THE BEAST OF MAUG MAURAI
Part One of Three
ROBERTO CALAS
Text and Images Copyright © Roberto Calas 2012
All Rights Reserved
Roberto Calas asserts his/her moral right to be identified as the author of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Maps
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Glossary
To Belle, who makes my heart toll.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the Scribes, who had more input into this novel than anyone else in the world. Thank you for your help and friendship. I list them now by name, in order of seniority: Preston Ray, Eliza Sawyer, Rebecca Green, Thomas Hahn, Eunice Musvasva, Megan Margraff, Peter Keeler, Annabelle Page, Rob Walsh, Carolyn Gonzalez, and Robert Tomaino. I would also like to recognize Leah Sloane Petersen for her invaluable assistance.
Maps
Chapter 1
Time flows swiftly in Maug Maurai. The nights arrive sooner in that cruel forest. Lojen’s Eye, which shines in Laraytia for fourteen bells on a summer day, is smothered by the green canopy after only twelve. Winter, which arrives in Laraytia on the third day of Ratharia, breathes death into the forest one month earlier. And the lives of visitors, lives that span decades in the moors and marches, come to an early, cruel and twitching end among the ferns of the forest floor.
-- From “The Beast of Nuldryn” by Dasik Narragne
Something waited in the darkness of oak and alder. Something black and ancient and rotted. It listened to the grinding lurch of wagon wheels and seethed.
Five coaches rumbled along the high-grassed wreck of the Maurian Road. Day’s end was an hour away in the downs and meadows of Laraytia, but the forest kept its own time. Night had fallen in Maug Maurai. Hands fumbled for lanterns, hung them too fast on hooks along the coaches.
And something deep in the thickets stirred.
Ulrean Cobblethrie sat the driver’s box of the lead carriage. The vehicle was his father’s newest treasure, a towering carriage drawn by four anvil-footed Dromese draught horses. The coach was a choir of carved wood and slender wheels, with chains for suspension and banners of crimson damask fluttering from its sides. Ulrean had called the vehicle a wagon before leaving his home duchy of Lae Duerna, and Sir Wyann, one of his father's knights, corrected him with a laugh and a tousle. “It’s a carriage, young lord. Might as well call my mare a mule.”
But Black Murrogar called it a wagon, too. And Sir Wyann never corrected him.
Murrogar sat with Ulrean today on the final leg of their journey to Nuldryn Duchy. The warrior wore a new crimson tabard over the old, blackened mail of the King's army, the Laraytian Standards. He wasn't a Standard anymore, but he would wear no other armor. He'd be buried in that blackened chain. If anything ever killed him.
One of Murrogar's hands was loose on the damp leather reins, the other made gestures in the air as his baritone rang out. “Dyin’ for someone ain’t nothing,” he said. “Any idiot can do that. A true friend is someone who won’t go changing on you. Who won’t turn a fool.”
Ulrean Cobblethrie was heir to the Duchy. It was rare for him to speak with a commoner, much less a soldier. But this was Black Murrogar, champion of Laraytia, and even Ulrean’s father, the Duke of Lae Duerna, listened when Murrogar spoke.
“I hope I find a friend like that,” said Ulrean.
Murrogar had seen enough of the boy to know that he had no friends. As the sole surviving heir to the dukedom of Lae Duerna, Ulrean’s safety weighed more heavily than his happiness. He was rarely allowed outside the court. Was monitored unceasingly, his frail health checked daily, his movements tracked. Even now the boy’s guardian - his manae - watched Murrogar through the glass panes of the carriage’s front window, the old woman’s scowl creasing her features.
“You’ll have good friends,” said Murrogar. “Just be careful when you choose them. As son of a duke, you’ll need to sort out the bog iron from steel.”
Ulrean thought about this for a time. “Are you my friend, Murrogar?”
“No,” said the big soldier. “I’m too old to be making friends. I’m just here to help your pa.”
