“How would you greet me?” she finished. “Tell me now or hear my voice no more.”
He sighed and sat down beside her. “I would nod my head, love.”
She sat up, scowling and sputtering. “Nod your head? A simple nod of the head? Like a drunkard fighting sleep? Like a husband to his tavern whore? A nod? Like a thane signaling to his reeve that an unwanted guest should be escorted out? You would nod to your love? You would— ”
He silenced her with a kiss. She tried to pull away, shoved at him, but his lips melted her resolve. “A nod,” he said. “That is all that public opinion would allow from me. A nod like . . . ” he considered carefully. “Like a priest in prayer to divine beauty. A nod, like a sinner averting his eyes from a celestial servant of Blythwynn. A nod, like an ox straining under a heavy yoke and wishing it were with its mate. A nod like a man encased, separated from his love, dropping his head to study the beam of sunlight that passes briefly under the door of his cell.”
“You’re a despicable, foul, manipulating fiend.” She smiled and kissed him savagely. “And if there is a part of you that I do not love, I have yet to find it.” She tugged at the waist of his trousers and looked down, smiling. “And it is not for lack of searching.”
“I love you Maribrae Endilweir,” he said. “More than I love Daun Sanctra and hunting. More than I love tourneys and feasts.”
Maribrae smiled wistfully. “And I love you more than that.”
“Back to the current matter –”
“A new language will I create for those moments when we gaze upon one another at court,” she said.
“Mari—” he began.
“The language will be the same as Galadane, only the meanings will differ. So, when I speak, ‘Good morrow, my lord’ It will mean, ‘My love, the marrow of my bones blackens a shade with each hour that we are apart.’”
“A most efficient language, no doubt.”
“And when I say ‘I have a new song for my lord to hear’, it will mean ‘There are no tears nor sobs left in this shell of a body, my sweet Jastyn. I beg you to meet me tonight.’”
“I may need you to draft some short translations for all of this,” he chided, tapping his head. “It will be dreadfully difficult to keep it straight in this lance-battered cask of mine.”
She giggled and threw a tuft of grass at him, then placed his hand on the underdress, below her navel. “There’s only one thing you need to keep straight in this lance-battered cask of mine.”
The joke’s meaning seeped into Jastyn. He shook his head and kissed her. “You are far too clever to be my bloodwife. Too clever and too mischievous.”
“Return!” Maribrae called. “Return! You circle and approach from the east. I’ll enter from the northwest. Draw your sword! We’ll make quick work of those soldiers and enjoy a cozy week in a room at Maeris.”
He laughed. “I almost believe you’re serious,” he said. “I almost believe you could do it.”
Chapter 25
If a man surrenders honorably, accept.
But a man begging for mercy is already dead.
Do not show any.
-- From “The Arms,” Book II of Lojenwyne’s Words
Darkness settled slowly upon the forest but it wasn’t difficult for Murrogar to find the six nobles. Their reckless flight made more noise than entire armies.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop running!”
He caught sight of the countess of Laudingham. She stopped, her hand on a thin birch trunk and looked back. Her shoulders rose and fell steeply with each breath. The other footsteps slowed, then stopped, and the nobles worked their way back to him.
“The . . . the Beast?” Wyann asked through gasps.
“It doesn’t want us right now,” Murrogar replied.
The travelers collapsed onto stumps or stones. The duke picked up a thick, fallen branch and stripped dead leaves from it.
“Why would it kill those . . . those animals and leave us alone?” Wyann asked.
Murrogar took a deep breath and stared back toward the marsh they had left. Wyann had done well against the tentacled monsters. He had killed at least four of them. Probably saved two lives. But the knight still didn’t understand the Beast.
Ulrean rubbed at his arms and spoke. “It was making a point.”
Murrogar turned his head and stared at the boy. Looked into his eyes.
Wyann tousled the child’s hair, but there was no cheer in the gesture. “Animals don’t make points, young master.”
Murrogar held the child’s gaze and nodded once, slowly. A fragile smile played across Ulrean’s lips, a smile the child tried to hide.
