And the villagers had changed.
They had heard of the events to the south, and they had watched as flight after flight of the feathered evil had flown overhead. They had witnessed the rebirth of Tencendor, and had bewailed the fact that most of the Acharites had apparently accepted this as easily as they had discarded the Seneschal and the Way of the Plough.
“It is a test,” Goodman Hordley, senior man of the village, had told his brethren. “Artor tests us to see how true we are.”
And the villagers agreed with him. The troubles had started with the vile murder of Plough-Keeper Hagen by his dark daughter, Azhure. None had ever liked her, nor her mother, and none were surprised that she had been capable of such an act.
From that murder their problems had escalated. The Forbidden pair had escaped, and the BattleAxe—cursed be his treacherous name!—had not been able (or had not wanted) to recapture them. Battles to the north, west and south over the next two years against the invasion of the Forbidden Ones had not resulted in victory for the Seneschal, only disaster.
These days the villagers had grown used to dark news.
But they had also grown used to other things. Lacking a Plough-Keeper since Hagen’s death, they had nonetheless gathered each seventh-day in the Worship Hall to honour Artor as best they could. They had sat there quietly, softly mumbling to themselves those words of the Service of the Plough that they could remember, making the sign of the Plough at every opportunity, taking what comfort they could from the icon of Artor that hung over the Altar of the Plough.
But then, five months ago, the icon had begun to talk to them. At first individuals thought they were hallucinating, and did not discuss what they had heard. But then they recognised the fanaticism that glowed in the eyes of every other villager as a reflection of what broiled in their own souls, and people talked, shared…planned.
Planned for the bitch they knew was coming from the south.
Planting trees.
Spreading shadows and evil.
Burying the straight and narrow furrows beneath the twisted roots of her forests.
Infecting all who came close.
Lately, Artor had spoken to them in their dreams as well, and for the past four nights everyone in the village had spent their sleeping hours thrashing restlessly as He had shown them explicitly what threatened; they had dreamed of walks through dark woods where eyes glimmered at them from the unknown and where an old witch clad in a blood-red cloak chased them with spells.
And a woman had also wandered the paths, carrying, two-by-two, the dark seedlings of destruction in her hands.
And so Artor had whispered to them.
Her. Destroy her. Destroy her and we can begin the arduous task of returning this land to its purity. It will take a long time, but her destruction will be the start of the unravelling of all the evil that has infected this wondrous land.
And they listened and believed and planned.
They knew she was coming. For days they had watched the dark line of the forest slither closer across the southern plains. Now they waited for her, and their eyes were almost as maddened as those of the monstrous red bulls who drew Artor’s Plough.
Their thoughts were even worse.
“Smyrton must make way for Minstrelsea,” Faraday sighed. She straightened her back. “Well, we shall have to go in. Barsarbe, perhaps it would be best if you and the others took Shra around the village. There’s no need for you to—”
“No,” Barsarbe said, and by her side Shra glared at Faraday, daring her to contradict. “Shra and I, and our companions, will come with you. Either we all go, or none of us do.”
Faraday nodded, glad of their support, although she worried for Shra. These villagers had already seized and abused the girl—what if they did so again? Would Axis miraculously appear a second time to save her from death?
Slowly she walked forward, feeling the unnatural coldness of the village with each step closer.
Nothing stirred as they approached. Even the crops in the fields refused to sway to the gentle breeze, and shadows hung thick and heavy over the village, although the sky was clear of clouds this fine spring day.
Faraday could feel the humming of Minstrelsea, driving her on, begging her to complete their union and transformation.
How could she fail them?
Behind her walked the Avar and the Goodwife, all calm, all with heads high and eyes shining proudly. In the blue cart the seedlings trembled, desperate to sink their roots into the soil, yet afraid of the soil awaiting them.
In front waited Smyrton.
The streets were deserted as they walked past the first houses. No people, no livestock. The garden plots were bare of flowers or vegetables, but the dark soil lay turned over in neat furrows. Waiting.
