Murrogar sheathed his sword in its back mount, verified that Sir Gorin was dead, then ran westward toward the fleeing nobles. Sir Wyann struggled to lift the wounded spearman. He called to Sir Bederant. “This man saved me. Help me with him.”
Sir Bederant’s antlered helmet shook to the left and right. “He’s dead, Wy. Leave him. Or give him the mercy.”
The wounded spearman looked from one knight to the other. “Krit hezina.”
Sir Bederant unstrapped his helmet and tilted it up and back against his forehead. He held it on his head with two fingers. “That’s the Eridian one. I don’t think he speaks any Galadane. Send him off to Lojenwyne.”
But Sir Wyann knew a few words of Eridian. “Krit Hezina. He’s saying he’s alright. Help me with him.”
Between the two of them they got the Eridian to his feet and the three of them stumbled after Murrogar.
“Krit Hezina,” said the spearman as they walked. “Krit Hezina.”
Chapter 7
After four years in the East, Grae Barragns replaced the Nuldryn Hawk with the Ram Badge of Maulden. He earned that Ram, had wrung his soul and bought the badge with the waters of his conscience. Back in Nuldryn he had seen battles. But in Maulden, in the Green Hills, he had witnessed war.
-- From “The Headsman of Laraytia” by Dannyek the Sensible
The Happy Pig was a soldier’s tavern. It was spacious, rugged and dark. Ancient beams ran along the edges of the building. The air smelled of dried ale. Of sweat and leather and steel.
Grae noted the details absently because the brunt of his attention was drawn almost immediately to a man trying to blend in with the crowd. A tall man, broad shouldered and muscled. A blond braid of hair tumbling over one shoulder. There was a stiffness to the man’s posture and an intensity to his gaze that made him stand out like a pine among brambles. Grae took note of the man then scanned the rest of the tavern.
The Garellane Festival of Kithrey wouldn’t start for another two weeks but already the Happy Pig was brimming. Every spot on the benches was claimed. A scattering of freebodies sat on the tables, brandishing flesh, hawking their time. Hourglass wives. That’s what his father used to call the freebodies. His mother had a different word for them.
Nothing had changed here. Grae had grown up in Maentrass Barony, a half day’s ride from Kithrey. The smell of drying honey mead, the particular vintage brewed only here at The Pig, brought back memories. Laughing with his friends. Laughing with his cluster mates. Laughing with Kithrey girls. He always laughed back then. The memory of it was flat and bitter, as if that past had been sold to someone else.
He searched the benches for the man who had laughed with him the most in those days. It took a long time to find him. A freebody in bushy skirts sat on his lap, veiled him in a thicket of linen and satin and gibbous flesh. The two of them, hammer and whore, were jammed on the bench among a group of Duke Mulbrey’s janissaries.
“Is there a hammer under those skirts?” called Grae.
Mullin Haerth peered over the girl’s shoulder and showed off two dozen gleaming teeth. “Grae Barragns, the legend ‘o Nuldryn!” He stood, dropping the freebody gently onto her feet. “On your way now, luv. We got man business to discuss.” He turned and gave Grae an ogre hug, smacking him on the back with a beefy hand.
Hammer looked the same as always. His uniform was clean but the black dragon on the tabard had faded to dark grey. Hair equal parts brown and silver. Sloppily trimmed beard. Thick shoulders and turnip nose. Same quick smile and flashing eyes. All thunder and sunshine and nothing in between.
He was at least ten years older than Grae and had been in the Standards for twelve years before Grae joined. Mullin had been a hammer back then, too. He would probably die as one, so soldiers had stopped calling him by his name ages ago. He was simply Hammer.
“I ‘ope the man did that to your face is in a cairn now,” said Hammer.
“Wasn’t a man Hammer.” said Grae and Hammer laughed.
“How many times I gotta tell it, Grae? Take girls from behind!”
“I did,” said Grae. “That was my first mistake.”
Hammer laughed again and called to a serving maid. He asked for two tankards of mead and two plates of hog roast. When she was gone Hammer spoke in a different tone.