The duke whittled at his branch with a gilded hunting knife. The clothes he wore, once the finest in Lae Duerna, were covered in mud. The duchess laid her head against his shoulder. Murrogar glanced down at himself. Mud caked him as well. Made him a different color.
Brown Murrogar.
“I imagine we’re less than ten miles from the edge of the forest,” Murrogar said. “If we set our minds, we could be out in one full day. Lojen’s Heart, we can still catch the start of the Kithrey festival.” He grinned at them. “I’m aching for one of them berry tarts they sell on Abbeygate Street. All cream and raspberries, with sliced strawberries across the bottom and blueberries popped in where they fit. I’m aching for one real bad. So I don’t want anyone whinging or crying. It’ll be dark soon, so we’re gonna camp. When we wake up, we’re going to walk south, and we’re going to walk quick. When the Beast comes – and it will come – we’re going to keep going south, but we’re going to run. And we’re going to run quick. Are we all listening to the same music?”
Ulrean and Sir Wyann nodded. The countess bit her lower lip, a tear squeezing from one of her blue eyes, and nodded. The blonde nobleman rubbed at his face and sighed before nodding as well.
Murrogar glanced at the duke. “Your Grace?”
The man didn’t look up. His hands trembled as he sharpened one end of the branch. The duchess tapped his shoulder but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Nice sharp stick,” Murrogar said. “Maybe you’ll have a chance to put it through the Beast’s eye.”
Strips of wood flew from the branch. The duke’s gaze was focused too sharply on the stick, his hands trembling too much and moving with too much speed.
The duchess shook him, whispered. He shrugged her hand off and continued whittling at the branch. “Orien,” The duchess said, firmly. “Orien!” She shook him and he shoved her away with his elbow, continued whittling.
The countess of Laudingham sobbed.
Tears brimmed in Ulrean’s eyes. “Father?”
Murrogar took a long breath. He shook his head and laid Thantos’s sword down against a stone. “This forest, it’s spared us so far,” he said. “All of us. We’ve spilled blood together. Faced things that no one in Celusia has lived to talk about. We’re a clan now. A tribe. You’re my brothers and sisters. And I think it’s time we met.” He stood and walked to the countess of Laudingham, extended his hand. “I’m Murrogar.” She looked at his hand, then into his eyes. He saw the fear there. She thought he was going mad too. He thrust the hand closer to her. “Murrogar.”
She reached out gingerly and took it. “I am the lady—”
“Murrogar,” he said again, with more force.
The countess looked at him for a long moment. “Dylaria.”
He bowed to her, released her hand and extended it to the blond nobleman. “Murrogar.”
The young man took his hand, squeezed hard. “Cleryn.”
He approached the duchess. She wiped at her eyes, glanced at the whittling duke, then took Murrogar’s hand. “Rhythania.”
Murrogar extended his hand toward the duke. “My name is Murrogar.”
The duke’s whittling slowed, then stopped. He turned the branch to one side, then the other, examining the tip.
“My name is Murrogar.”
The duke turned slowly toward the extended arm
. Murrogar thrust his hand forward again. “Murrogar.”
The duke set the branch down, peeled one hand from it and stared into his palm. He looked again at Murrogar’s extended hand and, with a painful lethargy, reached toward it.
An instant before their hands met, Murrogar snatched his back.
A stench filled the air and Murrogar lunged for Thantos’s sword. He scooped it from the stone and whirled in time to see the green fires of the Beast in the distance.
He bellowed a challenge and leaped toward the approaching monster. The rest of the nobles rose and screamed as they spotted the Beast.
“Run!” Murrogar took position in front of them. The nobles ran, except for Sir Wyann, who drew his sword, and the duke, who still sat and stared at his hand.
“Wyann, stay with the others.” Murrogar heard the knight’s footsteps recede through the forest.
A sapling splintered and the Beast sld to a halt ten paces from Murrogar. The green phosphors reflected in long, curving lines against the cage of tusk-like teeth. Spines rose slowly along the head and neck.
“Come on then!” he called. “Come on!”
