The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling (6 page)

--
Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet

     Grae and Hammer presented
themselves at the tiny castle’s gate and were told that Sir Jastyn was on the
upper tiltyard. One of the guards pointed it out to them, on a hill about a
quarter mile from the castle.

At the tilting field, two mounted men
faced each other, thin lances held high. Both wore tilting harnesses and
high-beaked tourney helms. As Grae watched the two chargers sprang toward one
another. One of the men, dressed in a white tabard, set his lance on his
shoulder as he rode so that it pointed upward in the Laraytian Lancer style.

The horses’ hooves rumbled upon the
field, divots of grass kicking up like splashed water. A moment before the two
men came together the man in white lowered his lance crisply. The spear struck
and shattered with a crack that echoed across the field. The man’s opponent
took the blow on the grand guard upon his shoulder and crashed back against the
cantle of his saddle. And then the two were past, their horses slowing with
quick jumps and lowered heads.

A squire near the fence noticed Grae
and Hammer and ran to their side. He took their names and bustled out onto the
field toward the two jousters.

“Which one do you suppose is Sir
Jastyn?” asked Hammer.

Grae shrugged. “I’ve never met him.”

As they waited, a woman wearing day
lilies in her braided hair walked forward and leaned against the fence a few
paces from them. She placed her elbows on the beam then reached out with one
pale arm. A dozen bracelets jangled as she pointed to the knight in the white
tabard.

“Jastyn is there,” she said, not
looking at either of the soldiers. “The boundlessly handsome one on the left.”

Grae nodded to her “My lady…” he
paused as he spotted a song charm on her forehead, held in place by a delicate
circlet of silver. “Maiden,” he said, correcting himself.

Hammer spoke to cover the fumble.
“Are you Sir Jastyn’s songmaiden?”

“I am many things,” she said. “But at
the moment I am surprised. Brig Barragns has outrun our expectations. By a day
at least.”

“My apologies, maiden. Duke Mulbrey’s
Chamberlain had a change of heart and sent us early.”

“A change of heart is a splendid
start,” she said. “That is the Chamberlain’s most deficient part.”

On the field, the squire spoke with
Sir Jastyn, who looked toward the fence and nodded. The knight dismounted and
removed his helmet, gave it to the page. The boy set the helmet down gently and
helped Sir Jastyn shrug out of his spaulders.

Sir Jastyn was young. Scarcely twenty
if Grae had to guess. He was average in height, strong of build and had swirls
of brown hair that curled down into his eyes. That he was handsome was
indisputable. Expressive brown eyes, high forehead, narrow cheekbones. He was
the very symbol of nobility. Grae hated him immediately.

“Hello Maribrae.” Sir Jastyn’s voice
was one that had been nurtured on the finest that the world had to offer. The
Standards officer corps was full of men like Sir Jastyn. “Brig Barragns? So
sorry for the cold welcome. We were not expecting you until tomorrow or the
next.”

“The welcome was warm enough,” said
Grae. “Your songmaiden made us at home.”

 “Shall we walk for a moment?”  Sir
Jastyn put a hand on Grae’s shoulder and Grae did his best not to flinch.
“There are things I would discuss with you, if you’re agreeable to it.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“No need to stand on tradition.
Please, call me Jastyn. Come.” He motioned for Grae to follow him. They fell
into step beside Sir Jastyn, as did Maribrae. Hammer and Grae stopped and
glanced at her. The young noble turned to his songmaiden. “Mari, would you
excuse us for a bit?”

 “I would,” She sat down cross-legged
on the grass and began plucking at clovers. She looked up with a smile. “I
excuse you for not allowing me to walk with you.”

 Jastyn chuckled and started off
again with Grae and Hammer beside him. Grae motioned back toward Maribrae. “Is
your songmaiden always so brash, my lord?”

“No,” Jastyn answered. “Sometimes
she’s asleep.”

The wistful smile on the knight’s
face turned guarded after a few paces. “I must apologize for the abruptness of
what I am about to say. I have asked Duke Mulbrey to include me in your
expedition.” Neither Grae nor Hammer spoke, so he continued. “The Whitewinds
have had their differences with the Duke, but he is our liege. He understands
that much of this Beast’s hunting grounds are Whitewind holdings. So he said I
was welcome to join. But I would ask your permission. I do not want to do it if
I do not have your blessing.”

Grae stared at a point far ahead of
him as he spoke. “I mean no disrespect, my lord, but why would you want to join
this expedition? It would be impossible to vouch for your safety or guarantee
your return.”

