At last, the naked dancers skipped away to be replaced by players of cymbals and bells who announced a wrestling contest between two gigantic muscular women garbed only in breechclouts, each smeared in oil so that their flesh glistened in the flickering shagunblend light.
Throughout, Ulran drank little while watching Saurosen and Yordine Tallast.
The master of the toran behaved impeccably, not overindulging in food or drink, and gave the impression he was enjoying the festivities. His grand-daughter sat on his right while Saurosen sat on her right. Saurosen didn’t drink too much, either. He chatted a great deal to the young Lahra.
The revelry was likely to run into the early hours of the next morning, Ulran guessed.
“Let us give our thanks to the master of the toran and then be off,” Tael suggested.
“Aye, I’ve had enough drink and food for one night,” said Alomar. “I’ve spoken to several people about the Navel, but nobody has a clue as to what I’m talking about.” He cast a look at a comely serving girl. “She was fascinated by my eyes. I tried to tell her I don’t sleep, but she insisted that she’d like to find out if that was true by sharing my bed! I was sorely tempted!”
Ulran raised an eyebrow at Tael.
Smiling, Tael said, “Yordine Tallast told his deputy to arrange night accommodation for anyone who desired it – the toran has enough empty rooms!” He leered at Alomar. “Be sorely tempted no more, friend. Enlighten the wench about your lack of sleep – and how you’d be happy to occupy that time of wakefulness!”
Slapping Tael on the back, Alomar stood. “I’ll do just that!” He weaved his way through the throng and accosted the serving girl. Her eyes lit up and she beamed.
“What about you, Ulran? Do you want to stay overnight?”
“No. I’d be sorely tempted – but kingslayer is not a sobriquet I want.”
“You hate him so much?”
“Saurosen has caused untold harm to so many, Tael. Some people deserve to die, and he’s in that category.”
“But you’re no assassin?”
“As you well know. Let us take our leave.”
***
Aurelan Crossis regained consciousness in a narrow bed in a poorly lit brick-lined room. He looked around, his head swimming, and recognised Danscar on a chair by the bedside. Other beds were occupied by three men and a woman, all asleep; two of them were bandaged; one of them was strapped down, and the woman appeared heavily pregnant.
“He’s awake!” Danscar called.
A man in white robes walked over. “Ah, you’ve returned to the living again, Captain Aurelan.” He had a long white beard and tufts of hair springing from his prominent ears.
“Where am I?”
“The Hewqoma infirmary.” Grey rheumy eyes glinted in candle-light. “When your companion brought you in, you were in a sorry state.”
“The Yordine toran.” He eyed Danscar. “Thanks, friend.”
“You’d do the same for me, Captain.”
Aurelan nodded and regretted the action; it hurt. His arm and leg were stiff, and were heavily bandaged. “You’re the master’s physician?”
“I am. Quan Mas at your service.”
He tried to sit up but Quan Mas gently restrained him. “Lie for a day before attempting to get up, Captain. You have lost a great deal of blood.” He gestured at a young man mopping the stone floor. “My son will bring you broth to help restore your strength.”
“Thank you, Physician Quan. I think I’ll take your advice.” He peered into the gloom. His sword, belt and armour were piled on a chair on the other side of the bed. His head pounded and his flesh was sweaty after such a small exertion.
“Is King Saurosen a guest here?” Danscar asked.
Quan Mas studied him keenly. “Yes, he is. As we speak they are honouring him tonight with a great feast.”
“Honouring him?” Aurelan whispered hoarsely. His lips pursed tightly and he winced.
“Talk of a feast makes me hungry,” Danscar said.
“Perhaps there will be food and drink to spare, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll stay with my Captain a while longer, then perhaps seek sustenance.”
Closing his eyes, Aurelan whispered, “Thank you, Physician. I’ll rest now. Thanks, Danscar…” And, he thought, wait, wait until I regain my strength so I can kill the king!
***
Moonlight glowed, visible through the slit windows as Saurosen stalked along the gallery with his witch. Dressed in his bed-robe, he entered General Edural’s room; the man was alone, asleep face-down. “Wake him,” he told Nostor Vata.
