The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling

by Roberto Calas

Lokk Lurius studied the bearded and scarred Rundle Graen, then shook his head. “I don’t spar.”

  “What do you mean you don’t spar?” snapped Hammer. “How are you supposed to get better?”

  “Better?”

  “Yes, better,” shouted Hammer. “Like butter, ‘cept more lethal. You understand Galadane? Take this scuff and ‘ave at it or you’ll be a whole lot worse, I promise.”

  “I don’t spar,” Lurius repeated.

  “I don’t recall asking you if you liked to spar, stout,” said Grae. “I ordered you to spar.”

  Lurius shrugged. “I don’t like pretending to kill.”

  There was an awkward pause, then Beldrun Shanks piped up. “I’ll fight ‘im.”

  Lokk Lurius barked at him: “Keep the tongue in your mouth, troll.”

  Shanks dismounted and smiled broadly. He spit out a half-chewed acorn and wiped his bound hands on his tabard. “Oh, I’m definitely fighting ‘im.” He looked to Hammer for approval.

  Hammer could think of nothing more satisfying than to have the arrogant Eridian taken to pieces by Shanks, but it wasn’t his decision to make. He looked to Grae.

  Grae met Hammer’s gaze and nodded. Hammer removed Shanks’ manacles and motioned for him to take a weapon.

  “At him then. But if you hit him in the head or throat, or hit him when he’s down, we’ll have those manacles back on you and you’ll be drawn and quartered at Kithrey. You un’erstand?”

  Lokk Lurius seemed completely indifferent. He made no move toward the weapons. Shanks pounded scuffle sword against his shield and called to Lokk Lurius. “You don’t like pretending to kill, eh? Let’s see how you like pretending to die.”

  Lokk Lurius stared at Shanks then walked away. Grae opened his mouth to shout at him but the Eridian walked to Lord Aeren’s horse and drew a crop from the rigging dee. Lord Aeren made a sound as if he wanted to speak, but said nothing. Lokk Lurius walked to within a few feet of Beldrun Shanks and assumed a loose, almost mocking guard with the crop.

  “I don’t care if you’re foolin’, you shield-dropping queynt. I’ll drop you with whatev—”

  Lurius moved forward and slapped Shanks in the face with the crop so quickly that the big man never even moved.

  “You dirty shit hole …” Shanks was silenced by another slap to the face. He bellowed and lunged forward. His sword hummed as it cut through the air. It was aimed at the Eridian’s head, but Lokk Lurius stepped to the side calmly and the blade sailed past. Lurius stepped inside the sword’s arc, flipped the crop in a half circle, and jabbed the hard end of it into Beldrun Shank’s throat.

  Shanks took a grunting step backward, sent a vicious backhand at Lokk Lurius’ torso. The Eridian slipped out of its range then stepped in from an angle. He glided behind Shank’s shield and jabbed the crop under the big man’s armpit.

  Shanks swung his elbow and broke away from the Eridian, then slashed out twice in quick succession. The first swing missed wildly. Lurius used his off hand to block Shank’s arm on the second swing. Then the Eridian swung down with the crop, spinning it in mid-stroke. He smacked downward with the soft end, raking it the length of Beldrun’s face, from forehead to chin. Then he stepped back.

  “I’m gonna pretend to rip your fucking arms off, you bastard!” said Shanks.

  Lokk Lurius yawned, and this seemed more than Shanks could bear. The big infantryman howled and leaped at the Eridian. Lokk ducked and whirled. He tripped Shanks, disarming the big man as he fell. Shanks landed on his shield and the breath seemed to go out of him. He lay on the ground, red-faced and sweating, grimacing and exhausted. But Grae saw something dangerous in his eyes.

  Lurius threw Shanks’ sword down, leaving it point-first and wobbling in the soil. He walked toward Grae. Behind him, Beldrun Shanks rose to his feet sucking deep breaths, his eyes narrow, hands trembling. Shanks jerked the scuffle sword from the earth, clenched his jaw and strode after the Eridian. The big infantryman raised the blunted sword over his head as Lokk Lurius let the riding crop fall. Shanks slashed downward with two hands on the hilt, his face contorted. Blade and crop fell and Lokk Lurius’ only warnings were the looks on Grae and Hammer’s faces.