Doors were closed, windows tightly shuttered. Silence hung over everything, hiding the village’s intentions.
Faraday felt sick. She tried to summon the power of the Mother, but it was tarnished by whatever lurked here, and it sickened and failed even as Faraday touched it. She swallowed. How would she be able to defend herself, defend the forest, without the power of the Mother?
Artor. If Faraday could not touch the power of the Mother then she was sure she could feel him. His was not an unknown presence to her, for Faraday had spent the first eighteen years of her life an ardent believer in the Way of the Plough. But that had been before she gazed into the Star Gate and before the Mother’s arms welcomed her, and she never, never, remembered the sickening, cloying presence she could feel now.
“Watch the shadows,” the Goodwife muttered, and Faraday faltered slightly. Watch the shadows? Watch the shadows? And what was she going to do when Artor poured forth from the shadows?
Azhure? her mind screamed, where are you?
A man stepped from behind the corner of a house and stood silent, grey, watching the small procession.
Faraday hesitated, wondering if she should call out to him, but his eyes were flat and hostile, and she knew he would not respond. It took all her courage just to keep on walking.
A woman appeared, from where Faraday could not see, holding the hand of a seven-year-old child, and their eyes were as bleak as those of the man’s. They stood silently, watching them pass.
And then another stepped forth, and another, until the main street was lined by silent, grey adults and children, unmoving, unmovable.
Faraday and her companions kept walking, and behind them stepped the donkeys, jumping nervously at the hatred in the eyes of the grey people to their flanks.
As they passed, the silent people moved in behind them, following them, blocking their escape.
Faraday kept walking, although she could feel the villagers beginning to mass behind her.
How had Azhure managed to live here so long?
In the village square a small knot of people stood before her. Four men and two women, all grey and silent, madness and devotion lurking about the corners of their eyes.
Faraday stopped several paces from them. “My name is Faraday,” she said. “And I have come to plant.”
“Witch,” whispered one of the men.
“Whore,” spat one of the women, her eyes sliding down Faraday’s body.
“She is Faraday,” said the Goodwife pleasantly, standing a pace behind Faraday’s right shoulder, “and she is an Earl’s daughter, and a widowed Queen, and beloved of gods and men alike. And she has a task to complete.”
Goodman Hordley looked at the peasant woman. “You have been misled, Goodwife,” he whispered, infused with Artor’s power. “Return to the truth and the Way, and Artor will forgive you.”
The Goodwife laughed merrily, and her laughter gave Faraday heart. “Return to Artor?” she said. “I have returned, but it is not to Artor. Can you not feel the presence of the Mother, Goodman?”
Faraday shivered as she felt the villagers crowd about them.
The Goodwife’s words were brave, but Faraday could sense that she commanded no more power
than Faraday did herself. There was no escape. “I must—” she began, but Goodman Hordley stepped forward and his hand snaked out, grabbing her wrist in a malicious vice.
“Artor waits, bitch,” he spat, and behind them and about them the villagers stepped forward and seized Faraday’s companions. She heard Shra cry out and one of the donkeys bray in terror, and she tried to twist away herself, but Hordley’s fingers sank deeper into her flesh. “Are you ready to confess your sins?”
The villagers took them to the Worship Hall, built over the very site where Artor had first appeared to the wandering families of the plains. They tied the donkeys up outside and pushed and dragged and shoved as they took their prizes inside the hall.
It was similar to many Worship Halls that Faraday had visited in her youth, and yet there was something profoundly different about it.
It was a great stone hall, beamed far above with metal rafters specially forged in the ironworks of southern Achar. The walls were thick, with tiny windows set far above, and little light managed to penetrate.