“I understand the perils,” said
Jastyn. “But this Beast, this terror of Nuldryn, has ravaged my family’s lands
for more than a decade. Nearly one hundred of our serfs have been taken by this
cruel monster over the last decade. I, myself, hear its cries at night. They
echo across my chamber like a personal challenge.

“My father is the second brother of
the Count of Tyftin. I am the third son of a third son. I am dizzyingly far
from any sort of meaningful inheritance. There won’t be any castle estates for
me. No choice lands in my future. In fact, I stand about as much chance of
ruling as you do. No disrespect intended.”

It was a moment before Grae answered.
“Nor taken, my lord.”

“Do you see where I’m headed, Grae?
There is no chance for me to make any sort of name for myself. No chance to
show our vassals my worth. To them, I am simply Jastyn the Unknown.” He walked
a few steps in silence. “I suppose I could become an officer in the Standards,
or perhaps a Lancer if I train hard enough. If lucky, I might scrape out a few
victories on the front. Or perhaps I’d die in my first action. A wonderful
history for my songmaiden to sing.” He motioned in the air with his hand. “My
deathstone: ‘Here be Jastyn the Insignificant. Third son of a third son of
someone moderately important. He died in an unnamed field, during an ambiguous
battle of a meaningless war.”

“Begging your pardon, m’lord,” said
Hammer, knowing the look on Grae’s face. “But if ya came with us, your
deathstone would likely read, ‘ ‘ere be Sir Jastyn Whitewind. Third son of a
third son of someone moderately important. ‘e was eaten.’”

Jastyn laughed. “Well matched,
hammer. But that’s a risk I am willing to assume. For the chance, the glorious
chance, to hear my name spoken before those of my brothers’ or cousins’. ‘Here
lies Jastyn the Mighty. Helped slay the legendary Beast of Maug Maurai. Brought
peace and happiness to the people of Nuldryn.” He smiled at the chiseled words
in his mind. “Now there’s a deathstone I could live with.”

Grae looked directly at Jastyn now.
What the man said was pure rubbish. His words were those of a man who has never
squared off against an opponent whose only goal is to kill you. All the
tourneys in the world can’t prepare you for that moment. Sir Jastyn’s presence
would make a mockery of Grae’s command. And it would make Grae’s second mission
a delicate struggle. That was a certainty. But Sir Jastyn was nobility. The
knight’s request merely a formality. And the Duke had already allowed it.

What’s one more innocent life
?

“Every man must march his own road,”
said Grae. “Come if you must, but consider it well. None of the men on this
squad have wives, sons or daughters. I don’t believe that is a coincidence.”

“Thank you, Brig Barragns,” said
Jastyn smiling. “I myself have no sons or daughters, so I should fit in well.”

They had circled back and were nearly
at their start point by the fence. Maribrae rose to her feet and looked to
Jastyn. Her eyes searched his.

     “Uh … yes, then,” he stammered.
“There’s … ah … just one more favor I would ask of you, Brig Barragns.”

Jastyn is nobility.

Grae repeated this to himself and
silenced Hammer’s furious gaze with a squint. Jastyn was nobility. And the man
had Duke Mulbrey’s blessing. If Sir Jastyn wanted his songmaiden to come, there
was nothing that could be done. No matter how absurd or dangerous. Or asinine.
No matter how much it made a farce of the whole seemarken mission. No matter
how spoiled and callow this stupid, self-righteous ….

Grae let out his breath slowly.

Sir Jastyn is nobility.

Jastyn and his songmaiden had not
expected to leave until the next day, so they had not yet readied their
equipment. He invited Grae and Hammer to the castle for a meal while his squire
gathered supplies.

The four ate a fine meal of duck and
venison. The venison was from Maurai, downed on the outskirts of the forest
that morning, and it was the most succulent meat that Grae had ever tasted.
After they ate, Jastyn and Maribrae excused themselves to finish their packing.

Maribrae was done first. She sent
Jastyn’s servants off to prepare food for the road and slipped quietly into his
room. He stood with three suits of chain mail and two helmets before him, laid
neatly on the floor. Jastyn’s lips were set tightly as he stared at the
chainmail hauberks.

“Galarion couldn’t find a blackened
suit,” he said glumly. “Or a sallet helmet. I’ll stand out sorely among the
soldiers.”

“My love would stand out among them
if every one of you wore turnip sacks,” she said, walking between the suits and
Jastyn. He slipped past her and selected a mid-length coat, lifted it over his
head. Maribrae helped him into it, but not before trapping his arms high in the
sleeves and kissing him. When the mail was fitted, he stroked her cheek and
turned away again. She tried to follow him but he held her off with one hand as
he examined the two helmets. One was a dog-faced basinet. The other a simple
nasal helm with a chain aventail draped around the back.

