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

by Rex Sumner

  Susan wanted her skin to crawl, but she didn’t have any, as she felt an energy slither into her, coiling around her spine, before breathing warmth and love into her mind. In a moment it was gone.

  She projected an uncertain thanks, feeling Crom brooding and quiet beside her.

  A vibration came through the aether, seeming to quiver through the walls, making the crystals resonate with the sound of battle and the hint of the word ‘Brionne’.

  “Come,” said Crom, “we are called. My avatar is in a battle. Let us watch it and see if we need to help. I think we shall arrive a little before hand.”

  A sensation of pulling came again, and the crystal cave disappeared. She sensed Crom’s words in her mind.

  “We travel by simply picturing where we wish to go. I have mapped most of our world, so it is easy. Now we go to Hardenwall.”

  “Crom? What did he mean, your friend, about a star? How can that be?”

  “As I told you before, they all lie. It becomes them to be mysterious and important, from somewhere you have never heard a word about. But my friend with the vision, he never lies about those.”

  Crom would say no more, and in a moment they were in a bar, with several men looking at each other with hostile intent. A tall thin girl with long hair stared at Crom, enthralled.

  “Ah,” said Crom in a pleased tone. “A seer. Sing for me then, Cassandra, and get my Brionne ready. Time to light the fires, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Lord, I will prepare him and when you tell me, I shall cry the battle song.”

  She turned to her fiddler and spoke a few words, causing him to look in astonishment at the wall where they stood.

  “Can everyone see us?” Susan asked in a whisper.

  “No, only a seer or a witch. One who already plays in the aether. Hush now, and keep back, out of sight. See, there are dark beings here. Always in taverns.”

  Indeed, looking around the tavern, Susan could see dark clouds surrounding all the drinkers, heavy around a group of soldiers but none beside the youth she recognised as the Crom Brionne.

  The seer started to sing, and she saw him start. She watched the fight develop and the battle song ignite not just the Crom Brionne, but also a bunch of other men who came boiling out of doors as the fight ended.

  “Midir,” said Crom. “Haven’t seen him in ages. Well, this does look like it is going to be a good fight.”

  Susan thought it was over, and they followed the rioters into the street, Crom staying back behind the seer and whispering the occasional instruction.

  “Drummers,” she heard him say. “We will need some drummers.”

  Before long they were before the shield wall, and the promised drummers had arrived, great hairy men dressed in plaid and painted blue. To a man they could see Crom and grinned at the sight.

  He gestured and they picked up a rolling, ominous beat, reverberating down the street.

  “We could have trouble here,” said Crom. “Cassandra, sing for the archers in the tower.”

  The seer nodded and struck up a different song, in Elvish. The crossbowmen flew from the ramparts.

  “Now,” said Crom, “it is time for us to retire. All will be well, but see, the dark side is coming for the blood. They will get a shock, but it is always their mistake to be over confident and think I am not here. I must leave no sign of my presence.”

  Dark shapes, amorphous, billowed behind the shield wall of the Harrheinians, some drifting in front of the line.

  “They seek to scare our boys,” said Crom, “but Midir and his Picture Sidhe will have their measure. Their sigils will keep them safe. Ah! See them go, these lancers are fun. Wait, seer, call for the drummers to beat the battlesong, time to let the beserkers free.”

  The Fearaigh boys had arrived and broke the line, with everything happening too fast for Susan to take it all in. The seer sang a different song, the drummers created a new, powerful beat and plaid clad men marched forward wailing music from pipes coming out of bags. Midir saluted Crom and the Picture Sidhe went beserk, many of the local warriors following suit. Everywhere Susan looked, blue-painted savages swarmed over the armoured soldiers of Harrhein, and she felt a pang, worried about her own people and not understanding why the Lancers attacked them or why Crom helped the savages. She felt lost, lonely and for the first time, afraid.

  The king! Where was the king?

  Her travels through the aether had engendered a sense of wonder and till this point she had been content to follow Crom and watch, seeing this strange world and the creatures within. Now her troubles jerked her out of observation mode, and she grieved for her king, thinking about him, concentrating on him.

