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

by Rex Sumner

  “Where is Jez?” Lionel hoped he misheard and his brother was not really with the king. He dreaded what Jeremy might say and do.

  “He’s with the king. I’ve got to rush, Robbo is up to sixteen and I want to catch him, I’ve only got twelve. Oh, forgot to tell you. Sheepy is on eleven, Steve got chopped but he’s ok but Paul is dead, missed his strike. Andy lost two horses and is still going. Have you seen Pez?”

  Matt took off without waiting for an answer. The princess followed Sir Lionel in a daze up the trail. Dead Spakka littered the way until the trail disgorged them onto a wide curved beach where low waves broke at intervals. Debris littered the beach as far as the eye could see, signs of a previous encampment. The undergrowth beneath the trees at the edge of the beach was gone, trodden down by thousands of soldiers going about their daily business. The smell of shit stayed strong in the air, as the wind blew offshore in small gusts. Small huts could be seen under the trees, thrown together from branches liberated from the lower boughs of the trees. Further along the coast, perhaps two hundred paces from where the trail emerged, stood a small stockade, rough pine trunks standing perhaps twice a man’s height. A sea of stumps beyond told the source of the timber.

  Drawn up along the beach, more than thirty Spakka longships lay on their sides, masts pointing north. Two pulled away from shore, undermanned, while a third half floated free surrounded by horsemen pointing lances at the oars. Several bodies hung over the side while more lay spread-eagled across the sand from the trees to the water.

  They cantered down to the Lancers, past several peering into each ship. Sir Lionel pulled up beside the older man from yesterday.

  “Why aren’t you searching the ships, Robbie?”

  “Guards. Willis got brained when he boarded that ship.”

  “I’ll send for the Pathfinders. They won’t have any trouble. Pity, as most of the loot will be on these.”

  Robbie stiffened before barking out some commands and six riders jumped onto the first ship. They went through it at speed, finding it empty of people but a full cargo of grain below decks. They moved to the second ship, when a piercing girl’s scream drifted down the wind, just audible over the waves. Sir Lionel led the way, cantering up to the rough stockade, where a horse cropped the thin grass outside, while its rider hesitated in the gate. Asmara recognised Matt, an uncertain expression on his face. The scream came again, abject fear. She pushed past him, and also stopped.

  The stockade overflowed with women, empty eyed, sitting on the ground, a couple making haphazard attempts to clean themselves up. One young girl, backed against the far wall, screamed again, her eyes wide with terror at the sight of Matt. Sir Lionel and a few other riders pushed in behind Asmara, including Sergeant Russell who knew what they had found.

  “This is the Spakka’s slave compound. That poor lass will have been raped a few times, and is scared of men. We’ll need to find some of the older women to take charge. Here, princess, this is no place for you. Let’s go and see the ships.”

  “Shut up, Andy. These are my people, they need me. What do you mean by slaves and rape? They forced that girl?” Asmara understood the technicalities, if a little hazy on the detail. “Guys, get out. You are scaring the girls.”

  Casting backward glances, the Lancers retreated, returning to secure the ships, though Andy mounted guard at the door, overseeing from a distance as Asmara approached the women.

  “I am Princess Asmara,” she said in clear, low tones. “The Spakka are defeated and you are free. We are the vanguard, but I can send for what you need. Healers? Food? Clothing?”

  One woman, a little older, pulled herself to her feet and gave the princess a wan smile. “Time is what we need, mistress. We’ve all seen our folk slaughtered by them bastards, our men dying trying to protect us. They moved faster that we thought they could, ma’am. Caught us on the way to the Wall.” She winced slightly.

  “Are you hurt? Did they torture and beat you?” The princess showed her concern, taking the woman’s arm.

  “I’m sore, ma’am, we all are, but we’ll live. It’s the girls that suffer, they still had their dreams of knights and princes. For the rest of us, well, we manage. It’s good for us to see you, to see you care. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Asmara was not sure what to make of the whole situation, and couldn’t remember anyone calling her ma’am before. She felt ineffectual as she took in the women climbing to their feet, adjusting their dress and walking towards her, most managing tired smiles. One girl walked more briskly, coming to join her.

