer to stop the dancing. To stop it quickly.
“That’s it woman,” Shanks shouted. “Just like that! Give us a twirl, little girl!”
Shanks stood just as Maribrae spun away from Drissdie and inspected the circle. He took a step toward her but she never saw him. Her hand extended toward Jjarnee Kruu. The Hrethri put down his crossbow and stood nervously, took her hand. Shanks, behind them, flushed red and clenched his fists. The big infantryman glanced sideways awkwardly then sat, glaring at the others, daring someone to say something. Nobody did. Nobody was watching him. They were watching the oddly matched Jjarnee and Maribrae. Even Hammer sat back down, having heard of the Hrethri’s crush.
Jjarnee still wore his armor. The massive breastplate with its oversized pauldrons making him enormous and blocky beside her. Like a mountain dancing with a doe. Maribrae wrapped one of her arms around his waist, used the other to place his hand on the small of her back. She danced a courting dance, graceful and close, moved him across the pit as he found his legs. Sage, sensing the change in tone, played the bittersweet, A Song for Arabeth.
Jjarnee thawed. His arms gained a better purchase on her back, his hand on hers. She nestled into him and he took the lead, guiding her forward and sideways. They spun gently together. He wasn’t a skilled dancer, but he had grace for his size.
They danced for a time, her tiny, willowy form outlined against the monstrous bulk of his armor. As before, there was a jauntiness to her step, but it wasn’t so pronounced. It was tender, more intimate. They stared into each other’s eyes, smiling.
Sir Jastyn cleared his throat softly and rose to his feet. Hammer watched a struggle play out on the knight’s face for an instant before the man coughed and sat down again. Not even Sir Jastyn would take Maribrae’s gift away from Jjarnee Kruu. Hammer thought the two would dance until the morning. That nothing could break them apart. But he was wrong.
The Beast of Maug Maurai could.
Chapter 23
Our chance for success, for glory, for a meaning to our lives, fades with each day that passes. Soon will come a time when we are left with nothing more than the ashes of our youth; the chance to recount a scattering of brave moments that we managed
when the light in our eyes was stronger than the ache in our bones.
Let us grasp the reins of life. Kick our heels into fate and charge forward to destiny. Fear not the dread Beast of Maug Maurai, gentle soldiers. For it has flesh, which can be rent, bones which can be shattered. Fear, instead, that the Beast will be dead before we find it. For there has yet been forged a sword or spear that can slay the specter of our failures.
-- Brig Barragn’s speech to his men, from “War of Beasts” by Maribrae Endilweir. (unfinished)
Maribrae kissed Jjarnee’s cheek and stared into his eyes as the dance slowed. Jjarnee felt the gentle ebb as the end drew near. He breathed in the scent of lavender oils, let his eyes drink in her willowy form one last time.
And the forest shook once again.
It was no explosion this time, but a cry that made the earlier explosion seem like the snap of a twig. A cry so loud, so hateful, that Maribrae fell to her knees and shrieked. She put her hands to her ears and pressed tightly. Jjarnee wrapped her more tightly in his arms as he dropped to one knee.
The trees seemed to rattle with the sound. The fiolys squealed to silence. No one moved as the shriek faded. Maribrae, still in Jjarnee’s arms, dissolved into tears again, wild, hysterical tears. The Hrethri hugged her tightly and scanned the forest.
Sir Jastyn ran to the songmaiden, and Jjarnee released her reluctantly. Drissdie’s arms were over his head, tears glistening in his eyes. Meedryk’s head jerked wildly from side to side, his hands reaching into the sleeves of his meridian cloak.
Grae strode from his pavilion, arms crossed so his hands wouldn’t shake. He looked calmly into the forest and nodded.
“It’s alright,” said Sage, recovering. “I think it is a few miles off, as hard as that may be to believe.”
Drissdie let his hands fall to his lap and scanned the forest with red-rimmed eyes. “It . . . it sounds so much worse from in here.” He shook his head. “Are we . . . are we really going to fight that?” he asked.
There was silence as Grae strode to the center of the camp. Maribrae looked up from Jastyn’s shoulder with a scowl. “Not a beast, is that,” she sniffed. “’Tis Mundaaith himself, come to claim the world.”
“So, now Laraytian Standards are frightened ‘a noise?” asked hammer. “First the little snap in the forest, and now an animal howling? Are these Standards in front of me? Are these the best soldiers on Celusia?” he walked toward the men drawing his sword for emphasis. “Shame on all your families. You ain’t even seen the thing and already you’re planning your Farewell.”
Grae touched his shoulder. “Let them fear it, Hammer.”
Hammer looked back at his brig, his eyes slits. “Sir?”
“You may fear it if you wish,” said Grae to the men, “but your fear is misplaced.” No one spoke. No one moved. “The Beast is terrifying in its way. I’ll not deny you that.” He walked to Drissdie and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “But the
Beast can do nothing more than bring us death. We all die, some better than others. As soldiers, we know that death is our shadow. Each one of us is given a handful of important moments in our life. A stretch of time that can forever change who we are. This journey is one such moment. Every one of us has failed in some way. That’s why we’re here, on this squad. We’re a band of disappointments. But we can make all of our failures go away with just one deed. If we kill this beast, bring it down with swords and spears, then we are heroes. All of us. Songmasters will sing of us for eternity. Promotions will be granted. Gold given. Respect earned. We will be heroes.” He walked the circle of warriors, nodding to each of them. “There is only one thing that stands in the way.” He paused and Drissdie spoke in the silence.
“The Beast.”
“No Drissdie,” said Grae. “The Beast is not an obstacle. Not truly. Not for those in control of their lives. There is only one thing we need to fear, and that is Black Murrogar.” Grae watched the bewildered expressions and held up a reassuring hand. “Black Murrogar is out there right now,” he continued. “Somewhere in that forest, searching for the Beast. I served with Murrogar, and I know that he won’t sit idly and wait for the Beast to kill the Cobblethries. That noise we heard just now might have been the creature’s death cry. Murrogar may have killed it this very night.” He looked each soldier in the eye, one by one. “Let’s hope that he didn’t. Let’s pray to Lojen that he didn’t take away our one last – ”
“Halt!” Lokk Lurius leaped onto the low rampart and shouted again. “Halt!”
Grae listened and heard feet shuffing through leaves. He picked up a lantern from the ground and lit it with a burning brand from the fire. His soldiers drew swords or scooped up spears as Grae walked to the wall and held the lantern high. There was movement among the trees. Grae leaned past the wall. Held the lantern out as far as possible into the darkness, sensing the soldiers crowding in behind him. He tried to keep his arm from trembling as he imagined what could be walking in Maug Maurai at night.
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part Two: Feeding the Gods Page 12