The Warslayer

by Edghill, Rosemary

  When she was settled, Ivradan turned and started off. The other ponies—including Glory's—followed.

  * * *

  The Allimir camp looked rather like a diorama depicting "Barbie's Malibu Vardo"—a collection of ornate, fantastically painted and carved diminutive high-wheeled wagons that were drawn in a circle around a central fire. The dense grass for acres all around them had been grazed down to bristle by the Allimir's assorted livestock—large dun-colored oxen with wide glistening horns, a wary herd of striped ponies with their mounted wranglers, and the ubiquitous goats and sheep. It was dinnertime, and Glory could smell the aromas of baking bread and roasting meat, reminding her of just how very long it had been since breakfast.

  The men and women of the Allimir seemed to dress very much alike, in tunics, trousers, caps, and felt boots. Some of them wore aprons, and some wore kerchiefs instead of caps, but Glory wasn't prepared to distinguish men from women on that basis just yet. As the riders approached, they stopped what they were doing, stepped down out of the wagons and away from their tasks to await the party's arrival.

  Glory was so caught up in the improbable wonder of what she was seeing that she didn't remember until Belegir dismounted that they were going to be expecting him to announce that he'd brought them a hero.

  And instead of a hero, he had her.

  Everyone gathered around him, all talking at once, and several of them began pointing at Glory. She waved, not knowing what else to do.

  Belegir raised his hands for silence.

  "My friends—" he began, but they weren't listening. They'd hurried past him, to where Glory was trying to decide how stiff she was from a long jog on a short horse, and if she could dismount gracefully. All of them began talking to each other even louder than before, pointing at her and nudging each other and staring with wide round eyes.

  A cold lump of anger began to grow in Glory's chest at the sight of them. These people looked to be in pretty good shape, but they were desperate all the same. Whether they had a reason to be spooked or not, they were terrified of something, and it was Glory's steadfast conviction that nobody should have to be that afraid.

  What was it Belegir had said? Something about how he'd tried everyone else, and nobody else would come. Well, bugger that for a game of soldiers.

  "Uh . . . hiya," she said. "My name is Vixen the Slayer, and I'm here to rescue you."

  The Allimir cheered wildly, some throwing their caps in the air. After that, the celebrations began, and it was impossible to get Belegir alone.

  * * *

  The Allimir were gracious hosts. They'd provided Glory with a wagon for her own use, and she'd taken the opportunity to change out of her costume and back into jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, and to scrub most of the Max Factor off her face. Changing clothes in the cramped confines of the vardo had a number of things in common with crocodile wrestling in a phone booth, and when she came out she was hot and sweaty. Englor was waiting for her as if he were her personal assistant. He thrust a mug into her hand, and Glory discovered that no matter how short the Allimir might be, they weren't teetotalers. They brewed a strong ale (a nice change from piss-pale American beer) and an even stronger mead, as she found out when Englor led her back to where the casks were. Walking all those miles today had left her with a powerful thirst, and all of the Allimir (if Englor were any indication) seemed to have been born with a hollow leg. By the time it was fully dark and food was being served, Glory was sitting on a bench feeling pleasantly relaxed.

  The Allimir, out of kindness or shyness—she wasn't sure which—were staying out of her way, but at least that meant they weren't asking questions she couldn't answer. Englor had wandered off when she wasn't looking—she could hear him somewhere in the distance; it sounded as if he were trying to teach the rest of the Allimir to sing the Vixen theme song.

  She wasn't so relaxed that she wasn't keeping an eye out for Belegir, though. The two of them were going to have words. She'd found herself a nice vantage point a little distance away from the main campfire but in sight of her wagon. There was a lantern hung from the edge of the vardo's roof, and suicidal moths were flinging themselves at the small gold flame. The rest of the camp was, well, bustling. It was a peaceful moment.

  "So you've decided to help us." Helevrin sat down beside her on the bench, with a quart mug of mead clutched in her sturdy fist.

  Well, you are offering me this lovely free vacation and all . . .