His Sardan crossed the room and vigorously shook the general’s bare shoulder. “Your king wants you, General!” she whispered hoarsely.
In one swift motion, Edural woke, flung her hand aside, peeled off the covers and raised a long thin knife. He wore no nightclothing.
Nostor Vata was as fast. Arcane words passed her thin blue-tinted lips and his weapon glowed red.
He dropped the knife, yelped and swore. “That’s hot!”
“Be thankful she didn’t draw her knife instead, General,” Saurosen said.
Swinging his legs out of bed while nursing his burned hand, Edural said, “Sire, what can I do for you this early in the morn?”
Without a word, Nostor Vata took the general’s burnt hand and massaged it briefly. Surprisingly, the redness faded.
“You’d be a boon on the battlefield, witch,” Edural said.
“I may yet have need of her to be present on a battlefield,” Saurosen said.
Edural cocked an eyebrow.
“Get dressed, General. I want you to leave here at once and muster our troops. They must march on the toran at first light.”
“I know I mentioned a shortage of funds, sire, but isn’t this proposal risky? The twentieth toumen is close and formidable.”
“The twentieth is not to be considered lightly, I agree, but I have learned that the Lord-General has seen fit to break up that toumen and only a thousand or so are stationed here at present.”
“Are you joining me now, sire?”
Saurosen licked his lips. “No, I have other business.” He turned to Nostor Vata. “Start your packing. I will not be too long. The night grows thin.”
“Is this wise, sire?” Nostor Vata whispered.
“I must do it. Now, go, both of you, about your business!”
***
First Sabin of Sortulous
Saurosen left Nostor Vata at her bedroom door. Casting a concerned glance at him, she entered her room and gently shut the studded door behind her.
Bare feet padding over thin carpet, he stalked along the upper gallery. He clasped the Quotamantir amulet to his bare chest. Perhaps he imagined it, but felt sure it throbbed with the heat of passion against his heart. On his right was the bannister and balustrade; below, the dining hall. Wall sconces of gold lit the way. He passed niche upon niche that harboured gold-plated vases; untold riches, there for the picking, to finance war and revenge. But first, as the witch had uncannily fathomed, he must sate his desire.
Subtle questioning had disclosed the whereabouts of Lady Lahra’s room – at the far end of this gallery.
He reached the door and bent an ear to listen. His pulse raced as he heard the muffled sounds of slumber, a thrashing of covers and an intermittent snore. He didn’t care if Lady Lahra snored – he wanted her awake, anyway.
Tentatively, he turned the handle and opened the door a crack. He slid through, shut the door quietly. A single wall torch illuminated the room. On a raised pallet at the foot of the bed slept Lady Lahra’s maidservant, snoring under a flensigg hide.
His tongue glided over dry lips as he moved closer to the four-poster bed.
Outstretched on her back, Lahra lay naked on top of furs, one knee bent. His arousal was painful as he beheld the bare pudenda; he’d forgotten the Kclenand tradition dictated that the pubic hair of maidens must be shaved until they were wed.
His blood san
g as the tantalising scent of jasmine and musk filled his nostrils.
Limbs quivering, he hastily slipped his robe to the floor and flung himself on top of her, excited beyond measure by the warmth of her flesh against his own.
He clamped a hand over her mouth.
Lahra’s dark doe eyes opened, startled, fear-filled.
“Don’t make a sound or wake your maidservant,” he warned in a harsh whisper.
Docilely, she nodded awkwardly under his fierce grip, her breath from her nostrils warming his hand.
It was those eyes, all right. Big brown doe eyes: to lose himself in. Now, he would lose himself deep within her!
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
MIST
“There’s only one way to fight a war. And that’s to win.”
- Anonymous
Rom Swamp
Cobrora Clen woke to the sound of dogs barking, yelping and fighting. It was a constant noise in the village. The dogs were kept to guard homes and to kill snakes, and not used as pets; the children preferred voles and otters. Despite noticing a swarm of bats flitting among the ceiling rafters, casting sinister shadows, he’d fallen asleep instantly.
