The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling (8 page)

--
From “The Lands of
Nuldryn,” by Dystil Herrick

Black Murrogar spoke slowly to avoid
confusion, although he knew confusion was inevitable. Even the simplest of
commands were difficult to understand when minds were turtled with fear.

“Those whose names were called are to
take off any loose or heavy garb right now. Ladies, I want you in chemise and
hose. No skirts. No dresses. Men, breeches and tunics only. We’re going into
the river. We’ll drift downstream ‘til we reach that last bridge we crossed
when we were in the wagons. Then we’ll run – and I mean run – down the road,
back to the wagons. If any of the horses are still alive, we’ll hitch ‘em and
go full-draw ‘til we get to Maeris.”

 Most of them stared at him with the
same oafish expressions they had worn for hours, as if he was speaking another
language. The Duke stepped forward, his voice hoarse but sharp. “And what of
those whose names you did not call? What happens to them?”

“They get to stay dry and warm.
They’ll follow the river to the west until they’re outta the forest. Should put
‘em near Thraen.”

The nobles murmured and exchanged
glances. The Duchess’ retainer stifled a sob and clutched at her mistress’ arm.
“I wasn’t called,” she said. She looked to the Duke, then to Murrogar. “I’ve
been with my lady since childhood. You didn’t call my name. You didn’t call my
name, sir. I can go with my lady, can’t I?” Murrogar stared into her eyes  and
said nothing. She turned and hugged the Duchess.

Sir Wyann scoffed. “I think what you
mean to say is that we who weren’t called will be the decoy. Isn’t that right,
Murrogar?”

“The Beast’ll go east or west,”
Murrogar growled. “It can’t chase us both.”

“I find it interesting,” said Sir
Wyann, “that the most important people are in your group. Tell me, Murrogar,
which group do you think has the best chance of survival?”

“Everyone in both groups will likely
die,” said Murrogar. “Tell me, Wyann. Who’s idea was it to take the Maurian
Road? Who convinced Duke Orien that it was safe?” His voice rose. “Who wanted
to save three days by taking a fucking wagon-train through Maug Maurai?”

“The Nuldryn Duke, Duke Mulbrey … he
said it was dead.” Sir Wyann shifted. “I told you what he said. How could I
have known?”

Murrogar turned his back on him and
roared at the nobles. “How come nobody’s taking nothing off? I said STRIP!” The
nobles in Murrogar’s party began removing their clothing. Murrogar called down
to Hul. “That tree cut apart yet?”

Hul had cut off most of the larger
branches from the downed maple and was hacking a fifteen-foot length of the
trunk from the rest of the tree. “Few more swings.”

Sir Wyann spoke to Murrogar’s back:
“You can do whatever you want,
Black Murrogar
. But I’ll not leave the
Cobblethries while I breathe.”

Murrogar very nearly killed Sir Wyann
there on the river’s edge. But killing the old woman had taken something out of
him. He looked at the half-naked nobles huddled on the riverbank. The women
tried to cover as much of themselves as they could with their arms. He looked
at Sir Wyann. Another good swordsman would be helpful in the river. Sir Wyann couldn’t
chop a melon in half on his third try, but he seemed quite loyal to the
Cobblethries, and that was something. “You come, you don’t open your mouth
again.”

Sir Wyann opened his mouth then
closed it. He looked to the Duke and Duchess.

“You come, you are under my command,”
said Murrogar, letting his fingers brush the pommel of his sword. “Or we settle
our debts here and now.”

Sir Wyann looked to Sir Bederant,
then to Murrogar. The travelers watched the spectacle silently. Someone’s
bowels seemed to have loosened and the air was full with the odor. It was a
long time before Sir Wyann nodded. “Very well. But I want Sir Bederant with us
as well.”

Murrogar worked himself up to bellow
at the knight but one of the travelers screamed.

The Beast was upon them again. A
hulking blackness against the forest night. Green phosphors glowing along its
body. Curved teeth catching glimmers from the dying lanterns. It held a
nobleman in its claws, in the same fashion as it had held the Eridian. Front
claws holding the man’s arms and legs, stretching him taught. The second set of
claws ripped at the man’s torso with a lethal efficiency, shredding clothing
and skin.

The spearmen ran from it. Murrogar
spat in their direction and drew his sword. Thantos, Hul, Wyann and Bederant
took places by his side and the five of them ran shouting at the monster.

