The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling (15 page)

     They brought the archer back to
the fairgrounds and borrowed empty crates from a fruit vendor that had not yet
dismantled his pavilion. Grae, Hammer, and the archer sat upon these. Sage, the
next highest in rank, chased the rest of the men away and wandered off to
explore the fairgrounds. Jastyn and Maribrae set up an impromptu lunch on the
grass a short distance away beneath a stand of cherry trees.

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.”

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 jaws. 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.

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…”

“Beldrun ... 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.

Drissdie laughed and tapped his skull
again and again, but Jjarnee Kruu could see the tears in his eyes.