The apprentice magician, Meedryk Bodlyn, sat on the grass by himself and watched the archer from a distance. He drew out the tattered stack of pages from his haversack, studied them, then looked back to the archer and scratched at his cheek. He returned the pages to the sack but kept his eyes on the woman.
Grae Barragns spoke with the archer, gathering as much information as he could, struggling to keep his gaze from lingering on any part of her face or figure. He absorbed her beauty in bursts. Full lips. Sunset hair. Half-lidded green eyes that made her look a little sad, even when smiling
Her name was Aramaesia Charrei and she was the daughter of a clergyman. She and her father were devoted to a goddess named Ja’Drei – one of several deities worshipped in Gracidmar.
“Why don’t you tell us why you are here, in Laraytia?” asked Grae as sternly as he could manage. “And I warn you that lies will be proof of treachery.”
She met his gaze, then stared into her lap, her eyes squinting and thoughtful. “I was told to come to Laraytia.”
“By whom?”
“By Ja’Drei.”
Grae and Hammer exchanged smiles. “Your goddess told you to come to Laraytia?”
She nodded, not looking up.
“That ‘appen a lot in yer kingdom, luv?” asked Hammer, chuckling. “The gods order yer people about?”
“There is but one true goddess,” said Aramaesia. “And she gives no orders.”
“But she spoke to you?” asked Grae. She was freckled like Maribrae, and there was something exotic about her features, her cheekbones. He couldn’t pick out what it was, but it was hard to look away. “She told you to come here? Did she tell you how to get past the eastern fortresses? Did she tell you how to cross our lines without being spotted?”
“We came by ship,” she said. “My father and I. We brought priests and a surgeon.” She left out the six guardsmen, knowing it wouldn’t help her situation.
“And where are they now?”
“They are in the Duchy of Arryn,” she said. “We have set up a camp in the forest. To help your people. We feed them, tend their wounds, listen to their problems.”
They pressed her for details and at first she offered them without hesitation. She had received word of two archery contests in Nuldryn and had hoped to win some prize money to help buy supplies for the growing camp. The camp had stood for six months, and in that time it had swelled; there were more than fifty people living and working there, most of them indigents and transients, but people in the nearby villages were hearing of it. They brought their sick and wounded.
Aramaesia paused after this, as if uncertain of how much to say, then mentioned that even a few of Blythwynn’s chimes stopped by from time to time. They had investigated the camp and found no harm. Now, they brought food and medicine when they could.
“It’s amazing that Gracidmar doesn’t dress their entire army as priests,” said Grae. “They could send them in and slaughter us before we knew what happened.”
“Gra’Cima,” said Aramaesia.
“What?”
“You spoke Gracidmar. It is pronounced ‘Gra’Cima’.”
“We’re in Laraytia now, luv,” said Hammer. “We pronounce it as we like.”
“My point,” said Grae, “is that you can’t just wander around Laraytia. You are an enemy of the kingdom. We could have you and your father encased.”
“The Treaty of Gunngraemaur states that clergy are allowed to give aid in La’risia.”
Grae suspected she had purposely twisted the pronunciation. “The Treaty of Gunngraemaur,” he said, “was signed before your prince burned Bredon. Things have changed since then.”
“I do not follow such things closely,” Aramaesia replied, “But from my gathering, Bredon was burned in response to the Horntrell Massacre. Despite that, we honor our treaties still.”
Horntrell. That wasn’t one of Grae’s, but it still struck home. “You’re in no position to argue with me,” he said, more forcefully than he needed to. “The truth is, things can go very badly for you here.”
“I believe,” said Aramaesia, “I see where you are leading this conversation.”
“You’re a smart girl,” said Grae.
She stood then and clenched her fists. “I will not …” she struggled for the word. “I will not debauch myself.”
Grae laughed. “What?”
“I will do nothing against my religious or moral values. As an officer of Laraytia, you must honor my code of ethics.”
“I am insulted at the notion,” said Grae. “Hammer, are you insulted?”
“Practically to tears, sir.”