The creature buried its stinger in
the nobleman’s chest then let him fall to the forest floor as the warriors
approached. Once again the Beast fled into the darkness before the warriors
could attack. Murrogar didn’t waste his time chasing. He ran to the fallen
nobleman but there was too much blood for any hope. The man grabbed Murrogar’s
arm and coughed. Murrogar slit the nobleman’s throat and held the dying man’s
arm until the life was gone, then stood and surveyed the scene. The travelers
were screaming and clinging to each other.

“Thantos!” he called. His man nodded
and sprinted to the river’s edge. Hul fell in step beside him and the two
dragged the hacked maple tree half into the water.

Murrogar called out to the nobles:
“Those who were called, come with me!” He shoved anyone in underclothes towards
the river. But a throng of other travelers joined the sprint for the maple log.
Murrogar knocked them down and struck a few with his fists but there were too
many. He ran with them to the river.

Thantos and Hul stood with swords
drawn and shields locked, guarding the maple. They allowed anyone in
underclothes to get past. A nobleman splashed into the river upstream. Hul
turned and kicked the man away from the log and the noble was swept downriver.

The duchess reached from the maple
log past Thantos’ shield and took the hand of her lady retainer. Murrogar
locked his hand around the retainer’s wrist and held her on the other side of
the shield wall. He looked at the Duchess and shook his head.

“She is important to me,” said the
Duchess. “She is as my sister.”

Murrogar ripped the retainer from the
Duchess’ grip and shoved the servant to the ground. The woman’s torn dress
flopped down exposing most of one breast.

“My lady!” The retainer was
shrieking. “I’ll die out here!”

The Duke called to Murrogar from the
log at the water’s edge. “Let her come Murrogar. I command it.”

Murrogar glared at the Duke. The lady
retainer got to her feet, crying, and a chorus of other nobles called out to
the Duke, pleading, pushing against the shields. Another nobleman tried to
swing around the shield wall and was sent flailing downstream.

Murrogar hesitated, then drove his
sword into the lady retainer’s stomach.

For a moment, the pleading stopped.
The mad rush toward the log stopped. The shouting stopped. Everyone froze
except for the lady retainer, who croaked and cut her hands on Murrogar’s
blade. The old hero withdrew the blade and finished the job. The duchess
screamed and lunged toward Murrogar but Hul held her back.

“Anyone else wanna switch groups?”
asked Murrogar. No one replied. He looked into the eyes of the landbound
travelers. There were servants and squires there. Craftsmen and handlers. With
the exception of the minor nobility among them, these were people with skills.
With purpose. He stared back at the nobles by the log and forced himself not to
spit.

A horrible stench drifted on the air.
There was no more time. A cluster of green phosphors streaked from the forest.
Another scream. And then the landbound party was running. Sir Bederant stopped
and tried to calm them. Murrogar got his attention with a whistle. “Lead them.
Maeris is ten miles south. Thraen is fifteen to the west.”

Bederant and Murrogar locked eyes.
Bederant glanced at his squire then back to the old hero. Black Murrogar
considered, then nodded reluctantly. The knight shouted for the landbound party
to follow him, ordered his squire to go with Murrogar.

The men in the river-bound party took
hold of branch stubs and dragged the log into the river, the dying leaves on
its few remaining branches rasping along the shore. They splashed into the cold
waters.

Sir Wyann did his best to stay out of
sight as he dragged the Eridian with him. He draped the unconscious man over a
thick limb. The Count of Daendrys hissed at him: “What are you doing with that
body?”

“He’s not dead, my lord,” whispered
Sir Wyann. He strapped the Eridian to the branch with a sword belt. “He saved
my life.”  The knight secured the spearman to the tree and clung to the thick
log as the currents moved it downstream. He clung with all his strength. He was
still in his armor and losing his grip meant becoming a part of the Typtaenai
forever.

Murrogar unslung the shield from his
back and hung it on a branch. Then he lifted Ulrean onto his shoulders so that
only the boy’s legs were in the water. The boy looked back in time to see the
Beast through the trees. It plucked a woman from the running crowd. The
creature drowned out her screams with a cry of its own. There were howls of
terror from among the landbound travelers as they ran blind and tripping into
the darkness. Sir Bederant chased after them, calling them to his side.