The Beast rattled off a long growl and crouched low, its eyes fixed on Murrogar. Just as it tensed to spring, the creature arched its neck and shrieked. It jerked its head to one side and howled as if it had been stabbed from behind. Murrogar saw his moment, took a running leap and spiked his sword down at the monster.
But the monster was already gone, thundering back the way it had come.
He watched the green phosphors dance as the Beast bounded through the forest, shrieking in rage or pain or both. He set Thantos’s sword on his shoulder and scratched at his neck. There had been nothing behind the Beast when it broke off the attack. What had it looked back for? “Now that was interesting.” He watched as the last trace of the phosphors vanished in the darkness.
“Orien Cobblethrie,” said the duke. “Pleased to meet you.”
Murrogar walked toward the man, sword still on shoulder. “You see that? Ran off without bowing or nothing. Where’s the decorum?”
The duke gazed past Murrogar, into the forest and spoke again. “The berry tarts are better on Westgate Street. The cream is sweeter. And the crusts. Oh, what crusts they make on Westgate Street.”
Chapter 26
Books written in Graci are a rare surprise here, in the Warrior Kingdom. The Might of Lojen, Lojenwyne’s voice upon Celusia, denounced Gracidmar and all her works as subversive.
King Berrent agreed and, in their names, bonfires blazed throughout the kingdom. Books and artwork fed the flames for days. Not even the famed Graci cheeses could escape the pyre.
The Laraytian Purification swept the land with the speed of religious zeal,
with the strength of sanctioned bigotry.
-- from “The Gods of Gracidmar,” by Neren of Maulk
The soldiers finished their morning routines and disassembled the camp without much talk. Sage found the Cobblethrie trail after an hour, but it was a meager one. Time and rain – the meager rain that actually made it to the soil of Maurai – worked against them. The squad walked silently behind the scout for two hours as he crisscrossed, knelt, looked upward and in circles, pointed in odd directions and moved off again. There was little conversation as they marched. Even the momentary pauses to shout for the Cobblethries were half-hearted.
The forest became thicker here, the going tougher. Nettles and thorns grew everywhere, grasping and ripping at them like hysterical wives. Most of the soldiers strapped on their sallets to protect from these irritants and from the increasing threat of whipping branches. They trampled through shrubs and over rocks. Pushed past screens of foliage and cut into corridors of spider webs so thick that you couldn’t see past them. Every so often a distant explosion would stop the squad. Grae would shrug and command them forward again and, with glances in the direction of the explosion, the group would push through the foliage once more
As they trudged through a passage of small, twisted trees, Sage – traveling well ahead of the squad – dropped to his knees and raised his hand high, fingers spread, in the symbol for halt. The scout cocked his head and listened, then turned back to the squad. He touched a forefinger to his lips and beckoned the brig and hammer forward.
The remaining members of the squad dropped to their haunches. Grae and Hammer duck-walked toward the scout, the shields on their backs thumping against mail. Sage made a face and brought the forefinger back to his lips sharply. The two men paused, then shuffled forward again with more care. A crow called from somewhere in the vast, leafy kingdom up above.
Sage pointed toward a line of stunted trees half buried in shrubs and fern. A tiny humanoid creature sat on dry leaves beneath a twisted branch and gnawed on something that looked like a gauntleted hand. It bit at the junction where the wrist would have been, tugged and shook its head until meat tore away, then chewed nonchalantly. The creature was twice the size of the hand. Its lumpy skin a mottled yellow. Scraps of fur and oak leaves served as clothing.
Grae tapped Hammer’s chest without looking and flicked his three central fingers forward, as if spraying the creature. Hammer nodded and rose gingerly. He made the same motion to the rest of the squad. Jjarnee nodded and rose from his crouch, unslinging his largest crossbow. The round metal besagew dangling at his left arm clinked against his breastplate. Hammer slammed a forefinger to his lips and Jjarnee put his left hand on the dangling disk.
Jastyn, squatting next to Aramaesia, whispered to her: “I think they need you up there.” He imitated the three-finger signal. “That means archers forward.”