“How ya been, Grae?” It was asked with such genuine concern that Grae gave him a smile. Not the typical half-smile, but a true smile, warm and wide. Hammer sighed. “I’ve seen steamin’ horse piles that look better than you.”
“Truth or silence, I’ve been better,” said Grae. “I think someone’s cursed me.”
“Go see my mum. She’ll set you right.”
Grae called up a fuzzy image of Hammer’s mother, a red-faced, heavyset landscrubber heavily invested in Turae, the old Andraen religions. He remembered the packets of strange artworks that she gave Hammer at every visit. Strange concoctions of feathers and pitch, of painted bones, or dried body parts. It was a bit ironic as she was also a pious follower of Blythwynn; The two disparate beliefs lived harmoniously in her mind.
“Did you get a look at the list?” Grae asked.
“Aye, I got your message. Made the scribe read it ten times I could memorize the names. I dug up what I could on the men.” He shook his head. “The worst sorts of scoundrels they could ‘ave found. I mean it, Grae. Some real gut-huffers on there.” He looked over his shoulder, searching for the serving girl, then turned back with a thoughtful look. “There’s something odd ‘bout this assignment Grae. Something real odd.”
“You have no idea,” said Grae. “I just met with the Duke’s Chamberlain to discuss it.”
“The chamberlain? What’s ‘e got to do with this?”
“Nothing,” said Grae. “Everything. It doesn’t matter. He told me what we have to do.” To slay the Beast of Maug Maurai. There was something provocative about it. Something heroic.
A damnable pity about the second assignment.
Hammer leaned forward, curious at the reflective expression on Grae’s face, but the serving girl arrived. Hammer gave the spindly child a “there’s a luv” and took the tankards, handing one to Grae.
Grae’s gaze slipped past the serving girl into the crowd. The man with the blond braid was staring at them. “Someone’s taken an interest in us.”
Hammer nodded and drank. “There’s two more of ‘em around. Got into a scuffle with ‘em and their friends couple days ago.”
“A scuffle?” Hammer wasn’t one to brawl. Not anymore. “What sort of scuffle?”
“Just a scuffle, Grae. Nothing serious. Words. Fists. A scuffle.”
“And what brought on this scuffle?”
Hammer shrugged, stared deeply into his mug. “Don’ know. They’re Andraens. Crazy folk.”
The Andraens had been conquered by the Galadane-Laray more than three hundred years past. The wounds of the conquest had healed for most, and the blood of Andraen and Galadane had merged in Laraytia. Grae, himself, had Andraen blood on his mother’s side. But there were pockets of full-bloods who would mate only with other pure Andraens. Men and women who could not forget that Laraytia once was theirs, four generations back.
“I thought you liked Andraens,” Grae rose. “I think we should have a talk with them.”
Hammer hauled him down. “Talking won’t ‘elp.”
Grae met Hammer’s stare and found more resolve in it than he cared to fight.
“Huy then, you heard the news out of Maurai?” The tone of Hammer’s voice turned chatty again.
“Yes I did.” Grae scanned the room one last time but the Andraen had faded behind the ranks of other patrons. “The Cobblethries got attacked on the way to the fair.”
“Aye. You ‘ave to wonder what someone’s done to bring a curse like that down on a family. A long shadow lies over that brood.” He swigged again, foam catching in his beard. “Ya ‘ear that Black Murrogar was their warmaster?”
“Yes. I imagine he’s dead now.” Grae’s voice wa
s crisper than he intended. He stretched his arms high overhead and tried to put it out of his mind. With food and mead in his body he was winding down. “Interesting you should mention Maug Maurai.” He put a hand on Hammer’s shoulder. “Hammer, my friend, there’s bad news and worse.”
“Sterling. You can share it over another pint.”
“No more mead,” said Grae. “That’s the least of the bad news.”
“No mead? What could be worse?”
“Worse?” He cleared his throat. “Our assignment is to kill the Beast of Maug Maurai.”
Hammer’s body tightened. Only for an instant but Grae noted it.
“The Beast, eh?” Hammer smiled grimly. “Then you’re wrong. We’re going to need a whole lot of mead tonight.”
