by Paul Freeman
He inched closer to the fire, willing the warmth towards him as the weariness of the road bore down on his eyelids and aching muscles. He cursed himself silently for growing soft as he yearned for a feather-filled mattress and the security of intact castle walls around him. When his head finally drooped and he fell into a restless slumber his dreams were troubled.
She screeched a blood-freezing wail as she swirled about the camp and the sleeping warriors at an impossible rate. She approached each one in turn, reaching out with a long bony finger searching for their heart. Her icy touch was death, her breath poison, her eyes gates to everlasting torment. She was the Soul-Stealer, a harbinger of doom. Her thirst for vengeance on the men who slew her was unquenchable. Her search for the husband, who had betrayed her with another woman and brought a witch’s curse into their marriage bed, would never cease.
And yet, her beauty would fill any man with a yearning that would bring tears to his eyes. It would fill him with desire while at the same time empty his heart and soul, leaving him a shell of frustration and lust. To gaze upon her face was to know both joy and pain beyond any ever before imagined.
She was no longer a blur, screeching from the high walls of the keep, but a maiden of immense beauty and innocence, dressed in an ivory wedding gown, her deep red lips parted slightly as she seemed to float through the camp. Normand wanted to reach out to her, longed to touch. Longing became lust then torment as he struggled with the bonds of sleep. All he wanted was to be with her, forever. Her mouth opened wider as soft, snow-white skin began dripping from her face. Her eyes burned; smoke drifted from her hair and clothes, her features contorted into a hideous mask, and she screamed. A harsh, bestial noise, so filled with pain and fear it made him want to cover his ears, but he could not. Her skin began to blister and melt away making his own eyes burn as he watched, feeling the heat touch his own skin. And then she reached for him, a long skeletal finger pushed through his chest, followed by another and another until her whole hand was reaching for his heart. He screamed then.
“My lord?”
His eyes flashed open. He took in the grime-covered face of the man standing over him. “The sun will be up shortly, my lord. It’s almost morning.”
Wind wailed through the ruined castle, making Normand flinch. He swallowed hard and nodded at the warrior who had woken him. He glanced over at the campfire occupied by the scouts, it was snowing and flakes whirled about them, gusting in the wind. The storyteller was staring right at him as wind whistled through the tower.
“The widow’s searchin’ tonight,” he said. “She’ll not rest ‘til she’s tasted blood.”
The duke turned away from his leering glare as a man-at-arms handed him a skin of water and a chunk of hard, black bread. He’d not admit it to any man present, but he had to suppress a wish that his steward was with them. A tisane flavoured with honey and lemon would be most welcome to chase away the cold and screeching wind.
“How is it possible to be so damn cold up here?” he grumbled.
“The higher you go the colder it gets, my lord,” the man-at-arms offered helpfully. Normand glared at him.
“I am not an idiot.”
“No, my lord… sorry.” He quickly found some packs that needed urgent attention.
By midday they had reached the site of the attack on the trader’s caravan. Despite a clear blue sky overhead, Duke Normand still pulled his fur cloak tightly around his shoulders. All that was left to mark the death of the wagoner was some splintered wood from a broken wheel and a collection of stones heaped on top of the hard earth he had been buried beneath.
“Probably best to leave the road from here, my lord,” a woodsman suggested before hawking and spitting at the duke’s feet. Normand followed the trajectory of the spittle to where it landed beside his boots and then back up at the scout.
“The horses?”
“Leave ’em here with a couple o’ yer lads to guard ’em. If ye want to catch the beast it’ll be best if we leave the road now an’ go straight up.” He turned and looked up.
Normand followed his gaze. Massive trees cloaked in dark green needles shimmered in the bright sunlight. The heady scent of pine filled the air, as he looked at the steep climb. Even though he could not see from where he stood, the enormity of the snow-covered jagged peaks beyond the tree line suddenly made him feel quite small. He remembered the tale of the widow, and wondered what ghosts and demons awaited them higher up.