  The colours whirled around her, and she blinked out, disappearing without Crom noticing.

  Rebuilding

  Inside the Manor house, Marshal Roberts and Colonel Donnell watched the demise of the flower of Hardenwall nobility in shocked silence.

  “The shield wall is truly dead. Too many archers around, and these lancers give us another dimension. Did you see the way they opened the gaps? Lethal.”

  “Yes, indeed. And now, Colonel, I think we need to do something to protect the Manor House.”

  “What do you mean, sir? The king is secured, the guards locked away and the princess found.”

  “If you think that lot will be content with a bit of murder, you’ve got another thought coming. They’ll burn the manor.”

  For once, the colonel was at a loss. “We’ll have to move the king.”

  “The hell you will,” said a determined voice. “I’ll fix this.”

  The princess pushed past them and leaned out of the window. “JEZ! Crom Brionne.” She waved madly and caught the attention of most of the participants, the noise of battle having faded to a contented rumble. A few bows raised in her direction, but none were loosed. Jez cantered towards the Manor, and the rebels surged behind him now a mixture of blood and blue.

  “We’ve secured the Manor House, all the guards are locked up. But I need a healer for the king.”

  Jeremy smiled and nodded, understanding her perfectly. He turned on his horse and bellowed at the crowd.

  “You heard the princess. Who’s a healer? Who knows about herbs?”

  Lionel nodded as Annette pushed through the throng, waving something in one hand, her blue paps liberally smeared with blood in what appeared to be symbols. “I’m a fucking witch, I am. I can heal the bastard.”

  “Come on, then,” said Jeremy. “Get in there. And leave that bloody head behind.”

  “Fuck off. I’m gonna stick him where he can see me undo all his bloody plans.” She grinned at Jeremy, showing a surprising set of white teeth gleaming from a blue and bloody face, while waving the duke’s head at the crowd, who cheered. She marched for the Manor, and the Elven singer appeared behind her.

  “I have a touch of different magics, Crom Brionne,” she said, with a secretive smile and her clear contralto rose above the hubbub, dimming it for a moment, as she sang the opening bars of the Triumph of the Gods, in the Uightlander tongue, into which the rebels launched with gusto.

  Lionel rode up to the door of the Manor and swung down, hearing behind him an Uightlander complaining to Jeremy as the song died away.

  “What about our mates in the dungeons?”

  “Let’s get them out,” said Lionel, and followed the women into the Manor. A swarm of people followed, growling at the Pathfinders who made no move to stop them.

  “Dungeons are this way,” said Colonel Drummond, standing just inside the main doors. “We locked the guards in the first cell and haven’t looked further.”

  “Where the keys, marra?” A hulking young man, bare chested and his face bright blue with white stripes poked the colonel in the ribs with a massive hammer, leaving a trace of blood on his uniform.

  “On the desk in the guar
d room,” said the colonel, not turning a hair. “Good job lads. Any of you want a job in the Pathfinders, let me know.”

  “Och, now, I might take ye up on that, I might,” said an Uightlander, laying a shaggy arm over his shoulders. “Can we keep our plaid? We couldna join the bluidy duke’s guardsmen ‘cause he wouldna let us wear our plaid.”

  “Blends in with the heather, don’t see why not. We could use the cloth for the uniforms.” The two of them went off towards the dungeons arguing as to whether Pathfinders really needed trousers.

  *

  The king sat up in his bed, colour in his cheeks and his eyes bright. A multitude of candles and two oil lamps lit up the spacious room. His leg stuck out with his foot on a cushion, a towel under it. The witch sat cross-legged on the bed beside his foot, holding a warm poultice on the wound and regaling the king with tales of the injustices laid on the north by the duke. The Elven singer sat beside the bed, holding the king’s hand while she sang in Elvish, a low, quiet sound, comforting in the room. Asmara sat on the other side of the king, on the bed, smiling at Annette.