  Before the crop could hit the ground, before the blade could crush his crown, Lokk Lurius dropped to a knee. He caught the crop. Drove a shoulder into the place where he knew Beldrun Shank’s leg had to be. The big man toppled onto his side, one of his arms pinned beneath his body. Lokk Lurius pinned the other arm behind Shanks’ back and drove the hard end of the crop under the big man’s chin. The calmness drained from Lokk’s face. His eyes were slits. His teeth bared. Shanks gagged and kicked and flailed, but Lurius had him pinned. The big man’s face turned red. The crop went deeper still.

  It took Grae and Hammer and Sage and Rundle Graen to pry Lokk Lurius from Beldrun Shanks. When they were separated, Lokk Lurius staggered a few feet away and gasped for breath. He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes and leaned over. He stayed in that position for a dozen heartbeats. And when he finally moved, his breath was ragged. He walked to Lord Aeren’s horse and replaced the riding crop in the saddle, patting it with his hand in a reassuring fashion. He took another deep breath and approached Grae and Hammer as if nothing untoward had occurred.

  “You wart-brained lunatic!” screamed Hammer. “You could have killed him!”

  Lokk Lurius glanced at Beldrun, still rolling on the ground.

  “No,” said Lokk Lurius. “I was just pretending.” He turned and walked toward Lord Aeren’s tent. “I’ll get my things.”

  Chapter 23

  One hawk for Mollie,

  One hawk for Mollie,

  There ain’t nothing she won’t do

  One hawk for Mollie,

  One hawk for Mollie,

  For one night her love is true

  -- From “One Hawk for Mollie.” Laraytian Folk Song

  Grae stopped the procession at Fulyn Avaeron, a Hallowed-Union Temple, shared by the clergy of both Blythwynn and Lojenwyne. It was divided so that enforcers, the priests of Lojenwyne, and the chimes, priestesses of Blythwynn, could not see one another.

  “Grae, we won’t make Kithrey if we dawdle,” said Hammer. “Alive or dead, there’s a heap of nobles in the forest waiting on us.”

  Grae dismounted silently and walked toward the temple. “And there are ten Standards here risking their lives to find them. Bring the squad,” he called back. “I’ll not have them facing the Beast without a blessing.”

  The main structure, like all union temples, was circular and capped with a dome of white stone. A brass sun and a silver moon, both staked to a weathervane at the crest, revolved endlessly around one another. The eastern wing, to Grae’s left, was devoted to Lojenwyne – to Justice and War and Death. The western belonged to Blythwynn – to Forgiveness and Light and Life.

  Grae entered the central chamber, the domed structure. There was a faint swishing sound to the right, but Grae walked toward the left.

  An old man hobbled towards him from behind an altar, one foot dragging, a worn broom in his hands. He was an old man, dressed in a simple yellow robe of a Lojanite clergist. “The chimes are asleep. Don’t like Lojen’s Gaze. Harsh, his light. Asleep ‘til sunset.” He kissed the broomstick and smiled toothlessly. “I seen the boobies on one ‘a ‘em chimes once,” he whispered. “A chantress. She didn’t think no one was here. Watched her change her robe right where yer standin’. Tits like scoops ‘a butter. Delicious. Delicious.”

  An Lojanite enforcer rose to his feet by the eastern door. He’d been kneeling and scrubbing at the base of the carved oaken door. “Sweep, old man! Sweep!” he shouted. “Leave our guests alone.”

  The old man shuffled away and the priest motioned for Grae to join him by the door. Grae glanced at the squad, gathered uncertainly at the foyer, then walked to the great wooden door.

  The enforcer was past his prime, but still a powerful man, thick neck girded with a steel bevor. A vertical scar glistened on his forehe
ad. He wore a golden tunic over padded jacket. Lojen’s orange sun embroidered across the silk. A livery collar proclaiming his station draped his shoulders. Grae knelt before him.

  “Rise, Brig, Rise!”

  Grae stood. “I am Brig Grae Barragns, master.”

  The priest pointed at Grae with a scouring brush and smiled broadly. “Grae Barragns? I knew your father. And I’ve followed your deeds closely, son. You’ve done great work for Lojenwyne. Great work.”

  “Have I, Master?” There was something in Grae’s tone, a quiver that made the priest grow somber. He stared at Grae, then knelt before the door again. There was a pail by his side, and a bag of lye. The priest dipped the brush in the water, then the lye, then scoured at the base of the door.

