by B R Crichton
“We should wake Blunt,” Kellan said, rattled by the concern the woman showed. If she was nervous, then there was good reason to be. In all the time Kellan had known her, she had been cool and measured in her thoughts and actions, but the way she was crushing her thick, dark braid in her hand told him that she was agitated. At well over six feet tall, she dwarfed Kellan, and her broad shoulders flexed, as though readying for battle as she watched. “I’ll get Blunt,” he repeated, knocking a cooking pot as he turned.
Dimas sat up. The man shook his head and swayed as he sat on the dusty ground. He saw Kellan, but showed no sign of recognition. Then his face began to show signs of panic. He cast about looking for something, a whimper escaping from his throat.
Then he found it. The wineskin.
He pulled out the stopper and drank deeply, calming his heavy breathing.
Kellan felt ill at the sight of it. The thought of drinking anything other than cool clear water, and lots of it, was too much to contemplate. He walked slowly over to a water barrel, just as Dimas slumped back again to grumble into a stupor, and drank deeply from the ladle.
Then he picked his way through the carnage of still sleeping bodies to where Blunt lay, propped against a cartwheel, his garish red had with the green feathers tipped over his eyes. He heard the gentle singing of steel on steel as Blunt unsheathed a belt knife, then the hat was slowly lifted from his eyes with a coarse, stubby finger. Kellan held his palms out and smiled.
“It is only me,” he said. Blunt grunted, and continued to watch the young man suspiciously. “More refugees. Valia wants a word.” When the reception got no friendlier, he shook his head and returned to Valia’s side.
“What is his problem with me?” he asked.
“Blunt?” she said. “Don’t take offence; he didn’t trust me for years.”
“How long have you been with the Band? I’ve never asked you.”
Valia looked distant for a moment. “Fifteen years or so. Since I took his coin and offered my allegiance.”
“Really?” Kellan was genuinely surprised. She didn’t look old enough to have been in his service for that long.
She was about to answer when she was interrupted by the disgruntled shouts of those being kicked out of the way by Scurrilous Blunt.
“What is it?” he asked of Valia.
She pointed her chin in the direction of the refugees, still marching dejectedly along the road. “This lot, it’s too many.”
Blunt pushed his hat back on his head and looked thoughtful. Kellan always admired the way the two of them were of one mind on all things tactical. So much of their conversations went unsaid, as they both instinctively grasped the same indisputable facts without the need to vocalise them. This made their conversations difficult to follow at times for those not versed in strategies of conflict.
Blunt ended the long silence that followed. “We need more information. Alano has two horses, I say we use them to scout westward a few days to see what those buggers are up to. Wouldn’t hurt to ask some of these poor bastards a few more questions either. Find out if these Jendayans are as uncompromising as our friend, Alano, suggests.”
“I should be going with you, Blunt” Olimar said again, as his father mounted the horse. Valia was already in the saddle of the other, a mare dappled brown on grey. Her bow was strung and ready, and her sword at her hip. She also carried six spears across her back within easy reach of her throwing arm. She tried not to notice Truman, admiring her as she waited to head out, aware suddenly of the cut of the leather cuirass, custom made to accommodate her feminine figure.
“You stay here, boy,” Blunt insisted, “take command of the men if need be. If we have not returned in ten days, leave without us. You know what to do.” Then he took off his wide brimmed hat and handed it to his son. “Look after that. Don’t ruffle the feathers.”
Olimar looked furious at his father’s decision to take Valia, and not himself, to scout the advance from the west, but swallowed any further argument and nodded grimly. Alano had agreed to allow the horses to be taken from his camp, for a fee, with the understanding that they would be paid for in full if not returned.
Olimar slapped his father’s mount, as they set out against the flow of refugees, forced into the fields at the side of the road by the throng. He suddenly became aware of the hat in his hand, and scowled again.