  Marshal Roberts and Colonel Donnell sat at a window table with their heads together, cooling cups of tea beside them.

  A succession of girls came into the room bearing herbs, packages, hot water and vials, while a singularly pretty girl ground them in a mortar, adding hot water to make a paste and soak new poultices. Lionel came into the room and Annette jabbed the girl with her toe.

  “There you go, love, he’s a pretty one, isn’t he? I’ve claimed him for you tonight, I have, so none of the other girls will dare touch him.”

  Lionel started and coloured, while level grey eyes examined him in minute detail before returning to her work. The witch cackled and the king laughed, while Asmara frowned. The king beckoned for Lionel to approach, taking in his rider’s walk and confident expression.

  “So, you are the young tyke who is my youngest colonel. And pretty lethal at demolishing shield walls, I understand. Met your brother. Are you as crazy as him?”

  “I have my moments, sire.”

  “So how are we going to defend our borders and cities, if you rapscallions are going to ignore shield walls, heh?”

  “Better armies, sire, better trained and more mobile.”

  “Hmmph. More mobile. Yes, well that leads us to your sorry lot of undisciplined rabble who molest my daughter. Got reports of the way you operate.” The king eyed Lionel, who decided not to protest any of these charges. “Bobby wants you and your men permanent, a third regular regiment after the Pathfinders and the Guards. Whaddya say, boy?”

  The Elven singer fell silent, and Lionel realised the entire room waited for his reaction, including the grey-eyed girl.

  “Thank you for the promotion, sire.”

  “Promotion? Haven’t talked about that. You’re already a blasted colonel, youngest in the country.”

  “A regiment is commanded by a general, sire. I shall discuss the details with Marshal Roberts.”

  “God’s teeth, you make trouble for me, boy. What will my nobles say? And what am I going to do with your damn brother, Kingslayer they are calling him, and now Dukeslayer?” The king nodded to the staring gory head placed on the counter against the wall.

  “Another of my boys, sire, struck the fatal blow. Rode straight into the thick of the line as if he were heavy horse.”

  “Silly young bugger. I suppose he wants to be knighted too?”

  “He didn’t make it, sire.”

  “Not surprised. Did you lose many men?” The singer hummed, almost sub-vocalising a paean to the dead.

  “Seven today, sire and twenty-three wounded. The Geordies we supported lost sixty-three that I know about, including twenty-four girls, and I don’t have an accurate count of the wounded yet, but it is well over a hundred.”

  “Maybe you should be a general; not one of my dukes could give me a butcher’s bill so fast.”

  On the bed, Asmara’s lips thinned as the door pushed open, a nervous guardsman standing to one side as two naked blue girls, each adorned with dried blood stains and bearing a bare short sword, preceded Jeremy into the room, with four identical girls at his back. The girls stopped him in the middle of the room, casting baleful glances at the officers and one positioning herself directly between Jeremy and the grey-eyed girl on the floor, identified in an instant as the main threat.

  ”Well,” said the king, “if it isn’t the Kingslayer, the man of the moment. Hear you’ve been busy, boy. How’d you know to raise the city? Hear you did it on your own, too.”

  Jeremy hesitated. Somehow, he felt that telling the king he had been getting drunk in a brothel might detract from the lustre he was accumulating so rapidly. The Elven singer stepped in to cover his modesty.

  “Crom Brionne protects the weak

  Damsels his strength did seek,

  When the dark duke’s son slunk out at night,

  To Crom Brionne the weak did flight.”

  “Oh, was that the duke’s son? I didn’t realise,” said Jeremy, desperate to interrupt her before she revealed too much. “Not a nice man, sire, and when I had words, things sort of got out of hand.”

  The king bellowed with laughter, causing his leg to shake, Annette to glare at Jeremy and the king to yelp in pain.

  “No doubt I will hear the full story in due course. Now, more important, what the hell is going on? Have you got control of the city?”

  “Yes, sire,” said Jeremy, “pretty much. The lads are just clearing up the last of the resistance. I sent groups to secure the various gates to the city and relieve the duke’s men.”