“That’s understandable,” said Ulrean. “I … I suppose it wouldn’t be proper for my father’s hired guard to make friends with me.”
Murrogar looked into the child’s face and realized how much his words had stung. It wasn’t the first time he had forgotten how truly young Ulrean was. The child was brilliant. He had recited for Murrogar the names of all twenty-seven men who had served as Champion of Lae Duerna. Had demonstrated his rudimentary knowledge of two other languages. And he could speak intelligently on most of the major battles fought in Laraytia. But he was still a child. A young one. “You don’t want me as a friend. Last two friends I had are dead.”
Leaves shuffed loud enough to be heard over the wagon’s rumbling advance. Something large moved in the forest. Murrogar cocked his head and listened. He looked into the jagged darkness of vine and branch, his soldier’s eyes searching. He sniffed at the air, took in only pine and lavender.
“Did your friends change?” asked Ulrean. “Did they become fools?”
“That’s probably why they’re dead.” Murrogar kept his gaze on the forest for a long time then looked toward the four mounted knights that formed the vanguard. “I’ll be your friend,” he said, sighing and rubbing at the hedges of his black beard. “But you best not go changin’ on me.”
Ulrean smiled, and then frowned an instant later. “I’m only eight years old,” he said. “I imagine I must change a little.”
“Why would you go do a thing like that?” Murrogar gave the boy a wink. “Just don’t become a fool. People will attack your mind the rest of your days, Master Ulrean. Don’t do what they expect. Do what is right.” He rapped the boy’s forehead lightly. “Don’t let ‘em get in the keep. Un’erstand? And don’t give in to fear. The thing folks fear most is usually the thing that will do ‘em the most good.” He brushed back the curtains of brown hair from the boy’s brows and tapped a blue gemstone lodged in the child’s forehead. “You remember how scared you were when they put this in?”
Ulrean winced, not because it hurt, but because he hated being reminded of its presence.
A rumble tore through the forest night. Something guttural and primitive. The horses along the caravan slowed and tossed their heads. One of the knights’ chargers reared at the front of the line, its trumpet call deadened by the trees of Maurai.
The caravan slowed to a h
alt.
Sir Wyann, one of the knights at the front, rode back to Murrogar. He spoke through the open visor of his bascinet, the lanterns glinting orange against his armor. “The horses are spooked.”
“That why they’re rearin’ and tossin’?” said Murrogar.
“Yes,” said the knight. If he recognized the sarcasm he didn’t acknowledge it. “I heard a sound in the wood. Maybe an animal.” The man searched the black labyrinth of the forest, then turned back to Murrogar. “Or perhaps just thunder echoing. Just weather on the way.”
“It ain’t weather,” said Murrogar. Trained chargers didn’t fear weather.
Sir Wyann cleared his throat. “Well, we know for certain that it can’t be the –”
“We don’t know nothin’ for certain,” said Murrogar.
Murrogar’s men, Thantos, Hul and Grim, trotted their horses over. Good men. Former Standards all three. He nodded toward the front of the caravan and the three soldiers rode forward. “Master Ulrean, get inside with your folks.” Murrogar pointed at Sir Wyann. “I’ll have your horse. We’re going to pick up the gait. I want these wagons rolling at full draw.”
The knight frowned. “Full draw? There’s no sense risking the carriage like that on this terrible road, is there?”
Murrogar didn’t quote Lojenwyne often, but something from The Arms came readily to his tongue. “Better to heed false warnings than ignore the call of your death.” He stood on the driver’s platform and thrust his hand out. “Your horse.”
Sir Wyann didn’t move. “It’s my horse,” he said, looking away. “She’s fickle with other riders.”
Murrogar stared until the knight met his gaze. “Give me the horse.”
It took nine heartbeats for Sir Wyann to dismount. Murrogar counted them. He had promised himself that he would throw the knight off at ten.