Warriors and scouts alike strapped as much gear as they could carry to their backs, leaving two of the duke’s guards to remain behind with the mounts. The big shaggy hounds milled around, sniffing the ground around the makeshift grave of the wagon driver, their handlers hauled on leather leashes and yelled curses at dogs as big as ponies.
“Them’s is clever puppies,” the storyteller from the previous night said. “They knows when to be scared.”
Normand checked his sword in its scabbard before giving the man a nod. “Lead on!”
Tomas: Alka-Roha
Tomas swirled a mouthful of warm water before spitting it into the dust. He then upended the waterskin over his head, letting the liquid flow down the back of his neck. It was a moment’s respite from the heat and dust of the road. In the distance the walls of the city Alka-Roha shimmered red, making it stand out from the hard, barren landscape.
“The walls look as if they are bleeding,” Aliss said. Tomas regarded his woman. They had been wed two years previously in the sacred grove beyond the Valley. The entire village turned out to bear witness to the joining of the new blacksmith and the village girl who had a knack for healing sick animals and the children of local folk. She was beautiful that day, her long golden curls tied up in a circlet of flowers. She wore a pale green gown to her ankles, giving the impression that she was one with the forest, sunlight pooled at her feet as birds sang a chorus in union to her… or so it seemed to an awestruck blacksmith. And now, he never felt so distant from her in all the time they had been together as he watched her squinting towards the crimson walls of the desert city.
“Tis the haze of the sun playing tricks with your eyesight,” Horace, the weasel-faced tracker said.
She turned towards Tomas and smiled, an unguarded moment quickly concealed when he looked away from her eyes. Her eyes were the worst of the changes she had gone through since the witch Haera had brought her back from the brink of death with dark magic and the blood of an infant. Where once they had been the bright blue of a mountain spring, now they were like a storm-filled sky, with dark grey clouds constantly shifting, depending on her mood. Her hair too had changed once it grew back. Her golden locks were gone, replaced by straight white hair, the colour of purest snow. Her skin had healed without a blemish, and for that he was eternally grateful, even if he found it odd for there not to be a single mark on her soft, white skin – so very white. He could not help but wonder, time after time, if the witchcraft used to heal her had not in fact replaced her with a different woman. A ridiculous notion of course, even so… The scars she bore inside though, would take longer to heal. Often she would wake at night screaming, begging for the flames to be put out. He would cradle her in his arms, hold her close, yet unable to look into her eyes for fear he would become lost in some dark portal to a place where chaos and black magic reigned.
“I care not if the bitch is standing at the gates waiting to greet us. For this one night I would forget about the dream-witch in favour of a hot bath, a skin of wine and a whore to warm my bed,” the warrior Horald said. He was one of the three men including Horace the tracker and Ronwald another soldier in the service of Duke Normand, Djangra Roe the mage, had sent along with Tomas and Aliss to hunt down the Priestess of Eor. “Beggin’ your pardon of course,” he added the last part for the benefit of Aliss.
She simply dismissed him and the leering look from the smaller, Horace, with a wave of her hand, and kicked her horse towards the city. Tomas waited until the three men had fallen in behind her before he followed. T
wo of them wore mail armour and swords strapped to their waists. The tracker wore a lighter padded leather jerkin. All three had removed tunics bearing the duke’s crest, a red dragon on a green background, while they travelled through other lands, each one becoming more exotic and stranger than the last. A cloud of dust quickly enveloped the small group of riders as they bore down on Alka-Roha, often called the City of Blood on account of the walls and how they appeared to bleed when reflected by the sun.
Horace led them through narrow streets teeming with life. Often they were forced to steer their horses around some cart laden with goods or wait for throngs of people to make way. More often they just rode through them. The smells wafting through the hot air were a mixture of exotic spicy food being cooked by a variety of vendors on the roadside and the waste left by a huge amount of people living cheek by jowl, flowing freely down hard-baked streets.