They travelled away from the roads, through necessity, as the fleeing Bal Morans choked the highways. The land became less undulating as they headed west, until they crossed the River Mora after three days, and it levelled out altogether. Bal Mora had some of the richest farmland in the Empire, its grain and cereal crops enough to supply Korathea all on their own. The breadbasket of the Empire, and it had been the first to fall.
Here and there they found abandoned farmhouses; many had burned their crops as the invaders approached. That alone was a frightening sign of the Bal Morans’ complete and utter belief that they would not be returning to their land, and their determination to leave nothing to those who took it from them.
They had heard stories from some that they met, of brutality unseen even at the height of the Korathean expansion. Whole towns massacred as warnings to surrounding settlements, to swear fealty or perish.
This was less an occupation than an extermination of them, and their way of life
They said little as they travelled into Bal Mora, ever watchful of the horizon for signs of movement. They were also aware that there would certainly be advance scout parties ahead of the main invasion force, and kept a wary eye out for any that they might cross paths with.
They chose an abandoned farmhouse that had been left intact to spend the night in, taking advantage of the stables to conceal the horses. They did not light a fire or lamp, lest they be seen from a distance in the dark, and ate a cold supper of bread and cured ham. Upstairs was a bedroom, linen still on the soft mattress, and Valia fell into it gratefully, leaving Blunt to take first watch.
She felt the aches of the day’s ride soak from her as she lay, fully dressed, in the dark room. A wooden shutter had just enough movement when latched to gently creak in the night breeze, and she fell asleep quickly; memories stirred by the familiar sound.
Lushara Bedein woke before dawn. The hinges of one of the wooden shutters in the dormitory were creaking as it gently rattled in the breeze. A wave of relief swept over her as she remembered that she was on kitchen duty today, and would not have to enter the Harami chambers. She could do without the jibes today.
She decided not to wait for the dawn bell, and sat up on her narrow bed. She brushed her long, chestnut hair before braiding it into a single thick strand which she threw over her shoulder. A few of the other girls in the dormitory stirred as she dressed, but none woke, even when she opened the door and slipped out into the hall. She followed the long passageway, past the doors of the other dormitories where young girls like her slept, twenty to a room.
She walked down two flights of cold, stone stairs and made her way to the kitchens that served the western wing of Shol’Hara. With the fires lit in the stoves, the warmth of the kitchen was a welcome respite from the draughty hall. The rotund Mistress of the kitchen fussed with her apron strings as Lushara entered.
“Ah, Lushara,” she said with a tight smile, “first again I see. Always keen, you. I shall miss you when you have moved on.”
“Yes Mistress,” Lushara replied with a curtsy.
“If you put half as much effort into your duties as a Haram as you do here, you’ll earn that first earring in no time.” The Mistress stood in front of Lushara, looking up at her through eyes almost hidden in her chubby features, and laughed raucously. Lushara liked the Mistress, but her sense of humour was often cruel. She barely reached Lushara’s elbow when they stood side by side, and Lushara often wondered how the Mistress of the Kitchen carried her vast weight on such small feet. But she was on those feet from dawn until dusk every day without fail, and ran her kitchen like a Hatar did a battalion
of Heavy Infantry.
The mistress was not a Haram. She was just a cook, and could not understand what it was like to be on the verge of entering the Harami chambers as a breeder for the first time. She had children of her own, of course, two boys, but they would never have the honour of serving in the Heavy Infantry as Lushara’s sons would.
“The Dam’Hara has not called me yet, Mistress,” Lushara replied.
“Yes, I hear you are late to bloom,” she said, eyeing Lushara suspiciously, “but then many girls hide their bleeds to avoid the call.”
Lushara gasped and brought her hand up to her mouth. Could the Mistress know?
“Silly girl,” the Mistress went on. “It is an easier life in the Harami chambers than you choose to cling to here. Waited on and adored, honoured above all women. And the men. Pah!” she exclaimed. “Take my word for it, variety will keep your juices flowing longer than a monogamous marriage. My Lucis hasn’t touched me since last winter, and even then, he was at the wrong end of a six hour drinking session.”