Light of the false dawn filtered through the doorway of the mudstahl. Ulran and Alomar were not asleep on their pallets; were they still at the toran?
He brushed the crust of sleep from his eyes and then went outside. He shivered in the chill air of a new morn. Night torches at the entrance illumined the water’s edge.
Ulran and Tael sat in a shallow-draught dugout canoe with four men. A cluster of spears were piled in the prow.
“What’s happening?” Clen asked.
“We’re going hunting,” Ulran replied. “Do you want to join us?”
“Yes, of course. But where’s Alomar?”
“He stayed overnight at the toran.”
As he clambered into the canoe, Clen asked, “Was it a good feast, then?”
“Saurosen was there.”
“Oh.”
Tael and another cast off and they ploughed through the still water.
“Are you going to do anything – I mean, about Saurosen?”
“As long as Saurosen is a guest of the Yordine family, the fugitive king is safe.”
“You intend to kill a creature of the swamp instead, is that it?”
“Flensigg are pests – and a rich food source. I do not vent anger on animals of any sort.”
“I wonder if you are ever angry at all, innman.”
***
Toran Hewqoma, Rom Taal
At the moment that Saurosen prepared to lunge at Lahra, intent on brutal rape, he stopped, a knife blade pressed against his throat.
“Unhand my lady!” snapped the maidservant.
“Help!” she screamed as Saurosen released his hold on Lahra’s mouth.
Lahra sobbed and slid from under him, her wide eyes in shock, and grabbed bedclothes to cover herself. Tears streaked down her pale cheeks. Her lips trembled. She couldn’t speak as she sank to the floor at the side of the bed.
***
Alomar walked along the gallery, fully dressed, tightening his weapons belt. The serving girl had discovered that he truly did not sleep and now she embraced the gods of slumber after an exceedingly active night.
He heard the call for help and hurried to the door, opened it, and took in the scene immediately. “Is Lady Lahra harmed?” he demanded.
“No, warrior, I interrupted him in time.”
Lady Lahra cowered on the floor at the side of the bed, a sheet wrapped round her. Her wide eyes stared unseeing.
Alomar drew his sword and levelled it at Saurosen’s neck. “You’ve done well, girl. Now, fetch her grandfather!”
He noted the discarded robe. “Put that on, you bastard,” he ordered.
Glaring, Saurosen bent and lifted the robe, slowly slipped it on.
Lahra’s wide staring eyes never left him, and never stopped crying.
Alomar said, “My lady, can you get up, sit on the bed?
“No, no, no!” She trembled, as if suffering an ailment.
“Saurosen, you have dishonoured your name and Lornwater!” roared Yordine Tallast in the doorway, the maid behind him.
Alomar jabbed the point of his sword at Saurosen’s belly. “Lady Lahra’s maidservant stopped him before he could accomplish the act.” He eyed Lahra. “She won’t talk or speak about it.”
“Yes, the maid told me. Oh, ye gods,” Tallast moaned. He rushed in and knelt by his grand-daughter. “Lahra, Lahra!”
She clung to him, fingers tight, and continued to stare.
He lifted her in his arms. But when he attempted to lower her to the bed, she screamed, “No, no, not there, not here!”
Whatever he said couldn’t dissuade her; she clutched at him, sobbing hysterically. Tallast appeared as lost as Alomar felt.
“My lord,” whispered the maidservant, “shouldn’t my lady be seen by the physician?”
“Yes, yes, that’s the answer. We’ll take her to the infirmary!” He paused, turned to Alomar. “Evict him from my home!” He gritted his teeth. “But for the law of hospitality, I’d deprive him of his manhood and lock him in the dungeon for all eternity!”
***
False dawn lightened the sky. Fully clothed now, Saurosen walked slowly across the courtyard, breath gusting from his mouth in the chill morning air. Courdour Alomar and three Yordine men-at-arms acompanied him, weapons drawn.
Captain Bayuan Aco held his horse in readiness, a puzzled frown on his features. Nostor Vata was astride her mount; she bit her lip and glowered at him.