     “Neither of these fits as well
as my tourney helm. Or even my scrap tilter,” he said, and Maribrae stifled a
giggle at his pout. “But I would look a fool among the other men wearing a
tourney helm out there.” He lifted the nasal helm and stared at it glumly. “I
suppose this one is the least conspicuous. Lyndis Immortal, I wish Galarion had
found me a sallet!”

Maribrae sighed. She embraced him
from behind, breathing in the scents of oil and steel. Jastyn’s scents. He
turned and kissed her briefly, and she could feel the excitement through his
lips.

“This is going to be a terrific
adventure,” he said. “You’re going to have quite a story to tell. I know it!”

     The four of them left Daun
Sanctra without fanfare. Jastyn, astride a monstrous destrier, had finally
settled on his gear. He wore an engraved breastplate over a chainmail
haubergeon and white bracers and greaves etched with the Whitewind Boar. An
engraved nasal helm hung at his horse’s side, the aventail
scrishing
against the helm as he rode. He had left his lances behind knowing that he
would have to dismount onc in the forest, but he brought two broad-headed
spears and a decorated arming sword. His shield, hanging on his back, was a
brilliant white, painted with the arms of the Whitewind family.

Maribrae had thrown an orange cloak
over the lively skirts and bodice she had worn earlier. She also bore a
woolen-broadcloth pack that she slung across her shoulder and a small
eight-string fiolys that she placed into a velvet coverlet that hung from the
saddle, beside her pack.

The four travelers left Daun Sanctra
and traveled south to gather the first of the Standards for their squad.

--
From “The Arms,” Book II
of Lojenwyne’s Words

Murrogar stripped off his crimson
tunic and let it fall to the ground. The old manae’s blood was on it. He
considered shedding his hauberk too. The river ran deep and fast in stretches
west of the Maurian Road. It could suck down the thirty pounds of chainmail and
leave Murrogar at the bottom. But he left the armor on. If he was to die, he
would die a Standard. He caught sight of Sir Wyann and Sir Bederant ahead,
still carrying the dying Eridian. He wondered how the knights would react to
their part in the plan.

Somewhere behind them the Beast
howled. It was different this time. There was something mocking in it. The
travelers were too weary to even cringe. They had walked for hours through the
tangled mess of the forest. Their garb, once regal, was in tatters. One woman,
the Duchess’ retainer, walked with a hand across her chest, holding together a
dress that had no longer had straps. Another woman was in little more than a
chemise, her dress shredded into strips by brambles.

Murrogar walked fifty yards behind
the crowd, staying out of sight until he was certain the river was close, then
he strode forward into their midst. “Zoop zoop! Start shedding anything not
needed. Pouches. Extra weapons. Loose clothing that’ll tangle in water.
Everything. We’re going in the river, so prepare yourselves.”

The nobles turned to him with blank
expressions.

“Murrogar, where’s the manae?” The
Duke stumbled toward the old soldier, looked past him. “Where’s Ulrean’s manae?
You said you would help her.”

“I did help her.” He pointed to the
Duke’s long traveling cloak. “You’ll wanna take that off. It’ll try to take you
down in the water.”

“Where is she?”

“Ulrean, can you swim?” called
Murrogar.

The Duke shoved the soldier.
“Murrogar, I asked you a question!”

Murrogar shoved the Duke backward,
hard. The man fell to the ground, his mouth open. Sir Wyann and Sir Bederant
set the Eridian down and drew their swords. Thantos and Hul drew their swords
as well and took position on either side of their master. The five warriors
stared at each other for a long moment, then Sir Bederant sheathed his sword.
Sir Wyann hesitated then did the same and both knights ran to the Duke.

Murrogar let his gaze sweep over the
travelers, then bellowed at them. “You think we’re on promenade? You think we’re
taking in the sights? We will die out here! Every one of us! Get used to the
idea!” He glared at them. “If there’s a way I can save even one of you, I’ll do
it. But I’ll not bear questions. I’ll not be challenged. Out here,
I’M THE
DUKE!
 You understand that?”

They stared at him silently, faces
blank.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

There was a general murmur of
affirmation so Murrogar let it be. He unslung his drinking horn and let it fall
to the ground then pushed through the crowd to the north, toward the river. The
others turned and followed him listlessly, letting their useless items fall to
the leaves and ferns. Murrogar looked once over his shoulder. He counted the
party and realized that he would have to send most of them to their deaths.