Lushara blushed at the thought of the Mistress and her husband in that way. The image that entered her mind, uninvited, was too ridiculous to contemplate. The Mistress was waddling away with short, heavy strides that set her whole body trembling as she spoke.
“A life on your back up there,” she exclaimed as she tottered away, “or a life on your feet in here. I know which I would choose.”
But that was just it. To choose the way she would spend her life was a luxury not afforded to her. She would be a Haram, and bear children, ‘To the glory of the Empire.’ That was what she was born to do.
“Shera is still ill,” the Mistress called from the huge chopping board where she had set about dicing vegetables. “You will need to take her place in the Opal chamber. But first I need apples. Those lazy eunuchs have let the boxes run empty.”
Her heart sank. She had hoped to avoid the Harami chambers today. “Please mistress, is there no-one else?” she pleaded.
“Chesa herself has requested you,” the Mistress replied without looking up from her task. “Now, apples.”
Her heart sank further. If Chesa had requested her, it would be for the sole purpose of bullying Lushara. That Haram had taken a dislike to her from the start. The first day that Lushara had served the Harami in the Opal chambers, Chesa had begun to tease and intimidate the young girl. Rogan said that it was because she was jealous of Lushara’s beauty. She smiled at the thought of him, and hope sprang in her chest that she would see him this morning. Perhaps a trip to the orchard would not be such an onerous task after all.
A few of the other girls on kitchen duty were filing in through the open door, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. She heard the Mistress bossing them as she slipped out into the herb garden and made her way to the western orchard. She passed the glass houses with their crops of tender fruits, then the regimented cherry trees. A gardener was up already, pruning the branches of a trained fan that grew against a south facing wall. She nodded a greeting at the eunuch, who raised his secateurs in a pudgy hand in return. Not just any man was allowed within the walls of Shol’Hara, and certainly not one still ‘intact’.
The dew-covered grass was soft under her feet as she made her way into the western orchard, with its trees, heavy with fruit. She collected a barrow and several apple crates from beside the outbuildings, then collected a pair of secateurs from the storage cupboards within. She began harvesting the large, green apples, placing them carefully in the flat crates.
Occasionally she gave a whistle; the call of the hedge thrush, as she worked down a line of trees. She had filled four of the shallow crates when the call was returned, and her heart leapt. Glancing around and seeing no-one, she made her way to the compost pile at one corner of the huge walled orchard. The massive pile of rotting grass and other vegetation concealed a section of crumbling wall. She made her way around the pile, picking her route carefully through the brambles to the broken section. With a final glance about, she ducked down and crawled through the fissure into the narrow passage between two high walls. Little light penetrated the narrow corridor, and only a few stubborn weeds barred her way as she hurried along the space. The passage turned a right angle, and sloped downwards for about a hundred paces until she came to the end where another section of wall had collapsed into the woodland beyond.
She looked longingly into the gloomy forest, the closest she had ever come to leaving the walls of Shol’Hara. Suddenly, Rogan leapt the rubble pile at the end of the passage, landing silently in front of her. She felt her belly flush with warmth at the sight of him; tall and muscular, and handsome in a predatory way. Even though she herself was over six feet tall, he stood a head taller, and his broad shoulders and biceps strained at the fabric of his shirtsleeves. He was fifteen years old as well, and training to join the Heavy Infantry.
“You came,” she said breathlessly.
“How could I refuse?” he replied, taking her in with his hungry eyes. She had first met him as a child, when Lushara had been playing in the orchard. Rogan and some friends had found their way into the gap between the walls as they had played in the forest. Rogan had been the only one brave enough to go through the fissure into Shol’Hara, and there, had met Lushara. As luck would have it, Rogan’s quarters were not far from the wall. He would hear the call of the hedge thrush, and return it if he was able to meet. They had been meeting here for almost eight years.
