Mistress of the Gods (The Making of Suzanne Book 2)

by Rex Sumner

  While they waited, they would prey on traders taking the Old Road. The border guards moved closer into the realm during the late spring and summer, affording them more opportunity. Susan was the first flower to be plucked, a realisation that required he pluck her all over again.

  They returned to the camp-site, where the boy, Oengus, sat with a bloodstained arm and a dead hare, amidst much embarrassment. It seemed that on taking the hare, it returned from the dead for one last kick, the toe nail splitting his skin from wrist to elbow. Susan watched in fascination as Caomh produced a bottle of strong spirits and soaked first the cleaned wound and then a cotton thread with a steel needle. Realising he meant to sew up the wound, she took the needle from him and bade him hold Oengus’ arm, saying she was a seamstress. He didn’t seem to know the word, but allowed her and said nothing as Oengus flinched. After a couple of stitches, he did suggest they could be a little further apart and she took the hint.

  Three days later, Susan spoke fluent Elvish and Caomh revelled in her body at the slightest opportunity, amid Beorsach’s increased irritability. Susan took every care to not be alone with him. As she prepared the day’s picnic, the accumulated rubbish made her wonder if Caomh would find a new glade soon. Oengus appeared from the woods, hiccoughing in his excitement as he broke the news of an arriving party, a small party. Brioccha and Eriond were shadowing them, and would do their part. Beorsach arrived shortly after, and the three went to take up positions leaving Susan in the camp.

  She scaled the tree, finding a perfect view of the path and the three warriors waiting in ambush. A cart came round the corner and she watched it approach. A middle-aged man and a younger woman sat on the front seat, the woman talking non-stop. Susan did not think the man enjoyed it. As they came closer, Caomh stood and strode into the path. The cart stopped and the man addressed Caomh with respect, switching to broken Elvish when he failed to respond to Harrhein.

  Caomh asked what was in the cart, and asked to see the foodstuffs after the response. The woman eyed Caomh, and Susan’s irritation rose as she realised the woman lusted after her warrior. Never mind she was a captive and prisoner, he was hers. Susan didn’t like sharing, she realised again.

  Caomh ignored her, and asked for a tribute of food which the farmer handed over with alacrity. He turned away and the woman protested. Caomh shrugged, and Beorsach came out of the trees, laughing at the woman. In moments they coupled, with Brioccha and Eriond awaiting their turn. Caomh spoke courteously to the farmer before bringing the tribute to the camp site. Oengus followed him and Susan slid down the tree to meet them.

  She took the sack from Caomh, and inspected it.

  “Not taking your turn, Oengus?”

  The boy blushed and kicked the ground. “No, mistress.”

  This was new, though Susan raising an eyebrow. She was not aware she was a mistress. She kept her eye on the boy, enjoying his embarrassment and deepening colour, so sweet on an elf.

  “Not after you, mistress,” he whispered, with a sidelong look to make sure Caomh could not overhear.

  Susan wrapped her arms round him and hugged him. Caomh looked up, annoyed and she waved him away. “That is so sweet,” she said, waiting till Caomh disappeared, going back to the wagon. Then she put her lips on his and kissed him deeply, running her tongue into his mouth. After a moments shocked pause, he responded with enthusiasm, running a hand up her shirt to envelop a breast and grinding an instantly erect manhood into her groin.

  “Can we do it again, please mistress,” he asked, all earnestness.

  Restraining the instinct to push him off, Susan considered while he kneaded her breast and started to breathe heavily, trying to kiss her again. She submitted to the kiss, thinking she needed allies and would take them where she could. He groaned and she felt him jerk, realising he found release inside his breeches. She held him tight, massaging his back, until he relaxed.

  “Soon, darling,” she promised, “and we will take our time, so you don’t have to be quick.”

  The boy’s eyes misted with tears. “I love you, mistress,” he whispered before dashing away. Susan shook her head, wondering at the ease with which she conquered the boy. She considered recruiting the others, shaking her head at the thought of Beorsach.