Furniture was virtually absent. When the villagers came to Service they stood in orderly ranks, their hands folded and their eyes downcast in humbleness. All that relieved the starkness was the Altar of the Plough at the eastern end of the hall, a massively oversized metal casting of the Plough itself where young couples gathered to be married, children stood to be admitted into the circle of its safety, and the old were laid out to be farewelled with prayers to their graves. On the wall behind the altar hung an icon of the great god Artor, not gold and silver as those that had once graced the walls of the Tower of the Seneschal and the richer Worship Halls, but bare iron like the altar.
What made this Worship Hall so different to others Faraday had seen was not only the cold power that permeated it, but the mess of blood, torn flesh and feathers surrounding the altar and occupying the floor space beneath the icon of Artor. The sickly-sweet smell of decay wafted through, and Faraday doubled over and gagged.
Wainwald Powle, son of the village miller, regarded her coldly. Women, always weak, always ready to succumb to temptation. Well, they would learn that such weakness would be the death of them.
“Behold,” he said, “the fate of those who refuse to admit the light of Artor into their lives.”
“Icarii!” Faraday gasped.
“Flying filth!” one of the village women said, “who made the mistake of landing here six days ago and asking for shelter from a rainstorm.”
“We have dedicated them to Artor,” Goodman Hordley said pleasantly, and he withdrew a long knife from the back of his belt. “Just as we will dedicate you. Now!” he suddenly barked, and those who held the women dragged them towards the altar, tying them to its cold iron structure with cruel ropes. Faraday found that Shra had been tied beside her. The girl’s eyes were wide with terror, but she bravely kept silent despite her trembling.
Poor Shra, Faraday thought, to be captured twice by such as these. To her other side the Goodwife lay as quietly as the girl, but with anger simmering from her eyes.
Faraday tried to turn so as to lie more comfortably, but slipped in the blood and feathers beneath her and cried out in agony as the ropes cut deep into her wrists. Where is the power of the Mother? Why cannot I touch it? Mother?
“In Artor the witch-goddess recognises a power greater than her own,” Goodwife Hordley said, squatting down by Faraday’s side and wrenching her head back by her hair, exposing her throat. “Husband? The sacrifice is ready.”
“Blood to strengthen Artor in his battle with the evil that pervades this land,” Goodman Hordley intoned, and Wainwald Powle took up the cry.
“Blood to strengthen Artor!”
“Blood to strengthen Artor!” the assembly screamed, their eyes blazing as red as the blood they craved, hands plucking at the clothes covering their breasts and abdomens in their ecstasy.
“Blood for Artor!”
Faraday closed her eyes, knowing all was lost, feeling the cold steel against her throat.
“Why, Hordley, is that Hagen’s knife you wield so expertly?”
Faraday’s eyes flew open and she felt rather than saw Hordley draw back in surprise. But his wife’s hand remained twisted in Faraday’s hair, and the blood of the hapless Icarii sacrifices soaked through her gown.
In the doorway, outlined by the light beyond, stood Azhure. Her stance was relaxed, nonchalant, and Faraday could feel if not see the half-smile on her face.
Azhure tossed her head, shaking her hair down her back, and stepped fully into the Worship Hall. The Wolven hung from one hand, unwanted for the moment.
Behind her the Alaunt slunk deep in the shadows, unseen by the villagers whose eyes were riveted on the woman. The hounds’ hackles stood stiffly, and silent growls thickened their throats.
Azhure laughed, enjoying the feeling of power that pervaded her body and revelling in the shocked faces before her. “I’ve come home,” she said, sauntering through the hall, the villagers parting like a grey sea before her. She stopped a pace or two from the altar, her eyes meeting Faraday’s for an instant, then she reached down and grasped Hordley’s wrist where he still held the knife against Faraday’s throat. The blade had pierced Faraday’s skin, and blood trickled lightly down into the hollow of her neck.
“Why,” Azhure said, staring at Hordley, “it is Hagen’s knife…and how well I know it.” Her fingers tightened about Hordley’s flesh and the man gasped with pain, but he could not look away from Azhure’s eyes.
Strange, strange eyes. Blue like the sky one moment, the next rolling grey like the sea that Hordley had once seen beating against Achar’s eastern shores.