Tomas felt sweat trickle down his forehead and sting his eyes, it rolled down his spine and pooled at the small of his back. The further south they had travelled the hotter it got and the heat more oppressive. At first his skin had burned red raw and broke out into painful blisters, until Aliss had ground some leaves into a paste and spread it over his skin. The salve cooled and soothed his burning skin. She made another that seemed to reflect the worst of the stinging rays of the sun. He had quickly decided he preferred the cooler climes of the north.
“You have been to this place before? This city I mean?” Aliss asked the tracker as he guided them to an inn.
“I’ve been to many places, girl.” He hawked and spat before grinning a gap-toothed grin in her direction. She looked away and followed Tomas into the inn.
‘I don’t trust that one,’ Aliss had confided to Tomas at the start of their journey south. ‘I don’t trust any of them,’ he had replied. They had chased rumours and followed where the tracker led, hunting the Priestess of Eor, as the seasons changed and the moon cycled through its phases over and over. Their participation was the payment asked by Haera for giving Aliss back her life. No price was too much to pay to have his woman by his side, whole and well, but Tomas was growing mighty weary of the hunt.
They huddled together at a table in the corner of the inn, ignoring the curious glances of the other patrons. Tomas was grateful for the respite from the blazing sun, enjoying the coolness of the building as much as the jug of wine placed before them. The innkeeper provided them with rounds of flat bread and stew comprising of hunks of some undetermined meat floating in bowls of grease, flavoured with some spice or other that burned as it went down.
“So you think you are capable of finding her?” Tomas said pushing away his empty bowl. “Yet she has eluded us for months. I am becoming sick of this chase.”
“I found you, didn’t I? For his lordship,” Horace replied, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive posture.
“I think she is close this time I can feel… something,” Aliss interjected. She placed her hand gently on Tomas’s arm.
“The All Father curse the bitch!” Horald suddenly stood up. “I promised myself a whore, and a whore I aim to have.”
“I know just such a place,” Horace said, a smile creeping across his face. “Perhaps I will join you and find a nice little dark-haired beauty. Or perhaps one with skin as soft and pale as a new-born lamb.” His grin became a leer as his gaze fell on Aliss.
“It is not wise for us to split up if the dream-witch is close,” Tomas said.
“We don’t all have the comforts of our own woman to warm our beds and…”
“Do not continue speaking or I’ll gut you where you stand.” Tomas’s eyes narrowed, his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.
Horace’s grin grew wider. “Come on, lads. Let’s find us a dark-skinned harlot we can show what men of the Duchies are made of.”
Tomas only realised that Aliss’ hand was still on his arm when she squeezed it tighter. Let them go, that simple gesture said. He relaxed as the duke’s three men left on their quest to find a woman prepared to lie with them for silver.
“Let’s leave here now. You and I, we can be miles away before they come back. This task Haera set us is nonsense. What is the dream-witch to us? Nothing.”
Aliss smiled sadly and shook her head. “Haera gave me life. With magic there is always a price to pay, and this is what she asked of us. It would be unwise not to settle our debt to her.”
“I do not fear Haera,” Tomas said.
“You should.”
He smiled at that, but there was no humour in it, for he knew the truth when he heard it. It was never wise to cross a witch. “And then what? What about them?” He flicked his head in the direction of the door, where their companions had just left. “When this is over what were they instructed to do? What will they do?”
“When this is over the Duke Normand will be in our debt. It would be unwise for him not to settle his debt,” Aliss answered. Tomas looked into her eyes then, the clouds swirled as if a tempest brewed somewhere deep inside her.
“The rich are most adept at forgetting debts owed,” Tomas said bitterly.
Aliss placed her hand on his. “You walked into the fire for me. You carried me from the flames and bore me until I was made whole again. If we were not joined by the gods in the sacred grove, surely we are now. My body and soul were stripped bare, burned to the core by the inferno, and I was remade by Haera in the Great Wood. I know not the how or the why of it, but I am not the same person they tied to a post and condemned to die. I will never submit to such torment again. We will never suffer such injustices at the hands of people such as them ever again. Upon my soul, and the love I bear for you, I swear it.”