Without a word to her, Saurosen mounted his horse.
Alomar glared at him. “Think yourself lucky Yordine Tallast has let you go. Had you despoiled his grand-daughter, you’d be a dead man!”
Arrogant warrior swine, Saurosen thought. Sneering, he urged his horse forward.
His captain and witch followed.
“Can you work your magic, witch?” he asked her as she drew alongside.
“For a brief time only to give you an advantage. Grasp it quickly and strike hard.”
“Hard and fast, yes.” In his scheming mind he ventured to believe that once he’d taken the toran the men of the twentieth toumen would accept him as their leader and join his forces. The only other option for them was to die.
They rode to the gate. Saurosen advised the sentries he and his witch wanted to go for a dawn ride and would return shortly; the captain was returning to camp. “So leave the gate for our return. We won’t be long.”
“Aye, sire.”
Grinning to himself, he then rode along the causeway with his witch at his side. At the end they were met by General Edural.
“Are you in readiness?”
“Aye, sire, though there is a measure of uncertainty among the men.”
“You did tell them that if they want to be paid, then this is the only way?”
“I happened to mention that, yes. Still, a few dissenters had to be dealt with. I strung them up.”
Saurosen turned to Nostor Vata. “Can you do it now?”
Without saying a word, she wheeled her horse round and stood in the stirrups. Her hands outstretched towards the toran, she gesitculated in the air, weaving esoteric shapes, while chanting apparent gibberish.
“Ye gods,” whispered Edural in awe.
Marsh-fog shimmered on the surface of the taal near them, covering the causeway, and gradually spread towards the toran; as it extended in distance it rose, thickening, likely to entirely obliterate Toran Hewqoma.
“Keep to the causeway – and ride!” urged Saurosen, drawing his sword and kicking his horse into action.
***
The noise of many voices and heart-racking sobbing disturbed Aurelan Crossis and he opened his eyes. Faithful Danscar sat at his bedside still. By the gods, he ached! Inside his head resounded to the pounding of hammers on anvils.
There was a cluster of people on the other side of the room, a curtain par
tly drawn to conceal the bed and its occupant. Voices of concern were raised; he heard the physician, Quan.
He raised himself on an elbow, curious.
It was a woman weeping, and nobody seemed able to calm her.
Alarmingly, she screamed, cursed and shrieked, “No, no!”
Quan Mas backed away and knocked aside the curtain.
Aurelan caught only a glimpse, but it was enough.
Imprinted as if burned there on her chest was a good portion of the shape he knew and cursed: the Quotamantir amulet.
And in the same instant he saw her big wide doe eyes and his mouth tasted of ash.
“Those eyes,” wheezed Danscar. “Just like Sno’s,” he whispered.
“Aye.” Fighting the nausea and the pain, Aurelan swung his legs out, rested his bare feet on the chill floor and limped awkwardly to the foot of the bed.
“Saurosen!” he croaked, pointing.
Physician Quan hurried over to him, and Aurelan Crossis collapsed to the floor before Danscar could catch him.
“Will he be all right?” Danscar asked the physician.
“Yes, given time.” The old man’s brow wrinkled. “Why his concern?”
“Saurosen had raped his sister and then had her murdered. The girl I was going to wed…”
***
Hidden in the mist while they surged forward, Saurosen’s troops took the toran’s sentries by surprise, storming through the open gate, his Black Sword brutally felling the obliging guards.
With Nostor Vata by his side, he rode into the courtyard, followed by his men.
“Remember,” shouted General Edural, his horse’s hoofs clacking on the cobbles, “don’t destroy anything – this is your payment! It’s no good to you broken!”
As the mist thinned, archers on the battlements let loose their arrows. But Edural had prepared his men and twenty horseback crossbow-men felled as many archers in the first foray.
Men of the sixth toumen dismounted and stomped up the stairs, wielding their swords. Within a few moments, the battlements were taken, secured for Saurosen.
Dismounting, Saurosen climbed the stairs after them and, a little breathless, stopped on the walkway and surveyed the scene.
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