  “We’ve not been hurt, your Highness, but we feared for our future. It was not the Spakka who mistreated us, but the Uightlanders. They have made an alliance.”

  Asmara nodded in thought, remembering seeing some plaid in the Spakka wall. A noise came from behind her, and the girl’s eyes widened, her lip trembling. Asmara whirled to find Andy staggering back from the door, blood reeling from his head, and a large Spakka swinging his axe. Andy tried to duck, but took a glancing blow and slumped against the wall.

  Asmara cried out in fury, dragging her rapier from its scabbard as three more figures pushed through the door, their plaid clothing proclaiming them Uightlanders. All smiled at the sight of the little princess with her tiny sword, and the first minced towards her, swaying his hips, causing his friends to laugh. Asmara thinned her lips, feinted at his head, ducked his block and ran him through the thigh.

  He collapsed to the floor, roaring with anger, and the Spakka turned his attention from Andy to Asmara, approaching her with care, holding his axe at the ready while spitting commands at the Uightlanders, more of whom now piled through the gates.

  Asmara wanted the Spakka and switched her attention to him, withdrawing from the killing stroke on the Uightlander. The Spakka watched her eyes, keeping the axe between them, twitching it effortlessly to deflect her feints. She dropped her point to his knees and scrambled backwards as the axe sang through the air, much faster than she expected, hissing past her face.

  The Spakka grinned, showing a missing tooth although he lacked the usual scars and broken nose, being almost presentable.

  “The little girl can sword fight,” he said in understandable Harrhein. “So of good family, I think, maybe even royal.” The axe snickered as it swung in fast, short arcs in front of her, forcing her back to the centre of the stockade while the women backed away, hands over mouths.

  Asmara repeated a parry, knew he expected her to repeat again, and the next time he swung from right to left, she pulled back a fraction to let it pass, slipped her sword behind the axe head and helped it on its way while whirling her body round in a circle, her back against the haft of the axe for a moment as she used the momentum to twirl inside his guard and drive the dagger in her left hand into his throat.

  That was her plan, high risk she knew, and it failed in spectacular fashion as the warrior read her movement and met her twirl with his left fist, in a cross hook to the jaw. Asmara’s eyelids fluttered and she slumped to the ground.

  Dancing with Gods

  The dew still clung to the grass and flowers lining the path as Susan made her way to the first lesson of the day, in a nearby glade. A porridge made from nuts and grains sat heavy in her stomach, seeming to slosh from side to side as she walked. She kicked an errant pine cone, a vicious swing of the foot betraying her temper.

  She practised in her mind the right words for Laoire, to keep his interest and let him know hers, while getting to know him. They would lunch together, walk to and from classes holding hands and tonight she would let him kiss her. Act natural, she thought, and he will never know about Oengus. On the other hand, maybe it would be better to tell him, to make sure he heard from her and not from somebody else. Oh, so confusing, what is the right thing to do?

  She worried about her dress, selected with care and at least half an hour of indecision that morning, swapping one dress for another. Th
is brought out the colour of her eyes, and subtle make up made those huge and luminous. Now she worried that she looked too easy, like a slut or a baggage, and wondered if she should wipe off the make up.

  One of the first to arrive, she took a place on a fallen log, touching the foxgloves growing beside it and attempting to feel their vibration, to harness the energies Maelbelenus insisted where the key to using the potions. She closed her eyes, seeking to feel the movement of sap inside the plant, to feel the growth of the leaves and the life of the plant, when the subtle scent lilies of the valley brushed her face, warmth touched her hip and an arm slid around her. Warm lips pressed her cheek and she opened her eyes to see Fionuir.

  “Good morning, darling. I changed my schedule to fit with yours. Thought I would help you with your studies, more fun with the two of us. The people on my schedule are so boring.”