  “Mold,” he mumbled. “An enforcer’s life isn’t all glory. But cleaning keeps one humble. Keeps the muscles strong. Maybe you’ll be an enforcer someday.” He brushed for a time without speaking, his teeth clenched. “Remember always who you are, Grae Barragns.” He didn’t look at Grae as he spoke. Just kept brushing. “You are a soldier. And a soldier’s work is always Lojen’s work.” He touched the door with a finger, frowned. Looked down at the brush and tapped the bristles. He called to the old clergist. “Old man! A new brush! The bristles on this are soft as feathers!” He looked at Grae, pointed one calloused finger at him. “You are justice, Grae Barragns. And justice is never fashionable.”

  The clergist brought him a new brush and the priest scrubbed again. He cleared a section at the base and smiled. “Beautiful. See how that shines?”

  The enforcer gave the soldiers a blessing, The Invocation of Courage and Strength. He painted the back of each man’s neck with the blood of an ox and spoke the words in a booming voice. Grae thanked the priest and the squad returned to the Old Byway.

  They passed a score of caravans lumbering toward the festival. Chandlers and saddle makers, furriers and herbalists, all with the best of their wares, hoping for a prosperous year at the fair, complaining of the worsening roads, or the lack of inns, or the rise in tolls, or whatever proprietary grievances they suffered in their particular craft. The squad passed a horse dealer leading a train of fourteen handsome geldings. Shanks, whose horse had begun making periodic choking noises, glowered at the animals as he rode by.

  The squad rode past a wagonload of freebodies traveling from Invaurnoth. The women smiled and waved at the soldiers, blew kisses and lifted their shirts. They caused a stir among the squad until Hammer reminded them that they were in fair and noble company. Maribrae insisted she didn’t mind. She launched into a bawdy version of One Hawk for Mollie on the fiolys. The men smiled at one another and a few sang along. The freebodies they had left behind joined in as well.

  A troop of cinders from Greystone watched the squad go by from the roadside, They looked identical to one another with their shaved heads, orange cloaks and tall brown hats. Each of them carried the staff and buckler of a Lojenite Wardsman. They were no doubt headed to the festival as well. Grae nodded to them.

  The Lojenites had been the highlight of the many festivals of his youth. Dancing and spinning their bucklers, twirling their staffs in unisons. Afterward, they paired off for demonstrations of Loja, the Wardsman fighting art. The Master Wardsman would perform as well, taking on the rest of the Lojenites in a choreographed final battle. How many times, as a child, had Grae left festivals imitating their moves?

  A mile farther on Grae spotted a pair of chimes walking side by side on the road, wrapped in tight swathes of soft-woven white linen that clung like bandages over every curve. It was rare to see Blythwynn’s priestesses out in the daytime. Both of them had pulled down the unkempt halo of silks and gauzes from beneath the brim of their white hats. Grae could just make out their eyes behind the translucent fabrics. The chimes always pulled down these fabrics when walking in the day, so that the violence of Lojen’s Gaze might be softened.

  The soldiers leered as best they could without appearing to leer. Chimes came from the shires, chosen every other year, one from each shire in the kingdom. They were chosen at age thirteen for their beauty and singing voice. Grae had asked his father once why they always took the prettiest girls away. His father had smiled. They serve as examples of Blythwynn’s beauty. They lift our souls, like stained glass or cathedrals.

  Grae dismounted and greeted the chimes. “My men are journeying into Maug Maurai,” he said. “I would be grateful for a blessing.”

  The chimes were difficult to tell apart through the mist of fabrics over their eyes. One of them stepped forward and nodded. “Even sons of Lojenwyne need Blythwynn’s protections.”

  Everyone dismounted and led their horses off the Old Byway, except for the mercenary, Lokk Lurius, who stayed on his horse. The chime raised her hands over the group and the two priestesses sang the benediction. Half of a chime’s training was in singing, in creating pathos with their voice. Grae closed his eyes at the harmonies and felt a stab of remorse somewhere in the desert of his soul. Drissdie Hannish wept next to him.

  When Grae opened his eyes he stared at the flawless faces of the singing priestesses. At the ivory skin, at the eyelids and lips painted in hues of blue. And then at a drop of red above the lips of one. And then another drop. Blood.

  The priestess didn’t notice the nosebleed until the trickle of it rolled off her lip and splashed onto the white silks on her breast. She tried to go on with the chant, but the blood flow grew stronger and the splatters on her garb too serious to ignore. She stopped singing and the second chime finished the benediction alone.