Tomas felt himself drawn into her stormy eyes as the clouds shifted and darkened. The knowledge he bore weighed as heavy as the anvil in his workshop on his heart and soul. He had not found the courage inside himself to tell Aliss of the infant… of the sacrifice borne by Marjeri’s baby. Did that make him a hero or a coward? To shield Aliss from the dark cloud shadowing all of their souls. He knew the anguish it would bring her. What is one life weighed against another? Does innocence trump injustice? What is the worth of the love felt by a man for a woman compared to the bond between mother and child?
She rested her head on his shoulder and squeezed his hand tightly. “We will kill this witch, and we will be free of Haera, Djangra and all the rest. If Horace and the others have plans to stand in our way, then that will be ill judged on their part.”
“You would kill them?”
Aliss shrugged. “If needs be.”
He looked deep into her eyes again, into the storm. He imagined a girl with golden hair so concerned for the welfare of a crippled bird that she nursed it back to health, crying herself to sleep every night, until its wing had mended.
He could not find her in those storm clouds.
Later as she lay beside him in the sparsely furnished room upstairs in the inn, her breath coming slow and easy, he too drifted off to sleep.
He knew he was dreaming for her hair was once again the colour of a field of wheat just before harvest. She was kneeling beside him as he lay back on the bed they shared. Her lips broke into a mischievous smile, her eyes shining. She was naked. His eyes drank in the sight of her, drawn to her full breasts and the curve of her hips. He felt a movement on the other side. Turning, he saw another woman appear in his vision. She too was naked, but that is not what Tomas’s gaze focused on; painted onto her forehead, between two clear, emerald eyes, was a third eye, freakishly lifelike. Fear’s icy touch made him gasp. He struggled to leap up. Aliss placed a comforting hand on his chest, pinning him in place. She used her other hand to trace a line over the breasts and belly of the other woman. He heard her moan as her head fell back and her eyes closed. He felt her warm hand on his body then, sliding across him. Long, slender fingers encircled him, fondling and stroking him. He exhaled; it came out in a groan. Aliss leaned in towards the other woman, her lips finding the soft skin of the other’s neck.
Tomas had seen the dream-witch once before, although it was from a distance. It was when he had thrown his lot in with the brigands of the Great Wood. The Thieves Citadel was the best place, by far, for a group of bandits to sell the booty built up over months of waylaying travellers and robbing caravans. To many of them it had become a pilgrimage to be made once their need to convert their ill-gotten treasure into coin became greater than the risk of travelling outside their own sphere of power. Even though he had only spied her from afar, he was certain that she was the same woman who was now holding him in her hand, giving him exquisite pleasure, even as his woman kissed her neck while sliding her hand down her body.
Both women knelt over him as they leaned into each other. He overcame his fear… or at least his desire and lust was the stronger, and he reached out to both of them. They both looked at him at the same time, smiling conspiratorially between themselves. He watched mesmerised as Elandrial, High Priestess of Eor, commonly called the dream-witch, lowered her head towards him and took him in her mouth. His body shuddered at the pleasure. Aliss was watching him, smiling as she curled her tongue between her teeth, before running it along the spine of Elandrial. He closed his eyes, succumbing completely to the ecstasy of the moment, surrendering his body and soul to both women, somehow it seemed only right. They three would forge a bond, a link that would become an eternal triangle where each would depend on the other and each would both feed and be sated by each other. He felt a surge of emotion well inside him. He yearned for the climax, for his seed to be shared by both women. For wasn’t it right they three should share in the moment?
“Tomas.” A female voice called to him, yet neither of the women had spoken, too engrossed, as they were, in their activities. “Tomas…” He ignored the voice and slid his hand into Elandrial’s hair, letting the dark strands twine around his fingers even as her head slowly and methodically rose up and down. “Tomas!”