  Susan couldn’t help smiling. She kissed Fionuir back and hugged her, with sudden gratefulness for her friendship and presence. About to speak, her words caught in her throat as Laoire entered the glade.

  With Orlaith at his side, holding hands. She glowed.

  *

  Somehow, she managed to get through the day. The lecture made no sense, she couldn’t recall anything from the day, except the sight of Orlaith’s face, enraptured and nibbling on Laoire’s ear, as often as not. Laoire seemed quite pleased with himself, though he did seem a trifle embarrassed at lunchtime when they came face to face. He mumbled something she couldn’t hear and went past. Orlaith stopped to hug her and thank her again for the powders. Susan thought she would snap a tooth off as she ground her teeth.

  Fionuir did not say much, but remained a constant reassuring presence, warm and friendly. She guided Susan through the day, supporting her without saying anything. As classes closed in the early afternoon, Susan faced an empty evening staring at the wooden wall of her room, her cage. Fionuir led her away, pushing through some vines into a similar room to her own, with far more furnishings. She sat her on the bed and put her arms round her, stroking her hair.

  “Just cry, darling, let it all out. Tell me how you feel, get all those nasty feelings out, set them free.” And Susan did, while Fionuir held her and stroked her hair.

  Empty, and feeling much lighter in consequence, Susan’s words ran to a stumbling halt. Fionuir fetched a damp cloth and washed her face.

  “Come, let’s go down to the stream and swim. After supper, we will talk some more and I will explain to you some of our Elvish customs. We are not so bothered about love as you humans. Pleasure is our goal, something we seek always. Life is for living, to be enjoyed to the full. There is no point in spending time doing something you don’t enjoy.”

  Later that night they watched the glow worms playing underneath a tree in which a nightingale sang. Fionuir produced a small sack of nectar, and the two giggled as they sipped. Suspicion grew in Susan, and she quietened while she followed her thoughts. Although aware of women loving women, she possessed no direct experience, but she began to suspect Fionuir’s caresses lingered a fraction too long.

  Old Susan reared back in horror at the very thought, but New Susan considered the idea with mounting interest. And when Fionuir asked her, a sweet and gentle proposition timed for the perfect moment, she kissed her in acquiescence, holding her hand as the two returned to Fionuir’s room.

  *

  The week passed, Laoire regressing in importance as she and Fionuir became inseparable. Her understanding of the Elven culture grew in leaps and bounds, till she relished the approaching party at the end of the week. Making up the girls faces with pleasure, even that of Orlaith, Susan smiled at the girl’s happiness.

  She joined in the dancing and feasting, noticing the humans on their own table. She could see them looking around, guessed they searched for her but did not feel like the challenge of the conversation. Yet the urge to hear news of the Kingdom would not be denied. She nursed her goblet of nectar, a prominent sprig of elderflowers projecting from the side behind which she could hide. Sipping at the drink, she drifted behind a couple of elves discussing a new song and found a spot behind a bush from which she could eavesdrop.

  “...and the war is over, just like that,” said Bishop Roseton to his comrades. “The result, so speedy, is unexpected. The Church did expect the king to receive a serious reverse and is waiting to hear from Count Rotherstone for his alternative proposals.”

  “I still don’t understand how this could happen,” said a young, corpulent monk. “We expected to hear Hardenwall had fallen and the king to boot. He was outnumbered, Count Rotherstone should have given way in the line and left the king isolated.”

  Susan’s face hardened. Rotherstone! That slimeball. She knew she should have sorted his insolence once and for all. She leant forward to hear the reply.

  “He was outmanoeuvred. We expected the king to take command himself, but he gave command to that damn general, Roberts, made him Marshal. The good lords created objections, but the Marshal arrested Rotherstone which made life difficult. In the fray the line broke, as planned, but the marshal expected that and his reserve was enough to stem the tide.”

  “That’s all very well, we’ve heard about the squares, but who are these wretched Lancers you mentioned?”

