The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling (7 page)

--
From, “A Modest History of West Nuldryn,” by Yurik Bodlyn,
Historian and Scribe

Their first soldier, a man named
Beldrun Shanks, waited at Geyr Froen. Hammer had spoken to the man’s former
commander, who had nothing good to say.

“This fellow, Beldrun Shanks,” said
Grae. “I have trouble believing he’s as bad as his commander said. He must have
some good qualities if he’s stationed at Geyr Froen.”

“Trudge Beldrun Shanks,” replied
Hammer. “‘Grew up in Hrux Barony. Earned quite a reputation. Big as an ogre,
but meaner. ‘e’s a fine fighter. But ‘e’s been disciplined for everything from
lewdness to murder.”

“Murder?” Grae glanced back at Jastyn
and Maribrae, who had stayed behind to picnic on the Byway while Shanks was
retrieved from Geyr Froen. Grae was glad they weren’t near enough to hear
Hammer’s description.

“Here’s a little morsel,” Hammer
continued. “Apparently ‘e finds it funny to get drunk and find a cow or an ox.
Then he tries to take a leg off clean, with one axe stroke.” He lifted a
wineskin from a hook on his saddle. “Don’t that paint a dainty portrait?”

“I don’t understand,” said Grae.
“Sour fellows like that aren’t chosen to guard Geyr Froen.”

“I don’t recall saying nothin’ about
guarding.” Hammer took a long draw from his wineskin and rode on ahead.

The prison of Geyr Froen was nothing
more than a massive granite keep and four towers. There was nothing pleasant
about the curtain wall; anyone who looked on it knew that it was meant to keep
people in, not out. The battlements were on the outside, facing in. The towers
had arrow slits facing the keep.

When they brought Shanks out, he was
in leg irons and manacles, escorted by three Standards who aimed crossbows at
him the entire way across the bridge. He was a hulking figure, easily six
inches taller than the tallest guard. A ragged dungeon-beard partially obscured
the conviction brands of rape, robbery and murder on his neck. He had the
bulging brows and sloping forehead of a brute and the powerful, pouting lips of
a bully. His eyes spoke of something different. Light blue and expressive, they
held the lie of kindness.
    

The guards dragged four stumps out
from the gatehouse and Beldrun Shanks sat, still in manacles and irons, with
Grae, Hammer and the Geyr Froen Wardmaster outside the fortress. The crossbowmen
stood a short distance away, arranged in a semi-circle to avoid crossfire,
their weapons held low but ready.

Shanks was the only soldier in the
squad that hadn’t been told of the mission beforehand. He had received no
letter from the Chamberlain, as the other soldiers had. He listened to Grae
with a smirk on his face.

“Once the mission is complete, you
will serve two more years of regular duty,” said Grae, summarizing the terms
scrawled on the writ from the Chamberlain. “If you are charged with any moderate
infraction during that time, you will once again be encased. If, however, you
serve the two years honorably, you are free to drop out of the Standards, or
continue to serve, at your pleasure. All previous crimes will be forgotten”

“What’s a ‘moderate’ infraction?”
asked Shanks, still smirking.

“Truth or silence, moderate
infractions are probably things you do for entertainment,” Grae responded.

“Well then,” said Shanks. “That takes
a bit o’ fun from life, don’t it?” He met Grae’s gaze. “What if I say no?”

“Then Geyr Froen swallows Beldrun
Shanks. You’ll rot in there until there’s nothing but scraps of flesh left.
Then you’ll be hanged when they need the space.”

“Rot first, then hang?” Shanks
laughed. “That don’t leave much choice. I s’pose I’ll throw my lot in with the
Beast. It’ll be quicker that way.”

Grae unlatched Shanks’ manacles. He
gave the keys to Hammer to unlock the leg irons because it would be unseemly
for a brig to kneel before a trudge. When the prisoner was free Grae nodded to
Hammer, gestured toward a pile of scuffle weapons that the guards had brought.

 “Right,” said Hammer. “Before we go,
let’s ‘ave a look at your fightin’ form. They say your handy with an axe.”

“No,” said Shanks. “They say I’m a
terror with an axe.”

“Sure.” Hammer pointed toward the
sparring axes. “Grab one of those and terrify us. Have a go with that stout
over there, if he’s agreeable to a spar.”

Shanks looked at the stout. “Him? You
take me for a glassman? He ain’t nothin’ but two layers ‘a skin and a helmet.”