  *

  The next day saw another trader and a different approach. This trader had three wagons, larger and more expensive, with two outriders. When Caomh strode out, the two outriders charged him while the men on the wagons picked up crossbows. Two arrows removed the outriders and the waggoneers hesitated before putting down their crossbows.

  Caomh strutted down to the wagons, asking questions and there was much shaking of heads. Unable to hear, Susan reckoned the leader was one of the now dead outriders.

  Caomh picked through the wagons, throwing out the odd sack before pulling a girl out of the last wagon and calling to the trees. The waggoneer lunged at him and he pirouetted, his sword appearing from nowhere to spit the waggoneer as he arrived, the point going in his throat and ripping into his chest. The girl screamed, the other two wagons made off and the warriors came from the trees to claim the girl and the wagon. Oengus drove the wagon into their clearing while Brioccha brought the girl. Eriond and Beorsach disposed of the driver’s body, still twitching.

  Susan wasn’t sure what was happening as she came down from the tree, in time to hear Brioccha speaking to Caomh.

  “You going first, boss?” He ripped the girl’s dress down to expose much larger breasts than Susan possessed.

  Caomh hesitated, transfixed by the sight, and Susan broke into the conversation.

  “He certainly is not! What are you doing to that poor girl, put her dress back at once.” She twisted Brioccha’s hand off the dress and pushed it back up, while the girl clasped it to her, trying to hide behind Susan and crying without a break.

  “It’s our right,” said Eriond, while Beorsach appeared behind Susan and dragged the girl away, causing her to scream out loud. Susan turned on him, the light of battle in her eyes, but Caomh grabbed her arm.

  “It is their right.” He looked up at the warriors, all their attention on the girl, twitching in Beorsach’s grasp as he stripped her. “I forego my right and first duty, which I pass to Brioccha as my second. Further, I shall take the watch tonight.” He turned to Susan. “Make supper, and ignore what happens. I know what you think and you can do nothing but cause trouble.”

  Fuming, Susan went to start the fire. Oengus joined her, lending his assistance while Caomh went to the road. As she blew on the tinder, the first screams rent the night and Oengus pulled her back and down beside him as she tried to go to the girl. He showed surprising strength and whispered in her ear.

  “Please mistress. If you go to help her, they are in their rights to take you too. Stay here with me. I will keep you safe. The girl is dead.”

  She lay supine a moment, with Oengus using his body weight to keep her down.

  “What do you mean, dead?” As another scream pierced the evening, she wrapped her arms around Oengus, biting into his shoulder to control her anger.

  “They do not care about her, they will take her until they are tired and she does not look strong, that one, nor clever like you. You cast your magic on Caomh, and on me, and he broke the custom, kept you for himself.”

  “Magic?” Susan asked, as her anger eased and she held Oengus tightly. The screams faded away, so she could no longer hear anything. “It is not magic, my Oengus, I am just a nice person.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling down at her, “and a brave one.”

  With reluctance, he slid off her, and she realised he was erect at being so close to her. She kissed him briefly, and returned to her cooking. She fed Oengus, and bade him replace Caomh while she went to the men. They lay around with contented smiles while the girl looked at the sky, no attempt to repair her hurts, blood soaking her thighs. Susan told them the food was
ready and pulled the girl up, telling her to come with her to the stream.

  Bathing her in the water, Susan inspected the girl and even in the half-light she could see the terrible tear in her inner folds. She brought the girl back to the fire, throwing a blanket on her, and found her food while preparing a tea for her. As the girl finished her food, Beorsach came up and reached for her.

  “Stop,” said Susan without looking up. “You’ve done enough damage to this girl for one night. You’ve torn her up and it will take days to heal. I will tell you when she is healed and next time you take care to make sure she is ready.”

  “Shut up, witch. I don’t care if she is healed, she don’t need to last long.”

  “Touch her and I’ll kill you,” said Susan.

  Beorsach, huge and threatening, roared in rage and reached for Susan, not the girl, his weight imperfectly aligned in front of his feet. Susan grasped his hair and pulled, crashing him into the fire from which he erupted shouting in pain with embers stuck to his face.