Murrogar mounted the warhorse fluidly and yanked the reins down and to the right, spinning her through the ferns. He spurred the mare to the side of the Cobblethrie wagon. Ulrean opened the wooden door and clambered in. Murrogar leaned forward. The smell of lilies and mint wafted out. He called inside. “We’re gonna pick up the pace a bit. Secure yourselves.”
Duke Orien thrust out his head. “Is everything all right, Murrogar?”
Murrogar shrugged. I told you not to take this road, you fool. I told you, didn’t I?
He forced himself to smile at the eight passengers in the wagon. “Most likely, m’lord. But my job is to protect you, not to give you a comfortable ride.”
The Duke studied his warmaster in the lantern light, then, with a nod, returned to his crimson-cushioned seat. The caravan lurched forward again.
The four wagons that followed behind were far more sensible. Larger and sturdier. The one directly behind the Cobblethrie family held fourteen more nobles. Behind that came the servants and squires, packed tightly in a weathered old cart with a canvas top. Murrogar imagined them huddled like Dromese gypsies, their heads bobbing to the jarring melody of the forest road.
He thumped the wagons as they rattled past and thought about the Beast. He wondered if the other duke, the Duke of Nuldryn, had lied to them. Wondered if Duke Mulbrey of Nuldryn had the brashness to tell a lie that big.
Twelve spearmen and four crossbowmen from the Lae Duerna garrison sat shoulder to shoulder in the fourth wagon, a roofless cart. Their chainmail hauberks glistened beneath the crimson and gold tabards of Lae Duerna. These were provincial soldiers, half-trained warriors, known as janissaries to most. Laraytian Standards had other names for them. Janes. Daisies. And worse. Murrogar bade them keep their eyes open, called to the crossbowmen: “Load and prop!”
Four thick-shouldered greys drew the last wagon, a massive baggage cart, ancient and silvered. And in its wake rode ten nobles and four knights, all mounted. Murrogar gave the knights a curt nod.
As Murrogar rode back to the Duke’s wagon a crack rang out from the forest. Loud and sharp, like a breaking bough. He slowed and listened. Sir Wyann stood up on the bobbing driver’s box of the Cobblethrie carriage and took a deep breath, drew his sword. “Do you … smell something?” he asked. “Something bad?”
Murrogar drew his own sword and called for the wagons to go full draw. “Aye,” he said, spitting. The scent of decaying flesh drifted in the air. “I smell something rotten, all right.”
A scream from the rear of the caravan tore through the silence. The wagons jerked to a stop again. Drivers peered back with lanterns in outstretched arms. Murrogar shouted for the caravan to keep moving and charged his horse to the rear of the train. A mob of horsemen thundered past him, some of them crying out incoherently.
A dead horse lay in the road at the tail of the caravan. A noble’s horse. The ferns ran black with blood. Murrogar couldn’t see the rider. He gazed into the forest but the lantern-lights didn’t reach far.
More cries. These from the front of the caravan. A resonant crunch tore through the screams. Murrogar whirled the charger in time to see the Cobblethrie wagon topple sideways to the ferns and high grasses. A dark, hulking shape dove into the underbrush of the forest. The shape was three times the size of a warhorse and left faint tracers of green light in its wake.
Murrogar called the soldiers to arms and rode toward the overturned wagon. It lay on its side like a dying stag. Two of its slender wheels still spinning. Its side heaved as someone inside tried to work the door. One of the four Dromese workhorses nickered and struggled to rise. The others lay motionless.
The soldiers from the third cart pulled tin lanterns from hooks and swarmed off the transport. They ran to the fallen carriage and closed ranks around it, hanging the lanterns from hasps on their belts. Spears bristled outward. The tiny lanterns struck glints from their wide eyes.
A knight with curled horns on either side of his greathelm drew his sword and galloped down the road toward a hulking shape that swam with spots of glowing green. The knight, only a silhouette at this distance, rode past Murrogar’s three men shouting “Lae Duerna!” He chased the creature around a bend in the road and did not return.