Azhure’s lips parted in a slight smile and she let her true nature blaze forth from her eyes.
Hordley opened his mouth to scream but he never had the chance, for Azhure lifted and twisted the man’s arm and plunged the knife, still gripped in his fingers, into his own belly.
“It likes the feel of belly flesh, Hordley,” she whispered, “feel how smooth and gentle it glides in?”
At the gentle sigh from Hordley’s lips as he did, indeed, feel how smooth the knife slipped in, the Worship Hall erupted.
“Murderess,” hissed Goodwife Hordley as she crouched by Faraday, “how practised you have become!”
Faraday tried to roll away, but was held back by her roped wrists, then she felt gentle teeth about her flesh and the ropes loosened.
Every one of the villagers stepped forward, their grey hands extended, faces slack with hate, red eyes fervent with Artor’s power.
Goodman Hordley slipped to the floor, his eyes surprised, his hand still gripping the knife sunk to its hilt in his belly, but he did not die.
His Goodwife pounced at Azhure but grabbed at thin air as Azhure leaned down and kissed Faraday on the mouth.
As Faraday felt Azhure’s lips touch hers, the teeth at her wrists finally broke through rope and Faraday was free. The Goodwife rolled clear at the same moment.
“Good doggie,” Goodwife Renkin whispered to the hound who had crawled into the spaces of the altar with several of his companions to free the women. She rested her hand briefly on Faraday’s shoulder—and whatever bounds had shackled Faraday’s contact with the Mother broke asunder and she was flooded with power. Her eyes blazed emerald.
Above her, Azhure leaned over and seized Goodwife Hordley’s chin, twisting the woman’s face to one side so that she toppled over in the blood and muck where Faraday had rested an instant earlier.
Sicarius, Azhure ordered, herd.
And the hounds circled and nipped and snapped, driving the villagers back from Azhure and Faraday and the women, back to the rear of the hall where the door to the cellar stood invitingly open.
Azhure smiled as the villagers, their lips curled in snarls but impotent against the power and anger of the Alaunt, retreated down the steps, and she looked down to Hordley…
…and recoiled in horror.
50
THE HUNT
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“Merciful heavens,” she gasped and, seizing Faraday by the wrist, hauled her away. About them the Avar and Goodwife Renkin backed away hurriedly. Goodwife Hordley grovelled whimpering—in joy, Azhure thought—at the side of what had once been her husband.
Once, but no more.
Most of Hordley’s clothes had fallen away until only a brief loincloth and a short cape about his shoulders remained. His flesh, that had had been soft and white, was now darkening as if it had spent years burning beneath the sun, and muscles roped and writhed across his body. His face retained its broadness, but his skin was pitted and scarred. His entire body twisted and then lengthened; twisted again, broadened and yet lengthened some more.
Azhure could hear the screech and grind of his bones as they were reshaped by the power that gripped them.
It groaned, then grunted and convulsed, sweat running in rivulets down the contours of its flesh and then, slowly, jerkily, it raised one arm and tore the knife out of its belly.
The gaping wound rippled, then closed over.
It blinked, clenched its fingers more firmly about the knife, and looked about, looked for the…
“Bitch!” Artor screamed, lifting off the floor in one sinuous movement and lunging for Azhure.
One of His great, sandal-clad feet stepped on Goodwife Hordley as she writhed before Him and Azhure heard a crackle and pop as her spine snapped.
Artor took no notice; one hand was splayed towards Azhure’s throat, the other slashed with the knife towards her belly, seeking vengeance for Hagen’s death.
Faraday took a step forward, but felt Barsarbe grab her arm. “Leave her!” the Bane hissed, trying to haul Faraday away, “she is all he wants. Leave her!”
Azhure swayed back, the knife missing her by a finger’s breadth, and almost fell as she stumbled to regain her balance. Artor lunged forward, certain He had her now, then felt small hands grasp His ankle, trying to twist.
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