The stout, a tall man with red hair,
dropped his crossbow and hefted a shield and sword from the stack. “I’m more
than agreeable to it.”

Shanks made a great show of walking
to the stack of weapons, stretching his fingers, rolling his shoulders. He
compared the weight of two axes, dropped one. He pulled a dented shield from
the pile and then pointed with the axe toward the guard. “You ready, bones?”

“I’m ready, princess.” The stout
tightened the strap on his helm and trotted at Beldrun Shanks. When the two were
within range, the guard swung twice with his sword. Fast and crisp. Shanks
jumped backward out of range and swung the axe low, his face contorted with the
effort. The guard set his shield to ward the blow, but halfway through the
stroke Shanks shifted his hands. The axe’s arc changed. The dull iron blade
skimmed just over the guard’s shield and shattered as it struck the man’s
helmet. The blow crumpled the steel and took the light from the guard’s eyes.
The man collapsed.

Shanks cackled and dropped the axe
handle. He stepped forward and kicked the man’s unconscious body hard. Bent
down so that his mouth was inches from the man’s face. “I don’t think you were
ready,
princess
.” He kicked the man again.

Hammer screamed and shoved the big
man backward. Grae and the Geyr Froen Wardmaster checked the fallen stout. The
man’s head was gashed and bleeding under the helm, Grae looked back at Shanks,
who was chuckling at Hammer’s screams.

The wardmaster followed Grae’s eyes
and cleared his throat. “I could … I could just … throw him back in the dungeon
if you want, sir.”

Throwing Shanks back in the dungeon
wasn’t an option. The Chamberlain had been quite specific about the squad. It
would have been awkward to explain why they had chosen to leave one of the best
fighters behind.

“You hit ‘im in the head!” Hammer was
angry enough that he could only yell at Shanks in spurts. “You don’t aim fer
the head when sparrin’!”

“I wasn’t aimin’ for his head,” said
Shanks.

“Oh, you weren’t were you?”

“No, Hammer,” said Shanks, laughing.
“I were going for his throat.”

Grae calmed Hammer and ordered him to
put the manacles back on Shanks’ wrists. “They come off when you’re ready to be
a soldier,” said Grae.

The writ from the Chamberlain
included an allowance for a horse from Geyr Froen, so the stablemaster gave
them a thin, runny-eyed draught for Shanks. The garrison released all of
Shanks’ belongings, including his hauberk, sallet helm, a breastplate, and a double-bladed
battle axe with elaborate etchings on both blades. Grae examined the armor and
the axe. “Your mail will need a good scrubbing,” he told Shanks. “And that axe
head is loose. Best tighten it.” And with that the three soldiers rode north,
to reunite with Sir Jastyn and Maid Maribrae.

“Stay in front of us.” Grae said. “I
want you ten yards ahead. And if I suspect that you’re even thinking of causing
trouble, we’ll drag you back to Froen on a rope behind our horses.”

Shanks was happy to comply. His hands
were still bound, but he was no longer in the dank belly of Geyr Froen. He took
in the smells of the shire, listened to the sound of birds and treasured the
warmth of the sun on his face. And he chuckled as he recalled the sound of the
crossbowman’s helmet crunching beneath his axe.

Children are a woman's domain until they can lift a sword
.

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

Black Murrogar halted when he reached
the Typtaenai. A young signet once told Murrogar that the name meant River of
Blood in Andraen. Murrogar had wondered how a river took such a name. Now he
wasn’t so sure he wanted to know.

 The river was less than fifty feet
across here. It raced past, curling to the southeast and out of sight. The
lanterns Thantos rescued from the baggage cart had been refilled several times,
but only four were left alight now and the oil flagon lay empty on the forest
floor miles behind.

Murrogar waited until everyone
gathered at the riverbank then took a head count. Of the fifty-four travelers
that left Lae Duerna only thirty three remained. Most of the dead were
soldiers. Only three spearmen remained, not including the Eridian, who was
already dead in Murrogar’s eyes. The rest were ladies and noblemen, retainers
and squires. There was a hard choice to be made and as a soldier, Murrogar was
a slave to hierarchy. He thought of Ulrean’s manae and her talk of sunchasers.
Tough old woman. He took a hand-axe from the belt of the dying Eridian and
tossed it to Hul. “That maple on its side down there.”

Hul nodded, walked to the fallen tree
and hacked at it. Murrogar searched the faces of those left. There would be
resistance to his plan. People always resisted death.

“Did you kill my manae?” Ulrean snuck
next to Murrogar.