  "I reckon I can at least fill in until one of your heroes shows up," Glory answered.

  "No one else will come," Helevrin said flatly.

  "Then they aren't much in the hero department," Glory answered solemnly, and drank. "Look here," she added, as new inspiration struck her. "You don't know what's going on here, do you, mate? Old Belegir's shy as a goat."

  "He fears that to speak of Her will summon her. Myself, I don't think it makes any difference. I think She will come as She pleases, no matter what we do."

  One of the children—at least Glory was guessing this was a child; it was much the shortest Allimir she'd seen so far, anyway—hurried over to them, carrying a large painted earthenware platter filled with roast meat, pancakes, and vegetables. As Glory seemed to be the largest person they had ever seen, they were feeding her accordingly: there was enough food for a family of six on the brightly painted platter.

  It's like being held prisoner in a crafts fair.

  "Thank you," she said, struggling not to drop it as it was passed to her. "Run along now."

  The child—Glory was more certain now—giggled and scurried off. Glory rested the hot platter on her knees and picked up a handy chunk of meat.

  "So," she said, turning back to Helevrin. "Why am I here?"

  "Belegir told you that when he asked for your help."

  Bitch. "Well, I wasn't exactly listening. Care for some dinner?"

  Helevrin was not shy about accepting. She dug in lustily, picking up one of the flat soft pancakes and using it to hold meat and onions. "You don't know why you're here—and you still agreed to help?" Helevrin asked around a mouthful of food.

  "I'm stupid that way." It was a line from one of the shows, and Glory felt a guilty thrill of impersonation before quashing it ruthlessly. "But you can't deny you need help. So tell me what's going on, why don't you? It'll save me having to chase down Belegir."

  Helevrin seemed to be willing to take Glory at her word.

  "Five years ago we were a rich and happy people. Serenthodial was ours, from the High Hilvorns to the River Baurod. We had no reason to believe there was anything in all the world to fear—oh, there are always wolves, and winter, and a bad harvest, but those are the will of Erchane, and all must suffer them. We had no true enemies, for Cinnas the Warkiller had destroyed them all long ago . . . or so we thought. We did not then know that the Warmother was about to waken from her long sleep. How could we know? She had been a tale for children, to frighten them into bed, since the beginning of time. No one knew. No one believed . . . save Belegir.

  "He had read more of the Prophecies of Cinnas than any of us, and for years he had warned us that the stars foretold that on the thousandth anniversary of Cinnas' great battle, Evil would stalk the earth once more."

  Helevrin fell silent, staring into her mead.

  "And did it?" Glory prompted after a while.

  "Drathil burned," Helevrin said, as if that were an answer. "I was not there to see it, but that is what I heard. Great Drathil burned, and then the outlying villages, the markets and the towns, until all our people found themselves wanderers. We could not bring the harvest in from the field. We could not husband our flocks. All we could do was flee from the fires that sought us out, harrying us across the face of Serenthodial the Golden. We starved, we sickened, we died of a thousand causes. The Traveling Folk took in as many as they could, and taught us to build wagons, for the first thing we learned was that each time we tried to rebuild our villages, we made ourselves Her prey. Only so long as we move are w
e safe—safe to glean grain from abandoned fields and fruit from abandoned orchards, and tend such stock as remains to us, and so we have not died of hunger and lack. But when the last store of grain is gone, if any of us are left, we will die then.

  "I do not think we will survive so long as that. She comes, like a wolf in the night, to take our children and our hope. She will have us all, for what Cinnas did."

  "But who is she?" Glory asked.

  "The Warmother," Helevrin's voice dropped to a hiss. "She whom Cinnas chained upon Elboroth-Haden of the Hilvorns a thousand years past, who now walks among us unfettered once more."

  "What does she look like?" Glory asked, hoping for more information.

  "Look like?" Helevrin echoed, sounding puzzled.

  "Look like. Is she tall, short, what?"

  "No one has ever seen the Warmother," Helevrin said, as if this were self-evident.

  Glory stared at her. "You're out here running around in circles to get away from something you've never seen?"