Ulrean looked away and his eyes
caught those of the dying Eridian. The man lay motionless, strapped to a
branch, with his cheek against one of the tree’s branches. And the man’s eyes
glowed green in the darkness.

--
From “The Treatise
Canalithian” by Sidare Moldrane

An old man lay dead in the Magician’s
Guildhall of Tyftin. He sat in a chair, his forehead resting on a large book
that lay open on the desk. Meedryk Bodlyn, apprentice magician in the Standards
Mage Regiment, peered at him from the doorway. He was certain that the old man
was dead. But he had spent the last thirty heartbeats convincing himself that
it wasn’t so.

He’s sleeping, that’s all. Sleeping
deeply.

The man certainly seemed dead. He was
pale and made no sound nor moved at all. Meedryk took a deep breath, let it out
slowly.

    
He’s not dead. Just go in you
coward
.
How can you fight the Beast if you can’t even face an old man
taking an afternoon nap?

Meedryk thought of his father. A
brilliant scribe, but a man who’s fear of everything had confined him to a desk
all his life, writing histories of places he would never see. Meedryk stepped
into the room.

There was a staircase on the right
rising to the upper stories. The dead mage and his cluttered desk were to the
left. There was another chair just inside the room, by the staircase, and
Meedryk thought of sitting in it until someone arrived. He didn’t like the
thought of discovering a dead body.

Someone will find him eventually,
right?
 

He set his equipment on the floor
near the chair. The wood-framed pack rattled and jangled with the sundry tools
of his trade. It clattered with flasks and mortars, heating plates and stills.
Meedryk wouldn’t need most of it, but he had thought it better to include too
much than to leave something vital behind. He shrugged his shoulders with
relief. Then he slipped a leather haversack off his arm and set that on the
floor as well. He sat and, after a moment’s thought, placed one leg over the
haversack and pulled it close. He glanced toward the desk.

The old man was a magician. Not a
clerk or scribe. He wore the meridian cloak of the magician class. The same
type of cloak as Meedryk. Although it wasn’t a cloak really. Magicians thrived
on misdirection, so they called it a cloak. In reality, it was a long, rugged
white coat of canvas and leather. It had black leather tie cords running the
length of  the front right flap and holes to tie them to on the left. The old
man’s cloak was loose, flowing and dark. It would take decades for Meedryk’s to
look the same.

“Hello?” he called softly, his voice
breaking. He cleared his throat and called again, a little more loudly.
“Hello?” The old man didn’t move.

 
Meedryk soothed himself by touching the sixteen
pouches on his belt. He identified each element, whispering its abbreviated
name out loud. Dryflan. Eliciam. Emulsion. Gelid. He stopped there, remembering
that he was low on Gelid. He would have to get more before leaving Tyftin.

He sent a nervous glance at the old
man, then reached down to the haversack and withdrew a ragged bundle of papers
from his bag. He set the stack on his lap and hunched over it. The papers were
mold-stained. Bound with yarn. He smoothed the curling first page. A jagged
tear formed the left edge, marking the spot where it had been ripped from its
binding. Across the front of the page was a single word. The first letter, an
S, was boxed and illustrated.

Subrevain
.

He heard voices as two men on the
street passed the guild hall. Awareness seeped into him. He stared in horror at
the pages on his lap and stuffed them back into the haversack. A chill swept
through him at the thought of being caught with the forbidden manuscript. He
knew what would happen to him.

He remembered his instructor, Master
Craen, taking him to the Mage’s Hall of Judgment in the city of Enaur. The
council’s Master Magician had punished a magician that night. Meedryk watched
as a tanner made dozens of small cuts onto the bound man’s body. The tanner
then jerked the man’s skin off in large folds, as if he were undressing him.
The pulsing, mottled mass of blood and mush beneath the man’s skin was
something that Meedryk would never forget. He’d never forget the screams
either. Particularly the ones the man made after they threw him into the
alcohol tub.

“That man,” said Master Craen after
the man’s screams faded, “showed a freebody how to use eliciam powder to make
fires. When the life finally leaves his pitiful body the mage council will
transfer his spirit into a chunk of charcoal. For eternity. And his body will
be given to the necromancer’s guild.”

Meedryk looked at the manuscripts in
his satchel and once again considered burning it.