  “We don’t know much about them,” said Roseton. “From the little I know, they are young boys from Fearaigh, not Churchmen, and they are demons in human form. Flew out of the forest, too fast for human knights, and murdered the poor Spakka by arcane means. We suspect they have sold their souls to the devil, for they are too fast and cannot be killed. No human could wipe out the Spakka as they did. The good Count Rotherstone cannot be blamed for the reverse, it is the devil’s work to be sure.”

  There was a mutter of agreement around the table, the churchmen reaching for their goblets and a pervading air of gloom enveloped the table.

  Susan chortled to herself, wondering who these Lancers could be, and why she had never heard of them from her network. At least the king was safe, and from the sound of it most of her friends in the Pathfinders would be as well. She slipped away as the conversation changed to a vision one of the clergy had experienced the previous night, some succubus he had resisted. Susan doubted the vision to be anything more than wishful thinking and wondered at the gullibility of his brothers who seemed convinced of his tale.

  The rabbit dance commenced. Susan couldn’t face it, the thought of being captured again by Laoire or, worse, seeing him capture Orlaith. She slipped away, over to the tables still laden with food and found a skin of nectar, a delicate sniff confirming its identity: Goibhniu.

  She hesitated, but a vision of Laoire catching Orlaith during the dance caused Susan to sigh and she drank deep. The core of heat in her belly exploded, rushing down her limbs and to her head. She dropped the empty goblet as the glade whirled around her, the trees changing colours with figures appearing in the branches, dryads smiling down on her. She waved at one beauty, a tall green woman with hair the colour of spun copper, falling past her knees. The movement made her lurch, and she fell into something hard and an arm clasped her to it.

  She found her nose against a broad chest, bare, with white and black ochre stripes spreading in a complicated pattern. She traced the pattern with her fingers, muttering under her breath and the chest rumbled. She raised her face to find a being of regal bearing wearing an amused expression. His eyes swirled, green and gold, rushing in circles, large and luminous, while his hair writhed and swirled around his head, long and luxurious so she longed to wrap it around herself. Heat rushed through her, as she felt her nipples crinkle and she tried to concentrate on his lips, sculpted, firm, full and powerful.

  “A God?” She said, her voice indistinct and blurred from the mushrooms. “Which one are you? And where is your dragon?” She swayed around, hanging onto his shoulder as she peered around the glade looking for a dragon.

  The God laughed, an
d another voice replied, from another large God coming up alongside and also inspecting her with close attention. “He’s Cernunnus, see his horns, like a stag, showing his fertility.” Susan blinked like an owl, leaning back to inspect his head from which indeed sprouted great horns like the aurochs, leading her errant mind to reminisce about the size of his testicles, when the words percolated a little further and the horns twisted and metamorphosed into antlers, a great spread with upper spikes clustered into hands reaching for the sky.

  “I, though, I am his father, Dagda, with all the power on the earth, to create what I wish,” he continued, and Susan turned her attention to him, gasping as his head shone, radiating brilliance as if it were a sun. She raised an arm towards him, entreating his grasp and he bent to her, lifting her up while she wriggled in his hands. The Goibhniu coursed through her as she raised her lips to the God.

  *

  Susan pirouetted in pleasure, walking between the two Gods, Cernunnus and Dagda, as they brought her back to the feast from a forest glade. She felt tremendous, like a cat who’d eaten all the cream. She had pleasured both Gods, not once but twice each, leaving them groaning and exhausted on the ground. Her triumph at this success soared through her spirit. The Gods loved her, accepted her, wanted her. Her cup overflowed with happiness.

  She started another little dance step, and staggered as she was jerked away so hard she thought her arm came out of its socket and she gaped at it lying on the ground.

  “Leave her alone, you dirty old men,” said Fionuir, her hackles up. Susan giggled, she looked just like a cat, why she even had whiskers and a bottled tail, stiff with indignation.

  “Hello Fionuir, love,” said Susan, delighted to see her friend who would share in her triumph. “See, the Gods have come. This is Dagda and his son Cernunnus. They find me beautiful and desirable.” She twirled again for effect.