  The disbelief in her voice made Helevrin get stiffly to her feet. "You think that we are foolish children, running from shadows, yet it was no shadow that reduced Great Drathil to ash. Bide here with us, Vixen the Slayer, and you will have all the proof you require, to the last full measure." She stalked off, leaving Glory alone.

  Carefully, Glory removed the half-empty platter from her knees and set it on the ground. Several of the camp dogs—big animals that looked half wolf, their golden fur stippled and barred with grey—had been sitting a few feet away, watching them as they ate. Seeing that Glory wasn't going to chase them away, they quickly made short work of the remains of the food, grumbling and growling amiably among themselves as they licked the platter clean before wandering off again.

  Helevrin had left her mug behind, so Glory prudently finished off its contents, then drained her own.

  This just keeps getting better. The Allimir were being chased by a monster that none of them had ever actually seen. And better yet, a monster out of their old nursery rhymes.

  And exactly how am I supposed to square off against Mother Goose, hey?

  There didn't seem to be much of an answer to that.

  * * *

  Soon enough thereafter, the combination of a heavy meal and a long walk did their job. Her head started to droop, and Glory caught herself nodding off. Time to hit the sack. And maybe, if she were lucky, she'd wake up in some nice California hotel room tomorrow and this would all have been a really weird dream.

  The wagon that the Allimir had reserved for her use had four shelf-beds, none of which was long enough for six feet of red-headed ex-gymnast to occupy comfortably. She stripped the bedding from all four and made herself a satisfactory nest on the floor. She'd slept rougher than this, God knew, back on her Dad's old sheep station. This was no hardship. She fell quickly asleep, clutching Gordon tightly to her chest.

  * * *

  She awoke in the middle of the night. The ground was shaking, as if beneath the impact of many hooves. Earthquake? she wondered, mind still muzzy with sleep.

  Then the screaming began.

  She reacted instinctively, struggling out of the wagon before she remembered where she was. The sight of the gathered vardos made her reel with the shock of recognition, as though she'd tried to mount a step that wasn't there. But the screaming—a polyphony of shouts and unearthly howls—galvanized her. She ran toward it, her bare feet pounding against the earth: six feet of red-headed gymnast wearing a Vixen T-shirt and very little else.

  The night was bright with enough starlight to make it possible to find her way, and the flickering lanterns hung on the ends of the vardos provided additional aids to navigation. All around her the sleeping encampment was coming to life, but she was the only one moving. Everyone else seemed to be staying inside their wagons.

  She dodged aside as one of the ponies came running at her. It had neither saddle nor rein and was running blindly, eyes wide and rolling, coat foamy with terror. When she reached the outside boundaries of the camp she saw that the herd's nightriders were all clustered together, working hard to control their frantic mounts. Some had given up trying, dismounting and freeing their animals. All were staring off into the darkness beyond the range of the torches, their bodies rigid with fear. The screaming continued now on a single maddened note; the sound a badly wounded animal might make.

  Ivradan was one of those who were still mounted. A-horse, he was just above Glory's eye-level. She grabbed the front of his shirt, compelling him to look down at her.

  "What's going on?" she demanded.

  "She's returned. She's taken the king-stallion." She could feel him shuddering with fear, but his voice was steady and low.

  "Well, aren't you going to do something?" Glory demanded. The screams were fainter now, farther apart, as if what made them was exhausted and dying.

  Ivradan stared at her blankly.

  Hissing with frustration and fury, Glory grabbed the torch out of his hand. If she couldn't save the beast, she could at least chase the predator away from its meal. She had no doubt that was what it was—catamount or dingo, either one capable of hamstringing a pony and then devouring it alive. She released Ivradan with a jerk that made his pony lunge and sidle, and ran toward the sound. She wished, now, that she'd asked him for a knife—she'd have to do something to put the poor beast out of its misery.

  On the short-grazed grass it was easy to spot the body as soon as the light from her torch fell on it. And what she saw then stopped her in her tracks.

