The Beast of Maug Maurai, Part One: The Culling Read Free Page B

he
was by her side he slid one leg over the saddle and leaped at her. He knocked
her down. She wheezed like a drowning fat woman as they tumbled then she
flipped to her feet. Grae lunged at her from behind and fell onto her rump.
Dragged her back legs to the ground. She squealed and freed one leg then
kicked. Grae’s cheekbone seemed to explode with pain. Dazed as he was he kept
his hold on one of her legs. Buried his face in her back to keep from being
kicked again. She shat on his arm, the fear emptying her bowels, but still he held
her. They struggled for what seemed an eternity before Grae was able to smother
her with his body and stay on her until she stopped bucking. He took a deep
breath, then heard applause.
    A handful of his men had watched the
entire exchange. Braxley was there with his decaying smile. An officer, a brig
like Grae, sat on a horse next to him.
    One of the men roped the great sow as
Grae stood and brushed himself off. Pig shit was smeared across one arm of his
dropshirt. Blood ran from a gash on his cheek where the sow had kicked him. He
glanced down and winced at the muddy shamble of his uniform as he approached
Hammer Braxley and the officer.
    “Brig Barragns, sir,” said Braxley.
“This here’s Brig Throen. He rode out to speak with you, if it please you,
sir.”
    Grae nodded to Throen, who looked at
him the way most high-born officers looked at Grae Barragns, only more so.  
    “Underlord Felch would like a word
with you,” said Brig Throen. “If you’re finished raping that sow.”
    Grae was too flustered by the
condition of his uniform to think of a response, so he simply stared until the
man looked away. Grae didn’t own land, nor was he graced with wealth, but there
were few in the Laraytian Standards who could challenge that gaze. He nodded
and fetched his horse and thought of a dozen clever retorts on his way back to
camp.

Chapter 3  
     

If youth is wasted on the young, then nobility is wasted on the noble.
     
    -- Elendyl Bask, Warrior Poet
     
     
    Murrogar herded the scattered mass of
nobles, servants and soldiers behind the trunk of a massive blue feuryk. He
listened for the Beast but heard only the blubbering of travelers, and Sir
Wyann shouting at everyone to go back to the road.
    Murrogar closed his eyes and strained
to hear past the din. He heard the Duke’s buttery voice calling for composure.
The Duchess stood next to him shrieking, asking if anyone had seen her nephew,
Sir Jervik. Murrogar heard the retching of a soldier. A squire sobbed. A
nobleman slapped a hysterical lady and she clawed at his face, screaming. It
was impossible to listen through that cacophony. But Murrogar tried.
         “Murrogar, these people don’t
stand a chance out here.” Sir Wyann held up a lantern. “I’m bringing them back.
Taking them from the carriages was a terrible idea.” He turned to the crowd and
shouted, “Everyone, with me! Everyone, follow me back to the road. Everything
will be fine.”
         Murrogar studied the immediate
surroundings. They would need to find something defensible. He looked up at the
great blue feuryk, then at the mossy soil. He thought about Maug Maurai, about
the topology of it. “Thantos, get me a log.” He held his hands apart roughly
the length of one of his arms. “’bout that big.”  Murrogar turned to the lone
crossbowman. “Take position twenty-five paces out. Shoot anything that moves.”
         The Duke approached. “Murrogar,
are you certain that—”
         The old hero held a hand up to
the Duke because Thantos had returned with a log. Murrogar hefted the piece of
wood and shook his head. “Too big.” He turned his attention back to the Duke.
“We’re out here ‘cause we’ll die on that road, my lord. You saw how it tore the
wagon. We need better shelter.” Murrogar walked a few paces away and listened
again.
    Sir Wyann, who had half of the
travelers back on their feet, strode over. “We’re leaving now.