  He swung towards Susan, face incoherent in fury, but by this time she had snatched up her staff. Beorsach never even saw the swinging stick, which crashed first into his groin, masticating his balls, then smacked against the side of his head before the end crashed into his knee, breaking it with a distinct crack.

  He swayed on one leg while Susan prepared the coup de grace, aiming between his eyes. Before her staff began its journey, something twinkled in the dark, and feathers appeared in Beorsach’s chest. Susan hesitated, but slammed the end into his face anyway and he dropped to the ground, face down. Blood blossomed from his back and she blinked before taking in an arrow head sticking out, his life blood pulsing to a stop around it.

  She swung around, staff in the ready position, wondering if she could see sufficiently to deflect an arrow, so spun the staff just in case.

  Caomh lay on his back, an arrow through his eye.

  She backed to the tree, trying to see what had happened to the others. The girl whimpered by the fire. Something rattled to one side, and she dashed a glance to see Eriond, his legs kicking spasmodically. She could not see the injury, but reckoned him dead. No sign of the others

  A voice came out of the darkness, in heavily accented Harrhein.

  “Sorry to spoil your kill, Morrigan, didn’t realise you had it in hand.” In spite of herself, Susan smiled. Even in Harrhein they knew of Morrigan, the warrior goddess of the Elves.

  “You the Border Patrol?”

  “We are.”

  “You’re late,” she snapped in perfect Elvish.

  There was silence for a moment. An elf appeared, just materialised, in front of her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “How long have you been here?”

  “Four days. Did you kill the other one there?” She pointed to where Brioccha should be. “And there is a boy on watch at the road, but don’t kill him.”

  “That one is dead, but we did not see a boy.”

  “Oengus,” she called in Elvish, “walk in slowly so they can see you. Place your weapons down by the fire and come to me.”

  For a long, still moment there was silence, before a shadow moved and Oengus appeared, eyes fixated on her face. He dropped to his knees in front of her, one hand resting on her foot.

  “Mistress,” he said.

  “Can you return him to the fold?” She asked the border patrol man.

  “You have already done the work for us. The girl?”

  “She needs a healer, or at the very least, time.”

  “I’m all right,” said the girl. “She saved me, she did.”

  “Remove the bodies,” she told the patrol man, issuing the order without thinking. “We shall spend the night here and move on in the morning.” The patrol man smiled as he did as she bid.

  Susan took to her bed holding the girl, Naomi, in her arms, while Oengus slept at her feet. She could not sleep, as she explored her feelings for Caomh, wondering how she could both miss him and be pleased at his death. The moon rose, full and bright, casting unearthly shadows through the little clearing. With it came her tears, first a light dew trailing into Naomi’s hair, rising to racking sobs while Naomi stroked her face. Oengus moved up behind her, his arms enfolding both girls and holding them tight. Susan cried herself to sleep, not sure why she cried, for her dead lover or her ruptured innocence.

  In the morning, she set the girl to preparing breakfast with Oengus’ help, while she brushed down her palfrey. The carthorse stood close behind her, nudging her every few minutes and blowing raspberries down the back of her neck as he demanded his turn. She shivered under his breath, smiling as she thought how all the males wanted something from her in Coillearnacha.

  The patrol man appeared while they ate and accepted a plate of biscuits. On Susan’s question as to his name, he admitted to being called Cadeyrn.

  “What now, Cadeyrn? I am on my way to find the Elder Maelbelenus for I wish to study with him. Can you set me on the right road?”

  “Of course, I will draw a map.”

  “I can lead her,” said Oengus. “I will be your guide, mistress.”

  Susan raised an eye. “Is he free to go?”

  Cadeyrn waved his arm. “The boy has learnt a lesson, I think. We all want to go renegade when we are young. Boy, apply for the patrol on your return. Give my name as sponsor.”

  “What about me?” Naomi looked woebegone, sitting by the fire and wincing at some movements. “My man is dead, I’ve nowhere to go.”

  “The wagon is yours,” said Susan with gentleness. “Take it and trade. The patrol will help you catch up with your friends.”

  “Fuck ‘em, they didn’t care about me. I want to stay with you, missus. You take the wagon and let me be your maid. I feel safe with you, I do.”