A shadow fell upon the two soldiers. Grae glanced up in time to see something flash through the air. He called a warning but Hammer was already ducking low. Something hard swung past Hammer’s head and crashed into the table, dimpling the pale wood. Making the tankards clang and jump. Grae caught site of fabric. A crude flail made from a heavy object wrapped in cloth. Grae rose, drove his shoulder into the assailant. A red-bearded Andraen. As the man fell back a second Andraen, the one with the blond braid, lunged from behind Hammer. The man grabbed Hammer by the hair and yanked back hard. The old soldier’s chin rose into the air. Then, as suddenly as it began, the attack ended. They released Hammer and fled, knocking patrons to the floor and spilling trays of ale and beer.
But The Happy Pig was a soldier’s tavern. When the cry went up that a hammer had been attacked, every soldier rose to his feet. Two of the Andraens squeezed through the door in the confusion, but the third, not much older than a boy, was slammed to the sticky floor by a thick-shouldered garrisoner wearing Duke Mulbrey’s falcon. A crush of soldiers fell upon the Andraen, kicking and striking with fists or mugs.
Grae pushed his way through the crowd and used his battlefield voice to stop the men, but it was a long time before the commands registered. They pulled away from the young man, a few at a time. The Falcon who had taken the boy down gave him one more blow then backed away reluctantly. He smiled at Grae. “Got ‘im fer ya, sir.”
Grae helped the young Andraen to his feet. The man’s upper body was drenched in blood. As if he’d been caught in a thick red thunderstorm. He didn’t speak. He scrambled toward the door but fell sideways, as if he were drunk. He tried to stand but slipped on his own blood and fell heavily to the floor again. Grae tried to help him rise again but the Andraen regained his feet on his own. He groaned as he staggered out of the tavern.
Grae watched him go, feeling a surge of pity as the other soldiers laughed. He glanced at Hammer. The old soldier put a hand to his head where the second Andraen had grabbed him.
“You all right?” asked Grae.
Hammer touched the back of his head and nodded. He stood and looked toward the door. “Andraens,” he said. “Crazy folk.”
Hammer begged off for a half-bell to ready himself and gather his belongings from the room on the tavern’s second floor. He also asked to borrow two drakes. It was a good deal of money, but Grae knew his old friend wouldn’t make such a request lightly. Grae fished out three drakes instead and handed them over. Hammer looked at the three gold coins and hesitated, but he kept them all and nodded with thanks in his eyes.
The old soldier walked up the open staircase, past two freebodies who smiled at him. He pushed through the cloth hangings in the upstairs doorway and into a creaky little room. His equipment sat by the door. It had been stacked and ready since the morning. He looked toward the bed. Alianne waited for him, brushing out her hair. The backlight from the porthole window rendered her little more than a silhouette, but there was beauty there. A grace that he’d never seen on a freebody. He smiled, but she saw through it, stopped brushing. “My love?”
“You’re a princess. You musta been. They set your crib in a stream when your castle was overrun. But I can see the royalty shinin’ in you, I can.”
“Come ‘ere, love,” she replied, arms out. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Hammer let the smile fall away and allowed the embrace. Alianne felt the stiffness and backed away, her eyes narrow. “Darling?”
Hammer wouldn’t meet her gaze. He fished out the coins that Grae had given him, added the eight hawks that he carried in the lining of his boot.
“You remember where I put the rest?”
“Mullin…”
“Under the blue feuryk. The field with them flowers you liked. You remember?”
“I remember,” she said, biting her lip.
He made her take the coins. “With this, and the rest, you can pay it off in a month or two.”
“Where are they sending you, my love? What are they doing to you?”
“You know that’s all I ever wanted. To pay off that debt. To get you home.”
She put a hand to her mouth. “You’re not coming back.”
He smiled at her, let his eyes burn her image into memory as the bells of Kithrey’s moonhaven tolled eight times. She threw her arms around him, then pulled back and unclasped the necklace she wore. It was a finger bone, covered in wax. A Turae charm of protection. Hammer smiled. His mother would like Alianne.