  The gallant little pony stallion had fought—the churned earth around the body was testament to the battle it had lost. It was dead now beyond doubt.

  And someone had flayed it alive. Nothing else could account for the sounds she had heard. She stood over the body. Its skin had been pulled away as a woman might remove a glove. The exposed flesh bore no mark at all, no other wound to account for its death. And the body was completely intact.

  No animal killed like this. No person, no matter how twisted, could skin a healthy horse alive and leave no trace of how it was done—not in the time that had passed since she heard the first screams. There wasn't a drop of blood anywhere, just as there was no wound on the body. And around the body, nothing but hoof marks. No predator's tracks to let her know what had killed here.

  Glory stood staring down at the body, her mind empty with shock, until the torch burned low and spit fat sparks onto the back of her hand. The pain made her startle and wince, and she looked back over her shoulder, to where the nightriders were clustered anxiously, staring out at her unmoving.

  Her senses returned: she heard the call of an unfamiliar night-bird, the rustle of the wind through the grass. She smelled wood-smoke and dung and the ripe meaty scent of the stallion's flayed body. The world seemed vast and empty and very quiet. She glanced up at the sky, at the unfamiliar bright wash of stars, and saw, with a slow spasm of disbelief, the chain of toylike pastel moons that arced across the sky. How could she possibly know what kind of monsters stalked the night in a world where all the ground rules of Reality could be rewritten this way?

  She looked back at the nightriders again. Belegir had joined them, his pink robe a bright splash of pale color. This was their world. They knew its rules. Why hadn't any of them come out to see what was wrong? They had knives—she'd seen them earlier—so they must have swords. Spears. Arrows. Some way to protect the herd animals.

  But at the first sign of trouble, they'd . . . run. Bolted for the safety of the wagons and left the animals to fend for themselves.

  It made no sense. Any stockman worth his salt would guard his herd—and from what Helevrin said, these animals were all they had. They were precious beyond price. And they had herd-dogs. She'd seen them earlier. Yet she'd heard nothing bark. Where was the rest of the herd? Where were the other animals?

  Scattered from hell to breakfast, more than likely, and the devil's own job to round them up again with the few mounts they had left. But that wasn't h
er problem.

  Was it?

  She shrugged, and began walking slowly back to the ring of wagons, the guttering torch held well away from her body. All they needed to round out the evening would be a nice grass-fire, she didn't think. It was cold out here—she noticed it now—and the grass stubble was slick and sharp beneath her feet. She hadn't thought when she'd been so rudely awakened. She'd just gone barging in without a backward thought. It was just what Vixen would have done—but of course, Vixen slept fully clothed, in deference to the tender sensibilities of Broadcast Standards and Practices.

  Ah, well. Likely they've seen a naked sheila in their time, Glory thought philosophically. And as for you, gel, do try to remember that you AREN'T a superhero. You just play one on telly. You keep trying stunts like this and someone's going to prove it to you sure.

  When she got back to the riders, Belegir came forward to meet her. He looked desperately afraid—and guilty, like a man who knew too much about what had just happened.

  "Something got your stallion. Skinned it like a rabbit," she added brutally.

  Belegir winced. "She toys with us," he said mournfully. "But you—you would have remonstrated with her." He gazed at her in wonder, as though running into the night half-cocked was right up there with Gallipoli.

  "You're not right in the head," Glory told him simply. She turned away and headed for her wagon. She'd been thinking before that the Allimir had just been spooked by a run of bad luck, but now she wasn't so sure.

  Belegir followed her, babbling like a man who hopes he won't be asked hard questions. "Does this mean . . . ? You've said you would help us, but it isn't right that you should face such peril as this without— We must go to the Oracle at once, as soon as it is light—we must discover Erchane's will in this before something bad happens to you."

  "Something bad's already happened," Glory said, stopping. But it wasn't her, it was Vixen who turned back and smiled at him, lips stretched back in a mocking grin.

  "Sure, I'll go see your oracle," she drawled. "And then I'm going to find whatever was out there tonight and peel it like a onion. If you're a good boy, I'll let you help."