  “So,” said Cadeyrn, happy to be shot of all the problems at once. “You take the wagon and everything from this camp and follow the road to the Elder. You can sell the goods at his village.”

  Lancers

  The bay gelding went up the steep trail at a canter, while the princess on his back savoured the resinous scent of pine. This trail led along the mountainside and any observer would think she sought the Pathfinder outposts, as she did on regular occasions. Today, hidden from sight in the trees, she branched off on a deer track, winding up the hill to the crest. As deer require less space than a ridden horse, and will go under a fallen tree, she gave thanks for the thick pine covering which made the forest floor clear enough for the horse to bypass such blockages which became more frequent as she approached the crest.

  She reached the top beside a tall pine, from underneath which she could determine the location of the open wold, if not see anything. Another deer track led in the right direction and she followed it to the edge of the wold, where she left her charger to graze without picketing him. Well trained, he would come to her call. Easing up a slight hill, she found a bush from which she could see over the open wold in front of her, short turf with the odd thicket of silver birch trees.

  Several lines of tents caught her eye, even from the distance she could see the simple construction, just a length of dark green cloth over a rope, pegged down. No command tent of any sort, no infirmary, no armoury, all the same size. A number of horses grazed on the far side, while on the nearside riders took it in turn to gallop down a stretch and skewer something with their spears. The spears were very long, longer than any she had seen, and she realised the horses moved at a smooth gallop faster than usual, yet the riders had no difficulty hitting their tiny targets, for the game required several to be hit in difficult locations. Asmara grinned, this looked like fun.

  Useful too, she realised, watching a hunting party return with deer and hares slung over the withers, while the only visible weapons were the long spears.

  Thoughtfully, she looked for the pickets, realising there were none. These were not regular so
ldiers, she reminded herself, but astute plainsmen. They would have pickets, just not the obvious ones she sought. Pretend they are Pathfinders, she thought.

  She concentrated on the perimeter bushes with no success, so instead thought where she would place a picket. Height, she thought and smiled in delight when she at last spotted a tiny movement on a neighbouring hill. Neighbouring, she thought to herself, before sighing in resignation.

  “OK, boys, relax. I’ve seen enough and you can take me to your commander now. We’re in the same army.”

  She wriggled backwards out of the bush and turned to find a short version of the spear levelled at her, held by a sandy-haired boy not much older than herself. His eyes didn’t blink as he studied her face.

  Ignoring him, she inspected the spear in fascination. She didn’t recognise the wood, but it was far more slender than the usual ash used for spears. It eased into the point, a wicked foot long blade in a diamond shape, the double edges gleaming and showing signs of loving attention, hand sharpened without a nick. The spear was clearly one of the usual lances, snapped in half and put to a new use.

  “Can I try it?” She asked without thinking and the boy’s eyes widened a trifle, as he jerked it back out of reach, taking up a more threatening stance. “It’s okay,” she added, “I am Lieutenant Starr of the Pathfinders, with despatches for your commander.”

  “Walk down the hill,” he said, a deep Fearaigh burr making his accent hard to follow.

  “My horse is tethered back there,” she began.

  “My mate’ll bring ‘im,” said the boy, with a hurrying motion from his spear.

  Asmara smiled and made her way down the hill, coming out on the plain and walking towards the spectators of the game. The boy followed behind her, the spear never leaving her back.

  As they neared the group, the riders stopped their game and the entire group regarded her while she returned their appraisal with deepening interest. Why, they were all boys, she couldn’t see an experienced adult amongst them, until a bearded figure moved whom she recognised as the horse coper from his belts, festooned with brushes and grooming aids, while his muscular companion held several horseshoes in his belt, proclaiming him as the farrier. The rest were typical Fearaigh boys, mostly sandy haired, with the odd dark and one startling white. Able to ride before they could walk, raising the beef that fed the nation and the geldings that horsed the cavalry. Tough, wiry boys, who would drink anything they could lay hands on and drop a hat if it would start a fist fight. She remembered her father saying something about their habits with girls, but Asmara remained unworried – she didn’t consider herself anything like those flighty, silly creatures and couldn’t understand the fascination some boys held for them.