Murrogar looked into the boy’s eyes.
“Aye. I sent her off. Didn’t see why an old woman should spend her last hours
in misery.”

Ulrean didn’t flinch from Murrogar’s
stare. “Did it hurt her?”

It didn’t seem to Murrogar that the
child was asking out of concern, but out of curiosity. “No more than this march
we forced her on.”

Ulrean stared back into the forest as
if he might catch a glimpse of her. “That Beast,” he said. “It will kill us
all, won’t it?”

“Not if I have a say.”

Ulrean rubbed at is arms. “But it is
legendary. Grown men tremble when they speak of that monster.”

“They do,” said Murrogar. “But you
know what?” He threw back his shoulders and winked at Ulrean. “Beasts tremble
when they speak about me.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Can you be a
good lad, Ulrean? Can you tell me which nobles are left? I don’t know who’s
who.”

Ulrean looked to the travelers
milling nervously at the river’s edge and nodded. “We lost my cousin, Jervik.
He was the Knight Protector of Taur.” He stared at his parents. They were arguing
on the riverbank. “Renar Quarenthic as well. And Lord Taryn Cantalian. He was
pulled out from the window of the carriage. Some of him.” The boy quieted
before continuing and Murrogar could almost see the carnage of the road playing
out in his young mind. “I haven’t seen Sir Gorin recently. I imagine he’s gone
missing as well.”

“That’s a lad,” said Murrogar. He
wondered again at the life a boy must lead to talk like an adult at the age of
eight. “But I need to know the ones who are here. Not the ones we lost. Give me
ten names. The top ten ranking nobles among us.”

Ulrean looked again at the throng of
travelers. “My father, Duke Orien Cobblethrie. My mother, The Lady Rhythania.”
He pointed to them, as if Murrogar might not know them. The Duchess was being
consoled by her lady retainer. The Duke spoke with Sir Wyann. “Indannith
Brennariad. He’s the Count of Daendrys. Lady Tyrisia Cobblethrie. She is my
cousin Jervik’s wife. His widow, I suppose. The Countess Hiera Brennariad. Lady
Genaeve Baelyn. She’s daughter to the Count of Laundingham. After that, the
ranks get muddled. The Hilnaent brothers perhaps, but there are two of them,
which would make ten and I forgot to count myself. I outrank both of them. I’m
the son of the Duke, of course, and a thane by title. Thane of Laundingham. And
you, Black Murrogar. You’re important. You’re my friend.” He smiled wistfully.
“Besides, I understand that out here, you’re a duke.”

     Murrogar clapped the boy on the
back and laughed, a belly laugh that drew everyone’s attention. “Zoop, zoop!
Listen now,” shouted Murrogar. “If I call your name, step forward.” 

     The travelers gazed at him with
the eyes of startled cattle. And Murrogar called out the names of those who
might live.

--
From, “A Modest History of West Nuldryn,” by Yurik
Bodlyn, Historian and Scribe

     There was only pain for Mollingsley
Tharke. No light, no sounds. Just the cry of agony from every muscle in his
body. The smell of alcohol and vomit mingled in the air, creating a third odor
that sent convulsions through his stomach.

It smelled like a dungeon or a
cellar. Cramped and grimy. Wooden handles and heavy metal objects poked at him.
A cellar then
, he surmised. There was no telling how long he had lain
there. Hours. Days. With no light, there was only the pounding in his temples
to keep time. He had only one thought, a dilemma really: If he retched again he
felt certain the shuddering in his stomach would settle, but he was in such
pain everywhere that he felt retching might kill him. He was still working
through this problem when a vertical band of light seared his eyes. The band
grew wider, becoming a rectangle of torment as cellar doors were opened. He
curled into himself more tightly and retched. It was one of the most painful
experiences of his life, but he was pleased to discover that it didn’t kill
him.

Grae and Hammer gazed into the keep’s
supply cellar with a mixture of concern and amusement. They watched as the
creature huddled between broken plows and scythe handles simultaneously retched
and screamed. The smell of vomit and wine wafted from the cellar like a cloud.
It certainly looked like Stout Mollingsley Tharke, the man everyone called
Sage. Thin, wispy blonde hair, pale blue eyes. But he looked worse than Grae
had ever seen him. And he had seen him look plenty bad in the past.