“It does?” she uncased her bow and moved forward softly.
At the front of the line, Grae whispered to Jjarnee: “Take it with the first shot.”
Jjarnee nodded. “I put in little eyehole,” he whispered. He raised the crossbow as Aramaesia strung her curved bow. The besagew clinked once again and the creature glanced up. It spotted the Hrethriman and bolted, dragging the hand behind it. Jjarnee tracked its flight, aimed then fired.
The soldiers watched the crossbow bolt’s trajectory. But at the moment of impact the bolt grazed the twisted trunk of a sapling and deflected past the creature. The little monster screeched like an Annecian monkey and ran faster. Jjarnee dropped the heavy weapon. He swung out the next crossbow, took aim, shook his head faintly and fired. The bolt splashed through leaves and buried itself in the soft earth.
“Female monthblood,” he said
The creature ran behind a fallen log and into a thicket. It became nothing more than distant flashes of yellow in the brush. “There is no more shot,” said Jjarnee. “I am apologize.”
Aramaesia drew an arrow back and took aim.
“Lojen’s Arse, Jjarnee.” Grae sighed and turned to Aramaesia. She had her eyes closed. “Put it away. There’s no shot.” The archer opened her eyes, her arms trembling from the strain of the bowstring. “Don’t waste the arrow, Aramaesia.”
She released the string with the barest of movements. The arrow sailed to the right of the shrubs then curved gently to the left and into the hedge. A loud screech pierced the silence. Aramaesia, her gaze still on the thickets, nodded curtly.
“Blythwynn’s Heart!” said Hammer.
“This . . . this shot is not positive,” said Jjarnee, shaking his head.
“Possible,” Hammer corrected.
“No,” said Jjarnee. “Is not.”
“How in the Warts of Mundaaith did you make that shot?” asked Hammer.
Aramaesia shrugged. “Many years with a bow. Knowing the winds and your arrows. And I had help.”
“Help?” asked Hammer.
“My master and guardian, Ja’Drei,” she said.
They studied her still not understanding how an arrow could curve in such a way.
“That ain’t normal.” said Hammer. He gazed at her, then the strangely curved bow, and shrugged. “Let’s get that mottled monkey before a crow does.” He walked off with Sage an
d Aramaesia at his side. The rest of the squad followed. They streamed around Jjarnee and Grae who stood rooted.
“Stout Kruu,” said Grae. “You told us the other day that you could outshoot her. Still think that’s true?”
“The woman?” he asked. “Maybe. Maybe no.” He looped both crossbows onto his belt again, shook his head. “But this Ja’drei . . . impositive.”
Grae started to correct him, thought better of it and walked after the others with a half-smile.
†††
“It’s just a kreech,” said Sage. “Horrible creatures.”
They were huddled around the tiny body. Aramaesia’s broadhead had nearly cut the kreech in two. Sage recovered the gauntleted hand then prodded the dead creature with a boot. “Kreeches can be pests, but they can’t take down a soldier.” He shook the gauntlet. “It grabbed this somewhere. Scavenged it.”
Grae studied the hand and the dead kreech. “It couldn’t have travelled far holding that gauntlet,” he said. “The rest of that soldier has to be close.”
“I would say two or three miles at the most,” Sage replied. “Kreech don’t like to eat near other scavengers. And wherever this came from,” he gestured to the gauntlet, “there’s almost certain to be bigger scavengers.”
“Can you track the kreech?” asked Grae.
“It’s not easy. Would have been more likely if the lot of you hadn’t walked over its trail. I’ll do what I can.”
“Sterling,” said Grae. “Let’s rest here, then you and Aramaesia take the point. You can let some air between us if you want silence. Just make sure we know where you’re headed; the Beast may decide to attack during the day.”
†††
The soldiers shrugged off their packs and settled on stones or fallen trunks. Meedryk set his pack down carefully, drew the stack of Graci pages once more, and strode toward Aramaesia. He rolled and unrolled the papers and his strides became tiny, uncertain steps as he approached.
“I’m sorry I was upset before,” he said.
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part Two: Feeding the Gods Page 14