At first their meetings were merely opportunities to push at their boundaries and explore their surroundings, bending rules as children do. But recently, their liaisons had taken on a different edge, as their bodies changed and demanded more than just the thrill of defying authority.
They embraced, hungry mouths finding each other, and they kissed for a while until Lushara pushed him away playfully. She had felt him harden against her, and he had made no attempt to hide it, pressing against her all the more.
“Behave,” she giggled playfully, not ready to go any further, yet. Then fell silent.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she bit her lip.
“There is something bothering you. I can tell.”
“It’s Chesa again, she is really being mean these days.”
“I told you,” he grinned, “she is jealous; worried that you will get all the attention.” She hit his chest playfully before frowning again.
“And that’s another thing. I don’t want ‘all the attention’. I don’t want anyone’s attention,” she blushed as she looked at her feet and squeezed her thick, dark braid until her knuckles turned white. “Except yours.”
He put his arms around her and drew her against his chest. “Then we should leave together,” he said.
“Would you really do that for me?”
“Of course,” he said, for the hundredth time, “I’d do anything for you.”
She told herself that he was sincere and enjoyed the closeness for a few moments before pulling away. “I must go. I will be missed.”
She hurried back to the opening in the wall without a backward glance, and made her way back into the orchard where she hastily filled the crates and returned to the kitchens.
It was early afternoon when she was sent to the Opal chamber. She pushed a trolley, laden with fruit and jugs of wine along the polished stone floor to the huge double doors that led into the chamber. A Eunuch stood either side of the door, and wordlessly opened them as she approached. Music escaped the room, along with a miasma of scents and flowery perfumes.
She entered to find a familiar scene. Women reclined on cushions and rugs all around the room, lazily picking at the morsels of food set about them. Many sipped wine or dozed to the music a eunuch played on his lute. The pool in the centre of the chamber held a few bathers, soaking in the heated water. All of the women wore diaphanous robes that hid little; completely, unashamedly brazen.
These were the Harami. Breeders. Mothers of the Empire. There were maybe fifty in the Opal chamber today, one of
many chambers in the west wing of Shol’Hara. This was where the Heavy Infantry were bred. Women selected for their size and strength, bred with those of the Heavy Infantry who had proved themselves on the battlefield, thus ensuring the pedigree of their offspring. Girls born of these unions were usually considered to be worthy of entering the chambers themselves when they came of age. However, more boys by far were born, thanks to a concoction of herbal drinks, thus ensuring the future of the Heavy Infantry.
Lushara had always been a strong girl, and already over six feet in height. She would make a fine Haram, and bear many sons, ‘To the glory of the Empire’, whether she liked it or not.
“Don’t just stand there like a fool, girl,” she heard the familiar voice that filled her with dread. She looked in the direction it had come from, and saw Chesa, lying beside a huge, bearded man behind a screen of mesh curtains. Her robes were open, barely clinging to her shoulders as she propped herself up on an elbow. She was holding out her wine cup, as the man caressed her neck roughly with his mouth, and ran his huge hand up and down her naked thigh. Lushara pushed aside the ineffectual curtain, and poured wine into the offered cup. The seven green gemstones that ran up from her left earlobe towards the tip of her pinna vouched for the seven sons she had borne, ‘To the glory of the Empire’. She was a bully, everyone knew that, but she had the ear of the Dam’Hara, the ‘Mistress’ of Shol’Hara, so no-one stood up to her.
“Who is this one?” the man growled with a lascivious grin, his eyes taking in Lushara’s full breasts beneath her linen blouse. He was naked save for a sheet that barely covered his arousal.
“This one is not ripe yet,” Chesa sneered at her with a disdain she did not even attempt to conceal, and sipped the wine languidly.
“Looks ripe to me.” He leant across Chesa, reaching for Lushara. Chesa snatched the wrist of his groping hand, and forced his hand onto the soft flesh of her belly. Chesa was still beautiful, but the ravages of bearing those seven children, and the sedentary lifestyle of the Harami, had left her overweight and doughy, her large breasts beginning to sag.