  Grae gave the bleeding chime a kerchief for her nose and thanked the priestesses. None of the soldiers spoke for a long time. When they were back on the road, Dathnien Faldry, the recovering lunatic, shook his head and broke the silence. “It’s an omen. A terrible omen.”

  “Shut your mouth,” said Hammer. “It ain’t no omen, it’s just dry air.” But he touched the pendant hanging beneath his tunic and, with as much subtlety as possible, sprinkled a white ash into the air in the four cardinal directions.

  “There are no such things as omens,” said Grae. “You lot are too old to be– ” Beldrun Shanks’ horse staggered sideways into Grae’s. The sickly beast snorted twice then fell to its knees and died there on the road.

  Dathnien Faldry began marking every bad omen. He carved a slash into the metal of his shield for the chime’s nosebleed, and another for Shanks’ dead horse.

  Lord Jastyn bought the squad a chestnut gelding from the horse dealer they had seen earlier on the road and they set off again toward the north. Three miles west of Kithrey the Old Byway ran past a series of steep, compact hills. Sage, their scout, said that the hills were barrows, but most of the squad mates already knew. It was said that ancient kings of the perished Margil civilization were buried within them, but tales of savage curses kept even the most desperate of grave robbers from seeking the truth. Grae studied the hills as they passed, imagining treasure hoards and armored skeletons buried beneath a thousand years of Nuldryn dirt.

  Five horsemen rode into view at the crest of the closest barrow. Grae didn’t need to see the blonde braid to know who they were. He looked to Hammer. The old soldier gave a long low cry and stopped his horse. He whisked off his kettle helm and touched the back of his head, where the Andraen had grabbed him in the tavern.

  “Hammer?” Grae turned his mare to face him.

  Hammer pointed at one of the horsemen. It looked like a boy. Grae recognized the young man who had been beaten in the Happy Pig. The boy held a staff in one hand. An elaborate wicker box dangled from the end of it. Grae could just make out feathers sprouting from the edges of the box.

  “It’s a bane box, Grae.” Hammer’s voice was mournful.

  A bane box. An old Turae hex. Grae had heard of them long ago. The boxes were filled with raven bones, and hair or blood from the victim of the curse. A ritual was performed on the whole assortment to activate the dark magics

  “We ‘ave to get it,”
said Hammer. “It’s the most powerful hex they can cast. It’ll doom the mission.”

  “Hammer, that’s ridiculous,” said Grae “There’s nothing to it.” He ignored the scratch of Dathnien Faldry’s dagger blade as the soldier carved another notch upon his shield. “It’s a box with bones in it. Nothing more.”

  “That ain’t true, Grae.” Hammer lowered his head, his fists clenched. “They got my ‘air. They weren’t out to ‘urt me at the tavern. They just wanted my ‘air. We gotta get that box, Grae.”

  Grae took a long look at Hammer’s face and let out a breath, long and deep. “I’m going to go up there and talk to them, and you will remain here. I don’t want to hear a word of argument from you.”

  Hammer tried to offer a word of argument but Grae’s warning finger silenced him. The brig turned and studied the squad. “Lokk Lurius, you’ll come with me.” Grae unbuckled his sword belt. “Leave your weapons behind.”

  Hammer tried to object again but Grae’s glare cut him down. Lokk Lurius sat motionless on his horse, the two thick short swords hanging from the tooled double belt at his waist.

  Grae, still holding his own sheathed sword, pointed to the weapons. “Your swords, Lurius. Leave them behind.”

  Lokk Lurius’ horse turned restlessly. “I went through too much to get these swords,” he said, his Eridian accent thick. “No one else touches them. Ever.”

  Hammer made a sound but Grae shushed him and rode forward so that he was beside the Eridian. He held up his own sword in its scabbard so that Lokk Lurius could see it.

  “This is my father’s sword. It has been owned by four generations of Barragnses. My father’s father broke it during the Darmurian Revolt and had the blade reforged from the same steel. It has been re-gripped twice and has known three different scabbards. It is all I have left of my father.” He tossed the sheathed sword to the simple-minded Drissdie Hannish and leaned closer to Lokk Lurius, so there was a space no wider than the width of a sword blade between their faces. He spoke with the voice of The Headsman. “You will leave your swords here.”