“There will be no debauching or … anything against your moral values. We seek your help.” He pointed to the bow hanging from a bare shoulder. “And your admirable skills.”
Aramaesia glanced at her bow. “You want me to shoot? Shoot for you? I will not shoot Gra’Cimarians.”
“We don’t want you to shoot Gra’Cimarians,” said Grae. “We need you to shoot a beast. A monster. Lives in there.” He gestured toward the forest.
Aramaesia sat back down, nodding slowly. “The forest Beast. I have heard of this one. The Terrible Beast of Meg Mauri.”
“Maug Maurai,” said Grae. “We’re to slay it. And we could use another archer.”
Aramaesia looked sideways, toward Jjarnee Kruu, who was adjusting the tension on his crossbow in the distance. “What do you mean, another?” and there was the suggestion of a smile on her lips.
“We’d like you to help us hunt this beast.”
“So, I am to be impressed into service?”
“Yes,” said Grae, “I suppose that’s as good a way of looking at it as any.”
“And … if I do not wish to be … pressed?”
Grae shrugged. “I’m not certain. I’ll do what I can for you. But there’s no proof that you and your father aren’t infiltrators. Who knows what goes on in that camp of yours. We can’t ascertain your intentions if you don’t help us.” He paused. “I’m sorry for the complicated words. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand your large words very well,” she said. “But perhaps I understand your meaning even better. If I do not agree to join you, my father and I will be killed.”
“Well … you’ll be encased and judged by a court of lords. If they find you guilty, then, yes, you would be executed. You can choose to avoid all of that.”
She sighed then and shook her head softly. “I will need to visit my father’s camp before we are to leave. It is a day-and-one-half journey from here.”
“I’m sorry,” said Grae. “That’s not possible. We leave immediately.“
Aramaesia shook her head. “I must tell him where I am to be. And I will need food and clothing.”
“We’ll send one of the villagers as a messenger,” said Grae. “And we have plenty of food for you. As far as clothing, what you are wearing will suffice. It certainly proved adequate enough for your run in the forest.”
“Arrows,” she said. “I have less than twelve. I will need to get more from my camp.”
Grae and Hammer leaned sideways so that they could look behind her. She looked too. A hundred arrows sat in a cask by the targets – the arrows from the archery contest. They were of inferior quality, target arrows, but she knew the soldiers wouldn’t care. She had a bag of good broadheads in her pack, anyway. So she closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. The bells of a moonhaven tolled twelve times in Maeris. “Let us find this beast quickly.”
Chapter 29
A sword is nothing without its temper.
-- from “The Arms,” Book II of Lojenwyne’s Words
Two of the three swords trembled in the night air. Murrogar didn’t blame his men. The Beast was ten paces away and looked larger and more vicious than it ever had. The glowing green spots along its body blazed a brilliant green. Spines along its head rose high, making the creature seem even larger. The mouth opened slowly and a murky saliva oozed from the j
aws. The saliva hissed when it touched the River of Blood.
Murrogar’s arm didn’t tremble. His blackened blade marked the path toward where he imagined the creature’s heart must be. The submerged travelers created uneven drag against the current so that the maple log turned slowly as it approached the bridge. There was no time to straighten out. The three men pivoted their shoulders to keep the swords between themselves and the Beast.
The monster leaned forward on the bridge when they were nearly close enough to strike. The great bulk of it strained against the planking. A supporting strut on the bridge’s railing broke and the creature lost its balance. It flailed its forelegs, scrambled for purchase for only an instant. Murrogar took the opportunity to boost himself on the trunk with one arm and swing at the creature’s sinewy neck. The Beast ducked to the side even as it scrambled backward. Murrogar’s blade sliced through the scaled skin and muscle of its arm. The monster howled. Debris rained down as it clambered backward off the crumbling railing. But Murrogar scented the advantage.