She fastened the necklace around his throat. “Anthus guard you, my love.”
Hammer touched the pendant, took her chin in two fingers and kissed her.
When he left, Alianne watched from the top of the open stairs. He gave her a nod and made his way through the tavern. A young whore walked behind Alianne and watched the two soldiers as they left. The girl giggled.
“’e still think ‘e’s payin’ offa debt for you?”
Alianne said nothing. The young girl giggled again. “A real hero. How much ‘as that fool given you already?”
“Fuck off.” Alianne didn’t turn around. There were tears in her eyes.
Chapter 8
The summer trees shimmer soft and sumptuous.
But at winter’s first whisper all weakness is washed away
-- Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet
Death cried out from the black tangles of Maug Maurai. The Beast was behind them. Lurking. Stalking. Black Murrogar caught its stench when the wind was right. It hadn’t attacked again, but its cries were an unrelenting threat.
Murrogar turned the party northward after what seemed three or four miles. Time and distance were tenuous things in Maug Maurai, marked by bogs and thickets, by the soreness of feet or the burn of straps against shoulders. There were eight lanterns left among the travelers. Feeble comfort against the smothering darkness.
The nobles complained often at first. Murrogar was hard on them when they did. Such things were contagious. So the travelers stopped talking altogether and the only sounds were the crunch and snap of leaves and branches underfoot, the clank of armor, and a constant, muffled weeping among many of the travelers.
Ulrean’s manae lost her footing on a root-rippled patch of soil and fell. The child stopped for her. The Duke and Duchess tried to goad the manae to her feet, but the old woman insisted she would go no farther. The other travelers didn’t stop to look. They shuffled past, bone-weary and cold.
Murrogar stopped when he reached her. “This a picnic?” He forced himself to smile, sat beside the old woman.
“She can’t walk any more, Murrogar,” said the Duke. “We shall make camp here. We can use logs and stones to create a --“
“We ain’t stopping, my lord.” Murrogar studied the manae. She was shivering.
“I’m old, you monster,” she snapped. “Someday, you’ll be old too. You’ll understand.”
Murrogar rubbed at his lower back. “That day ain’t far.”
He looked into her eyes and knew that she would go no farther. He turned to the Duke. “She’ll be fine in a bit. I’ll wait here with her.”
The Duke exchanged a glance with the duchess. “We will wait as well.”
Murrogar shook his head. “The Beast ain’t far behind.
” He gestured to Ulrean. “Think of the child.”
The Duke put a hand on Ulrean’s shoulder. “You’ll get her on her feet again?”
“I’ll take care of her,” said Murrogar.
The manae beckoned Ulrean and gave him a long hug. And then Murrogar and the old woman were alone.
“You think I’m stupid?” she said.
“I know you’re not,” he replied.
“Give me a moment,” she said, her teeth chattering. “I’m not ready.”
“As much time as you need.”
Even if she could stand, could continue, the river would kill her.
Sir Wyann and Sir Bederant lumbered past, the dying Eridian still dying, his face twisted with pain, one arm on each of their shoulders. They didn’t even glance at the two seated figures as they passed. A hanging branch knocked the Eridian’s shield from a hook on his back and it fell to the ground.
“I used to play in the forest when I was a girl,” said the Manae. “Used to bring polished platters out and tease the sunchaser flowers. I’d reflect sunlight onto them and watch as they wriggled and shoved. Until they came to an understanding, each one finding its place. Each one catching a little sunlight. Then I would move the platter and watch them do it again.”
“We all played with the sunchasers in our youth,” said Murrogar. He leaned in close so she couldn’t see the dagger slip from its sheath.
“What a damned nuisance I must have been to them,” she said. “Shaking their world like that.”
“Worlds need shaking, sometimes.”
“You keep an eye on Ulrean.”
“I’ll do my best for ‘im.”
She reached out and took his hand, held it tightly. Tears came to her eyes as she nodded. She gave a faint sob. Black Murrogar leaned forward and kissed her forehead as he slipped the dagger through the nape of her neck.
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling Page 4