The Duke flipped the fallen carriage’s door open like the hatch to some elaborate cellar and tried to climb out. Murrogar galloped toward the overturned wagon. Four mounted knights and five mounted nobles were clustered around it already, their horses spinning and blowing. The mounted nobles were babbling to each other, their heads jerking from one side of the forest to the other, their horses crabbing and spinning. One of the noblemen drew a sword. Another burst into tears. Sir Wyann was on all fours. He’d been thrown from the wagon when it fell and now he searched for something in the ferns. The spearmen tried to tighten their lines around the wagon but the clustered horsemen blocked them. One of the spearmen hadn’t left the soldiers’ cart. He hid beneath one of the benches and trembled.
Murrogar rode past the knights and kicked the door to the Cobblethrie carriage shut, knocking the Duke back inside. Stay in the wagon,” Murrogar called. “There’s only death out here.” He commanded the horsemen to make room so the spearmen could close ranks, then shouted at the soldiers: “Get your knees in the dirt. Set your spears. You never gone hunting? Crossbows, cover east and west. You know how to fire those things right?” He shook his head. A little disgust to shame them into form.
Someone screamed loud enough to be heard over the rest of the howls and sobs. A girlish shriek from the soldiers’ cart that made Murrogar spit. Where was the pride? Is that the last noise he wants to make in this life? The spearman hiding under the bench was gone. Whatever took the soldier was gone again and Murrogar hadn’t even seen it strike.
Grim, one of Murrogar’s men, rode back from the vanguard to the fallen carriage. Murrogar dismounted and ordered him to take charge of the soldiers guarding the fallen carriage. Then he pulled five spearmen with him to the side-facing roof of the wagon. Together they heaved and tried to right the wagon, but one of the wheels snapped and the carriage fell, spearmen dancing away from the falling bulk as it crashed to the ground.
The gentry inside the carriage screamed, though their cries were muffled by the carved wood. Murrogar called to the spearmen again but battle cries rang out on the other side of the wagon. The cries became screams for help. Murrogar abandoned his attempts to right the wagon and skidded around the coach when he heard Grim roar.
There were three dead knights and a dying horse on the other side of the carriage. Grim’s head and torso lay on the grass. There was no sign of the rest of him.
Something massive and dark tore at the front window of the carriage, the one the old manae had looked out from only minutes before. The creature tried to pull a nobleman out through the breach but the hole was too small. Only pieces of the man made it through. More screams from inside the carriage. Murrogar couldn’t tell the cries of the noblemen from those of the noblewomen. The monster was gone before Murrogar could close with it.
Lojen above, that thing is fast.
He banged the sides of the carriage and called inside. “We’re going for a walk. Everyone out! Out! OUT!”
The words didn’t have the proper effect so he tore off the remains of the door and pulled the travelers up and out through the shattered side. By arms, by dresses, by hair. Whatever he could get his hands on. Most of them got the idea and clambered out. The old manae hunched in the corner, clutching Ulrean in her arms. Poor lad. He was probably going to die tonight. “You too, old woman.” Murrogar winked at Ulrean and grabbed the manae under the shoulders, pulled both of them out. He emerged to screams all around.
Thantos and Hul each had an iron lantern and were coaxing the retainers from the second wagon in the same fashion that Murrogar had coaxed the Cobblethries.
The Duke stood by the fallen carriage, holding his wife’s face and whispering firmly to her. One of the Duchess’ lady retainers hugged her tightly from behind. The old manae sat in the ferns with Ulrean and rocked him in her lap, her arms tight around his chest. The rest of the nobles and retainers were screaming or holding one another. Some bawled and pointed at pieces of soldiers. A nobleman in a plumed hat tried to crawl back into the Cobblethrie wagon. They were like terrified children. Murrogar couldn’t blame them, really. Even he was starting to feel anxious.
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling Page 1