He pulled himself onto the maple trunk, stood balanced on it. The planks of the bridge slipped past only a few feet over his head. He dragged the tip of his sword against the wood until he found a space between two slats. He shoved upward with every fiber of strength he could muster. The sword sunk to the hilt, but there was no cry from the Beast. And before he could withdraw the blade for another thrust the log lurched and Murrogar lost his balance. He half-toppled, half-jumped into the water. His sword was left behind, trapped between the oak planks.
The water-logged maple had smashed against a scattering of rocks along the riverbank and had wedged itself against them. Half of the maple’s bulk was still under the bridge. The trunk bucked and strained as the currents tugged, but did not come free. Three of the nobles popped up from under the water. One, the Count of Daendrys, was screaming, pinned between the tree and the rocks. Another clung to a branch. And Lady Genaeve Baelyn, daughter to the Count of Laundingham, was swept downstream shrieking and trying to stand.
Black Murrogar rescued the Count of Daendrys from the river and set him on the bank. The Count was holding his arm and kept screaming so Murrogar cuffed him in the mouth hard enough to loosen teeth. The count’s screams stopped and he stared wide-eyed at Murrogar. Murrogar glared back. “Too much screaming tonight,” he told the Count as he turned and ran toward the bridge. “Too much bloody screaming.”
Hul had made it to the bridge first. When Murrogar reached the structure he saw his man’s fallen body bleeding into the planks. The Beast was tearing into Hul’s chest. The black padded gambeson Hul wore was shredded. His arms were still moving, pushing at the Beast lethargically, but there was little life left in his muscled body. The Beast paused when it heard Murrogar’s footsteps on the bridge. It scooped up the fallen man’s body and howled. Murrogar drew his dagger and ran at the beast, skirting his sword blade jutting from the bridge’s center, his boots rumbling on the rotted boards. But the Beast didn’t want him. It loped away from the old soldier, still holding Hul’s body, and into the murky forest. Its gait was slower, clumsier. The creature held one mid-leg close against its side as it ran, but Murrogar couldn’t keep pace. He sprinted after it, roaring, ignoring the branches lashing at his face, nearly tripping with every step. He chased it for much longer than he should have, and finally hurled his dagger at the monster in an instant of futile rage. The blade missed its mark and spun into the darkness, as lost to him as Hul.
Black Murrogar shouted after the Beast, his voice cracking, then turned to a trunk beside him and pounded it with fists until the blood ran freely from his knuckles.
Chapter 30
The finest men are forged by pain. Tempered by calamity.
-- Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet
Beldrun Shanks sat with Drissdie Hannish and Jjarnee Kruu, chewing a peach that he had acquired from one of the many covered barrels in the pavilion. He had helped himself to a dozen of them as the vendors watched.
His eyes were on the brig and hammer and the pretty archer sitting fifty paces away. When he finished the peach, he tossed the pit toward one of the vendors and wiped his hands and mouth on Drissdie’s grey tabard.
“Hey,” said Drissdie. “That stains.”
“So does blood,” said Shanks. He leaned back on his elbows, still watching the interrogation. “Two women. And they ain’t freebodies or servants. And one of ‘em is a fuckin’ Grack. It’s the worst omen yet.”
“Terrible omens,” said Daft Dathnien. He pointed to the ground. “He’s sending us terrible omens.”
The others watched him waiting for an explanation, but he simply pulled the cowl of his cloak over his head and rocked back and forth quietly.
“This is superstition only,” said Jjarnee, putting away his crossbow.
“What do you know?” Shanks called back. “Don’t matter none anyway. None of us are coming back from this chore.”
“Why you think that?” asked Jjarnee.
“’cause we’re here with the seemarken Headsman, going into that gods-forgotten forest. I’m not sure you heard, but there’s a graveyard with legs and teeth in there eating anyone gets near. And that’s what we gotta kill. They ain’t never gonna kill that thing with less than a cluster of Standards.”
“It don’t matter,” said Daft Dathnien. The others looked at him. He put a finger in his mouth. Poked at his tongue. “Ih ‘ont maher” he repeated.
“In Durren’s cock are you blabberin’ about?” asked Shanks.
Dathnien removed his finger from his mouth. “What we do in our lives don’t make no difference.”