  “Relieve them, hey? And what the hell does that mean?”

  “Ripping them to pieces, more than likely. There’s a lot of hate here, sir. The duke was not a good ruler.”

  The king grunted, filling in the unsaid blanks. He debated asking after the duke’s family before deciding he didn’t want to know.

  “Now, General Summoner, I think we will need your boys garrisoned up here for a while, until we sort out the situation.” A slow grin spread across Jeremy’s face at the word general and Lionel’s nod. “Question is, who are we going to make the new Duke of Hardenwall?”

  “Crom Brionne, Lord of the North,” crooned the singer and Annette nodded.

  “Give us the Crom Brionne, and the Uightlanders will come under his sway,” she said. “We all know about him and his time in Coillearcha.”

  “More than I did,” mused the king before frowning at her while Jeremy preened, already looking around the Manor with a proprietary air. “You want me to make a new title, and give him the whole blasted country?”

  “He’s a southerner,” said Marshal Roberts, following the conversation with interest. “Why would your wide boys accept him?”

  “Crom,” sang the Elf, the word thrumming and filling the room.

  “He’s a strong god,” nodded Annette. “He baint ours, but we know him, we do. If’n he wants us, we’re happy. Where the Crom Brionne strides, the god comes. We know how to worship him, we do. Danu is his sovereign, and she looks over you, too.” This said with unspoken wonderment which the king showed great wisdom by ignoring.

  “Yes, by slaughtering southerners,” muttered Colonel Donnell earning a glare from the witch,

  “Can you administer a duchy, Sir Jeremy?” The king pinned Jeremy with a glare and he shrugged.

  “I’ll make damn sure we produce enough uisge to send you a barrel or ten.”

  “Uisge? What the hell’s that?” This distracted the king.

  “Water of life,” said Jeremy nodding to one of his girls who moved forward and offered the king a clay bottle. The king opened it and sniffed, his eyes watered and he coughed while Annette cackled. He took an injudicious swig and gasped, grabbing at his throat and dropping the bottle, snatched in mid-air by Annette.

 
“My word, that’s good,” said the king between coughs, then bellowed in agony as Annette poured a dram on his wound where it bubbled and hissed. She clung to his jerking foot with a hand of iron.

  “Kills the mortification and deadens the pain. Take another dram, you’ll feel better.” The king growled at her and snatched the bottle back, sipping this time and showing no intention of relinquishing his new supply. The officers half stood in interest and the girl passed them another bottle.

  “That’s what fuelled the revolution, sire,” said Jeremy. “Nothing can stop my laddies with a skin-full.”

  “All right, I’ll make you Lord of the North, provisional mind, until Uightland comes to you. But you need a duke for Hardenwall. No,” he said, forestalling Annette, “I won’t send another southerner. Do you have any of the old family left? Somebody you respect to rule under the Crom Brionne and myself.”

  Annette cackled again and adjusted her legs, her blue breasts swaying.

  “They’ll fight each other up and down the Toon for the seat. But you put young Armstrong in the Manor, that’ll do them. Old family, follows the Old Gods. He’ll run the place all right, he will.”

  “Old Gods, hey? Will make trouble down south. The Church thinks it is strong here. I need a bishop to look after their people.”

  Annette swelled with anger and spat on the floor. “The Church! Evil comes with it, desecrating the Holy Woods, taking from the poor. Your church was behind our troubles, along with your count, the troublemaker.”

  “Rotherstone? He’s not mine, for sure.”

  Asmara leant forward. “Susan built bridges with the Church. Let me use her network to send a message to the Archbishop, ask for a bishop who will preach love and help the poor. There are good Churchmen too, lady.”

  “I’m no fucking lady,” bristled Annette, “and who’s this Susan tart?”

  The king’s turn to bristle at this mention of his beloved, but the Elf stopped his words with a new song.

  “Aine,” she sang, the note high and golden, echoing through the room. “Queen Aine, loved by the Gods, forsaken by the King.”