The skin around both eyes was bruised
black and yellow. The white of his left eye was entirely red. One cheek was
monstrously swollen and a gash ran from his forehead to his right temple. He
was dressed in loose fitting yellow robes. A tall, cylindrical brown cap –
similar to the ones worn by the Cinders of Lojen – was secured to his head with
cords. The cap was a stroke of genius as it truly made the difference between a
man dressed in yellow and a man dressed as a banana.

“What’s this now?” called Hammer. “A
squash?” He and Grae laughed. The two Daun Braeth garrisoners with them didn’t
show any emotion.

Sage lifted a hand weakly toward the
doorway. “Squash,” he croaked. “Yes. Someone has squashed me … my … head at any
rate. Please. If there’s any mercy in you sir, shut the door and leave me be.”

“Leave you be?” asked Grae. “You’re
to be hanged. Something about threatening the Count’s brother in the ballroom
last night.”

“Hanged?” asked Sage. “Yes. All
right. Truth be told, I’m looking forward to it.”

Grae and Hammer laughed again. “You’re
looking forward to being ‘anged?”

“Aye,” said Sage, sighing deeply. “A
merciful elixir for the pounding in my skull.”

“Get up and get outta there or I’ll
strangle you myself,” said Hammer.

Sage made a gradual movement toward
the door, knocking over a few of the wooden handles and wincing at the clatter.

Grae offered him his hand. “Banana,
eh?”  He pulled Sage limping from the cellar and marveled at the blood and
swelling on his face.

“Yes,” said Sage. “The reasoning
escapes me this morning, but I’m sure it was quite amusing last night.”

“It’s amusing right now,” said
Hammer.

“They certainly did a thorough job of
it,” said Grae.

Sage ripped the hat from his head and
looked at it, then handed it to Hammer, the cords dangling. “Truly,” said Sage,
touching his left eye and wincing. It was nearly swollen shut. “Fortunately I
lost consciousness after they decided I needed bruising for authenticity.”

He stumbled into Grae and hugged him
as best he could. He’d known Grae for years. Since long before they had turned
him into The Headsman. “I suppose saying it’s good to see you is a bit
understated?”

“It’s good to see you alive,” said
Grae. “Cut it a bit close there. They were going to do the job in another few
hours.”

Sage shuffled to Hammer and hugged
him as well. The old soldier stiffened at the embrace and made sounds of
protest but allowed it.

They led Sage toward six waiting
horses. Beldrun Shanks was with the horses, his hands still manacled. He
laughed when he spotted Mollingsley. “Sage!” he called. “What a lovely dress. I
always knew you’d end up in a rich man’s harem. How’s cock taste?”

Sage closed his eyes and shook his
head. The motion made him stumble. “Beldrun Shanks,” he said. “And here all
this time I thought … sorry … hoped you had died.”

“Why not come ‘ere and try to make it
so.”

Grae and Hammer exchanged glances.

“You two know each other then?” asked
Grae.

“Aye,” said Sage. “I knew him when he
was just a little turd. I always suspected he’d grow into that pile of horse
shit.”

“That’s enough out of both of you,”
said Hammer. “You’re to be squad brothers for the next few days, so start
acting like it.”

“Squad brothers?” asked Sage. He
silently swore to Blythwynn that he would never touch drink again. Not for a
long time. A day or two at least. “I’m being transferred then?”

“Sage,” said Grae, “We’re hunting the
Beast.”

“I assume,” said Sage, “that you’re
not speaking of Beldrun’s mother?”

“There’s only one true Beast in
Nuldryn,” said Hammer.

Sage snatched the brown hat from
Hammer’s hands and mashed it onto his head, a cord curling under his nose. He
walked back toward the cellar, stumbling on the loose folds of yellow fabric.

“Sage!” called Hammer. “Sage!”

Sage turned to face them, but walked
backward toward the cellar. He tripped and almost fell. “I’m going back to my
cellar prison,” he said. “Hanging’s a quicker death.”

“You’re daft!” shouted Hammer,
smiling his toothy smile.

“Besides,” continued Sage. “It was
warm in there. A veritable womb, really. And I love to get into a good womb
when I can. The thought of it, hunting the Beast with Beldrun Shanks. That’s
rich. I’ll meet you in Eleyria. You can tell me about your horrible deaths.
I’ll be in the room with all the virgins. There’ll be bowls of bananas all
around. It’ll be like …” 

His voice became inaudible as he
backed up the hill. Grae smiled. The Chamberlain had allowed Grae to choose his
own scout, and Sage was the obvious choice. He was one of the best trackers in
Laraytia. But that competence hadn’t been Grae’s first consideration. He had
picked Sage because he missed him.