“And why is that?”
“Because, we got another purpose here, that got nothing to do with anything else.”
“And what purpose would that be?” asked Shanks.
“We are the Mortar,” said Daft. “We are the Pestle.”
“What?”
“We ain’t nothing but mortars and pestles,” said Daft. “Nothing but a process. Like them mills that turn rocks into alum. We eat things and our hearts mill it into food the gods can eat. Most people think the gods live up there,” he pointed upwards. “They don’t. The gods sleep underground. Them eyes we see in the sky are reflections. Blythwynn and Lojenwyne look up from the ground at us. They wait for us to mill our food into their food. We leave it for them on the ground or in the streets. The Gods, they suck it all down when they gets hungry. You ever go back and look for your shit after a day or two? It’s gone. Completely gone. Fed the gods, it did.”
Shanks and Jjarnee stared at him for a long time.
“You’re over-the-cliff looney, you know that?” said Shanks. “Daft as a fucking dandelion.”
Drissdie Hannish chuckled and stared blankly at Shanks.
“And what in Sharna’s Queynte are you looking at?” said Shanks. “You ain’t no better. We got a squad of milk-brains, we do! That Beast ain’t even gonna wanna eat you lot.”
Drissdie’s smile grew wider. “I ain’t got milk for brains, do you suppose?”
“What’s the song with that hat?” Shanks continued. “You look like a peasant baby. Take it off.”
“I … I don’t like to take it off, d’you suppose?” said Drissdie. His smile grew wider still. Smiling is the armor of the meek. A priest had said that to him once.
“No,” said Shanks. “I don’t suppose. I said take it off.” There was a note of challenge that made Jjarnee look up.
Drissdie touched two fingers to the cap and laughed. “I wanna … wanna keep it on.”
“Let boy keep hat on,” said Jjarnee from his back.
“Shut that girly mouth of yours,” said Shanks. “Drissdie, I’m going to count to three. If the hat ain’t off by then, I’ll take it off with the head still attached.”
There was a redness now in Drissdie’s eyes. “I … how bout we steal some more peaches, d’you supp…” He trailed off, suddenly conscious of the tick in his speech.
“One…”
“B
eldrun ... couldn’t I … not take it off?”
“Two …”
Jjarnee sat up. “Let boy keep hat on. Don’t being ass-water.”
“Three!” Shanks rose. Daft cried out from within his cowl. Drissdie pulled the hat away. A silence settled on the four soldiers. Shanks whistled; a slow, dropping tone. Jjarnee sat up and stared sadly.
“What happened here?” asked Shanks. “Looks like your noodles burst out the side of your skull.”
Drissdie’s head, from the crown to the middle of the left temple was a mountain of scars. A coin-sized indentation was visible at the center. Only small patches of hair grew in the old wound, adding to the grotesqueness. Drissdie pulled out his pony tail and arranged his hair so that it covered some of the scars. “I got hit,” he said. “With a hammer. Real hard.”
“A soldier?” asked Jjarnee.
“A thrull.”
“That’s how simpletons learn to keep their helmets on,” said Shanks.
“My helmet was on,” said Drissdie. “It went all the way through, d’you suppose?”
“Lucky son of a whore,” said Shanks. “It must not have gone far into your skull.”
Drissdie shrugged. “The surgeon, he said I woulda died. There was blood in my head, d’you suppose? He put a tap from a keg in my head. To get the blood out while it healed.”
Shanks hooted. “They tapped your skull! They stuck a spigot in your head!”
Drissdie laughed too.
“How long was tap in head?” asked Jjarnee.
“Couple ‘a days,” said Drissdie. “When he took it out, he put a silver hawk in the hole. The coin is still there. My skin grew right over.” He laughed then, rapped on his temple as he always did when he told this part of the story, and he told the joke that the surgeon had told him: “I’ll say this, though, no bandit will ever steal my last hawk.”
Shanks was holding his belly and laughing still, thinking of Drissdie with a keg tap in his head.
The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling Page 14